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Second Series,
~ -`HTEEN PLAYS FROM THE RECENT DRAMA OF:41GLAND, IRELAND, AMERICA, FRANCE, GERMANY
JTSTRIA', ITALY, SPAIN, RUSSIA, AND SCANDINAVIA
SELECTED ANq~jEDITED BY
THOMAS H~,DICKINSON
* OR, CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS, THE PLAYS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH, ETC.
AUTHOR, THE CASE OF AMERICAN DRAMA, THE CONTEMPORARY
DRAMA OF ENGLAND, THE INSURGEN4T THEATRE


BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
GUbe Ribermitb PJrc0a Cambrib2ge




COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY THOMAS H. DICKINSON
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
All rsjhts on polays reptrinted in this volume are reserved by the authorized
publishers, either in their own right or as agents for the authors represented
THIRD IMPRESSION
VIef NRfbersibe sraw
"MBRIDGE. MASSACHUSETTS
U. S. A




CONTENT'S


INTRODUCTION
MILESTONES   /Arnold Bennett and
Edward Knoblock
OUR BETTERS.W1. Somerse' Maugham
ABRAHAM LINCOLN.John Drinkwater 
MIXED MARRIAGE.St. John G. Ervine.
KING ARGIMENES AND THE UNKNOWN WARRIOR   Lord Dunsany 
THE EASIEST WAY.E'ugene Walter 
THE PIPER.J'osephine Preston Feabody
THE YELLOW JACKET.G'eorge C. Hazelton and
Benrimo.
A LOVING WIFE.Georges de Porto-Riche
Translated by J. P. W. Crawford
CYRANO DE BERGERAC.Edmond Rostand
~i~st~1iyGertrude Hall
PASTEUR.Sacha Guitry
Translated by Irving H. Brown
"MORAL".Ludwig Thoma
Translated by Charles Recht
LIVING HOURS.Arthur Schnitzler
Translated by Grace Isabel Colbron
THE CONCERT                              Hermann Bahr
Translated by Bayard Quincy Morgan
GIOCONDA.Gabriele d'Annunzio
TVra4nslated by Arthur Symons
THE BONDS OF INTEREST                    facinto Benavente
Translated by John Garrett Underhill
THE LOWER DEPTHR.Maxim Gorki
Tranglated by Edwin Hopkins
THE TRAGEDY OF'LOVE.Gunnar Heiberg
Translated by Edwin Bjt~rkman
42 4580


V
43
91
125
155
167
227
269
313
353
423
451
493
505
569 -607
643




iv                            CONTENTS
APPENDIX
I. AUTHORS AND PLAYS..........              719
II. NOTES ON THE PRODUCTION OF PLAYS....... 723
III. A WORKING BOOK LIST IN CONTEMPORARY DRAMA......                  726
IV. A READING LIST IN CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS..... 730
V. INDEX OF CHARACTERS.......... 732




INTRODUCTION
THIS volume contains eighteen complete plays from the drama of England, Ireland, the
United States, France, Germany, Austria, Italy, Spain, Russia, and the Scandinavian
countries. Together with the first volume of Chief Contemporary Dramatists, issued in
1915, there are now made available in convenient form thirty-eight plays of the first
order of excellence from the theater of Europe and America. In the choice of plays the
term "contemporary" has been interpreted strictly. Of the eighteen plays in this book,
one third were produced in the decade between 1910 and 1920; all save three are products of the twentieth century. Of these works six have not before been published in
English and are here made available for the first time in America.
Comparing the plays in this volume with those which constituted the first series of
Chief Contemporary Dramatists, some interesting tendencies in the theater of the western
vorld are disclosed. While the thesis or problem play, derived from France and enforced
by Ibsen, was predominant in the eighteen-nineties and the earlier years of the new century, the form disappears as the century approaches its second decade. The present
volume contains no single distinct exemplar of this type of play. The result of the freeing
of the play from the necessity of being socially serviceable has been greatly to enrich the
theater with new interests both in structure and content, and to call into the craft of playmaking men from arts outside the theater.
The era of problems did not pass without leaving some impress on the theater for its
good. While dominating the motives of plays, the scientific method had an influence as
well on the vehicle of dramatic expression. The thesis playwright found the theater
bound by the artificialities of an outworn technique. By applying honesty to the method
of the play and accuracy to its observation, he left to the play a structure of greater
naturalness and flexibility. It now appears that neither artificiality nor banality are
necessary qualities of the bourgeois play, and that a fine and delicate artistry may be
linked with a careful method in the study of human nature.
In the technical variety of the plays in this volume we have evidence of the release of
the playwright from the restrictions current during the nineteenth century. A new
technique is in process of development, upon which little can be learned in the pages of
Freytag or even of Archer. Though its formulas are not as yet fixed, we are fortunate
to have in Professor G. P. Baker's Technique of the Drama an avenue to the understanding of its practice.
Nothing in the history of the theater of the last generation is more significant than the
manner in which it is connecting itself with the various activities of men. In a generation
the theater has changed from a highly professionalized institution, with the door closed
on all extraneous experiments, to a workshop of painters, novelists, and craftsmen generally. This fact is reflected in the varied interests of the authors represented in this volume. Worthy of note also is the rise of the drama of Spain and the general decline of the
Northern influence, and the fact that two works of an absolute artistic integrity and
originality are the results of collaboration.
Without claiming to have exhausted the rich field of the contemporary theater the
editor believes that the eighteen plays here presented give a worthy picture of the drama
of our time. Even more than in the case of the first volume the editor is aware of the
painful sacrifices which are made necessary by the restricted compass of the volume. As




vi                          INTRODUCTION
in the case of the first volume the editor must still regret that he is not able to include
plays by Barrie and Shaw. Since the publication of the first series, Barrie has only
strengthened his hold on a primary place in the drama of his time. Shaw, who belonged
to the former volume by merit of two or three plays of extraordinary dramatic value, as
well as by many discursive essays in conversational form, has, during the last five years,
done nothing to strengthen his position as a dramatist.
Finally, the editor has in mind to acknowledge the courtesies he has met at the hands
of authors and publishers, whose instant understanding of the purposes of this work ha.:
done much to make it possible; the friendly counsel of critics of many nations, freely
drawn upon and as freely given, and the untiring patience and helpfulness of the memT
bers of the editorial staff of Houghton Mifflin Company, with whom the editor has been
permitted to collaborate.




MILESTONES
A PLAY IN THREE ACTS
BY ARNOLD BENNETT AND EDWARD KNOBLOCK




COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY ARNOLD BENNETT AND EDWARD KNOBLOCK
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Reprinted by permission of and special arrangement with the authors
and their American publishers, Messrs. George H. DoL)an Company




TO
FRANK VERNON
WHO HAVING BROUGHT THE AUTHORS TOGETHER INSTRUCTED THEM TO COLLABORATE IN A PLAY AND
WHO WHEN THEY HAD OBEYED HIM PUT THE
PLAY ON THE STAGE WITH AN ART WHICH
EVOKED THEIR LIVELIEST GRATITUDE




CHARACTERS IN THE PLAY
JOHN RHEAD
GERTRUDE RHEAD
MRS. RHEAD
SAMUEL SIBLEY
ROSE SIBLEY
NED PYM
EMILY RHEAD
ARTHUR PREECE
NANCY SIBLEY
LORD MONKHURST
THE HONOURABLE MURIEL PYM
RICHARD SIBLEY
THOMPSON
WEBSTER
FOOTMAN
The Scene is laid throughout in the drawing-room of a house in Kensington Gore
The First Act is in 1860
The Second Act is in 1885
The Third Act is in 1912




MILESTONES
ACT I
1860


The Scene represents the drawing-room of
a house in Kensington Gore. The house is
quite new at the time: all the decorations, pictures and furniture are of the mid-Victorian
period. On the left three long windows look
out on Kensington Gardens. On the right a
large double door leads into the back drawingroom. A single door on the same side of the
room leads to the hall and stairs. In the
centre at back a large fireplace with a fire
burning in it. The blinds and curtains are
drawn; the lamps are lighted.
It is about half-past nine at night of the
29th of December, 1860.
MRS. RHEAD, a woman of nearly sixty, is
sitting on the sofa, crocheting some lace,
which is evidently destined to trim petticoats.
Her hair is dressed in the style of 1840, though
her dress is of the 1860 period. Near her, in
an armchair, sits ROSE SIBLEY, a apentle
romantic-looking girl of twenty-one, who is
dressed in the height of fashion of the period.
She is at work on a canvas wool-work pattern.
Cups of after-dinner coffee stand near both
ladies.
MRS. RHEAD. Do permit me to look at
your work one moment, my dear Rose.
ROSE. With pleasure, Mrs. Rhead.
MRS. R. Very pretty indeed. Nothing
could be in better taste than these Berlin
wool patterns.
ROSE. I got the design from the "Englishwoman's Domestic Magazine." It's to
be one of three cushions for father's study.
MRS. R. I had an idea of doing the same
sort of thing for my husband, after we
moved into the new house here, three years
ago. But then, when he died, I had n't the
heart to go on. So I'm crocheting lace now
instead for Gertrude's trousseau. Will you
have some more coffee?


ROSE. No, thank you.
MRS. R. Just a drop. Gertrude, pour
out — [She looks about.] Now where has
Gertrude disappeared to?
ROSE. She left the room some moments
ago.
MRS. R. Even between dinner and coffee
she must be off.
ROSE. But why?
MRS. R. Do I know, my dear? Just
managing the house and managing it, and
managing it. Upon my word, Gertrude
performs the duties of the place as if it
were the foundry and she were John. My
son and daughter are so alike.
ROSE [interjecting enthusiastically]. One's
as splendid as the other.
MRS. R. She keeps account-books now.
ROSE [rather startled]. Of the house?
MRS. R. [nods]. And she says she shall
show John a balance-sheet at quarter-day.
Did you ever hear of such behaviour?
ROSE. She always was very active,
was n't she? It's in the blood.
MRS. R. It is not in mine, and I am her
mother. No! It is all due to these modern
ways; that is what it is.
ROSE. I suppose John's rather pleased.
MRS. R. Yes, John! But what about
your brother? Will he be pleased? Is Gertrude going to make him the wife his position demands?
ROSE. I'm sure he '11 be delighted to have
his house managed as this one's managed.
MRS. R. But will it stop at that? Once
one begins these modern ways, one never
knows where they will end.
ROSE. I must say I was surprised she
ever accepted Sam.
MRS. R. [deprecatingly]. Surprised? But
why?
ROSE. We Sibleys are such an extremely




CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


old-fashioned family. Look at father! And
I do believe Sam's worse. Yes, I do believe
Sam's worse than father. Thank goodness
they have your son for a partner -two
such slow-coaches, as they are.
MRS. R. Slow-coaches! My dear, remember the respect due to your father.
ROSE [eagerly]. Oh, I adore father, and
Sam, too! I would n't have either of them
altered for the world. But I do think Sam's
very fortunate in getting Gertrude.
MRS. R. She also is very fortunate, very
fortunate indeed. 1 have the highest respect for Sam's character, and my hope
and prayer is that he and Gertrude will
influence each other for nothing but good.
But, between you and me, my dear, the
first six months will be - well - lively, to
say the least.
[GERTRUDE RHEAD enters by the door from
the hall, carrying in her hand a cloak
of the latest pattern of the period. She is
twenty-one, high spirited, independent,
afraid of no one.]
ROSE. What on earth's that, Gertrude?
GERT. I've just been upstairs to get it.
Help me, will you? I wanted to show it
you. [ROSE helps GERTRUDE with the cloak.]
I only bought it to-day, with the money
John gave me for Christmas. Thank you
- Well?
ROSE. Very daring, is n't it? I suppose
it's quite the latest?
GERT. Next year's. Mother says it's
"fast."
MRS. R. I hope you'll put it away before
the men come up.
GERT. [with assumed innocence]. Why?
MRS. R. Because Samuel will surely not
approve of it.
GERT. I bet you he will.
MRS. R. Gertrude!
GERT. The truth is, Rose, mother's only
taken a prejudice against it because I
brought it home myself this afternoon in a
hansom cab.
ROSE [staggered]. Alone? In a hansom
cab?
MRS. R. You may well be shocked, dear.
My lady refuses the carriage, becauses of
keeping the horses standing in this terrible


frost. And then she actually hails a hansom-cabriolet! What Samuel would say if
he knew I dare not imagine.
GERT. Well, what harm is there in it,
mamma darling? [Caresses her.] I do wish
you'd remember we're in the year 1860 -
and very near '61. You really must try to
keep up with the times. Why, girls will be
riding on the tops of omnibuses some day.
ROSE [protesting]. Gertrude!
MRS. R. I hope I sha'n't live to see it.
[Enter THOMPSON, a young butler, from the
hall. He collects the coffee cups, putting
them all on a tray.]
GERT. IS the hot-water apparatus working properly, Thompson?
THOMPSON. Moderate, miss.
GERT. [rather annoyed]. It ought to work
perfectly.
ROSE. What's the hot-water apparatus?
GERT. It's for the bath-room, you know.
ROSE. Yes. I know you'd got a bathroom.
GERT. It's just the latest device. John
had it put in the week mother was down
at Brighton. It was his Christmas surprise
for her.
ROSE. Yes, but I don't understand.
GERT. It's quite simple. We have a
boiler behind the kitchen range, and pipes
carry the hot water up to the bath. There's
one tap for hot and another for cold.
ROSE. How wonderful!
GERT. So when you want a hot bath all
you have to doMRS. R. [drily]. All we have to do is to
tell cook to put down a shoulder of mutton
to roast. Very modern!
GERT. [caressing her mother again]. Horrid old dear! Thompson, why is it working
only moderately?
THOMPSON [by the door]. No doubt because cook had orders that the beef was
to be slightly underdone, miss.
[Exit quickly with tray.]
GERT. [to ROSE]. That was to please your
carnivorous daddy, Rose, and he never
came.
MRS. R. I do hope there's been no
trouble down at the foundry between him
and my son.




MILESTONES


7


ROSE. So do I.
GERT. Why are you both pretending?
You know perfectly well there has been
trouble between them. You must have
noticed the chilhness when our respective
brothers met to-night.
ROSE. I assure you, Gertrude, I know
nothing. Sam said not a single word in the
carriage.
GERT. Well, was n't that enough? Or
does he never speak in the carriage?
ROSE [to MRS. RHEAD]. Has John said
anything?
MRS. R. I understood you to say that
the reason your father didn't come to
dinner was that he had an urgent appointment, quite unexpectedly, at the last moment.
ROSE. Yes, he asked me to tell you and
make his excuses.
GERT. Urgent appointment at his club
- most likely!
MRS. R. I wonder what the trouble can
have been.
GERT. You don't, mother. You know!
It's the old story - Sam and his father
with their set ideas, pulling one way; and
John with his go-ahead schemes, pulling the
other - with the result -
MRS. R. The result is that we've had
one of the most mournful dinners to-night
that I have ever had the pleasure of giving.
GERT. I know! What a good thing we
asked Ned Pym. If he had n't come to the
rescue with his usual facetious, senseless
chatter, I do believe Sam and John -
MRS. R. [quickly, stopping her]. Here are
the gentlemen! Gertrude, take that cloak
off.
[Enter from the hall SAMUEL SIBLEY, NED
PYM, and JOHN RHEAD. SAMUEL SIBLEY is twenty-eight, heavy, with a serious
face, a trifle pompous, but with distinct
dignity. NED PYM, who is a little over
twenty, is the young dandy of the day:
handsome, tall, with excellent manners,
which allow him to carry off his facetious attitude rather successfully. JOHN
RHEAD comes last. He is twenty-five,
full of determination and purpose. He
knows what he wants and is going to get
it.]


MRS. R. [in a smooth tone to ROSE]. Have
you seen the new number of "Great Expectations," dear?
NED. What's this, Gertrude? Charades?
GERT. [flouncing her cloak half defiantly
at SAM]. Paris!
NED [coming between SAM and GERTRUDE].
Evidently it has lost nothing on the journey over.
G:ERT. Ned, would you mind... I'm
showing it to Sam. [To SAM.] Don't you
like it?
SAM [forcing himself]. On my betrothed,
yes.
N:ED [facetiously]. By the exercise of extreme self-control the lover conceals his
enthusiasm for the cloak of his mistress.
GERT. [appealing to SAM]. But you do
like it - don't you?
SAM [evasively]. Is n't it rather original?
GEPRT. Of course it is. That's just the
point.
SAM [surprised]. Just the point?
GE]RT. [taking the cloak off and flinging it
half pettishly on a chair]. Oh!
JOHN. It's original, and therefore it has
committed a crime. [Looking at SAM.] IS
n't that it, Sam?
SAM [gives JOHN a look and turns to MRS.
RHEAD with an obvious intention of changing
the conversation]. What were you saying
about "Great Expectations," Mrs. Rhead?
MRS. R. [at a loss]. What were we saying
about "Great Expectations"?
NID. Well, I can tell you one thing
about it; it's made my expectations from
my uncle smaller than ever.
[He sits by MRS. RHEAD.]
M]s. R. Oh, how is dear Lord Monkhurst?
NED. He's very well and quarrelsome,
thank you. And his two sons, my delightful cousins, are also in excellent health.
Well, as I was going to tell you; you know
how my uncle has turned against Dickens
since "Little Dorrit." I happened to say
something about "Great Expectations"
being pretty fairish, and he up and rode
over me like a troop of cavalry.
MRs. R. [puzzled]. A troop of cavalry?
NED. It was at his Christmas party, too,
worse luck. He as good as told me I dis



CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


agreed with him on purpose to annoy him.
Now I cannot agree with him solely and
simply because he allows me seven hundred
a year, can I?
ROSE. Is he so difficult to get on with?
NED. Difficult? He's nothing but a faddist! An absolute old faddist! What can you
do with a man that's convinced that spirits
'11 turn his dining-table, and that Bacon
wrote Shakespeare; and that the Benecia
Boy's a better man than Tom Sayers?
MRS. R. It seems a great pity you cannot do something to please your uncle.
NED. Would you believe it? He even
wanted me to join the Rifle Volunteers.
Now, I ask you, can you see me in the Rifle
Volunteers, me among a lot of stockbrokers
and chimney-sweeps?
GERT. We cannot, Ned.
NED. And in order to raise my patriotism last night - [Slapping his knee violently.] By Jove! [He jumps up.] By
Heavens! Jiggered! Jiggered!
GERT. and ROSE. Ned!
NED. I am a ruined man! You see before you, kind friends, a man ruined and
without hope! Last night my uncle sent me
a ticket for the launching of the "Warrior."
SAM [with a sneer]. The "Warrior"! You
did n't miss much!
NED. But my beloved aunt was commanded to be in attendance on Her Royal
Highness at the said function.... Well, I
forgot all about it. 1 repeat I forgot all
about it. My uncle will certainly call this
the last straw. There will be no quarterly
cheque for me on New Year's Day.
ROSE. What is "The Warrior"?
JOHN [bursting out]. The "Warrior" is a
steam-frigate - first vessel of the British
Navy to be built entirely of iron. She's over
six thousand tons burden, and she represents the beginning of a new era in iron.
ROSE [adoringly]. How splendid!
JOHN [responding quickly to her mood].
Ah, you agree with me!
ROSE [enthusiastically]. Of course! [She
breaks off self-consciously.] Of course I
agree with you.
JOHN [after a slight pause - quickly].
This 29th of December marks a great day
in the history of the British Navy.


SAM [with a slight superior smile, trying
to be gay]. Nonsense. All this day marks
is the folly of the Admiralty. You may
take it as an absolute rule that whatever
the Admiralty does is wrong. Always has
been, always will be. The " Great Eastern"
was the champion White Elephant of the
age. And now the "Warrior" has gone her
one better.
JOHN. Sam, you don't know what you're
saying. How can you talk about the "Warrior" when you've never even so much as
laid eyes on the ship?
SAM. Well, have you?
JOHN. Yes - I went to the launch today.
SAM. You?
MRS. R. Why did you go, John? You
never said a word to me.
JOHN. I went on business.
SAM. You told me you had an appointment with the bank.
JOHN. I only said that because I could n't
stop to argue just then.
SAM. So you said what was n't so.
JOHN. I said what was necessary at the
moment. I was n't going to leave you in
the dark; never fear.
SAM [curtly controlling himself]. I see.
[A slight pause, then SAM turns abruptly to
GERTRUDE and says gently] Come and sing,
dear. I have n't heard you sing for over a
fortnight.
GERT. [moved by the quarrel -after a
pause in a low voice]. What shall I sing?
SAM. Sing "Nita, Juanita."
GERT. No! I heard Madame Sainton
Dolby sing it last week.
SAM. Do! - to please me.
[GERTRUDE turns towards the double doors and goes off in silence
with SAM. NED is about to follow
instantly, but MRS. RHEAD stops
him.]
MRS. R. [whispering]. Give them just
one instant alone.
NED. I beg pardon. My innocence at
fault. [The song is heard.] [A pause.] Is
that long enough?
[MRS. RHEAD taps him, then she
goes off after the others, followed
by NED. A slight pause.]




MILESTONES


9


ROSE [moving towards the doors]. What
a lovely voice she has!
JOHN [abruptly, closing the doors]. I want
to talk to you.
ROSE [nervous and self-conscious]. To me?
JOHN. I wish I'd asked you to come to
that launch.
ROSE. Where was it?
JOHN. At Greenhithe; only two stations
beyond the foundry. Would you have
come?
ROSE. I should have loved to... if
Gertrude had come too.
JOHN [musing]. You should have seen
her go into the water -the wave she
made! All that iron -and rivets! Iron,
mind you.... And then float like a cork.
I never was at a launch before, and it gave
me a thrill, I can tell you. And I'm not
easily thrilled.
ROSE [adoringly, but restraining herself].
I'm sure you're not. I do wish I'd seen it.
It must have been almost sublime.
JOHN. You'd have understood. You'd
have felt like I did. Do you know how I
know that?
ROSE [shaking her head]. No -
JOHN. By the way you said "how splendid" when 1 was telling the others just
now.
ROSE. Really!
JOHN. Fact! That gave me more encouragement in my schemes than any
words I ever heard.
ROSE. Please don't say that. Gertrude
is always on your side. She's so like you in
every way.
JOHN. Yes, Gertrude's all right. But
she's got no poetry in her, Gertrude has n't.
That's the difference between you and her.
She's very go-ahead; but she does n't feel.
ROSE [breathless]. Do I, John? [She looks
down.]
JOHN. I'll tell you something —tears
came into my eyes when that frigate took
the water. Could n't help it! [ROSE raises
her eyes to his.] In thirty years every big
ship in the world will be built of iron. Very
few people to-day believe in iron for shipbuilding, and I know there's a lot of silly,
easy sarcasm about it - especially in the
papers. But it's coming! It's coming!


ROSE [religiously]. I'm sure you're right.
JOHN. If only your father and your
brother thought as you do!
ROSE [faintly]. Yes.
JOHN. I'm in the minority, you see; two
partners against one. If my father had
lived, I know which side he'd have been
on! I should n't have been in the minority
then.
ROSE. You'd have been equal.
JOHN [enthusiastically]. No! We should
certainly have rolled your excellent father
and brother straight into the Thames!
ROSE [amiably protesting]. Please 
JOHN [smiling]. Forgive me - you know
what I mean, don't you?
ROSE. I love to see you when you are
enthusiastic!
JOHN. It's so plain. We've got probably
the largest iron foundry on Thames-side.
But our business is n't increasing as quickly
as it used to do. It can't. We've come to
about the limit of expansion on present
lines. Ship-building is simply waiting for
us. There it is - asking to be picked up!
We're in iron. We know all about iron.
The ships of the future will be built of
nothing but iron. And we're right in the
middle of the largest port in the world.
What more can anyone want? But no!
They won't see it! They - will - not -
see - it!
ROSE. I wonder why they won't!
JOHN. Simply because they can't.
ROSE. Then one ought fi't to blame them.
JOHN. Blame them! Good Heavens, no!
I don't blame them. I'm fond of them, and
I rather feel for them. But that's just why
I want to smash them to smithereens!
They've got to yield. The people who live
in the past must yield to the people who
live in the future. Otherwise, the earth
would begin to turn the other way round,
and we should be back again in the eighteenth century before we knew where we
were, making for the Middle Ages.
ROSE. Then you think a conflict is unavoidable?
JOHN. Absolutely unavoidable! That's
the point. It's getting nearer every hour... Why is your father not here to-night?
ROSE. I don't know, but I was afraid



IO0


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


JOHN. I know and Sam knows. It must
be because he has heard somehow of an
enterprise I am planning, and the news has
upset him. He's vexed.
ROSE. Poor dear old thing! Then you've
started a scheme already?
JOHN [nods]. I have. But I can't carry
it out alone.
ROSE. If there is one man in the world
who could stand alone, I should have said
you were that man.
JOHN. I know. That's the impression I
give. And yet nobody ever needed help
more than I do. I'm not all on the surface,
you know.
ROSE. What sort of help?
JOHN. Sympathy - understanding.
ROSE [low]. I see.
JOHN. Of course you see! And that's
why I suddenly decided I must have a bit
of a chat with you - this very night. It's
forced on me. And I feel I'm rather forcing
it on you. But I can't help it - honestly I
can't. Rose, you're on my side, aren't you?
ROSE. I believe you're in the right.
JOHN. Would you like to see me win -
[silence] - or lose?
ROSE. I don't think I could bear to see
you beaten.
JOHN. Well, then, help me! When you
look at me with that trustful look of yours,
I can do anything - anything. No other
woman's eyes ever had the same effect on
me. It's only because you believe in me.
No, that is n't the only reason; it is n't the
chief reason. The chief reason is that I'm
in love with you - there you have it!
ROSE [sinking her head]. Oh! -
JOHN [coming to her]. Curious! I've
known you all my life. But I was n't aware
of all that you meant to me, until these
difficulties began. You're essential to me.
You can't imagine how much depends on
just you!
ROSE. Really?
JOHN. You're too modest, too womanly
to realise it. Why, sometimes a tone of
yours, a mere inflection, almost knocks me
over - You are n't crying, surely? What
are you crying for?
ROSE. It's too much for me, coming like
this, with no warning.


JOHN. Rose, be mine! I'll work for you,
I'll succeed for you. No woman in this
country shall have a finer position than
yours.
ROSE. I don't want a fine position —
except for you.
JOHN. I'm not hard, really.
ROSE. But I like you to be hard. It's
when you're inflexible and brutal that I
like you the most.
JOHN. Then you do like me a little -
sometimes?          [Kisses her hands.]
ROSE. I can't help telling you. I did n't
hope for this. Yes, I did. But the hope
seemed absurd. Is this real - now?
JOHN. My love!
ROSE. John, you say I don't realise how
much I mean to you. Perhaps I do though.
But it's impossible for you to realise how I
want to give my life to you, to serve you.
No man could realise that. A woman could.
I shall be your slave. [JOHN looks at her
with a little start.] Yes, I know it sounds
queer for me to be talking like this. But I
must. It thrills me to tell you.... I shall
be your slave.
JOHN. Don't make me afraid, my darling!
ROSE. Afraid?
JOHN. Afraid of being unworthy.
ROSE. Please.... [A slight pause.] Has
the singing stopped?
JOHN. A long time ago.
ROSE. They'll be coming in, perhaps.
JOHN [vaguely without conviction]. No.
ROSE. What will your mother and Gertrude say?
JOHN. You know as well as I do, they'll
be absolutely delighted.
ROSE. And father?
JOHN [alertly]. Rose, you're mine, whatever happens?
ROSE. Oh, nothing must happen now!
Nothing shall happen!
JOHN. But suppose I could n't carry out
my scheme without quarrelling with your
father? And he refused his consent to our
being married?
ROSE. My heart would be yours for ever
and ever. But I could n't marry without
father's consent.
JOHN. ButROSE. I could n't -




MILESTONES


II


JOHN. Why not?
ROSE. It would not be right.
JOHN. But you love me?
ROSE. Yes, but I love father, too. And
he's getting very old. And he's very dependent on me. In any case to give me up
would be a great sacrifice for him. To lose
me against his will - well, I don't know
what would happen!
JOHN. As things are just now —he's
bound to refuse.
ROSE. But are you so sure he won't have
anything to do with your scheme?
JOHN. You heard Sam!
ROSE. Yes; but you have n't discussed
your plans very thoroughly with Sam. He
seemed quite surprised.
JOHN. Suppose I speak to Sam to-night;
tell him everything. At any rate, I shall
know then where I stand.
ROSE. To-night?
JOHN. Now! I might win him over. Anyhow, he'll do what he can to make things
smooth for us with your father - surely!
After all, he's engaged to Gertrude!
ROSE. Just as you think best.... And
Sam's very fond of me, though he never
shows it.
JOHN. Let me get it over now, instantly.
Will you go in to the others?
[ROSE looks at him in silence, then
rises and goes to the double doors.
JOHN stops her and solemnly
and passionately kisses her, then
opens the doors and she passes
through.]
JOHN [calling into the other room]. I say,
Sam! Mother, I want a word with Sam
alone.
[SAMUEL enters by the double doors. JOHN
closes them behind him.]
SAM [suspicious, and not over friendly].
What is it? Not business, I hope?
JOHN [with a successful effort to be cordial].
No, no!
SAM [following JOHN'S lead, and to make
conversation]. I was wondering what you
and Rosie were palavering about.
JOHN. Samuel, you've gone right into
the bull's-eye at the firstshot-Sam. I've
just been through a very awkward moment.


SAM. Oh, I see! That's it, is it?
JOHN. I've made a proposal of marriage
to my partner's sister. Startling, ain't it?
SlAM. No! If you care to know, I was
talking to your mother about it last week.
JOHN. About what?
SAM. About the betting odds - whether
it was more likely to come off this year or
next. Your mother was right, and I was
wrong - by a couple of days.
JOHN [startled]. But you'd none of you
the slightest ground. I've never shownCertainly Rose has never shown -
SAM [teasingly]. No, of course not. But
you know how people will gossip, and
jump to conclusions, don't you? I know,
I went through it myself, not very long
ago either. I remember the clever way in
which you all knew about it before I'd
got half-way to the end of my first sentence.
JOHN. Sam, you're devilish funny.
SAM. Even the dullest old Tory is funny
once in his life. Am I right in assuming
that Rose did not unconditionally refuse
your offer?
JOHN. She did me the honour to accept
it.
SAM. I must confess I'm not entirely
surprised that she did n't spurn you.
JOHN. All right, old cock. Keep it up.
I don't mind. But when you're quite done,
you might congratulate me.
SAM [not effusively]. I do, of course.
JOHN. I suppose you'll admit, even as a
brother, that I'd have to go rather far
before I met a woman with half Rose's
qualities.
SAM. Yes, Rosie's all right. Of course
she's cold; she hasn't got what I call
poetry in her. That's the difference between her and Gertrude.
JOHN [facing him]. Do you honestly
think Rose has no poetry in her? Rose?
SAM. Easy does it, my tulip! Have it
your own way!
JOHN [good humouredly]. I suppose
where sisters are concerned, all brothers
are alike.
SAM. Well, I'm looking at one. We're a
pair.
JOHN. Shake! [They shake hands, SAM




CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


rather perfunctorily.] Now, Sam, I'm going
to rely on you.
SAM. What for?
JOHN. I don't think you had any fault
to find with my attitude towards your
engagement, had you? I welcomed it with
both arms. Well, I want you to do the
same with me.
SAM. But, my dear fellow, I'm nobody
in the affair. You're the head of a family;
I'm not.
JOHN. But you have enormous influence
with the head of a family, my boy.
SAM [rather falsely]. Why! Are you anticipating trouble with the governor?
JOHN. I'm not anticipating it - but
you know as well as I do - probably much
better - that he ain't very friendly disposed this last day or two. The plain truth
is - he's sulking. Now why? Nothing
whatever has passed between us except
just every-day business.
SAM. Well, the fact is, he suspects you're
keeping something nasty up your sleeve
for him.
JOHN. Has he told you?
SAM [somewhat pugnaciously]. Yes, he
has.
JOHN. And what is it I'm supposed to
have up my sleeve?
SAM. Look here, Jack. I'm not here to
be cross-examined. If there's anything up
your sleeve, you're the person to know
what it is. It's not my sleeve we're talking
about. Why don't you play with the cards
on the table?
JOHN. I'm only too anxious to play
with the cards on the table.
SAM. Then it is business you really
wanted to talk about after all!
JOHN [movement of irritation concealed].
I expect your father's heard about me and
Macleans, though how it's got abroad I
can't imagine.
SAM. Macleans? Macleans of Greenhithe?
JOHN. Yes. That's what's worrying the
old man, is n't it?
SAM. I don't know.
JOHN. He has n't mentioned Macleans
to you?
SAM. He has not. He isn't a great


talker, you know. He merely said to me
he suspected you were up to something.
JOHN. And what did you say?
SAM. Briefly, I said I thought you were.
[Disgustedly.] But, by gad! I never
dreamed you were hobnobbing with the
Maclean gang.
JOHN. Macleans are one of the oldest
shipbuilding firms in the South of England.
I went to the launch to-day with Andrew
Maclean.
SAM. What's ship-building got to do
with us?
JOHN. It's got nearly everything to
do with us. Or it will have. Now listen,
Sammy. I've arranged a provisional agreement for partnership between Macleans
and ourselves.
SAM. You've -
JOHN. Half a minute. Macleans are
rather flattered at the idea of a connection
with the august firm of Sibley, Rhead and
Sibley.
SAM. By God! I should think they were.
[Walks away.]
JOHN. They've had an output of over
25,000 tons this year. All wood. Naturally
they want to go in for iron. They'll pay
handsomely for our help and experience.
In fact, I've got a draft agreement, my
boy, that is simply all in our favour.
SAM. Did you seriously suppose -
JOHN. Let me finish. It's a brilliant
agreement. In three years it'll mean the
doubling of our business. And we shall
have the satisfaction of being well-established in the great industry of the future.
Your father's old. I don't expect him to be
very enthusiastic about a new scheme.
But you're young, and you can influence
him. He'll be retiring soon, and you and
I will be together- just the two of us.
We're marrying each other's sisters. And we
shall divide an enormous fortune, my boy.
SAM. And have you had the impudence
to try to make an agreement behind our
backs?
JOHN [controlling himself]. I've made no
agreement. I've only got the offer. It's
open to you to refuse or accept. I only
held my tongue about it so as to keep the
job as easy as possible.




MILESTONES


13


SAM. You had no right to approach anyone without consulting us.
JOHN. I was going to tell you to-morrow.
But I guessed from your father's attitude
these last two days that something had
leaked out. That's why I'm telling you
first, Sam - to-night. Come now, look at
the thing calmly - reasonably. Don't
condemn it offhand. A very great deal
depends on your decision - more than you
think.
SAM. I don't see that anything particular depends on my decision. If we refuse,
we refuse. And we shall most decidedly
refuse.
JOHN. But it's impossible you should be
so blind to the future! Impossible!
SAM. See here, John! Don't you make
the mistake of assuming that any man who
does n't happen to agree with you is a
blind fool. To begin with, it is n't polite.
I know you do think we're blind, oldfashioned, brainless dolts, father and I.
We've both felt that for some time.
JOHN. I think you're blind to the future
of iron ships, that's all.
SAM. Well, shall I tell you what we
think of you? We think you've got a bee
in your bonnet. That's all. We think
you're a faddist in the style of Ned
Pym's noble uncle!
JOHN [his lips curling]. Me like Lord
Monkhurst! Ha!
SAM. Precisely. Don't you go and imagine that all the arguments are on one side.
They are n't. Five-sixths of the experts in
England have no belief whatever in the
future of iron ships. You know that! Iron
ships indeed! And what about British oak?
Would you build ships of the self-same
material as bridges? Why not stone ships,
then? Oh, yes, I know there's a number of
faddists up and down the land - anything
in the nature of a novelty is always bound
to attract a certain type of brain. Unfortunately we happen to have that type of
brain just now in the Cabinet. I quite
agree with my father that the country is
going to the dogs. Another Reform Bill
this year! And actually an attempt to repeal the paper duty. But, of course, people
who believe in iron ships would naturally


want to unsettle the industrial classes by a
poisonous flood of cheap newspapers! However, we've had enough common-sense left
to knock both those schemes on the head.
And I've no doubt the sagacity of the
country will soon also put an end to this
fantastic notion of iron ships.
JOHN [quietly]. I see.
SAM. Oh, don't think I'm not fond of
iron! Iron means as much to me as it does
to you. But I flatter myself I can keep my
balance. [More quietly.] We did n't expect
this of you, John, with your intellect.
JOHN [as before]. Very well.
SAM. I've made it clear, have n't I?
JOHN. Quite.
SAM. That's all right.
JOHN [still quietly]. Only I shall dissolve
partnership.
SAM. Dissolve partnership? What for?
JOHN. I shall go on with Macleans alone.
SAM. You don't mean it.
JOHN. I mean every single word of it!
[He rises. They look at each other.]
SAM. Then I can tell you one thing. You
won't marry Rosie.
JOHN. Why sha'n't I marry Rosie?
SA:M. After such treachery.
JOHN [raising his voice]. Treachery! I
merely keep my own opinion —I leave
you to yours.
SAM. Do you think father will let yo.,
drag Rose into this fatuous scheme Gf
yours? Do you think he'll give his daughter to a traitor?
JOHN [sarcastic and cold]. Don't get on
stilts. [Then suddenly bursting out.] And
what has my marriage got to do with you?
When I want your father's opinion, I'll go
to your father for it.
SAM. Don't try to browbeat me, John.
I know my father's mind, and what's
more, you know I know it. And I repeat,
my father will never let his daughter marry
aJOHN [shouting]. Silence!
[Enter MRS. RHEAD by the double doors, followed by NED PYM, GERTRUDE, and
ROSE. The women remain silent.]
NED [facetiously coming forward]. Why
silence? Go on. We've only come in be



I'


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS




cause we thought it might interest us.
What's it all about? A hint will suffice.
JOHN. Ned, you're a blundering donkey,
and you will be a blundering donkey to the
end of your life.
NED. My one desire is to please.
GERT. [coming to SAM, in a quiet, firm
tone]. Sam, what's the matter?
SAM. Nothing! We must go! Rosie, get
ready. [Very respectfully to MRS. RHEAD.]
I'm sorry to break up the evening.
GERT. But you can't go like this.
SAM [with deference]. My dear Gertrude,
please leave matters to your brother and
me. You're a woman, and there are
things 
GERT. [stopping him]. It is possible I am
a woman, but I'm a reasonable creature,
and I intend to be treated as such.
MRS. R. [very upset]. My dear child, remember you are speaking to your future
husband.
GERT. That's just why I'm speaking as
I am. I ask Sam what's the matter -
[scornfully] - and he says "Nothing." Am
I a child? Are we all children?
SAM [curtly]. Come, now, Rose.
GERT. And why must Rose go off like
this? She's engaged to John.
SAM. Who told you?
GERT. Her eyes told me when she came
out of this room.
MRS. R. We all knew it, and no word
said. We've been expecting it for weeks.
[MRS. RHEAD and ROSE embrace.]
SAM. You are mistaken, Gertrude. Rose
is not engaged to John, and she is not
likely to be.
GERT. You object?
SAM. I do, and I know my father well.
GERT. You object to John for a brotherin-law? John! Why? - You might at least
condescend to tell Rosie, if not me. It's an
affair that rather interests her, you see.
SAM. If you must know, John is going to
leave our firm.
MRS. R. John?
SAM. He thinks my father and I are oldfashioned, and so he's leaving us.
MRS. R. John! Leave the firm? Surely
you're not thinking of breaking up Rhead
and Sibley?




I


SAM. Sibley, Rhead - and Sibley.
MRS. R. It was Rhead and Sibley in my
young days, when your father and John's
were founding it. John, you cannot mean
it!
SAM [sarcastically]. He's going to build
iron ships.
GERT. And is that any reason why you
should make poor Rosie unhappy and spoil
her life?
SAM. I do not propose to argue.
GERT. The man who does not propose
to argue with me is not going to be my
husband.
MRS. R. Gertrude!
GERT. [looking at SAM]. I mean it.
[SAM bows.]
MRS. R. Please don't listen to her, Sam.
SAM. All my apologies, Mrs. Rhead.
GERT. And you, Rosie, what do you say
to all this?
ROSE [humbly and tearfully]. I -I
hardly understand. Sam, what is the
matter?
JOHN [coming to ROSE]. It's quite simple.
I believe in the future of iron ships and I
have the courage of my convictions.
Therefore you are not to be allowed to
marry me. You see the connection is perfectly clear. But you shall marry me, all
the same!
SAM [confidently]. You don't know my
sister.
NED [to SAM, facetiously]. And you don't
know John.
SAM [turning to NED, firmly]. Ned, go
and order my carriage, there's a good
fellow.
NED [going off by the door into the hall].
Oh, very well.
[He closes the door behind him.]
MRS. R. John, John, why are you so set
in your own ideas? Everything was going
perfectly smoothly. We were all so happy.
And now you must needs fall out with your
partners over iron ships. Do you prefer
your iron ships to Rose's happiness and
your own? Is everything to be sacrificed to
iron ships?
JOHN. There need be no question of sacrifice, if -
SAM. If you can have it your own way.




MILESTONES


I5


Of course. Mrs. Rhead, your son wants to
risk the ruin of all of us. Now, so far as we
Sibleys are concerned, we won't allow him
to do so. If he still persists in his purpose,
very well, that's his look-out. Only- he
can hardly be surprised if Rose's family
object-and very strongly-to letting him
make her his wife. One does not entrust
one.'s daughter or one's sister to a traitor.
GERT. Sam, don't be childish!
SAM [drawing himself up]. I beg your
pardon.
MRS. R. John, I'm your mother. Listen
to me. Give up this idea of yours. For my
sake - for the sake of all of us.
JOHN. I cannot.
MRS. R. But if it means so much unhappiness.
JOHN. I should be ashamed of myself
if I gave it up. I believe in it. It's my
religion.
MRS. R. John, I beg you not to be profane.
JOHN [a little quieter]. I cannot give up
my idea, mother. I should be a coward to
give it up. 1 should be miserable for the
rest of my days. I could never look anyone
in the face, not even my wife.
[Enter NED from the hall.]
NED [to SAM in a flunkey's voice]. Carriage is waiting, my lord.
SAM. Now, Rose! Good evening, Mrs.
Rhead.
GERT. Just a moment. [Drawing a ring
off her finger]. Ned! Hand this ring to Mr.
Sibley with my compliments.
NED. Must I?
GERT. Yes.
NED [taking the ring]. The donkey becomes a beast of burden. [Handing ring to
SAM.] Sam, you get this, but you lose
something that's worth a lot more.
SAM [taking the ring]. Of course I have
no alternative.
ROSE. Good-bye John.
MRS. R. John, she's going. Will you
let her?
JOHN [rigidly]. I cannot give up my idea.
SAM [going into the hall as ROSE stands
hesitating]. Come along, child. I'm waiting.
ROSE [moving a step towards JOHN].


Stick to your idea! Let me go! I love you
all the more for it!
JOHN. Don't worry. Rose. The future
is on our side.
ROSE [looking straight at him]. I[Her emotion gets the better of her;
she turns quickly and hurries from
the room.]
GERT. [blankly, in spite of herself]. The
future!
[She sinks down on a sofa and bursts
into sobs. JOHN stands, looking
after ROSE.]
CURTAIN
ACT II
1885
The Scene represents the same drawingroom as in Act I. But twenty-five years have
passed. We are now in the year 1885. Consequently great changes have occurred. The
furniture has been re-arranged and added to.
The flowered carpet of the first Act has given
place to an Indian carpet. There are new
ornaments amongst some of the old ones. The
room is over-crowded with furniture in the
taste of the period.
It is about four o'clock of an afternoon in
June. The curtains are drawn back and the
sun is shining brightly outside.
RPOSE SIBLEY, now MRS. JOHN RHEAD,
forty-six years of age and dressed in the fashion of 1885, her hair slightly grey at the temples, is seated writing some notes at a desk
near the windows. NED PYM enters from the
hall, followed by JOHN RHEAD. The former
has developed into a well-preserved, florid,
slightly self-sufficient man of forty-six. The
latter, now fifty, has not changed so much
physically except that his hair is grey and his
features have become much firmer. But his
manner has grown even more self-assured
than it was in the first Act. He is in fact a
person of authority; the successful man whose
word is law.
JOHN. Oh, you are there, Rosie. I've
brought a person of importance to see you.
ROSE [rising]. Ned[They shake hands.]




i6


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


NED. Now please don't say what you
were going to say.
ROSE. And what was I going to say?
NED. That I'm quite a stranger since I
came into the title.
ROSE [curtseying and teasing]. Lord
Monkhurst, we are only too flattered - I
was merely going to say that you look
younger than ever.
NED [seriously]. Don't I? That's what
everyone says. Time leaves me quite unchanged, don't you know.
JOHN. In every way. How old are you,
Ned?
NED [with a sigh]. Well, I shall never see
thirty again.
JOHN. What about forty?
NED. Or forty either. But my proud
boast is I'm nearer forty than fifty.
JOHN. Well, it can only be by a couple of
months.
NED. Sh! -It's a lot more than you
say, Jack.
JOHN. I was fifty in April. There's just
five years' difference between us.
ROSE [to NED]. You look more like John's
son.
NED. Say nephew; don't be too hard on
him.
ROSE. But I do wish you would go out
of mourning. It does n't suit you.
NED. Not these beautiful continuations?
ROSE. No!
NED. Well, I'm awfully sorry. But I
can't oblige you yet. Please remember I've
got three sudden deaths to work off. I
think that when a man loses a harsh but
beloved uncle in a carriage accident, and
two amiable cousins through a misunderstanding about toadstools, all in twelve
months, why - [gesture] - the least he can
do is to put himself unreservedly into the
hands of his tailor.
ROSE. I —
JOHN [stopping her, kindly but rather
tyrannically]. Now enough of this graceful
badinage. Ned and I are here on business.
What are you up to, there, Rose?
ROSE [with eager submissiveness]. I was
loing the invitations for the dinner, or
rather for the reception.
JOHN. Good. I've got some more names


in my study. You'd better come in there
with me.
ROSE. Yes, love.
NED. Am I invited to this dinner? I generally get very hungry about eight o'clock
at nights.
ROSE [teasing]. Yes, I think I put you
down. It's our wedding-day.
NED. Don't tell me how long you've
been married. It would age me!
ROSE. Considering that we have a
daughter who is turned twenty-two.
JOHN. Yes, Ned, you must face the facts
bravely. Old Mr. Sibley died in January,
1860 -ROSE. Sixty-one, love.
JOHN [after a frown at being corrected].
Sixty-one. And we were married in June
of the following year. Surely you recall the
face Sam pulled when he gave my little
Rosie away.
ROSE. But, love, it was a great concession for him to give me away at all, was n't
it?
JOHN. Oh, yes!
ROSE. By the bye, he's coming up to
town this afternoon.
JOHN. What, here?
NED. Oh! But I ought to see old Sam.
ROSE. Stay for tea, and you'll see him
and his wife, too.
NED. His wife? His what did you say?
ROSE. Now, Ned, it's no use pretending
you don't know all about it.
NED. I remember hearing a couple of
years ago, before I went to India, that
Sam had staggered his counting-house by
buying one of these new type-writing machines, and getting a young woman to
work it for him.
ROSE. That's the person. Her name is
Nancy.
NED. Is it? Only fancy; Nancy, Nancy,
in the counting-house! I say- are these
girl-clerks or clerk-girls going to be a regular thing? What's coming over the world?
JOHN [shakes his head]. Passing craze!
Goes with all this Votes-for-Women agitation and so on. You'll see, it won't last a
year - not a year! Of course, Sam - susceptible bachelor of fifty and over - just
the man to fall a victim. Inevitable 




MILESTONES


i7


ROSE. She's a very well-meaning, honest
creature.
NED. You intimate with her, Rose?
ROSE. I went to see her several times
after she had her baby. They're living at
Brockley.
NED. Baby! Brockley! No more typewriting then. The typewriter has served
its turn - eh? - Of course it was a great
catch for her.
JOHN. Yes, but it would n't have been
if Samuel had n't sold out.
NED. How much did he retire with
about?
JOHN. Well, you see he was losing three
thousand a year. He got ~20,000 net cash.
NED. I'm not a financier, but ~20,000
cash in exchange for a loss of ~3,000 a year
does n't seem so bad! Think of the money
he'd have made though, if he'd taken up
with your ideas!
JOHN [ironically]. You recollect the folly
of iron ships? And the bee in my bonnet?
[Laughs.] There were only four wooden
steamships built in this country last year.
The rest were iron; and I was responsible
for half a dozen of 'em.
NED. What's all this talk about steel for
ships?
JOHN [disdainfully]. Just talk.
NED. Well, of course, if you're building
at the rate of six steamers a year, I can
understand your generosity in the matter
of subscriptions.
ROSE. He is generous, is n't he?
NED. Told your wife about your latest
contribution?
JOHN. No, I was just going to.
ROSE [proudly]. John tells me everything.
JOHN. And Rosie always approves, don't
you, Rosie? Ah! The new generation can't
show such wives.
ROSE [eagerly]. Well?
JOHN. I've decided to give ten thousand
pounds to the party funds - politics, you
know.
NED. You see, it's to save the country.
That's what it amounts to practically, in
these days. I know, since I've gone into
politics.
ROSE. How noble! I'm so glad, John.


NED. And the great secret - shall I tell
her, or will you, Jack?
JOHN. Go on.
NED. How should you like your husband
to be a baronet, Rose?
ROSE. A baronet?
NED. Sir John Rhead, Bart., and Lady
Rhead!
ROSE [ecstatic]. Is he going to be?
NED. As soon as our side comes into
power- and we shall be in power in a
month. John '11 be on the next Honours'
List.
ROSE. In a month!
NED. The Budget's bound to be thrown
out. They're trying to increase the taxes
on beer and spirits - I've studied the
question deeply. I know what will happen.
ROSE. How magnificent!
JOHN Then you approve? [ROSE kisses
JOHN fondly]. That's all we've called in
for, just to make sure.
ROSE [weeping]. IJOHN. What's the matter?
ROSE. I'm only sorry we have n't had a
son.
NED. There, there! I'm sure you did
your best, Rose.
ROSE [to JOHN]. Are they making you a
baronet because you're giving ten thousand to the party funds?
NED. My dear woman! Of course not!
That's pure coincidence.
ROSE [convinced]. Oh!
NED. Your beloved John will be made a
baronet solely on account of his splendid
services to commerce. Does n't he deserve
it?
ROSE. No one better. Do you know, I
can scarcely believe it. Who -? Tell me
all about it.
JOHN. Well, it's thanks to Ned in the
first place.
ROSE. To Ned?
NED [pretending to be hurt]. You need n't
be so surprised, Rose. You seem to be unaware that I've gone into politics. Don't
you read the newspapers?
ROSE. No, I leave the newspapers to my
daughter.
NED. If you did, you'd know that I
made a sensation in the Indian Debate, in




CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


the House of Lords. All that Afghanistan
business, don't you know.
ROSE. Really!
NED. Oh, I became quite a Nob, at once.
Bit of luck me having gone to India,
was n't it? I'd spent the best part of a
month in India; so, of course, I knew all
about it.
ROSE [solemnly]. Of course.
NED. The leader of the Opposition said I
had a great future!
JOHN. No doubt.
NED [simply]. I shall specialise in India
and the Navy. You see my father being a
rear-admiral, I ought to be familiar with
the subject. If fellows like me don't begin
to take an interest in our neglected Navy,
England '11 be playing second fiddle to
Russia in five years' time. Mark my word,
in 1890. In 1890.
ROSE. Perhaps you'll be in the Government some day?
NED. There's no "perhaps" about it.
I shall! There's only one difficulty.
ROSE. What's that?
NED [mysteriously and important]. I'm
told I ought to marry.
JOHN [rather self-consciously]. Nothing
simpler.
NED. I know! I've had seventeen indirect offers this last six months, and that's
a fact.
ROSE. None suitable?
NED. I'm afraid of 'em. It's no joke
going and marrying a perfect stranger. I
want somebody I know - somebody I've
known all my life, or at least all hers.
ROSE. And can't you find her?
NED. I can. I have done.
ROSE. Who is it, may one ask?
NED. Jack knows.
JOHN [turning to ROSE and clearing his
throat]. Ned would like to marry into our
family, Rose.
NED [eagerly]. You know I've been dead
sweet on Emily for a couple of years at
least.
RosE [after a pause]. I know you're very
fond of her, and she of you.
NED [as above]. You think she is, really?
ROSE. But it seems so queer.
JOHN [peremptorily]. How queer? We're


respectable enough for the young rascal,
are n't we?
ROSE. Of course. It would be idealideal! My poor little Emily!
NED. Well, I've got that off my chest.
I'll be moving. I must be at the Carlton at
three-thirty to settle up John's business
with the panjandrum.
ROSE. You'll come back for tea. She'll
be here.
[Enter from the hall EMILY and GERTRUDE.
Both are dressed to go out. EMILY is a
handsome girl of twenty-two. She has fine
qualities, combining her father's pluck
with her mother's loving nature. But she
has been rather spoilt by her parents.
GERTRUDE follows. She has grown into
a faded, acidy spinster with protective
impulses for her niece, EMILY, on whom
she spends all her suppressed maternal
feelings.]
EMILY   [slightly  disconcerted].  Why,
father! How is it you are n't at the works
this afternoon earning our bread-andbutter?
JOHN [delighted]. Such impertinence!
ROSE. Emily, I really wonder at you!
What your grandmother Rhead would have
said to such manners if she'd been alive,
I dare n't think. And Lord Monkhurst
here, too!
EMILY. Well, mamma, you see, grandmother is n't alive! [To NED, who, after
shaking hands with GERTRUDE, advances
towards her]. And as for dear old Uncle
Ned - [NED, JOHN, and ROSE are all somewhat put about by this greeting. NED hesitates, his hand half out.] Are n't you going
to shake hands, then?
NED [shaking hands]. Why "uncle"?
You've never called me uncle before?
EMILY. Have n't I? It seems to suit you.
NED. I'm severely wounded. And I
shall retire into my wigwam until you make
it up to me.
ROSE. You really are very pert, Emily.
EMILY [affectionately]. I should have
thought you would adore being my uncle.
I'm sure I like you lots more than I like
Uncle Sam, for instance.
NED. That's better. I'm peeping out of




MILESTONES


19


my wigwam now. Only I won't be your
uncle. I won't be anybody's uncle. I don't
mind being your cousin, if that's any use
to you.
GERT. [sharply]. He's afraid of being
taken for the same age as your auntie,
darling.
NED [to GERTRUDE]. Half a moment,
Gertrude, and I'11 try to think of a compliment that will turn your flank.
GERT. My flank, Ned?
NED. I mean -
EMILY [to her parents and NED]. Where
were you all off to?
ROSE. Your father and I are going to the
study.
NED. And I'm going on an errand, but
I shan't be long.
JOHN. And may we ask where you and
Auntie Gertrude are "off to," Miss Inquisitive?
GERT. Oh, Mr. Preece is calling for us to
take us to the Royal Academy.
EMILY. And then we shall have tea at
the new Hotel Metropole, in Northumberland Avenue. It's the very latest thing.
JOHN [in a different tone]. Preece? But
he was here last Sunday.
EMILY. Yes, it was then we arranged
it.
JOHN. I don't like the idea of your seeing so much of Preece. And your mother
does n't like it, either.
ROSE. No, indeed!
GERT. But why not? He's the cleverest
man in your works. You've often said so.
JOHN. He may be the cleverest man in
my works; but he is n't going to be the
cleverest man in my house. Who gave him
leave to take half a day off, I should like to
know?
GERT. He said he had business in the
West End.
EMILY [to NED]. Now if you want to
make yourself useful as a cousin, please
explain to these called-so parents that they
ought n't to spoil me one day, and rule me
with a rod of iron the next. It's not fair.
It's very bad for my disposition.
NED [to JOHN]. Is this man-about-town
the same Preece you were telling me of?
EMILY. There you are, you see! He tells


everyone about Mr. Preece. He's as proud
as Punch of Mr. Preece.
JOHN [more kindly]. Arthur Preece is a
youth that I discovered in my drawing
office. Last year I took out a patent for
him for bending metal plates at a low temperature; and it's attracted some attention.
But our relations are purely business.
GERT. Still, it was you who first asked
him to the house.
JOHN [drily]. It was. And Rose kept him
for tea. It's all our fault as usual. However - [rising] - you'll kindly tell Master
Preece that you can't give yourselves the
pleasure of his society this afternoon.
EMILY. But why?
JOHN [continuing]. And if he's obstreperous, inform him that I am in my study,
and rather anxious to know exactly what
his business in the West End is.
EMILY [insisting]. But why, father?
JOHN [firmly]. Simply because your
mother and I wish you to be in this afternoon. Uncle Sam and Aunt Nancy are
coming, for one thing.
EMILY [disdainfully]. Uncle Sam! Aunt
Nancy!
ROSE. Emily! I won't have you bandying words with your father; you seem to
have lost all sense of respect.
EMILY [to NED angrily]. Are n't they
tyrants!
[She goes to a little table and takes
off her bonnet, in a quick annoyed way.]
ROSE [very politely and nicely to GERTRUDE]. Gertrude, if you are n't going out,
could you come into the study about those
addresses?
GERT. [somewhat snappishly, taking EMILY'S bonnet]. Of course!
[She goes out quickly.]
JOHN [to NED]. Well, you've got to be
off then, for the moment.
[All are near the door now, except
EMILY, who is drawing off her
gloves savagely.]
ROSE [in a low voice to NED]. Till tea,
then.
[She goes out, nodding her head significantly.]
NED [hesitating]. Yes. [To JOHN.] But




CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


I must just kiss the hand of this new cousin
of mine first.
JOHN [in a peculiar tone]. Oh! All Right!
[He follows ROSE.]
NED [going up to EMILY, whose face is
turned away ingratiatingly]. Now, I'm not
included in this frown, am I?
EMILY [facing him and bursting out]. But
don't you think it's a shame, seriously?
NED. Of course if you've promised Mr.
Preece, and don't want to disappoint
him -
EMILY [with false lightness]. Oh, Mr.
Preece is nothing to me! Only I do want to
know where I am. The fact is they let me
do as I like in little things, and they're
frightfully severe in big things. Not really
big things, but - you know -
NED. Middling big things.
EMILY. After all I'm twenty-two.
NED. A mature age.
EMILY [huffily]. Oh! Naturally you take
their side!
NED. Honour bright, I don't! I tell you
I feel far more like your age than theirs.
I 'm much younger than your father -
much! That's why I don't like being called
uncle.
EMILY. Really?
NED. Really.
EMILY [confidentially]. And there's another thing. They ought n't to treat Auntie
Gertrude like that, ought they? She's got
more brains than anybody else here.
NED. Than your father?
EMILY. No, not than father. I meant
mother, and Uncle Sam, and me- and
youNED. I see.
EMILY. Who is it runs the house? You
don't suppose it's mother, do you? Mother
is absorbed in father, quite absorbed in
him. No! It's auntie does everything.
And yet she's nobody, simply nobody. She
arranges to take me out, and they stop it
without so much as apologising to her.
NED. Well, you see, she's an old maid.
EMILY. I don't care whether she's an
old maid or not. She's the only friend I
have. Father and mother are most awfully
fond of me and all that, and mother is
sweet, is n't she? But still that makes no


difference. There are two camps in this
house; they're in one, and auntie and I are
in the other. And I tell you we have to be
regular conspirators, in self-defence. Of
course I'm trusting you.
NED [who has been playing with a book he
has picked up from a table]. You may.
EMILY. For instance, they won't let me
read Ouida. They don't even like auntie to
read Ouida.
NED. This is n't Ouida.
EMILY. I know it is n't. That's William
Black. They're always throwing William
Black at me, and I hate him. I want to
read Ouida.
NED. You must wait till you're married.
EMILY. I won't. And I do so want to go
to the Hotel Metropole.
NED. I thought it was the Royal Academy.
EMILY. The Academy too.
NED. Look here, Emily. Suppose I arrange a little theatre party?
EMILY. Not with father and mother.
They'll want to go to something silly.
NED. NO. Just your auntie and me -
and you, of course.
EMILY. Will you?
NED. Rather!
EMILY. You're quite coming out. But
will they allow it?
NED. YOU bet they will.
EMILY. Where?
NED. Anywhere you like.
EMILY. Do you know "The Mikado's"
been running three months, and I have n't
seen it yet?
NED. "Here's a 'How d' you do!'" The
Savoy then.
EMILY. Oh! Hurrah! Hurrah! Thanks;
you are a dear.
NED [pleased]. Am I? That's all right
then. Au revoir.    [Turns to the door.]
EMILY [calling him back]. Cousin! [She
beckons him to come to her.] What's this
secret between you and father and mother?
NED. What secret?
EMILY [crossly]. Now you need n't pretend. I could see it as plain as anything
when I came in. And when they went out
too, for that matter.
NED. I can't stand being bullied.




MILESTONES


2r


EMILY. Tell me, and I won't bully you.
NED [solemnly]. You're going to be related to a baronet.
EMILY [disturbed]. They don't want me
to marry a baronet, do they?
NED. Foolish creature! No. It's the
opposite camp that's about to receive a
title.
EMILY [delighted]. Father - a baronet!
NED. I'm just off to make the final
arrangements now.
EMILY. Truly?
NED. Don't be misled by my modest
exterior. I'm a terrific nob - really.
[He turns to go.]
EMILY [as he is going]. Did n't you say
something about kissing my hand? One of
your jokes, I suppose.
[NED comes and kisses it, then hurries to the door. As he opened it
he looks back and says "The
Mikado," and hurries out. EMILY stands a moment lost in
thought, a smile on her lips. Then
she hums, quite unconsciously,
"For he's going to marry YumYum, Yum-Yum!" Goes back
to the table on which the William
Black is lying, picks it upopens it, reading a bit, then flings
the book aside, muttering in disgust, "Black!"]
[THOMPSON enters. He has grown old in the
service of the RHEADS.]
THOMPSON [announcing]. Mr. Preece.
[He withdraws.]
[ARTHUR PREECE enters. His age is twentyfive; he is a man of the clerk class, whose
talent and energy have made him what
he is. He is full of enthusiasm, earnest,
but with a rough sense of humour. Rather
short and stocky in figure, but important. His clothes are neat and usefulbut very simple.]
PREECE [excited]. Good afternoon, Miss
Rhead. I'm afraid I'm a little early.
EMILY [putting on the manner of a woman
of the world]. Not at all, Mr. Preece. I'm
sure Auntie Gertrude will be delighted.
PREECE [vaguely]. She's not here now,
your aunt?


EMILY [looking round]. No.
PREECE [eagerly]. I wonder if I should
have time to tell you something before she
comes in. It is n't that it's a secret. But
nobody knows yet, and I should like you
to be the first.
EMILY. How very kind of you, Mr.
Preece!
PREECE. I've only just known it myself.
EMILY. It seems to be very thrilling.
PREECE. It is, rather. It's just this. I've
succeeded in making mild steel nearly five
per cent lighter than it's ever been made
before. Nearly five per cent lighter, and no
extra cost.
EMILY. Really! How much is five per
cent?
PREECE. It's one-twentieth part. You
know, it's enormous.
EMILY. I suppose it is.
PREECE. I daresay you don't quite realise what it means - this enormous change
in the specific gravity. But it is enormous.
EMILY. What is specific gravity? In a
word?
PREECE. It's - well- Now supposing
- Do you mind if I explain that to you
some other time? I'd like to, awfully!
EMILY. Oh! Any time!
PREECE. It's quite O.K., you know.
And the thing comes to this. Assume the
steel for a biggish ship cost ~20,000. Under
my new process you'd get the same result
with steel that weighed about a twentieth
less and cost, roughly, ~19,000. Net saving
of nearly one thousand pounds!
EMILY [impressed]. And did you 
PREECE [continuing]. And not only that.
As the hull weighs so much less, you can
carry a proportionately heavier cargo in
the same bottom.
EMILY. Well, I never heard of such a
thing! And am I really the first to know?
PREECE. You are.
EMILY. And you found out this all alone?
PREECE. Oh, yes! Except the manager,
nobody has any idea of what I've been
experimenting on.
EMILY. Not even father?
PREECE. No.
EMILY. I suppose he knows you are
experimenting.




CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


PREECE. Of course. That's my job.
That's what he took me out of the drawing
office for. I'm always experimenting on
something.
EMILY. I expect you're what they call
an inventor.
PREECE [humorously]. I expect I am.
[Eagerly.] I'd practically finished this experiment a week ago. But I had to make
sure whether there was any manganese left
in the steel. I've been getting a friend at
the City and Guilds of London Institute
to analyse it for me - you know, the big,
red building in Exhibition Road. I've just
come from there.
EMILY. So that was your business in the
West End?   [PREECE nods.] I'm sure
auntie and I had n't an idea it was anything half so romantic.
PREECE. It is romantic, is n't it?
EMILY. No wonder you're so excited.
PREECE. Am I? Well, I don't care! It's
all right. That's all I care about. Here's a
bit of the steel now.
[He offers her a small sample.]
EMILY. Is it for me? May I keep it?
PREECE. I want you to.
EMILY. Rather a strange thing for a girl
to keep, is n't it?
PREECE. You don't mindEMILY. I'd part with all my jewellery
before I parted with this. D' you know, it
makes me feel very proud. And when I
think of poor old father not knowing anything about itPREECE. I shall tell him to-morrow if he
can spare time to see me.
EMILY. Spare time to see you - why?
PREECE. Oh! you don't know, but Mr.
Rhead's a sort of crowned head on the
works. You can't walk into his office as if
it was a public-house, I can tell you.
EMILY. But it's so important for him.
PREECE. Rather! Much more important
for him than for me.
EMILY. Why?
PREECE. Under our agreement! Our
agreement has five years to run yet, and
during that time everything I do belongs
to the firm. I only get a percentage on
whatever my inventions bring in.
EMILY. What percentage?


PREECE. Ten. For every hundred pounds
profit I get ten pounds and the firm gets
ninety.
EMILY. But what a frightful shame! It
ought to be the other way about - you
ninety pounds and the firm ten.
PREECE. Oh, no! It's fair enough -
really! They pay me a very good salary.
And you must remember if Mr. Rhead
had n't taken me out of the drawing office,
I should be there now getting two pounds
a week!
EMILY. I don't care! I think it's a frightful shame. I shall tell father.
PREECE [half playfully]. Please don't,
unless you want to ruin me with him. I
owe just about everything to your father.
EMILY. But it's so horridly unfair.
PREECE. Oh, no! I assure you. I shall have
all the money I want, and more. And it will
always be my invention. That's the point.
EMILY. Then you don't care for money?
PREECE. Yes, I do. I want enough. In
fact, I want a good deal. But what's interesting is to do things, and to do 'em better
and quicker, and less clumsily than ever
they were done before. If I can make
nineteen tons of steel do the work of twenty
- Well, I reckon I've accomplished something for the world.
EMILY. I like that. It's very original.
PREECE. Not my notion, you know. I'm
a disciple of William Morris.
EMILY. Oh! He's a poet, is n't he?
PREECE. YOU should read "The Earthly
Paradise."
EMILY. I should love to.
PREECE. If people would read a bit more
William Morris, and less of these silly gimcrack novels about lord and actressesOuida and so on - What's the matter?
EMILY. Nothing. [With a certain selfsatisfaction.] William Black's silly too,
is n't he?
PREECE. Of course.
EMILY [firmly]. I'm going to read "The
Earthly Paradise."
PREECE. Let me lend it you. I've got a
signed copy, from the author.
EMILY. You know an author!
PREECE. I know William Morris. I was
up at his stable last night.




MILESTONES


23


EMILY. His stable?
PREECE. He gives lectures in a stable behind his house at Hammersmith. I wish
you'd heard him pitching into the House
of Lords. "A squad of dukes."
EMILY. But why?
PREECE. Oh, because they are n't interested in the right thing.
EMILY. What is the right thing?
PREECE. The right thing is to make the
world fit to live in.
EMILY. But is n't it?
PREECE. Have you ever been to the East
End?
EMILY. I did some slumming once, just
to see. But I was so ashamed to go into
their awful houses, that I never tried again.
PREECE [getting up, excited]. That's
grand! That's grand! That's just how I
feel. Every one feels like that that's got
any imagination and any sense of justice.
We ought to be ashamed of the East End.
At least the governing classes ought. Not
for the poor, but for themselves. They
ought to go and get buried if they can't
govern better than that.
EMILY [after a pause, rising as in thought;
moved]. But how are you going to change
it?
PREECE. Not by slumming, that's a
certainty. You can only change it by getting some decent laws passed, and by playing fair, and doing your job, and thinking
a great deal less about eating and drinking,
and fine clothes, and being in the swim and
all that sort of nonsense. Do you know
what I am going to do as soon as I can
afford? I'm going to be a Member of Parliament.
EMILY [low]. Why did you offer to take
us to the Hotel Metropole?
PREECE [confused]. I thought you'd like
it. I-I —
EMILY. You despise it yourself.
PREECE. I'm human.
EMILY. But - [She draws close to him.]
PREECE. I'm very ambitious. I want a
whole lot of things. But if I thought I
could find someone - find a woman, who
- who feels as I feel; who'd like before
everything to help to make the world
decent - I'd

EMILY. I —
[Profoundly stirred, she falls into
his arms.]
PREECE. Emily!
[He kisses her long, holding her
close.]
EMILY [gently releases herself and walks
away. With effort]. I have n't told you. I
forgot. Father does n't wish me to go out
with you this afternoon. He's here now,
in the study.
[GERTRUDE enters from the hall, without
her bonnet this time.]
GERT. Good afternoon, Mr. Preece.
[They shake hands. To EMILY.] I suppose
you - er - told Mr. Preece that the excursion is countermanded?
[She goes to the fireplace.]
EMILY. Yes, Mr. Preece was just going.
[Gently.] Good afternoon. [She holds out her
hand to PREECE, who hesitates. EMILY repeats in firmer tone.] Good afternoon. [In
a tender voice.] Please! [With a smile.] Another time!
[PREECE shakes hands and, bowing
to GERTRUDE, retires. As he departs GERTRUDE rings the bell
by the fireplace.]
GERT. Well, I've been catching it, I can
tell you!
EMILY [shaken]. What about?
GERT. About you. They simply asked
me to go into the study so that I could be
talked to - for your good, my girl.
EMILY. They were n't rude, were they?
GERT. You know your mother's always most considerate. She's an angel.
But your father rubbed it in finely. How
many times had you seen the young man?
- If ever alone? - What on earth was I
thinking of? - What on earth was your
mother doing to have noticed nothing? (As
if your mother ever noticed anything!)
And so on! Of course, I told them pretty
straight that they were making a most
ridiculous fuss about nothing.
EMILY. Well, anyhow, I've let him kiss
me.
GERT. You've let him kiss you? When?
EMILY. Just now. Here.
GERT. But what -




CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


EMILY. Don't ask me. I don't know, I
really don't. But I've felt it coming for
some time.
GERT. Do you mean to say he walked
in here and proposed to you straight off,
and you accepted him?
EMILY. I did n't accept him, because he
did n't propose. He was talking about his
ideas.
GERT. What ideas?
EMILY [with a vague gesture]. Oh, about
the world in general, and all that he means
to do. He's made another marvellous invention, only no one knows except me. It
was the excited way he talked - somehow
- I could n't help it - before I knew what
we were doing, he'd got his arms round
me.
GERT. [rather sternly, in spite of her tender
feeling]. Well, Emily, I must say I'm very
surprised.
EMILY. So am I.
GERT. Of course you're engaged to him?
EMILY. Am I?
GERT. And it'll be all my fault. However, it's got to be seen through to the end
now.
EMILY. He has very strange ideas. They
sound splendid when he's explaining them.
But d' you know, he thinks Ouida's silly.
GERT. Does he?
EMILY. And he really does n't care about
money and fashion and all that sort of
thing. He despises going to the Hotel
Metropole. He only offered to go there
because he thought it would please our
horrid little minds - I was so ashamed.
GERT. But surely you knew all this
before - at least you guessed it?
EMILY. I did n't, auntie. I never thought
about his ideas, never! I justGERT. YOU just simply fell into his arms
as soon as you heard them, that's all.
Well, surely in that case, you must admire
these ideas of his tremendously.
[She sits in an armchair.]
EMILY. I don't know. Yes. I admire
them, but -
GERT. Listen, young woman! Are you
in love with him, or are n't you?
EMILY. I -I - How can you tell
whether you're in love with a man or not?


GERT. Supposing you were alone with
him here, now - would you let him kiss
you again?                   [Pause.]
EMILY. IGERT. Now, out with it!
EMILY. I should n't be able to stop him,
should I?
GERT. That's enough.
EMILY. Yes. But then what about
father? He would be frightfully angry, I
can see that. Oh, I do hate unpleasantness,
auntie. And Mr. Preece's ideas are really
very peculiar.
GERT. [after a look at EMILY]. Listen,
Emily! I was once engaged to be married.
EMILY. Oh, auntie! I always knew you
must have been. Do tell me. Who was it?
GERT. Your Uncle Sam.
EMILY [staggered]. Not Uncle Sam?
GERT. You're surprised, naturally. But
you must n't be too hard. Remember it
was twenty-five years ago, Uncle Sam was
a splendid fellow then. He's old now.
We're all old, except you -and Mr.
Preece. You've got the only thing worth
having, you two.
EMILY [sitting at GERTRUDE'S feet].
What's that?
GERT. Youth. Your Uncle Sam lived
the miserable life of a bachelor till he was
fifty. He'd have been a very different man
if I'd married him. And I should have
been a very different woman.
EMILY. Why did you break it off?
GERT. I broke it off because there were
difficulties; and because I thought his ideas
were peculiar; and because I hated unpleasantness! And now   look at me!
Could n't I have ruled a house and a family? Could n't I have played the hostess?
[In another tone.] To-day the one poor little
joy I have in life is to pretend I'm your
mother. Look at my position here. I'm
onlyEMILY [passionately]. Oh, auntie, don't!
I can't bear to hear you say it. I know!
GERT. We were opposite in every way,
your uncle and I, but I - I loved him.
EMILY [softly]. Do you still love him,
auntie?
GERT. [in a flat tone of despair]. No 
Love dies out.




MILESTONES


25


EMILY [after a moment]. Why did n't you
marry somebody else?
GERT. There was nobody else. There
never is anybody else when you've made
the mistake I made. Marry! I could have
chosen among a dozen men! But they were
all the wrong men. Emily! Fancy pouring
out tea every day of your life for the
wrong man. Every breakfast time - every
afternoon! And there he sits, and nothing
will move him. Think of that, Emilythink of that.              [A pause.]
EMILY [embracing her again]. Oh, auntie!
I love you awfully!
GERT. You must show some courage,
my girl. Don't be afraid of anythingand especially not of arguments and
threats. What does unpleasantness matter,
after all? It's over in a month; but a mistake lasts for ever.
EMILY. You'11 help me?
GERT. That's all I live for. [She kisses
EMILY tenderly.] Is that Sam's voice?
[THOMPSON enters.]
THOMPSON [announcing]. Mr. and Mrs.
Sibley. [He retires.]
[SAMUEL SIBLEY and his wife NANCY enter.
SAMUEL, who is now fifty-three, has
grown into a rather flabby nonentity,
grey-haired with longish side whiskers
and glasses. His manner is important
and fussy. NANCY is a buxom, Yorkshire woman of thirty-two, round-faced,
good-natured, full of energy. She wears
the fashionable jersey of 1885 and a very
definite "bustle."]
SAM. Well, Gertrude? Well, my little
Emmie!
[He kisses EMILY, who gives her
cheek unwillingly; then shakes
hands with GERTRUDE.]
GERT. How are you, Sam; and you, Mrs.
Sam?
NANCY. Nicely, thank you! [Shaking
hands vigorously with GERTRUDE and EMILY.] Everybody well, here?
EMILY. Yes, thank you.
NANCY. That's fine! Then your mother
got Sam's letter saying we were coming?
EMILY [drily]. Oh, yewl


NANCY. I said to Sam it would happen
be best to write and tell you. So he wrote
- [with a look at SAM] - finally.
SAM [with a serious tone]. We nearly
did n't come.
GERT. Anything wrong?
SAM. Infant's temperature up at a hundred last night. However, it was normal
this morning.
NANCY. You know he takes the baby's
temperature every night.
EMILY. Oh, do you, uncle? How funny!
SAM. I don't see anything funny about
it, niece. Good thing if some parents took
their responsibilities a bit more seriously.
NANCY. I must say Sam makes a very
good father.
GEJRT. Let me see - how old is Dickie
now?'
SAM. We never call him Dickie - Richard, better; less nonsensical.
[He settles down solemnly in a chair.]
NANCY. You've no idea what I call him
when you're not there, Sam  [To GERTRU)UE.] He was two on the second of this
month. He talks like anything! You
ought to see him and his father together.
It's killing! The little thing's so exactly
like Sam.
EMILY [examining SAM]. Is he? We must
go down to Brockley, must n't we, auntie?
NANCY [drily]. I've been expecting you
for the better part of some time. [Then
cordially.] I should love you to come as
soon as I've got a new cook. [With emphasis.] Oh, my!
CERT. Are you having trouble?
NANCY. Trouble's not the word. And
as for the nurse-maid! If it was n't for
Sara being free -
GERT. D' you take your share, Sam?
NANCY. By the hour he wheels that child
up and down.
EMILY. Not in the street?
SAM. Why not, niece? Anything to be
ashamed of in being a father?
NANCY. That's what we came up for today, to buy a new perambulator. He did
try to repair the other in the little workshop he's made himself at the end of the
garden - and most useful he is for odd
jobs. Upon my word, he's busy from




CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


morning to night! But we thought it better
to buy a new pram altogether.
SAM [discontented]. Nancy would insist
on having one of those new things with
indiarubber tyres, as they call them.
NANCY [very definitely]. Now, Sam. I
thought we'd done with that question.
SAM. Yes; but rubber tyres on gravel
paths! It 's obvious they '1 not last aNANCY. I told you Mrs. Caton across
the road told me -
SAM. Oh, very well! Very well! Only
it's very light and flimsy.
EMILY [restless]. I think I'll go and tell
father and mother you're here.
[Going towards the door.]
NANCY [rising, very convinced]. Come
and see for yourself what you think of the
pram and the rubber tyres.
EMILY [rising]. Is it here?
NANCY. Yes, in the hall.
SAM. I deemed it imprudent to let them
send it down by train. So we brought it
away on the roof of a four-wheeler.
EMILY [patronisingly]. Well, let's go and
inspect it, Aunt Nancy.
[EMILY and NANCY go off.]
GERT. [waiting till the door is closed; in
low quiet tones]. Sam, I'm so glad you've
come. There's going to be another tragedy
in this house, if some of us don't do something.
SAM. Another tragedy? What do you
mean?
GERT. I just mean a tragedy. That
child's head over heels in love with young
Arthur Preece, at the works, and John
simply won't hear of it.
SAM. Why?
GERT. [shrugs her shoulders]. Why, indeed? Sam, if there's any discussion while
you're here I want you to help me all you
can.
SAM. But really, Gertrude, how can I
meddle in an affair like that? I have my
own responsibilities.
GERT. Sam, it's many years since I
asked the slightest favour of you.
SAM [moved, friendly]. Come, come.
Don't go so far back as all that. We're all
very comfortable as we are, I think.
[The door opens.]


GERT. [quick and low]. But will you?
You've got more influence than I have.
SAM [low]. Al right. [Pats her arm.] All
right.
[Enter ROSE and JOHN.]
JOHN [coming up to SAM a little patronisingly]. Sam, glad to see you! How's the
precious family getting on? Any new
trouble lately?
SAM [a little sharply]. Oh, no! And what
about yours? [In a significant, bantering
tone.] Any new trouble lately?
JOHN. Mine? Trouble? No!
ROSE [kissing SAM fondly]. Your wife's
here?
SAM. She's downstairs somewhere 
JOHN [interrupting sharply]. Where is
Emily?
GERT. She's just gone with Mrs. Sam to
look at a new 
JOHN [interrupting again]. Preece has n't
been, has he?
GERT. He's been and gone.
JOHN. Were you here?
GERT. I was here part of the time.
JOHN. You ought to have been here all
the time. What did you tell him?
GERT. Emily told him you wished us to
stay at home this afternoon.
JOHN [nodding curtly]. So much for that.
SAM. So even you are not quite without
'em, Jack?
JOHN. Not quite without what?
SAM. Family troubles.
JOHN. What in heaven's name are you
driving at?
SAM. Nothing. I only gathered from
your tone that Preece was considered - er
- dangerous.
JOHN [hedging]. Oh, no! I'm merely
taking precautions. Preece is an excellent
fellow in his way - brilliant even.
SAM. But you would n't care for him as
a son-in-law.
JOHN [positively]. I should not.
ROSE [shaking her head]. No!
SAM. I've always understood he had a
great career before him.
JOHN. So he has, undoubtedly. You
should see what he's got me to do at the
works. Made me instal the telephone. And
his latest is that he wants me to put down




MILESTONES,


27


an electric light plant. What do you think
of that?
SAM. He must be very enthusiastic.
GERT. I should think he just is!
JOHN. Why, the boy's invention mad.
He thinks of nothing else.
SAM. Well, if you ask me I'd sooner have
that kind of madness than most kinds I
meet with. Seems to me people have gone
mad on bicycles or banjo-playing or this
lawn-tennis, as it's called. It was different
inour day, Jack, when young men took an
interest in volunteering and the defence of
thir country. I've quite decided when our
bcy grows upbERT. [putting a hand on SAM'S arm].
San! - Emily may be back any moment.
We were talking about Arthur Preece.
SAM. So we were. [Turns again to JOHN.]
Well, Jack -
JOHN [annoyed]. Look here, Sam - I
don't mind being frank with you. Her
mother and I have somebody else in view
for Emily.
SAM. Oh!
GERT. [bitterly]. I thought as much.
[A slight pause.]
JOHN [carelessly to SAM]. Have you heard
I'm going to have a title?
SAM. No! What title?
JOHN. Baronet.
GERT. [quickly]. You never told me.
ROSE [soothingly]. It only came out this
afternoon, Gertrude dear. 
SAM. Oh- ho.
JOHN [still with an affectation of carelessness]. And what's more, Emily can marry
- under the very happiest auspices - into
the peerage. That's why we don't want
her to see too much of young Preece.
SAM. And may one ask who is the Peer?
JOHN. Monkhurst, of course.
SAM. Ned!
GERT. Ned?
ROSE. Would n't it be ideal, Sam!
SAM. He's keen - Ned?
JOHN. Very! Put that in your pipe and
smoke it, my boy.
[EMILY and NANCY reenter rather suddenly.
All the others have a self-conscious air.]
JOHN [rather negligently]. Well, Nancy.


How are you? It seems the infant's grown
out of his pram.         [Shakes hands.]
NANCY [rather proud of being able to call
the great man "JOHN" and yet trying not to
be proud]. Glad to see you, John.
[ROSE and NANCY embrace. An
awkward pause.]
EMILY [with suspicion]. What's the matter here? More secrets?
GERT. [in an outburst]. It's being arranged
that you are to marry Lord Monkhurst.
JOHN [nonplussed, coldly angry]. Gertrude, are you stark staring mad - blurting things out like that?
RosE: [shocked]. Gertrude, dear -really!
GERT. [firmly].  She'd better know,
had n't she?
JOHr. You -
NANCY [blandly]. Well, anyhow, the fat's
in the fire now, is n't it, John?
JoHrN [turning to NANCY]. Sorry you've
been let in for a bit of a scene, Nancy.
NANCY [cheerfully]. Oh! Don't mind me.
I know what family life is - my word!
I'm from Yorkshire! Best to have it out
fair and square - that's my experience.
SAM. That's what she always says when
the infant's obstreperous. Why, the night
before last, just as we were getting off to
sleep --
JOHNr. There's nothing to have out!
GERT. Oh, yes, there is. Emily's in love
with Arthur Preece.
JoHNr. What's this?
EMILY [very nervous; to GERTRUDIJ,
What do you mean - it's being arranged
for me to marry Lord Monkhurst? Me -
marry old Ned!
JOHNr. He's not old.
EMILY. Is n't he old enough to be my
father?
JOmHr. Certainly not.
SAM [mischievously]. I doubt it.
JOHN [turning on him]. You're the last
man to talk about difference of age between husband and wife.
Rosie [smoothing over the awkwardness].
But you're very happy, are n't you, dear?
SAM. Naturally.
NANCY. I don't see that age matters -
so long as people really fancy each other.
I'm sure Sam gets younger every day.




28


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


JOHN. Of course! [Turning to EMILY
angrily.] What 's this tale about you being
in love with Preece?
EMILY. I —
JOHN. Has he been proposing to you?
EMILY. No.
JOHN [disdainfully]. Then how can you
be in love with him?
EMILY [resenting his tone]. Well, I am in
love with him, if you want to know, father.
JOHN. You have the audacity -
NANCY. Come, John, it's not a crime.
JOHN. Preece is not of our class at all. It's
a gross mistake to marry out of your class.
NANCY [bantering]. Now, John, that's
not very tactful, seeing that Sam married
out of his class.
SAM. Don't be foolish, Nan! I married a
lady. Even a marquis could n't do more.
JOHN. My dear Nancy, you belong to
the family - that's enough! Preece is
quite a different affair. Just a common
clerk until I -
EMILY. I can't see what more you want.
He has the most beautiful manners, and,
as for money, he'll make lots.
JOHN. How will he make lots?
EMILY. With his inventions. You have
n't heard about his latest. But I have.
He's told me. Here it is.
[Hands piece of steel to her father.]
JOHN [taking it]. And what's this?
EMILY. I don't know exactly. But it's
very wonderful. It's steel, I think -a
new kind.
JOHN [drily]. Yes. I see it's steel.
EMILY. And I think it's a great shame
for you to take nine-tenths of all the money
from his inventions, and for him to only
have one-tenth.
JOHN [flashing up]. What? Has he been
whining to you in that style?
EMILY [passionately]. No, he has n't
been whining to me in that style. He hasn't
been whining at all. He thought it was
quite fair. It only came out by pure accident, and I promised I'd never breathe a
word. You must forget what I've said.
JOHN. I'11 teach him -
EMILY [more passionately]. If you ever
say a single thing, father, I'll run away
and never come back.


ROSE. Child! please!
[She tries to soothe her.]
SAM [to calm the stress]. Hand over, Jack.
[Takes the piece of steel and looks at it.] I
fully admit I was wrong about iron. But
even you won't prophesy that steel's going
to take the place of iron ships!
JOHN [shortly]. I don't think it is in my
works. But, as for prophesying - I don't
prophesy. Heavens knows no one can accuse me of being conservative in my ideas.
But I must say the new generation seems
to be going clean off its head. If one of
these up-to-date inventors came along ard
told me he'd made a flying-machine, I
should keep my nerve. I should n't blench.
SAM. Good! Good!
GERT. Now you're at flying-machins!
What have flying-machines got to do with
Emily's happiness? If she wants to marry
young Preece -
EMILY. Yes, if I want to marry him, why
should n't I?
ROSE. Because your father objects.
EMILY. Oh, mother. Did n't you marry
father, in spite of everyone?
JOHN. Who's told you that?
EMILY. I know. [General glances at GERTRUDE.]
ROSE [indignant]. Do you mean to compare young Preece with your father?
EMILY. Why not? You loved father, and
IJOHN. I'll tel you why not. I was independent. I was my own master. Young
Mr. Preece is n't. That's why.
GERT. [sarcastically]. Surely it's a free
country - for men!
JOHN. It's not a country where honest
men break their contracts. Young Preece
can't patent an invention without me.
Can't do anything without me. If I like,
I can force him to mark time for five years,
five solid years.
EMILY. Does that mean that if I married
him in spite of youROSE [horrified]. Child! Well may you
say we've spoilt you!
JOHN [calmly]. It means that if he had
the impudence to marry you, I'd scotch
him - that I would.
EMILY. But why? Who's going to suffer?




MILESTONES


29




How can my marriage affect anybody but
me?
JOHN. Don't talk like a little fool. Your
marriage is the most important thing in
the whole world to your mother and me.
And if you persist in doing something
against our will, I shall retaliate- that's
all.
EMILY [with a despairing gesture]. I can't
make out your objections to Mr. Preece.
Why, he's a genius; everyone knows he's a
genius.
JOHN. And what if he is? Are geniuses
tO be the kings of the earth? Not quite!
GCniuses have to be kept in order like criminals. If there's one thing above all to be
said in favour of the English character, it is
that we've known the proper way to treat
geniuses.
SAM. I'm inclined to agree with you
there.
JOHN [to EMILY]. Oh, it is n't Preece's
class I object to. He's presentable enough.
The whole truth is he's a highly dangerous
so t of young man we're breeding in these
days. He - he makes you feel - uncomfortable. On the works, under discipline,
admirable. Outside the works - no, no!
And no! I've been following Master
Preece's activities far more closely than he
thinks. He little guesses I know he's a
Socialist!
SAM. A Socialist! Good God! Gertrude,
you never told me that. A Socialist!
GERT. Why are men always so frightened
by names?
JOHN. A Socialist. [To EMILY, an ultimatum.] And I don't intend you to marry
him. If you do, you ruin him. That's the
long and short of it. Now, Emily, have we
heard the last of Preece - or not?
ROSE [to EMILY]. Darling!
GERT. I really think you ought
JOHN [curtly]. Pardon me, Gertrude.
This is n't your affair. It's my daughter's.
GERT. [to EMILY]. Your father is right.
It's your affair. It depends solely on you.
EMILY [weeping imploringly]. What am
I to do, auntie?
[GERTRUDE turns away with a
movement of pain and disgust.]


I.


EMILY. I don't want to make everybody
miserable.
GERT. [reproachfully]. Oh, Emily!
EMILY.   I could n't stand - in   Mr.
Preece's light! I could n't.
JOHN]. There! There! Of course you
could n't.
ROSE [comforting her]. My poor lamb!
JOHN. And don't go and suppose I want
to compel you to marry Monkhurst - or
anybody. You're absolutely free.
GERT. [sniffs audibly]. H'm!
JOHN [glaring at GERTRUDE to EMILY].
Only, as your aunt has dragged in his name,
I don't see any harm in telling you this
much. He adores you. We all like him.
His wife will have a position second to none
in London Society. But don't let that influence you. Take him or refuse him as you
please; your mother and I won't complain.
ROSE. Indeed we sha'n't, my love.
JOHN. Still a marriage like this is not
to be sneezed at. Is it, Emily? [Pause.] I
say, is it?
EMILY [trying to smile; weakly]. No.
JOHN [continuing]. Not that I think it
would n't be a big slice of luck for Monkhurst, too! There's only one Emily! [He
pats her.] And then my titleNANCY. Your title, John?
JOHN [carelessly'. Have n't you heard?
NANCY. No!
JOHN [as above]. Baronetcy!
NANCY [staggered]. Wonders '11 never
cease. [To ROSE.] What a pity you've got
no son, dear!
ROSE [with a trace of bitterness]. Don't
crow over us, dear!
[She clasps EMILY to her.]
SAM [with a sigh of regret for himself].
Well, well! And I've retired into private
life!
JOHN [surveying him patronisingly]. And
you've retired into private life. You're
safe at Brockley. But then you see you
had n't got a bee in your bonnet.
SAw [accepting the sarcasm with a foolish
smile]. Well, well!
NA:NCY [sharply]. I don't see that there's
any need for so much well-welling.
JOHN. Come and give your father a kiss,
Em.                       [EMILY obeys.]




3o


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


GERT. [rising as she does so, full of emotion]. I[THOMPSON enters followed by a Footman.
They bring in tea. GERTRUDE pulls hersef together. There is a slight pause
while the Servants arrange the teathings. They leave the room.]
ROSE. Emily, dear, will you pour out?
EMILY [demurely]. Yes, mother.
ROSE. I hope Ned won't be late.
NANCY. Is Lord Monkhurst coming for
tea?
ROSE. He promised to.
NANCY. Oh, dear! If I'd known I was
going to meet him - [She rises and arranges her bustle and the draperies of her
skirt.] I do hope he won't notice that pram.
A pram in a hall looks so common.
[She reseats herself. THOMPSON enters.]
THOMPSON [announcing]. Lord Monkhurst 1                      [He retires.]
GERT. [passionately]. Here's your lord!
[NED enters rapidly.]
NED. Well, kind friends. Hullo, Sam!
SAM. Hullo, Ned! [They shake hands.]
By the way, my wife —Nancy, Lord
Monkhurst.       [NANCY flustered, bows.]
NED [going towards EMILY]. Delighted!
Any of that tea for me?
GERT. [with great feeling]. And there's
your tea- your daily tea, for the rest of
your life.
JOHN [angrily]. Gertrude!
GERT. No, I will speak! Ned, what
would you do, if I told you that -
EMILY. [pleading]. Aunt Gertrude, please.
GERT. Emily?
EMILY [weakly]. It's all right, auntie.
GERT. All right? Oh, very well! [Desperately.] What's the use!
[She turns and walks quickly out
of the room.]
NED [surprised at GERTRUDE'S tone].
What's the matter with dear Gertrude?
JOHN. Nothing. One of her moods.
[Drawing up a chair, with authority.] Now
then, Emily, - tea!


ACT III
1912
The same drawing-room, but now in 1912,
it has undergone an entire change. All of the
old mid-Victorian furniture has been crowded
out by furniture of later style. Changes of
ornaments, etc. The lights are electric; so is
the bell by the fireplace.
It is a June evening, about half-past ten at
night. Signs of festivity - flowers, presents
[in gold] are standing about. It is the evening
of the Golden Wedding of JOHN and ROSE.
[WEBSTER, a smart, military-looking buter
of forty, is arranging a tray of whiskey ahnd
soda. The door to the hall opens, and a FOOTMAN enters.]                         J
FOOTMAN   [announcing]. Lord Monkhurst.                   [He withdraws.]
[LORD MONKHURST enters. He is a young
man about town of twenty-two, tall, hollow-chested, careless in his manners,
very self-assured and properly bored.]
MONK. I say, Webster.
WEBSTER. Good evening, my lord.
MONK. [cheerfully]. I suppose dinner's
over?
WEBSTER [looking at his watch]. It's halfpast ten, my lord.
MONK. Of course, they'll all say I'm
late for dinner.
WEBSTER. Oh, no, my lord. Shall I
order some dinner for your lordship?
MONK. No. Who's here now?
WEBSTER. Lady Monkhurst and Miss
Muriel; Miss Rhead, Mrs. Samuel Sibley,
and Mr. Richard Sibley.
MONK. Yes. I know he's here. Many
people at the reception this afternoon?
WEBSTER. Droves, my lord.
MONK. I suppose these ghastly things
are the presents?
WEBSTER. As your lordship says.
MoNK. Dashed if I can understand why
my grandfather should make such a fuss
about his golden wedding. [Very cheerfully.]
Was he very angry at me not turning up?
WEBSTER. Considering his age, no, my
lord. I took the liberty of suggesting to
him that this might be one of your busy


CURTAIN




MILESTONES


31


weeks, my lord, and that your lordship
could never tell beforehand -
MONK. You're a clever chap, Webster.
Why the devil did you leave the army?
WEBSTER. Probably because, as your
lordship says, I'm clever. There's more
brains outside the army than in it, my lord.
And like turns to like.
MONK. [laughing in a superior way]. Ha!
ha! Really!
WEBSTER. Fact is, I enlisted under a
misapprehension, when I was in a temper.
I have to thank.your lordship's late father
for helping me to reenter my old professiSn, and under the most auspicious circumstances.
MONK. Well, we could do with more fellahs like you. I've not yet found any serjeant to draw my sketch maps for me half
as well as you used to.
[He is looking over the tray with
drinks.]
WEBSTER. Ah, my lord! Those halfguineas came in very handy, very handy.
Glorious times, no doubt. But I would n't
go back.
MONK. Bring me a benedictine, will
you?
[EMILY, now LADY MONKHURST, fortyeight, enters by the double doors. She
has developed into a handsome, wellpreserved woman of the world. She
wears an evening dress of rich brocade,
and magnificent pearls.]
MONK. Well, mater, I don't see much
sign of the fatted calf.
EMILY [annoyed]. Gerald, your poor
father was witty; you are merely facetious.
I wish you could cure yourself.
MONK. Now, what's the matter now?
EMILY. What's the matter? You must
needs choose your grandparents' golden
wedding to go to Sandown. You promised
me you'd be back early, at any rate in time
for the tail end of the reception; and you
don't even appear for dinner. Your grandfather is very displeased.
MONK. If a fellow keeps a stable, he
keeps a stable. Somebody's got to look
after the gees in these days. And then -
[Hesitates.]


EM:LY. Please don't tell me your car
broke down. I've heard that too often.
MONK. It did n't - this time.
EMILY. Have you dined?
MONK. I have.
EMILY. Whom with? [Silence.] One of
your numerous "lady friends," I presume.
Gerald, I'm ashamed of you.
MO:NK. You've no right to be ashamed
of me. If you want to know, I dined at the
House of Lords.
EMILY. At the House of Lords?
MONK. At the House of Lords. They
telephoned to me at Sandown to come up
for an important division, and I was kept
hanging about there till after ten o'clock.
Jolly amusing place, the House of Lords.
EMILY [rather taken aback]. Why did n't
you tell me at first?
MONK. Because I just wanted to teach
you a lesson, mater. You're always ragging
me about something or other.
EMILY. You might at least have telephoned.
MONK. When a chap's doing his duty to
his country, he can't always think about
telephoning.
EMILY. My dear Gerald, if you mean to
follow in your father's footsteps, nobody
will be more delighted than your mother.
There'd be nothing to prevent you from
being Master of the Horse, if you chose.
Only, my chick -
MONK. Only what?
EMILY. You must alter your manner of
living.
MONK. My manner of living, my dear
mater, is my own affair. [With meaning.]
If you'd leave me alone, and look after
your other "chick" a little bit more -
EMILY. What do you mean? Muriel?
MONK. Precisely.  The Honourable
Muriel.
EMILY. Why?
MONK. Oh! I know Muriel can do no
wrong. Still, I spotted her at the top of the
stairs just now practically in the arms of
the good Richard.
EMILY. Richard!
MONK. [intoning]. And Samuel took to
wife Nancy, and begat Richard. And
Samuel passed away in the fulness of years




32


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


and his son Richard reigned in his stead.
And Richard looked upon Muriel, and lo!
she was beautiful in the eyes of Richard -
EMILY. Hush, Gerald! Are n't you
mistaken? I've never seen the slightest
thing 
MONK. That shows how blind you are,
then! Of course I'm not mistaken.
EMILY. Are you sure?
MONK. Do you take me for a fool,
mater?
EMILY [positively]. Richard, indeed! I
shall put a stop to it.
MONK [almost savagely]. I should jolly
well think you would.
[Enter WEBSTER from the hall with a liqueur
on a salver. MONKHURST takes it and
drinks it slowly.]
EMILY. Webster, will you kindly ask
Miss Muriel to come here?
WEBSTER. Very good, my lady.
[He goes out. MONKHURST nods
knowingly to his mother as if to
say, "Now you'll see!" NANCY
enters by the double doors. She
has grown into a rather red-faced
plump, old woman of fifty-eight.
She is good-natured, but is quick
to retort. Her laugh is rather
loud, her manner more definite
than ever.]
NANCY. Good evening, young man.
MONK. Good evening.
NANCY. So you've come atEMILY [interrupting her]. Aunt Nancy,
I've just had to send for Muriel to come here.
NANCY. What's amiss?
EMILY. I - well - I hardly like -
MONK. Your excellent son Richard has
been seen trying to kiss my sister.
NANCY. What was she doing?
EMILY. Well, that's not the point.
NANCY. And supposing he was trying
to kiss Muriel?
EMILY. I must say, Aunt Nancy, you
don't seem very surprised.
NANCY. Who would be? You invite
young people to a golden wedding, and
then you're startled when you catch 'em
kissing. What else do you expect?
EMILY. I expect a good deal else.


NANCY. Then you're likely to be disappointed. As a matter of fact, I knew
Richard was going to kiss Muriel to-night.
EMILY. Who told you?
NANCY. He did, of course. At least, he
let out to me he was going to propose to her.
He usually gets what he wants, you know.
EMILY [angrily surprised]. H'm!
MONK. [very definitely]. He won't get
what he wants this time.
NANCY. Oh?
MONK. You must see that my sister
can't marry an engineer.
NANCY. Well —why not an engineer?
What are you? I can tell you what ybu
might have been, if you had n't been born
in the right bedroom: you might have been
a billiard-marker. What have you done?
Tell me a single thing you've done?
MONK. I've- oh! What tripe!
EMILY. Really, Aunt Nancy 
NANCY. Yes, my son is an engineer.
And if you want to know what sort of an
engineer he is, go to Mr. Arthur Preece.
MONK. [disdainfully]. Who's Preece?
NANCY [imitating his tone]. Ask your
mother who Preece is.
EMILY [self-consciously]. Aunt Nancy!
NANCY [continuing]. You are n't old
enough to remember Mr. Preece as an
engineer, but, at any rate, you know he's
in the House of Commons, whereas you're
only in the House of Lords. And I'd like
you to tell me where your grandfather'd
have been last week with all his workmen
on strike - but for Mr. Preece!
MONK. Oh, that Preece!
NANCY. Exactly. And it's that Preece
that thinks the world of my son. My son's
been out to Canada, and look how he got
on in Winnipeg! And now he's going out
again, whose capital is he taking but your
grandfather's? I should like to see your
grandfather trust you with thirty thousand
pounds and a ticket to Canada.
MONK. I 'm in no need of capital, thank
you.
NANCY. Lucky for you you are n't! My
husband left me very badly off, poor man,
but I could count on Richard. A pretty
look-out for your mother if she'd had to
count on you!




MILESTONES


33


EMILY    [impatient].  Really,  Aunt
Nancy -
NANCY [nettled]. Well, you leave my son
alone.
[Enter from the hall MURIEL and RICHARD.
MURIEL is a handsome girl of twentyfour, rather thin and eager with a high
forehead, and with much distinction.
She has herself under absolute control.
RICHARD is a tall, broad, darkish fellow
of twenty-seven, with a clean-shaven
heavy face and rough hair. He is very
taciturn.]
EMILY. Muriel, it was you that I asked
for.
MURIEL [quite calmly]. We were both
just coming to tell you.
EMILY. Tell me what?
MURIEL. We're engaged.
EMILY. Does Richard leave you to say
this to me?
MURIEL. Well, you know he was never
a great talker.
RICHARD. There it is - we're engaged.
NANCY [to Muriel]. How matter-of-fact
you are, you girls, nowadays.
[She caresses Richard.]
MURIEL. Well, nobody seems strikingly
enthusiastic here.
EMILY. I should think not. I don't like
these underhand ways.
MURIEL. What underhand ways? Surely
you did n't expect Richard to announce in
advance the exact place and hour he was
going to propose to me.
EMILY. Please don't try to imitate your
dear father. You're worse than Gerald
sometimes.
MURIEL. Oh, very well, mamma! What
else?
EMILY. Do you mean to tell me you're
seriously thinking of going to Canadato Winnipeg - for the rest of your days?
MURIEL. Of course, mamma! I'm sure
I shall be happier there than here.
EMILY. You'll leave England?
MURIEL. Certainly. Politics are much
more satisfactory over there, except for
woman's suffrage. All the questions that all
the silly statesmen are still wranglingabout
here have been settled over there agesago.


EMILY. My poor girl!
MURIEL. Mamma, I wish you would n't
say "my poor girl."
EMILY. What have politics to do with
happiness?
MURIEL. They have a great deal to do
with mine. But, of course, what most attracts me is all those thousands of square
miles of wheat fields, and Richard making
reaping-machines for them. The day I first
see one of Richard's new machines at work
on a Canadian wheat-farm will be the happiest clay of my life - except to-day.
NANCY [amazed at these sentiments]. Well,
you're a caution.
MONK. [with disgust]. Why not marry an
agricultural implement while you're about
it?
RICHARD [threateningly]. You shut up!
MURIEL. But are n't you glad, mamma?
EMILY. I can't discuss the matter now.
MURIEL. But what is there to discuss?
EMI:LY [after a pause]. Muriel, I tell you
at once, both of you, I shan't allow this
marriage.
MURIEL.   Not allow  it?  My poor
mamma!
MONK. Certainly not.
RICHARD. I've told you to shut up once.
EMILY. And your grandfather won't
allow it, either.
MURIEL. Of course, mamma, you and I
have always been devoted to each other.
You've made allowances for me, and I've
made allowances for you. But you must
please remember that we're in the year
1912. I 've promised to marry Richard, and
I shall marry him. There's no question of
being "allowed." And if it comes to that,
why should n't I marry him, indeed?
EMILY. You- your father's daughter,
to think of going out to Winnipeg as the
wife of a - your place is in London.
RICHARD [stiffening at the sight of trouble].
But I say, Cousin Emily -
MURIEL [gently, but firmly]. Richard,please. [Turning to her mother.] Mamma,
you really do shock me. Just because I'm
the Honourable Muriel Pym! [Laughs.] I
won't say you 're a snob, because everybody's a snob, in some way or other. But
you don't understand the new spirit, not in




34


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


the least -and I'm    so sorry. Why!
Has n't it occurred to you even yet that
the aristocracy racket's played out?
[ROSE and JOHN enter by the double doors.
They have both grown very old, ROSE
being seventy-three and JOHN seventyseven. ROSE has become short-sighted,
white-haired and stoutish. JOHN has
grown a little deaf; his hair is thin, his
eyes sunken, his complexion of wax, his
features sharply defined. GERTRUDE
follows them, now seventy-three. She has
grown into a thin shrivelled old woman,
erect, hard with a high, shrill voice and
keen, clear eyes.]
ROSE. Oh! It's here they seem to be
collected. [To MONKHURST.] IS that you,
Gerald? Wherever has the poor lamb been?
[She kisses him.]
MONK. Grandma, congratulations. [To
JOHN.] Congratulations, sir.
JOHN [sternly]. Is this what you call good
manners, boy?
MONK. Sorry, sir. I was kept.
JOHN [sarcastically]. Kept?
MONK. At the House of Lords. A division.
MURIEL. Good Heavens! Break it to us
gently. Has his grandma's lamb gone into
politics?
MONK. [haughtily, ignoring his sister].
They telephoned me from headquarters. I
thought you would prefer me -
JOHN. Certainly, my boy. [Shakes his
hand.] You could n't have celebrated our
golden wedding in a fashion more agreeable
to us than by recording your first vote in
the House of Lords. Could he, granny?
ROSE [feebly]. Bless us! Bless us!
JOHN. What was the division?
MONK. [mumbling]. Er- the Trades
Union Bill, sir. Third reading.
JOHN [not hearing]. What did you say?
MONK. [louder]. Trades Union Bill, sir.
MURIEL. Oh, my poor lamb! The Trades
Union Bill division is n't to be taken till
to-morrow!
MONK. [hastily]. What am I thinking of?
It must have been the Extended Franchise
Bill, then.... Anyhow, I voted.
JOHN [coughing]. H'm! H'm!


GERT. [drawing a shawl round her shoulders, fretfully]. Could n't we have that
window closed?
ROSE. Auntie Gertrude, how brave you
are! I dare n't have asked. I declare I'm
a martyr to this ventilation in my old age.
GERT. I daresay I'm very old-fashioned,
but when I was young we did n't try to
turn a drawing-room into a park.
ROSE [to RICHARD, as he closes the window].
Thank you, Richard.
JOHN [pettishly]. Put a match to the fire,
boy, and have done with it.
[RICHARD goes to the fireplace,
kneels down, and lights the fire.]
GERT. What's the matter, Emily?
EMILY [who has begun to weep]. Oh,
Auntie Gertrude!
NANCY [soothingly]. Come, come, Emily.
JOHN. What's that? What's that?
ROSE [peering at EMILY]. What is it,
John?
JOHN. Monkhurst, have you been upsetting your mother again?
MURIEL. I think it's us, grandpapa.
JOHN. What does she say?
MURIEL. I'm afraid it's us -Richard
and me. We're engaged to be married.
[MURIEL points to RICHARD, who
is still on his knees busy with the
fire.]
ROSE. Oh, my dear - how sudden!
What a shock! What a shock! I can
understand your mother crying. I must
cry myself. Come and kiss me! It's astonishing how quietly you young people
manage these things nowadays.
[Embraces MURIEL.]
JOHN. Who's engaged to be married?
Who's engaged to be married?
RICHARD [loudly, rising and dusting his
hands]. Muriel and I, sir.
JOHN. Mu - Mu -! What the devil
do you mean, sir? Emily, what in God's
name are you thinking of?
EMILY [whimpering]. It's just as much
of a surprise to me as to anybody. I don't
approve of it.
MONK. I've told them already you
would never approve, sir,
NANCY. You have n't, young man. It
was your mother who told us that.




MILESTONES


35


JOHN [to Nancy]. I asked you to my
golden wedding, Nancy -
NANCY. You did, Sir John. I should n't
have come without.
JOHN. Do you countenance this —
affair?
NANCY. What's wrong with it?
ROSE [timidly]. Yes, John. What's
wrong with it? Why should n't my Muriel
marry her Richard?
JOHN. What's wrong with it, d' you say?
What-!
EMILY [passionately]. I won't agree to it.
JOHN [to NANCY]. Nothing wrong with it,
from your point of view. Nothing! [Laughing.] Only I sha'n't have it. I won't have
it.
ROSE. Grandpa, why do you always try
to cross me?
JOHN. I? You?
ROSE. I've been yielding to you in everything for fifty years. I think I'm old
enough to have my own way now —just
once.
JOHN [startled]. What's come over you?
ROSE. Nothing's come over me. But I
really 
JOHN [subduing her]. Be silent, granny!
NANCY. We thought you thought very
highly of Richard.
JOHN. So I do. But what's that got to
do with it? It's nothing but this genius
business over again.
NANCY. Genius business?
JOHN. Yes. I shall be told Richard's a
genius, therefore he must be allowed to
marry Muriel. Nonsense! I had just the
same difficulty with her mother twenty-six.years ago. You ought to remember; you
were there! Had n't I, Emily?
EMILY [faintly]. Yes.
JOHN [not hearing]. What's that?
EMILY. Yes, father. Yes.
JOHN. Of course I had. I would n't have
it then, and I won't have it now. What?
Here's a young fellow, a very smart engineer. Insists on going to Canada. Wants
capital! Well, I give it him! I tell him he
may go. Everything 's settled. And then,
if you please, he calmly announces his intention of carrying off my grand-daughter
-him!


ROSE. If she's your grand-daughter, he's
my nephew.
JOHN [glaring at her]. Sh!
ROSE. No! I wo -
JOHN [continuing, staring at ROSE]. My
grand-daughter has got to marry something very different from an engineer.
NANCY. If she did she. might marry
something that'll turn her hair greya good
deal sooner.
JOHN. I have my plans for Muriel.
EMILY. Imagine Muriel in Winnipeg!
MURIEL. What plans, granddad? You
've never told me about any plans.
JOHN. Not told you! At your age, your
mother had a conspicuous place in London
society. And it's your duty to carry on the
family tradition. Your mother did n't
marry into the peerage so that you could
gallivant up and down Winnipeg as the
wife of a manufacturing engineer. You
have some notion of politics, though it's a
mighty queer one -
MURIEL. I hardly think my politics
would further your plan, granddad. I
should have supposed the whole of my
career would have made it plain that I
have the greatest contempt for official
politics.
JOHN. Your "career"! Your "contempt"! [Laughs good-humouredly, then
more softly.] My child -
MURIEL [nettled]. I'm not a child.
JOHN [angrily]. Enough! Don't make
yourself ridiculous. [More quietly.] Your
mother and your brother think as I do.
Let that suffice.
RICHARD. Pardon me, sir, but suppose it
won't suffice?
JOHN [furious]. I- IMURIEL [violently]. Granddad, do please
keep calm.
JOHN [as above]. I'm perfectly calm, I
believe.
NANCY [to GERTRUDE]. Then he'd believe anything!
MURIEL. You don't seem to have understood that we're engaged to be married.
GERT. I must say 
JOHN. And what must you say? You'll
side with my wife against me, and the
girl's own mother, I suppose?




36


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


GERT. I fail to see any objection whatever.
JOHN. Do you, indeed! Well, objection
or no objection, I mean it to be stopped 
now, at once.
MURIEL. But how shall you stop it,
granddad?
JOHN. If I hear one more word of this,
one more word —there'll be no thirty
thousand pounds for Richard. Not from
me, at any rate. And I don't imagine that
your mother will help him, or Monkhurst
either. Where is he?
MONK. Not much.
MURIEL. But that won't stop it, granddad!
ROSE [rising, and going to the hall door].
John, you're a hard, hard old man. The
one thing I ask of you, and on our golden
wedding day, too, and you won't even listen. You shut me up as though I were a -
a - I do think it's a shame. The poor
things.          [She goes out in tears.]
NANCY [hurrying out after her]. Rose!
Rose! Don't!
JOHN. Here I arrange a nice little family
dinner to celebrate the occasion. I invite no
outsiders, so that we shall be nice and homely
and comfortable. And this is how you treat
me. You induce your grandmother to defy
me-the first time in her life. You bring
your mother to tears, and youEMILY. There's nothing to be said in
*favour of it - nothing. The very thought
of it -
RICHARD. I'm awfully sorry.
JOHN. No, you are n't, sir. So don't be
impudent.
[WEBSTER enters.]
WEBSTER. Mr. Arthur Preece, Sir John.
I've shown him into the study.
JOHN. Very good. [WEBSTER goes out.]
GERT. Why can't Mr. Preece come up
here?
JOHN. Because he's come to see me on
private business, madam. Private, do I
say? It's public enough. Everybody
knows that I can't keep my own workmen
in order without the help of a Labour M.P.
The country's going to the dogs! My own
father used to say so, and I never believed
him. But it's true.  [He goes to the door.]


MONK. May I come with you, sir?
[With a superior glance at MURIEL.] These
family ructionsJOHN. Come!
[JOHN goes off, followed by MONKHURST.]
GERT. [meaningly]. Richard, go and see
where your mother is, will you?
[RICHARD follows the others. A
slight pause.]
EMILY [still weakly and tearfully]. How
your poor grandmother is upset!
MURIEL. Yes, I'm very sorry.
EMILY. That's something.
MURIEL. It's such a humiliating sight.
No real arguments. No attempt to understand my point of view! Nothing but
blustering and bullying and stamping up
and down. He wants to make out that I'm
still a child with no will of my own. But
it's he who's the child.
GERT. Come, come, Muriel.
MURIEL. Yes, it is. A spoilt child! When
anything happens that does n't just please
him, there's a fine exhibition of temper.
Don't we all know it. And this is the great
Sir John Rhead! Bah!
EMILY [amazed]. Muriel!
MURIEL. Oh, of course it is n't his fault!
Everyone's always given him his own way
- especially grandma. It's positively pathetic; grandma trying to turn against him
now. Poor old thing! Asif she could! Now!
EMILY. Muriel, your cold-bloodedness
absolutely frightens me.
MURIEL. But, mother, I'm not coldblooded. It's only common-sense.
GERT. [clumsily caressing EMILY]. Darling!
EMILY. Common-sense will be the finish
of me; I've no one left in the world now.
GERT. [hurt]. Then I suppose I'm too old
to count. And yet for nearly fifty years
I've lived for nobody but you. Many and
many a time I should have been ready to
die - yes, glad to - only you were there.
EMILY [affectionately]. And yet you're
against me now.
GERT. I only want you not to have any
regrets.
EMILY. Any regrets! My life has been
all regrets. Look at me.




MILESTONES


37




GERT. Not all your life, dear -your
marriage.           [MURIEL looks up.]
EMILY [firmly, and yet frightened with a
look at MURIEL]. Hush, auntie!
GERT. Why? Why should I hush? You
say your life's been all regrets, if you care
about being honest with Muriel, you ought
to tell her now that you did not marry the
man you were in love with.
EMILY [in an outburst]. Don't believe it,
Muriel. No one could have been a kinder
husband than your father was, and I always loved him.
MURIEL [intimidated by these revelations
of feeling]. Mother!
GERT. Then what do you regret? You
had an affection for Ned, but if you had
loved him as you loved - the other one -
what is there to regret? And now you seem
to be doing your best to make regrets for
Muriel - and - and - oh, Emily, why
do you do it?
MURIEL [moved, but controlling herself].
Yes, mamma! Why? I'm sure I'm open to
hear reason on any subject -even marriage.
EMILY [blackly]. Reason! Reason! There
you are again! My child, you're my oldest, and I've loved you beyond everybody.
You've never been attached to me. It
is n't your fault, and I don't blame you.
Things happen to be like that, that's all.
You don't know how hard you are. If you
did, you'd be ready to bite your tongue
off. Here I am, with you and Gerald.
Gerald is not bad at heart, but he's selfish
and he's a fool. I could never talk freely to
him, as I do to you. One day he'll be asking me to leave Berkeley Square, and I shall
go and finish my days in the country. And
here you calmly announce you're off to
Canada, and you want my reasons for objecting! There's only one reason - all the
others are nothing - mere excuses - and
you could n't guess that one reason. You
have to be told. If you cared for me, you
would n't force me to the shame of telling
you.
MURIEL [whispering]. Shame?  - 
EMILY. Is n't it humiliating for a mother
to have to tell her daughter, who never's
even thought of it, that she eannot bear to
lose her, - cannot bear? — Canada l:








MURIEL [throwing herself at her mother's
knees]. Mother, I'll never leave you!
[She sobs, burying her face in her
mother's lap.]
GERT. [softly]. All this self-sacrifice is a
sad mistake. [To MURIEL.] None of us
can live for ever; When your mother is
gone -- what will you do then?
MURIEL [climbing up and kissing her
mother]. I'll never leave you!
EMILY. My child!
GERT. [gently]. It's wrong of you, Emily! All wrong!
[ARTHUR PREECE enters from the hall. His
hair and moustache have grown grey.
His expression and manner slightly disillusioned and cynical. In figure he is
the same.]
PREECE. Good evening.
MURIEL [on seeing him, rises quickly
rather like a school-girl]. Good evening.
[She goes out rapidly. PREECE looks after
her a little surprised.]
EMILY [at once the woman of the wor7d].
Good evening. You've soon finished your
business with father.
PREECE [puzzled by the appearance of
things]. Good evening. [He shakes hands
with EMILY.] What is the matter? The old
gentleman really was n't equal to seeing
me. 1 just told him what I had to tell him
about the strikers, and then he said I'd
perhaps better come up here. I think he
wanted to be alone.
EMILY. Poor dear!
PREECE. Nothing serious, I hope?
GERT. [briskly, shaking PREECE by the
hand]. The usual thing, Mr. Preece, the
usual thing! A new generation has got to
the marrying age. You know what it is.
I know what it is. Now, Emily, don't begin
to cry again. People who behave as selfishly
as you're doing have no right to weep -
except for their sins.
EMILY [protesting]. Auntie, this can't
possibly interest Mr. Preece.
GERT. [still more briskly]. Don't talk that
kind of conventional nonsense, Emily! You
know quite well it will interest Mr. Preece
extremely. [Rising.] Now just tell him all
about it and see what he says. [With a




38


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


peculiar tone.] I suppose you'll admit he
ought to be a good judge of such matters?
[She moves to the door.]
EMILY. Where are you going?
GERT. [imitating EMILY slightly]. That
can't possibly interest you. [Wearily.] I'm
out of patience. [She goes out of the room.]
EMILY [trying toforce a light tone]. I hope
you had some good news about the workmen for my poor old father. What a
finish for his golden wedding day!
PREECE [following her lead]. Yes, I think
his little affair's pretty well fixed up-anyhow for the present. He's shown himself
pretty reasonable. If he'd continued to be
as obstinate as he was at the start, the thing
would have run him into a lot of money.
EMILY. I wonder he does n't retire.
PREECE. He's going to. There's to be a
Limited Company.
EMILY. Father - a Limited Company!
He told you?
PREECE. Yes.
EMILY. Then he must have been feeling
it's getting too much for him.
PREECE. Well, considering his years -
seventy-seven, is n't it? Some of us will be
beaten long before that age.  [He sighs.]
EMILY. Why that sigh? You are n't
getting ready to give up, are you?
PREECE. No, I expect I shall go on till I
drop.
EMILY. I should have thought you had
every reason to be satisfied with what you
have done.
PREECE. Why?
EMILY. Unless you regret giving up steel
for politics.
PREECE. No. I don't regret that. I'd
done all I really wanted to do there. I'd
forced your father to take up steel on a
big scale. I'd made more than all the
money I needed. And other processes were
coming along, better than mine.
EMILY. I wonder how many men there
are who've succeeded as you have done,
both in politics and out of politics.
PREECE. Do you think I've succeeded
in politics?
EMILY. You haven't held office, but
I've always understood it was because you
preferred to be independent.


PREECE. It was. I could have sold my
soul over and over again for a seat at an
Under-Secretary's desk. I would n't even
lead the Labour Party.
EMILY. But everyone knows you're the
strongest man in the Labour Party.
PREECE. Well, if I am - the strongest
man in the Labour Party is rather depressed.
EMILY. Why?
PREECE. Difficult to say. Twenty years
ago, I thought the millennium would be
just about established in 1912. Instead of
that, it's as far off as ever. It's even further
off.
EMILY. Further off?
PREECE. Yes. And yet a lot of us hav(
worked. By God, we have! But there'"
a different spirit now. The men are bitter
They can't lead themselves and they won'"
be led. They won't be led. And nobody
knows what's going to happen next. Ex'
cept that trouble's going to happen. )
often wonder why I was cursed with the
reforming spirit. How much happier 1
should have been if I'd cared for nothing
in this world but my own work -like
young Richard Sibley, for instance.
EMILY. Is n't he interested in reform?
PREECE. Not he! He's an engineer,
only an engineer. He minds his own business. I suppose he's here to-night.
EMILY. Yes.
PREECE [in an ordinary tone]. Why won't
you let him marry Miss Muriel?
EMILY [startled]. Then father's told you?
PREECE. Not a word. But Richard and
I are great pals. He's told me his plans.
Why should n't they marry?
EMILY [weakly]. Muriel won't go to
Canada.
PREECE. Won't go to Canada? But I
understand she had a tremendous notion of
Canada.
EMILY. She's promised me she won't go.
PREECE. But why should she do that?
EMILY [half breaking down]. Oh, I know
I'm selfish. But - but -I should be
quite alone, if she went. And then, it's not
what we'd anticipated for her. We naturally hoped -
PREECE. Oh! Of course, if you're in the
marriage market -




MILESTONES


39


EMILY. No. Really it's not that- at
least as far as I'm concerned. I should be
so utterly alone. And she's promised me.
If she deserted me -
PREECE. Deserted -rather a strong
word
EMILY. Please don't be hard! You don't
know how unhappy I am. You admit
you're discouraged.
PREECE. I said "depressed."
EMILY. Well, depressed, then. Can't
you feel for others?
PREECE [rather roughly]. And who made
me admit it? Who kept questioning me
and worming it out of me? You would n't
leave it alone. You're like all the other
women - and I've had to do with a few.
EMILY [affronted]. Please -
PREECE. It is n't sufficient for you to
make a man unhappy. You are n't satisfied
till he admits you've made him unhappy.
EMILY [protesting]. Oh!
PREECE. How many times have I seen
you since this cursed strike brought me
among the family again? Half-a-dozen,
perhaps. And every single time I've noticed you feeling your way towards it. And
to-night you've just got there.
EMILY. Arthur, you must forgive me.
It's quite true. We can't help it.
PREECE. What should I care about lost
millenniums and labour troubles ahead, if
I'd any genuine personal interest in my
own? Not a jot. Not a tinker's curse! Do
you remember you let me kiss you - once?
EMILY. Forgive me! I know I ought n't
to be forgiven. But life's so difficult. Ever
since I've been seeing you again I've realised how miserable I am - it's such a long
time since. It seems as it was some other
girl and not me - twenty-six years ago -
here! And yet it's like yesterday. [She sobs.]
[PREECE embraces her first roughly
and then very tenderly.]
PREECE. My child!
EMILY. I'm an old woman.
PREECE. You said it was like yesterday
- when you were twenty-three - so it is.
[They kiss again.]
EMILY [with a little laugh]. This will kill
father.
PREECE. Not it. Your father has a


remarkable constitution. It's much more
likely to kill the Labour Party.
[JOHN enters, agitated and weary.]
JOHN [brusquely]. Where's your mother?
She's not in the other room. I thought she
was in here. I want to see her.
EMILY. She's probably gone to her own
room -- poor dear!
JOHN. Can't you go and find her?
[He sits down, discouraged.]
EMILY [coming over to him]. Father, I've
been thinking it over, and I'm afraid we
shall have to agree to Muriel's marriage.
JOHN. We shall have to agree to it? I
sha'n't agree to it.
EMILY. As Mr. Preece saysJOHN. Mr. Preece?
EM]LY. You know how friendly he is
to Richard - as Mr. Preece says, why
should n't they marry?
PREECE. I merely ventured to put the
question, Sir John.
JOHN. Why should n't they? Because
they should n't. Is n't that enough? [To
EMILY.] A quarter of an hour ago you yourself agreed in the most positive way that
there was nothing whatever to be said in
favour of such a match.
EM:LY. I was rather overlooking the
fact that they're in love with each other -
- [glancing at PREECE] - a quarter of an
hour ago.
JOHN. Are all you women gone mad tonight? Preece, do you reckon you understand women?
PREECE. Now and then one gets a
glimpse, sir.
JOHN [realising state of affairs between
PREECE and EMILY]. H'm!
EMILY [noticing her father watch her,
rather self-consciously]. After all, what
difference can it make to us? We sha'n't
be here as long as they will.
JOHN. What? What?
EMILY [louder]. We sha'n't be here as
long as they will, I say.
JOHN. That's it! Tell me I'm an old
man! Of course, it can't make any difference to us. I was looking at the matter
solely from their point of view. How can
it affect me- whom Muriel marries?




4o


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


EMILY. Well, then! Let them judge for   JOHN. Eh, what? A long time? Don't
themselves. You agree? [JOHN stares be-  try to hoodwink me, Preece. I know what
fore him  obstinately.] Father-  [JOHN   you all say when I'm  not there. "Old
shakes his head impatiently.] Dad!      Rhead." "Be breaking up soon, the old
JOHN [looking up like a sulky child]. Oh,  man!" But I'm not yet quite doddering.
have it your own way. I'm not the girl's  [Pointedly.] You'll be married inside six
mother. If you've made up your mind,    months - and every newspaper in London
there's nothing more to be said.        will be full of it. Yes, answer that. My
EMILY. And Richard's capital?         workmen go out on strike, and you poke
JOHN. Oh, it'sall lyingready. [Shrugs his  your nose in and arrange it for me. Then
shoulders.] May as well have it, I suppose.  my family go out on strike, and upon my
EMILY. You're a dear!                 soul, you poke your damned nose in there,
JOHN. I'm not a dear, and I hate to be  too, and arrange that for me - on your
called a dear.                          own terms. Tut-tut! Shake hands,
EMILY. What a shocking untruth! I     man! You and your like are running the
shall go and tell them, I think.        world to the devil, and I'm too old to step
[She goes to the door.] in and knock you down. But - but - I
JOHN [calling her back]. Emily!       wish you luck, my lad. You're a good sort.
EMILY. Yes.                                                [They shake hands.]
JOHN. Don't let them come in here. I
could n't bear it.
could n t bear it.                     [EMILY, NANCY, MURIEL, RICHARD, and
EMILY. Oh, but -GERTRUDE all enter from the hall.]
JOHN. I could n't stand the strain of an-  PREECE. Well, good-night, Sir John.
other scene. It's late now - I'm an old   EMILY [cheerfully]. We're iust coming to
man, and people have no right to upset me  say good-night, grandpapa. I'm sure you
in this way.                            must be very tired. We've said good-night
EMILY. Could n't they just say good-  to granny.
night?                                    JOHN [feebly]. Where is she? Where is
JOHN. Very well. They must say good-  granny?
night and go at once. Another day-        NANCY [heartily shaking hands]. GoodEMILY [very soothingly]. I'll tell them  night, John, and thank you for a very
you're very tired.                       pleasant time.
[She nods smilingly at her father and    [She goes to GERTRUDE, who now
leaves the room. A slight pause.]       stands near the door, and kisses
PREECE. A difficult job, being the head          her good-night.]
of a family.                              RICHARD [heartily shaking hands]. Thank
JOHN. I've done with it, Preece. I've  you, sir.
decided that to-night - that's what a            [NANCY passes out by the door.
golden wedding comes to in these days.             GERTRUDE now shakes hands
Things are n't what they were. In my time          with RICHARD, who follows his
a man was at any rate master in his own            mother.]
house and on his own works. Seemed nat-   EMILY [kisses JOHN]. Good-night, dear.
ural enough! But you've changed all that.       [JOHN turning from EMILY, moves
PREECE. I've changed it?                         with a generous gesture to MuJOHN [continuing confidentially]. Why,           RIEL, who, however, keeps a very.
even my own wife's gone against me to-            stiff  demeanour  and  shakes
night. My own wife! [Troubled.] Did you            hands in cold silence. EMILY
ever hear of such a thing?                        has reached GERTRUDE. They
PREECE. I have heard of it, Sir John.            both watch MURIEL.]
JOHN [grimly]. You laugh. Wait till     EMILY [with a shade of disappointment
you're married.                         turns to GERTRUDE.] Good-night, auntie.
PREECE. I may have to wait a long time.       [GERTRUDE and EMILY embrace,




MILESTONES


41


then EMILY passes quickly out
of the door.]
JOHN [stiffly, looking about]. Where's
Monkhurst?
GERT. Oh, he is gone! He said he had
an appointment at the Club.
JOHN. What Club? The Carlton?
MURIEL [shaking hands with GERTRUDE].
The Automobile, you may depend.
[She goes off by the door quickly.]
GERT. Well, this day is over.
[WEBSTER enters from the hall.]
WEBSTER. Any orders, Sir John?
JOHN. None."
GERT. Can't we have some of the blaze
of electricity turned off?
JOHN. As you like.
[WEBSTER extinguishes several
clusters with the switches at the
door, then goes out. The room
is left in a discreet light.]
JOHN [almost plaintively]. Where's Rose?
[ROSE enters timidly from the hall.]
GERT. Here she is.
ROSE [going up to JOHN]. John, forgive
me for having dared to differ from my dear
husband.
JOHN [taking her hand softly]. Old girl -
[then half humorously shaking his head] -
you'll be the death of me, if you do it again.
GERT. I think I'm going to bed.
JOHN. No, not yet.
ROSE. Gertrude, will you do me a favour, on my golden wedding-day?
GERT. What is it?
ROSE. Sing for us.
GERT. Oh! My singing days are over
long ago.
JOHN [persuasively]. Go on - go on.
There's nobody but us to hear.


GERT. Really it is - [Stops.] Very well.
[GERTRUDE goes through the double
doors. ROSE draws her lace
shawl round her.]
JOHN. Let's sit by the fire if you're cold.
[He moves a chair in place for her
gallantly. ROSE sits to the left
of the fire. JOHN takes a seat to
the right of the fire. The song
"Juanita" is heard in a cracked
and ancient voice, very gently and
faintly.]
ROSE [softly, by the fire]. When I think
of all this room has seen -
JOHN [looking into the fire]. Ah!
ROSE. I'm sure it's very pleasant to
remember.
JOHN. Ah! That's because you're pleasant. I've said it before, and I say it again.
The women of to-day are n't what women
used to be. They're hard. They've none
of the old charm. Unsexed - that's what
they are - unsexed.
[MURIEL enters quickly from the
hall in a rich white cloak. She
pauses smiling, then hurries delicately across to her grandfather
and embraces him; releases him,
shyly takes a flower from  her
bosom, drops it into his hand,
turns and gives her grandmother
a smile, whispering "Good-night.
They're waiting for me," and
hurries out again.]
JOHuI [looking at the flower]. We live and
learn.
Ros:s [nodding her head]. Yes, John.
[The song continues.]


CURTAIN








OUR BETTERS
A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS
BY W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM




Reprinted by permission of the author and by special arrangement
with his representatives, The American Play Company, Inc., New York




CHARACTERS
LADY GRAYSTON
DUCHESSE DE SURENNES
PRINCIPESSA DELLA CERCOLA
ELIZABETH SAUNDERS
ARTHUR FENWICK
THORNTON CLAY
FLEMING HARVEY
ANTONY PAXTON
LORD BLEANE
POLE
ERNEST
The action of the play tales place at Lady Grayston's house in Grosvenor Street, Mayfair, and at
her husband's place in Suffolk, Feathers Nevil








OUR BETTERS
ACT I


SCENE.   The drawing-room    at LADY
GRAYSTON'S house in Grosvenor Street, Mayfair. It is a sumptuous double room of the
period of George II, decorated in green and
gold, with a coromandel screen and lacquer
cabinets, but the coverings of the chairs, the
sofas and cushions, show the influence of
Bakst and the Russian Ballet; they offer an
agreeable mixture of rich plum, emerald green,
canary and ultramarine. On the floor is a
Chinese carpet, and here and there are pieces
of Ming pottery.
It is about half-past four, early in the season, and a fine day.
When the curtain rises, from the street below is heard the melancholy chant of the
lavender man.
Sweet lavender!
Who will buy my lavender?
Twelve sticks for a penny.
BESSIE SAUNDERS comes in. She is a very
pretty American girl, of twenty-two, with fair
hair and blue eyes. She is dressed in the latest
mode. She wears a hat and gloves and carries
a bag. She has just come in from the street.
She has in hand a telephone message, and going over to the telephone she takes up receiver.
BESSIE. Gerrard 4321. Is that the
Berkeley? Put me through to Mr. Harvey,
please. Fleming Harvey, that's right. [She
listens and smiles.] Yes. Who d' you think
it is? [She laughs.] I've just got your telephone message. Where have you sprung
from? That's fine. How long are you staying in London? I see. I want to see you at
once. Nonsense. This very minute. Now
jump into a taxi and come right away.
Pearl will be in presently. Ring off, Fleming. No, I will not ring off first. [A pause.]
Are you there? How tiresome you are.
You might be halfway here by now. Well,
hustle,
[She puts down the receiver and begins to take off her gloves.]


I




[POLE, the butler, comes in with a bunch of
roses.]
POLE. These flowers have just come for
you, Miss.
BESSIE. Oh! Thank you. Are n't they
lovely? You must give me something to
put them in, Pole.
POLE. I'll bring a vase, Miss.
[He goes out. She buries her face in
the flowers and inhales their
fragrance.]
[POILE reenters with a bowl filled with water.]
BESSIE. Thank you. You're sure the't
are for me? There's no label.
POLE. Yes, Miss. The person whe
brought them said they was for you, Miss
I asked him if there was n't a card and ht
said no, Miss.
BESSIE [with a faint smile]. I think I
know who they're from. [She begins to ar,
range the flowers.] Her ladyship has n'l
come in yet, has she?
POLE. Not yet, Miss.
BESSIE. D' you know if anyone is coming in to tea?
POLE. Her ladyship did n't say, Miss.
BESSIE. You'd better prepare for fifteen,
then.
POLE. Very good, Miss.
BESSIE. I was being funny, Pole.
POLE. Yes, Miss? Shall I take the paper
away, Miss?
BESSIE [with a slight sigh of resignation].
Yes, do, will you? [The telephone rings.] Oh,
I forgot, I switched the telephone on here.
See who it is.
[POLE takes up the receiver and listens, then puts his hand over its
mouth.]
POLE. Will you speak to Lord Bleane,
Miss?
BEssIE. Say I'm not at home.
POLE. Miss Saunders has n't come in
yet. I beg.pardon, my lord, I did n't recog



48


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


nize your lordship's voice. [A pause.] Well,
my lord, I did hear them say there was a
private view they thought of going to at
the Grosvenor. You might find Miss
Saunders there.
BESSIE. You need n't elaborate, Pole.
POLE. I was only making it more convincing, Miss. [Listening.] I think so, my
lord. Of course I could n't say for certain,
my lord, they might have gone out to
Ranelagh.
BESSIE. Really, Pole.
POLE. Very good, my lord. [He puts
down the receiver.] His lordship asked if
you was expected in to tea, Miss.
BESSIE. I see.
POLE. Is there anything else, Miss.
BESSIE. No, Pole, thank you.
[He goes out. She finishes arranging the flowers.]
[The door is flung open and LADY GRAYSTON
comes infollowed by FLEMING HARVEY.
PEARL - LADY GRAYSTON - is a handsome, dashing creature, a woman of
thirty-four, with red hair and a complexion outrageously painted. She is
dressed in a Paris frock, but of greater
daring both in colour and cut than a
Frenchwoman would wear. FLEMING
is a nice-looking young American in
clothes that were obviously made in New
York.]
PEARL. My dear Bessie, I've found an
entirely strange young man on the doorstep who says he is a cousin.
BESSIE [giving him her hands enthusiastically]. Fleming!
FLEMING. I introduced myself to Lady
Grayston. She drove up just as they were
opening the door. Please reassure your
sister, Bessie. She looks upon me with
suspicion.
BESSIE. You must remember Fleming
Harvey, Pearl.
PEARL. I've never set eyes on him in my
life. But he looks quite nice.
BESSIE. He is.
FLEMING. I rang up five minutes ago
and Bessie ordered me to come round right
away.
PEARL. Well, make him stop to tea.


I've got to telephone. I've suddenly remembered that I've asked twelve people to
dinner.
BESSIE. Does George know?
PEARL. Who is George?
BESSIE. Don't be absurd, Pearl. George
- your husband.
PEARL. Oh! I could n't make out who
you meant. No, he does n't know. But
what's much more important, the cook
does n't know either. I'd forgotten George
was in London.          [She goes out.]
BESSIE. George generally dines out
when Pearl is giving a party because he
does n't like people he does n't know, and
he seldom dines at home when we're alone
because it bores him.
FLEMING. It does n't sound as if Sir
George enjoyed many of the benefits of
home life.
BESSIE. Now let's sit down and make
ourselves comfortable. You are going to
stay to tea, are n't you?
FLEMING. It's not a beverage that I am
in the habit of imbibing.
BESSIE. When you've been in England a
month you won't be able to do without it.
When did you land?
FLEMING. This morning. You see, I've
lost no time in coming to see you.
BESSIE. I should think not. It is good
to see someone straight from home.
FLEMING. Have you been having a good
time, Bessie?
BESSIE. Wonderful! Since the beginning of the season, except when Pearl has
had people here, I've been out to lunch and
dinner every day, and I've been to a ball
every night, generally two, and sometimes three.
FLEMING. Gee!
BESSIE. If I stopped now I'd drop down
dead.
FLEMING. D' you like England?
BESSIE. I adore it. I think it's too bad
of popper never to have let me come over
before. Rome and Paris are nothing.
We're just trippers there, but here we're
at home.
FLEMING. Don't get too much at home,
Bessie.
BESSIE. Oh, Fleming, I never thanked




OUR BETTERS


49




you for sending me the roses. It was perfectly sweet of you.
FLEMING [with a smile]. I did n't send
any roses.
BESSIE. Did n't you? Well, why did n't
you?
FLEMING. I had n't time. But I will.
BESSIE. It's too late now. 1 naturally
thought they were from you because Englishmen don't send flowers in the same way
as American boys do.
FLEMING. Is that so?
[There is a slight pause. BESSIE
gives him a quick look.]
BESSIE. Fleming, I want to thank you
for that charming letter you wrote me.
FLEMING. There's no occasion to do
that, Bessie.
BESSIE. I was afraid you might feel
badly about it. But we'll always be the
greatest friends, won't we?
FLEMING. Always.
BESSIE. After all you were eighteen
when you asked me to marry you and I
was sixteen. It was n't a very serious engagement. I don't know why we did n't
break it off before.
FLEMING. I suppose it never occurred
to us.
BESSIE. I'd almost forgotten it, but
when I came over here I thought I'd better
make everything quite clear.
FLEMING [with a smile]. Bessie, I believe
you're in love.
BESSIE. No, I'm not. I tell you I'm
having a wonderful time.
FLEMING. Well, who sent you the roses?
BESSIE. I don't know. Lord Bleane.
FLEMING. You're not going to marry a
lord, Bessie?
BESSIE. Have you any objections?
FLEMING. Well, on first principles I
think American girls had better marry
American men, but then I happen to be an
American man.
[BESSIE looks at him for a moment.]
BESSIE. Pearl gave a dinner party last
night. I was taken in by a cabinet minister
and on the other side of me I had an ambassador. Just opposite was a man who
had been Viceroy in India. Madame Angelotti dined with us and she sang after



I


wards, and a lot of people came on from an
official dinner in their stars and ribands.
Pear] looked superb. She's a wonderful
hostess, you know. Several people told me
they would rather come here than to any
house in London. Before Pearl married
George Grayston she was engaged to a boy
who was in business in Portland, Oregon.
FLEMING [smiling]. I see you're quite
determined to marry a lord.
BESSIE. No, I'm not. I'm keeping an
open mind on the subject.
FLEMING. What d' you mean by that?
BESSIE. Well, Fleming, it hasn't escaped my notice that a certain noble lord
is not unwilling to lay his beautiful coronet
at my feet.
FLEMING. Don't talk like a novelette,
Bessie.
BESSIE. But it feels like a novelette.
The poor dear is trying to propose to me
every time he sees me, and I'm doing all I
can to prevent him.
FLEMING. Why?
B:ESSIE. I don't want to refuse him, and
then wish I had n't.
FLEMING. You could easily make him
ask you again. Women find that so simple.
BESSIE. Ah, but supposing he went right
away to shoot big game in Africa. It's
what they do, you know, in novelettes.
FLEMING. I'm reassured about one
thing. You're not in the least in love with
him.
BESSIE. I told you I was n't. You don't
mind my saying all this to you, Fleming?
FLEMING. Gracious, no; why should I?
BESSIE. You're sure you don't feel sore
at my throwing you over?
FLEMING [cheerfully]. Not a bit.
BESSIE. I am glad, because then I can
tell you all about the noble lord.
FLEMING. Has it occurred to you that
he wants to marry you for your money?
BESSIE. You can put it more prettily.
You can say that he wants to marry me
with my money.
FLEMING. And is that a prospect that
allures you?
BEssIE. Poor dear, what else can he do?
He's got a large place to keep up and he
simply has n't a cent.




50


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


FLEMING. Really, Bessie, you amaze me.
BESSIE. I shan't when you've been here
a month.
[PEARL comes in.]
PEARL. Now, Bessie, tell me all about
this strange young man.
BESSIE. He's quite capable of telling
you about himself.
PEARL [to FLEMING]. How long are you
staying?
FLEMING. A couple of months. I want
to see something of English life.
PEARL. I see. D' you want to improve
your mind or d' you want to go into society?
FLEMING. I suppose I could n't combine
the two.
PEARL. Are you rich?
FLEMING. Not at all.
PEARL. It does n't matter, you're goodlooking. If one wants to be a success in
London one must either have looks, wit, or
a bank-balance. You know Arthur Fenwick, don't you?
FLEMING. Only by reputation.
PEARL. How superciliously you say that.
FLEMING. He provides bad food to the
working classes of the United States at
an exorbitant price. I have no doubt he
makes a lot of money.
BESSIE. He's a great friend of Pearl's.
PEARL. When he first came over because
they turned up their noses at him in New
York, I said to him, my dear Mr. Fenwick,
you're not good-looking, you're not amusing, you're not well-bred, you're only rich.
If you want to get into society you must
spend money.
FLEMING. It was evidently in the nature
of a straight talk.
BESSIE. We must do what we can for
Fleming, Pearl.
PEARL [with a chuckle]. We'll introduce
him to Minnie Surennes.
FLEMING. Who in the world is she?
PEARL. The Duchesse de Surennes.
Don't you remember? She was a Miss
Hodgson. Chicago people. Of course
they're nobody in America, but that
doesn't matter over here. She adores
good-looking boys, and I dare say she's
getting rather tired of Tony. [To BEsSa.]


By the way, they're coming in this afternoon.
BESSIE. I don't like Tony.
PEARL. Why not? I think he's charming. He's the most unprincipled ruffian I
ever met.
FLEMING. Is Tony the duke?
PEARL. What duke? Her husband? Oh,
no, she divorced him years ago.
BESSIE. I think Fleming would like the
Princess much better.
PEARL. Oh, well, he'll meet her here
to-day also.
BESSIE. She was a Miss van Hogg,
Fleming.
FLEMING. Was she divorced too?
PEARL. Oh, no, her husband's an Italian.
It's very difficult to get a divorce in Italy.
She's only separated. She's quite nice.
She's one of my greatest friends. She
bores me a little.
[POLE comes in to announce THORNTON
CLAY and then goes out. THORNTON
CLAY is a stout American with a bald
head and an effusive manner. He is
somewhat overdressed. He speaks with
a marked American accent.]
POLE. Mr. Thornton Clay.
CLAY. How d' you do?
PEARL. You're the very person we
want, Thornton. An entirely strange
young man has suddenly appeared on my
doorstep and says he's my cousin.
CLAY. My dear Pearl, that is a calamity
which we Americans must always be prepared for.
BESSIE. I won't have you say such
things, Mr. Clay. Fleming is not our only
cousin, but he's my very oldest friend,
are n't you, Fleming?
PEARL. Bessie has a charming nature.
She really thinks that friendship puts one
under an obligation.
FLEMING. Since you're talking of me,
won't you introduce me to Mr. Clay.
PEARL. HOW American you are.
FLEMING [smiling]. It's not unnatural,
is it?
PEARL. We have n't over here the passion that you have in America for introducing people. My dear Thornton, allow




OUR BETTERS


51




me to present to you my long-lost cousin,
Mr. Fleming Harvey.
CLAY. It's so long since I was in America
that I almost forget, but I believe the
proper answer to that is - Mr. Fleming
Harvey, I'm pleased to make your acquaintance.
FLEMING. Are n't you an American,
Mr. Clay?
CLAY. I won't deny that I was born in
Virginia.
FLEMING. I beg your pardon, I thought
from the way you spoke...
CLAY [interrupting]. But of course my
home is London.
PEARL. Nonsense, Thornton, your home
is wherever there's a first-class hotel.
CLAY. I went to America seven years
ago. My father died and I had to go and
settle up his affairs. Everyone took me
for an Englishman.
FLEMING. That must have gratified you
very much, Mr. Clay.
CLAY. Of course I have n't a trace of an
American accent. I suppose that was the
reason. And then my clothes.
[He looks down at them with satisfaction.]
PEARL. Fleming wants to see life in
London, Thornton. He can't do better
than put himself under your wing.
CLAY. I know everyone who's worth
knowing. I can't deny that.
PEARL. Thornton calls more countesses
by their Christian names than any man in
town.
CLAY. I'11 get him cards for some good
balls and I'll see that he's asked to one or
two of the right parties.
PEARL. He's good-looking and I'm sure
he dances well. He'll be a credit to you,
Thornton.
CLAY [to FLEMING]. But of course there's
really nothing I can do for you. At Lady
Grayston's you are in the very hub of society. I don't mean the stuffy, old-fashioned society that goes out in barouches 
and bores itself stiff, but the society that
counts, the society that figures in the
newspapers. Pearl is the most wonderful
hostess in London.
PEARL. What do you want, Thornton?




CLAY. In this house, sooner or later,
you'll meet every remarkable man in England except one. That is Sir George. And
he's only remarkable because he's her
husband.
PEARL [with a chuckle]. I might have
known you were only saying a pleasant
thing in order to make the next one more
disagreeable.
CLAY. Of course I can't make out why
you never ask George to your parties. Per-,
sonally I like him.
PEARL. That's all the nicer of you,
Thornton, since he always speaks of you
as that damned snob.
CLAY [with a shrug of the shoulders]. Poor
George, he has such a limited vocabulary.
I met Flora della Cercola at luncheon today., She told me she was coming to tea
with you.
PEARL. She's getting up a concert in aid
of something or other and she wants me to
help her.
CLAY. Poor Flora with her good works!
She takes philanthropy as a drug to allay
the pangs of unrequited Iove.
PEARL. I always tell her she'd do much
better to take a lover.
CLAY. You'll shock Mr. Harvey.
PEARL. It won't hurt him. It'll do him
good.
CLAY. Did you ever know her husband?
PEARL. Oh, yes, I met him. Just the
ordinary little Dago. 1 cannot imagine
why she should ever have been in love with
him. She's an extraordinary creature. D'
you know, I'm convinced that she's never
had an affair.
CLAY. Some of these American women
are strangely sexless.
FLEMING. I have an idea that some of
them are even virtuous.
PEARL [with a smile]. It takes all sorts
to make a world.
[POLE enters to announce the DUCHESSE DE
SURENNES and then goes out.]
POLE. The Duchesse de Surennes.
[The DUCHESSE is a large dark
woman of forty-five with scarlet
lips and impudently painted
cheeks, a woman of opulent form,




52


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


bold, self-assured, and outrageously sensual.  h  _saest a
drawng4ji  Roman emperor by
Aubrey Beard sley. Te is gowned
wdit,eerttdin dashing magnificence, and wears a long string
of large pearls round her neck.
During the conversation POLE
and two footmen bring in tea and
place it in the back drawingroom.]
PEARL. My dear, how nice of you to
come.
DUCHESSE. IS n't Tony here?
PEARL. No.
DUCHESSE. He said he was coming
straight here.
PEARL. 1 daresay he's been delayed.
DUCHESSE. I can't understand it. He
telephoned a quarter of an hour ago that
he was starting at once.
PEARL [reassuringly]. He'll be here
presently.
DUCHESSE [with an effort over herself].
How pretty you're looking, Bessie. No
wonder all the men I meet rave about
you.
BESSIE. Englishmen are so shy. Why
don't they rave to me?
DUCHESSE. They'll never let you go
back to America.
PEARL. Of course she's never going back.
I'm determined that she shall marry an
Englishman.
CLAY. She'll make a charming addition
to our American peeresses.
PEARL. And there'll be another that you
can call by her Christian name, Thornton.
BESSIE. 1 wish you would n't talk as if
I had n't a word to say in the matter.
CLAY. Of course you've got a word to
say, Bessie, a very important one.
BESSIE. Yes, I suppose.
CLAY. Exactly.
PEARL. Pour out the tea, darling, will
you?
BESSIE. Surely. [To CLAY.] I know you
don't share Fleming's contempt for tea,
Mr. Clay.
CLAY. I could n't live a day without it.
Why, I never travel without a tea basket.
FLEMING [ironically]. Is that so?


CLAY. You Americans who live in
America...
FLEMING [under his breath]. So queer of
us.
CLAY. Despise the delectable habit of
drinking tea because you are still partly
barbarous. The hour that we spend over it
is the most delightful of the day. We do
not make a business of eating as at luncheon or dinner. We are at ease with ourselves. We toy with pretty cakes as an
excuse for conversation. We discuss the
abstract, our souls, our morals; we play
delicately with the concrete, our neighbour's new bonnet or her latest lover. We
drink tea because we are a highly civilized
nation.
FLEMING. I must be very stupid, but I
don't follow.
CLAY. My dear fellow, the degree of a
nation's civilization is marked by its disregard for the necessities of existence. You
have gone so far as to waste money, but
we have gone farther; we waste what is
infinitely more precious, more transitory,
more irreparable, we waste time.
DUCHESSE. My dear Thornton, you fill
me with despair. Compton Edwardes has
cut me off my tea. I thought he was only
depriving me of a luxury, now I see he's
depriving me also of a religious rite.
FLEMING. Who in Heaven's name is
Compton Edwardes that he should have
such right?
PEARL. My dear Fleming, he's the most
powerful man in London. He's the great
reducer.
FLEMING. Gracious! What does he reduce?
PEARL. Fat!
DUCHESSE. He's a perfect marvel, that
man. Do you know, the Duchess of Arlington told me he'd taken nine pounds off her.
PEARL. My dear, that's nothing. Why,
Lady Hollington gave me her word of honour she'd lost over a stone.
BESSIE [from the tea-table]. Anyone who
wants tea must come and fetch it.
[The men saunter over to the next
room, while PEARL and the
DUCHESSE go on with their conversation.]




OUR BETTERS


53


DUCHESSE. Who is that nice-looking
young man, Pearl?
PEARL. Oh, he's a young American. He
pretends to be a cousin of mine. He's come
to see Bessie.
DUCHESSE. Does he want to marry her?
PEARL. Good Heavens, I hope not.
He's only an old friend. You know the
funny ways they have in America.
DUCHESSE. I suppose nothing is really
settled about Harry Bleane.
PEARL. No. But I should n't be surprised if you saw an announcement in The
Morning Post one day.
DUCHESSE. Has she enough money for
him?
PEARL. She has a million.
DUCHESSE. Not pounds?
PEARL. Oh, no, dollars.
DUCHESSE. That's only eight thousand
a year. 1 should n't have thought he'd be
satisfied with that.
PEARL. People can't expect so much
nowadays. There won't be any more enormous heiresses as there were in your time.
Besides, Harry Bleane is n't such a catch
as all that. Of course it's better to be an
English baron than an Italian count, but
that's about all you can say for it.
DUCHESSE. Of course she'll accept him?
PEARL. Oh, yes, she's crazy to live in
England. And as I tell her, it's quite pleasant to be a peeress even now.
DUCHESSE. What on earth can have
happened to Tony?
PEARL. My dear, he's not likely to have
been run over by a motor-bus.
DUCHESSE. I'm not afraid of motorbuses running over him. I'm afraid of him
running after Gaiety girls.
PEARL [drily]. 1 should have thought
you kept a very sharp eye on him.
DUCHESSE. You see, he has n't got anything to do from morning till night.
PEARL. Why does n't he get a job?
DUCHESSE. I've been trying to get him
something, but it's so difficult. You've got
such a lot of influence, Pearl, can't you do
something? I should be so grateful.
PEARL. What can he do?
DUCHESSE. Anything. And as you know
he's very good-looking.


PEARL. Does he know French and German?
DUCHESSE. No, he has no gift for languages.
PEARL. Can he type and write shorthand?
DUCHESSE. Oh, no, poor dear, you can
hardly expect that.
PEARL. Can he do accounts?
DUCHESSE. No, he has no head for
figures.
PEARL [reflectively]. Well, the only thing
I can see that he'd do for is a government
office.
DUCHESSE. Oh, my dear, if you could
only manage that. You can't think what a
comfort it would be for me to know that
he could n't get into mischief at least from
ten to four every day.
[POLE announces TONY PAXTON. TONY is
a handsome youth of twenty-five, in
beautiful clothes, with engaging manners
and a charming smile.]
POLE. Mr. Paxton.
PEARL. Well, Tony, how is life?
TONY. Rotten. I have n't backed a winner or won a rubber this week.
PEARL. Ah, well, that's the advantage
of not having money; you can afford to
lose it.
DUCHESSE [bursting in]. Where have
you been, Tony?
TONY. I? Nowhere.
DUCHESSE. You said you were coming
straight here. It does n't take twenty-five
minutes to get here from Dover Street.
TONY. I thought there was n't any hurry.
I was just hanging about the club.
DUCHESSE. I rang up the club again and
they said you'd gone.
TONY [after a very slight pause]. I was
downstairs having a shave and I suppose
they never thought of looking for me in the
barber's shop.
I)UCHESSE. What on earth did you want
to be shaved for at half-past four in the
afternoon?
ToNY. I thought you'd like me to look
nice and clean.
PEARL. Go and get Bessie to give you
some tea, Tony; I'm sure you want it after




54


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


the strenuous day you've had. [He nods
and walks into the inner room.] Minnie,
how can you be so silly? You can't expect
to keep a man if you treat him like that.
DUCHESSE. I know he's lying to me;
there's not a word of truth in anything he
says, but he's so slim I can never catch
him out. Oh, I'm so jealous.
PEARL. Are you really in love with him?
DUCHESSE. He's everything in the world
to me.
PEARL. You should n't let yourself be
carried away like this.
DUCHESSE. I'm not cold-blooded like
you.
PEARL. You seem to have a passion for
rotters, and they always treat you badly.
DUCHESSE. Oh, 1 don't care about the
others. Tony is the only one I've ever
really loved.
PEARL. Nonsense! You were just as
much in love with Jack Harris. You did
everything in the world for him. You
taught him to wear his clothes. You got
him into society. And the moment he
could do without you he chucked you. Tony
will do just the same.
DUCHESSE. I'm not going to be such a
fool this time. I'm going to take care he
can't do without me.
PEARL. I can't imagine what you see in
him. You must know that...
DUCHESSE [interrupting]. There's very
little I don't know. He's a liar, a gambler,
an idler, a spendthrift, but in his way he
is fond of me. [Appealingly.] You can see
he's fond of me, can't you?
PEARL. He's so much younger than you,
Minnie.
DUCHESSE. I can't help it. I love him.
PEARL. Oh, well, I suppose it's no good
talking. As long as he makes you happy.
DUCHESSE. He does n't. He makes me
miserable. But I love him.... He wants
me to marry him, Pearl.
PEARL. You're not going to?
DUCHESSE. No. I won't be such a fool
as that. If I married him 1'd have no hold
over him at all.
[Enter POLE to announce the PRINCESS
DELLA CERCOLA. She is a tall, thin
woman of thirty-five with a pale, hag

gard face and great dark eyes. She is a
gentle, kind creature, but there is something pathetic, almost tragic in her appearance. She is dressed, though very
well and obviously by a Paris dressmaker, more quietly than the DUCHESSE
or PEARL. She has not only wealth, but
distinction.]
POLE. Princess della Cercola.  [Exit.]
[PEARL gets up to receive her.
They kiss.]
PEARL. Darling.
PRINCESS. D' you hate me for coming to
bother you? I rang up because I know how
difficult you are to catch. [Kissing the
DUCHESSE.] How are you, Minnie?
DUCHESSE. Don't ask me for a subscription, Flora. I'm so poor.
PRINCESS [smiling]. Wait till I tell you
what it's for and then you'll remember
that you had a father called Spender
Hodgson.
DUCHESSE [with a little groan]. As if I
wanted to be reminded of it.
PEARL. You're so absurd, Minnie. You
should make a joke of the pork. I always
tell people about father's hardware store,
and when I have n't got a funny story I
invent one.
PRINCESS. You've made your father
quite a character in London.
PEARL. That's why I never let him
come over. He could n't possibly live up
to his reputation.
[FLEMING HARVEY comes forward from the
inner room.]
FLEMING. I'm going to say good-bye to
you.
PEARL. You mustn't go before I've
introduced you to Flora. Flora, this is Mr.
Fleming Harvey. He's just come from
America. He probably carries a six-shooter
in his hip-pocket.
FLEMING. I'm told I may n't say I'm
pleased to make your acquaintance,
Princess.
PRINCESS. When did you land?
FLEMING. This morning.
PRINCESS. I envy you.
FLEMING. Because I landed this morning?




OUR BETTERS


55


PRINCESS. No, because a week ago you
were in America.
DUCHESSE. Flora!
FLEMING. I was beginning to think it
was something to be rather ashamed of.
PRINCESS. Oh, you must n't pay any
attention to Pearl and the Duchesse.
They're so much more English than the
English.
PEARL. I notice you show your devotion
to the country of your birth by staying
away from it, Flora.
PRINCESS. Last time I was in America
it made me so unhappy that I vowed I'd
never go there again.
DUCHESSE. I was there ten years ago,
when I was divorcing Gaston. I had n't
been in America since my marriage and
I'd forgotten what it was like. Oh, it was
so crude! Oh, it was so provincial! You
don't mind my saying so, Mr. Harvey?
FLEMING. Not at all. You're just as
American as 1 am and there's no reason
why among ourselves we should n't abuse
the mother that bore us.
DUCHESSE. Oh, but I don't look upon
myself as an American. I'm French.
After all, I have n't a trace of an American
accent. To show you how it got on my
nerves, I almost did n't divorce Gaston because I thought I could n't bring myself to
stay in America long enough.
PRINCESS. It's not because it was crude
and provincial that I was unhappy in
America. And Heaven knows, Boston is n't
either. 1 was unhappy because after all
it was home, the only real home I've ever
had, and I was a stranger.
PEARL. My dear Flora, you're being
very sentimental.
PRINCESS [smiling]. I'm sorry, I apologize. You're a New Yorker, Mr. Harvey?
FLEMING. I'm proud of it, madam.
PRINCESS. New York's wonderful, is n't
it? It has something that no other city in
the world has got. I like to think of Fifth
Avenue on a spring day. The pretty girls
in their smart frocks and neat shoes who
trip along so gaily, and all the good-looking
boys.
DUCHESSE. I grant that; some of the
boys are too lovely for words.


PRINCESS. Everyone is so strong and
confident. There's such an exaltation in
the air. You feel in the passers-by a serene
and unshakeable belief in the future. Oh,
it's very good to be alive in Fifth Avenue
on a sunny day in April.
FLEMING. It's good for an American to
hear another American say such pleasant
things about his country.
PRINCESS. You must come and see me,
and you shall tell me all the news of home.
PEARL. How high the newest building
is and how much money the latest millionaire has got.
FLEMING. Good-bye.
PEARL. Have you made friends with
Thornton Clay?
FLEMING. I hope so:
PEARL. You must get him to give you
the address of his tailor.
FLEMING. Are n't you pleased with my
clothes?
PEARL. They 're very American, you
know.
FLEMING. SO am I.
[THORNTON CLAY comes forward. The
DUCHESSE strolls over to the inner room
and is seen talking with BESSIE and
TONY PAXTON.]
PEARL. Thornton, I was just telling Mr.
Harvey that you'd take him to your tailor.
CLAY. I was going to suggest it.
FLEMING. My clothes are not at all a
success.
PEARL. Who d' you go to? Schultz?
CLAY. Of course. He's the only tailor
in London. [To FLEMING.] Between ourselves, he was born in Hamburg, but we
can't possibly do without him, so when he
suddenly discovered he was a Swiss we fell
on his neck and blessed him for the inspiration.
FLEMING. I'm pleased, at all events, to
think it's a German tailor who's going to
make me look like an Englishman.
[He goes out. THORNTON makes
his farewells.]
CLAY. Good-bye, Pearl.
PEARL. Are you going? Don't forget
you're coming down to Feathers on Saturday.




CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


CLAY. I won't, indeed. 1 adore your
week-end parties, Pearl. I'm so exhausted
by Monday morning that I'm fit for nothing for the rest of the week. Good-bye.
[He shakes hands and goes out.
As he is going, POLE opens the
door to announce LORD BLEANE.
He is a very young man, very
English in appearance, pleasant,
clean and well groomed.]
POLE. Lord Bleane.           [Exit.]
PEARL. Dear Harry, how nice of you to
come.
BLEANE. I'm in absolute despair.
PEARL. Good Heavens, why?
BLEANE. They're sending a mission to
Russia to hand the Garter to some big wig
And I've got to go with it.
PEARL. Oh, but that'll be very interesting.
BLEANE. Yes, but we start to-morrow
and I shan't be able to come down to
Feathers on Saturday.
PEARL. When do you come back?
BLEANE. In four weeks.
PEARL. Then come down to Feathers the
Saturday after that.
BLEANE. May I?
PEARL. You must go and break the news
to Bessie. She was so looking forward to
your visit.
BLEANE. D' you think she'll give me
some tea?
PEARL. I have no doubt, if you ask her
nicely.   [He goes over to the inner room.]
PRINCESS. Now I've got you to myself
for two minutes. You will help me with
my concert, won't you?
PEARL. Of course. What do you want
me to do? I'll make Arthur Fenwick take
any number of tickets. You know how
charitable he is.
PRINCESS. It's for a very good cause.
PEARL. I'm sure it is. But don't harrow
me with revolting stories of starving children. I'm not interested in the poor.
PRINCESS [smiling]. How can you say
that?
PEARL. Are you? I often wonder if your
philanthropy is n't an elaborate pose. You
don't mind my saying that, do you?
PRINCESS [good-humouredly]. Not at all.


You have no heart, and you can't imagine
that anyone else should have.
PEARL. 1 have plenty of heart, but it
beats for people of my own class.
PRINCESS. I've only found one thing
really worth doing with all this money I
have and that is to help a little those who
need help.
PEARL [with a shrug]. So long as it makes
you happy.
PRINCESS. It does n't, but it prevents
me from being utterly miserable.
PEARL. You make me so impatient,
Flora. You've got more money than you
know what to do with. You're a princess.
You've practically got rid of your husband.
I cannot imagine what more you want. I
wish I could get rid of mine.
PRINCESS [smiling]. I don't know what
you've got to complain of in George.
PEARL. That's just it. I shouldn't
mind if he beat me or made love to chorus
girls. I could divorce him then. Oh, my
dear, thank your stars that you had a husband who was grossly unfaithful to you.
Mine wants me to live nine months of the
year in the country and have a baby every
five minutes. I did n't marry an Englishman for that.
PRINCESS. Why did you marry him?
PEARL. I made a mistake. I'd lived all
my life in New York. I was very ignorant.
I thought a baronet was quite important.
PRINCESS. I often wonder if you're
happy, Pearl.
PEARL. Do you? Of course I'm happy.
PRINCESS. An ambassador told me the
other day that you were the most powerful
woman in London. It's very wonderful
how you've made your way. You had
nothing very much to help you.
PEARL. Shall I tell you how it was done?
By force of character, wit, unscrupulous
ness, and push.
PRINCESS [smiling]. You're very frank.
PEARL. That has always been my pose.
PRINCESS. I sometimes think there's
positive genius in the way you've ignored
the snubs of the great.
PEARL [with a chuckle]. You're being
very unpleasant, Flora.
PRINCESS. And there's something very




OUR BETTERS


57


like heroism in the callousness with which
you've dropped people when they've
served your turn.
PEARL. You're driving me to the conclusion that you don't altogether approve
of me.
PRINCESS. On the other hand, I can't
help admiring you. You've brought all the
determination, insight, vigour, strength,
which have made our countrymen turn
America into what it is, to get what you
wanted. In a way your life has been a work
of art. And what makes it more complete
is that what you've aimed at is trivial,
transitory, and worthless.
PEARL. My dear Flora, people don't
hunt in order to catch a fox.
PRINCESS. Sometimes does n't it make
you rather nervous, when you're sitting on
the top of your ladder, in case anyone
should give it a kick as he passes?
PEARL. It'll want more than a kick to
topple my ladder over. D' you remember
when that silly woman made such a fuss
because her husband was in love with me?
It was n't till I just escaped the divorce
court that the duchesses really took me
up.
[The DUCHESSE comes forward with TONY
PAXTON.]
DUCHESSE. We really must be going,
Pearl. I expect my masseur at six. Compton Edwardes told me about him. He's
wonderful, but he's so run after, if you
keep him waiting a moment he goes away.
PEARL. My dear, do be careful. Nancy
Hallam got herself down to a mere nothing,
but it made her look a hundred.
DUCHESSE. Oh, I know, but Compton
Edwardes has recommended to me a wonderful woman who comes every morning to
do my face.
PEARL. You are coming to my ball,
are n't you?
DUCHESSE. Of course we're coming.
Yours are almost the only parties in L6ndon where one amuses oneself as much as
at a night club.
PEARL. I'm having Ernest to come in
and dance.
DUCHESSE. I thought of having him one


evening. How much does he charge for
coming in socially?
PEARL. Twenty guineas.
DUCHESSE. Good Heavens, I could never
afford that.
PEARL. What nonsense! You're far
richer than I am.
DUCHESSE. I'm not so clever, darling.
I can't think how you do so much on your
income.
PEARL [amused]. I'm a very good manager.
DUCHESSE. One would never think it.
Good-bye, dear. Are you coming, Tony?
[She goes out.]
TONY. Yes. [Shaking hands with PEARL.]
I've not had a word with you to-day.
PEARL [chaffing him]. What are we to do
about it?
PRINCESS. I must get Minnie to go to
my concert. Minnie.     [She goes out.]
[TONY is left face to face with PEARL.]
TONY. You're looking perfectly divine
to-day. I don't know what there is about
you.
PEARL [amused, but not disconcerted]. It
is nice of you to say so.
TONY. I simply have n't been able to
take my eyes off you.
PEARL. Are you making love to me?
TONY. That's nothing new, is it?
PEARL. You'll get into trouble.
TONY. Don't be disagreeable, Pearl.
PEARL. I don't remember that I ever
told you you might call me Pearl.
TONY. It's how I think of you. You
can't prevent me from doing that.
PEARL. Well, I think it's very familiar.
TONY. I don't know what you've done
to me. I think of you all day long.
PEARL. I don't believe it for a minute.
You're an unprincipled ruffian, Tony.
TONY. Do you mind?
PEARL [with a chuckle]. Shameless creature. I wonder what it is that Minnie sees
in you.
TONY. I have all sorts of merits.
PEARL. I'm glad you think so. I can
only discover one.
TONY. What is that?
PEARL. You're somebody else's property.




CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


TONY. Oh!
PEARL [holding out her hand]. Good-bye.
[He kisses her wrist. His lips linger. She
looks at him from under her eyelashes.] It
does n't make you irresistible, you know.
TONY. There's always the future.
PEARL. The future's everybody's property.
TONY [in an undertone]. Pearl.
PEARL. Be quick and go. Minnie will
be wondering why you don't come. [He
goes out. PEARL turns away with a smile.
BESSIE and LORD BLEANE advance into the
room.] Has Harry broken the news to you
that he can't come down to us on Saturday?
[The PRINCESS comes in.]
PRINCESS. I've got my subscription.
PEARL. I kept Tony up here as long as I
could so as to give you a chance.
PRINCESS [with a laugh]. That was really
tactful.
PEARL. Poor Minnie, she's as mean as
cat's meat [with a glance at BESSIE and
LORD B.]. If you'd like to come down to
the morning room we can go through my
visitors' book and see who'll be useful to
you.
PRINCESS. Oh, that would be kind of you.
PEARL [to BLEANE]. Don't go till I come
back, will you? I have n't had a word with
you yet.
BLEANE. All right.
[PEARL and PRINCESS go out.]
BESSIE. I wonder if you sent those flowers, Lord Bleane.
BLEANE. 1 did. I thought you would n't
mind.
BESSIE. It was very kind of you.
[She takes two of the roses and puts
them in her dress. BLEANE is
overcome with shyness. He does
not know how to begin.]
BLEANE. D' you mind if I light a cigarette?
BESSIE. Not at all.
BLEANE [as he lights it]. D' you know,
this is the first time I've ever been alone
with you. It was very tactful of Lady
Grayston to leave us.
BESSIE. I'm not sure if it was n't a trifle
too tactfuL


BLEANE. 1 was hoping most awfully to
have the chance of getting a talk with you.
[The song of the lavender man is
heard again in the street. BESSIE welcomes the diversion.]
BESSIE. Oh, listen, there's the lavender
man come back again. [She goes to the window and listens.] Throw him down a shilling,
will you?
BLEANE. All right.
[He takes a coin from his pocket
and throws it into the street.]
BESSIE. I seem to feel all the charm of
England in that funny little tune. It suggests cottage gardens and hedges and
winding roads.
BLEANE. My mother grows lavender at
home. When we were kids we were all
made to pick it and my mother used to put
it in little muslin bags and tie them on
with pink ribbon. And she used to put
them under the pillows of one's bed and in
all the drawers. Shall I ask her to send
you some bags?
BESSIE. Oh, that would be such a bother
for her.
BLEANE. It would n't. She'd like to.
And, you know, it's not like the lavender
you buy. It knocks spots off everything
you can get in shops.
BESSIE. You must hate leaving London
at this time of year.
BLEANE. Oh, I'm not very keen on London. [Making a dash for it.] I hate leaving
you.
BESSIE [in comic desperation]. Let's not
talk about me, Lord Bleane.
BLEANE. But that's the only topic that
occurs to me.
BEssE. There's always the weather in
England.
BLEANE. You see, I'm off to-morrow.
BESSIE. I never saw any one so obstinate.
BLEANE. I shan't see you again for
nearly a month. We have n't known one
another very long, and if I had n't been
going away I expect I'd have thought it
better to wait a bit.
BESSIE [clasping her hands]. Lord Bleane,
don't propose to me.
BLEANE. Why not?
BEssIE. Because I shall refuse you.




OUR BETTERS


59


BLEANE. Oh'!
BESSIE. Tell me about the part of the
country you live in. I don't know Kent at
all. Is it pretty?
BLEANE. I don't know. It's home.
BESSIE. I love those old Elizabethan
houses that you have in England with all
their chimneys.
BLEANE. Well, ours is n't a show place,
you know. It's just a rather ugly yellow
brick house that looks like a box, and it's
got a great big stucco portico in front of it.
I think the garden's rather jolly.
BESSIE. Pearl hates Feathers Nevil.
She'd sell it if George would. She's only
really happy in London.
BLEANE. I don't know that I was so
particularly struck on Bleane till I was
over in France. When I was in the hospital
at Boulogne there did n't seem much to do
but to think about things... it didn't
seem as if I could get well. I knew I should
if they'd only let me come home, but they
would n't; they said I could n't be moved.
It's rather bleak in our part of the country.
We've got an east wind that people find a
bit trying, but if you've been used to it all
your life it bucks you up wonderful. In
summer it can be awfully hot down there,
but there's always something fresh and salt
in the air. You see, we're so near the
marshes... it was only just across the
water and it seemed such an awful way off.
I ain't boring you, am I?
BESSIE. No, I want you to tell me.
BLEANE. It's a funny sort of country;
there are lots of green fields and elm trees
and the roads wind about - it's rotten for
motoring - and then you have the marshes
with dykes in them; we used to jump them
when we were boys and fall in mostly; and
then there's the sea. It does n't sound
much, but I felt it was the most ripping
thing I knew. And then there are hopfields, I forgot them, and the cast houses.
They're rather picturesque, I suppose. I
expect it's like the lavender to you. To
me it's just England. [BESSIE gets up and
walks towards the window. In the distance
is heard the melancholy cry of the lavender
man.] What are you thinking about?
BEssn. It must be very wonderful to


feel like that about one's home. I've never
known anything but a red stone house in
Nineteenth Street. As soon as popper can
get a decent offer for it we're going to
move farther up town. Mother has a fancy
for Seventy-Second Street, I don't know
why.
BLEANE. Of course I know it could n't
mean the same to a girl that it means to
me. I] shouldn't expect anyone to live
there always. I can be quite happy in
London.
BESIE [with a smile]. You're determined
to do it?
BLEANE. If you could bring yourself to
marry me I'd try and give you a good time.
BESSIE. Well, I suppose that's a proposal.
BLEANE. I've never made one before
and it makes me a bit nervous.
BESSIE. You have n't said anything that
I can answer yes or no to.
BLEANE. I don't want to say anything
that you can answer no to.
BESSIE [with a chuckle]. Let me say that
I'll think it over, may I?
BLEANE. I'm going away to-morrow.
BESSIE. I'll give you an answer when
you come back.
BLEANE. But that won't be for four
weeks.
BESSIE. It'll give us both a chance to
make up our minds. After all, it is rather
a serious step. You may come to the conclusion that you don't really want to
marry me.
BLEANE. There's no fear of that.
BESSIE. You're coming down to Feathers for the week-end after you get back.
If you change your mind send Pearl a wire
putting yourself off. I shall understand
and I shan't be in the least hurt or offended.
BLEANE. Then it's good-bye till then.
BESSIE. Yes. And... thank you very
much for wishing to marry me.
BLEANE. And thank you very much for
not refusing me outright.
[They shake hands and he goes out.
She walks over to the window to
look at him, glances at the watch
on her wrist and then leaves the
room. In a moment POLE shows




6o


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


in ARTHUR FENWICK. He is a
tall, elderly man with a red face
and grey hair.]
POLE. I'll tell her ladyship you're here,
sir.
FENWICK. That'll be very good of you.
[POLE goes out. FENWICK takes
a cigar from his case and the
evening paper from a table and
settles himself down comfortably
to read and smoke. He makes
himself very much at home.]
[PEARL comes in.]
PEARL. Are n't Bessie and Harry Bleane
here?
FENWICK. No.
PEARL. That's very strange. I wonder
what can have happened.
FENWICK. Never mind about Bessie and
Harry Bleane now. Give me your attention now.
PEARL. You're very late.
FENWICK. 1 like to come when I stand a
chance of finding you alone, girlie.
PEARL. I wish you would n't call me
girlie, Arthur. I do hate it.
FENWICK. That's how I think of you.
When I'm present at one of your big set
outs and watch you like a queen among all
those lords and ambassadors and big wigs
I just say to myself she's my girlie and I
feel warm all over. I'm so proud of you
then. You've got there, girlie, you've got
there.
PEARL [smiling]. You've been very kind
to me, Arthur.
FENWICK. You've got brains, girlie,
that's how you've done it. It's brains.
Underneath your flighty ways and that
casual air of yours, so that one might think
you were enjoying yourself and nothing
more, I see you thinking it all out, pulling
a string here and a string there; you've got
them in the hollow of your hand all the
time. You leave nothing to chance, Pearl,
you're a great woman.
PEARL. Not great enough to make you
obey your doctor's orders.
FENWICK [taking the cigar out of his
mouth]. You're not going to ask me to
throw away the first cigar I've had to-day?


PEARL. To please me, Arthur. They're
so bad for you.
FENWICK. If you put it like that I must
give in.
PEARL. I don't want you to be ill.
FENWICK. You've got a great heart,
girlie. The world just thinks you're a
smart, fashionable woman, clever, brilliant,
beautiful, a leader of fashion, but I know
different. I know you've got a heart of
gold.
PEARL. You're a romantic old thing,
Arthur.
FENWICK. My love for you is the most
precious thing I have in the world. You're
my guiding star, you're my ideal. You
stand to me for all that's pure and noble
and clean in womanhood. God bless you,
girlie. I don't know what I should do if you
failed me. I don't believe I could live if I
ever found out you were n't what I think
you.
PEARL [with her tongue in her cheek].
You shan't if I can help it.
FENWICK. You do care for me a little,
girlie?
PEARL. Of course I do.
FENWICK. I'm an old man, girlie.
PEARL. What nonsense. I look upon
you as a mere boy.
FENWICK [flattered]. Well, I expect a
good many young men would be glad to
have my physique. I can work fourteen
hours on end and feel as fresh as a daisy at
the end of it.
PEARL. Your vitality is wonderful.
FENWICK. I sometimes wonder what it
is that first drew you to me, girlie.
PEARL. I don't know. I suppose it was
the impression of strength you give.
FENWICK. Yes, 1've often been told that.
It's very difficult for people to be with me
long without realizing that - well, that
I'm not just the man in the street.
PEARL. I always feel I can rely on you.
FENWICK. You could n't have said anything to please me better. I want you to
rely on me. I know you. I 'm the only
man who's ever understood you. I know
that deep down in that big beating human
heart of yours, you're a timid helpless little
thing, with the innocence of a child, and




OUR BETTERS


6i


you want a man like me to stand between
you and the world. My God, how I love
you, girlie.
PEARL. Take care, there's the butler.
FENWICK. Oh, damn it, there's always
the butler.
[POLE comes in with a telegram and a parcel
of books.]
PEARL [taking telegram and glancing at
parcel]. What's that, Pole?
POLE. They're books, my lady. They've
just come from Hatchard's.
PEARL. Oh, I know. Undo them, will
you? [POLE cuts open parcel and takes out
a bundle of four or five books. PEARL opens
the telegram.] Oh, bother. There's no
answer, Pole.
POLE. Very good, my lady.    [Exit.]
FENWICK. Is anything the matter?
PEARL. That fool Sturrey was dining
here to-night, and he's just wired to say he
can't come. I do hate having my parties
upset. I'd asked ten people to meet him.
FENWICK. That's too bad.
PEARL. Pompous owl. He's refused invitation after invitation. I asked him six
weeks ago this time, and he had n't the
face to say he was engaged.
FENWICK. Well, I'm afraid you must
give him up. I dare say you can do without
him.
PEARL. Don't be a fool, Arthur. I'll get
hold of him somehow. He may be Prime
Minister one of these days. [She reflects a
moment.] I wonder what his telephone
number is. [She gets up and looks in a book,
and then sits down to telephone.] Gerrard
7035. If he comes once because I force him
to, he'll come again because he likes it.
This house is like the kingdom of heaven.
I have to compel them to come in... is
Lord Sturrey in? Lady Grayston. I'll
hold the line. [Making her voice sweet and
charming.] Is that you, Lord Sturrey? It's
Pearl Grayston speaking. I just called up
to say it does n't matter a bit about tonight. Of course I'm disappointed you
can't come. But you must come another
day, will you? That's very nice of you!
How about this day week? Oh, I'm sorry.
Would Thursday suit you? Oh. Well how


about Friday? You're engaged every
evening next week? You are in demand.
Well, I'11 tell you what, get your book and
tell me what day you are free.
FENWICK. You're the goods, girlie.
You'll get there.
PEARL. Tuesday fortnight. Yes, that'll
suit me beautifully, 8.30. I'm so glad you
chose that day because I'm having Pablo
Casals in to play. I shall look forward to
seeing you. Good-bye. [She puts down the
receiver.] This time I've got him. The ape
thinks he understands music.
FENWICK. Have you got Pablo Casals
for Tuesday fortnight?
PEARL. NO.
FENWICK. Are you sure you can get
him?
PEARL. No, but I'm sure you can.
FENWICK. You shall have him, girlie.
[She takes the books that POLE brought in and
puts them about the room.] What are you
doing that for?
PEARL. They're Richard Twining's
books. He's coming to dinner to-night.
FENWICK. Why d' you trouble about
authors, girlie?
PEARL. London isn't like New York, you
know. People like to meet them over here.
FENWICK. I should have thought your
position was quite strong enough to do
without them.
PEARL. We live in a democratic age.
They take the place in society of the fools
whom kings kept about their courts in the
middle ages. They have the advantage
that they don't presume on their position
to tell one home truths. They're cheap. A
dinner and a little flattery is all they want.
And they provide their own clothes.
FENWICK. You litter up your house with
their rotten books.
PEARL. Oh, but I don't keep them.
These are on approval. I shall send them
all back to the bookseller to-morrow
morning.
FENWICK. Pearl, you're a little wonder.
When you want to go into business you
come to me and I'11 take you into partnership.
PEARL. How is business?
FENWICK. Fine. I'm opening two new




62


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


branches next week. They laughed at me
when I first came over here. They said I'd
go bankrupt. I've turned their. silly old
methods upside down. He laughs longest
who laughs last. 
PEARL [reflectively]. Ah, I can't help
thinking that's what my dressmaker said
when she sent in my bill.
[He gives a slight start and looks at
her shrewdly. He sees her blandly
smiling.]
FENWICK. Girlie, you promised me you
would n't run up any more bills.
PEARL. That's like promising to love,
honor, and obey one's husband;the kind
of undertaking no one is really expected to
carry out.
FENWICK. You naughty little thing.
PEARL. It's Suzanne - you know, the
dressmaker in the Place Vendome. The
war has dislocated her business and she
wants to get her money in. It is n't very
convenient for me to pay just at present.
It's rather a large sum.
[She gwes him a sheaf of typewritten documents.]
FENWICK. This looks more like a fiveact play than a bill.
PEARL. Few plays keep up the interest
to the last line.
FENWICK [turns the pages and looks at the
total]. And that is in the nature of a dramatic surprise.
PEARL. Clothes are expensive, aren't
they? I wish I could dress in fig-leaves. It
would be cheap and I believe it would suit
me.
FENWICK [putting the bill in his pocket].
Well, I'll see what I can do about it.
PEARL. You are a duck, Arthur...
would you like me to come and lunch with
you to-morrow?
FENWICK. Why, sure.
PEARL. All right. Now you must go, as
I want to lie down before I dress for dinner.
FENWICK. That's right. Take care of
yourself, girlie, you're very precious to me.
PEARL. Good-bye, dear old thing.
FENWICK. Good-bye, girlie.
[He goes out. As he goes to door
telephone bell rings. PEARL
takes up receiver.]


PEARL. You're speaking to Lady Grayston. Tony! Of course I know your voice.
Well, what is it? I'm not at all stern. I'm
making my voice as pleasant as I can. I'm
sorry you find it disagreeable. [She gives a
chuckle.] No, I'm afraid I could n't come
to tea to-morrow. I shall be engaged all
the afternoon. What is the day after tomorrow? [Smiling.] Well, I must ask
Bessie. I don't know if she's free. Of
course I'm not coming alone. It would be
most compromising. A nice-looking young
man like you. What would Minnie say?
Oh, I know all about that.... I did n't
promise anything. I merely said the future
was everybody's property. A sleepless
night. Fancy. Well, good-bye.... Tony,
do you know the most enchanting word in
the English language? Perhaps.
[She puts down the telephone quickly
and the curtain falls.]
CURTAIN
ACT II
The Scene is a morning-room at Feathers
Nevil, the GRAYSTONS' place in the country.
It has an old-fashioned, comfortable look;
nothing is very new; the chintzes are faded.
Three long French windows lead on to a terrace. It is after dinner; a fine night and the
windows are open. The women of the party
are sitting down waiting for the men. They
are PEARL and BESSIE, the DUCHESSE
DE SURENNES and the PRINCESS DELLA
CERCOLA.
PRINCESS. You must be exhausted after all
the tennis you played this afternoon, Minnie.
DUCHESSE. Not a bit. I only played
four sets.
PRINCESS. You played so vigorously. It
made me quite hot to look at you.
DUCHESSE. If I did n't take exercise I
should be enormous. Oh, Flora, how I envy
you. You can eat anything you choose and
it has no effect on you. And what makes it
so unfair is that you don't care about food.
I am a lazy and a greedy woman. I never
eat any of the things 1 like and I never miss
a day without taking at least an hour's
exercise..




OUR BETTERS


63


PRINCESS [smiling]. If mortification is
the first step in sanctity I'm sure you must
be on the high road to it.
PEARL. One of these days you'll give up
the struggle, Minnie, and like Flora take
to good works.
DUCHESSE [with immense decision]. Never.
I shall lie on my death bed with my hair
waved and a little rouge on my cheeks, and
with my last breath murmur: not gruel, it's
so fattening.
PEARL. Well, you'll have more serious
tennis to-morrow. Harry Bleane plays
much better than Thornton.
DUCHESSE. It was very tiresome of him
not to come till it was just time to dress.
PEARL. He only got back from Russia
yesterday and he had to go down to see his
mother. [With an amused glance at her sister.] Bessie asked me not to put him next
her at dinner.
BESSIE. Pearl, are you a cat! I do think
it's hateful the way you discuss my private
affairs with all and sundry.
DUCHESSE. My dear Bessie, they've
long ceased to be your private affairs.
PEARL. I'm afraid Bessie misses her opportunities. Just before he went to Russia
I left them alone together and nothing happened. All my tact was wasted.
BESSIE. Your tact was too obvious, Pearl.
DUCHESSE. Well, do be quick and bring
him to the scratch, my dear. I'm growing
tired of people asking me, is he going to
propose or not.
BESSIE. Don't they ever ask, is she going to accept him or is she not?
DUCHESSE. Of course you'll accept him.
BESSIE. I'm not so sure.
PRINCESS [smiling]. Perhaps it depends
on the way he asks.
PEARL. For Heaven's sake, don't expect
too much romance. Englishmen aren't
romantic. It makes them feel absurd.
George proposed to me when he was in
New York for the Horse Show. I was n't
very well that day and I was lying down.
I was looking a perfect fright. He told me
all about a mare he had and he told me all
about her father and her mother and her
uncles and her aunts, and then he said,
look here, you'd better marry me.


PRINCESS. How very sudden.
PEARL. Oh, I said, why did n't you tell
me you were going to propose. I'd have
had my hair waved. Poor George, he asked
why.
DUCHESSE. The French are the only
nation who know how to make love. When
Gaston proposed to me he went down on
his knees and he took my hand and he said
he could n't live without me. Of course I
knew that, because he had n't a cent, but
still it thrilled me. He said I was his guiding star and his guardian angel. Oh, I
don't know what. It was beautiful. I knew
he'd been haggling with papa for a fortnight about having his debts paid; but it
was beautiful.
PEARL. Believe me, Bessie, the flourishing state of father's store is a much sounder
basis for matrimonial happiness than any
amount of passion.
BESSIE. Oh, Pearl, what is this you've
been telling people about popper selling
bananas?
PEARL. Bananas? Oh, I remember.
They were saying that Mrs. Hanly used to
wash the miners' clothes in California.
That and her pearls are taking her everywhere. I was n't going to be outdone, so I
said father used to sell bananas in the
streets of New York.
BESSIE. He never did anything of the
kind.
PEARL. I know he did n't, but I thought
people were getting rather tired of the
hardware store and I made a perfectly killing story out of it. I had a new Callot
frock on and I thought I could manage the
bananas.
DUCHESSE. A most unpleasant vege.
table. So fattening.
[The men come in. THORNTON CLAY,
ARTHUR   FENWICK, and FLEMING.
PEARL and BESSIE get up.]
BESSIE. You've been a long time.
DUCHESSE. Where is Tony?
CLAY. He and Bleane are finishing their
cigars.
DuJCHESSE. Well, Mr. Harvey, are you
still enjoying life in London?
CLAY. He should be. I've got him in,




64


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


vitations to all the nicest parties. But he
will waste his time in sight-seeing. The
other day, Thursday night, was n't it? I
wanted to take him to Hurlingham and he
insisted on going to the National Gallery
instead.
PEARL [smiling]. What an outrageous
proceeding.
FLEMING. I don't see that it was any
more outrageous for me than for you. I
saw you coming in just as I was going
out.
PEARL. I had a reason to go. Arthur
Fenwick has just bought a Bronzino and I
wanted to see those in the National Gallery.
DUCHESSE. I think it's much more
likely that you had an assignation. I've
always heard it's a wonderful place for
that. You never meet any of your friends,
and if you do they're there for the same
purpose and pretend not to see you.
FLEMING. I certainly only went to see
the pictures.
CLAY. But good Heavens! If you want
to do that there's Christie's and there you
will meet your friends.
FLEMING. I'm afraid you'll never make
a man of fashion out of me, Thornton.
PEARL. I wish those men would come
and then we could dance.
DUCHESSE. Oh, that'll be charming.
It's such good exercise, is n't it? I'm told
that you dance divinely, Mr. Harvey.
FLEMING. I don't know about that. I
dance.
DUCHESSE [to the PRINCESS]. Oh, my
dear, who d' you think I danced with the
other night? [Impressively.] Ernest.
PRINCESS. Oh!
DUCHESSE. My dear, don't say oh! like
that. Don't you know who Ernest is?
PEARL. Ernest is the most sought man
in London.
PRINCESS. Do you mean the dancing
master?
DUCHESSE. Oh, my dear, you must n't
call him that. He'd be furious. He is n't
a professional. He gives lessons at ten
guineas an hour, but only to oblige. He's
invited to all the best dances.
FLEMING. One of the things that rather


surprised me at balls was to see all these
dancing masters. Do English girls like to
be pawed about by Greeks, Dagos, and
Bowery toughs?
CLAY. You Americans who live in
America, you're so prudish.
DUCHESSE. Believe me, I would go to any
dance where there was the remotest chance
of meeting Ernest. It's a perfect dream
to dance with him. He showed me a new
step and I can't get it quite right. I don't
know what I shall do if I don't run across
him soon again. [BLEANE and TONY PAXTON come in from the terrace.] At last.
TONY. We've been taking a stroll in the
garden.
PEARL. I hope you showed him my tea
house.
BESSIE. It's Pearl's new toy. You must
be sure to admire it.
PEARL. I'm very proud of it. You know
George won't let me do anything here. He
says it's his house and he is n't going to
have any of my muck. He won't even
have new chintzes. Well, there was an
old summer house [pointing] just over
there, and it was all worm-eaten and horrid
and tumble-down, and what they call picturesque, but it was rather a nice place to
go and have tea in, as it had a really charmingview; I wanted to pull it down and put
up a smart Japanese tea house instead, but
George would n't hear of it because, if you
please, his mother —a peculiarly plain
woman - used to sit and sew there. Well,
I bided my time, and the other day when
George was in London I pulled down the
old summer house, got my Japanese tea
house down from town, put it up, and had
everything finished by the time George
came back twenty-four hours later. He very
nearly had an apoplectic stroke. If he had I
should have killed two birds with one stone.
BESSIE. Pearl!
PRINCESS. I don't know why you furnished it so elaborately.
PEARL. Well, I thought in the hot
weather I'd sleep there sometimes. It'll
be just like sleeping in the open air.
FENWICK. These young people like to
dance, Pearl.
PEARL. Where would you like to dance,




OUR BETTERS


65


in here with the gramophone or in the
drawing-room with the pianola?
BESSIE. Oh, in the drawing-room.
PEARL. Let's go there then.
BESSIE [to CLAY]. Come and help me
get the rolls out.
CLAY. Right you are.
[They go out, followed by the
DUCHESSE, PEARL, and TONY,
FENWICK and BESSIE.]
FLEMING [to the PRINCESS]. Are n't you
coming?
PRINCESS. No, I think I'll stay here for
the present. But don't bother about me.
You must go and dance.
FLEMING. There are enough men without me. I'm sure Thornton Clay is a host
in himself.
PRINCESS. YOU don't like Thornton?
FLEMING. What do they think of a man
like Thornton Clay in England? Don't
they despise him?
PRINCESS. Everywhere, in New York as
much as in London, there are masses of
people struggling to get into society. It's
such a common sight that one loses the
sense of there being anything disgraceful
in it. Pearl would tell you that English
society is a little pompous; they welcome a
man who can make them laugh. Thornton
is very useful. He has high spirits, he's
amusing, he makes a party go.
FLEMING. I should have thought a man
could find some better use for his life than
that.
PRINCESS. I'm so glad that you're not
going to be dazzled by this English life
that dazzles so many of our countrymen.
Amuse yourself, learn what you can from
it, take, all the good it offers you, and go
back to America.
FLEMING. I shall be glad to go back.
Perhaps I ought never to have come.
PRINCESS. I'm afraid you're not very
happy.
FLEMING. I don't know what makes you
think that.
PRINCESS. It's not very hard to see that
you're in love with Bessie.
FLEMING. Did you know that I was
engaged to her?
PRINCESS [surprised]. No.


FLEMING. I was engaged to her before
I went to Harvard. I was eighteen then
and she was sixteen.
PRINCESS. How very early in life you
young people settle things in America.
FLEMING. Perhaps it was rather silly
and childish. But when she wrote and told
me that she thought we'd better break it off
I discovered I cared more than 1 thought.
PRINCESS. What did you say to her?
FLEMING. I could n't try to hold her to
a promise she gave when she was a school
girl. 1 answered that I sympathized and
understood.
PRINCESS. When did this happen?
FLEMING. A couple of months ago. Then
I got the chance to go over to Europe and
I thought I'd come to see what was going
on. It did n't take me long to tumble.
PR:NCESS. You're bearing it very well.
FLEMING. Oh, the only thing I could do
was to be pleasant. I should only have
bored her if I'd made love to her. She took
our engagement as an amusing joke and
there was n't anything for me to do but
accept her view of it. She was having the
time of her life. At first I thought perhaps
she'd grow tired of all these balls and
parties, and then if I was on the spot I
might persuade her to come back to America with me.
PRINCESS. You may still.
FLEMING. No, I have n't a chance. The
first day I arrived she told me how wonderful she thought this English life. She
thinks it full and varied. She thinks it has
beauty.
PRINCESS. That sounds rather satirical.
FLEMING. Pearl has been very nice to
me. She's taken me about, I've driven
with her constantly, I've sat in her box at
the opera, I'm her guest at the moment.
If I had any decency I'd hold my tongue.
PRINCESS. Well?
FLEMING [bursting out impetuously].
There's something in these surroundings
that makes me feel terribly uncomfortable.
Under the brilliant surface I suspect all
kinds of ugly and shameful secrets that
everyone knows and pretends not to. This
is a strange house in which the husband is
never seen and Arthur Fenwick, a vulgar




66


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


sensualist, acts as host, and it's an attractive spectacle, this painted duchesse, devouring with her eyes a boy young enough
to be her son. And the conversation - I
don't want to seem a prude; I daresay people over here talk more freely than the
people I've known; but surely there are
women who don't have lovers, there are
such things as honour and decency and selfrestraint here. If Bessie is going to remain
over here I wish to God she'd marry her
lord at once and get out of it quickly.
PRINCESS. D' you think she'll be happy?
FLEMING. Are they any of them happy?
How can they expect to be happy when
they marry for - [The PRINCESS gives a
sudden start and FLEMING stops short.] I
beg your pardon. I was forgetting. Please
forgive me. You see, you're so different.
PRINCESS. I'm sorry I interrupted you.
What were you going to say?
FLEMING. It was n't of any importance.
You see, 1've been thinking it over so much
that it rather got on my nerves. And I
have n't been able to tell anyone what I
was thinking about. I'm dreadfully sorry.
PRINCESS. You were going to say, how
can they expect to be happy when they
marry for a trumpery title. You thought,
they're snobs, vulgar snobs, and the misery of their lives is the proper punishment
for their ignoble desires.
FLEMING [very apologetically]. Princess.
PRINCESS [ironically]. Princess.
FLEMING. Believe me, I hadn't the
smallest intention of saying anything to
wound you.
PRINCESS. YOU have n't. It's too true.
Most of us marry foreigners and they are
merely snobs. But I wonder if it's all our
fault. We're not shown a better way of life.
No one has ever hinted to us that we have
any duty towards our own country. We're
blamed because we marry foreigners, but
columns are written about us in the papers,
our photographs are published, our friends
are excited and envious. After all we are
human. At first when people addressed me
as Princess I could n't help feeling thrilled.
Of course it was snobbishness.
FLEMING. You make me feel a terrible
cad,


PRINCESS. But sometimes there've been
other motives too. Has it ever occurred to
you that snobbishness is the spirit of romance in a reach-me-down? I was only
twenty when I married Marino. I did n't
see him as a fortune-hunting Dago, but as
the successor of a long line of statesmen
and warriors. There'd been a pope in his
family, and a dozen cardinals, one of his
ancestors had been painted by Titian, for
centuries they'd been men of war, with
power of life and death. When Marino
came and asked me to marry him it was
romance that stood in his shoes and beckoned to me. I thought of the palace in
Rome which I had visited as a tripper and
where I might reign as mistress. I thought
it was splendid to take my place after all
the great ladies, Orsinis, Colonnas, Gaetanis, Alcobrandinis. I loved him.
FLEMING. But there's no need to tell
me that you could never do anything from
an unworthy motive.
PRINCESS. My husband's family had
been ruined by speculation. He was obliged
to sell himself. He sold himself for five
million dollars. And I loved him. You can
imagine the rest. First he was indifferent
to me, then I bored him, and at last he
hated me. Oh, the humiliation I endured.
When my child died I could n't bear it any
longer. I left him. I went back to America.
I found myself a stranger. I was out of
place, the life had become foreign to me.
I could n't live at home. 1 settled in England, and here were strangers too. I've
paid very heavily for being a romantic girl.
[BESSIE comes in.]
BESSIE. Really, Fleming, it's too bad
of you to sit in here and flirt with the
princess. We want you to come and dance.
[The PRINCESS, agitated, gets up
and goes out into the garden.]
[Looking after her.] Is anything the matter?
FLEMING. NO.
BESSIE. Are you coming to dance or are
you not?
FLEMING. I had quite a talk with Lord
Bleane after dinner, Bessie.
BESSIE [smiling]. Well?
FLEMING. Are you going to accept the




OUR BETTERS


67


coronet that he's dangling before your
eyes?
BESSIE. It would be more to the point
if you asked whether I am going to accept
the coronet that he's laying at my feet.
FLEMING. He's a very nice fellow, Bessie.
BESSIE. I know that.
FLEMING. I wanted to dislike him and I
could n't.
BESSIE. Why?
FLEMING. Well, I don't think much of
these English lords who run after American
girls for their money. I expected him to be
a brainless loafer, with just enough cunning
to know his market value, but he's a modest, unassuming fellow. And he's cheery.
I wanted him to talk about the war, but he
would n't. To tell the truth, I'm puzzled.
BESSIE [chaffing him]. Fancy that.
FLEMING. 1 think it's a low-down thing
he's doing, and yet he does n't seem a lowdown fellow.
BESSIE. He might be in love with me,
you know.
FLEMING. Is he?
BESSIE. No.
FLEMING. Are you going to marry him?
BESSIE. I don't know.
FLEMING. I suppose he's come here to
ask you.
BESSIE [after a short pause]. He asked me
a month ago. I promised to give him an
answer when he came back from Russia...
I'm in a panic. He's waiting to get me
alone. I was able to be quite flippant about
it when 1 had a month before me, but now,
when I've got to say yes or no, I'm so
jumpy I don't know what to do with myself.
FLEMING. Don't marry him, Bessie.
BESSIE. Why not?
FLEMING. Well, first you're no more in
love with him than he is with you.
BESSIE. And then?
FLEMING. Is n't that enough?
BESSIE. I wonder if you realize what he
offers me. Do you know what the position
of an English peeress is?
FLEMING. Does it mean so much to be
called your ladyship by tradesmen.
BESSIE. You donkey, Fleming. If I
marry an American boy my life will be


over; if I marry Harry Bleane it will be
only just beginning. Look at Pearl. I
could do what she's done; I could do more,
because George Grayston is n't ambitious.
1 could make Harry do anything 1 liked.
He would go into politics and I should have
a salon. Why, I could do anything.
FLEMING [drily]. I don't know why you
should be in a panic. You've evidently
made up your mind. You'll have a brilliant
marriage, with crowds outside the church,
your photograph will be in all the papers,
you'll go away for your honeymoon and
you'll come back. What will you do then?
BESSIE. Why, settle down.
FLEMING. Will you break your heart
like the princess because your husband has
taken a mistress, or will you take lovers
like the Duchesse de Surennes, or will you
bore yourself to death like Pearl because
your husband is virtuous and wants you
to do your duty?
BESSIE. Fleming, you've got no right to
say things like that to me.
FLEMING. I'm sorry if I've made you
angry. I had to say it.
BESSIE. Are you quite sure that it's for
my sake you don't want me to marry Lord
Bleane?
[LORD BLEANE enters from terrace.]
BLEANE. I was looking for you everywhere. I wondered where you'd got to.
[There is a moment's pause. FLEMING HARVEY looks from BESSIE
to BLEANE.]
FLEMING. I really must go and dance
with the duchesse or she'll never forgive
me.
BLEANE. I've just been dancing with
her. My dear fellow, it's the most violent
form of exercise I've ever taken.
FLEMING. I'm in very good condition.
[He goes out.]
BLEANE. Blessings on him.
BESSIE. Why?
BLEANE. Because he's left us alone.
Ask me another.
BESSIE. I don't think I will.
BLEANE. Then I'11 ask you one.
BESSIE. Please don't. Tell me all about
Russia.




68


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


BLEANE. Russia is an empire. Its capital is Petrograd. It has three rivers of
navigable size.
BESSIE. You're in very high spirits tonight.
BLEANE. You may well wonder. Everything has conspired to depress them.
BESSIE. Oh, what nonsense.
BLEANE. First, I was in England thirtysix hours before I had a chance of seeing
you, secondly when I arrived you'd already
gone up to dress, then when I was expecting to sit next to you at dinner I was put
between Lady Grayston and the princess,
and lastly you made me pound away at
that beastly pianola when I wanted to
dance with you.
BESSIE. Well, you've survived it all.
BLEANE. What 1 want to point out to
you is that if notwithstanding I'm in high
spirits I must have a most engaging nature.
BESSIE. I never dreamt of denying it.
BLEANE. So much to the good.
BESSIE. The man's going to propose to
me.,
BLEANE. No, I'm not.
BESSIE. 1 beg your pardon. My mistake.
BLEANE. I did that a month ago.
BESSIE. There's been a change of moon
since then and no proposal holds good
after the new moon.
BLEANE. I never knew that.
BESSIE. You've been down to see your
mother.
BLEANE. She sends you her love.
BESSIE. Have you told her?
BLEANE. I told her a month ago.
[BESSIE does not speak for a moment; when she answers it is
more gravely.]
BESSIE. You know, I want to be frank
with you. You won't think it disagreeable
of me, will you? I'm not in love with you.
BLEANE. I know. But you don't positively dislike me?
BESSIE. No, I like you very much.
BLEANE. Won't you risk it, then?
BESSIE [almost tragically]. I can't make
up my mind.
BLEANE. I'll do all I can to make you
happy. I'll try not to make a nuisance of
myself.


BESSIE. I suppose I'm a perfect fool
I ought to play the game prettily. You see,
I know that you can't afford to marry a
girl who is n't well-to-do. Everyone knows
what I have. Pearl has taken good care
that they should. You would n't ever have
thought of me otherwise. We're arranging
a deal. You give your title and your position and I give my money. It's a commonplace thing enough, but somehow it sticks
in my throat.
[BLEANE hesitates a moment and
walks up and down thinking.]
BLEANE. You make me feel an awful
swine. The worst of it is that some part of
what you say is true. I'm not such a fool
that I did n't see your sister was throwing
us together. I don't want to seem a conceited ass, but a fellow in my sort of position can't help knowing that many people
think him rather a catch. Mothers of our
marriageable daughters are very transparent sometimes, you know; and if they
don't marry their daughters they're determined it shan't be for want of trying.
BESSIE. Oh, I can quite believe that. I
have noticed it in American mothers too.
BLEANE. I knew it would be a good thing
if I married you. I don't suppose I should
have thought about you if 1 had n't been
told you were pretty well off. It's beastly
now, saying all that.
BESSIE. I don't see why.
BLEANE. Because after a bit I found out
I'd fallen in love with you. And then I
did n't care if you had n't got a bob. I
wanted to marry you because - because -
I did n't know what to do without you.
BESSIE. Harry!
BLEANE. Do believe me, I swear it's
true. I don't care a hang about the money.
After all we could get along without it.
And I love you.
BESSIE. It's very good to hear you say
that. I'm so absurdly pleased and flattered.
BLEANE. You do believe it, don't you?
BESSIE. Yes.
BLEANE. And will you marry me?
BESSIE. If you like.
BLEANE. Of course 1 like.
[He takes her in his arms and kisses
her.]




OUR BETTERS


69


BESSIE. Take care, someone might come
in.
BLEANE [smiling and happy]. Come into
the garden with me.
[He stretches out his hand; she hesitates a moment, smiles, takes it,
and together they go out on to
the terrace. For the moment the
music of a one step is heard more
loudly, and then the DUCHESSE
and TONY PAXTON come in. She
sinks into a chair, fanning herself and he goes over to a table,
takes a cigarette and lights it.]
DUCHESSE. Did you see? That was
Harry Bleane and Bessie. I wondered
where they were.
TONY. You've got eyes like a lynx.
DUCHESSE. I'm positive they were hand
in hand.
TONY. It looks as if she'd worked it at
last.
DUCHESSE. I don't know about that. It
looks as if he'd worked it.
TONY. She's not such a catch as all that.
If I were a peer I'd sell myself for a damned
sight more than eight thousand a year.
DUCHESSE. Don't stand so far away,
Tony. Come and sit on the sofa by me.
TONY [going over to her]. I say, I've been
talking to Bleane about two-seaters.
DUCHESSE [very coldly]. Oh.
TONY [giving her a look out of the corner
of his eye]. He says I can't do better than
get a Talbot.
DUCHESSE. I don't see why you want a
car of your own. You can always use one
of mine.
TONY. That's not the same thing. After
all, it won't cost much. I can get a ripper
for just over five hundred pounds, with a
really smart body and self-starter and
everything.
DUCHESSE. You talk as though five hundred pounds were nothing at all.
TONY. Hang it all, it is n't anything to
you.
DUCHESSE. What with the war and one
thing and another I'm not so terribly flush
just now. No one knows the claims 1 have
on me. Because one has a certain amount
of money one's supposed to be made of it.


They don't realize that if one spends it in
one way one can't spend it in another. It
costs me seven thousand pounds to have
my house redecorated.
TONY [sulkily]. You said I could buy
myself a car.
DUCHESSE. I said I'd think about it. I
was n't under the impression that you'd
go and order one right away.
TONY. I've practically committed myself now.
DUrCHESSE. You only want a car so that
you can be independent of me.
TONY. Well, hang it all, you can't expect
me to be tied down to your apron strings
always. It's a bit thick if whenever I want
to take a man down to play golf I have to
ring up and ask if I can have one of your
cars. It makes me look such an ass.
DUCHESSE. Don't you know there's
nothing in the world I would n't do for you?
TONY [quickly]. Well, why don't you
marry me?
DUCHESSE [with a gasp]. I can't do that.
You know I can't do that.
TONY. Why not? You could still call
yourself Duchesse de Surennes.
DUCHESSE. No, I've always told you
nothing would induce me to marry.
TONY. That shows how much you love
me.
DUCHESSE. Marriage is so middle class.
It takes away all the romance of love.
TONY. You simply want to have your
freedom and keep me bound hand and foot.
Do you think it's jolly to know what people
say about me? After all I've got some
pride.
DUCHESSE. I'm sure we shall be able to
get you a job soon and then no one will be
able to say anything.
TONY. I'm getting fed up with the whole
business; I tell you that straight. I'd just
as soon chuck it.
DUCHESSE. Tony, you don't mean to
say you want to leave me! I tell you I'll
kill myself if you do. I could n't bear it,
I could n't bear itl I'll kill myself.
TONY. For God's sake, don't make such
a row.
DucESsE. Say you don't mean it, Tony,
I shall scream.




70


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


TONY. I don't want to make you unhappy, but really sometimes you are unreasonable.
DUCHESSE. You mean about the car?
TONY. I was n't thinking about the car
then.
DUCHESSE. You can have it if you like.
TONY. I don't want it now.
DUCHESSE. Tony, don't be unkind.
TONY. I'm not going to take any more
presents from you.
DUCHESSE. I did n't mean to be unreasonable. I'd like you to have the car,
Tony. I'll give you a check for it tomorrow. [Coaxingly.] Tell me what the
body's like.
TONY [sulkily]. Oh, it's a torpedo body.
DUCHESSE. You'll take me for a drive
in it sometimes.
[He turns round and looks at her.
She puts out her hand; he thaws
and smiles engagingly].
TONY. I say, you are awfully kind to me.
DUCHESSE. You do like me a little, don't
you?
TONY. Of course I do.
DUCHESSE. You have a good heart,
Tony. Kiss me.
TONY. [He kisses her. Pleased and excited.]
I saw an awfully jolly body in a shop in
Trafalgar Square the day before yesterday.
I ve got a half mind to get the people who
made your body to copy it.
DUCHESSE. Why don't you get it at the
shop you saw it at. My people are terribly
expensive and they are n't any better than
anybody else.
TONY. Well, you see, I don't know anything about the firm. I just happened to
catch sight of it as I was passing.
DUCHESSE. What on earth were you
doing in Trafalgar Square on Thursday?
I thought you were going to Ranelagh.
TONY. 1 was put off. I had n't got anything to do, so I thought I'd just slope to
the National Gallery for half an hour.
DUCHESSE. That's the place I should
have expected you to go to.
[A sudden suspicion comes to the
DUCHESSE that he was there with
PEARL, but she makes no sign
that he can see.]


[Blandly.] Did you look at the Bronzinos?
TONY [falling into the trap]. Yes. Arthur
Fenwick bought one the other day at
Christie's. He paid a devil of a price for it
too.
DUCHESSE [clenching her hand in effort
to hide her agitation]. Oh!
TONY. I do think it's rot, the prices people pay for old masters. I'm blowed if I'd
give ten thousand pounds for a picture.
DUCHESSE. We'll go to the National
Gallery together one of these days, shall
we?
TONY. I don't know that I want to make
a habit of it, you know.
[PEARL and THORNTON CLAY come in. During the conversation the DUCHESSE surreptitiously watches PEARL and TONY
for signs of an intelligence between
them.]
PEARL. I've got great news for you.
Bessie and Harry Bleane are engaged.
DUCHESSE. Oh, my dear, I'm so glad.
How gratified you must be.
PEARL. Yes, I'm delighted. You must
come and congratulate them.
CLAY. Above all we must congratulate
one another. We've all worked for it,
Pearl.
TONY. He had n't much chance, poor
blighter, had he?
PEARL. We're going to have one more
dance and then Arthur wants to play poker.
You must come.
CLAY Ito the DUCHESSE]. Will you dance
this with me, Minnie?
DUCHESSE. I'd like to.
[CLAY gives her his arm. She
throws TONY and PEARL a
glance and purses her lips. She
goes out with CLAY.]
PEARL. You have n't danced with me
yet, Tony. You should really pay some
attention to your hostess.
TONY. I say, don't go.
PEARL. Why not?
TONY. Because I want to talk to you.
PEARL [flippantly]. If you want to whisper soft nothings in my ear you'll find
the one step exceedingly convenient.
ToNY. You're a little beast, Pearl,




OUR. BETTERS


7t


PEARL. You've been having a long talk
with Minnie.
TONY. Oh, she's been making me a hell
of a scene.
PEARL. Poor thing, she can't help it.
She adores you.
TONY. 1 wish she did n't and you did.
PEARL [with a chuckle]. My dear, it's
your only attraction for me that she adores
you. Come and dance with me.
TONY. You've got a piece of hair out of
place.
PEARL. Have I? [She takes a small glass
out of her bag and looks at herself. As she
does so TONY steps up behind her and kisses
her neck.] You fool! Don't do that! Anyone might see us.
TONY. I don't care.
PEARL. I do. Arthur's as jealous as cat's
meat.
TONY. Arthur's playing the pianola.
PEARL. There's nothing wrong with my
hair.
TONY. Of course there is n't. You're
perfectly divine to-night. I don't know
what there is about you.
PEARL. You're a foolish creature, Tony.
TONY. Let's go into the garden.
PEARL. No, they'll be wondering where
we are.
TONY. Hang it all, it's not so extraordinary to take a stroll instead of dancing.
PEARL. I don't want to take a stroll.
TONY. Pearl.
PEARL. Yes? [She looks at him. For a
moment they stare at one another in silence. A
hot flame of passion leaps up suddenly between them, and envelops them, so that they
forget everything but that they are man and
woman. The air seems all at once heavy to
breathe. PEARL, like a bird in a net, struggles
to escape. Their voices sink and unconsciously they speak in whispers.] Don't be
a fool, Tony.
TONY [hoarsely]. Let's go down to the
tea house.
PEARL. No, I won't.
TONY. We shall be quite safe there.
PEARL. I dare n't. It's too risky.
TONY. Oh, damn the risk.
PEARL [agitated]. I can't.


TONY. I'll go down there and wait.
PEARL [breathlessly]. But - if they wonder where 1 am?
TONY. They'll think you've gone up to
your room.
PEARL. I won't come, Tony.
TONY. I'll wait for you.
[As he goes out, ARTHUR FENWICK
comes in. PEARL gives a slight
start, but quickly recovers herself.]
FENWICK. Look here, I'm not going on
pounding away at that wretched pianola
unless you come and dance, Pearl.
PEARL [exhausted]. I'm tired; I don't
want to dance any more.
FENWICK. Poor child, you look quite pale.
PEARL. Do I? I thought I'd put plenty
of rouge on. Am I looking revolting?
FENWICK. You always look adorable.
You're wonderful. I can't think what you
see in an old fellow like me.
PEARL. You're the youngest man I've
ever known.
FENWICK. How well you know the thing
to say to please me.
[He is just going to take her in his
arms, but instinctively she draws
back.]
PEARL. Let's play poker now, shall we?
FENWICK. Not if you're tired, darling.
PEARL. I'm never too tired for that.
FENWICK. You don't know how I adore
you. It's a privilege to be allowed to love
you.
PEARL [sure of herself again]. Oh, what
nonsense. You'll make me vain if you say
things like that.
FE:NWICK. You do love me a little, don't
you? I want your love so badly.
PEARL. Why I dote on you, you silly
old thing.
[She takes his face in her hands and
kisses him, avoids his arms that
seek to encircle her and goes
towards door.]
F:ENWICK. Where are you going?
PEARL. I'm just going to'my room to
arrange my face.
FENWICK. My God, how I love you,
girlie. There's nothing in the world I
would n't do for you.




72


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


PEARL. Really?
FENWICK. Nothing.
PEARL. Then ring for Pole and tell him
to set out the card table and the counters.
FENWICK. And I was prepared to give
you a sable coat or a diamond tiara.
PEARL. I much prefer chinchilla and
emeralds.
FENWICK [taking her hand]. Must you
really go and arrange your face?
PEARL. Really.
FENWICK. Be quick, then. I can hardly
bear you out of my sight.
[He kisses her hand.]
PEARL. [She looks at him tenderly.] Dear
Arthur.                  [She goes out.]
[FENWICK rings the bell. Then he
goes on the terrace and calls out.]
FENWICK. Thornton, we 're going to play
poker. Get them to come along, will you?
CLAY [outside]. Right-o!
[POLE comes in.]
FENWICK. Oh, Pole, get the card table
ready.
POLE. Very good, sir.
FENWICK. And we shall want the counters. Let's have those mother-o'-pearl ones
that 1 brought down the last time I was
here.
POLE. Very good, sir.
[The PRINCESS comes in. POLE proceeds to
bring a card table into the centre of room
and unfolds it. He gets a box of counters
out of a drawer and puts them on the
table.]
FENWICK. Pearl has just gone to her
room. She'll be here in one minute.
PRINCESS [looking at the preparations].
This looks like more dissipation.
FENWICK. We're going to have a little
game of poker. I don't think we ought to
play very long; Pearl is looking terribly
tired. She's a very wonderful woman. It's
very seldom you meet a woman like Pearl.
She's got a remarkable brain. I've frequently discussed business with her and
I've been amazed at her clear grasp of
complicated matters. I owe a great deal
to her. And she's good, Princess, she's
good. She's got a heart of gold.


i.


PRINCESS. I'm sure she has.
FENWICK. She'll always do a good turn
to anybody. She's the most generous, the
most open-handed woman I've ever met.
[The DUCHESSE comes in as he says these
words.]
DUCHESSE. Who is this?
FENWICK. We were talking of our hostess.
DUCHESSE. I see.
[She has her bag in her hand; when
the others are not looking she
hides it behind a sofa.]
FENWICK [innocently]. She would adorn
any sphere. She's got everything, tact,
brains, energy, beauty.
DUCHESSE. Virtue.
FENWICK. If I were the British people
I'd make her Prime Minister.
PRINCESS [smiling]. You're an excellent
friend, Mr. Fenwick.
FENWICK. Of course you've heard of her
hostel for young women alone in London?
DUCHESSE [sweetly]. Yes, there was a
great deal about it in the papers, was n't
there?
FENWICK. That's the thing I've always
admired in Pearl. She has a thoroughly
modern understanding of the value of
advertisement.
DUCHESSE. Yes, she has, has n't she?
FENWICK. Well believe me, she conceived the idea of that hostel, built it, endowed it, organized it, all on her own. It
cost twenty thousand pounds.
DUCHESSE. But surely, Mr. Fenwick,
you paid the twenty thousand pounds?
Pearl has n't got sums like that to throw
away on charity.
FENWICK. I gave the money, but the
money is n't the important thing. The idea,
the organization, the success, are all due
to Pearl.
DUCHESSE. It has certainly been one of
the best advertised of recent philanthropic
schemes.
[THORNTON CLAY, BESSIE, BLEANE, and
FLEMING come in.]
CLAY. We're all dying to play poker.
FENWICK. The table is ready.




OUR BETTERS


73


BESSIE. Where is Pearl?
FENWICK. She's gone to her room.
She'll be back in a minute.
[They gather round the table and
sit down.]
BESSIE. You're going to play, Princess?
PRINCESS. Oh, I don't think so. I'll
look on. I'm going to bed in a minute.
BESSIE. Oh, you must play.
[PRINCESS smiles, shrugs her shoulders, approaches the table.]
FENWICK. Leave a place for Pearl.
DUCHESSE. You must leave one for Tony
too.
CLAY. What's he doing?
DUCHESSE. He'll be here presently.
FENWICK. Shall 1 give out the counters?
What would you like to play for?
PRINCESS. Don't let it be too high.
DUCHESSE. How tiresome of you, Flora.
I think I'm in luck to-night.
FENWICK. We don't want to ruin anyone. Forty counters for a sovereign.
PRINCESS. Very well.
FENWICK [to CLAY]. Count them out in
forties, Thornton. Mr. Harvey, you might
count them out, will you?
FLEMING. Sure.
[The three of them start counting
out the counters.]
DUCHESSE. Oh, how stupid of me, I
have n't got my bag.
FENWICK. Never mind, we'll trust you.
DUCHESSE. Oh, I'd rather pay at once.
It saves so much bother. Besides, I hate
not having my bag.
PRINCESS. One always wants to powder
one's nose when one has n't got it.
DUCHESSE. Bessie, dear, I left it in
Pearl's new tea house. Do run and fetch
it for me.
BESSIE. Certainly.
BLEANE. No, I'll go.
BESSIE. You don't know the way. I can
go through the bushes. It's only twenty
yards. You stop and count out the
counters.               [She goes out.]
FENWICK. There's one lot of forty. Will
you take them, Princess?
PRINCESS. Thank you. Here's a pound.
DUCHESSE. I'll give you my pound as
soon as Bessie brings my bag.


CLAY. How on earth came you to leave
it in the tea house?
DICHESSE. I'm so careless. I'm always
leaving my bag about.
CLAY. Your deal, Fenwick.
FENWICK. Ante up, Princess.
PRINCESS. I beg your pardon.
[She pushes forward a counter.
FENWICK deals. The others take
up their cards.]
FENWICK. A shilling to come in.
FLEMING. I'm coming in.
BLEANE. I always come in.
FENWICK. I ought n't to, but I shall all
the same. Are you going to make good
your ante, Princess?
PRINCESS. 1 may just as well, may n't I?
CLAY. Who bets?
PRINCESS. I'm out of it.
CLAY. I said it was a pair of twos.
FLEMING. I'll bet a shilling.
CLAY. I'll take it and raise your shilling.
FENWICK. I suppose I must risk my
money. What have I got to put down.
Two shillings?
FLEMING. There's your shilling and I'11
raise you two shillings more.
CLAY. No, I've had enough.
FENWICK. I'll take you and raise you
five shillings.
FLEMING. Very well, I'11 raise you five
shillings.
FENWICK. I '11 see you.
[BESSIE comes in. DUCHESSE has
been watching for her. BESSIE is
excessively disturbed.]
DUCHESSE. Ah, there's Bessie.
FENWICK [to FLEMING]. What have you
got?
DUCHESSE. Did you find my bag?
BESSIE [with a gasp]. No, it was n't
there.
DUCHESSE. Oh, but I remember distinctly leaving it there. I'11 go and look for
it myself. Mr. Fenwick, will you come with
me.
BESSIE. No, don't - you can't get into
the tea house.
DUCHESSE. How d' you know the bag
is n't there, then?
PRINCESS [surprised]. Bessie, is anything
the matter?




74


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


BESSIE [in a strained voice]. The door of
the tea house is locked.
DUCHESSE. Oh, it can't be. I saw Pearl
and Tony go in there just now.
[BESSIE suddenly hides her face and
bursts into a flood of tears.]
PRINCESS [starting to her feet]. Minnie,
you devil. What have you been doing?
DUCHESSE. Don't ask what I've been
doing.
PRINCESS. How dare you send the girl!
How cruel! How cruel!
FENWICK. YOU must be mistaken. Pearl
went up to her room.
DUCHESSE. Go and look for her...
[FENwICK is about to start from his
chair. PRINCESS puts her hand
on his shoulder.]
PRINCESS. Where are you going?
DUCHESSE. I saw her.
[For a moment there is a pause.]
CLAY [in an embarrassed way]. Well,
we'd better go on with our game, had n't we?
[The PRINCESS and BLEANE are
bending over BESSIE trying to
get her to control herself.]
FLEMING. That was your money, Mr.
Fenwick.
FENWICK [staring in front of him with
red face and blood-shot eyes. Under his
breath]. The slut! The slut!
[DUCHESSE takes out her bag from
behind the cushion, gets out stick
for her lips and her mirror and
begins to paint them.]
CLAY. You'd better deal, Fleming. The
Princess won't play, I expect.
DUCHESSE. Deal me cards. I want to
play.
CLAY. Bleane, come on. We'd better go
on with our game. [BLEANE comes forward.
FLEMING deals cards. A stormy silence
hangs over the party, broken only by the short
speeches referring to the game; they play to
try and relieve the tension. They are all anxiously awaiting PEARL, afraid she will come,
knowing she must, and dreading the moment; they are nervous and constrained.]
Your ante, Bleane. [BLEANE puts forward
a counter. Cards are dealt in silence.] I'm
coming in.
[FENWICK looks at his cards, puts


forward a couple of counters, but
does not speak. FLEMING puts
forward counters.]
FLEMING. D' you want a card?
BLEANE. Three, please.
CLAY. Two.
FENWICK [with an effort over himself]. I'll
have three.
[FLEMING deals them as they ask.
Just as he has given FLEMING
his, PEARL comes in, followed
by TONY. TONY is smoking a
cigarette.]
PEARL. Oh, have you started already?
FENWICK [violently]. Where have you
been?
PEARL. I? My head was aching a little
and I went for a turn in the garden. I
found Tony composing a sonnet to the
moon.
FENWICK. You said you were going to
your room.
PEARL. What are you talking about?
[She looks around, sees the DUCHESSE'S look of angry triumph
and gives a slight start.]
DUCHESSE. Once too often, my dear,
once too often.
[PEARL takes no notice. She sees
BESSIE. BESSIE has been staring
at her with miserable eyes and
now she hides her face. PEARL
realizes that everything is discovered. She turns coolly to
TONY.]
PEARL. You damned fool, I told you it
was too risky.
CURTAIN
ACT III
The Scene is the same as in the last Act, the
morning-room at Feathers. It is the next day,
Sunday, about three in the afternoon, and the
sun is shining brightly.
[DISCOVERED: The PRINCESS, THORNTON
CLAY, and FLEMING are sitting down;
FLEMING lights another cigarette.]
PRINCESS. IS it good for you to smoke
so many cigarettes?
FLEMING. I should n't think so.




OUR BETTERS


75.


CLAY. He must do something.
PRINCESS. Perhaps you can get up a
game of tennis later on.
FLEMING. It's very hot for tennis.
CLAY. Besides, who will play?
PRINCESS. You two could have a single.
CLAY. If we only had the Sunday papers
it would be something.
PRINCESS. You can hardly expect them
in a place like this. I don't suppose there
are many trains on Sunday.
CLAY. I wonder if dinner is going to be
as cheerful as luncheon was.
FLEMING. Did Pearl send any explanation for not appearing at luncheon?
PRINCESS. I have n't an idea.
CLAY. I asked the butler where she was.
He said she was lunching in bed. I wish
I'd thought of that.
PRINCESS. I'm afraid we were rather
silent.
CLAY. Silent! 1 shall never forget that
luncheon. Minnie subdued - and silent.
Tony sulky - and silent. Bessie frightened - and silent. Blanche embarrassed
- and   silent. Fenwick  furious - and
silent. I tried to be pleasant and chatty.
It was like engaging the pyramids in small
talk. Both of you behaved very badly.
You might have given me a little encouragement.
FLEMING. I was afraid of saying the
wrong thing. The Duchesse and Bessie
looked as if they'd burst into tears on the
smallest provocation.
PRINCESS. I was thinking of Pearl.
What a humiliation! What a horrible
humiliation!
FLEMING. What d' you think she'll do
now?
CLAY. That's what I'm asking myself.
I have an idea that she won't appear again
till we're all gone.
PRINCESS. I hope she won't. She's always so sure of herself, I could n't bear to
see her pale and mortified.
CLAY. She's got plenty of courage.
PRINCESS. I know. She may force herself to face us. It would be a dreadful
ordeal for all of us.
FLEMING. D' you think she's feeling it
very much?




r


PRINCESS. She would n't be human if
she were n't. I don't suppose she slept any
better last night than the rest of us. Poor
thing, she must be a wreck.
FLEMING. It was a terrible scene.
PRINCESS. I shall never forget it. The
things that Minnie said. I could n't have
believed such language could issue from a
woman's throat. Oh, it was horrible.
CLAY. It was startling. I've never seen
a woman so beside herself. And there was
no stopping her.
FLEMING. And with Bessie there.
PRINCESS. She was crying so much, I
doubt if she heard.
CLAY. I was thankful when Minnie had
the hysterics and we were able to fuss over
her and dab her face and slap her hands.
It was a very welcome diversion.
FLEMING. Does she have attacks like
that often?
CLAY. I know she did when the young
man before Tony married an heiress. I
think she has one whenever there's a crisis
in the affairs of her heart.
FLEMING. For goodness sake, Thornton,
don't talk about it as if it were a joke.
CLAY [surprised]. What's the matter,
Fleming?
FLEMING. I think it's abominable to
treat the whole thing so flippantly.
CLAY. Why, I was very sympathetic. I
was n't flippant. Who got the sal volatile?
I got the sal volatile.
FLEMING [with a shrug of the shoulders].
I daresay your nerves are a bit on edge.
You see, before, I only thought things were
rather queer. It's come as, well, as a shock,
to discover exactly what the relations are
between all these people. And what I can't
very easily get over is to realize that I'm
the only member of the party who does n't
take it as a matter of course.
CLAY. We shall never make a man of the
world of you, Fleming.
FLEMING. I'm afraid that did n't sound
very polite, Princess. I beg your pardon.
PRINCESS. I should have few friends if I
demanded the standard that you do. I've
learned not to judge my neighbors.
FLEMING. Is it necessary to condone
their vices?




76


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS




PRINCESS. You don't understand. It's
not entirely their fault. It's the life they
lead. They've got too much money and
too few responsibilities. English women in
our station have duties that are part of
their birthright, but we, strangers in a
strange land, have nothing to do but to
enjoy ourselves.
FLEMING. Well, I thank God, Bleane is
a decent man, and he'll take Bessie out of
all this.
[The DUCHESSE comes in. Unlike the
PRINCESS, who is in a summer frock,
suitable for the country, the DUCHESSE
wears a town dress and a hat.]
PRINCESS. You've been changing your
frock, Minnie.
DUCHESSE. Yes, I'm leaving this house
in half an hour. I'd have gone this morning if I'd been able to get away. I always
thought it is a detestable hole, but now
that I've discovered there are only two
trains on Sunday, one at nine and the
other at half-past four, I have no words to
express my opinion of it.
CLAY. Yet you have an extensive vocabulary, Minnie.
DUCHESSE. I've been just as much a
prisoner as if I'd been shut up with lock
and key. I've been forced to eat that
woman's food. I thought every mouthful
would choke me.
PRINCESS. Do keep calm, Minnie. You
know how bad it is for you to upset yourself.
DUCHESSE. As soon as I found there
was n't a train I sent over to the garage
and said I wanted to be taken to London
at once. Would you believe it, I could n't
get a car.
CLAY. Why not?
DUCHESSE. One of the cars went up to
town early this morning and the other is
being overhauled. There's nothing but a
luggage cart. I could n't go to-London in
a luggage cart. As it is I shall have to go
to the station in it. I shall look ridiculous.
CLAY. Have you ordered it?
DUCHESSE. Yes. It's to be round at the
door in a few minutes.
CLAY. What on earth can Pearl have
sent the car up to London for?




I


DUCHESSE. To show her spite.
PRINCESS. That's not like her.
DUCHESSE. My dear, she's been my
greatest friend for fifteen years. I know
her through and through, and I tell you
that she has n't got a single redeeming
quality. And why does she want to have
the car overhauled to-day? When you're
giving a party the least you can do is to
see that your cars are in running order.
PRINCESS. Oh, well, that was an accident. You can't blame her for that.
DUCHESSE. I only have one thing to be
thankful for, and that is that she has had
the decency to keep to her room. I will be
just. It shows at least that she has some
sense of shame.
PRINCESS. Will you let me have a word
or two with Minnie?
CLAY. Why, of course. Come along,
Fleming.
[CLAY and FLEMING HARVEY go
into the garden.]
DUCHESSE. My dear, if you're going to
ask me to turn the other cheek, don't.
Because I'm not going to. I'm going to
do all I can to revenge myself on that
woman. I'm going to expose her. I'm going to tell everyone how she's treated me.
When I was her guest!
PRINCESS. You must take care what you
say for your own sake, Minnie.
DUCHESSE. I know quite enough about
her to make her position in London impossible. I'm going to ruin her.
PRINCESS. What about Tony?
DUCHESSE. Oh, I've finished with him.
Ah! I'm not the kind of woman to stand
that sort of treatment. I hope he'll end in
the gutter.
PRINCESS. Don't you care for him any
more?
DUCHESSE. My dear, if he was starving
and went down on his bended knees to me
for a piece of bread I would n't give it to
him. He revolts me.
PRINCESS. Well, I'm very glad. It distressed me to see you on those terms with
a boy like that. You're well rid of him.
DUCHESSE. My dear, you need n't tell
me that. He's a thorough wrong 'un and
that's all there is about it. He has n't even




OUR BETTERS


77


had the decency to try and excuse himself.
He has n't even made an attempt to see
me.
PRINCESS. [Gives her a quick look.] After
all, he never really cared for you. Anyone
could see that.
DUCHESSE [her voice breaking]. Oh,
don't say that, Flora! I could n't bear it.
He loved me. Until that woman came between us I know he loved me. He could n't
help loving me. I did everything in the
world for him.     [She bursts into tears.]
PRINCESS. Minnie! My dear, don't give
way. You know what a worthless creature
he is. Have n't you any self-respect?
DUCHESSE. He's the only man I've
ever loved. I could hardly bear him out of
my sight. What shall I do without him?
PRINCESS. Take care, here he is.
[TONY comes in. He is startled at seeing the
DUCHESSE. She turns away and hurriedly dries her tears.]
TONY. Oh, I beg your pardon. I did n't
know anyone was here. I was looking for
some cigarettes.
[He stands there awkwardly, not
knowing whether to go or stay.
The PRINCESS looks at him reflectively. There is a moment's
silence. Then she shrugs her
shoulders and goes out. He looks
at the DUCHESSE who stands
with her back to him. He hesitates a moment, then, almost on
the tips of his toes, walks over to
the cigarettes, fills his case, takes
another look at the DUCHESSE,
and is in the act of tip-toeing out
of the room when she stops him
with her question.]
DUCHESSE. Where are you going?
TONY. Nowhere in particular.
DUCHESSE. Then you'd better stay here.
TONY. I thought you wished to be alone.
DUCHESSE. Is that why you've kept
away from me all day? [He sinks sulkily
into an armchair. The DUCHESSE finally
turns round and faces him.] Have n't you
got anything to say for yourself at all?
TONY. What's the good of talking?
DUCHESSE. You might at least say


you're sorry for the pain you've caused me.
If you'd had any affection for me you
would n't have done all you could to avoid
me.
TONY. I knew you'd only make a scene.
DUCHESSE. Good Heavens, you surely
don't expect me not to make a scene.
TONY. The whole thing's very unfortunate.
DUCHESSE. Ha! Unfortunate. You
break my heart and then you say it's unfortunate.
TONY. I did n't mean that. I meant it
was unfortunate that you caught us out.
D1CHESSE. Oh, hold your stupid tongue.
Every word you say is more unfortunate
than the last.
TONY. It's because 1 knew you'd take
offence at everything I said that I thought
the best thing I could do was to keep out
of the way.
DUCHESSE. You're heartless, heartless.
If you'd had any decent feeling you could
n't have eaten the lunch you did. But
you munched away, munched, munched,
munched, till I could have killed you.
TONY. Well, I was hungry.
DUCHESSE. You ought n't to have been
hungry.
TONY. What are you going to do about
it?
DUCHESSE. About your appetite? Pray
to God your next mouthful chokes you.
TONY. No, about the other.
DUCHESSE. I'm going to leave this house
this afternoon.
TONY. D' you want me to come too?
DUCHESSE. What d' you suppose it matters to me whether you go or stay?
TONY. If you go I shall have to go too.
DUCHESSE. You ought to start soon
then. It's four miles to the station. I shall
be obliged if you will not get in the same
carriage as me.
TONY. I'm not going to walk. They can
run me down in a car.
I)UCHESSE. There's nothing but a luggage cart, and I'm going in that.
TONY. Is n't there room for me?
I)UCHESSE. No.
TONY. When d' you want me to move
out, of my flat?




78


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


DUCHESSE. What has that got to do
with me?
ToNY. You know very well that I can't
pay the rent.
DUCHESSE. That's your lookout.
TONY. I shall go to the colonies.
DUCHESSE. That's the very best thing
you can do. I hope you'll have to break
stones, and dig, and paint -with lead
paint. 1 hope you're miserable.
TONY. Oh, well, it'll have its compensations.
DUCHESSE. Such as -?
TONY. I shall be my own master. I was
about fed up with this, I can tell you.
DUCHESSE. Yes, you can say that now.
TONY. D' you think it was all jam, never
being able to call my soul my own? I was
sick to death of it.
DUCHESSE. You cad!
TONY. Well, you may just as well know
the truth.
DUCHESSE. D' you mean to say you
never cared for me? Not even at the beginning? [He shrugs his shoulders, but does
not answer. She speaks the next phrases in
little gasps, gradually weakening as her emotion overcomes her. He stands before her in
sulky silence.] Tony. I've done everything
in the world for you. I've been like a
mother to you. How can you be so ungrateful. You have n't got any heart. If you
had you'd have asked me to forgive you.
You'd have made some attempt to...
Don't you want me to forgive you?
TONY. What d' you mean by that?
DUCHESSE. If you'd only asked me, if
you'd only shown you were sorry, I'd
have been angry with you, I would n't
have spoken to you for a week, but I'd
have forgiven you, I'd have forgiven you,
Tony. But you never gave me a chance.
It's cruel of you, cruel.
TONY. 1 was a damned fool, I know that.
DUCHESSE. Are you in love with that
woman?
TONY. No.
DUCHESSE. Then why did you? Oh,
Tony, how could you!
TONY. If one felt about things at night
as one does next morning life would be a
dashed sight easier.


DUCHESSE. If I said to you let's let bygones be bygones and start fresh, what
would you say, Tony?
[She looks away. He rests his eyes
on her reflectively.]
TONY. We've made a break now. We'd
better leave it at that. I shall go out to the
colonies.
DUCHESSE. Tony, you don't mean that
seriously. You could never stand it. You
know, you're not strong. You'll only die.
TONY. Oh, well, one can only die once.
DUCHESSE. I'm sorry for all I said just
now, Tony. I did n't mean it.
TONY. It does n't matter.
DUCHESSE. I can't live without you,
Tony.
TONY. I've made up my mind. It's no
good talking.
DUCHESSE. I'm sorry I was horrid to
you, Tony. I'll never be again. Won't
you forget it? Oh, Tony, won't you forgive
me? I'll do anything in the world for you
if only you won't leave me.
TONY. It's a rotten position I'm in. I
must think of the future.
DUCHESSE. Oh, but, Tony, I'll make it
right for you.
TONY. It's very kind of you, but it's
not good enough. Let's part good friends,
Minnie. If I've got to walk to the station
it's about time I was starting.
[He holds out his hand to her.]
DUCHESSE. D' you mean to say it's
good-bye? Good-bye forever? Oh, how can
you be so cruel!
TONY. When one's made up one's mind
to do a thing it's best to do it at once.
DUCHESSE. Oh, I can't bear it! I can't
bear it! [She begins to cry.] Oh, what a fool
I was! I ought to have pretended not to see
anything. I wish I'd never known. Then
you would n't have thought of leaving me.
TONY. Come, my dear, pull yourself together. You'll get over it.
DUCHESSE [desperately]. Tony, if you
want to marry me - I'm willing to marry
you.                       [A pause.]
TONY. I should be just as dependent on
you. D' you think it would be jolly for me
having to come to you for every five pounds
I wanted?




OUR BETTERS


79


-


DUCHESSE. I'll settle something on you
so that you'll be independent. A thousand
a year. Will that do?
TONY. You are a good sort, Minnie.
[He goes over and sits down beside
her.]
DUCHESSE. You will be kind to me,
won't you?
TONY. Rather. And look here, you
need n't give me that two-seater. I shall
be able to drive the Rolls-Royce.
DUCHESSE. We won't stay another minute in this house. Ring the bell, will you?
You'll come with me in the luggage cart?
TONY [touching the bell]. I much prefer
that to walking.
DUCHESSE. It's monstrous that there
should n't be a motor to take luggage to
the station. It's a most uncomfortable
house to stay in.
TONY. Oh, beastly. D' you know that I
did n't have a bathroom attached to my
bedroom?
[POLE comes in.]
DUCHESSE. Is the luggage cart ready,
Pole?
POLE. I'll enquire, your grace.
DUCHESSE. My maid is to follow in the
morning with the luggage. Mr. Paxton
will come with me. [To TONY.] What
about your things?
TONY. Oh, they'll be all right. I brought
my valet with me.
POLE. Her ladyship is just coming downstairs, your grace.
DUCHESSE. Oh, is she? Thank you;
that'll do, Pole.
POLE. Very good, your grace.
[He goes out. As soon as he closes
the door behind him the DUCHESSE springs to her,eet.]
DUCHESSE. I won't see hl-! Tony, see if
Thornton is on the terrace.
TONY. All right. [He goes to the French
window.] Yes, I'll call him, shall I? Clay,
come here a minute, willyou? [He goes out.]
[THORNTON CLAY comes in, followed immediately by the PRINCESS and FLEMING.]
DUCHESSE. Thornton, I'm told Pearl
is coming downstairs.




I


CLAY. At last.
DUCHESSE. I won't see her. Nothing
will induce me to see her.
PRINCESS. My dear, what is to be done?
We can't make her remain upstairs in her
own house.
DUCHESSE. No, but Thornton can speak
to her. She's evidently ashamed of herself.
I only ask one thing, that she should keep
out of the way till I'm gone.
CLAY. I'll do my best.
DUCHESSE. I'm going to walk up and
down till the luggage cart is ready. I
have n't taken my exercise to-day.
[She goes out.]
CLAY. If Pearl is in a temper that's not
a very pleasant message to give her.
PRINCESS. You won't find her in a temper. If she's dreadfully upset tell her what
Minnie says gently.
FLEMING. Here is Bessie. [She comes in.]
It appears that Pearl is just coming downstairs.
BESSIE. Is she?
PRINCESS. Have you seen her this
morning, Bessie?
BESSIE. No. She sent her maid to ask
me to go to her, but I had a headache and
could n't.
[They look at her curiously. She is
inclined to be abrupt and silent.
It may be imagined that she has
made up her mind to some course,
but what that is the others cannot
tell. FLEMING goes over and sits
beside her.]
FLEMING. I'm thinking of going back to
America next Saturday, Bessie.
BESSIE. Dear Fleming, I shall be sorry
to lose you.
FLEMING. I expect you'll be too busy to
think about me. You'll have to see all
kinds of people and then there's your
trousseau to get.
BESSIE. 1 wish you could come over to
Paris with me, Princess, and help me with it.
PRINCESS. 1? [She gets an inkling of what
BESSIE means.]... Of course if I could be
of any help to you, dear child.... [She
takes BESSIE'S hand and gives her a fond
smile. BESSIE turns away to hide a tear
that for a moment obscures her eyes.] Per



80


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


haps it's a very good idea. We must talk
about it.
[PEARL comes in. She is perfectly cool and
collected, radiant in a wonderful, audacious gown; she is looking her best and
knows it. There is nothing in her manner to indicate the smallest recollection of
the episode that took place on the preceding evening.]
PEARL [brightly]. Good-morning.
CLAY. Good-afternoon.
PEARL. I knew everyone would abuse
me for coming down so late. It was such a
lovely day I thought it was a pity to get up.
CLAY. Don't be pardonical, Pearl, it's
too hot.
PEARL. The sun streamed into my room
and I said it's a sin not to get up on a
morning like this. And the more I said I
ought to get up the more delightful I found
it to lie in bed. How is your head, Bessie?
BESSIE. Oh, it's better, thank you.
PEARL. I was sorry to hear you were n't
feeling up to the mark.
BESSIE. I did n't sleep very well.
PEARL. What have you done with your
young man?
BESSIE. Harry? He's writing letters.
PEARL. Spreading the glad tidings, I
suppose. You ought to write to his mother,
Bessie. It would be a graceful attention.
A charming, frank little letter, the sort of
thing one would expect an ingenue to write.
Straight from the heart.
CLAY. I'm sure you'd love to write it
yourself, Pearl.
PEARL. And we must think about sending an announcement to the Morning Post.
FLEMING. You think of everything,
Pearl.
PEARL. I take my duties as Bessie's
chaperon very seriously. I've already got
a brilliant idea for the gown I'm going to
wear at the wedding.
FLEMING. Gee!
PEARL. My dear Fleming, don't say gee,
it's so American; say, by Jove.
FLEMING. 1 could n't without laughing.
PEARL. Laffing. Why can't you say
laughing?
FLEMING. I don't want to.


PEARL. How obstinate you are. Of
course now that Bessie is going to marry
an Englishman she'll have to take lessons.
I know an excellent woman. She's taught
all the American peeresses.
FLEMING. You surprise me.
PEARL. She's got a wonderful method.
She makes you read aloud. And she has
long lists of words that you have to repeat
twenty times a day, half instead of haf, and
barth instead of bath, and carn't instead of
can't.
FLEMING. By Jove instead of gee.
PEARL. Peeresses don't say by Jove,
Fleming. She teaches them to say good
Heavens instead of mercy.
BESSIE. [Gets up. To FLEMING.] D' you
think it's too hot for a turn in the garden?
FLEMING. Why, no.
BESSIE. Shall we go, then?
[They go out together.]
PEARL. What's the matter with Bessie?
She must have swallowed a poker last night.
No wonder she could n't sleep. It's enough
to give anyone indigestion.
CLAY. You know that Minnie is going
away this afternoon, Pearl?
PEARL. Yes, so I heard. It's such a
bore there are no cars to take her to the
station. She'll have to go in the luggage
cart.
CLAY. She does n't wish to see you.
PEARL. Oh, but I wish to see her.
CLAY. 1 daresay.
PEARL. I must see her.
CLAY. She asked me to tell you that she
only wished you to do one thing and that
is to keep out of the way till she's gone.
PEARL. Then you can go and tell her
that unless she sees me she shan't have the
luggage cart.
CLAY. Pearl!
PEARL. That's my ultimatum.
CLAY. Can you see me taking a message
like that to the Duchesse?
PEARL. It's four miles to the station and
there's not a scrap of shade all the way.
CLAY. After all, it's not a very unreasonable request she's making.
PEARL. If she wants the luggage cart
she must come and say good-bye to me
like a lady.




OUR BETTERS




CLAY [to the PRINCESS]. What am I to
do? We used up all the sal volatile last
night.
PRINCESS. I'11 tell her if you like. D' you
really insist on seeing her, Pearl?
PEARL. Yes, it's very important. [The
PRINCESS goes out. PEARL watches her go
with a smile]. I'm afraid Flora is shocked.
Tell me how luncheon went off.
CLAY. My dear, it was like a gathering
of relations who hate one another after the
funeral of a rich aunt who's left all her
money to charity.
PEARL. It must have been priceless. I'd
have given anything to be there.
CLAY. Why were n't you?
PEARL. Oh, I knew there'd be scenes
and I'm never at my best in a scene before
luncheon. One of the things I've learned
from the war is that a general should
choose his own time for a battle.
CLAY. Minnie moved heaven and earth
to get away this morning.
PEARL. I knew she could n't. I knew
none of them could go till the afternoon.
CLAY. The train service is atrocious.
PEARL. George says that is one of the
advantages of the place. It keeps it rural.
There's one at nine and another at halfpast four. I knew that not even the most
violent disturbances would get people up
at eight who never by any chance have
breakfast till ten. As soon as I awoke I
took the necessary steps.
CLAY [interrupting]. You slept?
PEARL. Oh, yes. I slept beautifully.
There's nothing like a little excitement to
give me a good night.
CLAY. Well, you certainly had some
excitement. I've rarely witnessed such a
terrific scene.
PEARL. I sent out to the garage and gave
instructions that the old Rolls-Royce was
to be taken down at once, and the other
was to go to London.
CLAY. What for?
PEARL. Never mind. You'll know presently. Then I did a little telephoning.
CLAY. Why were you so anxious to prevent anybody from leaving the house?
PEARL. I could n't have persuaded myself that my party was a success if half my




7


guests had left me on Sunday morning. I
thought they might change their minds by
the afternoon.
CLAY. If that's your only reason I don't
think it's a very good one.
PEARL. It is n't. I will be frank with
you, Thornton. I can imagine that a very
amusing story might be made out of this
episode. I never mind scandal, but I don't
expose myself to ridicule if I can help it.CLAY. My dear Pearl, surely you can
trust the discretion of your guests. Who
do you think will give it away?
PEARL. You.
CLAY. I? My dear Pearl, I give you my
word of honour...
PEARL [calmly]. My dear Thornton, I
don't care twopence about your word of
honour. You're a professional entertainer
and you'll sacrifice everything to a good
story. Why, don't you remember that
killing story about your father's death?
You dined out a whole season on it.
CLAY. Well, it was a perfectly killing
story. No one would have enjoyed it more
than my poor old father.
PEARL. I'm not going to risk anything,
Thornton. I think it's much better there
should be no story to tell.
CLAY. No one can move the clock backwards, Pearl. I could n't help thinking at
luncheon that there were the elements of a
very good story indeed.
PEARL. And you'll tell it, Thornton.
Then I shall say: my dear, does it sound
probable? They all stayed quite happily
till Monday morning; Sturrey and the
Arlingtons dined on the Sunday night, and
we had a very merry evening; besides, I was
lunching with Minnie only two days afterwards. And I shall say, poor Thornton,
he is such a liar, is n't he?
CLAY. I confess that if you are reconciled with Minnie it will take a great deal
of the point away from my story. What
about Arthur Fenwick?
PEARL. He's a sensualist, and the sensual are always sentimental.
CLAY. He scared me dreadfully at luncheon. He was eating a dressed crab, and his
face grew every minute more purple. I
was expecting him to have an apoplectic fit.




CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


PEARL. It's not an unpleasant death,
you know, Thornton, to have a stroke
while you're eating your favourite dish.
CLAY. You know, there are no excuses
for you, Pearl.
PEARL. Human nature excuses so much,
Thornton.
CLAY. YOU really might have left Tony
alone. This habit you have of snitching
has got you into trouble before.
PEARL. People are so selfish. It just
happens that I find no man so desirable as
one that a friend of mine is in love with.
I make allowances for the idiosyncracies of
my friends. Why should n't they make
allowances for mine? [The DUCHESSE
comes in, erect and haughty, with the air of
Boadicea facing the Roman legions. PEARL
turns to her with an ingratiating smile.] Ah,
Minnie.
DUCHESSE. I'm told the only way I can
leave this house is by submitting to the
odious necessity of seeing you.
PEARL. I wish you would n't go, Minnie.
Lord Sturrey is coming over to dinner tonight and so are the Arlingtons. I always
take a lot of trouble to get the right people
together and I hate it when anybody fails
me at the last minute.
DUCHESSE. D' you think anything
would have induced me to stay so long if
there'd been any possibility of getting
away?
PEARL. It would n't have been nice to
go without saying good-bye to me.
DUCHESSE. Don't talk nonsense, Pearl.
PEARL. D' you know that you behaved
very badly last night, and 1 ought to be
extremely angry with you.
DUCHESSE. I? Thornton, the woman's
as mad as a hatter.
PEARL. You really oughtn't to have
made a scene before Harry Bleane. And,
you know, to tell Arthur was n't playing
the game. If you wanted to tell anyone,
why did n't you tell George?
DUCHESSE. In the first place he was n't
there. He never is.
PEARL. I know. He says that now society has taken to coming down to the country for week-ends he prefers London.
DUCHESSE. I'll never forgive you. Nev

er! Never! Never! You'd got Arthur Fenwick. Why weren't you satisfied with
him? If you wanted to have an affair with
anyone, why did n't you take Thornton?
He's almost the only one of your friends
with whom you have n't. The omission is
becoming almost marked.
PEARL. Thornton never makes love to
me except when other people are looking.
He can be very passionate in the front seat
of my box at the opera.
CLAY. This conversation is growing excessively personal. 1'11 leave you.
[He goes out.]
PEARL. I'm sorry I had to insist on
your seeing me, but I had something quite
important to say to you.
DUCHESSE. Before you go any further,
Pearl, I wish to tell you that I'm going to
marry Tony.
PEARL [aghast]. Oh, my dear, you're not
doing it to spite me? You know, honestly,
he does n't interest me in the slightest.
Oh, Minnie, do think carefully.
DUCHESSE. It's the only way I can keep
him.
PEARL. D' you think you'll be happy?
DUCHESSE. What should you care if I'm
happy?
PEARL. Of course I care. D' you think
it's wise? You're giving yourself into his
hands. Oh, my dear, how can you risk it?
DUCHESSE. He said he was going out
to the colonies. I love him.... I believe
you're really distressed. How strange you
are, Pearl! Perhaps it's the best thing for
me. He may settle down. I was very lonely
sometimes, you know. Sometimes, when I
had the blues, I almost wished I'd never
left home.
PEARL. And I've been moving heaven
and earth to get him a job. I've been on
the telephone this morning to all the cabinet ministers I know, and at last I've
done it. That's what I wanted to tell you.
I thought you'd be so pleased. I suppose
he won't want it.
DUCHESSE. Oh, I'm sure he will. He's
very proud, you know. That's one of the
things I liked in him. He had to be dependent on me, and that's one of the
reasons why he always wanted to marry me.




OUR BETTERS


83


PEARL. Of course you'll keep your title.
DUCHESSE. Oh, yes, I shall do that.
PEARL [going towards her as if to kiss her].
Well, darling, you have my very, very best
wishes.
DUCHESSE [drawing back]. I'm not going
to forgive you, Pearl.
PEARL. But you've forgiven Tony.
DUCHESSE. I don't blame him. He was
led away.
PEARL. Come, Minnie, don't be spiteful.
You might let bygones be bygones.
DUCHESSE. Nothing will induce me to
stay in this house another night.
PEARL. It's a very slow train, and
you'll have to go without your tea.
DUCHESSE. I don't care.
PEARL. You won't arrive in London till
half-past eight and you'll have to dine in
a restaurant.
DUCHESSE. I don't care.
PEARL. You'll be grubby and hot. Tony
will be hungry and out of temper. And
you'll look your age.
DUCHESSE. You promised me the luggage cart.
PEARL [with a sigh]. You shall have it;
but you'll have to sit on the floor because
it has n't got any seats.
DUCHESSE. Pearl, it's not going to
break down on the way to the station!
PEARL. Oh, no, how can you suspect me
of playing a trick like that on you?..
[With a tinge of regret.] It never occurred
to me.
[THORNTON CLAY comes in.]
CLAY. Pearl, I thought you'd like to
know that Fenwick is coming to say goodbye to you.
DUCHESSE. I'll go and tell Tony about
the job you've got him. By the way, what
is it?
PEARL. Oh, it's something in the Educational Office.
DUCHESSE. How very nice. What do
they do there?
PEARL. Nothing. But it'll keep him
busy from ten to four. [The DUCHESSE goes
out.] She's going to marry him.
CLAY. I know.
PEARL. I'm a wonderful matchmaker.


First Bessie and Harry Bleane, and now
Minnie and Tony Paxton. I shall have to
find someone for you, Thornton.
CLAY. How on earth did you manage to
appease her?
PEARL. I reasoned with her. After all,
she should be glad the boy has sown his
wild oats before he marries, and besides, if
he were her husband, of course she would
n't expect fidelity from him; it seems unnatural to expect it when he is n't.
CLAY. But she's going all the same.
PEARL. I've got a quarter of an hour
yet. Give me your handkerchief a minute,
will you?
CLAY [handing it to her]. You're not going to burst into tears?
PEARL. [She rubs her cheeks violently.] I
thought I ought to look a little wan and
pale when Arthur comes in.
CLAY. You'll never love me, Pearl. You
tell me all your secrets.
PEARL. Shall I tell you what to do about
it? Take the advice I give to Americans
who come over to London and want to
see the Tower; say you've been and don't
go.
CLAY. D' you think you can bring Arthur around?
PEARL. I'm sure I could if he loved me.
CLAY. My dear, he dotes on you.
PEARL. Don't be a fool, Thornton. He
loves his love for me. That's quite a different thing. I've only got one chance. He
sees himself as the man of iron. I'm going
to play the dear little thing racket.
CLAY. You're a most unscrupulous woman, Pearl.
PEARL. No more than most. Please go.
I think he ought to find me alone.
[CLAY goes out. PEARL seats herself in a pensive attitude and
looks down reflectively at the carpet; in her hand she holds dejectedly an open volume of poetry.
Presently ARTHUR FENWICK
comes in. She pretends not to see
him. He is a strong man, battered but not beaten, struggling
with the emotion which he tries
to master.]
FENWICK. Pearl.




84


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


-


PEARL [with a jump]. Oh, you startled
me. I did n't hear you come in.
FENWICK. I daresay you're surprised to
see me. I thought it was necessary that we
should have a short conversation before I
left this house.
PEARL [looking away]. I'm glad to see
you once more.
FENWICK. You understand that everything is over between us.
PEARL. If you've made up your mind,
there's nothing for me to say. I know that
nothing can move you when you've once
done that.
FENWICK [drawing himself up a little].
No. That has always been part of my power.
PEARL. 1 would n't have you otherwise.
FENWICK. I don't want to part from
you in anger, Pearl. Last night I could
have thrashed you within an inch of your
life.
PEARL. Why did n't you? D' you think
I'd have minded that from the man I
loved?
FENWICK. You know I could never hit
a woman.
PEARL. I thought of you all through the
long hours of the night, Arthur.
FENWICK. 1 never slept a wink.
PEARL. One would never think it. You
must be made of iron.
FENWICK. I think 1 am sometimes.
PEARL. Am I very pale?
FENWICK. A little.
PEARL. I feel a perfect wreck.
FENWICK. You must go and lie down.
It's no good making yourself ill.
PEARL. Oh, don't bother about me,
Arthur.
FENWICK. I've bothered about you so
long. It's difficult for me to get out of the
habit all at once.
PEARL. Every word you say stabs me to
the heart.
FENWICK. I'll get done quickly with
what I had to tell you and then go. Of
course I shall continue the allowance I've
always made you.
PEARL. Oh, I couldn't take it! I
could n't take it!
FENWICK. YOU must be reasonable,
Pearl. This is a matter of business,


i.


PEARL. It's a question I refuse to discuss. Nothing would have induced me to
accept your help if I had n't loved you.
Now that there can be nothing more between us - no, no, the thought outrages
me.
FENWICK. I was afraid that you'd take
up that attitude. Remember that you've
only got eight thousand a year of your own.
You can't live on that.
PEARL. I can starve.
FENWICK. I must insist, Pearl, for my
own sake. You've adopted a style of living
which you would never have done if you
had n't had me at the back of you. I'm
morally responsible, and 1 must meet my
obligations.
PEARL. We can only be friends in future,
Arthur.
FENWICK. I have n't often asked you to
do anything for me, Pearl.
PEARL. I shall return your presents.
Let me give you my pearl necklace at once.
FENWICK. Girlie, you would n't do that!
PEARL. [She pretends to try and take the
necklace off.] I can't undo the clasp.
Please help me.
[She goes up to him and turns her
back so that he may get at it.]
FENWICK. I won't! I won't!
PEARL. I'll tear it off my neck!
FENWICK. Pearl, you break my heart.
Do you care for me so little that you can't
bear to wear the trifling presents I gave
you?
PEARL. If you talk to me like that I shall
cry. Don't you see that I'm trying to keep
my self-control?
FENWICK. This is dreadful. This is even
more painful than 1 anticipated.
'PEARL. You see, strength is easy to
you. I'm weak. That's whyI put myself in
your hands. I felt your power instinctively.
FENWICK. I know, I know, and it was
because I felt you needed me that I loved
you. I wanted to shelter you from the
storms and buffets of the world.
PEARL. Why did n't you save me from
myself, Arthur?
FENWICK. When I look at your poor
pale little face I wonder what you'll do
without me, girlie.




OUR BETTERS                                85
PEARL [her voice breaking]. It'll be very  FENWICK. You'll be terribly lonely,
hard. I've grown so used to depending on  girlie.
you. Whenever anything has gone wrong    PEARL. You will think of me sometimes,
I've come to you and you've put it right.  Arthur, won't you?
I was beginning to think there was nothing  FENWICK. I shall never forget you,
you could n't do.                      girlie. I shall never forget how you used to
FENWICK. I've always welcomed ob-    leave your fine house in Mayfair and come
stacles. 1 like something to surmount. It  and lunch with me downtown.
excites me.                              PEARL. You used to give me such dePEARL. You seemed to take all my     licious things to eat.
strength from me. I felt strangely weak  FENWICK. It was a treat to see you in
beside you.                            your beautiful clothes sharing a steak with
FENWICK. It was n't necessary that we  me and a bottle of beer. I can order a
should both be strong. I loved you be-  steak, Pearl, can't I?
cause you were weak. 1 liked you to come  PEARL. And d' you remember those deto me in all your troubles. It made me feel  licious little onions that we used to have?
so good to be able to put everything right  [She seems to taste them.] M... m... m...
for you.                              it makes my mouth water to think of
PEARL. You've always been able to do  them.
the impossible.                          FENWICK. There are very few women
FENWICK [impressively]. I have never  who enjoy food as much as you do, Pearl.
found anything impossible.               PEARL. D' you know, next time you
PEARL [deeply moved]. Except to forgive.  dined with me, I'd made up my mind
FENWICK. Ah, I see you know me. I    to give you an entirely English dinner.
never forget, I never forgive.         Scotch broth, herrings, mixed grill, saddle
PEARL. I suppose that's why people   of lamb, and then enormous marrow bones.
feel there's something strangely Napoleonic   [FENWICK can hardly bear the
about you.                                      thought, his face grows red, his
FENWICK. Maybe, and yet- though               eyes bulge and he gasps.]
you're only a woman you've broken me,    FE:WICK. Oh, girlie [with utter abandonPearl, you've broken me.               ment].. Let's have that dinner. [He seizes
PEARL. Oh, no, don't say that. I could  her in his arms and kisses her.] I can't leave
n't bear that. 1 want you to go on being  you. You need me too much.
strong and ruthless.                     PEARL. Arthur, Arthur, can you forgive
FENWICK. Something has gone out of   me?
my life forever. I almost think you've   FENWICK. To err is human, to forgive
broken my heart! I was so proud of you.  divine.
I took so much pleasure in your success.  PEARL. Oh, how like you that is.
Why, whenever I saw your name in the     FEsNWICK. If you must deceive me don't
society columns of the papers it used to  let me ever find out. I love you too much.
give me a thrill of satisfaction. What's go-  PEARL. I won't, Arthur. I promise you
ing to become of you now, girlie, what's  I won't.
going to become of you now?              FENWICK. Come and sit on the sofa and
PEARL. I don't know. I don't care.  let me look at you. I seem to see you for
FENWICK. This fellow, does he care for  the first time.
you? Will he make you happy?             PEARL. You know you would n't have
PEARL. Tony? He's going to marry the  liked the walk to the station. It's four
Duchesse. [FENWICK represses a start.] I  miles in the sun. You're a vain old thing
shall never see him again.             and your boots are always a little too
FENWICK. Then if I leave you you'll  small for you. [BESSIE comes in. She stops
have nobody but your husband.          as she sees PEARL Z-di —FTNWICK sitting
PEARL. Nobody.                       hand in hand.] Are you going out, Bessie?




86


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


BESSIE. As soon as Harry has finished
his letters we're going for a walk.
PEARL [to FENWICK]. You must n't
squeeze my hand in Bessie's presence,
Arthur.
FENWICK. You're a very lucky girl,
Bessie, to have a sister like Pearl. She's
the most wonderful woman in the world.
PEARL. You're talking nonsense, Arthur.
Go and put some flannels on. It makes me
quite hot to look at you in that suit. We'll
try and get up a little tennis after tea.
FENWICK. Now you must n't tire yourself, Pearl. Remember those white cheeks
of yours.
PEARL [with a charming look at him]. Oh,
I shall soon get my colour back now. [She,     - gihes him her hand to kiss and he goes out.:]?EARL takes a little mirror out of her bag and
looks at herself reflectively.] Men are very
trivial, foolish creatures. They have kind
- hearts. But their heads. Oh, dear, oh,
dear, it's lamentable. They have a mechanical intelligence. And they're so vain,
poor dears, they're so vain.
BESSIE. Pearl, to-morrow when we go
back to London I'm going away.
PEARL. Are you? Where?
BESSIE. The Princess is going to take
me over to Paris for a few days.
PEARL. Oh, is that all? Don't stay away
too long. You ought to be in London just
at present.
BESSIE. On my return I'm proposing to
stay with the Princess.
PEARL [calmly]. Nonsense.
BESSIE. I was n't asking your permission, Pearl. I was telling you my plans.
PEARL [looks at her for a moment reflectively]. Are you going to make me a scene,
too? I've already gone through two this
afternoon. I'm rather tired of them.
BESSIE. Please don't be alarmed. I've
got nothing more to say.
[She makes as though to leave the
room.]
PEARL. Don't be a little fool, Bessie.
You've been staying with me all the season.
I can't allow you to leave my house and go
to live with Flora. We don't want to go
out of our way to make people gossip.
BESSIE. Please don't argue with me,


Pearl. It's not my business to reproach
you for anything you do. But it is n't my
business either to stand by and watch you.
PEARL. You're no longer a child, Bessie.
BESSIE. I've been blind and foolish.
Because I was happy and having a good
time I never stopped to ask for explanations of this, that, and the other. I never
thought... The life was gay and brilliant
- it never struck me that underneath it all
- oh, Pearl; don't make me say what I
have in my heart, but let me go quietly.
PEARL. Bessie, dear, you must be reasonable. Think what people would say if you
suddenly left my house. They'd ask all
sorts of questions and Heaven knows what
explanations they'd invent. People are n't
charitable, you know. I don't want to be
hard on you, but I can't afford to let you
do a thing like that.
BESSIE. Now that I know what I do I
should never respect myself again if I
stayed.
PEARL. I don't know how you can be so
unkind.
BESSIE. I don't want to be that, Pearl.
But it's stronger than I am. I must go.
PEARL [with emotion]. I'm so fond of
you, Beszie. You don't know how much I
want you with me. After all I've seen so
little of you these last few years. It's been
such a comfort to me to have you. You
were so pretty and young and sweet, it was
like a ray of April sunshine in the house.
BESSIE. I'm afraid you think women are
as trivial, foolish creatures as men, Pearl.
[PEARL looks up and sees that
BESSIE is not in the least taken
in by the pathetic attitude.]
PEARL [icily]. Take care you don't go
too far, Bessie.
BESSIE. There's no need for us to quarrel. I've made up my mind and there is
the end of it.
PEARL. Flora's a fool. I shall tell her
that I won't have her take you away from
me. You'll stay with me until you're married.
BESSIE. D' you want me to tell you that
I can hardly bear to speak to you? You
fill me with shame and disgust. I want
never to see you again.




OUR BETTERS


PEARL. Really you drive me beyond
endurance. I think I must be the most
patient woman in the world to put up with
all I've had to put up with to-day. After all,
what have I done? I was a little silly and
incautious. By the fuss you all make one
would think no one had ever been incautious and silly before. Besides, it has n't
got anything to do with you. Why don't
you mind your own business?
BESSIE [bitterly]. You talk as though
your relations with Arthur Fenwick were
perfectly natural.
PEARL. Good Heavens, you're not going
to pretend you did n't know about Arthur!
After all, I'm no worse than anybody else.
Why, one of the reasons we Americans like
London is that we can live our own lives
and people accept things philosophically.
Eleo Gloster, Sadie Twickenham, Maimie
Hartlepool - you don't imagine they're
faithful to their husbands? They did n't
marry them for that.
BESSIE. Oh, Pearl, how can you? How
can you? Have n't you any sense of decency at all? When I came in just now and
saw you sitting on the sofa with that gross,
vulgar, sensual old man - oh! [She makes
a gesture of disgust.] You can't love him.
I could have understood if -but -oh,
it's so disgraceful, it's so hideous. What
can you see in him? He's nothing but
rich - [She pauses and her face changes as
a thought comes to her, and coming horrifies
her.] It's not because he's rich? Pearl!
Oh!
PEARL. Really, Bessie, you're very silly
and I'm tired of talking to you.
BESSIE. Pearl, it's not that? Answer
me.
PEARL [roughly]. Mind your own business.
BESSIE. He was right, then, last night,
when he called you that. He was so right
that you did n't even notice it. A few hours
later you're sitting hand in hand with him.
A slut. That's what he called you. A slut!
A slut!
PEARL. How dare you! Hold your
tongue! How dare you!
BESSIE. A kept woman. That's what
you are.


PEARL [recovering herself]. I'm a fool to
lose my temper with you.
BESSIE. Why should you? I'm saying
nothing but the truth.
PEARL. You're a silly little person,
Bessie. If Arthur helps me a little that's
his affair and mine. He's got more money
than he knows what to do with, and it
amuses him to see me spend it. I could
have twenty thousand a year from him if
I chose.
BESSIE. Have n't you got money of your
own?
PEARL. You know exactly what I've
got. Eight thousand a year. D' you think
I could have got the position I have on
that? You're not under the impression all
the world comes to my house because of
my charms, are you? I'm not. You don't
think the English want us here? You don't
think they like us marrying their men?
Good Heavens, when you've known England as long as I have you'll realize that in
their hearts they still look upon us as savages and Red Indians. We have to force
ourselves upon them. They come to me
because I amuse them. Very early in my
career I discovered that the English can
never resist getting something for nothing.
If a dancer is the rage they'll see her at my
house. If a fiddler is in vogue they'll hear
him at my concert. I give fashion. I've
got power. I've got influence. But everything I've got, my success, my reputation,
my notoriety, I've bought it, bought it,
bought it!
BESSIE. How humiliating.
PEARL. And finally I've bought you a
husband.
BESSIE. That's not true. He loves me.
PEARL. DO you think he would have
loved you if I had n't shown you to him in
these surroundings, if I had n't dazzled
him by the brilliant people among whom he
found you? You don't know what love is
made of. D' you think it's nothing that he
should hear a Prime Minister pay you
compliments? Of course I bought him.
BESSIE [aghast]. It's horrible!
PEARL. You know the truth now. It'll
be very useful to you in your married life.
Run away and take your little walk with




88


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


Harry Bleane. I'm going to arrange my
face.                   [She goes out.]
4..BESSIE is left ashamed and stunned.
BLEANE comes in.]
BLEANE. I'm afraid I've kept you waiting. I'm so sorry.
BESSIE [dully]. It does n't matter at all.
BLEANE. Where shall we go? You know
the way about these parts and I don't.
BESSIE. Harry, I want you to release
me. I can't marry you.
BLEANE [aghast]. Why?
BESSIE. I want to go back to America.
I'm frightened.
BLEANE. Of me?
BESSIE. Oh, no. 1 know that you're a
dear, good creature. I'm frightened of
what I may become.
BLEANE. But I love you, Bessie.
BESSIE. Then that's the more reason
for me to go. I must tell you frankly, I'm
not in love with you, I only like you. I
would never have dreamt of marrying you
if you had n't been who you are. I wanted
to have a title. That's why Pearl married
her husband and that's why the Duchesse
married. Let me go, Harry.
BLEANE. I knew you did n't love me,
but I thought you might come to in time. I
thought if I tried I could make you love me.
BESSIE. You did n't know that I was
nothing but a self-seeking, heartless snob.
BLEANE. I don't care what you say of
yourself, 1 know that you can be nothing
but what is true and charming.
BESSIE. After what you've seen last
night? After what you know of this house?
Are n't you disgusted with all of us?
BLEANE. You can't think I could class
you with the Duchesse and - [He stops.]
BESSIE. Pearl at my age was no different
from what I am. It's the life.
BLEANE. But perhaps you won't want
to lead it. The set you've been living in
here is n't the only set in England. It
makes a stir because it's in the public. Its
doings are announced in the papers. But
it is n't a very good set, and there are
plenty of people who don't very much
admire it.
BESSIE. You must let me try and-say


what I have in my heart. And be patient
with me. You think I can make myself at
home in your life. I've had a hint of it,
and now and then I've had a glimpse of it
through Pearl's laughter and the Duchesse's sneers. It's a life of dignity, of responsibilities and of public duty.
BLEANE [with a rueful smile]. You make
it very strenuous.
BESSIE. It comes naturally to the English girls of your class. They've known it
all their lives and they've been brought up
to lead it. But we have n't. To us it's just
tedious, and its dignity is irksome. We're
bored and we fall back on the only thing
that offers- pleasure. You've spoken to
me about your house. It means everything
to you because it's associated with your
childhood and all your people before you.
It could only mean something to me if I
loved you. And I don't.
BLEANE. You've made me so wretched,
I don't know what to say to you.
BESSIE. If I make you wretched now,
it's so that we may both be saved a great
deal of unhappiness later on. I'm glad I
don't care for you, for it would make it so
much harder for me to go. And I've got to
go. I can't marry you. I want to go home.
If I ever marry I want to marry in my own
country. That is my place.
BLEANE. Don't you think you could
wait a little before you decide finally?
BESSIE. Don't put difficulties in my way.
Don't you see that we're not strong enough
for the life over here? It goes to our head;
we lose our bearings; we put away our own
code and we can't adopt the code of the
country we come to. We drift. There's
nothing for us to do but to amuse ourselves
and we fall to pieces. But in America we're
safe. And perhaps America wants us.
When we come over here we're like soldiers
deserting their country in time of war.
Oh, I'm homesick for America! I did n't
know how much it meant to me till now.
Let me go back, Harry.
BLEANE. If you don't want to marry me,
of course I'm not going to try and make
you.
BESSIE. Don't be angry, and be my
friend always.




OUR BETTERS


89


BLEANE. Always.
BESSIE. After all, three months ago you
did n't know me. In three months more
you will have forgotten me. Then marry
some English girl who can live your life
and share your thoughts. And be happy.
[PEARL comes in. She has rouged her cheeks
and has once more the healthy colour
which is usual with her. She is evidently
jubilant.]
PEARL. The car has just come back from
London. [Goes to French window and calls.]
Minnie.
BESSIE. I shall tell Pearl to-morrow.
BLEANE. I won't post my letters then.
I'll go and get them out of the box.
BESSIE. Forgive me.     [He goes out.]
[DUCHESSE and CLAY appear at the window.]
DUCHESSE. Did you call me?
PEARL. The car has just come back from
London so it can take you to the station.
DUCHESSE. That's a mercy. I didn't
at all like the idea of going to the station
in the luggage cart. Where is Flora? I
must say good-bye to her.
PEARL. Oh, there's plenty of time now.
The car will run down in ten minutes.
[TONY comes in, then the PRINCESS and
FLEMING.]
DUCHESSE. Tony, the car has returned
and is going to take us to the station.
TONY. Thank God for that. I should
have looked a perfect fool in that luggage
cart.
CLAY. But what on earth did you send
the car to London for, anyway?
PEARL. In one minute you'll see.
[FENWICK comes in. He has changed into
flannels.]
FENWICK. Who is that gentleman that's
just arrived, Pearl?
PEARL. The man of mystery.
[POLE comes in followed by ERNEST, and
after announcing him goes out.]
POLE. Mr. Ernest.
DUCHESSE. Ernest!
CLAY. Ernest?
[He is a little dark man with large
eyes and long hair neatly plas

tered down. He has the look of a
hairdresser. He is dressed like a
tailor's dummy, in black coat,
white gloves, silk hat, patent
leather boots. He is a dancing
master and overwhelmingly gentlemanly. He speaks in mincing
tones.]
ERNEST. Dear Lady Grayston.
PEARL [shaking hands with him]. I'm so
glad you were able to come. [To the others.]
You were talking about Ernest last night
and I thought we would have nothing to
do this evening and he would cheer and
comfort us. I sent the car up to London
with orders to bring him back dead or
alive.
ERNEST. My dear Lady Grayston, I'm
sure I'll get into no end of trouble. I had
all sorts of calls to pay this afternoon and
I was dining out, and I'd promised to go
to a little hop that the dear Duchess of
Gloster was giving. But I felt I could n't
refuse you. You've always been such a
good friend to me, dear Lady Grayston.
You must excuse me coming in my town
clothes, but your chauffeur said there
was n't a moment to lose, so I came just as
1 am.
PEARL. But you look a perfect picture.
ERNEST. Oh, don't say that, dear Lady
Grayston. I know this is n't the sort of
thing one ought to wear in the country.
PEARL. You remember the Duchesse de
Surennes.
ERNEST. Oh, of course I remember the
Duchesse.
DUCHESSE. Dear Ernest.
ERNEST. Dear Duchesse.
DUCHESSE. I thought ] was n't going to
see you again, Ernest.
ERNEST. Oh, don't say that. It sounds
too sad.
PEARL. It's such a pity you must go,
Minnie. Ernest would have shown you all
sorts of new steps.
ERNEST. Oh, dear Duchesse, you're not
going the very moment I come down! This
is unkind of you.
DUCHESSE [with an effort]. I must go. I
must go.
ERNEST. Have you been practising that




9o


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


little step I showed you the other day?
My dear friend the Marchioness of Twickenham - not the old one, you know, the
new one - is beginning to do so well.
DUCHESSE [struggling with herself]. Have
we time, Pearl? I should like Ernest to
dance just one tango with me.
PEARL. Of course there's time. Thornton, set the gramophone.
[THORNTON at once starts it and
notes of the tango tinkle out.]
DUCHESSE. You don't mind, Ernest, do
you?
ERNEST. I love to dance with you,
Duchesse.   [They take up their positions.]
DUCHESSE. Just one moment. It always
makes me so nervous to dance with you,
Ernest.
ERNEST. Oh, now, don't be silly, dear
Duchesse. [They begin to dance.] Now hold
your shoulders like a lady. Arch your back,
my dear, arch your back. Don't look like
a sack of potatoes. If you put your foot
there, I shall kick it.
DUCHESSE [plaintively]. Ernest!
ERNEST. Now don't cry. I'm saying all
this for your good, you know. What's
wrong with you is that you've got no
passion.
DUCHESSE. Oh, Ernest, how can you say
such a thing! I've always looked upon myself as a very passionate woman.
ERNEST. I don't know anything about
that, dear Duchesse, but you don't get
it into your dancing. That's what I said
the other day to the dear Marchioness
of Twickenham - not the new one, you
know, the old one; you must put passion
into it, I said. That's what the tango
wants, passion, passion.


DUCHESSE. I see exactly what you mean,
Ernest.
ERNEST. And you must dance with your
eyes as well, you know. You must look as
if you had a knife in your garter and as if
you'd kill me if I looked at another woman.
Don't you see how I'm looking? I'm looking as though I meant, Curse her, how I
love her! There!
[Music stops and they separate.]
DUCHESSS. I have improved, Ernest,
have n't I?
ERNEST. Yes, you've improved, dear
Duchesse, but you want more practice.
PEARL. Minnie, why on earth don't you
stay and Ernest will give you a real lesson
this evening?
ERNEST. That's whaU they want, Duchesse.  [DUCHESSE wrestles with her soul.]
DUCHESSE. Tony, d' you think we can
stop?
TONY. I did n't want to go 'way. It's
rotten going up to town this evening.
What on earth are we going to do with ourselves when we get there?
DUCHESSE. Very well, Pearl. If it'll
please you, we'll stop.
PEARL. That is nice of you, Minnie.
DUCHESSE. You're very naughty sometimes, Pearl, but you have a good heart,
and I can't help being fond of you.
PEARL [with outstretched arms]. Minnie!
DUCHESSE. Pearl!
[They clasp one another and affectionately embrace.]
ERNEST. What an exquisite spectacle,
two ladies of title kissing one another.
BESSIE [to FLEMING]. They're not worth
making a fuss about. I'm sailing for
America next Saturday.




ABRAHAM LINCOLN
A PLAY
BY JOHN DRINKWATER




COPYRIGHT, igrg, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
DRAMATIC RIGHTS IN THE UNITED STATES CONTROLLED BY
WILLIAM HARRIS, JR.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Reprinted by Permission of and special arrangement with John
Drinkwater and Sidgwick and Jackson, Ltd., London




TO
THE LORD CHARNWOOD




NOTE
IN using for purposes of drama a personality of so wide and recent a fame as that of
Abraham Lincoln, I feel that one or two observations are due to my readers and critics.
First, my purpose is that not of the historian but of the dramatist. The historical
presentation of my hero has been faithfully made in many volumes; notably, in England,
by Lord Charnwood in a monograph that gives a masterly analysis of Lincoln's career
and character and is, it seems to me, a model of what the historian's work should be.
To this book I am gratefully indebted for the material of my play. But while I have,
I hope, done nothing to traverse history, I have freely telescoped its events, and imposed
invention upon its movement, in such ways as I needed to shape the dramatic significance
of my subject. I should add that the fictitious Burnet Hook is admitted to the historical
company of Lincoln's Cabinet for the purpose of embodying certain forces that were
antagonistic to the President. This was a dramatic necessity, and I chose rather to invent
a character for the purpose than to invest any single known personage with sinister
qualities about which there might be dispute.
Secondly, my purpose is, again, that of the dramatist, not that of the political philosopher. The issue of secession was a very intricate one, upon which high and generous
opinions may be in conflict, but that I may happen to have or lack personal sympathy
with Lincoln's policy and judgment in this matter is nothing. My concern is with the
profoundly dramatic interest of his character, and with the inspiring example of a man
who handled war nobly and with imagination.
Finally, I am an Englishman, and not a citizen of the great country that gave Lincoln
birth. I have, therefore, written as an Englishman, making no attempt to achieve a
"local colour" of which I have no experience, or to speak in an idiom to which I have
not been bred. To have done otherwise, as I am sure any American friends that this play
may have the good fortune to make will allow, would have been to treat a great subject
with levity.
J. D.
Far Oakridge,
July-August, 1918




CHARACTERS
FIRST AND SECOND CHRONICLER
SCENE I
MR. STONE, a farmer
MR. CUFFNEY, a store-keeper
SUSAN, a servant-maid
MRS. LINCOLNABRAHAM LINCOLN
WILLIAM TUCKER, a merchant
HENRY HIND, an attorney
ELIAS PRICE, a lay preacher
JAMES MACINTOSH, editor of a Republican journal
SCENE II
WILLIAM H. SEWARD, Secretary of State
JOHNSON WHITE l representing Commissioners
CALEB JENNINGS of the Confederate States
HAWKINS, a clerk
LINCOLN
JOHN HAY, a Secretary
SECOND CLERK
A MESSENGER
THIRD CLERK
SALMON P. CHASE, Secretary of the Treasury
MONTGOMERY BLAIR, Postmaster-General
SIMON CAMERON
CALEB SMITH
BURNETT HOOK   Cabinet Members
BURNETT HOOK
GIDEON WELLES
SCENE III
MRS. LINCOLN
SUSAN
MRS. GOLIATH BLOW
MRS. OTHERLY
LINCOLN
MR. WILLIAM CUSTIS




96


CHARACTERS


SCENE IV
WILLIAM H. SEWAPD
EDWIN M. STANTON
MONTGOMERY BLAIR
GIDEON WELLES
BURNETT HOOK
SALMON P. CHASE
A CLERK
LINCOLN
HAY
SCENE V
GENERAL GRANT
CAPTAIN MALINS
DENNIS, an orderly
A SECOND ORDERLY
LINCOLN
HAY
A YOUNG OFFICER
WILLIAM SCOTT
GUARDS
GENERAL MEADE
CAPTAIN SONE
GENERAL ROBERT E. LEE
SCENE VI
LINCOLN
STANTON
MRS. LINCOLN
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN
OFFICERS
JOHN WILKES BOOTH
SUSAN
A DOCTOR




ABRAHAM LINCOLN


Two CHRONICLERS [the two speaking together]. Kinsmen, you shall behold
Our stage, in mimic action, mould
A man's character.
This is the wonder, always, everywhere 
Not that vast mutability which is event,
The pits and pinnacles of change,
But man's desire and valiance that range
All circumstance, and come to port unspent.
Agents are these events, these ecstasies,
And tribulations, to prove the purities
Or poor oblivions that are our being. When
Beauty and peace possess us, they are none
But as they touch the beauty and peace of
men,
Nor, when our days are done,
And the last utterance of doom must fall,
Is the doom anything
Memorable for its apparelling;
The bearing of man facing it is all.
So, kinsmen, we present
This for no loud event
That is but fugitive,
But that you may behold
Our mimic action mould
The spirit of man immortally to live.
FIRST CHRONICLER. Once when a peril
touched the days
Of freedom in our English ways,
And none renowned in government
Was equal found,
Came to the steadfast heart of one,
Who watched in lonely Huntingdon,
A summons, and he went,
And tyranny was bound,
And Cromwell was the lord of his event.
SECOND CHRONICLER. And in that land
where voyaging
The pilgrim Mayflower came to rest,
Among the chosen, counselling,
Once, when bewilderment possessed


A people, none there was might draw
To fold the wandering thoughts of men,
And make as one the names again
Of liberty and law.
And then, from fifty fameless years
In quiet Illinois was sent
A word that still the Atlantic hears,
And Lincoln was the lord of his event.
[The two speaking together.] So the uncounted spirit wakes
To the birth
Of uncounted circumstance.
And time in a generation makes
Portents majestic a little story of earth
To be remembered by chance
At a fireside.
But the ardours that they bear,
The proud and invincible motions of character 
These - these abide.
SCENE I. The parlour of ABRAHAM LINCOLN'S House at Springfield, Illinois, early
in 1860. MR. STONE, a farmer, and MR.
CUFFNEY, a store-keeper, both men of between fifty and sixty, are sitting before an
early spring fire. It is dusk, but the curtains
are not drawn. The men are smoking
silently.
MR. STONE [after a pause]. Abraham.
It's a good name for a man to bear anyway.
MR. CUFFNEY. Yes. That's right.
MR. STONE [after another pause]. Abraham Lincoln. I've known him forty years.
Never crooked once. Well.
[He taps his pipe reflectively on the
grate. There is another pause.]
[SUSAN, a servant-maid, comes in, and busies
herself lighting candles and drawing the
curtains to.]
SUSAN. Mrs. Lincoln has just come in.
She says she'll be here directly.
MR. CUFFNEY. -Thank you.




98


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


MR. STONE. Mr. Lincoln is n't home yet,
I dare say?
SUSAN. No, Mr. Stone. He won't be
long, with all the gentlemen coming.
MR. STONE. How would you like your
master to be President of the United States,
Susan?
SUSAN. I'm sure he'd do it very nicely,
sir.
MR. CUFFNEY. He would have to leave
Springfield, Susan, and go to live in Washington.
SUSAN. I dare say we should take to
Washington very well, sir.
MR. CUFFNEY. Ah! I'm glad to hear
that.
SUSAN. Mrs. Lincoln's rather particular
about the tobacco smoke.
MR. STONE. To be sure, yes, thank you,
Susan.
SUSAN. The master does n't smoke, you
know. And Mrs. Lincoln's specially particular about this room.
MR. CUFFNEY. Quite so. That's very
considerate of you, Susan.
[They knock out their pipes.]
SUSAN. Though some people might not
hold with a gentleman not doing as he's a
mind in his own house, as you might say.
[She goes out.]
MR. CUFFNEY [after a further pause, stroking his pipe]. I suppose there's no doubt
about the message they'll bring?
MR. STONE. No, that's settled right
enough. It'll be an invitation. That's as
sure as John Brown's dead.
MR. CUFFNEY. I could never make
Abraham out rightly about old John. One
could n't stomach slaving more than the
other, yet Abraham did n't hold with the
old chap standing up against it with the
sword. Bad philosophy, or something, he
called it. Talked about fanatics who do
nothing but get themselves at a rope's end.
MR. STONE. Abraham's all for the Constitution. He wants the Constitution to
be an honest master. There's nothing he
wants like that, and he'll stand for that,
firm as a Samson of the spirit, if he goes to
Washington. He'd give his life to persuade
the state against slaving, but until it is
persuaded and makes its laws against it,


he'll have nothing to do with violence in
the name of laws that are n't made. That's
why old John's raiding affair stuck in his
gullet.
MR. CUFFNEY. He was a brave man,
going like that, with a few zealous like himself, and a handful of niggers, to free
thousands.
MR. STONE. He was. And those were
brave words when they took him out to
hang him. "I think, my friends, you are
guilty of a great wrong against God and
humanity. You may dispose of me very
easily. I am nearly disposed of now. But
this question is still to be settled- this
negro question, I mean. The end of that is
not yet." I was there that day. Stonewall
Jackson was there. He turned away. There
was a colonel there giving orders. When it
was over, "So perish all foes of the human
race," he called out. But only those that
were afraid of losing their slaves believed
it.
MR. CUFFNEY [after a pause]. It was a
bad thing to hang a man like that....
There's a song that they've made about
him.                  [He sings quietly.]
John Brown's body lies a mould'ring in the
grave,
But his soul goes marching on....
MR. STONE. I know.
[The two together (singing quietly).] The
stars of heaven are looking kindly
down
On the grave of old John Brown....
[After a moment MRS. LINCOLN comes in.
The men rise.]
MRS. LINCOLN. Good-evening, Mr.
Stone. Good-evening, Mr. Cuffney.
MR. STONE and MR. CUFFNEY. Goodevening, ma'am.
MRS. LINCOLN. Sit down, if you please.
[They all sit.]
MR. STONE. This is a great evening for
you, ma'am.
MRS. LINCOLN. It is.
MR. CUFFNEY. What time do you expect the deputation, ma'am?
MRS. LINCOLN. They should be here at
seven o'clock. [With an inquisitive nose.]
Surely, Abraham has n't been smoking.




ABRAHAM LINCOLN


99


MR. STONE [rising]. Shall I open the
window, ma'am? It gets close of an evening.
MRS. LINCOLN. Naturally, in March.
You may leave the window, Samuel Stone.
We do not smoke in the parlour.
MR. STONE [resuming his seat]. By no
means, ma'am.
MRS. LINCOLN. I shall be obliged to
you.
MR. CUFFNEY. Has Abraham decided
what he will say to the invitation?
MRS. LINCOLN. He will accept it.
MR. STONE. A very right decision, if I
may say so.
MRS. LINCOLN. It is.
MR. CUFFNEY. And you, ma'am, have
advised him that way, I'll be bound.
MRS. LINCOLN. You said this was a great
evening for me. It is, and I'll say more
than I mostly do, because it is. I'm likely
to go into history now with a great man.
For I know better than any how great he
is. I'm plain looking and I've a sharp
tongue, and I've a mind that does n't always go in his easy, high way. And that's
what history will see, and it will laugh a
little, and say, "Poor Abraham Lincoln."
That's all right, but it's not all. I've always known when he should go forward,
and when he should hold back. I've
watched, and watched, and what I've
learnt America will profit by. There are
women like that, lots of them. But I'm
lucky. My work's going farther than Illinois - it's going farther than any of us
can tell. I made things easy for him to
think and think when we were poor, and
now his thinking has brought him to this.
They wanted to make him Governor of
Oregon, and he would have gone and have
come to nothing there. I stopped him.
Now they're coming to ask him to be
President, and I've told him to go.
MR. STONE. If you please, ma'am, I
should like to apologise for smoking in here.
MRS. LINCOLN. That's no matter,
Samuel Stone. Only, don't do it again.
MR. CUFFNEY. It's a great place for a
man to fill. Do you know how Seward
takes Abraham's nomination by the Republicans?


MRS. LINCOLN. Seward is ambitious.
He expected the nomination. Abraham
will know how to use him.
MR. STONE. The split among the Democrats makes the election of the Republican
choice a certainty, I suppose?
MRS. LINCOLN. Abraham says so.
MR. CUFFNEY. You know, it's hard to
believe. When I think of the times I've
sat in this room of an evening, and seen
your husband come in, ma'am, with his
battered hat nigh falling off the back of his
head, and stuffed with papers that won't
go into his pockets, and god-darning some
rascal who'd done him about an assignment or a trespass, I can't think he's going
up there into the eyes of the world.
MRS. LINCOLN. I've tried for years to
make him buy a new hat.
MR. CUFFNEY. I have a very large selection just in from New York. Perhaps
Abraham might allow me to offer him one
for his departure.
MRS. LINCOLN. He might. But he'll
wear the old one.
MR. STONE. Slavery and the South.
They're big things he'll have to deal with.
"The end of that is not yet." That's what
old John Brown said, "'the end of that is
not yet."
[ABRAHAM LINCOLN comes in, a greenish
and crumpled top hat leaving his forehead well uncovered, his wide pockets
brimming over with documents. He is
fifty, and he still preserves his cleanshaven state. He kisses his wife and
shakes hands with his friends.]
LINCOLN. Well, Mary. How d'ye do,
Samuel. How d' ye do, Timothy.
MR. STONE and MR. CUFFNEY. Goodevening, Abraham.
LINCOLN [while he takes off his hat and
shakes out sundry papers from the lining into
a drawer]. John Brown, did you say? Aye,
John Brown. But that's not the way it's
to be done. And you can't do the right
thing the wrong way. That's as bad as the
wrong thing, if you're going to keep the
state together.
MR. CUFFNEY. Well, we'll be going. We
only came in to give you good-faring, so to




100


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


say, in the great word you've got to speak
this evening.
MR. STONE. It makes a humble body
almost afraid of himself, Abraham, to
know his friend is to be one of the great
ones of the earth, with his yes and no
law for these many, many thousands of
folk.
LINCOLN. It makes a man humble to be
chosen so, Samuel. So humble that no man
but would say "No" to such bidding if
he dare. To be President of this people,
and trouble gathering everywhere in men's
hearts. That's a searching thing. Bitterness, and scorn, and wrestling often with
men I shall despise, and perhaps nothing
truly done at the end. But I must go. Yes.
Thank you, Samuel; thank you, Timothy.
Just a glass of that cordial, Mary, before
they leave. [He goes to a cupboard.] May
the devil smudge that girl! [Calling at the
door.] Susan! Susan Deddington! Where's
that darnation cordial?
MRS. LINCOLN. It's all right, Abraham.
I told the girl to keep it out. The cupboard's choked with papers.
SUSAN [coming in with bottle and glasses].
I'm sure I'm sorry. I was told -
LINCOLN. All right, all right, Susan. Get
along with you.
SUSAN. Thank you, sir.   [She goes.]
LINCOLN [pouring out drink]. Poor hospitality for whiskey-drinking rascals like
yourselves. But the thought's good.
MR. STONE. Don't mention it, Abraham.
MR. CUFFNEY. We wish you well, Abraham. Our compliments, ma'am. And God
bless Americal Samuel, I give you the
United States, and Abraham Lincoln.
[MR. CUFFNEY and MR. STONE
drink.]
MRS. LINCOLN. Thank you.
LINCOLN. Samuel, Timothy- I drink
to the hope of honest friends. Mary, to
friendship. I'll need that always, for I've
a queer, anxious heart. And, God bless
America!  [He and MRS. LINCOLN drink.]
MR. STONE. Well, good-night, Abraham.
Good-night, ma'am.
MR. CUFFNEY. Good-night, good-night.
MRS. LINCOLN. Good-night, Mr. Stone.
Good-night, Mr. Cuffney.


LINCOLN. Good-night, Samuel. Goodnight, Timothy. And thank you for coming.
[MR. STONE and MR. CUFFNEY
go out.]
MRS. LINCOLN. You'd better see them
in here.
LINCOLN. Good. Five minutes to seven.
You're sure about it, Mary?
MRS. LINCOLN. Yes. Are n't you?
LINCOLN. We mean to set bounds to
slavery. The South will resist. They may
try to break away from the Union. That
cannot be allowed. If the Union is set aside
America will crumble. The saving of it may
mean blood.
MRS. LINCOLN. Who is to shape it all if
you don't?
LINCOLN. There's nobody. I know it.
MRS. LINCOLN. Then go.
LINCOLN. Go.
MRS. LINCOLN [after a moment]. This hat
is a disgrace to you, Abraham. You pay
no heed to what I say, and you think it
does n't matter. A man like you ought to
think a little about gentility.
LINCOLN. To be sure. I forget.
MRS. LINCOLN. You don't. You just
don't heed. Samuel Stone's been smoking
in here.
LINCOLN. He's a careless, poor fellow.
MRS. LINCOLN. He is, and a fine example
you set him. You don't care whether he
makes my parlour smell poison or not.
LINCOLN. Of course I do -
MRS. LINCOLN. You don't. Your head is
too stuffed with things to think about my
ways. I've got neighbours if you haven't.
LINCOLN. Well, now, your neighbours
are mine, I suppose.
MRS. LINCOLN. Then why won't you
consider appearances a little?
LINCOLN. Certainly. I must.
MRS. LINCOLN. Will you get a new hat?
LINCOLN. Yes, I must see about it.
MRS. LINCOLN. When?
LINCOLN. In a day or two. Before long.
MRS. LINCOLN. Abraham, I've got a
better temper than anybody will ever
guess.
LINCOLN. You have, my dear. And you
need it, I confess.  [SUSAN comes in.]
SUSAN. The gentlemen have come.




ABRAHAM LINCOLN


101


MRS. LINCOLN. I'11 come to them.
SUSAN. Does the master want a handkerchief, ma'am? He didn't take one this
morning.
LINCOLN. It's no matter now, Susan.
SUSAN. If you please, I've brought you
one, sir.  [She gives it to him, and goes.]
MRS. LINCOLN. I'll send them     in.
Abraham, I believe in you.
LINCOLN. I know, I know.
[MRS. LINCOLN goes out. LINCOLN
moves to a map of the United
States that is hanging on the wall,
and stands silently looking at it.
After a few moments SUSAN
comes to the door.]
SUSAN. This way, please.
[She shows in WILLIAM TUCKER,
a florid, prosperous merchant;
HENRY HIND, an alert little attorney; ELIAS PRICE, a lean lay
preacher; and JAMES MACINTOSH, the editor of a Republican
journal. SUSAN goes.]
TUCKER. Mr. Lincoln. Tucker my
name is- William Tucker. [He presents
his companions.] Mr. Henry Hind- follows your profession, Mr. Lincoln. Leader
of the bar in Ohio. Mr. Elias Price, of
Pennsylvania. You've heard him preach,
maybe. James Macintosh you know. I
come from Chicago.
LINCOLN. Gentlemen, at your service.
How d' ye do, James. Will you be seated?
[They sit round the table.]
TUCKER. I have the honour to be chairman of this delegation. We are sent from
Chicago by the Republican Convention,
to enquire whether you will accept their
invitation to become the Republican candidate for the office of President of the
United States.
PRICE. The Convention is aware, Mr. Lincoln, that under the circumstances, seeing
that the Democrats have split, this is more
than an invitation to candidature. Their
nominee is almost certain to be elected.
LINCOLN. Gentlemen, I am known to
one of you only. Do you know my many
disqualifications for this work?
HIND. It's only fair to say that they have
been discussed freely.


LINCOLN. There are some, shall we say
graces, that I lack. Washington does not
altogether neglect these.
TUCKER. They have been spoken of.
But these are days, Mr. Lincoln, if I may
say so, too difficult, too dangerous, for
these to weigh at the expense of other
qualities that you were considered to
possess.
LINCOLN. Seward and Hook have both
had great experience.
MACINTOSH. Hook had no strong support. For Seward, there are doubts as to
his discretion.
LINCOLN. Do not be under any misunderstanding, I beg you. I aim at moderation so far as it is honest. But I am
a very stubborn man, gentlemen. If the
South insists upon the extension of slavery,
and claims the right to secede, as you know
it very well may do, and the decision lies
with me, it will mean resistance, inexorable,
with blood if needs be. I would have everybody's mind clear as to that.
PRICE. It will be for you to decide, and
we believe you to be an upright man, Mr
Lincoln.
LINCOLN. Seward and Hook would be
difficult to carry as subordinates.
TUCKER. But they will have to be carried so, and there's none likelier for the job
than you.
LINCOLN. Will your Republican Press
stand by me for a principle, James, whatever comes?
MACINTOSH. There's no other man we
would follow so readily.
LINCOLN. If you send me, the South will
have little but derision for your choice.
HIND. We believe that you'll last out
their laughter.
LINCOLN. I can take any man's ridicule
- I'm trained to it by a... somewhat
odd figure that it pleased God to give me,
if I may so far be pleasant with you. But
this slavery business will be long, and deep,
and bitter. I know it. If you do me this
honour, gentlemen, you must look to me
for no compromise in this matter. If abolition comes in due time by constitutional
means, good. I want it. But, while we will
not force abolition, we will give slavery no




102


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


I


approval, and we will not allow it to extend its boundaries by one yard. The determination is in my blood. When 1 was a
boy I made a trip to New Orleans, and there
I saw them, chained, beaten, kicked as a
man would be ashamed to kick a thieving
dog. And I saw a young girl driven up and
down the room that the bidders might
satisfy themselves. And I said then, "If
ever I get a chance to hit that thing, I'll
hit it hard."              [A pause.]
You have no conditions to make?
TUCKER. None.
LINCOLN [rising]. Mrs. Lincoln and I
would wish you to take supper with us.
TUCKER. That's very kind, I'm sure.
And your answer, Mr. Lincoln?
LINCOLN. When you came, you did not
know me, Mr. Tucker. You may have
something to say now not for my ears.
TUCKER. Nothing in the world, I assure -
LINCOLN. I will prepare Mrs. Lincoln.
You will excuse me for no more than a
minute.                  [He goes out.]
TUCKER. Well, we might have chosen a
handsomer article, but I doubt whether we
could have chosen a better.
HIND. He would make a great judge -
if you were n't prosecuting.
PRICE. I'd tell most people, but I'd ask
that man.
TUCKER. He has n't given us yes or no
yet. Why should he leave us like that, as
though plain was n't plain?
HIND. Perhaps he wanted a thought by
himself first.
MACINTOSH. It was n't that. But he was
right. Abraham Lincoln sees deeper into
men's hearts than most. He knows this day
will be a memory to us all our lives. Under
his eye, which of you could have given play
to any untoward thought that had started
in you against him since you came into this
room? But, leaving you, he knew you
could test yourselves to your own ease,
and speak the more confident for it, and, if
you found yourselves clean of doubt, carry
it all the happier in your minds after. Is
there a doubt among us?
TUCKER.
HIND.    No, none.
PRICE.


MACINTOSH. Then, Mr. Tucker, ask
him again when he comes back.
TUCKER. I will.
[They sit in silence for a moment.]
[LINCOLN comes in again, back to his place
at the table.]
LINCOLN. I would n't have you think it
graceless of me to be slow in my answer.
But once given, it's for the deep good or
the deep ill of all this country. In the face
of that a man may well ask himself twenty
times, when he's twenty times sure. You
make no qualification, any one among you?
TUCKER. None. The invitation is as I
put it when we sat down. And I would add
that we are, all of us, proud to bear it to a
man as to whom we feel there is none so
fitted to receive it.
LINCOLN. I thank you. I accept. [He
rises, the others with him. He goes to the door
and calls.] Susan.
[There is silence. SUSAN comes in.]
SUSAN. Yes, Mr. Lincoln.
LINCOLN. Take these gentlemen to Mrs.
Lincoln. I will follow at once.
[The four men go with SUSAN.
LINCOLN stands silently for a
moment. He goes again to the
map and looks at it. He then
turns to the table again, and
kneels beside it, possessed and
deliberate, burying his face in his
hands.]
THE CURTAIN FALLS
THE Two CHRONICLERS. Lonely is the
man who understands.
Lonely is vision that leads a man away
From the pasture-lands,
From the furrows of corn and the brown
loads of hay,
To the mountain-side.
To the high places where contemplation
brings
All his adventurings
Among the sowers and the tillers on the wide
Valleys to one fused experience,
That shall control
The courses of his soul,
And give his hand
Courage and continence.




ABRAHAM LINCOLN


I03


-


THE FIRST CHRONICLER. Shall a man
understand,
He shall know bitterness because his kind,
Being perplexed of mind,
Hold issues even that are nothing mated.
And he shall give
Counsel out of his wisdom that none shall
hear;
And steadfast in vain persuasion must he
live,
And unabated
Shall his temptation be.
SECOND CHRONICLER. Coveting the little, the instant gain,
The brief security,
And easy-tongued renown,
Many will mock the vision that his brain
Builds to a far, unmeasured monument,
And many bid his resolutions down
To the wages of content.
FIRST CHRONICLER. A year goes by.
[The two together.] Here contemplate
A heart, undaunted to possess
Itself among the glooms of fate,
In vision and in loneliness.
SCENE II. Ten months later. Seward's
room at Washington. WILLIAM H. SEWARD,
Secretary of State, is seated at his table with
JOHNSON WHITE and CALEB JENNINGS,
representing the Commissioners of the Confederate States.
WHITE. It's the common feeling in the
South, Mr. Seward, that you're the one
man at Washington to see this thing with
large imagination. I say this with no disrespect to the President.
SEWARD. I appreciate your kindness,
Mr. White. But the Union is the Union -
you can't get over that. We are faced with
a plain fact. Seven of the Southern States
have already declared for secession. The
President feels - and I may say that I and
my colleagues are with him -that to
break up the country like that means the
decline of America.
JENNINGS. But everything might be
done by compromise, Mr. Seward. Withdraw your garrison from Fort Sumter,
Beauregard will be instructed to take no
further action, South Carolina will be satis-.


fled with the recognition of her authority,
and, as likely as not, be willing to give the
lead to the other states in reconsidering
secession.
SEWARD. It is certainly a very attractive
and, I conceive, a humane proposal.
WHITE. By furthering it you might be
the saviour of the country from civil war,
Mr. Seward.
SEWARD. The President dwelt on his
resolution to hold Fort Sumter in his inaugural address. It will be difficult to persuade him to go back on that. He's firm in
his decisions.
WHITE. There are people who would
call him stubborn. Surely if it were put to
him tactfully that so simple a course might
avert incalculable disaster, no man would
nurse his dignity to the point of not yielding. I speak plainly, but it's a time for
plain speaking. Mr. Lincoln is doubtless a
man of remarkable qualities: on the two
occasions when I have spoken to him I
have not been unimpressed. That is so,
Mr. Jennings?
JENNINGS. Certainly.
WHITE. But what does, his experience of
great affairs of state amount to beside
yours, Mr. Seward? He must know how
much he depends on certain members of
his Cabinet, I might say upon a certain
member, for advice.
SEWARD. We have to move warily.
JENNINGS. Naturally. A man is sensitive, doubtless, in his first taste of office.
SEWARD. My support of the President
is, of course, unquestionable.
WHITE. Oh, entirely. But how can
your support be more valuable than in
lending him your unequalled understanding?
SEWARD. The whole thing is coloured in
his mind by the question of slavery.
JENNINGS. Disabuse his mind. Slavery
is nothing. Persuade him to withdraw
from Fort Sumter, and slavery can be settled round a table. You know there's a
considerable support even for abolition in
the South itself. If the trade has to be allowed in some districts, what is that compared to the disaster of civil war?
WHITE. We do not believe that the




Io4


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


Southern States wish with any enthusiasm
to secede. They merely wish to establish
their right to do so. Acknowledge that by
evacuating Fort Sumter, and nothing will
come of it but a perfectly proper concession to an independence of spirit that is
not disloyal to the Union at heart.
SEWARD. You understand, of course,
that I can say nothing officially.
JENNINGS. These are nothing but informal suggestions.
SEWARD. But I may tell you that I am
not unsympathetic.
WHITE. We were sure that that would
be so.
SEWARD. And my word is not without
influence.
JENNINGS. It can be used to bring you
very great credit, Mr. Seward.
SEWARD. In the mean time, you will say
nothing of this interview, beyond making
your reports, which should be confidential.
WHITE. You may rely upon us.
SEWARD [rising with the others]. Then I
will bid you good-morning.
WHITE. We are profoundly sensible of
the magnanimous temper in which we are
convinced you will conduct this grave
business. Good-morning, Mr. Seward.
JENNINGS. And I 
[There is a knock at the door.]
SEWARD. Yes - come in.
[A CLERK comes in.]
CLERK. The President is coming up the
stairs, sir.
SEWARD. Thank you. [THE CLERK goes.]
This is unfortunate. Say nothing, and go
at once.
[LINCOLN comes in, now whiskered and
bearded.]
LINCOLN. Good-morning, Mr. Seward.
Good-morning, gentlemen.
SEWARD. Good-morning, Mr. President.
And I am obliged to you for calling, gentlemen. Good-morning.
[He moves towards the door.]
LINCOLN.  Perhaps these  gentlemen
could spare me ten minutes.
WHITE. It might not -
LINCOLN. Say five minutes.


JENNINGS. Perhaps you would -
LINCOLN. I am anxious always for any
opportunity to exchange views with our
friends of the South. Much enlightenment
may be gained in five minutes. Be seated,
I beg you - if Mr. Seward will allow us.
SEWARD. By all means. Shall I leave
you?
LINCOLN. Leave us - but why? I may
want your support, Mr. Secretary, if we
should not wholly agree. Be seated, gentlemen. [SEWARD places a chair for LINCOLN, and they sit at the table.] You have
messages for us?
WHITE. Well, no, we can't say that.
LINCOLN. No messages? Perhaps I am
inquisitive?
SEWARD. These gentlemen are anxious
to sound any moderating influences.
LINCOLN. I trust they bring moderating
influences with them. You will find me a
ready listener, gentlemen.
JENNINGS. It's a delicate matter, Mr.
Lincoln. Ours is just an informal visit.
LINCOLN. Quite, quite. But we shall
lose nothing by knowing each other's
minds.
WHITE. Shall we tell the President
what we came to say, Mr. Seward?
LINCOLN. I shall be grateful. If I should
fail to understand, Mr. Seward, no doubt,
will enlighten me.
JENNINGS. We thought it hardly worth
while to trouble you at so early a stage.
LINCOLN. So early a stage of what?
JENNINGS. 1 mean -
SEWARD. These gentlemen, in a common
anxiety for peace, were merely seeking the
best channel through which suggestions
could be made.
LINCOLN. To whom?
SEWARD. To the government.
LINCOLN. The head of the government
is here.
WHITE. ButLINCOLN. Come, gentlemen. What is
it?
JENNINGS. It's this matter of Fort
Sumter, Mr. President. If you withdraw
your garrison from Fort Sumter it won't
be looked upon as weakness in you. It
will merely be looked upon as a concession




ABRAHAM LINCOLN


Io5




to a natural privilege. We believe that the
South at heart does not want secession. It
wants to establish the right to decide for
itself.
LINCOLN. The South wants the stamp
of national approval upon slavery. It
can't have it.
WHITE. Surely that's not the point.
There's no law in the South against slavery.
LINCOLN. Laws come from opinion, Mr.
White. The South knows it.
JENNINGS. Mr. President, if I may say
so, you don't quite understand.
LINCOLN. Does Mr. Seward understand?
WHITE. We believe so.
LINCOLN. You are wrong. He does n't
understand, because you did n't mean him
to. I don't blame you. You think you are
acting for the best. You think you've got
an honest case. But I'll put your case for
you, and I'll put it naked. Many people in
this country want abolition; many don't.
I'll say nothing for the moment as to the
rights and wrongs of it. But every man,
whether he wants it or not, knows it may
come. Why does the South propose secession? Because it knows abolition may
come, and it wants to avoid it. It wants
more: it wants the right to extend the slave
foundation. We've all been to blame for
slavery, but we in the North have been
willing to mend our ways. You have not.
So you'll secede, and make your own laws.
But you were n't prepared for resistance;
you don't want resistance. And you hope
that if you can tide over the first crisis and
make us give way, opinion will prevent us
from opposing you with force again, and
you'll be able to get your own way about
the slave business by threats. That's your
case. You did n't say so to Mr. Seward,
but it is. Now, I'll give you my answer.
Gentlemen, it's no good hiding this thing
in a corner. It's got to be settled. I said
the other day that Fort Sumter would be
held as long as we could hold it. I said it
because I know exactly what it means.
Why are you investing it? Say, if you like,
it's to establish your right of secession
with no purpose of exercising it. Why do
you want to establish that right? Because




I


now we will allow no extension of slavery,
and because some day we may abolish it.
You can't deny it; there's no other answer.
JENNINGS. I see how it is. You may
force freedom as much as you like, but we
are to beware how we force slavery.
LINCOLN. It couldn't be put better,
Mr. Jennings. That's what the Union
means. It is a Union that stands for common right. That is its foundation - that
is why it is for every honest man to preserve it. Be clear about this issue. If there
is war, it will not be on the slave question.
If the South is loyal to the Union, it can
fight slave legislation by constitutional
means, and win its way if it can. If it
claims the right to secede. then to preserve
this country from disruption, to maintain
that right to which every state pledged
itself when the Union was won for us by
our fathers, war may be the only way. We
won't break up the Union, and you shan't.
In your hands, and not in mine, is the
momentous issue of civil war. You can
have no conflict without yourselves being
the aggressors. I am loath to close. We
are not enemies, but friends. We must not
be enemies. Though passion may have
strained, do not allow it to break our bonds
of affection. That is our answer. Tell
them that. Will you tell them that?
WHITE. You are determined?
LINCOLN. I beg you to tell them.
JENNINGS. It shall be as you wish.
LINCOLN. Implore them to order Beauregard's return. You can telegraph it now,
from here. Will you do that?
WHITE. If you wish it.
LINCOLN. Earnestly. Mr. Seward, will
you please place a clerk at their service.
Ask for an answer.
[SEWARD rings a bell. A CLERK
comes in.]
SEWARD. Give these gentlemen a private wire. Place yourself at their disposal.
CLERK. Yes, sir.
[WHITE and JENNINGS go out with
the CLERK. For a moment LINCOLN and SEWARD are silent,
LINCOLN pacing the room, SEWARD standing at;he table.]
LINCOLN. Seward, this won't do.




Io6


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


SEWARD. YOU don't suspect -
LINCOLN. I do not. But let us be plain.
No man can say how wisely, but Providence has brought me to the leadership of
this country, with a task before me g"eater
than that which rested on Washington
himself. When I made my Cabinet, you
were the first man I chose. I do not regret
it. 1 think I never shall. But remember,
faith earns faith. What is it? Why did n't
those men come to see me?
SEWARD. They thought my word might
bear more weight with you than theirs.
LINCOLN. Your word for what?
SEWARD. Discretion about Fort Sumter.
LINCOLN. Discretion?
SEWARD. It's devastating, this thought
of war.
LINCOLN. It is. Do you think I'm less
sensible of that than you? War should be
impossible. But you can only make it impossible by destroying its causes. Don't
you see that to withdraw from Fort Sumter is to do nothing of the kind? If one half
of this country claims the right to disown
the Union, the claim in the eyes of every
true guardian among us must be a cause
for war, unless we hold the Union to be a
false thing instead of the public consent to
decent principles of life that it is. If we
withdraw from Fort Sumter, we do nothing
to destroy that cause. We can only destroy
it by convincing them that secession is a
betrayal of their trust. Please God we
may do so.
SEWARD. Has there, perhaps, been some
timidity in making all this clear to the
country?
LINCOLN. Timidity? And you were talking of discretion.
SEWARD. I mean that perhaps our policy
has not been sufficiently defined.
LINCOLN. And have you not concurred
in all our decisions? Do not deceive yourself. You urge me to discretion in one
breath and tax me with timidity in the
next. While there was hope that they
might call Beauregard back out of their
own good sense, I was determined to say
nothing to inflame them. Do you call that
timidity? Now their intention is clear, and
you've heard me speak this morning clearly


also. And now you talk about discretion -
you, who call what was discretion at the
right time, timidity, now counsel timidity
at the wrong time, and call it discretion.
Seward, you may think I'm simple, but I
can see your mind working as plainly as
you might see the innards of a clock. You
can bring great gifts to this government,
with your zeal, and your administrative
experience, and your love of men. Don't
spoil it by thinking I've got a dull brain.
SEWARD [slowly]. Yes, I see. I've not
been thinking quite clearly about it all.
LINCOLN [taking a paper from his pocket].
Here's the paper you sent me. "Some
Thoughts for the President's Consideration. Great Britain... Russia... Mexico... policy. Either the President must
control this himself, or devolve it on some
member of his Cabinet. It is not in my
especial province, but I neither seek to
evade nor assume responsibility;"
[There is a pause, the two men looking at each other without speaking. LINCOLN hands the paper to
SEWARD, who holds it for a moment, tears it up, and throws it
into his basket.]
SEWARD. I beg your pardon.
LINCOLN [taking his hand]. That's brave
of you.
[JOHN HAY, a Secretary, comes in.]
HAY. There's a messenger from Major
Anderson, sir. He's ridden straight from
Fort Sumter.
LINCOLN. Take him to my room. No,
bring him here.            [HAY goes.]
SEWARD. What does it mean?
LINCOLN. I don't like the sound of it.
[He rings a bell. A CLERK comes in.] Are
there any gentlemen of the Cabinet in the
house?
CLERK. Mr. Chase and Mr. Blair, I believe, sir.
LINCOLN. My compliments to them,
and will they be prepared to see me here at
once if necessary. Send the same message
to any other ministers you can find.
CLERK. Yes, sir.           [He goes.]
LINCOLN. We may have to decide now
-now. [HAY shows in a perspiring and




ABRAHAM LINCOLN


io7


dust-covered MESSENGER, and retires.] From
Major Anderson?
THE MESSENGER. Yes, sir. Word of
mouth, sir.
LINCOLN. Your credentials?
THE MESSENGER [giving LINCOLN a
paper]. Here, sir.
LINCOLN [glancing at it]. Well?
THE MESSENGER. Major Anderson presents his duty to the government. He can
hold the Fort three days more without
provisions and reinforcements.
[LINCOLN rings the bell, and waits
until a third CLERK comes in.]
LINCOLN. See if Mr. White and Mr.
Jennings have had any answer yet. Mr. -
what's his name?
SEWARD. Hawkins.
LINCOLN. Mr. Hawkins is attending to
them. And ask Mr. Hay to come here.
CLERK. Yes, sir.
[He goes. LINCOLN sits at the table
and writes. HAY comes in.]
LINCOLN [writing]. Mr. Hay, do you
know where General Scott is?
HAY. At headquarters, I think, sir.
LINCOLN. Take this to him yourself and
bring an answer back.
HAY. Yes, sir.
[He takes the note, and goes.]
LINCOLN. Are things very bad at the
Fort?
THE MESSENGER. The major says three
days, sir. Most of us would have said
twenty-four hours.  [A knock at the door.]
SEWARD. Yes.
[HAWKINS comes in.]
HAWKINS. Mr. White is just receiving a
message across the wire, sir.
LINCOLN. Ask him to come here directly
he's finished.
HAWKINS. Yes, sir.
[He goes. LINCOLN goes to a far
door and opens it. He speaks to
the MESSENGER.]
LINCOLN. Will you wait in here?
[The MESSENGER goes through.]
SEWARD. Do you mind if I smoke?
LINCOLN. Not at all, not at all. [SEWARD
lights a cigar.] Three days. If White's message does n't help us - three days.


SEWARD. But surely we must withdraw
as a matter of military necessity now.
LINCOLN. Why does n"t White come?
[SEWARD goes to the window and throws it
up. He stands looking down into the street.
LINCOLN stands at the table looking fixedly
at the door. After a moment or two there is
a knock.] Come in. [HAWKINS shows in
WHITE and JENNINGS, and goes out. SEWARD closes the window.] Well?
WHITE. I'm sorry. They won't give
way.
LINCOLN. You told them all I said?
JENNINGS. Everything.
LINCOLN. It's critical.
WHITE. They are definite.
[LINCOLN paces once or twice up
and down the room, standing
again at his place at the table.]
LINCOLN. They leave no opening?
WHITE. I regret to say, none.
LINCOLN. It's a grave decision. Terribly
grave. Thank you, gentlemen. Goodmorning.
WHITE and JENNINGS. Good-morning,
gentlemen.                [They go out.]
LINCOLN. My God! Seward, we need
great courage, great faith. [He rings the
bell. The SECOND CLERK comes in.] Did
you take my messages?
THE CLERK. Yes, sir. Mr. Chase and
Mr. Blair are here. The other ministers are
coming immediately.
LINCOLN. Ask them to come here at once.
And send Mr. Hay in directly he returns.
THE CLERK. Yes, sir.       [He goes.]
LINCOLN [after a pause]. "There is a tide
in the affairs of men..." Do you read
Shakespeare, Seward?
SEWARD. Shakespeare? No.
LINCOLN. Ah! [SALMON P. CHASE, Secretary of the Treasury, and MONTGOMERY
BLAIR, Postmaster-General, come in.] Goodmorning, Mr. Chase, Mr. Blair.
SEWARD. Good-morning, gentlemen.
BLAIR. Good-morning, Mr. President.
How d' ye do, Mr. Seward..
CHASE. Good-morning, Mr. President.
Something urgent?
LINCOLN. Let us be seated. [As they
draw chairs up to the table, the other members
of the Cabinet, SIMON CAMERON, CALEB




io8


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


SMITH, BURNETT HOOK, and      GIDEON
WELLES, come in. There is an exchange of
greetings, while they arrange themselves round
the table.] Gentlemen, we meet in a crisis,
the most fateful, perhaps, that has ever
faced any government in this country. It
can be stated briefly. A message has just
come from Anderson. He can hold Fort
Sumter three days at most unless we send
men and provisions.
CAMERON. HOW many men?
LINCOLN. I shall know from Scott in a
few minutes how many are necessary.
WELLES. Suppose we have n't as many.
LINCOLN. Then it's a question of provisioning. We may not be able to do
enough to be effective. The question is
whether we shall do as much as we can.
HOOK. If we withdrew altogether,
would n't it give the South a lead towards
compromise, as being an acknowledgment
of their authority, while leaving us free to
plead military necessity if we found public
opinion dangerous?
LINCOLN. My mind is clear. To do less
than we can do, whatever that may be, will
be fundamentally to allow the South's
claim to right of secession. That is my
opinion. If you evade the question now,
you will have to answer it to-morrow.
BLAIR. I agree with the President.
HOOK. We ought to defer action as long
as possible. I consider that we should
withdraw.
LINCOLN. Don't you see that to withdraw may postpone war, but that it will
make it inevitable in the end?
SMITH. It is inevitable if we resist.
LINCOLN. I fear it will be so. But in that
case we shall enter it with uncompromised
principles. Mr. Chase?
CHASE. It is difficult. But, on the whole,
my opinion is with yours, Mr. President.
LINCOLN. And you, Seward?
SEWARD. I respect your opinion, but I
must differ.     [A knock at the door.]
LINCOLN. Come in.
[HAY comes in. He gives a letter to LINCOLN
and goes.]
[Reading.] Scott says twenty thousand
men.


SEWARD. We haven't ten thousand
ready.
LINCOLN. It remains a question of sending provisions. I charge you, all of you, to
weigh this thing with all your understanding. To temporise now, cannot, in my
opinion, avert war. To speak plainly to the
world in standing by our resolution to hold
Fort Sumter with all our means, and in a
plain declaration that the Union must be
preserved, will leave us with a clean cause,
simply and loyally supported. I tremble at
the thought of war. But we have in our
hands a sacred trust. It is threatened. We
have had no thought of aggression. We have
been the aggressed. Persuasion has failed,
and 1 conceive it to be our duty to resist.
To withhold supplies from Anderson would
be to deny that duty. Gentlemen, the matter is before you. [A pause.] For provisioning the fort? [LINCOLN, CHASE, and BLAIR
hold up their hands.] For immediate withdrawal? [SEWARD, CAMERON, SMITH, HOOK,
and WELLES hold up their hands. There is
a pause of some moments.] Gentlemen, I
may have to take upon myself the responsibility of over-riding your vote. It will be
for me to satisfy Congress and public opinion. Should I receive any resignations?
[There is silence.] I thank you for your
consideration, gentlemen. That is all.
[They rise, and the Ministers, with the exception of SEWARD, go out, talking as they
pass beyond the door.] You are wrong, Seward, wrong.
SEWARD. I believe you. I respect your
judgment even as far as that. But I must
speak as I feel.
LINCOLN. May I speak to this man
alone?
SEWARD. Certainly.
[He goes out. LINCOLN stands motionless for a moment. Then he
moves to a map of the United
States, much larger than the one
in his Illinois home, and looks at
it as he did there. He goes to the
far door and opens it.]
LINCOLN. Will you come in? [The MESSENGER comes.] Can you ride back to
Major Anderson at once?
THE MESSENGER. Yes, sir.




ABRAHAM LINCOLN /


o09


LINCOLN. Tell him that we cannot re
inforce him immediately. We have n't the
men.
THE MESSENGER. Yes, sir.
LINCOLN. And say that the first convoy of
supplies will leave Washington this evening.
THE MESSENGER. Yes, sir.
LINCOLN. Thank you. [The MESSENGER
goes. LINCOLN stands at the table for a moment; he rings the bell. HAWKINS comes in.]
Mr. Hay, please.
HAWKINS. Yes, sir.
[He goes, and a moment later HAY
comes in.]
LINCOLN. Go to General Scott. Ask
him to come to me at once.
HAY. Yes, sir.            [He goes.]
THE CURTAIN FALLS
THE TWO CHRONICLERS. You who have
gone gathering
Cornflowers and meadowsweet,
Heard the hazels glancing down
On September eves,
Seen the homeward rooks on wing
Over fields of golden wheat,
And the silver cups that crown
Water-lily leaves;
You who know the tenderness
Of old men at eve-tide,
Coming from the hedgerows,
Coming from the plough,
And the wandering caress
Of winds upon the woodside,
When the crying yaffle goes
Underneath the bough;
FIRST CHRONICLER. You who mark the
flowing
Of sap upon the May-time,
And the waters welling,
From the watershed,
You who count the growing
Of harvest and hay-time,
Knowing these the telling
Of your daily bread;
SECOND CHRONICLER. You who cherish
courtesy
With your fellows at your gate,




And about your hearthstone sit
Under love's decrees,
You who know that death will be
Speaking with you soon or late,
[The two together.] Kinsmen, what is mother
wit
But the light of these?
Knowing these, what is there more
For learning in your little years?
Are not these all gospels bright
Shining on your day?
How then shall your hearts be sore
With envy and her brood of fears,
How forget the words of light
From the mountain-way?...
Blessed are the merciful...
Does not every threshold seek
Meadows and the flight of birds
For compassion still?
Blessed are the merciful...
Are we pilgrims yet to speak
Out of Olivet the words
Of knowledge and good-will?
FIRST CHRONICLER. Two years of darkness, and this man but grows
Greater in resolution, more constant in
compassion.
He goes
The way of dominion in pitiful, highhearted fashion.
SCENE III. Nearly two years later. A
small reception room at the White House.
MRS. LINCOLN, dressed in a fashion perhaps
a little too considered, despairing as she now
does of any sartorial grace in her husband,
and acutely conscious that she must meet this
necessity of office alone, is writing. She rings
the bell, and SUSAN, who has taken her promotion more philosophically, comes in.
MRS. LINCOLN. Admit; any one who
calls, Susan. And enquire whether the
President will be in to tea.
SUSAN. Mr. Lincoln has just sent word
that he will be in.
MRS. LINCOLN. Very well. [SUSAN is
going.] Susan.
SUSAN. Yes, ma'am.
MRS. LINCOLN. You still say Mr. Lincoln. You should say the President.




IIO


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


SUSAN. Yes, ma'am. But you see,
ma'am, it's difficult after calling him Mr.
Lincoln for fifteen years.
MRS. LINCOLN. But you must remember.
Everybody calls him the President now.
SUSAN. No, ma'am. There's a good
many people call him Father Abraham now.
And there's some that like him even better
than that. Only to-day Mr. Coldpenny, at
the stores, said, "Well, Susan, and how's
old Abe this morning?"
MRS. LINCOLN. I hope you don't encourage them.
SUSAN. Oh, no, ma'am. I always refer to
him as Mr. Lincoln.
MRS. LINCOLN. Yes, but you must say
the President.
SUSAN. I'm afraid I shan't ever learn,
ma'am.
MRS. LINCOLN. You must try.
SUSAN. Yes, of course, ma'am.
MRS. LINCOLN. And bring any visitors up.
SUSAN. Yes, ma'am. There's a lady
waiting now.
MRS. LINCOLN. Then why did n't you
say so?
SUSAN. That's what I was going to,
ma'am, when you began to talk about
Mr. - I mean the President, ma'am.
MRS. LINCOLN. Well, show her up.
[SUSAN goes. MRS. LINCOLN closes
her writing desk. SUSAN returns,
showing in MRS. GOLIATH
BLOW.]
SUSAN. Mrs. Goliath Blow. [She goes.]
MRS. BLOW. Good-afternoon, Mrs.
Lincoln.
MRS. LINCOLN. Good-afternoon, Mrs.
Blow. Sit down, please.     [They sit.]
MRS. BLOW. And is the dear President
well?
MRS. LINCOLN. Yes. He's rather tired.
MRS. BLOW. Of course, to be sure. This
dreadful war. But I hope he is not getting
tired of the war.
MRS. LINCOLN. It's a constant anxiety
for him. He feels his responsibility very
deeply.
MRS. BLOW. To be sure. But you
mustn't let him get war-weary. These
monsters in the South have got to be
stamped out.


MRS. LINCOLN. I don't think you need
be afraid of the President's firmness.
MRS. BLOW. Oh, of course not. I was
only saying to Goliath yesterday, "The
President will never give way till he has the
South squealing," and Goliath agreed.
[SUSAN comes in.]
SUSAN. Mrs. Otherly, ma'am.
MRS. LINCOLN. Show Mrs. Otherly in.
[SUSAN goes.]
MRS. BLOW. Oh, that dreadful woman!
I believe she wants the war to stop.
SUSAN [at the door.] Mrs. Otherly.
[MRS. OTHERLY comes in and
SUSAN goes.]
MRS. LINCOLN. Good-afternoon, Mrs.
Otherly. You know Mrs. Goliath Blow?
MRS. OTHERLY. Yes. Good-afternoon.
[She sits.]
MRS. BLOW. Goliath says the war will
go on for another three years at least.
MRS. OTHERLY. Three years? That
would be terrible, would n't it?
MRS. BLOW. We must be prepared to
make sacrifices.
MRS. OTHERLY. Yes.
MRS. BLOW. It makes my blood boil to
think of those people.
MRS. OTHERLY. I used to know a lot of
them. Some of them were very kind and
nice.
MRS. BLOW. That was just their cunning, depend on it. I'm afraid there's a
good deal of disloyalty among us. Shall we
see the dear President this afternoon, Mrs.
Lincoln?
MRS. LINCOLN. He will be here directly,
I think.
MRS. BLOW. You're looking wonderfully well, with all the hard work that you
have to do. I've really had to drop some
of mine. And with expenses going up, it's
all very lowering, don't you think? Goliath
and I have had to reduce several of our
subscriptions. But, of course, we all have
to deny ourselves something. Ah, goodafternoon, dear Mr. President.
[LINCOLN comes in. THE LADIES rise and
shake hands with him.]
LINCOLN. Good-afternoon, ladies.




ABRAHAM LINCOLN


III


MRS. OTHERLY. Good-afternoon, Mr.
President.              [They all sit.]
MRS. BLOW. And is there any startling
news, Mr. President?
LINCOLN. Madam, every morning when
I wake up, and say to myself, a hundred, or
two hundred, or a thousand of my countrymen will be killed to-day, I find it startling.
MRS. BLOW. Oh, yes, of course, to be
sure. But I mean, is there any good news?
LINCOLN. Yes. There is news of a victory. They lost twenty-seven hundred
men - we lost eight hundred.
MRS. BLOW. How splendid!
LINCOLN. Thirty-five hundred.
MRS. BLOW. Oh, but you must n't talk
like that, Mr. President. There were only
eight hundred that mattered.
LINCOLN. The world is larger than your
heart, madam.
MRS. BLOW. Now the dear President is
becoming whimsical, Mrs. Lincoln.
SUSAN brings in tea-tray, and hands tea
round. LINCOLN takes none. SUSAN
goes.]
MRS. OTHERLY. Mr. President.
LINCOLN. Yes, ma'am.
MRS. OTHERLY. I don't like to impose
upon your hospitality. I know how difficult everything is for you. But one has to
take one's opportunities. May I ask you a
question?
LiNCOLN. Certainly, ma'am.
MRS. OTHERLY. IS n't it possible for you
to stop this war? In the name of a suffering
country, I ask you that.
MRS. BLOW. I'm sure such a question
would never have entered my head.
LINCOLN. It is a perfectly right question.
Ma'am, I have but one thought always -
how can this thing be stopped? But we
must ensure the integrity of the Union. In
two years war has become an hourly bitterness to me. I believe I suffer no less than
any man. But it must be endured. The
cause was a right one two years ago. It is
unchanged.
MRS. OTHERLY. I know you are noble
and generous. But I believe that war must
be wrong under any circumstances, for any
cause.


MRS. BLOW. I'm afraid the President
would have but little encouragement if he
listened often to this kind of talk.
LINCOLN. I beg you not to harass yourself, madam. Ma'am, I too believe war to
be wrong. It is the weakness and the jealousy and the folly of men that make a thing
so wrong possible. But we are all weak,
and jealous, and foolish. That's how the
world is, ma'am, and we cannot outstrip the world. Some of the worst of us
are sullen, aggressive still- just clumsy,
greedy pirates. Some of us have grown out
of that. But the best of us have an instinct
to resist aggression if it won't listen to persuasion. You may say it's a wrong instinct. I don't know. But it's there, and
it's there in millions of good men. I don't
believe it's a wrong instinct. I believe that
the world must come to wisdom slowly. It
is for us who hate aggression to persuade
men always and earnestly against it, and
hope that, little by little, they will hear us.
But in the mean time there will come moments when the aggressors will force the
instinct to resistance to act. Then we
must act earnestly, praying always in our
courage that never again will this thing
happen. And then we must turn again,
and again, and again to persuasion. This
appeal to force is the raisdeed of an imperfect world. But we are imperfect. We
must strive to purify the world, but we
must not think ourselves pure above the
world. When I had this thing to decide, it
would have been easy to say, "No, I will
have none of it; it is evil, and I will not
touch it." But that would have decided
nothing, and I saw what I believed to be
the truth as I now put it to you, ma'am.
It's a forlorn thing for any man to have
this responsibility in his heart. I may see
wrongly, but that's how I see.
MRS. BLOW. I quite agree with you, Mr.
President. These brutes in the South must
be taught, though I doubt whether you
can teach them anything except by destroying them. That's what Goliath says.
LINCOLN. Goliath must be getting quite
an old man.
MRS. BLOW. Indeed, he's not, Mr.
President. Goliath is only thirty-eight.




112


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


LINCOLN. Really, now? Perhaps I
might be able to get him a commission.
MRS. BLOW. Oh, no. Goliath could n't
be spared. He's doing contracts for the
government, you know. Goliath could n't
possibly go. I'm sure he will be very
pleased when I tell him what you say
about these people who want to stop the
war, Mr. President. I hope Mrs. Otherly
is satisfied. Of course, we could all complain. We all have to make sacrifices, as I
told Mrs. Otherly.
MRS. OTHERLY. Thank you, Mr. President, for what you've said. I must try to
think about it. But I always believed war
to be wrong. I did n't want my boy to go,
because I believed it to be wrong. But he
would. That came to me last week.
[She hands a paper to LINCOLN.]
LINCOLN [looks at it, rises, and hands it
back to her]. Ma'am, there are times when
no man may speak. I grieve for you, I
grieve for you.
MRS. OTHERLY [rising]. I think I will go.
You don't mind my saying what I did?
LINCOLN. We are all poor creatures,
ma'am. Think kindly of me. [He takes her
hand.] Mary.
[MRS. LINCOLN goes out with MRS.
OTHERLY.]
MRS. BLOW. Of course it's very sad for
her, poor woman. But she makes her
trouble worse by these perverted views,
does n't she? And, I hope you will show
no signs of weakening, Mr. President, till
it has been made impossible for those
shameful rebels to hold up their heads
again. Goliath says you ought to make a
proclamation that no mercy will be shown
to them afterwards. I'm sure I shall never
speak to one of them again. [Rising.] Well,
I must be going. I'll see Mrs. Lincoln as
I go out. Good-afternoon, Mr. President.
[She turns at the door, and offers
LINCOLN her hand, which he does
not take.]
LINCOLN. Good-afternoon, madam. And
I'd like to offer ye a word of advice. That
poor mother told me what she thought. I
don't agree with her, but I honour her.
She's wrong, but she is noble. You've told
me what you think. I don't agree wihtyou,


and I'm ashamed of you and your like.
You, who have sacrificed nothing, babble
about destroying the South while other
people conquer it. I accepted this war with
a sick heart, and I've a heart that's near
to breaking every day. I accepted it in the
name of humanity, and just and merciful
dealing, and the hope of love and charity
on earth. And you come to me, talking of
revenge and destruction, and malice, and
enduring hate. These gentle people are
mistaken, but they are mistaken cleanly,
and in a great name. It is you that dishonour the cause for which we stand - it
is you who would make it a mean and little
thing. Good-afternoon. [He opens the door
and MRS. BLOW, finding words inadequate,
goes. LINCOLN moves across the room and
rings a bell. After a moment, SUSAN comes
in.] Susan, if that lady comes here again
she may meet with an accident.
SUSAN. Yes, sir. Is that all, sir?
LINCOLN. No, sir, it is not all, sir. I
don't like this coat. I am going to change
it. I shall be back in a minute or two, and
if a gentleman named Mr. William Custis
calls, ask him to wait in here.
[He goes out. SUSAN collects the teacups. As she is going to the door,
a quiet, grave white-haired negro
appears facing her. SUSAN starts
violently.]
THE NEGRO [he talks slowly and very
quietly]. It is all right.
SUSAN. And who in the name of night
might you be?
THE NEGRO. Mista William      Custis.
Mr. Lincoln tell me to come here. Nobody
stop me, so I come to look for him.
SUSAN. Are you Mr. William Custis?
CUSTIS. Yes.
SUSAN. Mr. Lincoln will be here directly.
He's gone to change his coat. You'd better
sit down.
CUSTIS. Yes. [He does so, looking about
him with a certain pathetic inquisitiveness.]
Mista Lincoln live here. You his servant?
A very fine thing for young girl to be servant to Mista Lincoln.
SUSAN. Well, we get on verywell together..CUrSTIS. A very bad thing to be slave ia
South.




ABRAHAM LINCOLN


II3


SUSAN. Look here, you Mr. Custis, don't
you go mixing me up with slaves.
CUSTIS. No, you not slave. You servant,
but you free body. That very mighty
thing. A poor servant, born free.
SUSAN. Yes, but look here, are you pitying me, with your poor servant?
CUSTIS. Pity? No. I think you very
mighty.
SUSAN. Well, I don't know so much
about mighty. But I expect you're right.
It is n't every one that rises to the White
House.
CusTIs. It not every one that is free
body. That is why you mighty.
SUSAN. I've never thought much about
it.
CUSTIS. I think always about it.
SUSAN. I suppose you're free, are n't
you?
CUSTIS. Yes. Not born free. I was
beaten when I a little nigger. I saw my
mother - I will not remember what I saw.
SUSAN. I'm sorry, Mr. Custis. That
was wrong.
CUSTIS. Yes. Wrong.
SUSAN. Are all nig -I mean are all
black gentlemen like you?
CUSTIS. No. I have advantages. They
not many have advantages.
SUSAN. No, I suppose not. Here's Mr.
Lincoln coming. [LINCOLN, coated after his
heart's desire, comes to the door. CUSTIS
rises.] This is the gentleman you said, sir.
[She goes out with the tray.]
LINCOLN. Mr. Custis, I'm very glad to
see you.
[He offers his hand. CUSTIs takes
it, and is about to kiss it. LINCOLN stops him gently.]
[Sitting.] Sit down, will you?
CUSTIS [still standing, keeping his hat in
his hand]. It very kind of Mista Lincoln
ask me to come to see him.
LINCOLN. I was afraid you might refuse.
CUSTIS. A little shy? Yes. But so much
to ask. Glad to come.
LINCOLN. Please sit down.
CUsTIS. Polite?
LINCOLN. Please. I can't sit myself,
you see, if you don't.
CUsTIs. Black, black. White, white.


LINCOLN. Nonsense. Just two old men,
sitting together [CUSTIS sits to LINCOLN'S
gesture] - and talking.
CUSTIS. I think I older man than Mista
Lincoln.
LINCOLN. Yes, I expect you are. I'm
fifty-four.
CUSTIS. I seventy-two.
LINCOLN. I hope I shall look as young
when I'm seventy-two.
CUSTIS. Cold water. Much walk. Believe in Lord Jesus Christ. Have always
little herbs learnt when a little nigger.
Mista Lincoln try. Very good.
[He hands a small twist of paper to
LINCOLN.]
LINCOLN. Now, that's uncommon kind
of you. Thank you. I've heard much
about your preaching, Mr. Custis.
CUSTIS. Yes.
LINCOLN. I should like to hear you.
CUSTIS. Mista Lincoln great friend of
my people.
LINCOLN. I have come at length to a decision.
CUSTIS. A decision?
LiNCOLN. Slavery is going. We have
been resolved always to confine it. Now it
shall be abolished.
CUSTIS. You sure?
LINCOLN. Sure.
[CUSTIS slowly stands up, bows his
head, and sits again.]
CUSTIS. My people much to learn.
Years, and years, and years. Ignorant,
frightened, suspicious people. It will be
difficult, very slow. [With growing passion.]
But born free bodies. Free. I born slave,
Mista Lincoln. No marn understand who
not born slave.
LINCOLN. Yes, yes. I understand.
CUSTIS [with his normal regularity.] I
think so. Yes.
LINCOLN. I should like you to ask me
any question you wish.
CUSTIS. I have some complaint. Perhaps I not understand.
LINCOLN. Tell me.
CusTIS. Southern soldiers take some
black men prisoner. Black men in your
uniform. Take them prisoner. Then murder them.




Ii4


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


LINCOLN. I know.
CUSTIs. What you do?
LINCOLN. We have sent a protest.
CUSTIS. No good. Must do more.
LINCOLN. What more can we do?
CUSTIS. You know.
LINCOLN. Yes; but don't ask me for
reprisals.
CUSTIS [gleaming]. Eye for an eye, tooth
for a tooth.
LINCOLN. No. no. You must think.
Think what you are saying.
CUSTIS. I think of murdered black men.
LINCOLN. You would not ask me to
murder?
CUSTIS. Punish - not murder.
LINCOLN. Yes, murder. How can I kill
men in cold blood for what has been done
by others? Think what would follow. It is
for us to set a great example, not to follow
a wicked one. You do believe that, don't
you?
CUSTIS [after a pause]. I know. Yes. Let
your light so shine before men. I trust
Mista Lincoln. Will trust. I was wrong.
I was too sorry for my people.
LINCOLN. Will you remember this? For
more than two years I have thought of you
every day. I have grown a weary man with
thinking. But I shall not forget. I promise
that.
CUSTIS. You great, kind friend. I will
love you.         [A knock at the door.]
LINCOLN. Yes.
[SUSAN comes in.]
SUSAN. An officer gentleman. He says
it's very important.
LINCOLN. I'11 come. [He and CUSTIS rise.]
Wait, will you, Mr. Custis? I want to ask
you some questions.
[He goes out. It is getting dark, and
SUSAN lights a lamp and draws
the curtains. CUSTIS stands by
the door looking after LINCOLN.]
CUSTIS. He very good man.
SUSAN. You've found that out, have
you?
CUSTIS. Do you love him, you white
girl?
SUSAN. Of course I do.
CUSTIS. Yes, you must.


SUSAN. He's a real white man. No offence, of course.
CUSTIS. Not offend. He talk to me as if
black no difference.
SUSAN. But I tell you what, Mr. Custis.
He'll kill himself over this war, his heart's
that kind - like a shorn lamb, as they say.
CUSTIS. Very unhappy war.
SUSAN. But I suppose he's right. It's
got to go on till it's settled.
[In the street below a body of people
is heard approaching, singing
"John Brown's Body." CUSTIS
and SUSAN stand listening,
SUSAN joining in the song as it
passes and fades away.]
THE CURTAIN FALLS


FIRST CHRONICLER. Unchanged
time. And further yet
In loneliness must be the way,
And difficult and deep the debt
Of constancy to pay.


our


SECOND CHRONICLER. And one denies,
and one forsakes.
And still unquestioning he goes,
Who has his lonely thoughts, and makes
A world of those.
[The two together.] When the high heart we
magnify,
And the sure vision celebrate,
And worship greatness passing by,
Ourselves are great.
SCENE IV. About the same date. A meeting of the Cabinet at Washington. SMITH has
gone and CAMERON has been replaced by
EDWIN M. STANTON, Secretary of War.
Otherwise the ministry, completed by SEWARD, CHASE, HOOK, BLAIR, and WELLES,
is as before. They are now arranging themselves at the table, leaving LINCOLN'S place
empty.
SEWARD [coming in]. I've just had my
summons. Is there some special news?
STANTON. Yes. McClellan has defeated
Lee at Antietam. It's our greatest success.
They ought not to recover from it. The
tide is turning.




ABRAHAM LINCOLN


I"S


BLAIR. Have you seen the President?
STANTON. I've just been with him.
WELLES. What does he say?
STANTON. He only said. "At last." He's
coming directly.
HOOK. He will bring up his proclamation again. In my opinion it is inopportune.
SEWARD. Well, we've learnt by now
that the President is the best man among
us.
HOOK. There's a good deal of feeling
against him everywhere, 1 find.
BLAIR. He's the one man with character
enough for this business.
HOOK. There are other opinions.
SEWARD. Yes, but not here, surely.
HOOK. It's not for me to say. But I ask
you, what does he mean about emancipation? I've always understood that it was
the Union we were fighting for, and that
abolition was to be kept in our minds for
legislation at the right moment. And now
one day he talks as though emancipation
were his only concern, and the next as
though he would throw up the whole idea,
if by doing it he could secure peace with the
establishment of the Union. Where are
we?
SEWARD. No, you're wrong. It's the
Union first now with him, but there's no
question about his views on slavery. You
know that perfectly well. But he has always kept his policy about slavery free in
his mind, to be directed as he thought best
for the sake of the Union. You remember
his words: "If I could save the Union without freeing any slaves, I would do it; and
if I could save it by freeing all the slaves,
I would do it; and if I could save it by freeing some and leaving others alone, I would
also do that. My paramount object in this
struggle is to save the Union." Nothing
could be plainer than that, just as nothing
could be plainer than his determination to
free the slaves when he can.
HOOK. Well, there are some who would
have acted differently.
BLAIR. And you may depend upon it
they would not have acted so wisely.
STANTON. I don't altogether agree with
the President. But he's the only man I
should agree with at all.


HOOK. To issue the proclamation now,
and that's what he will propose, mark my
words, will be to confuse the public mind
just when we want to keep it clear.
WELLES. Are you sure he will propose
to issue it now?
HOOK. You see if he does n't.
WELLES. If he does I shall support him.
SEWARD. Is Lee's army broken?
STANTON. Not yet - but it is in grave
danger.
HOOK. Why does n't the President come?
One would think this news was nothing.
CHASE. I must say I'm anxious to know
what he has to say about it all.
[A CLERK cones in.]
CLERK. The President's compliments,
and he will be here in a moment. [He goes.]
HOOK. I shall oppose it if it comes up.
CHASE. He may say nothing about it.
SEWARD. I think he will.
STANTON. Anyhow, it"s the critical moment.
BLAIR. Here he comes.
[LINCOLN comes in carrying a small book.]
LINCOLN. Good-morning, gentlemen.
[Hle takes his place.]
THE MINISTERS. Gcod-morning, Mr.
President.
SEWARD. Great news, we hear.
HOOK. If we leave things with the army
to take their course for a little now, we
ought to see through our difficulties.
LINCOLN. It's an exciting morning, gentlemen. I feel rather excited myself. I find
my mind not at its best i:n excitement. Will
you allow me? [Opening his book.] It may
compose us all. It is Mr. Artemus Ward's
latest.
[THE MINISTERS, with the exception of HOOK, who makes no attempt to hide his irritation, and
STANTON, who would do the same
but for his di:approval of HOOK,
listen with good-humoured patience and amusement while he
reads the following passage from
Artemus Ward.]
"High Handed Outrage at Utica."
"In the Faul of 1856, I showed my show




In6


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


in Utiky, a trooly grate city in the State of
New York. The people gave me a cordyal
recepshun. The press was loud in her
prases. 1 day as I was givin a descripshun of
my Beests and Snaiks in my usual flowry
stile what was my skorn and disgust to see
a big burly feller walk up to the cage containin my wax figgers of the Lord's last
Supper, and cease Judas Iscarrot by the
feet and drag him out on the ground. He
then commenced fur to pound him as hard
as he cood.
"'What under the son are you abowt,'
cried I.
"Sez he, 'What did you bring this pussylanermus cuss here fur?' and he hit the
wax figger another tremenjis blow on the
bed.
"Sez I, 'You egrejus ass, that airs a wax
figger —a representashun of the false
'Postle.'
"Sez he, 'That's all very well fur you to
say; but I tell you, old man, that Judas
Iscarrot can't show himself in Utiky with
impunerty by a darn site,' with which observashun he kaved in Judassis hed. The
young man belonged to 1 of the first famerlies in Utiky. I sood him, and the Joory
brawt in a verdick of Arson in the 3d degree."
STANTON. May we now consider affairs
of state?
HOOK. Yes, we may.
LINCOLN. Mr. Hook says, yes, we may.
STANTON. Thank you.
LINCOLN. Oh, no. Thank Mr. Hook.
SEWARD. McClellan is in pursuit of Lee,
I suppose.
LINCOLN. You suppose a good deal. But
for the first time McClellan has the chance
of being in pursuit of Lee, and that's the
first sign of their end. If McClellan does n't
take his chance, we'll move Grant down
to the job. That will mean delay, but no
matter. The mastery has changed hands.
BLAIR. Grant drinks.
LINCOLN. Then tell me the name of his
brand. I'll send some barrels to the others.
He wins victories.
HOOK. Is there other business?
LINCOLN. There is. Some weeks ago I
showed you a draft I made proclaiming
freedom for all slaves.


HOOK [aside to WELLES]. I told you so.
LINCOLN. You thought then it was not
the time to issue it. I agreed. I think the
moment has come. May I read it to you
again? "It is proclaimed that on the first
day of January in the year of our Lord one
thousand eight hundred and sixty-three,
all persons held as slaves within any state,
the people whereof shall then be in rebellion against the United States, shall be
then, thenceforward, and forever free."
That allows three months from to-day.
There are clauses dealing with compensation in a separate draft.
HOOK. I must oppose the issue of such a
proclamation at this moment in the most
unqualified terms. This question should be
left until our victory is complete. To
thrust it forward now would be to invite
dissension when we most need unity.
WELLES. I do not quite understand,
Mr. President, why you think this the precise moment.
LINCOLN. Believe me, gentlemen, I have
considered this matter with all the earnestness and understanding of which I am
capable.
HOOK. But when the New York Tribune urged you to come forward with a
clear declaration six months ago, you rebuked them.
LINCOLN. Because I thought the occasion not the right one. It was useless to
issue a proclamation that might be as inoperative as the Pope's bull against the
comet. My duty, it has seemed to me, has
been to be loyal to a principle, and not to
betray it by expressing it in action at the
wrong time. That is what I conceive statesmanship to be. For long now I have had
two fixed resolves. To preserve the Union,
and to abolish slavery. How to preserve
the Union I was always clear, and more
than two years of bitterness have not
dulled my vision. We have fought for the
Union, and we are now winning for the
Union. When and how to proclaim abolition I have all this time been uncertain. I
am uncertain no longer. A few weeks ago I
saw that, too, clearly. So soon, I said to myself, as the rebel army shall be driven out of
Maryland, and it becomes plain to the world




ABRAHAM LINCOLN


II7


that victory is assured to us in the end,
the time will have come to announce that
with that victory and a vindicated Union
will come abolition. I made the promise
to myself - and to my Maker. The rebel
army is now driven out, and I am going to
fulfil that promise. 1 do not wish your
advice about the main matter, for that I
have determined for myself. This I say
without intending anything but respect for
any one of you. But I beg you to stand
with me in this thing.
HOOK. In my opinion, it's altogether
too impetuous.
LINCOLN. One other observation I will
make. I know very well that others might
in this matter, as in others, do better than
I can, and if I was satisfied that the public
confidence was more fully possessed by
any one of them than by me, and knew of
any constitutional way in which he could
be put in my place, he should have it. I
would gladly yield it to him. But, though
I cannot claim undivided confidence, 1 do
not know that, all things considered, any
other person has more; and, however this
may be, there is no way in which I can have
any other man put where I am. I am here;
I must do the best I can, and bear the responsibility of taking the course which I
feel I ought to take.
STANTON. Could this be left over a short
time for consideration?
CHASE. I feel that we should remember
that our only public cause at the moment
is the preservation of the Union.
HOOK. I entirely agree.
LINCOLN. Gentlemen, we cannot escape
history. We of this administration will be
remembered in spite of ourselves. No personal significance or insignificance can
spare one or another of us. In giving freedom to the slave we assure freedom to the
free. We shall nobly save or meanly lose
the last, best hope on earth. [He places the
proclamation in front of him.] "Shall be
thenceforward and forever free." Gentlemen, I pray for your support. [He signs it.]
[THE MINISTERS rise. SEWARD,
WELLES, and BLAIR shake LINCOLN'S hand and go out. STANTON and CHASE bow to him, and


follow. HOOK, the last to rise,
moves away, making no sign.]
LINCOLN. Hook.
HOOK. Yes, Mr. President.
LINCOLN. Hook, one cannot help hearing things.
HOOK. I beg your pardon?
LINCOLN. Hook, there's a way some
people have, when a man says a disagreeable thing, of asking him to repeat it, hoping to embarrass him. It's often effective.
But I'm not easily embarrassed. I said
one cannot help hearing things.
HOOK. And I do not understand what
you mean, Mr. President.
LINCOLN. Come, Hook, we're alone.
Lincoln is a good enough name. And I
think you understand.
HOOK. How should I?
LINCOLN. Then, plainly, there are intrigues going on.
HOOK. Against the government?
LINCOLN. No. In it. Against me.
HOOK. Criticism, perhaps.
LINCOLN. To what end? To better my
ways?
HOOK. I presume that might be the
purpose.
LINCOLN. Then, why am I not told what
it is?
HOOK. I imagine it's a natural compunction.
LINCOLN. Or ambition?
HOOK. What do you mean?
LINCOLN. You think you ought to be in
my place.
HOOK. You are well informed.
LINCOLN. You cannot imagine why
every one does not see that you ought to be
in my place.
HOOK. By what right do you say that?
LINCOLN. Is it not true?
HOOK. You take me unprepared. You
have me at a disadvantage.
LINCOLN. You speak as a very scrupulous man, Hook.
HOOK. Do you question my honour?
LINCOLN. As you will.
HOOK. Then I resign.
LINCOLN. As a protest against...?
HOOK. Your suspicion.
LINCOLN. It is false?




Ix8


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


HOOK. Very well, I will be frank. I mistrust your judgment.
LINCOLN. In what?
HOOK. Generally. You over-emphasise
abolition.
LINCOLN. You don't mean that. You
mean that you fear possible public feeling
against abolition.
HOOK. It must be persuaded, not forced.
LINCOLN. All the most worthy elements
in it are persuaded. But the ungenerous
elements make the most noise, and you
hear them only. You will run from the terrible name of Abolitionist even when it is
pronounced by worthless creatures whom
you know you have every reason to despise.
HOOK. You have, in my opinion, failed
in necessary firmness in saying what will
be the individual penalties of rebellion.
LINCOLN. This is a war. I will not allow
it to become a blood-feud.
HOOK. We are fighting treason. We
must meet it with severity.
LINCOLN. We will defeat treason. And
I will meet it with conciliation.
HOOK. It is a policy of weakness.
LINCOLN. It is a policy of faith - it is a
policy of compassion. [Warmly.] Hook,
why do you plague me with these jealousies?
Once before I found a member of my Cabinet working behind my back. But he was
disinterested, and he made amends nobly.
But, Hook, you have allowed the burden of
these days to sour you. I know it all. I've
watched you plotting and plotting for
authority. And I, who am a lonely man,
have been sick at heart. So great is the
task God has given to my hand, and so few
are my days, and my deepest hunger is
always for loyalty in my own house. You
have withheld it from me. You have done
great service in your office, but you have
grown envious. Now you resign, as you
did once before when I came openly to you
in friendship. And you think that again I
shall flatter you and coax you to stay. I
don't think I ought to do it. I will not do
it. I must take you at your word.
HOOK. I am content.  [He turns to go.]
LINCOLN. Will you shake hands?
HOOK. I beg you will excuse me.
IHe goes. LINCOLN stands silently


for a moment, a travelled, lonely
captain. He rings a bell, and a
CLERK comes in.]
LINCOLN. Ask Mr. Hay to come in.
CLERK. Yes, sir.
[He goes. LINCOLN, from the folds
of his pockets, produces another
book, and holds it unopened.
HAY comes in.]
LINCOLN. I'm rather tired to-day, Hay.
Read to me a little. [He hands him the
book.] "The Tempest" -you know the
passage.
HAY [reading]. Our revels now are ended;
these our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air;
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous
palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such
stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
LINCOLN. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little
life...
THE CURTAIN FALLS
FIRST CHRONICLER. Two years again.
Desolation of battle, and long debate,
Counsels and prayers of men,
And bitterness of destruction and witless
hate,
And the shame of lie contending with lie,
Are spending themselves, and the brain
That set its lonely chart four years gone by,
Knowing the word fulfilled,
Comes with charity and communion to
bring
To reckoning,
To reconcile and build.
[The two together.] What victor coming
from the field
Leaving the victim desolate,
But has a vulnerable shield
Against the substances of fate?




ABRAHAM LINCOLN


ri9


That battle's won that leads in chains
But retribution and despite,
And bids misfortune count her gains
Not stricken in a penal night.
His triumph is but bitterness
Who looks not to the starry doom
When proud and humble but possess
The little kingdom of the tomb.
Who, striking home, shall not forgive,
Strikes with a weak returning rod,
Claiming a fond prerogative
Against the armoury of God.
Who knows, and for his knowledge stands
Against the darkness in dispute,
And dedicates industrious hands,
And keeps a spirit resolute,
Prevailing in the battle, then
A steward of his word is made,
To bring it honour among men,
Or know his captaincy betrayed.
SCENE V. An April evening in 1865. A
farmhouse near Appomattox. GENERAL
GRANT, Commander-in-Chief, under LINCOLN, of the Northern armies, is seated at
a table with CAPTAIN MALINS, an aide-decamp. He is smoking a cigar, and at intervals
he replenishes his glass of whiskey. DENNIS, an orderly, sits at a table in the corner,
writing.
GRANT [consulting a large watch lying in
front of him]. An hour and a half. There
ought to be something more from Meade
by now. Dennis.
DENNIS [coming to the table]. Yes, sir.
GRANT. Take these papers to Captain
Templeman, and ask Colonel West if the
Twenty-Third are in action yet. Tell the
cook to send some soup at ten o'clock. Say
it was cold yesterday.
DENNIS. Yes, sir.          [He goes.]
GRANT. Give me that map, Malins.
[MALINS hands him the map at
which he is working.]
[After studyingit in silence.] Yes. There's no
doubt about it. Unless Meade goes to sleep
it can only be a question of hours. Lee's a
great man, but he can't get out of that.
[Making a ring on the map with his
finger].


MALINS [taking the map again]. This
ought to be the end, sir.
GRANT. Yes. If Lee surrenders, we can
all pack up for home.
MALINS. By God, sir, it will be splendid,
won't it, to be back again?
GRANT. By God, sir, it will.
MALINS. I beg your pardon, sir.
GRANT. You're quite right, Malins.
My boy goes away to school next week.
Now I may be able to go down with him
and see him settled.
[DENNIS comes back.]
DENNIS. Colonel West says, yes, sir,
for the last half-hour. The cook says he's
sorry, sir. It was a mistake.
GRANT. Tell him to keep his mistakes
in the kitchen.
DENNIS. I will, sir.
[He goes back to his place.]
GRANT [at his papers]. Those rifles went
up this afternoon?
MALINS. Yes, sir.
[Another ORDERLY comes in.]
ORDERLY. Mr. Lincoln has just arrived,
sir. He's in the yard now.
GRANT. All right, I'11 come. [THE ORDERLY goes. GRANT rises and crosses to
the door, but is met there by LINCOLN and
HAY. LINCOLN, in top boos and tall hat that
has seen many campaigns, shakes hands with
GRANT and takes MALINS'S salute.] I was
n't expecting you, sir.
LINCOLN. No; but I could n't keep away.
How's it going?              [They sit.]
GRANT. Meade sent word an hour and a
half ago that Lee was surrounded all but
two miles, which was closing in.
LINCOLN. That ought about to settle it,
eh?
GRANT. Unless anything goes wrong in
those two miles, sir. I'm expecting a
further report from Meade every minute.
LINCOLN. Would there be more fighting?
GRANT. It will probably mean fighting
through the night, more or less. But Lee
must realise it's hopeless by the morning.
AN ORDERLY [entering]. A despatch, sir.
GRANT. Yes.
[THE ORDERLY goes, and a YOUNG




120


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


-      ~~~~~~~~~~I.  I


OFFICER comes in from the field.
He salutes and hands a despatch
to GRANT.]
OFFICER. From General Meade, sir.
GRANT [taking it]. Thank you. [He
opens it and reads.] You needn't wait.
[THE OFFICER salutes and goes.] Yes,
they've closed the ring. Meade gives
them ten hours. It's timed at eight.
That's six o'clock in the morning.
[He hands the despatch to LINCOLN.]
LINCOLN. We must be merciful. Bob
Lee has been a gallant fellow.
GRANT [taking a paper]. Perhaps you'll
look through this list, sir. I hope it's the
last we shall have.
LINCOLN [taking the paper]. It's a horrible part of the business, Grant. Any
shootings?
GRANT. One.
LINCOLN. Damn it, Grant, why can't
you do without it? No, no, of course not!
Who is it?
GRANT. Malins.
MALINS [opening a book]. William Scott,
sir. It's rather a hard case.
LINCOLN. What is it?
MALINS. He had just done a heavy
march, sir, and volunteered for double
guard duty to relieve a sick friend. He was
found asleep at his post.
[He shuts the book.]
GRANT. I was anxious to spare him. But
it could n't be done. It was a critical place,
at a gravely critical time.
LINCOLN. When is it to be?
MALINS. To-morrow, at daybreak, sir.
LINCOLN. 1 don't see that it will do him
any good to be shot. Where is he?
MALINS. Here, sir.
LINCOLN. Can I go and see him?
GRANT. Where is he?
MALINS. In the barn, I believe, sir.
GRANT. Dennis.
DENNIS [coming from his table]. Yes, sir.
GRANT. Ask them to bring Scott in here.
[DENNIS goes.] I want, to see Colonel
West. Malins, ask Templeman if those
figures are ready yet,
[He goes, and MALINS follows.]
I!NCOLN. Will you, Hay?
[HAY goes. After a moment, during


which LINCOLN takes the book
that MALINS has been reading
from, and looks into it, WILLIAM
SCOTT is brought in under guard.
He is a boy of twenty.]
LINCOLN [to the GUARD]. Thank you.
Wait outside, will you? [The MEN salute
and withdraw.] Are you William Scott?
SCOTT. Yes, sir.
LINCOLN. You know who I am?
SCOTT. Yes, sir.
LINCOLN. The General tells me you've
been court-martialled.
SCOTT. Yes, sir.
LINCOLN. Asleep on guard?
SCOTT. Yes, sir.
LINCOLN. It 's a very serious offence.
SCOTT. I know, sir.
LINCOLN. What was it?
SCOTT [a pause]. I could n't keep awake,
sir.
LINCOLN. You'd had a long march?
SCOTT. Twenty-three miles, sir.
LINCOLN. You were doing double guard?
SCOTT. Yes, sir.
LINCOLN. Who ordered you?
SCOTT. Well, sir, I offered.
LINCOLN. Why?
SCOTT. Enoch White - he was sick, sir.
We come from the same place.
LINCOLN. Where's that?
SCOTT. Vermont, sir.
LINCOLN. You live there?
SCOTT. Yes, sir. My... we've got a
farm down there, sir.
LINCOLN. Who has?
SCOTT. My mother, sir. I've got her
photograph, sir.
[He takes it from his pocket.]
LINCOLN [taking it]. Does she know
about this?
SCOTT. For God's sake, don't, sir!
LINCOLN. There, there, my boy. You're
not going to be shot.
SCOTT [after a pause]. Not going to be
shot, sir!
LINCOLN. No, no.
ScorT. Not - going - to- be- shot!
[He breaks down, sobbing.]
LINCOLN [rising and going to him]. There,
there. I believe you when you tell me that
you couldn't keep awake. I'm going to




ABRAHAM LINCOLN


121


trust you, and send you back to your
regiment.       [He goes back to his seat.]
SCOTT. When may I go back, sir?
LINCOLN. You can go back to-morrow.
I expect the fighting will be over, though.
ScoTT. Is it over yet, sir?
LINCOLN. Not quite.
SCOTT. Please, sir, let me go back tonight - let me go back to-night.
LINCOLN. Very well. [He writes.] Do
you know where General Meade is?
SCOTT. No, sir.
LINCOLN. Ask one of those men to come
here.    [SCOTT calls one of his guards in.]
LINCOLN. Your prisoner is discharged.
Take him at once to General Meade with
this.        [He hands a note to the man.]
THE Soldier. Yes, sir.
SCOTT. Thank you, sir.
[He salutes and goes out with the
SOLDIER.]
LINCOLN. Hay.
HAY [outside]. Yes, sir. [He comes in.]
LINCOLN. What's the time?
HAY [looking at the watch on the table].
Just on half-past nine, sir.
LINCOLN. I shall sleep here for a little.
You'd better shake down too. They'll
wake us if there's any news.
[LINCOLN wraps himself up on two
chairs. HAY follows suit on a
bench. After a few moments
GRANT comes to the door, sees
what has happened, blows out the
candles quietly, and goes away.]
THE CURTAIN FALLS
THE FIRST CHRONICLER. Under the stars
an end is made,
And on the field the Southern blade
Lies broken,
And, where strife was, shall union be,
And, where was bondage, liberty.
The word is spoken....
Night passes.
[The Curtain rises on the same
scene, LINCOLN and HAY still
lying asleep. The light of dawn
fills the room The ORDERLY
comes in with two smoking cups


of coffee and some biscuits.
LINCOLN wakes,.]
LINCOLN. Good-morning.
ORDERLY. Good-morning, sir.
LINCOLN   [taking coffee and biscuits].
Thank you.
[The ORDERLY turns to HAY, who
sleeps on, and he hesitates.]
LINCOLN. Hay. [Shouting.] Hay.
HAY [starting up]. Hullo!  What the
devil is it? I beg your pardon, sir.
LINCOLN. Not at all. Take a little coffee.
HAY. Thank you, sir.
[He takes coffee and biscuits. The
ORDERLY goes. ]
LINCOLN. Slept well, Hay?
HAY. I feel a little crumpled, sir. I
think I fell off once.
LINCOLN. What's the time?
HAY [looking at the watch]. Six o'clock,
sir.
[GRANT comes in.]
GRANT. Good-morning, sir; good-morning, Hay.
LINCOLN. Good-morning, general.
HAY. Good-morning, sir.
GRANT. I did n't disturb you last night.
A message has just come from Meade. Lee
asked for an armistice at four o'clock.
LINCOLN [after a silence]. For four years
life has been but the hope of this moment.
It is strange how simple it is when it comes.
Grant, you've served the country very
truly. And you've made nay work possible.
[He takes his hand.] Thank you.
GRANT. Had I failed, the fault would
not have been yours, sir. I succeeded because you believed in me.
LINCOLN. Where is Lee?
GRANT. He's coming here. Meade
should arrive directly.
LINCOLN. Where will Lee wait?
GRANT. There's a room ready for him.
Will you receive him, sir?
LINCOLN. No, no, Grant. That's your
affair. You are to mention no political matters. Be generous. But I need n't say that.
GRANT [taking a paper from his pocket].
Those are the terms I suggest.
LINCOLN [reading]. Yes, yes. They do
you honour.
[He places the paper on the table.]




122


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


[An ORDERLY comes in.]
ORDERLY. General Meade is here, sir.
GRANT. Ask him to come here.
ORDERLY. Yes, sir.        [He goes.]
GRANT. I learnt a good deal from
Robert Lee in early days. He's a better
man than most of us. This business will go
pretty near the heart, sir.
LINCOLN. I'm glad it's to be done by a
brave gentleman, Grant. [GENERAL MEADE
and CAPTAIN' SONE, his aide-de-camp,
come in. MEADE salutes.] Congratulations,
Meade. You've done well.
MEADE. Thank you, sir.
GRANT. Was there much more fighting?
MEADE. Pretty hot for an hour or two.
GRANT. How long will Lee be?
MEADE. Only a few minutes, I should
say, sir.
GRANT. You said nothing about terms?
MEADE. No, sir.
LINCOLN. Did a boy Scott come to you?
MEADE. Yes, sir. He went into action
at once. He was killed, was n't he, Sone?
SONE. Yes, sir.
LINCOLN. Killed? It's a queer world,
Grant.
MEADE. IS there any proclamation to
be made, sir, about the rebels?
GRANT. I -
LINCOLN. No, no. I'll have nothing of
hanging or shooting these men, even the
worst of them. Frighten them out of the
country, open the gates, let down the bars,
scare them off. Shoo! [He flings out his
arms.] Good-bye, Grant. Report at Washington as soon as you can. [He shakes
hands with him.] Good-bye, gentlemen.
Come along, Hay.
[MEADE salutes and LINCOLN goes,
followed by HAY.]
GRANT. Who is with Lee?
MEADE. Only one of his staff, sir.
GRANT. You might see Malins, will you,
Sone, and let us know directly General Lee
comes.
SONE. Yes, sir.        [He goes out.]
GRANT. Well, Meade, it's been a big
job.
MEADE. Yes, sir.
GRANT. We've had courage and determination. And we've had wits, to beat


a great soldier. I'd say that to any man.
But it's Abraham Lincoln, Meade, who
has kept us a great cause clean to fight for.
It does a man's heart good to know he's
given victory to such a man to handle. A
glass, Meade? [Pouring out whiskey.] No?
[Drinking.] Do you know, Meade, there
were fools who wanted me to oppose Lincoln for the next Presidency. I've got my
vanities, but I know better than that.
[MALINS comes in.]
MALINS. General Lee is here, sir.
GRANT. Meade, will General Lee do me
the honour of meeting me here? [MEADE
salutes and goes.] Where the deuce is my
hat, Malins? And sword.
MALINS. Here, sir.
[MALINS gets them for him.]
[MEADE and SONE come in, and stand at the
door at attention. ROBERT LEE, General-in-Chief of the Confederate forces,
comes in, followed by one of his staff.
The days of critical anxiety through
which he has just lived have marked
themselves on LEE'S face, but his
groomed and punctilious toilet contrasts
pointedly with GRANT'S unconsidered
appearance. The two commanders face
each other. GRANT salutes, and LEE
replies.]
GRANT. Sir, you have given me occasion
to be proud of my opponent.
LEE. I have not spared my strength. I
acknowledge its defeat.
GRANT. You have come -
LEE. To ask upon what terms you will
accept surrender. Yes.
GRANT [taking the paper from the table and
handing it to LEE]. They are simple. I
hope you will not find them ungenerous.
LEE [having read the terms]. You are
magnanimous, sir. May I make one submission?
GRANT. It would be a privilege if I could
consider it.
LEE. You allow our officers to keep their
horses. That is gracious. Our cavalry
troopers' horses also are their own.
GRANT. I understand. They will be
needed on the farms. It shall be done.
LEE. 1 thank you. It will do much




ABRAHAM LINCOLN


123


towards conciliating our people. I accept
your terms.
[LEE unbuckles his sword and
offers it to GRANT.]
GRANT. No, no. I should have included
that. It has but one rightful place. I beg
you.
[LEE replaces his sword. GRANT
offers his hand and LEE takes it.
They salute, and LEE turns to go.]
THE CURTAIN FALLS
THE Two CHRONICLERS. A wind blows
in the night,
And the pride of the rose is gone.
It laboured, and was delight,
And rains fell, and shone
Suns of the summer days,
And dews washed the bud,
And thanksgiving and praise
Was the rose in our blood.
And out of the night it came,
A wind, and the rose fell,
Shattered its heart of flame, 
And how shall June tell
The glory that went with May?
How shall the full year keep
The beauty that ere its day
Was blasted into sleep?
Roses. Oh, heart of man:
Courage, that in the prime
Looked on truth, and began
Conspiracies with time
To flower upon the pain
Of dark and envious earth...
A wind blows, and the brain
Is the dust that was its birth.
What shall the witness cry,
He who has seen alone
With imagination's eye
The darkness overthrown?
Hark: from the long eclipse
The wise words come -
A wind blows, and the lips
Of prophecy are dumb.
SCENE VI. The evening of April 14, 1865.
The small lounge of a theatre. On the far side
are the doors of three private boxes. There is


silence for a few moments. Then the sound of
applause comes from the auditorium beyond.
The box doors are opened. In the centre box
can be seen LINCOLN and STANTON, MRS.
LINCOLN, another lady, ard an officer, talking together. The occuparts come out from
the other boxes into the lounge, where small
knots of people have gathered from different
directions, and stand or sit talking busily.
A LADY. Very amusing, don't you think?
HER COMPANION. Oh, yes. But it's
hardly true to life, is it?
ANOTHER LADY. Is n't that dark girl
clever? What's her name?
A GENTLEMAN [consulting his programme].
Eleanor Crowne.
ANOTHER GENTLEMAN. There's a terrible draught, is n't there? I shall have a
stiff neck.
HIs WIFE. You should keep your scarf on.
THE GENTLEMAN. It looks so odd.
ANOTHER LADY. The President looks
very happy this evening, does n't he?
ANOTHER. No wonder is it? He must
be a proud man.
[A young man, dressed in black,
passes among the people, glancing
furtively into LINCOLN'S box, and
disappears. It is JOHN WILKES
BOOTH.]
A LADY [greeting another]. Ah, Mrs.
Bennington. When do you expect your
husband back?
[They drift away. SUSAN, carrying
cloaks and wraps, comes in. She
goes to the box, and speaks to
MRS. LINCOLN. Then she comes
away, and sits down apart from
the crowd to wait.]
A YOUNG MAN. I rather think of going
on the stage myself. My friends tell me
I'm uncommon good. Only I don't think
my health would stand it.
A GIRL. Oh, it must be a very easy life.
Just acting - that's easy enough.
[A cry of "Lincoln" comes through
the auditorium. It is taken up,
with shouts of " The President,"
"Speech," "Abraham Lincoln,"
"Father Abraham," and so on.
The conversation in the lounge
stops as the talkers turn to listen.




124


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


After a few moments, LINCOLN
is seen to rise. There is a burst
of cheering. The people in the
lounge stand round the box door.
LINCOLN holds up his hand, and
there is a sudden silence.]
LINCOLN. My friends, I am touched,
deeply touched, by this mark of your goodwill. After four dark and difficult years,
we have achieved the great purpose for
which we set out. General Lee's surrender
to General Grant leaves but one Confederate force in the field, and the end is immediate and certain. [Cheers.] I have but
little to say at this moment. I claim not to
have controlled events, but confess plainly
that events have controlled me. But as
events have come before me, I have seen
them always with one faith. We have preserved the American Union, and we have
abolished a great wrong. [Cheers.] The
task of reconciliation, of setting order
where there is now confusion, of bringing
about a settlement at once just and merciful, and of directing the life of a reunited
country into prosperous channels of goodwill and generosity, will demand all our
wisdom, all our loyalty. It is the proudest
hope of my life that I may be of some
service in this work. [Cheers.] Whatever it
may be, it can be but little in return for all
the kindness and forbearance that I have
received. With malice toward none, with
charity for all, it is for us to resolve that
this nation, under God, shall have a new
birth of freedom; and that government of
the people, by the people, for the people,
shall not perish from the earth.
[There is a great sound of cheering.
It dies down, and a boy passes
through the lounge and calls out
"Last act, ladies and gentlemen." The people disperse, and
the box doors are closed. SUSAN
is left alone and there is silence.]


[After a few moments, BOOTH appears. He watches SUSAN and
sees that her gaze is fixed away
from him. He creeps along to the
centre box and disengages a hand
from under his cloak. It holds
a revolver. Poising himself, he
opens the door with a swift movement, fires, flings the door to
again, and rushes away. The
door is thrown open again, and
the OFFICER follows in pursuit.
Inside the box, MRS. LINCOLN is
kneeling by her husband, who is
supported by STANTON. A DOCTOR runs across the lounge and
goes into the box. There is complete silence in the theatre. The
door closes again.
SUSAN [who has run to the box door, and is
kneeling there, sobbing]. Master, master!
No, no, not my master!
[The other box doors have opened,
and the occupants with others
have collected in little terrorstruck groups in the lounge. Then
the centre door opens, and STANTON comes out, closing it behind
him.]
STANTON. Now he belongs to the ages.
[THE CHRONICLERS speak.]
FIRST CHRONICLER. Events go by. And
upon circumstance
Disaster strikes with the blind sweep of
chance,
And this our mimic action was a theme,
Kinsmen, as life is, clouded as a dream.
SECOND CHRONICLER. But, as we spoke,
presiding everywhere
Upon event was one man's character.
And that endures; it is the token sent
Always to man for man's own government.


THE CURTAIN FALLS




MIXED MARRIAGE
A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS
BY ST. JOHN G. ERVINE




COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY ST. JOHN G. ERVINE
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Reprinted by permission of and special arrangement with the author
and his publishers, Maunsel &O Company, Ltd., Dublin




TO
NORA




PERSONS IN THE PLAY
JOHN RAINEY
MRS. RAINEY
TOM RAINEY
HUGH RAINEY
NORA MURRAY
MICHAEL O'HARA




MIXED MARRIAGE
ACT I


SCENE. It is the evening of a warm summer day at the beginning of July. The living
room of JOHN RAINEY'S house, by reason of
the coal-fire burning in the open grate, is
intolerably heated; to counteract this, the door
leading to the street is partly open, and the
scullery door, leading to the yard is open to
its widest. Near the fireplace, above which is
suspended a portrait of King William the
Third in the act of crossing the Boyne, a plain
deal table, covered with dark-coloured American cloth, stands. It is laid for the evening
meal. At the fire, placing a plateful of buttered
toast on the fender, is MRS. RAINEY, a slight,
gentle woman, patient with the awful patience
of a woman who has always submitted to her
husband's will, without ever respecting him.
Whilst she is completing the preparations for
the meal, the street door is pushed hurriedly
open and JOHN RAINEY, dirty from his labor,
enters. He is grey-haired, but not bald; he
speaks with the quick accent of one used to
being obeyed.
RAINEY. IS the tay ready?
MRS. RAINEY. It'll be ready in a minute! Ye '11 have to wait til Tom an' Hughie
come in.
RAINEY. What are they not here fur?
They haven't anny fardher nor me to
come, an A'm here afore them. An' me an
ould man an' all.
MRS. RAINEY. Ah, now don't be puttin'
yerself out. Sure, they'll be here in a minute or two. Gwon into the scullery now
an' wash yerself.
RAINEY. Has the wee boy wi' the Tellygraph come yit?
MRS. RAINEY. He'll be here in a minit.
Lord bless us, ye're in a quare hurry the
night.
RAINEY. He's always late, that wee lad!
MRS. RAINEY. Wus there annythin' pertickler ye wur wantin' t' see in it?


RAINEY. Aye, about the strack.
MRS. RAINEY. The strack! Ye're not
out on strack, John?
RAINEY. Aye, we come out this avenin'.
MRS. RAINEY. Aw, God help us, this is
tarrible!
RAINEY. It's goan t' be a long job too,
A can tell ye. The masters an' the men are
determined.                4
MRs. RAINEY. Ye nivir tould me there
was goan t' be a strack.
RAINEY. Och, what wud a lock o' weemen want t' be talkin' about stracks fur.
What do they know about it?
MRS. RAINEY. It's on'y us that does
know about it. It's us that has t' kape the
heart in you while it's oa.
RAINEY. Aw, now, hould yer tongue 
You weemen are always down in the mouth
about somethin'. Ye wud think t' hear ye
talkin' we come out on strack fur the fun
o' the thing. It's no joke, A can tell ye!
MRS. RAINEY. It is not, indeed.
RAINEY [taking off his coat and loosening
his waistcoat]. Where's the towel?
MRS. RAINEY. Behin' the scullery door.
[He goes into the scullery, and the
noise of great splashing is heard
whilst he washes himself. A
newspaper boy is heard coming
down the street, crying, "Tellyger-ah!" He flings a paper into
the little porch, utters his cry in
the door, and passes on. MRS.
RAINEY goes to the door and picks
the paper up. As she does so,
her son, TOM, appears in the
doorway. They enter the kitchen
together.]
TOM. Is that you, Ma?
MRS. RAINEY. Aye, Tom! Where's
Hughie?
TOM. Och, he's away after them Sinn




130


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


Feiners. He'll be here in a wee while. Is
me da in yet?
[JOHN RAINEY appears, towelling himself
vigorously.]
RAINEY. So ye're here at last, are ye?
Kapin' the tay waitin'!
TOM. Och, sure, A cudden help it. A wus
wi' Hughie!
RAINEY. Aye, ye're sure t' be late if
ye're wi' him. Where's he?
TOM. A left him in Royal Avenue talkin'
to Michael O'Hara.
RAINEY. What, thon Papish fella?
TOM. Aye, they went intil the Sinn
Feiners' Hall thegither. [He sits down and
takes off his boots.] He'll not be long.
[He takes off his coat and loosens
his waistcoat.]
RAINEY. A don't like Hughie goin' after
Papishes. He knows a quare lock o' them.
MRS. RAINEY. Och, now, what harm is
there in that. A'm sure Micky O'Hara's
as nice a wee fella as ye cud wish t' meet.
RAINEY. Aw, A've nathin' agenst him,
but A don't like Cathliks an' Prodesans
mixin' thegither. No good ivir comes o' the
like o' that.
[TOM goes into the scullery where the
splashing noise is renewed.]
MRS. RAINEY. They'll have to mix in
heaven, John.
RAINEY. This is n't heaven.
MRS. RAINEY. Indeed, that's true. What
wi' stracks an' one thing an' another, it
might be hell.
RAINEY. There's no peace where Cathliks an' Prodesans gits mixed up thegither.
Luk at the way the Cathliks carry on on
the Twelfth o' July. Ye have t' have the
peelers houlin' them back for fear they'd
make a riot. D' ye call that respectable or
dacent?
MRS. RAINEY. Well, God knows, they
git plenty of provokin'. What wi' them
men that prache at the Custom House
Steps an' yer or'nge arches an' the way the
Tellygraph is always goin' on at them, A
wonder they don't do more nor they do.
RAINEY. Aw, ye wur always one fur
Cathliks!
MRS. RAINEY. A belave in lavin' people


alone. Come on, an' have yer tay fur dear
sake. Sure ye'd go on talkin' fur a lifetime
if A wus to let ye.
RAINEY. Are ye not goin' to wait fur
Hughie?
MRS. RAINEY. No, ye'd better have
yours now: he'll have his when he comes
in.    [They sit down and begin the meal.]
RAINEY. Dear on'y knows when that'll
be, runnin' after a lock o' Socialists an'
Cathliks?
MRS. RAINEY. He's not runnin' after
Socialists. It's Sinn Feiners he's runnin'
after.
RAINEY. They're the same thing. Sinn
Feiners are all Socialists. That fella
Michael O'Hara, what d' ye think he said
when A asked him what way o' thinkin'
he was?
MRS. RAINEY. A don't know, A'm sure.
RAINEY. A'm a member o' the Independent Labor Party, ses he, the I.L.P. A
Socialist Society - that's what it is. Did
ye ivir hear the like o' that?
MRS. RAINEY. Och, A've heerd worse.
A've heerd o' stracks.
RAINEY. There ye go again. What can
we do? Sure, the masters is not payin' us
fair, an' there's no other way o' makin'
them.
[TOM re-enters the kitchen and completes his
toilet in front of the small looking-glass
hanging on the wall.]
Is there, Tom?
TOM. Sure, I don't know anythin' about
it.
RAINEY. Naw, ye're ignorant, that's
what ye are. A great big fella like you, an'
don't know that yit. Ye think o' nathin
but goin' up the road of an avenin' after a
lot o' girls.
MRS. RAINEY. Well, sure ye wur the
same yerself when ye wur his age. Come on
an' have yer tay, Tom.
RAINEY. The young men o' this day
don't think enough. There's not one o'
them knows a thing about the battle o' the
Boyne. What happened on the first day
o' July in the year sixteen hunderd and
ninety, will ye tell me that, now?
[TOM sits at the table.]




MIXED MARRIAGE


r3I


TOM. Aw, fur dear sake, hould yer
tongue. A left school long ago.
MRS. RAINEY. Mebbe some ould men
lost their tempers.
RAINEY. Aye, ye can make fun, but it
was the gran' day fur Englan' an' Irelan'
that wus, when William o' Or'nge driv
Popery out o' Irelan'.
TOM. He didden drive it far. Sure,
there's plenty o' Papishes in Bilfast, an'
there's more o' them in Irelan' nor Prodesans.
MRS. RAINEY. A can't help thinkin' it's
their country we've got.
RAINEY. Their country, indeed! What
d' ye think 'ud become o' us if this wur their
country? There is n't a Prodesan in Irelan'
wud be left alive.
MRS. RAINEY. Och, now, don't tell us
the like o' that, fur sure it's not true.
Cathliks is jus' like wurselves, as good as
we are an' as bad as we are, an' no worse.
A wish to me goodness ye wudden go to the
Custom House Steps if that's the soart o'
nonsense they tache ye.
RAINEY. A don't nade t' be taught it -
A know it. A've read a bit in me time. Did
ye ivir read the history o' Maria Monk?
TOM. Sure, Hughie ses that's all lies.
RAINEY. Lies, does he call it? What
does he know about it? That's what comes
thrum associatin' wi' Tagues. He'll be
disbelievin' the Bible nixt.
[A knock is heard on the door, and
a voice cries "Are ye in, Mrs.
Rainey? "]
MRS. RAINEY. Aye, A am.
[Enter NORA MURRAY, a good-looking, intelligent, dark-haired girl of twenty-four.]
Och, is that yerself, Nora? Sure come on in.
NORA. Good avenin', Mr. Rainey.
RAINEY. Good avenin'.
NORA. How ir ye, Tom?
TOM. A'm bravely, thank ye, Nora.
NORA. Is Hugh in?
MRS. RAINEY. He's not home yet, but
he'll be here in a wee minute. Have ye
had yer tay?
NORA. Aye, A have, thank ye.
MRS. RAINEY. Sure, ye cud take a wee
drap more, cudden ye?


NORA. Aw, no, thank ye. A'm on'y
after havin' it.
TOM. Gwon an' have a drap 'er that.
NORA. Och, A cud not indeed.
RAINEY. There's no good askin' her if
she won't have it.
NORA. IS it true about the strack?
RAINEY. It is.
NORA. Dear-a-dear, but it's a quare pity.
RAINEY. Aw, you weemen are all the
same. Ye're always lukkin' on the black
side o' things, an' complainin'.
MRS. RAINEY. There's nathin' but
black sides to stracks.
TOM. Aw, there's a bright side, too. Ye
don't have to git up so early in the mornin'.
RAINEY. Ye'll git up at the same time
the morra mornin', strack or no strack. It
wudden take you long t' git out o' the
habit o' gettin' up early.
NORA. There'll be the quare distress in
Belfast. It wus awful the last time.
RAINEY. There's always distress fur the
like o' us sometime or other.
NORA. Indeed, that's true.
MRS. RAINEY. There ought to be some
other way o' settlin' these things nor
stracks. It's wicked, that's what it is, an'
it's the weemen that has to bear the worst
o' it. Aw, yes, indeed it is. You men don't
have to face the rent agent an' the grocer
wi' no money.
RAINEY. We all have to take our share,
don't we?
MRS. RAINEY. Some have to take more
nor their share. [To NORA.] Are ye goan
up the road wi' Hughie the night, Nora?
NORA [somewhat embarrassed]. No, A jus'
come in t' ask him about the strack.
RAINEY. Well ye've heerd about it.
NORA [in greater confusion]. Yes, A'11
jus' be goin' now.
MRS. RAINEY. Fur dear sake, don't take
any notis o' him. Sure, he's not beside himself the night. Jus' sit down there, an' wait
till Hughie comes. He's a long time. [She
goes to the door and looks out.] He's not in
sight. Come on an' we'll walk til the head
o' the street an' see if he's comin'.
NORA. Aye, A will.
[NORA and MRS. RAINEY go out at
the street do6r.]




t32


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


RAINEY. Is Hughie goin' out wi' that girl?
TOM. Aw, he walks up the road wi' her
but sure he' done that often enough wi'
other girls. He's a great boy fur girls.
RAINEY. What religion is she?
TOM [uneasily]. A'm not sure.
RAINEY. She's got a Papish name.
There's many a Fenian be the name o'
Murray.
TOM. Sure, what differs does it make if
she is a Cathlik. She's a brave, nice wee
girl.
RAINEY. A wudden have a son o' mine
marry a Cathlik fur all the wurl'. A've
nathin' agin the girl, but A believe in
stickin' t' yer religion. A Cathlik's a Cathlik, an' a Prodesan's a Prodesan. Ye can't
get over that.
TOM. Och, sure, they're all the same.
Ye cudden tell the differs atween a Cathlik
an' a Prodesan if ye met them in the street
an' didden know what their religion wus.
A'm not one fur marryin' out o' my religion meself, but A'm no bigot. Nora
Murray's a fine wumman.
RAINEY. Fine or no fine, she's a Cathlik,
an' A'11 nivir consent til a son o' mine marryin' her.
TOM. What are ye goan t' do about the
strack?
RAINEY. Do! What shud A do? Take
me share in it the same's the rest o' ye?
The workin' class has got t' hing thegither.
TOM. It's a tarrible pity we can't get
our work done dacently. Nathin' but a lot
o' fightin' an' wranglin'.
RAINEY. Ay, it's a rotten way t' git
through the wurl', fightin' over ha'pennies.
Us wantin' a penny an hour more, an' the
masters not willin' t' give it to us. Och,
ay, it's wrong. Wrong, wrong!
[Re-enter MRS. RAINEY.]
MRS. RAINEY. Hughie's comin' down
the street, now. He's got O'Hara wi' him.
RAINEY. Huh! more Cathliks Where's
that girl gone?
MRS. RAINEY. A toul' her t' go on an'
meet them. She'll come in wi' them in a
minit.
RAINEY. A'm surprised at ye encouragin'
her. A Cathlik I


MRS. RAINEY. Ah, fur dear sake, houl'
yer wheesht. Ye've got Cathlik on the
brain.
RAINEY. A'm agin mixed marriages,
d' ye hear?
[Enter HUGH RAINEY, MICHAEL O'HARA,
and NORA. Greetings, surly on the part
of old RAINEY.]
MRS. RAINEY. Have ye had yer tay,
Michael?
HUGH. No, indeed, he has n't, ma, an'
A brought him here t' have it.
MICHAEL. Och, now, Mrs. Rainey, don't
put yerself til any bother. Sure, A'11 git
it whin A go home.
MRS. RAINEY. It's no bother at all,
Michael. It 's on'y t' git down a cup an'
sasser. Sure, there's plenty, an' yer welcome to it.
MICHAEL. It's very kind o' ye, A'm
sure.
[HUGH and he sit down at the table
together. NORA and TOM sit
talking together on the sofa.
RAINEY is seated before the fire
reading the "Evening Telegraph."]
MRS. RAINEY. Nora, come up here an'
have a cup o' tay.
NORA. Aw, indeed A cuddent, Mrs.
Rainey, thank ye. A've just had it.
HUGH. Ah, come on, an' keep Michael
an' me company. Sure, ye can always
drink tay.
MRS. RAINEY. Now, come on. We'll
not take "no" fur an answer.
RAINEY. Sure if the girl dussen want
it...
MRS. RAINEY. Aw, you go on readin'
yer paper.
[NORA joins HUGH and MICHAEL
at the table.]
HUGH. Da, we wur wantin' t' have a bit
o' a talk wi' ye, Michael an' me, about the
strack.
RAINEY. Wur ye?
HUGH. Aye, we wur. We wur thinkin'
ye might give us a great dale o' help.
MICHAEL. Ye see, Mr. Rainey, ye're a
man that's held in great respect be the
men, Cathliks an' Prodesans.




MIXED MARRIAGE


I33


RAINEY. A've always tried t' live a
straight life an' do me duty by my fellow
men.
MICHAEL. Indeed, A know that quare
an' well, Mr. Rainey. Ye're a man that's
alwis bin thought a great dale of. Well,
Hugh an' me's bin talkin' this matter over,
an' we've come til the conclusion that the
great danger o' this strack is that the workers may get led astray be religious rancour.
There's bin attempts made in that direction already.
HUGH. Aye, did ye see that bit in the
Telly the night about Nationalists breedin'
discontent among the peaceable people o'
Bilfast?
RAINEY. Naw, A've not read it yit.
[Looking at the paper]. Is this it? [HUGH
looks at the paper]. This bit.
HUGH. Aye, that. [Reads.] "We feel sure
that the loyal peace-abiding Protestants
of this, the greatest commercial city in
Ireland, will not allow themselves to be
led astray by Nationalist agitators from
Dublin, and that they will see that their
true interests lie in the same direction as
those of their employers. We should be the
last to encourage religious strife, but we
would remind our readers, the loyal Orangemen of Ulster, that the leaders of this
strike are Roman Catholics and Home
Rulers." There's a nice thing fur ye.
There's a lot o' fools in this town'11 swallow
that balderdash like anything.
MICHAEL. Ye see, Mr. Rainey, it's a
fact that the leaders are mostly Cathliks,
but that dussent mane anything at all,
on'y there's some people'11 think that it
manes that the Pope'll arrive here next
week an' ordher all the Prodesans t' be
slaughtered. Now, Hugh an' me thought
if you wur t' come an' take a leadin' part
in the strack it wud show that Cathliks an'
Prodesans wus workin' han' in han' fur the
same object. D' ye see?
RAINEY. Aye, A see right enough.
HUGH. D' ye agree wi' it father?
RAINEY. A'm no' sure. It wants thinkin'
about.
MRS. RAINEY. What thinkin' does it
want to stan' thegither?
TOM. Sure, ye've on'y got to go on the


platform an' say we're all in the same
boat.
RAINEY. What d' you know about it?
You're on'y a bit o' a lad.
ToM [sulkily]. Mebbe A know more'n
some people think A do.
RA]:NEY. Aye, an' mebbe ye don't know
s' much as ye think ye do.
MRS. RAINEY. Ah, well, mebbe atween
the two he knows a brave bit. Are ye
ready for some more tay, Michael?
MICHAEL. Aw, sure A'm done, Mrs.
Rainey, thank ye.
MRS. RAINEY. Och, indeed, ye're not.
Sure that's no tay fur a man.
MICHAEL. Aw, now, A've done rightly,
thank ye. A cudden take another drap.
MRS. RAINEY. Well, A wunt coax ye, ye
know.
MICHAEL. Aw, A wudden say "no" jus'
fur the sake o' bein' polite.
MRS. RAINEY. Well, if ye're done, A'11
jus' redd away these dishes an' things.
NORA [rising]. Let me do it, Mrs. Rainey.
MRS. RAINEY. Indeed A will not. Sit
down there an' rest yerself. Sure ye've bin
at yer work all day.
NORA. Well, ye can let me help ye anny
way?
MRS. RAINEY [smiling at her]. Well,
mebbe A will. Come on intil the scullery
an' we'll wash up the dishes while these
men have ther crack.
[MRS. RAINEY and NORA remove
the dishes and tea-things to the
scullery: they pass in and out of
the kitchen to the scullery, during
a part of the following scene, but
when all the tea-things have been
removed, they remain in the scullery and the noise of dishes being
washed is heard.]
RAINEY. Where is this meetin' to take
place?
MICHAEL. Well, we wur thinkin' o'
St. Mary's Hall.
RAINEY. What!
HtTGH. Sure, what does it matter where
it takes place?
RAINEY. A Cathlik hall like that where
Home Rulers always go?
HUGH. It's the only hall we can git.




134


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


Sure, we'd take the Ulster on'y they wudden let us have it.
TOM. Ye cud have it at the Custom
House Steps. Ye cud git more people there.
MICHAEL. We wur thinkin' o' that.
RAINEY. A wudden go anear St. Mary's
Hall.
HUGH. Wud ye go til the Steps, then?
RAINEY. Aye, A might do that.
MICHAEL. Then we'll have it there.
Man, Mr. Rainey, A'm quare an' glad
ye're willin' till speak. It's a fine thing.
Think o' it. Here's a chance t' kill bigotry
and make the men o' Bilfast realise that
onderneath the Cathlik an' the Prodesan
there's the plain workin' man.
HUGH. Aye, that's it. They're jus'the
same onderneath. They need the same
food an' shelter an' clo'es, an' they suffer
the same wrongs. The employers don't give
a man better wages fur bein' a Prodesan or
a Cathlik, do they?
RAINEY. That's true enough.
MICHAEL. A tell ye, Mr. Rainey, the
employers have used religion to throw dust
in wur eyes. They're eggin' us on t' fight
one another over religion, so's we shan't
have time til think about the rotten wages
they give us. They set the Cathliks agin
the Prodesans, an' the Prodesans agin the
Cathliks, so's ye can't git the two to work
thegither fur the good o' their class. Look
at the way it is in the shipyards. Ye git
men workin' thegither peaceably all the
year til the Twelfth o' July, an' then they
start batin' wan another fur the love o'
God. There's yourself. Ye're a very
dacent, intelligent man, but ye're suspicious o' me, an' ye don't like t' see Hugh
an' me so chummy as we are, an' all acause
A'm a Cathlik an' you an' he are Prodesans.
RAINEY. There's a differs.
MICHAEL. On'y a very little. Look at
me. A'm like yerself. A'm a workin' man.
A want t' marry an' have a wife an' childher
an' keep them an' me dacently, an' A want
t' sarve God in the way A wus brought up.
You don't want no more nor that.
TOM. Aye, indeed, that's true. People
are all the same the wurl' over. They jus'
want t' be let alone.
Huva. Man, da, whin A'm out wi'


Mickey, A sometimes think what a fine
thing it 'ud be if the workin' men o' Irelan'
was to join their han's thegither an' try an'
make a great country o' it. There wus a
time whin Irelan' wus the islan' o' saints.
By God, da, if we cud bring that time back
again.
RAINEY. It's a gran' dream.
MICHAEL. To see the streets full o'
happy men an' weemen again, their faces
shinin' wi' the glory o' the Lord God, an'
the childher runnin' about in the sun an'
none o' them sick wi' hunger. Aw, if on'y
we wud hould thegither an' not be led
astray be people that want to keep us apart.
RAINEY. It'll niver be.
[Enter MRS. RAINEY.]
MICHAEL. Why not?
RAINEY. There's such a quare differs
atween a Cathlik an' a Prodesan.
MRS. RAINEY. Och, sure what differs
does it make so long as ye act up til yer
religion?
[Enter NORA.]
MICHAEL. That's the God's truth, Mrs.
Rainey. When a man's livin' at his best,
it duss n't matter how much he starts
differently thrum other people that's doin'
the same - he gits quare an' like them in
the end.
RAINEY. There's a differs.
NORA. Dear, oh, dear, are ye still
wranglin' wi' one another? What ones men
are fur talkin'.
MRS. RAINEY [pulling her down beside her
on the sofa]. Nivir mind, dear, let them go
on talkin'. It keeps them quiet.
ACT II
The Scene is the same as in ACT I. A
week has elapsed. It is the late afternoon.
MRS. RAINEY is baking bread, there is a
"griddle " on the fire, on which lie four baking
soda-farls. Every now and then MRS.
RAINEY leaves the baking-board and goes to
the griddle to attend to the farls there.
[Her son HUGH enters.]
MRS. RAINEY. Is that you, Hughie?
— HUGtt, Aye. [He draws a chair up to the




MIXED MARRIAGE:35


fire, and takes off his boots. His mother
places a pair of carpet slippers by his chair.
He puts them on.] Where's me da?
MRS. RAINEY. He's away out somewhere. He didden say where he wus goan
an' A didden ask.
HUGH. Man-a-dear, he spoke quare an'
well the day at the Steps. There wus quare
cheers fur him whin he got down aff the
chair.
MRS. RAINEY. Yer father wus alwis a
good speaker.
HUGH. It'll be a fine thing fur him t' be
able t' say he wus the man that give bigotry
its death in Bilfast. The workin'-class '11
nivir be the same again. They know now
that it dussen matter whether yer a Cathlik
or a Prodesan, if ye're a workin' man ye're
bein' groun' down be the masters.
MRS. RAINEY. Aw, now, Hughie, the
masters is not as bad as they're made out
t' be. Sure, it' s no good callin' people bad
names. It's alwis bin like this, an' ye can't
expec' people t' change sudden. If ye wur
brought up like them ye'd be the same as
they are.
HUGH. They have n't got the troubles
we have. They nivir see their childher
starvin', do they?
MRS. RAINEY. Naw, perhaps, they don't
git their trouble jus' like that, but they
get it all the same. It's jus' a wee bit different on the outside. Wud ye like a wee drap
o' tay an' a bit o' new bread?
HUGH. A '11 wait till ye have it yerself.
MRS. RAINEY. A '11 not be long now -
the bread's near done.
[She bends over the "griddle," turning the farls, and now and then
stands them on their sides so as
to brown them all over. Some,
baked, she removes. Her son
watches her for a while as if
anxious to speak to her, but undecided how to begin. She carries
the last farl to the table.]
HUGH. Will A take the griddle aff fur ye?
MRS. RAINEY. Aye, if ye plase. Put it
in the scullery.
[He takes the "griddle" out and
when he returns stands beside her
as she batches the bread.]


MRS. RAINEY. Wur ye wantin' t' say
anythin' to me, Hughie?
HUGH [moving away]. Naw. [He looks at
the fire for a second or two, then turns swiftly
to his mother, and puts his arms round her
neck.] Ma, wud ye be vexed if A wus to
marry Nora Murray?
MRS. RAINEY. Vexed, dear?
[She pats him gently.]
HUGH. Aye. She's a Cathlik.
MRS. RAINEY. A wudden be vexed at
yer marryin' her. A like her quare an' well.
HUGH. But ye wudden like me t' marry
a Cathlik?
MRS. RAINEY. A wus wunnerin', Hughie.
It's strange t' think ye shud be wantin' t'
marry a-tall. It's - ye wur a wee lad -
Ye're a man, Hughie. A har'ly know that
yit.
HUGH. It's nacherl fur a man t' marry.
MRS. RAINEY. Aye, its nacherl. It is
indeed! But ye wudden belave the strange
it is for all that. A wus a young girl when
A had you, Hughie, younger nor Nora,
an' A wus quare an proud o' ye. A...
[She sobs a little.]
HUGH. A've bin a good son t' ye.
M RS. RAINEY [drying her tears]. Ye have,
dear. Ye have that. A'm not complainin'.
It's the way o' things.
HUGH. Ye '11 not be vexed wi' me.
MRS. RAINEY [smiling and kissing him].
Vexed wi' ye. Sure, no. What wud A be
vexed fur? It's yer father.
HUGH. Aye, A wunner how he'll take it?
MRS. RAINEY. Ye're very fond o' her
are n't ye, Hughie?
HUGH. Aye!
MRS. RAINEY. It wud hurt ye not til
marry her?
HUGH. It wud.
MRS. RAINEY. Mebbe if ye wur t' tell
him that...
HUGH. She's not goan t' change her
religion, an' A'm not goan t' change mine.
If there's any childher...
MIRS. RAINEY. That'll be the test,
Hughie.
HUGH. We'll let them choose fur themselves whin they're oul' enough. Aw, Ma,
half the religion in the wurl' is like a disease
that ye get thrum yer father. A'm a Pro



136


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


desan acause you an' me da are Prodesans,
an' Nora's a Cathlik acause her parents
wur Cathliks; an' you and he are Prodesans
acause your da and ma wur Prodesans, an'
they wur Cathliks acause their parents wur
Cathliks. A'd like a time til come when a
man wus a Cathlik or a Prodesan acause he
felt in his sowl it wus the right thing til be.
MRS. RAINEY. Aye, indeed. But man,
Hughie, whin ye come til bring up yer
childher, it's quare how ye don't think like
that. It's all right fur you an' her - ye're
separate ye see; but it's different wi' childher. Ye can't say, this chile's me an' that
chile's her. They're jus' like as if ye wur
both lumped thegither. It's very difficult...
HUGH. Ye're not goan back on me, are
ye?
MRS. RAINEY. Naw, Hughie, A'm not.
A'm on'y tellin' ye that it's not as aisy as
ye think it is.
HUGH [putting his arm round her neck].
Ma, A just love her.
MRS. RAINEY. A know, dear.
HUGH. It's like... Huh, A dunna how
t' say it. It grips ye, an ye can't houl' out.
Aw, an' it hurts....
MRS. RAINEY. Aye, it hurts...
HUGH. Ye're a quare good wumman,
ma. Sometimes A think if it wussen fur
you A'd nivir a stapped here wi' him. He's
that hard.
[A knock is heard on the door and
the voice of MICHAEL O'HARA
cries, "Can A come in?"]
MRS. RAINEY. Aye, come on.
[Enter MICHAEL.]
MICHAEL. HOW are ye all?
MRS. RAINEY. Ah, sure we're rightly.
MICHAEL. IS Mr. Rainey in?
HUGH. Naw, he's out somewhere.
MICHAEL. Man, Hughie, we'll have til
be quare an' careful. That wee man Hart 's
bin tryin' t' rouse the Or'ngemen agin the
Cathliks. There wus a bit o' a fight last
night in North Street, an' a chap cursed
the Pope.
MRS. RAINEY. Aw, dear-a-dear, what
harm did the poor man do him that he
should go an' curse him?


MICHAEL. Aye, indeed, ye're right.
There's goan t' be a meetin' o' the Or'ngemen the night; an' Hart'll be there stirrin'
up bad blood. We must get yer father t' go
an' stap him.
HUGH. Aw, he'll go all right. His
blood's up ye know. Once ye set him talkin'
it's hard t' stap him. Man, ye did the right
thing whin ye toul' him he might be the
man til bring bigotry til an end. That
plazed him greatly.
MICHAEL. We mussen let thim git
fightin' thegither. If we can keep them
thegither a while in peace, we'll git what
we want thrum the masters; but if they
once start fightin' thegither about religion,
we'll git nathin. There'll be a riotMRS. RAINEY. Aw, God forbid. A remember the riot in 1883. Aw, dear-adear.
HUGH. Did ye see Nora as ye wur comin'
up the street?
MICHAEL. Aye, A saw her goan intil a
shap as A wus comin' along.
HUGH. Did ye spake til her?
MICHAEL. A toul' her A wus comin'
here, an' she toul' me t' tell ye she'd be
here herself afore long. Is Tom home yit?
MRS. RAINEY. Aye, he's out in the yard
washin' it down.
MICHAEL. A wondher if he'd go an' fin'
yer father, Hugh? Man, we mussen waste
a minute.
HUGH [going to the scullery-door]. Here,
Tom; come on in a minit.
TOM [from the yard]. What d' ye want?
HUGH. A want ye a minit.
[TOM, in his shirt sleeves and with his
trousers turned up, enters, carrying a
broom.]
TOM. What is it?... Aw, Micky,
how're ye?
MICHAEL. Tom, will ye go an' try an'
fin' yer father fur us?
TOM. Sure, A doan know where he is.
MRS. RAINEY. Aw, ye'11 fin' him as
likely as not at the corner o' the Shankill.
TOM. A have n't finished the yard.
MRS. RAINEY. Hughie '11 do that.
TOM. Why can't he go?
MRS. RAINEY. Aw, now, doan't ask no




MIXED MARRIAGE


I37


-.


questions an' A'11 tell ye no lies. Sure,
Nora's comin' in in a minit.
TOM. Well, what's that got t' do wi' it?
MICHAEL. Gwon, Tom. A want t' talk
t' Hughie fur a while.
TOM. That's the way. All o' ye shovin'
ivirything ontil me. Lord save us, ye'd
think A wus a chile. Me da talks t' me as if
A wus a babby.
MRS. RAINEY. Now, Tom, ye know ye 're
just wantin' t' go, but ye're that contrairy
ye pretend ye don't.
TOM. Huh! Here gimme me coat an' cap.
[MRs. RAINEY fetches his coat and
cap for him, and he puts himself
tidy.]
MICHAEL. Tell him it's quare an' pertickler, Tom.
TOM. Aye!             [He goes out.]
HUGH. A've toul' me ma about Nora.
MICHAEL. Eh!
MRS. RAINEY. It's all right, Micky.
A'm not the soart o' wumman til git annoyed at the like o' that.
MICHAEL. A know ye're not, Mrs.
Rainey. Ye're a fine wumman.
MRS. RAINEY. Aw, houl' yer tongue wi'
ye.
MICHAEL. Does yer father know?
HUGH. Naw, not yit.
MICHAEL. D' ye think he'll min'?
HUGH. A don't know. A'm afeard...
MRS. RAINEY. He's a very headstrong
man...
MICHAEL. What d' ye think he'd do if
he knew?
HUGH. A don't care what he does.
MICHAEL. Ye shudden talk like that,
Hugh. Supposin' he wus to turn agin ye!...
HUGH. Let him turn. Me ma won't
turn agin me.
MICHAEL. It might n't be agin you on'y,
though?
HUGH. Eh!
MICHAEL. He might turn agin the
Cathliks too?...
MRS. RAINEY. Ye mane he mightn't
help ye wi' the strack?
MICHAEL. Aye, that's just what A mane.
Man, Hughie, we mussen run no risks.
When wur ye goan t' tell him?
HUGH. A wus goan t' tell him the day.




I


He knows A go out wi' her, an' A'm not the
soart o' fella that goes up the road wi' a
girl jus' t' pass the time.
MRS. RAINEY. He's bin askin' questions
about her. [NORA knocks at the door, which
is opened by MRS. RAINEY.] Aw, sure come
on in. We wur jus' talkin' about ye.
No:RA [entering]. Wur ye, indeed? Well,
A suppose ye wur pullin' me t' bits?
HUGH. Aye, we just tuk all the character
ye have away thrum ye.
MRS. RAINEY. Nora, Hughie 's just toul'
me about you an' him...
NORA [quickly]. Oh, Mrs. Rainey!...
MRS. RAINEY. It's all right, dear. A'm
very glad.          [She kisses NORA.]
MICHAEL. We wur just talkin' about
tellin' Mr. Rainey, an' wunnerin' what he'll
say?
MrIs. RAINEY. Ye'd better not tell him
til the strack 's over. Then ye '11 be sure he
can't do no harm.
MICHAEL. A wus goan til suggest that,
on'y A didden like.
HUGH. Maybe it wud be as well. Sure
it'll on'y be a week or two.
MRS. RAINEY. Now, ye can go on intil
the yard you two, the pair o' ye, and finish
clanin' it, an' me an' Nora '11 have a wee
crack thegither.
HUGH. Aw, there ye are, ye see. As soon
as ivir two weemen git thegither the men
have t' go out fur fear they'd be deaved
wi' the talkin'.
NORA. Aw, indeed, if we didden talk
thegither, A'm sure A don't kno' what 'ud
become o' the men.
MRS. RAINEY. Ye're right, Nora. It's
the weemen that keeps the men thegither
if they on'y knew it.
MICHAEL. Aw, now, don't talk blether.
MRS. RAINEY. GO long wi' ye!
[MICHAEL and HUGH go out laughing.]
NORA. Are ye angry wi' me, Mrs. Rainey?
MRS. RAINEY. No, Nora, A'm not angry.
What wud A be angry fur?
NORA. Me bein' a Cathlik.
MRS. RAINEY. Aw, dear, ye cudden help
that anny more nor Hughie cud help bein'
a Prodesan. A wud be very angry if ye
wur n't able til luk after him.




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CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


NORA. A '11 do that all right.
MRS. RAINEY. Men make a quare fuss
about religion an' wan thing an' another,
but A'm thinkin' it's more important fur
a wumman t' be able t' make a good dinner
fur her man nor t' be able t' pray in the
same church. A'm sure it's the same God
anyway.
NORA. A'll be a good wife t' Hugh.
MRS. RAINEY. A know ye will. It makes
a quare differs to a man that. It's a strange
thing marriage.
NORA. Are ye sorry ye're married?
MRS. RAINEY. No, A'm not. Me an' my
man has had our ups an' downs, an' he's a
bit domineerin', but A think A'd do it
again if A had me life over again. They're
strange at first, an' they're not very considerate. They don't ondherstan' weemen... but ye git to ondherstan' them soon
enough. Ye know, they're quare oul' humbugs when ye know them. They think
they're that clivir, an' they make us think
it too, at first; but sure, ye soon fin' them
out. Och, dear, they're jus' like big childher. When Hughie wus a chile, he wus
quare an' strong, all' there wus times afore
he cud walk whin A cud har'ly houl' him,
he wud twist about in me arms that much,
an' sometimes A thought the chile imagined he wus more nor me match; but ye
know, dear, A wus takin' care o' him all the
time. It wus sore work sometimes, an' his
da nivir seemed to ondherstan' that A got
tired out; but sure, A jus' did it all right.
It's the same wi' my man. He twists about
an' thinks he's the quare big strong man,
but A 'm jus' takin' care o' him the same
as A did o' Hughie whin he wus a chile.
Ye'll have t' do the same, Nora: it's the
way o' the wurl' wi' weemen.
NORA. It's the quare strange thing a
man is. A've felt that meself. Sometimes
when A'm up the road wi' Hughie, an'
A'm listenin' to him talkin', A think t'
meself A'm quare an' beneath him; but
jus' when A'm beginnin' t' feel downhearted about it, he'll mebbe say somethin', an' A know then that A'm not beneath him a-tall, that A'm..... A don't
know how t' say it.... It's a quare feelin'.
MRS. RAINEY. A know, A know. Ivry


wumman has it sometime or other. Ye jus'
feel that men are not near as clivir as they
think they are, an' ye're not sarry fur it.
NORA. Aye, ye feel quare an' glad. Ye
wud think mebbe ye'd be disappointed at
fin'in' them out; but ye're not.
MRS. RAINEY. They're jus' childher.
Manny a time, whin A'm sittin' here darnin' the socks, A think that God made us
acause He saw what a chile a man is. He
jus' made us til luk after them.
NORA. A often think that about Hughie.
There's times an' times whin A jus' want
t' gether him up in me arms, an' houl' him
til me tight, an' putt him t' sleep....
MRS. RAINEY. Aye, Aye! An' yer chile
hurts ye thrum the minit it's born til the
minit it dies. It's not like that wi' a man,
dear. A man's nivir tied til a chile like a
wumman. Ye have t' break the cord til
separate them. It's different in a man. He
can take a pride in his chile. If it does
well, his pride is plazed, an' if it does n't
his pride is hurt; but a wumman feels
it tuggin' inside her.... Aw, dear, dear,
what are we talkin' like this fur? Sure, the
men'll be in in a minit, an' we'll have til
take care o' them, an' not be worryin'
about wurselves.
NORA. Will A go an' see if they're finished in the yard yit?
MRS. RAINEY. Aye, do.
[NORA kisses her, and MRS.
RAINEY hugs the girl to her
tightly. NORA goes out by the
scullery, and MRS. RAINEY
brings an armchair forward to
the fire, and begins to darn socks.
In a little while the street door
opens, and TOM, followed by his
father, enters.l
TOM. Here's me da.
RAINEY. Aye, A hear they want me.
MRS. RAINEY. Yes. They're out in the
yard now. Tom, tell them. [TOM goes to the
scullery and calls the others in.] Nora Murray's wi' them.
RAINEY. What's she doin' there?
MRS. RAINEY. She jus' come in til have
a crack wi' me.
RAINEY. Huh! It's a funny way o'
havin' it fur her t' be out in the yard wi'




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139


Hughie, an' you t' be darnin' socks in the
kitchen.
MRS. RAINEY. We've had it, man, dear.
Weemen dussen take s' long over their
talkin' as men?
[Enter TOM, NORA, MICHAEL, and HUGH in
the order named.]
NORA. Good-evenin', Mr. Rainey.
RAINEY [shortly]. Good-evenin'. [To
MICHAEL.] Ye wur wantin' me?
MICHAEL. A wuS.
NORA. A'11 have t' be goin' now.
MRS. RAINEY. Sure, ye're in no hurry.
Stap an' take a drap o' tay wi' us.
NORA. Aw, indeed, A must go home.
MRS. RAINEY. Ye're sure?
NORA. A am, indeed.
MRS. RAINEY. Well, mebbe, Hughie'11
see ye home.
HUGH. A wus jus' goin' t' siggest that.
RAINEY. Sure, it's not dark.
MRS. RAINEY. Aw, man-a-dear, don't
ye know at this time o' year it gits dark
quare an' sudden. A'm sure, Michael
wants t' have a quiet talk wi' ye. Tom, A
want ye t' go roun' til the grocer's fur me.
[HUGH and NORA get ready to go.]
TOM. Can't Hughie do it on the way
back?
MRS. RAINEY. Naw, he can't.
TOM. It's alwis me.
RAINEY. Do as yer ma tells ye, an' don't
give no back answers.
TOM. Luk here, da, A'm not goin' til be
spoke t' like that.
RAINEY. Houl' yer tongue, will ye?
MRS. RAINEY. Tom, dear, come here.
HUGH. Well, we'll go now. A'1 be back
afore long, Michael.
NORA. Good-night t' ye, Mrs. Rainey.
Mrs. RAINEY. Good-night t' ye, Nora.
NORA. Good-night t' ye all.
ALL. Good-night.
TOM. Wait a minit, an' A'11 come wi' ye.
MRS. RAINEY. Naw, A'm not ready fur
ye.             [Exit NORA and HUGH.]
TOM [quietly to his mother]. Ye might ha'
let me go wi' them. It wud ha' bin comp'ny.
MRS. RAINEY [very quietlyl. Have n't ye
got no sense, man?


MICHAEL. Ye heerd tell o' this meetin'
o' the Or'ngemen, A suppose? Hart's comin' thrum Dublin til address it.
RAINEY. Aye, A met the Worshipful
Master on the Shankill the day, an' he
toul' me about it.
MICHAEL. Hart'11 stir up bitterness
atween the Cathliks an' the Prodesans if
he's let have his way.
MRS. RAINEY. A don't like that wee man.
ToM. He makes his living out o' breedin'
bigotry.
RAINEY. What d' you know about it?
Let me tell you he's a man that's done'
good work fur the Prodesan religion.
TOM. It's not good t' be settin' men
fightin' wi' wan another.
RAINEY. Houl' yer tongue. Ye dunna
what ye're talkin' about.
TOM. Well, if A'm not wanted here,
A'm goin' out. It's no pleasure t' me t'
stay here wi' a lotta nirpin' goin on.
MRS. RAINEY. Ye can jus' go til the
grocer's now. [Pats him on the back.] Nivir
mind, Tom. Sure, he dussen mane half he
says.
[She speaks in undertones to TOM,
who presently puts on his cap
and goes out.]
MICHAEL. D' ye think ye cud go up til
the meetin' Mr. Rainey, the morra, an'
counteract Hart's influence? Ye know the
men think a lot o' yer opinion.
RAINEY. A might go.
MICHAEL. Ye will, wun't ye? A can't
go meself. A'm a Cathlik, an' Hughie can't,
he's not an Or'ngeman...
MRS. RAINEY. It wud be a pity t' spoil
the good effect ye've made at the last
minit.
MICEAEL. It wud, indeed, Mrs. Rainey.
We're doin' so well... Aw, if that man
Hart wud on'y stay away?... It's enough
t' break yer heart whin ye've bin tryin' as
hard as ye can til do somethin', an' someone comes whin ye've near done it, an'
pushes it over.
RAINEY. Aye, it is that.
MRS. RAINEY. The quare good work in
the wurl' that's bin spoiled be liars an'
fools.
MICHAEL. It's tarrible t' think, Mr.




140


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


Rainey, that you an' me shud be sittin'
here doin' wur best t' putt things right, an'
all the time there's a man comin' thrum
Dublin til spoil It all.
MRS. RAINEY. They're alwis comin',
them people, be express trains. They travel
quare an' quick.
MICHAEL. Ye won't disappoint us, Mr.
Rainey?
RAINEY. A'11 go all right. We'll see who
has the most influence, me or Hart?
MICHAEL. Aw, there's not much doubt
about that.
MRS. RAINEY. Well, now ye've done yer
talkin' ye'll have til have somethin' til ate.
Come on an' help me til lay the table,
Michael.
MICHAEL. Sure, an' I will gladly, Mrs.
Rainey.
[He goes up and helps her to bring
the table forward. MRS. RAINEY
puts a pair of slippers at her
husband's feet.]
MRS. RAINEY. Here, let me take yer
boots off.
RAINEY. Aw, A'll do that meself.
MRS. RAINEY. Aw, g' long wi' ye, ye
ould footer. Ye 'd be breakin' the laces or
somethin'.
[She unlaces his boots, whilst
MICHAEL spreads the table-cloth.]
ACT III
It is the late afternoon of the next day.
MRS. RAINEY is sitting in the armchair in
front of the fire, darning socks. She is singing
softly to herself. The street-door opens and
her husband enters.
MRS. RAINEY. There ye are, then.
RAINEY. Aye! Where's the lads?
MRS. RAINEY. A don't know. They're
out somewhere. Wur ye spakin' agin the
day?
RAINEY. A wus spakin' twice the day.
MRS. RAINEY. Man, dear, ye're gettin'
the quare orator. Sure, ye'll be in Parliament wan o' these days if ye go on at that
rate.
RAINEY [not displeased]. Aw, now, hould
yer wheesht.
MRS. RAINEY [holding up the socks to


view]. But sure ye '11 just wear out the socks
the same whativir ye are. A nivir saw such
an a man for holes in his socks as you in me
born days. A'm nivir done mendin'.
RAINEY. Aw, well, sure it's pastime fur
ye. Whin ye've nathin' else til do, ye can
sit down an' take yer aise an' darn a few
socks. It's the quare aisy time weemen has
be men.
MRS. RAINEY. Och, indeed, ye know
little about it. Will ye be ready fur yer tay
yit?
RAINEY. A will in a wee while. Is the
washin' come home yit? A must have a
clane "dickey" fur the Lodge the night.
MRS. RAINEY. An' what are ye goin' t'
do at the Lodge the night?
RAINEY. Sure, didden ye know A wus
goin' til spake til the Or'ngemen the night
so's til counteract the influence o' that man
thrum Dublin?
MRS. RAINEY. Och, aye, Afurgot. Three
spaches in wan day... aw, dear, dear,
what a dale o' argyin' men have til have.
Yer washin's on the bed.
RAINEY. A'11 jus' go an' putt meself
tidy, an' mebbe be the time A come down
ye'll have the tay ready?
MRS. RAINEY. Aw, ye're in no hurry fur
yer tay. Ye can wait awhile til the others
come in. A'm expectin' Mickie an' Nora
in wi' Hughie and Tom til tay.
RAINEY. Thon girl's here brave an' often.
MRS. RAINEY. An' what wudden she be
here fur? She might as well be here as
annywhere else.
RAINEY. Well, mebbe it's all right, but
man-a-dear, if A thought anythin' wus
comin' out o' it...
MRS. RAINEY. Och, man, boys is alwis
runnin' after girls. If a boy wus t' be married til iv'ry girl he courted, sure, he'd be
a Mormon.
RAINEY. Aye! [He stands in silence for a
moment or two and then crosses to his wife's
side.] It's a quare solemn thing, marriage.
MRS. RAINEY. Och, it's not as solemn as
people make out. Sure, we're not solemn?
RAINEY. It's solemn all the same. It's
the pickin' an' the choosin'... ye have t'
be careful. A man an' a wumman ought t'
be very much the same afore they marry.




MIXED MARRIAGE


I4I


Ye have t' live wi' wan another, an' if
there's a big differs atween ye, it's quare
an' bad.
MRS. RAINEY. Sure, some people are
that different thrum each other they nivir
find it out.
RAINEY. Aw, but there's some things
like religion...
MRS. RAINEY. Now, now, religion can
take care o' itself. Gwon an' put on yer
dickey fur dear sake, or ye'11 be makin' yer
three spaches t' me afore A know where
A am.
RAINEY [patting her on the head, and
laughing]. Hey, ye're the funny ould wumman.             [He goes up the stairs.]
MRS. RAINEY. Aye, an' ye 're the funny
ould man.
RAINEY [speaking over the bannisters].
We're the funny ould couple thegither.
MRS. RAINEY. G' long wi' ye.
RAINEY. We've had the brave times
thegither, have n't we?
MRS. RAINEY. Sure, it's not bin so bad.
RAINEY. An' we'll have the quare good
times yit. There's fine work t' be done in
the wurl', smoothin' things out. Aw, it's
gran', it's gran', an' it's a privilege fur me
til be able t' do it.
MRS. RAINEY. Indeed, that's the truth
ye're sayin', on'y there's manny a man
spoils his work wi' temper.
RAINEY. A'm not a bad-tempered man.
A'm the most considerate man ye cud
think o'. Luk at the way A let them
Cathliks come intil the house, an' me own
son walkin' up the road wi' one o' them.
Ye wudden call that bigited wud ye?
MRS. RAINEY. Aw, that's not much.
Sometimes ye have til choose atween yer
work an' yer life. It wud be the quare bad
thing til choose yer life.
RAINEY. Aye!
[He comes down the stairs again
and stands before the fire.]
MRS. RAINEY. D' ye think ye'd let anythin' stan' atween ye an' the work ye're
goin' t' do?
RAINEY. It's a gran' work, t' make
peace. Aw, when ye come t' think o' it,
it's awful the way the wurl's bin goin' on
up til now. Men fightin' wi' wan another,


an' prosperin' out o' wan another's misfortune. War all the time.
MRS. RAINEY. Aye, an' the wurl' not a
ha'penny the better fur it.
RAINEY. Ye're right. Ye're right. Ye
are, indeed. An' ye've on'y got til putt out
yer han's til wan another, an' grip them,
an' it's all over.
MRs. RAINEY. An' yer enemy issen yer
enemy a-tall. Aw, that's quare, t' be seein'
enemies where there is no enemies.
RAINEY. Aye!
MRS. RAINEY. A wondher what ye'd do
if ye wur in a fix atween yer religion an' yer
desire t' make peace. Somethin' wud have
t' give way.
RAINEY. Aw, A'd do the right thing, A
can tell ye. [He goes up the stairs.] Ye can
trust me. A'm not a chile. A've got a bit
o' wit in me head, A can tell ye. A'm not
the one til be misled.
[The door opens hurriedly and TOM enters in
excitement.]
Tor. Hi, ma, come on quick. Ye're
wanted.
MRS. RAINEY. Whativir's the matter
wi' ye?
RAINEY [from the stairs]. Can't ye control yerself, an' not be runnin' about like a
wil' thing.
ToM. It's Mickey! He's got his head
cut open.
MRS. RAINEY. Aw, Lord bliss us.
RAINEY. What's that ye say?
ToM. A lot o' wee lads wus singin' a
party tune, an' cursin' the Pope, an' he
tould thim they shudden do the like o' that,
an' a drunk man wus goin' by, an' hit him
on the head wi' a belt. He's in Martin's
shop. Come on quick, an' luk after him.
Sure, he'll bleed til death.
MRS. RAINEY. Aw, now, don't put yerself out s' much. Sure, people don't bleed
til death as aisy as that. Get me me shawl
fur dear sake.
RAI[NEY. That's bigotry fur ye. A man
has t' be drunk afore he'd do the like o' that.
TolM. Be the luk o' the people in this
town, an' the way they go on, ye'd think
they wur alwis drunk. Here's yer shawl,
ma. Come on, quick.




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CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


MRS. RAINEY. Did ye go fur the doctor?
TOM. Naw.
MRS. RAINEY. Well, why didden ye go
fur him afore ye come fur me. Run now,
will ye, an' A'11 go on til Martin's?
[Exit TOM.]
RAINEY. That's right. Poor lad, bring
him back here. Will A come wi' ye?
MRS. RAINEY. Now, what wud ye do
that fur? Ye'd be makin' spaches til the
doctor, an' gettin' in the way. Gwon an'
put on yer dickey, an' try an' be dacentlukkin' whin A come back.
RAINEY. That drunk man ought t' be
putt in jail.
MRS. RAINEY. There's many does worse
nor him whin they're not drunk, an' they're
putt in Parliament. A wun't be long.
[She goes out quickly.]
[RAINEY stands on the stairs for a while in
thought, and then goes up to the bedroom, shutting the door noisily behind
him. There is quiet in the kitchen for
a little while; then the door opens and
HUGH and NORA enter.]
HUGH. Sure, come on in.
NORA. Och, no, A wun't come in now.
HUGH. Och, come on. There's no wan
in. [He goes to the scullery and shouts into
the yard.] Are ye in, ma? [As there is no
response, he returns to the kitchen.] Sure, ye
might as well stay now ye're here. A expect me ma's just away out til the shop.
NoRA. Is yer da in?
HUGH. Aw, he's out somewhere, A
s'pose. He's quarely taken on wi' the
notion o' spakin'. Sure, he'll be goin' on
makin' spaches fur ivir if wur not careful,
jus' like wan o' them men ye see in the
market sellin' ould clo'es, or a member o'
Parliament on the Twelfth o' July, whin
he's half drunk an' near out o' his min' wi'
the noise o' the drums.
NORA. Aw, now, ye shudden be makin'
fun o' yer da.
HUGH. A'm not makin' no fun o' him.
A'm beginnin' t' respect him.
NORA. Och, but sure ye alwis did that
ivir since ye wur a wee lad that height.
[She lets her hand fall to the level
of her knee.]
HUGH. Naw, A wus afeard o' him; but


A'm beginnin' t' respect him. It's a quare
thing that whin a man begins t' respect his
da. Sure, sit down.
NORA [sitting down on the sofa]. Hughie.
[She takes him by the hand and he sits down
beside her.] D' ye think yer da'll be very
angry about you an' me?
HUGH. A suppose he'll storm an' rave
awhile, but sure if he sees we're determined he'll give way an' make the best
o' it. It's no good shoutin' at what ye can't
help.
NORA. Ye won't let him separate us,
Hughie?
HUGH. Separate us. Naw, A wun't let
him do that. Man, dear, it wud take a
quare man til separate us now.
NORA. An' ye wun't let them tempt
ye?...
HUGH. What wud they tempt me wi',
fur dear sake?
NORA. Mebbe they'll be tellin' ye t'
lave me fur the sake o' Irelan'. Aw, A
know, A know they'll do it. Mickie'll try.
Sure, he dussen care what happens s' long
as his plans fur Irelan' is all right. He'd
sacrifice his own da an' ma fur that.
HUGH. It's fine t' have a spirit like that.
Not til let anythin' come atween ye an' the
thing ye want.
NORA. Wud ye give me up, Hughie, fur
Irelan'?
HUGH. Naw, A wudden.
[She clutches him tightly to her.]
NORA. Aw, my man, A cudden let ye go.
A'd hould on til ye if the wurl' wus til fall
in anondher wur feet if A didden let go.
[She kisses him eagerly.] A don't care fur
nathin' but you....
HUGH. A love ye, too, Nora.
NORA. A'm ashamed til be talkin' like
this, but A can't help it. A'd let Irelan' go
til hell fur ye, Hugh.
HUGH. Aw, don't be sayin' that.
NORA. It's true, it's true! When A
think mebbe they'll take ye thrum me,
A go near mad wi' fear.
HUGH. They'll nivir do that. [He puts
his arms tightly around her.] It's a quare
fine thing t' be in love wi' you, Nora.
Sometimes whin A'm thinkin' about it A
can't ondherstan' it. A'm just like a man




MIXED MARRIAGE


I43


wi' somethin' inside him that wants t' come
out, an' can't fin' the way. Ye know what
A mane, don't ye? A want til tell ye, but
A don't know how, an' A just stan' still
wi' me tongue clackin' in me mouth like a
dumb man's. [The door of the bedroom opens
and RAINEY appears at the top of the stairs.
He is dressed in his Sunday clothes. At the
sound of the voices he stops and listens.] A
want til tell iv'rybuddy A'm in love wi'
ye, an' goin' t' marry ye. A feel prouder
nor the King o' Englan' or the Lord Mayor
o' Bilfast. [He jumps up excitedly and drags
her up beside him. RAINEY descends a few
steps, quietly, listening.] There'll not be a
happier man in Irelan' nor me when A'm
married t' ye, da or no da.
[He kisses her again and holds her
closely to him.]
RAINEY. What's that ye say? [They
start apart from one another, and look up at
the old man, who regards them silently, and
then, without speaking, descends into the
kitchen.] Did A hear ye sayin' ye wur
goin' til marry this wumman.
HUGH. Ye did!
RAINEY [to NORA]. Ye're goin' til take
him, A s'pose?
NORA. A am.
RAINEY. Ye're a Cathlik are n't ye?
NORA. Yes, A am.
RAINEY. Issen it agin yer religion t'
marry a Prodesan?
NORA. It can be done, but A don't care.
RAINEY. Will ye turn Prodesan if ye
marry him?
NORA. Naw, A wun't.
HUGH. An' A'11 not ask her nayther.
What call wud she have til do the like o'
that when she belaves in it?
RAINEY. If she belaves in it, what does
she want wi' a man that dussen, will ye tell
me that?
HUGH. It's acause A care fur her, an'
she cares fur me...
RAINEY. What's carin' til yer sowl, man.
If ye damn yerself in the nixt wurl' for the
pleasure o' a wumman in this, what good'll
that do ye? Man, man, think what ye're
doin'.
HUGH. A've made-up me min', da.
RAINEY. Ye're goin' til marry her?


HUGH. Aye, A am.
RAINEY. Aw, what a fool A've bin. [To
NORA.] Ye trapped me nicely. A wus t' be
the tool in yer han's, an' do yer work fur
ye, an' whin A wussen lukkin' ye wur t'
marry me son. You an' that man O'Hara... aw, what a fool A've bin. They wur
right whin they said the strack was a
Papish plot [furiously]. Aw, wumman, git
outa me house, will ye, afore A strack ye
down?
HUGH. My God, da, if ye touch her,
A '11 brain ye.
RAI:NEY [calming himself with a great
effort]. Aye, ye've learned yer lesson well.
Ye've turned agin yer own father. That's
her, A s'pose?
NORA. Indeed, indeed, A nivir..
RAINEY. Don't spake til me, wumman.
HUGH. Don't talk til her like that.
She's not the dirt aneath yer feet.
RAINEY [to NORA, quietly]. Ye know
ye'd nivir be happy thegither. Ye ought t'
marry a man o' yer own faith. It's not
right t' be marryin' out o' yer religion.
NORA. A want him...
HUGH. An' A want her, too. An' A'11
not give her up.
RAINEY. What 'ud be the good o' ye
marryin'. Yer frien's'll forsake ye. [To
NORA.] All yer own people'11 cast ye off
acause ye married a Prodesan, an' A'11 nivir
own him fur a son if he marries a Cathlik.
HUGH. A can't help that.
RAINEY [to NORA]. Ye wudden ruin him,
wud ye? Ye'd be turnin' him agin his
people.
NORA. A'd be havin' him meself.
RAINEY. Are ye thinkin' on'y o' yerself?
Have ye no thought fur no wan else?
There's no love where there's selfishness.
HUGH. What are you thinkin' of? On'y
an ould superstition. Ye've somethin' in
yer min' about Cathliks an' Prodesans, an'
ye're thinkin' o' that all the time. Ye're
not thinkin' o' her an' me, an' ye don't care
about us bein' happy. Ye're alwis batin'
an Or'nge drum.
RAINEY. That's the quare disrespectful
way t' spake t' yer father. A brought ye
intil the wurl' an' rared ye well, an' this
is the thanks A git               -




144


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


HUGH. Sure, A didden ask ye t' bring
me intil the wurl?
RAINEY. A've bin a good father t' ye.
HUGH. D' ye want credit fur that?
Sure, ye had t' be. Ye did what ye had t' do
an' ye expect me t' have no will o' me own
in return fur it. Ye've bullied me since A
wus a chile.
RAINEY. A've not bullied ye. A've bin
starn wi' ye fur yer own good.
HUGH. Luk at the way ye talk t' Tom.
He dare n't open his mouth fur ye, but
what ye call him out o' his name, an' make
him luk like a fool afore strangers. D' ye
want t' know why we've stud it so long?
It's not fur your sake, but acause o' me
ma. We'd agone long ago if it hadden bin
fur her. Yer starnness an' yer good trainin'
wus on'y bullyin', that's all it wus.
RAINEY. There's no good talkin' t' ye,
ye've bin led astray. A'11 ask this wumman if she's satisfied wi' what she's done.
[To NORA.] Ye've turned him agin his
father, an' made him say things til me that
he'll rue til his dyin' day. A wondher if
ye're satisfied?
NORA. Aw, ye're a hard man, Mr.
Rainey. Ye know A've nivir said a word
again ye. A've alwis stud up fur ye.
RAINEY. Will ye give him up?
NORA. Ye want me t' do somethin' A
can't do. He's the on'y man A ivir thought
df. A can't give him up. A need him.
RAINEY. It's a terrible thing fur a wumman til come atween a man an' his parents.
HUGH. Sure, they're doin' it iv'ry day.
NORA [to MR. RAINEY]. A'11 be a good
wife til him. A will, indeed. Ye'll nivir
regret lettin' him marry me.
RAINEY. A'm not lettin' him. He's doin'
it wi'out me will.
NORA. Aw, but ye will let him, wun't ye?
RAINEY. If ye'11 turn Prodesan A will.
NORA. Naw, A wun't do that. A can't
give up me religion.
RAINEY. Can't ye give up him, then?
NORA. A can't give him up ayther.
RAINEY. Then A've no more t' say.
He'll lave this house the night onless he
gives ye up. A can't have him here.
NoRA. Aw, don't say that, Mr. Rainey.
RAINEY. A don't want no more t' say


t' ye. A've done wi' ye. Ye've putt anger
in me son agin me.
HUGH. A don't care. It'll be no grief til
me til lave the house. A'm a man, an' not
a chile, an' A'11 choose me wife where A
like, an' not where you like. A'm not
afeard.
RAINEY. Them that dishonours their
father an' their mother'll rue it in the Last
Day.
HUGH. A'm not afeard. A'll git lodgin's
the night. A'11 not trouble ye wi' me
comp'ny anny longer. [NORA weeps helplessly.] Don't be cryin', dear. Sure, this is
on'y a bit o' bother that'll not last fur ivir.
We knew it 'ud have t' come some time.
It's no good complainin' acause it's come
sooner nor we thought. We'll be married
the quicker.
[The door opens, and MRS. RAINEY followed
by TOM and MICHAEL, enters.]
MRS. RAINEY [to MICHAEL]. Now, come
on in an' rest yerself. [To her husband.]
Fur dear sake, what's the matter wi' ye.
Ye'd think ye'd seen a ghost ye're that
white.
RAINEY [pointing to MICHAEL]. Sen'
that Fenian out o' my house.
MRS. RAINEY. Eh!
RAINEY [uith great anger]. A say, 'sen'
that Fenian out o' my house, A tell ye.
MRS. RAINEY. Och, ye're not right the
day. Ye're beside yerself wi' all that
spache-makin'. Take no notis o' him,
Mickie, but come on in an' lie down on the
sofa, fur sure indeed it's a long rest ye're
needin' more nor annythin' else.
RAINEY. D' ye hear me, wumman? A'll
have no Fenians here.
MRS. RAINEY. Ye must be crazed, man.
What's the matter wi' ye? Tom, git yer
father a drink o' watter.
RAINEY. Sit down an' listen t' me, an'
mebbe ye'11 ondherstan' what A mane.
Hugh's goin' til marry that girl.
MRS. RAINEY. Aw, dear, that's a dreadful thing, issen it?
RAINEY. Aye, it is. She's a Cathlik.
MRS. RAINEY. Och, is that all? A thought
be the way ye wur talkin' she wus a murderer an' a brute baste rowled intil wan.




MIXED MARRIAGE


I45


RAINEY. It's quaren funny, issen it?
MRS. RAINEY. A wondher if ye'11 ivir
larn anny sense? What differs does it make
what religion she is, s' long as she's a good
wife til him. D' ye think if A cudden cook
yer dinner fur ye an' keep the house clane
an' bring yer childher up, it 'ud be anny
consolation t' ye that A wus a Prodesan.
A can see ye goin' about the house, an' it all
dirty, tellin' yerself it dussen matter about
the muck acause yer wife's a good Or'ngewumman. Och, man, don't talk blether.
RAINEY. Ye wud think t' hear you, the
on'y thing in the wurl' that matters is atin'.
MRS. RAINEY. It's all that matters wi'
most men. Sit down, now, an' try an' be
sensible. Shut the door, Tom, an' keep the
draught off Michael. Sit down all o' ye.
Come here, Mickie, an' sit be the fire. [To
RAINEY.] Luk at his head. That's what
you quare intelligent men do til show the
clivir ye are. Aw, there's times when a
wumman's sick o' men an' their folly.
Can't ye go through the wurl' without
hammerin' wan another like bastes o' the
fiel'.
RAINEY. Ye're on his side.
MRS. RAINEY. A'm on no side. A wumman has no right t' be choosin' sides.
There's right wi' iv'ry man, an' there's
wrong, too. A 'm fur him, an' A'm fur you,
too. Ye're both right, an' ye're both
wrong, but sure ye're just the same t' me
whether ye are or not. How are ye now,
Mickie?
MICHAEL. A'm all right, thank ye.
Mebbe, A'd better be goin'?
MRS. RAINEY. Ye'll stay where ye are.
Now, what's the bother wi' ye all?
RAINEY. A come down the stairs an' A
saw him kissin' her.
MRS. RAINEY. Ye'd no business t' be
watchin'.
RAINEY. A wussen watchin'. A didden
know they wur there. A heerd him tellin'
her he wud marry her after the strack wus
over.
MRS. RAINEY. Well, that's sensible
enough. Ye wudden have him marry her
while it's on, wud ye?
RAINEY. A don't want him til marry her
a-tall.


HUGH. It's not what you want...
RAINEY. Don't spake t' me again. Ye're
no son o' mine.
MRS. RAINEY. Aw, now, ye can't cut
off yer relations like that. He's yer son
whether ye like it or not.
RAINEY. A wun't own him.
HUGH. Nobuddy wants ye to.
MRS. RAINEY. Aw, now, Hughie, don't
be talkin' t' him like that. Sure, he's yer
father.
HUGH. That's no rayson why he should
bully me.
MRS. RAINEY. Naw, but it's an excuse.
Mebbe, ye'll be like it yerself wan day?
TOM. Lord save us, there's alwis a row
goin' on in this house.
RAINEY. Hould yer tongue, will ye?
Don't let a word out o' yer head. A've
enough trouble on me min' wi'out you
addin' til it.
MRS. RAINEY. Does it ivir occur til ye,
John, that Tom's not a wee lad anny
more? He's a brave big fella, now.
RAINEY. He has no wit.
TOM. Aye, A have. A lot more'n ye
think, on'y ye nivir let me git a word out
o' me, but ye near snap the head o' me.
A'm gettin' quaren tired o' it, A tell ye.
RAINEY. Aye, you'll be lavin' me, too.
That's the way. Bring up yer childher well,
an' spare them nathin', an' they'll turn on
ye in yer ould age.
MRS. RAINEY. Mebbe, if ye wur a wee
bit more o' a frien' til them, an' a wee bit
less o' a father, they wudden turn on ye so
readily. Ye're alwis wantin' til make them
do things acause ye're their father, instid
o' waitin' fur them til do it o' their own
free will.
HUGH. Ye may as well know all, ma.
A've bin turned out. A'm goin' t' luk fur
lodgin's.
MRS. RAINEY. Who's turned ye out?
HUGH. Me da.
MRS. RAINEY. What right had he t' turn
ye out?
RAINEY. A'm   master o' this house,
amn't A?
MRS. RAINEY. No, ye're not. There's
no master here. It's my house, as much as
yours. Ye didden ask my lave til turn him




146


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


out, an' ye wun't git it. D' ye hear? If ye
turn him out, ye turn me out, too?
TOM. Aye, an' me.
RAINEY. Aye, ye're all agin me, but A '11
do me duty. A'm agin a man marryin' out
o' his religion, an' A'll stick til that no
matter what happens. [To NORA, who is
crying.] Aye, ye may well cry. Ye've
brought great trouble on this house. A
might ha' known that whin A mixed meself
up wi' Cathliks. There's no good can come
o' that. Ye wur all quaren clivir, wur n't
ye? Ye wudden say nathin' about this til
after the strack. Ye'd use me fur yer purposes, an' be stabbin' me in the back all the
time.
MICHAEL. There nivir wus no thought o'
that in my min'. If ye think this is plasin'
til me, Mr. Rainey, ye're quaren mistaken.
A saw a chance o' unitin' the people o'
Irelan' agin, an' A've worked fur it an'
suffered fur it. Man, man, what's your
grief til mine? You're thinkin' o' a son, an'
A'm thinkin' o' a nation. Mlan, ye wun't
let this stan' in the way. Think o' the gran'
wurk ye wur goin' til do.
RAINEY. A've done wi' it.
MICHAEL. Naw, naw. Ye can't go back
now. Sure, there's many waitin' fur a sign
thrum you. We've set wur hopes on ye.
Ye're not goin' til destroy them, are ye?
RAINEY. A've done wi' it, A've done
wi' it.
MRS. RAINEY. Man, ye don't know
what ye're sayin'. Ye wudden stap now,
wud ye, whin ye've near done the work?
RAINEY. A tell ye A've done wi' it.
MICHAEL. Mr. Rainey, think fur a minit.
Ye know this is just the critical time. A
strong man can do what he likes wi' the
people now. They're in the half-an'-half
state. Ye can make them wurk thegither
or ye can make them fight thegither.
You're the man can do that. Hart hassen
got the influence you have. Anythin' he
does, you can undo aisily. He's goin' about
now talkin' o' Popery an' priest-rule, an'
urgin' the Prodesans til break the strack
acause it's directed be Cathliks. S' long
as you stick up fur us, there's an answer
til that, but if ye desert us, there's none, an'
all the good we've done will be destroyed.


RAINEY. A belave that man Hart's
right.
MICHAEL. What!
RAINEY. A belave he's right. It is a
Papish plot, the strack. How can A belave
anythin' else whin A see it goin' on in me
own house. Me son taken thrum me be a
Papish wumman!
MICHAEL. Aw, man, ye don't mane that?
RAINEY. A do.
MICHAEL. Ye'll not ondo iv'rything fur
the sake o' that?
RAINEY. A'11 do no more. A've done wi'
it all. A'm not goin' till the Or'nge Hall
the night.
MICHAEL. Aw, but ye've promised.
MRS. RAINEY. Ye can't go back on yer
word.
RAINEY. A can, an' A will.
HUGH. It's a mane thing t' do. Ye think
ye'11 stap Nora an' me thrum marryin'
acause o' the strack, but ye wun't.
NORA. Aw, A nivir thought o' that.
MICHAEL. Will ye go if they give wan
another up?
RAINEY. A'm not sure. A har'ly know
where A am, yit.
MICHAEL. Man, there's no time t' be
lost. Will ye go til the Or'nge Hall the
night an' spake agin Hart if they agree not
til marry wan another?
RAINEY. How'll A know they'll kape
their word?
MICHAEL. Ye'11 have til trust them.
RAINEY. An' if they betray me?
MICHAEL. Ye'll have til lave them til
God. Sure, treachery be anny wan else is
no rayson fur treachery be you.
HUGH. Ye need n' bother yerself, we'll
not agree til that.
MICHAEL. It's not you A'm goin' til ask.
Nora, ye know what this means, don't ye?
Ye know what we're workin' fur?
NORA. Aye.
MICHAEL. It's a bigger thing nor you
are, issen it? Ye know it is, for all ye won't
answer. It's Irelan' agin you. Irelan' 's a
bigger thing nor you an' Hugh an' me an'
all o' us towled thegither.
NORA. A don't belave it. A'm in the
wurl' t' be happy, an' A'll be happy wi'
him.




MIXED MARRIAGE


I47


MICHAEL. What'11 yer happiness be till
ye, if it manes the destruction o' a nation?
NORA. A don't care.
RAINEY. Have ye no thought fur others?
NORA. No, A have n't. On'y fur him an'
me.
HUGH. Ye've no thought yerself fur
anythin' but yer blin' superstitions an' yer
bigotry. You're a man til talk about sacrifice, whin ye'd destroy Irelan' fur yer
damned bigotry.
MICHAEL. Don't be talkin' like that.
Sure, it's his faith. He can't go back on
his faith.
HUGH. A can't go back on Nora.
MICHAEL. Will ye give him up, Nora?
It's no good talkin' t' him. He's demented
wi' love.
NORA. No. A won't give him up. A
need him, A need him.
MICHAEL. What's your need til the
wurl's need?
MRS. RAINEY. Man, Michael, when yer
as ould as A am, ye'll know that yer own
need is the wurl's need. It's love that Nora
an' Hugh needs, an' it's love the wurl'
needs. Ye're wrong til be suggestin' partin'
til them. Can't ye see, they're doin' the
very thing ye want Irelan' t' do. It's
Cathlik an' Prodesan joinin' han's thegither. It's quare ye shud be wantin' til
separate them.
MICHAEL. It's acause A want a bigger
joinin' o' hands. It's not enough fur a man
an' a wumman til join han's. A want til see
the whole wurl' at peace.
MRS. RAINEY. Ye'11 on'y git that be
men an' weemen bein' at peace. Him an'
her, Mickie, are bigger than the wurl', if
ye on'y knew it. That man o' mine can't
see fardher nor churches an' Or'nge Lodges,
an' all the time there's men an' weemen
stan'in' about, waitin' fur somethin' til
bring them thegither.
MICHAEL. Aw, but selfishness is the
curse o' the wurl'. An' it's the curse o'
Irelan' more not anny other country. They
wur alwis thinkin' o' theirselves, the men
an weemen that might ha' saved Irelan'.
Whiniver a man's come near deliverin'
Irelan', a wumman 's stepped in an' destroyed him. It's alwis bin the way since


the beginnin'. Alwis, alwis, alwis! There'll
be no salvation fur Irelan' til a man is born
that dussen care a God's curse fur weemen.
They're hangin' about the neck o' the lan',
draggin' her down.
MRS. RAINEY. Ye're blamin' us fur the
follies o' men. Is Nora to blame acause my
man's a fool?
RAINEY. A'm no fool. A must stick til
the right. It's onnacherl fur a man an' a
wumman til live in the same house an'
worship in a differ'nt church.
MRS. RAINEY. Sure, if they can live in
the same lan' they can live in the same
house. It's on'y igner'nce an' wickedness
an' men wi' foul tongues that makes it hard.
John, ye'll be a good man, an' go til the
Or'nge Hall the night, an' do yer best t'
keep the peace.
RAINEY. A can't go.
HUGH. A'11 go meself. A won't belave
that the men o' Irelan' will let bigotry destroy them fur ivir.
MICHAEL. Ye can't go. Ye're not an
Or'ngeman.
HUGH. A'11 git in somehow. If A 've
spoiled the work, A can mend it again.
MICHAEL. If ye had on'y waited awhile.
In a week or two, it 'ud ha' bin all over,
an' we'd ha' won. Aw, Mr. Rainey, can't
ye think o' the danger o' losin' iv'rythin'
be yer action? Ye run the risk o' perpetuatin' bigotry an' losin' all we've struck fur.
Man, ye can't do the like o' that.
RAINEY. A'll do what ye want if he'll
give her up. A wun't go anear the Or'nge
Hall if he dussen.
HUGH. An' A wun't give her up, A tell ye.
MRS. RAINEY. Aw, the wurl' is bein' destroyed be headstrong men. [To RAINEY.]
Will ye go til the Lodge the night, an' lave
this over fur a while. [To HUGH.] Ye'll
promise not til marry her til after yer da's
had time til think it over?
HUGH. Aye, A'11 do that.
RAINEY. There's nathin' til be thought
over. He's determined til marry her, an'
she's determined not til change her religion. There's nathin' more til be said.
Ye'll git me t' go t' the Lodge the night
ondhe:r pretence that mebbe they'll change
their rmin's, an' ye know as well as yer




i48


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


livin', they won't. [Pointing to NORA.] Luk
at that wumman's face. She manes til
marry him.
MICHAEL. Wud ye sacrifice all the rest
o' us fur them? That's what ye're doin',
mind ye. There's a whole townfull o' us,
an' ye '11 let us go t' wreck an' ruin fur wan
man an' a wumman.
MRS. RAINEY. Aye, indeed, ye're just
as bad as they are.
RAINEY. Aye, ye'll all make me out in
the wrong. Ye give me no credit a-tall.
A'm on'y an obstinit ould man t' ye. Ye
nivir think A'm in earnest about me religion.
TOM. A nivir knew bein' in earnest wus
anny excuse fur makin' a fool o' yerself.
RAINEY. Hould yer tongue.
TOM. Naw, A wun't. A've bin putt upon
long enough. Ye're an ould fool, that's
what ye are; a damned ould fool.
RAINEY. Ye young scoundrel...
MRS. RAINEY. Tom, dear, don't ye
think ye might go out fur a wee walk?
TOM. Naw, A don't want a wee walk.
A'm alwis sent out fur a walk whin there's
a bit o' bother. A'm a man the same as
he is.
MICHAEL. Aw, Tom, don't make it anny
worse nor it is.
MRS. RAINEY. Now, just sit down, the
whole o' ye. Dear-a-dear, it's the quare
hard work fur a wumman, keepin' men at
peace. If there wussen the like o' us in the
wurl' ye'd be kickin' wan another iv'ry five
minits. Now, what are ye goin' t' do about
it all? Are ye goin' t' the Lodge, John?
RAINEY. Naw, A'm not.
MRS. RAINEY. Is that yer last answer?
RAINEY. Aye, it is.
MRS. RAINEY. It's a quare pity o' ye.
Ye'll be sorry fur this, A tell ye.
RAINEY. A can't help that.
MRS. RAINEY. Well, Mickie, an' what
are you goin' t' do?
MICHAEL. A don't know. A'11 have til
think o' somethin'. A'm all throughover.
What wi' the slap on the head an' this
suddent trouble, A don't know what A'm
doin'. A'm near broke wi' grief. A'm the
one feels it most. A've dreamt o' this since
A wus born, an' now it's near done, this


comes an' destroys it. My God, Mrs.
Rainey, what a wurl'.
MRS. RAINEY [patting him on the back].
Aw, keep yer heart up, Mickie. Mebbe,
it'll be all right. A wish there wus Or'ngeweemen. A'd go meself in his place.
HUGH [jumping up]. A 'm not an Or'ngeman, but A'11 go. Hart issen nayther, an'
if they'll let him in, they'll let me. A'11
spake til them, an' putt a stop til Hart's
nonsense. A'm the one'll do it. A'11 not
let it be said the peace o' Irelan' wus destroyed be the Raineys.
RAINEY. Aye, ye'll do a quare lot. Ye
can't spake.
HUGH. A can spake as good as you.'
MRS. RAINEY. Aw, can't ye control yer
tongues? Ye do too much spakin' atween
ye. Ye're consated about yer spakin'.
HUGH. A've nivir spoke afore, but A'11
spake the night. A will, A declare til God.
A'll put a stap til bigotry.
RAINEY. Will ye tell them why A've refused til have annythin' more til do wi' it?
MRS. RAINEY. What wud he be doin'
that fur?
RAINEY. Naw, iv coorse not. Ye'11 desave them as ye desaved me. D' ye think
anny good'll come out o' that?
HUGH. It's noan o' their business who
A marry.
NORA. A can't ondherstan' why a man
an' a wumman can't git married wi'out
iv'ry wan goin' out o' their wits?
MRS. RAINEY. Och, they alwis do, dear.
Sure, it's the way the wurl's made. Ye have
t' putt up wi' it.
TOM. It's a funny soart o' wurl' then.
HUGH. A don't belave the Or'ngemen
are such fools as ye make out. They're
brave sensible men, a lot o' them, if they
wur on'y let alone be them that's supposed
t' be their betters.
RAINEY. Will ye tell them why?
HUGH. It's not necessary. It's nathin'
t' do wi' it.
RAINEY. Then A'11 go meself an' tell
them. We'll see who can spake the best
then?
MRS. RAINEY. Aw, ye cudden go out on
a'night like this. Sure, ye're gettin' ould.
RAINEY. Lave me alone, will yel Ye're




MIXED MARRIAGE


149


-.


all conspirin' agin me, but A'll bate ye yit.
Gimme me coat, an' let me git out o' this.
MICHAEL. Ye'11 have blood on yer han's,
Mr. Rainey, if ye do that.
RAINEY. A don't care, A tell ye. A'11
putt a stap t' this.
MRS. RAINEY. Aw, give him his coat,
an' let him go, the headstrong ould man.
HUGH. A'1 be left whin he comes back.
TOM. Aye, an' so will I.
RAINEY [to MRS. RAINEY]. A suppose
you'll be gone, too?
MRS. RAINEY. Naw, A think A'11 be
here. God help ye, ye'll need someone t'
luk after ye.
RAINEY. Nathin'll stap me. A've made
up me min'. Good-night t' ye. [To NORA.]
Mebbe ye're satisfied, now, me fine girl?
MRS. RAINEY. Lave her alone. Are n't
ye content wi' the bad work ye've done
wi'out proddin' her wi' a knife? G' long wi'
ye, an' do yer dirty work, an' don't stan'
there hurtin' a girl that nivir done you no
harm.
RAINEY. She tuk me son thrum me.
MRS. RAINEY. G' long wi' ye, an' make
yer spache.
[RAINEY stands for a moment irresolute, then goes out of the
house quickly. MICHAEL covers
his face with his hands. There is
a silence, except for the sobbing of
NORA.]
TOM. A think A'11 go out for a walk.
MRS. RAINEY. Aye, do, dear. [Exit TOM.]
MICHAEL. A'll go home.
MRS. RAINEY. Ye'11 not let this upset
ye, Mickie? Ye'll just go on tryin', wun't
ye?
MICHAEL. It's the sore work, Mrs.
Rainey.
MRS. RAINEY. Aye, but, sure, it 'ud be
far sorer not til do it.
HUGH. A'm quare an' sorry, Mickie.
MICHAEL. It's a pity, Hughie. It's a
quare pity.
HUGH. We'll not let this bate us.
NoRA. No, we wun't. It'sus now, that'll
have til do the work. We'll all do it. A'11
go an' talk til the men in the street, an'
mebbe they'll listen til me. A'd 'a' given
the wurl' if this hadden happened.




I


MICHAEL. It's the quare hard job til
stap bigotry wance it's started. It runs
like lightnin' an' them that tries til stap it
has weights hangin' on them til keep them
back. A'm afeard it's no good.
MRis. RAINEY. It'll be no good, if ye're
afeard. Ye must keep yer heart up, that's
the way o' the wurl'.
NORA. Aye, that's true. Good-night t'
ye, Mrs. Rainey.
MRS. RAINEY [pulling the girl close to
her and kissing her very tenderly]. Ye'll be
a good wife til him, dear, wun't ye?
NOBA. A will, indeed.
MRm. RAINEY. Good-night, dear. Goodnight, Hughie. When ye want me, just run
in.
HUGH. A'11 come back whin A've got
lodgin's fur me things.
MRS. RAINEY. A'11 have them ready fur
ye. Aw, dear, A wish ye wurn't goin'.
[HUGHr puts his arms about her and hugs her
tightly.] God bless ye, dear.
MICHAEL.   Whativir happens, Mrs.
Rainey, A'm not sorry A knew you.
MRS. RAINEY. Ah, well, now, that's
somethin' til be livin' fur. Sure, the best o'
us can't do no more nor that.
MICHAEL. Good-night t' ye.
MRS. RAINEY. Come in in the mornin'
an' A'11 dress yer head fur ye.
MICHAEL. Aw, ye're brave an' kind. A
cudden trouble ye.
MRS. RAINEY. Sure, it's no trouble
a-tall. Good-night, Michael. Good-night,
t' ye all.
HUGH. Good-night, ma.
[Exeunt HUGH, NORA, and MICHAEL.]
MRS. RAINEY. Aw, dear, it's a troublesome wurl'.
[She draws her chair up to the fire
and resumes her darning.]
ACT IV
It is ten days later. The kitchen shows
signs of unusual agitation on the part of the
occupants. The window-shutters are closely
barred, and the street door is well fastened.
Outside is heard the noise of people shouting;
occasionally a stone strikes the shutters or the
door. MRs. RAINEY and NoRA are sitting






TSo


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


by the fire. JOHN RAJNEY strides up and
down the kitchen floor, without speaking.
Now and then he stops and listens to the noise.
A stone rattles on the window, and a loud
voice is heard shouting, "Bring out the
Fenians."
MRS. RAINEY. Ye wud think they wur
wil' savages thrum the heart o' Africa, the
way they're goin' on.
NORA. Sure, they're just demented with
rage, an' they don't know what they're
doin'. [Another stone strikes the shutters.] A
wondher how many stones they've clodded
at the house the day?
MRS. RAINEY. Are them two upstairs all
right?
NORA. A'11 call up til them. [She rises
and passes in front of RAINEY; he ignores
her. She calls up the stairs.] Hughie, are ye
all right?
HUGH [calling from above]. Aye, we're
all right.
NORA. Ye'd better not be showin' yerself fur fear they clod a stone at ye.
[The noise of breaking glass is
heard. NORA runs up the stairs,
crying out.]
MRS. RAINEY [going to the staircase].
Come on down, the whole o' ye.
HUGH. Sure, we're all right. It's on'y
the winda they've broke. The peelers are
comin' now.
MRS. RAINEY. Aw, thank God. Mebbe,
they'll go away now?
[She returns to her seat.]
RAINEY. It's like the Day o' Judgment.
MRS. RAINEY. A'm quare an' sorry fur
ye, John. It's not very pleasant til have
the like o' this on yer mind.
RAINEY. A'm not ashamed o' anything
A've done. A'd do it again. But it's tarrible all the same.
MRS. RAINEY. Yer conscience an' yer
principles causes a great dale o' trouble til
other people.
RAINEY. A don't repent, A tell ye. Ye
think ye'll prove me in the wrong acause
o' the riot, but A don't care if there wus
fifty riots wan on the top o' the other, A'm
right, an' A'd do it again.
MRS. RAINEY. It's quare t' think o' ye
goin' down that night, an' stirrin' up strife.


It wus a tarrible thing t' do, John. Ye
made the quare lot o' bad blood that time.
An' a lot o' it'll be spilt afore this is over.
[A volley of stones rattles on the shutters.]
Fur dear sake, d' ye hear that. Ye 'd think
they had a grudge agin the windas, the
way they're batterin' them.
[TOM comes down stairs, hurriedly.]
TOM. The peelers are goin' til charge
them wi' their batons.
MRS. RAINEY. Aw, God help us. There'll
be broken heads in a minit or two.
[Wilder cries are heard outside.]
TOM. The end of it'll be we'll have to
flit out o' this town. No wan'll ivir spake
til us again. A met Geordie M'Cracken a
day ago, an' he nivir as much as lukked at
me. It was the quare cut.
MRS. RAINEY. Mebbe, he didden see ye!
TOM. Aw, he saw me all right. He passed
me by as if he didden know me. Me an'
him was chums thegither..... It's brave
an' hard on me that nivir done nathin' til
be losin' me frien's, acause me da won't
have a Cathlik in the family. [To his
father.] Mebbe, ye're sorry now fur what
ye've done?
RAINEY. A'm not sorry fur nathin'.
TOM. Well, ye ought t' be then.
MRS. RAINEY. All right. Tom, ye
needin' go on talkin' about it. Sure, there's
things ye feel inside ye aven when ye
won't let on til anny one else. Ye nivir
know what's in a man's heart.
TOM. A'11 go til Glasgow after this is
over, or mebbe til Englan'. They don't
make a lot o' damned fools o' themselves
about religion over there.
MRS. RAINEY. Aw, but mebbe, they
have their own way o' bein' foolish! Ye
nivir know.
[The noise outside has grown wilder.]
TOM [going up the stairs again]. There'll
be some'll be sorry afore this day is done.
MRS. RAINEY. Och, aye, indeed there
will.                      [Exit TOM.]
RAINEY. He's right, that lad; we'll have
t' lave the town when it's over.
MRS. RAINEY. It's hard t' be lavin' the
place ye wur born an' bred in when ye're
ould.
RAINEY. Aye.




MIXED MARRIAGE


i 5'


MRS. RAINEY. But A suppose ye're
right?
RAINEY. A am.
MRS. RAINEY. Aye, ye alwis thought that.
[They do not speak to one another for a
moment.] Why don't ye make it up wi'
Hughie an' Nora. Ye know they come
here specially this mornin' til be frien's wi'
ye. It issen their fault the riot broke out
the day. Ye've not said a word til aythir o'
them since they come in, though they're
ready an' willin' til make it up.
RAINEY. They're not here be my will.
MRS. RAINEY. Naw, that's true. But,
sure, it's no good houl'in' out agin what
can't be helped. Ye might as well putt a
kind face on ye as not. They'll be married
in a wee while, an' A wudden like us to be
bad frien's wi' them when they'll mebbe
need us most. We're gettin' ould, John.
It dussen become the ould to' be headstrong an' unforgivin'.
RAINEY. A have n't another word t' say
about it. A've said all A've got t' say. A
can say no more.
MRS. RAINEY. Ye can alwis putt in another word if ye want t', an' make it all
different.
RAINEY. A don't want to.
MRS. RAINEY. God forgive ye fur a
headstrong man, John.
RAINEY. That's atween Him an' me.
[HUGH comes down the stairs.]
HUGH. It's sickenin' t' be watchin'
them. The peelers is batin' them over the
heads wi' their batons. A wish t' God it
wus over.
MRS. RAINEY. Are they stappin', d' ye
think?
HUGH. Naw, they're not near stappin'.
The peelers are n't enough.
[NORA comes down quickly.]
NORA. Aw, Hugh, there's a Cathlik
crowd comin' down the street, an' the
peelers is atween them. There'll be murdher in a minit.
[TOM cries out from the room above,
"Hi, Hughie, come up quick."]
HUGH. What is it?
TOM [appearing at the head of the stairs].
There's a lot o' Cathliks come an' Mickie 's
at the head o' them.


RAINEY. Aw, A tould ye, didden A?
ToM. He's tryin' t' git them t' go away.
but they're not takin' no notis o' him. A
saw wan o' them hittin' him wi' a stick, an'
shovin' him out o' the way.
MRS. RAINEY. It's no place that fur a
man that manes well.
[HUGH runs up the stairs quickly,
followed by NORA. MRS. RAINEY
waits a little while, and then goes
after them. RAINEY is left alone
in the kitchen. He sits down in
front of the fire and stares steadily
into it. The noise of the riot is
now intense. After a little while,
TOM comes to the head of the
stairs and shouts to his father.]
TOM. The sodgers are comin'. The
peelers can't houl' out agin the crowd.
[RAINEY does not reply. TOM goes
back again. Above the murmur
of the voices outside, the voice oJ
MICHAEL is heard.]
MICHAEL. Fur God's sake, boys, go
home, or there'll be bloodshed.
[There are loud shouts of "Fenian"
and "To hell with the Pope,"
and the noise of stones being
thrown. MRS. RAINEY and
NORA come back to the kitchen.]
MRS. RAINEY. He'll be killed if he stan's
there anny longer. A 've a good min' t'
open the dure an' let him in.
RAINrEY. Ye'll not let no more Cathliks
in here.
MRS. RAINEY. What harm wud that do
ye?
RAINEY. There's enough o' them here.
NORA. Ye'd better not open the dure.
The crowd 'ud git in, an' dear on'y knows
what they'd do.
[The noise of tramping soldiers is
heard, and an agitated voice reads
monotonously outside the window.]
NORA. What's that man doin'?
TOM [from stairs]. There's a magistrate
outside readin' the Riot Act.
NORA. The Riot Act!
TOM. Aye, there'll be shootin' after that.
[An officer's voice is heard giving
commands.]




152


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


MRS. RAINEY. They'll on'y use blank
kertridges t' frighten them. Mebbe they'll
go home now?
[The Magistrate is heard calling
upon the crowd to disperse.
There is a roar of voices in reply.
The Magistrate's voice is heard
in a lull, shouting, " The soldiers
will shoot if you don't go home
quietly." There is a rattle of
stones on the street, and much
shouting. Then the officer is
heard giving orders, and the
noise of rifles being fired follows.]
NORA. Aw, Holy Mother o' God, they're
shootin'!
MRS. RAINEY. Dear, oh, dear, oh, dear!
HUGH [from the top of the stairs]. It's all
right, ma, they just shot over their heads.
There's no wan hurt. It's scared them a
bit, an' some o' them is runnin' home.
MRS. RAINEY. Come on, down, Hugh,
and bring Tom wi' ye. It's mebbe not safe
up there.
HUGH. Aw, it's safe enough.
[The uproar continues.]
NORA [who is slightly hysterical]. No,
don't go back again, Hugh. A'm afeard til
death.
HUGH [coming down the stairs and putting
his arm round her]. Sure, there's nathin' til
be afeard o'. It'll be all over in a minit or
two.             [More stones are thrown.]
TOM [from above]. They've knocked a
soldier senseless wi' a brick.
NORA. Aw, I know it'll be death til
some. Don't go away thrum me. Me
heart's in me mouth wi' fear.
HUGH. There now, ye're all right.
NORA. A've not bin the same since the
men bate ye at the Custom House steps
that day.... A lost me nerve when A saw
them strikin' ye.
[RAINEY, who still paces up and
down the room, passes her, and
she starts with terror.]
HUGH. What ails ye?
NORA. It's nathin'. It wus like a
shadow.... [She sits down on the sofa, and
pulls him down beside her.] A'll be all right
in a minit. On'y don't go away thrum me.
A want ye near me. Aw, Hughie, Hughie,


it wus our fault. We shud 'a' done what
yer da wanted us t' do. We'll nivir know
no peace after this day's work, but misery
til we die. A'd give the wurl' if on'y A cud
ondo it all.
HUGH. Ye mussen take on like that.
Sure, it can't be helped.
RAINEY. It cud 'a' bin helped.
MRS. RAINEY. Ye wur all s' headstrong.
NORA. A wish A cud putt things back
again. Is there nathin' we can do?
RAINEY. There's nathin' til be done.
It's too late.
NORA. There'll be men killed, an' weemen weepin'. It wus our fault. It's us they
shud be shootin' an' not them.
MRS. RAINEY. Aw, dear, hould yer
tongue. Ye mussen say the like o' that.
[She puts her arms round NORA.] Sure,
don't be cryin' like that. It's not your
fault the wurl's like it is.
NORA. A can't help thinkin' it's me's t'
blame. Ye min' what Michael said about
men bein' ruined be weemen...
MRS. RAINEY. Aw, sure, men alwis putts
the blame on us whativir happens.
NORA. If A cud stap it A woud do annything at all. Mebbe, if A wus til go out til
them, an' tell them it was my fault, they'd
go home!...
HUGH. Och, Nora, dear, don't be talkin'
wil'ly. Ye're not near yerself.
[The uproar continues, and, after
the word of command is given,
the rifles are fired again.]
NORA. Aw, they're shootin' again.
Don't let them, don't let them.
TOM [from the top of the stairs]. It's all
right. They've not hit annyone. They're
on'y tryin' to frighten them. It's blank
kertridges they're usin'. A wish t' me
goodness, Mickie 'ud go on home. They're
throwin' stones at him as well as the
soldiers.
MRS. RAINEY. Try and sign til him to
go away.
TOM. A'11 try, but sure he'll not see me,
and not heed me if he does.
[He goes back into the room.]
HUGH. A wish we cud get him in here.
MRS. RAINEY. Yer da says he'll not let
him in.




MIXED MARRIAGE


'53


HUGH. Da, ye'll not keep it up anny
longer, will ye?
RAINEY. A don't know ye. Ye're a
stranger in this house. You an' that wumman.                [He points to NORA.]
HUGH. A day like this, da, is no time fur
ill-feelin'.
RAINEY. There can be nathin' else on a
day when men clod stones at my dure. D' ye
hear that? Clod stones at my dure. There
nivir wus the like o' that done til me afore.
HUGH. Well, it can't be helped now.
RAINEY. Ye can't get out o' yer punishment that way. Yer reward's outside: men
mad wi' rage, an' sodgers shootin' them
down.
HUGH [with rising anger]. An' whose fault
is that? There wudda bin noan o' this if
ye hadden bin so headstrong and bigoted.
MRS. RAINEY. Aw, don't begin it all
over again.
NORA. Yer da's right, Hugh. It's me's
t' blame. Ye wud 'a' given me up if A'd
'a' let ye. A'll nivir be happy again wi'
this on me min'.
HUGH. Ye'll be all right, dear. Sure,
we'll go away...
NORA. Ye can't go away thrum yerself.
A wish A cud die.
MRS. RAINEY. Fur dear sake, Nora, pull
yerself thegither. It's no way t' be goin'
on, that. There's a dale t' be thought o',
an' ye'll need all yer wits about it.
NORA. If A wus t' die mebbe it wud
putt things right?
HUGH. What's the good o' talkin' about
dyin'? It'll be time enough t' do that when
ye're ould.
RAINEY. If ye'd thought o' this afore ye
done what ye did...
MRS. RAINEY. Aw, if we'd all thought
o' this afore we done what we did...
Sure, stap talkin'. We're all makin' excuses for wurselves, an' Mickie's outside
tryin' t' make pace. Fur shame.
[The uproar still continues and the
voice of the officer is heard calling
on the people to disperse. He
threatens to use ball-cartridges if
they do not do so.]
TOM [coming to the top of the stairs]. Hugh,
they're goin' to shoot in earnest now. A


heerd the officer sayin' they wud if the
crowd wudden go home. Holy smoke!
Somebuddy 'l be shot dead. Michael's
runnin" about wi' blood streamin' down
his face, tellin' the men t' go home, an'
whinivir he says a word til wan o' them,
they strack him in the face. Aw, it's awful
the way they're goin' on, it is, indeed.
NORA. Aw, Mickie'll be shot. Ye'll not
let them  shoot him, Hugh! He's done
nathin'. It wus us, it wus us. They can
shoot me if they like.
MRS. RAINEY. Ye'd better bring him in,
Hugh. God save us all, will this day nivir
end?
RAINEY. It'll end when it's too late.
[HUGH goes to the door and opens it.
The uproar is horrible; stones
are thrown at him.]
HUGH. Hi, Michael, fur God's sake come
on in er that, or ye'll be killed. [Loud cries
of "Come out, ye Fenian ye," and "Down
wi' Popery."] Come on, Michael! [The officer speaks again, "For Heaven's sake, men,
go home, or I'll order the soldiers to fire on
you." A. wild volley of stones is the reply of
the crowd. The officer shouts to his men,
" Present arms!"] Aw, God save us, they're
goin' t' shoot now. Michael, ye fool, come
on in, or they'll kill ye.
NORA. What d' ye say? They're not
goin' t' shoot in earnest, are they?
HUGH [coming back to the kitchen, and covering his face with his hands]. Aye, they are.
NORAz [starts up]. They mussent shoot
the people down. [The officer speaks again,
"For the last time, men, will you go home?
I don't want to order the soldiers to shoot."
Again the crowd yells with rage, and throws
stones at the soldiers.] No, no, no, don't
shoot them! It wus my fault, A tell ye.
Stap, stap. [She runs into the street.] Stap,
stap, it wus me!...
[As she rushes into the street, the
soldiers fire. She is seen to stagger a little, and look up suddenly,
as one does in amazement. She
cries, "Aw, Hughie, A 'm shot! "
and tries to catch the lintel of the
door, but falls across the porch.
The soldiers are heard charging
the mob.]




'54


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


MRS. RAINEY. Aw, what's happened,
what's happened?
HUGH [running to NORA, and catching her
up in his arms]. Nora, Nora, what's happened ye? My God, they've murdhered
her.    [MICHAEL appears in the doorway.]
MICHAEL. What did ye let her out fur?
Tom, Tom, come quick an' help us wi' her.
TOM. A knew somethin' like this wud
happen. [To his father.] Mebbe, ye're satisfied now.
MICHAEL. Run fur a doctor, will ye?
[TOM goes out of the house quickly.
A surly noise continues outside,
now rising, now falling. A policeman appears in the doorway,


and some of the neighbours.
HUGH and MICHAEL lift NORA
in their arms, and carry her to
the sofa. The policeman enters
with them, shutting the street door
behind him.]
HUGH. Nora, ye're all right, are n't ye?
Aw, spake t' me, wumman.
NORA [feebly]. Don't be cryin', Hugh.
It wus right t' shoot me. It wus my fault.
A 'm quaren glad.
RAINEY [as if dreaming]. A wus right. A
know A wus right.
MRS. RAINEY [weeping a little, and patting him gently]. Aw, my poor man, my
poor man.




KING ARGIMENES AND THE
UNKNOWN WARRIOR
BY LORD DUNSANY




COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY LITTLE, BROWN & COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
King Argimenes and the Unknown Warrior is taken from      "Five Plays," by Lord
Dunsany. All dramatic rights are reserved by the author. No performances, either professional or amateur, may be given without written permission of the owner of the acting
rights, who may be addressed in care of the publishers, Little, Brown & Company, Boston




PERSONS


KING ARGIMENES
ZARB, a slave born of slaves
AN OLD SLAVE          Slaves of King Darniak
A YOUNG SLAVE
SLAVES
KING DARNIAK
THE KING'S OVERSEER
A PROPHET
THE IDOL-GUARD
THE SERVANT OF THE KING'S DOG
QUEEN ATHARLIA
QUEEN OXARA
QUEEN CAHAFRA    Queens of King Darniak
QUEEN CAHAFRA
QUEEN THRAGOLIND
GUARDS AND ATTENDANTS
Time: A long time ago








KING ARGIMENES AND THE
UNKNOWN WARRIOR
THE FIRST ACT


The dinner-hour on the slave-fields of KING
DARNIAK. KING ARGIMENES is sitting upon
the ground, bowed, ragged and dirty, gnawing
a bone. He has uncouth hair and a dishevelled
beard. A battered spade lies near him. Two
or three slaves sit at back of stage eating raw
cabbage-leaves. The tear-song, the chant of
the low-born, rises at intervals, monctonous
and mournful, coming from distant slavefields.
KING ARGIMENES. This is a good bone;
there is juice in this bone.
ZARB. I wish I were you, Argimenes.
KING ARGIMENES. 1 am not to be envied
any longer. I have eaten up my bone.
ZARB. I wish I were you, because you
have been a king. Because men have prostrated themselves before your feet. Because you have ridden a horse and worn a
crown and have been called Majesty.
KING ARGIMENES. When I remember
that I have been a king it is very terrible.
ZARB. But you are lucky to have such
things in your memory as you have. I have
nothing in my memory - Once I went for
a year without being flogged, and I remember my cleverness in contriving it - I have
nothing else to remember.
KING ARGIMENES. It is very terrible to
have been a king.
ZARB. But we have nothing who have
no good memories in the past. It is not
easy for us to hope for the future here.
KING ARGIMENES. Have you any god?
ZARB. We may not have a god because
he might make us brave and we might kill
our guards. He might make a miracle and
give us swords.
KING ARGIMENES. Ah, you have no
hope, then.
ZARB. I have a little hope. Hush, and I


will tell you a secret - The King's great
dog is ill and like to die. They will throw
him to us. We shall have beautiful bones
then.
KING ARGIMENES. Ah! Bones.
ZARB. Yes. That is what I hope for.
And have you no other hope? Do you not
hope that your nation will arise some day
and rescue you and cast off the king and
hang him up by his thumbs from the palace
gateway?
KING ARGIMENES. No. I have no other
hope, for my god was cast down in the
temple and broken into three pieces on the
day that they surprised us and took me
sleeping. But will they throw him to us?
Will so honorable a brute as the King's dog
be thrown to us?
ZARB. When he is dead his honors are
taken away. Even the King when he is
dead is given to the worms. Then why
should not his dog be thrown to us?
KING ARGIMENES. We are not worms!
ZARB. You do not understand, Argimenes. The worms are little and free, while
we are big and enslaved. I did not say we
were worms, but we are like worms, and if
they have the King when he is dead, why
then 
KING ARGIMENES. Tell me more of the
King's (log. Are there big bones on him?
ZARB. Ay, he is a big dog - a high, big,
black one.
KING ARGIMENES. You know him then?
ZARB. Oh, yes, I know him. I know him
well. I was beaten once because of him,
twenty-five strokes from the treble whips,
two men beating me.
KING ARGIMENES. How did they.beat
you because of the King's dog?
ZARB. They beat me because I spoke to




I6o


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


him without making obeisance. He was
coming dancing alone over the slave-fields
and I spoke to him. He was a friendly great
dog, and I spoke to him and patted his
head, and did not make obeisance.
KING ARGIMENES. And they saw you
do it?
ZARB. Yes, the slave-guard saw me.
They came and seized me at once and
bound my arms. The great dog wanted me
to speak to him again, but I was hurried
away.
KING ARGIMENES. You should have
made obeisance.
ZARB. The great dog seemed so friendly
that I forgot he was the King's great dog.
KING ARGIMENES. But tell me more.
Was he hurt or is it a sickness?
ZARB. They say that it is a sickness.
KING ARGIMENES. Ah, then he will grow
thin if he does not die soon. If it had been
a hurt! - but we should not complain. I
complain more often than you do because
I had not learned to submit while I was
yet young.
ZARB. If your beautiful memories do
not please you, you should hope more. I
wish I had your memories. I should not
trouble to hope then. It is very hard to hope.
KING ARGIMENES. There will be nothing
more to hope for when we have eaten the
King's dog.
ZARB. Why, you might find gold in the
earth while you were digging. Then you
might bribe the commander of the guard
to lend you his sword; we would all follow
you if you had a sword. Then we might
take the King and bind him and lay him
on the ground and fasten his tongue outside his mouth with thorns and put honey
on it and sprinkle honey near. Then the
gray ants would come from one of their
big mounds. My father found gold once
when he was digging.
KING ARGIMENES [pointedly]. Did your
father free himself?
ZARB. No. Because the King's Overseer
found him looking at the gold and killed
him. But he would have freed himself if
he could have bribed the guard.
[A PROPHET walks across the stage
attended by two guards.]


SLAVES. He is going to the King. He is
going to the King.
ZARB. He is going to the King.
KING ARGIMENES. Going to prophesy
good things to the King. It is easy to
prophesy good things to a king, and be rewarded when the good things come. What
else should come to a king? A prophet! A
prophet!
[A deep bell tolls slowly. KING
ARGIMENES and ZARB pick up
their spades at once, and the old
slaves at the back of the stage go
down on their knees immediately
and grub in the soil with their
hands. The white beard of the
oldest trails in the dirt as he
works. KING ARGIMENES digs.]
KING ARGIMENES. What is the name of
that song that we always sing? I like the
song.
ZARB. It has no name. It is our song.
There is no other song.
KING ARGIMENES. Once there were
other songs. Has this no name?
ZARB. I think the soldiers have a name
for it.
KING ARGIMENES. What do the soldiers
call it?
ZARB. The soldiers call it the tear-song,
the chant of the low-born.
KING ARGIMENES. It is a good song. I
could sing no other now.
[ZARB moves away digging.]
KING ARGIMENES [to himself as his spade
touches something in the earth]. Metal!
Feels with his spade again.] Gold perhaps!
- It is of no use here. [Uncovers earth leisurely. Suddenly he drops on his knees and
works excitedly in the earth with his hands.
Then very slowly, still kneeling, he lifts, lying
flat on his hands, a long greenish sword, his
eyes intent on it. About the level of his uplifted forehead he holds it, still flat on both
hands, and addresses it thus.] 0 holy and
blessed thing! [Then he lowers it slowly till
his hands rest on his knees, and looking all
the while at the sword, loquitur.] Three years
ago to-morrow King Darniak spat at me,
having taken my kingdom from me. Three
times in that year I was flogged, with twelve
stripes, with seventeen stripes, and with




KING ARGIMENES AND THE UNKNOWN WARRIOR  I6I


twenty stripes. A year and eleven months
ago, come Moon-day, the King's Overseer
struck me in the face, and nine times in
that year he called me dog. For one month
two weeks and a day I was yoked with a
bullock and pulled a rounded stone all day
over the paths, except while we were fed.
I was flogged twice that year -with
eighteen stripes and with ten stripes. This
year the roof of the slave-sty has fallen in
and King Darniak will not repair it. Five
weeks ago one of his Queens laughed at me
as she came across the slave-fields. I was
flogged again this year and with thirteen
stripes, and twelve times they have called
me dog. And these things they have done
to a king, and a king of the House of Ithara.
[He listens attentivelyfor a moment,
then buries the sword again and
pats the earth over it with his
hands, then digs again.]
[The old SLAVES do not see him: their faces
are to the earth. Enter the KING'S
OVERSEER   carrying a whip.    The
SLAVES and KING ARGIMENES kneel
with their foreheads to the ground as he
passes across the stage. Exit the KING'S
OVERSEER.]
KING ARGIMENES [kneeling, hands outspread downward]. 0 warrior spirit, wherever thou wanderest, whoever be thy gods,
whether they punish thee or whether they
bless thee, O kingly spirit, that once laid
here this sword, behold, I pray to thee,
having no gods to pray to, for the god of
my nation was broken in three by night.
Mine arm is stiff with three years' slavery,
and remembers not the sword. But guide
thy sword till I have slain six men and
armed the strongest slaves, and thou shalt
have the sacrifice every year of a hundred
goodly oxen. And I will build in Ithara a
temple to thy memory wherein all that
enter in shall remember thee; so shalt thou
be honored and envied among the dead,
for the dead are very jealous of remembrance. Ay, though thou wert a robber that
took men's lives unrighteously, yet shall
rare spices smoulder in thy temple and little
maidens sing and new-plucked flowers deck
the solemn aisles; and priests shall go about


it ringing bells that thy soul shall find repose. Oh, but it has a good blade, this old
green sword; thou wouldst not like to see it
miss its mark (if the dead see at all, as
wise men teach), thou wouldst not like to
see it go thirsting into the air; so huge a
sword should find its marrowy bone. [Extending his right hand upward.] Come into
my right arm, 0 ancient spirit, 0 unknown
warrior's soul! And if thou hast the ear
of any gods, speak there against Illuriel,
god of King Darniak.
[He rises and goes on digging.]
THE KING'S OVERSEER [reentering]. So
you have been praying.
KING ARGIMENES [kneeling]. No, master.
THE KING'S OVERSEER. The slave-guard
saw you. [Strikes him.] It is not lawful for
a slave to pray.
KING ARGIMENES. I did but pray to
Illuriel to make me a good slave, to teach
me to dig well and to pull the rounded stone
and to make me not to die when the food is
scarce, but to be a good slave to my master
the great King.
THE KING'S OVERSEER. Who art thou to
pray to Illuriel? Dogs may not pray to an
immortal god.                   [Exit.]
[ZARB comes back, digging.]
KING ARGIMENES [digging]. Zarb!
ZARB [also digging]. Do not look at me
when you speak. The guards are watching us. Look at your digging.
KING ARGIMENES. How do the guards
know we are speaking because we look at
one another?
ZARB. You are very witless. Of course
they know.
KING ARGIMENES. Zarb!
ZARB. What is it?
KING ARGIMENES. How many guards
are there in sight?
ZARB. There are six of them over there.
They are watching us.
KING  ARGIMENES. Are there other
guards in sight of these six guards?
ZARB. No.
KING ARGIMENES. How do you know?
ZARB. Because whenever their officer
leaves them they sit upon the ground and
play with dice.




i62


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


KING ARGIMENES. How does that show
that there are not another six in sight of
them?
ZARB. How witless you are, Argimenes!
Of course it shows there are not. Because,
if there were, another officer would see
them, and their thumbs would be cut off.
KING ARGIMENES. Ah! [A pause.] Zarb!
[A pause.] Would the slaves follow me if I
tried to kill the guards?
ZARB. No, Argimenes.
KING ARGIMENES. Why would they not
follow me?
ZARB. Because you look like a slave.
They will never follow a slave, because they
are slaves themselves, and know how mean
a creature is a slave. If you looked like a
king they would follow you.
KING ARGIMENES. But I am a king.
They know that I am a king.
ZARB. It is better to look like a king. It
is looks that they would go by.
KING ARGIMENES. If I had a sword
would they follow me? A beautiful huge
sword of bronze.
ZARB. I wish I could think of things like
that. It is because you were once a king
that you can think of a sword of bronze. I
tried to hope once that I should some day
fight the guards, but I could n't picture a
sword, I could n't imagine it; I could only
picture whips.
KING ARGIMENES. Dig a little nearer,
Zarb. [They both edge closer.] I have found
a very old sword in the earth. It is not a
sword such as common soldiers wear. A
king must have worn it, and an angry king.
It must have done fearful things; there are
little dints in it. Perhaps there was a battle
here long ago where all were slain, and perhaps that king died last and buried his
sword, but the great birds swallowed him.
ZARB. You have been thinking too much
of the King's dog, Argimenes, and that has
made you hungry, and hunger has driven
you mad.
KING ARGIMENES. I have found such a
sword.                     [A pause.]
ZARB. Why - then you will wear a purple cloak again, and sit on a great throne,
and ride a prancing horse, and we shall call
you Majesty.


KING ARGIMENES. I shall break a long
fast first and drink much water, and sleep.
But will the slaves follow me?
ZARB. You will make them follow you if
you have a sword. Yet is Illuriel a very
potent god. They say that none have prevailed against King Darniak's dynasty so
long as Illuriel stood. Once an enemy cast
Illuriel into the river and overthrew the
dynasty, but a fisherman found him again
and set him up, and the enemy was driven
out and the dynasty returned.
KING ARGIMENES. If Illuriel could be
cast down as my god was cast down perhaps King Darniak could be overcome as
I was overcome in my sleep?
ZARB. If Illuriel were cast down all the
people would utter a cry and flee away. It
would be a fearful portent.
KING ARGIMENES. How many men are
there in the armory at the palace?
ZARB. There are ten men in the palace
armory when all the slave-guards are out.
[They dig awhile in silence.]
ZARB. The officer of the slave-guard has
gone away - They are playing with dice
now. [He throws down his spade and
stretches his arms.] The man with the big
beard has won again, he is very nimble with
his thumbs - They are playing again, but
it is getting dark, I cannot clearly see.
[KING ARGIMENES furtively uncovers the sword, he picks it up
and grips it in his hand.]
ZARB. Majesty!
[KING ARGIMENES crouches and
steals away towards the slaveguard.]
ZARB [to the other slaves]. Argimenes has
found a terrible sword and has gone to slay
the slave-guard. It is not a common sword,
it is some king's sword.
AN OLD SLAVE. Argimenes will be
dreadfully flogged. We shall hear him cry
all night. His cries will frighten us, and we
shall not sleep.
ZARB. No, no! The guards flog poor
slaves, but Argimenes had an angry look.
The guards will be afraid when they see
him look so angry and see his terrible sword.
It was a huge sword, and he looked very




KING ARGIMENES AND THE UNKNOWN WARRIOR  163


angry. He will bring us the swords of the
slave-guard. We must prostrate ourselves
before him and kiss his feet or he will be
angry with us too.
OLD SLAVE. Will Argimenes give me a
sword?
ZARB. He will have swords for six of us
if he slays the slave-guard. Yes, he will
give you a sword.
SLAVE. A sword! No, no, I must not;
the King would kill me if he found that I
had a sword.
SECOND SLAVE [slowly, as one who develops an idea]. If the King found that I
had a sword, why, then it would be an evil
day for the King.  [They all look off left.]
ZARB. I think that they are playing at
dice again.
FIRST SLAVE. I do not see Argimenes.
ZARB. No, because he was crouchingas he
walked. The slave-guard is on the sky-line.
SECOND SLAVE. What is that dark
shadow behind the slave-guard?
ZARB. It is too still to be Argimenes.
SECOND SLAVE. Look! It moves.
ZARB. The evening is too dark, I cannot
see.
[They continue to gaze into the
gathering darkness. They raise
themselves on their knees and
crane their necks. Nobody speaks.
Then from their lips and from
others farther off goes up a long,
deep "Oh!" It is like the sound
that goes up from the grandstand
when a horse falls at a fence, or,
in England, like the first exclamation of the crowd at a great
cricket match when a man is
caught in the slips.]
CURTAIN
THE SECOND ACT
The Throne Hall of KING DARNIAK. The
KING is seated on his throne in the centre
at the back of the stage; a little to his left,
but standing out from the wall, a dark-green
seated idol is set up. His QUEENS are seated
about him on the ground, two on his right
and two between him and the idol. All wear


crowns. Beside the dark-green idol a soldier
with a pike is kneeling upon one knee. The
tear-song, the chant of the low-born, drifts
faintly up from the slave-fields.
FIRST QUEEN. Do show us the new
prophet, Majesty; it would be very interesting to see another prophet.
THE KING. Ah, yes. [He strikes upon a
gong, and an Attendant enters, walks straight
past the KING and bows before the idol; he
then walks back to the centre of the stage and
bows before the KING.] Bring the new
prophet hither.        [Exit Attendant.]
[Enter the KING'S OVERSEER holding a roll
of paper. He passes the KING, bows to
the idol, returns to the front of the KING,
kneels, and remains kneeling with
bended head.]
THE KING [speaking in the meanwhile to
the SECOND QUEEN on his immediate right].
We are making a beautiful arbor for you,
0 Atharlia, at an end of the great garden.
There shall be iris-flowers that you love
and all things that grow by streams. And
the stream there shall be small and winding
like one of those in your country. I shall
bring a stream a new way from the mountains. [Turning to QUEEN OXARA on his extreme right.] And for you, too, 0 Oxara,
we shall make a pleasance. I shall have
rocks brought from the quarries for you,
and my idle slaves shall make a hill and
plant it with mountain shrubs, and you
can sit there in the winter thinking of the
North. [To the kneeling OVERSEER.] Ah,
what is here?
THE KING'S OVERSEER. The plans of
your royal garden, Majesty. The slaves
have dug it for five years and rolled the
paths.
THE KING [takes the plans]. Was there
not a garden in Babylon?
THE KING'S OVERSEER. They say there
was a garden there of some sort, Majesty.
THE KING. I will have a greater garden.
Let the world know and wonder.
[[Looks at the plans.]
THE KING'S OVERSEER. It shall know
at once, Majesty.
THE KING [pointing at the plan]. I do
not like that hill, it is too steep.




164


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


THE KING'S OVERSEER. No, Majesty.
THE KING. Remove it.
THE KING'S OVERSEER. Yes, Majesty.
THE KING. When will the garden be
ready for the Queens to walk in?
THE KING'S OVERSEER. Work is slow,
Majesty, at this season of the year because the green stuff is scarce and the
slaves grow idle. They even become insolent and ask for bones.
QUEEN CAHAFRA [to the KING'S OVERSEER]. Then why are they not flogged? [To
QUEEN THRAGOLIND.] It is so simple, they
only have to flog them, but these people
are so silly sometimes. I want to walk in
the great garden, and then they tell me:
"It is not ready, Majesty. It is not ready,
Majesty," as though there were any reason
why it should not be ready.
FOURTH QUEEN. Yes, they are a great
trouble to us.
[Meanwhile the KING hands back
the plans. Exit the KING'S OVERSEER.]
[Reenter Attendant with the PROPHET, who is
dressed in a long dark-brown cloak; his
face is solemn; he has a long dark beard
and long hair. Having bowed before
the idol, he bows before the KING and
stands silent. The Attendant, having
bowed to both, stands by the doorway.]
THE KING [meanwhile to QUEEN ATHARLIA]. Perhaps we shall lure the ducks when
the marshes are frozen to come and swim
in your stream; it will be like your own
country. [To the PROPHET.] Prophesy unto
us.
THE PROPHET [speaks at once in a loud
voice]. There was once a King that had
slaves to hate him and to toil for him, and
he had soldiers to guard him and to die for
him. And the number of the slaves that he
had to hate him and to toil for him was
greater than the number of the soldiers
that he had to guard him and to die for him.
And the days of that King were few. And
the number of thy slaves, 0 JSing, that
thou hast to hate thee is greater than the
number of thy soldiers.
QUEEN CAHAFRA [to QUEEN THRAGOLIND].
— and I wore the crown with the sap

I


phires and the big emerald in it, and the
foreign prince said that 1 looked very sweet.
[The KING who has been smiling at
ATHARLIA, gives a gracious nod
to the PROPHET when he hears
him stop speaking. When the
QUEENS see the KING nod graciously, they applaud the PROPHET by idly clapping their
hands.]
THIRD QUEEN. Do ask him to make us
another prophecy, Majesty! He is so interesting. He looks so clever.
THE KING. Prophesy unto us.
THE PROPHET. Thine armies camped
upon thy mountainous borders descry no
enemy in the plains afar. And within thy
gates lurks he for whom thy sentinels seek
upon lonely guarded frontiers. There is a
fear upon me and a boding. Even yet there
is time, even yet; but little time. And my
mind is dark with trouble for thy kingdom.
QUEEN CAHAFRA [to QUEEN THRAGOLIND]. I do not like the way he does his hair.
QUEEN THRAGOLIND. It would be all
right if he would only have it cut.
THE KING [to the PROPHET, dismissing
him with a nod of the head]. Thank you,
that has been very interesting.
QUEEN THRAGOLIND. How clever he is!
I wonder how he thinks of things like that?
QUEEN CAHAFRA. Yes, but I hate a man
who is conceited about it. Look how he
wears his hair.
QUEEN THRAGOLIND. Yes, of course, it
is perfectly dreadful.
QUEEN CAHAFRA. Why can't he wear
his hair like other people, even if he does
say clever things?
QUEEN THRAGOLIND. Yes, I hate a conceited man.1
[Enter an ATTENDANT. He bows before the
idol, then kneels to the KING.]
THE ATTENDANT. The guests are all assembled in the Chamber of Banquets.
[All rise. The QUEENS walk two
abreast to the Chamber of
Banquets.]
QUEEN ATHARLIA [to QUEEN OXARA].
What was he talking about?
1 It is not necessary for the prophet's hair to
be at all unusual.




KING ARGIMENES AND THE UNKNOWN WARRIOR  i65


QUEEN OXARA. He was talking about
the armies on the frontier.
QUEEN ATHARLIA. Ah! That reminds me
of that young captain in the Purple Guard.
They say that he loves Linoora.
QUEEN OXARA. Oh, Thearkos! Linoora
probably said that.
[When the QUEENS come to the
doorway they halt on each side of
it. Then they turn facing one
another. Then the KING leaves
his throne and passes between
them into the Chamber of Banquets, each couple courtesying low
to him as he passes. The
QUEENS follow, then the attendants. There rises the wine-song,
the chant of the nobles, drowning
the chant of the low-born. Only the
IDOL- GUARD remains behind,
still kneeling beside ILLURIEL.]
THE IDOL-GUARD. I do not like those
things the Prophet said - It would be terrible if they were true. It would be very
terrible if they were false, for he prophesies
in the name of Illuriel. Ah! They are singing the wine-song, the chant of the nobles.
The Queens are singing. How merry they
are! I should like to be a noble and sit and
look at the Queens. [He joins in the song.]
THE VOICE OF A SENTINEL. Guard, turn
out.       [The wine-song still continues.]
THE VOICE OF ONE HAVING AUTHORITY.
Turn out the guard there! Wake up, you
accursed pigs!
[Still the wine-song. A faint sound
as of swords.]
A VOICE CRYING. To the armory! To
the armory! Reinforce! The Slaves have
come to the armory. Ah! mercy!
[For awhile there is silence.]
KING ARGIMENES [in the doorway]. Go
you to the slave-fields. Say that the palaceguard is dead and that we have taken the
armory. Ten of you, hold the armory till
our men come from the slave-fields. [He
comes into the hall with his slaves armed with
swords.] Throw down Illuriel.
THE IDOL-GUARD. YOU must take my
life before you touch my god.
A SLAVE. We only want your pike.
[All attack him; they seize his


sword and bind his hands behind
him. They all pull down Illuriel,
the dark-green idol, who breaks
into seven pieces.]
KING ARGIMENES. Illuriel is fallen and
broken asunder.
ZARB [with some awe]. Immortal Illuriel
is dead at last.
KING ARGIMENES. My god was broken
into three pieces, but Illuriel is broken into
seven. The fortunes of Darniak will prevail over mine no longer. [A slave breaks
off a golden arm from the throne.] Come, we
will arm all the slaves.        [Exeunt.]
KING DARNIAK [enters with retinue]. My
throne is broken. Illuriel is turned against
me.
AN ATTENDANT. Illuriel is fallen.
ALL [with KING DARNIAK]. Illuriel is
fallen, is fallen.  [Some drop their spears.]
KING   DARNIAK [to the IDOL-GUARD].
What envious god or sacrilegious man has
dared to do this thing?
THE IDOL-GUARD. Illuriel is fallen.
KIN(G DARNIAK. Have men been here?
THE IDOL-GUARD. Is fallen.
KING DARNIAK. What way did they go?
THE IDOL-GUARD. Illuriel is fallen.
KING DARNIAK. They shall be tortured
here before Illuriel, and their eyes shall be
hung on a thread about his neck, so that
Illuriel shall see it, and on their bones we
will set him up again. Come!
[Those that have dropped their
spears pick them up, but trail
them suddenly behind them on
the ground. All follow dejectedly.]
VOICES OF LAMENTATION [growing fainter
and fainter off]. Illuriel is fallen, Illuriel is
fallen. Illuriel, Illuriel, Illuriel, Illuriel. Is
fallen. Is fallen. [The song of the low-born
ceases suddenly. Then voices of the slaves in
the slave-fields chanting very loudly.] Illuriel is fallen, is fallen, is fallen. Illuriel is
fallen and broken asunder. Illuriel is
fallen, fallen, fallen.
[Clamor of fighting is heard, the
clash of swords, and voices, and
now and then the name of Illuriel.]
THE IDOL-GUARD [kneeling over a fragment of Illuriel]. Illuriel is broken. They
have overthrown Illuriel. They have done




I66


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


great harm to the courses of the stars. The
moon will be turned to blackness or fall
and forsake the nights. The sun will rise no
more. They do not know how they have
wrecked the world.
[Reenter KING ARGIMENES and his men.]
KING ARGIMENES [in the doorway]. Go
you to the land of Ithara and tell them that
I am free. And do you go to the army on
the frontier. Offer them death, or the right
arm of the throne, to be melted and divided
amongst them all. Let them choose.
[The armed slaves go to the throne
and stand on each side of it,
loquitur, " Majesty, ascend your
throne."]
KING ARGIMENES [standing with his face
toward the audience, lifts the sword slowly,
lying on both his hands, a little above his head,
then looking up at it, loquitur]. Praise to the
unknown warrior, and to all gods that
bless him. [He ascends the throne. ZARB prostrates himself at the foot of it and remains
prostrated for the rest of the Act, muttering
at intervals "Majesty." An armed slave enters dragging the KING'S OVERSEER. KING
ARGIMENES sternly watches him. He is
dragged before the Throne. He still has the
roll of parchment in his hand. For some moments KING ARGIMENES does not speak.
Then pointing at the parchment.] What have
you there?
THE KING'S OVERSEER [kneeling]. It is a


plan of the great garden, Majesty. It was
to have been a wonder to the world.
[Unfolds it.]
KING ARGIMENES [grimly]. Show me the
place that I digged for three years. [The
KING'S OVERSEER shows it with trembling
hands; the parchment shakes visibly.] Let
there be built there a temple to an Unknown Warrior. And let this sword be laid
on its altar evermore, that the ghost of that
Warrior wandering by night (if men do
walk by night from across the grave) may
see his sword again. And let slaves be
allowed to pray there and those that are
oppressed; nevertheless the noble and the
mighty shall not fail to repair there too,
that the Unknown Warrior shall not lack
due reverence.
[Enter, running, a MAN of the household of
KING DARNIAK. He starts and stares
aghast on seeing KING ARGIMENES.]
KING ARGIMENES. Who are you?
MAN. I am the servant of the King's dog.
KING ARGIMENES. Why do you come here?
MAN. The King's dog is dead.
KING ARGIMENES AND HIS MEN [savagely
and hungrily]. Bones!
KING ARGIMENES [remembering suddenly
what has happened and where he is]. Let him
be buried with the late King.
ZARB [in a voice of protest]. Majesty!
CURTAIN




THE EASIEST WAY
AN AMERICAN PLAY CONCERNING A PARTICULAR
PHASE OF NEW YORK LIFE
IN FOUR ACTS AND FOUR SCENES
BY EUGENE WALTER




COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY EUGENE WALTER
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
This play is here reprinted for students and the reading public through the courtesy of the author. The acting
rights are strictly reserved by the author, and possession of the book confers no right or license to professionals or
amateurs to produce the play publicly or privately. Penalties are provided by law for any infringements of the
author's rights.




CHARACTERS
LAURA MURDOCK
ELFIE ST. CLAIR
'ANNIE
WILLARD BROCKTON
JOHN MADISON
JIM WESTON




DESCRIPTION OF CHARACTERS
LAURA MURDOCK, twenty-five years of age, is a type not uncommon in the theatrical
life of New York, and one which has grown in importance in the profession since the
business of giving public entertainments has been so reduced to a commercial basis.
At an early age she came from Australia to San Francisco. She possessed a considerable
beauty and an aptitude for theatrical accomplishment which soon raised her to a position
of more or less importance in a local stock company playing in that city. A woman of
intense superficial emotions, her imagination was without any enduring depths, but for
the passing time she could place herself in an attitude of great affection and devotion.
Sensually, the woman had marked characteristics, and with the flattery that surrounded
her she soon became a favorite in the select circles who made such places as "The Poodle
Dog" and "Zinkland's" famous. In general dissipation she was always careful not in
any way to indulge in excesses which would jeopardize her physical attractiveness or for
one moment diminish her sense of keen worldly calculation.
In time she married. It was, of course, a failure. Her vacillating nature was such that
she could not be absolutely true to the man to whom she had given her life, and, after
several bitter experiences, she had the horror of seeing him kill himself in front of her.
There was a momentary spasm of grief, a tidal wave of remorse, and then the peculiar
recuperation of spirits, beauty and attractiveness that so marks this type of woman.
She was deceived by other men in many various ways and finally came to that stage of
life that is known in theatrical circles as being "wised up."
At nineteen, the attention of a prominent theatrical manager being called to her, she
took an important part in a New York production and immediately gained considerable
reputation. The fact that before reaching the age of womanhood she had had more
escapades than most women have in their entire lives was not generally known in New
York, nor was there a mark upon her face or a single coarse mannerism to betray it.
She was soft-voiced, very pretty, very girlish. Her keen sense of worldly calculation led
her to believe that in order to progress in her theatrical career she must have some influence outside of her art and dramatic accomplishment, so she attempted with no little
success to infatuate a hard-headed, blunt and supposedly invincible theatrical manager,
who, in his cold, stolid way, gave her what love there was in him. This, however, not
satisfying her, she played two ends against the middle, and finding a young man of
wealth and position who could give her, in his youth, the exuberance and joy utterly
apart from the character of the theatrical manager, she adopted him and for a while
lived with him. Exhausting his money she cast him aside, always spending a certain
part of the time with the theatrical manager. The young man became crazed, and at a
restaurant tried to murder all of them.
From that time up to the opening of the play her career was a succession of brilliant
coups in gaining the confidence and love, not to say the money, of men of all ages and
all walks in life. Her fascination was as undeniable as her insincerity of purpose. She
had never made an honest effort to be an honest woman, although she imagined herself
always persecuted, the victim of circumstances, and was always ready to excuse any
viciousness of character which led her into her peculiar difficulties. While acknowledged
to be a mistress of her business - that of acting - from a purely technical point of view,
her lack of sympathy, her abuse of her dramatic temperament in her private affairs, had
been such as to make it impossible for her sincerely to impress audiences with real




THE EASIEST WAY


I7I


emotional power, and therefore, despite the influences which she always had at hand,
she remained a mediocre artist.
At the time of the opening of our play she has played a summer engagement with a
stock company in Denver, which has just ended. She has met John Madison, a man of
about twenty-seven years of age, whose position is that of a dramatic critic on one of
the local papers. Laura Murdock, with her usual wisdom, started to fascinate John
Madison, but has found that, for once in her life, she has met her match.
John Madison is good to look at, frank, virile, but a man of broad experience, and not
to be hoodwinked. For the first time Laura Murdock feels that the shoe is pinching the
other foot, and without any possible indication of reciprocal affection she has been
slowly falling desperately, madly, honestly and decently in love with him. She has for
the past two years been the special favorite and mistress of Willard Brockton. The understanding is one of pure friendship. He is a man who has a varied taste in the selection
of his women, is honest in a general way, and perfectly frank about his amours. He has
been most generous with Laura Murdock, and his close relations with several very prominent theatrical managers have made it possible for him to secure her desirable engagements, generally in New York. With all her past experiences, tragic and otherwise,
Laura Murdock has found nothing equal to this sudden, this swiftly increasing, love for
the young Western man. At first she attempted to deceive him. Her baby face, her
masterful assumption of innocence and childlike devotion, made no impression upon him.
He has let her know in no uncertain way that he knew her record from the day she stepped
on American soil in San Francisco to the time when she had come to Denver, but still
he liked her.
JOHN MADISON is a peculiar type of the Western man. Up to the time of his meeting
Laura he had always been employed either in the mines or on a newspaper west of the
Mississippi River. He is one of those itinerant reporters; to-day you might find him in
Seattle, to-morrow in Butte, the next week in Denver, and then possibly he would make
the circuit from Los Angeles to 'Frisco, and then all around again. He drinks his whiskey
straight, plays his faro fairly, and is not particular about the women with whom he goes.
He started life in the Western country at an early age. His natural talents, both in literature and in general adaptability to all conditions of life, were early exhibited, but his
alma mater was the bar-room, and the faculty of that college its bar-tenders and gamblers
and general habitues.
He seldom has social engagements outside of certain disreputable establishments where
a genial personality or an overburdened pocketbook gives entree and the rules of conventionality have never even been whispered. His love affairs, confined to this class of
women, have seldom lasted more than a week or ten days. His editors know him as a
brilliant genius, irresponsible, unreliable, but at times inestimably valuable. He cares
little for personal appearance beyond a certain degree of neatness. He is quick on the
trigger, and in a time of overheated argument can go some distance with his fists; in fact,
his whole career is best described as "happy-go-lucky."
He realizes fully his ability to do almost anything fairly well, and some things especially
well, but he has never tried to accomplish anything beyond the earning of a comfortable
living. Twenty-five or thirty dollars a week was all he needed. With that he could buy
his liquor, treat his women, sometimes play a little faro, sit up all night and sleep all day,
and in general lead the life of good-natured vagabondage which has always pleased him
and he had chosen as a career.
The objection of safer and saner friends to this form of livelihood was always met by
him with a slap on the back and a laugh. "Don't you worry about me, partner; if I'm
going to hell I'm going there with bells on," was always his rejoinder, and yet when
called upon to cover some great big news story, or report some vital event, he settled




172


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


down to his work with a steely determination and a grim joy that resulted in work which
classified him as a genius. Any great mental effort of this character, any unusual achievement along these lines, would be immediately followed by a protracted debauch that
would upset him physically and mentally for weeks at a time, but he always recovered
and landed on his feet, and with the same laugh and smile again went at his work.
If there have been opportunities to meet decent women of good social standing he has
always thrown them aside with the declaration that they bore him to death, and there
never had entered into his heart a feeling or idea of real affection until he met Laura. He
fell for a moment under the spell of her fascination, and then, with cold logic, he analyzed
her, and found out that while outwardly she had every sign of girlhood, ingenuousness,
sweetness of character and possibility of affection, spiritually and mentally she was
nothing more than a moral wreck. He observed keenly her efforts to win him and her
disappointment at her failure - not that she cared so much for him personally, but that
it hurt her vanity not to be successful with this good-for-nothing, good-natured vagabond,
when men of wealth and position she made kneel at her feet. He observed her slowly
changing point of view; how from a kittenish ingenuousness she became serious, womanly,
really sincere. He knew that he had awakened in her her first decent affection, and he
knew that she was awakening in him his first desire to do things and be big and worth
while. So together these two began to drift toward a path of decent dealing, decent ambition, decent thought, and decent love, until at last they both find themselves, and
acknowledge all the wickedness of what had been and plan for all the virtue and goodness
of what is to be. It is at this point that our first act begins.
ELFIE ST. CLAIR is a type of a Tenderloin grafter in New York, who after all has been
more sinned against than sinning; who, having been imposed upon, deceived, ill-treated
and bulldozed by the type of men who prey on women in New York, has turned the
tables, and with her charm and her beauty has gone out to make the same slaughter of
the other sex as she suffered with many of her sisters.
She is a woman without a moral conscience, whose entire life is dictated by a small
mental operation. Coming to New York as a beautiful girl she entered the chorus. She
became famous for her beauty. On every hand were the stage-door vultures ready to
give her anything that a woman's heart could desire, from clothes to horses, carriages,
money and whatnot; but with a girl-like instinct, she fell in love with a man connected
with the company, and during all the time that she might have profited and become a
rich woman by the attentions of these outsiders, she remained true to her love until
finally her fame as the beauty of the city had waned. The years told on her to a certain
extent, and there were others coming, as young as she had been and as good to look at;
and where the automobile of the millionaire had once been waiting for her she found
that through her faithfulness to her lover it was now there for some one else. Yet she
was content with her joys until finally the man deliberately jilted her and left her alone.
What had gone of her beauty had been replaced by a keen knowledge of human nature
and of men, so she determined to give herself up entirely to a life of gain. She knows just
how much champagne should be drunk without injuring one's health. She knows just
what physical necessities should be indulged in to preserve to the greatest degree her
remaining beauty. There is no trick of the hairdresser, the modiste, the manicurist, or
any one of the legion of people who devote their time to aiding the outward fascinations
of women, which she does not know. She knows exactly what perfumes to use, what
stockings to wear, how she should live, how far she should indulge in any dissipation, and
all this she has determined to devote to profit. She knows that as an actress she has no
future; that the time of a woman's beauty is limited. Conscious that she has already lost
the youthful litheness of figure which had made her so fascinating in the past, she has
laid aside every sentiment, physical and spiritual, and has determined to choose a man as




THE EASIEST WAY


I73


her companion who has the biggest bankroll and the most liberal nature. His age, his
station in life, the fact whether she likes or dislikes him, does not enter into this scheme
at all. She figures that she has been made a fool of by men and that there is only one
revenge, the accumulation of a fortune to make her independent of them once and for all.
There are, of course, certain likes and dislikes that she enjoys, and in a way she indulges
them. There are men whose company she cares for, but their association is practically
sexless and has come down to a point of mere good fellowship.
WILLARD BROCKTON, a New York broker, is an honest sensualist, and when one says an
honest sensualist, the meaning is a man who has none of the cad in his character, who
takes advantage of no one, and allows no one to take advantage of him. He honestly
detests any man who takes advantage of a pure woman. He detests any man who deceives a woman. He believes that there is only one way to go through life, and that is to
be frank with those with whom one deals. He is a master hand in stock manipulation,
and in the questionable practices of Wall Street he has realized that he has to play his
cunning and craft against the cunning and craft of others. He is not at all in sympathy
with this mode of living, but he thinks it is the only method by which he can succeed in
life. He measures success by the accumulation of money, but he considers his business
career as a thing apart from his private existence.
He does not associate, to any great extent, with what is known as "society." He keeps
in touch with it simply to maintain his business position. There is always an interrelationship among the rich in business and private life, and he gives such entertainments
as are necessary to the members of New York's exclusive set simply to make certain his
relative position with other successful Wall Street men.
As far as women were concerned, the particular type of actress such as Laura Murdock
and Elfie St. Clair appeals to him. He likes their good fellowship. He loves to be with
a gay party at night in a caf6. He likes the rather looseness of living which does not quite
reach the disreputable. Behind all this, however, is a rather high sense of honor. He
detests and despises the average stage-door Johnny, and he loathes the type of man who
seeks to take young girls out of theatrical companies for their ruin.
His women friends are as wise as himself. When they enter into an agreement with
him there is no deception. In the first place he wants to like them; in the second place
lIe wants them to like him; and finally, he wants to fix the amount of their living expenses
at a definite figure and have them stand by it. He wants them to understand that he
reserves the right at any time to withdraw his support, or transfer it to some other
woman, and he gives them the same privilege.
He is always ready to help anyone who is unfortunate, and he has always hoped that
some of these girls whom he knew would finally come across the right man, marry and
settle down; but he insists that such an arrangement can be possible only by the honest
admission on the woman's part of what she had done and been, and the thorough understanding of all these things by the man involved. He is gruff in his manner, determined
in his purposes, honest in his point of view. He is a brute, almost a savage, but he is a
thoroughly good brute and a pretty decent savage.
At the time of the opening of this play he and Laura Murdock have been friends for
two years. He knows exactly what she is and what she had been, and their relations are
those of pals. She has finished her season in Denver, and he has come out there to accompany her home. He has always told her whenever she felt it inconsistent with her happiness to continue her relations with him it is her privilege to quit, and he has reserved the
same condition.


JIM WES'ON, between forty-five and fifty years of age, is the type of the semi-brokendown showman. In the evolution of the theatrical business in America, the old circus and




174


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


minstrel men have gradually been pushed aside, while younger men, with more advanced
methods, have taken their place. The character is best realized by the way it is drawn
in the play.
ANNIE. The only particular attention that should be called to the character of the
negress Annie, who is the servant of Laura, is the fact that she must not in any way
represent the traditional smiling colored girl or "mammy" of the South. She is the cunning, crafty, heartless, surly, sullen Northern negress, who, to the number of thousands,
are servants of women of easy morals, and who infest a district of New York in which
white and black people of the lower classes mingle indiscriminately, and is one of the most
criminal sections of the city. The actress who plays this part must keep in mind its innate
and brutal selfishness.
SYNOPSIS
ACT I
Mrs. Williams' Ranch House or Country
Home, perched on the side of Ute Pass, near
Colorado Springs, Colorado.
TIME: Late in an August afternoon.
ACT II
Laura Murdock's furnished Room, second
story back, New York.
TIME: Six months later.
ACT III
Laura Murdock's Apartments in an expensive Hotel.
TIME: Two months later. In the morning.
ACT IV
Laura Murdock's Apartments. The same as
Act III.
TIME: The afternoon of the same day.




THE EASIEST 'WAY
ACT I




SCENE. The scene is that of the summer
country ranch house of MRS. WILLIAMS, a
friend of LAURA MURDOCK'S, and a prominent society woman of Denver, perched on the
side of Ute Pass, near Colorado Springs. The
house is one of unusual pretentiousness, and
to a person not conversant with conditions as
they exist in this part of Colorado, the idea
might be that such magnificence could not
obtain in such a locality. At the left of stage
the house rises in the form of a turret, built of
rough stone of a brown hue, two stories high,
and projecting a quarter of the way out on the
stage. The door leads to a small elliptical terrace built of stone, with heavy benches of
Greek design, strewn cushions, while over the
top of one part of this terrace is suspended a
canopy made from a Navajo blanket. The
terrace is supposed to extend almost to the
right of stage, and here it stops. The stage
must be cut here so that the entrance of JOHN
can give the illusion that he is coming up a
steep declivity or a long flight of stairs. There
are chairs at right and left, and a small table
at left. There are trailing vines around the
balustrade of the terrace, and the whole setting must convey the idea of quiet wealth.
Up stage is supposed to be the part of the terrace overlooking the canon, a sheer drop of
two thousand feet, while over in the distance,
as if across the canon, one can see the rolling
foothills and lofty peaks of the Rockies, with
Pike's Peak in the distance, snow-capped and
colossal. It is late in the afternoon, and as
the scene progresses, the quick twilight of a
cafion, beautiful in its tints of purple and amber, becomes later pitch black, and the curtain
goes down on an absolutely black stage. The
cyclorama, or semi-cyclorama, must give the
perspective of greater distances, and be so
painted that the various tints of twilight may
be shown.
AT RISE. LAURA MURDOCK is seen up R.






stage, leaning a bit over the balustrade of the
porch and shielding her eyes with her hand
from the late afternoon sun as she seemingly
looks up the Pass to the L., as if expecting the
approach of someone. Her gown is simple,
girlish, and attractive, and made of summery,
filmy stuff. Her hair is done up in the simplest fashion with a part in the centre, and
there is about her every indication of an effort
to assume that girlishness of demeanor which
has been her greatest asset through life. WILLARD BROCKTON enters from L.; he is a man
six feet or more in height, stocky in build,
clean-shaven and immaculately dressed. He
is smoking a cigar, and upon entering takes
one step forward and looks over toward LAURA
in a semi-meditative manner.
WILL. Blue?
LAURA. No.
WILL. What's up?
LAURA. Nothing.
WILL. A little preoccupied.
LAURA. Perhaps.
WILL. What's up that way?
LAURA. Which way?
WILL. The way you are looking.
LAURA. The road from Manitou Springs.
They call it the trail out here.
WILL. I know that. You know I've
done a lot of business west of the Missouri.
LAURA [with a half-sigh]. No, I did n't
know it.
WILL. Oh, yes; south of here in the San
Juan country. Spent a couple of years
there once.
LAURA [still without turning]. That's
interesting.
WILL. It was then. I made some money
there. It's always interesting when you
make money. Still -
LAURA [still leaning in an absent-minded
attitude]. Still what?




176


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


WILL. Can't make out why you have
your eyes glued on that road. Someone
coming?
LAURA. Yes.
WILL. One of Mrs. Williams' friends, eh?
[WILL crosses up, sits on seat L. c.]
LAURA. Yes.
WILL. Yours too?
LAURA. Yes.
WILL. Man?
LAURA. Yes, a real man.
WILL [catches the significance of this
speech. He carelessly throws the cigar over
the balustrade. He comes down L. and leans
on chair with his back to LAURA. She has not
moved more than to place her left hand on a
cushion and lean her head rather wearily
against it, looking steadfastly up the Pass].
A real man. By that you meanLAURA. Just that - a real man.
WILL. Any difference from the many
you have known?
LAURA. Yes, from all I have known.
WILL. So that is why you did n't come
into Denver to meet me to-day, but left
word for me to come out here?
LAURA. Yes.
WILL. I thought that I was pretty decent to take a dusty ride halfway across the
continent in order to keep you company on
your way back to New York, and welcome
you to our home; but maybe I had the
wrong idea.
LAURA. Yes, I think you had the wrong
idea.
WILL. In love, eh?
LAURA. Yes, just that - in love.
WILL. A new sensation.
LAURA. No; the first conviction.
WILL. You have had that idea before.
Every woman's love is the real one when
it comes. [Crosses up to LAURA.] Do you
make a distinction in this case, young
lady?
LAURA. Yes.
WILL. For instance, what?
LAURA. This man is poor - absolutely
broke. He'has n't even got a [crosses R. to
armchair, leans over and draws with parasol
on ground] good job. You know, Will, all
the rest, including yourself, generally had
some material inducement.. WILL. What's his business?
[WILL crosses L. to table and sits
looking at magazine.]
LAURA. He's a newspaper man.
WILL. H'm-m. Romance?
LAURA. Yes, if you want to call it that
-romance.
WILL. Do I know him?
LAURA. How could you? You only came
from New York to-day, and he has never
been there.
[He regards her with a rather
amused, indulgent, almost paternal expression, in contrast to his
big, bluff physical personality,
with his iron-gray hair and his
bulldog expression. LAURA looks
more girlish than ever. This is
imperative in order to thoroughly
understand the character.]
WILL. How old is he?
LAURA. Twenty-seven. You're fortyfive.
WILL. No, forty-six.
LAURA. Shall I tell you about him?
Huh?
[Crosses L. to WILL, placing parasol on seat extreme L.]
WILL. That depends.
LAURA. On what?
WILL. Yourself.
LAURA. In what way?
WILL. If it will interfere in the least
with the plans I have made for you and for
me.
LAURA. And have you made any particular plans for me that have anything particularly to do with you?
WILL. Yes, I have given up the lease
of our apartment on West End Avenue,
and I've got a house on Riverside Drive.
Everything will be quiet and decent, and
it'll be more comfortable for you. There's
a stable near by, and your horses and car
can be kept over there. You'll be your own
mistress, and besides I've fixed you up for
a new part.
LAURA. A new part! What kind of a
part?
WILL. One of Charlie Burgess's shows,
translated from some French fellow. It's
been running over in Paris, Berlin, and




THE EASIEST WAY


177




Vienna, and all those places for a year or
more, and appears to be an awful hit. It's
going to cost a lot of money. I told Charlie
he could put me down for a half interest,
and I'd give all the money providing you
got an important r6le. Great part, I'm
told. Kind of a cross between a musical
comedy and an opera. Looks as if it might
stay in New York all season. So that's the
change of plan. How does it strike you?
[LAURA crosses L. to door, meditating; pauses in thought.]
LAURA. I don't know.
WILL. Feel like quitting? [Turns to her.]
LAURA. I can't tell.
WILL. It's the newspaper man, eh?
LAURA. That would be the only reason.
WILL. You've been on the square with
me this summer, have n't you?
[Crosses L. to table.]
LAURA [turns, looks at WILL]. What do
you mean by "on the square"?
WILL. Don't evade. There's only one
meaning when I say that, and you know it.
I'm pretty liberal. But you understand
where I draw the line. You've not jumped
that, have you, Laura?
LAURA. No, this has been such a wonderful summer, such a wonderfully different
summer. Can you understand what I
mean by that when I say "wonderfully
different summer"?  [Crossing to WILL.]
WILL. Well, he's twenty-seven and
broke, and you're twenty-five and pretty;
and he evidently, being a newspaper man,
has that peculiar gift of gab that we call
romantic expression. So I guess I'm not
blind, and you both think you've fallen in
love. That it?
LAURA. Yes, I think that's about it;
only I don't agree to the "gift of gab" and
the "romantic" end of it. [Crosses L. to
table.] He's a man and I'm a woman, and
we both have had our experiences. I don't
think, Will, that there can be much of that
element of what some folks call hallucination.
[Sits on chair L.; takes candy-box
on lap; selects candy.]
WILL. Then the Riverside Drive proposition and Burgess's show is off, eh?
LAURA. I did n't say that.


V


WILL. And if you go back on the Overland Limited day after to-morrow, you'd
just as soon I'd go to-morrow or wait until
the day after you leave?
[LAURA places candy-box back on
table.]
LAURA. I did n't say that, either.
WILL. What's the game?
LAURA. I can't tell you now.
WILL. Waiting for him to come?
[Crosses, sits on seat L.]
LAURA. Exactly.
WILL. Think he is going to make a
proposition, eh?
LAURA. I know he is.
WILL. Marriage?
LAUnRA. Possibly.
WILL. You've tried that once, and taken
the wrong end. Are you going to play the
same game again?
LAURA. Yes, but with a different card.
[Picks up magazine off table L.]
WILL. What's his name?
LAUR.A. Madison - John Madison.
[Slowly turning pages of magazine.]
WILL. And his job?
LAURA. Reporter.
WILL. What are you going to live on
the extra editions?
LAURA. No, we're young, there's plenty
of time. I can work in the meantime, and
so can he; and then with his ability and my
ability it will only be a matter of a year or
two when things will shape themselves to
make it possible.
WILL. Sounds well - a year off.
LAURA. If I thought you were going to
make fun of me, Will, I should n't have
talked to you.
[Throws down magazine, crosses L.
to door of house.]
WILL [crossing down L. in front of table].
I don't want to make fun of you, but you
must realize that after two years it is n't
an easy thing to be dumped with so little
ceremony. Maybe you have never given
me any credit for possessing the slightest
feeling, but even I can receive shocks from
other sources than a break in the market.
LAURA [crosses R. to WILL]. It is n't easy
for me to do this. You've been awfully
kind, awfully considerate, but when I went




178


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


to you it was just with the understanding
that we were to be pals. You reserved the
right then to quit me whenever you felt
like it, and you gave me the same privilege.
Now, if some girl came along who really
captivated you in the right way, and you
wanted to marry, it would hurt me a little,
- maybe a lot, - but I should never forget that agreement we made, a sort of two
weeks' notice clause, like people have in
contracts.
WILL [he is evidently very much moved.
Walks up stage to R. end of seat, looks over the
canon. LAURA looks after him. WILL has
his back to the audience. Long pause]. I'm
not hedging, Laura. If that's the way you
want it to be, I'll stand by just exactly
what I said [turns L. to LAURA], but I'm
fond of you, a damn sight fonder than I
thought I was, now that I find you slipping
away; but if this young fellow is on the
square [LAURA crosses to WILL at R. C.,
taking his right hand] and he has youth and
ability, and you've been on the square with
him, why, all right. Your life has n't had
much in it to help you get a diploma from
any celestial college, and if you can start
out now and be a good girl, have a good
husband, and maybe some day good children [LAURA sighs], why, I'm not going to
stand in the way. Only I don't want you
to make any of those mistakes that you
made before.
LAURA. I know, but somehow I feel that
this time the real thing has come, and with
it the real man. I can't tell you, Will, how
much different it is, but everything I felt
before seems so sort of earthly - and somehow this love that I have for this man is so
different. It's made me want to be truthful and sincere and humble for the first
time in my life. The only other thing I
ever had that I cared the least bit about,
now that I look back, was your friendship.
We have been good pals, have n't we?
[Puts arms about WILL.]
WILL. Yes, it's been a mighty good two
years for me. I was always proud to take
you around, because I think you one of
the prettiest things in New York [LAURA
crosses R., and girlishly jumps into armchair], and that helps some, and you're




always jolly, and you never complained.
You always spent a lot of money, but it
was a pleasure to see you spend it; and
then you never offended me. Most women
offend men by coming around looking untidy and sort of unkempt, but somehow
you always knew the value of your beauty,
and you always dressed up. I always
thought that maybe some day the fellow
would come along, grab you, and make you
happy in a nice way, but I thought that
he'd have to have a lot of money. You
know you've lived a rather extravagant life
for five years, Laura. It won't be an easy
job to come down to cases and suffer for the
little dainty necessities you've been used to.
LAURA. I've thought all about that, and
I think I understand.
[Facing audience, leaning elbows
on lap.]
WILL. You know if you were working
without anybody's help, Laura, you might
have a hard time getting a position. As an
actress you're only fair.
LAURA. You need n't remind me of that.
That part of my life is my own. [Crosses
up to seat.] I don't want you to start now
and make it harder for me to do the right
thing. It is n't fair; it is n't square; and it
is n't right. You've got to let me go my
own way. [Crosses to WILL, puts R. hand on
his shoulder.] I'm sorry to leave you, in a
way, but I want you to know that if I go
with John it changes the spelling of the
word comradeship into love, and mistress
into wife. Now please don't talk any more.
[Crosses R. to post, takes scarf off
chair R.]
WILL. Just a word. Is it settled?
LAURA [impatiently]. I said I did n't
know. I would know to-day - that's
what I'm waiting for. Oh, I don't see why
he does n't come.
[WILL turns up to seat looking over
Pass L.]
WILL [pointing up the Pass]. Is that the
fellow coming up here?
LAURA [quickly running toward the balustrade of seat L., saying as she goes:] Where?
[Kneels on seat.]
WILL [pointing]. Up the road there. On
that yellow horse.




THE EASIEST WAY


I79


LAURA [looking]. Yes, that's John. [She
waves her handkerchief, and putting one hand
to her mouth cries:] Hello!
JOHN [off stage with the effect as if he was
on the road winding up toward the house].
Hello, yourself!
LAURA [same effect]. Hurry up, you're
late.
JOHN [same effect, a little louder]. Better
late than never.
LAURA [same effect]. Hurry up.
JOHN [little louder]. Not with this horse.
LAURA [to WILL, with enthusiastic expression]. Now, Will, does he look like a yellow
reporter?
WILL [with a sort of sad smile]. He is a
good-looking chap.
LAURA [looking down again at JOHN]. Oh,
he's just simply more than that. [Turns
quickly to WILL.] Where's Mrs. Williams?
WILL [motioning with thumb toward L.
side of ranch house]. Inside, I guess, up to
her neck in bridge.
LAURA [goes hurriedly over to door L.].
Mrs. Williams! Oh, Mrs. Williams!
MRS. WILLIAMS [heard off stage]. What
is it, my dear?
LAURA. Mr. Madison is coming up the
path.
MRS. WILLIAMS [off stage]. That's good.
LAURA. Shan't you come and see him?
MRS. WILLIAMS [same]. Lord, no! I'm
six dollars and twenty cents out now, and
up against an awful streak of luck.
LAURA. Shall I give him some tea?
MRS. WILLIAMS [same]. Yes, do, dear;
and tell him to cross his fingers when he
thinks of me.
[In the meantime WILL has leaned
over the balustrade, evidently surveying the young man, who is
supposed to be coming up the
path, with a great deal of interest.
Underneath his stolid, businesslike demeanor of squareness,
there is undoubtedly within his
heart a very great affection for
LAURA. He realizes that during
her whole career he has been the
only one who has influenced her
absolutely. Since the time that
they lived together he has always


dominated, and he has always
endeavored to lead her along a
path that meant the better things
of a Bohemian existence. His
coming all the way from New
York to Denver to accompany
LAURA home was simply another
example of his keen interest in
the woman, and he suddenly finds
that she has drifted away from
him in a manner to which he
could not in the least object, and
that she had been absolutely fair
and square in her agreement with
him. WILL is a man who, while
rough and rugged in many ways,
possesses many of the finer instincts  of  refinement, latent
though they may be, and his
meeting with JOHN ought, therefore, to show much significance,
because on his impressions of the
young man depend the entire
justification of his attitude in the
play.]
LAURA [turning toward WILL and going
to him, slipping her hand involuntarily
through his arm and looking eagerly with him
over the balustrade in almost girlish enthusiasm]. Do you like him?
WILL [smiling]. I don't know him.
LAURA. Well, do you think you'll like
him?
WILL. Well, I hope I'll like him.
LAURA. Well, if you hope you'll like
him you ought to think you like him. He '11
turn the corner of that rock in just a minute and then you can see him. Do you
want to see him?
WILL [almost amused at her girlish manner]. Why, yes - do you?
LAURA. Do I? Why, I have n't seen him
since last night! There he is. [Waves her
hand.] Hello, John!
[Gets candy-box, throws pieces of
candy at JOHN.]
JOHN [his voice very close now]. Hello,
girlie! How's everything?
LAURA. Fine! Do hurry.
JOHN. Just make this horse for a minute.
Hurry is not in his dictionary.
LAURA. I'm coming down to meet you.




i8o


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


JOHN. All - right.
LAURA [turns quickly to WILL]. You don't
care. You'll wait, won't you?
WILL. Surely.
[LAURA hurriedly exits R. and disappears. WILL goes down c.]
[After a short interval LAURA comes in more
like a sixteen-year-old girl than anything
else, pulling JOHN after her. He is a tall,
finely built type of Western manhood, a
frank face, a quick nervous energy, a
mind that works like lightning, a prepossessing smile, and a personality that
is wholly captivating. His clothes are a
bit dusty from the ride, but are not in the
least pretentious, and his leggins are of
canvas and spurs of brass, such as are
used in the army. His hat is off and he
is pulled on to the stage from the R. entrance, more like a great big boy than a
man. His hair is a bit tumbled, and he
shows every indication of having had a
rather long and hard ride.]
LAURA. Hello, John!
JOHN. Hello, girlie!
[Then she suddenly recovers herself
and realizes the position that she
is in. Both men measure each
other for a moment in silence,
neither flinching the least bit.
The smile hasfadedfrom JOHN'S
face and the mouth droops into an
expression of firm determination.
LAURA for a moment loses her
ingenuousness. She is the least
bit frightened at finally placing
the two men face to face, and in a
voice that trembles slightly from
apprehension:]
LAURA. Oh, I beg your pardon! Mr.
Madison, this is Mr. Brockton, a friend of
mine from New York. You've often heard
me speak of him; he came out here to keep
me company when I go home.
JOHN [comes forward, extends a hand,
looking WILL right in the eye]. I am very
glad to know you, Mr. Brockton.
WILL. Thank you.
JOHN. I've heard a great deal about you
and your kindness to Miss Murdock. Anything that you have done for her in a spirit


of friendliness I am sure all her friends must
deeply appreciate, and I count myself in
as one.
WILL [in an easy manner that rather disarms the antagonistic attitude of JOHN]. Then
we have a good deal in common, Mr. Madison, for I also count Miss Murdock a friend,
and when two friends of a friend have the
pleasure of meeting, I dare say that's a
pretty good foundation for them to become
friends too.
JOHN. Possibly. Whatever my opinion
may have been of you, Mr. Brockton, before you arrived, now I have seen you -
and I'm a man who forms his conclusions
right off the bat - I don't mind telling you
that you've agreeably surprised me. That's
just a first impression, but they run kind o'
strong with me.
WILL. Well, young man, I size up a fellow in pretty short order, and all things
being equal, I think you'll do.
LAURA [radiantly]. Shall I get the tea?
JOHN. Tea!
LAURA. Yes, tea. You know it must be
tea - nothing stronger.
[Crosses L. to door.]
JOHN [looking at WILL rather comically].
How strong are you for that tea, Mr.
Brockton?
WILL. I'll pass; it's your deal, Mr.
Madison.
JOHN. Mine! No, deal me out this hand.
LAURA. I don't think you're at all pleasant, but I'll tell you one thing - it's tea
this deal or no game.
[Crosses up stage to seat, picks up
magazine, turns pages.]
WILL. No game then [crosses L. to door],
and I'm going to help Mrs. Williams;
maybe she's lost nearly seven dollars by
this time, and I'm an awful dub when it
comes to bridge.                [Exit.]
LAURA [tossing magazine on to seat, crosses
quickly to JOHN, throws her arms around his
neck in the most loving manner]. John!
[As the act progresses the shadows
cross the Pass and golden light
streams across the lower hills and
tops the snow-clad peaks. It
becomes darker and darker, the
lights fade to beautiful opalescent




THE EASIEST WAY


hues, until, when the curtain
comes on the act, with JOHN and
WILL on the scene, it is pitch
dark, a faint glow coming out of
the door at R. Nothing else can
be seen but the glow of the ash on
the end of each man's cigar as he
puffs it in silent meditation on
their conversation.]
JOHN. Well, dear?
LAURA. Are you going to be cross with
me?
JOHN. Why?
LAURA. Because he came?
JOHN. Brockton?
LAURA. Yes.
JOHN. You did n't know, did you?
LAURA. Yes, I did.
JOHN. That he was coming?
LAURA. He wired me when he reached
Kansas City.
JOHN. Does he know?
LAURA. About us?
JOHN. Yes.
LAURA. I've told him.
JOHN. When?
LAURA. To-day.
JOHN. Here?
LAURA. Yes.
JOHN. With what result?
LAURA. I think it hurt him.
JOHN. Naturally.
LAURA. More than I had any idea it would.
JOHN. I'm sorry.    [Sits in armchair.]
LAURA. He cautioned me to be very
careful and to be sure I knew my way.
JOHN. That was right.
[LAURA gets a cushion in each hand
off seat; crosses down to L. of
armchair, throws one cushion on
ground, then the other on top of it,
and kneels beside his chair.
Piano in house playing a Chopin
Nocturne.]
LAURA. John.
JOHN. Yes.
LAURA. We've been very happy all summer.
JOHN. Very.
LAURA [rises, sits on L. arm of chair, her
arm over back]. And this thing has gradually been growing on us?


JOrHN. That's true.
LAURA. I did n't think that when I came
out here to Denver to play in a little stock
company, it was going to bring me all this
happiness, but it has, has n't it?
JOHN. Yes.
LAURA [changing her position, sits on his
lap, arms around his neck]. And now the
season's over and there is nothing to keep
me in Colorado, and 1've got to go back to
New York to work.
JOHN. I know; 1've been awake all night
thinking about it.
LAURA. Well?
JOHN. Well?
LArRA. What are we going to do?
JOHN. Why, you've got to go, I suppose.
LAURA. Is it good-bye?
JOHN. For a while, I suppose-it's
good-bye.
LAURA. What do you mean by a while?
[LAURA turns JOHN'S face to her,
looks at him searchingly.]
JOHN. Until [piano plays crescendo, then
softens down] I get money enough together,
and am making enough to support you,
then come and take you out of the show
business and make you Mrs. Madison.
[LAURA tightens her arm around his
neck, her cheek goes close to his
own, and all the wealth of affection that the woman is capable of
at times is shown. She seems
more like a dainty little kitten
purring close to its master. Her
whole thought and idea seem to be
centred on the man whom she
professes to love.]
LAURA. John, that is what I want above
everything else.
JOHN. But, Laura, we must come to
some distinct understanding before we
start to make our plans. We're not children.
LAURA. No, we're not.
JOHN. Now in the first place [LAURA
rises, crosses to c.] we'll discuss you, and in
the second place we'll discuss me. We'll
keep nothing from each other [LAURA picks
up cushions, places them on seat], and we'll
start out on this campaign [LAURA turns
back to c., facing audience] of decency and




82


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


honor, fully understanding its responsibilities, without a chance of a come-back on
either side.
LAURA [becoming very serious]. You mean
that we should tell each other all about
each other, so, no matter what's ever said
about us by other people, we'll know it
first?
JOHN [rising]. That's precisely what I'm
trying to get at.
LAURA. Well, John, there are so many
things I don't want to speak of even to you.
It is n't easy for a woman to go back and
dig up a lot of ugly memories and try to
excuse them.
[Crosses L. to front of table, picks up
magazine, places it on table L.]
JOHN. I've known everything from the
first; how you came to San Francisco as a
kid and got into the show business, and how
you went wrong, and then how you married, still a kid, and how your husband
did n't treat you exactly right, and then
how, in a fit of drunkenness, he came home
and shot himself. [LAURA buries her head in
her hands, making exclamations of horror.
JOHN crosses to her as if sorry for hurting
her, touches her on shoulder.] But that's all
past now, and we can forget that. And I
know how you were up against it after that,
how tough it was for you to get along. Then
finally how you've lived, and - and that
you and this man Brockton have beenwell - never mind. I've known it all for
months, and I've watched you. Now,
Laura, the habit of life is a hard thing to
get away from. You've lived in this way
for a long time. If I ask you to be my wife
you'll have to give it up; you'll have to go
back to New York and struggle on your
own hook until 1 get enough to come for
you. I don't know how long that will be,
but it will be. Do you love me enough to
stick out for the right thing?
[LAURA crosses C. to him, puts her
arms around him, kisses him
once very affectionately, looks at
him very earnestly.]
LAURA. Yes, I think this is my one
great chance. I do love you and I want to
do just what you said.
JOHN. I think you will. I'm going to


make the same promise. Your life, dear
girl, has been an angel's compared with
mine. I've drank whiskey, played bank,
and raised hell ever since the time I could
develop a thirst; and ever since I've been
able to earn my own living I've abused
every natural gift God gave me. The
women I've associated with are n't good
enough to touch the hem of your skirt, but
they liked me, and [JOHN crosses R. to arm.
chair, turns up stage, then faces her] well - I
must have liked them. My life hasn't
been exactly loose, it's been all in pieces.
I've never done anything dishonest. I've
always gone wrong just for the fun of it,
until I met you. [Crosses to her, takes her in
his arms.] Somehow then I began to feel
that I was making an awful waste of myself.
LAURA. John!
JOHN. Some lovers place a woman on a
pedestal and say, "She never has made a
mistake." [Taking her by each arm he playfully shakes her.] Well, we don't need any
pedestals. 1 just know you never will make
a mistake.
LAURA [kissing him]. John, I'll never
make you take those words back.
[Arms around his neck.]
JOHN. That goes double. You're going
to cut out the cabs and caf6s, and I'm going to cut out the whiskey and all-night
sessions [LAURA releases him; he backs
slightly away c.]; and you're going to be
somebody and I'm going to be somebody,
and if my hunch is worth the powder to
blow it up, we're going to show folks things
they never thought were in us. Come on
now, kiss me.
[She kisses him, tears are in her
eyes. He looks into her face with
a quaint smile.]
JOHN. You're on, ain't you, dear?
LAURA. Yes, I'm on.
JOHN. Then [points toward door with his
L. arm over her shoulder] call him.
LAURA. Brockton?
JOHN. Yes, and tell him you go back to
New York without any travelling companion this season.
LAURA. Now?
JOHN. Sure.
LAURA. You want to hear me tell him?




THE EASIEST WAY


I83


JOHN [with a smile]. We're partners,
are n't we? I ought to be in on any important transaction like that, but it's just
as you say.
LAURA. I think it would be right you
should. I'll call him now.
JOHN. All right. [Crossing R. to stairway.]
[She crosses to door L.; twilight is
becoming very much more pronounced.]
LAURA [at door]. Mr. Brockton! Oh,
Mr. Brockton!
WILL [off stage]. Yes.
LAURA. Can you spare a moment to
come out here?
WILL. Just a moment.
LAURA. You must come now.
WILL. All right. [She waits for him and
after a reasonable interval he appears at door.]
Laura, it's a shame to lure me away from
that mad speculation in there. I thought
I might make my fare back to New York if
I played until next summer. What's up?
LAURA. Mr. Madison wants to talk to
you, or rather I do, and I want him to listen.
WILL [his manner changing to one of cold,
stolid calculation]. Very well.
[Comes down off step of house.]
LAURA. Will.
WILL. Yes?
LAURA. I'm going home day after tomorrow on the Overland Limited.
WILL. I know.
LAURA. It's awfully kind of you to come
out here, but under the circumstances I'd
rather you'd take an earlier or a later train.
WILL. And may I ask what circumstances you refer to?
LAURA. Mr. Madison and I are going to
be married. [Pause.] He [WILL looks inquiringly at JOHN] knows of your former
friendship for me, and he has the idea that
it must end.
WILL. Then the Riverside Drive proposition, with Burgess's show thrown in, is
declared off, eh?
LAURA. Yes; everything is absolutely
declared off.
WILL. Can't even be friends any more,
eh?
[JOHN crosses L., and taking
LAURA'S arm, passes her over R.


to seat, his back is partly to audience.]
JOHN. You could hardly expect Miss
Murdock to be friendly with you under the
circumstances. You could hardly expect
me to [LAURA puts scarf across her shoulders]
sanction any such friendship.
WILL. I think I understand your position, young man, and I perfectly agree with
you, that is -if your plans come out
successfully.
JOHN. Thank you.
LAU:RA. Then everything is settled [crossing in front of JOHN to L. C., facing WILL,
back to audience] just the way it ought to
be - frankly and aboveboard?
WILL. Why, I guess so. If I was perfectly confident that this new arrangement
was going to result happily for you both, I
think it would be great, only I'm somewhat doubtful, for when people become
serious and then fail, I know how hard
those things hit, having been hit once
myself.
JOHN. So you think we're making a
wrong move and there is n't a chance of
success.
WILL. No, I don't make any such
gloomy prophecy. If you make Laura a
good husband, and she makes you a good
wife, and together you win out, I'11 be
mighty glad. As far as I am concerned I
shall absolutely forget every thought of
Laura's friendship for me.
LAURA. I thought you'd be just that
way.      [Crosses to WILL, shakes hands.]
WILL [rising]. And now I must be off.
[Takes her by both hands and shakes them.]
Good-bye, girlie! Madison, good luck.
[Crosses R. to JOHN. Shakes JOHN'S hands,
looks into his eyes.] I think you've got the
stuff in you to succeed if your foot don't
slip.
JOHN. What do you mean by my foot
slipping, Mr. Brockton?
WILL. You want me to tell you?
JOHN. I sure do.
WILL [turns L. to LAURA]. Laura, run
into the house and see if Mrs. Williams has
won another quarter. [LAURA sinks fearfully into chair L.] Madison and I are going to smoke a cigar and have a friendly




184


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


I1


chat, and when we get through I think we'll
both be better off.
LAURA. You are sure that everything
will be all right?
WILL. Sure.
[LAURA looks at JOHN for assurance, exits L., he nods reassuringly.]
WILL. Have a cigar?
[Servant in house places lamp on
table inside house.]
JOHN. No, I'11 smoke my own.
[Crosses down R., sits in armchair.]
WILL. What is your business?
[Crosses up to seat c., sits.]
JOHN. What's yours?
WILL. 'm a broker.
JOHN. I'm a reporter, so I've got something on you.
WILL. What kind?
JOHN. General utility, dramatic critic
on Sunday nights.
WILL. Pay you well?
JOHN [turns, looking at WILL]. That's
pretty fresh. What's the idea?
WILL. I'm interested. I'm a plain man,
Mr. Madison, and I do business in a plain
way. Now if I ask you a few questions and
discuss this matter with you in a frank way,
don't get it in your head that I'm jealous
or sore, but simply I don't want either of
you people to make a move that's going to
cost you a lot of pain and trouble. If you
want me to talk sense to you, all right. If
you don't we'll drop it now. What's the
answer?
JOHN. I'll take a chance, but before you
start I want to tell you that the class of
people that you belong to I have no use
for - they don't speak my language. You
are what they call a manipulator of stocks;
that means that you're living on the weaknesses of other people, and it almost means
that you get your daily bread, yes, and
your cake and your wine too, from the production of others. You're a "gambler under cover." Show me a man who's dealing
bank, and he's free and aboveboard. You
can figure the percentage against you, and
then if you buck the tiger and get stung,
you do it with your eyes open. With your
financiers the game is crooked twelve


months of the year, and from a business
point of view, I think you are a crook. Now
1 guess we understand each other. If
you've got anything to say, why, spill it.
[WILL rises, comes down R. c. toward JOHN, showing anger in his
tones.]
WILL. We are not talking business now,
but women. How much money do you
earn?
[Crosses L. to chair L. of table; gets
it.]
JOHN. Understand, I don't think it is
any of your damn business, but I'm going
through with you on this proposition, just
to see how the land lays. But take my tip,
you be mighty careful how you speak about
the girl if you're not looking for trouble.
WILL. All right, but how much did you
say you made?
[Crosses right to R. c., carrying
chair; sits.]
JOHN. Thirty dollars a week.
WILL. Do you know how much Laura
could make if she just took a job on her
own merits?
JOHN. As I don't intend to share in her
salary, I never took the trouble to inquire.
WILL. She'd get about forty dollars.
JOHN. That laps me ten.
WILL. How are you going to support
her? Her cabs cost more than your salary,
and she pays her week's salary for an everyday walking-hat. She's always had a maid;
her simplest gown flirts with a hundreddollar note; her manicurist and her hairdresser will eat up as much as you pay for
your board. She never walks when it's
stormy, and every afternoon there's her
ride in the park. She dines at the best
places in New York, and one meal costs her
more than you make in a day. Do you
imagine for a moment that she's going to
sacrifice these luxuries for any great length
of time?
JOHN. I intend to give them to her.
WILL. On thirty dollars a week?
JOHN. I propose to go out and make a
lot of money.
WILL. How?
JOHN. I have n't decided yet, but you
can bet your sweet life that if I ever try




THE EASIEST WAY


and make up my mind that it's got to be,
it's got to be.
WILL. Never have made it, have you?
JOHN. I have never tried.
WILL. Then how do you know you can?
JOHN. Well, I'm honest and energetic.
If you can get great wealth the way you go
along, I don't see why I can't earn a little.
WILL. There's where you make a mistake. Money-getting does n't always come
with brilliancy. I know a lot of fellows in
New York who can paint a great picture,
write a good play, and when it comes to
oratory, they've got me lashed to a pole;
but they're always in debt. They never
get anything for what they do. In other
words, young man, they are like a skyrocket without a stick -plenty of brilliancy, but no direction, and they blow up
and fizzle all over the ground.
JOHN. That's New York. I'm in Colorado, and I guess you know there is a
difference.
WILL. I hope you'll make your money,
because I tell you frankly that's the only
way you can hold this girl. She's full of
heroics now, self-sacrifice, and all the
things that go to make up the third act of
a play, but the minute she comes to darn
her stockings, wash out her own handkerchiefs and dry them on the window, and
send out for a pail of coffee and a sandwich
for lunch, take it from me it will go Blah!
[Rises, crosses L. to front of table, with
chair, places it with back to him, braces his
back on it, facing JOHN.] You're in Colorado
writing her letters once a day with no
checks in them. That may be all right for
some girl who has n't tasted the joy of easy
living, full of the good things of life, but
one who for ten years has been doing very
well in the way these women do is not going
to let up for any great length of time. So
take my advice if you want to hold her.
Get that money quick, and don't be so
damned particular how you get it either.
[JOHN'S patience is evidently severely tried.  He approaches
WILL, who remains impassive.]
JOHN. Of course you know you've got
the best of me.
WILL. How?


JOHN. We're guests.
WILL. No one's listening.
JOHN. 'T is n't that. If it was anywhere
but here, if there was any way to avoid all
the nasty scandal, I'd come a-shootin' for
you, and you know it.
WILIL. Gun-fighter, eh?
JOHN. Perhaps. Let me tell you this. I
don't know how you make your money,
but I know what you do with it. You buy
yourself a small circle of sycophants; you
pay them well for feeding your vanity; and
then you pose - pose with a certain frank
admission of vice and degradation. And
those who are n't quite as brazen as you
call it manhood. Manhood? [Crossing slowly
R. to armchair, sits.] Why, you don't know
what the word means. It's the attitude of
a pup and a cur.
WILL [angrily]. Wait a minute [crosses
R. to JOHN], young man, or I '11 -
[JOHN rises quickly. Both men
stand confronting each other for
a moment with fists clinched.
They are on the very verge of a
personal encounter. Both seem to
realize that they have gone too
far.]
JOHN. You'll what?
WILL. Lose my temper and make a
damn fool of myself. That's something
I've not done for - let me see - why, it
must be nearly twenty years - oh, yes,
fully that.
[He smiles; JOHN relaxes and takes
one step back.]
JOHN. Possibly it's been about that
length of time since you were human, eh?
WILL. Possibly - but you see, Mr.
Madison, after all you're at fault.
JOHN. Yes?
WILL. Yes, the very first thing you did
was to lose your temper. Now people who
always lose their temper will never make a
lot of money, and you admit that that is
a great necessity - I mean now - to you.
JOHN. I can't stand for the brutal way
you talk.
[Crosses up to seat, picks up newspaper, slams it down angrily on
seat, and sits facing R., elbow on
balustrade.]




I86


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


WILL. But you have got to stand it. The
truth is never gentle. [Crosses up and sits
L. of JOHN.] Most conditions in life are unpleasant, and if you want to meet them
squarely, you have got to realize the unpleasant point of view. That's the only
way you can fight them and win.
JOHN [turns to WILL]. Still, I believe
Laura means what she says, in spite of all
you say and the disagreeable logic of it. I
think she loves me. If she should ever want
to go back to the old way of getting along,
1 think she'd tell me so. So you see, Brockton, all your talk is wasted, and we'll drop
the subject.
[Crosses down and sits in armchair
R., facing R.]
WILL. And if she should ever go back
and come to me, I am going to insist that
she let you know all about it. It'll be hard
enough to lose her, caring for her the way
you do, but it would hurt a lot more to be
double-crossed.
JOHN [sarcastically]. That's very kind.
Thanks!
WILL. Don't get sore. It's common
sense and it goes, does it not?
JOHN [turns to WILL]. Just what goes?
WILL. If she leaves you first, you are to
tell me, and if she comes to me, I'11 make
her let you know just when and why.
[JOHN is leaning on arm, facing
WILL; his hand shoots out in a
gesture of warning to WILL.]
JOHN. Look out!
WILL. I said common sense.
JOHN. All right.
WILL. Agreed?              [A pause.]
JOHN. You're on.
[By this time the stage is black and
all that can be seen is the glow of
the two cigars. Piano in the next
room is heard. JOHN crosses
slowly and deliberately L. to
door, looks in, throws cigar away
over the terrace, exits into house,
closes doors, and as WILL is
seated on terrace, pufing cigar,
the red coal of which is alone
visible, a slow curtain.]
CURTAIN


ACT II
SCENE. Six months have elapsed. The
furnished room of LAURA MURDOCK, second
story back of an ordinary cheap theatrical
lodging-house in the theatre district of New
York. The house is evidently of a type of the
old-fashioned brown-stone front, with high
ceilings, dingy walls, and long, rather insecure windows. The woodwork is depressingly dark. The ceiling is cracked, the paper
is old and spotted and in places loose. There
is a door R. 2 leading to the hallway, and running from R. 2 to R. 3. There is a large oldfashioned wardrobe in which are hung a few
old clothes, most of them a good deal worn and
shabby, showing that the owner - LAURA
MURDOCK - has had a rather hard time of it
since leaving Colorado in the first act. The
doors of this wardrobe must be equipped with
springs so that they will open outward, and
also furnished with wires so they can be controlled from the back. This is absolutely
necessary, owing to business which is done
during the progress of the act. The drawer in
the bottom of the wardrobe is open at rise.
This is filled with a lot of rumpled tissue
paper and other rubbish. An old pair of
shoes is seen at the upper end of the wardrobe
on the floor. At R. C. is an armchair over
which is thrown an ordinary kimono, and
on top of the wardrobe are a number of magazines and old books, and an unused parasol
wrapped up in tissue paper.
The dresser, which is up stage and c.
against the flat, is in keeping with the general
meanness, and its adornment consists of old
post-cards stuck in between the mirror and its
frame, with some well-worn veils and ribbons
hung on the side. On the dresser is a pincushion, a bottle of cheap perfume, purple in
color and nearly empty; a common crockery
match-holder containing matches, which must
be practicable; a handkerchief box, powder
box and puff, rouge box and rouge paw, hand
mirror, small alcohol curling-iron heater,
which must also be practicable, as it is used
in business of act; scissors, curling-tongs,
hair comb and brush, and a small cheap picture of JOHN MADISON; a small work-box
containing a thimble and thread, and stuck in
the pincushion are a couple of needles




THE EASIEST WAY


I87


threaded. Directly to the left of the bureau,
with the door to the outside closet intervening,
is a broken-down washstand, on which is a
basin half full of water, a bottle of tooth powder, toothbrushes and holder, soap and soapdish and other cheap toilet articles, and a
small drinking-glass. Hung on the corner of
the washstand is a soiled towel. Hung on the
rack across the top of the washstand one can
see a pair of stockings. On the floor in front
of the washstand is a pitcher half full of
water, also a large waste water jar of the
cheapest type.
Below the washstand, and with the head
against the flat, is a three-quarter old wooden
bed, also showing the general decay of the
entire room. Tacked on the head of this bed
is a large photo of JOHN MADISON, with a
small bow of dainty blue ribbon at the top
covering the tack. Under the photo are arranged half a dozen cheap artificial violets, in
pitiful recognition of the girl's love for her
absent sweetheart.
Under the mattress at the head of the bed is
a heavy cardboard box about thirty inches long,
seven inches wide, and four inches deep, containing about one hundred and twenty-five
letters and eighty telegrams tied in about eight
bundles, with dainty ribbon. One bundle must
contain all practical letters of several closely
written pages each, each letter having been
opened. They must be written upon business
paper and envelopes such as are used in
newspaper offices and by business men.
Under the pillow at the head of the bed
is carelessly thrown a woman's night-dress.
Thrown on the bed is an old book, open, with
face downward, and beside it is an apple
which some one has been nibbling upon.
Across the foot of the bed is a soiled quilt, untidily folded. The pillows are hollow in the
centre, as if having been used lately. At the
foot of the bed is a small table with soiled and
ink-stained cover, upon which are a cheap
pitcher containing some withered carnations
and a desk-pad, with paper, pen, ink, and
envelopes scattered around.
Against the flat below the bed is an old
mantelpiece and fireplace with iron grate,
such as are used in houses of this type. On the
mantelpiece are photos of actors and actresses,
an old mantel clock in the centre, in front of


which is a box of cheap peppermint candy in
large pieces, and a plate with two apples upon
it; some cheap pieces of bric-d-brac and a
little vase containing joss-sticks, such as one
might burn to improve the atmosphere of these
dingy damp houses. Below the mantelpiece is
a thirty-six-inch theatre trunk, with theatre
labels on it, in the tray of which are articles of
clothing, a small box of thread, and a bundle
of eight pawn tickets. Behind the trunk is a
large cardboard box. Hanging from the ceiling directly over the table is a single-arm gasjet, from which is hung a turkey wishbone.
On the jet is a little wire arrangement to hold
small articles for heating. Beside the table
c. is a chair. Under the bed is a pair of bedroom slippers and a box. Between the bed and
the mantel is a small tabourette on which is a
book and a candlestick with the candle half
burned. On the floor in front of the door R. is
a slipper, also another in front of the dresser,
as if they had been thrown carelessly down.
On the, wardrobe door, on the down-stage side,
is tacked another photo of JOHN MADISON.
In alcove off L. is a table on which is a
small oil stove, two cups, saucers, and plates,
a box of matches, tin coffee-box, and a small
Japanese teapot. On a projection outside the
window R. in flat is a pint milk bottle half
filled with milk, and an empty benzine bottle,
which is labelled. Both are covered with snow.
The backing shows a street snow-covered.
In arranging the properties it must be remembered that in the wardrobe is a box of Uneeda
biscuit, with one end torn open. There is a
door down R. 2 opening inward, leading into
the hallway. The windows are at back R.
running from floor nearly to the ceiling. This
window does not rise, but opens in the manner
of the French or door window.
On the outside of the window covering the
same is an iron guard such as is used in
New York on the lower back windows. The
rods running up and down are about four
inches apart. There is a projection outside
the window such as would be formed by a
storm door in the basement; running the full
length of the window and about thirty inches
wide, raised about a foot from the floor in
front and about nine inches in the back, there
is opening inward a door at L. back leading
into a small alcove, as has been mentioned




x88


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS




before. The door is half glass, the glass part
being the upper half of the door, and is ajar
when the curtain rises. The flat on L. c. runs
diagonally from L. c. to L. 1, with only a projection at fireplace such as would be made fGr
a chimney.
AT RISE of curtain the stage is empty.
After a pause LAURA enters R., passes the
dresser up c., places umbrella at R., end of it
against wall, crosses R. to back of armchair,
removes gloves, lays them over back of chair,
takes off her coat and hat, hangs hat on end of
wardrobe, and puts coat inside; notices old
slipper in front of dresser and one on the extreme R., and with impatience picks them up
and puts them in wardrobe drawer. Then
crosses to dresser, gets needle and thread off
pincushion and mends small rip in glove,
after which she puts gloves in top drawer of
dresser, crosses to L. to extreme end of dresser,
and standing facing R. takes handkerchief out
of box, takes up bottle containing purple perfume, holds it up so she can see there is only a
small quantity left, sprinkles a drop on handkerchief carefully, so as not to use too much,
looks at bottle again to see how much is left,
places it on dresser; goes up-stage side of bed,
kneels on head of bed and looks lovingly at
photo of JOHN MADISON, and finally pulls
up the mattress and takes out box of letters,
and opens it. She then sits down in Oriental
fashion, with her feet under her, selects a
bundle of letters, unties the ribbon, and takes
out a letter such as has been hereinbefore described, glances it over, puts it down in her
lap, and again takes a long look at the picture
of JOHN MADISON. ANNIE is heard coming
upstairs. LAURA looks quickly towards the
door, puts the letters back in box, and hurriedly places box under mattress and replaces
pillows. ANNIE knocks on door R. LAURA
rises and crosses to door c.
LAURA. Come in.
[ANNIE, a chocolate-colored negress, enters.
She is slovenly in appearance, but must
not in any way denote the "mammy."
She is the type one encounters in cheap
theatrical lodging-houses. She has a
letter in her hand, also a clean towel
folded, and approaches LAURA.]
LAURA. Hello, Annie.




ANNIE. Heah's yo' mail, Miss Laura.
LAURA [taking letter]. Thank you!
[She looks at the address and does
not open it.]
ANNIE. One like dat comes every mornin', don't it? Used to all be postmarked
Denver. Must 'a' moved. [Trying to look
over LAURA'S shoulder; LAURA turns, sees
her; ANNIE looks away.] Where is dat place
called Goldfield, Miss Laura?
LAURA. In Nevada.
ANNIE. In Nevada?
LAURA. Yes, Nevada.
ANNIE [draws her jacket closer around her
as if chilly]. Must be mighty smaht to
write yuh every day. De pos'man brings
it 'leven o'clock mos' always, sometimes
twelve, and again sometimes tehn; but it
comes every day, don't it?
LAURA. I know.
ANNIE [crosses to R. of armchair, brushes
it off and makes an effort to read letter, leaning across chair]. Guess must be from yo'
husban', ain't it?
LAURA. No, I have n't any.
ANNIE [crossing to c. triumphantly]. Dat's
what Ah tole Mis' Farley when she was
down talkin' about you dis mornin'. She
said if he all was yo' husban' he might do
somethin' to help you out. Ah told her Ah
did n't think you had any husban'. Den
she says you ought to have one, you're so
pretty.
LAURA. Oh, Annie!
ANNIE [sees door up L. c. open, goes and
bangs it shut]. Der ain't a decent door in
dis old house. Mis' Farley said yo' might
have mos' any man you [hangs clean towel
on washstand] wanted just for de askin',
but Ah said yuh [takes newspaper and books
off bed, places them on table]'was too particular about the man yo' 'd want. Den she
did a heap o' talkin'.
LAURA. About what?
[Places letter open on table, looks at
hem of skirt, discovers a rip,
rises, crosses up to dresser c., gets
needle, crosses down L. to trunk;
opens and takes thimble out,
closes lid of tray, sits on it, and
sews skirt during scene.]
ANNIE [at bed fussing around, folds night





THE EASIEST WAY


189


gown, places it under pillow]. Well, you
know, Mis' Farley, she's been havin' so
much trouble wid her roomers. Yestuhday
dat young lady on de second flo' front she
lef'. She's goin' wiv some troupe on the
road. She owed her room for three weeks
and jus' had to leave her trunk. [Crosses R.
to c., fussing over table L.] My! how Mis'
Farley did scold her. Mis' Farley let on she
could have paid dat money if she wanted
to, but somehow Ah guess she could n't -
[Reads letter on table.]
LAURA [sees her, angrily exclaims]. Annie!
ANNIE [in confusion, brushing off table] -
for if she could she would n't have left her
trunk, would she, Miss Laura?
[Crosses to armchair R., picks up
kimono off back.]
LAURA. No, I suppose not. What did
Mrs. Farley say about me?
ANNIE. Oh! nothin' much.
[Crosses to L. C., stands.]
LAURA. Well, what?
ANNIE. She kinder say somethin' 'bout
yo' bein' three weeks behind in yo' room
rent, and she said she t'ought it was 'bout
time yuh handed her somethin', seein' as
how yuh must o' had some stylish friends
when yuh come here.
LAURA. Who, for instance?
ANNIE. Ah don't know. Mis'Farley said
some of 'em might slip yo' enough just to
help yuh out. [Pause.] Ain't yo' got nobody to take care of you at all, Miss Laura?
[Hangs kimono over back of armchair.]
LAURA. No! No one.
ANNIE. Dat's too bad.
LAURA. Why?
ANNIE [crossing to L. c.]. Mis' Farley
says yuh would n't have no trouble at all
gettin' any man to take care of yuh if yuh
wanted to.
LAURA [with sorrowful shudder]. Please
[doors of wardrobe open very slowly] don't,
Annie.
ANNIE. Dere's a gemman [playing with
corner of tablecloth] dat calls on one of de
ladies from the Hippodrome, in de big
front room downstairs. He's mighty nice,
and he's been askin' 'bout you.
LAURA Jexasperated]. Oh, shut up!


ANNIE [sees doors of wardrobe L. have
swung open; she crosses, slams them shut,
turns to LAURA]. Mis' Farley says - [Doors
have swung open again, hit her in the back.
She turns and bangs them to with all her
strength.] Damn dat door! [Crosses L. to
washstand, up L., grabs basin which is half
full of water, empties same into waste-jar,
puts basin on washstand, and wipes out with
soiled towel.] Mis' Farley says if she don't
get someone in the house dat has reg'lar
money soon, she'll have to shut up and go
to the po'house.
LAURA. I'm sorry; I'll try again to-day.
[Rises, crosses up to mantel, gets
desk-pad, etc., crosses to R. of
table, sits.]
ANNIE [crosses to L. c. back of bed, wiping
basin with towel]. Ain't yo' got any job at
all?
LAURA. No.
ANNIE. When yuh come here yuh had
lots of money and yo' was mighty good to
me. You know Mr. Weston?
LAURA. Jim Weston?
ANNIE. Yassum, Mr. Weston what goes
ahead o' shows and lives on the top floor
back; he says nobody's got jobs now.
Dey're so many actors and actresses out o'
work. Mis' Farley says she don't know
how she's goin' to live. She said you'd been
mighty nice up until three weeks ago, but
yuh ain't got much left, have you, Miss
Laura?
LAURA [rising and going to the bureau].
No. It's all gone.
ANNIE. Mah sakes! All dem rings and
things? You ain't done sold 'em?
[Sinks on bed.]
LAURA. They're pawned. What did
Mrs. Farley say she was going to do?
ANNIE. Guess maybe Ah'd better not
tell.
[Crosses R. to door hurriedly, carrying soiled towel.]
LAURA. Please do.
[Crosses to chair, R., left side.]
ANNIE. Yuh been so good to me, Miss
Laura. Never was nobody in dis house
what give me so much, and Ah ain't been
gettin' much lately. And when Mis' Farley
said yuh must either pay yo' rent or she




I90


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


would ask yuh for your room, Ah just set
right down on de back kitchen stairs and
cried. Besides, Mis' Farley don't like me
very well since you've ben havin' yo'
breakfasts and dinners brought up here.
LAURA. Why not?
[Takes kimono   off chair-back,
crosses up to dresser, puts kimono
in drawer, takes out purse.]
ANNIE. She has a rule in dis house dat
nobody can use huh chiny or fo'ks or
spoons who ain't boa'din' heah, and de
odder day when yuh asked me to bring up
a knife and fo'k she ketched me comin'
upstairs, and she says, "Where yuh goin'
wid all dose things, Annie?" Ah said,
"Ah'm just goin' up to Miss Laura's room
with dat knife and fo'k." Ah said, "Ah'm
goin' up for nothin' at all, Mis' Farley, she
jest wants to look at 'em, Ah guess." She
said, "She wants to eat huh dinner wid 'em,
Ah guess." Ah got real mad, and Ah told
her if she'd give me mah pay Ah'd brush
right out o' here; dat's what Ah'd do, Ah'd
brush right out o' here.
[Violently shaking out towel.]
LAURA. I'm sorry, Annie, if I've caused
you any trouble. Never mind, I'll be able
to pay the rent to-morrow or next day
anyway. [She fumbles in purse, takes out a
quarter, and turns to ANNIE.] Here!
ANNIE. No, ma'am, Ah don' want dat.
[Making a show of reluctance.]
LAURA. Please take it.
ANNIE. No, ma'am, Ah don' want it.
You need dat. Dat's breakfast money for
yuh, Miss Laura.
LAURA. Please take it, Annie, I might
just as well get rid of this as anything else.
ANNIE [takes it rather reluctantly]. Yuh
always was so good, Miss Laura. Sho' yuh
don' want dis?
LAURA. Sure.
ANNIE. Sho' yo' goin' to get plenty mo'?
LAURA. Sure.
MRS. FARLEY'S VOICE [downstairs]. Annie! Annie!
ANNIE [going to door, opens it]. Dat's
Mis' Farley. [To MRS. FARLEY.] Yassum,
Mis' Farley.
SAME VOICE. Is Miss Murdock up there?
ANNIE. Yassum, Mis' Farley, yassum!


MRS. FARLEY. Anything doin'?
ANNIE. Huh?
MRS. FARLEY. Anything doin'?
ANNIE [at door]. Ah - Ah - hain't
asked, Missy Farley.
MRS. FARLEY. Then do it.
LAURA [coming to the rescue at the door.
To ANNIE]. I'll answer her. [Out of door to
MRS. FARLEY.] What is it, Mrs. Farley?
MRS. FARLEY [her voice softened]. Did ye
have any luck this morning, dearie?
LAURA. No; but I promise you faithfully
to help you out this afternoon or to-morrow.
MRS. FARLEY. Sure? Are you certain?
LAURA. Absolutely.
MRS. FARLEY. Well, I must say these
people expect me to keep - [Door closed.]
[LAURA quietly closes the door, and
MRS. FARLEY'S rather strident
voice  is  heard  indistinctly.
LAURA sighs and walks toward
table L., sits. ANNIE looks after
her, and then slowly opens the
door.]
ANNIE. Yo' sho' dere ain't nothin' I can
do fo' yuh, Miss Laura?
LAURA. Nothing.
[ANNIE exit. LAURA sits down and
looks at letter, opening it. It consists of several pages closely written. She reads some of them hurriedly, skims through the rest,
and then turns to the last page,
without reading, glances at it;
lays on table, rises.]
LAURA. Hope, just nothing but hope.
[She crosses to bed, falls face down
upon it, burying her face in her
hands. Her despondency is palpable. As she lies there a hurdygurdy in the street starts to play
a popular air. This arouses her
and she rises, crosses to wardrobe,
takes out box of crackers, opens
window, gets bottle of milk off sill
outside, places them on table, gets
glass off washstand, at the same
time humming the tune of the
hurdy-gurdy when knock comes;
she crosses quickly to dresser,
powders nose. The knock is tim,
idly repeated.]




THE EASIEST WAY


IgI




LAURA [without turning, and in a rather
tired tone of voice]. Come in.
[JIM WESTON, a rather shabby theatrical advance agent of the old school, enters timidly, halting at the door and holding the
knob in his hand. He is a man of about
forty years old, dressed in an ordinary
manner, of medium height, and in fact
has the appearance of a once prosperous
clerk who has been in hard luck. His
relations with LAURA are those of pure
friendship. They both live in the same
lodging-place, and both having been out
of employment, they have naturally become acquainted.]
JIM. Can I come in?
LAURA [without turning]. Hello, Jim Weston. [He closes door and enters, down R.]
Any luck?
JIM. Lots of it.
LAURA. That's good. Tell me.
JIM. It's bad luck. Guess you don't
want to hear.
LAURA. I'm sorry. Where have you been?
JIM. 1 kind o' felt around up at Burgess's
office. I thought I might get a job there,
but he put me off until to-morrow. Somehow those fellows always do business tomorrow.           [Hurdy-gurdy dies out.]
LAURA. Yes, and there's always to-day
to look after.
JIM. I'm ready to give up. I've tramped
Broadway for nine weeks until every piece
of flagstone gives me the laugh when it sees
my feet coming. Got a letter from the
missis this morning. The kids got to have
some clothes, there's measles in the town,
and mumps in the next village. I've just
got to raise some money or get some work,
or the first thing you'll know I'll be hanging around Central Park on a dark night
with a club.
LAURA. I know just how you feel. Sit
down, Jim. [JIM crosses and sits in chair R.
of table.] It's pretty tough for me [offers
JIM glass of milk; he refuses; takes cracker],
but it must be a whole lot worse for you
with a wife and kids.
JIM. Oh, if a man's alone he can generally get along - turn his hand to anything;
but a woman -




r


LAURA. Worse, you think?
JIM. I was just thinking about you and
what Burgess said?
LAURA. What was that?
[Crosses to bed; sits on up-stage side,
sipping milk.]
JIM. You know Burgess and I used to be
in the circus business together. He took
care of the grafters when I was boss canvas
man. I never could see any good in shaking
down the rubes for all the money they had
and then taking part of it. He used to run
the privilege car, you know.
LAURA. Privilege car?
JIM. Had charge of all the pickpockets,
- dips we called 'em - sure-thing gamblers, and the like. Made him rich. I kept
sort o' on the level and I'm broke. Guess
it don't pay to be honest -
LAURA [turns to him and in a significant
voice:] You don't really think that?
JIM. No, maybe not. Ever since I married the missis and the first kid come we
figured the only good money was the kind
folks worked for and earned; but when you
can't get hold of that, it's tough.
LAURA. I know.
JIM. Burgess don't seem to be losing
sleep over the tricks he's turned. He's
happy and prosperous, but I guess he ain't
any better now then he was then.
LAURA. Maybe not. I've been trying to
get an engagement from him. There are
half a dozen parts in his new attractions
that I could do, but he has never absolutely
said "nIo," but yet somehow he's never said
" yes."
JIM. He spoke about you.
LAURA. In what way?
[Rising, stands behind JIM's chair.]
JIM. I gave him my address and he seen
it was yours, too. Asked if I lived in the
same place.
LAURA. Was that all?
JIM. Wanted to know how you was getting on. I let him know you needed work,
but I did n't tip my hand you was flat
broke. He said something about you being
a damned fool.
LAURA [suddenly and interested]. How?
[LAURA crosses R. c.]
JIM. Well, Johnny Ensworth -you




I92


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


know he used to do the fights on the
Evening Journal; now he's press agent
for Burgess; nice fellow and way on the
inside-he told me where you were in
wrong.
LAURA. What have I done?
[Sits in armchair.]
JIM. Burgess don't put up the money
for any of them musical comedies- he
just trails. Of course he's got a lot of influence, and he's always Johnny-on-the-Spot
to turn any dirty trick that they want.
There are four or five rich men in town who
are there with the bank-roll, providing he
engages women who ain't so very particular about the location of their residence,
and who don't hear a curfew ring at 11.30
every night.
LAURA. And he thinks I am too particular?
JIM. That's what was slipped me. Seems
that one of the richest men that is in on
Mr. Burgess's address book is a fellow
named Brockton from downtown some
place. He's got more money than the Shoe
and Leather National Bank. He likes to
play show business.
LAURA [rises quickly]. Oh!
[Crosses to wardrobe, gets hat,
crosses L. to dresser, gets scissors
with intentionof curling feathers.]
JIM. I thought you knew him. I thought
it was just as well to tell you where he and
Burgess stand. They're pals.
LAURA [coming over to JIM and with emphasis crosses L. to down-stage side of bed,
puts hat and scissors on bed]. I don't want
you to talk about him or any of them. I
just want you to know that I'm trying to
do everything in my power to go through
this season without any more trouble. I've
pawned everything I've got; I've cut every
friend I knew. But where am I going to
end? That's what I want to knowwhere am I going to end? [To bed and sits.]
Every place I look for a position something
interferes. It's almost as if I were blacklisted. I know 1 could get jobs all right if I
wanted to pay the price, but I won't. I just
want to tell you, I won't. No!
[Rises, crosses to mantel, rests
elbow.]


JIM. That's the way to talk. [Rises.] I
don't know you very well, but I've watched
you close. I'm just a common ordinary
showman who never had much money, and
I'm going out o' date. I've spent most of
my time with nigger minstrel shows and
circuses, but I've been on the square.
That's why I'm broke. [Rather sadly.]
Once I thought the missis would have to go
back and do her acrobatic act, but she
could n't do that, she'd grown so damn fat.
[Crosses L. to LAURA.] Just you don't mind.
It'll all come out right.
LAURA. It's an awful tough game, is n't
it?                    [Crosses to R. C.]
JIM [during this speech LAURA gets cup,
pours milk back into bottle, closes biscuit-box,
puts milk on shed outside, and biscuits into
wardrobe, cup in alcove L.]. It's hell forty
ways from the Jack. It's tough for me, but
for a pretty woman with a lot o' rich fools
jumping out o' their automobiles and hanging around stage doors, it must be something awful. I ain't blaming the women.
They say "self-preservation is the first law
of nature," and I guess that's right; but
sometimes when the show is over and I see
them fellows with their hair plastered back,
smoking cigarettes in a [LAURA crosses to
chair R. of table and leans over back] holder
long enough to reach from here to Harlem,
and a bank-roll that would bust my pocket
and turn my head, I feel as if I'd like to
get a gun and go a-shooting around this
old town.
LAURA. Jim!
JIM. Yes, I do - you bet.
LAURA. That would n't pay, would it?
JIM. No, they're not worth the job of
sitting on that throne in Sing Sing, and
I'm too poor to go to Matteawan. But all
them fellows under nineteen and over fiftynine ain't much use to themselves or anyone else.
LAURA [rather meditatively]. Perhaps all
of them are not so bad.
JIM [sits on bed]. Yes, they are - angels
and all. Last season I had one of them
shows where a rich fellow backed it on
account of a girl. We lost money and he
lost his girl; then we got stuck in Texas.
I telegraphed: "Must have a thousand, or




THE EASIEST WAY


I93


can't move." He just answered: "Don't
move." We did n't.
LAURA. But that was business.
JIM. Bad business. It took a year for
some of thein folks to get back to Broadway. Some of the girls never did, and I
guess never will.
LAURA. Maybe they're better off, Jim.
[Sits R. of table.]
JIM. Could n't be worse. They're still
in Texas. [To himself.] Wish I knew how to
do something else, being a plumber or a
walking delegate; they always have jobs.
LAURA. Well, I wish I could do something else too, but I can't, and we've got
to make the best of it.
JIM. I guess so. [Crosses to R. c.] I'll see
you this evening. I hope you'll have good
news by that time. [Bus. Starts to exit, starts
to open door; then retreats a step, with hand
on door-knob, crosses L. to C. In a voice
meant to be kindly.] If you'd like to go to
the theatre to-night and take some other
woman in the house, maybe I can get a
couple of tickets for some of the shows. I
know a lot of fellows who are working.
LAURA. No, thanks. I have n't anything
to wear to the theatre, and I don't -
JIM [with a smile crosses to LAURA, puts
arm around her]. Now you just cheer up!
Something's sure to turn up. It always has
for me, and I'm a lot older than you, both
in years and in this business. There's always a break in hard luck sometime -
that's sure.
LAURA [smiling through her tears]. I hope
so. But things are looking pretty hopeless
now, are n't they?
JIM. I'll go down and give Mrs. F. a line
o' talk and try [crossing to R. C.] to square
you for a couple of days more anyway.
But I guess she's laying pretty close to the
cushion herself, poor woman.
LAURA. Annie says a lot of people owe
her.
JIM. Well, you can't pay what you
have n't got. And even if money was growing on trees, it's winter now. [JIM goes
towards door.] I'm off. Maybe to-day is
lucky day. So long!
-LAURA. Good-bye.
JIM. Keep your nerve.          [Exit.]


LAURA. I will. [She sits for a moment in
deep thought, picks up the letter received as if
to read it, and then throws it down in anger.
She buries her head in hands.] I can't stand
it - I just simply can't stand it.
MRS. FARLEY'S VOICE [off stage]. Miss
Murdock - Miss Murdock.
LAURA [brushing away tears, rises, goes to
door R., and opens it]. What is it?
SAME VOICE. There's a lady down here
to see you.
ELFIE'S VOICE [off stage]. Hello, dearie,
can I come up?
LAURA. Is that you, Elfie?
ELFIE. Yes; shall I come up?
LAURA. Why, certainly.
[She waits at the door for a moment, and
ELFIE ST. CLAIR appears. She is gorgeously gowned in the rather extreme
style affected by the usual New York
woman who is cared for by a gentleman
of wealth and who has not gone through
the formality of matrimonial alliance.
Hrer conduct is always exaggerated and
her attitude vigorous. Her gown is of
the latest design, and in every detail of
dress she shows evidence of most extravagant expenditure. She carries a handbag of gold, upon which are attached such
trifles as a gold cigarette-case, a gold
powder-box, pencils, and the like. ELFIE
throws her arms around LAURA, and
both exchange kisses.]
ELFIE. Laura, you old dear [crossing L.
to table], I've just found out where you've
been hiding, and came around to see you.
LAURA [who is much brightened by ELFIE'S
appearance]. Elfie, you're looking bully.
How are you, dear?
ELFIE. Fine.
LAURA. Come in and sit down. I have n't
much to offer, but -
ELFIE. Oh, never mind. It's such a
grand day outside, and I've come around
in my car to take you out [sits R. of table].
You know I've got a new one, and it can
go some.
LAURA [sits on arm of chair R.]. I 'm sorry
but I can't go out this afternoon, Elfie.
ELFIE. What's the matter?
LAURA. You see I'm staying home a




194


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


good deal nowadays. I have n't been feeling very well and I don't go out much.
ELFIE. I should think not. I have n't
seen you in Rector's or Martin's since you
came back from Denver. Got a glimpse
of you one day trailing up Broadway, but
could n't get to you - you dived into some
office or other. [For the first time she surveys
the room, rises, looks around critically, crossing L. to mantel.] Gee! Whatever made you
come into a dump like this? It's the limit.
LAURA [crossing L. and standing back of the
table]. Oh, I know it is n't pleasant, but it's
my home, and after all - a home's a home.
ELFIE. Looks more like a prison. [Takes
candy from mantel, spits it out on floor.]
Makes me think of the old days of Child's
sinkers and a hall bedroom.
LAURA. It's comfortable.
[Leaning hands on table.]
ELFIE. Not! [Sits on bed, trying bed with
comedy effect.] Say, is this here for an effect,
or do you sleep on it?
LAURA. I sleep on it.
ELFIE. No wonder you look tired. Say,
listen, dearie. What else is the matter with
you anyway?
LAURA. Nothing.
ELFIE. Yes, there is. What happened
between you and Brockton? [Notices faded
flowers in vase on table, takes them out, tosses
them into fireplace, replaces them with gardenias which she wears.] He's not broke,
because I saw him the other day.
LAURA. Where?
ELFIE. In the park. Asked me out to
luncheon, but I could n't go. You know,
dearie, I've got to be so careful. Jerry's so
awful jealous - the old fool.
LAURA. DO yOU see much of Jerry nowadays, Elfie?
ELFIE. Not any more than I can help and
be nice. He gets on my nerves. Of course,
I've heard about your quitting Brockton.
LAURA. Then why do you ask?
[Crosses around chair R. of table,
stands.]
ELFIE. Just wanted to hear from your
own dear lips what the trouble was. Now
tell me all about it. Can I smoke here?
[Takes cigarette case up, opens it,
selecting cigarette.]


LAURA. Surely.
[Gets matches off bureau, puts them
on table.]
ELFIE. Have one?.[Offers case.]
LAURA. No, thank you.
[Sits in chair R. of table, facing
ELFIE.]
ELFIE. H'm-m, h'm-m, hah! [Lights
cigarette.] Now go ahead. Tell me all the
scandal. I'm just crazy to know.
LAURA. There's nothing to tell. I have
n't been able to find work, that is all, and
I'm short of money. You can't live in hotels, you know, with cabs and all that
sort of thing, when you're not working.
ELFIE. Yes, you can. I have n't worked
in a year.
LAURA. But you don't understand, dear.
I - I - Well, you know I - well, you
know - I can't say what I want.
ELFIE. Oh, yes, you can. You can say
anything to me-everybody else does.
We've been pals. I know you got along
a little faster in the business than I did.
The chorus was my limit, and you went
into the legitimate thing. But we got our
living just the same way. I did n't suppose
there was any secret between you and me
about that.
LAURA. I know there was n't then, Elfie,
but I tell you I'm different now. I don't
want to do that sort of thing, and I've been
very unlucky. This has been a terribly hard
season for me. I simply have n't been able'
to get an engagement.
ELFIE. Well, you can't get on this way.
Won't [pauses, knocking ashes off cigarette
to cover hesitation] Brockton help you out?
LAURA. What's the use of talking to
you [rises and crosses to fireplace], Elfie;
you don't understand.
ELFIE [puffing deliberately on cigarette and
crossing her legs in almost a masculine attitude]. No? Why don't I understand?
LAURA. Because you can't; you've
never felt as I have.
ELFIE. How do you know?
LAURA [turning impatiently]. Oh, what's
the use of explaining?
ELFIE. You know, Laura, I'm not much
on giving advice, but you make me sick.
I thought you'd grown wise. A young girl




THE EASIEST WAY


I95




just butting into this business might possibly make a fool of herself, but you ought
to be on to the game and make the best of it.
LAURA [going over to her angrily]. If you
come up here, Elfie, to talk that sort of
stuff to me, please don't. I was West this
summer. I met someone, a real man, who
did me a whole lot of good - a man who
opened my eyes to a different way of going
along - a man who - Oh, well, what's
the use? You don't know —you don't
know.                  [Sits L. on bed.]
ELFIE [throws cigarette into fireplace]. I
don't know, don't I? I don't know, I suppose, that when I came to this town from
up state - a little burg named Oswego -
and joined a chorus, that I did n't fall in
love with just such a man. I suppose I
don't know that then I was the bestlooking girl in New York, and everybody
talked about me? I suppose I don't know
that there were men, all ages and with all
kinds of money, ready to give me anything
for the mere privilege of taking me out to
supper? And I did n't do it, did I? For
three years I stuck by this good man who
was to lead me in a good way toward a
good life. And all the time I was getting
older, never quite so pretty one day as I
had been the day before. I never knew
then what it was to be tinkered with by
hairdressers and manicures or a hundred
and one of those other people who make
you look good. I did n't have to have them
then. [Rises, crosses to R. of table facing
LAURA.] Well, you know, Laura, what
happened.
LAURA. Was n't it partly your fault,
Elfie?
ELFIE [speaking across table angrily]. Was
it my fault that time made me older and I
took on a lot of flesh? Was it my fault that
the work and the life took out the color,
and left the make-up? Was it my fault that
other pretty young girls came along, just
as I'd come, and were chased after, just as
I was? Was it my fault the cabs were n't
waiting any more and people did n't talk
about how pretty I was? And was it my
fault when he finally had me alone, and
just because no one else wanted me, he got
tired and threw me flat - cold flat [brings.


hand down on table] - and I'd been on the
dead level with him. [With almost a sob
crosses up to bureau, powders nose, comes
down back of table.] It almost broke my
heart. Then I made up my mind to get
even and get all I could out of the game.
Jerry came along. He was a has-been and
I was on the road to be. He wanted to be
good to me, and I let him. That's all.
LAURA. Still, I don't see how you can
live that way.            [Lies on bed.]
ELFIE. Well, you did, and you did n't
kick.
LAURA. Yes, but things are different
with me now. You'd be the same way if
you were in my place.
ELFIE. No. I've had all the romance I
want, and I'll stake you to all your love
affairs. [Crosses back of bed, touches picture
over bed.] I am out to gather in as much
coin as I can in my own way, so when the
old rainy day comes along I'11 have a little
change to buy myself an umbrella.
LAURA [rising and angry crosses R. to
armchair]. What did you come here for?
Why can't you leave me alone when I'm
trying to get along?
ELFIE. Because I want to help you.
LAURA [during speech crosses L. to upstage side of bed, angrily tosses quilt to floor
and sits on bed facing R. in tears]. You can't
help me. I'm all right - I tell you I am.
What do you care anyway?
ELFIE [sits on bed, crosses down stage to
lower I. side of bed, sits facing LAURA]. But
1 do care. I know how you feel with an old
cat for a landlady and living up here on a
side street with a lot of cheap burlesque
people. Why the room's cold [LAURA rises,
crosses R. to window], and there's no hot
water, and you're beginningto look shabby.
You have n't got a job - chances are you
won't have one. What does [indicating a
picture on bed with thumb] this fellow out
there do for you? Send you long letters of
condolences? That's what I used to get.
When ][ wanted to buy a new pair of shoes
or a silk petticoat, he told me how much he
loved nre; so I had the other ones resoled
and turned the old petticoat. And look at
you, you're beginning to show it. [She surveys her carefully.] I do believe there are




I96


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


lines coming in your face [LAURA crosses to
dresser quickly, picks up hand mirror, looks
at herself], and you hide in the house because you've nothing new to wear.
LAURA [puts down mirror, crossing down
to back of bed]. But I've got what you
haven't got. I may have to hide my
clothes, but I don't have to hide my face.
And you with that man - he's old enough
to be your father - a toddling dote hanging on your apron-strings, I don't see
how you dare show your face to a decent
woman.
ELFIE [rises]. You don't! - but you did
once and I never caught you hanging your
head. You say he's old. I know he's old,
but he's good to me. He's making what's
left of my life pleasant. You think I like
him. I don't, - sometimes I hate him, -
but he understands; and you can bet your
life his check is in my mail every Saturday
night or there's a new lock on the door
Sunday morning. [Crossing L. to fireplace.]
LAURA. How can you say such things to
me?
ELFIE [crosses to L. end of table]. Because
I want you to be square with yourself.
You've lost all that precious virtue women
gab about. When you've got the name,
I say get the game.
LAURA. You can go now, Elfie, and don't
come back.
ELFIE [gathering up muff, etc.]. All right,
if that's the way you want it to be, I'm
sorry.            [A knock on the door.]
LAURA [controlling herself after a moment's hesitation]. Come in.
[ANNIE enters with a note, crosses, and hands
it to LAURA.]
ANNIE. Mis' Farley sent dis, Miss Laura.
[LAURA takes the note and reads it.
She is palpably annoyed.]
LAURA. There's no answer.
ANNIE. She tol' me not to leave until Ah
got an answah.
LAURA. You must ask her to wait.
ANNIE. She wants an answah.
LAURA. Tell her I'll be right downthat it will be all right.
ANNIE. But, Miss Laura, she tol' me to
get an answah.        [Exit reluctantly.]


LAURA [half to herself and half to ELFIE].
She's taking advantage of your being here.
[Standing R. near door.]
ELFIE. How?
LAURA.   She  wants   money- three
weeks' room-rent. I presume she thought
you'd give it to me.
ELFIE. Huh!             [Moves to L.]
LAURA [crossing L. to table]. Elfie, I've
been a little cross; I did n't mean it.
ELFIE. Well?
LAURA. Could- could you lend me
thirty-five dollars until I get to work?
ELFIE. Me?
LAURA. Yes.
ELFIE. Lend you thirty-five dollars?
LAURA. Yes; you've got plenty of
money to spare.
ELFIE. Well, you certainly have got a
nerve.
LAURA. You might give it to me. I
have n't a dollar in the world, and you
pretend to be such a friend to me!
ELFIE [turning and angrily speaking
across table]. So that's the kind of woman
you are, eh? A moment ago you were
going to kick me out of the place because
I was n't decent enough to associate with
you. You know how I live. You know
how I get my money - the same way you
got most of yours. And now that you've
got this spasm of goodness I'm not fit to
be in your room; but you'll take my money
to pay your debts. You'll let me go out
and do this sort of thing for your benefit,
while you try to play the grand lady. I've
got your number now, Laura. Where in hell
is your virtue anyway? You can go to the
devil rich, poor, or any other way. I'm off!
[ELFIE rushes toward door; for a
moment LAURA stands speechless, then bursts into hysterics.]
LAURA. Elfie! Elfie! Don't go now!
Don't leave me now! [ELFIE hesitates with
hand on door-knob.] I can't stand it. I can't
be alone. Don't go, please; don't go.
[LAURA falls into ELFIE'S arms,
sobbing. In a moment ELFIE'S
whole demeanor changes and she
melts into the tenderest womanly
sympathy, trying her best to express herself in her crude way.l




THE EASIEST WAY


I97


ELFIE. There, old girl, don't cry, don't
cry. You just sit down here and let me put
my arms around you. [ELFIE leads LAURA
over L. to armchair, places muff, etc., in
chair, and sits LAURA down in chair. ELFIE
sits on R. arm of chair with her left arm behind LAURA; hugs LAURA to her. LAURA in
tears and sobbing during scene.] I'm awful
sorry - on the level, I am. I should n't
have said it. I know that. But I've got
feelings too, even if folks don't give me
credit for it.
LAURA. I know, Elfie. I've gone through
about all I can stand.
ELFIE. Well, I should say you have -
and more than I would. Anyway a good
cry never hurts any woman. I have one
myself, sometimes - under cover.
LAURA [more seriously, recovering herself].
Perhaps what you said was true.
ELFIE. We won't talk about it.
[Wiping LAURA'S eyes and kisses
her.]
LAURA [with persistence]. But perhaps it
was true, and, Elfie -
ELFIE. Yes.
LAURA. I think I've stood this just as
long as I can. Every day is a living horror.
ELFIE [looking around room]. It's the
limit.
LAURA. I've got to have money to pay
the rent. I've pawned everything I have,
except the clothes on my back.
ELFIE. I'll give you all the money you
need, dearie. Great Heavens, don't worry
about that. Don't you care if I got sore
and - and lost my head.
LAURA. No; I can't let you do that.
[Rises; crosses L. to table.] You may have
been mad, - awfully mad, - but what
you said was the truth. 1 can't take your
money.                 [Sits R. of table.]
ELFIE. Oh, forget that.
[Rises, crosses to c.]
LAURA. Maybe - maybe if he knew all
about it- the suffering - he would n't
blame me.
ELFIE. Who - the good man who
wanted to lead you to the good life without
even a bread-basket for an advance agent?
iuh.!


LAURA. Still he does n't know how desperately poor I am.
ELFIE. He knows you're out of work,
don't he?
LAURA [turning to ELFIE]. Not exactly.
I've let him think that I'm getting along
all right.
ELFIE. Then you're a chump. Has n't
he sent you anything?
LAURA. He has n't anything to send.
ELFIE. Well, what does he think you
're going to live on? - asphalt croquettes
with conversation sauce?
LAURA. I don't know - I don't know.
[Sobbing.]
ELFIE [crosses to LAURA, puts arms
around her]. Don't be foolish, dearie. You
know there is somebody waiting for you -
somebody who'll be good to you and get
you out of this mess.
LAURA. You mean Will Brockton?
[Looking up.]
ELFIE. Yes.
LAURA. Do you know where he is?
ELFIE. Yes.
LAURA. Well?
ELFIE. You won't get sore again if I tell
you, will you?
LAURA. No -why?             [Rises.]
ELFIE. He's downstairs -waiting in
the car. I promised to tell him what you
said.
LAURA. Then it was all planned, and -
and --
ELFIE. Now, dearie, I knew you were
up against it, and I wanted to bring you
two together. He's got half of the Burgess
shows, and if you'll only see him everything will be fixed.
LAURA. When does he want to see me?
ELFIE. Now.
LAURA. Here?
ELFIE. Yes. Shall I tell him to come up?
LAURA [after a long pause, crossing
around to bed, down-stage side]. Yes.
ELFIE [suddenly becomes animated]. Now
you're a sensible dear. I'll bet he's half
frozen down there. [Goes to door.] I'll send
him up. Look at you, Laura, you're a
sight. [Crosses L. to LAURA, takes her by R.
hand,, leads her up to washstand, takes towel
and wipes LAURA'S eyes.] It'll never do to




198


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


have him see you looking like this; come
over here and let me fix your eyes. Now,
Laura, I want you to promise me you won't
do any more crying. [Leads LAURA over
to dresser, takes powder-puff and powders
LAURA'S face.] Come over here and let me
powder your nose. Now when he comes up
you tell him he has got to blow us all off to
a dinner to-night at Martin's, seven-thirty.
Let me look at you. Now you're all right.
[After daubing LAURA'S face with rouge paw,
ELFIE takes LAURA'S face in her hands and
kisses her.] Make it strong now, seventhirty, don't forget, I'll be there. [Crosses
R. to armchair, gathers up muff, etc.] So
long.                           [Exit R.]
[After ELFIE's exit LAURA crosses
slowly R. to wardrobe, pulls off
picture of JOHN, crosses L. to
dresser, takes picture of JOHN
from there, carries both pictures
over to bed, kneels on bed, pulls
down picture at head of bed,
places all three pictures under
pillow. WILL is heard coming
upstairs, and knocks.]
LAURA. Come in.
[WILL enters. His dress is that of a man of
business, the time being about February.
He is well groomed and brings with him
the impression of easy luxury.]
WILL [as he enters]. Hello, Laura.
[There is an obvious embarrassment on the part of each of them.
She rises, goes to him and extends her hand.]
LAURA. I'm - I'm glad to see you, Will.
WILL. Thank you.
LAURA. Won't you sit down?
WILL [regaining his ease of manner].
Thank you again.
[Puts hat and cane R. at end of
wardrobe; removes overcoat and
places on back of armchair; sits
in armchair.]
LAURA [sits R. of table]. It's rather cold
out, is n't it?
WILL. Just a bit sharp.
LAURA. You came with Elfie in the car?
WILL. She picked me up at Martin's;
we lunched there.


LAURA. By appointment?
WILL. I'd asked her.
LAURA. Well?
WILL. Well, Laura.
LAURA. She told you?
WILL. Not a great deal. What do you
want to tell me?
LAURA [very simply, and avoiding his
glance]. Will, I'm ready to come back.
WILL [with an effort concealing his sense
of triumph and satisfaction. Rises, crosses to
LAURA]. I'm mighty glad of that, Laura.
I've missed you like the very devil.
LAURA. Do we - do we have to talk it
over much?
[Crosses to L. of table in front of
bed.]
WILL. Not at all unless you want to. I
understand - in fact, I always have.
LAURA [wearily]. Yes, I guess you always
did. I did n't.
[Crosses R. and sits F. of table.]
WILL. It will be just the same as it was
before, you know.
LAURA. Yes.
WILL. I did n't think it was possible for
me to miss anyone the way I have you.
I've been lonely.
LAURA. That 's nice in you to say that.
WILL. You'll have to move out of here
right away. [Crossing up L. to back of table
surveying room.] This place is enough to
give one the colly-wabbles. If you'll be
ready to-morrow I'11 send my man over to
help you take care of the luggage.
LAURA. To-morrow will be all right,
thank you.
WILL. And you'll need some money in
the meantime. I '11 leave this here.
[He takes a roll of bills and places
it on the bureau.]
LAURA. You seem to have come prepared. Did Elfie and you plan this all out?
WILL. Not planned —just hoped. I
think you'd better go to some nice hotel
now. Later we can arrange.
[Sits on up-stage side of bed.]
LAURA. Will, we'll always be frank. I
said I was ready to go. It's up to you -
when and where.
WILL. The hotel scheme is the best, but,
Laura -




THE EASIEST WAY


199


LAURA. Yes?
WILL. You're quite sure this is in earnest. You don't want to change? You've
time enough now.
LAURA. I've quite made up my mind.
It's final.
WILL. If you want to work, Burgess has
a nice part for you. I'll telephone and
arrange if you say so.
LAURA. Thanks. Say I'11 see him in the
morning.
WILL. And, Laura, you know when we
were in Denver, and 
LAURA [rises hurriedly, crosses R]. Please,
please, don't speak of it.
WILL. I'm sorry, but I've got to. I told
[rises, crosses to L. C.] Madison [LAURA turns
her head] - pardon me, but I must do this
- that if this time ever came I'd have you
write him the truth. Before we go any
further I'd like you to do that now.
LAURA. Saygood-bye? [Turnsto WILL.]
WILL. Just that.
LAURA. I would n't know how to begin.
It will hurt him awfully deeply.
WILL. It'll be worse if you don't. He'll
like you for telling him. It would be honest, and that is what he expects.
LAURA. Must I - now?
WILL. I think you should.
LAURA [goes to table and sits down]. How
shall I begin, Will?
WILL [standing back of table]. You mean
you don't know what to say?
LAURA. Yes.
WILL. Then I'll dictate.
LAURA. I'll do just as you say. You're
the one to tell me now.
WILL. Address it the way you want to.
[She complies.] I'm going to be pretty
brutal. In the long run I think that is best,
don't you?
LAURA. It's up to you.
WILL. Ready?
LAURA. Begin.
WILL [dictating]. "All I have to say can
be expressed in one word, 'good-bye.' I
shall not tell you where I've gone, but remind you of what Brockton told you the
last time he saw you. He is here now
[pause] dictating this letter. What I am
doing is voluntary- my own suggestion.


Don't grieve. Be happy and successful. I
do not love you." -
[She puts pen down, looks at him.]
LAURA. Will - please.
WILL. It has got to go just that way 
"I do not love you." Sign it "Laura."
[Does it.] Fold it, put it in an envelope -
seal it- address it. Now shall 1 mail it?
LAURA. No. If you don't mind I'd
sooner. It's a sort of a last - last message.
WILL [Crosses R. to armchair, gets coat,
puts it on]. All right. You're a little upset
now, and I'm going. We are all to dine at
Martin's to-night at seven-thirty. There'll
be a party. Of course you'll come.
[Gets hat and cane.]
LAURA. I don't think I can. You see -
WILL. I know. I guess there's enough
there [indicating money] for your immediate
needs. Later you can straighten things up.
Shall 1 send the car?
LAURA. Yes, please.
WILL. Good. It will be the first happy
evening I've had in a long, long time.
You'll be ready?
[Approaches and bends over her as
if to caress her.]
LAU:RA [shrinking away]. Please don't.
Remember we don't dine until seventhirty.
WILL. All right.                [Exit.]
[For a moment LAURA sits silent,
and then angrily rises, crosses up
to dresser, gets alcohol lamp,
crosses to table with lamp, lights
same, and starts back to dresser.
Knock at door.]
LAURA. Come in. [ANNIE enters, and
stops.] That you, Annie?
ANNIE. Yassum.
LAURA. Mrs. Farley wants her rent.
There is some money [tosses money on to
table]. Take it to her.
[ANNIE goes to the table, examines
the roll of bills and is palpably
surprised.]
ANNIE. Dey ain't nothin' heah, Miss
Laura, but five great big one hunderd
dollah bills.
LAURA. Take two. And look in that
upper drawer. You'll find some pawn tickets there.             [ANNIE complies.]




2oo


CHIEP CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


ANNIE. Yassum. [Aside.] Dat's real
money - dem's yellow backs sure.
LAURA. Take the two top ones and go
get my lace gown and one of the hats. The
ticket is for a hundred and ten dollars.
Keep ten for yourself, and hurry.
ANNIE [aside]. Ten for myself - I never
see so much money. [To LAURA, her astonishment nearly overcoming her.] Yassum,
Miss Laura, yassum. [She goes toward door,
and then turns to LAURA.] Ah'm so mighty
glad yo' out all yo' trouble, Miss Laura.
1 says to Mis' Farley now -
LAURA [snapping her off]. Don't - don't.
Go do as I tell you and mind your business.
[ANNIE turns sullenly and walks toward the
dcor. At that moment LAURA sees the letter,
which she has thrown on the table.] Wait a
minute. I want you to mail a letter. [By
this time her hair is half down, hanging
loosely over her shoulders. Her waist is open
at the throat, collar off, and she has the appearance of a woman's untidiness when she is
at that particular stage of her toilet. Hands
letter to ANNIE, but snatches it away as
ANNIE turns to go. She glances at the letter
long and wistfully, and her nerve fails her.]
Never mind.
[ANNIE exit. Slowly LAURA puts
the letter over the flame of the
alcohol lamp and it ignites. As
it burns she holds it in her fingers,
and when half consumed throws
it into waste-jar, sits on side of
bed watching letter burn, then lies
down across bed on her elbows,
her chin in her hands, facing
audience. As the last flicker is
seen the curtain slowly descends.]
ACT III
SCENE. Two months have elapsed. The
scene is at BROCKTON'S apartment in a hotel
such as is not over particular concerning the
relations of its tenants. There are a number
of these hotels throughout the theatre district
of New York, and, as a rule, one will find
them usually of the same type. The room in
which this scene is placed is that of the general
living-room in one of the handsomest apartments in the building. The prevailing color


is green, and there is nothing particularly
gaudy about the general furnishings. They
are in good taste, but without the variety of
arrangement and ornamentation which would
naturally obtain in a room occupied by people
a bit more particular concerning their surroundings. Down stage and just R. of c. is a
table about three feet square which can be
used not only as a general centre-table, but
also for service while the occupants are eating.
There is a breakfast service on this table, and
also a tray and stand behind the table. There
is a chair at either side of the table, and at
right coming up stage, the room turns at a
sharp angle of thirty-five degrees from 2 to 3,
and this space is largely taken up by a large
doorway. Thzs is equipped with slidingdoors and hung with green portieres, which
are handsome and in harmony with the general scheme of the furnishings of the room.
This entrance is to the sleeping-room of the
apartments. At the back of stage is a large
window or alcove. The window is on the
ordinary plan, and the view through it shows
the back of another building of New York,
presumably a hotel of about the same character. Green portieres are also hung on the
windows. Down left is the entrance to the
corridor of the hotel, and this must be so arranged that it works with a latch-key and
opens upon a small hallway, which separates
the apartment from the main hallway. This
is necessary as the action calls for the slamming of a door and later the opening of the
direct and intimate door of the apartment
with a latch-key. At L. of c. is a sofa, and
there is a general arrangement of chairs without overcrowding the apartment. Just below,
where the right portiere is hung, is a long fulllength mirror, such as women dress by.
Against R. flat, between 1 and 2, is a large
lady's fancy dresser.
To the immediate left of the sliding-doors,
which go into the sleeping-apartment, is a
lady's small writing-desk, with a practical
drawer on the right-hand side, in which is a
pearl-handled 32-calibre revolver. The front
of the desk is open at rise. On top of the desk
is a desk lamp and a large box of candy, inside the desk is writing material, &c. In
pigeon-hole left there is a small photo and
frame, which ANNIE places on the table when




THE EASIEST WAY


201


she removes the breakfast set. In front of
centre window in alcove is a small table on
which is a parlor lamp, some newspapers, including the New York Sun. On the floor
running between the desk and table is a large
fur rug. In front of the table is a small gilt
chair; in front of desk there is also a small
gilt chair; between left 2 and window there is
a pianola piano, on top of which is a bundle
of music-rolls. In place, ready to play, is a
roll of a negro tune called " Bon-Bon Buddie,
My Chocolate Drop." On top of the piano,
in addition to the music-rolls, are a fancy
lamp, a large basket of chrysanthemums, and
two photos in frames, at the upper corner.
Standing on the floor is a large piano lamp.
On the sofa are cushions, and thrown over its
back is a lady's opera-coat. On the sofa are
also a fan and some small dznner favors.
On the dresser are a lady's silver toilet set,
including powder boxes, rouge boxes, manicuring implements, and a small plush black
cat that might have been a favor at some time.
Two little dolls hang on the side of the glass of
the dresser, which also might have been favors.
These are used later in the action, and are
necessary.
AT RISE. When the curtain rises on this
scene it is noticeable that the occupants of the
room must have returned rather late at night,
after having dined, not wisely, but too well.
In the alcove is a man's dress-coat and vest
thrown on the cushions in a most careless
manner, a silk hat badly rumpled is near it.
Over the top of sofa is an opera-cloak, and
hung on the mirror is a huge hat, of the evening type, such as women would pay handsomely for. A pair of gloves is thrown on top
of the pier-glass. The curtains in the baywindow are half drawn, and the light shades
are half drawn down the windows, so that
when the curtain goes up the place is in a
rather dim light. On the table are the remains
of a breakfast, which is served in a box-like
tray such as is used in hotels. LAURA is discovered sitting at R. of table, her hair a bit untidy. She has on a very expensive negligee
gown. WILL, in a business suit, is at the
other side of the table, and both have evidently
just about concluded their breakfast and are
reading the newspapers while they sip their
coffee. LAURA is intent in the scanning of her


Morning Telegraph, while WILL is deep in
the market reports of the Journal of Commerce, and in each instance these things must
be made apparent. WILL throws down the
paper rather impatiently.
WILL. Have you seen the Sun, Laura?
LAURA. No.
WILL. Where is it?
LAURA. I don't know.
WILL [in a loud voice]. Annie, Annie!
[A pause.] Annie! [In an undertone, half
directed to LAURA.] Where the devil is that
nigger?
LAURA. Why, I suppose she's at breakfast.
WI]LL. Well, she ought to be here.
LAURA. Did it ever occur to you that
she has got to eat just the same as you
have?
WILL. She's your servant, is n't she?
LAURA. My maid.
WILL. Well, what have you got her for,
- to eat or to wait on you? Annie!
LAURA. Don't be so cross. What do you
want?
WILL. I want the Sun.
[BROCKTON pours out one half glass
of water from bottle.]
LAURA. I will get it for you.
[Rather wearily she gets up and
goes to the table c. where there are
other morning papers, she takes
the Sun, hands it to him, goes
back to her seat, reopens the
Morning Telegraph. There is a
pause. ANNIE enters from the
sleeping-room up R.]
ANNIE. Do yuh want me, suh?
WILL. Yes, I did want you, but don't
now. When I'm at home 1 have a man to
look after me and I get what I want.
LAURA. For Heaven's sake, Will, have a
little patience. If you like your man so
well you had better live at home, but don't
come around here with a grouch and bulldoze everybody.
WILL. Don't think for a moment that
there's much to come around here for.
Annie, this room's stuffy.
ANNIE. Yassuh.
WILL. Draw those portieres. Let those




202


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


curtains up. [ANNIE lets up curtain.] Let's
have a little light. Take away these clothes
and hide them. Don't you know that a
man does n't want to see the next morning
anything to remind him of the night before.
Make the place look a little respectable.
[In the meantime ANNIE scurries
around, picking up the coat and
vest, opera-cloak, etc., as rapidly
as possible and throwing them
over her arm without any idea of
order. It is very apparent that
she is rather fearful of the anger
of WILL while he is in this
mood.]
WILL [looking at her]. Be careful. You're
not taking the wash off the line.
ANNIE. Yassuh.
[Exit in confusion up R.]
LAURA [laying down paper and looking at
WILL]. Well, I must say you're rather
amiable this morning.
WILL. I feel like hell.
LAURA. Market unsatisfactory?
WILL. No; head too big. [He lights a
cigar; as he takes a puff he makes an awful
face.] Tastes like punk.
[Puts cigar into cup.]
LAURA. You drank a lot.
WILL. We'll have to cut out those parties. I can't do those things any more. I'm
not as young as I was, and in the morning
it makes me sick. How do you feel?
LAURA. A little tired, that's all.
[Rises, crosses to bureau.]
WILL. You did n't touch anything?
LAURA. No.
WILL. I guess you're on the safe side. It
was a great old party, though, was n't it?
LAURA. Did you think so?
WILL. Oh, for that sort of a blow-out.
Not too rough, but just a little easy. I like
them at night and I hate them in the morning. [He picks up the paper and commences
to glance it over in a casual manner, not interrupting his conversation.] Were you
bored?
LAURA. Yes; always at things like that.
WILL. Well, you don't have to go.
LAURA. You asked me.
WILL. Still, you could say no.
[LAURA picks up paper, puts it on


table up c., crosses back to
bureau.]
LAURA. But you asked me.
WILL. What did you go for if you did n't
want to?
LAURA. You wanted me to.
WILL. I don't quite get you.
LAURA. Well, Will, you have all my
time when I'm not in the theatre, and you
can do with it just what you please. You
pay for it. I'm working for you.
WILL. Is that all I've got, - just your
time?
LAURA [wearily]. That and the rest.
[LAURA crosses up to desk, gets "part,"
crosses to sofa, turning pages of "part."] I
guess you know. [Crosses to sofa and sits.]
WILL [looking at her curiously]. Down in
the mouth, eh? I'm sorry.
LAURA. No, only if you want me to be
frank, I'm a little tired. You may not believe it, but I work awfully hard over at
the theatre. Burgess will tell you that. I
know I'm not so very good as an actress,
but I try to be. [LAURA lies down on sofa.]
I'd like to succeed, myself. They're very
patient with me. Of course they've got to
be, - that's another thing you're paying
for, but I don't seem to get along except
this way.
WILL. Oh, don't get sentimental. If
you're going to bring up that sort of talk,
Laura, do it sometime when I have n't got
a hang-over, and then don't forget talk
never does count for much.
[LAURA crosses up to mirror R. 3,
picks up hat from box, puts it
on, looks in mirror. She turns
around and looks at him steadfastly for a minute. During this
entire scene, from the time the
curtain rises, she must in a way
indicate a premonition of an approaching catastrophe, a feeling,
vague but nevertheless palpable,
that something is going to happen.
She must hold this before her
audience so that she can show to
them, without showing to him,
the disgust she feels. LAURA has
tasted of the privations of selfsacrifice during her struggle, and




THE EASIEST WAY


203


she has weakly surrendered and is
unable to go back, but that brief
period of self-abnegation has
shown to her most clearly the rottenness of the other sort of living.
There is enough sentimentality
and emotion in her character to
make it impossible for her to accept this manner of existence as
ELFIE does. Hers is not a nature
of careless candor, but of dreamy
ideals and better living, warped,
handicapped, disillusioned, and
destroyed by a weakness that finds
its principal force in vanity.
WILL resumes his newspaper in
a more attentive way. The girl
looks at him and expresses in
pantomime, by the slightest gesture or shrug of the shoulders, her
growing distaste for him and his
way of living. In the meantime
WILL is reading the paper rather
carefully. He stops suddenly and
then looks at his watch.]
LAURA. What time is it?
WILL. After ten.
LAURA. Oh.
[WILL at this moment particularly
reads some part of the paper,
turns to her with a keen glance of
suspicion and inquiry, and then
for a very short moment evidently
settles in his mind a cross-examination. He has read in this
paper a despatch from Chicago,
which speaks of JOHN MADISON
having arrived there as a representative of a big Western mining
syndicate which is going to open
large operations in the Nevada
gold-fields, and representing MR.
MADISON as being on his way to
New York with sufficient capital
to enlist more, and showing him
to be now a man of means. The
attitude of LAURA and the coincidence of the despatch bring
back to WILL the scene in Denver,
and later in New York, and with
that subtle intuition of the man of
the world he connects the two.]


WILL. I don't suppose, Laura, that
you'd be interested now in knowing anything about that young fellow out in Colorado? What was his name - Madison?
LAURA. Do you know anything?
WILL. No, nothing particularly. I've
been rather curious to know how he came
out. He was a pretty fresh young man and
did an awful lot of talking. I wonder how
he's doing and how he's getting along. I
don't suppose by any chance you have ever
heard from him?
LAURA. No, no; I've never heard.
[Crosses to bureau.]
WILL. I presume he never replied to that
letter you wrote?
LAURA. No.
WILL. It would be rather queer, eh, if
this young fellow should [looks at paper]
happen to come across a lot of money -
not that I think he ever could, but it would
be funny, would n't it?
LAURA. Yes, yes; it would be unexpected. I hope he does. It might make
him happy.
WILL. Think he might take a trip East
and see you act. You know you've got
quite a part now.
LAURA [impatiently]. I wish you wouldn't
discuss this. Why do you mention it now?
[Crossing to R. of table.] Is it because you
were drinking last night and lost your sense
of delicacy? You once had some consideration for me. What I've done I've done.
I'm giving you all that I can. Please,
please, don't hurt me any more than you
can help. That's all I ask.
[Crossing up to mirror R. 3.
Crosses back to R. of table; sits.]
WILL. Well, I'm sorry. I did n't mean
that, Laura. I guess I am feeling a little
bad to-day. Really, I don't want to hurt
your feelings, my dear.
[He gets up, goes to her, puts his
hands on her shoulders, and his
cheek close to the back of her head.
She bends forward and shudders
a little bit. It is very easy to see
that the life she is leading is becoming intolerable to her.]
WILL. You know, dearie, I do a lot for
you because you've always been on the




204


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


-


level with me. I'm sorry I hurt you, but
there was too much wine last night and
I'm all upset. Forgive me.
[LAURA, in order to avoid his caresses, has leaned forward, her
hands are clasped between her
knees, and she is looking straight
outward with a cold, impassive
expression. WILL regards her
silently for a moment. Really in
the man's heart there is an affection, and really he wants to try
to comfort her; but he seems to
realize that she has slipped away
from the old environment and
conditions, and that he simply
bought her back; that he has n't
any of her affection, even with
his money; that she evinces toward him none of the old camaraderie; and it hurts him, as those
things always hurt a selfish man,
inclining him to be brutal and
inconsiderate. WILL crosses L. to
c., stands reading paper; bell
rings, pause and second bell.
WILL seizes upon this excuse to
go up stage and over towards the
door.]
WILL [after second bell]. Damn that bell.
[He continues on his way, he opens
the door, leaves it open, and passes
on to the outer door, which he
opens. LAURA remains immovable and impassive with the same
cold, hard expression on her face.
He comes in slamming the outer
door with effect, which one must
have at this point of the play, because it is essential to a situation
coming later. Enters the room,
closes the door, and holds in
his hand a telegram. Looks from
newspaper to telegram.]
WILL. A wire.
LAURA. For me?
WILL. Yes.
LAURA. From whom, I wonder. Perhaps Elfie with a luncheon engagement.
WILL [handing to her]. I don't know.
Here.
[Pauses up c.; he faces her, looking




at her. She opens it quickly. She
reads it and as she does, gasps
quickly with an exclamation of
fear and surprise. This is what
the despatch says (it is dated at
Buffalo and addressed to LAURA):
"I will be in New York before
noon. I'm coming to marry you
and I'm coming with a bankroll. I wanted to keep it secret
and have a big surprise for you,
but I can't hold it any longer, because I feel just like a kid with a
new top. Don't go out, and be
ready for the big matrimonial
thing. All my love. John."]
WILL. No bad news, I hope?
LAURA [walking up stage rather hurriedly].
No, no - not bad news.
WILL. I thought you were startled.
LAURA. No, not at all.
WILL [looking at paper about where he had
left off]. From Elfie?
[Crosses to and sits in armchair,
R. C.]
LAURA. No, just a friend.
WILL. Oh!
[He makes himself rather comfortable in the chair, and LAURA regards him for a moment from up
stage as if trying to figure out how
to get rid of him.]
LAURA. Won't you be rather late getting
down town, Will?
WILL. Does n't make any difference.
I don't feel much like the office now.
Thought I might order the car and take a
spin through the park. The cold air will do
me a lot of good. Like to go?
LAURA. No, not to-day. I thought your
business was important; you said so last
night.         [Crosses L. to sofa, stands.]
WILL. No hurry. Do you - er- want
to get rid of me?
LAURA. Why should I?
WILL. Expecting someone?
LAURA. No - not exactly.
[Crosses up to window.]
WILL. If you don't mind, I'll stay here.
[Lets curtain fly up.]
LAURA. Just as you please. [A pause.
Crosses to piano; plays.] Will?




THE EASIEST WAY


205


WILL. Yes.
LAURA. How long does it take to come
from Buffalo?
WILL. Depends on the train you take.
LAURA. About how long?
WILL. Between eight and ten hours, I
think. Someone coming?
LAURA. Do you know anything about
the trains?
WILL. Not much. Why don't you find
out for yourself? Have Annie get the timetable?
LAURA. I will. Annie! Annie!
[Rises from piano. ANNIE appears at doorway R.]
ANNIE. Yassum!
LAURA. Go ask one of the hall-boys to
bring me a New York Central time-table.
ANNIE. Yassum!
[Crosses the stage and exit through
door L. LAURA sits on L. arm of
sofa.]
WILL. Then you do expect someone, eh?
LAURA. Only one of the girls who used
to be in the same company with m!. But
I'm not sure that she's coming here.
WILL. Then the wire was from her?
LAURA. Yes.
WILL. Did she say what train she was
coming on?
LAURA. No.
WILL. Well, there are a lot of trains.
About what time did you expect her in?
LAURA. She did n't say.
WILL. Do I know her?
LAURA. I think not. I met her while I
worked in 'Frisco.
WILL. Oh!         [Resumes his paper.]
[ANNIE reenters with a time-table and hands
it to LAURA.]
LAURA. Thanks, take those breakfast
things away, Annie.       [Sits on sofa.]
[ANNIE complies; takes them across
stage, opens the door leading to
the corridor, exit. LAURA in the
meantime is studying the timetable.]
LAURA. I can't make this out.
WILL. Give it here; maybe I can help
you.
[LAURA crosses to R. of table and sits


opposite WILL, and hands him
the time-table. He takes it and
handles it as if he were familiar
with it.]
WILL. Where is she coming from?
LAURA. The West; the telegram was
from Buffalo. I suppose she was on her way
when she sent it.
WILL. There's a train comes in here at
9.30 -- that's the Twentieth Century, that
does n't carry passengers from Buffalo;
then there's one at 11.41; one at 1.49; another at 3.45; another at 5.40; and qnother at 5.48 -that's the Lake Shore
Limited, a fast train; and all pass through
Buffalo. Did you think of meeting her?
LAURA. No. She'll come here when she
arrives.
WILL. Knows where you live?
LAURA. She has the address.
WILL. Ever been to New York before?
LAURA. I think not.
WILL [passing her the time-table]. Well,
that's the best I can do for you.
LAURA. Thank you.
[Crosses up, puts time-table in desk.]
WILL [takes up the paper again. LAURA
looks at clock]. By George, this is funny.
LAURA. What?
WILL. Speak of the devil, you know.
LAURA. Who?
WILL. Your old friend Madison.
LAURA [utters a slight exclamation and
makes an effort to control herself]. What 
what about him?
WILL. He's been in Chicago.
LAURA. How do you know?
WILL. Here's a despatch about him.
LAURA [coming quickly over to him, looking over his shoulder]. What -where —
what's it about?
WILL. Well, I'm damned if he has n't
done what he said he'd do - see! [Holds
the paper so that she can see. LAURA takes
paper..] He's been in Chicago, and is on his
way to New York. He's struck it rich in
Nevada and is coming with a lot of money.
Queer, isn't it? [LAURA puts paper on
table.] Did you know anything about it?
[Lights cigarette.]
LAURA. No, no; nothing at all.
[Crosses to bureau.]




206


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


WILL. Lucky for him, eh?
LAURA. Yes, yes; it's very nice.
WILL. Too bad he could n't get this a
little sooner, eh, Laura?
LAURA. Oh, I don't know -I don't
think it's too bad. What makes you ask?
WILL. Oh, nothing. 1 suppose he ought
to be here to-day. Are you going to see him
if he looks you up?
LAURA. No, no; I don't want to see him.
You know that, don't you, that I don't
want to see him? What makes you ask
these questions? [Crosses to sofa and sits.]
WILL. Just thought you might meet
him, that's all. Don't get sore about it.
LAURA. I'm not.
[She holds the telegram crumpled in
one hand. WILL lays down the
paper, and regards LAURA curiously. She sees the expression on
his face and averts her head in
order not to meet his eye.]
LAURA. What are you looking at me that
way for?
WILL. I was n't conscious that I was
looking at you in any particular way -
why?
LAURA. Oh, nothing. I guess I'm
nervous, too.            [Lies on sofa.]
WILL. I dare say you are.  [A pause.]
LAURA. Yes, I am.
[WILL crosses up to LAURA.]
WILL. You know I don't want to delve
into a lot of past history at this time, but
I've got to talk to you for a moment.
LAURA. Why don't you do it some other
time? I don't want to be talked to now.
[Rises, crosses a little to L.]
WILL. But I've got to do it just the
same.
LAURA [trying to effect an attitude of resigned patience and resignation]. Well, what
is it?           [Resuming seat on sofa.]
WILL. You've always been on the square
with me, Laura. That's why I've liked
you a lot better than the other women.
LAURA. Are you going into all that again
now, this morning? I thought we understood each other.
WILL. So did I, but somehow I think
that maybe we don't quite understand each
other.




LAURA. In what way? [Turns to WILL.]
WILL [looking her straight in the eye].
That letter I dictated to you the day that
you came back to me, and left it for you to
mail - did you mail it?
LAURA. Yes.
WILL. You're quite sure?
LAURA. Yes, I'm quite sure. I would n't
say so if I was n't.
WILL. And you did n't know Madison
was coming East until you read about it in
that newspaper?
LAURA. No - no, I did n't know.
WILL. Have you heard from him?
LAURA. No - no- I have n't heard
from him. Don't talk to me about this
thing. Why can't you leave me alone?
I'm miserable enough as it is.
[Crossing to extreme R.]
WILL [crossing to table R.]. But I've got
to talk to you. Laura, you're lying to me.
LAURA. What!
[She makes a valiant effort to become angry.]
WItL. You're lying to me, and you've
been lying to me, and I've trusted you.
Show me that telegram!
LAURA. No.
WILL [going over towards her]. Show me
that telegram!
[LAURA crosses up to doors leading
into bedroom.]
LAURA [tears telegram in half]. You've
no right to ask me.
WILL. Are you going to make me take it
away [LAURA crosses L. to window] from
you? I've [crosses L. to sofa] never laid my
hands on you yet.
LAURA. It's my business.
[Crossing to L. of sofa around it on
down-stage side.]
WILL. Yes, and it's mine.
[During scene. Backing away from
WILL, he is following her.
LAURA backs against bureau.
WILL grabs her and attempts to
take telegram from her. She has
put it in the front of waist. She
slowly draws it out.]
WILL. That telegram's from Madison.
Give it here!
LAURA. No.




THE EASIEST WAY


207


WILL. I'm going to find out where I
stand. Give me that telegram, or I'll take
it away from you.
LAURA. No.
WILL. Come on!
LAURA. I'll give it to you.
[Takes telegram out of waist, hands
it to him. He takes it slowly,
looking her squarely in the eye.
WILL crosses to c. and does not
glance away while he slowly
smooths it out so that it can be
read; when he finally takes it in
both hands to read it she staggers
back a step or two weakly.]
WILL [then reads the telegram aloud]. "I
will be in New York before noon. I'm
coming to marry you, and I'm coming with
a bank-roll. I wanted to keep it a secret
and have a big surprise for you, but I can't
hold it any longer, because I feel just like a
kid with a new top. Don't go out, and be
ready for the big matrimonial thing. All
my love. John." Then you knew?
LAURA. Yes.
WILL. But you did n't know he was
coming until this arrived?
LAURA. No.
WILL. And you did n't mail the letter
[tossing telegram on table R.], did you?
LAURA. No.
WILL. What did you do with it?
LAURA. I - I burned it.
WILL. Why? [LAURA is completely overcome and unable to answer.] Why?
LAURA. I - I could n't help it - I
simply could n't help it.
WILL. So you've been corresponding all
this time.
LAURA. Yes.
WILL. And he does n't know [with a gesture around the room, indicating the condition
in which they live] about us?
LAURA. No.
WILL [taking a step towards her]. By God,
I never beat a woman in my life, but I feel
as though I could wring your neck.
LAURA. Why don't you? You've done
everything else. Why don't you?
WILL. Don't you know that I gave
Madison my word that if you came back
to me I'd let him know? Don't you know


that I like that young fellow and I wanted
to protect him, and did everything I could
to help him? And do you know what
you've done to me? You've made me out
a liar -- you've made me lie to a man - a
man - you understand. What are you
going to do now? Tell me - what are you
going to do now? Don't stand there as if
you've lost your voice - how are you going to square me?
LAURA. I'm not thinking about squaring you. What am I going to do for him?
WILL. Not what you are going to do for
him - what am I going to do for him.
Why, I could n't have that young fellow
think that I tricked him into this thing for
you or all the rest of the women of your
kind on earth. God! I might have known
that you, and the others like you, could n't
be square. [The girl looks at him dumbly.
He glances at his watch, walks up stage, looks
out of the window, comes down again, goes to
the table, and looks at her across it.] You've
made a nice mess of it, have n't you?
LAURA [weakly]. There is n't any mess.
Please go away. He'll be here soon. Please
let me see him - please do that.
WILL. No, I'11 wait. This time I'm going to tell him myself, and I don't care how
tough it is.
LAURA [immediately regaining all her
vitality]. No, you must n't do that. [Crossing up R. back of table to c.] Oh, Will, I'm
not offering any excuse. I'm not saying
anything, but I'm telling you the truth. I
could n't give him up - I could n't do it.
I love him.
WILL. Huh.
[Grins, crosses L. to front of sofa.]
LAURA. Don't you think so? 1 know you
can't see what I see, but I do. And why
can't you go away? Why can't you leave
me this? It's all I ever had. He does n't
know. No one will ever tell him. I'll take
him away. It's the best for him - it's the
best for me. Please go.
WILL. Why - do you think that I'm going
to let you trip him the way you tripped
me? [Crosses and sits in armchair.] No. I'm
going to stay right here until that young
man arrives, and I'm going to tell him that
it was n't my fault. You were to blame.




208


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


LAURA. Then you are going to let him
know. You're not going to give me a single,
solitary chance?
WILL. I'll give you every chance that
you deserve when he knows. Then he can
do as he pleases, but there must be no more
deception, that's flat.
[LAURA crosses R. and kneels beside WILL'S chair.]
-LAURA. Then you must let me tell him
- [WILL turns away impatiently] - yes,
you must. If I did n't tell him before, I'11
do it now. You must go. If you ever had
any regard for me - if you ever had any
affection- if you ever had any friendship,
please let me do this now. I want you to
go - you can come back. Then you '11 see
- you'll know - only I want to try to
make him understand that - that maybe
if I am weak I'm not vicious. I want to let
him know that I did n't want to do it, but
I could n't help it. Just give me the chance
to be as good as I can be. [WILL gives her a
look.] Oh, I promise you, I will tell him,
and then - then I don't care what happens - only he must learn everything from
me - please - please - let me do this -
it's the last favor I shall ever - ever ask
of you. Won't you?
[LAURA breaks down and weeps.]
WILL [rising, looks at her a moment as if
mentally debating the best thing to do. Crosses
R. in front of table, stands facing her with
back to audience]. All right, I won't be unkind. I'll be back early this afternoon, and
just remember, this is the time you'll have
to go right through to the end. Understand?
LAURA. Yes, I'll do it, - all of it. Won't
you please go - now?
[Crosses; sits R. C. in armchair.]
WILL. All right. [He exits into the bedroom and immediately enters again with
overcoat on his arm and hat in hand; he goes
c., and turns.] I am sorry for you, Laura,
but remember you've got to tell the truth.
LAURA [who is sitting in a chair looking
straight in front of her with a set expression].
Please go.           [WILL exit door L.]
[LAURA sits in a chair in a state
of almost stupefaction, holding
this attitude as long as possible.
ANNIE enters L., and in a char

acteristic manner begins her task
of tidying up the room; LAURA,
without changing her attitude and
staring straight in front of her,
her elbows between her knees and
her chin on her hands.]
LAURA. Annie!
ANNIE. Yassum.
LAURA. Do you remember in the boarding-house - when we finally packed up -
what you did with everything?
ANNIE. Yassum.
LAURA. You remember that I used to
keep a pistol?
ANNIE. Yo' all mean dat one yo' say
dat gemman out West gave yuh once?
LAURA. Yes.
ANNIE. Yassum, Ah 'membuh it.
LAURA. Where is it now?
ANNIE [crosses to writing-desk]. Last Ah
saw of it was in dis heah draw' in de writin'desk. [This speech takes her across to desk,
she opens the drawer, fumbles among a lot
of old papers, letters, etc., and finally produces a small thirty-two calibre, and gingerly crosses to LAURA.] IS dis it?
LAURA [slowly turns around and looks at
it]. Yes. Put it back. I thought perhaps it
was lost. [ANNIE complies when the bell
rings. LAURA starts suddenly, involuntarily
gathering her negligee gown closer to her
figure, and at once she is under a great stress
of emotion, and sways upon her feet to such
an extent that she is obliged to put one hand
out on to the table to maintain her balance.
When she speaks, it is with a certain difficulty
of articulation.]  See - who- that isand let me know.
ANNIE [turning]. Yassum.
[Crosses, opens the first door, and
afterwards opens the second door.]
ELFIE'S VOICE [off stage]. Hello, Annie,
- folks home?
ANNIE. Yassum, she's in.
[LAURA immediately evinces her
tremendous relief, and ELFIE,
without waiting for a reply, has
shoved ANNIE aside and enters,
ANNIE following and closing the
door.  ELFIE   is   beautifully
gowned in a morning dress with
an overabundance of fur trim



THE EASIEST WAY


209


mings and all the furbelows that
would accompany the extravagant
raiment generally affected by a
woman of that type. ELFIE approaching effusively.]
ELFIE. Hello, dearie.
LAURA. Hello, Elfie.
[LAURA crosses and sits on sofa.
ELFIE puts muff, etc., on table R.]
ELFIE. It's a bully day out. [Crossing to
bureau, looking in mirror.] I've been shopping all morning long; just blew myself
until I'm broke, that's all. My goodness,
don't you ever get dressed? Listen.
[Crosses L. of table to c.] Talk about cinches,
I copped out a gown, all ready made and
fits me like the paper on the wall, for $37.80.
Looks like it might have cost $200. Anyway I had them charge $200 on the bill,
and I kept the change. There are two or
three more down town there, and I want
you to go down and look them over. Models, you know, being sold out. I don't
blame you for not getting up earlier. [She
sits at the table, not noticing LAURA.] That
was some party last night. I know you
did n't drink a great deal, but gee! what an
awful tide Will had on. How do you feel?
[Looks at her critically.] What's the matter,
are you sick? You look all in. What you
want to do is this - put on your duds and
go out for an hour. It's a perfectly grand
day out. My Gaud! how the sun does
shine! Clear and cold. [A pause.] Well,
much obliged for the conversation. Don't
I get a "Good-morning," or a "How-dydo," or a something of that sort?
LAURA. I'm tired, Elfie, and blue -
terribly blue.
ELFIE [rises, crosses to LAURA]. Well
now, you just brace up and cut out all that
emotional stuff. I came down to take you
for a drive. You'd like it; just through the
park. Will you go?
LAURA [going R. up stage]. Not this.orning, dear; I'm expecting somebody.
ELFIE. A man?
LAURA [finding it almost impossible to
suppress a smile]. No, a gentleman.
ELFIE. Same thing. Do I know him?
LAURA. You've heard of him.
[At desk looking at clock.]


ELFIE. Well, don't be so mysterious.
Who is he?
LAURA. What is your time, Elfie?
ELF[E [looks at her watch]. Five minutes
past eleven.
LAURA. Oh, I'm slow. I did n't know it
was so late. Just excuse me, won't you,
while I get some clothes on. He may be
here any moment. Annie!
[She goes up stage towards portieres.]
ELF]IE. Who?
LAURA. I'll tell you when I get dressed.
Make yourself at home, won't you, dear?
ELFIE. I'd sooner hear. What is the
scandal anyway?
LAURA [as she goes out]. I'll tell you in a
moment. Just as soon as Annie gets
through with me.        [Exit R. upper.]
ELFIE [gets candy-box off desk, crosses, sits
on R. arm of sofa selecting candy. In a louder
voice]. Do you know, Laura, I think I'll
go back on the stage.
LAURA [off stage]. Yes?
ELFIE. Yes, I'm afraid I'll have to. I
think I need a sort of a boost to my popularity.
LAURA. How a boost, Elfie?
ELFIE. I think Jerry is getting cold feet.
He's seeing a little too much of me [places
candy-box on sofa] nowadays.
LAURA. What makes you think that?
ELFIE. I think he is getting a relapse of
that front-row habit. There's no use in
talking, Laura, it's a great thing for a girl's
credit when a man like Jerry can take two
or three friends to the theatre, and when
you make your entrance delicately point
to you with his forefinger and say, "The
third one from the front on the left belongs
to muh." The old fool's hanging around
some of these musical comedies lately, and
I'm getting a little nervous every time rent
day comes.
LAURA. Oh, I guess you'll get along all
right, Elfie.
ELFIE [with serene self-satisfaction]. Oh,
that's a cinch [rises, crosses R. to table, looking in dresser mirror at herself, and giving
her hat and hair little touches], but I like to
leave well enough alone, and if I had to
make a change right now it would require
a whole lot of thought and attention, to




210


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


say nothing of the inconvenience, and I'm
so nicely settled in my flat. [She sees the
pianola.] Say, dearie, when did you get
the piano player? I got one of them phonographs [crosses L. to pianola, trzes the levers,
etc.], but this has got that beat a city block.
How does it work? What did it cost?
LAURA. I don't know.
ELFIE. Well, Jerry's got to stake me to
one of these. [Looks over the rolls on top.
Mumbles to herself.] "Tannhauser, William
Tell, Chopin." [Then louder.] Listen, dear.
Ain't you got anything else except all this
high-brow stuff?
LAURA. What do you want?
ELFIE. Oh, something with a regular
tune to it [looks at empty box on pianola].
Oh, here's one; just watch me tear this off.
[The roll is the tune of "Bon-Bon Buddie,
My Chocolate Drop." She starts to play and
moves the lever marked "Swell" wide open,
increases the tempo, and is pumping with all
the delight and enthusiasm of a child.] Ain't
it grand?
LAURA. Gracious, Elfie, don't play so
loud. What's the matter?
ELFIE. I shoved over that thing marked
"Swell." [Stops and turns. Rises, crosses to
L. c., stands.] I sure will have to speak to
Jerry about this. I'm stuck on that swell
thing. Hurry up. [LAURA appears.] Gee!
you look pale. [And then in a tone of sympathy:] I'll [crosses to c.] just bet you and
Will have had a fight, and he always gets
the best of you, doesn't he, dearie?
[LAURA crosses to dresser R. and busies herself.] Listen. Don't you think you can
ever get him trained? I almost threw Jerry
down the stairs the other night and he came
right back with a lot of American beauties
and a check. I told him if he did n't look
out I'd throw him downstairs every night.
He's getting too damned independent and
it's got me nervous. Oh, dear, I s'pose I
will have to go back on the stage.
[Sits in armchair R. c.]
LAURA. In the chorus?
ELFIE. Well, I should say not! I'm going to give up my musical career. Charlie
Burgess is putting on a new play, and he
says he has a part in it for me if I want to
go back. It is n't much, but very impor

tant, - sort of a pantomime part. A lot of
people talk about me and just at the right
time I walk across the stage and make an
awful hit. I told Jerry that if I went
[LAURA crosses to sofa, picks up candy-box,
puts it upon desk, gets telegram off table R.,
crosses to R. C.] on he'd have to come across
with one of those Irish crochet lace gowns.
He fell for it. Do you know, dearie, I think
he'd sell out his business just to have me
back on the stage for a couple of weeks,
just to give box parties every night for my
en-trance and ex-its.
LAURA [seriously]. Elfie!
[LAURA takes ELFIE by the hand,
leads her over to sofa. LAURA sits,
ELFIE standing L. c.]
ELFIE. Yes, dear.
LAURA. Come over here and sit down.
ELFIE. What's up?
LAURA. Do you know what I'm going
to ask of you?
ELFIE. If it's a touch, you'll have to
wait until next week.
[Sits opposite LAURA.]
LAURA. No; just a little advice.
ELFIE [with a smile]. Well, that's cheap,
and Lord knows you need it. What's happened?
[LAURA takes the crumpled and
torn telegram that WILL has left
on the table and hands it to ELFIE.
The latter puts the two pieces
together, reads it very carefully,
looks up at LAURA about middle
of telegram, and lays it down.]
ELFIE. Well?
LAURA. Will suspected. There was
something in the paper about Mr. Madison
- the telegram came - then we had a row.
ELFIE. Serious?
LAURA. Yes. Do you remember what I
told you about that letter - the one Will
made me write - I mean to John - telling him what I had done?
ELFIE. Yes, you burned it.
LAURA. I tried to lie to Will -he
would n't have it that way. He seemed to
know. He was furious.
ELFIE. Did he hit you?
LAURA. No; he made me admit that
John did n't know, and then he said he'd




THE EASIEST WAY


211


stay here and tell himself that I'd made
him lie, and then he said something about
liking the other man and wanting to save
him.
ELFIE. Save - shucks! He's jealous.
LAURA. I told him if he'd only go I'd -
tell John myself when he came, and now
you see I'm waiting - and I've got to tell
- and - and I don't know how to begin
- and - and I thought you could help me
- you seem so sort of resourceful, and it
means - it means so much to me. If John
turned on me now I could n't go back to
Will, and, Elfie, - I don't think I'd care
to - stay here any more.
ELFIE. What! [In an awestruck tone,
taking LAURA in her arms impulsively.]
Dearie, get that nonsense out of your head
and be sensible. I'd just like to see any
two men who could make me think about
- well - what you seem to have in your
mind.
LAURA. But I don't know; don't you
see, Elfie, I don't know. If I don't tell him
Will will come back and he'll tell him, and
I know John, and maybe - Elfie, do you
know, I think John would kill him.
ELFIE. Well, don't you think anything
about that. Now let's get [rises, crosses to
armchair, draws it over a little, sits on L. arm]
down to cases, and we have n't much time
Business is business, and love is love.
You're long on love and I'm long on business, and between the two of us we ought
to straighten this thing out. Now, evidently John is coming on here to marry you.
LAURA. Yes.
ELFIE. And you love him?
LAURA. Yes.
ELFIE. And as far as you know the moment that he comes in here it's quick to
the justice and a big matrimonial thing.
LAURA. Yes, but you see how impossible
it is -
ELFIE. I don't see anything impossible.
From all you've said to me about this fellow there is only one thing to do.
LAURA. One thing?
ELFIE. Yes - get married quick. You
say he has the money and you have the
love, and you're sick of Brockton, and you
want te switch and do it in the decent,


respectable, conventional way, and he's
going to take you away. Have n't you got
sense enough to know that once you're
married to Mr. Madison that Will Brockton would n't dare go to him, and if he did
Madison would n't believe him. A man will
believe a whole lot about his girl, but
nothing about his wife.
LAURA [turns and looks at her. There is a
long pause]. Elfie [rises, crosses to R. of
table] -- I - I don't think I could do like
that to John. I don't think -I could
deceive him.
ELFIE. You make me sick. The thing to
do is to lie to all men [rises, pushes chair to
table] - they all lie to you. Protect yourself. You seem to think that your happiness depends on this. Now do it. Listen.
[Touches LAURA to make her sit down;
LAURA sits R. of table; ELFIE sits on R. arm
of chair L. of table, elbows on table.] Don't
you realize that you and me, and all the
girls that are shoved into this life, are practically the common prey of any man who
happens to come along? Don't you know
that they've got about as much consideration for us as they have for any pet animal
around the house, and the only way that
we've got it on the animal is that we've
got brains. This is a game, Laura, not a
sentiment. Do you suppose this Madison
[LAURA turns to ELFIE] - now don't get
sore- has n't turned these tricks himself
before he met you, and I'll gamble he's
done it since. A man's natural trade is
a heartbreaking business. Don't tell me
about women breaking men's hearts. The
only thing they can ever break is their
bank-roll. And besides, this is not Will's
business; he has no right to interfere.
You've been with him -yes, and he's
been nice to you; but I don't think that
he's given you any the best of it. Now if
you want to leave and go your own way
and marry any Tom, Dick, or Harry that
you want, it's nobody's affair but yours.
LAURA. But you don't understand -
it's John. I can't lie to him.
ELFIE. Well, that's too bad about you.
I used to have that truthful habit myself,
and the best I ever got was the worst of it.
All this talk about love and loyalty and




212


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


constancy is fine and dandy in a book, but
when a girl has to look out for herself, take
it from me, whenever you've got that
trump card up your sleeve just play it and
rake in the pot. [Takes LAURA'S hand affectionately.] You know, dearie, you're just
about the only one in the world I love.
LAURA. Elfie!
ELFIE. Since I broke away from the folks
up state and they've heard things, there
ain't any more letters coming to me with
an Oswego postmark. Ma's gone, and the
rest don't care. You're all I've got in the
world, Laura, and what I'm asking you
to do is because I want to see you happy.
I was afraid this thing was coming off, and
the thing to do now is to grab your happiness, no matter how you get it nor where it
comes from. There ain't a whole lot of joy
in this world for you and me and the others
we know, and what little you get you've
got to take when you're young, because
when those gray hairs begin to come, and
the make-up isn't going to hide the
wrinkles, unless you're well fixed it's going
to be hell. You know what a fellow does n't
know does n't hurt him, and he'll love you
just the same and you'll love him. As for
Brockton, let him get another girl; there're
plenty 'round. Why, if this chance came
to me I'd tie a can to Jerry so quick that
you could hear it rattle all the way down
Broadway. [Rises, crosses back of table to
LAURA, leans over back of chair, and puts
arms around her neck very tenderly.] Dearie,
promise me that you won't be a damn fool.
[The bell rings; both start.]
LAURA [rises]. Maybe that's John.
[ELFIE brushes a tear quickly from
her eye.]
ELFIE. Oh! And you'll promise me,
Laura?
LAURA. I'll try. [ANNIE enters up stage
from the adjoining room and crosses to the
door.] If that's Mr. Madison, Annie, tell
him to come in.
[She stands near the table, almost
rigid. Instinctively ELFIE goes
to the mirror and rearranges her
gown and hair as ANNIE exit.
ELFIE turns to LAURA.]
ELFIE. If I think he's the fellow when I


see him, watch me and 1'11 tip you the
wink.


[Kisses LAURA, crosses c. up, puts
on coat. She goes up stage to c.
LAURA remains in her position.
The doors are heard to open, and
in a moment JOHN enters. He is
dressed very neatly in a business
suit and his face is tanned and
weather-beaten. After he enters
he stands still for a moment. The
emotion that both he and LAURA
go through is such that each is trying to control it, LAURA from the
agony of her position and JOHN
from the mere hurt of his affection. He sees ELFIE and forces
a smile.]
[quietly]. Hello, Laura! I'm   on


JOHN
time.


[LAURA smiles and quickly crosses
the stage and holds out her hand.]
LAURA. Oh, John, I'm so glad - so glad
to see you. [They hold this position for a
moment looking into each other's eyes. ELFIE
moves so as to take JOHN in from head to toe
and is obviously very much pleased with his
appearance. She coughs slightly. LAURA
takes a step back with a smile.] Oh, pardon
me, John -one of my dearest friends,
Miss Sinclair; she's heard a lot about you.
[ELFIE, with a slight gush, in her
most captivating manner, goes
over and holds out her gloved hand
laden with bracelets, and with
her sweetest smile crosses to L. C.]
ELFIE. How do you do?
MADISON. I'm glad to meet you, I'm sure.
ELFIE [still holding JOHN'S hand]. Yes,
I'm sure you are -particularly just at
this time. [To LAURA.] You know that old
stuff about two's company and three
[LAURA smiles] is a crowd. Here's where I
vamoose.              [Crosses to door, L.]
LAURA [as ELFIE goes toward door]. Don't
hurry, dear.
ELFIE [with a grin]. No, I suppose not;
just fall down stairs and get out of the way,
that's all. [Crosses R. to JOHN.] Anyway,
Mr. Madison, I'm awfully glad to have
met you, and I want to congratulate you
They tell me you're rich.




THE EASIEST WAY


213


JOHN. Oh, no; not rich.
ELFIE. Well, I don't believe you - anyway I'm going. Ta-ta, dearie. Good-bye,
Mr. Madison.
JOHN. Good-bye.
[JOHN crcsses up to back of sofa,
removes coat, puts it on sofa.]
ELFIE [goes to the door, opens it and turns.
JOHN'S back is partly toward her and she gives
a long wink at LAURA, snapping fingers to
attract LAURA'S attention]. I must say,
Laura, that when it comes to picking live
ones, you certainly can go some.  [Exit.]
[After this remark both turn toward
her and both smile. After ELFIE
exit, JOHN turns to LAURA with
a pleasant smile, and jerks his
head towards the door where
ELFTE has gone out.]
JOHN. I bet she's a character.
LAURA. She's a dear.
JOHN. I can see that all right.
[Crossing to c.]
LAURA. She's been a very great friend
to me.
JOHN. That's good, but don't I get a
"how-dy-do," or a hand-shake, or a little
kiss? You know I've come a long way.
[LAURA goes to him and places herself in his arms; he kisses her
affectionately. During all this
scene between them the tenderness
of the man is very apparent. As
she releases herself from his embrace he takes her face in his
hands and holds it up towards
his.]
JOHN. I'm not much on the love-making
business, Laura, but I never thought I'd
be as happy as I am now. [JOHN and LAURA
cross to R. c. LAURA kneels in armchair with
back to audience, JOHN stands L.] I've been
counting mileposts ever since I left Chicago,
and it seemed like as if I had to go 'round
the world before I got here.
LAURA. You never told me about your
good fortune. If you had n't telegraphed
I would n't even have known you were
coming.
JOHN. I did n't want you to. I'd made
up my mind to sort of drop in here and give
you a great big surprise, - a happy one,


I knew,- but the papers made such a
fuss in Chicago that I thought you might
have read about it - did you?
LAURA. No.
JOHN. Gee! fixed up kind o' scrumptious,
ain't you? [Crosses L. in front of sofa, around
behind it to c., surveying rooms.] Maybe
you've been almost as prosperous as I have.
LAURA. You can get a lot of gilt and
cushions in New York at half price, and
besides, I've got a pretty good part now.
JOHN. Of course I know that, but I
did n't think it would make you quite so
comfortable. Great, ain't it?
LAURA. Yes.
JOHN [standing beside her chair, with a
smile]. Well, are you ready?
LAURA. For what, dear?
[Looking up at him.]
JOHN. You know what I said in the telegram?
LAURA. Yes.
[Leans her head affectionately on
his shoulder.]
JOHN. Well, I meant it.
LAURA. I know.
JOHN. I've got to get back [JOHN looks
around, crosses behind table to chair R. of
table, sits facing her across table], Laura, just
as soon as ever I can. There's a lot of work
to be done out in Nevada and I stole away
to come to New York. I want to take you
back. Can you go?
LAURA. Yes - when?
JOHN. This afternoon. We'll take the
eighteen-hour train to Chicago, late this
afternoon, and connect at Chicago with the
Overland, and I'll soon have you in a home.
[Pause.] And here's another secret.
LAUR A. What, dear?
JOHN. I've got that home all bought
and furnished, and while you could n't call
it a Fifth Avenue residence, still it has got
something on any other one in town.
LAURA. But, John, you've been so mysterious. In all your letters you have n't
told me a single, solitary thing about your
good luck.
JOHN. I've planned to take you out and
show you all that.
LAiURA. You should have told me, I've
been so anxious.




214


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


JOHN. I waited until it was a dead-sure
thing. You know it's been pretty tough
sledding out there in the mining country,
and it did look as if I never would make a
strike; but your spirit was with me and
luck was with me, and I knew if I could
only hold out that something would come
my way. I had two pals, both of them
miners,- they had the knowledge and I
had the luck, - and one day, clearing away
a little snow to build a fire, I poked my toe
into the dirt, and there was somethin' there,
dearie, that looked suspicious. I called Jim,
-that's one of the men, - and in less
time than it takes to tell you there were
three maniacs scratching away at old
mother earth for all there was in it. We
staked our claims in two weeks, and I came
to Reno to raise enough money for me to
come East. Now things are all fixed and
it's just a matter of time.
[Taking LAURA'S hand.]
LAURA. So you're very, very rich, dear?
JOHN. Oh, not rich [releasing her hand
he leans back in his chair], just heeled. I'm
not going down to the Wall Street bargain
counter and buy the Union Pacific, or anything like that; but we won't have to take
the trip on tourists' tickets, and there's
enough money to make us comfortable all
the rest of our lives.
LAURA. How hard you must have
worked and suffered.
JOHN. Nobody else ever accused me of
that, but I sure will have to plead guilty
to you. [Rises, stands at R. upper side of
table.] Why, dear, since the day you came
into my life hell-raising took a sneak
out the back door and God poked His
toe in the front, and ever since then I think
He's been coming a little closer to me.
[Crossing to R. C.] I used to be a fellow without much faith and kidded everybody who
had it, and I used to say to those who prayed
and believed, "You may be right, but show
me a message." You came along and you
brought that little document in your sweet
face and your dear love. Laura, you turned
the trick for me, and 1 think I'm almost a
regular man now.
[LAURA turns away in pain; the
realization of all she is to JOHN


weighs heavily upon her. She
almost loses her nerve, and is on
the verge of not going through
with her determination to get her
happiness at any price.]
LAURA. John, please, don't. I'm not
worth it.            [Rises, crosses to R.]
JOHN [with a light air]. Not worth it?
Why, you're worth [crossing behind table
R. stands behind LAURA] that and a whole
lot more. And see how you've got on 
Brockton told me you never could get along
in your profession, but I knew you could.
[Crosses to R. back of LAURA, takes her by
the shoulders, shakes her playfully.] 1 knew
what you had in you, and here you are.
You see, if my foot had n't slipped on the
right ground and kicked up pay-dirt, you'd
been all right. You succeeded and I succeeded, but I'm going to take you away;
and after a while when things sort of
smooth out, and it's all clear where the
money's [crosses to sofa and sits] coming
from, we're going to move back here, and
go to Europe, and just have a great time,
like a couple of good pals.
LAURA [slowly crosses to JOHN]. But if I
had n't succeeded and if things- things
were n't just as they seem - would it make
any difference to you, John?
JOHN. Not the least in the world. [He
takes her in his arms and kisses her, drawing
her on to sofa beside him.] Now don't you
get blue. I should not have surprised
you this way. It's taken you off your
feet. [He looks at his watch, rises, crosses L.
behind sofa, gets overcoat.] But we've not
any time to lose. How soon can you get
ready?
LAURA [kneeling on sofa, leaning over
back]. You mean to go?
JOHN. Nothing else.
LAURA. Take all my things?
JOHN. All your duds.
LAURA. Why, dear, I can get ready most
any time.
JOHN [crossing R. to c., looking off into
bedroom]. That your maid?
LAURA. Yes, - Annie.
JOHN. Well, you and she can pack everything you want to take; the rest can follow
later. [Puts coat on.] I planned it all out.




THE EASIEST WAY


215


There's a couple of the boys working down
town, -newspaper men on Park Row.
Telephoned them when I got in and they're
waiting for me. I'll just get down there as
soon as I can. I won't be gone long.
LAURA. How long?
JOHN. I don't know just how long, but
we'll make that train. I'll get the license.
We'll be married and we'll be off on our
honeymoon this afternoon. Can you do
it?
[LAURA goes up to him, puts her
hands in his, and they confront
each other.]
LAURA. Yes, dear, I could do anything
for you.
[He takes her in his arms and kisses
her again. Looks at her tenderly.]
JOHN. That's good. Hurry now. I won't
be long. Good-bye.
LAURA. Hurry back, John.
JOHN. Yes. I won't be long.  [Exit L.]
LAURA [stands for a moment looking after
him, then she suddenly recovers herself and
walks rapidly over to the dresser, picks up
large jewel-case, takes doll that is hanging on
dresser, puts them on her left arm, takes black
cat in her right hand and uses it in emphasizing her words in talking to ANNIE. Places
them all on table R.]. Annie, Annie, come
here!
ANNIE. Yassum.
[She appears at the door.]
LAURA. Annie, I'm going away, and
I've got to hurry.
ANNIE. Goin' away?
LAURA. Yes. I want you to bring both
my trunks out here, - I'11 help you, -
and start to pack. We can't take everything [ANNIE throws fur rug from across
doorway into bedroom], but bring all the
clothes out and we'll hurry as fast as we
can. Come on.
[Exit LAURA with ANNIE. In a
very short interval she reappears,
and both are carrying a large
trunk between them. They put it
down up stage L., pushing sofa
back.]
ANNIE. Look out for your toes, Miss
Laura.
LAURA. I can take two.


ANNIE. Golly, such excitement! [Crosses
to table R., pushes it over further, also armchair.] Wheah yuh goin', Miss Laura?
LAURA. Never mind where I'm going.
I have n't any time to waste now talking.
I'11 tell you later. This is one time, Annie,
that you've got to move. Hurry up.
[LAURA pushes her in front of her.
Exeunt the same way and reappear with a smaller trunk.]
ANNIE. Look out fo' your dress, Miss
Laura.
[These trunks are of the same type
as those in Act 1. When the
trunks are put down LAURA
opens one and commences to
throw things out. ANNIE stands
watching her. LAURA kneels in
front of trunk L., working and
humming "Bon-Bon Buddie."]
ANNIE. Ah nevah see you so happy, Miss
Laura.
LAURA. I never was so happy. For
Heaven's sake, go get something. Don't
stand there looking at me. 1 want you to
hurry.
ANNIE. I'll bring out all de fluffy ones
first.
LAURA. Yes, everything.
[ANNIE enters witharmful of dresses
and hatbox of tissue paper,
dumps tissue paper on floor c.,
puts dresses in trunk c.]
ANNIE [goes out again. Outside]. You
goin' to take dat opera-cloak? [Enters with
more dresses, puts them on sofa, takes operacloak, spreads it on top of dresses on trunk c.]
My, but dat's a beauty. 1 jest love dat
crushed rosey one.           [Exit up R.]
LAURA. Annie, you put the best dresses
on the foot of the bed and I'll get them
myself. You heard what I said?
ANNIE [off stage]. Yassum.
[ANNIE hangs dresses across bed in
alcove. LAURA continues busily
arranging the contents of the
trunk, placing some garments
here and some there, as if she
were sorting them out. WILL
quietly enters and stands at the
door looking at her. He holds
this position as long as possible,




2l6


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


and when he speaks it is in a
very quiet tone.]
WILL. Going away?
LAURA [starts, rises, and confronts him].
Yes.
WILL. In somewhat of a hurry, I should
say.
LAURA. Yes.
WILL. What's the plan?
LAURA. I'm just going, that's all.
WILL. Madison been here?
LAURA. He's just left.
WILL. Of course you are going with him?
LAURA. Yes.
WILL. West?
LAURA. To Nevada.
WILL. Going - er - to get married?
LAURA. Yes, this afternoon.
WILL. So he did n't care, then?
LAURA. What do you mean when you
say "he did n't care"?
WILL. Of course you told him about the
letter, and how it was burned up, and all
that sort of thing, did n't you?
LAURA. Why, yes.
WILL. And he said it did n't make any
difference?
LAURA. He - he did n't say anything.
We're just going to be married, that's all.
WILL. Did you mention my name and
say that we'd been rather companionable
for the last two months?
LAURA. I told him you'd been a very
good friend to me.
[During this scene LAURA answers
WILL with difficulty, and to a
man of the world it is quite apparent that she is not telling the
truth. WILL looks over toward
her in an almost threatening way.]
WILL. How soon do you expect him
back?                 [Crossing to R. c.]
LAURA. Quite soon. I don't know just
exactly how long he'll be.
WILL. And you mean to tell me that you
kept your promise and told him the truth?
[Crossing to trunk L.]
LAURA. I - I - [Then with defiance.]
What business have you got to ask me
that? What business have you got to interfere anyway?
[Crossing up to bed in alcove, gets


dresses off foot, crosses L., puts
them on sofa.]
WILL [quietly]. Then you've lied again.
You lied to him, and you just tried to lie
to me now. I must say, Laura, that you're
not particularly clever at it, although I
don't doubt but that you've had considerable practice.
[Gives her a searching look and
slowly walks over R. c. to the
chair at the table and sits down,
still holding his hat in his hand
and without removing his overcoat. LAURA sees BROCKTON
sitting, stops and turns on him,
laying dresses down.]
LAURA. What are you going to do?
WILL. Sit down here and rest a few moments; maybe longer.
LAURA. You can't do that.
WILL. I don't see why not. This is my
own place.
LAURA. But don't you see that he'll
come back here soon and find you here?
WILL. That's just exactly what I want
him to do.
/.LAURA [with suppressed emotion almost
on the verge of hysteria]. I want to tell you
this. If you do this thing you'll ruin my
life. You've done enough to it already.
Now I want you to go. You've got to go.
I don't think you've got any right to come
here now, in this way, and take this happiness from me. I've given you everything I've got, and now I want to live
right and decent, and he wants me to, and
we love each other. Now, Will Brockton,
it's come to this. You've got to leave this
place, do you hear? You've got to leave
this place. Please get out.
[Crossing to trunk L.]
WILL [rises and comes to her]. Do you
think I'm going to let a woman make a
liar out of me? I'm going to stay right
here. I like that boy, and I'm not going
to let you put him to the bad.
LAURA. I want you to go.
[Slams trunk lid down, crosses R. to
dresser, opens drawer to get stuff
out.]
WILL. And I tell you I won't go. I'm
going to show you up. I'm going to tell




THE EASIEST WAY


217


him the truth. It is n't you I care for -
he's got to know.
LAURA [slams drawer shut, crosses L. to
R. c., loses her temper, and is almost tigerlike in her anger]. You don't care for me?
WILL. No.
LAURA. It is n't me you're thinking of?
WILL. No.
LAURA. Who's the liar now?
WILL. Liar?
LAURA. Yes, liar. You are. You don't
care for this man, and you know it.
WILL. You're foolish.
LAURA. Yes, I am foolish and I've been
foolish all my life, but I'm getting a little
sense now. [Kneels in armchair R. c. facing
WILL, her voice is shaky with anger and tears.]
All my life, since the day you first took me
away, you've planned and planned and
planned to keep me, and to trick me and
bring me down with you. When you came
to me I was happy. I did n't have much,
just a little salary and some hard work.
WILL. But like all the rest you found
that would n't keep you, did n't you?
LAURA. You say I'm bad, but who's
made me so? Who took me out night after
night? Who showed me what these luxuries were? Who put me in the habit of
buying something I could n't afford? You
did.
WILL. Well, you liked it, did n't you?
LAURA. Who got me in debt, and then,
when I would n't do what you wanted me
to, who had me discharged from the company, so I had no means of living? Who
followed me from one place to another?
Who, always entreating, tried to trap me
into this life, and I didn't know any
better?
WILL. You did n't know any better?
LAURA. I knew it was wrong - yes; but
you told me everybody in this business did
that sort of thing, and I was just as good
as anyone else. Finally you got me and you
kept me. Then when I went away to Denver, and for the first time found a gleam of
happiness, for the first time in my life -
WILL. You're crazy.
LAURA. Yes, I am crazy. [Rises angrily,
crossing R., sweeps table-cover off table,
crosses to dresser, knocks bottles, etc., off


upper end, turns, faces him, almost screaming.] You've made me crazy. You followed me to Denver, and then when I got
back you bribed me again. You pulled me
down, and you did the same old thing until
this happened. Now I want you to get out,
you understand? I want you to get out.
WILL. Laura, you can't do this.
[Starts to sit on trunk L.]
LAURA [screaming, crossing L. to WILL,
she attempts to push him]. No, you won't;
you won't stay here. You're not going
to do this thing again. I tell you I'm going
to be happy. I tell you I'm going to be
married. [He does n't resist her very strongly.
Her anger and her rage are entirely new to
him. He is surprised and cannot understand.]
You won't see him; I tell you, you won't
tell him. You've got no business to. I
hate you. I've hated you for months. I
hate the sight of your face. I've wanted to
go, and now I'm going. You've got to go,
do you hear? You've got to get out - get/
out.                 [Pushes him again.]
WILL [throwing her off, LAURA staggers
to armchair, rises, crosses L.]. What the
hell is the use of fussing with a woman?
[Exit L.]
LAURA [hysterically]. I want to be happy,
I'm going to be married, I'm going to be
happy.
[Sinks down in exhausted state in
front of trunk, L.]
CURTAIN, SLOW
ACT IV
SCENE:. The same scene as Act III. It is
about two o'clock in the afternoon.
AT RISE. When the curtain rises, there are
two big trunks and one small one up stage.
These are marked in the usual theatrical
fashion. There are grips packed, umbrellas,
and the usual paraphernalia that accompanies a woman when she is making a permanent departure from her place of living.
All the bric-a-brac, etc., has been removed
from dresser. On down-stage end of dresser
is a small alligator bag containing nightdress, toilet articles, and bunch of keys. The
dresser drawers are some of them half open,




2I8


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


and old pieces of tissue paper and ribbons are
hanging out. The writing-desk has had all
materials removed and is open, showing
scraps of torn-up letters, and in one pigeonhole is a New York Central time-table; between desk and bay-window is a lady's hattrunk containing huge picture hat. It is
closed. Behind table R. is a suitcase with
which ANNIE is working when curtain rises.
Under desk are two old millinery boxes
around which are scattered old tissue paper,
a pair of old slippers, a woman's shabby
hat, old ribbon, etc. In front of window L.
at end of pianola is thrown a lot of old
empty boxes such as are used for stocking
and shirtwaist boxes. The picture frame and
basket of flowers have been removed from
pianola. The stool is on top of pianola upside down. There is an empty White Rock
bottle, with glass turned over it, standing
between the legs of the stool. The big trunk
is L. in front of sofa, and packed, and it has
a swing tray under which is packed a fancy
evening gown; the lid is down. On top of
lid are an umbrella, lady's travelling-coat,
hat, and gloves. On sofa L. end are a large
Gladstone bag packed and fastened, a smaller
trunk c. (thirty-four inch), tray with lid.
In tray are articles of wearing apparel. In
end of tray is revolver wrapped in tissue
paper. Trunk is closed, and supposed to be
locked. Tossed across L. arm of armchair are
couple of violet cords. Down stage centre is
large piece of wide tan ribbon. The room has
general appearance of having been stripped
of all personal belongings. There are old
magazines and tissue paper all over the place.
Bearskin rug is thrown up against table in
low window, the furniture is all on stage as
used in Act III. At rise LAURA is sitting on
trunk L. with clock in hand. ANNIE is on
floor behind table R. fastening suitcase.
LAURA is pale and perturbed.
ANNIE. Ain't yuh goin' to let me come
to yuh at all, Miss Laura?
LAURA. I don't know yet, Annie. I don't
even know what the place is like that we're
going to. Mr. Madison has n't said much.
There has n't been time.
ANNIE. Why, Ah've done ma best for
yuh, Miss Laura, yes, Ah have. Ah jest


been with yuh ev'ry moment of ma time,
an' [places suitcase on table R., crosses to c.]
Ah worked for yuh an' Ah loved yuh, an'
Ah doan' wan' to be left 'ere all alone in
dis town 'ere New York. [LAURA turns to
door L. ANNIE stoops, grabs up ribbon c.,
hides behind her back.] Ah ain't the kind of
cullud lady knows many people. Can't yuh
take me along wid yuh, Miss Laura? -
yuh all been so good to me.
LAURA. Why, I told you to [crosses to
door L., looks out, returns disappointedly]
stay here and get your things together
[ANNIE hides ribbon in front of her waist],
and then Mr. Brockton will probably want
you to do something. Later I think he'll
have you pack up just as soon as he finds
I'm gone. I've got the address that you
gave me. I'll let you know if you can
come on.
ANNIE [suddenly]. Ain't yuh goin' to give
me anything at all jes' to remembuh yuh
by? Ah've been so honest -
LAURA. Honest?
ANNIE. Honest, Ah have.
LAURA. You've been about as honest as
most colored [crosses R. to table, gets suitcase, crosses L. to sofa, puts suitcase on sofa]
girls are who work for women in the position that I am in. You have n't stolen
enough to make me discharge you, but I've
seen what you've taken.
[Sits on R. end of sofa facing L.]
ANNIE. Now, Miss Laura.
LAURA. Don't try to fool me. What
you've got you're welcome to, but for
Heaven's sake don't prate around here
about loyalty and honesty. I'm sick of it.
ANNIE. Ain't yuh goin' to give me no
recommendation?
LAURA [impatiently looking around the
room]. What good would my recommendation do? You can always go and get another position with people who've lived the
way I've lived, and my recommendation
to the other kind would n't amount to
much.
ANNIE [sits on trunk c.]. Ah can just see
whah Ah'm goin', - back to dat boa'din'house in 38th Street fo' me.  [Crying.]
LAURA. Now shut your noise. I don't
want to hear any more. I've given you




THE EASIEST WAY


219


twenty-five dollars for a present. I think
that's enough.
[ANNIE assumes a most aggrieved
appearance.]
ANNIE. Ah know, but twenty-five dollars ain't a home, and I'm [rises, crosses up
to rubbish heap up R., picks up old slippers
and hat, puts hat on head as she goes out,
looks into pier-glass] losin' my home. Dat's
jest my luck - every time I save enough
money to buy my weddin' clothes to get
married I lose my job.      [Exit up R.]
LAURA. I wonder where John is. We'll
never be able to make that train. [LAURA
crosses to window L., then to desk, takes out
time-table, crosses to armchair and spreads
time-table on back, studies it, crosses impatiently to trunk c., and sits nervously kicking
feet. After a few seconds' pause, bell rings.
She jumps up excitedly.] That must be he,
Annie - go quick.
[ANNIE crosses and opens the door
in the usual manner.]
JIM's VOICE [outside]. Is Miss Murdockin?
ANNIE. Yassuh, she's in.
[LAURA is up c. stage and turns to
receive visitor. JIM enters. He is
nicely dressed in black and has
an appearance of prosperity
about him, but in other respects
he retains the old drollness of
enunciation and manner. He
crosses to LAURA in a cordial
way and holds out his hand.
ANNIE crosses, after closing the
door, and exit through the portieres
into the sleeping-apartment.]
JIM. How-dy-do, Miss Laura?
LAURA. Jim Weston, I'm mighty glad
to see you.
JIM. Looks like as if you were going to
move?
LAURA. Yes, I am going to move, and
a long ways, too. How well you're looking,
- as fit as a fiddle.
JIM. Yes; I am feelin' fine. Where yer
goin'? Troupin'?
LAURA. No, indeed.
JIM [surveying the baggage]. Thought not.
What's comin' off now?
[Takes off coat, puts coat and hat
on trunk L.]


LAURA [very simply]. I'm going to be
married this afternoon.
JIM. Married?
LAURA. And then I'm going West.
JIM [leaving the trunk and walking toward
her and holding out his hands]. Now I'm
just glad to hear that. Ye know when I
heard how - how things was breakin' for
ye - well, I ain't knockin' or anythin' like
that, but me and the missis have talked ye
over a lot. I never did think this feller was
goin' to do the right thing by yer. Brockton never looked to me like a fellow would
marry anybody, but now that he's goin'
through just to make you a nice respectable wife, I guess everything must have
happened for the best. [LAURA averts her
eyes. Both sit on trunk c., JIM L. of LAURA.]
Y' see I wanted to thank you for what you
did a couple of weeks ago. Burgess wrote
me a letter and told me I could go ahead
of one of his big shows if I wanted to come
back, and offering me considerable money.
He mentioned your name, Miss Laura, and
I talked it over with the missis, and -
well, I can tell ye now when I could n't
if ye were n't to be hooked up- we decided that I would n't take that job,
comin' as it did from you [slowly] and the
way I knew it was framed up.
LAURA. Why not?
JIM [embarrassed]. Well, ye see, there
are three kids and they're all growing up,
all of them in school, and the missis, she's
just about forgot show business and she's
playing a star part in the kitchen, juggling
dishes and doing flip-flaps with pancakes;
and we figgered that as we'd always gone
along kinder clean-like, it wouldn't be
good for the kids to take a job comin' from
Brockton because  you - you - well -
youLAURA. I know. [Rises, sits on L. arm of
chair R. C.] You thought it was n't decent.
Is that it?
JIM. Oh, not exactly, only - well, you
see I'm gettin' along pretty [rises, crosses
to LAURA] good now. I got a little onenight stand theatre out in Ohio - manager
of it, too. The town is called Gallipolis
[with a smile].
LAURA. Gallipolis?




220


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


JIM. Oh, that ain't a disease. It is the
name of a town. Maybe you don't know
much about Gallipolis, or where it is.
LAURA. No.
JIM. Well, it looks just like it sounds.
We got a little house, and the old lady is
happy, and I feel so good that I can even
stand her cookin'. Of course we ain't
makin' much money, but I guess I'm gettin' a little old-fashioned around theatres
anyway. The fellows from newspapers and
colleges have got it on me. Last time I
asked a man for a job he asked me what I
knew about the Greek drama, and when
I told him I did n't know the Greeks had
a theatre in New York he slipped me a
laugh and told me to come in again on
some rainy Tuesday. Then Gallipolis
showed on the map, and I beat it for the
West. [JIM notices by this time the pain he
has caused LAURA, and is embarrassed.]
Sorry if I hurt ye - did n't mean to; and
now that yer goin' to be Mrs. Brockton,
well, I take back all I said, and while I
don't think I want to change my position,
I would n't turn it down for -for that
other reason, that's all.
LAURA [with a tone of defiance in her
voice]. But, Mr. Weston, I'm not going to
be Mrs. Brockton.
JIM. No?           [Crosses L. a little.]
LAURA. No.
JIM. Oh -oh -
LAURA. I'm going to marry another
man, and a good man.
JIM. The hell you are!
[LAURA rises, puts hand on JIM'S
shoulder.]
LAURA. And it's going to be altogether
different. I know what you meant when
you said about the missis and the kids, and
that's what I want- just a little home,
just a little peace, just a little comfort, and
- and the man has come who's going to
give it to me. You don't want me to say
any more, do you?
[Crosses to L. door, opens it, and
looks out, closes it, crosses R. to
JIM.]
JIM [emphatically, and with a tone of
hearty approval]. No, I don't, and now
I'm just going to put my mit out and shake


yours and be real glad. I want to tell ye
it's the only way to go along. I ain't never
been a rival to Rockefeller, nor I ain't
never made Morgan jealous, but since the
day my old woman took her make-up off
for the last time and walked out of that
stage door to give me a little help and bring
my kids into the world, I knew that was
the way to go along; and if you're goin' to
take that road, by Jiminy, I'm glad of it,
for you sure do deserve it. I wish yer luck.
LAURA. Thank you.
JIM. I'm mighty glad you sidestepped
Brockton. You're young [LAURA sits on
trunk L.], and you're pretty, and you're
sweet, and if you've got the right kind of a
feller there ain't no reason on earth why
you should n't jest forgit the whole business and see nothin' but laughs and a good
time comin' to you, and the sun sort o'
shinin' every twenty-four hours in the day.
You know the missis feels just as if she
knew you, after I told her about them hard
times we had at Farley's boarding-house,
so I feel that it's paid me to come to New
York [picks up pin, puts it in lapel of coat]
even if I did n't book anything but "East
Lynne" and "Uncle Tom's Cabin." [Goe&
over to her.] Now I'm goin'. Don't forget
Gallipolis's [LAURA helps him on with his
coat] the name, and sometimes the mail
does get there. I'd be awful glad if you
wrote the missis a little note tellin' us how
you're gettin' along, and if you ever have
to ride on the Kanawha and Michigan just
look out of the window when the train
passes our town, because that is about the
best you'll get.
LAURA. Why?
JIM. They only stop there on signal.
And make up your mind that the Weston
family is with you forty ways from the
Jack day and night. Good-bye, and God
bless you.
LAURA. Good-bye, Jim. I'm so glad to
know you're happy, for it is good to be
happy.                    [Kisses him.]
JIM. You bet. [Moves toward the door.
She follows him after they have shaken hands.]
Never mind, I can get out all right. [Opens
the door, and at the door:] Good-bye again.
LAURA [very softly]. Good-bye. [Exit




THE EASIEST WAY


221


JIM and closes the door. She stands motionless until she hears the outer door slam.] I
wonder why he does n't come. [She goes up
and looks out of the window and turns down
stage, crosses R., counting trunks; as she
counts suitcase on table, bell rings; she crosses
hurriedly to trunk c.] Hurry, Annie, and
see who that is.
[ANNIE enters, crosses, opens door, exit, opens
the outer door.]
ANNIE'S VOICE. She's waitin' for yer,
Mr. Madison.
[LAURA hurries down to the c. of
stage. JOHN enters, hat in hand
and his overcoat on arm, followed
by ANNIE. He stops just as he
enters and looks at LAURA long
and searchingly. LAURA instinctively feels that something
has happened. She shudders and
remains firm. ANNIE crosses and
exit. Closes doors R.]
LAURA [with a little effort. JOHN places
hat and coat on trunk L.]. Are n't you a
little late, dear?
JOHN. I - I was detained downtown a
few minutes. I think that we can carry
out our plan all right.
LAURA [after a pause]. Has anything
happened?
JOHN. I've made all the arrangements.
The men will be here in a few minutes for
your trunks. [Crosses to coat, feels in pocket.]
I've got the railroad tickets and everything else, butLAURA. But what, John?
[He goes over to her. She intuitively
understands that she is about to
go through an ordeal. She seems
to feel that JOHN has become acquainted with something which
might interfere with their plan.
He looks at her long and searchingly. Evidently he too is much
wrought up, but when he speaks
to her it is with a calm dignity
and force which show the character of the man.]
JOHN. Laura.
LAURA. Yes?
JOHN. You know when I went down

town I said I was going to call on two or
three of my friends in Park Row.
LAURA. I know.
JOHN. I told them who I was going to
marry.
LAURA. Well?
JOHN. They said something about you
and Brockton, and I found that they'd
said too much, but not quite enough.
LAURA. What did they say?
JOHNr. Just that -too much and not
quite enough. There's a minister waiting
for us over on Madison Avenue. You see,
then you'll be my wife. That's pretty serious business, and all I want now from you
is the truth.
LAURA. Well?
JOHN. Just tell me that what they said
was just an echo of the past - that it came
from what had been going on before that
wonderful day out in Colorado. Tell me
that you've been on the level. I don't
want their word, Laura - I just want
yours.
[LAURA summons all her courage,
looks up into his loving eyes,
shrinks a moment before his
anxious face, and speaks as
simply as she can.]
LAURA. Yes, John, I have been on the
level.
JOHN [very tenderly]. I knew that, dear,
1 knew it. [He takes her in his arms and
kisses her. She clings to him in pitiful helplessness. His manner is changed to one of
almost boyish happiness.] Well, now everything's all ready let's get on the job. We
have n't a great deal of time. Get your
duds on.
LAURA. When do we go?
JOHN. Right away. The great idea is to
get away.
LAURA. All right.
[Gets hat off trunk, crosses to bureau, puts it on.]
JOHN. Laura, you've got trunks enough,
haven't you? One might think we're
moving a whole colony. [Turns to her with
a smile.] And, by the way, to me you are a
whole colony- anyway you're the only
one I ever wanted to settle with.
LAURA. That's good. [Takes bag off




222


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


bureau, crosses to trunk, gets purse, coat, umbrella, as if ready to leave. She hurriedly
gathers her things together, adjusting her hat
and the like, and almost to herself in a low
tone:] I'm so excited. [Continues preparations.] Come on.
[In the meantime JOHN crosses by
to get his hat and coat, and while
the preparations are about to be
completed and LAURA has said
"Come on," she is transfixed by
the noise of the slamming of the
outer door. She stops as if she
had been tremendously shocked,
and a moment later the rattling
of a latch-key in the inner door
also stops JOHN from going any
further. His coat is half on.
LAURA looks toward the door,
paralyzed with fright, and JOHN
looks at her with an expression of
great apprehension. Slowly the
door opens, and BROCKTON enters with coat and hat on. As he
turns to close the door after him,
LAURA, pitifully and terribly
afraid, retreats two or three steps,
and lays coat, bag, purse and umbrella down in armchair, standing dazed. BROCKTON enters
leisurely, paying no attention to
anyone, while JOHN becomes as
rigid as a statue, and follows
with his eyes every move BROCKTON makes. The latter walks
leisurely across the stage, and
afterwards into the rooms through
the portieres. There is a wait of a
second. No one moves. BROCKTON finally reenters with coat
and hat off, and throws back the
portieres in such a manner as to
reveal the bed and his intimate
familiarity with the outer room.
He goes down stage in the same
leisurely manner and sits in a
chair R., opposite JOHN, crossing
his legs.]
WILL. Hello, Madison, when did you
get in?
[Slowly JOHN seems to recover himself. His right hand starts up


toward the lapel of his coat and
slowly he pulls his Colt revolver
from the holster under his armpit.
There is a deadly determination
and deliberation in every movement that he makes. WILL jumps
to his feet and looks at him. The
evolver is uplifted in the air, as
a Western man handles a gun, so
that when it is snapped down
with a jerk the deadly shot can be
fired. LAURA is terror-stricken,
but before the shot is fired she
takes a step forward and extends one hand in a gesture of
entreaty.]
LAURA [in a husky voice that is almost a
whisper]. Don't shoot.
[The gun remains upliftedfor a moment. JOHN is evidently wavering in his determination to kill.
Slowly his whole frame relaxes.
He lowers the pistol in his hand
in a manner which clearly indicates that he is not going to shoot.
He quietly puts it back in the
holster, and WILL is obviously
relieved, although he stood his
ground like a man.]
JOHN [slowly]. Thank you. You said
that just in time.             [A pause.]
WILL [recovering and in a light tone].
Well, you see, Madison, that what I said
when I was -
JOHN [threateningly]. Look out, Brockton, I don't want to talk to you.
[The men confront.]
WILL. All right.
JOHN [to LAURA]. Now get that man out
of here.
LAURA. John, IJOHN. Get him out. Get him out before
I lose my temper or they'll take him out
without his help.
LAURA [to WILL]. Go - go. Please go.
WILL [deliberately]. If that's the way you
want it I'm willing.
[Exit WILL into the sleeping-apartment. LAURA and JOHN stand
facing each other. He enters
again with hat and coat on anc
passes over toward the door.




THE EASIEST WAY


LAURA and JOHN do not move.
When he gets just a little to the L.
of the c. of the stage LAURA steps
(/     forward and stops him with her
~,/      speech.]
LAURA. Now before you go, and to you
both, I want to tell you how I've learned to
despise him. John, I know you don't believe me, but it's true - it's true. I don't
love anyone in the world but just you. I
know you don't think that it can be explained- maybe there is n't any explanation. I could n't help it. I was so poor,
and I had to live, and he would n't let me
work, and he's only let me live one way,
and I was hungry. Do you know what that
means? I was hungry and didn't have
clothes to keep me warm, and I tried, oh,, John, I tried so hard to do the other thing,
- the right thing, - but I could n't.
JOHN. I - I know I could n't help much,
and perhaps I could have forgiven you if
you had n't lied to me. That's what hurt.
[Turning to WILL and approaching until he
can look him in the eyes.] I expected you to
lie, you're that kind of a man. You left me
with a shake of the hand and you gave me
your word, and you did n't keep it. Why
should you keep it? Why should anything
make any difference with you? Why, you
pup, you've no right to live in the same
world with decent folks. Now you make
yourself scarce, or take it from me, '11 just
kill you, that's all.
WILL. I'll leave, Madison, but I'm not
going to let you think that I did n't do the
right thing with you. She came to me voluntarily. She said she wanted to come
back. I told you that when I was in Colorado, and you did n't believe me, and I
told you that when she did this sort of
thing I'd let you know. I dictated a letter
to her to send to you, and I left it sealed
and stamped in her hands to mail. She
did n't do it. If there's been a lie she told
it. I did n't.
[JOHN turns to her. She hangs her
head and averts her eyes in a
mute acknowledgment of guilt.
The revelation hits JOHN so hard
that he sinks on the trunk c., his
head fallen to his breast. He is


utterly limp and whipped. There
is a moment's silence.]
WILL [crosses to JOHN]. You see! Why,
my boy, whatever you think of me or the
life I lead, I would n't have had this come
to you for anything in the world. [JOHN
makes an impatient gesture.] No, I would n't.
My women don't mean a whole lot to me
because I don't take them seriously. I wish
I had the faith and the youth to feel the
way you do. You're all in and broken up,
but I wish I could be broken up just once.
I did what I thought was best for you because I did n't think she could ever go
through the way you wanted her to. I'm
sorry it's all turned out bad. [Pause.]
Good-bye.
[He looks at JOHN for a moment as
if he was going to speak. JOHN
remains motionless. The blow
has hit him harder than he
thought. WILL exit. The first
door closes. In a moment the
second door is slammed. JOHN
and LAURA look at each other
for a moment. He gives her no
chance to speak. The hurt in his
heart and his accusation are
shown by his broken manner. A
great grief has come into his life
and he does n't quite understand
it. He seems to be feeling around
for something to say, some way to
get out. His head turns toward
the door. With a pitiful gesture
of the hand he looks at her in all
his sorrow.]
JOHN. Well?                   [Rises.'
LAURA. John, I
[Takes off hat, places it on table R.]
JOHN. I'd be careful what I said. Don't
try to make excuses. I understand.
LAURA. It's not excuses. I want to tell
you what's in my heart, but I can't; it
won't speak, and you don't believe my
voice.
JOHN. You'd better leave it unsaid.
LAURA. But I must tell. I can't let you
go like this. [She goes over to him and makes
a weak attempt to put her arms around him.
He takes her arms and puts them back to her
side.] I love you. I - how can I tell you




224
-but I
me.


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


do, I do, and you won't believe


[He remains silent for a moment
and then takes her by the hand,
leads her over to the chair and
places her in it.]
JOHN. I think you do as far as you are
able; but, Laura, I guess you don't know
what a decent sentiment is. [He gathers
himself together. His tone is very gentle and
very firm, but it carries a tremendous conviction, even with his grief ringing through his
speech.] Laura, you're not immoral, you're
just unmoral, kind o' all out of shape, and
I'm afraid there is n't a particle of hope for
you. When we met neither of us had any
reason to be proud, but I thought that you
thought that it was the chance of salvation
which sometimes comes to a man and a
woman fixed as we were then. What had
been had been. It was all in the great to-be
for us, and now, how you've kept your
word! What little that promise meant,
when I thought you handed me a new lease
of life!
LAURA [in a voice that is changed and
metallic. She is literally being nailed to the
cross]. You're killing me - killing me.
JOHN. Don't make such a mistake. In a
month you'll recover. There will be days
when you will think of me, just for a moment, and then it will be all over. With
you it is the easy way, and it always will be.
You'll go on and on until you're finally
left a wreck, just the type of the common
woman. And you'll sink until you're down to
the very bed-rock of depravity. I pity you.
LAURA [still in the same metallic tone of
voice]. You'll never leave me to do that.
I'll kill myself.
JOHN. Perhaps that's the only thing left
for you to do, but you'll not do it. It's
easier to live.
[Crosses and gets hat and coat,
turns, looks at her, LAURA -rising
at the same time.]
LAURA. John, I said I'd kill myself, and
I mean it. If it's the only thing to do, I'll
do it, and I'll do it before your very eyes.
[She crosses quickly, gets keys out of satchel,
opens trunk, takes gun out of trunk c., stands
c., facing JOHN, waiting a moment.] You


understand that when your hand touches
that door I'm going to shoot myself. I will,
so help me God!
JOHN [stops and looks at her]. Kill yourself? [Pause.] Before me? [Pause.] All
right. [Raising his voice.] Annie, Annie!
ANNIE [enters up R.]. Yes, sir.
JOHN [LAURA looks at JOHN in bewilderment]. You see your mistress there has a
pistol in her hand?
ANNIE [crosses down R., frightened]. Yassuh -
JOHN. She wants to kill herself. I just
called you to witness that the act is entirely voluntary on her part. Now, Laura,
go ahead.
LAURA [nearly collapsing, drops the pistol
to the floor]. John, I - can't -
JOHN. Annie, she's evidently changed
her mind. You may go.
ANNIE. But, Miss Laura, Ah -
JOHN [peremptorily]. You may go. [Bewildered and not understanding, ANNIE exit
through the portieres. In that same gentle
tone, but carrying with it an almost frigid
conviction.] You did n't have the nerve. I
knew you would n't. For a moment you
thought the only decent thing for you to do
was to die, and yet you could n't go through.
I am sorry for you, - more sorry than I
can tell. [He takes a step towards the door.]
LAURA. You're going - you're going?
JOHN. Yes.
LAURA. And - and - you never thought
that perhaps I'm frail, and weak, and a
woman, and that now, maybe, I need your
strength, and you might give it to me, and
it might be better. I want to lean on you,
- lean on you, John. I know I need someone. Are n't you going to let me? Won't
you give me another chance?
JOHN. I gave you your chance, Laura.
LAURA [throws arms around his neck].
Give me another.
JOHN. But you leaned the wrong way.
Good-bye. [He pulls away and goes out L.,
slamming both doors.]
LAURA [screaming]. John - John - I[She sits on trunk L. weeping in loud and
tearful manner, rises in a dazed fashion,
starts to cross R., sees gun, utters loud cry of
mingled despair and anger, grabs up gun,




THE EASIEST WAY


225


crossing to bureau, opens up-stage drawer,
throws gun in, slams drawer shut, calling:]
Annie! Annie!
ANNIE [appears through the portieres].
Ain't yuh goin' away, Miss Laura?
LAURA [suddenly arousing herself, and
with a defiant voice]. No, I'm not. I'm
going to stay right here. [ANNIE crosses and
opens trunk L., takes out handsome dress,
crosses, hangs it over back of armchair R. C.,
crosses up to hat trunk, takes out hat. LAURA
takes it from her, crosses to trunk L., starts to
unpack it,] Open these trunks, take out
those clothes, get me my prettiest dress.
Hurry up. [She goes before the mirror.] Get
my new hat, dress up my body and paint
up my face. It's all they've left of me.
[To herself.] They've taken my soul away
with them.
ANNIE [in a happy voice]. Yassum, yassum.
LAURA [who is arranging her hair]. Doll
me up, Annie.
ANNIE. Yuh goin' out, Miss Laura?
LAURA. Yes. I'm going to Rector's to
make a hit, and to hell with the rest.
[At this moment the hurdy-gurdy in
the street, presumably immediately under her window, begins
to play the tune of "Bon-Bon
Buddie, My Chocolate Drop."
There is something in this ragtime melody which is particularly
and peculiarly suggestive of the


low life, the criminality and prostitution that constitute the night
excitement of that section of New
York City known as the Tenderloin. The tune, its association, is
like spreading before LAURA'S
eyes a panorama of the inevitable
depravity that awaits her. She is
torn from every ideal that she so
weakly endeavored to grasp, and
is thrown into the mire and slime
at the very moment when her
emancipation seems to be assured. The woman, with her
flashy dress in one arm and her
equally exaggerated type of picture hat in the other, is nearly
prostrated by the tune and the
realization of the future as it is
terrifically conveyed to her. The
negress, in the happiness of
serving LAURA in her questionable career, picks up the melody
and hums it as she unpacks the
finery that has been put away in
the trunk.]
LAU:RA [with infinite grief, resignation, and
hopelessness]. 0 God- 0 my God.
[She turns and totters toward the
bedroom. The hurdy-gurdy continues, with the negress accompanying it.]


A SLOW CURTAIN








THE PIPER
A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS
BY JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY




COPYRIGHT, I909 AND I919, BY JOSEPHINE PEABODY MARKS
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Especial notice should be taken that the possession of this book without a valid contract
for production first having been obtained from Samuel French, 28-30 West 38th St.,
New York, confers no right or license to professionals or amateurs to produce the play
publicly or in private for gain or charity. In its present form this play is intended
only for students and the reading public, and no performance of it may be given except
by special arrangement with Mr. French, the author's agent.




ANNO 1284
AM DAGE JOHANNIS ET PAULI
WAR DER 26 JUNII
DORCH EINEN PIPER MIT ALLERLEY FARVE BEKLEDET
GEWESEN CXXX KINDER VERLEDET
BINNEN HAMELEN GEBOREN
TO CALVARIE BI DEN KOPPEN VERLOREN
[THE HAMELIN INSCRIPTION]








CHARACTERS


THE PIPER
MICHAEL-THE-SWORD-EATER
CHEAT-THE-DEVIL
JACOBUS the Burgomeister
KURT the Syndic
PETER the Cobbler
HANS the Butcher
AXEL the Smith
MARTIN the Watch
PETER the Sacristan
ANSELM, a young priest
OLD CLAUS, a miser
TOWN CRIER
JAN
HANSEL
ILSE     Children
TRUDE
RUDI
VERONIKA, the wife of Kurt
BARBARA, daughter of Jacobus
WIFE OF HANS the Butcher
WIFE OF AXEL the Smith
WIFE OF MARTIN the Watch
OLD URSULA


[ Strolling Players
Men of Hamelin


Burghers, nuns, priests, and children
SCENE: HAMELIN ON THE WESER, 1284 A.D.




SCENES


ACT I.                   The market-place in Hamelin
ACT II I SCENE I.        Inside the "Hollow Hill"
SCENE II.     The Cross-ways
ACT III.                 The Cross-ways
ACT IV.                  The market-place in Hamelin
One week is supposed to elapse between Acts I and II
Acts II and III occupy one day
Act IV concerns the following morning




THE PIPER
ACT I


SCENE: The market-place of Hamelin.
Right, the Minster, with an open shrine
(right centre) containing a large sculptured
figure of the Christ. Right, farther front, the
house of KURT; and other narrow    housefronts. Left, the Rathaus, and (down) the
home of JACOBUS. Front, to left and right, are
corner-houses with projecting stories and
casement windows. At the centre rear, a narrow street leads away between houses whose
gables all but meet overhead.
It is late summer afternoon, with a holiday
crowd. In the open casements, front (right
and left, opposite each other), sit OLD URSULA
and OLD CLAUS, looking on at men and
things. - In the centre of the place now
stands a rude wooden Ark with a tented top:
and out of the openings (right and left) appear
the artificial heads of animals, worn by the
players inside. One is a Bear (inhabited
by MICHAEL-THE-SWORD-EATER); one is a
large Reynard-the-Fox, later apparent as the
PIPER. Close by is the medicval piece of
stage-property known as "Hell-Mouth," i.e.
a red painted cave with a jaw-like opening,
into which a mountebank dressed in scarlet
(CHEAT-THE-DEVIL) is poking "Lost Souls"
with a pitchfork.
BARBARA loiters by the tent. VERONIKA,
the sad young wife of KURT, watches from the
house steps, left, keeping her little lame boy,
Jan, close beside her.
Shouts of delight greet the end of the show,
-a Noah's Ark miracle-play of the rudest;
and the Children continue to scream with joy
whenever an Animal looks out of the Ark.
Men and women pay scant attention either
to JACOBUS, when he speaks (himself none
too sober) -from his doorstep, prompted by
the frowning KURT, - or yet to ANSELM, the
priest, who stands forth with lifted hands, at
the close of the miracle-play.


ANSELM. And you, who heed the colors
of this show,
Look to your laughter! -It doth body forth
A Judgment that may take you unaware, -
Sun-struck with mirth, like unto chattering
leaves
Some wind of wrath shall scourge to nothingness.
HANS, AXEL, AND OTHERS. Hurrah,
Hurrah!
JACOBUS. And now, good townsmen all,
Seeing we stand delivered and secure
As once yon chosen creatures of the Ark,
For a similitude, - our famine gone,
Our plague of rats and mice, 
CROWD.            Hurrah - hurrah!
JACOBUS. 'T is meet we render thanks
more soberly -
HANS the Butcher. Soberly, soberly,
ay!JACOBUS.   For our deliverance.
And now, ye wit, it will be full three days
Since we beheld - our late departed
pest. -
OLD URSULA [putting out an ear-trumpet].
What does he say?
REYNARD [from the Ark]. -Oh, how
felicitous!
HANS' WIFE. He's only saying there be
no more rats.
JACOBUS [with oratorical endeavor]. Three
days it is; and not one mouse, -
one mouse,
One mouse, I say! - No-o-o! Quiet...
as a mouse.
[Resuming.] And now...
CROWD.    Long live Jacobus!JACOBUS.             You have seen
Noah and the Ark, most aptly happening
by
With these same play-folk. You have
marked the Judgment.




234


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


You all have seen the lost souls sent to -
HellAnd, nothing more to do. -
[KURT prompts him.] Yes, yes. - And
now...
[HANS the Butcher steps out of his
group.]
HANS the Butcher. Hath no man seen the
Piper? - Please your worships.
OTHERS. Ay, ay, so!
- Ay, where is he?
-Ho, the Piper!
JACOBUS. Piper, my good man?
HANS the Butcher. - He that charmed
the rats!
OTHERS. Yes, yes, - that charmed the
rats!
JACOBUS [piously]. Why, no man knows.
Which proves him such a random instrument
As Heaven doth sometimes send us, to our
use;
Or, as I do conceive, no man at all, -
A man of air; or, I would say - delusion.
He'll come no more.
REYNARD [from the Ark]. Eh? - Oh, indeed, Meaow!
JACOBUS. 'T is clearest providence. The
rats are gone.
The man is gone. And there is nought to
pay,
Save peaceful worship.
[Pointing to the Minster.]
REYNARD [sarcastically]. Oh, indeed, -
Meaow!
[Sudden chorus of derisive animal
noises from the Ark, delighting
PEOPLE and CHILDREN.]
KURT. Silence, - you strollers there!
Or I will have you
Gaoled, one and all.
PEOPLE.      No, Kurt the Syndic, no!
BARBARA [to JACOBUS]. No, no! Ah,
father, bid them stay awhile
And play it all again. - Or, if not all,
Do let us see that same good youth again,
Who swallowed swords - between the
Ark Preserved
And the Last Judgment!
REYNARD.    Michael-the-Sword-Eater,
Laurels for thee!
[The BEAR disappears: MICHAEL


puts out his own head, and gazes
fixedly at BARBARA.]
CHILDREN. Oh, can't we see the animals
in the Ark?
Again? Oh, can't we see it all again?
ILSE. Oh, leave out Noah! And let's
have only Bears
And Dromedaries, and the other ones! -
[General confusion.]
KURT. Silence!
JACOBUS. Good people - you have had
your shows;
And it is meet, that having held due feast,
Both with our market and this Miracle,
We bring our holiday to close with prayer
And public thanks unto Saint Willibald, -
Upon whose day the rats departed thence.
REYNARD [loudly]. Saint Willibald!
BEAR.             - Saint Willibald!
OTHER ANIMALS [looking out]. Saint
Willibald! Saint! Oh!
CROWD. Saint Willibald! - And what
had he to do
With ridding us o' rats?
HANS the Butcher. 'T was the Piping
Man
Who came and stood here in the marketplace,
And swore to do it for one thousand
guilders!
PETER the Cobbler. Ay, and he did it,
too! - Saint Willibald!
[Renewed uproar round the tent.]
KURT [to JACOBUS]. Drive out those
mountebanks! 'T is ever so.
Admit them to the town and you must
pay
Their single show with riotings a week.Look yonder at your daughter.
[BARBARA lingers by the Ark-Tent,
gazing with girlish interest at
MICHAEL, who gazes at her, his
bear-head in his hand for the
moment.]
JACOBUS.                  Barbara I
[She turns back, with an angry
glance at KURT.]
AXEL the Smith [doggedly to them]. By
your leave, Masters! I would like
to know,
How did Saint Willibald prevail with tie
rats? -




THE PIPER


235


That would I like to know. I, who ha' made
Of strong wrought traps, two hundred,
thirty-nine,
Two hundred, thirty-nine.
REYNARD [calling].   And so would I!
HANS the Butcher. So please your worships, may it please the Crier,
Now we be here, - to cry the Piping Man -
PETER the Cobbler. A stranger-man, gayclad, - in divers colors!
Because he, with said piping 
HANS the Butcher.     - Drave away
The horde of rats!
PETER the Cobbler [sagely].
To our great benefit;
And we be all just men.
OTHERS.             Ay, ay! - Amen!
WOMEN. Amen, Our Lady and the
blessed Saints!
JAcOBUS. Why, faith, good souls, if ye
will have him cried,
So be it. - But the ways of Heaven are
strange!
Mark how our angel of deliverance came,Or it may be, Saint Willibald himself, -
Most piedly clothed, even as the vilest
player! 
And straight ascended from us, to the
clouds!
But cry him, if you will. - Peace to your
lungs!He will not come.
[KURT wrathfully consults with
JACOBUS, then signals to Crier.]
CRIER.             Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!
Whereas, now three days gone, our Plague
of Rats
Was wholly driven hence, our City cleansed,
Our peace restored after sore threat of
famine,
By a Strange Man who came not back
again,
Now, therefore, if this Man have ears to
hear,
Let him stand forth. - Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!
[Trumpet. - PEOPLE gaze up and
down the little streets.- REYNARD steps out of the Ark and
comes down slowly, with a modest
air. - KURT points him out,
threateningly, and the CROWD
bursts into derisive laughter. -


He doffs his animal-head at leisure, showing a sparkling darkeyed face.]
ALL. The Man! the Man!
KURT AND JACOBUS.     The Devil! —
'T isALL.                  - THE PIPER!
[The PIPER regards them all with
debonair satisfaction; then reverses his head-piece and holds it
out upside-down, with a confident smile.]
PIPER. Three days of rest, your worships,
you have had.
I see no signs of famine hereabout.
The rats are gone, even to the nethermost
tail:
And I 've fulfilled my bargain. Is it granted?
[Murmurs, then cheers of "Ay, Ay,
Piper!" from the crowd.]
Thank'ee. - My thousand guilders, an you
please.
JACOBUS. One thou - Come, come!
This was no sober bargain. -
No man in reason could -
PIPER.         One thousand guilders.
KURT. One thousand rogueries!
JACOBUS [to PIPER].  You jest too far.
AXEL. Lucky, if he get aught!- Two
hundred traps,
And nine, and thirty! By Saint Willibald,
When was I paid?
AXEL'S WIFE.   Say, now!
PIPER.... One thousand guilders.
PETER the Cobbler. Give him an hundred.
HANS the Butcher.  Double!
HANS' WIFE.            You were fool
To make agreement with him. - Ask old
Claus.
He has the guilders; and his house was full
0' rats!
OLD CLAUS [shaking his stick from the window]. You jade! And I that hoard,
and save,
And lay by all I have from year to year,
To build my monument when I am gone,
A fine new tomb itierJ in Saint Boniface!
And I to pay for all your city rats!'
OLD URSULA [leaning out, opposite].
Right, neighbor, right well said!Piper, hark here.
Piper, how did ye charm the rats away?




236


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


PIPER [coming down]. The rats were led -
by Cu-ri-os-ity.
'T is so with many rats; and all old women; -
Saving your health!
JACOBUS.   No thought for public weal,
In this base grasping on 
PIPER.         One thousand guilders.
KURT [contemptuously]. For piping!
PIPER.   Shall I pipe them back again?
WOMEN.
(Good Saint Boniface!
Mercifl h! Good Saint Willibald!
Peter and Paul defend
us!
HANS the Butcher. No, no; no fear o' that.
The rats be drowned.
We saw them with our eyes.
PIPER.            Now who shall say
There is no resurrection for a mouse?
KURT. - Do you but crop this fellow's
ears! -
VERONIKA [from the steps].  Ah Kurt!
JACOBUS [to him, blandly]. Deal patiently,
good neighbor. All is well.
[To the PIPER.] Why do you name a price
so laughable,
My man? Call you to mind; you have no
claim, -
No scrip to show. You cling upon -
PIPER [sternly].         Your word.
JACOBUS. I would say - just -
PIPER.                   Your word.
JACOBUS.         UponPIPER.                   Your word.
Sure, 't was a rotten parchment!
JACOBUS.              This is a base,
Conniving miser!
PIPER [turning proudly]. Stand forth,
Cheat-the-Devil!
[Up steps the DEVIL in red. PEOPLE shrink, and then come closer.]
Be not afeard. He pleased you all, of late.
He hath no sting. - So, boy! Do off thy
head. -
[CHEAT-THE-DEVIL doffs his red
headdress and stands forth, a pale
and timorous youth, gentle and
half-witted.]
Michael, stand forth!
[MICHAEL comes down, bear-head
in hand.l


BARBARA [regarding him sadly]. That
goodly sword-eater!
PIPER [defiantly]. So, Michael, so. -
These be two friends of mine.
Pay now an even third to each of us.
Or, to content your doubts, to each of these
Do you pay here and now, five hundred
guilders.
Who gets it matters little, for us friends.
But you will pay the sum, friend. You will
pay!HANSI-AXEL, AND CROWD. Come, there's
an honest fellow. Aye, now, pay!
- There's a good friend. - And would I
had the same.
- One thousand guilders?
- No, too much.
- No, no.
KURT. Pay jugglers? —With a rope
apiece!
JACOBUS.               Why - so -
PIPER. They are my friends; and they
shall share with me.
'T is time that Hamelin reckoned us foi
men;
- Hath ever dealt with us as we were
vermin.
Now have I rid you of the other sortRight you that score! -
KURT.   These outcasts!
PIPER [hotly].          Say you so?
Michael, my man! Which of you here will
try
With glass or fire, with him?
MICHAEL [sullenly]. No, no more glass,
to-day!
PIPER. Then fire and sword!
[They back away.]
So! - And there's not one man
In Hamelin, here, so honest of his word.
Stroller! A pretty choice you leave us. -
Quit
This strolling life, or stroll into a cage!
What do you offer him? A man eats fire -
Swords, glass, young April frogs -
CHILDREN.               Do it again!
Do it again!
PIPER.    You say to such a man,"Come be a monk! A weaver!" Pretty
choice.
Here's Cheat-the-Devil, now.
PETER the Cobbler. But what's his name?




THE PIPER


137


PIPER. He does n't know. What would
you? Nor do I.
But for the something he has seen of life,
Making men merry, he'd know something
more!
The gentlest devil ever spiked Lost Souls
Into Hell-mouth, - for nothing-by-theday!
OLD URSULA [with her ear-trumpet]. Piper,
why do you call him Cheat-theDevil?
PIPER. Because his deviltry is all a
cheat: -
He is no devil, - but a gentle heart!
- Friend Michael here hath played the
Devil, betimes,
Because he can so bravely breathe out
fire.
He plied the pitchfork so we yelped for
mercy,
He reckoned not the stoutness of his arm!But Cheat-the-Devil here, - he would not
hurt
Why - Kurt the Syndic - thrusting him
in hell.             [Laughter.]
CHEAT-THE-DEVIL [unhappily]. No, no
- I will not hurt him!
PIPER [soothingly to him]. Merry, boy!
[To the townsfolk.] And, - if ye will have
reasons, good, - ye see, -
I want - one thousand guilders.
JACOBUS.               In all surety,
Payment you'll have, my man. ButHANS the Butcher.  As to's friends, -
An that yon Devil be as feat wi' his hands
As he be slow o' tongue, why, I will take
him
For prentice. Wife,- now that would
smack o' pride!
PETER the Cobbler. I'll take this fellow
that can swallow fire.
He's somewhat old for me. But he can
learn
My trade.- A pretty fellow!
PIPER.              And your trade?
PETER the Cobbler. Peter the cobbler. -
MICHAEL.   I? What, I? Make shoes?
[Proudly.] I swallow fire.
PIPER.              Enough.
BARBARA [aside, bitterly]. I'll not believe
it.
PIPER [to HANS]. Your trade?


HANS the Butcher. I'm Hans the Butcher.
MICHAEL.               Butcher?
CHEAT-THE-DEVIL [unhappily]. Butcher!
Oh, no! I could n't hurt them.
[Loud laughter.]
BUTCHER'S WIFE.           'T is a fool!
[The PIPER motions to MICHAEL
and CHEAT-THE-DEVIL, who
during the following join the
other player-folk, strike their tent,
pack their bundles, and wheel off
the barrows that have served them
for an Ark, leaving the space
clear before the Shrine. Exeunt
Strollers, all but MICHAEL, who
hangs about, still gazing at
BARBARA.]
JACOBUS. Good people, we have wasted
time enow.
You see this fellow, that he has no writPIPER. Why not, then? 'T was a bargain. If your word
Hold only when 't is writ -
KURT.                We cannot spend
Clerkship on them that neither write nor
read.
What good would parchment do thee?
JAcOBUS.             My good man -
PIPER. Who says I cannot read? - Who
says I cannot?
OLD CLAUS. Piper, don't tell me you can
read in books!
PIPER [at bay]. Books! Where's a book?
Shew me a book, I say!
OLD URSULA. The Holy Book! Bring
that - or he'll bewitch you.
PIPER. Oh, never fear. I charm but fools
and children;
Now that the rats are gone. - Bring me a
Book:
A big one! -
[Murmurs. The PIPER defiant.
The crowd moves towards the
Minster.]
[Enter ANSELM the priest, with a little acolyte,
the two bearing a large illuminated Gospel-book. ANSELM, eyeing the PIPER
gravely, opens the book, which the boy
supports on his head and shoulders.]
PIPER. Ho, 't is too heavy! Come, you
cherub-head,




238


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


Here's too much laid upon one guardian
angel!
[Beckons another small boy, and sets
the book on their two backs.]
Well? - well? - What now?
[He looks in frank bewilderment at
the eager crowd.]
CROWD.            Read, read!
KURT.                 He cannot read.
PIPER [to ANSELM]. Turn -turn -
there's nothing there.
[ANSELM turns pages. PIPER looks
on blankly]... Ah, turn again!
The big red Letter.[He takes his pipe from his belt.]
No, the green! The green one. So.
[Starts to pipe, looking on the book.]
Sure 't is a mad-man!
CROWD. But hear him piping!
What is he doing?
PIPER [puzzled at their mirth]. What the
green one says.
[A burst of laughter from the crowd.
JAN, the little lame boy on the
steps, reaches his arms out suddenly and gives a cry of delight.]
JAN. Oh, I love the Man!
[He goes, with his crutch, to the
PIPER, who turns and gathers
him close.]
JACOBUS [to the People]. Leave off this
argument.
KURT.            In, - to the minster.
JACOBUS. Saint Willibald!
PIPER [in a rage].  That Saint! -
KURT.          Hence, wandering dog!
PIPER. Oho! - Well, every Saint may
have his day.
But there are dog-days coming. - Eh, your
worship?
[To ANSELM, suddenly]. You, there! You
- Brother -   Father - Uncle -
- You!
Speak! Will you let them in, to say their
prayers
And mock me through their fingers? - Tell
these men
To settle it, among their mouldy pockets,
Whether they keep their oath. Then will I
go.
KURT [savagely]. Away with you! -


ANSELM.    The Piper should be heard;
Ye know it well. Render to Csesar, therefore,
That which is Caesar's.
PIPER.      - Give the Devil his due!
JACOBUS [warily]. We must take counsel
over such a sum.
[Beckoning others, he and KURT go
into the Rathaus, followed by all
the men. Exit ANSELM with the
Holy Book into the Minster.The children play Mouse, to and
fro, round about the PIPER.The women, some of them, spin
on the doorsteps, with little hand
distaffs, or stand about, gossiping. The PIPER wipes his forehead and goes up slowly (centre)
to drink from the fountain at the
foot of the Shrine. - MICHAEL,
like one in a dream, comes down
towards BARBARA, who gazes
back at him, fascinated, through
her laughter.]
BARBARA. IS it for pay you loiter, Master Player?
Were you not paid enough?
MICHAEL.        No. - One more look.
BARBARA. Here, then. - Still not
enough?
MICHAEL.      No! One more smile.
BARBARA [agitated]. Why would you
have me smile?
MICHAEL [passionately]. Oh, when you
smiled,
It was -it was like sunlight coming
through
Some window there,
[Pointing to the Minster.] - some vision of
Our Lady.
[She drops her flowers. - He picks
them up and gives them back
slowly.]
BARBARA. Who are you? You are some
one in disguise.
MICHAEL [bitterly]. A man - that passes
for a mountebank.
BARBARA [eagerly]. I knew!
MICHAEL.             What then?
BARBARA.      Thou art of noble birth.
'T is some disguise, this playing with the
fire!




THE PIPER


239


MICHAEL. Yes. - For to-day, I lord it
with the fire.
But it hath burned me, here.
[Touching his breast. Overcome for
the moment, BARBARA draws
away. - The PIPER, coming
down, speaks stealthily to MICHAEL, who is still gazing.]
PIPER.              For all our sakes!
There is bad weather breeding. - Take to
thy heels.
[BARBARA turns back to see MICHAEL withdrawing reluctantly,
and throws a rose to him with
sudden gayety.]
BARBARA. Farewell to you, Sword-Swallower! - farewell!
MICHAEL [looking back]. Farewell to you,
my Lady, in-the-Moon.
[Exit. JAN clings once more to the
PIPER, while the other children
hang about.]
[Enter VERONIKA from her house. She goes
towards her boy.]
VERONIKA. Darling.PIPER [drawing nearer]. Is this your Boy?
VERONIKA.             Ay, he is mine;
My only one, He loved thy piping so.
PIPER. And I loved his.
HANS' WIFE [stridently]. Poor little boy!
He's lame!
PIPER. 'T is all of us are lame! But he,
he flies.
VERONIKA. Jan, stay here if you will,
and hear the pipe,
At Church-time.
PIPER [to him]. Wilt thou?
JAN [softly].     Mother lets me stay
Here with the Lonely Man.
PIPER.              The Lonely Man?
[JAN points to the Christ in the
Shrine. VERONIKA crosses herself. The PIPER looks long at the
little boy.]
VERONIKA. He always calls Him so.
PIPER.                And so would I.
VERONIKA. It grieves him that the Head
is always bowed,
And stricken. But he loves more to be here
Than yonder in the church.
PIPER.                   And so do I.




VERONIKA. What would you, darling,
with the Lonely Man?
What do you wait to see?
JAN [shyly].       To see Him smile.
[The women murmur. The PIPER
comes down further to speak to
VERONIKA.]
PIPER. You are some foreign woman.
Are you not?
Never from Hamelin!
VERONIKA.           No.
AXEL'S WIFE [to her child]. Then run
along.
And ask-the Piper if he'll play again
The tune that charmed the rats.
ANOTHER. They might come back!
OLD URSULA [calling from her window].
Piper! I want the tune that charmed the
rats!
If they come back, I'll have my grandson
play it.
PIPER. I pipe but for the children.
ILSE [dropping her doll and picking it up].
Oh, do pipe
Something for Fridolin!
HANSEL.              Oh, pipe at me!
Now I'm a mouse! I'll eat you up! Rrrr! -
CHILDREN. Oh, pipe! Oh, play! Oh,
play and make us dance!
Oh, play, and make us run away from
school!
PIP:ER. Why, what are these?
CHILDREN [scampering round him]. We're
mice, we're mice, we're mice!...
We're mice, we're mice! We'll eat up
everything!
MARTIN'S WIFE [calling]. 'T is churchtime. La, what will the neighbors
say?
ILSE [waving her doll]. Oh, please do play
something for Fridolin!
AxE'L's WIFE. Do hear the child. She's
quite the little mother!
PIPER. A little mother? Ugh! How
horrible.
That fairy thing, that princess, - no, that
Child!
A little mother?
[To her.]       Drop the ugly thing!
MARTIN'S WIFE. Now, on my word!
and what's amiss with mothers?




240


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


Are mothers horrible?
[The PIPER is struck with painful
memories.]
PIPER.           No, no. But - care
And want and pain and age...
[Turns back to them with a bitter change of
voice]. And penny-wealth, -
And penny-counting. - Penny prides and
fears -
Of what the neighbors say the neighbors
say! -
MARTIN'S WIFE. And were you born
without a mother, then?
ALL. Yes, you there! Ah, I told you!
He's no man.
He's of the devil.
MARTIN'S WIFE. Who was your mother,
then?
PIPER [fiercely]. Mine! - Nay, I do not
know. For when I saw her,
She was a thing so trodden, lost and sad,
I cannot think that she was ever young,
Save in the cherishing voice. - She was a
stroller.
[The women draw aside furtively,
two by two, and listen unwillingly
from the doorsteps with looks of
dread and aversion, as the PIPER
continues with growing passion.]
She was a stroller. - And she starved and
sang;
And like the wind, she wandered, and was
cold,
Outside your lighted windows, and fled by,
Storm-hunted, trying to outstrip the snow,
South, south, and homeless as a broken
bird, -
Limping and hiding! - And she fled, and
laughed,
And kept me warm; and died! To you, a
Nothing;
Nothing, forever, oh, you well-housed
mothers!
As always, always for the lighted windows
Of all the world, the Dark outside is nothing;
And all that limps and hides there in the
dark;
Famishing, - broken, - lost!
And I have sworn
For her sake and for all, that I will have
Some justice, all so late, for wretched men,


Out of these'same smug towns that drive
us forth
After the show! - Or scheme to cage us up
Out of the sunlight; like a squirrel's heart
Torn out and drying in the market-place.
My mother! Do you know what mothers
are? -
Your children! Do you know them? Ah?
not you!
There's not one here but it would follow
me,
For all your bleating!
AXEL'S WIFE.      Kuno, come away!
[The children cling to him. He
smiles down triumphantly.]
PIPER. Oho, Oho! Look you? -You
preach - I pipe!
[Reenter the men, with KURT and JACOBUS,
from the Rathaus, murmuring dubiously. The PIPER sets down JAN and
stands forth, smiling.]
JACOBUS [smoothly]. H'm! My good
man, we have faithfully debated
Whether your vision of so great a sum
Might be fulfilled, - as by some miracle.
But no. The moneys we administer
Will not allow it; nor the common weal.
Therefore, for your late service, here you
have
Full fifteen guilders, [holding forth a purse]
and a pretty sum
Indeed, for piping!
KURT [ominously]. Take them!
JACOBUS.                Either that,
Or, to speak truly, nothing!
[The PIPER is motionless.]
Come, come. Nay, count them, if you will.
KURT.                    Times goes!
PIPER. Ay. And your oath?
KURT. No more; Enough.
[There is a sound of organ music
from the Minster.]
VERONIKA [beseechingly].  Ah, Kurt!
KURT [savagely to the crowd]. What do ye,
mewling of this fellow's rights?
He hath none! — Wit ye well, he is a
stroller,
A wastrel, and the shadow of a man!
Ye waste the day and dally with the law.
Such have no rights; not in their life nor
body!
We are in no wise bound, Nothing is his.




THE PIPER


241


He may not carry arms; nor have redress
For any harm that men should put on him,
Saving to strike a shadow on the wall!
He is a Nothing, by the statute-book;
And, by the book, so let him live or die,
Like to a masterless dog!
[The PIPER stands motionless with
head upraised, not looking at
KURT. The people, half-cowed,
half-doubting, murmur and draw
back. Lights appear in the Minster; the music continues. KURT
and JACOBUS lead in the people.
JACOBUS picks up the moneypurse and takes it with him.]
VOICES [laughing, drunkenly]. One thousand guilders to a " masterless dog "!
[Others laugh, too, pass by, with
pity and derision for the PIPER, and echoes of Masterless
Dog!" Exeunt WOMEN and MEN
to the Minster. Only the children
are left, dancing round the motionless figure of the PIPER].
CHILDREN. Oh, pipe again! Oh, pipe
and make us dance!
Oh, pipe and make us run away from school!
Oh, pipe and make believe we are the mice!
[He looks down at them. He looks
up at the houses. Then he signs
to them, with his fingers on his
lips; and begins, very softly, to
pipe the Kinder-spell. The old
CLAUS and URSULA in the windows seem to doze. The children
stop first, and look at him, fascinated; then they laugh, drowsily,
and creep closer, - JAN always
near. They crowd around him.
He pipes louder, moving backwards, slowly, with magical gestures, towards the little by-streets
and the closed doors. The doors
open, everywhere. Out come the
children: little ones in nightgowns; bigger ones, with playthings, toy animals, dolls. He
pipes, gayer and louder. They
pour in, right and left. Motion
and musicfill the air. The PIPER
lifts JAN to his shoulder (dropping the little crutch) and marches


off, up the street, at the rear, piping, in the midst of them all.
Last, out of the Minster come
tumbling two little acolytes in red,
and after them, PETER the Sacristan. He trips over them in his
amazement and terror; and they
are gone after the vanishing children before the church-people
come out. The old folks lean from
their windows.]
OLD URSULA. The bell, the bell! the
church bell! They're bewitched!
[Peter rushes to the bell-rope and
pulls it. The bell sounds heavily.]
[Reenter, from the church, the citizens by twos
and threes and scores.]
OLD URSULA. I told ye all, - I told ye!
Devil's bargains!       [The bell.]
[KURT, JACOBUS, and the others appear.]
KURT. Peter the Sacristan! Give by the
bell.
What means this clangor?
PETER the Sacristan. They're bewitched!
bewitched! 
[Still pulling and shouting. 
URSULA. They're gone!
KURT.                   Thy wits!
OLD CLAUS. They're gone - they're
gone - they're gone!
PETER the Sacristan. The children!
URSULA. — With the Piper! They're
bewitched!
I told ye so.
OLD CLAUS. - I saw it with these eyes!
He piped away the children.
[Horror in the crowd. They bring
out lanterns and candles. VERONIKA holds up the forgotten
crutch.]
VERONINA. Jan - my Jan!
KURT [to her]. Thy boy! But mine, my
three, all fair and straight. -
AXEL'S WIFE [furiously to him]. 'T was
thy false bargain, thine; who would
not pay
The Piper. - But we pay!
PETER the Sacristan. Bewitched, bewitched!
The boys ran out - and I ran after them,




242


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


And something red did trip me -'t was
the Devil,
The Devil!
OLD URSULA. Ah, ring on, and crack the
bell:
Ye'll never have them back. - I told ye so!
[The bell clangs incessantly.]
CURTAIN
ACT II
SCENE I. Inside "the Hollow Hill." A
great, dim-lighted, cavernous place, which
shows signs of masonry. It is part cavern and
part cellerage of a ruined, burned-down and
forgotten old monastery in the hills. - The
only entrance (at the centre rear), a ramshackle
wooden door, closes against a flight of rocky
steps. - Light comes from an opening in the
roof, and from the right, where a faggot-fire
glows under an iron pot. - The scene reaches
(right and left) into dim corners, where sleeping children lie curled up together like kittens.
By the fire sits the PIPER, on a tree-stump
seat, stitching at a bit of red leather. At his
feet is a row of bright-colored small shoes, set
two and two. He looks up now and then, to
recount the children, and goes back to work,
with quizzical despair. Left, sits a group of
three forlorn STROLLERS. One nurses a lame
knee; one, evidently dumb, talks in signs to
the others; one is munching bread and cheese
out of a wallet. All have the look of hunted
and hungry men. They speak only in whispers to each other throughout the scene; but
their hoarse laughter breaks out now and then
over the bird-like ignorance of the children. A
shaft of sunlight steals through the hole in the
roof. JAN, who lies nearest the PIPER, wakes
up.
JAN. Oh! [The PIPER turns.] Oh, I
thought... I had a dream!
PIPER [softly].  Ahe?
JAN. I thought... I dreamed... somebody wanted me.
PIPER. Soho!
JAN [earnestly]. I thought... Somebody
wanted me.
PIPER. How then?
[With watchful tenderness.]
JAN. I thought I heard Somebody crying.


PIPER. Pfui! - What a dream. - Don't
make me cry again.
JAN. Oh, was it you? - Oh, yes!
PIPER [apart, tersely]. No Michael yet!
[JAN begins to laugh softly, in a bewildered way; then grows quite
happy and forgetful. While the
other children waken, he reaches
for the pipe and tries to blow upon
it, to the PIPER'S amusement.
ILSE and HANSEL, the Butcher's
children, wake.]
ILSE. Oh!
HANSEL.    - Oh!
PIPER.            Ah?
ILSE.        I thought I had a dream
PIPER. Again?
ISLE.... It was some lady, calling me.
HANSEL. Yes, and a fat man called us to
come quick;
A fat man, he was crying - about me!
That same fat man I dreamt of, yesterday.
PIPER. Come, did you ever see a fat
man cry,
About a little Boy?
[The STROLLERS are convulsed with
hoarse mirth.]
HANSEL.          No, - Never.
ILSE.                         Never!
Oh, what a funny dream!
PIPER [checking the STROLLERS, with a
gesture of warning towards the door].
Strange sights of Hamelin through these
little windows.
Come here, you dreamer. Tell me what he
said.
HANSEL. He only said "Come home!"
But I did n't go.
I don't know where... Oh, what a funny
dream!
ILSE. Mine was a bad dream! - Mine
was a lovely lady
And she was by the river, staring in.
PIPER. You were the little gold-fish,
none could catch.
Oh, what a funny dream!...
[Apart, anxiously.]    No Michael yet.
[Aloud]. Come, bread and broth! Here -
not all, three at a time;
'T is simpler. Here, you kittens. Eat
awhile.




THE PIPER


243


So there are tears in Hamelin; - warm,
wet tears;
And maybe, salt. Who knows?
RuDI.             Oh, I was dreaming!
[The PIPER takes JAN on his knee
and feeds him, after ladling out a
big bowl of broth from the kettle
for the CHILDREN, and giving
them bread.]
PIPER. Oh, I was dreaming, too!
CHILDREN. Oh, tell it to us!
PIPER. I dreamed... a Stork... had
nested in my hat.
CHILDREN. Oh!
PIPER.         And when I wokeCHILDREN.               You hadPIPER.           One hundred children!
CHILDREN. Oh, it came true! Oh, oh; it
all came true!
THE STROLLERS. Ah, ho, ho, ho!
[The dumb one rises, stretches, and
steals toward the entrance, stopping to slip a blind-patch over
one eye. The PIPER goes to him
with one stride, seizing him by
the shoulder.]
PIPER [to him, and the others, apart]. Look
you. - No Michael yet! - And he is
gone!
Full three days now, - three days. If he
be caught,
Why then, - the little ravens shall be fed!
[Groans from the three.]
Enough that Cheat-the-Devil leaked out
too; -
No foot but mine shall quit this fox-hole
now!
And you, - think praise for once, you have
no tongue,
And keep these magpies quiet.
[Turns away.]
[To himself.]             Ah, that girl.
The Burgomeister's Barbara! But for her,
And moon-struck Michael with his " one
more look "!
Where is he now? - And where are we?
[Turning back to the CHILDREN.]  So, so.
[The STROLLERS huddle together,
with looks of renewed anxiety
and wretchedness. Their laughter
at the CHILDREN breaks out forlornly now and then. The PIPER


shepherds the CHILDREN, but with
watchful eyes and ears toward
the entrance always. His action
grows more and more tense.]
RUDI [over his broth]. Oh, I remember
now! - Before I woke...
Oh, what an awful dream!
ILSE.             Oh, tell us, Rudi,Oh, scare us, - Rudi, scare us! -
RUDI [bursting into tears]... Lump was
dead!
Lump, Lump! -      [The CHILDREN wail.]
PIPER [distracted]. Who's Lump?RUDI.                      Our Dog!
PIPER [shocked and pained]. The Dog! -
No, no.
Heaven save us - I forgot about the dogs!
RUDI. He Wanted me; - and I always
was n't there!
And people tied him up, - and other people
Pretended that he bit. - He never bitesi
He Wanted me, until it broke his heart,
And he was dead!
PIPER [struggling with his emotion]. And
then he went to heaven,
To chase the happy cats up all the trees;Little white cats!... He wears a golden
collar...
And sometimes - [Aside] - I'd forgot
about the dogs!
Well, dogs must suffer, so that men grow
wise.
'T was ever so.
[He turns to give JAN a piping
lesson.]
CHILDREN.     Oh, what a funny dream!
[Suddenly he lifts his hand. They
listen, and hear a dim sound of
distant chanting, going by on
some neighboring road. The
PIPER is puzzled; the STROLLERS
are plainly depressed.]
JAN. What is it?
PIPER.    People; passing down below,
In the dark valley.
[He looks at the CHILDREN fixedly.]
Do you want to see them?
CHILDREN. Don't let them find us!
What an ugly noise.No, no - don't let them come!
PIPER.                Hark ye to me.
Some clay I'11 take you out with me to play;




244


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


High in the sun, - close to the waterfall....
And we will make believe - We'll make believe
We're hiding!
[The STROLLERS rock with mirth.]
CHILDREN. Yes, yes! Oh, let us make
believe!
STROLLERS. Oho, ho, ho! - A make-believe! - Ho, ho!
PIPER. But, if you're good, - yes, very
very soon
I'll take you, as I promised,CHILDREN.              - Gypsies, oh!
PIPER. Yes, with the gypsies. We shall
go at night,
With just a torch -     [Watching them.]
CHILDREN. Oh!
PIPER. Like fire-flies! Will-o'-the-wisps!
And make believe we're hiding, all the way,
Till we come out into a sunny land, -
All vines and sunlight, yes, and men that
sing!
Far, far away - forever.
[Gives ILSE a bowl to feed the other
CHILDREN. JAN pipes a measure
of the Kinder-spell, brokenly.
The PIPER turns.]
So! Thou'lt be
My master, some day. Thou shalt pipe for
me.
JAN [piping]. Oh, was n't that one beautiful? - Now you!
PIPER [taking the pipe]. The rainbowbridge by day;
- And borrow a shepherd-crook!
At night we take to the Milky Way;
And then we follow the brook!
We'll follow the brook, whatever way
The brook shall sing, or the sun shall say,
Or the mothering wood-dove coos!
And what do I care, what else I wear,
If I keep my rainbow shoes!
[He points to the little row of bright
shoes. The CHILDREN scream
with joy. ILSE and HANSEL run
back.]
CHILDREN. Oh dear! What lovely shoes!
Oh, which are mine?
Oh! Oh! - What lovely shoes! Oh, which
are mine?
PIPER. Try, till you see.


[Taking up a little red pair.] But these,these are for Jan.
[JAN is perched on the tree-stump,
shy and silent with pleasure.]
ILSE. Oh, those are best of all! And JanPIPER.      And Jan
Is not to trudge, like you. Jan is to wear
Beautiful shoes, and shoes made most of all,
To look at!
[Takes up a pair of bird's wings.]
CHILDREN [squealing]. Oh! Where did
you find the wings?
Bird's wings!
PIPER. There was some hunter in the
woods,
Who killed more birds than he could carry
home.
He did not want these, - though the starling did,
But could not use them more! And so, -
[Fastening one to each heel.]  And so,They trim a little boy.
[Puts them on JAN. He is radiant.
He stretches out his legs and pats
the feathers.]
CHILDREN [trying on theirs and capering].
0 Jan! -     Jan!
Oh! see my shoes!
[The PIPER looks at JAN.]
PIPER.         Hey day, what now?
JAN.                       I wish...
PIPER. What do you wish? Wish for it!
- It shall come.
[JAN pulls him closer and speaks
shyly.]
JAN. I wish - that I could show them
to the Man,
The Lonely Man.
[The PIPER looks at him and backs
away; sits down helplessly and
looks at him again.]
Oh, can I?PIPER. Thou!- 'T would make me a
proud man.
JAN. Oh! it would make Him smile!
[The CHILDREN dance and caper.
TRUDE wakes up and joins them.
Sound of distant chanting again.]
TRUDE.              - I had a dream!
PIPER. A dream!
[Pretending to be amazed. Reflects,
a moment.]




THE PIPER


245




I know! - Oh, what a funny dream!
[The CHILDREN all fall a-laughing
when he does. - Noise without.
CHEAT-THE-DEVIL'S voice crying, " Cuckoo - Cuckoo! "]
CHEAT-THE-DEVIL. Quick, quick! -
I've something here.
[The others roll away a big stone,
and enter by the wooden door
(rear), CHEAT-THE-DEVIL. He
does not wear his red hood. He
has a garland round his neck,
and a basket on his arm.]
PIPER [sharply to himself]. No Michael
yet!
ITo   CHEAT-THE-DEVIL].   Michael! -
Where's Michael?
CHEAT-THE-DEVIL.    Look you, - you
must wait.
We must be cunning. - There's a squirrel,
mark you,
Hopped after me! He would have found us
out.
I wanted him; I loved him. But I ran.
For once a squirrel falls a-talking. - Ah!
Look what I have. - Guess, guess!
[Showing his basket to the CHILDREN.]
CHILDREN. Cakes!         [He is sad.]
Shoes! [He is sadder].
Then - honey!
[He radiantly undoes his basket,
and displays a honeycomb. The
STROLLERS, too, rush upon him.]
PIPER. Ah, Cheat-the-Devil! They
would crop your ears.
Where had you this?
CHEAT-THE-DEVIL. Why, such a kind
old farmer!
He'd left his bee-hives; they were all alone;
And the bees know me. So I brought this
for you;
I knew They'd like it. - Oh, you're happy
now!
PIPER. But Michael, - have they
caught him?
CHEAT-THE-DEVIL.       Oh, not they!
I heard no word of Michael; Michael's safe!
Once on the road I met a countryman,
Asked me the way. And not a word I spoke!
'Tis far the wisest. Twenty riddles he
asked me.




I smiled and wagged my head. Anon cries
he,
"This Fool is deaf and dumb! "-That
made me angry,
But still I spoke not. - And I would not
hurt him!
He was a bad man. But I liked the mule.Now am I safe! - Now am I home at last!
PIPER. 'St. - Met you any people on
the way,
Singing?
CHEAT-THE-DEVIL. No, growling, -
growling dreary psalms
All on a sunny day! Behind the hedges,
I saw them go. They go from Hamelin,
now;
And I know why! -
[The PIPER beckons him away from
the CHILDREN.]
The mayor's Barbara
Must go to Rudersheim, to be a Nun!
PIPER. To be a Nun!
CHEAT-THE-DEVIL. A penance for them
all.
She weeps; but she must go! All they, you
see,
Are wroth against him. - He must give his
child -
PIPER. A nun!
CHEAT-THE-DEVIL [nodding]. Forever!
- She, who smiled at Michael.
Look you, she weeps! They are bad people
Nothing like these.
Nothing like these.
[Looking at the CHILDREN.]
These are all beautiful.
PIPER. To lock her up! A maiden, shut
away
Out of the sun. To cage her there for life,
Cut off her hair; pretend that she is dead! -
Horrible, horrible! No, '11l not endure it.
I'll end this murder. -He shall give up his;
But never so! - Not so! - While I do live
To let things out of cages! — Tell me,
quick! -
When shall it happen?
CHEAT-THE-DEVIL. Why, it falls to-day.
I saw two herds of people going by,
To be there well aforetime, for the sight.
And she is going last of all, at noon;
All sparkling, like a Bride. - I heard them
tell..








246


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


PIPER. No, never, never! - No, it shall
not be!
[Steps heard scrambling down the
entranceway.]
[Enter MICHAEL in mad haste. They rush
upon him with exultation and relief. He
shakes them off, doggedly.]
PIPER. So! -You had like to have
hanged us.
MICHAEL.            - What of that?
PIPER. All for a lily maiden.
MICHAEL.             Ah, - thy pipe!
How will it save her?- Save her! - Tune
thy pipe
To compass that! - You do not know -
PIPER.                      I know.
Tell me no more. - I say it shall not be!
To heel, lad! No, I follow, - none but I!
Go, - go!    [MICHAEL rushes out again.]
[To CHEAT-THE-DEVIL, pointing to the
CHILDREN.] Do you bide here and
shepherd these.
CHILDREN. Where are you going?Take us too! - us too! -
Oh, take us with you? - Take us!
PIPER [distracted].      No, no, no!
You shall be kittens all. And chase your
tails,
Till I come back! - So here!
[Catches HANSEL and affixes to his
little jacket a long strip of leather
for a tail; then whirls him about.]
CHILDREN.         Me too! - Me too!
CHEAT-THE-DEVIL. Let me make tails,
- let me!
[Seizing shears and leather.]
PIPER [wildly].  Faith, and you shall.
A master tailor! - Come, here's food for
thought.
Think all, -
[To the STROLLERS.] And hold your tongues
there! -
If a CatIf a Cat have - as all men say - Nine
Lives,
And if Nine Tailors go to make a Man,
How long, then shall it take one Man
turned Tailor
To keep a Cat in Tails, until she die?
[CHEAT-THE-DEVIL looks subdued;
ihe CHILDREN whirl about-]


But here's no game for Jan. - Stay! Something else. -
[He runs to a wooden coffer, rear,
and takes out a long crystal on the
end of a string, with a glance at
the shaft of sunlight from the roof.
The CHILDREN watch.]
Be quiet, now. - Chase not your tails too
far,
Till I come home again.
CHILDREN. Come home - come home!
PIPER. And you shall see my -
CHILDREN.        Something Beautiful!
Oh, oh, what is it? - Oh, and will it play?
Will it play music?
PIPER. Yes.
[He hangs the crystal in the sun. A
Rainbow strikes the wall.]
-The best of all!
CHEAT-THE-DEVIL, JAN, CHILDREN. Oh,
oh, how beautiful, - how beautiful!
PIPER. And hear it pipe and call, and
dance, and sing.
Hejd! - And hark you all. You have to
mind 
The Rainbow!
[He climbs out, pipe in hand. The
CHILDREN whirl about after their
tails. - CHEAT-THE-DEVIL, and
JAN on his tree-stump, openmouthed with happiness, watch
the Rainbow.]
CURTAIN
SCENE II. The Cross-ways on the Long
Road to Rudersheim. A wooded country, high
hills at back. The place is wild and overgrown, like the haunted spot it is reputed to
be. In the foreground, right, a ruined stone
well appears, in a mass of weeds and vines.
Opposite, left, tall trees and dense thickets.
Where the roads cross (to left of centre), stands
a large, neglected shrine, with a weather-worn
figure of Christ, - again the " Lonely Man,"
-facing toward Hamelin. The stage is
empty, at rise of the curtain; but the sound of
chanting from burghers just gone by fades
slowly, on the road to Rudersheim. From the
hillside at the rear comes the PIPER, wrapped
in a long green cloak, his pipe in his hand.
He looks after the procession, and back to
Hamelin.




THE PIPER


247


[Enter, springing from the bushes to the right,
MICHAEL, who seizes him. Their speech
goes breathlessly.]
MICHAEL. Quick! - tell me 
PIPER.              - Patience.
MICHAEL. Patience? - Death and hell!
Oh, save her - save her! Give the children
back.
PIPER. Never. Have you betrayed us?
MICHAEL.             I! - betrayed?
PIPER. SO, SO, lad.
MICHAEL.     But to save her -
PIPER.             There's a way, -
Trust me! I save her, or we swing together
Merrily, in a row. - How did you see her?
MICHAEL. By stealth, two days ago, at
evening,
Hard by the vine-hid wall of her own
garden,
I made a warbling like a nightingale;
And she came out to hear.
PIPER.                A serenade!
Under the halter!
MICHAEL. Hush. - A death-black night,
Until she came. - Oh, how to tell thee, lad!
She came, - she came, not for the nightingale,
But even dreaming that it would be I!
PIPER. She knew you? - We are
trapped, then.
MICHAEL.           No, not so!
She smiled on me. - Dost thou remember
how
She smiled on me that day? Alas, poor
maid,
She took me for some noble in disguise!
And all these days, - she told me, - she
had dreamed
That I would come to save her!
PIPER.                Said she this?
MICHAEL.   All this -all this, and
more!...
What could lies do? - I lied to her of thee;
I swore I knew not of thy vanishment,
Nor the lost children. But I told her true,
I was a stroller and an outcast man
That hid there, like a famished castaway,
For one more word, one look, without a
hope.
Helpless to save her.
PIPER.        And she told thee then,
She goes to be a nun?


MICHAEL.         Youth to the grave!
And I - vile nothing - cannot go to save
her,
Only to look my last 
PIPER.              Who knows?
MICHAEL [bitterly].     Ah, thou -
PIPER. Poor Nightingale!
[Fingers his pipe, noiselessly.]
MICHAEL [rapt with grief]. Oh, but the
scorn of her!
PIPER. She smiled on thee.
MICHAEL. Until she heard the truth:A juggler, - truly, - and no wandering
knight!
Oh, and she wept.
[Wildly.]      Let us all hang together.
PIPER. Thanks. Kindly spoken. - Not
this afternoon!
MICHAEL. Thou knowest they are given
up for dead?
PIPER. Truly.
MICHAEL.    Bewitched?
PIPER.          So are they.
MICHAEL.           Sold to the Devil?
PIPE:R [pacing softly up and down, with the
restless cunning of a squirrel at watch].
Pfui! But who else? Of course. This
same old Devil!
This kind old Devil takes on him all we do!
Who else is such a refuge in this world?
Who could have burned the abbey in this
place,
Where holy men did live? Why, 't was the
Devil!
And who did guard us one secluded spot
By burying a wizard at this cross-ways? -
So none dare search the haunted, evil place!
The Devil for a landlord! - So say I!
And all we poor, we strollers, for his tenants;
We gypsies and we pipers in the world,
And a few hermits and sword-swallowers,
And all the cast-aways that Holy Church
Must put in cages - cages - to the end!
[To MICHAEL, who is overcome.] Take heart!
I swear, -by all the stars that
chime!
I'll not have things in Cages!
MICHAEL.                   Barbara!
So young, - so young and beautiful!
PIPER.                      And fit
To marry with friend Michael!
MICHAEL.               Do not mock.




248


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


PIPER. I mock not. - (Baa - Baa -
Barbara!
MICHAEL.            Ay, she laughed,
On that first day. But still she gazed. - I
saw
Her, all the while! I swallowed -
PIPER.                    Prodigies!
A thousand swallows, and no summer yet!
But now, - 't is late to ask, - why did
you not
Swallow her father? - That had saved us
all.
MICHAEL. They will be coming soon.
They will cut off
All her bright hair, - and wall her in forever.
PIPER. Never. They shall not.
MICHAEL [dully]. Will you give them
back,
Now?
PIPER. I will never give them back. Be
sure.
MICHAEL. And she is made an offering
for them all.
I heard it of the gossips. -They have sworn
Jacobus shall not keep his one ewe-lamb
While all the rest go childless.
PIPER.                  And I swear
That he shall give her up, - to none but
thee!
MICHAEL. You cannot do it!
PIPER.        Have I lived like Cain,
But to make good one hour of Life and Sun?
And have I got this Hamelin in my hands,
To make it pay its thousand cruelties
With such a fool's one-more?...
- You know right well,
'T was not the thousand guilders that I
wanted
For thee, or me, or any! - Ten would
serve.
But there it ached; there, in the money-bag
That serves the town of Hamelin for an
heart!
That stab was mortal! And I thrust it
deep.
Life, life, I wanted; safety, -sun and
wind! -
And but to show them how that daily fear
They call their faith, is made of blasphemies
That would put out the Sun and Moon and
Stars,


Early, for some last judgment!
[He laughs up to the tree-tops.]
And the Lord,
Where will He get his Harpers and singingmen
And them   that laugh for joy?-From
Hamelin guilds? -
Will you imagine Kurt the Councillor
Trying to sing?
[He looks at his pipe again; then
listens intently.]
MICHAEL. His lean throat freeze! - But,
she -
Barbara! Barbara! -
PIPER.        Patience. She will come,
Dressed like a bride.
MICHAEL.       Ah, do not mock me so.
PIPER. I mock not.
MICHAEL.    She will never look at me.
PIPER. Rather than be a nun, I swear
she will
Look at thee twice, - and with a long, long
look.
[Chant approaches in the distancecoming from Hamelin.]
VOICES. Dies irae, dies illa
Solvet saeclum in favilla,
Teste David cum Sibylla.
Quantus tremor est futurus,
Quando judex est venturus,
Cuncta stricte discussurus!
PIPER. Bah, how they whine! Why do
they drag it so?
MICHAEL [overcome]. Oh, can it be the
last of all? 0 Saints! -
O blessed Francis, Ursula, Catherine!
Hubert - and Crispin - Pantaleone -
Paul!
George o' the Dragon! - Michael the
Archangel!
PIPER. Michael Sword-eater, canst not
swallow a chant?
The well, the well! - Take care.
VOICES [nearer]. Inter oves locum praesta,
Et ab hoedis me sequestra,
Statuens in parte dextra.
Confutatis maledictis,
Flammis acribus addictis
Voca me cum benedictis.
[MICHAEL climbs down the ancient
well, reaching his head up warily




THE PIPER


249


to see. The PIPER waves to him
debonairly, points to the tree-tops,
left, and stands a moment showing in his face his disapproval of
the music. He fingers his pipe.
As the hymn draws near, he
scrambles among the bushes, left,
and disappears.]
[Enter slowly, chanting, the company of
burghers from Hamelin, - men together
first, headed by priests; then the women.
- ANSELM and all the townsfolk appear
(saving VERONIKA, the wife of KURT);
JACOBUS is meek; KURT very stern. -
As they appear, the piping of the Dancespell begins softly, high in air. The
hymn wavers; when the first burghers
reach the centre of the stage, it breaks
down. They look up, bewildered; then,
with every sign of consternation, struggle,
and vacant fear, they begin to dance,
willy-nilly. Their faces work; they
struggle to walk on; but it is useless. The
music whirls them irresistibly into a
rhythmic pace of 3 time, and jogs their
words, when they try to speak, into the
same dance-measure. One by one, -
two and two they go, - round and round
like corks at first, with every sign of
struggle and protest, then off, on the long
road to Rudersheim. Fat priests waltz
together.- KURT the fierce and JACOBUS the sleek hug each other in frantic
endeavor to be released. Their words jolt
insanely.]
No, no. - No, no.
KURT, JACOBUS. No, no. - No, no!
Yes, yes.- I, yes.Yes, yes. - Yes, yes!
La - crymos - a - Dies - illBewitched -   the Devil! -  bewitched - bewitched!
SOME. I will not - will not - will - I
will!
No, no - but where! - Help 
help! - To arms!
'Suppli - canti - suppli -Oh!
To   Hamelin -   back -   to
OTHERS.     Hamelin - stay!
No, no! - No, no, - Away,
- away!


[They dance out convulsively, towards Rudersheim. KURT and
JACOBUS, still whirling, cry.]
Yes, yes! - yes, yes!
JACOBUS, KURT. - Let go - let go -. No, no! - I will notNol... No!
[Exeunt, left, dancing.]
Keep time, keep time! Have
mercy! - Time!
OTHERS. Oh, let me - go! - Let golet go!
Yes, yes - Yes, yes - No, no
-no-no!
[BARBARA appears, pale and beautiful;richly dressed in white, with flowing
locks. She is wan and exhausted. - The
dance-mania, as it seizes her, makes her
circle slowly and dazedly with a certain
pitiful silliness. The nuns and monks
accompanying her point in horror. But
they, too, dance off with each other, willynilly, - like leaves in a tempest. BARBARA is left alone, still circling slowly.
The piping sounds softer. She staggers
against a tree, and keeps on waving her
hands and turning her head, vaguely, in
time. MICHAEL looks forth from the well;
then climbs out and approaches her.]
MICHAEL. She is so beautiful,- how
dare I tell her?
My heart, how beautiful! The blessed
saint!...
Fear nothing, fairest Lady.- You are
saved.
[She looks at him unseeingly, and
continues to dance. - He holds
out his arms to stop her.]
Pray you, the danger's gone. Pray you,
take breath!
Poor, shining dove, - I would not hold
thee here,
Against thy wish.- 'T is Michael, the
sword-eater.   [The piping ceases.]
BARBARA [murmuring]. Yes, yes-      I
must - I must - I must...
[Reenter the PIPER from the thickets.]
MICHAEL. Look, I will guard you like a
princess, here;
Yes, like Our Lady's rose-vine.




250


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


BARBARA [gasping].    Ah, my heart!
[The PIPER comes towards her. She
sees him and holds out her arms,
crying:]
Oh, he has saved me! - I am thine -
thine - thine!
[Falls into his arms half-fainting.
The PIPER stands amazed,
alarmed, chagrined.]
PIPER. Mine?
MICHAEL [furiously]. Thine?- So was
it? All a trap? Cock's blood!
Thine, thine! - And thou hast piped her
wits away.
Thine!
PIPER [holding her off]. No, not mine!
BARBARA [to him]. Why did you steal me
hence?
When did you love me? - Was it on first
sight?
PIPER [confounded]. I, love thee?
MICHAEL.    - Knave! thief! liar!
PIPER.            - Give me breath.
[Holds off BARBARA gently.]
BARBARA. Where are you taking me?
PIPER.              I? Taking thee?
MICHAEL [to her]. He shall not steal thee!
BARBARA [in a daze]. I must follow him.
PIPER. No! 'T is too much. You shall
not follow me!
I'll not be followed.- Damsel, sit you
down.
Here is too much.! I love you not.
BARBARA [wonderingly].  You do not?
Why did you pipe to me?
MICHAEL.       - And steal her wits,
Stealer of all the children!
BARBARA [vaguely].  Are they safe?
PIPER [to MICHAEL]. Oh, your good
faith! -
[To her.]       They're safe.
BARBARA. I knew - I knew it!
PIPER. And so art thou. But never shall
they go
To Hamelin more; and never shalt thou go
To be a nun.
BARBARA. To be a nun, - no, no! Ah
me, I'm spent.
Sir, take me with you.
MICHAEL [still enraged, to the PIPER]. Rid
her of the spell!
Is this thy pledge?


PIPER [distracted]. I do but rub my wits
To think - to think.
[To himself].  What shall I do with her,
Now she is here? What if she stayed?Forever?
[To them.] Hearken. - You, Michael, on to
Rudersheim -
MICHAEL. And leave her here? No, no!
PIPER.            Then take the girl.
BARBARA. To Rudersheim? No, never,
never!
PIPER.                    Well...
Hearken. - There is the hermit, over the
hill.            [Apart, wildly.]
But how - suppose she will not marry him?
I will not take her where the children are.
And yet - [An idea strikes him. To her.]
Hark, now; - hark now, and tell me truly:
Can you spin cloth?
BARBARA [amazed]. I? Spin?
PIPER [eagerly].  Can you make shoes?
BARBARA. 1 - I make shoes! - Fellow!
PIPER.                    So.
MICHAEL.             Art thou mad!
PIPER. With me you may not go! But
you'll be safe.
Hearken: - you, Michael, go to Rudersheim;
And tell the nuns -
BARBARA. No, no! I dare not have it!
Oh, they would send and take me! No, no,
no!
PIPER. Would you go back to Hamelin?
BARBARA.            No - no- no!
Ah, I am spent.
[Droops towards the PIPER; falters
and sinks down on the bank beside the well, in a swoon. - The
PIPER is abashed and rueful for
the moment.]
MICHAEL.         All this, your work!
PIPER [looking at her closely]. Not mine.
This is no charm. It is all youth and grief.
And weariness. And she shall follow you.Tell the good nuns you found her sore bewitched,
Here in this haunt of "devils"; - clean distraught,
No Church could so receive a dancing nun!
Tell them thou art an honest, piteous man
Desires to marry her.
MICHAEL.         Marry the Moon!




THE PIPER


25I


PIPER. No, no, the Moon for me! - She
shall be yours;
And here she sleeps, until her wits be sound.
[He spreads his cloak over her,
gently.]
The sun's still high. 'T is barely afternoon.
[Looks at the sunshine. A thought
strikes him with sudden dismay.]
'T is - no, the time is going! - On my life
I had forgot Them! - And They will not
stay
After the Rainbow fades.
MICHAEL [confounded]. Art thou moonmad?
PIPER [madly]. No. Stir not! Keep her
safe! I come anon.
But first I go. - They'll not mind Cheatthe-Devil!
They'll creep, to find out where the Rainbow went.
I know them! So would I! - They'll all
leak out!
MICHAEL. Stay - stay
PIPER. No; guard her, you!- Anon,
anon!
MICHAEL. But you will pipe her up and
after you!
PIPER fflinging him the pipe from his belt].
Do you fear this? Then keep it till
I come.
You bide! - The Other cannot.
MICHAEL.                   Who?
PIPER.                  The Rainbow,
The Rainbow! -
[He runs madly up the hillside, and
away.]
CURTAIN
ACT III
SCENE: The same, later. BARBARA lies
motionless, still sleeping. - MICHAEL, sitting
on the bank opposite, fingers the pipe with awe
and wistfulness. He blows softly upon it; then
looks at the girl hopefully. She does not stir.
[Enter the PIPER, from the hills at back. He
carries a pair of water-jars slung over his
shoulders, and seems to be in highfeather.]
PIPER [singing]. Out of your cage,
Come out of your cage
And take your soul on a pilgrimage!


Pease in your shoes, an if you must! -
But out and away, before you're dust:
Scribe and Stay-at-home,
Saint and Sage,
Out of your cage,
Out of your cage! -
[He feigns to be terror-struck at
sight of the pipe in MICHAEL'S
hands.]
Ho, help! Good Michael, Michael, loose the
charm!
Michael, have mercy! I'm bewitched! -
MICHAEL [giving him the pipe]. Cock's
faith!
Still mocking! - Well ye know, it will not
play
Such games for me.
PIPER. Be soothed, - 't was as I guessed
[Unslings the jars.]
All of them hungry, - and the Rainbow
going; -
And Cheat-the-Devil pining in a corner.
'T was well I went: they were for leaking
out,
And then, - lopped ears for two!
MICHAEL.           Oh, that will come.
PIPER. Never believe it! We have saved
her, look you;
We save them all! No prison walls again,
For anything so young, in Hamelin there.
Wake her, and see.
MICHAEL.    Ay, wake her. But for me,
Her sleep is gentler.
PIPER [comfortingly]. Nay, but wait. 
Good faith,
Wait. We have broke the bars of iron now;
Still there are golden! - 'T is her very self
Is caged within herself. Once coax her out,
Once set her own heart free! 
MICHAEL.           Wake her, and see!
[The PIPER crosses, humming.]
PIPER. Mind your eyes, tune your tongue!
Let it never be said, but sung, - sung;
"Out of your cage, out of your cage!"
Maiden, maiden, -
[He wakes her gently. BARBARA
sits up, plainly bewildered; then
she sees the PIPER, and says
happily:]
BARBARA. Oh! - you have come to
save me. They are gone.
All this, for love of me!




252


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


PIPER [ruefully].  No, no - I - No!
BARBARA. You - you are robbers?
[Her hands go to the pearls about
her neck.]
PIPER [indignant]. No! Blood on the
Moon 
This is the maddest world I ever blinked
at. -
Fear nothing, maiden. I will tell you all.
Come, sit you down; and Michael shall
keep watch
From yonder hillock, lest that any pass.
Fear nothing. None will pass: they are too
sure
The Devil hath this cross-ways! - Sit you
down.
[MICHAEL watches, with jealous
wistfulness, from the road (left
rear). — BARBARA half fearfully
sits up, on the bank by the well.]
BARBARA. Not love? And yet... you
do not want my pearls?
Then why -
PIPER. For why should all be love or
money?
Money! Oho, -that mouldy thousand
guilders
You think of! - But it was your Hamelin
friends
That loved the guilders, and not I.
BARBARA.              Then why -
Why did you steal me hence?
PIPER.             Why did yourself
Long to be stolen?
BARBARA [shuddering]. Ah! to be shut
up...
Forever, - young - alive!
PIPER.            Alive and singing;
Young, - young; - and four thick walls
and no more sun,
No music, and no wandering, and no life!
Think you, I would not steal all things
alive
Out of such doom? - How can I breathe
and laugh
While there are things in cages? - You are
free;
And you shall never more go back again.
BARBARA. And you, who are you then?
PIPER.             How do I know?
Moths in the Moon! - Ask me a thing in
reason.


BARBARA. And 't was not... that you
loved me.
PIPER.           Loved thee? No!Save but along with squirrels, and bright
fish,
And bubbling water.
BARBARA.      Then where shall I go?
PIPER. Oh, little bird, -is that your
only song?
Go? Everywhere! Here be no walls, no
hedges,
No tolls, no taxes, - rats nor aldermen!
Go, say you? Round the world, and round
again!
[Apart]. - Ah, she was Hamelin-born.
[He watches her.]
But there's a man,Sky-true, sword-strong, and brave to look
upon;
One that would thrust his hand in dragon's
mouth
For your bright sake; one that would face
the Devil,
Would swallow fire -
BARBARA.           You would?
PIPER [desperately].  I? - No, not I!
Michael, - yon goodman Michael.
BARBARA [bitterly]. A stroller! - oh,
nought but a wandering man.
PIPER. Well, would you have a man take
root, I ask?
BARBARA. That swallows swords....
PIPER.           Is he a comely man?
BARBARA. That swallows swords! -
PIPER.    What's manlier to swallow?
Did he but swallow pancakes, were that
praise?
Pancakes and sausage, like your Hamelin
yokels?
He swallows fire and swords, I say, and
more.
And yet this man hath for a whole noonhour
Guarded you while you slept; - still as a
dove,
Distant and kind as shadow; giant-strong
For his enchanted princess, - even you.
BARBARA. So you bewitched me, then.
PIPER [wildly].     How do I know?
BARBARA. Where are the children?
PIPER.          I'll not tell you that.
You are too much of Hamelin.




THE PIPER


253


BARBARA.       You bewitched them!
PIPER. Yes, so it seems. But how?Upon my life,
'T is more than I know, - yes, a little more.
[Rapidly; half in earnest and half in
whimsy.]
Sometimes it works, and sometimes no.
There are
Some things upon my soul, I cannot do.
[Watching her.]
BARBARA [expectantly]. Not even with
thy pipe?
PIPER.                 Not even so.
Some are too hard. - Yet, yet, I love to
try:
And most, to try with all the hidden charms
I have, that I have never counted through.
BARBARA [fascinated]. Where are they?
PIPER [touching his heart]. Here.
BARBARA.     Where are they?
PIPER.             How do I know?
If I knew all, why should I care to live?
No, no! The game is What-Will HappenNext?
BARBARA. And what will happen?
PIPER [tantalizingly]. Ah! how do I know?
It keeps me searching. 'T is so glad and
sad
And strange to find out, What-Will-Happen-Next!
And mark you this; the strangest miracle...
BARBARA. Yes! -
PIPER. Stranger than the Devil or the
Judgment;
Stranger than piping, - even when I pipe!
Stranger than charming mice - or even
men -
BARBARA [with tense expectancy]. What
is it? What?
PIPER [watching her]. Why, - what may
come to pass
Here in the heart. There is one very
charm -
BARBARA. Oh!
PIPER.      Are you brave?
BARBARA [awe-struck].       Oh!
PIPER [slowly]. Will you drink the
philter?
BARBARA. 'T is... some enchantment?
PIPER [mysteriously]. 'T is a love philter.
BARBARA. Oh, tell me first

PIPER.     Why, sooth, the only charm
In it, is Love. It is clear well-water.
BARBARA [disappointed]. Only wellwater?
PIPER.       Love is only Love.
It must be philters, then?
[He comes down smiling and beckons to MICHAEL, who draws
near, bewildered.]
This lady thirsts
For magic!
[He ties a long green scarf that he
has over his shoulder, to a waterjar, and lowers it down the old
well; while BARBARA watches,
awe-struck. He continues to sing
softly.]
Mind your eyes,
Tune your tongue;
Let it never be said,
But sung, - sung! -
MICHAEL [to BARBARA, timidly]. I am
glad at least, fair lady,
To think how my poor show did give you
pleasure
That day - that day when -
BARBARA.       Ah! that day of doom!
MICHAEL. What is your will?
BARBARA [passionately]. I know not; and
I care not!
[Apart]. Oh, it is true. - And he a swordeater!
[The PIPER hauls up the jar, full of
water.]
PIPER. Michael, your cup.
[MICHAEL gives him a drinkinghorn from his belt. The PIPER
filled it with water, solemnly, and
turns to BARBARA, who is at first
defiant, then fascinated.]
Maiden, your ears. So: - hearken.
Before you drink of this, is it your will
Forever to be gone from Hamelin?
BARBARA. I must, -I must.
PIPER.                 Your mother?
BARBARA [piteously]. I have no mother;
Nor any father, more. He gave me up.
PIPER:. That did he! - For a round one
thousand guilders!
Weep not, I say! First, loose you, heart
and shoes,




254


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


From Hamelin. Put off now, the dust, the
mould,
The cobble-stones, the little prying windows;
The streets that dream o' What the Neighbors Say.
Think you were never born there. Think
some Breath
Wakened you early - early on one morning,
Deep in a Garden (but you knew not whose),
Where voices of wild waters bubbling ran,
Shaking down music from glad mountaintops, -
Where the still peaks were burning in the
dawn,
Like fiery snow, - down to the listening
valleys, '
That do off their blue mist only to show
Some deeper blue, some haunt of violets.
No voice you heard, nothing you felt or
saw,
Save in your heart, the tumult of young
birds,
A nestful of wet wings and morning-cries,
Throbbing for flight!...
Then, - for your Soul, new wakened, felt
athirst,
You turned to where that call of water led,
Laughing for truth,- all truth and starlike laughter!
Beautiful water, that will never stay,
But runs and laughs and sparkles in the
heart,
And sends live laughter trickling everywhere,
And knows the thousand longings of the
Earth!
And as you drank it then, so now, drink
here;
[He reaches her the horn. She has
listened, motionless, like a thing
bewitched, hereyesfixed and wide,
as if she were sleep-walking. She
drinks. MICHAEL stands near,
also  motionless.  When  she
speaks, it is in a younger voice,
shy, sweet, and full of wonder.]
And tell me, - tell me, you, - what happened then?
What do you see?
BARBARA.          Ah! -


[She looks before her with wide, new
eyes.]
PIPER.        Do you see - a -
BARBARA.... Michael!
PIPER. So! - And a good one. And you
call him? -
BARBARA.... Michael.
PIPER. So. - 'T is a world of wonders,
by my faith! -
What is the fairest thing you see butBARBARA.                   Michael.
PIPER. And is he comely as a man should
be?
And strong? - And wears good promise in
his eyes,
And keeps it with his heart and with his
hands?     [She nods like a child.]
And would you fear to go with him?BARBARA.                    No, no!
PIPER. Then reach to him that little
hand of yours.
[MICHAEL, wonder-struck, runs to
the jar, pours water upon his
hand, rubs it off with haste, and
falls on his knees before her, taking her hand fearfully.]
BARBARA [timidly]. And can he talk? -
PIPER. Yes, yes.- The maid's bewildered.
Fear nothing. Thou'rt so dumb, man!Yes, yes, yes.
Only he kneels; he cannot yet believe.
Speak roundly to him. - Will you go with
him?
He will be gentler to you than a father:
He would be brothers five, and dearest
friend,
And sweetheart, - ay, and knight and
serving-man!
BARBARA. Yes, yes, I know he will. And
can he talk, too?
PIPER. Lady, you have bewitched him.
MICHAEL.             Oh! dear Lady,
With you - with you, I dare not ope my
mouth
Saving to sing, or pray!
PIPER.             Let it be singing!
Lad, 't is a wildered maiden, with no home
Save only thee; and she is more a child
Than yesterday.
MICHAEL. Oh, lordly, wondrous world!
How is it, Sweet, you smile upon me now?
I




THE PIPER


255


BARBARA. Sure I have ever smiled on
thee. How not?
Art thou not Michael? - And thou lovest
me.
And I love thee! - If I unloved thee ever,
It was some spell. -
[Rapturously]. But this, - ah, This is I!
[MICHAEL, on his knees, winds his
arms about her.]
PIPER [softly]. It is all true, - all true.
Lad, do not doubt;
The golden cage is broken.
MICHAEL.            Oh! more strange
Than morning dreams! I am like one newborn;
I am a speechless babe. - And this is she,
My Moon I cried for, - here,PIPER.                It is thy bride.
MICHAEL. Thou wilt not fear to come
with me?
BARBARA.                  With thee?
With thee! Ah, look. What have 1 more
than thee?
And thou art mine, tall fellow! How comes
it now
Right happily that I am pranked so fair!
[She touches her fineries, her long
pearl-strings, joyously.]
And all this came so near to burying;
This!
MICHAEL. And this dearer gold.
[Kissing her hair.]
BARBARA.           All, all for thee! -
[She leans over in a playful rapture
and binds her hair about him.]
Look, - I will be thy garden that we lost,
Yea, everywhere, - in every wilderness.
There shall none fright us with a flaming
sword!
But I will be thy garden!
[There is the sound of a herd-bell
approaching.]
PIPER. See,- how the sunlight soon
shall pour red wine
To make your marriage-feast! - And do
you hear
That faery bell? - No fear! - 'T is some
white creature,
Seeking her whiter lamb. - Go, find our
hermit;
And he shall bless you, - as a hermit
can!


And be your pledge for shelter. There's the
path. -
[To MICHAEL]. Follow each other, close!
MICHAEL.             Beyond the Sun!
PIPER. A golden afternoon, - and all is
well!
[He gives MICHAEL his cloak to
wrap round BARBARA. They go,
hand in hand, up into the hills.
The herd-bell sounds softly.The PIPER cocks his head like a
squirrel, and listens with delight.
He watches the two till they disappear; then comes down joyously.]
PIPER. If you can only catch them while
they're young!
[The herd-bell sounds nearer. He
lets down a water-jar into the well
again. The nearness of the bell
startles him. He becomes watchful as a wild creature. It sounds
nearer and nearer. A woman's
voice calls like the wind: " Janl
Jan!" - The PIPER, tense and
cautious, moves softly down into
the shrubbery by the well.]
VERONIKA'S VOICE. Jan!
PIPER.       Hist! Who dared?
VERONIKA'S VOICE.... Jan!
PIPER.              Who dared, I say?
A woman. - 'T is a woman!
[Enter VERONIKA, on the road from Hamelin.
She is very pale and worn, and drags
herself along, clutching in her hand a
herd-bell. She looks about her, holds up
the bell and shakes it once softly, covering
it with her fingers again; then she sits
wearily down at the foot of the ruined
shrine, and covers her face, with a sharp
breath.]
VERONIKA.... Ah, - ah, - ah!
[The PIPER watches with breathless
wonder and fascination. It seems
to horrify him.]
PIPER [under breath]. That woman!
[VERONIKA lifts her head suddenly
and sees the motion of the bushes.]
VERONIKA. He is coming! - He is here 
[She darts towards the well. - The
PIPER springs up.]




256


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


Oh, God of Mercy!... It is only you!
Where is he? - Where? - Where are you
hiding him?
PIPER  [confusedly]. Woman... what
do you, wandering, with that bell?
That herd-bell?
VERONIKA. Oh! are you man or cloud?... Where is my Jan?
Jan,- Jan, - the little lame one! He is
mine.
He lives, I know he lives. I know - yes, yes.
[She crouches where she is, watching
him.]
PIPER. Surely he lives!
VERONIKA. - Lives! will you swear it?
Ah, -
I will believe! But he... is not so strong
As all the others.
PIPER [apart]. Aie, how horrible!
[To her.] Sit you down here. You cannot go
away
While you are yet so pale. Why are you
thus?
[She looks at him distractedly.]
VERONIKA. You, who have torn the
hearts out of our bodies
And left the city like a place of graves,Why am I spent?- Ah, ah!- But he's
alive!
PIPER [fiercely]. Alive? What else? -
Why would he not be living?
VERONIKA. 1 do not know.
PIPER. Do you take me for the Devil?
VERONIKA. I do not know.
PIPER.      Yet you were not afraid?
VERONIKA. What is there now to fear?
PIPER [watching her]. Where are the
townsfolk?
VERONIKA. They are all gone to Rudersheim...
PIPER [still watchful].    How so?
VERONIKA. Where, for a penance, Barbara, Jacob's daughter,
Will take the veil. His one, for all of ours!
It will be over now.
PIPER.          Have none returned?
VERONIKA. I know not; I am searching,
since the dawn.
PIPER. To-day?
VERONIKA.     And every day.
Piper.       That herd-bell, thereWhy do you bring it?


VERONIKA [sobbing]. Oh, he loves them
so.
I knew, if he but heard it, he would follow,
An if he could. Only, the ways are rough -
PIPER. No more. 1 know!
VERONIKA. - And he had lost his crutch.
PIPER [like a wounded animal]. Let be.
You hurt me 
VERONIKA.     You! - A man of air?
PIPER. I am no man of air.
VERONIKA.     - What are you, then?
Give them to me, I say. You have them hid,
Under a spell.
PIPER [struggling with pity]. Yes.
VERONIKA.     Give them back to me.
PIPER. No.
VERONKIA. But they all... are living?
On thy soul?
PIPER. - Wilt thou believe me?
VERONIKA.    And you hold them safe?
PIPER. Safe.
VERONIKA.   Shut away?
PIPER.        From Hamelin; forever.
VERONIKA. And are they... warm?
PIPER.        - Yes.
VERONIKA.    Are they happy? - Oh,
That cannot be!-But do they laugh,
sometimes?
PIPER. Yes.
VERONIKA. - Then you'll give them
back again!
PIPER.                   No, never.
VERONIKA [half to herself, distraught between suspense and hope.] I must be
patient.
PIPER.     Woman, they all are mine.
I hold them in my hands; they bide with
me.
What's breath and blood, - what are the
hearts of children,
To Hamelin, - while it heaps its moneybags?
VERONIKA. You cared not for the money.
PIPER.             No? - You seem
A foreign woman, - come from very far,
That you should know.
VERONIKA.      I know. I was not born
There. But you wrong them. There were
yet a few
Who would have dealt with you more
honestly
Than this Jacobus, or



THE PIPER


257


PIPER.          Or Kurt the Syndic!
Believe it not. Those two be tongue and
brain
For the whole town! I know them. And
that town
Stands as the will of other towns, a score,
That make us wandering poor the things
we are!
It stands for all, unto the end of time,
That turns this bright world black and the
Sun cold,
With hate, and hoarding; - all-triumphant
Greed
That spreads above the roots of all despair,
And misery, and rotting of the soul!
Now shall they learn - if money-bags can
learn -
What turns the bright world black, and the
Sun cold;
And what's that creature that they call a
child! -
And what this winged thing men name a
heart,
Never to bind, never to bid be still;
And what this hunger and this thirst to
sing,
To laugh, to fight, -to hope, to be believed?
And what is truth? And who did make the
stars?
I have to pay for fifty thousand hates,
Greeds, cruelties; such barbarous tortured
days
A tiger would disdain; - for all my kind!
Not my one mother, not my own of kin, -
All, all, who wear the motley in the heart
Or on the body: - for all caged glories
And trodden wings, and sorrows laughed
to scorn.
I, -I!- At last.
VERONIKA.    Ah, me! How can I say:
Yet make them happier than they let you
be?
PIPER. Woman, you could! - They
know not how to be
Happy! They turn to darkness and to grief
All that is made for joy. They deal with
men
As, far across the mountains, in the south,
Men trap a singing thrush, put out his
eyes, -
And cage him up and bid him then to sing -


Sing before God that made him, - yes, to
sing!
I save the children. - Yes, I save them, so,
Save them forever, who shall save the
world! -
Yes, even Hamelin. -
But for only you,
What do they know of Children? - Pfui?
their own!
Who knows a treasure, when it is his own?
Do they not whine: " Five mouths around the
table;
And a poorharvest. And nowcomes one more!
God chastens us!" - Pfui -
VERONIKA [apart, dully.... But I must
be patient.
PIPER. You know, you know, that not
one dared, save you, -
Dared all alone, to search this devil's haunt.
VERONIKA. They would have diedPIPER.    But never risked their souls!
That knew I also.
VERONIKA. Ah!
PIPER.         " Young faces," sooth,
The old ones prate of! -- Bah, what is't
they want?
"Some one to work for me, when I am old;
Some one to follow me unto my grave;
Some one —for me!" Yes, yes. There is
not one
Old huddler-by-the-fire would shift his seat
To a cold corner, if it might bring back
All of the Children in one shower of light!
VERONIKA. The old, ah, yes! But not -
PIPER.            The younger men?
Aha! Their pride to keep the name alive;
The name, the name, the little Hamelin
name,
Tied to the trade; - carved plain upon his
gravestone!
Wonderful! If your name must chain you,
live,
To your gaol of a house, your trade you
hate - why then,
Best go without a name, like me! - How
now?
Woman, - you suffer?
VERONIKA.      Ah, yet could I laugh,
Piper, yet could I laugh, for one true
word,
But not of all men.




258


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


PIPER.      Then of whom?
VERONIKA.                 Of Kurt.
PIPER. Bah, Kurt the Councillor! a man
to curse.
VERONIKA. He is my husband.
PIPER [shortly]. Thine? I knew it not.
Thine? But it cannot be. He could not
father
That little Jan, - that little shipwrecked
Star.
VERONIKA. Oh, then you love him? You
will give him back?
PIPER. The son of Kurt?
VERONIKA.    No, not his son! No, no.
He is all mine, all mine. Kurt's sons are
straight,
And ruddy, like Kurt's wife of Hamelin
there,
Who died before.
PIPER.     And you were wed...
VERONIKA.                So young,
It is all like some dream before the sunrise,
That left me but that little shipwrecked
Star.
PIPER. Why did you marry Kurt the
Councillor?
VERONIKA [humbly]. He wanted me.
Once I was beautiful.
PIPER [wonderingly]. What, more than
now?
VERONIKA. Mock if you will.
PIPER.                 I mock you!
O Woman,... you are very beautiful.
VERONIKA. I meant, with my poor self,
to buy him house
And warmth, and softness for his little feet.
Oh, then I knew not,- when we sell our
hearts,
We buy us nothing.
PIPER.       Now you know.
VERONIKA.                  I know.
His dearest home it was, to keep my heart
Alone and beautiful, and clear and still;
And to keep all the gladness in my heart,
That bubbled from nowhere! - for him to
drink; 
And to be houseless of all other things,
Even as the Lonely Man.
[The PIPER starts.]
Where is the child?
PIPER. No; that I will not tell. Only
thus much:


I love thy child. Trust me, - I love them,
all.
They are the brightest miracle I know.
Wherever I go, I search the eyes of men
To find such clearness; - and it is not
there.
Lies, greed and cruelty, and dreadful dark!
And all that makes Him sad these thousand
years,
And keeps His forehead bleeding, - Ah,
you know?
VERONIKA. Whom do you think on?
PIPER.      Why, the Lonely Man. -
But now I have the children safe with me;
And men shall never teach them what men
know;Those radiant things that have no wish at
all
Save for what is all-beautiful! - the Rainbow,
The Running Water, and the Moon, the
Moon!
The only things worth having!
VERONIKA.        - Oh, you will not
Give him to me?
PIPER.     How give you yours again,
And not the others? What a life for him!
[She hides her face.]
And Kurt the Syndic, left without his sons?
Bah, do not dream of it! What would Kurt
do?And hearken here! Should any hunt me
down,
Take care. Who then could bring the children back?
VERONIKA. Jan! Jan!
PIPER.     He loves me. He is happy.
VERONIKA [passionately].      No!
Without me? - No.
PIPER.         He has not even once
Called you.
VERONIKA [staggering]. Ah, ah!...
The spell. -
PIPER [startled]. Nay, now; - rise up
now, foreign woman.
Would you not have him cheered?
VERONIKA.          - 0 far-off God!
PIPER [offering her water]. Drink here.
Take heart. 0 Woman, they must
stay!
'T is better so. No, no, I mock thee not.
Thou foldest all about me like the Dark




THE PIPER


259


That holds the stars. I would I were thy
child.
VERONIKA. But I will find him. I will
find him -
PIPER.           No,
It must not be! Their life is bound with
mine.
If I be harmed, they perish. Keep that
word.
Go, go!
VERONIKA [passionately]. My longing
will bring back my Own.
PIPER. Ah, long not so.
VERONIKA. Yes, it will bring him back!
He breathes. And I will wish him home to
me,
Till my heart break!
PIPER. Hearts never break in Hamelin.
Go, then; and teach those other ones to
long;
Wake up those dead!
VERONIKA. Peace. I shall draw him
home.
PIPER. Not till he cries for thee.
VERONIKA.            Oh, that will be
Soon, - soon.
PIPER [gently]. Remember, - if one
word of thine
Set on the hounds to track me down and
slay me,
They would be lost forever; they would
die, -
They, who are in my keeping.
VERONIKA.                Yea, I hear.
But he will come... oh, he will come to me,
Soon, - soon.
[She goes, haltingly, and disappears
along the road to Hamelin. -
The PIPER, alone, stands spellbound, breathing hard, and looking after her. Then he turns his
head and comes down, doggedly.
Again he pauses. With a sudden
sharp effort he turns, and crosses
with passionate appeal to the
shrine, his arm uplifted towards
the carven Christ as if he warded
off some accusation. His speech
comes in a torrent.]
PIPER. I will not, no, I will not, Lonely
Man!
I have them in my hand. I have them all -


All - all! And I have lived unto this day.
You understand...
[He waits as if for some reply.]
You know what men they are.
And what have they to do with such as
these?
Think of those old as death, in body and
heart,
Hugging their wretched hoardings, in cold
fear
Of moth and rust! - While these miraculous ones,
Like golden creatures made of sunsetcloud,
Go out forever, - every day, fade by
With music and wild stars! - Ah, but You
know.
The hermit told me once, You loved them,
too.
But I know more than he, how You must
love them:
Their laughter, and their bubbling, skylark
words
To cool Your heart. Oh, listen, Lonely
Man! -
Oh, let me keep them! I will bring them to
'You,
Still nights, and breathless mornings; they
shall touch
Your hands and feet with all their swarming hands,
Like showering petals warm on furrowed
ground,
All sweetness! They will make Thee whole
again,
With love. Thou wilt look up and smile on
us!
Why not? I know - the half - You will
be saying.
You will be thinking of Your Mother. -
Ah,
But she was different. She was not as they.
She was more like... this one, the wife of
Kurt!
Of Kurt! No, no; ask me not this, not this!
Here is some dawn of day for Hamelin, -
now!
'T is hearts of men You want.Not greed and carven tombs, not misers'
candles;




260


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


No offerings, more, from men that feed on
men;
Eternal psalms and endless cruelties!...
Even from now, there may be hearts in
Hamelin,
Once stabbed awake!
[He pleads, defends, excuses passionately; before his will gives
way, as the arrow flies from the
bow-string.]
- I will not give them back!
And Jan, - for Jan, that little one, that
dearest
To Thee, and me, hark, - he is wonderful.
Ask it not of me. Thou dost know I cannot!
Look, Lonely Man! You shall have all of us
To wander the world over, where You stand
At all the crossways, and on lonely hills, -
Outside the churches, where the lost ones
go!And the wayfaring men, and thieves and
wolves
And lonely creatures, and the ones that
sing!
We will show all men what we hear and see;
And we will make Thee lift Thy head, and
smile.
No, no, I cannot give them all! No, no.Why wilt Thou ask it? - Let me keep but
one.
No, no, I will not.:... Have Thy way, - I will!
CURTAIN
ACT IV
SCENE. Hamelin market-place. It is
early morning; so dark that only a bleak twilight glimmers in the square; the little streets
are dim. Everywhere gloom and stillness. In
the house of KURT, beside the Minster, there is
one window-light behind a curtain in the
second story. At the casements, down right
and left, sit OLD CLAUS and OLD URSULA,
wan and motionless as the dead. The churchbell, which likewise seems to have aged, croaks
softly, twice. PETER the Sacristan stands by
the bell-rope.


OLD URSULA. No, no. They'll never
come. I told ye so.
They all are gone. There will be nothing
young
To follow us to the grave.
OLD CLAUS.        No, no, - not one!
[The Minster-door opens, and out come certain of the townsfolk from early mass.
They look unnaturally old and colorless.
Their steps lag drearily. - HANS the
Butcher and his wife; AXEL the Smith
with his wife, and PETER the Cobbler,
meet, on their way to the little street, left,
and greet one another with painstaking,
stricken kindness. They speak in broken
voices.]
HANS the Butcher. Well, wellAXEL the Smith.        God knows!
[The bell sounds.]
HANS the Butcher. Neighbor, how fare
your knees?
[AXEL smooths his right leg and
gives a jerk of pain. They all
move stiffly.]
AXEL the Smith. I'm a changed man.
HANS the Butcher. Peter the Sacristan,
Give by the bell! It tolls like - Oh, well,
well!
AXEL the Smith. It does no good, it does
no good at all.
PETER the Cobbler. Rather, I do believe
it mads the demons;
And I have given much thought -
AXEL the Smith.      Over thy shoes!
PETER the Cobbler [modestly.] To demons.
AXEL'S WIFE. Let him chirp philosophy!
He had no children.
PETER the Cobbler [wagging his head solemnly].       I'm an altered man.
Now were we not proceeding soberly,
Singing a godly hymn, and all in tune,
But yesterday, when we passed by -
HANS' WIFE.             Don't say it!
Don't name the curseful place.
HANS the Butcher. - And my poor head,
It goes round yet; - around, around,
around,
As I were new ashore from the high
seas;
Still dancing - dancing -
AXEL the Smith. Neighbor, say no more.




THE PIPER.


26i


HANS the Butcher. Even as ye heard, the
farmer's yokel found me
Clasping a tree, and praying to stand still!
AXEL the Smith. Ay, ay, - but that is
nought.
PETER the Cobbler.  All nought beside.
HANS' WIFE. Better we had the rats and
mice again,
Though they did eat us homeless, - if we
might
All starve together! - Oh, my Hans, my
Hans!
PETER the Cobbler. Hope not, good souls.
Rest sure, they will not come.
AXEL'S WIFE. Who will say that?
PETER the Cobbler [discreetly]. Not I; but
the Inscription.
[He points to the Rathaus wall.]
AXEL the Smith. Of our own making?
PETER the Cobbler. On the Rathaus wall!
At our own bidding it was made and
graved:
How, - on that day and down this very
street,
He led them, - he, the Wonderfullyclothed,
The Strange Man, with his piping;
[They cross themselves.]
And they went, 
And never came again.
HANS' WIFE.      But they may come!
PETER the Cobbler [pityingly]. Marble is
final, woman; - nay, poor soul!
When once a man be buried, and over him
The stone doth say Hic Jacet, or Here Lies,
When did that man get up? - There is the
stone.
They come no more, for piping or forprayer;
Until the trump of the Lord Gabriel.
And if they came, 't is not in Hamelin
men
To alter any stone, so graven. - Marble
Is final. Marble has the last word, ever.
[Groans from the burghers.]
HANS the Butcher. 0 little Ilse! -Oh!
and Lump - poor Lump!
More than a dog could bear! - More than
a dog -
[They all break down. The Shoemaker consoles them.]
PETER the Cobbler. Bear up, sweet neighbors. - We are all but dust,


No mice, no children. - Hem! And now
Jacobus, 
His child, not even safe with Holy Church,
But lost and God knows where!
AXEL'S WIFE. Bewitched, - bewitched!
[HANS and his wife, arm in arm,
turn left, towards their house,
peering ahead.]
HANS' WIFE. Kind saints! Me out and
gone to early mass,
And all this mortal church-time, there's a
candle,
A candle burning in the casement there; -
Thou wasteful man!
HANS the Butcher [huskily]. Come, come!
do not be chiding.
Suppose they came and could not see their
way.
Suppose-O    wife!- I thought they'd
love the light!
I thought -
PETER the Cobbler. Ay, now! And there's
another light
In Kurt the Syndic's house.
[They turn and look up. Other
burghers join the group. All walk
lamely and look the picture of
wretchedness.]
AXuEL'S WIFE.    His wife, poor thing,
The priest is with her. Ay, for once, they
say,
Kurt's bark is broken.
OLD URSULA. There will be nothing
young
To follow us to the grave.
AXEL'S WIFE.     They tell, she seems
Sore stricken since the day that she was
lost,
Lost, searching on the mountain. Since
that time,
She will be saying nought. She stares and
smiles.
HANS' WIFE. And reaches out her arms,
- poor soul!
ALL.                      Poor soul!
[Murmur in the distance. They do
not heed it.]
AXEL the Smith [To the Butcher]. That
was no foolish thought of thine, yon
candle,
I do remember now as I look back,
They always loved the lights. My Rudi there




262


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


Would aye be meddling with my
tinder-box.
And once I - Oh!            [Choking.]
AXEL'S WIFE [soothingly]. Now, now!
thou didst not hurt him!
'T was I! Oh, once - I shut him in the
dark!
AXEL the Smith. Come home... and
light the candles.
PETER the Cobbler.  In the day-time!
AXEL'S WIFE. Oh, it is dark enough!
AXEL the Smith. Lord knows, who made
Both night and day, one of 'em needs to
shine!
But nothing does! - Nothing is daylight
now.
Come, wife, we'll light the candles.
[Exit with his wife.]
PETER the Cobbler. He's a changed man.
PETER the Sacristan. God help us, what's
to do?
[Tumult approaching. Shouts of
"JACOBus" and "BARBARA."]
Hark!
HANS' WIFE.          Neighbors!
HANS the Butcher.       Hark! Hark!
[AXEL and his wife reenter hastily; AXEL
rushes towards the noise.]
AXEL'S WIFE. Oh, I hear something!
Can it be -
PETER the Cobbler.  They're shouting.
HANS the Butcher. My lambs, -my
lambs!
[AXEL reenters, crestfallen.]
AXEL the Smith. 'T is naught -but
Barbara!
His - his!
[Shaking his fist at the house of
JACOBUS.]
PETER the Smith [calling]. Jacobus!
[The others are stricken with disappointment.]
HANS the Butcher. Wife,- 't is none of
ours.
AXEL the Smith. Let him snore on! -
The only man would rather
Sleep late than meet his only child again!
PETER the Cobbler [deprecatingly]. No
man may parley with the gifts of
Fortune!   [Knocking on the door.]
Jacobus!


[Enter, at the rear, with a straggling crowd,
BARBARA and MICHAEL, both radiant
and resolute. She wears the long green
cloak over her bridal array. JACOBUS
appears in his doorway, nightcapped
and fur-gowned, shrinking from the hostile crowd. The people murmur.]
Barbara! - She that was bewitched!
And who's the man? Is it the
CROWD.     Piper? No!
No, no - some stranger. Barbara! Barbara's home; -
He never gave her up! - Who
is the man?
JACOBUS.   My  daughter! 'T is my
daughter, - found - restored!
Oh, heaven is with us!
ALL [sullenly]. Ah!
JACOBUS. Child, where have you been?
ALL. Ay, where, Jacobus?
[He is dismayed.]
JACOBUS. Who is this man? -Come
hither.
BARBARA [without approaching him, lifting her face clearly]. Good-morning
to you, father! We are wed.
Michael, - shall I go hither?
[The townsfolk are amazed.]
JACOBUs.                 She is mad!
She is quite mad, - my treasure.
PETER the Cobbler.     Let her speak.
Maids sometimes marry, even in Hamelin.
Ay, tell us!
ALL. Who is he? Barbara?
Art thou mad? -How came ye
hither?
JACOBUS. Who is he?
BARBARA.            Michael.
PETER the Cobbler. 'T is the SwordEater!
A friend o' the Piper's! - Hearken -
ALL.                She's bewitched!
HANS' WIFE. This is the girl was vowed
to Holy Church,
For us and for our children that are
lost!
BARBARA. Ay, and did any have a mind
to me,
When I was lost? Left dancing, and distraught?




THE PIPER.


263


ALL. We could not. We were spellbound. Nay, we could not.
JACOBUS [sagely, after the others]. We
could not.
BARBARA. So! - But there was one who
could.
There was one man. And this is he.
[Turning to MICHAEL.]
And I,
1 am no more your Barbara, - I am his.
And I will go with him, over the world.
I come to say farewell.
JACOBUS.      He hath bewitched her!
MICHAEL. Why did we ever come? Poor
darling one,
Thy too-much duty hath us in a trap!
AXEL the Smith. No, no! - Fair play!
OTHERS. Don't let them go! We have
them.
PETER the Cobbler. Hold what ye have.
Be 't children, rats or mice!
[Hubbub without, and shouts. Some
of the burghers hasten out after
this fresh excitement. JACOBUS
is cowed. BARBARA and MICHAEL are startled. The shouts
turn savage. The uproar grows.
Shouts of "Ay, there he is! We
have him! We have him! Help
-help! Hold fast! Ah! Piper!
Piper! Piper!"]
How now? What all![The crowd parts to admit the
PIPER, haled hither with shouts
and pelting, by MARTIN the
Watch and other men, all breathless. His eyes burn.]
MICHAEL [apart]. Save us! - They have
him.
MARTIN [gaspingly].           Help!
Mark ye -I caught him! -Help, and
hold him fast!
PIPER. I came here, - frog!
MARTIN.       Ay, he were coming on;
And after him a squirrel, hopping close!
SECOND MAN. As no man ever saw a
squirrel hop -
Near any man from Hamelin! And I
looked -
MARTIN. And it was he; and all we rush
upon him -
And take him!


PIPER. Loose thy claws, I tell thee! -
'Ware!
ALL. Mercy!
Let him go!
[Their cries turn into an uproar
of rage and desperation. They
surge and fall back between fury
and fear. HANS the Butcher,
broken with hope, cries, "Loose
him! Let him speak!" - The
PIPER shakes himself free. - He
sees BARBARA and MICHAEL
for the first time and recoils
with amazement. BARBARA steps
towards him. - It is to be
understood in the following
pages, where the crowd speaks,
that only a general consensus
of meaning comes out of the
uproar.]
BARBARA. Oh, let him go, - let be. His
heart is clear,
As water from the well!
[The PIPER gazes at her, openmouthed.]
She talks in her sleep!
ALL. The maid's bewitched!
Now, will ye hear?
AXEL'S WIFE. He piped and made thee
dance!
PETER the Cobbler. 'T was he bewitched
us!
AXEL. He piped away our children and
our lives!
OLD URSULA. I told ye so! - ay, ay!
OLD CLAUS.               I told ye so!
BARBARA. He piped; - and      all ye
danced and fled away!
He piped; - and brought me back my
wandering wits,
And gave me safe unto my Love again, -
My Love I had forgotten....
PIPER. So!
MICHAEL [with conviction]. Truly said.
BARBARA [proudly].    Michael.
JACOBUS. Who is he, pray?
BARBARA. My own true love.
PETER the Cobbler. Now, is that all his
name?
BARBARA. It is enough.
JACOBUS. — She's mad. Shall these
things be?




264


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


The Children  The Children!
ALL. Where are the Children?
Piper! Piper! Piper!
PIPER [sternly]. Quiet you. And hear
me.
I came to bring good tidings. In good faith,
Of mine own will, I came. - And like a
thief
You haled me hither.[They hang upon his words.]... Your children - live.
Thank God! I knew, I knew!.  We could not think them lost.
Bewitched! Oh, but they live! -
Piper! -  Piper!
PETER the Cobbler. They're spell-bound,
- mark me!
PIPER.   Ay, they are, - spell-bound:
Fast bound by all the hardness of your
hearts;
Caged, - in the iron of your money-lustNo, no, not all! Not I! Not mine,
ALL.   not mine!
No, no, - it is not true.
PIPER. Your blasphemies, - your cunning and your Fear,
f No, no! - What can we do?
ALL.1 News, Piper, news!
- The Children!
PIPER. Now hear me. You did make
Jacobus swear
To give his child. - What recks it, how he
lose her? -
Either to Holy Church - against her will!
Or to this man, - so that he give her up!
He swore to you. And she hath pledged her
faith.
She is fast wed. - Jacobus shall not have
her.
He breaks all bargains; and for such as he,
You suffer. - Will you bear it?
ALL.                    No, no, no!
PIPER. Then she who was "Proud Barbara" doth wed
Michael-the-Sword-Eater. -  The pledge
shall stand.
Shall it?
ALL  It stands.
A   Ay, ay!
PIPER.        Your word!
AL  We swear. We answer for him.
A   So much for Jacobus 


AXEL the Smith. An' if yon fellow like an
honest trade,
I'11 take him! - I'11 make swords!
[Cheers. MICHAEL is happy.]
ALL. Quick, quick! - Our children. 
Piper! - Tell us all!
PIPER. 'T is well begun. - Now have I
come to say:
There is one child I may bring back to
you,The first.
'Mine - mine! Let
it be mine!
Ours! -   All   of
ALL [n an uprar].  them! Now!
Mine -   mine -
mine! - mine!
PIPER [unmoved]. - Oh, Hamelin to the
end!
Which of you longed the most, and dared
the most?
Which of you[He searches the crowd anxiously
with his eyes.]
rI! I! I!
We searched the hills!. We prayed four days!
L.We fasted twenty hoursMine! Mine!
L Mine - mine - mine - mine!
PIPER.     Not yet. - They all do live
Under a spell, - deep in a hollow hill.
They sleep, and wake; and lead a charmed
life.
But first of all, - one child shall come
again.    [He scans the crowd still.]
Where is the wife - of Kurt, the Councillor?
ALL [savagely]. No, mine, mine, mine!
MARTIN'S WIFE. What, that lame boy
of hers?
PIPER. Where is the wife of Kurt?
PETER the Cobbler and OTHERS. - Veronika?
The foreign woman? She is lying ill:
Sore-stricken yonder[Pointing to the house.]
PIPER [gladly]. Bid her come, look out!
[The crowd moves confusedly towards KURT'S house. The PIPER
too approaches, calling.]
Ho, - ho, within there!




THE PIPER


265


[ANSELM, the priest, appears in the doorway
with uplifted hand, commanding silence.
He is pale and stern. At sight of his face
the PIPER falters.]
ANSELM. Silence here!- Good people,
What means this?
PIPER.    I have tidings for - the wife
Of Kurt - the Councillor.
ANSELM.             You are too late.
PIPER. Bid her - look out!
ANSELM [solemnly]. Her soul is passing,
now.
[The PIPER falls back stricken and
speechless. - The crowd, seeing
him humanly overwhelmed, grows
brave.]
MARTIN'S WIFE. 'T is he has done it!
HANS the Butcher.  - Nay, it is God's
will.
Poor soul!
PETER the Sacristan [fearfully]. Don't
anger him! 'T was Kurt the Syndic
With his bad bargain.
AXEL the Smith. Do not cross the Piper!
MARTIN. Nay, but he's spent. He's
nought to fear. - Look there.
Mark now he breathes! Upon him! Help,
help, ho! -
Thou piping knave!
OTHERS. Tie - chain him! - Kill him!
Kill him!
[They surround him. He thrusts
them off.]
PETER the  Bind him, but do not kill
Cobbler and  him! - Oh, beware!
OTHERS.     What is he saying? -Peace.
PIPER [brokenly].   The wife of Kurt!
Off! what can you do?-Oh! I came, I
came
Here, full of peace, and with a heart of
love;To give - but now that one live Soul of all
Is gone! - No, no!
- I say she shall not die!
She shall not!
ANSELM. Hush! - She is in the hands of
God.
She is at peace.
PIPER.         No, never! Let me by!
[ANSELM bars the threshold and
steps out.]


ANSELM. Thou froward fool! - Wouldst
rend with tears again
That shriven breath? And drag her back
to sorrow?
It is the will of God.
PIPER.            - And I say No!
ANSELM. Who dare disputePIPER.     I dare!
ANSELM.    With death? - With God?
PIPE:R. I know His will, for once! She
shall not die.
She must come back, and live! - Veronika!
[He calls up to the lighted window.
The people stand aghast: ANSELM bars the threshold.]
I come, I come! I bring your Own to you!
Listen, Veronika!
[He feels for his pipe. It is gone. -
His face shows dismay, for a
moment.]
Where? - Where?
He's lost the pipe. -He's
hiding it! -
PEOPLE. He cannot pipe them back! 't
is gone- 't is gone.
No, 't is to save his life. It is
for time.
PIPER [to himself]. - 'T is but a voice.
What matter? -
CBind him!
PIPER [to them].              Hush!
[Passionately he stretches his arms
towards the window.]
ANSELM. Peace, for this parting Soul!
PIPER [with fixed eyes]. It shall not go.
[To the Window.] Veronika! - Ah, listen!
- wife of Kurt.
He comes... he comes! Open thine eyes a
moment!
Blow the faint fire within thy heart. He
comes!
Thy longing brings him; - ay, and mine,and mine!
Heed not these grave-makers, Veronika.
Live, live, and laugh once more! -Oh!
do you hear?
Look, how you have to waken all these
dead,
That walk about you! - Open their dim
eyes;
Sing to them with your heart, Veronika,




266


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


As I am piping, far away, outside!
Waken them, - change them! Show them
how to long,
To reach their arms as you do, for the stars,
And fold them in. Stay but one moment; -
stay,
And thine own Child shall draw thee back
again
Down here, to mother him, - mother us
all!
Oh, do you listen? - Do not try to answer. -
I hear! - I hear....
[A faint sound of piping comes from
the distance. -The PIPER is
first watchful, then radiant. -
The burghers are awe-struck, as
it sounds nearer.]
BARBARA. Listen! -
MICHAEL.        His very tune.
[The PIPER faces front with fixed,
triumphant eyes above the crowd.]
MARTIN'S WIFE. 0 Lord, have mercy!The Pipe is coming to him, through the air!
ALL. 'T is coming to the Piper; - we
are lost.The Pipe is coming, coming through the
air!
[The PIPER, with a sudden gesture,
commands silence. He bounds
away (centre), and disappears.
The people, spell-bound with terror, murmur and pray.]
ANSELM. Retro me, Sathanas!
[KURT the Syndic appears on the threshold
behind ANSELM, whose arm he touches,
whispering. - Their faces are wonderstruck with hope and awe.]
HANS the Butcher [to the others, pointing].
'T is Kurt the Syndic.
AXEL the Smith. Then she lives! -
HANS' WIFE.               Look there!
OTHERS. Look, look! The casement!...
[The casement of the lighted window
opens wide and slowly.]
[Reenter the PIPER with JAN in his arms.
The little boy holds the Pipe, and smiles
about with tranquil happiness. The
PIPER, radiant with joy, lifts him high,
looking towards VERONIKA'S window.The awe-struck people point to the open


casement. VERONIKA'S two white hands
reach out; then she herself appears, pale,
shining with ecstasy.]
JAN. 'T is Mother!
[The PIPER lifts him still before the
window, gazing up. Then he
springs upon the bench (outside
the lower window) and gives JAN
into the arms of VERONIKA.KURT and ANSELM bow their
heads. A hush.- Then JAN
looks down from the windowseat.]
PIPER [to him, smiling wisely]. And all
the others?
JAN.              They were all asleep.
PIPER. I'11 waken them!
[He takes his pipe. - An uproar of
joy among the burghers.]
Bring     lights, - bring
AXEL the        lights!
Smith, HANS   Oh,   Piper - Oh,   my
the Butcher,   lambs! -
ALL.         The children! -The children!
[Some rush out madly; others go
into their houses for lights; some
are left on their knees, weeping
for joy. The PIPER sounds a few
notes; then lifts his hand and
listens, smiling. - Uproar in the
distance. - A great barking of
dogs; - shouts and cheers; then
the high, sweet voices of the CHILDREN. The piping is drowned in
cries of joy. The sun comes out,
still rosy, in a flood of light. The
crowd rushes in. Fat burghers
hug each other, and laugh and
cry. They are all younger. Their
faces bloom, as by a miracle. The
CHILDREN pour in. Some are
carried, some run hand-in-hand.
Everywhere women embrace their
own. - KURT has his sons.CHEAT-THE-DEVIL comes, with a
daisy-chain around his neck, all
smiles. An uproar of light and
faces.]
HANS the Butcher. The treasure for the
Piper!




THE PIPER


267


ALL.       Ay, ay, Piper!
HANSthe Butcher. The thousand guilders!
PIPER.       Give them Michael there,
For all us three. I hate to carry things; -
Saving out one!
[He waves his hand to JAN in the
window. - VERONIKA appears
behind him, shining with new life.
JAN leans out and points to the
ground.]
Hej&! What now?[Picking up one of JAN'S winged
shoes.]
HANS' WIFE.         Look! Look! 
And wings upon it! Mercy, what a
shoe, -
Don't give it back. -The child will fly
away
PIPER. No, no!
[Looking up at the window soothingly.]
He only wanted one to showJAN. To Mother! - See.
[Showing her his other foot, joyously.]
PIPER [to him]. And this, - wilt leave it
here?
Here - with

JAN. The Lonely Man! Oh, make Him
smile!
[The PIPER crosses to the Shrine,
with the little shoe, and hangs it
up there; then he turns towards
the window, waving his hand.]
CHILDREN. Where are you going?...
[They run and cling.]
PIPER.        Ah, the high-road now!
CHILDREN. Oh! why?
PIPER. I have to find somebody there.
Yes, now and every day, and everywhere
The wide world over. -So: good-night,
good-morning,
Good-by! There's so much piping left to
do, -
I must be off, and pipe.
CHILDREN.           Oh! why?
PIPER.                   I promised,
Look you!..
CHILDREN.               Who is it?
PIPER.      Why, - the Lonely Man.
[He waves them farewell, and goes.
The CHILDREN dance and laugh
and sparkle. Through the hundred sounds of joy, there comes a
far-off piping.]


THE END








THE YELLOW JACKET
A CHINESE PLAY DONE IN A CHINESE MANNER
IN THREE ACTS
BY GEORGE C. HAZELTON AND BENRIMO




COPYRIGHT, 1913, GEORGE C. HAZELTON, JR., AND J. HARRY BENRIMO
Protected in all foreign countries and all rights, including acting, moving picture and publication, reserved by the authors. Reprinted by permission of and special arrangement with the authors and their American publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company.




TO
B. C. H. AND K. E. B.




FOREWORD
The purpose of the creators of this play is to string on a thread of universal philosophy,
love and laughter the jade beads of Chinese theatrical convention. Their effort has been
to reflect the spirit rather than the substance. To do this, the property man had to be
overwrought; the Chorus had to be introduced. Signs usually indicate the scenes on the
Oriental stage; the Chorus voices them for us.
While the story of THE YELLOW JACKET is not taken from any direct source, it is
hoped that it may convey an imaginative suggestion of all sources and reflect the childhood of drama.
It might be said in a Chinese way that scenery is as big as your imagination.
Primitive people the world over begin to build their drama like the make-believe of
children, and the closer they remain to the make-believe of children the more significant
and convincing is the growth of their drama.
THE AUTHORS




TO THE POETS
To these you have restored their heritage:
To humor - loveliness; to undefiled
Passion - its splendor; to our native stage
Enchantment and the rapture of a child.
PERCY MACKAYN




CHARACTERS
Property man
CHORUS
Wu SIN YIN (Great Sound Language), Governor of the Province
DUE JUNG FAH (Fuchsia Flower), second wife of Wu SIN YIN
Tso (Fancy Beauty), maid to DUE JUNG FAH
CHEE Moo (Kind Mother), first wife of Wu SIN YIN
TAI FAH MIN (Great Painied Face), father of DUE JUNG FAH
Assistant property men
SUEY SIN FAH (Lily Flower), wife of LEE SIN and maid of the first wife,
CHEE Moo
LEE SIN (First Farmer)
LING WON (Spirit)
Wu FAH DIN (Daffodil)
YIN SUEY GONG (Purveyor of Hearts)
Wu Hoo GIT (Young Hero of the Wu Family), destined for the Yellow
Jacket
SEE QUOE FAH (Four-Season Flower)
Mow DAN FAH (Peony).
YONG Soo Kow (Hydrangea)
CHOW WAN (Au umn Cloud)
MOY FAH LOY (Plum Blossom), daughter of TAI CHAR SHOONG
SEE NOI (Nurse), in charge of PLUM BLOSSOM
TAI CHAR SHOONG (Purveyor of Tea to the Emperor)
THE WIDOW CHING
MAID
GIT HOK GAR (Philosopher and Scholar)
KOM LOI (Spider)
LOY GONG (God of Thunder)




THE YELLOW JACKET
ACT I


At the rise of the theater curtain blue silk
draperies are disclosed, embroidered with gold
dragons, forming a tableau curtain. These
draperies are arranged to part in the center.
When drawn, they hang in graceful folds on
each side of the stage. The property man
enters indifferently from the opening at center
of curtain, strikes thrice on a gong and exits.
The CHORUS, then enters, bows right, left, and
center. His costume is that of a rich Chinese
scholar, the dominant note being red. His
manner is most dignified. His actions are
ceremonious.
CHORUS. Most honorable neighbors, the
bows, which I so humbly and solemnly divest myself of, are given in reverence to the
three powers - Heaven - Earth - Man.
I have been appointed by my humble
brothers of the Pear Tree Garden to conduct you through a story of our celestial
land to be played upon our most unworthy
stage. Permit me to thank that vice of curiosity which beckoned you hither that we
might paint before your august eyes our
humble fancy. I bow. [Bows three times.]
Let me intrude a slight history of our
most unworthy theater and the reason that
we refer to our players as brothers of the
Pear Tree Garden. A most curious tale -
our beginning! It had its birth in the
dynasty of the most wholesome one, the
great Ming Wang. In reverence for so
glorious a beginning we have kept our stage
ever the same. For this antiquity, august
and honorable, we ask indulgence. The
good and honored Ming Wang, Son of
Heaven and of glorious memory, was visited by an enchanted dream —full of
strange beauty. In sleep he rambled over
the moon. When the morning lifted his
eyelids he wished his wife to behold the
dream-painted beauties which had joyed


his sleep. The Court, at his command,
clothed in the glory of his dream, played
the story of his moon-colored fancy beneath the pear trees of his summer palaceyard for her he loved. While I fill up time
with many words, my brothers are burning
costly incense before the God of the Theater who, they hope, will bountifully answer their prayer and make them worthy
to win your approval. Much of our acting
will be strange. Our play deals with
mother's love, the love of youth, and the
hate of men, which makes them do unhappy things. Spirits of those who once
walked flowery or pestilent paths in this
world will reach out their hands to sufferers
in our history. We hope out of our imperfect efforts there may come to you some
pleasure. I fear I have intruded too long
upon your welcome and that you are in
haste for my brothers to begin. They, too,
are impatient, for the perfume of their sacrifice even now floats upon the august air.
Men will speak fair words with blackened minds. That you may not be carried
away by their wiles, we have enmasked
them with paint - red, white and black -
that you may know them; but they will
never know that you know that their souls
are mirrored in their faces, for men look
many times to see themselves, as they are
pleased to see themselves. It is mostly so
with villains. As prompter for my brothers,
I will be ever before you to help you to an
understanding of our doings. For so much
kind patience as you have shown, I give
you thanks and shall tell my brothers.
[Bows three times.]
Observe well with your eyes and listen
well with your ears. Be as one family, exceedingly happy and content. Heaven has
no mouth. It makes men speak for it.
[Bells.J




276


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


The gusts of Heaven breathe on the bells
and they tinkle with joy on the eaves of
the pagoda.
Ere departing my footsteps hence, let
me impress upon you that my property
man is to your eyes intensely invisible.
[Property man now comes before
curtain again. Strikes gong and
exits.]
I bow.
[Claps his hands three times; curtains part, revealing a set in dull
orange with green and gold trimmings. There are two doors, one
stage left for entrance and one
stage right for exit. In the center
at the back is an oval opening
surrounded by a grill, within
which the musicians sit. Above
this opening is another, square in
form, which represents Heaven.
About the walls of the scene are
Chinese banners and signs of
good cheer. Huge lanterns hang
from above. At the left is a large
property box, and above it are
chairs, tables, cushions, etc., in
fact all properties used in the
play. CHORUS takes his seat up
center. Music.]
'T is the palace of Wu Sin Yin, the
Great, a most unhappy man, for he possesses two wives. He comes, Wu Sin Yin,
the Great.
[The gong sounds and the cymbals
crash; the curtain on door left is
pulled aside.]
[Enter Wu SIN YIN. He comes down stage,
then walks to right, then to center, turns
twice round, and seats himself. The
property man assists him to arrange his
costume, then   smokes complacently.
Wu SIN YIN gazes solemnly before him;
his whole action on entrance is consciously done to display his costume;
when seated he spreads his legs and turns
out his toes, displays his finger-nails on
his left hand, two of which are very long,
one being gilded and the other colored
green; he fans himself; during this business the orchestra plays, the cymbals


crash, the drum rolls and the wooden
block is struck. The cymbals are struck
also, when he mentions the name of the
Emperor.]
Wu SIN YIN. I am the most important
personage in this play. Therefore, 1 address you first. By your gracious leave,
with many apologies, I will state in all
modesty, for your edification only, for of
course I know who I am and how great and
august I am, while you are not so favored,
that I am Wu Sin Yin, the Great. I have
the third eye of wisdom here. I shape the
destiny with my finger-tips of the people
on the Yangtsekiang. [Sits in great state
fanned by attendant.] I would bow to you,
but it is beneath my dignity. My wives
kotow to me in abject slavery, which is as
it should be with wives. This is my sunkissed palace on the purple hill. Here by
seal and by the red pencil on a yellow silken
banner, I hold my court and issue my
edicts. Here the.abject subjects of my
province crawl to bring me the harvest of
their labors, for it is decreed by the Son
of Heaven, our Celestial Emperor, of the
Eighth Dynasty [rises and bows three times],
that they bring me the fruits of their slavish menial toil. With all this felicity of
personal importance, I am still augustly
unhappy, for I possess two wives - a first
wife and a second wife. Chee Moo, the
first wife, has a child crab-like and spiderformed. It was her mistake, not mine. I
have a right divine to like or dislike my
wives at pleasure. Happiness is necessary
to a great governor in order that his menials
may be happy by reflection, as I am in the
presence of my second wife, Due Jung Fah,
who shines in the light of my favor. I must,
in august sympathy for my situation, delicately dispose of the first wife and crooked
child - very delicately - for Chee Moo's
family is powerful; and, if I beheaded her
uncouthly, they might be annoyed. I must
contrive a secret and respectful and courteous departure for her honorable soul.
Then I may pass my hours in celestial bliss
with Due Jung Fah, my beautiful second
one. How shall I accomplish it? I am admonished of the approach of my honored




THE YELLOW JACKET


277


second father-in-law, Tai Fah Min, who is
wisely virtuous and will advise me.
[On exit curtain at right door is
lifted and the orchestra plays until the curtain falls. The property man removes the chair and
places it left among other properties.]
CHORUS. 'T is the garden of Due Jung
Fah, the second wife of Wu Sin Yin, the
Great.
[Enter DUE JUNG FAH followed by her maid,
Tso, door left. Both hold their fans before their faces and walk with mincing
steps to center, during music. DUE
JUNG FAH keeps always a little in advance of Tso.]
DUE JUNG FAH. Gentle listeners, here
in my garden, with ceremonial bow, I tell
you, I am Due Jung Fah, most unhappy of
ladies. I am the second wife of Wu Sin Yin,
the Great. There would be music in my
heart if it were not for the first wife. The
butterflies and bees and the humming-birds
do not come to my garden. They fly to
make hers beautiful. [To Tso.] Interrupt
me not. The goldfish die in my lily ponds
and swim sun-kissed in Chee Moo's across
the wall. Where she walks with her monkey-faced child, the hyacinths bloom, the
purple wistaria and the white jasmine fill
the air with fragrance for her painted nostrils. I breathe and breathe, and the air is
heavy with death of flowers. Oh, oh, even
the lanterns in her evening walk brighten
her path, while mine fade and I stumble.
[Stops Tso, who would speak.] Tell me not.
I marvel that any one should do her homage. My mind is crowded with thoughts of
her cripple monster-child, for my soul has
not given forth a child-seed. The air is
filled with the approach of some one. Let
us depart.
[As DUE JUNG FAH exits door
right, music.]
Tso. [Returns to center.] No one comes.
The opportunity was not permitted me to
tell you truly that I am Tso, the maid of
Due Jung Fah. When I met you my mistress wanted to unburden her august soul
to you. Though I was filled with sky words,


I am too adroit to talk when she wishes to.
I am the dust in the sunbeam. I am one of
the darkest shadows of our play. It is the
modest little maid whose manner is filled
with sunlight that throws the prettiest
little shadows of the dark. Innocence
makes the best play-shadow. The night
shadow has no danger, for you see it as you
pass. Sweet little flitting shadows like
mine trip you in your path. I threw a tiny
rainbow shadow across Due Jung Fah's
eyes which looked like the first wife in her
richest jewels and prettiest gown; and then
a big thunder-cloud shadow across the eyes
of Wu Sin Yin, and the cloud took on the
image of his twisted child. If Chee Moo is
gently disposed of, Due Jung Fah becomes
the first wife and I become the first maid.
The first maid, Suey Sin Fah, faints at the
incense of some flowers. Lee Sin, her husband, deserves a wife more brave. Why not
a gentle little shadow?  [Exits. Music.]
CHORUS. 'T is a road leading to the palace of Wu Sin Yin, the Great. He comes;
Tai Fah Min! mounted on his milk-white
steed!
[Loud crash of cymbals; curtain on
door left is lifted and TAI FAH
MIN enters followed by two men;
he carries a whip and does pantomime of riding and driving a
horse; one of the men who follow
him carries a banner inscribed
with Chinese characters; this
banner is red; the other carries a
large fan on a stick; he comes
down to left, then crosses right,
then to center; goes through business of dismounting his horse,
throwing his leg high in the air;
the property man assists him and
helps his man hold his supposed
horse; he lays his whip on the
ground behind him; during all
this, music. The supernumeraries retire up stage with supposed horse. TAI FAH MIN
pivots on one foot, takes out his
fan, which is carried at the back
of his neck, and bows three times
to the audience. Gongs.]
TAI FAH MIN. My horse! Remove him!




278


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


He must not hear the secret thoughts of
his master. Tai Fah Min is my name. I
come from the Southland, where the sun
kisses the hilltops. I rule a province there
as rich as the one of him I come to visit. I
bow to you [bows three times], risking my
dignity in doing so. A father's love hastens
me hither, for I am the parent of the most
wretched of ladies, the second wife of the
celestial governor of this province, Wu
Sin Yin, the Great. Chee Moo, the first
wife, and her monster-born child stand between my beautiful daughter, Due Jung
Fah, and her husband. No one will envy
her dead. Whatever pathway a father finds
to give happiness to a daughter is not offensive to the gods. This province is too
crowded with august wives, and the honorable Chee Moo, the first wife, and her
dragon-eyed child, should be generous to
others who need the celestial air they
breathe. Due Jung Fah, my daughter, will
then be all and I will be all. This is the road
to the palace. [To attendants.] Bring back
my sublime horse! Attend me on foot.
[Property man brings forward the
supposed horse and he goes
through the pantomime of mounting; they assist him, property
man picks up whip and hands
it to him; he beats the supposed
horse. Exit TAI FAH MIN and
attendants; door right.  The
property man now places a
table center, which he carries from
left, places a red cover on it; then
two chairs on either side, which
he also covers with a red cloth,
and puts a small stool on each.]
CHORUS. 'T is a room in the palace of
Wu Sin Yin, the Great.
[Enter door left, Wu SIN YIN. Attended by a
man with a fan, he seats himself in chair
right of table; his dress is arranged as
before by property man, etc.; during
this, music. Enter attendant with TAI
FAH MIN'S card and kneels. After
Wu SIN YIN is seated, enter TAI FAH
MIN, attended by a man with a fan.
Wu SIN YIN rises, pivots on right foot
once, then clasps his hands, opens his


fan, which he takes from back of neck,
and seats himself. TAI FAH MIN does
the same business and seats himself left
of table.]
Wu SIN YIN. Tai Fah Min, my exalted
second father-in-law, I receive you into my
palace and presence with exuberance of
fancy. My beloved second father-in-law
may assume that Wu Sin Yin, the Great,
has bowed to him with filial obeisance.
TAI FAH MIN. And my celestial son-inlaw may felicitate himself with the glorious
fancy that his second father-in-law also has
bowed. The palace of the great Wu Sin
Yin breathes incense of happiness. The
gods smiled and it rose like a flower from the
earth for the habitation of our master.
The teak-wood was carved by moon-rays
dancing on its surface, the rugs were woven
by humming-bird beaks as they played
hide-and-seek with their love-mates among
the silken threads on the loom. The godsWU SIN YIN. Ah, Tai Fah Min, my
Tai Fah Min, you exaggerate the magnificence of my palace by compliments of
great length. It is most humble. The
beauties of my mind are enmeshed by the
threads of evil woven there by the spider's
art, else why should I, Wu Sin Yin, the
Great, be the most unhappy of men?
[Property man here comes forward with tray on which are two
cups; he places them on the table.]
TAI FAH MIN. The most radiantly
happy!
Wu SIN YIN. Ah, if your daughter were
only my first wife- not my second, my
Tai Fah Min.
TAI FAH MIN. My daughter dare not
look so high. She has not yet reached that
great state - motherhood.
Wu SIN YIN. I must have advice that
brings unclouded to my arms and lips, the
rosy lotus lips and arms of Due Jung Fah.
Advise me my way, Tai Fah Min.
TAI FAH MIN. My brain speaks, but my
heart stands still.
Wu SIN YIN. Who could guide me better
than my second father-in-law, who has
such interest in my affairs?
TAI FAH MIN [anxiously]. I speak. The




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279


first wife, Chee Moo, stands in the hate of
your subjects, because the child she bore
was cramped, crab-like, monstrous and unwise in its likenesses of evil. The devils
damned it at its birth with - the monstrosities of the -
Wu SIN YIN [interrupting]. Mother's
soul. 'Forget not that.
TAI FAH MIN. That will save us with
your subjects. If it had inherited the noble
godlike spirit of the father, Wu Sin Yin, the
common hordes would have demanded it
for the next ruler. They dare to loathe the
fruits of your body. Your scholars would
advise as I do, Wu Sin Yin.
Wu SIN YIN. And that is
TAI FAH MIN. Hush! Let us pass into
another room where none may listen. [They
walk three times about the stage and stop each
in the other's place. Property man changes
chairs. Music.] We are safer here in this
isolated spot. This palatial room is more
fragrant than that we have passed from.
WU SIN YIN. Use up no more air in
compliment.
TAI FAH MIN. We must whisper. No
matter how safe you hide the egg the
chicken will hatch. A sweetpassing heavenward for the first mother and the child.
Wu SIN YIN [gleefully]. And Due Jung
Fah will come to me with no shadows between us. But my conscience constrains
me.
TAI FAH MIN [soothingly]. Think on the
gorgeous munificence of her funeral! To
die the wife of Wu Sin Yin, the Great, is
like breathing zephyrs of the South as
against living in a typhoon. Think how
proud her family should be of the ceremonies as we lay the first wife with her
ancestors! Her death will be most glorious.
WU SIN YIN. Can we make her family
believe it?
TAI FAH MIN. It would be deplorably
bad taste if her family did not appreciate
the magnificence of the funeral that your
dignity will afford her.
WU SIN YIN. A blind cat catches only a
dead rat. Have I among my servants one
in dignity becoming to do the deed, for we
could not leave it to the public executioner?
TAI FAH MIN. Lee Sin, the farmer,

worthy, god-favored and properly menial.
Wu SIN YIN [thoughtfully]. This farmer
is strong.
TAI FAH MIN. He will gently plough a
furrow with his sword in Chee Moo's neck
and the gods will smile upon such husbandry.
Wu SIN YIN. Send for him!
[Enter Tso door left, with short strain of
music.]
Tso. Most august and greatest of men,
representative of the Son of Heaven: 1
kneel, bow and ask that my mistress, Due
Jung Fah, your devoted second wife, may
speak with her august lord and husband.
Wu SIN YIN [condescendingly]. My wife
may speak to her husband-master.
[Exit Tso, after bowing to both
men.]
TAI FAH MIN. See how humbly my
daughter approaches you.
[Enter DUE JUNG FAH, followed by Tso;
kneels and bows to Wu SIN YIN; music.]
DUE JUNG FAH. Most wonderful and
only husband in the world, of whom even
as the second wife, I, Due Jung Fah, am
most unworthy.                 [Bows.]
Wv SIN YIN. Luscious one, I greet you.
Rise and greet your worthy and far-seeing
father, Tai Fah Min!
DUE JUNG FAH. I could not bow to my
ancestors' tablets, much less to my noble
father, before I had bowed my head in the
dust three times to my gracious husband.
[DUE JUNG FAH here kneels and
bows to TAI FAH MIN. All rise
and bow.]
TAI FAH MIN. My daughter has the
modesty that Confucius praises. Her
voice is low and gentle. Gracious and celestial one, pardon the emotions of the
greetings of a father in your presence.
WU SIN YIN. How would you fancy, my
Due Jung Fah, as first wife, to languish unclouded in the lavish smiles of Wu Sin Yin,
the Great?
DUE JUNG FAH. But Chee Moo, my
sister, the glorious first wife, lives. [Pre.
tending to be startled, looking from one to the
other.] Not dead! I should faint of grief.




280


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


TAI FAH MIN [aside to her]. Remember
it is your duty to fill your husband's eyes
with happiness and obedience, that wifehood in you may be glorious to the end
that such a child as Chee Moo bore shall
not live to rule in the Flowery Kingdom.
Wu Sin Yin and your father ask it.
DUE JUNG FAH. I love the province of
the august Wu Sin Yin. Who does the
deed?
TAI FAH MIN. Lee Sin, the farmer.
DUE JUNG FAH. I am resigned, if it cannot be done more gently with the dreamgiving opiates.
WU SIN YIN. I had the flowers about
her filled with the softest poison perfume
that she might breathe their august exhalations and pass gently to the honorable
and desirable land of dreams. I went as
the morning broke to weep over her departed soul, but it was she who was in tears
over the honorable departure of the bees
and butterflies and humming-birds who for
love of their mistress had sucked the poison
honey of the flowers and laid themselves to
rest for her they loved. Their selfishness in
robbing their mistress of her eternal sleep
was inexcusable'
DUE JUNG FAH. I will retire and pray
seven days at the tablets of my ancestors for the soul of Chee Moo and her
child.
WU SIN YIN. Your prayers shall cover
but the space of one day.
DUE JUNG FAH. Wu Sin Yin, the Great!
I dwell in the unhappiness of my sisterwife. Fan me!
[Exit DUE JUNG FAH door right,
after bowing three times, followed
by Tso. Music.]
WU SIN YIN. Send for the executioners.
I shake hands with myself, Tai Fah Min,
and leave you.
[Wu SIN YIN clasps his hands,
bows, opens his fan and exits
door right, followed by TAI FAH
MIN; cymbal and gong. Property man now removes chairs and
table.]
CHORUS. 'T is the garden of Chee Moo,
the unhappy first wife of Wu Sin Yin, the
Great.


[Enter CHEE Moo door left, with child,
which is represented by a stick with
pieces of cloth wrapped around it and
hanging down. Comes down and crosses
right. During following speech soft
wails from orchestra.]
CHEE Moo. Oh, woe is me! Murder is
in the air. The evil spirits build walls about
me whichever way I go. Now you know
that 1 am Chee Moo and this the child,
Woo Hu Git. The devils put toads in our
path to croak and awake him that he might
cry out and reveal us; bats in the air follow
us by night and hang their great withered
wings from the rafters of Heaven, like a
dead forest, to impede us by day. My boy,
my pretty boy! whom evil plotters call
cripple and monster-formed but who, as
you see, is celestially beautiful. Let your
baby dreams be a silent prayer to your
ancestors for help. I will cry out to them
from a mother's heart for your protection.
We will fly to the mountains, the place of
the issuing clouds, where your mother will
weave fabrics of silk to cradle you in and
care for you until your baby arm can wield
a sword to confound your enemies. The
lantern of my love hangs in the temple
of my mind, and I pray you, my ancestors,
let no unkind wind spirit or water sprite
quench the flame of my child-love.
[Exits door right.]
CHORUS. 'T is a courtyard in the palace
of Wu Sin Yin, the Great.
[Music. Enter LEE SIN. Comes down left,
crosses right and bows.]
LEE SIN. I am Lee Sin, the child of the
rice fields. The chop-sticks of the poor and
the chop-sticks of the rich await my harvest. I feed them as the golden pheasant
feeds its young. Where I labor the god of
the soil smiles on my ox and me, for we are
sacred.
[Bows; prostrates himself before
TAI FAH MIN, who enters door
left; loud crash on cymbals and
gong.]
TAI FAH MIN. Rise, Lee Sin, I would
speak.
LEE SIN. Father of the second wife, I
bring you greetings.




THE YELLOW JACKET


28i


TAI FAH MIN. Son of the soil, I realize
the dignity of your greetings.
LEE SIN. Wu Sin Yin bade me come. I
left my ox to feed and dusted my feet and
came.
TAI FAH MIN. You labor too hard. I
would help you.
LEE SIN. If you took me from my labor
you would rob me of the joy of living -
which is my all.
TAI FAH MIN. Would you add to the
gold in your purse, Lee Sin?
LEE SIN. An avaricious man is like a
snake trying to swallow an elephant. I
have enough - and that is all I need.
TAI FAH MIN. You have a wife who may
think more wisely, Lee Sin.
LEE SIN. Suey Sin Fah is my wife, and
maid to the beautiful Chee Moo, first wife
of Wu Sin Yin, the Great. She, too, is
happy and content, for she is good.
TAI FAH MIN. What do you love best in
all the world, Lee Sin?
LEE SIN. My parents and my wife, the
little Suey Sin Fah.
TAI FAH MIN. And have you no love
for your master, Wu Sin Yin, the Great?
LEE SIN. I bow in the dust three times
to him. He stands in the place for me of
the Emperor, the Son of Heaven.
[Gongs, both bowing.]
TAI FAH MIN. You would not refuse
then to do his bidding?
LEE SIN. To refuse would mean my
death, and that I would give him for the
asking.
TAI FAH MIN. And if he asks you to kill
for him?
LEE SIN. He would not ask it.
TAI FAH MIN. [Hands him death order,
represented by tiger's head on a scroll.] It is
the command of the Son of Heaven.
[Gongs and both bow.]
LEE SIN. The tiger's head! What criminal name is penciled on the gaping mouth?
My eyes are like swords danced upon by
evil spirits. I cannot see. Chee Moo, my
wife's dearest mistress, and the child! I
cannot kill them. I will go to my ancestors
first.                  [Drops scroll.]
TAI FAH MIN. Then Suey Sin Fah will
go with you.


LEE SIN. Why does not the public executioner wreak his master's impatience on
the head of Chee Moo? He is skilled in
killing first wives.
TAI FAH MIN. It must be a quiet and
merciful affair, otherwise it might become
a scandal. Her family should congratulate
her on the release of her suffering soul, for
those beheaded or strangled are free from
suffering, but wives' families are strangely
inconsiderate.
LEE Sin. He that rids his house of an evil
had better suffer the evil than tell the world.
TAI FAH MIN. I am going to Wu Sin
Yin to drink delicious tea. Bring us the
head of Chee Moo.
[Exit TAI FAH MIN door right,
fanning  himself.  Screeching
sound played on instruments.]
LEE SIN. The tiger's head! [Picks up
scroll.] Ancestors, save me. An hour ago
my ox and I were happy. The soft breeze
on the rice fields brought us the music of
Heaven. An instant, and the typhoon
comes with a word, and the land is bleak,
and death hovers where the sun-rays
played. This is the evil moon wrought by
man's mischief. He is not content and will
not suffer his poorest neighbors to be content. The tiger's head! I must do the murder to save my wife, little Suey Sin Fah.
[Enter SUEY SIN FAH, door left. Music.
Comes down left, bows three times.]
Su]EY SIN FAH. May I be permitted to
tell this august worthy audience - to
whom I bow, for it is my business to be
humble, - being both a maid and a wife, 
for I am the maid of the august gracious
Chee Moo, the first wife, and the wife of
the god-loved farmer, Lee Sin.
LEE SIN [back to her]. And like to be the
widow of that same Lee Sin, for the evil
spirits encircle him.
SUEY SIN FAH. I pray my ancestors that
I may not be maid and widow at one time.
Your eyes roll. What demon spirits clutch
your heart, my husband, Lee Sin? The
veins in your forehead burst, your hands
twitch with the wrenchings of the evil one.
[Violent beating on gong and crash
of cymbals.]




282


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


LEE SIN. [Shows her scroll.] The tiger's
head with a name upon its tongue.
SUEY SIN FAH. Not yours, Lee Sin, my
love, not yours!
LEE SIN. Chee Moo! I must be her executioner.
SUEY SIN FAH. Chee Moo, my august
mistress in the tiger's mouth! Let us die
together and save Chee Moo and the boy,
who are even now enchained prisoners
within the walls of her flowery garden at
the displeasure of her unkind husband.
LEE SIN. I cannot. The tiger! The
mother dies by the sword; the child deserted in the wolf land.
SUEY SIN FAH. Is this the husband of
my breast, is this distorted demon the one
to whom I gave a wife-heart?
LEE SIN. I bow to the gods to tear all
tender feelings from me that I may work
myself into an unkindness to do Chee
Moo's murder.
SUEY SIN FAH. I love the august Chee
Moo and her beautiful child. She is suffering from the machinations of Due Jung
Fah, who is the human spider in the worldbox. We must save Chee Moo.
LEE SIN. If I obey not the mandate of
Wu Sin Yin, the Great, your life and mine
will answer for it.
SUEY SIN FAH. Death with our ancestors
will be just as sweet in our love. The good
of the people demands that Chee Moo live
to raise her boy.
LEE SIN. But if I fail, Chee Moo will die
the same by the hand of another found to
do the work, as others will come to plough
the rice fields when I and my ox are dead.
Where is the honorable Chee Moo?
SUEY SIN FAH. Praying in her prison to
the great-eyed god for the soul of her boy,
Wu Hoo Git.
LEE SIN. What am I to do?
SUEY SIN FAH. Kill little Tso, and pass
her off for the august Chee Moo.
LEE SIN [suspiciously]. You are jealous
of little Tso.
SIEY SIN FAH. Tso is a fox and makes
mischief for us all. She dreams black plots
at night and whispers them in the willing
ears of Due Jung Fah. The gods smile
when a bad being is killed, for it is so rare.


The good do the dying. That makes them
good.
LEE SIN. But Tso does not look like
Chee Moo. We should fail.
SUEY SIN FAH. [Business.] The sword
that takes this from this - can slash this
out of semblance. [Business taking pin
from her hair.] Pin this in her hair. I took
it from my mistress' head-dress. Where
are you going?
LEE SIN. After my august sword.
[Exeunt LEE SIN and SUEY SIN
FAH, door right. Enter door left,
Tso. Music.]
Tso. A moonbeam fell where the murder
was contrived. I know all, for I listened. I
was behind it and heard Wu Sin Yin and
Tai Fah Min plan it all. There must be
moonbeams somewhere when great passions are working. If it had been a sunbeam
there never could have been a murder.
[LEE SIN enters, takes sword from property
man. Tso does not see him at first. He
stands and looks at her. She finally sees
him and begins to flirt.]
I knew you were here, Lee Sin.
LEE SIN. How could you know?
Tso. A butterfly lit on my heart and
said, "Beware - there is a heart-thief
here."
LEE SIN. The butterfly lied. I am
married.
Tso. That is the whole trouble in the
honorable august world. All the fascinating
men are married.
LEE SIN. Work not your wiles on me,
for I am rough, honest and not fascinating.
Tso. It is the honest husband that falls
first, for he is foolish, and does n't know or
does n't mean to, or does n't know that he
wants to mean to. I pray my ancestors not
to give me too honest a husband.
LEE SIN [aside, as he crosses to right]. She
is the evil thing. Her fox soul should be
released. I must do it.
Tso. You will find the honorable Chee
Moo and her august monster-child yonder.
The light from the jewel in the forehead of
her god-image will fall upon the mortal
spot and lead the sword.
LEE Sin. How knew you of my purpose?




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283


Tso. A tortoise by the pool told me. He
was so slow he overheard the plot in passing. Is your honorable sword very sharp?
LEE SIN. As sharp as the east wind.
Tso. Will you hack her one blow?
LEE SIN. No more.
Tso. How long will it take?
LEE SIN. The time it takes a lark to
swallow a grasshopper.  [Tso shows glee.]
Tso. Where will the sword cut? [He
walks up stage and shows her at neck. She
shudders.] Will it be very hard on your
hands?
LEE SIN. It will be.
Tso. When will you do the deed?
LEE SIN. Now. [Business. LEE SIN
strikes at her neck with sword. Property
man comes forward and holds a red flag
before her face.] I am blind with august
blood. Where is the head? [Property man
throws a red sack on the stage. Tso exits door
right. LEE SIN picks up red sack and talks
to it.] The remnant of a soul that lived! I
will clip the ears. I will chop off the honorable nose. I will slit the precious eyes -
that drooped to my humble eyes once.
Without eyes, ears, lips and nose, you, as
the first wife, Chee Moo, are as good as
any.
SUEY SIN FAH. [Enters door left.] Where
is the head? Show me the head? Oh, woe
is me; it is my august mistress, Chee Moo!
LEE SIN. The fox maid, little Tso!
SUEY SIN FAH. It is Chee Moo, my mistress, Chee Moo!
LEE SIN. My sword worked the magic.
I carved her to look like Chee Moo. There
is the eye that drooped in love to your
humble husband's.
SUEY SIN FAH. She drooped her eye to
you? I recognize it now. She should be
dead! Look to your exalted sword! Oxheaded devils cling to its blade.
LEE SIN. The evil ones upon my blade
mock her - not me, and they shall mock
at Wu Sin Yin, for I shall present him with
the sword together with her head. [SUEY
SIN FAH pins jewel on the bag.] Bid Chee
Moo flee with her child.
[SUEY SIN FAH exits door right.]
LEE SIN. The world is fire lined. To my
work - I drag away the body, for without


its head it is sweeter to fertilize a field of
poppies.
[LEE SIN goes through business of
picking up supposed body and
exits door right; music; property man now places table center, covered with red cloth; also
chairs on either side, which are
also covered with red cloth, with
stools on their seats.]
CHoRUS. 'T is the palace of Wu Sin Yin,
the Great.
[Enter Wu SIN YIN, door left; roll of drum;
seats himself at right of table. Enter
TAI FAH MIN, takes seat on left of table;
music stops. Property man brings tray
on which are two cups and places the
same on table.]
WU SIN YIN. Is it accomplished, my
Tai Fah Min? Does your daughter sit in
the coveted place she longed for?
TAI FAH MIN [complacently]. Let us
drink tea.
Wu SIN YIN. Bring tea, and cups of
honeysuckle flowers and rose petals.
[They drink.]
TAI ]FAH MIN. It is glorious when the
bad die and the good live.
Wu SIN YIN. Glorious! A rose petal for
my tea.
[Property man pretends to deliver
one with chop sticks.]
[Enter LEE SIN door left, kneels and bows
three times to Wu SIN YIN, rises and
puts basket which he has carried with
him on table, laying his sword on top.]
LEE SIN. Most celestial master, I fall
upon my knees, for they hold me not. Her
head has been removed and quietness
reigns. In the basket, my honorable mas- 
ter. The august sword is there, too, most
honorable master. Forget not the august
sword.
Wu SIN YIN. [Removes sword and peeks
into basket.] Burn perfumed incense as I
peep at it. You have chopped off the lips
that I have kissed!
LEE SIN. They lied, great master.
Wu SIN YIN. You have slit the eyes
that have blinked to me!




284


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


LEE SIN. And to others, great master.
Wu SIN YIN. You have chopped off the
ears that have listened to my love!
LEE SIN. They have heard too much,
great master.
TAI FAH MIN. Her head to the pigs!
Another honeysuckle leaf for my tea!
Wu SIN YIN. She was my first wife. I'11
bury the trunk with august honor. Inform
Due Jung Fah that I come. She need pray
no longer. My arms ache for her, Tai
Fah Min.
[Music; exit Wu SIN YIN, followed
by TAI FAH MIN, door right.]
LEE SIN [with head]. To the pigs! To
the pigs with the head, but the demon
sword for the girdle of Wu Sin Yin.
[Exit LEE SIN, music, door right.
Property man removes table and
chairs, placing them on stage left.
Music, plaintive theme.]
CHEE Moo. [Enters left with child, as
before. Down center.] To the mountains,
where the evil eye grows blind in the pure
air of Heaven.
[Enter spirit, LING WON, with roll of drum
at upper opening. Music.]
LING WON. And the eye of Heaven sees all.
CHEE Moo. Who are you that floats
upon a fleecy cloud? Are you an executioner who bears a sword?
LING WON. Fear not, I am the spirit of
Wu Hoo Git's great-grandfather, the first
Wu Hoo Git.
CHEE Moo. Then the breath of this
child is your own life breeze, still playing
on this earth. And this is the little Wu
Hoo Git, who inherits your to-day and
your to-morrow.
LING WON. As I inherit his yesterday
and his yesterdays before it. I am the spirit
self of his great-grandmother, too; we of
yesterday are two in one.
CHEE Moo. How mean you?
LING WON. The land of the dead is so
crowded that married souls become as one
in space and the silkworms of the dead land
weave us into one cocoon that we may not
crowd our neighbors.
CHEE Moo. Why does not his greatgrandmother speak?


LING WON. It is not so ordained. She,
being the woman, offended the ears of the
gods —and her husband - with many
words when alive, so the just gods suffer
me only to speak now that we are dead.
CHEE Moo. Can she hear and see us, too?
LING WON. She can hear and see all.
There, too, the gods are just, for in life the
nights enamored me from home to listen to
the moon-birds in the shadows of the trees,
while I sucked the honey of the nightblooming cereus along the way, and too
often the morning dawned while I still
drank in the songs of the women on the
flower boats.
CHEE Moo. And will little Wu Hoo Git
live as you do in death?
LING WON. Too soon if you obey me not.
I come to warn and save him.
CHEE Moo. Who would harm my little
Wu Hoo Git?
LING WON. The august Wu Sin Yin, his
father, even now sharpens a sword to cut
the thread that holds him to this life.
CHEE Moo. I dreamed it and so I fled.
LING WON. I sent that dream; little
Wu Hoo Git would have passed to us had
it not been that his great-grandmother,
the other half of my spirit-self, sewed a
stitch in the brain of Lee Sin, the farmer,
so that he could not pick up the thread of
thought woven there by Wu Sin Yin, your
husband, who had ordered the murder of
the little Wu Hoo Git.
CHEE Moo [horrified]. Too terrible!
Oh, oh, I could fill a crystal vase with a
mother's tears.
LING WON. I come to break the crystal
vase of a mother's tears that would drown
her boy.
CHEE Moo. What shall I do?
LEE WON. Send the august Wu Hoo Git
on his world journey alone.
CHEE Moo. You would not take the
little Wu Hoo Git, for you have a woman's
heart within your breast and know a
mother's meaning.
LING WON. You must come to us that
Wu Hoo Git may live to the glory of the
Emperor.
CHEE Moo. But he will lose his way
without a mother's care and love.




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285


LING WON. The future is for the gods;
we are spirits and know only the path back
to the moon whence we came. His steps
are toward the sun, whither he goes.
CHEE Moo. Let me go with him.
LING WON. Not so. Wu Sin Yin would
know you, for you are grown. He is so
little that he looks like other babes and
may escape.
CHEE Moo. But he needs a mother to
feed and look after him.
LING WON. The ravens will feed him; the
eagles will show him the mountain peaks;
the humming-birds will tell him the names
of the flowers along his path; the goldfish
will show him whither the streams flow
straight. And a maiden will arise to teach
him the story of love. Fear not. The Gods
of Mercy and of Love will hold his hands.
CHEE MOO. My Wu Hoo Git -my
little Wu Hoo Git. Your mother's heart
melts for you.
LING WON. He will go up and up and
up, till he wears the sun-hued garment.
CHEE Moo. The sun-hued garment! My
Wu Hoo Git. [To spirit.] Leave me not.
My heaven-descended son of the morning
fades in my arms as you fade. He goes from
me into the glory of paleness, while I cry
out for his peaceful rest.
LING WON. The evil lines only wrought
by demon cunning fade from his cheeks
before the light of a new soul day. The
cramped and evil thoughts born of his
father's life flee before the sword thrusts of
good thoughts which a mother marshals to
cradle him.
CHEE MOO. You go from me!
LING WON. Write Wu Hoo Git's name
and history on his coat and come to us.
Farewell - we must depart into the shadows.                    [Spirit retires.]
CHEE Moo. Leave me not - oh, leave
me not! [Laughing and crying.] Wu Hoo
Git, my Wu Hoo Git. I am a willow weeping over the stream of my own life-blood.
I will write your name on your garment in
amother's blood that the life of the mother's
veins from which you sprang may enter
into and become a part of your soul.
[CHEE Moo here bites the second
finger of her left hand until the


blood comes, which she allows to
drop into the palm of her hand;
then dips the finger-nail of her
right hand into the blood and
writes on the white under-garment of the child, sobbing during
the speech.]
My baby —my boy! [Writes.] This is
Wu Hoo Git, pure and perfect, now, decreed to live ten thousand years. A mother's tears, falling as rain from heaven, will
fill the valleys across his path that his lifeboat may float from mountain peak to
mountain peak and confound his enemies
who follow after. More words in the mother's blood - I grow weak.
Ancestors guard you,
Love embrace you.
[Stops. To spirit, who is gone.] Will I hear
his baby cry and not be able to come to
him? Must I see the tears in his baby eyes
and not be able to wipe them away?
LING WON [outside]. Yes. Yes.
CHEE Moo. The mother who would give
all and does give all - the ink in my veins
runs out. Every drop must go by to the
boy. [Writes.] Be kind to her who gives
you love. Hope, pray, fight, live -to
make others happy. The last drop, - the
last drop in my veins to tell the story of
my boy and put a prayer on his garment.
All - my baby boy - all! A mother's
love! I cannot let you go. Your baby
hands cling about my heart. The light
grows as gentle as the light of dreams. Wu
Hoo Git - my baby - my Wu Hoo Git.
[She now becomes faint with the loss
of blood and sinks to the stage.
Property man and his assistant
bring ladder and place it at center of upper opening. CHEE
Moo rises and climbs up four
rungs of the ladder. Property
man holds ladder.]
CHOREnS. She climbs to Heaven.
[Music. Enter door left, SUEY SIN FAH, followed by LEE SIN; come center, see child,
but take no notice of ladder or CHEE
Moo.]


SUEY SIN FAH. What babe is this? I
see not the mother.




286


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


LEE SIN. His name is writ in blood upon
his garment. 'T is Wu Hoo Git! We will
fly with him.
[Exeunt with child, door right.]
CHEE Moo [on Heaven ladder, climbing
farther up]. My Wu Hoo Git! Your mother
will never see you wear the sun-hued garment, but she will know.
TABLEAU CURTAIN
[NOTE. At the end of act, in place of curtain calls, the CHORUS comes before the blue
curtain and offers thanks in the name of the
company.]
CHORUS [appearing]. I bow and thank
you in the name of my brothers of the Pear
Tree Garden for the kindness you have
shown. I ask indulgence. I would permit
them to appear and voice their thanks did
not tradition forbid. I shall tell them; it
will put joy in their hearts. At the close of
our story if they still stand in the light of
your favor, it will please me to permit them
to come before you, if you do not adulate
them too much for their good. I bow.
[Exits.]
CURTAIN
ACT II
After the house curtain is taken up the
tableau curtains are slightly parted and the
property man enters. He walks to extreme
right, then to extreme left and back to center,
striking large gong; then exits through opening in tableau curtains. Orchestra on stage
plays short overture. At crash of cymbals
CHORUS appears before the curtains and bows
to right, left and center.
CHORUS. I come again because I promised. I bow again. [Bows three times.] You
may rely on my august word, for I deal
in facts alone uncolored by fancy. My
brothers of the Pear Tree Garden are not
accountable to truth, as they speak what
the author of our play, - I will advise you
later of him,- has set down for them to
speak. Authors and poets color the truth
by the prettiness of their fancy. I bow to
them, however, telling you to beware of


them, for I derive my opportunity from
the soaring of their imagination to present
my august self to you. To this extent
authors are magnificently worthy. Wu
Sin Yin, the evil father, was unable to kill
his august son, Wu Hoo Git. This celestial
young prince had dwelt twelve moons,
when last you heard his baby cry of parting
with his honorable and august mother,
Chee Moo, who took her passage heavenward in your glorious presence. But time
has honorably pursued its venerable way.
Wu Hoo Git has grown into youthful manhood, and stands at the portal of flowery
life. He must pluck the azaleas of youth
and observe them wither at the touch of
his golden finger-nails. He must know the
temple of the body before his body knows
the temple of his mind. [Bell sounds off.]
The great bell calls me - as it calls him.
The bell-maker cast it of pure gold and
silver, but its note proved brazen. The Son
of Heaven was supremely annoyed. The
bell-maker recast it. When the metal was
molten, to save her father's life, for fear its
note might again carry base tones, his
daughter disposed of her body by springing
into the mass of white heat; so her soul became of the bell wrought by her father.
The metals welded with her spirit, and its
tone was then one of virtuous harmony and
love. Wu Hoo Git, too, must pass through
molten life, that the fires may purify his
soul and weld it into the purest strain. I
augustly bow; you honorably listen.
[CHORUS turns his back to audience,
makes gesture with his fan. At
crash of cymbals, tableau curtains are drawn. CHORUS now
goes up to table, center, property man discovered seated on
stool in center of stage. When
music stops, property man
arises, indicates to CHORUS that
scene is set and crosses to left.]
[CHORUS then speaks.] 'T is the home of
Lee Sin, the farmer; though humble in
appearance, it is crowded with riches.
[Music. Enter SUEY SIN FAH, left. She
comes down left, opens imaginary door,
steps over the door-sill, closes door,




THE YELLOW JACKET


287.


crosses to center and stands in front of
stool before speaking.]
SUEY SIN FAH. It is the twentieth anniversary of the birth of Wu Hoo Git, who
has grown into beautiful manhood. The
Goddess of Mercy - Kuan Yin - she
who hears prayers and is the giver of children - has given me no baby of my own to
care for, but in secret mercy has given me
Wu Hoo Git to foster-mother. When I
thought I held a babe and the breath of
childhood was sweet, I looked and the
flower had bloomed. Youth sprang from
my arm-petals to laugh and run and play
the first games of life. A few days give the
first farewell to the mother's arms, a few
months and the babe is a babe no more, a
few years and our mother journey is done.
We look in the mirror of the past with the
gray upon our temples, and we find strong
arms to protect us where we had protected
the helpless babe. The boy runs away. He
promises to return. He thinks he will return to the mother breast. You may think
that all is well with Wu Hoo Git, but it is
not so. Due Jung Fah's son, the Daffodil, grown to man, bars the way to Wu Hoo
Git and his world-place. Like all adolescent boys, Wu Hoo Git longs for the world
and its dangers. If he leaves our sheltering
care, he will never return to the mother
breast except in memory. I worship my
soul alone.  [Sits on stool, center. Music.]
[Enter LEE SIN, door left. Carries hoe over
shoulder, wears a beard. Comes down
left, opens imaginary door, steps over
sill, closes the door, crosses to right.]
LEE SIN. Prosperity is mine. My ox
ploughs the field and it grows pearly with
rice. You touch the loom and it weaves
rich fabrics. We dwell in the glory of our
beautiful foster-child.
[SUEY SIN FAH, going to him, puts
one arm about his neck and covers
her face with the other hand.]
SUEY SIN FAH. The august Wu Hoo Git
has gone forever.
LEE SIN. Not so. Tell me not so. I
murdered for him. Could a father do more?
SUEY SIN FAH. The string of our kite is
broken and the kite drops down from its


heaven-kissed place past the horizon. He
is grown, and longs for the paths of pleasure
where the way is piled with hungry evil
gods. He demands the shadows of his past.
He cries for his ancestors and we dare not
give them to him. We must put him from
his purpose or the evil-born son of the
second wife, Due Jung Fah, will pursue
and slay him.
LEE SIN. Fear not! He is not of the
common horde whose palm is dulled to
pleasure by hard toil. He is august and
needs the luxury of the joy of living. The
gods rain favors of grace and beauty and
perfumed paths on such as he. Remember
whence he sprang. His treasure chest is full
of gold which the gods gave to feed his glorious appetite. Soon the man's life journey
to match his exalted station must call him.
SUEY SIN FAH. Still 1 fear. I must wait
by the hearthstone, where he will never
play again. Never again will he make my
knees his ancestral tablets and coo his
baby prayer to them.
LEE SIN. Neither spirits nor Due Jung
Fah's son can harm him now. [Crosses to
left. Opens imaginary door.] Look! He
comes like the sun over the eastern hill. He
brings a new day to us.
[Crosses to right again. Music.]
[Enter door left, Wu Hoo GIT.]
Wu Hoo GIT. [Strikes picture in doorway. Comes down left. Leaps over imaginary
door-sill and crosses to center.] I am Wu
Hoo Git! I am tired of classics. I long for
the free air of life.
LEE SIN. You will not find contentment
there.
Wu Hoo GIT. Then where shall I find
contentment?
LEE SIN. In hard work and pure love.
Wu Hoo GIT. And where will I find pure
love?
SUEY SIN FAH. In a mother's arms.
LEE SIN. In a wife's embrace.
Wu Hoo GIT. The woman answers one
way, the man another. In the world there
are many answers. I must hear them all to
judge.
LEE SIN. Go not from us. Be counseled
by a father.




288


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


SUEY SIN FAH. And by a mother's love.
Wu Hoo GIT. Where is my real mother
waiting? Where does my real father reside?
LEE SIN [confusedly]. Our love withholds
much that you will know in time.
Wu Hoo GIT. In time - always in time.
I have played hide-and-seek with the sunrays and the moon-rays, I have laughed
from the mountain peak at the typhoon
sweeping the valley below. But when I ask
you for my ancestral tablets you tell me to
wait.
SUEY SIN FAH. Till wisdom comes.
Wu Hoo GIT. Why should I be denied?
A babe knows its mother. I demand my
parents. 1 feel the blood of eagles in my
veins. I demand, I say!
LEE SIN. I cannot.
SUEY SIN FAH. I will not yet.
Wu Hoo GIT. Then I go to find them.
[Goes up right to door.] Even at the portals of high Heaven. My purse is full,
but without my ancestors, I dwell not in
honor.
LEE SIN. The world is large and you
know not the dangers that will cross your
stumbling way.
Wu Hoo GIT. I fear not. I am grown to
be an august man.
[Large gong. Music. Exits door
right.]
SUEY SIN FAH [going up toward door right].
Wu Hoo Git, my Wu Hoo Git! Come back
to me! Oh, go not away, my boy! Rest
here cradled in my love. Permit me to
rock you to sleep to the song of gentle
breezes and the tune of tiny bells.
LEE SIN. [Goes to SUEY SIN FAH. Puts
arm around her.] He has the call of the
world now and must answer.
[They exeunt door right. Property
man's assistants place four stools
in a row across stage with spaces
between them. Take two stools
from left and place them right of
stool which is at center; take one
stool from wall left and place it
left of stool center. Property man
then makes gesture to CHORUS
and crosses to left.]
CHORUS [rises]. 'T is the flowery way
of pleasant evenings. He comes! Wu Hoo


Git's rival, the Daffodil, coddling his brain
with dark thoughts.              [Sits.]
[Music. Enter DAFFODIL preceded by two
attendants, one carries large red banner,
the other large fan. They stand either
side of door left. He strikes attitude in
doorway with fan, turns around slowly
and as he faces front again property
man drops sword on bottom of property
box. Expression of pain crosses DAFFODIL'S face. He crosses to center.
Property man brings bouquet of flowers
for him to smell, standing left of him.]
Wu FAH DIN. I advise this honorable
audience that I am a man, though I possess
a daffodil nature. I go to view delightful
embroideries, but retard my footsteps, that
you may observe my charm. I was born
great. Wu Sin Yin was my father, and
Due Jung Fah, the second wife, my mother.
A wonderful alliance, as I am the superb
result. [Property man holds flowers for him
to smell again.] I am, therefore, the rival of
Wu IHoo Git, who dwells, it is whispered,
in an humble mountain home, whence he
will go forth to seek his world-place. I am
not happy while he dwells anywhere - so
he must not dwell. He is simply vulgarly
manly, while I possess feminine qualities of
great luxuriance. [Smells flowers again.
Property man draws them away from him
and puts them in box left. Property man then
sits and reads Chinese paper.] I would contend with him, man to Daffodil, but it
might break my finger-nails and establish
a bad precedent. You may think the match
unequal, because of my delicacy in a contest with brawn; but I assure you that it is
not so. Craft, guided by cruelty, outweighs
vulgar manliness. I must contrive to destroy his honesty and cleanness of life.
[Attendant fans him with large fan.] I will
call to my aid Yin Suey Gong, whom you
will meet and know, by the hump on his
back. I will have him present his porcelains
to the unsuspecting Wu Hoo Git. He deals
deliciously in porcelains. He will drop
flowers of pleasure in Wu Hoo Git's path
that my rival may inhale their odors of
vice. Observe how I contend with brawn.
[Music. Attendants go up right and exeunt.




THE YELLOW JACKET


289




DAFFODIL goes up toward door as he speaks.]
Cut the flowers in my path that I may
walk.
[Exits door right. Music changes.]
[Enter door left, YIN SUEY GONG. Carries
staff. Music continues during speech.]
YIN SUEY GONG. [Comes down to center
bowing.] I am Yin Suey Gong of the monkey form. The air was lukewarm when I
came, ghost clouds were racing the wind.
I was dusted by butterfly wings along my
path. Bringing pleasure to the owner of
gold is my business. A dragon yawned and
belched me forth. A tooth caught me and
I was born cramped of back. I give those
who were born straight [chuckles] and
august of face the world's pleasures. Then
to avenge myself on mother nature, who
distorted me, I pluck down their star and
delight in its fall. [Chuckles.] I watch the
flower lanterns of their vanity burn till the
ribs stick out like skeletons. Then I laugh,
for they are crooked in purse and without
love. I flatter them till I have them in my
grasp, then I mock at them, for they are
fools. I deal with the fair and they become
crooked-brained. I juggle hearts. I toss
them in the air and cross them and dance
them on my finger-tips and catch them on
my upturned nose. Sometimes one falls
and leaves a blood spot where it fell. Then
I gurgle and juggle on, for hearts are my
currency and a few marred and broken
ones are easily replaced.
Wu FAH DIN. [Enters, comes down left
and crosses to right, dropping folded red
paper, which represents a Chinese check.
Backs up stage to door right as he speaks.]
Wu Hoo Git approaches. Enmesh him.
Tarnish him. It must be done with perfume, and gently.              [Exits.]
YIN SUEY GONG [center]. I shall approach with my arms full of presents for
the adolescent Wu Hoo Git.        I
[Music. Enter Wu Hoo GIT. Door left.]
Wu Hoo GIT [coming down left]. Where
do I find myself?
YIN SUEY GONG. In the land where the
honey is sweet and the bees have lost their
sting.




I


Wu Hoo GIT. What is this land?
YIN SUEY GONG. [Bows going up to him.]
This is the land of perfumed pleasure.
Where the cups are filled with silver ricewine and the lips of love are heavy with
greetings and your every desire is answered.
Wu Ioo GIT. Its story had been traced
on a sweet-meat jar. But it is not the land
I seek, for it tells not of my ancestors.
[Moves a little right. Turns back to
audience.]
YIN SUEY GONG. You are augustly wise.
You are old and learned. I bow to the
august magnificence of your dress, the delicacy of the golden guards to your honorable
finger-nails, your wonderful jewelry of
amber -- your astute wisdom -
[Wu Hoo GIT shuts eyes in delight
at flattery.]
Wu Hoo GIT. I am transcendently wise.
YIN SUEY GONG. Your boots will surely
decorate a city's gates when you have
passed to your ancestors. You are old for
your age. The world and life will make you
older. Dreams await you. I greet you and
lay the world at your feet.
Wu Hoo GIT. I would put you in a seat
of friendship beside me.
YIN SUEY GONG. There are only two
things to please the taste of an august man
like you. [Bowing.] Some will tell you in
deceit that there are many things to please,
but there are only two.
Wu Hoo GIT. Only two in the broad
world, to people my pleasure?
YIN SUEY GONG. Only two. You may
travel, you may study, you may know, but
pearly wine and luscious women are all that
you will find. Some far countries boast of
the dance, but it is a part of woman. Our
august land oft speaks in song, but that,
too, is sweet from the lips of woman only.
It is not the note or string. It is the lips
that sing. To know wine and women is
rarer far than to know classics. The great
scholars know this [bows], but praise not
my honesty. [Turns away right.]
Wu Hoo GIT. You make me wonder. I
have learned philosophy. But it concerns
me not in my search for my ancestors.
[Starts toward door right.]
YIN SUEY GONG. Be tutored by glorious




290


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


woman, the rims of whose rice wine-cups
are crystallized with kisses.
[Moves away a little.]
Wu Hoo GIT. What are kisses?
YIN SUEY GONG. The meeting of the
pollen of two flowers that float to each other
on a heaven-sent breeze.
Wu Hoo GIT. Such an august meeting
must make the sweetest incense for the
gods.
YIN SUEY GONG. It does - only the evil
one more often catches the breath.
Wu Hoo GIT. And why?
YIN SUEY GONG. The gods have others
taste the sweets first for fear of poison.
Wu Hoo GIT. But there can be no
poison in the meeting of the flowers.
YIN SUEY GONG. There may be birth
and birth leads to death. [Music. During
which Wu Hoo GIT crosses to left. Listening. YIN SUEY GONG watches the effect on
him.] Love birds, flowers of happiness,
come to garden your pleasure. They will
teach you life, rarer than philosophy, richer
than classics. [Enter door left four flowergirls at music cue. Strike picture in doorway,
bow forward, then to left. They cross and
stand above stools.] To your sale thrones,
my princesses fair!
[Girls come to below stools, backs to
audience. They mount at music
cue, with the help of the assistant
property men. Girls then turn
front, fans still before their faces.]
Wu Hoo GIT. [When music stops, crosses
to center.] How modest they are! Fans before their rose faces! [Looks at girls, delighted.] I am glad I came to this world. It
makes smiling in my heart.
YIN SUEY GONG. It has pleased many.
Wu Hoo GIT. By what charm do women
hold us enchained?
YIN SUEY GONG. Wise men have wondered.             [Laughs, moves right.1
Wu Hoo GIT. May I approach them
with my voice?
YIN SUEY GONG. And get strange answers!
Wu Hoo GIT. How many moons have
passed since you graced the earth?
SEE QUOE FAH [dropping fan]. Sixteen
years of moons.


Wu Hoo GIT. Put up your fan! Who
are you?
Mow DAN FAH. A peony flower.
Wu Hoo GIT. Then you will fade.
Mow DAN FAH. Pick me while my perfume lasts.
Wu Hoo GIT. You are as dainty as the
embroidery on an Empress's gown. [Frightened, she puts fan over her face. Wu Hoo
GIT moves to YIN SUEY GONG.] May I
speak to the next one?
YIN SUEY GONG. The gods painted
many that man might choose one!
Wu Hoo GIT. [Starts to go up right.] Let
me go back to philosophy and my ancestors.
YIN SUEY GONG [stopping him]. And
never know life?
Wu Hoo GIT. [To third girl, who lowers
fan.] She tipped her fan to me. I saw her
eyes. I will wait and talk to her. Her
hands are like penciled porcelain. She has
the color of plum-tree buds. Are youjust like the other?
YONG Soo Kow. I was kissed by a more
southern sun.
Wu Hoo GIT. Then two flowers met
and a - a child was born?
YONG Soo Kow. You were not one of
the flowers!
Wu Hoo GIT. What means she?
YIN SUEY GONG. A sunbeam played
upon her hydrangea lip.
Wu Hoo GIT [excited]. And danced in
her eye and painted her cheek,
YIN SUEY GONG. You should have been
the sunbeam. She invites you.
Wu Hoo GIT. This was never taught me
in philosophy. How much there is to learn!
[Indicating fourth girl.] That one coughed.
[Sighs.] Send her to the Drug Hall of
Propitious Munificence for the Great
Blessing Pill, or the Double Mystery Pill,
or the Thousand Gold Pill for maidens. I
suffer to see her suffer.
YIN SUEY GONG. Her cough is a gentle
salutation. She fears you may go astray if
you talk too long to her august sisters.
Wu Hoo GIT [delighted, whispering]. Does
she think so much of me? I like her. She
has a mother's heart.
YIN SUEY GONG. They all have motherhearts.




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291


Wu Hoo GIT. I never had a mother.
[Crosses down center. Turns back to audience,
looking at girls.] Now I have four. [Music.
Girls sing. At end of song short dance. The
girls turn around on stools and face front
again. During song Wu Hoo GIT crosses to
left. At end of dance he speaks.] She sings
with lips that part like opening roses. My
foster-mother never sang like that. The
blood runs faster in my veins. [Crosses to
YIN SUEY GONG.] I feel something here
that beats.
YIN SUEY GONG. That is your heart.
Philosophy knows nothing of it.
Wu Hoo GIT. I like her. She is so
sweetly made - round and soft and delicate - like a vase we would embrace for
fear it might fall and shatter its loveliness.
YIN SUEY GONG. You may hold her and
embrace her beauties.
Wu Hoo GIT. I might let her fall and
shatter her dainty roundness.
YIN SUEY GONG. You will learn in time.
Wu Hoo GIT [tries]. But my arms may
not be strong enough.
YIN SUEY GONG. Hers were made to
help you.
Wu Hoo GIT. [Crosses to CHOW WAN,
left; awkwardly embraces her. Other girls
lower fans and look at him. He then crosses
back to YIN SUEY GONG.] It is easier than
I thought. She grows more delicately beautiful. She is sweeter than the rarest vase. I
like the holding of her. Her breath is incense.
YIN SUEY GONG. You may taste her lips.
[He crosses to CHOW WAN again,
ingenuously  kisses her and
crosses back to YIN SUEY GONG.]
Wu Hoo GIT. Sweetmeats rare.
[Starts to kiss CHOW WAN again,
stopped by YIN SUEY GONG.]
YIN SUEY GONG. I will sell her to you.
Wu Hoo GIT [astonished]. Is she for sale?
YIN SUEY GONG. Everything I possess is
for sale.
Wu Hoo GIT. Would you keep none for
yourself?
YIN SUEY GONG. I would be selfish to
retain such delicate wares. All perfumed
flowers may be cut by a golden knife. They
wait upon the market for your desire.
[Bowing.]


Wu Hoo GIT. I will buy them all.
YIN SUEY GONG. Like most men you
would have them all, but, if you purchase
four maids, you would sell three, or present
them to your friends.
Wu Hoo GIT. [With inspiration. Moves
left.] Then I will buy her who coughs.
[Girls drop fans and put them up quickly.]
They dropped their fans and looked at me.
I never felt such a delicate shock. It is like
reading the classics at one glance by the
light of ray-tailed comets. May they do it
again?
YIN SUEY GONG. Not till you purchase.
Wu Hoo GIT. And what must I pay?
YIN SUEY GONG. All you have in your
chased gold purse.
Wu Hoo GIT. [Crosses to YIN SUEY
GONG, right.] But I have nine thousand
taels! What shall I do when I give them all
to you?
YIN SuEY GONG. Send home for more
like every august son who would see the
world.
Wu Hoo GIT. [Turns left looking at
purse. Nine thousand taels for a mother!
CHOW WAN. I am worth more. [He looks
up at her.] You will find it so.
Wu Hoo GIT. [Drops purse.] Take my
purse, most gracious Yin Suey Gong. [Goes
to CHOW WAN, left.] Lee Sin will send me
more. She would suffer so alone. [Music.
Three girls turn on stools, with backs to audience and descend, assisted by the property
man, and exeunt door right. YIN SUEY GONG
follows them up to door and turns, looking at
Wu Hoo GIT. Wu Hoo GIT helps CHOW
WAN off of stool.] They do not smile on me.
YIN SUEY GONG. The evil one fans them
with jealousy. You did not buy them, too.
Wu Hoo GIT. Are they angry?
YIN SUEY GONG. They are filled with
humility. Farewell! [Aside.] He drowns
in the vase of pleasure. The Daffodil will
smile.
[Exits right, laughing. Property
man's assistants push four stools
together, then bring four chairs
and place them back of stools,
touching them. An assistant exits
right but returns immediately
with two bamboo poles to be used




292


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


I


as oars. Hands one to another
assistant and they stand a little
above and to the right of the chairs.
Property man gets drapery and
places it over back of chairs.
Then he places two cushions on
the stools which he gets from left
near property box. Music stops
when Wu Hoo GIT speaks.]
Wu Hoo GIT. By what sweet name are
you called?           [Taking her hand.]
CHOW WAN. Chow Wan, Autumn Cloud.
Wu Hoo GIT [dropping her hand, backing
away]. That's augustly pretty. What shall
I do with you now I have bought you?
CHOW WAN. [Goes to him, places head on
his shoulder.] 1 will teach you.
Wu Hoo GIT. Your voice is like an
honorable zephyr. Bring it closer.
[Puts arm about her.]
CHOW WAN. You are learning.
Wu Hoo GIT. But you have not taught
me a thing that I could behold.
CHOW WAN. The gods have taught you
many things that you can feel yet know
not of.
Wu Hoo GIT. I do not understand, but
I like you better than philosophy.
CHOW WAN. When you have said farewell to me, you will be a wiser philosopher.
Wu Hoo GIT. [Backs away from her.]
Must we part?
[Starts to embrace her, she evades
him, crosses to center below.]
CHOW WAN. Not for many perfumed
days.
[Property man makes gesture to
CHORUS who rises.]
CHORUS. 'T is a flower boat which floats
upon a silver river of love.
[CHOW WAN seats herself on
cushion of boat and invites Wu
Hoo GIT to enter.]
CHOW WAN. Come with me in the flower
boat and float among the lotus plants while
the night birds perch on the moon-rays and
sing to us, and I answer their song.
[He gets into the boat. After he is
settled two assistants with poles
pretend to row the boat. Musician runs two pieces of sandpaper
together in time with the strokes.]


Wu Hoo GIT. You think of such sweet
ways to wander from the minutes of the
third day of the third moon to the fourth
day of the third moon.
CHOW WAN. In my arms you will wander ten thousand years.
Wu Hoo GIT. [His arm about her.] I
wish your three sisters had stayed with us.
It would have warmed their hearts to see
us thus.            [She drops her fan.]
CHOW WAN. You are so worldly-wise.
[Fans herself slowly.] They would have
purred with delight.
Wu Hoo GIT. [Song off stage.] The silver
sails fill with the summer breeze. Wild
bells tinkle in my august veins. I never
heard them there before.
CHOW WAN. [Turns away from him.] See
the lotus lanterns on the water wafting
their candle-light to us!
Wu Hoo GIT. [Starts up.] This is the
night of love. Let not the morning come.
CHOW WAN. A love boat passes us in the
moonlight.
Wu Hoo GIT. [Looking. She follows
imaginary boat from left to right with her
hand.] It holds a woman and a man in
sweet embrace. It is the lotus-lipped fan
girl I met with you.
CHOW WAN. Yin Suey Gong has sold
her to him.
[They follow the imaginary boat
with their eyes. Wu Hoo GIT
with his hand around to right
holds picture until song off stage
stops.]
Wu Hoo GIT. I should have bought her
and saved her from him.
CHOW WAN. Your gold is not enough for
one. [She puts head on his shoulder.] Let us
land for more.
Wu Hoo GIT. Wait until the night is
passed.
CHOW WAN. No! We will find it sweeter
in my home. You fill the purse for the
fruits, cakes and candies. I will shadow the
lanterns and draw the silken curtains to
await your coming. [He starts to embrace
her. She stops him.] I have more to teach
you. [At gesture from Wu Hoo GIT the assistants stop rowing. They get out of boat.
Music stops. Assistants with bamboo poles




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293


exeunt right. Property man takes drapery
away. Assistants remove chairs. The fourth
stool is left in center of the stage with red
cushion on it. Property man, after gesture
to CHORUS, sits left. Assistants now exeunt
left.] Fill your purse.
Wu Hoo GIT. It takes so much money
to love, my Autumn Cloud.
[Music, he exits right. CHOW WAN
watching him exit.]
CHOW WAN. He has flown on wings of
swiftness for a second purse full.
[She crosses at back to left.]
CHORUS [rising]. 'T is a love nest.
[CHOW WAN opens imaginary door,
steps over sill, closes door, and
sits on stool center. Music continues.]
CHOW WAN. He has flown on wings of,swiftness for a second purse full. I must
wait at home alone. I will change my gown
to one of softer silk; dress my head like a
princess for my Wu Hoo Git. Bring me
lanterns of blue and pink that their light
may tint the eye glance of him who comes.
Crowd my abode with almond flowers and
open the lattice so that the moon-rays
dancing on my goldfish pond may make
love to the lantern's light within. Fill the
air with perfumes of sandal-wood. Bring
me my handkerchief of pale blue embroidered with purple wistaria. I must weep at
my Wu Hoo Git's long delay. Bring my
Yeuh Chin that I may be playing when his
footfall tinkles on the path. Place carved
wood screens about me that no one may
behold my beauty but him I wait for. He
comes! He comes! My lover returns with
his purse of gold.
YIN SUEY GONG. [Enters door left, comes
down, opens imaginary door, steps over sill,
closes door and goes to CHOW WAN. Music
stops.] What do you here alone?
CHOW WAN. Waiting as becomes me. Wu
Hoo Git is filling his purse with gold drops.
YIN SUEY GONG. It is not enough. I can
sell you to an emperor.
CHOW   WAN.    An  emperor!   [Rises.
Moves down right a little and stands with
back to audience.] Lead me to his fascinations.
YIN SUEY GONG. A chair of lacquered


gold awaits you. You must approach him
as becomes his rank.
CHOW   WAN. [Music on moon-guitar.
She goes up to door right and turns.] I will
approach him closely.
[Exits door right. Music stops.
Property man removes stool and
cushion to left.]
YIN SUEY GONG. This is my lucky day.
I've sold all my porcelains, but I must have
Wu Hoo Git's second purse full to line my
treasure sack. I must flatter him into another purchase, or my head will smile from
a bamboo pole at my crooked trunk. My
head against his purse of gold.
Wu Hoo GIT. [Music. Entering door
left, running to left center.] Chow Wan -
my Autumn Cloud! I bring the mountain's
gold to you.
YIN SUEY GONG. Your purse is welcome.
Wu Hoo GIr. Where dwells my honorable Autumn Cloud, - Chow Wan?
YIN SUEY GONG. Drifting in the azure
sky after a butterfly's perch. I will find
you a spring cloud that is warmer.
Wu Hoo GIT. I understand not your
speech.
YIN SUEY GONG. The august Wu Hoo
Git has grown so old in an hour of pleasure
that he has come to man's estate and should
now follow the pleasures of an august man.
Wu Hoo GIT. I want my Autumn Cloud.
YIN SUEY GONG. Kite flying is more for
the education of a man who has seen the
world and grown weary, as you have.
Wu Hoo GIT. But I am not weary.
Where is my Chow Wan? I have a purse
of jewels for her.
YIN SUEY GONG. You should he augustly happy, for most men who have seen
the pleasure path have lost their purse.
Chow Wan has flown to a daintier nest,
silk woven.
Wu Hoo GIT. Flown, as the morning
light comes to greet our love!
YIN SUEY GONG. I will sell you a more
comforting mate.
Wu Hoo GIT. But I own her heart for I
bought my august Autumn Cloud with my
gold.
YIN SUEY GONG. I sold her for the gold
of another whose purse was deeper.




294


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


Wu Hoo GIT. But she is completely
mine. The crevices of her heart are mine to
nestle in. She told me so herself. You are
a thief.
YIN SUEY GONG. I should not else be
supremely wise.
Wu Hoo GIT. Bring back my august
other self to me. You opened Heaven's
doors of love to me, gave me the sweets of
life - the perfumed breath of the ages of
love. Then you close the doors, and tell me
to find that joy-light again in other eyes.
YIN SUEY GONG. You had your hour of
fleeting pleasure. Do you expect with your
small glint of gold to buy a lifetime of happiness?
Wu Hoo GIT. I am grown to man and I
can wreak the vengeance of my might on
him who steals my blessings.
YIN SUEY GONG. Be augustly calm.
Woman is merely a matter of gold. Give me
more than he gave and I will buy her back.
Wu Hoo GIT. From the arms of another? The gods themselves can never make
her the same Autumn Cloud you stole.
YIN SUEY GONG. Another will do as well,
if you close your exalted eyes.
Wu Hoo GIT. You shall change, as she
has changed, so that all the gods of yesterday and the gods of to-morrow cannot
right you into what you were. I will carve
your august hump.
YIN SUEY GONG. I will give you back
your gold for mercy.
Wu Hoo GIT. I am not for sale. Bring
me your honorable hump that I may chop
it into the likeness of my Autumn Cloud.
[Crosses to left.]
YIN SUEY GONG. I will defend my
august hump.
[He drops his staff. They stand in
attitude of fighting. Wu Hoo
GIT left, YIN SUEY GONG right.
Property man takes short double
sword in scabbard and one short
single sword in scabbard, out of
property box, crosses to center,
hands double sword to YIN SUEY
GONG, single sword to Wu Hoo
GIT, and retires to left. During
fight musician comes down to
center below CHORUs' table and


works cymbals. Cymbals crash
with the striking of swords. The
whole fight is conducted in a slow
methodical manner, with much
turning. Wu Hoo GIT finally
cuts off the hump of YIN SUEY
GONG, taking red bag from under
his coat, and he sinks to the stage
in a sitting position back toward
the left. Property man places
pillow for YIN SUEY GONG in
wrong position. He motions him
to bring it closer, which property
man does with his foot. YIN
SUEY GONG now lies down, making himself quite comfortable.
Wu Hoo GIT stands over him,
and as he holds red bag up at
arm's length loud crashes of cymbals. Wu Hoo GIT then crosses
to left and victoriously gives his
sword to property man.]
[CHOW WAN enters left, stands near
doorway.]
Wu Hoo GIT [going up to her left center
near door]. Enfold me in your arms. Taste
my lips again. Chow Wan, my Autumn
Cloud.                  [Embracing her.]
CHOW WAN. [Bitterly goes down, kneels
and leans over body of YIN SUEY GONG.]
You have killed my Yin Suey Gong. Who
will sell me now? Evil spirits clutch at you.
Depths of night enfold you.
[Falls over body weeping.]
Wu Hoo GIT. I departed his hump for
selling you from me.
CHOW WAN. He got more adorable gold
than you could give.
Wu Hoo GIT [crossing right at back]. Gold
is not the measure of the heart.
CHOW WAN. Go into the pleasure world
and see. My monkey, my Yin Suey Gong,
my beautiful Yin Suey Gong.
Wu Hoo GIT. Console yourself. [CHow
WAN looks at him.] I am not going to kill
him again.
[GIRLS enter left and cross down to body of
YIN SUEY GONG.]
CHOW WAN. He has killed our master!
GIRLS. Killed him. [All kneel. SEE QuoE




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295


FAH, left of CHow WAN, Mow DAN FAH,
right of CHOV WAN, YONG Soo Kow, left of
SEE QUOE FAH.] Our poor Yin Suey Gong.
CHOW WAN [pathetically]. Who will traffic
in our love now?
Wu Hoo GIT. Gold is the measure of
your affection. Your hearts are outbalanced in the scales by a grain of yellow dust
in the heart traffic of him I slew. I repent
his death for in an evil way he was a tutor
who taught me pleasure; though a traffic
not smiled upon by the gods, it must have
some purpose for good or it would not be.
May he glory in his ancestors!
CHOW WAN. You have no ancestors.
THE GIRLS. No ancestors?
Wu Hoo GIT. I have tarried too long in
the way of pleasure. I go to seek my ancestors. I give him back his hump.
[Throws red bag on stage. Exits
door right.]
CHOW WAN. He is monkey-shaped and
can walk upon the clouds. [GIRLS hold
hands up.] He is above human. Put back
his hump and he will live again to traffic in
our hearts. His superb breath returns.
His honorable eyes roll to us. We will be
sold again.
[Mow DAN FAH gives red bag to
CHOW WAN.]
YIN SUEY GONG [coming to life. During
scene when YIN SUEY GONG comes to life,
music effects.] Restore my honorable
hump - [CHOW WAN places it under his
coat] that I may breathe delicious breath.
[Sighs.] He cut it off.
CHOW WAN. Wu Hoo Git. He will perish
for his deed. He has no ancestors to pray to.
YIN SUEY GONG. No ancestors! No
ancestors!  [He rises, picking up staff.
GIRLS rise and back away up right.] I am
augustly avenged! To the market place
for hearts.
[GIRLS exeunt right followed by
YIN SUEY GONG to door. Property man kicks death pillow to assistant left. Then picks up two
swords. Puts them in scabbards
in box left.]
CHORUS. [Rises.] The Daffodil, tired of
waiting for results, visits Yin Suey Gong.
Wu FAH DIN. [Enters left, followed by at

tendant, who carries red silk cord and stands
up center.] Where is the pleasure you
promised me? Where are the delightful
tintinnabulations of joy at his undoing?
Feast my eyes.
YIN SUEY GONG. He has gone.
Wu FAH DIN. Lead me to his destruction.
YIN SUEY GONG. He has gone to seek
his ancestors.
Wu FAH DIN. A cord about his neck.
[Attendant comes down, places cord around
YIN SUEY GONG'S neck.] Twist it, that I
may see his lying tongue swell from his
mouth.
YIN SUEY GONG. Time, give me time.
When the arrow misses you do not throw
the bow away, but send another shaft on
truer lines. I will contrive his ruin.
Wu FAH DIN. Give me the cord. [Takes
end of cord.] Follow to the palace.
[Starts up for door right.]
YIN SUEY GONG. The scarf chafes my
neck.
Wu FAH DIN. It remains a gentle reminder, while we contrive again.
[Exeunt right. Property man's assistants place table with cover
center. Chair with cover and
small stool on it right of table.
They exeunt left.]
CHORUS. [Rises.] 'T is the house of
Tai Char Shoong, the illustrious, father of
Plum Blossom, the adored heroine of this
play.
[Enter PLUM BLOSSOM (Moy Fah Loy) and
SEE NOI left and hold picture in doorway.]
McY FAR LOY. Come quickly. [They
move down left. Property man stands down
left with bamboo pole in horizontal position
across stage.] From the window of this
room we can see him pass.
[Wu Hoo GIT enters, comes down left,
crosses below property man to right and
exits up right.]
SEEn NOI. What, what, what!
MOY FAH LoY. Saw you not the youth
of the kite hill? To the window! Open the
lattice that I may peep.
[SEE NOI opens imaginary shutters.]




296


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


SEE NOI. 'T is Wu Hoo Git! Be careful
lest he see you. [Pulling her up stage.] Remember your maiden modesty.
MOY FAH LOY [looking at Wu Hoo GIT
through imaginary window.] Saw you ever
one who walks like him with godlike mien?
He stands so straight the clouds separate
to form a pathway for his brain. [Turns,
looks at SEE Noi.] He looks not back. His
eyes are not for woman, but eternities.
[MOY FAH LOY closes imaginary shutters and
crosses to below table. Property man retires
left with pole.] Oh! A madness of dejection
enters my fancy and chills my heart.
[Enter TAI CHAR SHOONG left. Strikes picture in doorway. Wood block and small
gong. Coming down left between SEE
NoI and MOY FAH LoY.]
TAI CHAR SHOONG. See Noi! Let my
Plum Blossom be robed in richness becoming the birth of my daughter.
[PLUM BLOSSOM crosses to SEE
NoI, who goes to door with her as
she exits left.]
[Crosses and sits right of table.] See Noi, I
am about to give my daughter in betrothal.
[SEE NOI comes down left.]
SEE NOI. I feared it, illustrious master.
TAI CHAR SHOONG. How dare you fear
what I command! You have loosed your
tongue to my daughter.
SEE Noi [frightened]. No more than she
has heard herself; gossip, breeze carried
through each window lattice.
TAI CHAR SHOONG. And of what do
busy tongues complain?
SEE Noi. Of the future mother-in-law
of her you would give in marriage.
TAI CHAR SHOONG. A perfect woman,
filled with knowledge of what a wife should
be.
SEE NOI. 'T is whispered her son's first
wife died of his mother's accomplishments.
TAI CHAR SHOONG. What more could
she have done for my daughter's sake?
SEE Noi. If it must be so, may she possess a hundred children and a thousand
grandchildren.
TAI CHAR SHOONG. It is too few to wish
her.                          [Music.]
MoY   FAH  LoY. [Enters left, richly


gowned, comes down to below table center.
Bows.] Honorable father, I have done
your bidding.
TAI CHAR SHOONG. [He holds out his
hand. She comes to him.] Let a smile of
joy dwell upon your lips and behave in
your most graceful manner, for the Widow
of Ching comes to negotiate for the marriage of her son.
MoI FAH LOY. [Turns front. Eyes down,
head turned away.] I smile in the house of
my father, I might weep in the home of his
friend.
TAI CHAR SHOONG. A wife must take
what the gods bestow upon her. [Rises.]
Now approaches the august mother-in-law.
Forget not the courtesies of such a meeting.
[Music. The WIDOW and maid enter on a
wheelbarrow trundled by assistant, followed by another with green card. They
cross down left, then to right and up.
Assistant presents card to TAI CHAR
SHOONG, who crosses to left, then assists
them to alight from wheelbarrow and
exits right. Assistant with wheelbarrow
exits right.]
WIDOW. Tai Char Shoong, I bestow
upon this house a bow.
[Bows. Maid takes small stool off
chair and as WIDow sits, places it
underfeet and retires back of her.]
TAI CHAR SHOONG. And I bestow upon
the Widow of our great mandarin, departed to his ancestors, and the mother of
our youthful mandarin, a bow. [All bow
again.] Bring jade cups of tea and pipe.
[Property man brings tray with two
tea bowls and two cups and
Chinese pipe. Places tray on
table center. Then lights pipe
and crosses to left and sits.]
WIDow. Is this Moy Fah Loy?
MoY FAH LOY. I am Moy Fah Loy.
[Below table, bowing to her.]
WIDOW. Let me observe you. Turn
about with graceful composure. [She does
so.] Your hair is arranged complacently;
your feet are large.
TAI CHAR SHOONG. [Down left.] That
she may walk the easier to attend upon her
mother-in-law.




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297


WIDOW. Let me observe the nails of
your fingers. There is a hair left in one eyebrow. It shows carelessness in preparing
for my observation. Your lips should be
painted thinner. Can you embroider?
[SEE Noi gives lighted pipe to maid.]
MOY FAH LOY. Kingfishers and storks.
WIDOW. Good birds, both. [Maid gives
pipe to WIDOW.] Can you prepare with
daintiness sweetmeats, watermelon seeds,
rice wine?
[She puffs pipe. Returns it to maid
who then hands it to SEE NoI,
who places it on table.]
TAI CHAR SHOONG [sadly]. Her august
mother, divinely departed, instructed her
in the virtues of the home.
WIDOW. Permit me, Tai Char Shoong,
to examine into your daughter's virtues,
as I am augustly versed in virtues. You
should wait upon me, your mother-in-law,
with modest obeisance.
TAI CHAR SHOONG. Could she be other
than a worshipful slave to such an honorable mother-in-law?
MOY FAH LOY. There are thirty-six
kinds of mother-in-law, and she is every
kind.
WIDOW. I will bestow upon you because
of the excellence of this house, ten thousand
taels.
TAI CHAR SHOONG. My house and
daughter are illustriously honored.
WIDoW. [Rises. Maid picks up stool as
WIDOW rises and places it on chair.] We
will gracefully take the daughter of Tai
Char Shoong into our hearts and home.
TAI CHAR SHOONG. The splendor of the
honor of bestowing such a mother-in-law
upon my daughter dazzles my modest eyes.
WIDOW. I take my departure. You are
augustly blessed, my Plum Blossom, in
having me to guide your way, in my illustrious son's house.
MOY FAH LOY. Augustly blessed!
WIDOW. [Crossing up to door. TAI CHAR
SHOONG goes to above table.] Prepare your
gracious self for the six ceremonies within
three days, for I need your worthy service
in my home.
[Bows and exits, preceded by maid.
TAI CHAR SHOONG bows and


exits up right. Property man
crosses to table, takes tea tray and
pipe. Smokes pipe as he crosses
toleft. Places them in box left
and sits.]
MoO FAH LOY [going to SEE NOI up right,
who holds her in her arms]. My mother-inlaw! [Looking up.] Bring me poison!
SEE NOI. Say not so, honorable one.
Think on the family.
Mor FAH LOY. Lead me to the tablets
of my mother that I may pray to her and
know.
[Music. They exeunt right, property man and assistants arrange
four chairs across stage with
backs to audience and a stool
center. Property man crosses to
center and superintends placing
of chairs. Over the backs of the
chairs, beginning from the right,
property man places white cloth
tablets on which are painted in
Chinese characters the following
names: Chum Shou, Moy Kwai
Fah Loy, Moy Fah Loy. He
gets the two tablets mixed on the
chairs left of stool center, and
after reading the names changes
them. After so placing the tablets
property man sits on stool left,
and starts to read paper. An assistant enters with bowl of rice.
Gives it to property man, who
smiles and takes it. Assistant
exits. Property man then bows.to CHORUS who has become annoyed at delay, and then sits and
begins eating rice with chop
sticks. Music during this business.]
CHORUS. 'T is the resting place of the
bodies of the departed.
Wu Hoo GIT. [Enters left, comes right of
stool center. Music forte until he gets to center, then stops. Looks at tablets.] Here in the
city of the dead I will find my impressive
ancestors. I will pray at the tombs for the
gods to give me an honorable mother. I
must have had an august father once, for
every one, they say, has had at least one
august father. I will pray at the tombs for




298


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


the gods to give me an honorable mother,
with a delicate name - one that drops like
a sweet song from the lips. [Reads, chair
first right.] Chum Shou, "Graceful Long
Life." I like not her name. [Crosses right.]
I will not pray to her. Here is a tomb that
is deep in the ashes of burned paper money.
I will dust away the ashes with my solemn
breath. [Blows on tablet, then reads tablet
number two right.] Moy Kwai Fah Loy,
"Rose Bud." I care not for roses. With
my solemn breath I cover her again with
ashes. [Blows breath on tablet, moves to left.]
Here is a quiet ancestral tablet. From
within issues precious light. [Reads number
one left.] Moy Fah Loy, "Plum Blossom."
I like plums and I have scented the perfume of the blossoms. I will take Plum
Blossom for motherhood. [Property man
puts down bowl of rice and places cushion before chair left center, holding chop sticks in
other hand.] I kneel [does so], for I have
found an exemplary tablet that conforms
to my adorable self. [Music.] Plum Blossom mother, to you whom I find late in life,
my speech choked with tears, my heart
weary with long suffering, I kneel.
[Property man takes bamboo pole
from wall left, crosses to right of
CHORUS' table and stands with
back to the audience - holding
pole in perpendicular position.]
CHORUS. 'T is a celestial weeping-willow
tree.
[PLUM BLOSSOM enters left, crosses to center
at back and stands just below pole, with
fan over her face.]
CHORUS. The maiden peeps from the
shadow of the tree at the youth of her fancy.
[Music stops.]
MoY FAH LOY. Who kneels at the tablets of my Plum Blossom mother?
Wu Hoo GIT. An august child just born
to her. What fairy of beauty crosses my
prayer! A princess in dress and carriage, a
lily foot. Light radiates from her person
and shines through her garments. Raise
your fan to me.
MOY FAH LOY. [In surprise does so. Then
covers her face again.] I did not mean to do
it. [To audience.] 'T is he of the kite hill,


Wu Hoo GIT. Painted banner of love!
You fill the pockets of my eyes with
graciousness. I like you. I wish that you
were buried here that I might take you to
motherhood.
MOY FAH LOY. It is my mother that lies
there, and I came to burn incense at her
tablets.
Wu Hoo GIT. [Rises, goes up to her.] I
will assist your honorable hands.
MOY FAH LOY. It is most unholy to
speak to a man -
Wu Hoo GIT. At the grave of our exalted mother?
MOY FAH LOY. I like your voice. It is
sweet. [She sits stool center. Property man
crosses left and places pole against wall left
and then sits.] I will be unholy while See
Noi, my maid, yonder in the flowery path
prays to her mother's ashes and sees me
not.
Wu Hoo GIT. I selected the right
mother.
MOY FAH LOY. Then she is not your real
honorable mother?
Wu Hoo GIT. I liked her name and
thought she would be an honorable mother.
I needed one.
MOY FAH LOY. I am glad you chose her.
I could n't have spoken to you if you had
not been one of our sublime family.
[Peeps at him through fan.]
Wu Hoo GIT. 1 can behold with my
eyes your celestial heart through the lattice
of your fan.
MOY FAH LOY. How wonderful you are!
The openings are so small for you to peep
through and my heart is so augustly large.
Wu Hoo GIT. I know the august woman
heart. I have traveled the road of pleasure.
I have sailed on the flowery sea of sin.
[Crosses to right.]
MOY FAH LOY. How enchanting! You
walk like an emperor. [He stops walking.]
Walk for me.
Wu Hoo GIT. I walk. [Moves several
steps toward her.] How old are you? You
must be forty, you are so beautiful and
wise.
MoY FAH LOY [tapping her fan]. Walk.
Wu Hoo GIT. I walk.   [Crosses to left.]
MoY FAH LoY. Walk with your vener



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299


able footsteps nearer, that I may see you
through my fan. [He turns toward her.] Not
with your eyes fixed upon me, but your
head held high in majesty.
Wu Hoo GIT. I should walk into your
eyes and lips.
MoY FAH LOY. Then I could not use
them.
Wu Hoo GIT. There is a way. [Kneeling
left of her.] I have learned it.
MoY FAH LOY. From another maiden?
[Turns her back on him. ] I do not know
augustly why, but I do not like that.
Wu Hoo GIT. I will teach you.
MoY FAH LOY. Then I shall have traveled the flowery paths just as far as you.
[Turns to him again.]
Wu Hoo GIT. Augustly deign to place
your eyes this way. I would have celestially
sworn that I had measured the depths and
heights of joy; I only stood on the rim of
the false jade cup till I looked into your
eyes.
MOY FAH LOY [drawing away from him
slowly]. We are forgetting our mother.
Wu Hoo GIT. I have a thought. [Rises.]
If you are my sister and I am your brother,
I had better adopt another mother.
MOY FAH LOY. Tell me why?
Wu Hoo GIT. We cannot love unless
you will be my mother-wife.
MOY FAH LoY. What shall we do? I am
on the threshold of betrothal.
Wu Hoo GIT. Then I renounce our
mother and will contend with him who
seeks your hand.
MOY FAH LOY. [Rises. Smiling.] Let us
augustly kneel and burn incense and pray
to find a way.
[They kneel before chair number
one, left.]
SEE NOI. [Enters door left, crosses to
right at back and down right.] Moy Fah
Loy, Plum Blossom; do my eyes deceive
me! On her knees with a man, and she was
left in my exalted care!
MOY FAH LOY. Is that you, See Noi? I
was engrossed in prayer.
SEE Noi. [Crosses to PLUM BLOSSOM.] All
the prayers of all the gods and all the world
burned up in an incense pot could not save
you now. [Takes her by the arm. Pulls her


to right center.] You are ruined. You have
spoken to a man!
MoY FAH LOY. He is my brother.
SEE Noi. Impossible! I knew your
mother.
MoYr FAH LOY. He has adopted my
mother. He had none, so I gave him half of
mine. You taught me charities. [Assistant
removes two tablets from chair left of stool
center, rolls them and wakes property man to
give them to him. Then takes second chair
left and places it up left, back to audience.
The other chair left of stool he removes to wall
left.] Half my mother was all I had to
give.
SEE Noi. Evil spirits have you. Your
maiden modesty has flown. You have
talked with a man!
Wu Hoo GIT. I will marry her, for she is
good.
SEE Noi. Plum Blossom, daughter of
Tai Char Shoong, marry a man without a
mother! The maiden bloom of her cheek
you have brushed away. You have blighted
the fruit of her usefulness. Her father will
behead me for this dishonor.
Wu Hoo GIT. I will make her happier
than a father could.
SEE Noi. Your doors are not opposite.
Your wealth cannot match hers. You have
no mother and are unequal. Home, I say!
[Takes PLUM BLOSSOM up to door right,
sobbing.] And see my gray head pay the
price your shamed virtue brings upon your
father's house.
Moy FAH LOY. I must be very wicked.
[They exeunt. SEE Noi crying.
Property man picks up red
cushion and places it left, near
property box.]
Wu Hoo GIT. [Follows up to door and
turns. If I am to believe my eyes, I have
lost true love. Shadows encircle me. Who
are you, the rapping of whose bamboo
stick, tapping its way hither in measured
tread, encroaches on my silence?
[Enter door left, MAUN GUNG, blindfortuneteller, accompanied by rapping on wood
block in orchestra. Down left, crosses
and up right before speaking. Carries
long bamboo stick, which he raps on




300


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


stage, still accompanied by wood block
in the orchestra.]
MAUN GUNG. The blinds of darkness
have been drawn across the windows of
my head. 1 see not. I am a beggar; the
past, the present and the future parade
before me. I know all.
Wu Hoo GIT. How can you know when
you cannot see?
MAUN GUNG. Let your kindness loose
its purse-string to help me on my stumbling
way and I will tell.
Wu Hoo GIT. [Gives money.] How know
you life with holes for eyes?
MAUN GUNG. I look within. There lies
all there is to know.
Wu Hoo GIT. Then you are not a
prophet of the days to come?
MAUN GUNG. I read the days to come
by the light of the days that have gone.
My brain sights travel the ghostly ways of
memory. What a man was, he is; and what
he is, he will be. A fool can prophesy.
Wu Hoo GIT. Know you the year and
moon of my birth?
MAUN GUNG. Not so, for your birthday
was the death day of what you were before.
Wu Hoo GIT. Was I born rich or poor?
MAUN GUNG. You were born rich, for
your mind is rich and that is all.
Wu Hoo GIT. Whom seek I?
MAUN GUNG. You have a youthful
voice, therefore warm blood is in your
veins. You seek your love-mate.
Wu Hoo GIT. And will she come to me?
MAUN GUNG. If you pray to your venerated ancestors to guide her right.
Wu Hoo GIT [fearfully.] And if I have
no ancestors?
MAUN GUNG [raising stick]. Even my
bamboo has its celestial shadow and, if you
have no ancestors, you are an unwanted
soul cast back on the shores of earth to
starve of joy.
Wu Hoo GIT. Speak not so! I will not
hear it.
MAUN GUNG. You like not the truth.
Wu Hoo GIT [angrily]. I will send you
to your ancestors to plead for me.
MAUN GUNG. I cannot plead to them.
I will live forever there, but will not know


my neighbors. Learn for yourself, as I
have.     [Exits, tapping cane, door right.]
Wu Hoo GIT. Stay, tell me more! He
goes from me as all have done in the world.
Everything I touch turns to blackness in
my hand. [Property man stands on chair up
left with bamboo pole and silk cord with
noose.] I behold a weeping willow. I shall
die on its branch, then my love will be
sorry. I will find my ancestors.
[Stands on stool center. Props
lower pole. He puts noose around
his neck. Then jumps off stool.]
CHORUS. He hangs himself, but fear not,
the spirit of his mother watches over him,
and will send a wayfarer who will cut him
down.
[Enter GIT HOK GAR left, crosses down left.
Sees Wu Hoo GIT and backs away to
left. Large gong. He then turns to
property man, who holds out sword to
him. He takes it and cuts at cord.]
Wu Hoo GIT. Who are you that would
take from me the joy of compelling the
world to miss me?
GIT HOK GAR. The world laughs when
there is one less mouth to feed. If you
would make the world respect you, stay
and fight it.
Wu Hoo GIT. [Takes off noose. Rubs
throat.] I prefer my celestial breath.
GIT HOK GAR. Dying hurts unnecessarily. [Property man grabs sword from
him and puts it in box, then places pole
against wall left. GIT HOK GAR turns and
looks at him. Assistant crosses to right and
removes tablets from chairs and places them
in box left. Turning to Wu Hoo GIT.] You
are too young to seek death. What leads
you to this making off?
Wu Hoo GIT. The loss of a love that
encircles my life like a star light-ringed.
GIT HOK GAR. To enjoy love you must
enjoy life.
Wu Hoo GIT. I am a worldless man.
Even at the threshold of my days - I am
shameful. I have no shadows, no ancestors
to bring a blessing to my love.
GIT HOK GAR. Have you no home?
Wu Hoo GIT. My father and mother
are foster.




THE YELLOW JACKET


3o0




GIT HOK GAR. Then you owe them more
than those who, in giving you life, had a
duty toward you. Home! You are rich in
mind, which is all.   [Crosses up right.]
Wu Hoo GIT. But the circle about my
heart. My love ring!
GIT HOK GAR. Make yourself great in
right living and your ancestors will find
you. Cheerful, my boy, I will lead you to
your home and my gray head will find you
life and love, which I missed for want of
guiding. Come! To your home!
[They exeunt right. Property man's
assistant removes one chair to
wall right. The other he places
against CHORUS' table and another assistant takes stool from
center and places it against the
chair and below it. Property man
then places sword on it, dusting it
first.]
CHORUS. 'T is again the house of Lee
Sin, the farmer.              [Music.]
SUEY SIN FAH. [Enters left, followed by
LEE SIN. They come down left, open imaginary door, step over the sill. LEE SIN closes the
door.] Will he never come, Lee Sin?
LEE SIN. When he has learned the world.
SUEY SIN FAH. He has forgotten us.
LEE SIN. My majestic ox does not forget
the stall where he is fed.
[Crosses to right. Music.]
Wu Hoo GIT. [Enters with GITHOKGAR].
My home, the door.
GIT HOK GAR [left of him]. Enter bravely
and make amends.
Wu Hoo GIT. I am ashamed. You go first.
GIT HOK GAR. [Raps an imaginary door.
Opens door. Enters.] I am Git Hok Gar,
philosopher. Have you a son?
SUEY SIN FAH. Not dead!
GIT HOK GAR. He is at your threshold
seeking forgiveness.
Wu Hoo GIT. [Enters imaginary door.]
May I enter?
SUEY SIN FAH. Wu Hoo Git, my boy,
my Wu Hoo Git!
[Embraces him, weeping. Grr HOK
GAR moves up right.]
Wu Hoo GIT. I choke! [Crosses to center.] How are the august rice fields, the
loom and the ox?




I


SUEY SIN FAH. You have not forgotten
them?
Wu Hoo GIT. I am learning to remember, for memory comes with love, and I
have met one who lit the enchanting candle
in my heart. Her lips are flower buds that
open with delight at the warmth of my superb kisses, but even as my day broke with
a roseate dawn, a despair cloud crossed the
sky, and death hovered in my path. I have
no ancestors.
SUEY SIN FAH. My poor boy!
Wu Hoo GIT. Pity me not. Manliness
sneers at pity. Open the door of knowledge
to me. Who are my ancestors?
LEE SIN. They are -
SUEY SIN FAH. No! No!
LEE SIN. I will tell!
SUEY SIN FAH. It will cost us his life and
yours.
LEE SIN. I care not. [Crosses to Wu Hoo
GIT. TAI CHAR SHOONG enters dragging
PLUM BLOSSOM by the hand.] I murdered
for love of you. What must our boy suffer
for love! Your father was -
TAI CHAR SHOONG. [Who has come down
left.] Dwells Wu Hoo Git here?
Wu Hoo GIT. I am the august Wu Hit
Git. Who are you that break upon us like
an angry sea?
TAI CHAR SHOONG. Father of the glorious Plum Blosson, whom you betrayed.
Wu Hoo GIT. I found your celestial
daughter at the tablets of her mother. She
was pure and beautiful and I loved her.
More FAH LoY. And I loved him.
TAI CHAR SHOONG. [To Wu Hoo GIT.]
Your days are numbered.
Wu Hoo GIT. Not by the count of man.
TAI CHAR SHOONG. But by a father's
count.
Wu Hoo GIT. I will marry her, and
make her mine.
TAI CHAR SHOONG. You, without ancestors!
SUEY SIN FAH. Season your anger while
I speak! To your knees, Wu Hoo Git, and
receive your sacred heritage. [He kneels,
back to audience.] Raise your eyes heavenward. [She takes out baby jacket with
Chinese letters on it.] Your mother now
speaks.






302


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


Wu Hoo GIT. My mother!
SUEY SIN FAH [showing him the baby
jacket]. Each blood-stain from this baby
jacket is the history of your being and
breathes a mother's blessing.
Wu Hoo GIT. My soul! - my mother!
SUEY SIN FAH. These lines are too sacred
for me to voice. Your lips alone must form
the words.
Wu Hoo GIT. My eyes are choked with
tears. Breathe my mother's name.
SUEY SIN FAH. Chee Moo, the beautiful!
Wu Hoo GIT. Chee Moo! I feel her a
little above my head.
LEE SIN. And your father -
Wu Hoo GIT. My father! The highway of too much joy opens to my famished
soul.
LEE SIN. Wu Sin Yin, the Great.
Wu Hoo GIT. The Great!
TAI CHAR SHOONG. If this were true,
Wu Hoo Git would rule this province where
the Daffodil, son of Wu Sin Yin, the Great,
now sits in splendor.
Wu Hoo GIT. My mother crowns me
with a truth cloud. I will prove her air
message for her I love.
TAI CHAR SHOONG. I believe you not!
Make your boasting words realities and
Plum Blossom is yours.
Wu Hoo GIT. And so I will. But what
have I to guard the way of life?
LEE SIN. [Who has taken sword from chair
up center now comes down.] This sword of
courage.
[Gives sword to Wu Hoo GIT and
steps back a little.]
SUEY SIN FAH. [Gives baby jacket.] And
this guiding star of a mother's love to
armor him.
Wu Hoo GIT. A mother's love!
MOY FAH LOY [crossing to center]. Make
a prayer each day big enough to match it
and I will do so, too.
[SUEY SIN FAH and LEE SIN retire
up stage right.]
Wu Hoo GIT. I will write your name on
my hand-palms that everything I touch
and feel will be Plum Blossom. I may
never clasp my home and heart again. Let
me mingle my breath with yours.
GIT HOK GAR [crossing to left]. You are


already breathing the harshness of the
world. You must fulfil the life for which
your mother died. [Two assistant property
men with chariot banners enter door left and
stand each side of it.] A stern way is licking
your feet. Come! Your glorious chariot
awaits you.
Wu Hoo GIT. [Rising. Crosses to GIT
HOK GAR left.] Carry I naught away with
me but honorable memories and leave all
behind me at this doorway of farewells?
MOY FAH LOY. [Crosses to center.] Yes,
one part of me you take. My way shall be
crippled till your return, then restore it to
me.
Wu Hoo GIT. Speak the joy you have
in store for me.
MOY FAH LOY. [Takes off slipper.] My
slipper! Let it bide next your heart on your
weary way. In the hour of frightful necessity shake it and I will come to you.
[Gives it to him.]
Wu Hoo GIT. What do you meantime
without your august slipper?
MoY FAH LoY. Stand on one leg like a
bird.
WU Hoo GIT. On one leg like an august
bird!           [Kisses PLUM BLOSSOM.]
SUEY SIN FAH. Wu Hoo Git! [Music.]
GIT HOK GAR. Come! Mount!
[GIT HOK GAR goes up and stands
between by the chariot banners.i
Wu Hoo GIT. I go to seek my heritage.
[They start across the stage, accompanied by the chariot banners.
PLUM BLOSSOM hops on one foot
and stands on chair up center,
waving farewell.]
LEE SIN. Courage, my boy! Courage!
[They go to right, then up stage and
turn near door.]
Wu Hoo GIT. Farewell!
[Holding slipper up in the air.]
TABLEAU CURTAIN
CHORUS [appearing through opening in
tableau curtain and bowing]. I bow in personal appreciation of your approval, if
truly manifest, of my Wu Hoo Git, upon
whom my fancy will now bestow the Yellow
Jacket and the Peacock Feather. I speak
in the first person, for I am accustomed to




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303




adulation, and it does not in the least discompose me. My brothers of the Pear Tree
Garden are far otherwise; a little flattery
upsets their modest equipoise. While there
may be those who desire to secure the credit
or discredit, I will say, - your generosity
forces me to admit it, - I wrote this play
- a mere trifle. I composed the music, too.
I taught them the story of my grandiloquent imagination. I showed them where
to walk, how to talk. In my august fancy
I painted the scenes. My menial, the property man, at my august celestial suggestion,
will now give them thunder-clouds and
snow-storms to assist their meager interpretation. The play is mine, the acting
virtually mine. Such remuneration as you
have bestowed upon us by your gracious
patronage, I accept. Such sums as I may
deem necessary I shall pass on to my
brothers. At the end of the play you may
call them before you if you like. It will
please me, and praise them sparingly, but
of course, I shall know that you know that
the celestial thought was wholly and modestly mine. I bow.              [Exits.]
CURTAIN
ACT III
After house curtain is raised property man
comes before tableau curtains, walks back and
forth across stage, beating large gong. As he
exits behind the curtains, orchestra on stage
begins to play. At crash of cymbals CHORUS
comes before tableau curtains.
CHORUS. I still observe my honorable
way and come to you, making my words
brief and less august at each superb presentation of myself, for the more my brothers have to say the less need I. The second
father-in-law, Tai Fah Min, though dead,
still lives in spirit to retard Wu Hoo Git's
august progress. But, forget not that our
hero is older and augustly wiser. Having
wearied of rice wine and song girls, he now
approaches the portals of celestial philosophy. All men approach the godlike
realms of thoughtful sufficiency after the
bodily attainments wane. I bow. [Turns
back to audience and at gesture with his fan




I


I


tableau curtains are drawn. Walks to his
table, center, as music is played, before speaking. Four stools have been placed across
stage center, spaces between them. Property
man discovered sitting on stool right center.
When CHORUS gets to table he rises and indicates the scene.] The Daffodil takes his
steps among his mulberry bushes, watching
the silkworms spin while he threads his
brain with evil.
[Music continues. DAFFODIL enters, comes
to stool, left center, does business of
smelling imaginary bushes, then goes to
center. Property man brings flowers for
him to smell, - which he waves aside
scornfully. Property man returns flowers to box left and then crosses to right at
back and stands at upper end of drapery,
which is hung to form a screen about a
chair placed upon a table against wall
right and represents the DAFFODIL'S
palace. Piano during speech.]
Wu FAH DIN. I apologize for the apparent inadequacy of my brain against Wu
Hoo Git's brawn. I am as disappointed
as you are that I have not been able to
kill this young Wu Hoo Git. Bear with
me, however, for I will eventually do so.
Wu Hoo Git not only lives, but starts on
a journey to take my place in life and
despatch me. Such a result would be deplorable, as you know. I had with my
kindness of nature planned for him a gently
lingering death. I must now unkindly kill
him outright, for your entertainment. I
must be most careful in so doing, for, if I
kill him, despising brute force as I do, my
subjects, who should be his subjects, would
immortalize him and the truth would come
out. I have discovered some truths also
about myself which I prefer not to have
known. I shall retire to my palace. [Indicates it and moves up right. Property man
dusts drapery] and on my cushioned throne,
watch fromitsbattlements. [Ascends throne.
Screened by drapery.] I invoke all the subtle
forces of my brain against Wu Hoo Git's
brawn. I will impede his journey toward
my person and my throne. I will throw
death evils in his pathway. I will place
before him a lofty mountain peak - that




3o4


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS




he may exhaust himself in climbing over it.
I direct the battle with my fan.
[Disappears behind drapery. Property man's assistants move two
tables from left. Place them center, touching each other, and put
two stools which are now underneath the tables on top of them.
Property man crosses right, below
tables, and stands at upper end of
them.]
CHORUS. 'T is a lofty mountain peak.
[Property man rests elbow on upper
stool and puts head in his hands.]
[Enter Wu Hoo GIT and GIT HOK GAR.
Music.]
Wu Hoo GIT. [Crosses to center, below
table.] Show me the battle-ground. Must I
contend here, or shall I wander farther?
GIT HOK GAR [left]. No man can foresee
his battle-ground. Every shadow or darkening cloud may bring him peril. The way
grows long. Think, my boy.
Wu Hoo GIT [crossing to GIT HOK GAR].
I can think when I am dead. Love quickens
my desire for triumphant vengeance, that
I may conquer all, secure my throne, and
place Plum Blossom on a seat of love beside me.]
GIT HOK GAR [turning, looks at imaginary
mountain, center]. What! Must we drag
ourselves over another mountain, with its
ragged roof?
Wu Hoo GIT. I shall o'ertop them all,
for nothing shall stay my progress. [Climbs
to top of stools on table, center, assisting himself by holding imaginary branches. Then
helps GIT HOK GAR to mount table.] From
the o'ertopping view I see the tiled roof
where bides Plum Blossom. I see my home,
too, and peacefulness behind me.
GIT HOK GAR. And before you monsters,
terrors and murder to overcome.
Wu HIoo GIT. I care not, for all my tasks
now are born of love. Come on! [Starts to
descendfrom table. As he places foot on stool
right of table, cymbals crash.] I feel a hand
of ice encircling my sublime leg.
GIT HOK GAR. It is an evil stream spirit
that would drag you in. Cleave it with
your fiery sword..


Wu Hoo GIT. I would desperately
cleave [starts to draw sword], but it is gone.
[Turning to GIT HOK GAR, smiling.] It
overheard my solemn thought. You can
crush enemies and friends with the weight
of the tongue.
[Descends to stage, assists GIT HOK
GAR to descend and they exeunt
right. Music. Property man's
assistant takes one table and stool
and moves it left. Another removes the far table and stool to
left.]
Wu FAH DIN. [Appears above drapery.]
He is such an impetuous youth, is he not?
See how madly he is rushing into the dangers I am preparing for him. His climbing
of that mountain was a mere exhibition of
brawn. I will confront him with the raging
torrent.
[Retires behind drapery. Property
man crosses to right, picks up
end of plank which lies below the
two stools. Assistant picks up
left end of plank. As they place
it on stools property man pretends to have hurt his finger. Another assistant looks at it sympathetically. Property man indicates scene and they retire to
left.]
CHORUS. 'T is a wayward river and
bridge.
Wu FAH DIN. [Rises behind drapery.]
Bridge! Bridge! I had hopes of this river,
but my gentle mind overlooked the bridge.
However, it may be a weak bridge.
[Retires behind drapery. Wu Hoo
GIT and GIT HOK GAR enter
door left. Music for entrance.
They come to left center.]
GIT HOK GAR. Water confronts us.
Wu Hoo GIT. But see, a span of thoughtful kindness awaits us.
GIT HOK GAR. The chasm is so deep
and chill and the way across so narrow.
Let us go about and find a safer crossing.
[He crosses down to extreme left.]
Wu Hoo GIT. Come on! It has been
left us by brave souls who have passed
before.
GIT HOK GAR. So in all journeys in lifes




THE YELLOW JACKET


305


bridges have been built by those who left
their deeds behind them.
Wu Hoo GIT. Armored with courage, I
draw my sword of progress! The end will
never be seen if my first footfall weakens.
[Steps on bridge from left. Falls to his knee.]
I stumble to my knee.
GIT HOK GAR. The gods would make
you humble at starting.
Wu Hoo GIT. A silent prayer to the
baby-mother message.    [He prayerfully
kisses garment.] Behold! The spirits are
satisfied. They rock us not. [GIT HOK GAR
mounts bridge from left.] In the water,
mirrored below, I see a face like my own.
It has lines of evil in it.
GIT HOK GAR. The serpent lines of your
father's face crawl in yours by reflection.
Wu Hoo GIT. IS my face a snake's nest?
What must I do to cleanse it?
GIT HOK GAR. Bathe it in the sunshine
of virtue.
Wu Hoo GIT. Behold! over my father's
shoulder grins the fox's face again that
molests my sight.
GIT HOK GAR. It is Tai Fah Min, who
gloats at your struggle to be free from the
curse of a father's crime.
Wu Hoo GIT. What shall I do?
GIT HOK GAR. Purify your soul and he
will flee with the snake face.
Wu Hoo GIT. In the mirror of the sublime water I now behold precipices, depths,
valleys, snow-encircled peaks! Birds swim
in the pearly air below the clouds like fishes
in the clear stream beneath. The fox face
again molests my sight! I will consult my
garment of direction. [Observing garment
again.] The lines trickle toward the eastern
path at the bridge's end, with mother blood
drops larger to indicate the way. Come on!
For Plum Blossom I conquer on earth and
in Heaven.       [Gets off bridge to right.]
GIT HOK GAR [following him]. My brave
boy. We step upon a tiny peak of yellow
rock.
[Music. They exeunt right. Property man and assistant remove
stools and plank, leaving stage
clear.]
Wu FAH DIN [appears]. It is useless for
me to tell you of the fear in his heart as he


crossed that bridge. He was continually
calling out for a woman. I will throw an
inky darkness in his path, that it may affright him.      [Retires behind drapery.]
CHOIRUs. 'T is a thunder-cloud.
[Music. LOY GONG enters door right, stamps
around in a circle just inside door, finishing, right center.]
Wu Hoo GIT. [Enters door left with GIT
HOK GAR. Comes to left center.] Who are
you that impedes my way with clamorous
noise?
LOY GONG. I am Loy Gong, the God of
Thunder, requested by a world-power to
o'ershadow you. I keep mortal aspirations
down for the other gods through bellowing
fear.
[Hits standard with hammer. Cymbals.]
Wu Hoo GIT. But I fear you not. My
wisdom buds with courage, impregnable to
gods and man, and teaches me that every
word-might or heavenly power has one still
higher before whom it quails - called love.
LOY GONG. And what is love?
Wu Hoo GIT. For me, Plum Blossom.
LOY GONG. And what flower fear I when
the floor of Heaven bends beneath my
tread?
Wu Hoo GIT. The skyflower - the august rainbow of good thoughts and deeds!
[LOY GONG drops hammer.] Before its seven
light-rays you crouch in silence.
LOY GONG [fearfully]. I would fill your
purse, to keep my secret, for if my weakness
were known to man, I should lose my solemn fearfulness.
Wu Hoo GIT [with contempt]. My wisdom cannot be purchased.
LoY GONG. I will welcome you on my
icy peaks and whisper music to you.
Wu Hoo GIT. When I arrive on your
august peaks, I care not what tones you
take, for I shall have within my veins the
warmth of Plum Blossom's love.
LoY GONG. [Goes toward door right.] I
withdraw my august self in fearfulness of
music.         [Exits door right. Music.]
GIT 1tOK GAR. [Crosses to Wu Hoo GIT,
center.] You have met the most fearful of
the gods and vanquished him.




306


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


Wu Hoo GIT. Give me the earth to conquer, that the earth may no longer deny me
my heritage and my Plum Blossom's love.
[End of speech in doorway. Exeunt
right.]
Wu FAH DIN. [Appears.] This makes
me decidedly uncomfortable. What tripping potency has he to overcome a god?
Can it be that he is coupling brain with
brawn? My seat of dignity rocks in fearfulness. Let Kom Loi ensnare and slay him.
[Property man brings a large web
made of gold string which is tied
on a framework of wood with
thread and sets it up, right, leaning sleepily against it.]
[Enter KOM Loi, as Spider, and takes position back of web, right.]
CHORUS. 'T is a golden spider-web.
Woo Hu GIT. [Entering left with GIT
HOK GAR, crosses to right, stops in front of
web.] What is this tangled mesh that
stretches from earth to Heaven and pretends to bar my way with petty entanglements? My celestial curiosity leads me to
inquire.
KOM LoI. I beckon your sublime presence.
Wu Hoo GIT. It invites me with a gentle
voice. I am led to desire a closer view.
KOM LoI. Let me encircle you with the
beauties and love-knots of friendship.
Wu Hoo GIT. Its voice is as gentle as
Plum Blossom's. It must be my friend.
[Peeps.] I see but indistinctly through
the fluttering weave of rainbow lights the
faces of Wu Sin Yin and Tai Fah Min directing malice. I will observe more closely.
[Wets finger and makes slit in web.]
KOM LoI. [Enraged voice.] Beware! I
asked you to enter my abode as a friend.
You stick your finger in the eye of my hospitality. Beware!
Wu Hoo GIT [looking up]. An august
Spider and his enchanting web!
[Frightened.]
GIT HOK GAR. The thing is dangerous
and I am a man of peace. I will depart my
footsteps to the other side of the mountain.
[Picks up chair, crosses left, sits
facing left.]


Wu Hoo GIT. [To SPIDER.] I repent my
fault.
KOM Loi. Repentance may help your
soul, but will not reweave the strands in
which I catch human flies that would know
my lair. You shall die.
[SPIDER bursts forth and throws
silken strands.]
Wu Hoo GIT [frightened]. It is an evil
thing that has entangled me for vice of
curiosity.
KOM LoI. Beware!
Wu Hoo GIT. I am in the Spider's eyes
a web of light dances 'twixt his demon
seeing-sockets and mine. It is an august
new power that holds me fast. I must use
my sublime brain, for the spider has not
my sublime brain. I possess a celestial
thought. I will cut with my sword the eyechain that binds me to the monster. I cut
with my impressive sword. [Starts back.] I
am free to meet him now - man to Spider!
[SPIDER throws out silk ribbon rolls from
web.] He spits witch daggers at me, to
destroy my love and life. I augustly sever
them. I observe I am celestially his unequal match. [SPIDER throws more silk
strands at him, furnished by property man.
He cuts them at first. Finally he becomes tied
up in many strands and falls.] I am woven
in the web of evil. My sword hacks but
cuts not. The web dulls its fiery edge. I am
being tied to the earth rocks! 1 have a
thought. I will call Plum Blossom. I will
shake the slipper. [Shakes slipper.] Moy
Fah Loy, Moy Fah Loy, save me!
MOY FAH LOY. [Enters door to Heaven,
center, above as a disembodied spirit. KOM
LoI attempts to throw more ribbons, but is
stopped by PLUM BLOSSOM'S voice.] The
slipper shook. The earth stood still. The
winds blew me here. I command the demon
Spider to depart.
KOM LOI. [Makes another attempt to
throw ribbons - stops with arm in mid-air.]
My web spins not. My joints crinkle in the
light of purity. I seek the dark.
[Exits door right, stepping through
web. Music. Property man removes frame, gathers up silk
strands, takes them off, door
right.]




THE YELLOW JACKET


307


Wu Hoo GIT. [Proudly. Down left.] The
strands about me melt in celestial light.
The Spider withers before my exalted gaze.
I feel in my expanding soul the power to
o'ercome all monsters wild. I would that
Plum Blossom might see my unaided triumph. She would adore my fiery bravery.
MOY FAH LoY. Moy Fah Loy sees all
and knows all.               [Music.]
Wu Hoo GIT. [Crosses to center, listening.] Plum Blossom's rippling voice, yet 1
behold her not.
MoY FAH LoY. I am the disembodied
soul of her you loved so constantly, permitted for a moment only with heavenly
vision to behold you.
Wu Hoo GIT. [Sees her.] Wherefore do
you approach me on the steps of Heaven?
Why does a dazzling halo of light gloriously encircle you like dew-drops on a star?
What evil one has snatched you from the
flower paths of earth, where you were sublimely mine, to place you beyond my human ecstasy? I shall know; and, if it be
one of earth, my sword shall avenge our
parting; if it be one who has passed beyond,
my pursuing spirit shall follow him and
knife him with the blasts of anguish.
[Crosses up to right center.]
MoY FAH LOY. You shook the slipper
and I came in your hour of need.
Wu Hoo GIT. I shook it that you might
behold my hour of august victory. Alone,
1 vanquished the beast of the fields. [Property man and assistant bring table on which
are two stools to center. Wu Hoo GIT takes
one stool, places it right, at table, the other
stool remaining on table.] I will build a
mountain that shall kiss high Heaven, and
on the top of it I will cone ten thousand
thousand peaks till, topping the highest
with my dainty foot, you palpitate within
my august arms.
MOY FAH LOY. We palpitate not in
Heaven.
Wu Hoo GIT. Despite the terror of your
thought, I ascend.
[Climbs on table impulsively.]
MOY FAH LOY. Ascend not, for all men
who strive to build a Heaven ladder and
know the secrets of the gods have met with
defeat and punishment.


Wu Hoo GIT. But my ladder is lovewoven and each rung is a love strand upon
which the humblest may tiptoe to Heaven.
MOY FAH LOY. But it must be born of
love you know not of. My prayers alone
must guide you, not myself.
Wu Hoo GIT. [Climbs to top of chair on
table, back to audience. Music.] I would
place the kiss of august victory upon your
painted lips.
MoY FAH LOY. I have no lips.
Wu Hoo GIT. I would take you in my
glorious arms that your heart might impress your hero's heart.
MoY FAH LOY. I have no heart.
Wu Hoo GIT. But stand you not on
venerable legs?
Mov FAH LOY. I stand on thinnest air.
I have no legs.
Wu Hoo GIT. No legs in Heaven i Then
you are false to me and unworthy of my
glorious victory.
Mow FAH LOY. I know not arms, nor
legs, nor kisses. I left my body at home
for my celestial father, Tai Char Shoong,
to guard till your return.
Wu Hoo GIT. [Turns on stool facing
audience.] It was an august oversight.
You should have brought your impressive
body with you. I descend from Heaven.
[Climbs down right of table.]
Mor FAH LOY. I go and leave you to
your august way.
Wu Hoo GIT. Stay but a little. Give
me some exchange of sweetness, my rose of
Heaven.
[Property man takes stool off table
and places it left. Music stops.]
MoY FAH LOY. The small space of time
I have to encourage you is spent. I can
tarry but a breath time, then breathe myself away.
Wu Hoo GIT. Then float guiding on, in
your cloud-like boat to inspire my aching
heart, and I will follow, till the world is
mine and nothing left to conquer.
Mor FAH LoY. I can but leave the
promise of fragrance to come, for the petals
of my love are not yet full blown to answer
you. The zephyr-wagon blows homeward
and I must ride with it or lose my way.
Farewell!




308


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


Wu Hoo GIT. Stay! Stay! Love is
never lost for heroism is born of it.
MOY FAH LOY. Love is in the heart
when far.away.
Wu Hoo GIT. Love is in the heart, always. When next you come forget not to
bring your exalted lips.
MOY FAH LOY. I shall augustly remember, for I observe man knows not woman
without her lips. I depart for my body.
[She exits upper door center. Music.
Wu Hoo GIT mounts stool right
of table, holds out his arms toward MOY FAH LOY, then turns
to GIT HOE GAR who has crossed
to upper left-hand corner of
table.]
GIT HOK GAR. I observe your eyes roll
with unfailing tears, your lips are heavy
with undelivered kisses of farewell.
Wu Hoo GIT. There is no place to remove them. [Comes down center.] Give me
back my Moy Fah Loy, even in spirit.
GIT HOK GAR. [Left center.] Experience
and years only can know spirit love.
Wu Hoo GIT. We must climb still higher
into the golden way. I would fear to meet
more elements, if it were not that I had
embraced disembodied Plum Blossom and
know that nothing can harm me now.
[Exeunt door right. Assistant property man removes table and stool
to left.]
Wu FAH DIN. [Appears above drapery.
Watches them off.] I surmised not he had a
slipper. It is a most dangerous potency to
overcome. It upsets my plans frightfully.
I must contrive a way to get it. What
barks? [Terror.] I summoned nothing of
this nature. Can it be Wu Hoo Git has sent
this monster after me while I was cogitating his destruction? [To ATTENDANT below.] Ask who it is? Speak to it boldly or
I will toss you at it bodily.
ATTENDANT. [Hesitates.] Who are you?
TAI FAH MIN [with fox head on]. You
may not know me in this guise, but I am a
fox spirit, and being a fox, I have changed
my form, so fear not. My brain is the brain
of Tai Fah Min, the second father-in-law
of Wu Sin Yin, and so your grandfather. I
come to help you to wreak mischief on


Wu Hoo Git. I might have accomplished
all of my iniquity but death came along
and took me. The gods were kind, however, and on my path to the spirit world I
stumbled on a fox body, unused some days
by the departed fox, and sublimely climbed
into it. So I was released from an abode in
the depths to prowl and help you in your
mischief on Wu Hoo Git. I shall hinder
him of success; if my tail be not cut off in
the bloody encounter which must ensue I
shall do him murder. He shall perish and
then you rule unmolested. [He struts up
stage.] I will take on a frightful shape. I
can swim, I can run. He shall not escape
me. I have a reason; I have a tail.
[Exits right.]
Wu FAH DIN [exultantly]. I have cause
to be proud of my ancestors. I banish
trembling fear and all kindness from my
heart. The traditions of my family attend
upon my wisdom. My grandfather is here
to aid me. With such mighty strength, my
bloody contention is no longer wit against
wit, brawn against brawn; for I meet him
with all the venom of my heritage. I have
him now.
Wu Hoo GIT. [Enters with GIT HOK GAR
left.] But tell me. When you trod this path
in youth did such things impede your way?
GIT HOK GAR. No, I had none to envy
me, but you are born to opposition because
of the rights you seek.
[Down left. Messenger enters to
DAFFODIL with red papers up
right.]
Wu FAH DIN. Now for the slipper and
his death! My message is from my grandfather, who you know is Tai Fah Min. You
will see what a terrible shape he will assume. Prepare your flowery handkerchiefs
for the flood of tears which you will shed at
the death of Wu Hoo Git.
[Horrible monster tiger enters down right,
assisted by property man, who lights
fuse in nostrils and dusts head, which
conceals TAI FAH MIN. Its body is supported by an assistant inside.]
Wu Hoo GIT. What monster approaches
me - with lightning orbs, thunder voice,
and meandering gait of horror? Bring him




THE YELLOW JACKET


309


nearer that I may pierce his armor with my
flashing eyes!
GIT HOK GAR. [Fearfully. Crosses center
to tiger.] It is the tiger-father of all tigers!
Its claws dig graves.  [Roar from tiger.]
Wu Hoo GIT. What language speaks it?
I understand it not.
GIT HOK GAR. It is the language of
death. [Urges Wu Hoo GIT back.] I am
old and must perish soon. You are young,
so run!
Wu Hoo GIT. Not I. [Crosses to center.]
I shall augustly sever it to crown my love
with victory.             [Tiger roars.]
GIT HOK GAR. It thunders answer. Flee!
Wu Hoo GIT. Not I. [Moves down front
and around tiger, which crosses to center. Dismembers body with sword. Assistant runs.]
The head runs without legs. I like it not.
TAI FAH MIN. [Within tiger's head.] I
have you now. Crumble before my bark;
shriek at my snap; die at my bite. I am
Tai Fah Min.
Wu Hoo GIT. Who conspired with my
father, Wu Sin Yin, to depart my beloved
mother, Chee Moo.
TAI FAH MIN. I assault you with my
teeth. I would gloriously chew you and
honorably digest you, for, while you live,
you menace the glorious future of my
daughter's child.
[They fight. Cymbals, drums, etc ]
Wu Hoo GIT. I chop your throat. I cut
it with fiery blade from ear to ear.
TAI FAH MIN. I mind it not.
GIT HOK GAR. It is invulnerable. It is
a fox.
Wu Hoo GIT. I augustly neglected the
thought. I will sever its tail.
[Cuts off tail and stamps on it.]
TAI FAH MIN. [Falls.] I am undone
without my brush. 'T is murder most unkind.
Wu Hoo GIT [proudly]. Kind or unkind,
I contemptuously tread upon it with my
sublime foot.
[Music. Property man places lad
der center.]
GIT HOK GAR. [Crosses to above fox, lying
on floor center zn tiger skin.] Know, unhappy fox spirit, this glorious boy, seeking
vengeance for a mother, places you in a


clean soul dress at Heaven's threshold in
return for your unwonted crimes. You
should die in thankfulness.
[Moves left again.]
Wu Hoo GIT. What! I would repent my
graciousness.
GIT HOK GAR. You cannot; you must
be noble now. The lantern of his life is
flickering.
TAI FAH MIN. [Comes out of head and
dress.] I humbly repent everything for a
sight of Heaven. I prayerfully and peacefully die.
[Property man places pillow under
his head.]
Wu Hoo GIT. Be augustly leisurely
about it then. I do not wish to be impatient.
Wu FAH DIN. He trades me and my important office for Heaven.
[TAI FAH MIN dies, crawls out of
tiger skin, and afterward he gets
up and walks to ladder center.
Property man stops him and
looks at Wu Hoo GIT.]
Wu Hoo GIT [going up to ladder]. Stay!
You cannot yet aspire to the celestial bliss
where dwells my mother whose blood is on
your hands. Depart below.
TAI FAH MIN. [Crosses to door right.
Snarls.] May Plum Blossom never sweeten
your presence again.   [Exits door right.]
Wu Hoo GIT. [Moves to door with sword,
then turns front.] Like all dying men he
would trade with Heaven.
GIT HOK GAR. Philosophy is ever victorious in warfare.
Wu Hoo GIT. Not philosophy, love.
The body of the tiger which I severed now
bars my august path.
GIT HOK GAR. I would triumphantly
mount over it.
[Property man removes tiger and
pillow, folding up pillow.]
Wu Hoo GIT [observing]. It mounts
for itself. It departs before me. [Grandly.]
I notice such things not.  [Exeunt right.,
Wu FAH DIN. If I triumph I will come
out and view him. If I fail I wish not to
view my failure. I will part him from his
friend. I will freeze him into nothingness.
[Disappears.]




3Io


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


CHORUS. [Rises.] 'T is a snow-storm.
[Music. Property man's assistants
enter doors right and left with
white flags rolled with cut paper,
which they shake out. They come
down stage, cross and exeunt opposite doors from which they
enter. Property man walks to
center with tray of cut paper
which he throws into the air, over
his shoulders, then crosses to left
again.]
Wu Hoo GIT. [Entering left with GIT HOK
GAR, crosses to right center.] What is this
blast which confronts us? What is this that
freezes up the warmth of your kindness?
GIT HOK GAR. It is my welcome shroud for
which I long have waited. You have grown
so fat in wisdom you need me not. Bow
me a farewell. I am approaching my robe
of wood. Take my august covering to warm
your worth. I need it not on my journey.
[Having taken off coat offers it to
Wu Hoo GIT. ]
Wu Hoo GIT. Nay, you must.
[Pushing away coat.]
GIT HOK GAR. I need it not. Put goodness in yourself, to shut out cold. The
mountain's peak of life is now in view for
you. From its bleak nose you can see the
riches of the world and your path beyond.
If the wisdom you have purchased on your
journey abides with you, it will be as gloriously fanciful as a summer's sea.
Wu Hoo GIT [putting coat around shoulders of GIT HOK GAR.] Is it decreed that 1
must mount alone?
GIT HOK GAR. Every man must look
inte the Garden of his soul alone. My
journey is done. My life is spent. Yours is
only begun. 1 die.
[Falls to stage. Property man puts
pillow under his head, kneeling
above him, spreads white cloth
over him, then pulls out his
beard, spreading it on white
sheet. Music.]
Wu Hoo GIT. Die not so easily. Snow
crowns your gray hair with the peace of
death. I am blinded, too, in white crystals
that sparkle upon me.
[Covers his face with his hands.


GIT HOK GAR throws off white
sheet. Rises, goes up center,
turns - looks at Wu Hoo GIT,
smiling and with gesture of blessing. Climbs ladder to Heaven.
Center opening above. Leaves
his coat in snow where he died.]
CHORUS. He ascends to Heaven!
Wu Hoo GIT. [Places hands over coat of
GIT HOK GAR.] I put the warmth of my
youthful hands upon you to give you life.
You are dead and gone from me.
GIT HOK GAR [above]. I live above the
coldness of the world.
[Exits off right. Music stops.]
Wu Hoo GIT [holding white sheet over GIT
HOK GAR'S cloak on floor]. I build an icy
tablet to his memory. I sink, I freeze.
[Falls to stage.] I would shake the slipper,
but it is a block of august ice. Moy Fah
Loy! Plum Blossom! You, too, desert me
in my hour of death. [Property man crosses
with tray of snow in one hand. Places pillow
under his head. Puts tray of snow on ladder
center.] 1 augustly pronounce myself passed
to my ancestors.
[Property man covers him with
white sheet. Dumps tray of cut
paper on sheet and crosses to left
and sits.]
CHEE MOO. [Enters above as spirit from
right.] I am Chee Moo, your honorable
mother, who wrote your story in my blood.
May the sweetness of my Heaven-prayer
bring warmth into your world-body.
NUNG Fu. [Enters door left with hoe.]
Here is a man snow-bound and chill. I dig
him out with my farm hoe.
Wu Hoo GIT. Moy Fah Loy? My
words are frozen. She hears me not.
NUNG Fu. He must be august to have
climbed so high. An icicle kiss melts upon
his lips. He is thinking of some one. Then
there still is life.
Wu Hoo GIT. Lead me to the mountain
top one august step above that I may see
the world of love and my inner self.
CHEE MOO [above, not seen]. It is yours,
my child, my Wu Hoo Git!
Wu Hoo GIT. What voice was that?
NUNG Fu. I heard naught.
Wu Hoo GIT. I dream in iciness. Lead




THE YELLOW JACKET


3II


on, for it is not in grandeur that we learn
to know, but guided by the simplicity of
nature's guardian of the soil we see with
child eyes again all the loveliness of the
world from the mountain peak of progress.
How bright and glorious the sun shines!
Its imperial golden liquid light dazzles my
eyes. The sky becomes one huge brass
bowl save for that one little gray cloud out
yonder.     [Pointing above audience front.]. NUNG Fu [screening eyes with hands]. I
see no cloud there, but here the sky has a
gray cloud - my mother's soul cloud.
Wu Hoo GIT. Then the one I see is my
mother soul cloud. So with every golden
shower of happiness there is a touch of
gray - for one must pause in happiness to
shed a tear for a mother heavenward passed.
[Sitting up.] The jacket burns into my
soul and conquers the freezing chill. Courage enwraps me. I shake off the numbing
iciness that congealed my veins. Am I deceived again or are my eyes at last open to
the circling vision of realities which were
only dreams? [Rises. Goes to door right.]
I'll toss my naked self against the palace
gates.
[Exeunt. CHEE Moo exits above.
Music.]
Wu FAH DIN. [Rises behind drapery.]
You have heard his almost indelicate threat.
I'll retire to the inner chamber of my palace and gracefully lock myself in. I will
swing tighter the gate bars, wall myself
about and send a crippling force against
him. [Descends from throne. Comes from
behind drapery. Stands in doorway right.]
I will await him where my walls are strongest and from their top I will pelt his ambitious head with tiles.
[Music. Assistant property man
removes ladder, placing it up left.
Assistants move the drapery on
standards right and place it
across stage at back up center
showing reverse side. An assistant then gets table and stool from
left. Another gets table and chair
from right. They place the tables
center near drapery, one below
the other with the chair on the upstage table and stool on floor below


the down-stage table. Assistant
exits right. Another assistant
exits left. Property man brings
red cushion and places it on chair
on table center and also places the
Yellow Jacket folded in green
handkerchief on right-hand corner of lower table. He goes to
right of drapery and motions for
CHORUS to come out.]
CHORUS. [Coming out from behind drapery
goes to right center. Music.] It is the throneroom of the palace of Wu Sin Yin, the
Great, from which our hero has been deprived so long.
[Retires behind drapery center.
Music forte.]
Wu FAH DIN. [Enters left. Comes down
center. Ascends throne. Property man assists
him. Cymbals. Property man crosses to left,
then places stool up left center and sits on it,
back to audience. Music stops.] I am deserted by all, but my self-importance still
remains. 1 feel an august valor born of my
inability to get away, for I am not yet undone. Deserted as I am, I cannot be vanquished. He may break down my door
bolts. He may trample my flower-beds,
but when he meets me face to face upon
my throne, he will tremble before the encircling power that crowns me with the
wealth of ages and my family's vanquishment.
[Music for Wu Hoo GIT'S entrance.
As Wu Hoo GIT enters, property man rises facing left and
holds stool in his hands.]
Wu Hoo GIT. [Enters door left with
sword. Beats upon the stool held by property
man four times with his sword. Cymbal
crash for each stroke. Property man drops
stool, then Wu Hoo GIT enters imaginary
gate.] Where is the throne I seek by right?
Who sits upon it?
Wu FAH DIN [looking down at him contemptuously]. If courage stands high in
you, I, too, have some in my veins, for the
blood of the same father enriches us both.
Wu Hoo GIT [brandishing sword].
Usurper! Think you to stop my way, when
I have met the battling heavens? When I
have conquered the peaks and held their




3I12


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


snow-crowns until they melted before the
warmth of my hand? [Places onefoot on stool
center.] Descend before I cut you to earth,
and toss your carcass from the beetling battlements. [Steps backfrom throne.] Descend,
bow deeply and trade your place for mine.
Wu FAH DIN. [Seated on throne chair.]
If you will trade in gentleness, I will surrender gently. A throne is most uncomfortable. [Rises. Descends throne to center.]
Wu Hoo GIT. The sun-hued garment!
I demand it!
Wu FAH DIN. [Goes to right of table.
Pushes Yellow Jacket in handkerchief across
table toward Wu Hoo GIT.] I extend to you
the badge of office. I have always disliked
the color, it is so cold.
[Wu FAH DIN crosses to right center.
Wu Hoo GIT takes off his own
jacket and hands it to property
man, who puts it in box left.
Wu Hoo GIT then takes Yellow
Jacket out of handkerchief. Property man assists him to put it on.]
Wu Hoo GIT. Bump your head to me.
[DAFFODIL kneels right center.]
Wu FAH DIN. My head! I am glad I
have a head to bump. [Bumps head twice.
Wood block.] May I still retain it?
Wu Hoo GIT. My first act in assuming
my power shall be one of mercy. Choose
your prison.
Wu FAH DIN [looking up]. A garden! A
garden filled with smiling flowers. [Wu
Hoo GIT makes a gesture of assent. DAFFODIL rises.] Then I retire to its fragrance.
[Backs up stage. Exits right.]
Wu Hoo GIT. [Crosses to center, back to
audience.] Victorious at last! I ascend the
throne of my ancestors. [Music. He mounts
throne. Turns front standing.] I shake the
slipper for my Plum Blossom. [Shakes slipper. Cymbals crash. General entrance.] My
Plum Blossom!
[Music changes. Play piano.]
MOY FAH LOY [crossing to him center on
one foot]. I guided them to you.
Wu Hoo GIT. Have you brought your
impressive body with you?
MoY FAH LOY. Yes.
Wu Hoo GIT. Ascend my throne. [She


ascends. Sits on chair.] Your slipper shall
be my scepter.
[Puts it on her foot, standing right
of table center.]
MOY FAH LOY. My love!
Wu Hoo GIT. My Plum Blossom!
[All kneel and bow low.]
CHEE MOO. [In upper opening center.]
The world and wisdom are his.  [Music.]
TABLEAU CURTAIN
[CHORUS comes out before tableau
curtain.]
CHORUS. And now, most august and
honorable neighbors, you may bestow your
kindly recognition upon my brothers as I
nominate them each in turn and they will
personally augustly thank you.
[Tableau curtains are drawn. Company lined up across stage.
CHORUS now points out each
member of the company in turn,
beginning with CHEE Moo, then
Wu Hoo GIT, PLUM BLOSSOM,
etc., indicating character first one
side of the stage then the other,
property man last.]
CHORUS. Chee Moo, the mother! My
hero! [Indicating Wu Hoo GIT.] My little
heroine! [Indicating PLUM BLOSSOM.] The
philosopher! [Indicating GIT HOK GAR.]
The nurse! [Indicating SEE NOI.] The
temptress of the flower boat! [Indicating
CHOW WAN.] The purveyor of hearts!
[Indicating YIN SUEY GONG.] The daffodil!
[Indicating Wu FAH DIN.] The farmer and
his wife! [Indicating LEE SIN and SUEY SIN
FAH.] The widow! [Indicating her.] Tai
Char Shoong! [Indicating him.] The second
wife! [Indicating DUE JUNG FAH.] A
siren! [Indicating SEE QUOE FAH.] And
yet another siren! [Indicating YONG Soo
Kow.] And now quite visible to your eyes,
our property man.
[Property man who has been seated
on box left, smoking, rises, crosses
to CHORUS center, shakes hands
in the Chinese manner, bows to
audience, crosses to right.]


CURTAIN




A LOVING WIFE
(A MO URE USE)
A PLAY IN THREE ACTS
BY GEORGES DE PORTO-RICHE
Translated by J. P. W. CRA WFORD




This tran lation is published by Permission of the author and by arrangement with the
Librairie Ollendorif, Paris




TO
POREL AND TO RiJANE




PERSONS OF THE PLAY
ETIENNE FE'RIAUJD
PASCAL DELANNOY
GERMAINE FE'RIAUD
CATHERINE VILLIERS
MADAME DE CHAZAL
MADAME HENRIET
MADELEINE




A LOVING WIFE
ACT I


The home of fTIENNE FERIAUD. A study
in disorder. Books and papers scattered
about, etc. A lighted lamp on a desk.
[Enter PASCAL, wearing his hat.]
PASCAL. Has Monsieur returned home?
MADELEINE [arranging on a small table
a tray with a bottle and several glasses]. Not
yet.
PASCAL. And Madame?
MADELEINE. Madame is over there.
PASCAL. Alone?
MADELEINE. With Madame de Vitry.
PASCAL [in a vexed tone]. Always callers.
MADELEINE. But, sir, this is Thursday.
Madame receives to-day.
PASCAL [taking off his hat]. I shall not go
in. Fix the fire for me, Madeleine.
MADELEINE. I have just put on a log.
PASCAL. Put on another.
MADELEINE [poking the fire]. Monsieur is
hard to please, for an artist.
PASCAL. The poor have more need of
comfort than others, my child. And now,
open that window. The room smells of
tobacco.
MADELEINE. Yes, sir.
[PASCAL picks up a newspaper and
installs himself in an arm-chair
by the fireside.]
PASCAL [reading]. "Madame C..."
[Interrupting his reading.] Another husband
who has just found his wife untrue...
Madame C... I'll wager it is Madame
Crozat... Poor little woman!
MADELEINE. Do you wish anything else,
sir?
PASCAL. Yes. What is in that bottle?
MADELEINE. Malaga wine.
PASCAL. My Malaga?
MADELEINE. Yes, sir.
PASCAL. That's what I need. [Pouring
out a drink.] The only wine that one can
drink here.


MADELEINE. Oh! sir.
PASCAL [point-blank]. How is your lover
Madeleine?
MADELEINE. But I have no lover!
PASCAL. A pretty girl like you?
MADELEINE. No, sir.
PASCAL. How old are you?
MADELEINE. I am twenty-two.
PASCAL. Six years wasted!
MADELEINE. If I had a lover, I should
be less cheerful.
PASCAL. But all the same you would be
happier.
MADELEINE. I know a painter who often
tells me nonsense like that.
PASCAL [quickly]. A painter?
MADELEINE. A painter who works at
the glazier's, across the street.
PASCAL. You flatter me. [Pause.] Is
M. Feriaud leaving this evening?
MADELEINE. The doctor will leave very
soon.
PASCAL. The house will not be very
amusing. I shall have a stupid time of
it.
[Enter GERMAINE.]
GERMAINE [at the door, affectionately].
Are you there, dear?
PASCAL [without moving from his armchair]. No, Madame, he is not here.
GERMAINE. Oh! It's you, Pascal!
PASCAL. I am waiting for Etienne.
GERMAINE. Why did you not come into
the drawing-room?
PASCAL. You had tiresome guests.
GERMAINE. You would have helped me
to receive them.
PASCAL. Disturb myself? Not much!
GERMAINE. I must go. Come along, selfish fellow, come with me.
PASCAL. That is not to be dreamed of,
my little Germaine. Just see how well fixed
I am here.




318


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


GERMAINE [about to leave]. Spoiled
kitten!
PASCAL. Ah! Do not leave me. Now I
shall be all alone.
GERMAINE. I am afraid callers will come.
PASCAL. Stay.
GERMAINE. No.
PASCAL. I shall not allow you to be told
when your husband returns.
GERMAINE. That makes no difference to
me. I am watching for him.
PASCAL. At what time does he leave?
GERMAINE [taking a chair and sitting
down beside him]. At eight o'clock, my
good Pascal.
PASCAL. So you sit down after all.
GERMAINE. You think that I am going
to stay, do you? He leaves this evening for
Italy. He is going to preside over the
French delegation to the Medical Congress.
PASCAL. A queer idea, for him to leave
us in this fashion!
GERMAINE. This is the first time we shall
have been separated in our eight years of
married life.
PASCAL. I have not missed seeing him a
single day in the last fifteen years.
GERMAINE. It appears that this trip is
necessary for his work.
PASCAL. What difference does his work
make to us?
GERMAINE. Poor fellow, I persecute him
and torment him. He will not be sorry to
have a little freedom.
PASCAL. Between ourselves, my dear,
you are becoming unbearable.
GERMAINE. 1 realize that, but what can
you expect? The clocks of a house never
keep the same time; when one is fast, the
other is slow.
PASCAL. And they never strike together.
GERMAINE.   What self-restraint one
needs not to love one's husband! If I did
not adore mine, things would be better.
PASCAL. The fact is that everything is
topsy turvy in your house. You quarrel,
the meals are bad... If it continues, I
shall stay away.
GERMAINE. You will look for a quieter
house.
PASCAL. I am joking. I am too old to
change my habits.


GERMAINE. Follow your friend's example, and travel.
PASCAL. Worries keep me at Paris.
GERMAINE. Is your lady-in-waiting still
the cause of them?
PASCAL. Yes.
GERMAINE. And you do not work?
PASCAL. No indeed.
GERMAINE. What a pity! Yesterday I
saw the director of the Illustrated Review.
Do you know that he is dissatisfied?
PASCAL. A furious director is always
diverting.
GERMAINE. He has been waiting for
your drawings for a month.
PASCAL. He made a mistake in paying
me for them in advance.
GERMAINE. Is Mauricette an expensive
mistress?
PASCAL. Not yet. She is so young.
GERMAINE. Seriously, Pascal. For the
sake of your dignity, you should break off
relations with that woman.
PASCAL. I do nothing else.
GERMAINE. You do not love her, she
deceives you, and you suffer as if you did
love her.
PASCAL. She tortures me. She does not
deceive me.
GERMAINE. Dupe!
PASCAL. Love is blind.
GERMAINE. Yet it is making you see
things!
PASCAL. I confess it.
GERMAINE. If you were reasonable, you
would listen to me...
PASCAL. And I would marry Madame
Brissot.
GERMAINE. Why not?
PASCAL. A divorcee? A book already
read!
GERMAINE. But not on the shelf.
PASCAL. Have you set your heart on
that?
GERMAINE. Just think, my friend, an
income of fifty thousand francs!
PASCAL. Are you not ashamed to talk
like that, you who have made a love
marriage.
GERMAINE. One might love Madame
Brissot.
PASCAL, Too thin.




A LOVING WIFE


319


GERMAINE. But thin women are sometimes dangerous.
PASCAL. Like fish-bones! I refuse. In
the first place, she disgusts me with her
piety, your Madame Brissot. Oh! These
pious women, I...
GERMAINE. You send them to the devil.
PASCAL. If God paid any attention to
them, well and good, I would understand,
but...
GERMAINE. Come now, don't begin to
speak ill of God. That's out of date.
PASCAL. Agreed. Let us speak well of
him. It is more charitable, since he is not
here.
GERMAINE. He is the only one who is
not gossiped about behind his back.
PASCAL. Because he has never been seen.
GERMAINE. Be quiet. You talk like an
alderman.
[Enter ETIENNE.]
PASCAL. At last!
GERMAINE. There he is!
ETIENNE. Ah! How tired I am!
PASCAL. Of course. He is always tired
when he comes home, and never tired when
he leaves.
GERMAINE [to ETIENNE]. Now will you
be good!
PASCAL. Explain yourself. Why have
you been away so long?
GERMAINE. Yes, where have you been?
ETIENNE. I have just left the Academy.
PASCAL. That is not true.
GERMAINE. There was no session to-day.
RTIENNE [pouring out a drink]. I was
presiding over a commission.
GERMAINE. I believe you, at least.
PASCAL. Ah! Don't drink my wine.
ETIENNE. I am late because I walked
home.
GERMAINE. A lover would have taken a
cab.
ETIENNE. I wanted to take the tram.
PASCAL. That represents a friend's
eagerness.
ETIENNE. But I had to wait too long
and I lost my patience.
PASCAL. Your health will benefit by a
good walk. I forgive you.
ETIENNE [taking from his pocket a tram

car ticket]. This ticket, number 53, which I
forgot to give to the conductor, is evidence
of my truthfulness.
[He puts it back in his pocket.]
PASCAL. IS it decided, then, that you are
going to represent France at a congress?
ETIENNE. I am leaving shortly for
Florence.
PASCAL. And you dare to see Italy again
without me?
ETIENNE. Come along. I am traveling
with Marcotte and his mistress.
PASCAL. You mean little Janin?
GERMAINE [ill-humoredly]. The friend of
Mademoiselle Villiers, a household with
which you used to be intimate?
ETIENNE. Precisely.
PASCAL. You tempt me. I have a mind
to go with you, but then, Germaine would
be left entirely alone.
GERMAINE. How about taking me?
ETIENNE. Don't be silly.
PASCAL. We shall not be obliged to travel
in the Marcottes' compartment.
ETIENNE [pointing to GERMAINE]. If I
take her with me, I shall not have time to
see her.
PASCAL. But I can see her.
ETIENNE. I am coming back in a week.
GERMAINE [to PASCAL]. Don't insist.
PASCAL. Then I shall stay too.
ETIENNE. It is not nice to abandon you
both, but you will agree that I have not the
right to refuse this mission... [becoming
animated] a mission which will give me a
chance to defend my ideas. Thanks to this
Congress, the prophylaxis of contagious
diseases...
PASCAL. You are not going to deliver us
a lecture, are you?
GERMAINE. You may expound your theories to Mademoiselle Janin, en route.
* ETIENNE. Perhaps she will be more interested in them than you.
PASCAL. Of course she will. You are not
her husband.
ETIENNE. Very well. Let us talk no
more of my affairs.
GERMAINE. Come now. Don't look so
angry.
PASCAL. You know very well that we are
not completely indifferent to your interests.




320


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


GERMAINE. Stop joking. His work has
been useful.
ETIENNE. Perhaps.
PASCAL. Nonsense. Discoveries in medicine are like those in artillery. They teach
how to kill men more quickly, that's all.
GERMAINE. The fewer there are...
PASCAL [pointing to ETIENNE]. Provided
that one remain.
ETIENNE [with annoyance]. Ah! That
lamp is smoking.  [He turns up the wick.]
GERMAINE. Are you dining with us,
Pascal?
PASCAL. That depends whether it is a
good dinner.
ETIENNE. It is I who ordered it.
PASCAL. That gives me hope.
ETIENNE. I plan the meals now. You
will have duckling and Russian salad.
PASCAL. Is that all?
ETIENNE. Yes.
PASCAL. Add some crawfishes for your
wife.
ETIENNE. She does n't need a stimulant.
GERMAINE [to PASCAL]. You are insulting! [To ETIENNE.] Did you stop at
Doucet's?
ETIENNE. Your dress will be ready tomorrow.
GERMAINE. Thank you for not forgetting.
ETIENNE. Oh! By the way...
GERMAINE. What are you looking for in
your pocket? A present?
ETIENNE. You have guessed right.
[He hands a small jewel-box to
GERMAINE.]
GERMAINE. A ring!
PASCAL. Let us see!
GERMAINE. Oh! What a beauty!
PASCAL [grumbling]. I can't agree with
you. The diamond is too small.
ETIENNE [to GERMAINE]. Do you like it?
PASCAL. No one ever brings me anything.
GERMAINE. I must give you a kiss.
ETIENNE. All right. Be quick about it.
GERMAINE [tenderly]. Can one kiss
quickly?
PASCAL. I shall turn my back.
GERMAINE. That makes no difference.
PASCAL [to ETIENNE]. You will lose
nothing by waiting.


GERMAINE. So then, you love me a little
bit?
ETIENNE. You know very well that I
do.
PASCAL. Ah, my children! Have mercy
on me. I am all alone.
ETIENNE. How decollet6e you are!
GERMAINE. Is that a criticism?
ETIENNE [fascinated]. Yes and no. In
spite of myself, I am captivated, and
unexpectedly disconcerted. I have such
weighty problems on my mind just now
that I should have preferred... to think
of nothing else.
[MADELEINE enters with letters on a tray.]
GERMAINE. Letters?
ETIENNE [to MADELEINE]. Give them to
me.
GERMAINE [handing to ETIENNE a letter
which she has just picked up]. Oh! I was
not going to open it.
ETIENNE. You were smelling it.
GERMAINE. That's different.
PASCAL. It's exactly the same. Scented
letter-paper means a pet name.
[MADELEINE goes out.]
RTIENNE [seated at his desk, looking over
his mail]. Requests for consultations, but I
do not receive patients... the Edinburgh
Review... an article by Mackensie on
diphtheria and Gaucher's method... Ha!
My name occurs several times...You
don't know English, do you, Pascal?
PASCAL. I don't even know Russian.
ETIENNE. Next, a bill from Reboux for
two hundred and ten francs.
GERMAINE. My black hat.
ETIENNE [handing the bill to GERMAINE].
Here you are.
GERMAINE [refusing it]. You may pay it
yourself.
ETIENNE. Very well. I shall attend to it.
PASCAL. Really, my little Germaine, he
is too good-natured. Things of that kind
fall within your province. How do you
spend your time all day?
ETIENNE. My wife looks after her husband, and I look after the rest.
GERMAINE. Oh! How nice you are! I
adore you when you are angry.
ETIENNE. I am growing tired of the job.




A LOVING WIFE


321


PASCAL. Come now. Don't go on
grumbling.
GERMAINE. You have a better disposition than you think, you know.
PASCAL. We saw you at work when she
had typhoid fever.
GERMAINE. My poor friend, do you remember? He spent twenty nights at my
bedside.
ETIENNE. Be quiet. I can't read while
you are talking.
GERMAINE. But I want to talk.
]fTIENNE. Where does Parigot live?
PASCAL. Rue de la Sorbonne.
GERMAINE. No, he has moved.
eTIENNE. Confound it! I must answer
at once.
PASCAL. Look up his address in the
directory.
STIENNE [annoyed]. Where is it?
GERMAINE. Over there.
PASCAL. No, it is not.
eTIENNE. There is your veil. Pins on my
desk as usual.
GERMAINE. If you were a bachelor, you
would not complain.
ETIENNE. I can't find it. One can find
nothing in this house.
PASCAL. Except dust.
ETIENNE. I shall write to him later.
What a chaos! I should have a secretary to
put this house in order. I should have had
a sister or an aunt from the country, irritating perhaps, to go about the apartment and
keep my things in place. I have n't even a
mother-in-law!
[MADELEINE comes in with a package.]
PASCAL [to MADELEINE]. What now?
MADELEINE. Books for Madame.
GERMAINE   [opening  the bundle]. A
Woman's Heart.
ETIENNE. Our Heart.
PASCAL. Their Heart.
GERMAINE. Three Hearts.
[MADELEINE goes out.]
]TIENNE. Bourget, Maupassant...
GERMAINE. Lavedan, Rod.
PASCAL. Love stories.
ETIENNE. With adultery as chief topic.
GERMAINE. Women's sorrows.
ETIENNE. That's what she reads.


GERMAINE. I read what I understand
best.
ETIENNE. Why don't you find a lover
some day, since you are so inquisitive?
PASCAL. Be patient.
GERMAINE. One can never tell. Your
bachelor days are over, mine are beginning.
ETIENNE. Your bachelor days?
PASCAL. Of course. You are her first
lover.
ETIENNE. And the last.
GERMAINE. I hope so with all my heart.
ETIENNE. Are you not certain of it?
PASCAL. Be careful, my dear fellow.
You are actually savage at times. An indiscretion is the affair of a moment.
ETIE:NNE. A virtuous woman never loses
her head.
GERMAINE. Let us hope that is true.
PASCAL. Bah! Dishonor is like black
clothes for a funeral. They can make it up
for you in a day.
ETIENNE. My love, if you ever deceive
me, be careful of your choice, for all men
are scoundrels.
PASCAL. With the exception of myself.
ETIENNE. Yes, you are a good fellow.
GERMAINE. There is no hope for you,
then.
PASCAL. Why is there no hope for me?
I protest. Perhaps you were foolish in refusing to marry me, nine years ago.
GERMAINE. You should not have sent
ftienne to propose for you.
ETIENNE [to PASCAL]. I was loyal to you
in presenting your case.
GERMAINE. He was very insistent.
PASCAL. A little more and my happiness
would have been assured.
GERMAINE. A little more, I should have
been your wife and [turning to eTIENNE]
your mistress.
PASCAL. Perhaps things will be reversed.
GERMAINE. Never, my good Pascal.
ETIENNE [jokingly, to PASCAL]. Who can
tell? In spite of your stories, at heart you
only love my wife.
PASCAL. Worse luck!
eTIENNE. And if I make her too unhappy, you will console her.
PASCAL. Do you think so? That's fine!
ETIENNE. We shall separate some day,




322


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


my darling. I have a presentiment that you
will leave me.
GERMAINE. Leave you? Never! Don't
count on that, my dear. Don't cherish that
absurd hope, it is not worth while. Whatever I may do, whatever you do, I shall
stay here, in your house, beside you, always,
whatever happens, clinging to you like...
PASCAL. Like a leech.
]TIENNE. What a sharp tongue you
have!
GERMAINE. We shall live together forever.
PASCAL. And we shall bury you with her.
ETIENNE. I draw the line on that! I
want to be alone in my grave.
GERMAINE. But I would not annoy you
very much.
]TIENNE. I won't hear of it.
PASCAL. Well then, you go first. She
will join you later.
]RTIENNE. It will not be long, my dear
friends. I am growing old... fortunately.
PASCAL. Fortunately?
ETIENNE [bitterly]. Yes, I await old age
with impatience, when my heart will be insensible. How eager I am to grow old!
GERMAINE. What a joy it will be to have
white hair!
PASCAL. Or to have none at all!
STIENNE. I can imagine myself beside
the fire-place, sensible, rational, disregarded, with my books, my wife and my
son, for it must be expected that some day
or other...
PASCAL. A child? You can ask a friend
for that.
ETIENNE. Ah! How happy I should be
to feel my brain clear! What freedom from
worry! Loving couples may pass before
my windows, but I shall not look after
them enviously. No, I shall rub my hands
with delight when I think of their torments,
their heart burnings, their wasted time and
all those hours stolen from duty, work and
thinking. That will be real happiness. I
shall be sixty years old then.
GERMAINE. Yes, but now you are only
forty-three.
PASCAL. And your health is excellent.
GERMAINE. Twenty years more for love,
my poor dear. Be brave.


ETIENNE. Forgive me. I am saying
things that I do not mean.
PASCAL [aside, to JTIENNE]. You are
hurting her feelings, my dear fellow.
ETIENNE. If only she would remain
angry a week!
PASCAL. You would not like that.
[Enter MADELEINE.]
MADELEINE. Madame de Chazal and
Madame Henriet are in the drawing-room.
GERMAINE. Very well.
[MADELEINE leaves.]
PASCAL. Two society women.
GERMAINE. Two geese, who do not come
to see me, but my husband.
PASCAL. That is the practice here.
GERMAINE [to ETIENNE]. Your hair is
not yet white.
PASCAL. Would they like to steal him
from you?
GERMAINE. Perhaps they have done so
already.
ETIENNE. Come now, Germaine.
GERMAINE. Ah! I have no illusions regarding my friends. I know what they want.
PASCAL. And he reproaches you for not
receiving women.
GERMAINE [about to leave]. Oh! I deprive him of opportunities.
ETIENNE [annoyed]. You are unjust.
GERMAINE. I robbed him of one opportunity a little while ago. On a pretext of
asking him some important advice, a
woman insisted on entering his office. I
opened the door for her, but, behold,
Adonis had gone out.
ETIENNE. Who was it?
GERMAINE. That little Chailly woman.
PASCAL. The widow, whose husband
died the evening of their marriage?
GERMAINE. Lucky husband!
ETIENNE. By the way, I forgot to tell
you. Don't expect your hairdresser tomorrow morning.
GERMAINE. Why not?
ETIENNE. He will not be here. He
hanged himself.
GERMAINE. Hanged himself!
PASCAL. In his shop-window?
ETIENNE. His wife was unfaithful to
him.




A LOVING WIFE


323


GERMAINE. Poor devil!... You would
not hang yourself, would you?
ETIENNE. Who knows?
GERMAINE [reproachfully]. Oh! The rope
would break.
ETIENNE. Good Lord! What a woman!
GERMAINE. I shall send them off and
come back to you.
PASCAL. We are not uneasy.
[GERMAINE goes out.]
ETIENNE. Will you allow me to write
for a moment?
PASCAL. You are mighty crabbed this
evening.
eTIENNE [writing]. I am out of sorts.
PASCAL. That is evident. What is wrong?
]TIENNE. Nothing new.
PASCAL [sketching]. See, your nose is
longer than usual. You are like a child.
When you are naughty, you are homely.
ETIENNE. Are you drawing a caricature
of me?
PASCAL. It will not cost you a cent, and
yet my rent is due to-morrow.
ETIENNE. If you need any money...
PASCAL. I never borrow, I am too ungrateful. I could never forgive a friend
who had done me a favor.
ETIENNE. Then apply to an enemy.
PASCAL. It is less expensive.
ETIENNE. Come now, we are alone.
Don't play the cynic. [A pause.] By the
way, have you seen that one of your watercolor drawings was sold for two thousand
francs?
PASCAL. Really?
RTIENNE. Yesterday, at the Montigny
sale. I read about it in this morning's
paper.
PASCAL. A water-color of mine for two
thousand francs? My Lord! How stupid
people are!
ETIENNE. Not so stupid as you think.
PASCAL. The dealers have never offered
me such a price as that.
ETIENNE. Work, and that day will soon
come.
PASCAL. When it comes, I shall have at
least a right to be lazy.
ETIENNE. You will lead the gay life.
PASCAL. I shall make about thirty drawings a year, no more.


ETIENNE. And then?
PASCAL. When my living expenses are
once assured, I shall look after my diversions.
ETIENNE. To think that if you had no
talent, you would probably be a hard
worker!
PASCAL. Then, I congratulate myself
on possessing a little.
ETIENNE. You have a great deal, my
dear fellow.
PASCAL. You are mistaken, I know myself. Do you know what my artist's conscience suggests to me? To fold my arms,
nothing more. That is the real way to
avoid painting bad pictures, for I am as
second-rate as the next man, as a lot of
people, second-rate like yourself.
RTIENNE. Thanks.
PASCAL. In these days, everybody has
talent. It is becoming unbearable.
RTIENNE. So then, you have no ambition?
PASCAL. Not the slightest, and I think
with terror of the provincial art gallery
where I shall probably be buried some day
or other, for that is the glory that awaits
me.
ETIENNE. Then it is clear that you do
not love your art.
PASCAL. I value love and friendship
more highly.
ETIENNE. Friends abandon us and
women deceive us.
PASCAL. Just wait a while.
ETIENNE. For my part, I am only completely happy at this desk.
PASCAL. You say so to-day because you
are surfeited.
ETIENNE. Rather because I have taken
a few steps forward.
PASCAL. Do you think that you are
gaining ground?
ETIENNE. I began with love, I am ending
by devoting myself to science.
PASCAL. That is disagreeable for your
wife.
RTIENNE. Perhaps we met one another
too late.
PASCAL. You believe that the happiness
of humanity comes first, and your wife's
happiness second, do you not?




324


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


ETIENNE. If I am of any use in the world,
it is her duty to yield.
PASCAL. Selfish fellow!
ETIENNE. DO yOU realize that my researches on diphtheria might save thousands of lives?
PASCAL. Don't lose your head. Their
value is yet to be proved.
ETIENNE. It will be proved.
PASCAL. And what if it is? A lot of
good it will do! When you cure one disease,
God sends us another. It seems that we
must always have in this world the same
number of plagues. We might as well keep
those that we know about. And after all,
what is the use? Until the end of time
there will be poor and rich, rascals with
luck and honest people without luck. You
can shut yourself in your house and work,
you may have genius, but you will never
change the order of things. Nothing is
worth while.
ETIENNE. YOU are preaching the doctrine of cowardice, the uselessness of effort.
If our fathers had reasoned like you, the
earth would still be uninhabitable and men
would go about naked.
PASCAL. Women too.
ETIENNE. We should be walking on all
fours, my good friend.
PASCAL. I might find that very amusing.
ETIENNE. YOU paint trees, but your
forefathers climbed them.
PASCAL. I should be very much embarrassed to follow their example.
ETIENNE. You make fun of savants,
artists and poets, but they are the ones who
have improved this imperfect world. It is
they who have made it more bearable, less
disagreeable to those who are pleasure-mad
and to the destitute. I grant that they have
been bad husbands, lukewarm friends and
disobedient sons. What difference does
that make? Their labors and their dreams
have sown the seed of happiness, of justice
and of beauty in the world. These egoists
did not love, but they created love for succeeding ages.
PASCAL. Well, let the good work go on,
my friends. Suppress suffering and hatred.
After all, I ask nothing better.
ETIENNE. We shall succeed in that.


PASCAL. In six weeks?
ETIENNE. In a few centuries. We have
already extended the limits of life.
PASCAL. How cruel! Who can tell?
With a little luck, you may finally suppress
death itself.
ETIENNE. Conquer death? Oh! my dear
fellow, we have already made such progress.
PASCAL. I should like to live in those
days.
ETIENNE. Because you are not married.
PASCAL. After all, what would be the
use? You could not prolong youth.
ETIENNE. Bah! You can think of nothing but love.
[Enter GERMAINE, MADAME DE CHAZAL,
MADAME HENRIET.]
MADAME HENRIET [to ETIENNE]. May I
shake hands with you?
MADAME DE CHAZAL [to eTIENNE]. May
I wish you a pleasant journey?
ETIENNE. Of course.
MADAME DE CHAZAL [to PASCAL]. Oh!
Monsieur Delannoy?
PASCAL [bowing]. In person.
GERMAINE [to ETIENNE, drawing near to
his desk]. Were you writing?
ETIENNE. You may see for yourself.
GERMAINE. I annoy you.
ETIENNE. No.
MADAME DE CHAZAL [to PASCAL]. They
say that you are going to marry Madame
Brissot. Is it true?
PASCAL. That would surprise me. In
the first place, I am a personal enemy of
marriage.
GERMAINE. Please don't talk like that!
PASCAL. Marriage is an antiquated institution which had a beginning and will
have an end.
ETIENNE [gaily]. Never make such a
contract...
PASCAL. So immoral a contract, for one
should only assume those that one can fulfil, and no one is ever sure of keeping the
marriage contract.
MADAME HENRIET [to PASCAL]. In the
meanwhile, your engagement was announced this evening at the F6vriers.
GERMAINE [sentimentally]. Ah! The
betrothal...




A LOVING WIFE


325


ETIENNE. The happiest thing about
marriage.
GERMAINE. I believe the happiest
time...
PASCAL. Comes afterwards.
GERMAINE. I had not the courage to say
so.
MADAME HENRIET [to ETIENNE]. That
is greatly to your credit.
MADAME DE CHAZAL. And you are past
forty.
PASCAL. He belongs to the reserve, but
he is kept under the colors.
ETIENNE [dismayed]. I have no luck at
all. All women love me.
MADAME DE CHAZAL. When one is liked
by everybody, one runs the risk of making
no one happy.
PASCAL [jokingly]. And yet, just look at
this man. He is not handsome.
MADAME HENRIET. He is faded.
MADAME DE CHAZAL. He dresses carelessly.
]TIENNE. I do that purposely.
GERMAINE. It makes no difference.
Nothing discourages us.
MADAME DE CHAZAL. Your men friends
must hate you, don't they?
RTIENNE. Heartily.
PASCAL. He still has plenty of hair, the
rascal!
ETIENNE. How many enemies it has
made for me!
PASCAL. I know a bald fellow who criticises you everywhere.
ETIENNE. An old chum of mine? That
ne'er-do-well of a...? His soul is as bare
as his skull.
GERMAINE [to PASCAL]. All the same, my
]tienne is nice, is n't he?
PASCAL [furious]. When we go out together, I always wink at the women, but
they look at him.
MADAME HENRIET. Poor Pascal!
GERMAINE [to ETIENNE]. Do they stop
you in the street?
PASCAL. No, but they follow him.
fTIENNE. Clown!
PASCAL. You have been followed twice
this winter, I have proof of it.
MADAME HENRLIT, That's beyond belief.


MADAME DE CHAZAL. He is followed on
the street.
PASCAL. Like a woman.
GERMAINE. Like a grisette.
ETIENNE. Alas! Sometimes I think that
I must be one.
GERMAINE. Fortunately you are not
mercenary.
ETIENNE [gaily]. Ah, my friends! I
might have earned millions.
GEEMAINE [to MADAME HENRIET, offering her candy]. Will you have some candy?
[GERMAINE, MADAME HENRIET
and PASCAL go up stage.]
MADAME DE CHAZAL [to ETIENNE]. You
seem to be sorry that women like you.
ETIENNE. You are quite right.
MADAME DE CHAZAL. Too much success?
ETIENNE [roguishly]. Too many orders.
MADAME DE CHAZAL. So much the worse.
ETIENNE [drawing away]. Yes, I have a
great deal to do just now. I am very
busy.
MADAME DE CHAZAL. Do you remember
the little first floor apartment where we
used to meet one whole winter... before
your marriage?
ETIENNE. Fifteen years ago?
MADAME DE CHAZAL. Not so long ago
as that.
fTIE:NNE. Let me see. You came between...
MADAME DE CHAZAL. What a cynic you
are!
ETIENNE. A lady from Havre was your
successor.
MADAME DE CHAZAL. In the same apartment?
ETIENNE. Ugh!
MADAME DE CHAZAL. I passed the house
yesterday. The apartment is vacant.
ETIENNE. It is lucky.
MADAME DE CHAZAL. Shall we take it
again?
ETIENNE. I am going away.
MADAME DE CHAZAL. When you return?
ETIE:NNE. Ah! my dear. I tell you I am
very busy.
MADAME DE CHAZAL. Do you mean
worn out?
ETIENNE. And really, I know what your
demands are. You would not be satisfied.




326


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


MADAME DE CHAZAL. Worn out! May I
say so?
ETIENNE. Yes! Say so, I beg of you, so
that I shall be left in peace.
MADAME DE CHAZAL. If Germaine knew
how bored you are by all that, she would
be less jealous.
ETIENNE. I make sport of you and all
the rest. That is mere bravado. As a
matter of fact, I work hard and am faithful
to my wife.
MADAME DE CHAZAL. You are faithful
to her, but you are not sorry to allow her to
believe that you are not.
ETIENNE. I am so conceited.
MADAME DE CHAZAL. Do you love no
one but her?
ETIENNE. That is a question which she
just asked me, and which she will probably
ask me again in five minutes.
MADAME DE CHAZAL. You bundle of
conceit!
ETIENNE. I'll wager that she will.
GERMAINE [drawing near]. What are you
two laughing about in the corner? You are
speaking ill of me, I am sure.
MADAME DE CHAZAL. No.
ETIENNE. No, my love.
GERMAINE [tenderly]. Do you love me?
ETIENNE. I have won.
GERMAINE. What is the meaning of the
joke?
ETIENNE. I made a wager with Madame
de Chazal that you would ask me that
question within five minutes.
[MADAME DE CHAZAL draws near
MADAME HENRIET and PASCAL.]
GERMAINE [to ]TIENNE]. You have
reason to make fun of me. I am a fool.
ETIENNE. Nonsense, grown-up baby! I
am only joking.
GERMAINE [sadly]. What a strange
mania women have to try at all costs to
wrench a pleasant reply from you, even
though they know the reply will be false.
ETIENNE [jokingly]. Let us make up, old
love.
GERMAINE. If I am your old love, I shall
be another's new love.
ETIENNE. Germaine!
GERMAINE [gaily]. A woman is only complete when she inspires all kinds of feelings.


[GERMAINE joins PASCAL and
MADAME DE CHAZAL.]
MADAME DE CHAZAL [to MADAME HENRIET]. Six o'clock! We must go. I have a
dinner engagement. I shall hardly have
time to dress.
PASCAL. Does that require much time?
MADAME DE CHAZAL. Very little.
MADAME HENRIET [to ETIENNE]. Goodby, bluffer.
fTIENNE. Why bluffer?
MADAME HENRIET. Because you forget
your promises.
ETIENNE. What do you mean?
MADAME HENRIET. You promised to
write to me.
ETIENNE. Ah yes! To fix an hour for
you.
MADAME HENRIET. Pardon me. Two
hours.
ETIENNE. Very well.
MADAME HENRIET. I shall expect your
letter.
ETIENNE. Here is the proof that I have
been thinking of you.
MADAME HENRIET. Your wife is watching us.
ETIENNE. Take it.
[He slips into her hand his car
ticket.]
MADAME HENRIET [in a choking voice].
Number 53!
ETIENNE. When I return, perhaps I can
give you a lower one.
MADAME HENRIET. Boor!
ETIENNE [bursting into laughter]. Forgive me. I am in love with my wife.
MADAME HENRIET. What a punishment
for a rou6!
PASCAL [to MADAME DE CHAZAL]. So
then, you refuse me?
MADAME DE CHAZAL. Yes.
PASCAL. What must I do to persuade
you?
MADAME DE CHAZAL. Many things.
MADAME HENRIET. You must give up
all other ties.
PASCAL. And knots as well.
MADAME DE CHAZAL. Philanderer! [To
ETIENNE.] Bon voyage, doctor.
fTIENNE. Thank you.
MADAME HENRUIET. Good-by,




A LOVING WIFE


327


GERMAINE. Good-by.
PASCAL. I shall put them in their
carriage.
[MADAME DE CHAZAL, MADAME
HENRIET and PASCAL go out.]
GERMAINE. We are alone at last. You
won't worry me any more, will you?
ETIENNE. Are you still annoyed with
me?
GERMAINE. No.
RTIENNE [closing the door]. Good!
GERMAINE. What luck! A tete-a-tete!
ETIENNE. Yes.
GERMAINE. That's right. Close the
door.
ETIENNE. I warn you. I have not shut
it tight.
GERMAINE. Oh! There is little chance
of your bolting it.
ETIENNE. You must restrain yourself.
GERMAINE [roguishly]. At least, let me
kiss you. Oh! Don't be afraid. I shall not
squeeze you too hard. I shall kiss you tenderly, chastely, as you kiss me.
ETIENNE. Kiss me in any way you like.
GERMAINE. In any way I like?
ETIENNE. Your lover allows it.
GERMAINE. Yes, but my husband forbids it.              [She kisses him.]
ETIENNE. Enough.
GERMAINE. Just one more.
ETIENNE. 1 am in a hurry.
GERMAINE. It won't take long.
ETIENNE. All right, the last one, then.
GERMAINE. I promise.
[She kisses him again.]
ETIENNE. Oh! You're choking me. The
witch! She knows all the tricks of the game.
GERMAINE. I could have invented new
ones.
ETIENNE [jokingly]. Be quiet! You're
immodest! If a reporter heard you...
GERMAINE. Perverted people are always
easily shocked. Now it's your turn.
ETIENNE [kissing her]. There you are.
GERMAINE. IS that all?
ETIENNE. Yes.
GERMAINE. Only one?
ETIENNE. A second would be dangerous.
GERMAINE. Suppose it were?...
ETIENNE. Let us talk about something
else.


GERMAINE. There is no danger, since
you are going away.
ETIENNE. I'11 give you another presently.
GERMAINE. Only one! That's what you
always say. Talk to me now. Tell me
something.
ETIENNE. About what, for example?
GERMAINE. About what you have done
to-day.
ETIENNE. But I have nothing to tell you.
GERMAINE [tenderly]. Tell me something
any way. Come on! Lie just a little bit.
You no longer tell me any of those dear
little lies that I love to hear.
ETIENNE. I have told you everything, I
assLre you.                [He rises.]
GERMAINE [forcing him to sit down again].
Oh! Don't move. I beg of you. I have n't
seen you for an age.
ETIENNE. Nonsense! I went out at half
past two.
GERMAINE. At two o'clock.
ETIENNE. And now it is only six.
GERMAINE. Quarter past six.
ETIENNE. Confound it! I am going to
miss my train.
GERMAINE. The clock is fast.
ETIE NNE. What a child you are! No one
would believe that you have been married
for eight years.
GERMAINE. You are surprised, are n't
you, that I have loved you so long? Oh!
How glad I am to see you. No one would
believe that I live with you, would they?
ETIENNE. The fact is...
GERMAINE. Have you ever noticed how
happy I am when you are in a good humor?
ETIENNE [with a self-satisfied air]. That's
true.
GERMAINE [admiringly]. Do you know
what you look like? Like a pretty woman
who has just received a compliment.
ETIENNE. Pass me the matches.
GERMAINE. Are n't you nice to ask me
for something! What do you need now? I
love to serve you.
ETIENNE [lighting a, cigarette]. Sit down
over there, and don't talk any more.
GERMAINE. Oh! Don't look at your papers. You can work en route.
]TIENNE. You are right. Besides, I
don't feel like working this evening.




328


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


GERMAINE. And you have a cough.
ETIENNE. It is cold in this room.
GERMAINE. With a fire like this? You
are joking. It is suffocating.
ETIENNE. I am shivering all over. I
must warm myself.
GERMAINE. That's right, let us get warm.
It's such fun to get warm together.
ETIENNE. Yes, let's get warm.
[They draw near to the fire.]
GERMAINE. You look tired this evening.
I hope you don't feel sick.
ETIENNE. Of course not.
GERMAINE. You must pay more attention to your health, Etienne. Sometimes
you are imprudent.
ETIENNE. Imprudent?
GERMAINE. For example, your suit is
too light.
]TIENNE. You are mistaken. It is quite
heavy enough.
GERMAINE. Not for the month of March.
ETIENNE [yawning]. Don't worry. 1
never felt better in my life.
GERMAINE. But you are yawning. You
must have indigestion.
ETIENNE. I am yawning because it is
dinner time. I am hungry.
GERMAINE. I don't care what you say.
You are paler than usual.
STIENNE. Let us not talk about my
health.
GERMAINE. After all, there is a reason
for your lack of color. You have worked
hard recently.
&TIENNE. That is a mistake. You know
well enough that I have n't. Let us not
talk about my poor work, or I should scold
you. It is lucky that we are rich! Come
now, confess the truth. Are you not a little
ashamed to see me so changed?
GERMAINE. It annoys me, that's all.
CTIENNE. I don't lead the life that I
should lead. I go to bed too late and get up
too early. That is why I look sick. You
need no other explanation to soothe your
remorse.
GERMAINE. Do you really think so?
ETIENNE. Who would not be worn out
under the circumstances? We go out to
dinner, we go to parties, we have late suppers, we never have a moment's peace.


Last night we reached home at three o'clock... and naturally...
GERMAINE. And to think that you always say the same thing the next morning!
You must always cloud with remorse your
slightest pleasures. What do you expect?
I am not perfect, yet I can not be sad
when... If I said that, I should not tell
the truth. And then what a mistake it is
to imagine that the pleasantest hours are
necessarily the most harmful. I don't believe that.
ETIENNE. I should say not!
GERMAINE. In any event, it was you who
proposed that we go out.
ETIENNE. I admit it.
GERMAINE. Well, then.
ETIENNE. It is true that we had just
quarrelled. Without the quarrel, there
would have been no necessity to make it
up.
GERMAINE. Even so.
ETIENNE. And then, you were wearing
that dress which is so becoming to you, and
every time that you wear it, I have noticed...
GERMAINE. What?
ETIENNE. That you can twist me about
your finger.
GERMAINE. Nonsense.
ETIENNE. So you wear it constantly.
GERMAINE. In gratitude.
ETIENNE. Germaine, I beg of you. Don't
wear dresses like that. When I see you in
that sort of dress, I lose my head.
GERMAINE. Unfortunately, you find it
again.
ETIENNE. When it is too late.
GERMAINE. The next morning.
ETIENNE. Night must end sometime.
GERMAINE [sadly]. Ah! Daylight is my
enemy. As soon as it appears, you recover
your reason, your intelligence, your cruelty.
You discover my faults, you criticize my
love for you, you become rational. My
power ends with daylight, my prestige vanishes and then I find myself face to face
with a stranger, a man whom I am not sure
to win over again. Ah! Why must that
delicious moment melt away when I am
really a part of you? How different are
your thoughts when our bodies feel the




A LOVING WIFE


329


same thrills! Alas! After that, we are two
beings, separated from one another, and
sometimes even enemies. What folly!
ETIENNE. Perhaps, my darling, if we
each had our own room...
GERMAINE. Separate rooms? No, I prefer that you hate me when you awake. I
want to sleep there, on your shoulder, like
a child, all my life. I have thought it all
out and I know of no better way of being
happy. If you deprive me of those nights,
what would be left for us?
eTIENNE  [self-satisfied]. So you are
happy when you fall asleep on my shoulder?
GERMAINE. NO.
ETIENNE. You are not telling the truth.
GERMAINE. Be quiet. You always talk
about the happiness you give me and never
of the happiness you receive. And yet,
idiot, if you loved me as I love you, you
can't imagine how happy you would be. I
tell you I would n't exchange my lot for
yours, in spite of all your unkindness.
ETIENNE [touched]. I am unkind, am I
not?
GERMAINE. Yes, you are.
fTIENNE. Do I hurt your feelings and
humiliate you?
GERMAINE. You often do.
ETIENNE. Poor little girl!
GERMAINE. You see, I am not proud.
As soon as you are kind, I complain.
ETIENNE. You have reason to. Complain to your heart's content.
GERMAINE. When I am sure of your
love, I have no further need of dignity.
ETIENNE. Don't stop. You are charming.
GERMAINE. Do you like me?
eTIENNE. If you had not suffered, how
many delightful things would have remained unsaid!
GERMAINE. All the same, don't make
me say too many. Who knows? Happiness might inspire me just as well.
ETIENNE. But you may be happy when
you wish it.
GERMAINE. When I leave you in peace.
]TIENNE. When you agree to be less
sentimental. Usually a woman does n't
love her husband so much as that.
GERMAINE. My only fault is in having


for mine the same feelings that all my
friends have for him. What a pity that I
am your wife!
ETIENNE. Yes, it is unfortunate.
GERMAINE. After all, be fair. It is no
crime to be a wife, it is only an accident.
Had you not married me, I might have
been the dearest mistress of your life.
ETIENNE. But you are the most flattering of my conquests.
GERMAINE. I am your virtue, but T
might have been your vice, quite as well as
any other woman First of all, you are a
lover, you are not a husband. Your role in
this world is to be in love, eternally in love.
ETIENNE [in a tone of resignation]. Another Delaunay!
GERMAINE. You would like to change
your profession because you are fortythree. Impossible! As long as you live,
you will love or you will be loved. One can
not escape one's fate.
ETIENNE. That's a frightful picture.
GERMAINE. So, if you had a little common sense, instead of avoiding my love
most of the time, you would accept it philosophically. If I were you, I should say to
myself: "Since Heaven has condemned me
to be adored by all women, well, let hei
have her way. It might as well be she as
any one else. After all, she is nice."
ETIENNE. And how about the days when
I am depressed, or when I am working, or
when I am in a bad temper?
GERMAINE. Those days do not matter.
You stop for a moment, and smile, and
think to yourself: "She is going to be
vexed, but she will be so happy later!"
ETIENNE. Well then, love me all the
same.
GERMAINE. As much as I like?
ETIENNE. Yes, but no more.
GERMAINE. You are already afraid.
ETIENNE. Do you think this passion of
yours will last forever?
GERMAINE. I am afraid so.
ETIENNE. So then, your husband will
be your sole interest as long as you live?
GERMAINE. Even when I am old, with
white hair, I shall care for nothing else.
Resign yourself, my poor dear. You are in
my blood.




33~


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


-


ETIENNE [bursting forth]. Oh! I adore
you.
GERMAINE. Say it again. I am not so
sure of that as you.
ETIENNE. I adore you. I adore you.
GERMAINE. More than intelligence?
More than work?
ETIENNE. More than science.
GERMAINE. More than the Florence
congress?
ETIENNE. The devil take the congress.
I am not going.
GERMAINE. Don't talk nonsense. Of
course you will go. You have promised.
ETIENNE. I shall stay with you.
GERMAINE. 1 don't want you to. Go
and get ready. Since you love me, I shall
have no regrets. Don't be silly.
ETIENNE. We have never been separated.
Let us not begin now.
GERMAINE.   Nonsense, ftienne, you
don't mean it. You know well enough it is
your duty to go.
ETIENNE. A lot I care about my duty!
GERMAINE. Besides, it is too late. You
have accepted this mission. You must go.
ETIENNE. I have accepted it, that is true,
but not entirely.
GERMAINE. What a lie!
ETIENNE. I reserved the right to withdraw at the last moment. I swear it.
GERMAINE. You did n't tell me so.
ETIENNE. I forgot to. I am going to
write to the Minister.
GERMAINE. Don't act hastily. Will
someone else be appointed in your place?
ETIENNE. I shall be delighted for that.
GERMAINE. Don't do it.
ETIENNE [taking up his pen]. Let me
alone.
GERMAINE. Ah! Do not be so kind. In
an hour you will hate me.
[Enter MADELEINE.]
MADELEINE. Count d'Herivault to see
you, Madame.
ETIENNE. Count d'Herivault?
MADELEINE. That short gentleman who
looks so sad.
GERMAINE. One of my suitors. Tell him
that I'll see him.
ETIENNE [handing a letter to MADELEINE].






Madeleine, take a cab and deliver this letter to rue de Grenelle. It is urgent.
MADELEINE. Yes, sir.
[MADELEINE goes out.]
GERMAINE. You won't be angry? You
won't blame me, will you?
ETIENNE. No, I promise you. Don't
worry.
GERMAINE. In any case, I don't care.
What you think is not important. You are
going to stay, I have you, that's the chief
thing.
ETIENNE. We shall spend the evening
together, and we shall be very happy. You
will see.
GERMAINE [about to leave]. Thank you.
[Returning.] Are we going to Lohengrin?
ETIENNE. I am not anxious to. Are you?
GERMAINE. Have you forgotten it is the
premiere? Our two tickets will be wasted.
ETIENNE. Give them to someone. Let
us not go out. I would rather not.
GERMAINE. My, but you are nice this
evening.
ETIENNE. Why not? I can't love you
except as a lover.
GERMAINE [gaily]. What a pity, is n't it?
ETIENNE [alone, gravely]. Yes, what a
pity!
CURTAIN
ACT II
Same setting. On ETIENNE'S desk a halfconsumed candle is burning.
ETIENNE [seated at his desk, alone and
preoccupied, studying the time-table]. Alexandria, Florence, seven  fifty-five... I
should still have time... Bah! Let's forget about it, since Moriceau is leaving in
my place... Moriceau! A fine choice!...
Oh! These women!
GERMAINE [at the door, tenderly]. What?
You are alone and you did n't let me know?
ETIENNE [aside]. Ah! Now I must devote myself to her little heart. [To GERMAINE.] What are you looking for?
GERMAINE [disturbing ETIENNE'S papers.]
My books.... Ah! Here they are.
ETIENNE. Be careful, you are going to
upset the ink-well.




A LOVING WIFE


33Ji




GERMAINE. Will you allow me to sit
down beside you?
ETIENNE. Do just as you like.
GERMAINE. Where is my paper-knife?
ETIENNE. I have n't touched it.
GERMAINE [snatching his paper-knife
from his hands]. I shall take yours. Remove that dictionary. It's in my way.
ETIENNE. Are you comfortable?
GERMAINE [sitting down very close to him].
I am very comfortable now, thanks. I am
very happy.
ETIENNE. I am glad of it.
GERMAINE. How about you?
ETIENNE. I am happy because you are
happy.
GERMAINE. I told Madeleine to serve us
here. We shall dine on this little table, as
we did night before last. Have you any
objections?
ETIENNE. Quite the contrary.
GERMAINE. And we shall allow the other
servants to go out.
ETIENNE. Very well.
GERMAINE. You will sit there, with your
back to the fire. If Pascal invites himself,
don't give him your place. I am willing to
deprive myself of it for you, but not for
him.
ETIENNE. Oh! We shall not see him
again to-day.
GERMAINE. I am certain he will be back.
ETIENNE. To wish me a pleasant journey.
GERMAINE. Unless his mistress keeps
him.
ETIENNE. Which rarely happens.
GERMAINE. It's hardly likely.
ETIENNE. Poor fellow!
GERMAINE. His love affairs are in a bad
away. He is going through a crisis.
ETIENNE. And he does n't work at all.
[Pause. GERMAINE glances over a
novel, ETIENNE writes.]
GERMAINE. The gentleman whom I saw
a while ago was from the Ministry, was he
not?
eTIENNE. Yes.
GERMAINE. He didn't bring you bad
news, did he?
eTIENNE. No.
GERMAINE. Then you have no regrets?
ETIENNE. No.




I


GERMAINE. You have good reason not
to be sorry. First of all, you will be warmer
to-night than you would have been on the
train,,
ETIENNE. Very true.
GERMAINE. You will not be covered
with dust to-morrow morning.
]TIENNE. Probably not.
GERMAINE. You will not be all grimy.
ETIENNE. No!
GERMAINE. And you will get awake,
light-hearted and in a good humor.
ETIENNE [doubtfully]. Do you think so?
GERMAINE. Do you know how long it
requires to go to Florence? Thirty-two
hours, my darling.
fTIENNE. I have taken longer trips.
GERMAINE. All the same, a journey of
thirty-two hours by train is wearisome.
eTIENNE. Not always. Sometimes it is
restful. I sleep excellently on a train.
GERMAINE [quickly]. There! You should
have gone this evening, my dear.
ETIENNE [angrily]. Why do you say that?
GERMAINE. I have no reason.
eTIENNE. Come now. Since I have no
regrets, don't give me cause to be sorry.
GERMAINE. You are sorry. I know you.
ETIENNE. You are mistaken.
GERMAINE. You can't see yourself, my
dear. You look as though you were condemned to death.
ETIENNE. You devote too much attention to how I look.
GERMAINE. Be truthful. You are angry
with me because you have given up your
trip.
ETIENNE. Not at all! I tell you again
you are mistaken. I am very happy to
have made that little sacrifice for you.
GERMAINE. That is a kind thought which
sounds deucedly like a reproach.
]TIENNE. A reproach! What sort of a
reproach? Frankly, it would be unfair to
blame you. Did you not beg me to go?
Rest assured, I have not yet forgotten it
and I shall not forget it. If I feel any
regret now, well, so much the worse for me!
I have only myself to blame, you are in no
way responsible. I alone am guilty.
GERMAINE. Oh! That is only your first
impulse.






332


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


fTIENNE. Naturally, on thinking it
over, it might have been wise for me to
take your advice. That I can't deny. A
scientist should defend his theories when
he has a chance... I have failed to do my
duty, that's clear.
GERMAINE. Very clear.
ETIENNE. If I could still reconsider my
decision...
GERMAINE. Why should n't you?
ETIENNE. It is too late.
GERMAINE. How do you know?
ETIENNE. I am certain of it.
GERMAINE. Don't lose hope. What time
does the train leave?
ETIENNE. Seven fifty-five.
GERMAINE. No, it is later than that.
Let us consult the time-table.
ETIENNE. I have just consulted it.
GERMAINE. You have!
ETIENNE. Besides, what is the use?
Moriceau has just been appointed in my
place.
GERMAINE. Dr. Moriceau? Who told
you so?
ETIENNE. The young man who was here
a few minutes ago.
GERMAINE. Moriceau? How was he appointed so quickly?
ETIENNE. He happened to be at the
Ministry when my letter was delivered.
GERMAINE. He is always hanging about
the offices of the Ministers.
ETIENNE. He has n't missed his chance.
GERMAINE. Moriceau! A nice choice!
His appointment must make you less regretful.
ETIENNE [abruptly]. Professor Moriceau
is an eminent man and I am sure he will
succeed in his mission.
GERMAINE. Then, let him beware of me.
[Pause.]
ETIENNE. You see, my dear child, you
are not reasonable.
'GERMAINE. I am not?
ETIENNE. Be careful. You love me a
little too much and that unbalances me. It
obscures my judgment.
GERMAINE. Back to the old subject.
ETIENNE. Your ideas are excellent
enough and I am ever ready to admit it,
but you always contrive to make them


useless to me. Without my being aware of
it, and in spite of myself, you make me
change my mind.
GERMAINE. What a charge to make!
ETIENNE. You create in me a state of
mind contrary to the advice that you give
and favorable to your inmost desires which
you never venture to express.
GERMAINE. I get the better of you.
ETIENNE. NO. But your sweet words
and pretty ways deprive me of my judgment. You fascinate me.
GERMAINE. Why not be frank!
ETIENNE. I am weak, I relent and then
I make up my mind to do stupid things,
injurious to my interests. What has happened to-day, has happened before and will
happen again... Oh! I am not angry
with you. I am merely stating a fact.
GERMAINE. Exactly.
ETIENNE. Besides, it seems to be premeditated. I have noticed it, and everyone
else as well. Whenever I am offered anything which might be useful or agreeable
to me, I am obliged to refuse it because it
would offend your love. I don't deny that
you have a great deal of affection for your
husband, but if you were his enemy, you
would not act differently... One might
say that you have conceived a plan of
campaign.
GERMAINE. I have no plan, my dear. I
don't understand you.
ETIENNE. If you have no plan, it is all
the more serious. In that case, there is
nothing to be done.
GERMAINE. Don't say anything more.
You are going to be unkind.
ETIENNE. HOW little you like the truth!
GERMAINE. Very well. Continue, since
you insist on torturing me, but this time, I
warn you, I shall have no remorse.
ETIENNE [furiously]. And why not?
When you are to blame for my disappointment?
GERMAINE. I am to blame? Yes, of
course... I should have had more willpower than you.
ETIENNE. Of course you should.
GERMAINE. Punish me for your own
weakness.
ETIENNE. I exaggerate, I contradict my



A LOVING WIFE


333




self, I appear to be unjust, as usual, but in
your heart you know that I am right.
GERMAINE. That is possible. But how
little generosity you show, my dear!...
How happy you are to reveal to me my
faults! How delighted you are when you
believe you have a real grievance! Ah!
You eagerly seize every opportunity to be
angry with me. I told you that in an hour
you would hate me.
[She starts toward the door.]
ETIENNE. Are you going?
GERMAINE. I have no desire to quarrel.
ETIENNE. You are going so as not to hear
disagreeable things, are n't you?
GERMAINE. Yes, I am.
TTIENNE. You run away, as usual, instead of replying. That is the way you
argue.
GERMAINE. I haven't your ready tongue.
ETIENNE [taking up his hat]. You can
stay here. I am going out.
GERMAINE. You are going out?
ETIENNE. Yes, I shall yield the field to
you. My study is at your disposal.
GERMAINE. You will not take dinner
here?
ETIENNE [putting on his hat]. I shall be
back in a quarter of an hour.
GERMAINE. Just as you like. I shan't
prevent you from going out.
ETIENNE. And you don't ask me where
I'm going? What a miracle!
GERMAINE. I don't care where you are
going.
eTIENNE. I have a headache and I am
going out to smoke a cigar. You will allow
me to, I suppose.
GERMAINE. Smoke two if you like.
ETIENNE. YOU need n't whimper about
it.
GERMAINE [weeping]. Let me alone.
ETIENNE. You wish me to go with a
guilty conscience, don't you? All right, I
shall stay.       [He takes off his hat.]
GERMAINE. Oh! Don't sit down again,
I beg of you.
ETIENNE. I have changed my mind.
GERMAINE. Take your hat and go out.
You only stay here to torture me.
ETIENNE. It is impossible to criticise
you. In a minute your feelings are hurt.


i


GERMAINE. What do you care about my
feelings?
ETIENNE. I don't like to see you distressed.
GERMAINE. Ah! Your kindness does n't
last long... Always the  same story!
First pity, then reserve, and finally bitterness... Are n't you ashamed to be so unkind when you were so affectionate a few
moments ago? Your memory is short.
ETIENNE. That can't be helped. The
hours follow one another and cannot be
identical. Our topic of conversation can't
always be the same. Otherwise, life would
be too monotonous.
GERMAINE. You are right. We can't
always talk about love.
ETIENNE. I ask nothing better than that
we love each other, but let us not talk about
it any more, damn it all! Love is not the
only thing in life. There is work, the family, children...
GERMAINE [in amazement]. A   child?
But I want to be a mother!
ETIENNE. A child must be looked after
and taken care of.
GERMAINE. Do you mean to say that I
am your mistress to such a degree that I
could not be a good mother?
ETIENNE. Ah! Let us be happy that we
have no child. You are a good girl and you
would do your duty, but...
GERMAINE. But what?
ETIENNE. In spite of yourself, you might
perhaps blame that poor little baby for
depriving you of your share of happiness.
GERMAINE. Blame the poor little one?
ETIENNE. Yes, blame the poor little one!
GERMAINE. Wait at least until it comes
before you accuse me!
ETIENNE. No, we are better off without it.
GERMAINE [furiously]. Ah! What a
wretched thing it is to love!
ETIENNE. Ah! What torture it is to be
loved!
[Enter PASCAL.]
PASCAL [abruptly]. Ah, my dears! How
troublesome love is!
ETIENNE. What a sight you are! Your
cravat is all awry.




334


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


PASCAL. I have just had a scene with
Maur'icette.
ETIENNE. Again?
PASCAL. But this time, I punished her
well...
fTIENNE [in a tone of delight]. Good for
you!
GERMAINE [to ]TIENNE]. That makes
you feel better!
PASCAL. Are you going to leave us,
Germaine?
GERMAINE [walking toward the door].
Talk over your troubles with my husband.
He is better able to understand you this
evening than I.
frIENNE [watching her go out]. Oh!
[GERMAINE goes out.]
PASCAL. She is untrue to me, I have
proof of it.
]TIENNE. You have?
PASCAL. I shall not make up with her.
In the first place, she would refuse to...
See here! Don't leave until to-morrow and
I shall go to Italy with you.
ETIENNE. I am not going, my dear fellow.
PASCAL. Why not?
ETIENNE. Unforeseen business.
PASCAL. What sort of business?
RTIENNE. Do you insist on knowing? I
gave up the trip through love for my wife,
there!
PASCAL. He calls that something unforeseen! What is going to become of me then?
I am an unhappy man, ftienne. I need
comfort.
ETIENNE. You are not the only unfortunate man.
PASCAL. You have quarrelled again with
your wife!
]TIENNE. You are unhappy, but you can
shut yourself in your house and cry all day.
You have your independence!
PASCAL. Absolutely.
fTIENNE [becoming angry]. Independence! Do you understand that glorious
word? You can go, come, go upstairs, go
downstairs as you please.
PASCAL. Worse luck!
ETIENNE. You have not yet lost your
right to be alone! Your mistress, your jade
of a mistress, deceives you and plays tricks
on you. What difference does that make?


She is not jealous, aggravating and inquisitive.
PASCAL. I wish she were.
ETIENNE [losing his temper]. She does
not ask you where you are going when you
leave the house, nor where you have been
when you come home; if you say, I am
cold, she does not answer: "Let's get
warm."
PASCAL. She does n't even say to me:
"Warm yourself."
eTIENNE. She does not lean over your
shoulder when you write a letter, she does
not prowl around you when you talk to a
woman. At serious moments, when a decision must be made, she does not destroy
your will-power. She does not gain her
ends by trifling, vague, insinuating phrases
which are apparently harmless, but which
lodge in your mind and undermine your
courage.
PASCAL. She would n't object if I entered
a lion's cage.
ETIENNE. On the other hand, if you are
a bit more affectionate than usual, she
does n't rush into your arms, as thrilled as
she was at the first rendezvous.
PASCAL. I have never seen her thrilled.
ETIENNE. And if, by chance, you leave
her at home and go out to dinner, you do
not find her at midnight, awake in bed,
impassive, but with choking voice and eyes
flashing with jealousy.
PASCAL. What a lucky fellow you are!
]TIENNE. See here! Let us not talk
about love. I curse it and hate it. You
complain of being deceived? Ah, my dear
fellow! Sometimes I wish I might be.
PASCAL. I am, but no one likes it, you
know.
ETIENNE [taking up a small mirror from
the table and gesticulating with it]. Don't
laugh. This is sad, terribly sad. [Furiously.]
I have that woman's existence in the hollow
of my hand! I am as necessary to her as
air or light. Have you noticed how happy
she looks when I stay at home? My presence is indispensable to her happiness, and
even to her life. I would be a wretch to
abandon her.
PASCAL [mockingly]. What a responsibility!




A LOVING WIFE


335


ETIENNE. Damn kindness!
PASCAL. Don't break that mirror. It's
unlucky, and besides I like it. Catherine
Villiers gave it to you ten years ago, when
you were handsome, and it recalls to me
your bachelor days.
STIENNE. Does it? I was light-hearted
then.
PASCAL. Probably because your mistress
loved you less than your wife does.
ETIENNE. Or she knew better how to
love me. She understood that I was already
tired of an irregular life and that I had
reached the age to be sensible. Her intelligence made my work a joy. I was a good
fellow in those days... A dear little companion she was!
PASCAL. Yes, but what a bad actress!
ETIENNE. We lived together and yet we
agreed. There is no use talking, I was
contented.
PASCAL. Domestic bliss!
ETIENNE. To think that if she had not
been so perfect a companion, I might never
have thought of marriage. She was faithful, reasonable, sensible, all that one could
desire.
PASCAL. But one fine day you noticed
she was lacking in something.
ETIENNE. Gradually I began to feel a
vague resentment because of her former
lovers and only a wife of irreproachable
virtue could satisfy me. [Aside.] Ass!
PASCAL. Having completed your novitiate, you determined to take holy orders.
ETIENNE. You know the rest of the
story, because you have suffered by it.
PASCAL. It was at that time that I fell
madly in love with a young girl and you
consented to make a proposal for me.
ETIENNE. I still remember the first interview at her mother's. I had a presentiment
of my future unhappiness. How well 1 recall her embarrassment! I was confused in
the presence of that restless creature. I felt
that my strength of mind was gone forever.
PASCAL. She loved you on first sight.
ETIENNE. My whole being, numbed by
three years of hum-drum life, was abruptly
awakened. With your permission I married
her, and I was amazed by undreamed of
happiness.


PASCAL. You wished to do something
sensible and obeyed your first impulse.
ETIENNE. To me, a mistress had meant
a regular life, my wife made my life irregular. When I broke off with an actress,
I said good-by to common sense and peace
of mind. When I married a young girl, I
became the hero of a novel.
PASCAL. You were unlucky.
]TIENNE. It would n't have been so bad
if I had remained her loving slave! Unfortunately, one fine morning, 1 opened my
books again.
PASCAL. And that day you noticed that
Germaine had faults.
ETIENNE. It was not my first love-affair.
I had been in love before.
PASCAL. Catherine Villiers?
ETIENNE. YOU know it was not she.
Someone else.
PASCAL. Before her.
]TIENNE. It is a sad fact, but after six
months of marriage, I had a consuming
desire for work and freedom.
PASCAL. And after eight years of life in
common, your wife still loves you madly.
RTIENNE. Oh, rather!
PASCAL. There are homes where the
stove is only lighted at dinner-time, and in
others it burns all day.
ETIENNE. Unfortunately.
PASCAL [looking apprehensively toward the
door]. Be careful! If...
]TIENNE. Don't worry. She does not
hear, or she will pretend she has heard
nothing. A person who loves us is not always so eager to learn the truth. That is
only a detail, provided that physical presence and possession are assured. You may
be bored to death beside her, you may
detest her caresses, she does not notice it
because she does not wish to. Her cool discretion is as odious as her curiosity.
PASCAL. Come now. Don't be so nervous, you make yourself more violent than
you really are. You like her all the same.
ETIENNE. Yes, at times.
PASCAL. Poseur! I have seen you infatuated, absolutely infatuated.
ETIENNE. Sometimes.
PASCAL. At all events, you often seem
to be.




336


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


ETIENNE. I seem to be by force of habit.
PASCAL. Well, you should change it.
And by the way, I must tell you something.
From your life as a gay Lothario, you have
retained with your wife, as well as with
other women, an attractive manner, affectations, captivating ways and certain
tricks which invite and provoke love, and
consequently jealousy. You must realize,
my dear fellow, that your capricious tenderness often borders closely on passion. In
spite of all her injured feelings and your
conjectures, Germaine imagines, and has a
right to imagine, that you really love her.
What remains of your happiness rests upon
a misunderstanding. If you ever banish it,
you will be responsible for a catastrophe.
ETIENNE. Perhaps you are right.
PASCAL [taking up his hat]. Poor little
woman!
[MADELEINE enters, carrying the dinner on
a tray. She lays the cloth and places
dishes and silver on a small table while
ETIENNE and PASCAL finish their conversation.]
eTIENNE. You are leaving?
PASCAL. Are you going to have dinner?
ETIENNE. I have n't even spoken to you
of your troubles. Forgive me.
PASCAL. My troubles are less important
than yours.
RTIENNE. Where are you going? To
Mauricette's?
PASCAL. For a change.
ETIENNE. That should be so, since you
have broken off.
PASCAL. And yet, she is not an ideal
mistress.
ETIENNE. The ideal mistress is the one
that can be got rid of.
MADELEINE [interrupting and handing a
card to ETIENNE]. This lady would like to
see you for a moment.
ETIENNE [aside, reading]. Catherine
Villiers! [To MADELEINE.] Ask her to come
in.
[MADELEINE goes out. ETIENNE
hands the card to PASCAL.]
PASCAL. Catherine? Well, well!
ETIENNE. What can she wish of me at
this hour?


PASCAL. Perhaps a mind-reader has told
her that you were sad and she is coming to
console you.
ETIENNE. Stay with me.
[Enter CATHERINE VILLIERS.]
ETIENNE. You arrive opportunely. I
was talking about you.
CATHERINE [carrying a small bag]. You
always say that, even after ten years.
PASCAL. It's true, on his word of honor.
We were talking about our love-affairs. We
were sympathizing with one another, I
with him and he... with himself.
ETIENNE. I was saying that your charming qualities had led me as a matter of
course to marry.
CATHERINE. Then they are qualities
which brought me little happiness.
PASCAL. He would still be a bachelor
had he not known you.
CATHERINE [to 0TIENNE]. Well, between
ourselves, I could easily imagine that you
still are.
PASCAL [gaily]. And together once more!
rTIENNE. All three of us.
CATHERINE. As in the good old times.
ETIENNE. It's funny.
PASCAL [to ETIENNE]. Rake!
CATHERINE. All the same, it seems
queer to me to be in this house.
ETIENNE. Yet this is not the first time.
PASCAL. Ho ho!
RTIENNE. Oh! Once last year.
CATHERINE. And I have no intention of
forming the habit.
ETIENNE. I know Catherine. She must
have a good reason to come to see me at
seven in the evening.
CATHERINE. Of course.
ETIENNE. Sit down and tell me what
you wish.
CATHERINE [putting out the candle on the
desk]. Will you allow me? The socket is
going to break.
ETIENNE. There now! What a wife she
would have been!
PASCAL. What a treasure in a family!
ETIENNE. Now, go ahead. I am listening.
CATHERINE. It is professional advice
that I want.




A LOVING WIFE


337


PASCAL. You know very well he does
not practice.
ETIENNE. Pay no attention to him.
PASCAL. Am I de trop?
CATHERINE. Good gracious! Of course
not.
STIENNE. Tell me what you wish.
CATHERINE. I lunched to-day with the
Marcottes and I learned that you are leaving for Florence this evening.
]TIENNE. I am not going.
CATHERINE. That's too bad.
fTIENNE. Why?
CATHERINE. I came to ask you a favor.
ETIENNE. What?
CATHERINE. A friend of mine is sick
down at Pisa.
RTIENNE. Oh!
CATHERINE. Very sick, and you could
help him.
ETIENNE. Who is it?
CATHERINE. We are old friends, are n't
we, Etienne? I can tell you his name.
ETIENNE. Carrington?
CATHERINE. Yes.
PASCAL. You have n't changed then?
CATHERINE. Not for eight years.
PASCAL. Good Lord!
ETIENNE. Be quiet, will you!... Well,
Dr. Moriceau is going in my place. Do you
wish a note to him?
CATHERINE. Yes. Please give it to me
anyway.
ETIENNE. HOW becoming that little
coat is!
CATHERINE. It's from an English shop.
]TIENNE. It tries you, and does not find
you wanting.
PASCAL. You are still twenty-five!
ETIENNE [sitting down to write]. You are
a marvel. Not one wrinkle.
PASCAL. You have n't changed a bit.
CATHERINE. That is due to proper care
of my health and a quiet life. One does not
grow old when...
PASCAL. When one is born sensible.
CATHERINE. Always complimentary.
PASCAL. How about the stage? We
have n't seen your name on the bill-boards
this winter.
CATHERINE. I spend all my time in
Italy.


PASCAL. You have n't retired, have you?
CATHERINE. I am a nurse.
PASCAL. Don't you get tired of living
with a man, day and night?
CATHERINE. Domestic life is the only
life I can lead.
ETIENNE. Are you going to the premiere
of Lohengrin this evening?
CATHERINE. No. I was at the rehearsal
yesterday.
ETIENNE. HOW did you like it?
CATHERINE. Huge success.
ETIENNE [rising]. Then I shan't offer
you my seats.
CATHERINE. Keep them. I have seen
the opera.
ETIENNE [handing her a letter]. Here, my
dear. 'When are you going back?
CATHERINE. To-morrow or day after
to-morrow.
ETIENNE. Moriceau will reach Florence
before you. At his house they will tell you
his address there.
CATHERINE [putting the letter in her bag].
I understand. Thank you.
PASCAL. You are dropping something.
CATHERINE. Ah! My keys.
ETIENNE. Jove! What an array!
PASCAL [to CATHERINE, returning her keys
to her]. You must lock up the sugar.
CATHERINE. I have to when you are
around. [To ETIENNE.] Do you still work
hard?
ETIENNE. Less than I used to.
PASCAL [to CATHERINE, jokingly]. Oh,
yes! The little sprees on rue La Bruyere!
CATHERINE. The third-floor apartment.
PASCAL. Until ten o'clock in the evening.
ETIENNE. They were nice.
PASCAL. A desk and a needle! He used
to write and you used to sew.
ETIENNE. That was our practice.
PASCAL. I have seen you cut out his
flannel shirts.
CATHERINE. Don't make me feel unhappy.
ETIENNE [in a melancholy tone]. Now I
wear silk shirts.
PASCAL. I shall leave you alone.
CATHERINE. It's no use.
PASCAL [about to leave]. Your wife is
waiting for me, I think. Now that you




338


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


have nothing further to say to each other,
you must want to chat together.
CATHERINE. Au revoir, Pascal.
PASCAL [stopping]. I am going.
CATHERINE. As in the good old times.
ETIENNE. It's funny.
PASCAL [stopping at the door]. Now be
sensible!            [PASCAL goes out.]
ETIENNE. Stay a moment.
CATHERINE [about to leave]. Your dinner
is about to be served. I am inconveniencing
you.
]TIENNE. No. We have dinner here at
any hour.
CATHERINE. That is bad for the digestion.
eTIENNE. I have lost my good habits.
CATHERINE. Do you remember at the
time of your marriage? I had given you a
little programme of hygiene and discreet
conduct to follow.
ETIENNE. Do I remember? I have kept
them most carefully in a drawer, those
instructions in your own hand-writing.
Everything is provided for, hours of work,
walks, meals...
CATHERINE. Interests.
ETIENNE. Diversions.
CATHERINE. You have kept them, but
you have n't followed them.
]TIENNE. Alas! This house is not a
temple of wisdom.
CATHERINE [glancing at the table set for
dinner]. I need only look around to be sure
of it. Do you often dine in this way?
ETIENNE. Quite frequently.
CATHERINE. Ah!
ETIENNE. These newfangled ways would
n't tempt you, would they?
CATHERINE. Perhaps once in a long
while, but for steady diet I confess that I
prefer a comfortable, well-lighted diningroom with an ordinary round table.
PTIENNE. I agree with you, my dear
girl.
CATHERINE. I am bourgeoise. I like
regular habits.
ETIENNE. I can still see your diningroom table under a large porcelain lampshade, with your silver-gilt napkin ring,
and little pill boxes beside your glass, for
health has always had an important place


in your life. You used to watch out for the
tonics on the fourth page of the newspapers
and you would say to me in the evening:
"Doctor, do you think I might try that
one?"
CATHERINE. You are making fun of me.
ETIENNE [affectionately]. Those were
happy days!
CATHERINE [moving away from the table].
All the same, I shall move away from it.
Your dinner is tempting, served on a little
table in the corner, adorably hidden by a
screen, the champagne, and flowers, but it
suggests debauchery and dissipation and
reminds me of my own early days.
ETIENNE. With someone other than
myself.
CATHERINE. Caviar, Russian salad! I
never thought that of you! You were certainly more sensible ten years ago, my dear.
]TIENNE. I was younger ten years ago.
CATHERINE. HOW mournfully you say it!
[Pause.] Are n't you...?
]TIENNE [interrupting]. I am happy,
but I am tormented and bewildered. I am
wasting my time and... You must understand... With you at least...
CATHERINE. Do you mean that you
slept with me and nothing more?
ETIENNE. I mean that our life was not
on a sentimental basis.
CATHERINE. So that's the trouble.
[Pause.] What do you expect? We both
knew something of life before we met, and
your wife was ignorant of everything when
you married her. We have hadcour share,
it is only fair that she should have hers.
ETIENNE. I don't see the necessity for
that.
CATHERINE. Good-by, and don't be too
unhappy.
ETIENNE [handing her her bag]. You are
forgetting your bag.
CATHERINE. How you frightened me!
ETIENNE. Does it contain valuables?
CATHERINE. I have just been to see my
broker.
ETIENNE. You have a broker now?
CATHERINE. I even have two.
ETIENNE. That's safer.
CATHERINE. You're right!
[CATHERINE goes out.]




A LOVING WIFE


339


[Enter GERMAINE.]
GERMAINE [playfully]. May I come back?
ETIENNE. Why not?
GERMAINE. Am I going to find a pleasant
or a disagreeable man?
ETIENNE. That depends.
GERMAINE. Oh! Scolding already.
eTIENNE. Let us sit down for dinner.
GERMAINE. Beg my pardon first. [She
leans forward. He touches her neck with his
lips.] Not a real kiss, but I forgive you all
the same.
ETIENNE [sitting down at the dinner table].
What have you done with Pascal?
GERMAINE. Nothing. He left long ago.
He only stayed a moment with me. [She
sits down.]
ETIENNE. He has gone to patch up his
quarrel.
GERMAINE. Pass me the caviar.
ETIENNE [grumbling]. Is n't there any
soup?
GERMAINE. You ordered the dinner
yourself.
ETIENNE. Did Pascal tell you who was
here?
GERMAINE. Mademoiselle Villiers.
ETIENNE. Her friend Carrington is dying at Pisa and she came to ask me to run
over and see him while in Florence.
GERMAINE. She knew that you were
going?
ETIENNE. She lunched this morning
with the Marcottes.
GERMAINE. What was the necessity of
applying to you? What impertinence!
ETIENNE. But I am a doctor and I was
going to be near-by. And then, after ten
years!... Catherine is no longer a young
woman.
GERMAINE. She is still on the stage.
RTIENNE. Very little!
GERMAINE. Does she look as commonplace as ever?
TTIENNE. She still has her clear complexion and glossy hair.
GERMAINE. One would never believe her
an actress.
]TIENNE. That's true. You look more
like an actress than she.


GERMAINE. How her apartment must
shine!
ETIENNE. She was a good housekeeper.
GERMAINE. Everything neatly arranged
in drawers, I suppose?
ETIENNE. I can't help it. I like system.
GERMAINE. I can just see her wardrobe
with nice little piles of linen.
ETIENNE. And packages of lavender.
GER:.MAINE. Exactly.
ETIENNE. Give me some bread, spiteful.
GERMAINE. Take a little champagne, old
husband. [Pause.] Lord Carrington is rich,
is he not?
ETIENNE. Millionaire. And he will
never be ruined by the dresses of his mistress. She dresses so plainly...
GERMAINE. I am more expensive for
you.
ETIENNE. She was wearing a dress
worth practically nothing.
GERMAINE. My dear, when a woman is
with a millionaire, she buys title-deeds, not
dresses.
ETIENNE. Oh! There is too much pepper
in this salad.
GERMAINE. Too much! That's what
you say about everything. What unpleasant news did she tell you?
ETIENNE. Nothing. Ah, yes! She was
at yesterday's rehearsal of Lohengrin.
GERMAINE. Did it go off all right?
ETIENNE. Wonderfully.
GERMAINE. Really!
ETIENNE. The premiere will be magnificent, and I am delighted I am going. Let
us hurry with dinner.
GERMAINE. But, you poor dear, we are
not going.               [She laughs.]
ETIENNE. Why not?
GERMAINE. Because I have..Have
you forgotten?
ETIENNE. Forgotten what?
GERMAINE. I have given away the
tickets.
ETIENNE [angrily]. A nice thing to do!
GERMAINE. That was our agreement.
You told me so yourself.
ETIENNE. I said that without thinking... You didn't lose any time! And to
whom did you give them?
GERMAINE. To Count d'Herivault.




340


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


ETIENNE. To that little idiot?
GERMAINE. Yes, when he was here a
little while ago.
ETIENNE. Without a moment's consideration!... Frankly, it would have been
better to give the opportunity to someone
more intelligent. For example, Mademoiselle Villiers had no tickets. If I had wanted
to stay at home this evening, I should have
offered her mine.
GERMAINE. But she is the last person in
the world to whom you could give them.
ETIENNE. That goes without saying, and
I should not have done so. However, that
is not the question. What a pity! I am
out of luck to-day.
GERMAINE. But I never expected you to
be disappointed. How could I have foreseen that you would be annoyed?
ETIENNE [stupidly]. I have a right to like
music!
GERMAINE. We had decided to not go
out.
ETIENNE. That is not an argument.
There was no necessity for such haste.
GERMAINE. You had promised the evening to me.
ETIENNE. A man might be given a
chance to change his mind, confound it!
You don't lose any time! You are always
the same, and in the bargain, you laugh in
my face and make a fool of me.
GERMAINE. But you make such a wry
face!
ETIENNE. You think I'm cornered, don't
you? You think that's a joke. Very well!
We shall spend the evening together. Ah!
What a life!
GERMAINE. Back to the same subject!
You wish to hurt my feelings again.
ETIENNE. And do you think that I have
no feelings? I am ill-tempered, I admit,
but I am unhappy.
GERMAINE. You are unhappy? Impossible! How am I to blame?
ETIENNE. Now don't force me to speak.
GERMAINE. Explain yourself, I am growing tired of this. What is the matter?
ETIENNE [rising furiously and throwing
his napkin on the table]. The trouble is that
I have had enough of it, that I have reached
the limit of my patience and that I rebel.


Yes, I am tired of your all-absorbing and
exaggerated affection, of your gentleness as
a cloak for your tyranny and of your sentimental persecution. I am stifling, morally
and physically. I wish to be free.
GERMAINE. You are free.
ETIENNE [with hatred and rage]. No, because I never follow my fancy, for if I sometimes do what I wish, I never do what I
like, what I dream of doing. I only have
liberty when I snatch it or steal it. Not
even with your consent do I possess it, but
as a result of my own egoism and cruelty.
Alas! I have a guilty air when I am happy.
It would seem that my pleasures are unworthy acts. Be frank. Your jealousy ill
accords with my outbursts of independence
and each time I pay the penalty for them
with your tears, your hysteria and your
accusations.
GERMAINE [rising]. Be silent, that's
abominable. I know what you are going to
say. Not another word!
]TIENNE. When I think that I have
reached the point of writing my letters in
some cafe in order to avoid questions; of
leaving the house without reason or object
in order to escape your tyranny, by an
instinct of self-preservation! God forbid
that I fall ill, I should be your prisoner!
Never have I seen such relationship between man and woman. I spend my life in
trying to evade you, you spend yours in
trying to capture me. What do you care
for my ambitions and my dreams? You
understand nothing about them. When am
I able to work here? Every hour is consumed by quarrels and reconciliations. And
yet my falsehoods avert many storms.
GERMAINE. Your falsehoods?
ETIENNE. Yes, I often lie to you. I conceal the truth and distort a lot of things.
GERMAINE. For the sake of peace?
ETIENNE. It's your own fault. Thanks
to your suspicious nature, deception has
become a part of my life, and to such a degree that if I took a mistress to-morrow, my
habits would remain precisely the same.
GERMAINE. Ah! I realize that you are
the most unfortunate of men, but when one
is such a coward, he need not be pitied.
ETIENNE. Insult me if you like. This




A LOVING WIFE


341


time, you will not profit by my anger, I
warn you. You will not succeed in gaining
thereby a coddling repentance, an hour of
tender self-humiliation. Besides, my fit of
anger is only a detail and all your tears will
not change things. It is not what I say,
but the reason for it, that is serious.
GERMAINE. Yes, the reason for it.
CTIENNE. I am your husband, you are
my wife, and I should yield. I shall never
have the courage to leave you, shall I? I
know myself too well. Then why should I
make a fuss? I might as well accept the
inevitable at once. I belong to you, therefore you have the right to spy on my movements, verify my statements, scrutinize my
gestures and ransack my brain as well as
the drawers of my desk. You can crossquestion me, commend or censure me, if
you like, and as much as you like. I can
only bow my head, for this house is yours,
this furniture is yours, my books are yours.
My fortune, my name, my friendships and
my hatreds belong to us both. Nothing is
exclusively mine! You have the right to
interrupt my work, to sit down at my study
table, to pursue me from one room to another, and to force upon me your presence,
your conversation and your effusions. That
is your right!
GERMAINE. It is not by virtue of a right,
my dear, but because I love you.
ETIENNE. None the less, I am your
victim, and have been for eight years.
GERMAINE. For eight years?
ETIENNE. Yes, and my torture is not
ended.
GERMAINE. How infamous!
TTIENNE. For many years to come, we
shall have to perform together all the acts
of daily life, including the most grotesque,
commingling our habits, our interests and
our deceptions. We are condemned one
to the other and we shall talk about love
eternally, every day.
GERMAINE. And every night.
ETIENNE. What difference does night
make to me! I would rather give up my
body than my mind.
GERMAINE. But you are more obliging
at night. It's surprising.
LTIENNE. Perhaps I should welcome


those hours if you did not always anticipate me.
GERMAINE. That is a lie.
ETIENNE. If you did not lessen their
worth by your over-ready consent, if sometimes you would wait to be coaxed.
GERMAINE. I forbid you to continue.
ETIENNE. Ah! You are right. You are
not proud.
GERMAINE. You lie I say. That is an
outrageous lie. It is not my desire that
craves a favor, it is yours. Yes, it is you
who...
ETIENNE. Because you are sad,... because I have yielded.
GERMAINE. Because you are kind?
ETIENNE. Yes, very often my caresses
are a surrender.
GERMAINE [unable to control herself]. You
wretch! You knew I loved you. You
should not have married me.
ETIENNE. I made a mistake.
GERMAINE [with sorrow and indignation].
You had passed thirty and I was twenty.
You should have thought of the consequences, especially since you dnust be so
uncompromising. I told you I adored you.
Why did you marry me? Why have you
been kind and indulgent? Why have you
allowed me to believe that you loved me?
Why have you lied to me and deceived me?
Why were you not cruel at the very outset?
Why have you waited so long to tell me the
truth?
ETIENNE. I have made a mistake.
GERMAINE. NOW I see. You are at heart
only a bundle of conceit, a ladies' man.
You wished to be loved.
ETIENNE. Yes, but not so much as that!
GERMAINE. I have given you more than
you asked for?
ETIENNE. Precisely.
GERMAINE. Poor man! I love you too
much and you do not love me enough,
that's my sin.
ETIENNE. That is the cause of our misery.
GERMAINE. It makes little difference!
This love that you discard now, this love
which you besmirch, since you have encouraged and shared it, you have lost the
right to reproach me for it.




342


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


ETIENNE. I admit that.
GERMAINE. And besides, even granting
that you have neither encouraged nor
shared it, in what respect can I be blamed?
Should I not love you simply because I am
your wife? Because I have offered to you
my virtue, my youth and my devotion, because I did not belong to ten men before I
met you, am I to be forbidden to speak of
love to you? You men refuse to hear from
your wives what you beseech and implore
from the lowest of prostitutes. But I am
no less attractive because I belong to you
alone and I lose nothing because my love
is greater than yours!
ETIENNE. You are entirely right.
GERMAINE. Alas! Young girls should be
told that love and marriage are two different things, which cannot be reconciled.
They would make their choice before or
they would follow your example, they
would love first and marry afterwards.
You married me, did you not, to keep
house for you, supervise your servants and
cool at times the fever of your desire? I
am a sort of servant here. Ah! You understand love as a passing fancy, a diversion,
as a gentlemanly adornment; but in marriage, in that placid manner of life, where
one takes care of one's self, plans for the
future and becomes absorbed in one's success and career, you consider it out of place,
and if you dared to, you would call it immodest. But my poor fellow, remember this.
If I had been obliged to marry for money
or position, I should not have married you.
ETIENNE. And why not?
GERMAINE. I could easily have made a
better match. My fortune, my name and
my age allowed me to wait and take my
choice. I refused men more wealthy, of
better social position and better known
than you.
ETIENNE. I am sorry you did.
GERMAINE. In my eyes you have never
been a savant. You are the man I love.
ETIENNE. It is your egoism that makes
you say so.
GERMAINE. A marriage of convenience
with you? That is out of the question. If
that is what you propose to me to-day, it is
too late, my dear.


ETIENNE. So much the worse for us,
then.
GERMAINE. It is too late, because for the
last eight years, whether based on lies or
not, love has been the sole interest in my
life. A marriage of convenience? You offer
me an attractive future! That would suit
you to perfection. Our life would be something like this. Day and night you would
shut yourself up in this room with your old
papers and I would remain alone or cultivate the acquaintance of people who might
be useful to you. We should be like other
married people. We should talk of money,
and of our health; when hard pressed, I
should accept your caresses, but without
loving you. And without love to absolve
us, we should be joined, bound to one another physically and morally, until death.
And you would be that man and I should
be that woman? Never. It's repellent, and
I feel only pity for two persons who live
like that. They are not two friends who
sustain one another, they are two partners
who plot together.
ETIENNE. Not always. You exaggerate.
GERMAINE. For my part, I repeat, I reject such a wretched union, and I shall remain as I am, with love in my heart and
sentimental. I have a higher regard for
myself with the faults that you condemn
than with the qualities you demand.
ETIENNE. You have a high opinion of
yourself!
GERMAINE. I torment you and monopolize you and disconcert you incessantly,
I admit. I am despotic, jealous, exasperating, I confess. My intelligence is in agreement with you, but my body and my heart
protest, accuse you and see your injustice.
You see, suffering is more keen than one's
reasoning power. And then, how insignificant is the awkwardness of my love compared with the poverty of yours! Am I not
a true and faithful wife? Have I not consoled you in your hours of depression?
Should I be so distrustful and troublesome
if you did not delight in encouraging my
anxieties by your coquetterie and indifference? Should I be so ridiculous if you
did not hurt my feelings in the presence
of people by your continual sarcasm? Be




A LOVING WIFE


343


more sympathetic with me, and I shall be
less absurd. Teach me to love you, since I
do not know how. Tell me not to worry,
treat me as a comrade, don't be always preoccupied, devote a little time to me as you
might to a child, and then you will see,
I shall be reasonable, sensible, and even
practical. You will find the life of every
day less burdensome, I shall respect your
work and perhaps you will be happy...
And I thought that you were!
[She bursts into tears. Pause.]
ETIENNE. Come now. Don't cry.
GERMAINE. I used to say to myself, he
does n't love me as much as I love him, but
he likes to have me near him. I was mistaken. Have you nothing to say? Have
you no reply?
ETIENNE. What can I reply to you?
All that you say is true and I pity you with
all my heart. But I am forty-three. It is
not that I hate you, but that I must protect my work. In spite of all you do and
say, one loves as one can. Damn it! One
can't be infatuated all the time!
GERMAINE. Your heart does not say that,
I am sure of it. That's impossible. Now,
tell me the truth, you love another woman.
]TIENNE [raising his hands to heaven].
Good Lord! No!
GERMAINE. So I am to believe you no
longer love me, that you have never loved
me? My happiness rested upon a misunderstanding, I was duped.... What a
terrible discovery to make!
ETIENNE. There now.
GERMAINE. Even in the first months, I
have had from you only pity and a semblance of love.
ETIENNE. I do not say that.
GERMAINE. You see I have good reason
not to believe you!
ETIENNE. I beg of you.
GERMAINE. Are n't you perhaps mistaken in your own feelings? Just think for
a moment.. Do you still love me a
little?
ETIENNE. How can I answer?
GERMAINE. Is it all over, yes or no?
TTIENNE [harshly]. And suppose it were?
GERMAINE. Can you propose such a
thing?


ETIENNE. Let us admit that I have
changed, let us admit that I am no longer
the same man. In spite of your youth, your
beauty, your integrity and all your good
qualities, let us admit that after eight years
of married life, I have reached a state
of complete and absolute indifference...
what then?
GERMAINE. What then?
ETIENNE. How could I be blamed? I
am not responsible for my feelings. You
have the right to know what I do, but not
what I think. My inmost thoughts do not
concern you, they concern no one. I was
ridiculous a while ago when I denied this.
My brain belongs to me, my brain is mine!
GERMAINE. Very true, I yield the point.
But since I have lost you, since the deception in which I have lived cannot continue,
since the illusion is destroyed, my life is
ended. I have no further reason to live. I
may as well kill myself.
ETIENNE. You are mad.
GERMAINE. I know I am.
ETIENNE. Kill yourself?
GERMAINE. Yes, 1 shall kill myself.
ETIENNE [ironically]. For so little as
that?
GERMAINE. For so little as that.
ETIENNE. Incredible! Can't you be
satisfied with the lot of all women? We are
bound to each other by marriage. Let us
not try to escape.
GERMAINE. My share of happiness has
been greater, or at least I thought it was
greater, than that of other women. I don't
care to have less.
ETIENNE. But if you killed yourself,
people would say...!
GERMAINE. That I had played a mean
trick on you, would n't they?
ETIENNE. You can efface yourself without committing suicide.
GERMAINE. You mean to remain here
without suffering or thinking? Stifle my
heart for your convenience? Alas! I cannot. I prefer to be dead.
ETIENNE. To kill yourself! After all, it
is logical. It is the inevitable consequence
of your mania for loving. Nothing was
lacking but that you should die like the
heroine of a novel. You are a perfect type.




344


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY' DRAMATISTS


GERMAINE [with scorn and fury]. I
should n't kill myself for such a brute as
you. Don't worry, my dear. I shan't embitter your life by an unpleasant memory,
and henceforth, I promise you, you will
know nothing of my sorrows.
ETIENNE. I am glad to hear it.
GERMAINE. You have the upper hand today because your heart is cold, but beware, life has odd turns. Some day I can
put an irreparable barrier between us, and
on that day, it is you who will be unhappy
and ridiculous.
ETIENNE [shrugging his shoulders]. When
that day comes...
GERMAINE. You will not have to endure
me long, I promise you... Ah! You find
me a burden! Well, someone will relieve
you of me.
ETIENNE. You threaten me?
GERMAINE. Yes, I threaten you.
ETIENNE. So then you propose to me
two alternatives: "You must be infatuated
with me or I shall be unfaithful to you..."
I am exceedingly sorry, my dear child, but
the choice is not in my hands.
GERMAINE. Be silent, Etienne. Don't
goad me on! You do not know me. I am
capable of anything.
ETIENNE [taking up his hat]. That is for
you to decide! In the meantime, I am going out to dinner.
GERMAINE [despairingly]. Etienne.
ETIENNE [putting on his hat]. Good evening. It is not enough to have the will to
deceive one's husband, little girl. One must
also have the desire.
GERMAINE. Beware!
[Enter PASCAL.]
ETIENNE [furiously, to PASCAL]. Ah, my
good fellow! You are just in time. Since
you adore my wife, console her. I am
done with her. Take her off my hands.
PASCAL. Are you crazy? What is the
meaning of such madness.
ETIENNE [going out violently]. Good
night.              [ETIENNE goes out.]
GERMAINE [with indignation and despair].
Ah! The wretch! The idiot! The brute!
PASCAL. He deserves every bit of that!
GERMAINE. What a pity a man does n't


suffer more by his wife's infidelity! He
offers me to you, my dear. Take advantage
of his generosity.
PASCAL. YOU mean you would take me
as your lover?
GERMAINE. If not you, someone else, I
give you my word.
PASCAL. Come, Germaine. Calm yourself and don't tempt me.
GERMAINE. I will deceive him! I will,
I tell you!
PASCAL. Well, if you are determined to
do something rash...
GERMAINE. Wretch that he is!
PASCAL. I might as well be...
GERMAINE. The brute!
PASCAL. The guardian of the dishonor of
his home.
GERMAINE. Don't joke about it, Pascal.
This is more serious than you imagine.
PASCAL. Ah! Be silent. Perhaps I still
love you.
GERMAINE [distracted]. I don't care
whether you love me or not!
CURTAIN
ACT III
Same setting. A somewhat neater room.
ETIENNE at his desk, PASCAL standing near
the fire-place; MADELEINE about to place on
a table a tray with a bottle and several glasses.
Long pause.
MADELEINE [to PASCAL]. Shall I put on
another log?
PASCAL [absent-mindedly]. The fire is hot
enough, thanks.
MADELEINE [poking the logs]. You don't
feel the cold so much now, sir.
PASCAL. One changes.
MADELEINE. I know something about
that.
PASCAL. By the way, what are you doing
with your painter these days?
MADELEINE. I dare n't tell you.
PASCAL. Be careful. You have a nice
figure. Don't spoil it.
MADELEINE. Bah! That would mean
another little recruit for the army.
PASCAL. Or a grisette...
ETIENNE [aside]. A promising future!
[MADELEINE goes out. Long pause.]




A LOVING WIFE


345


ETIENNE [stopping his writing]. No, I am
certainly not in good trim to-day. [To
PASCAL.] Have you nothing to say? Why
don't you talk?
PASCAL. I am warming myself while 1
wait for Germaine.
ETIENIE [rising]. You trifle with my
maid and find nothing to say to me?
PASCAL. You are working.
ETIENNE. Usually your conversation is
a pleasant interruption.
PASCAL. That depends on the day.
ETIENNE [going to him]. My, but you are
serious!
PASCAL [dissembling]. I? Not at all.
ETIENNE [with jealousy]. What is the
matter?
PASCAL. Nothing.
ETIENNE. Mauricette?
PASCAL. Yes, Mauricette.
ETIENNE. On your honor?
PASCAL [embarrassed]. You are silly.
ETIENNE [pouring out some wine]. Will
you take some?
PASCAL [refusing]. No, thanks.
ETIENNE. It's your Malaga?
PASCAL. I see it is.
ETIENNE. And you won't have any?
PASCAL. I have lost my taste for it.
eTIENNE. You have bad judgment. It
is better since it has been racked.
PASCAL. So are many people. [Pause.]
Are you going to start work again?
]TIENNE [sitting down]. Yes, I have a lot
on hand.
PASCAL. What are you doing?
eTIENNE. I am finishing my article for
the Archives.
PASCAL. Getting along nicely?
]TIENNE [writing]. Fairly well.
[Enter GERMAINE.]
GERMAINE [to PASCAL]. Were you waiting for me?
PASCAL. It is five o'clock. You see I am
punctual.
ETIENNE. That is a virtue you will
never lose.
PASCAL. With whom have you been?
GERMAINE. With Monsieur and Madame
Crozat.
ETIENNE. Has there been a reconciliation?


GERMAINE. Her husband has forgiven her.
ETIENNE [writing]. These are queer
times! Every woman that one meets has
been forgiven for infidelity by her husband.
PASCAL. How old is Crozat?
ETIENNE. Sixty-seven.
GERMAINE. Just dear papa's age.
PASCAL. He kisses on the forehead.
ETIENNE [jealously]. A younger man
would be less obliging.
PASCAL. Unless he loved his wife, unless
she were indispensable to him.
ETIENNE [continuing his writing]. With
a little sense, nothing is indispensable.
[Pause.]
PASCAL [to GERMAINE]. Are you coming?
ETIENNE. Where are you going?
PASCAL. To the Art Club.
GER:MAINE. I am not sure that I am
going out.
PASCAL. Have you changed your mind?
GERMAINE [taking off her cloak]. Perhaps...
PASCAL [discouraged]. One can never
count on what she will do.
ETIENNE. Poor Pascal!
[MADELEINE enters.]
MAD:ELEINE [to RTIENNE]. Could you
come here, sir, for a moment?
ETIENNE. What is the matter?
MADELEINE. The decorator wants to
know where the pictures are to be hung in
your room.
ETIENNE. Suppose you attend to that,
Germaine?
GERMAINE [picking up a book and seating
herself]. Oh, I have more confidence in
your taste than in mine.
ETIENNE [to MADELEINE]. Tell him I
shall see him. [To PASCAL.] Since the
other day we have separate rooms.
GERMAINE. It's excellent for the brain.
]ETIENNE [to PASCAL]. She sulks.
PASCAL [aside]. Not yet unfaithful to me.
ETIENNE [to MADELEINE]. Please mail
these letters.
MADELEINE. Yes, sir.
ETIENNE. And put some ink in this inkwell.
MADELEINE [aside]. They have it filled
before throwing it at each other.




346


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


GERMAINE [to MADELEINE who is about
to carry off her cloak]. Leave my cloak there.
[MADELEINE goes out, ETIENNE
rises and starts toward the door.]
]TIENNE [to GERMAINE, turning around].
If you go out, don't be too late in coming
back. We are dining this evening with the
Henriets.
GERMAINE. Go without me, will you? I
shall spend my evening beside the fire.
PASCAL. I shall come to keep you company.
GERMAINE. You need n't.
ETIENNE [to GERMAINE]. You won't be
sorry if I leave you alone?
GERMAINE. I shall be just sorry enough.
ETIENNE [ironically]. How submissive
you are! Truly, in a week you have
changed entirely.
GERMAINE. You will see. Before long I
shall be perfect.
ETIENNE. Oh! You are not far from
perfection. You have all the good qualities
now.
PASCAL [aside]. I am not responsible for
that.
ETIENNE. I can go out, I can come in,
you no longer cross-question me, you do
not spy on my movements.
GERMAINE. You are absolutely free.
ETIENNE. IS it because of ill-will or good
sense?
GERMAINE. Guess for yourself.
ETIENNE. 1 can work now, the house is
quiet.
GERMAINE. I am learning how to love
you.
ETIENNE [jealous and conceited]. Is Pascal your instructor?
GERMAINE. He has given me some
suggestions.
ETIENNE [to PASCAL]. Accept my congratulations.
GERMAINE. You are entirely welcome.
eTIENNE. I beg your pardon.
PASCAL [intervening]. Come now, my
good fellow!
ETIENNE [to PASCAL]. I am not joking.
You are doing me a real favor in looking
after her.
GERMAINE. And he is grateful to you.
ETIENNE [about to leave the room]. I shall


be back in a few moments. Play at adultery, since you find it diverting.
GERMAINE. Thanks for your permission.
PASCAL [in a low tone to GERMAINE]. Be
careful. He is jealous.
GERMAINE. You do not know him.
Whatever we may do, his self-conceit will
surpass our imprudence.
ETIENNE [at the door, aside, with a suspicious air]. Could it. be possible that?...
[Shrugging his shoulders.] Bah! I shall see
about that later.   [ETIENNE goes out.]
PASCAL. Are you going to be very nice
to me?
GERMAINE. That depends.
PASCAL. Put aside that book which does
not interest you, put on your hat again and
come with me to the Club.
GERMAINE [abruptly]. I have already
told you no.
PASCAL. You are making a mistake.
There is a superb Bonnat.
GERMAINE. A lot I care about Bonnat.
PASCAL. We always see the expositions
together. Why should n't you see this one
with me?
GERMAINE. I am in no humor to look at
pictures, I assure you.
PASCAL. Neither am I. Only I should
have been glad to walk beside you in the
street, we might have taken a little walk,
You have avoided me for a week. I would
have told my old friend all the troubles
caused me by...
GERMAINE [interrupting]. By your new
mistress?
PASCAL. By my mistress!
GERMAINE. Well, I should have preferred to remain my husband's, but he
would not keep me.
PASCAL. The idiot!
GERMAINE. Go along and do not wait
for me. I should be a gloomy companion
to-day. Besides, I prefer not to hear your
secrets.
PASCAL. Oh! I had no ulterior motive,
I swear to you. I know your feelings too
well to mention a certain subject. Don't
worry, I shall not try to make you relent.
We should have talked in a friendly way,
without reserve as we used to, as we did
before.




A LOVING WIFE


347


GERMAINE. Let us talk here, then.
PASCAL. Here? I could n't.
GERMAINE. Why not?
PASCAL. Now I am ashamed and embarrassed. Everything seems to me complicated, difficult and odious. The simplest
things seem extraordinary now. The
furniture and every object suddenly looks
different, as though the lights had been
shifted.
GERMAINE. Alas!
PASCAL. I no longer feel at home in this
house. I no longer dare to take a meal here.
I have n't even the courage to give an
order to a servant.
GERMAINE. Your old habits have been
interfered with.
PASCAL. I don't venture to call except in
an afternoon or dinner coat.
GERMAINE. The even tenor of your life
is disturbed.
PASCAL. A while ago, I was freezing and
I did n't dare to put a log on the fire. There
are some cigars of which I am very fond
and I have wanted to smoke one for the
last quarter of an hour. Well, I should not
think of touching them. Those are your
husband's cigars now. I could have taken
anything from that good friend before I
took his wife.
GERMAINE. Let well enough alone.
PASCAL. You are mistaken if you think
I feel no remorse. I have as guilty a conscience as you, perhaps more than you. I
laugh and bluff it out, but at heart I am in
torture. I imagine that everything I say is
criminal. Ah! I was not meant to live in
this kind of a world.
GERMAINE. If only we hadn't been
contemporaries!
PASCAL. Don't joke about it. You are
as unhappy as before and our real friendship is destroyed.
GERMAINE. Bah!
PASCAL. We three used to be so gay,
such good chums, so loyal to each other.
Good-by to our nice evenings together!
There were quarrels sometimes but all the
same we got along. What friends I have
lost!
GERMAINE. I have never seen such a
tender-hearted egoist.


PASCAL. Ah! Why did your madness
disarm me the other day? Why...
GERMAINE. Don't blame me for having
led you astray.
PASCAL. I was so conceited, I thought I
could comfort you.
GERMAINE. As if that were possible!
PASCAL. I have made a nice mess of it.
This happiness, of which I have not
dreamed for nine years and which was the
result of a terrible sorrow, is certain to
crumble into dust to-morrow, and I shall
remain as madly in love with you as ever.
A fine success!
GERMAINE. Then be kind now.
PASCAL. I '11 wager that before three days
have passed, your door will be closed to me.
GERMAINE. That might easily happen.
PASCAL. Oh! That will happen. Your
coolness offers me nothing to hope for. Before long I shall be wounded by a sword
which will not kill me, unfortunately, and
all will be over between the three of us.
Each will go his own way. Only the house
will remain.
GERMAINE. And the furniture, of course.
PASCAL. What is going to become of me
if I cannot see you every day? It may kill
me, do you know that?
GERMAINE. Well, then, you will die, my
dear.
PASCAL. Is that all you say?
GERMAINE. Or you will marry Madame
Brissot.
PASCAL. She has n't put on weight.
GERMAINE. Make up with Mauricette.
PASCAL. But when she was my mistress,
I spent my days here! See here, you did
wrong in choosing a man who loved you in
order to have revenge on your husband.
Since you were to give yourself once and
once only, your purpose would have been
served by a man who cared nothing about
you.
GERMAINE. You happened to be there.
[Pause.]
PASCAL [almost gaily]. So then, never
again?
GERMAINE. Never.
PASCAL. That's not fair.
GERMAINE. Remember you promised to
cheer me up.




348


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


PASCAL. Yes, of course, I want to cheer
you up. Yet if you listened to me...
GERMAINE. Please!
PASCAL. Don't take time to consider. Do
as you did the other day; first have a quarrel.
GERMAINE. Let us be serious.
PASCAL. It will not add to your guilt.
GERMAINE. Quite the reverse.
PASCAL. You are entirely right. In
yielding yourself to a poor devil who was
passing, you assumed certain obligations
towards him. Why should you not keep
them? One does not shower favors on a
poor wretch and then drive him out of the
house the next moment.
GERMAINE. What is once begun must be
continued.
PASCAL. Sympathy commands it and
public opinion advises it.
GERMAINE. Public opinion!
PASCAL. The repetition of certain faults
lessens their gravity.
GERMAINE. There are even crimes that
become respectable through long practice.
PASCAL. A woman of position is forgiven
for a liaison, she is not forgiven for...
GERMAINE [finishing the sentence]. A
whim.
PASCAL. And people are right in that
respect.
GERMAINE. One is not allowed to be unfaithful, through force of circumstances.
PASCAL. No, and on that point 1 share
the opinion of some Carlist officer or other
who had deserted his colors. He was reproached in my presence for persisting in
his disloyalty. "My dear fellow," he replied indignantly, "when a Spaniard is a
traitor, he is a life-long traitor."
GERMAINE. A Spanish woman would
have given a different answer.
[Enter ETIENNE.]
ETIENNE [jealous and self-satisfied]. Don't
allow me to interrupt you. Don't stop
talking.
GERMAINE. Perhaps you might not like
it if I continued.
PASCAL. She exaggerates.
ETIENNE [to PASCAL]. You may tell her
again that you love her, you know. I shan't
object.


GERMAINE. He is more clever at it than
I thought.
ETIENNE. Good Pascal, he is so straightforward.
PASCAL. Unfortunately, straightforward
people have little luck.
GERMAINE. Sometimes they are lucky.
]TIENNE. Sometimes?
GERMAINE. That depends.
PASCAL [aside]. The devil!
ETIENNE [to PASCAL]. With women, one
only needs to arrive at the proper moment.
Don't you think so?
GERMAINE. Perhaps that is truer than
you suppose.
eTIENNE [with anger and self-conceit]. No,
but while you are about it, call me...
GERMAINE. What? Not Moliere's word,
I hope?
ETIENNE. Yes, I should like to hear myself called that. It would transform me.
GERMAINE [losing her self-control]. Well,
you are...!
ETIENNE. Come, pluck up your courage.
GERMAINE. Do not insist. It is better
for me to say nothing.
ETIENNE. Go ahead. You are burning
to tell me the truth, and I am curious to
hear it.
PASCAL. Let us not carry the joke any
further.
ETIENNE [to PASCAL]. She is afraid of
giving me some pleasure. [To GERMAINE.]
Speak.
GERMAINE. I am willing to, but not
while he is here.
ETIENNE [to PASCAL]. Well, then, leave
us.
PASCAL [to GERMAINE]. Are you sending
me away?
GERMAINE. Good-by.
ETIENNE. It is a furlough, I suppose?
PASCAL. I am certainly out of luck. I'11
see you later.  [PASCAL goes out. Pause.]
ETIENNE. You can speak now.
GERMAINE. If you wish it.  [Pause.]
ETIENNE [furiously]. Enough of your
reticence and irony. I wish to know the
reason for your scoffing and that man's
embarrassment.
GERMAINE. Very well.
STIENNE. For an hour you have both




A LOVING WIFE


349


defied me. It is time for this jesting to end
1 desire to be informed. We are alone. The
door is closed. Let us have an explanation,
an immediate explanation.
GERMAINE [hesitating]. Well...
ETIENNE. Is that all you have to say?
[Pause.] You are not afraid, I suppose?
GERMAINE. No.
ETIENNE [cruelly]. If you hesitate for
fear of causing me sorrow, you are strangely
mistaken, for your affection is the only
thing I fear.
GERMAINE [indignant]. ftienne!
TTIENNE   A lot I care about your
fidelity!
GERMAINE. ttienne!
ETIENNE. I do not love you, you know
that; I have never loved you, not even an
hour, and you must have been indulgent
these last eight years in not understanding
what a nuisance you have been to me.
GERMAINE [indignant]. Ah! You still
insult me!
ETIENNE. Yes or no, is it true?
GERMAINE. Well, yes, it is true.
ETIENNE. With him?
GERMAINE. The other day.
ETIENNE [with a threatening gesture]. You
vile woman!
GERMAINE. You offered me; well, I gave
myself. You need not bother to offer me
again, my dear, the deed is done.
ETIENNE. Silence! You are lying. I refuse to believe you.
GERMAINE. You are mistaken. I have
deceived you, do you understand? I have
deceived you. Yes, I have committed that
infamous act, and I am glad of it, and I am
glad to tell you of it, and under the same
circumstances I should do it again.
ETIENNE. Be quiet! Silence!
GERMAINE. No, I insist on speaking. It
was your own wish. You shall know all the
secrets of my heart.
ETIENNE. Be silent or I'11 kill you.
GERMAINE. Why should you raise your
hand to strike me? Did you not wish
it? Since you were so eager to be relieved
of me, now be satisfied. You have your
freedom.
ETIENNE. YOU have been unfaithful to
me?


GERMAINE. Yes, you whom I have
adored, you whom all women have loved,
you have been deceived like any other man.
You thought you could make me suffer
until the end of time and that I should
never turn the tables on you. What a mistake! Accounts are settled, you see. If
my love has been wounded, so has your
vanity. Thank God, now you are ridiculous!
ETIENNE. Ridiculous?
GERMAINE. Now we are square.
ETIENNE. Will you be quiet?
GERMAINE. Ah! The other evening,
after insulting me, you came home without a care in the world. You went to sleep
on this couch without worrying whether I
was (lead or alive. You did not dare to
cross the threshold of my room for fear of
a reconciliation, did you? Well, allow me
to tell you, my dear, that your good judgment was at fault, because that evening,
strangely enough, you would not have
been obliged to endure the caresses of your
wife, and I should have confessed to you
what I have just told you. I should not
have been condemned to this hypocrisy
which has stifled me for a week and which
you took for tact and resignation. All men
are the same!
ETIENNE. Have you finished?
GERMAINE. Yes, I have finished. Now
you can kill me. I have said all that I have
to say. I am waiting. Whatever you may
do, you can not be more cruel than you
have been.             [She sits down.]
ETIENNE [harshly]. No, I shall not kill
you, I shall not do you that favor; you
would be too well satisfied. I shall leave
this house, nothing more.
[He picks up his hat.l
GERMAINE. Ah!
ETIENNE. I shall never see you nor hear
you speak again, that will be my only punishment. I had a wife and a good friend, I
have lost both; but I shall forget, I shall
work and realize the ambitions which you
have hindered for eight years by your
complaints, your abuse and all your quibbling. I have wasted enough time with
you. Good-by; my period of servitude is
ended, now I am free. You were right, I




35o


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


have been relieved of you. Thanks to your
infamy, I have secured release.
GERMAINE. Good-by.
ETIENNE. Whatever happens, however
low you sink, my freedom will not be
bought too dearly. Understand that I
value this freedom more than my happiness, more than my dignity.
GERMAINE. You may go. By going
away, your vengeance is more generous
than you suppose.
ETIENNE [drawing near to her]. It is not
an outraged husband who is leaving, it
is a lover who abandons a tiresome mistress. You cannot know how often I have
cursed the feeling of pity which kept me
here a prisoner. Thank God, now I have
the right to leave you without remorse. I
shall never find so good an opportunity.
Neither duty nor pity obliges me to live
with a wanton.
GERMAINE. That is for you to choose.
ETIENNE [with rage]. For only a wanton
gives herself to a passer-by because she will
not take a dare. A woman who deceives
you because she was given permission,
would do so without permission. She
could have had no scruples before.
GERMAINE. Mere casuistry.
ETIENNE. Only a wanton takes advantage of a fit of temper. No one has such a
right. An honest person does not listen to
a lunatic who advises him to steal. You
have no reason to plume yourself on a virtuous act. Your act is outrageous.
GERMAINE. I was driven to it by despair.
CTIENNE. By a cynical desire to get even.
GERMAINE. By indignation.
ETIENNE. The gravity of my mistakes
does not excuse your infidelity. The punishment exceeds the offense.
GERMAINE. I am glad of it.
ETIENNE. And you dare to accuse me?
However unkind and imperfect I may have
been, I have not been false to you. I have
given to no other woman what I was unable
to give to you, either through egoism or
cruelty or indifference. With all your love,
you have committed a sin which a woman
without love in her heart would never have
committed. What more could you have
done if you had not loved me?


GERMAINE. Had I not loved you, I
should not have suffered. I should have
accepted your treatment without protest.
ETIENNE. That would have been the
wiser course. But why prolong such a
scene? We have never been really married;
it is useless for me to talk to you as a husband. Good-by. I shall not return to this
house until you have left it.
GERMAINE. I shall lose no time in leaving.
ETIENNE. I expect that.
GERMAINE. You will not have long to
wait.
ETIENNE. I release you from every tie.
Do anything you like.
GERMAINE. Thanks.
ETIENNE [standing at the door]. And in
leaving you, I still have the power to torment you, for I do not love you, I repeat
it, and you do love me.
GERMAINE [violently]. You are mistaken;
I am cured, I no longer love you. Your
insults have worn out my adoration, and
love for another man has done the rest.
ETIENNE. Hufry and join him then, for
I shall kill him to-morrow.  [He goes out.]
GERMAINE [tenderly]. Etienne! [Alone
and bursting into tears.] I have lost him
now, it's all over.      [Long pause.]
[Enter PASCAL.]
PASCAL. You are crying? [GERMAINE
raises her head.] You have just told him
everything, have n't you? That man has
insulted you again.
GERMAINE [with despair and scorn]. I
forbid you to accuse him.
PASCAL. You have already forgotten
his offenses.
GERMAINE. His offenses? And how did
he ever offend you? Unkind to me, yes,
but what harm did he ever do you? Why
did you take away his wife from him? By
what right did you steal from him what
was his, you who were his friend, his old
chum, his inseparable companion, his
father-confessor? Perhaps he often used
to tell you that he loved me. I am sure he
told you so and you have concealed it from
me.
PASCAL. No, he did not.




A LOVING WIFE


35X


GERMAINE [sobbing]. You should have
let me think so. But you were too jealous
of my love for him. You took good care
not to let me think so, did n't you? You
waited patiently for the moment to rob
him and gratify your resentment of a
homely man and rejected suitor.
PASCAL. I loved you.
GERMAINE. That's a lie.
PASCAL. I swear it is the truth.
GERMAINE [sobbing]. At all events, I did
not love you, and you knew it. Does a
gentleman take advantage of a woman's
grief, especially when he loves her? Instead of making me your mistress, you
should have advised me, protected me,
and brought back my husband to me...
When I think! [With horror.] Go away; I
despise you, I hate you, I never want to see
you again. Take your laments, your cynicism and your ill-starred friendship elsewhere. You are the cause of all my grief.
Had it not been for you, I should still be
happy. Were it not for you, he would still
be here. Go, you are a coward. You alone
have no excuse for your actions, and if
my husband kills you to-morrow, you will
richly deserve it.
PASCAL [about to go out]. I shall not defend myself.
GERMAINE. That is my advice.
PASCAL [aside, at the door]. Well! That
was a fine idea of mine to come back.
[PASCAL goes out.]
GERMAINE [alone, despairingly]. I, too,
have no reason to be here. I must leave at
once, and I know well enough how...
[She puts on her cloak and rushes
toward the door.]
fTIENNE [intercepting her]. Where are
you going?
GERMAINE. What difference can that
make to you?
ETIENNE. I wish to know. [She puts on
her gloves.] You are going to kill yourself,
I am certain.
GERMAINE [dissembling]. You are mistaken. A woman who is going to kill
herself does not put on her gloves so
coolly.
ETIENNE. Where are you going, then?
[She continues to draw on her gloves.] Answer


me. [She takes a few steps to go out. He bars
the way.] A little later you may go, after
you have answered me. You are not going
to join that man, I hope?
GERMAINE. Really, your jealousy comes
a bit late.
ERTIENNE. You still bear my name.
GERMAINE. You have driven me out. I
am leaving.
ETIENNE. Wait until that man has given
me satisfaction.
GERMAINE. I shall not spend another
five minutes under the same roof as you.
ETIENNE [losing control of himself]. Even
if I have to lock you up, if I have to crush
you, you shall not go and rejoin that
wretch. That I forbid you. [She takes a
step forward, he seizes her violently by the
arm; she cries out with pain. -Ashamed
and relenting.] Ah! I hurt you. Forgive
me.
GERMAINE [with hope]. Etienne!
[Pause.]
ETIENNE [bitterly]. Ah! Why did my
anxiety and jealousy make me open that
door again? Why did I hinder you from
leaving? By what horrible contradiction
of my heart did I come back? Can I go
away now? Alas! We have insulted one
another as if we were enemies. Irreparable
words have passed between us. I have
misunderstood you, you have betrayed me,
and here I am. It would seem that we are
bound to each other by all the suffering we
have caused one another, by all the infamous things we have said. What degradation!                    [He weeps.]
GERMAINE [also weeping]. My God! My
God!                          [Pause.]
ETIENNE [with shame]. You lied to me,
did n't you? You were not going to meet
him?
GERMAINE. No.
RTIENNE. And you still love me, you
have never ceased to love me? Ah! I beg
you to answer. You see what a coward I
am.
GERMAINE. Why should I answer you?
Have I not placed a barrier between
us forever? We cannot live together now.
ET:[ENNE [bowing his head]. Perhaps we
can.




352


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


GERMAINE. Perhaps! Is there no such
thing as justice?
ETIENNE [tenderly]. Yes, fortunately.
GERMAINE [rushing toward the door]. You
are mad. It is better for me to go.
ETIENNE [barring her way]. I do not wish
you to.


GERMAINE. Consider, Etienne, you will
be unhappy.
ETIENNE [without daring to look at her or
to draw near to her]. What difference does
that make!
END OF THE PLAY




CYRANO DE BERGERAC
BY EDMOND ROSTAND
Translated from the French by GERTR UDE HALL




COPYRIGHT, I898, BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Reprinted by permission of and special arrangement with Doubleday, Page & Company




DRAMATIS PERSONA
CYRANO DE BERGERAC
CHRISTIAN DE NEUVILLETTE
COMTE DE GUICHE
RAGUENEAU
LE BRET
CAPTAIN CARBON DE CASTEL-JALOUX
LIGNIhRE
DE VALVERT
MONTFLEURY
BELLEROSE
JODELET
CUIGY
BRISSAILLE
A BORE
A MOUSQUETAIRE
OTHER MOUSQUETAIRE
A SPANISH OFFICER
A LIGHT-CAVALRY MAN
A DOORKEEPER
A BURGHER
HIS SON
A PICKPOCKET
A SPECTATOR
A WATCHMAN
BERTRANDOU THE FIFER
A CAPUCHIN
Two MUSICIANS
SEVEN CADETS
THREE MARQUISES
POETS
PASTRYCOOKS
ROXANE
SISTER MARTHA




356                       DRAMATIC PERSONSE
LISE
THE SWEETMEAT VENDER
MOTHER MARGARET
THE DUENNA
SISTER CLAIRE
AN ACTRESS
A SOUBRETTE
A FLOWER-GIRL
PAGES
The crowd, bourgeois, marquises, mousquetaires,
pickpockets, pastrycooks, poets, Gascony Cadets,
players, fiddlers, pages, children, Spanish soldiers,
spectators, precieuses, actresses, bourgeoises, nuns, etc.




CYRANO DE BERGERAC
ACT FIRST
A PLAY AT THE HOTEL DE BOURGOGNE


The great hall of the Hotel de Bourgogne,
in 1640. A sort of tennis-court arranged and
decorated for theatrical performances.
The hall is a long rectangle, seen obliquely,
so that one side of it constitutes the background, which runs from the position of the
front wing at the right, to the line of the furthest wing at the left, and forms an angle with
the stage, which is equally seen obliquely.
This stage is furnished, on both sides, along
the wings, with benches. The drop-curtain is
composed of two tapestry hangings, which can
be drawn apart. Above a harlequin cloak,
the royal escutcheon. Broad steps lead from
the raised platform of the stage into the house.
On either side of these steps, the musicians'
seats. A row of candles fills the office of footlights.
Two galleries run along the side; the lower
one is divided into boxes. No seats in the pit,
which is the stage proper. At the back of the
pit, that is to say, at the right, in the front, a
few seats raised like steps, one above the other;
and, under a stairway which leads to the
upper seats, and of which the lower end onlyis
visible, a stand decked with small candelabra,
jars full of flowers, flagons and glasses, dishes
heaped with sweetmeats, etc.
In the centre of the background, under the
box-tier, the entrance to the theatre, large door
which half opens to let in the spectators. On
the panels of this door, and in several corners,
and above the sweetmeat stand, red playbills
announcing LA CLORISE.
At the rise of the curtain, the house is
nearly dark, and still empty. The chandeliers
are let down in the middle of the pit, until
time to light them.
The audience, arriving gradually. Cavaliers, burghers, lackeys, pages, fiddlers, etc.
A tumult of voices is heard beyond the
door; enter brusquely a CAVALIER.


DOORKEEPER [running in after him]. Not
so fast! Your fifteen pence!
CAVALIER. I come in admission free!
DOORKEEPER. And why?
CAVALIER. I belong to the king's light
cavalry!
DOORKEEPER [to another CAVALIER who
has entered]. You?
SECOND CAVALIER. I do not pay!
DOORKEEPER. But...
SECOND CAVALIER. I belong to the mousquetaires!
FIRST CAVALIER [to the SECOND]. It does
not begin before two. The floor is empty.
Let us have a bout with foils.
[They fence with foils they have
brought.]
A LACKEY [entering]. Pst!... Flanquin!
OTHER LACKEY [arrived a moment before].
Champagne?...
FIRST LACKEY [taking a pack of cards from
his doublet and showing it to SECOND
LACKEY]. Cards. Dice. [Sits down on the
floor.] Let us have a game.
SECOND LACKEY [sitting down likewise].
You rascal, willingly!
FIRST LACKEY [taking from his pocket a
bit of candle which he lights and sticks on
the floor]. I prigged an eyeful of my master's light!
ONE OF THE WATCH [to a FLOWER-GIRL,
who comes forward]. It is pleasant getting
here before the lights.
[Puts his arm around her waist.]
ONE OF THE FENCERS [taking a thrust].
Hit!
ONE OF THE GAMBLERS. Clubs!
THE WATCHMAN [pursuing the girl]. A kiss!
THE FLOWER-GIRL [repulsing him]. We
shall be seen!
THE WATCHMAN [drawing her into a dark
corner]. No, we shall not 




358


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


A MAN [sitting down on the floor with
others who have brought provisions]. By
coming early, you get a comfortable chance
to eat.
A BURGHER [leading his son]. This
should be a good place, my boy. Let us
stay here.
ONE OF THE GAMBLERS. Ace wins!
A MAN [taking a bottle from under his
cloak and sitting down]. A proper toper,
toping Burgundy [drinks], I say should
tope it in Burgundy House!
THE BURGHER [to his son]. Might one
not suppose we had stumbled into some
house of evil fame? [Points with his cane
at the drunkard.] Guzzlers!... [In breaking
guard one of the fencers jostles him.] Brawlers!... [He falls between the gamblers.]
Gamesters!...
THE WATCHMAN [behind him, still teasing
the flower-girl]. A kiss!
THE BURGHER [dragging his son precipitately away]. Bless my soul!... And to
reflect that in this very house, my son,
were given the plays of the great Rotrou!
THE YOUTH. And those of the great
Corneille!
[A band of PAGES holding hands rush in
performing a farandole and singing.]
PAGES. Tra la la la la la la la!...
DOORKEEPER [severely to the PAGES].
Look, now!... you pages, you! none of
your tricks!
FIRST PAGE [with wounded dignity]. Sir!... this want of confidence... [As soon
as the doorkeeper has turned away, briskly to
the SECOND PAGE.] Have you a string about
you?
SECOND PAGE. With a fish-hook at the
end!
FIRST PAGE. We will sit up there and
angle for wigs!
A PICKPOCKET [surrounded by a number
of individuals of dubious appearance]. Come,
now, my little hopefuls, and learn your
A B C's of trade. Being as you're not used
to hooking...
SECOND PAGE [shouting to other PAGES
who have already taken seats in the upper
gallery]. Ho!... Did you bring any peashooters?


THIRD PAGE [from above]. Yes!... And
pease!... [Shoots down a volley of pease.]
THE YOUTH [to his father]. What are we
going to see?
THE BURGHER. Clorise.
THE YOUTH. By whom?
THE BURGHER. By Balthazar Baro. Ah,
what a play it is!...
[Goes toward the back on his son's
arm.]
PICKPOCKET [to his disciples]. Particularly the lace-ruffles at the knees,...
you're to snip off carefully!
A SPECTATOR [to another, pointing toward
an upper seat]. Look! On the first night of
the Cid, I was perched up there!
PICKPOCKET [with pantomimic suggestion
of spiriting away]. Watches...
THE BURGHER [coming forward again with
his son]. The actors you are about to see,
my son, are among the most illustrious...
PICKPOCKET [with show of subtracting
with furtive little tugs]. Pocket-handkerchiefs...
THE BURGHER. Montfleury...
SOMEBODY [shouting from the upper gallery]. Make haste, and light the chandeliers!
THE BURGHER. Bellerose, 1']py, the
Beaupr6, Jodelet...
A PAGE [in the pit]. Ah!... Here comes
the goody-seller!
THE SWEETMEAT VENDER [appearing
behind the stand].  Oranges.. Milk...
Raspberry cordial... citron-wine...
[Hubbub at the door.]
FALSETTO VOICE [outside]. Make room,
ruffians!
ONE OF THE LACKEYS [astonished]. The
marquises... in the pit!
OTHER LACKEY. Oh, for an instant only!
[Enter a band of foppish YOUNG MARQUISES.]
ONE OF THE MARQUISES [looking around
the half-empty  house].  What?... We
happen in like so many linen-drapers?
Without disturbing anybody? treading on
any feet?... Too bad! too bad! too bad!
[He finds himself near several other gentlemen,
come in a moment before.] Cuigy, Brissaille!
[Effusive embraces.l




CYRANO DE BERGERAC


359


CUIGY. We are of the faithful indeed.
We are here before the lights.
THE MARQUIS. Ah, do not speak of it!... It has put me in such a humor!
OTHER MARQUIS. Be comforted, marquis... here comes the candle-lighter!
THE AUDIENCE [greeting the arrival of
the candle-lighter]. Ah!...
[Many gather around the chandeliers while they are being lighted.
A few have taken seats in the
galleries.]
[LIGNIERE enters, arm in arm with CHRISTIAN DE NEUVILLETTE. LIGNIERE, in
somewhat disordered apparel, appearance
of gentlemanly drunkard. CHRISTIAN,
becomingly dressed, but in clothes of a
slightly obsolete elegance.]
CUIGY. Ligniere!
BRISSAILLE [laughing]. Not tipsy yet?
LIGNIERE [low to CHRISTIAN]. Shall I
present you? [CHRISTIAN nods assent.]
Baron de Neuvillette...
[Exchange of bows.]
THE AUDIENCE [cheering the ascent of the
first lighted chandelier]. Ah!...
CUIGY [to BRISSAILLE, looking at CHRISTIAN]. A charming head... charming!
FIRST MARQUIS [who has overheard].
Pooh!...
LIGNIERE [presenting CHRISTIAN]. Messieurs de Cuigy... de Brissaille...
CHRISTIAN [bowing]. Delighted!...
FIRST MARQUIS [to SECOND]. He is a
pretty fellow enough, but is dressed in the
fashion of some other year!
LIGNIERE [to CUIGY]. Monsieur is lately
arrived from Touraine.
CHRISTIAN. Yes, I have been in Paris
not over twenty days. I enter the Guards
to-morrow, the Cadets.
FIRST MARQUIS [looking at those who appear in the boxes]. There comes the pr6sident Aubry!
SWEETMEAT VENDER. Oranges! Milk!
THE FIDDLERS [tuning]. La... la...
CUIGY [to CHRISTIAN, indicating the house
which is filling]. A good house!...
CHRISTIAN. Yes, crowded.
FIRST MARQUIS. The whole of fashion!
[They give the names of the women,


as, very brilliantly attired, these
enter the boxes. Exchange of bows
and smiles.]
SECOND MARQUIS. Mesdames de Gu6 -menee...
CUIGY. De Bois-Dauphin...
FIRST MARQUIS. Whom... time was!... we loved!...
BRISSAILLE.... de Chavigny...
SECOND MARQUIS. Who still plays havoc
with our hearts!
LIGNIERE. Tiens! Monsieur de Corneille
has come back from Rouen!
THi YOUTH [to his father]. The Academy
is present?
THE BURGHER. Yes... I perceive more
than one member of it. Yonder are Boudu,
Boissat and Cureau... Porcheres, Colomby, Bourzeys, Bourdon, Arbaut...
All names of which not one will be forgotten. What a beautiful thought it is!
FIRST MARQUIS. Attention! Our precieuses are coming into their seats...
Barthnoide, Urimedonte, Cassandace, Felix6rie...
SECOND MARQUIS. Ah, how exquisite are
their surnames!... Marquis, can you
tell them off, all of them?
FIRST MARQUIS. I can tell them off, all
of them, marquis!
LIGNIERE  [drawing CHRISTIAN aside].
Dear fellow, I came in here to be of use to
you. The lady does not come. I revert to
my vice!
CHRISTIAN  [imploring]. No! No!...
You who turn into ditties Town and Court,
stay by me; you will be able to tell me for
whom it is I am dying of love!
THE LEADER OF THE VIOLINS [rapping
on his desk with his bow]. Gentlemen!...
[He raises his bow.]
SWEETMEAT VENDER. Macaroons...
Citronade... [The fiddles begin playing.]
CHRISTIAN. I fear... oh, I fear to find
that she is fanciful and intricate! I dare
not speak to her, for I am of a simple wit.
The language written and spoken in these
days bewilders and baffles me. I am a plain
soldier... shy, to boot. - She is always
at the right, there, the end: the empty box.
LIGNIERE [with show of leaving]. I am
going.




360


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


CHRISTIAN [still attempting to detain him].
Oh, no!... Stay, I beseech you!
LIGNIERE. I cannot. D'Assoucy is expecting me at the pot-house. Here is a
mortal drought!
SWEETMEAT VENDER [passing before him
with a tray]. Orangeade?...
LIGNIERE. Ugh!
SWEETMEAT VENDER. Milk?...
LIGNIERE. Pah!...
SWEETMEAT VENDER. Lacrima?...
LIGNIERE. Stop! [To CHRISTIAN.] I
will tarry a bit.... Let us see this lacrima?
[Sits down at the sweetmeat stand.
The VENDER pours him a glass
of lacrima.]
[Shouts among the audience at the entrance
of a little, merry-faced, roly-poly man.]
AUDIENCE. Ah, Ragueneau!...
LIGNIIRE [to CHRISTIAN]. Ragueneau,
who keeps the great cook-shop.
RAGUENEAU [attired like a pastrycook in
his Sunday best, coming quickly toward
LIGNIERE]. Monsieur, have you seen Monsieur de Cyrano?
LIGNIERE   [presenting  RAGUENEAU  to
CHRISTIAN]. The pastrycook of poets and
of players!
RAGUENEAU     [abashed].  Too  much
honor...
LIGNISRE. No modesty!... Mecsenas!...
RAGUENEAU. It is true, those gentlemen
are among my customers....
LIGNIERE. Debitors!... A considerable poet himself....
RAGUENEAU. It has been said!...
LIGNIERE. Daft on poetry!...
RAGUENEAU. It is true that for an
ode...
LIGNIERE. You are willing to give at
any time a tart!
RAGUENEAU.... let. A tart-let.
LIGNIERE. Kind soul, he tries to cheapen
his charitable acts! And for a triolet were
you not known to give.?
RAGUENEAU. Rolls. Just rolls.
LIGNIIRE [severely]. Buttered!... And
the play, you are fond of the play?
RAGUENEAU. It is with me a passion!
LIGNIERE. And you settle for your en

trance fee with a pastry currency. Come
now, among ourselves, what did you have
to give to-day for admittance here?
RAGUENEAU. Four custards... eighteen lady-fingers. [He looks all around.]
Monsieur de Cyrano is not here. I wonder
at it.
LIGNIERE. And why?
RAGUENEAU. Montfleuryis billed to play.
LIGNIERE. So it is, indeed. That ton of
man will to-day entrance us in the part of
Phcedo... Phoedo!... But what is that
to Cyrano?
RAGUENEAU. Have you not heard? He
interdicted Montfleury, whom he has taken
in aversion, from appearing for one month
upon the stage.
LIGNIERE [who is at his fourth glass].
Well?
RAGUENEAU. Montfleury is billed to
play.
CUIGY [who has drawn near with his companions]. He cannot be prevented.
RAGUENEAU. He cannot?... Well, I
am here to see!
FIRST MARQUIS. What is this Cyrano?
CUIGY. A crack-brain!
SECOND MARQUIS. Of quality?
CUIGY. Enough for daily uses. He is a
cadet in the Guards. [Pointing out a gentleman who is coming and going about the pit,
as if in search of somebody.] But his friend
Le Bret can tell you. [Calling.] Le Bret!... [LE BRET comes toward them.] You are
looking for Bergerac?
LE BRET. Yes. I am uneasy.
CUIGY. Is it not a fact that he is a most
uncommon fellow?
LE BRET [affectionately]. The most exquisite being he is that walks beneath the
moon!
RAGUENEAU. Poet!
CUIGY. Swordsman!
BRISSAILLE. Physicist!
LE BRET. Musician!
LIGNIERE. And what an extraordinary
aspect he presents!
RAGUENEAU. I will not go so far as to
say that I believe our grave Philippe de
Champaigne will leave us a portrait of
him; but, the bizarre, excessive, whimsical fellow that he is would certainly have




CYRANO DE BERGERAC


36I




furnished the late Jacques Callot with a
type of madcap fighter for one of his
masques. Hat with triple feather, doublet
with twice-triple skirt, cloak which his interminable rapier lifts up behind, with
pomp, like the insolent tail of a cock;
prouder than all the Artabans that Gascony
ever bred, he goes about in his stiff Punchinello ruff, airing a nose.... Ah, gentlemen, what a nose is that! One cannot
look upon such a specimen of the nasigera
without exclaiming, "No! truly, the man
exaggerates."... After that, one smiles,
one says: "He will take it off."... But
Monsieur de Bergerac never takes it off at
all.
LE BRET [shaking his head]. He wears
it always... and cuts down whoever
breathes a syllable in comment.
RAGUENEAU [proudly]. His blade is half
the shears of Fate! 
FIRST MARQUIS [shrugging his shoulders].
He will not come!
RAGUENEAU. He will. I wager you a
chicken a la Ragueneau.
FIRST MARQUIS [laughing]. Very well!
[Murmur of admiration in the house. RoxANE has appeared in her box. She takes
a seat in the front, her duenna at the
back. CHRISTIAN, engaged in paying the
SWEETMEAT VENDER, does not look.]
SECOND MARQUIS [uttering a series of
small squeals]. Ah, gentlemen, she is horrifically enticing!
FIRST MARQUIS. A strawberry set in a
peach, and smiling!
SECOND MARQUIS. So fresh, that being
near her, one might catch cold in his heart!
CHRISTIAN [looks up, sees ROXANE, and,
agitated, seizes LIGNIERE by the arm]. That
is she!
LIGNIERE [looking]. Ah, that is she!...
CHRISTIAN. Yes. Tell me at once....
Oh, I am afraid!...
LIGNIERE [sipping his wine slowly].
Magdeleine  Robin, surnamed   Roxane
Subtle. Euphuistic.
CHRISTIAN. Alack-a-day!
LIGNIERE. Unmarried. An orphan. A
cousin of Cyrano's... the one of whom
they were talking.




I


[While he is speaking, a richly dressed nobleman, wearing the order of the Holy
Ghost on a blue ribbon across his breast,
enters ROXANE'S box, and, without taking a seat, talks with her a moment.]
CHRISTIAN [starting]. That man?...
LIGNIERE [who is beginning to be tipsy,
winking]. He! H6! Comte de Guiche.
Enamored of her. But married to the
niece of Armand de Richelieu. Wishes to
manage a match between Roxane and certain sorry lord, one Monsieur de Valvert,
vicomte and... easy. She does not subscribe to his views, but De Guiche is powerful: he can persecute to some purpose a
simple commoner. But I have duly set
forth his shady machinations in a song
which... Ho! he must bear me a grudge!
The end was wicked... Listen!...
[He rises, staggering, and lifting his
glass, is about to sing.]
CHRISTIAN. No. Good-evening.
LIGNIERE. You are going?...
CHRISTIAN. To find Monsieur de Valvert.
LIGNIERE. Have a care. You are the
one who will get killed. [Indicating RoxANE by a glance.] Stay. Some one is
looking...
CHRISTIAN. It is true...
[He remains absorbed in the contemplation of ROXANE. The
pickpockets, seeing his abstracted
air, draw nearer to him.]
LIGNIERE. Ah, you are going to stay.
Well, ][ am going. I am thirsty! And I am
looked for... at all the public-houses!
[Exit unsteadily.]
LE BRET [who has made the circuit of the
house, returning toward RAGUENEAU, in a
tone of relief]. Cyrano is not here.
RAGUENEAU. And yet...
LE BRET. I will trust to Fortune he has
not seen the announcement.
THE AUDIENCE. Begin! Begin!
ONE OF THE MARQUISES [watching DE
GUICHE, who comes from ROXANE'S box, and
crosses the pit, surrounded by obsequious
satellites, among whom the VICOMTE DE
VALVERT]. Always a court about him, De
Guiche!




362


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


OTHER MARQUIS. Pf!... Another Gascon!
FIRST MARQUIS. A Gascon, of the cold
and supple sort. That sort succeeds. Believe me, it will be best to offer him our
duty.       [They approach DE GUICHE.]
SECOND MARQUIS. These admirable ribbons! What color, Comte de Guiche?
Should you call it Kiss-me-Sweet or...
Expiring Fawn?
DE GUICHE. This shade is called Sick
Spaniard.
FIRST MARQUIS. Appropriately called,
for shortly, thanks to your valor, the
Spaniard will be sick indeed, in Flanders!
DE GUICHE. I am going upon the stage.
Are you coming? [He walks toward the stage,
followed by all the MARQUISES and men of
quality. He turns and calls.] Valvert, come!
CHRISTIAN [who has been listening and
watching them, starts on hearing that name].
The vicomte!... Ah, in his face... in
his face I will fling my... [He puts his
hand to his pocket and finds the pickpocket's
hand. He turns.] Hein?
PICKPOCKET. Ai!
CHRISTIAN [without letting him go]. I
was looking for a glove.
PICKPOCKET [with an abject smile]. And
you found a hand. [In a different tone, low
and rapid.] Let me go... I will tell you
a secret.
CHRISTIAN [without releasing him]. Well?
PICKPOCKET. Ligniere who has just left
you...
CHRISTIAN [as above]. Yes?...
PICKPOCKET. Has not an hour to live.
A song he made annoyed one of the great,
and a hundred men - I am one of them -
will be posted to-night...
CHRISTIAN. A hundred?... By whom?
PICKPOCKET. Honor...
CHRISTIAN [shrugging his shoulders].
Oh!...
PICKPOCKET [with great dignity]. Among
rogues!
CHRISTIAN. Where will they be posted?
PICKPOCKET. At the Porte de Nesle, on
his way home. Inform him.
CHRISTIAN [letting him go]. But where
can I find him?
PICKPOCKET. Go to all the taverns: the


Golden Vat, the Pine-Apple, the Belt and
Bosom, the Twin Torches, the Three Funnels, and in each one leave a scrap of
writing warning him.
CHRISTIAN. Yes. I will run!... Ah, the
blackguards! A hundred against one!...
[Looks lovingly toward ROXANE.] Leave
her!... [Furiously, looking toward VALVERT.] And him!... But Ligniere must.
be prevented.             [Exit running.]
[DE GUICHE, the MARQUISES, all
the gentry have disappeared behind the curtain, to place themselves on the stage-seats. The pit
is crowded. There is not an
empty seat in the boxes or the
gallery.]
THE AUDIENCE. Begin!
A BURGHER [whose wig goes sailing off at
the end of a string held by one of the PAGES
in the upper gallery]. My wig!
SCREAMS OF DELIGHT. He is bald!...
The pages!..    Well done!... Ha, ha,
ha!...
THE BURGHER [furious, shaking his fist].
Imp of Satan!...
[Laughter and screams, beginning
very loud and decreasing suddenly. Dead silence.]
LE BRET [astonished]. This sudden
hush?... [One of the spectators whispers
in his ear.] Ah?...
THE SPECTATOR. I have it from a reliable quarter.
RUNNING    MURMURS.    Hush!... Has
he come?   No!... Yes, he has!... In
the box with the grating.... The cardinal!... the cardinal!... the cardinal!...
ONE OF THE PAGES. What a shame!...
Now we shall have to behave!
[Knocking on the stage. Complete
stillness. Pause.]
VOICE OF ONE OF THE MARQUISES [breaking the deep silence, behind the curtain].
Snuff that candle!
OTHER MARQUIS [thrusting his head out
between the curtains]. A chair!
[A chair is passed from hand to
hand, above the heads.   The
MARQUIS takes it and disappears, after kissing his hand repeatedly toward the boxes.]




CYRANO DE BERGERAC


363


A SPECTATOR. Silence!
[Once more, the three knocks. The
curtain opens. Tableau. The
MARQUISES seated at the sides,
in attitudes of languid haughtiness. The stage-setting is the
faint-colored bluish sort usual in
a pastoral. Four small crystal
candelabra light the stage. The
violins play softly.]
LE BRET [to RAGUENEAU, under breath].
Is Montfleury the first to appear?
RAGUEiEAU [likewise under breath]. Yes.
The opening lines are his.
LE BRET. Cyrano is not here.
RAGUENEAU. I have lost my wager.
LE BRET. Let us be thankful. Let us
be thankful.
[A bagpipe is heard. MONTFLEURY appears
upon the stage, enormous, in a conventional shepherd's costume, with a
rose-wreathed hat set jauntily on the side
of his head, breathing into a be-ribboned
bagpipe.]
THE PIT [applauding]. Bravo, Montfleury! Montfleury!
MONTFLEURY [after bowing, proceeds to
play the part of PH(EDO].
Happy the man who, freed from Fashion's
fickle sway,
In exile self-prescribed whiles peaceful
hours away;
Who when Zephyrus sighs amid the answering trees...
A VOICE [from the middle of the pit].
Rogue! Did I not forbid you for one
month?
[Consternation. Every one looks
around. Murmurs.]
VARIOUS VOICES. Hein? What? What
is the matter?
[Many in the boxes rise to see.]
CUIGY. It is he!
LE BRET [alarmed]. Cyrano!
THE VOICE. King of the Obese! Incontinently vanish!...
THE WHOLE AUDIENCE [indignant].
Oh!...
MONTFLEURY. But...
THE VOICE. You stop to muse upon the
matter?


SEVERAL VOICES [from the pit and the
boxes].  Hush!... Enough!... Proceed,
Montfleury.... Fear nothing!
MONTFLEURY [in an unsteady voice].
Happy the man who, freed from Fashion's f-...
THE VOICE [more threatening than before].
How is this? Shall I be constrained, Man
of the Monster Belly, to enforce my regulation... regularly?
[An arm holding a cane leaps above
the level of the heads.]
MONTFLEURY [in a voice growing fainter
and fainter].
Happy the man...
[The cane is wildly flourished.]
THE VOICE. Leave the stage!
THE PIT. Oh!...
MONTFLEURY [choking].
Happy the man who freed...
CYRANO [appears above the audience,
standing upon a chair, his arms folded on
his chest, his hat at a combative angle, his
moustache on end, his nose terrifying]. Ah!
I shall lose my temper!
[Sensation at sight of him.]
MONTFLEURY [to the MARQUISES]. Messieurs, I appeal to you!
ONE OF THE MARQUISES [languidly]. But
go ahead!... Play!
CYRANO. Fat man, if you attempt it, I
will dust the paint off you with this!
THE MARQUIS. Enough!
CYRANO. Let every little lordling keep
silence in his seat, or I will ruffle his ribbons
with my cane!
ALIL THE MARQUISES [rising]. This is
too much!... Montfleury....
CYRANO. Let Montfieury go home, or
stay, and, having cut his ears off, I will
disembowel him!
A VOICE. But...
CYRANO. Let him go home, I said!
OTHER VOICE. But after all...
CYRANO. It is not yet done? [With show
of turning up his sleeves.] Very well, upon
that stage, as on a platter trimmed with
green, you shall see me carve that mount
of brawn...
MONTFLEURY [calling up his whole dignity]. Monsieur, you cast indignity, in
my person, upon the Muse!




364


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


CYRANO [very civilly]. Monsieur, if that
lady, with whom you have naught to do,
had the pleasure of beholding you...
just as you stand, there, like a decorated
pot!... she could not live, I do protest,
but she hurled her buskin at you!
THE PIT. Montfleury!... Montfleury!... Give us Baro's piece!
CYRANO [to those shouting around him]. I
beg you will show some regard for my
scabbard: it is ready to give up the sword!
[The space around him widens.]
THE CROWD [backing away]. Hey..
softly, there!
CYRANO [to MONTFLEURY]. Go off!
THE CROWD [closing again, and grumbling]. Oh!.. Oh!
CYRANO [turning suddenly]. Has somebody objections?
[The crowd again pushes away from
him.]
A VOICE [at the back, singing].
Monsieur de Cyrano, one sees,
Inclines to be tyrannical;
In spite of that tyrannicle
We shall see La Clorise!
THE WHOLE AUDIENCE [catching up the
tune]. La Clorise! La Clorise!
CYRANO. Let me hear that song again,
and I will do you all to death with my
stick!
A BURGHER. Samson come back!...
CYRANO. Lend me your jaw, good man!
A LADY [in one of the boxes]. This is
unheard of!
A MAN. It is scandalous!
A BURGHER. It is irritating, to say no
more.
A PAGE. What fun it is!
THE   PIT.  Ksss!... Montfleury!...
Cyrano!...
CYRANO. Be still!...
THE PIT [in uproar]. Hee-haw!...
Baaaaah!... Bow-wow!... Cockadoodledoooooo!
CYRANO. I will...
A PAGE. Meeeow!
CYRANO. I order you to hold your
tongues!... I dare the floor collectively to
utter another sound!... I challenge you,
one and all!... I will take down your
names... Step forward, budding heroes!


Each in his turn. You shall be given numbers. Come, which one of you will open the
joust with me? You, monsieur? No! You?
No! The first that offers is promised all the
mortuary honors due the brave. Let all
who wish to die hold up their hands!
[Silence.] It is modesty that makes you
shrink from the sight of my naked sword?
Not a name? Not a hand? - Very good.
Then I proceed. [Turning toward the stage
where MONTFLEURY is waiting in terror.] As
I was saying, it is my wish to see the stage
cured of this tumor. Otherwise:.  [claps
hand to his sword] the lancet!
MONTFLEURY. I...
CYRANO [gets down from his chair, and
sits in the space that has become vacant
around him, with the ease of one at home].
Thrice will I clap my hands, 0 plenilune!
At the third clap... eclipse!
THE PIT [diverted]. Ah!...
CYRANO [clapping his hands]. One!...
MONTFLEURY. I...
A VOICE [from one of the boxes]. Do not
go!...
THE PIT. He will stay!.. He will
go!...
MONTFLEURY.' Messieurs, I feel...
CYRANO. Two!...
MONTFLEURY. I feel it will perhaps be
wiser...
CYRANO. Three!...
[MONTFLEURY disappears, as if
through a trap-door. Storm of
laughter, hissing, catcalls.]
THE HOUSE. Hoo!... Hoo!... Milksop!... Come back!...
CYRANO [beaming, leans back in his chair
and crosses his legs]. Let him come back,
if he dare!
A BURGHER. The spokesman of the
company!
[BELLEROSE comes forward on the stage
and bows.]
THE BOXES. Ah, there comes Bellerose!
BELLEROSE [with elegant bearing and
diction]. Noble ladies and gentlemen...
THE   PIT.  No! No! Jodelet... We
want Jodelet!...
JODELET [comes forward, speaks through
his nose]. Pack of swine!




CYRANO DE BERGERAC


365




THE PIT. That is right!.. Well said!. Bravo!
JODELET. Don't bravo me!... The
portly tragedian, whose paunch is your
delight, felt sick!...
THE PIT. He is a poltroon!...
JODELET. He was obliged to leave...
THE PIT. Let him come back!
SOME. No!
OTHERS. Yes!...
A YOUTH [to CYRANO]. But, when all is
said, monsieur, what good grounds have
you for hating Montfleury?
CYRANO [amiably, sitting as before].
Young gosling, I have two, whereof each,
singly, would be ample. Primo: He is an
execrable actor, who bellows, and with
grunts that would disgrace a water-carrier
launches the verse that should go forth as
if on pinions!... Secundo: is my secret.
THE OLD BURGHER [behind CYRANO].
But without compunction you deprive
us of hearing La Clorise. I am determined...
CYRANO [turning his chair around so as
to face the old gentleman; respectfully].
Venerable mule, old Baro's verses being
what they are, I do it without compunction, as you say.
THE PRECIEUSES [in the boxes]. Ha!...
Ho!... Our own    Baro!... My    dear,
did you hear that? How can such a thing
be said?... Ha!.. Ho!...
CYRANO [turning his chair so as to face
the boxes; gallantly]. Beautiful creatures,
do you bloom and shine, be ministers of
dreams, your smiles our anodyne. Inspire
poets, but poems... spare to judge!
BELLEROSE. But the money which must
be given back at the door!
CYRANO [turning his chair to face the
stage]. Bellerose, you have said the only
intelligent thing that has, as yet, been said!
Far from me to wrong by so much as a
fringe the worshipful mantle of Thespis....
[He rises and flings a bag upon the stage.]
Catch!... and keep quiet!
THE HOUSE [dazzled]. Ah!... Oh!...
JODELET [nimbly picking up the bag,
weighing it with his hand]. For such a
price, you are authorized, monsieur, to
come and stop the performance every day!




I


THE HOUSE. Hoo!... Hoo!...
JODELET. Should we be hooted in a
body!...
BELLEROSE. The house must be evacuated!
JODELET. Evacuate it!
[The audience begins to leave;
CYRANO looking on with a satisfied air. The crowd, however,
becoming interested in the following scene, the exodus is suspended. The women in the boxes
who were already standing and
had put on their wraps, stop to
listen and end by resuming their
seats.]
LE BRET [to CYRANO]. What you have
done... is mad!
A BORE. Montfleury!.. the eminent
actor!... What a scandal!... But the
Duc de Candale is his patron!..  Have
you a patron, you?
CYRANO. No!
THE BORE. You have not?
CYRANO. No!
THE BORE. What? You are not protected by some great nobleman under the
cover of whose name...
CYRANO [exasperated]. No, I have told
you twice. Must I say the same thing
thrice? No, I have no protector... [hand
on sword] but this will do.
THE BORE. Then, of course, you will
leave town.
CYRANO. That will depend.
THE BORE. But the Duc de Candale has
a long; arm...
CYRANO. Not so long as mine...
[pointing to his sword] pieced out with this!
THE BORE. But you cannot have the
presumption...
CYRANO. I can, yes.
THE BORE. But...
CYRANO. And now,.   face about!
THE BORE. But...
CYRANO. Face about, I say... or else,
tell me why you are looking at my nose.
THE BORE [bewildered]. I...
CYRANO [advancing upon him]. In what
is it unusual?
THE BORE [backing]. Your worship is
mistaken.






366


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


CYRANO [same business as above]. Is it
flabby and pendulous, like a proboscis?
THE BORE. I never said...
CYRANO. Or hooked like a hawk's beak?
THE BORE. I...
CYRANO. Do you discern a mole upon
the tip?
THE BORE. But...
CYRANO. Or is a fly disporting himself
thereon? What is there wonderful about
it?
THE BORE. Oh...
CYRANO. Is it a freak of nature?
THE BORE. But I had refrained from
casting so much as a glance at it!
CYRANO. And why, I pray, should you
not look at it?
THE BORE. I had...
CYRANO. So it disgusts you?
THE BORE. Sir...
CYRANO. Its color strikes you as unwholesome?
THE BORE. Sir...
CYRANO. Its shape, unfortunate?
THE BORE. But far from it!
CYRANO. Then wherefore that depreciating air?... Perhaps monsieur thinks
it a shade too large?
THE BORE. Indeed not. No, indeed.
I think it small... small, - I should have
said, minute!
CYRANO. What? How? Charge me
with such a ridiculous defect? Small, my
nose? Ho!...
THE BoRE. Heavens!
CYRANO. Enormous, my nose!... Contemptible stutterer, snub-nosed and flatheaded, be it known to you that I am
proud, proud of such an appendage! inasmuch as a great nose is properly the index
of an affable, kindly, courteous man, witty,
liberal, brave, such as I am! and such as
you are for evermore precluded from supposing yourself, deplorable rogue! For the
inglorious surface my hand encounters
above your ruff, is no less devoid -
[Strikes him.]
THE BORE. Ai! ai!...
CYRANO. Of pride, alacrity and sweep,
of perception and of gift, of heavenly
spark, of sumptuousness, to sum up all, of
NOSE, than that [turs him around by the


shoulders and suits the action to the word],
which stops my boot below your spine!
THE BORE [running off]. Help! The
watch!...
CYRANO. Warning to the idle who
might find entertainment in my organ of
smell.... And if the facetious fellow be
of birth, my custom is, before I let him go,
to chasten him, in front, and higher up,
with steel, and not with hide!
DE GUICHE [who has stepped down from
the stage with the MARQUISES]. He is becoming tiresome!
VALVERT [shrugging his shoulders]. It
is empty bluster!
DE GUICHE. Will no one take him up?
VALVERT. No one?... Wait! I will
have one of those shots at him! [He approaches CYRANO who is watching him, and
stops in front of him, in an attitude of silly
swagger.] Your... your nose is.. errr... Your nose... is very large!
CYRANO [gravely]. Very.
VALVERT [laughs]. Ha!...
CYRANO [imperturbable]. Is that all?
VALVERT. But...
CYRANO. Ah, no, young man, that is
not enough! You might have said, dear
me, there are a thousand things... varying the tone... For instance.. here
you are: - Aggressive: "I, monsieur, if I
had such a nose, nothing would serve but
I must cut it off!" Amicable: "It must
be in your way while drinking; you ought
to have a special beaker made!" Descriptive: "It is a crag!... a peak!...
a promontory!... A promontory, did I
say?... It is a peninsula!" Inquisitive:
"What may the office be of that oblong
receptacle? Is it an inkhorn or a scissorcase?"  Mincing: "Do you so dote on
birds, you have, fond as a father, been at
pains to fit the little darlings with a roost?"
Blunt: "Tell me, monsieur, you, when you
smoke, is it possible you blow the vapor
through your nose without a neighbor crying 'The chimney is afire'?" Anxious:
"Go with caution, I beseech, lest your head,
dragged over by that weight, should drag
you over!" Tender: "Have a little sunshade made for it! It might get freckled!"
Learned: "None but the beast, monsieur,




CYRANO DE BERGERAC


367




mentioned by Aristophanes, the hippocampelephantocamelos, can have borne
beneath his forehead so much cartilage and
bone!"  Off-hand: "What, comrade, is
that sort of peg in style? Capital to hang
one's hat upon!" Emphatic: "No wind
can hope, 0 lordly nose, to give the whole
of you a cold, but the Nor-Wester!" Dramatic: "It is the Red Sea when it bleeds!"
Admiring: "What a sign for a perfumer's
shop!" Lyrical: "Art thou a Triton, and
is that thy conch?" Simple: "A monument! When is admission free? " Deferent:
"Suffer, monsieur, that I should pay you
my respects: that is what I call possessing
a house of your own!" Rustic: "Hi, boys!
Call that a nose? Ye don't gull me! It's
either a prize carrot or else a stunted
gourd!"  Military: "Level against the
cavalry!" Practical: "Will you put it up
for raffle? Indubitably, sir, it will be the
feature of the game!" And finally in
parody of weeping Pyramus: "Behold,
behold the nose that traitorously destroyed the beauty of its master! and is
blushing for the same!" - That, my dear
sir, or something not unlike, is what you
would have said to me, had you the smallest leaven of letters or of wit; but of wit, 0
most pitiable of objects made by God, you
never had a rudiment, and of letters, you
have just those that are needed to spell
"fool!" - But, had it been otherwise, and
had you been possessed of the fertile fancy
requisite to shower upon me, here, in this
noble company, that volley of sprightly
pleasantries, still should you not have delivered yourself of so much as a quarter
of the tenth part of the beginning of the
first.... For I let off these good things at
myself, and with sufficient zest, but do
not suffer another to let them off at me!
DE GUICHE [attempting to lead away the
amazed vicomte]. Let be, vicomte!
VALVERT. That insufferable haughty
bearing!... A clodhopper without...
without so much as gloves... who
goes abroad without points... or bowknots!...
CYRANO. My foppery is of the inner
man. I do not trick myself out like a popinjay, but I am more fastidious, if I am




I


not so showy. I would not sally forth, by
any chance, not washed quite clean of an
affront; my conscience foggy about the
eye, my honor crumpled, my nicety blackrimmed. I walk with all upon me furbished bright. I plume myself with independence and straightforwardness. It is
not a handsome figure, it is my soul, I hold
erect as in a brace. I go decked with exploits in place of ribbon bows. I taper to
a point my wit like a moustache. And at
my passage through the crowd true sayings
ring like spurs!
VALVERT. But, sir...
CYR.ANO. I am without gloves?... a
mighty matter! I only had one left, of a
very ancient pair, and even that became
a burden to me... I left it in somebody's
face.
VALVERT. Villain, clod-poll, flat-foot,
refuse of the earth!
CYR.NO [taking off his hat and bowing
as if the VICOMTE had been introducing
himself].  Ah?...And  mine, CyranoSavinien-Hercule of Bergerac!
VALVERT [exasperated]. Buffoon!
CYRANO [giving a sudden cry, as if seized
with a cramp]. Ai!...
VALVERT [who had started toward the
back, turning]. What is he saying now?
CYRANO [screwing his face as if in pain].
It must have leave to stir... it has a
cramp! It is bad for it to be kept still so
long!
VALVERT. What is the matter?
CYRANO. My rapier prickles like a foot
asleep!'
VALVERT [drawing]. So be it!
CYRANO. I shall give you a charming
little hurt!
VALVERT [contemptuous]. A poet!
CYRANO. Yes, a poet,.. and to such
an extent, that while we fence, I will, hop!
extempore, compose you a ballade!
VALVERT. A ballade?
CYRANO. I fear you do not know what
that is.
VALVERT. But...
CYRANO [as if saying a lesson]. The ballade is composed of three stanzas of eight
lines each...
VALVERT [stamps with his feet]. Oh!.




368


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


CYRANO [continuing]. And an envoi of
four.
VALVERT. YOU...
CYRANO. I will with the same breath
fight you and compose one. And at the
last line, I will hit you.
VALVERT. Indeed you will not!
CYRANO. No?...          [Declaiming.]
Ballade of the duel which in Burgundy
House
Monsieur de Bergerac fought with a jackanapes.
VALVERT. And what is that, if you
please?
CYRANO. That is the title.
THE AUDIENCE [at the highest pitch of
excitement]. Make room!... Good sport!... Stand aside!... Keep still!...
[Tableau. A ring, in the pit, of the
interested; the MARQUISES and
OFFICERS scattered among the
BURGHERS and COMMON PEOPLE. The PAGES have climbed on
the shoulders of various ones, the
better to see. All the women are
standing in the boxes. At the
right, DE GUICHE and his attendant gentlemen. At left, LE
BRET, RAGUENEAU, CUIGY, etc.]
CYRANO [closing his eyes a second]. Wait.
I am settling upon the rhymes. There. I
have them.
[In declaiming, he suits the action
to the word.]
Of my broad felt made lighter,
I cast my mantle broad,
And stand, poet and fighter,
To do and to record.
I bow, I draw my sword...
En garde! with steel and wit
I play you at first abord...
At the last line, I hit!
[They begin fencing.]
You should have been politer;
Where had you best be gored?
The left side or the right - ah?
Or next your azure cord?
Or where the spleen is stored?
Or in the stomach pit?
Come we to quick accord...
At the last line, I hit!


You falter, you turn whiter?
You do so to afford
Your foe a rhyme in "iter"?..
You thrust at me - I ward -
And balance is restored.
Laridon! Look to your spit!...
No, you shall not be floored
Before my cue to hit!
[He announces solemnly.]
ENVOI
Prince, call upon the Lord!...
I skirmish... feint a bit...
I lunge!... I keep my word!
[The VICOMTE staggers; CYRANO bows.]
At the last line, I hit!
[Acclamations. Applause from
the boxes. Flowers and handkerchiefs are thrown. The OFFICERS surround and congratulate
CYRANO. RAGUENEAU dances
with delight. LE BRET is tearfully joyous and at the same
time  highly troubled.  The
friends of the VICOMTE support
him off the stage.]
THE CROWD [in a long shout]. Ah!...
A LIGHT-CAVALRY MAN. Superb!
A WOMAN. Sweet!
RAGUENEAU. Astounding!
A MARQUIS. Novel!
LE BRET. Insensate!
THE CROWD [pressing around CYRANO].
Congratulations!... Well done!...
Bravo!...
A WOMAN'S VOICE. He is a hero!
A MOUSQUETAIRE [striding swiftly toward CYRANO, with outstretched hand].
Monsieur, will you allow me? It was quite,
quite excellently done, and I think I know
whereof I speak. But, as a fact, I expressed my mind before, by making a huge
noise....                  [He retires.]
CYRANO [to CUIGY]. Who may the
gentleman be?
CUIGY. D'Artagnan.
LE BRET [to CYRANO, taking his arm].
Come, I wish to talk with you.
CYRANO. Wait till the crowd has thinned.
[To BELLEROSE.] I may remain?
BELLEROSE [deferentially]. Why, certainly!..    [Shouts are heard outide,]




CYRANO DE BERGERAC


369


JODELET [after looking]. They are hooting Montfleury.
BELLEROSE [solemnly]. Sic transit!...
[In a different tone, to the doorkeeper and
the candle snuffer.] Sweep and close.
Leave the lights. We shall come back,
after eating, to rehearse a new farce for
to-morrow.
[Exeunt JODELET and BELLEROSE,
after bowing very low to CYRANO.]
THE DOORKEEPER [to CYRANO]. Monsieur will not be going to dinner?
CYRANO. I?... No.
[The doorkeeper withdraws.]
LE BRET [to CYRANO]. And this, because?...
CYRANO [proudly]. Because... [in a
different tone, having seen that the doorkeeper is too far to overhear] I have not
a penny!
LE BRET [making the motion of flinging
a bag]. How is this? The bag of crowns...
CYRANO. Monthly remittance, thou
lastedst but a day!
LE BRET. And to keep you the remainder of the month?...
CYRANO. Nothing is left!
LE BRET. But then, flinging that bag,
what a child's prank!
CYRANO. But what a gesture!...
THE SWEETMEAT VENDER [coughing behind her little counter]. Hm!.. [CYRANO
and LE BRET turn toward her. She comes
timidly forward.] Monsieur, to know you
have not eaten... makes my heart ache.
[Pointing to the sweetmeat-stand.] I have
there all that is needed... [impulsively],
Help yourself!
CYRANO [taking off his hat]. Dear child,
despite my Gascon pride, which forbids
that I should profit at your hand by the
most inconsiderable of dainties, I fear too
much lest a denial should grieve you: I
will accept therefore... [He goes to the
stand and selects.]  Oh, a trifle!... A
grape off this... [She proffers the bunch,
he takes a single grape.]  No... one!
This glass of water... [She starts to pour
wine into it, he stops her.] No... clear!
And half a macaroon.
[He breaks in two the macaroon,
and returns half.]


LE BRET. This comes near being silly!
SWEETMEAT VENDER. Oh, you will take
something more!...
CYRANO. Yes. Your hand to kiss.
[He kisses the hand she holds out to
him, as if it were that of a princess.]
SWEETMEAT VENDER. Monsieur, I thank
you. [Curtseys.] Good-evening!  [Exit.]
CYRANO [to LE BRET]. I am listening.
[He establishes himself before the stand, sets
the macaroon before him.] Dinner! [does the
same with the glass of water]. Drink! [and
with the grape]. Dessert! [He sits down.]
La! let me begin! I was as hungry as a
wolf! [Eating.] You were saying?
LE BRET. That if you listen to none but
those great boobies and swashbucklers your
judgment will become wholly perverted.
Inquire, will you, of the sensible, concerning the effect produced to-day by your
prowesses.
CYRANO [finishing his macaroon]. Enormous!
LE BRET. The cardinal...
CYRANO [beaming]. He was there, the
cardinal?
LE BRET. Must have found what you
did...
CYRANO. To a degree, original.
LE BRET. Still...
CYRANO. He is a poet. It cannot be
distasteful to him wholly that one should
deal confusion to a fellow-poet's play.
LE BRET. But, seriously, you make too
many enemies!
CYRANO [biting into the grape]. How
many, thereabouts, should you think I
made to-night?
LE BRET. Eight and forty. Not mentioning the women.
CYRANO. Come, tell them overt
LE BRET. Montfleury, the old merchant,
De Guiche, the Vicomte, Baro, the whole
Academy...
CYRANO. Enough! You steep me in
bliss!
LE BRET. But whither will the road you
follow lead you? What can your object
be?
CYRANO. I was wandering aimlessly;
too many roads were open.. too many




370


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


I


resolves, too complex, allowed of being
taken. I took...
LE BRET. Which?
CYRANO. By far the simplest of them
all. I decided to be, in every matter, always, admirable!
LE BRET [shrugging his shoulders]. That
will do. - But tell me, will you not, the
motive - look, the true one! - of your dislike to Montfleury.
CYRANO [rising]. That old Silenus, who
has not seen his knees this many a year,
still believes himself a delicate desperate
danger to the fair. And as he struts and
burrs upon the stage, makes sheep's-eyes
at them with his moist frog's-eyes. And
I have hated him... oh, properly!...
since the night he was so daring as to
cast his glance on her... her, who -
Oh, I thought I saw a slug crawl over a
flower!
LE BRET [amazed]. Hey? What? Is it
possible?...
CYRANO [with a bitter laugh]. That I
should love? [In a different tone, seriously.]
I love.
LE BRET. And may one know?...
You never told me...
CYRANO.   Whom    I love?.. Come,
think a little. The dream of being beloved,
even by the beautiless, is made, to me, an
empty dream indeed by this good nose,
my forerunner ever by a quarter of an hour.
Hence, whom should I love?... It seems
superfluous to tell you!... I love...
it was inevitable!... the most beautiful
that breathes!
LE BRET. The most beautiful?...
CYRANO. No less, in the whole world!
And the most resplendent, and the most
delicate of wit, and among the goldenhaired... [with overwhelming despair]. Still
the superlative!
LE BRET. Dear me, what is this fair one?
CYRANO. All unawares, a deadly snare,
exquisite without concern to be so. A
snare of nature's own, a musk-rose, in
which ambush Love lies low. Who has
seen her smile remembers the ineffable!
There is not a thing so common but she
turns it into prettiness; and in the merest
nod or beck she can make manifest all the


attributes of a goddess. No, Venus! you
cannot step into your iridescent shell, nor,
Dian, you, walk through the blossoming
groves, as she steps into her chair and
walks in Paris!
LE BRET. Sapristi! I understand! It
is clear!
CYRANO. It is pellucid.
LE BRET. Magdeleine Robin, your
cousin?
CYRANO. Yes, Roxane.
LE BRET. But, what could be better?
You love her? Tell her so! You covered
yourself with glory in her sight a moment
since.
CYRANO. Look well at me, dear friend,
and tell me how much hope you think can
be justly entertained with this protuberance. Oh, I foster no illusions!... Sometimes, indeed, yes, in the violet dusk, I
yield, even I! to a dreamy mood. I penetrate some garden that lies sweetening the
hour. With my poor great devil of a nose
I sniff the April.... And as I follow with
my eyes some woman passing with some
cavalier, I think how dear would I hold
having to walk beside me, linked like that,
slowly, in the soft moonlight, such a one!
I kindle -I forget -and then... then
suddenly I see the shadow of my profile
upon the garden-wall!
LE BRET [touched]. My friend
CYRANO. Friend, I experience a bad
half hour sometimes, in feeling so unsightly... and alone.
LE BRET [in quick sympathy, taking his
hand]. You weep?
CYRANO. Ah, God forbid! That? Never!
No, that would be unsightly to excess!
That a tear should course the whole length
of this nose! Never, so long as I am accountable, shall the divine loveliness of
tears be implicated with so much gross
ugliness! Mark me well, nothing is so holy
as are tears, nothing! and never shall it be
that, rousing mirth through me, a single
one of them shall seem ridiculous!
LE BRET. Come, do not despond! Love
is a lottery.
CYRANO. [shaking his head]. No! I love
Cleopatra: do I resemble Caesar? I worship
Berenice: do I -Dut you in mind of Titus?


attributes of a goddess. No, Venus! you
cannot step into your iridescent shell, nor,
Dian, you, walk through the blossoming
groves, as she steps into her chair and
walks in Paris!
LE BRET. Sapristi! I understand! It
is clear!
CYRANO. It is pellucid.
LE BRET. Magdeleine Robin, your
cousin?
CYRANO. Yes, Roxane.
LE BRET. But, what could be better?
You love her? Tell her so! You covered
yourself with glory in her sight a moment
since.
CYRANO. Look well at me, dear friend,
and tell me how much hope you think can
be justly entertained with this protuberance. Oh, I foster no illusions!... Sometimes, indeed, yes, in the violet dusk, I
yield, even I! to a dreamy mood. I penetrate some garden that lies sweetening the
hour. With my poor great devil of a nose
I sniff the April.... And as I follow with
my eyes some woman passing with some
cavalier, I think how dear would I hold
having to walk beside me, linked like that,
slowly, in the soft moonlight, such a one!
I kindle -I forget -and then... then
suddenly I see the shadow of my profile
upon the garden-wall!
LE BRET [touched]. My friend...
CYRANO. Friend, I experience a bad
half hour sometimes, in feeling so unsightly... and alone.
LE BRET [in quick sympathy, taking his
hand]. You weep?
CYRANO. Ah, God forbid! That? Never!
No, that would be unsightly to excess!
That a tear should course the whole length
of this nose! Never, so long as I am accountable, shall the divine loveliness of
tears be implicated with so much gross
ugliness! Mark me well, nothing is so holy
as are tears, nothing! and never shall it be
that, rousing mirth through me, a single
one of them shall seem ridiculous!
LE BRET. Come, do not despond! Love
is a lottery.
CYRANO. [shaking his head]. No! I love
Cleopatra: do I resemble Caesar? I worship
Berenice: do I put you in mind of Titus?






CYRANO DE BERGERAC


37I


LE BRET. But your courage... and
your wit! - The little girl who but a moment ago bestowed on you that very modest meal, her eyes, you must have seen as
much, did not exactly hate you!
CYRANO [impressed]. That is true!
LE BRET. You see? So, then! - But
Roxane herself, in following your duel,
went lily-pale.
CYRANO. Lily-pale?...
LE BRET. Her mind, her heart as well,
are struck with wonder! Be bold, speak
to her, in order that she may...
CYRANO. Laugh in my face!... No,
there is but one thing upon earth I fear....
It is that.
THE DOORKEEPER [admitting the DUENNA
to CYRANO]. Monsieur, you are inquired
for.
CYRANO [seeing the DUENNA]. Ah, my
God!... her duenna!
THE DUENNA [with a great curtsey].
Somebody wishes to know of her valorous
cousin where one may, in private, see him.
CYRANO [upset]. See me?
THE DUENNA [with curtsey]. See you.
There are things for your ear.
CYRANO. There are...?
THE DUENNA [other curtsey]. Things.
CYRANO [staggering]. Ah, my God!...
THE DUENNA. Somebody intends, tomorrow, at the earliest roses of the dawn,
to hear Mass at Saint Roch.
CYRANO [upholds himself by leaning on
LE BRET]. Ah, my God!
THE DUENNA. That over, where might
one step in a moment, have a little talk?
CYRANO [losing his senses]. Where?...
I... But... Ah, my God!
THE DUENNA. Expedition, if you please.
CYRANO. I am casting about...
THE DUENNA. Where?
CYRANO. At... at... at Ragueneau's... the pastrycook's.
THE DUENNA. He lodges?
CYRANO. In... In Rue... Ah, my
God! my God!... St. Honore.
THE DUENNA [retiring]. We will be
there. Do not fail. At seven.
CYRANO. I will not fail. [Exit DUENNA.]
CYRANO [falling on LE BRET'S neck]. To
me... from her... a meeting!


LE BRET. Well, your gloom is dispelled?
CYRANO. Ah, to whatever end it may
be, she is aware of my existence!
LE BRET. And now you will be calm?
CYRANO [beside himself]. Now, I shall
be fulminating and frenetical! I want an
army all complete to put to rout! I have
ten hearts and twenty arms... I cannot now be suited with felling dwarfs to
earth.... [At the top of his lungs.] Giants
are what I want!
[During the last lines, on the stage
at the back, shadowy shapes of
players have been moving about.
The rehearsal has begun; the
fiddlers  have resumed  their
places.]
A VOICE [from the stage]. Hey! Psst!
Over there! A little lower. We are trying
to rehearse!
CYRANO [laughing]. We are going!
[He goes toward the back.]
[Through the street door, enter CUIGY,
BRISSAILLE, several OFFICERS supporting LIGNIERE in a state of complete
intoxication.]
CUIGY. Cyrano!
CYRANO. What is this?
CUIGY. A turdus vinaticus we are bringing you.
CYRANO   [recognizing him].  Ligniere!
Hey, what has happened to you?
CUIGY. He is looking for you.
BRISSAILLE. He cannot go home.
CYRANO. Why?
LIGNIIERE [in a thick voice, showing him
a bit of crumpled paper]. This note bids
me beware... A hundred men against
me... on account of lampoon... Grave
danger threatening me... Porte de Nesle... must pass it to get home. Let me
come and sleep under your roof.
CYRANO. A hundred, did you say? —
You shall sleep at home!
LIGNIARE [frightened]. But...
CYRANO [in a terrible voice, pointing to
the lighted lantern which the DOORKEEPER
stands swinging as he listens to this scene].
Take that lantern [LIGNIERE hurriedly takes
it] and walk!... I swear to tuck you in
your bed to-night myself. [To the OF



372


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


FICERS.] You, follow at a distance. You
may look on!
CUIGY. But a hundred men...
CYRANO. Are not one man too many
for my mood to-night!
[The players, in their several costumes, have stepped down from
the stage and come nearer.]
LE BRET. But why take under your
especial care...
CYRANO. Still Le Bret is not satisfied!
LE BRET. That most commonplace of
sots?
CYRANO [slapping LIGNIERE on the shoulder]. Because this sot, this cask of muscatel, this hogshead of rosolio, did once
upon a time a wholly pretty thing. On
leaving Mass, having seen her whom he
loved take holy-water, as the rite prescribes, he, whom the sight of water puts
to flight, ran to the holy-water bowl, and
stooping over, drank it dry....
AN ACTRESS [in the costume of soubrette].
Tiens, that was nice!
CYRANO. Was it not, soubrette?
THE SOUBRETTE [to the others]. But why
are they, a hundred, all against one poor
poet?
CYRANO. Let us start! [To the OFFICERS.] And you, gentlemen, when you
see me attack, whatever you may suppose
to be my danger, do not stir to second
me!
ANOTHER OF THE ACTRESSES [jumping
from the stage]. Oh, I will not miss seeing
this!
CYRANO. Come!
ANOTHER ACTRESS [likewise jumping
from the stage, to an elderly actor]. Cassandre, will you not come?
CYRANO. Come, all of you! the Doctor,
Isabel, Leander, all! and you shall lend,
charming fantastic swarm, an air of Italian
farce to the Spanish drama in view. Yes,
you shall be a tinkling heard above a roar,
like bells about a tambourine!
ALL THE WOMEN [in great glee]. Bravo!. Hurry!... A mantle!... A hood!
JODELET. Let us go!
CYRANO [to the fiddlers]. You will favor
us with a tune, messieurs the violinists!
[The fiddlers fall into the train. The


lighted candles which furnished
the footlights are seized and distributed.  The procession  becomes a torchlight procession.]
CYRANO. Bravo! Officers, beauty in
fancy dress, and, twenty steps ahead...
[he takes the position he describes]. I, by
myself, under the feather stuck, with her
own hand, by Glory, in my hat! Proud
as a Scipio trebly Nasica! - It is understood? Formal interdiction to interfere
with me! — We are ready? One! Two!
Three! Doorkeeper, open the door!
[The DOORKEEPER opens wide the
folding door. A picturesque corner of Old Paris appears, bathed
in moonlight.]
CYRANO. Ah!... Paris floats in dim
nocturnal mist..... The sloping blueish
roofs are washed with moonlight.... A
setting, exquisite indeed, offers itself for the
scene about to be enacted.... Yonder,
under silvery vapor wreathes, like a mysterious magic mirror, glimmers the Seine... And you shall see what you shall see!
ALL. To the Porte de Nesle!
CYRANO [standing on the threshold]. To
the Porte de Nesle! [Before crossing it,
he turns to the SOUBRETTE.] Were you not
asking, mademoiselle, why upon that solitary rhymster a hundred men were set?
[He draws his sword, and tranquilly.] Because it was well known he is a friend of
mine!                             [Exit.]
[To the sound of the violins, by the
flickering light of the candles, the
procession - LIGNIERE staggering at the head, the ACTRESSES
arm in arm with the OFFICERS,
the players capering behind,follows out into the night.]
CURTAIN
ACT SECOND
THE COOKSHOP OF POETS
RAGUENEAU'S shop, vast kitchen at the
corner of Rue St. Honor6 and Rue de
l'Arbre-Sec, which can be seen at the back,
through the glass door, gray in the early
dawn.




CYRANO DE BERGERAC


373


At the left, in front, a counter overhung
by a wrought-iron canopy from which geese,
ducks, white peacocks are hanging. In large
china jars, tall nosegays composed of the
simpler flowers, mainly sunflowers. On the
same side, in the middle distance, an
enormous fireplace, in front of which, between huge andirons, each of which supports a small iron pot, roasting meats drip
into appropriate pans.
At the right, door in the front wing. In
the middle distance, a staircase leading to
a loft, the interior of which is seen through
open shutters; a spread table lighted by
a small Flemish candelabrum, shows it to
be an eating-room. A wooden gallery continuing the stairway, suggests other similar
rooms to which it may lead.
In the centre of the shop, an iron hoop -
which can be lowered by means of a rope, -
to which large roasts are hooked.
In the shadow, under the stairway, ovens
are glowing. Copper molds and saucepans
are shining; spits turning, hams swinging,
pastry pyramids showing fair. It is the
early beginning of the workday. Bustling
of hurried scullions, portly cooks and young
cook's-assistants; swarming of caps decorated with hen feathers and guinea-fowl
wings. Wicker crates and broad sheets of
tin are brought in loaded with brioches and
tarts.
There are tables covered with meats and
cakes; others, surrounded by chairs, await
customers. In a corner, a smaller table,
littered with papers. At the rise of the curtain,
RAGUENEAU is discovered seated at this table,
writing with an inspired air, and counting
upon his fingers.
FIRST PASTRYCOOK [bringing in a tall
molded pudding]. Nougat of fruit!
SECOND PASTRYCOOK [bringing in the dish
he names]. Custard!
THIRD PASTRYCOOK [bringing in a fowl
roasted in its feathers]. Peacock!
FOURTH PASTRYCOOK [bringing in a tray
of cakes]. Mince-pies!
FIFTH PASTRYCOOK [bringing in a deep
earthen dish]. Beef stew!
RAGUENEAU [laying down his pen, and
looking up]. Daybreak already plates with


silver the copper pans! Time, Ragueneau,
to smother within thee the singing divinity!
The hour of the lute will come anon -
now is that of the ladle! [He rises; speaking to one of the cooks.] You, sir, be so
good as to lengthen this gravy,- it is too
thick!
THE COOK. How much?
RAGUENEAU. Three feet. [Goes farther.]
THE COOK. What does he mean?
FIRST PASTRYCOOK. Let me have the
tart!
SECOND PASTRYCOOK. The dumpling!
RAGUENEAU [standing before the fireplace]. Spread thy wings, Muse, and fly
further, that thy lovely eyes may not be
reddened at the sordid kitchen fire! [To
one of the cooks, pointing at some small
loaves of bread.] You have improperly
placed the cleft in those loaves; the
caesura belongs in the middle,- between
the hemistichs! [To another of the COOKS,
pointing at an unfinished pasty.] This
pastry palace requires a roof! [To a young
cook's apprentice, who, seated upon the
floor, is putting fowls on a spit.] And you,
on that long spit, arrange, my son, in
pleasing alternation, the modest pullet and
the splendid turkey-cock, - even as our
wise Malherbe alternated of old the greater
with the lesser lines, and so with roasted
fowls compose a poem!
ANOTHER APPRENTICE [coming forward
with a platter covered by a napkin]. Master,
in your honor, see what I have baked.... I hope you are pleased with it!
RAGUENEAU [ecstatic]. A lyre!
THE APPRENTICE. Of pie-crust!
RAGUENEAU [touched]. With candied
fruits!
THE APPRENTICE. And the strings, see,
- of spun sugar!
RAGUENEAU [giving him money]. Go,
drink my health! [Catching sight of LISE
who is entering.] Hush! My wife!...
Move on, and hide that money. [To LISE,
showing her the lyre, with a constrained
air.] Fine, is it not?
LISE. Ridiculous!
[She sets a pile of wrapping-paper
on the counter.]
RAGUENEAU.     Paper  bags?    Good




374


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


Thanks. [He examines them.] Heavens!
My beloved books! The masterpieces of
my friends, - dismembered, - torn! - to
fashion paper bags for penny pies! - Ah,
the abominable case is re-enacted of Orpheus and the Maenads!
LISE [drily]. And have I not an unquestionable right to make what use I can
of the sole payment ever got from your paltry scribblers of uneven lines?
RAGUENEAU. Pismire! Forbear to insult those divine, melodious crickets!
LISE. Before frequenting that low crew,
my friend, you did not use to call me a
Maenad, - no, nor yet a pismire!
RAGUENEAU. Put poems to such a use!
LISE. To that use and no other!
RAGUENEAU. If with poems you do this,
I should like to know, Madame, what you
do with prose!
[Two children have come into the
shop.]
RAGUENEAU. What can I do for you,
little ones?
FIRST CHILD. Three patties.
RAGUENEAU [waiting on them]. There
you are! Beautifully browned, and piping
hot.
SECOND CHILD. Please, will you wrap
them for us?
RAGUENEAU [starting, aside]. There goes
one of my bags! [To the children.] You
want them wrapped, do you? [He takes
one of the paper bags, and as he is about to
put in the patties, reads.] "No otherwise,
Ulysses, from  Penelope departing...."
Not this one! [He lays it aside and takes
another. At the moment of putting in the
patties, he reads.] "Phoebus of the aureate
locks..." Not that one!
[Same business.]
LISE [out of patience]. Well, what are
you waiting for?
RAGUENEAU. Here we are. Here we
are. Here we are. [He takes a third bag
and resigns himself.] The sonnet to Phyllis!... It is hard, all the same.
LISE. It is lucky you made up your
mind. [Shrugging her shoulders.] Nicodemus!
[She climbs on a chair and arranges
dishes on a sideboard.]


RAGUENEAU [taking advantage of her
back being turned, calls back the children
who had already reached the door]. Psst!... Children! Give me back the sonnet
to Phyllis, and you shall have six patties
instead of three! [The children give back
the paper-bag, joyfully take the patties and
exeunt. RAGUENEAU smoothes out the
crumpled paper and reads declaiming.]
"Phyllis! "... Upon that charming name,
a grease-spot!... "Phyllis!"...
[Enter brusquely CYRANO.]
CYRANO. What time is it?
RAGUENEAU [bowing with eager deference]. Six o'clock.
CYRANO [with emotion]. In an hour!
[He comes and goes in the shop.]
RAGUENEAU [following him]. Bravo! I
too was witness...
CYRANO. Of what?
RAGUENEAU. Your fight.
CYRANO. Which?
RAGUENEAU. At the Hotel de Bourgogne.
CYRANO [with disdain]. Ah, the duel!
RAGUENEAU [admiringly]. Yes, - the
duel in rhyme.
LISE. He can talk of nothing else.
CYRANO. Let him!... It does no harm.
RAGUENEAU [thrusting with a spit he has
seized]. "At the last line, I hit!" "At the
last line I hit!" - How fine that is! [With
growing enthusiasm.] "At the last line, I "CYRANO. What time, Ragueneau?
RAGUENEAU [remaining fixed in the attitude of thrusting, while he looks at the clock].
Five minutes past six. —"I hit!" [He
recovers from his duelling posture.] Oh, to
be able to make a ballade!
LISE [to CYRANO, who in passing her
counter has absentmindedly shaken hands
with her]. What ails your hand?
CYRANO. Nothing. A scratch.
RAGUENEAU. You have been exposed to
some danger?
CYRANO. None whatever.
LISE [shaking her finger at him]. I fear
that is a fib!
CYRANO. From the swelling of my
nose? The fib in that case must have been
good-sized.... [In a different tone.] I am




CYRANO DE BERGERAC


375


expecting some one. You will leave us
alone in here.
RAGUENEAU. But how can I contrive it?
My poets shortly will be coming...
LISE [ironically]. For breakfast!
CYRANO. When I sign to you, you will
clear the place of them. - What time is it?
RAGUENEAU. It is ten minutes past six.
CYRANO [seating himself nervously at
RAGUENEAU'S table and helping himself to
paper]. A pen?
RAGUENEAU [taking one from behind his
ear, and offering it]. A swan's quill.
A MOUSQUETAIRE [with enormous moustachios, enters; in a stentorian voice]. Goodmorning!
[LISE goes hurriedly to him, toward the back.]
CYRANO [turning]. What is it?
RAGUENEAU. A friend of my wife's, -
a warrior, - terrible, from his own report.
CYRANO [taking up the pen again, and
waving RAGUENEAU away]. Hush!...
[To himself.] Write to her,...fold the
letter,... hand it to her,... and make
my escape.... [Throwing down the pen.]
Coward!... But may I perish if I have
the courage to speak to her,... to say a
single word.... [To RAGUENEAU.] What
time is it?
RAGUENEAU. A quarter past six.
CYRANO [beating his breast]. A single
word of all I carry here!... Whereas
in writing... [He takes up thf pen again.]
Come, let us write it then, in very deed,
the love-letter I have written in thought so
many times, I have but to lay my soul beside my paper, and copy!    [He writes.]
[Beyond the glass door, shadowy
lank hesitating shabby forms
are seen moving.]
[Enter the POETS, clad in black, with hanging
hose, sadly mudsplashed.]
LISE [coming forward, to RAGUENEAU].
Here they come, your scarecrows!
FIRST POET [entering, to RAGUENEAU].
Brother in art!...
SECOND POET [shaking both RAGUENEAU'S
hands]. Dear fellow-bard....
THIRD PORT. Eagle of pastrycooks,
[sniffs the air], your eyrie smells divine!


FOURTH POET. Phoebus turned baker!
FIFTH POET. Apollo master-cook!
RAGUENEAU     [surrounded,  embraced,
shaken by the hand]. How at his ease a
man feels at once with them!
FIRST POET. The reason we are late, is
the crowd at the Porte de Nesle!
SECOND POET. Eight ugly ruffians,
ripped open with the sword, lie weltering
on the pavement.
CYRANO [raising his head a second].
Eight? I thought there were only seven.
[Goes on with his letter.]
RAGUENEAU [to CYRANO]. DO yOU happen to know who is the hero of this event?
CYRANO [negligently]. I?... No.
LISE [to the MOUSQUETA:[RE]. Do you?
THE MOUSQUETAIRE [turning up the ends
of his moustache]. Possibly!
CYRANO [writing; from time to time he is
heard murmuring a word or two].... "I
love you..."
FIRST POET. A single man, we were
told, put a whole gang to flight!
SECOND POET. Oh, it was a rare sight!
The ground was littered with pikes, and
cudgels...
CYRANO [writing].... "Your eyes... "
THIRD POET. Hats were strewn as far
as the Goldsmiths' square!
FIRST POET. Sapristi! He must have
been a madman of mettle...
CYRANO [as above]. "... your lips..."
FIRST POET. An infuriate giant, the
doer of that deed!
CYRANO   [same business].  "... but
when I see you, I come near to swooning
with a tender dread... "
SECOND POET [snapping up a tart]. What
have you lately written, Ragueneau?
CYRANO [same business]   "... who
loves you devotedly..." [In the act of
signing the letter, he stops, rises, and tucks
it inside his doublet.] No need to sign it.
I deliver it myself.
RAGUENEAU [to SECOND POET]. I have
rhymed a recipe.
THIRD POET [establishing himself beside
a tray of cream puffs]. Let us hear this
recipe!
FOURTH POET [examining a brioche of
which he has possessed himself]. It should




376


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


not wear its cap so saucily on one side...
it scarcely looks well!...
[Bites off the top.]
FIRST POET. See, the spice-cake there,
ogling a susceptible poet with eyes of almond under citron brows!...
[He takes the spice cake.]
SECOND POET. We are listening!
THIRD POET [slightly squeezing a cream
puff between his fingers]. This puff creams
at the mouth.... I water!
SECOND POET [taking a bite out of the
large pastry lyre]. For once the Lyre will
have filled my stomach!
RAGUENEAU [who has made ready to recite, has coughed, adjusted his cap, struck
an attitude]. A recipe in rhyme!
SECOND POET [to FIRST POET, nudging
him]. Is it breakfast, with you?
FIRST POET [to SECOND POET]. And with
you, is it dinner?
RAGUENEAU. How Almond Cheese-Cakes
should be made.
Briskly beat to lightness due,
Eggs, a few;
With the eggs so beaten, beatNicely strained for this same use, -
Lemon-juice,
Adding milk of almonds, sweet.
With fine pastry dough, rolled flat,
After that,
Line each little scalloped mold;
Round the sides, light-fingered, spread
Marmalade;
Pour the liquid eggy gold,
Into each delicious pit;
Prison it
In the oven, - and, bye and bye,
Almond cheese-cakes will in gay
Blond array
Bless your nostril and your eye!
THE POETS [their mouths full]. Exquisite!... Delicious!
ONE OF THE POETS [choking]. Humph!
[They go toward the back, eating.
CYRANO, who has been watching
them, approaches RAGUENEAU.]
CYRANO. While you recite your works
to them, have you a notion how they
stuff?


RAGUENEAU [low, with a smile]. Yes, I
see them... without looking, lest they
should be abashed. I get a double pleasure
thus from saying my verses over: I satisfy
a harmless weakness of which I stand convicted, at the same time as giving those
who have not fed a needed chance to
feed!
CYRANO [slapping him on the shoulder].
You,... I like you! [RAGUENEAU joins
his friends. CYRANO looks after him; then,
somewhat sharply.] Hey, Lise! [LISE, absorbed in tender conversation with the
MOUSQUETAIRE, starts and comes forward
toward CYRANO.] Is that captain... laying siege to you?
LISE [offended]. My eyes, sir, have ever
held in respect those who meant hurt to
my character....
CYRANO. For eyes so resolute... I
thought yours looked a little lanquishing!
LISE [choking with anger]. But...
CYRANO [bluntly]. I like your husband.
Wherefore, Madame Lise, I say he shall
not be sc... horned!
LISE. But...
CYRANO [raising his voice so as to be heard
by the MOUSQUETAIRE]. A word to the
wise!
[He bows to the MOUSQUETAIRE,
and after looking at the clock, goes
to the door at the back and stands
in watch.]
LISE [to Fhe MOUSQUETAIRE, who has
simply returned CYRANO'S bow]. Really... I am astonished at you.... Defy
him... to his face!
THE MOUSQUETAIRE. To his face, indeed!... to his face!...
[He quickly moves off. LISE follows
him.]
CYRANO [from the door at the back, signalling to RAGUENEAU that he should clear
the room]. Pst!...
RAGUENEAU [urging the POETS toward
the door at the right]. We shall be much
more comfortable in there....
CYRANO [impatiently]. Pst!... Pst!...
RAGUENEAU [driving along the POETS]. I
want to read you a little thing of mine....
FIRST POET [despairingly, his mouth full].
But the provisions....




CYRANO DE BERGERAC


377


SECOND POET. Shall not be parted from
us!
[They follow RAGUENEAU in procession, after making a raid on
the eatables.]
CYRANO. If I feel that there is so much
as a glimmer of hope... I will out with
my letter!...
[ROXANE, masked, appears behind the glass
door, followed by the DUENNA.]
CYRANO [instantly opening the door].
Welcome! [Approaching the DUENNA.]
Madame, a word with you!
THE DUENNA. A dozen.
CYRANO. Are you fond of sweets?
THE DUENNA. TO the point of indigestion!
CYRANO [snatching some paper bags off
the counter]. Good. Here are two sonnets
of Benserade's...
THE DUENNA. Pooh!
CYRANO. Which I fill for you with
grated almond drops.
THE DUENNA [with a different expression].
Ha!
CYRANO. Do you look with favor upon
the cate they call a trifle?
THE DUENNA. I affect it out of measure,
when it has whipped cream inside.
CYRANO. Six shall be yours, thrown in
with a poem by Saint-Amant. And in
these verses of Chapelain I place this wedge
of fruit-cake, light by the side of them...
Oh! And do you like tarts... little jam
ones... fresh?
THE DUENNA. I dream of them at night!
CYRANO [loading her arms with crammed
paper bags]. Do me the favor to go and
eat these in the street.
THE DUENNA. But...
CYRANO [pushing her out]. And do not
come back till you have finished! [He closes
the door upon her, comes forward toward
ROXANE, and stands, bareheaded, at a respectful distance.]  Blessed forevermore
among all hours the hour in which, remembering that so lowly a being still
draws breath, you were so gracious as to
come to tell me... to tell me?...
ROXANE [who has removed her mask].
First of all, that I thank you. For that


churl, that coxcomb yesterday, whom you
taught manners with your sword, is the
one whom a great nobleman, who fancies
himself in love with me...
CYRANO. De Guiche?
ROXANE [dropping her eyes]. Has tried
to force upon me as a husband.
CYRANO. Honorary? [Bowing.] It appears, then, that I fought, and I am glad
of it, not for my graceless nose, but your
thrice-beautiful eyes.
ROXANE. Further than that.. I
wished... But, before I can make the
confession I have in mind to make, I must
find in you once more the... almost
brother, with whom as a child I used to
play, in the park - do you remember? -
by the lake!
CYRANO. I have not forgotten. Yes...
you came every summer to Bergerac.
ROXANE. You used to fashion lances out
of reeds...
CYRANO. The silk of the tasselled corn
furnished hair for your doll...
ROXANE. It was the time of long delightful games...
CYRANO. And somewhat sour berries...
ROXANE. The time when you did everything I bade you!
CYRANO. Roxane, wearing short frocks,
was known as Magdeleine.
ROXANE. Was I pretty in those days?
CYRANO. You were not ill-looking.
ROXANE. Sometimes, in your venturesome climbings you used;o hurt yourself.
You would come running to me, your hand
bleeding. And, playing at being your
mamma, I would harden my voice and
say... [She takes his hand.] "Will you
never keep out of mischief?" [She stops
short, amazed.] Oh, it is too much! Here
you have done it again! [CYRANO tries to
draw back his hand.] No! Let me look at it!.. Are n't you ashamed? A great boy like
you!... How did this happen, and where?
CYRANO. Oh, fun... near the Porte
de Nesle.
ROXANE [sitting down at a table and dipping her handkerchief into a glass of water].
Let me have it.
CYRANO [sitting down tool. So prettily,
so cheeringly maternal!




378


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


ROXANE. And tell me, while I wash this
naughty blood away... with how many
were you fighting?
CYRANO. Oh, not quite a hundred.
ROXANE. Tell me about it.
CYRANO. No. What does it matter?
You tell me, you... what you were going
to tell me before, and did not dare...
ROXANE [without releasing his hand]. I
do dare, now. I have breathed in courage
with the perfume of the past. Oh, yes,
now I dare. Here it is. There is some one
whom I love.
CYRANO. Ah!...
ROXANE. Oh, he does not know it.
CYRANO. Ah!...
ROXANE. As yet....
CYRANO. Ah!...
ROXANE. But if he does not know it, he
soon will.
CYRANO. Ah!...
ROXANE. A poor boy who until now
has loved me timidly, from a distance,
without daring to speak....
CYRANO. Ah!...
ROXANE. No, leave me your hand. It
is hot, this will cool it.... But I have
read his heart in his face.
CYRANO. Ah!...
ROXANE [completing the bandaging of his
hand with her small pocket-handkerchief].
And, cousin, is it not a strange coincidence
-that he should serve exactly in your
regiment!
CYRANO. Ah!...
ROXANE [laughing]. Yes. He is a cadet,
in the same company!
CYRANO. Ah!...
ROXANE. He bears plain on his forehead
the stamp of wit, of genius! He is proud,
noble, young, brave, handsome....
CYRANO [rising, pale]. Handsome!...
ROXANE. What... what is the matter?
CYRANO. With me?... Nothing!...
It is... it is... [Showing his hand, smiling.] You know!... It smarts a little...
ROXANE. In short, I love him. I must
tell you, however, that I have never seen
him save at the play.
CYRANO. Then you have never spoken
to each other?
ROXANE. Only with our eyes.


CYRANO. But, then... how can you
know?...
ROXANE. Oh, under the lindens of Place
Royale, people will talk. A trustworthy
gossip told me many things!
CYRANO. A cadet, did you say?
ROXANE. A cadet, in your company.
CYRANO. His name?
ROXANE. Baron Christian de Neuvillette.
CYRANO. What? He is not in the cadets.
ROXANE. He is! He certainly is, since
morning. Captain Carbon de CastelJaloux.
CYRANO. And quickly, quickly, she
throws away her heart!... But my poor
little girl...
THE DUENNA [opening the door at the
back]. Monsieur de Bergerac, I have eaten
them, every one!
CYRANO. Now read the poetry printed
upon the bags! [The DUENNA disappears.]
My poor child, you who can endure none
but the choicest language, who savor eloquence and wit,... if he should be a barbarian!
ROXANE. No! no!... He has hair like
one of D'Urfe's heroes!
CYRANO. If he had on proof as homely
a wit as he has pretty hair!
ROXANE. NO! No!... I can see at a
single glance, his utterances are fine,
pointed...
CYRANO. Ah, yes! A man's utterances
are invariably like his moustache!...
Still, if he were a ninny?...
ROXANE [stamping with her foot]. I
should die, there!
CYRANO [after a time]. You bade me
come here that you might tell me this? I
scarcely see the appropriateness, madame.
ROXANE. Ah, it was because some one
yesterday let death into my soul by telling
me that in your company you are all Gascons,... all!
CYRANO. And that we pick a quarrel
with every impudent fledgling, not Gascon,
admitted by favor to our thoroughbred
Gascon ranks? That is what you heard?
ROXANE. Yes, and you can imagine how
distracted I am for him!
CYRANO [in his teeth]. You well may be!




CYRANO DE BERGERAC


379


ROXANE. But I thought, yesterday,
when you towered up, great and invincible,
giving his due to that miscreant, standing
your ground against those caitiffs, I thought
"Were he but willing, he of whom all are
in awe..."
CYRANO. Very well, I will protect your
little baron.
ROXANE. Ah, you will... you will
protect him for me?... I have always
felt for you the tenderest regard!
CYRANO. Yes, yes.
ROXANE. You will be his friend?
CYRANO. I will!
ROXANE. And never shall he have to
fight a duel?
CYRANO. I swear it.
ROXANE. Oh, I quite love you!.
Now I must go. [She hurriedly resumes
her mask, throws a veil over her head; says
absentmindedly.] But you have not yet
told me about last night's encounter. It
must have been amazing!... Tell him to
write to me. [She kisses her hand to him.]
I love you dearly!
CYRANO. Yes, yes.
ROXANE. A hundred men against you?... Well, adieu. We are fast friends.
CYRANO. Yes, yes.
ROXANE. Tell him to write me!... A
hundred men! You shall tell me another
time. I must not linger now... A hundred men! What a heroic thing to do!
CYRANO [bowing]. Oh, I have done better
since!
[Exit ROXANE. CYRANO stands
motionless, staring at the ground.
Silence. The door at the right
opens. RAGUENEAU thrusts in
his head.]
RAGUENEAU. May we come back?
CYRANO [without moving]. Yes...
[RAGUENEAU beckons, his friends come in
again. At the same time, in the doorway
at the back, appears CARBONDE CASTELJALOUX, costume of a Captain of the
Guards. On seeing CYRANO, he gesticulates exaggeratedly by way of signal to
some one out of sight.]
CARBON DE CASTEL-JALOUX. He is here!
CYRANO [looking up]. Captain!


CARBON DE CASTEL-JALOUX [exultant].
Hero! We know all!... About thirty of
my cadets are out there!...
CYRANO [drawing back]. But...
CARBON DE CASTEL-JALOUX [trying to
lead him off]. Come!... You are in request!
CYRANO. No!
CARBON DE CASTEL-JALOUX. They are
drinking across the way, at the Cross of
the Hilt.
CYRANO. I...
CARBON DE CASTEL-JALOUX [going to the
door and shouting toward the street corner,
in a voice of thunder]. The hero refuses.
He is not in the humor!
A VOICE [outside]. Ah, sandious!...
[Tumult outside, noise of clanking
swords and of boots drawing
nearer.]
CARBON DE CASTEL-JALOUX [rubbing his
hands]. Here they come, across the
street...
THE CADETS [entering the cookshop].
Mille dious!... Capdedious!.... Mordious!... Pocapdedious!...
RAGUENEAU [backing in alarm]. Messieurs, are you all natives of Gascony?
THE CADETS. All!
ONE OF THE CADETS [to CYRANO]. Bravo!
CYRANO. Baron!
OTHER CADET [shaking both CYRANO'S
hands]. Vivat!
CYRANO. Baron!
THIRD CADET. Let me hug you to my
heart!
CYRANO. Baron!
SEVERAL GASCONS. Let us hug him!
CYRANO [not knowing which one to answer]. Baron!... baron!... your pardon!
RAGUENEAU. Messieurs, are you all
barons?
THE CADETS. All!
RAGUENEAU. Are they truly?
FIRST CADET. Our coats of arms piled
up would dwindle in the clouds!
LE BRET [entering, running to CYRANO].
They are looking for you! A crowd, gone
mad as March, led by those who were with
you last night.
CYRANO [alarmed]. Ycu never told them
where to find me?...
LE BRET [rubbing his hands]. I did.




380


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


A BURGHER [entering, followed by a
number of others]. Monsieur, the Marais
is coming in a body!
[The street outside has filled with
people. Sedan-chairs, coaches
stop before the door.]
LE BRET [smiling, low to CYRANO]. And
Roxane?
CYRANO [quickly]. Be quiet!
THE CROWD [outside]. Cyrano!
[A rabble bursts into the cookshop.
Confusion. Shouting.]
RAGUENEAU [standing upon a table]. My
shop is invaded! They are breaking
everything! It is glorious!
PEOPLE [pressing round CYRANO]. My
friend... my friend....
CYRANO. I had not so many friends...
yesterday!
LE BRET. This is success!
A YOUNG MARQUIS [running toward
CYRANO, with outstretched hands]. If you
knew, my dear fellow...
CYRANO. Dear?... Fellow?
Where was it we stood sentinel together?
OTHER MARQUIS. 1 wish to present you,
sir, to several ladies, who are outside in
my coach....
CYRANO [coldly]. But you, to me, by
whom will you first be presented?
LE BRET [astonished]. But what is the
matter with you?
CYRANO. Be still!
A MAN OF LETTERS [with an inkhorn].
Will you kindly favor me with the details
of...
CYRANO. No.
LE BRET [nudging him]. That is Theophrastus Renaudot, the inventor of the
gazette.
CYRANO. Enough!
LE BRET. A sheet close packed with various information! It is an idea, they say,
likely to take firm root and flourish!
A POET [coming forward]. Monsieur...
CYRANO. Another!
THE POET. I am anxious to make a pentacrostic on your name.
SOMEBODY ELSE [likewise approaching
CYRANO]. Monsieur...
CYRANO. Enough, I say!
[At the gesture of impatience which


CYRANO cannot repress, the
crowd draws away.]
[DE GUICHE appears, escorted by officers;
among them CUIGY, BRISSAILLE, those
who followed CYRANO at the end of
the first act. CUIGY hurries toward
CYRANO.]
CUIGY [to CYRANO]. Monsieur de Guiche!
[Murmurs. Every one draws back.] He
comes at the request of the Marshal de
Gaussion.
DE GUICHE [bowing to CYRANO]. Who
wishes to express his admiration for your
latest exploit, the fame of which has
reached him.
THE CROWD. Bravo!
CYRANO [bowing]. The Marshal is qualified to judge of courage.
DE GUICHE. He would scarcely have
believed the report, had these gentlemen
not been able to swear they had seen the
deed performed.
CUIGY. With our own eyes!
LE BRET [low to CYRANO, who wears an
abstracted air]. But...
CYRANO. Be silent!
LE BRET. You appear to be suffering...
CYRANO [starting, and straightening himself]. Before these people?... [His moustache bristles; he expands his chest.] I...
suffering?... You shall see!
DE GUICHE [in whose ear CUIGY has been
whispering]. But this is by no means the
first gallant achievement marking your
career. You serve in the madcap Gascon
company, do you not?
CYRANO. In the cadets, yes.
ONE OF THE CADETS [in a great voice].
Among his countrymen!
DE GUICHE [considering the GASCONt 'n
line behind CYRANO]. Ah, ha!- All tetse
gentlemen then of the formidable syi.,,
are the famous... 
CARBON DE CASTEL-JALOUX. Cy.
CYRANO. Captain?..., a
CARBON DE CASTEL-JALOUX. M     P.:gol:
pany, I believe, is here in total.  qm
obliging as to present it to the Count. T
CYRANO [taking a step toward DE GUICHE,
and pointing at the CADETS].  JO 




CYRANO DE BERGERAC


38I


-


They are the Gascony Cadets
Of Carbon de Castel-Jaloux;
Famed fighters, liars, desperates,
They are the Gascony Cadets!
All, better-born than pickpockets,
Talk couchant, rampant,... pendent, too!
They are the Gascony Cadets
Of Carbon de Castel-Jaloux!
Cat-whiskered, eyed like falconets,
Wolf-toothed and heron-legged, they hew
The rabble down that snarls and threats...
Cat-whiskered, eyed like falconets!
Great pomp of plume hides and offsets
Holes in those hats they wear askew...
Cat-whiskered, eyed like falconets,
They drive the snarling mob, and hew!
The mildest of their sobriquets
Are Crack-my-crown and Run-me-through,
Mad drunk on glory Gascon gets!
These boasters of soft sobriquets
Wherever rapier rapier whets
Are met in punctual rendezvous....
The mildest of their sobriquets
Are Crack-my-crown and Run-me-through!
They are the Gascony Cadets
That give the jealous spouse his due!
Lean forth, adorable coquettes,
They are the Gascony Cadets,
With plumes and scarfs and aigulets!
The husband gray may well look blue....
They are the Gascony Cadets
That give the jealous spouse his due!
DE GUICHE [nonchalantly seated in an
armchair which RAGUENEAU has hurriedly
brought for him]. A gentleman provides
himself to-day, by way of luxury, with a
poet. May I look upon you as mine?
t(YRANO. No, your lordship, as nobody's.
O:E GUICHE. My uncle Richelieu yesterd? found your spontaneity diverting. I.,>jil be pleased to be of use to you with!Oa ':RET [dazzled]. Great God!
)1 GUICHE. I cannot think I am wrong;. apposing that you have rhymed a
g.. ty?
LE BRET [whispering to CYRANO]. My
boy, ymur Agrippina will be played!
Dn   JICHE. Take it to him....




I


CYRANO [tempted and pleased]. Really...
DE GUICHE. He has taste in such matters. He will no more than, here and
there, alter a word, recast a passage....
CYRANO [whose face has instantly darkened]. Not to be considered, monsieur!
My blood runs cold at the thought of a
single comma added or suppressed.
DE GUICHE. On the other hand, my dear
sir, when a verse finds favor with him, he
pays for it handsomely.
CYRANO. He scarcely can pay me as I
pay myself, when I have achieved a verse
to my liking, by singing it over to myself!
DE GUICHE. You are proud.
CYRANO. You have observed it?
ONE OF THE CADETS [coming in with a
number of disreputable, draggled tattered
hats threaded on his sword]. Look, Cyrano!
at the remarkable feathered game we
secured this morning near the Porte de
Nesle! The hats of the fugitives!
CARBON DE CASTEL-JALOUX. SpoliUa
opime!
ALL [laughing]. Ha! Ha! Ha!...
CUIGY. The one who planned that military action, my word! must be proud of
it to-day!
BRISSAILLE. Is it known who did it?
DE GUICHE. I! - [Tie laughter stops
short.] They had instructions to chastise
— a matter one does not attend to in
person, - a drunken scribbler.
[Constrained silence.]
THE CADET [under breath, to CYRANO, indicating the hats]. What can we do with
them?   They are oily.... Make them
into a hotch pot?
CYRANO [taking the sword with the hats,
and bowing, as he shakes them off at DE
GUICHE'S feet]. Monsieur, if you should
care to return them to your friends?...
DE GUICHE [rises, and in a curt tone].
My chair and bearers, at once. [To
CYRANO, violently.] As for you, sir...
A VOICE [in the street, shouting]. The
chairmen of Monseigneur the Comte de
Guiche!
DE GUICHE [who has recovered control
over himself, with a smile]. Have you
read Don Quixote?




382


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


CYRANO. I have. And at the name of
that divine madman, I uncover...
DE GUICHE. My advice to you is to
ponder...
A CHAIRMAN [appearing at the back].
The chair is at the door!
DE GUICHE. The chapter of the wind
mills.
CYRANO [bowing]. Chapter thirteen.
DE GUICHE. For when a man attacks
them, it often happens...
CYRANO. I have attacked, am I to infer,
a thing that veers with every wind?
DE GUICHE. That one of their far-reaching canvas arms pitches him down into
the mud!
CYRANO. Or up among the stars!
[Exit DE GUICHE. He is seen getting into his chair. The gentlemen withdraw whispering. LE
BRET goes to the door with them.
The crowd leaves. The CADETS
remain seated at the right and
left at tables where food and drink
is brought to them.]
CYRANO [bowing with a derisive air to
those who leave without daring to take leave
of him]. Gentlemen... gentlemen...
gentlemen....
LE BRET [coming forward, greatly distressed, lifting his hands to Heaven]. Oh,
in what a pretty pair of shoes...
CYRANO. Oh, you!... I expect you
to grumble!
LE BRET. But yourself, you will agree
with me that invariably to cut the throat of
opportunity becomes an exaggeration!..
CYRANO. Yes. I agree. I do exaggerate.
LE BRET [triumphant]. You see, you
admit it!...
CYRANO. But for the sake of principle,
and of example, as well, I think it a good
thing to exaggerate as I do!
LE BRET. Could you but leave apart,
once in a while, your mousquetaire of a
soul, fortune, undoubtedly, fame...
CYRANO. And what should a man do?
Seek some grandee, take him for patron,
and like the obscure creeper clasping a
tree-trunk, and licking the bark of that
which props it up, attain to height by craft
instead of strength? No, I thank you.


Dedicate, as they all do, poems to financiers? Wear motley in the humble hope
of seeing the lips of a minister distend for
once in a smile not ominous of ill? No, I
thank you. Eat every day a toad? Be
threadbare at the belly with grovelling?
Have his skin dirty soonest at the knees?
Practice feats of dorsal elasticity? No, I
thank you. With one hand stroke the
goat while with the other he waters the
cabbage? Make gifts of senna that countergifts of rhubarb may accrue, and indefatigably swing his censer in some beard?
No, 1 thank you. Push himself from lap to
lap, become a little great man in a great
little circle, propel his ship with madrigals
for oars and in his sails the sighs of the
elderly ladies? No, 1 thank you. Get the
good editor Sercy to print his verses at
proper expense? No, I thank you. Contrive to be nominated Pope in conclaves
held by imbeciles in wineshops? No, I
thank you. Work to construct a name
upon the basis of a sonnet, instead of constructing other sonnets? No, I thank you.
Discover talent in tyros, and in them alone?
Stand in terror of what gazettes may please
to say, and say to himself, "At whatever
cost, may I figure in the Paris Mercury!"
No, I thank you. Calculate, cringe, peak,
prefer making a call to a poem, - petition,
solicit, apply? No, I thank you! No, I
thank you! No, I thank you! But...
sing, dream, laugh, loaf, be single, be free,
have eyes that look squarely, a voice with
a ring; wear, if he chooses, his hat hindside
afore; for a yes, for a no, fight a duel or turn
a ditty!... Work, without concern of fortune or of glory, to accomplish the heart'sdesired journey to the moon! Put forth
nothing that has not its spring in the very
heart, yet, modest, say to himself, "Old
man, be satisfied with blossoms, fruits, yea,
leaves alone, so they be gathered in your
garden and not another man's!" Then, if
it happen that to some small extent he
triumph, be obliged to render of the glory,
to Cmesar, not one jot, but honestly appropriate it all. In short, scorning to be the
parasite, the creeper, if even failing to be
the oak, rise, not perchance to a great
height,... but rise alone!




CYRANO DE BERGERAC


383


LE BRET. Alone? Good! but not one
against all! How the devil did you contract the mania that possesses you for
making enemies, always, everywhere?
CYRANO. By seeing you make friends,
and smile to those same flocks of friends
with a mouth that takes for model an old
purse! 1 wish not to be troubled to return
bows in the street, and I exclaim with
glee, "An enemy the more!"
LE BRET. This is mental aberration!
CYRANO. I do not dispute it. I am so
framed. To displease is my pleasure. I
love that one should hate me. Dear friend,
if you but knew how much better a man
walks under the exciting fire of hostile
eyes, and how amused he may become
over the spots on his doublet, spattered by
Envy and Cowardice!... You, the facile
friendship wherewith you surround yourself, resembles those wide Italian collars,
loose and easy, with a perforated pattern,
in which the neck looks like a woman's.
They are more comfortable, but of less
high effect; for the brow not held in proud
position by any constraint from them, falls
to nodding this way and that.... But for
me every day Hatred starches and flutes
the ruff whose stiffness holds the head well
in place. Every new enemy is another
plait in it, adding compulsion, but adding,
as well, a ray: for, similar in every point
to the Spanish ruff, Hatred is a bondage,. but is a halo, too!
LE BRET [after a pause, slipping his arm
through CYRANO'S]. To the hearing of all
be proud and bitter,... but to me, below
breath, say simply that she does not love
you!
CYRANO [sharply]. Not a word!
[CHRISTIAN has come in and mingled with the
CADETS; they ignore him; he has finally
gone to a little table by himself, where
LISE waits on him.]
ONE OF THE CADETS [seated at a table at
the back, glass in hand]. Hey, Cyrano!
[CYRANO turns toward him.] Your story!
CYRANO. Presently!
[He goes toward the back on LE
BRET'S arm. They talk low.]
THE CADET [rising and coming toward


the front]. The account of your fight! It
will be the best lesson [stopping in front of
the table at which CHRISTIAN is sitting] for
this timorous novice!
CHRISTIAN [looking up].... Novice?
OTHER CADET. Yes, sickly product of
the North!
CHRISTIAN. Sickly?
FIRST CADET [impressively]. Monsieur de
Neuvillette, it is a good deed to warn you
that there is a thing no more to be mentioned in our company than rope in the
house of the hanged!
CHRISTIAN. And what is it?
OTHER CADET [in a terrifying voice].
Look at me! [Three,imes, darkly, he
places his finger upon his nose.] You have
understood?
CHRISTIAN. Ah, it is the...
OTHER CADET. Silence!... Never must
you so much as breathe that word, or...
[He points toward CYRANO at the back talking with LE BRET.] You will have him,
over there, to deal with!
OTHER CADET [who while CHRISTIAN was
turned toward the first, has noiselessly seated
himself on the table behind him]. Two persons were lately cut off in their pride by
him for talking through their noses. He
thought it personal.
OTHER CADET [in a cavernous voice, as
he rises from under the table where he had
slipped on all fours]. Not the remotest
allusion, ever, to the fatal cartilage,...
unless you fancy an early grave!
OTHER CADET. A word will do the business! What did I say?... A word?...
A simple gesture! Make use of your
pocket-handkerchief, you will shortly have
use for your shroud!
[Silence. All around CHRISTIAN
watch him, with folded arms. He
rises and goes to CARBON DE
CASTEL-JALOUX, who, in conversation with an officer, affects
to notice nothing.]
CHRISTIAN. Captain!
CARBON [turning and looking him rather
contemptuously up and down]. Monsieur?
CHRISTIAN. What is the proper course
for a man when he finds gentlemen of the
South too boastful?




384


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


CARBON DE CASTEL-JALOUX. He must
prove to them that one can be of the
North, yet brave.
[He turns his back upon him.]
CHRISTIAN. I am much obliged.
FIRST CADET [to CYRANO]. And now, the
tale of your adventure!
ALL. Yes, yes, now let us hear!
CYRANO [coming forward among them].
My adventure? [All draw their stools
nearer, and sit around him, with craned
necks. CHRISTIAN sits astride a chair.]
Well, then, I was marching to meet them.
The moon up in the skies was shining like
a silver watch, when suddenly I know not
what careful watch-maker having wrapped
it in a cottony cloud, there occurred the
blackest imaginable night; and, the streets
being nowise lighted, - mordious! - you
could see no further than...
CHRISTIAN. Your nose.
[Silence. Every one slowly gets up;
all look with terror at CYRANO.
He has stopped short, amazed.
Pause.]
CYRANO. Who is that man?
ONE OF THE CADETS [low]. He joined
this morning.
CYRANO [taking a step toward CHRISTIAN].
This morning?
CARBON DE CASTEL-JALOUX [low]. His
name is Baron de Neuvill...
CYRANO   [stopping  short].  Ah, very
well.... [He turns pale, then red, gives
evidence of another impulse to throw himself upon CHRISTIAN.] I...[He conquers it, and says in a stifled voice.] Very
well. [He takes up his tale.] As I was
saying... [with a burst of rage] Mordious!... [He continues in a natural tone]
one could not see in the very least. [Consternation. All resume their seats, staring at
one another.] And I was walking along, reflecting that for a very insignificant rogue
I was probably about to offend some great
prince who would bear me a lasting grudge,
that, in brief, I was about to thrust my...
CHRISTIAN. Nose...
[All get up. CHRISTIAN has tilted
his chair and is rocking on the
hind legs.]
CYRANO [choking]. Finger... between


the tree and the bark; for the aforesaid
prince might be of sufficient power to trip
me and throw me...
CHRISTIAN. On my nose...
CYRANO [wipes the sweat from his brow].
But, said I, "Gascony forward! Never
falter when duty prompts! Forward,
Cyrano!" and, saying this, I advancewhen suddenly, in the darkness, 1 barely
avoid a blow...
CHRISTIAN. Upon the nose...
CYRANO. I ward it... and thereupon
find myself...
CHRISTIAN. Nose to nose...
CYRANO [springing toward him]. VentreSaint-Gris!... [All the GASCONS rush forward, to see; CYRANO, on reaching CHRISTIAN, controls himself and proceeds]... with
a hundred drunken brawlers, smelling...
CHRISTIAN. To the nose's limit...
CYRANO [deathly pale, and smiling]...
of garlic and of grease. I leap forward,
head lowered...
CHRISTIAN. Nose to the wind!...
CYRANO. And I charge them. I knock
two breathless and run a third through the
body. One lets off at me: Paf! and I retort...
CHRISTIAN. Pif!
CYRANO [exploding]. Death and damnation! Go, - all of you!
[All the CADETS make for the door.]
FIRST CADET. The tiger is roused at
last!
CYRANO. All! and leave me with this
man.
SECOND CADET. Bigre! When we see
him again, it will be in the shape of mincemeat!
RAGUENEAU. Mince-meat?...
OTHER CADET. In one of your pies.
RAGUENEAU. I feel myself grow white
and flabby as a table-napkin!
CARBON DE CASTEL-JALOUX. Let us go!
OTHER CADET. Not a smudge of him
will be left!
OTHER CADET. What these walls are
about to behold gives me gooseflesh to
think upon!
OTHER CADET [closing the door at the
right]. Ghastly!... Ghastly!
[All have left, by the back or the




CYRANO DE BERGERAC


385


sides, a few up the stairway.
CYRANO and CHRISTIAN remain
face to face, and look at each
other a moment.]
CYRANO. Embrace me!
CHRISTIAN. Monsieur...
CYRANO. Brave fellow.
CHRISTIAN. But what does this...
CYRANO. Very brave fellow. I wish
you to.
CHRISTIAN. Will you tell me?...
CYRANO. Embrace me, I am her brother.
CHRISTIAN. Whose?
CYRANO. Hers!
CHRISTIAN. What do you mean?
CYRANO. Roxane's!
CHRISTIAN [running to him]. Heavens!
You, her brother?
CYRANO. Or the same thing: her first
cousin.
CHRISTIAN. And she has...
CYRANO. Told me everything!
CHRISTIAN. Does she love me?
CYRANO. Perhaps!
CHRISTIAN [seizing his hands]. How
happy I am, monsieur, to make your acquaintance...
CYRANO. That is what I call a sudden
sentiment!
CHRISTIAN. Forgive me!...
CYRANO [looking at him, laying his hand
upnm his shoulder]. It is true that he is
handsome, the rascal!
CHRISTIAN. If you but knew, monsieur,
how greatly I admire you!...
CYRANO. But all those noses which
you...
CHRISTIAN. I take them back!
CYRANO. Roxane expects a letter tonight...
CHRISTIAN. Alas!
CYRANO. What is the matter?
CHRISTIAN: I am lost if I cease to be
dumb!
CYRANO. How is that?
CHRISTIAN. Alas! I am such a dunce
that I could kill myself for shame!
CYRANO. But, no... no.... You are
surely not a dunce, if you believe you are!
Besides, you scarcely attacked me like a
dunce.
CHRISTIAN, Oh, it is easy to find words


in mounting to the assault! Indeed, I own
to a certain cheap military readiness, but
when I am before women, I have not a
word to say.... Yet their eyes, when I
pass by, express a kindness toward me...
CYRANO. And do their hearts not express the same when you stop beside them?
CHRISTIAN. No!... for I am of those
- I recognize it, and am dismayed! -
who do not know how to talk of love.
CYRANO. Tiens!... It seems to me
that if Nature had taken more pains with
my shape, I should have been of those who
do know how to talk of it.
CHRISTIAN. Oh, to be able to express
things gracefully!
CYRANO. Oh, to be Ea graceful little
figure of a passing mousquetaire!
CHRISTIAN. Roxane is a precieuse,...
there is no chance but that I shall be a
disillusion to Roxane!
CYRANO [looking at CHRISTIAN]. If I had,
to express my soul, such an interpreter!...
CHRISTIAN [desperately]. I ought to have
eloquence!...
CYRANO [abruptly]. Eloquence I will
lend you!... And you, to me, shall lend
all-conquering physical charm... and between us we will compose a hero of romance!
CHRISTIAN. What?
CYRANO. Should you be able to say,
as your own, things which I day by day
would teach you?
CHRISTIAN. YOU are suggesting?...
CYRANO. Roxane shall not have disillusions! Tell me, shall we win her heart,
we two as one? will you submit to feel,
transmitted from my leather doublet into
your doublet stitched with silk, the soul I
wish to share?
CHRISTIAN. But Cyrano!..
CYRANO. Christian, will you?
CHRISTIAN. You frighten me!
CYRANO. Since you fear, left to yourself,
to chill her heart, will you consent, - and
soon it will take fire, I vouch for it! - to
contribute your lips to my phrases?
CHRISTIAN. Your eyes shine!...
CYRANO. Will you?
CHRISTIAN. What, would it please you
so much?




386


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


CYRANO [with rapture]. It would...
[remembering, and confining himself to expressing an artistic pleasure]... amuse
me! It is an experiment fit surely to tempt
a poet. Will you complete me, and let me
in exchange complete you? We will walk
side by side: you in full light, I in your
shadow.... I will be wit to you... you,
to me, shall be good looks!
CHRISTIAN. But the letter, which should
be sent to her without delay?.. Never
shall I be able...
CYRANO [taking from his doublet the letter
written in the first part of the act]. The letter?
Here it is!
CHRISTIAN. HOW?...
CYRANO. It only wants the address.
CHRISTIAN. I...
CYRANO. You can send it without uneasiness. It is a good letter.
CHRISTIAN. You had?...
CYRANO. You shall never find us —
poets! - without epistles in our pockets to
the Chlorises... of our imagining! For
we are those same that have for mistress
a dream blown into the bubble of a name!
Take, - you shall convert this feigning into
earnest; I was sending forth at random
these confessions and laments: you shall
make the wandering birds to settle... Take
it! You shall see... I was as eloquent as
if I had been sincere! Take, and have done!
CHRISTIAN. But will it not need to be
altered in any part?... Written without object, will it fit Roxane?
CYRANO. Like a glove!
CHRISTIAN. But...
CYRANO. Trust to the blindness of love. and vanity! Roxane will never question that it was written for her.
CHRISTIAN. Ah, my friend!
[He throws himself into CYRANO'S
arms. They stand embraced.]
ONE OF TIIE CADETS [opening the door a
very little]. Nothing more... The stillness of death.. I dare not look...
[He thrusts in his head.] What is this?
ALL THE CADETS [entering and seeing
CYRANO, and CHRISTIAN locked in each
other's arms]. Ah!... Oh!...
ONE OF THE CADETS. This passes bounds!
[Consternation.]


THE MOUSQUETAIRE [impudent]. Ouais?
CARBON DE CASTEL-JALOUX. Our demon
is waxen mild as an apostle; smitten upon
one nostril, he turns the other also!
THE MOUSQUETAIRE. It is in order now
to speak of his nose, is it? [Calling LIsE,
with a swaggering air.] Hey, Lise! now
listen and look. [Pointedly sniffing the
air.] Oh,... oh,... it is surprising!...
what an odor! [Going to CYRANO.] But
monsieur must have smelled it, too? Can
you tell me what it is, so plain in the air?
CYRANO [beating him]. Why, sundry
blows!
[Joyful antics of the CADETS in beholding CYRANO himself again.]
CURTAIN
ACT THIRD
ROXANE'S KISS
A small square in the old Marais. Oldfashioned houses. Narrow streets seen in
perspective. At the right, ROXANE'S house
and the wall of her garden, above which
spreading tree-tops. Over the house-door,
a balcony and window. A bench beside the
doorstep.
The wall is overclambered by ivy, the
balcony wreathed with jasmine.
By means of the bench and projecting
stones in the wall, the balcony can easily
be scaled.
On the opposite side, old house in the
same style of architecture, brick and stone,
with entrance-door. The door-knocker is
swaddled in linen.
At the rise of the curtain, the DUENNA is
seated on the bench. The window on RoxANE'S balcony is wide open.
RAGUENEAU, in a sort of livery, stands
near the DUENNA; he is finishing the tale of
his misfortunes, drying his eyes.
RAGUENEAU. And then, she eloped with
a mousquetaire! Ruined, forsaken, I was
hanging myself. I had already taken leave
of earth, when Monsieur de Bergerac
happening along, unhanged me, and proposed me to his cousin as her steward....
THE DUENNA. But how did you fall into
such disaster?




CYRANO DE BERGERAC


387


RAGUENEAU. Lise was fond of soldiers,
I, of poets! Mars ate up all left over by
Apollo. Under those circumstances, you
conceive, the pantry soon was bare.
THE DUENNA [rising and calling toward
the open window]. Roxane, are you ready?. They are waiting for us!...
ROXANE's VOICE [through the window].
I am putting on my mantle!
THE DUENNA [to RAGUENEAU, pointing
at the door opposite]. It is over there, opposite, we are expected. At Clomire's.
She holds a meeting in her little place. A
disquisition upon the Softer Sentiments is
to be read.
RAGUENEAU. Upon the Softer Sentiments?
THE DUENNA [coyly]. Yes!... [Calling
toward the window.] Roxane, you must
make haste, or we shall miss the disquisition upon the Softer Sentiments!
ROXANE'S VOICE. I am coming!
[A sound of string-instruments is
heard, drawing nearer.]
CYRANO's VOICE [singing in the wings].
La! la! la! la! la!...
THE DUENNA [surprised]. We are to
have music?
CYRANO [enters followed by two PAGES
with theorbos]. I tell you it is a demi-semiquaver!... you demi-semi-noddle!
FIRST PAGE [ironically]. Monsieur knows
then about quavers, semi and demi?
CYRANO. I know music, as do all Gassendi's disciples!
THE PAGE [playing and singing]. La! la!
CYRANO [snatching the theorbo from him
and continuing the musical phrase]. I can
carry on the melody.... La, la, la, la,...
ROXANE [appearing on the balcony]. It
is you?
CYRANO [singing upon the tune he is continuing]. I, indeed, who salute your lilies
and present my respects to your ro-ooses!...
ROXANE. I am coming down!
[She leaves the balcony.]
THE DUENNA [pointing at the PAGES].
What is the meaning of these two virtuosi?
CYRANO. A wager I won, from D'Assoucy. We were disputing upon a question
of grammar. Yes! No! Yes! No! Sud

denly pointing at these two tall knaves,
expert at clawing strings, by whom he
constantly goes attended, he said, "I
wager a day long of music!" He lost.
Until therefore the next rise of the sun,
I shall have dangling after me these archlute players, harmonious witnesses of all
I do!... At first I liked it very well, but
now it palls a little. [To the musicians.]
Hey!... Go, from  me, to Montfleury,
and play him a pavane!...[The PAGES
go toward the back. To the DUENNA.] I
have come to inquire of Roxane, as I do
every evening... [To the PAGES who are
leaving.] Play a long time... and out of
tune! [To the DUENNA.]...whether in
the friend of her soul she can still detect no
fault?
ROXANE [coming out of the house]. Ah,
how beautiful he is, what wit he has, how
deeply I love him!
CYRANO [smiling]. Christian has so
much wit?...
ROXANE. Cousin, more than yourself!
CYRANO. I grant you.
ROXANE. There is not one alive, I truly
believe, more apt at turning those pretty
nothings which yet are everything....
Sometimes he is of an absent mood, his
muse is wool-gathering, then, suddenly, he
will say the most enchanting things!
CYRANO [incredulous]. Come!...
ROXANE. Oh, it is too bad! Men are all
alike, narrow, narrow: because he is handsome, he cannot possibly be witty!
CYRANO. So he talks of the heart in acceptable fashion?
ROXANE. Talks, cousin, is feeble....
He dissertates!
CYRANO. And writes?...
ROXANE. Still better! Listen now to
this... [Declaiming.] "The more of my
heart you steal from me, the more heart
I have!" [Triumphantly to CYRANO.]
Well?...
CYRANO. Pooh!
ROXANE. And to this: "Since you have
stolen my heart, and since I must suffer,
to suffer with send me your own!"
CYRANO. Now he has too much heart,
now he has not enough,...just what
does he want, in the matter of quantity?




388


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


ROXANE. You vex me! You are eaten
up with jealousy...
CYRANO [starting]. Hein?
ROXANE. Author's jealousy! And this,
could anything be more exquisitely tender?
"Unanimously, believe it, my heart cries
out to you, and if kisses could be sent in
writing, Love, you should read my letter
with your lips..."
CYRANO [in spite of himself smiling with
satisfaction]. Ha! Ha! Those particular
lines seem to me... ho!... ho!... [remembering himself, disdainfully]... puny,
pretty...
ROXANE. This, then...
CYRANO [delighted]. You know his letters by heart?
ROXANE. All!
CYRANO. It is flattering, one cannot
deny.
ROXANE. In this art of expressing love
he is a master!
CYRANO [modest]. Oh,... a master!
ROXANE [peremptory]. A master!
CYRANO. As you please, then... a
master!
THE DUENNA [who had gone toward the
back, coming quickly forward]. Monsieur
de Guiche! [To CYRANO, pushing him toward the house.] Go in! It is perhaps
better that he should not see you here! it
might put him on the scent...
ROXANE [to CYRANO]. Yes, of my dear
secret! He loves me, he is powerful,...
he must not find out! He might cut in
sunder our loves... with an axe!
CYRANO [going into the house]. Very
well, very well.
[DE GUICHE appears.]
ROXANE [to DE GUICHE, with a curtsey].
I was leaving the house.
DE GUICHE. I have come to bid you
farewell.
ROXANE. You are going away?
DE GUICHE. To war.
ROXANE. Ah!
DE GUICHE. I have my orders. Arras
is besieged.
ROXANE. Ah!... it is besieged?
DE GUICHE. Yes.... I see that my
departure does not greatly affect you.


ROXANE. Oh!...
DE GUICHE. As for me, I own it wrings
my heart. Shall I see you again?...
When?... You know that I am made
commander-in-general?
ROXANE [uninterested]. I congratulate
you.
DE GUICHE. Of the Guards.
ROXANE   [starting].  Ah,... of the
Guards?
DE GUICHE. Among whom your cousin
serves,... the man of the boasts and tirades. I shall have opportunity in plenty
to retaliate upon him down there.
ROXANE   [suffocating].  What?  The
Guards are going down there?
DE GUICHE. Surely. It is my regiment.
ROXANE [falls sitting upon the bench;
aside]. Christian!
DE GUICHE. What is it troubles you?
ROXANE [greatly moved]. This departure... grieves me mortally. When one
cares for a person... to know him away
at the war!
DE GUICHE [surprised and charmed].
For the first time you utter a kind and feeling word, when I am leaving!
ROXANE [in a different tone, fanning herself]. So...you are thinking of revenge
upon my cousin?
DE GUICHE [smiling]. You side with
him?
ROXANE. No... against him.
DE GUICHE. Do you see much of him?
ROXANE. Very little.
DE GUICHE. He is everywhere to be
met with one of the cadets... [trying to
remember] that Neu... villen...viller...
ROXANE. A tall man?
DE GUICHE. Light-haired.
ROXANE. Red-haired.
DE GUICHE. Good-looking.
ROXANE. Pooh!
DE GUICHE. But a fool!
ROXANE. He looks like one. [In a different tone.] Your vengeance upon Cyrano
is then to place him within reach of shot,
which is the thing of all he loves!... A
miserable vengeance!... I know, I do,
what would more seriously concern him!
DE GUICHE. And that is?




CYRANO DE BERGERAC


389


ROXANE. Why... that the regiment
should march, and leave him behind, with
his beloved cadets, arms folded, the whole
war through, in Paris! That is the only
way to cast down a man like him. You
wish to punish him? Deprive him of
danger.
DE GUICHE. A woman! A woman!
None but a woman could devise a vengeance of the sort!
ROXANE. His friends will gnaw their
fists, and he his very soul, with chagrin
at not being under fire; and you will be
abundantly avenged!
DE GUICHE [coming nearer]. Then you do
love me a little? [ROXANE smiles.] I wish
to see in this fact of your espousing my
grudge a proof of affection, Roxane...
ROXANE.... You may!
DE GUICHE [showing several folded
papers]. I have here upon me the orders
to be transmitted at once to each of the
companies... except... [he takes one
from among the others.] This one!.
the company of the cadets... [He puts it
in his pocket.] This, I will keep. [Laughing.] Ah, ah, ah! Cyrano! his belligerent
humor!... So you sometimes play tricks
upon people, you?...
ROXANE. Sometimes.
DE GUICHE [very near her]. I love you
to distraction! This evening... listen,... it is true that I must be gone. But
to go when I feel that it is a matter for
your caring! Listen!... There is, not
far from here, in Rue Orleans, a convent
founded by the Capuchins. Father Athanasius. A layman may not enter. But the
good fathers... I fear no difficulty with
them! They will hide me up their sleeve...their sleeve is wide. They are the
Capuchins that serve Richelieu at home.
Fearing the uncle, they proportionately
fear the nephew. I shall be thought to
have left. I will come to you masked.
Let me delay by a single day, wayward
enchantress!
ROXANE. But if it should transpire...
your fame...
DE GUICHE. Bah!
ROXANE. But.,, the siege... Arras!...


DE GUICHE. Must wait! Allow me, I
beg...
ROXANE. No!
DE GUICHE. I beseech!
ROXANE [tenderly]. No! Love itself bids
me forbid you!
DE GUICHE. Ah!
ROXANE. You must go! [Aside.] Christian will stay! [Aloud.] For my sake, be
heroic... Antony!
DE GUICHE. Ah, heavenly word upon
your lips.... Then you love the one
who...
ROXANE. Who shall have made me
tremble for his sake...
DE GUICHE [in a transport of joy]. Ah,
I will go! [He kisses her hand.] Are you
satisfied with me?
ROXANE. My friend, I am.
[Jxit DE GUICHE.]
THE DUENNA [dropping a mocking curtsey
toward his back]. My friend, we are!
ROXANE [to the DUENNA]. Not a word
of what I have done: Cyrano would never
forgive me for defrauding him of his war!
[She calls toward the house.] Cousin! [CYRANO comes out.] We are going to Clomire's. [She indicates the house opposite.]
Alcandre has engaged to speak, and so has
Lysimon.
THE DUENNA [putting her little finger to
her ear]. Yes, but my little finger tells me
that we shall be too late to hear them!
CYRANO [to ROXANE]. Of all things do
not miss the trained monkeys!
[They have reached CLOMIRE'S
door.]
THE DUENNA. See!.. See! they have
muffled the door-knocker! [To the doorknocker.] You have been gagged, that
your voice should not disturb the beautiful lecture,... little brutal disturber!
[She lifts it with infinite care and
knocks softly.]
ROXANE [seeing the door open]. Come!
[From the threshold to CYRANO.] If Christian should come, as probably he will, say
he must wait!
CYRANO [hurriedly, as she is about to
disappear]. Ah! [She turns.] Upon what
shall you, according to your custom, question him to-day?




390


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


ROXANE. Upon...
CYRANO [eagerly]. Upon?...
ROXANE. But you will be silent...
CYRANO. As that wall!
ROXANE. Upon nothing! I will say:
Forward! Free rein! No curb! Improvise!
Talk of love! Be magnificent!
CYRANO [smiling]. Good.
ROXANE. Hush!
CYRANO. Hush!
ROXANE. Not a word!
[She goes in and close; the door.]
CYRANO [bowing, when the door is closed].
A thousand thanks!
[The door opens again and ROXANE
looks out.]
ROXANE.    He   might  prepare  his
speeches...
CYRANO. Ah, no!... the devil, no!
BOTH [together]. Hush!...
[The door closes.]
CYRANO   [calling].  Christian! [Enter
CHRISTIAN.] I know all that we need to.
Now make ready your memory. This is
your chance to cover yourself with glory.
Let us lose no time. Do not look sullen,
like that. Quick! Let us go to your lodgings and I will rehearse you...
CHRISTIAN. No!
CYRANO. What?
CHRISTIAN. No, I will await Roxane
here.
CYRANO. What insanity possesses you?
Come quickly and learn...
CHRISTIAN. No, I tell you! I am weary
of borrowing my letters, my words...
of playing a part, and living in constant
fear.... It was very well at first, but
now I feel that she loves me. I thank you
heartily. I am no longer afraid. I will
speak for myself...
CYRANO. Ouais...
CHRISTIAN. And what tells you that I
shall not know how? I am not such an
utter blockhead, after all! You shall see!
Your lessons have not been altogether
wasted. I can shift to speak without your
aid! And, that failing, by Heaven! I
shall still know enough to take her in my
arms! [Catching sight of ROXANE who is
coming out from CLOMIRE'S.] She is coming!
Cyrano, no, do not leave me!...


CYRANO [bowing to him]. I will not
meddle, monsieur.
[He disappears behind the garden
wall.]
ROXANE [coming from Clomire's house
with a number of people from whom she is
taking leave. Curtseys and farewells.] Barthenoide!... Alcandre!... Gr6mione!...
THE DUENNA [comically desperate]. We
missed the disquisition upon the Softer
Sentiments!
[She goes into ROXANE'S house.]
ROXANE [still taking leave of this one and
that]. Urimedonte!... Good-bye!
[All bow to ROXANE, to one another, separate and go off by the
various streets. ROXANE sees
CHRISTIAN.]
ROXANE. You are here! [She goes to
him.] Evening is closing round.... Wait!... They have all gone.... The air is so
mild.... Not a passer in sight.... Let
us sit here.... Talk!... I will listen.
CHRISTIAN [sits beside her, on the bench.
Silence.] I love you.
ROXANE [closing her eyes]. Yes. Talk
to me of love.
CHRISTIAN. I love you.
ROXANE. Yes. That is the theme. Play
variations upon it.
CHRISTIAN. I love...
ROXANE. Variations!
CHRISTIAN. I love you so much...
ROXANE. I do not doubt it. What
further?...
CHRISTIAN. And further... I should
be so happy if you loved me! Tell me,
Roxane, that you love me...
ROXANE [pouting]. You proffer cider to
me when I was hoping for champagne!... Now tell me a little how you love
me?
CHRISTIAN. Why... very, very much.
ROXANE. Oh!... unravel, disentangle
your sentiments 
CHRISTIAN. Your throat!... I want to
kiss it!...
ROXANE. Christian!
CHRISTIAN. I love you!...
ROXANE [attempting to rise]. Again!...
CHRISTIAN [hastily, holding her back]. No,
I do not love you!...




CYRANO DE BERGERAC


391


ROXANE [sitting down again]. That is
fortunate!
CHRISTIAN. I adore you!
ROXANE [rising and moving away].
Oh!...
CHRISTIAN. Yes,... love makes me
into a fool!
ROXANE [drily]. And I am displeased
at, it! as I should be displeased at your no
longer being handsome.
CHRISTIAN. But...
ROXANE. Go, and rally your routed
eloquence!
CHRISTIAN. I...
ROXANE. You love me. I have heard
it. Good-evening.
[She goes toward the house.]
CHRISTIAN. No, no, not yet!... I wish
to tell you...
ROXANE [pushing open the door to go in].
That you adore me. Yes, I know. No!
No! Go away!... Go!... Go!...
CHRISTIAN. But I...
[She closes the door in his face.]
CYRANO [who has been on the scene a moment, unnoticed]. Unmistakably a success.
CHRISTIAN. Help me!
CYRANO. No, sir, no.
CHRISTIAN. I will go kill myself if I
am not taken back into favor at once...
at once!
CYRANO. And how can I... how, the
devil?... make you learn on the spot...
CHRISTIAN [seizing him by the arm]. Oh,
there!... Look!... See!
[Light has appeared in the balcony
window.]
CYRANO [with emotion]. Her window!
CHRISTIAN. Oh, I shall die!
CYRANO. Not so loud!
CHRISTIAN [in a whisper]. I shall die!
CYRANO. It is a dark night....
CHRISTIAN. Well?
CYRANO. All may be mended. But you
do not deserve... There! stand there,
miserable boy!... in front of the balcony! I will stand under it and prompt
you.
CHRISTIAN. But...
CYRANO. Do as I bid you!
THE PAGES [reappearing at the back, to
CYRANO]. Hey!


CYRANO. Hush!
[He signs to them to lower their
voices.]
FIRST PAGE [in a lower voice]. We have
finished serenading Montfleury!
CYRANO [low, quickly]. Go and stand
out of sight. One at this street corner, the
other at that; and if any one comes near,
play!...
SECOND PAGE. What sort of tune, Monsieur the Gassendist?
CYRANO. Merry if:it be a woman,
mournful if it be a man. [The PAGES disappear, one at each street corner. To CHRISTIAN.] Call her!
CHRISTIAN. Roxane!
CYRANO [picking up pebbles and throwing
them at the window-pane]. Wait! A few
pebbles...
ROXANE [opening the window]. Who is
calling me?
CHRISTIAN. It is I...
ROXANE. Who is... [?
CHRISTIAN. Christian!
ROXANE [disdainfully]. Oh, you!
CHRISTIAN. I wish to speak with you.
CYRANO [under the balcony, to CHRISTIAN]. Speak low!...
ROXANE. No, your conversation is too
common. You may go home!
CHRISTIAN. In mercy!...
ROXANE. No... you do not love me
any more!
CHRISTIAN [whom CYRANO is prompting].
You accuse me... just Heaven! of loving  you no more... when I can love
you no more!
ROXANE [who was about to close her window, stopping]. Ah, that is a little better!
CHRISTIAN [same business]. To what
a... size has Love grown in my... sighrocked soul which the... cruel cherub has
chosen for his cradle!
ROXANE [stepping nearer to the edge )f
the balcony]. That is distinctly better!...
But, since he is so cruel, this Cupid, you
were unwise not to smother him in his
cradle!
CHRISTIAN [same business]. I tried to,
but, madame, the... attempt was futile.
This... new-born Love is... a little Hercules...




392


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


ROXANE. Much, much better!
CHRISTIAN [same business].... Who
found it merest baby-play to... strangle
the serpents... twain, Pride and... Mistrust.
ROXANE [leaning her elbows on the balcony-rail]. Ah, that is very good indeed!... But why do you speak so slowly and
stintedly? Has your imagination gout in
its wings?
CYRANO [drawing CHRISTIAN under the
balcony, and taking his place]. Hush! It
is becoming too difficult!
ROXANE. To-night your words come
falteringly.... Why is it?
CYRANO [talking low like CHRISTIAN].
Because of the dark. They have to grope
to find your ear.
ROXANE. My words do not find the
same difficulty.
CYRANO. They reach their point at
once? Of course they do! That is because
I catch them with my heart. My heart,
you see, is very large, your ear particularly
small..... Besides, your words drop...
that goes quickly; mine have to climb...
and that takes longer!
ROXANE. They have been climbing more
nimbly, however, in the last few minutes.
CYRANO. They are becoming used to
this gymnastic feat!
ROXANE. It is true that I am talking
with you from a very mountain top!
CYRANO. It is sure that a hard word
dropped from such a height upon my heart
would shatter it!
ROXANE [with the motion of leaving]. I
will come down.
CYRANO [quickly]. Do not!
ROXANE [pointing at the bench at the foot
of the balcony]. Then do you get up on
the seat!...
CYRANO [drawing away in terror]. No!
ROXANE. How do you mean... no?
CYRANO [with ever-increasing emotion].
Let us profit a little by this chance of talking softly together without seeing each
other...
ROXANE. Without seeing each other?...
CYRANO. Yes, to my mind, delectable!
Each guesses at the other, and no more.
You discern but the trailing blackness of a


mantle, and I a dawn-gray glimmer which
is a summer gown. I am a shadow merely,
a pearly phantom are you! You can
never know what these moments are to
me! If ever I was eloquent...
ROXANE. You were!
CYRANO. My words never till now surged
from my very heart...
ROXANE. And why?
CYRANO. Because, till now, they must
strain to reach you through...
ROXANE. What?
CYRANO. Why, the bewildering emotion
a man feels who sees you, and whom you
look upon!... But this evening, it seems
to me that I am speaking to you for the
first time!
ROXANE. It is true that your voice is
altogether different.
CYRANO [coming nearer, feverishly]. Yes,
altogether different, because, protected by
the dark, I dare at last to be myself. I
dare... [He stops, and distractedly.] What
was I saying?... I do not know.... All
this... forgive my incoherence!.. is so
delicious... is so new to me!
ROXANE. So new?...
CYRANO [in extreme confusion, still trying to mend his expressions]. So new...
yes, new, to be sincere; the fear of being
mocked always constrains my heart...
ROXANE. Mocked... for what?
CYRANO. Why,... for its impulses, its
flights!...Yes, my heart always cowers
behind the defence of my wit. I set forth
to capture a star... and then, for dread
of laughter, I stop and pick a flower... of
rhetoric!
ROXANE. That sort of flower has its
pleasing points...
CYRANO. But yet, to-night, let usscorn it!
ROXANE. Never before had you spoken
as you are speaking!...
CYRANO. Ah, if far from Cupid-darts
and quivers, we might seek a place of
somewhat fresher things! If instead of
drinking, flat sip by sip, from a chiselled
golden thimble, drops distilled and dulcifled, we might try the sensation of quenching the thirst of our souls by stooping to
the level of the great river, and setting our
lips to the stream!




CYRANO DE BERGERAC


393


ROXANE. But yet, wit.. fancy...
delicate conceits...
CYRANO. I gave my fancy leave to
frame conceits, before, to make you linger,... but now it would be an affront to this
balm-breathing night, to Nature and the
hour, to talk like characters in a pastoral performed at Court!... Let us give
Heaven leave, looking at us with all its
earnest stars, to strip us of disguise and
artifice: I fear,... oh, fear!... lest in
our mistaken alchemy sentiment should
be subtilized to evaporation; lest the life
of the heart should waste in these empty
pastimes, and the final refinement of the
fine be the undoing of the refined!
ROXANE. But yet, wit,... aptness,.. ingenuity...
CYRANO. I hate them in love! Criminal,
when one loves, to prolong overmuch that
paltry thrust and parry! The moment,
however, comes inevitably, - and I pity
those for whom it never comes! - in which,
we apprehending the noble depth of the
love we harbor, a shallow word hurts us to
utter!
ROXANE. If... if, then, that moment
has come for us two, what words will you
say to me?
CYRANO. All those, all those, all those
that come to me! Not in formal nosegay
order,... I will throw them you in a wild
sheaf! I love you, choke with love, I love
you, dear.... My brain reels, I can bear
no more, it is too much.... Your name is
in my heart the golden clapper in a bell;
and as I know no rest, Roxane, always
the heart is shaken, and ever rings your
name!... Of you, I remember all, all
have I loved! Last year, one day, the
twelfth of May, in going out at morning
you changed the fashion of your hair....
I have taken the light of your hair for my
light, and as having stared too long at the
sun, on everything one sees a scarlet wheel,
on everything when I come from my chosen
light, my dazzled eye sets swimming golden
blots!...
ROXANE [in a voice unsteady with emotion]. Yes... this is love...
CYRANO. Ah, verily! The feeling which
invades me, terrible and jealous, is love...


with all its mournful frenzy! It is love,
yet self-forgetting more than the wont of
love! Ah, for your happiness now readily
would I give mine, though you should
never know it, might I but, from a distance, sometimes, hear the happy laughter
bought by my sacrifice! Every glance of
yours breeds in me new strength, new valor!
Are you beginning to understand? Tell
me, do you grasp my love's measure?
Does some little part of my soul make
itself felt of you there in the darkness?...
Oh, what is happening to me this evening
is too sweet, too deeply dear! I tell you
all these things, and you listen to me, you!
Not in my least modest hoping did I ever
hope so much! I have now only to die! It
is because of words of mine that she is
trembling among the dusky branches!
For you are trembling, like a flower among
leaves! Yes, you tremble,... for whether
you will or no, I have felt the worshipped
trembling of your hand all along this
thrilled and blissful jasmine-bough!
[He madly kisses the end of a pendent bough.]
ROXANE. Yes, I tremble... and weep... and love you... and am yours!...
For you   have carried me away...
away!...
CYRANO. Then, let death come! I have
moved you, I!... There is but one thing
more I ask...
CHRISTIAN [under the balcony]. A kiss!
ROXANE [drawing hastily back]. What?
CYRANO. Oh!
ROXANE. You ask?...
CYRANO. Yes... I... [To CHRISTIAN.]
You are in too great haste!
CHRISTIAN. Since she is so moved, I
must take advantage of it!
CYRANO [to ROXANE]. I... Yes, it is
true I asked...but, merciful heavens!... I knew at once that I had been too bold.
ROXANE [a shade disappointed]. You insist no more than so?
CYRANO. Indeed, I insist... without
insisting! Yes! yes! but your modesty
shrinks!... I insist, but yet...the kiss
I begged... refuse it me!
CHRISTIAN [to CYRANO, pulling at his
mantle]. Why?




394


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


CYRANO. Hush, Christian!
ROXANE [bending over the balcony-rail].
What are you whispering?
CYRANO. Reproaches to myself for having gone too far; I was saying "Hush,
Christian!" [The theorbos are heard playing.]  Your pardon!... a second!...
Some one is coming!
[ROXANE closes the window. CYRANO listens to the theorbos, one
of which plays a lively, and the
other a lugubrious tune.]
CYRANO. A dance?... A dirge?...
What do they mean? Is it a man or a
woman?... Ah, it is a monk!
[Enter a CAPUCHIN MONK, who goes from
house to house, with a lantern, examining the doors.]
CYRANO [to the CAPUCHIN]. What are
you looking for, Diogenes?
THE CAPUCHIN. I am looking for the
house of Madame...
CHRISTIAN. He is in the way!
THE CAPUCHIN. Magdeleine Robin...
CYRANO [pointing up one of the streets].
This way!... Straight ahead... go
straight ahead...
THE CAPUCHIN. I thank you. I will
say ten Aves for your peace.   [Exit.]
CYRANO. My good wishes speed your cowl!
[He comes forward toward CHRISTIAN.]
CHRISTIAN. Insist upon the kiss!...
CYRANO. No, I will not!
CHRISTIAN. Sooner or later...
CYRANO. It is true! It must come, the
moment of inebriation when your lips shall
imperiously be impelled toward each other,
because the one is fledged with youthful
gold and the other is so soft a pink!...
[To himself.] I had rather it should be
because...
[Sound of the window reopening;
CHRISTIAN hides under the balcony.]
ROXANE [stepping forward on the balcony]. Are you there? We were speaking
of... of... of a...
CYRANO. Kiss. The word is sweet.
Why does your fair lip stop at it? If the
mere word burns it, what will be of the


thing itself? Do not make it into a fearful
matter, and then fear! Did you not a
moment ago insensibly leave playfulness
behind and slip without trepidation from
a smile to a sigh, from a sigh to a tear?
Slip but a little further in the same blessed
direction: from a tear to a kiss there is
scarcely a dividing shiver!
ROXANE. Say no more!
CYRANO. A kiss! When all is said,
what is a kiss? An oath of allegiance
taken in closer proximity, a promise more
precise, a seal on a confession, a rose-red
dot upon the letter i in loving; a secret
which elects the mouth for ear; an instant
of eternity murmuring like a bee; balmy
communion with a flavor of flowers; a
fashion of inhaling each other's heart, and
of tasting, on the brink of the lips, each
other's soul!
ROXANE. Say no more... no more!
CYRANO. A kiss, madame, is a thing so
noble that the Queen of France, on the
most fortunate of lords, bestowed one, did
the queen herself!
ROXANE. If that be so...
CYRANO [with increasing fervor]. Like
Buckingham I have suffered in long silence,
like him I worship a queen, like him I am
sorrowful and unchanging...
ROXANE. Like him you enthrall through
the eyes the heart that follows you!
CYRANO [to himself, sobered]. True, I
am handsome... I had forgotten!
ROXANE. Come then and gather it, the
supreme flower...
CYRANO [pushing CHRISTIAN toward the
balcony]. Go!
ROXANE.... tasting of the heart.
CYRANO. Go!...
ROXANE... murmuring like abee...
CYRANO. Go!
CHRISTIAN [hesitating]. But now I feel
as if I ought not!
ROXANE....making Eternity an instant...
CYRANO [pushing CHRISTIAN]. Scale the
balcony, you donkey!
[CHRISTIAN springs toward the
balcony, and climbs by means of
the bench. the vine, the posts and
balusters.]




CYRANO DE BERGERAC


395


CHRISTIAN. Ah, Roxane!
[He clasps her to him, and bends
over her lips.]
CYRANO. Ha!... What a turn of the
screw to my heart!... Kiss, banquet of
Love at which I am Lazarus, a crumb
drops from your table even to me, here in
the shade.... Yes, in my outstretched
heart a little falls, as I feel that upon the
lip pressing her lip Roxane kisses the
words spoken by me!... [The theorbos
are heard.] A merry tune... a mournful
one... The monk! [He goes through the
pretence of arriving on the spot at a run, as if
from a distance; calling.] Ho, there!
ROXANE. What is it?
CYRANO. It is I. I was passing this
way. Is Christian there?
CHRISTIAN [astonished]. Cyrano!
ROXANE. Good-evening, cousin!
CYRANO. Cousin, good-evening!
ROXANE. I will come down.
[ROXANE disappears in the house.]
[CAPUCHIN re-enters at the back.]
CHRISTIAN [seeing him]. Oh, again!
[He follows ROXANE.]
THE CAPUCHIN. It is here she lives, I am
certain... Magdeleine Robin.
CYRANO. You said Ro-lin.
THE CAPUCHIN. No, bin,... b, i, n, bin!
ROXANE [appearing upon the threshold,
followed by RAGUENEAU carrying a lantern,
and CHRISTIAN]. What is it?
THE CAPUCHIN. A letter.
CHRISTIAN. What?
THE CAPUCHIN [to ROXANE]. Oh, the
contents can be only of a sacred character!
It is from a worthy nobleman who...
ROXANE [to CHRISTIAN]. It is from De
Guiche!
CHRISTIAN. He dares to...?
ROXANE. Oh, he will not trouble me
much longer! [Opening the letter.] I love
you, and if... [By the light of RAGUENEAU'S lantern she reads, aside, low.]
Mademoiselle: The drums are beating.
My regiment is buckling on its corselet.
It is about to leave. I am thought to have
left already, but lag behind. I am disobeying you. I am in the convent here. I am
coming to you, and send you word by a


friar, silly as a sheep, who has no suspicion
of the import of this letter. You smiled
too sweetly upon me an hour ago: I must
see you smile again. Provide to be alone,
and deign graciously to receive the audacious worshipper, forgiven already, I can
but hope, who signs himself your - etc...
[To the CAPUCHIN.] Father, this is what
the letter tells me... Listen: [All draw
nearer; she reads aloud.] Mademoiselle:
The wishes of the cardinal may not be disregarded, however hard compliance with
them prove. I have therefore chosen as
bearer of this letter a most reverend, holy,
and sagacious Capuchin; it is our wish that
he should at once, in your own dwelling,
pronounce the nuptial blessing over you.
Christian must secretly become your husband. I send him to you. You dislike
him. Bow to Heaven's will in resignation,
and be sure that it will bless your zeal, and
sure, likewise, mademoiselle, of the respect
of him who is and will be ever your most
humble and... etc.
THE CAPUCHIN [beaming]. The worthy
gentleman!... I knew it! You remember
that I said so: The contents of that letter
can be only of a sacred character!
ROXANE [low, to CHRISTIAN]. I am a
fluent reader, am I not?
CHRISTIAN. Hm!
ROXANE [with feigned despair]. Ah...
it is horrible!
THE CAPUCHIN [who has turned the light
of his lantern upon CYRANO]. You are the
one?
CHRISTIAN. No, I am.
THE CAPUCHIN [turning the light upon
him, and as if his good looks aroused suspicion]. But...
ROXANE [quickly]. Postscript: You will
bestow upon the convent two hundred
and fifty crowns.
THE CAPUCHIN. The worthy, worthy
gentleman! [To ROXANE.] Be reconciled!
ROXANE [with the expression of a martyr].
I will endeavor! [While RAGUENEAU opens
the door for the CAPUCHIN, whom CHRISTIAN
is showing into the house, ROXANE says
low to CYRANO.] De Guiche is coming!...
Keep him here! Do not let him enter
until...




396


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


CYRANO. I understand! [To the CAPUCHIN.] How long will it take to marry
them?
THE CAPUCHIN. A quarter of an hour.
CYRANO [pushing all toward the house].
Go in! I shall be here!
ROXANE [to CHRISTIAN]. Come!
[They go in.]
CYRANO. How can I detain De Guiche
for a quarter of an hour? [He jumps upon
the bench, climbs the wall toward the balconyrail.] So!... I climb up here!... I know
what I will do!... [The theorbos play a
melancholy tune.] Ho, it is a man! [The
tune quavers lugubriously.] Ho, ho, this
time there is no mistake! [He is on the
balcony; he pulls the brim of his hat over his
eyes, takes off his sword, wraps his cloak
about him, and bends over the balcony-rail.]
No, it is not too far! [He climbs over the
balcony-rail, and reaching for a long bough
that projects beyond the garden wall, holds on
to it with both hands, ready to let himself
drop.] I shall make a slight commotion in
the atmosphere!
DE GUICHE [enters masked, groping in
the dark]. What can that thrice-damned
Capuchin be about?
CYRANO. The devil! if he should recognize my voice? [Letting go with one hand,
he makes show of turning a key.] Cric!
crac! [Solemnly.] Cyrano, resume the accent of Bergerac!
DE GUICHE [looking at ROXANE's house].
Yes, that is it. I can scarcely see. This
mask bothers my eyes!
[He is about to enter ROXANE'S
house; CYRANO swings from the
balcony, holding on to the bough,
which bends and lets him down between the door and DE GUICHE.
He intentionally drops very heavily, to give the effect of dropping
from a great height, and lies flattened upon the ground, motionless, as if stunned.]
DE GUICHE. What is it? [When he looks
up, the bough has swung into place; he sees
nothing but the sky.] Where did this man
drop from?
CYRANO [rising to a sitting posture].
From the moon!


DE GUICHE. From the...?
CYRANO [in a dreamy voice]. What time
is it?
DE GUICHE. Is he mad?
CYRANO. What time? What country?
What day? What season?
DE GUICHE. But...
CYRANO. I am dazed!
DE GUICHE. Monsieur...
CYRANO. I have dropped from the moon
like a bomb!
DE GUICHE [impatiently]. What are you
babbling about?
CYRANO [rising, in a terrible voice]. I
tell you I have dropped from the moon!
DE GUICHE [backing a step]. Very well.
You have dropped from the moon!...
He is perhaps a lunatic!
CYRANO [walking up close to him]. Not
metaphorically, mind that!
DE GUICHE. But...
CYRANO. A hundred years ago, or else
a minute, - for I have no conception how
long I have been falling, - I was up there,
in that saffron-colored ball!
DE GUICHE [shrugging his shoulders].
You were. Now, let me pass!
CYRANO [standing in his way]. Where
am I? Be frank with me! Keep nothing
from me! In what region, among what
people, have I been shot like an aerolite?
DE GUICHE. I wish to pass!
CYRANO. While falling I could not
choose my way, and have no notion where
I have fallen! Is it upon a moon, or is it
upon an earth, I have been dragged by
my posterior weight?
DE GUICHE. I tell you, sir...
CYRANO [with a scream of terror at which
DE GUICHE starts backward a step]. Great
God!... In this country men's faces are
soot-black!
DE GUICHE [lifting his hand to his face].
What does he mean?
CYRANO [still terrified]. Am I in Algeria? Are you a native?...
DE GUICHE [who has felt his mask]. Ah,
my mask!
CYRANO [pretending to be easier]. So I
am in Venice!... Or am I in Genoa?
DE GUICHE [attempting to pass]. A lady
is expecting me!




CYRANO DE BERGERAC


397


CYRANO [completely reassured]. Ah, then
I am in Paris.
DE GUICHE [smiling in spite of himself].
The rogue is not far from amusing!
CYRANO. Ah, you are laughing!
DE GUICHE. I laugh... but intend to
pass!
CYRANO [beaming]. To think I should
strike Paris! [Quite at his ease, laughing,
brushing himself, bowing.] I arrived -
pray, pardon my appearance! - by the last
whirlwind. I am rather unpresentable -
Travel, you know! My eyes are still full
of star-dust. My spurs are clogged with
bristles off a planet. [Appearing to pick
something off his sleeve.] See, on my sleeve,
a comet's hair!
[He makes a feint of blowing it
away.]
DE GUICHE [beside himself]. Sir...
CYRANO [as DE GUICHE is about to pass,
stretching out his leg as if to show something
on it, thereby stopping him]. Embedded in
my calf, I have brought back one of the
Great Bear's teeth... and as, falling too
near the Trident, I strained aside to clear
one of its prongs, I landed sitting in Libra,.. yes, one of the scales!... and now my
weight is registered up there! [Quickly preventing DE GUICHE from passing, and taking hold of a button on his doublet.] And
if, monsieur, you should take my nose
between your fingers and compress it...
milk would result!
DE GUICHE. What are you saying?
Milk?...
CYRANO. Of the Milky Way.
DE GUICiE. Go to the devil!
CYRANO. No! I am sent from Heaven,
literally. [Folding his arms.] Will you believe - I discovered it in passing - that
Sirius at night puts on a night-cap? [Confidentially.] The lesser Bear is too little yet
to bite.... [Laughing.] I tumbled plump
through Lyra, and snapped a string!...
[Magnificent.] But I intend setting all this
down in a book, and the golden stars I have
brought back caught in my shaggy mantle,
when the book is printed, will be seen
serving as asterisks!
DE GUICHE. I have stood this long
enough! I want...


CYRANO. I know perfectly what you
want!
DE GUICHE. Man...
CYRANO. You want to know, from me,
at first hand, what the moon is made of,
and whether that monumental pumpkin is
inhabited?
DE GUICHE [shouting]. Not in the very
least! I want...
CYRANO. To know how I got there? I
got there by a method of my own invention.
DE GUICHE [discouraged]. He is mad!.. stark!
CYRANO [disdainfully]. Do not imagine
that I resorted to anything so absurd as
Regiomontanus's eagle, or anything so lacking in enterprise as Archytas's pigeon!...
DE GUICHE. The madman is erudite...
CYRANO. I drew up nothing that had
ever been thought of before! [DE GUICHE
has succeeded in getting past CYRANO, and
is nearing ROXANE'S door; CYRANO follows
him, ready to buttonhole him.] I invented
no less than six ways of storming the blue
fort of Heaven!
DE GUICHE [turning around]. Six, did
you say?
CYRANO [volubly]. One way was to stand
naked in the sunshine, in a harness thickly
studded with glass phials, each filled with
morning dew. The sun in drawing up the
dew, you see, could not have helped drawing me up too!
DE GUICHE [surprised, taking a step toward CYRANO]. True. That is one!
CYRANO [taking a step backward, with a
view to drawing DE GU CHE away from the
door]. Or else, I could have let the wind
into a cedar coffer, then rarefied the imprisoned element by means of cunningly
adjusted burning-glasses, and soared up
with it!
DE GUICHE [taking another step toward
CYRANO]. Two!
CYRANO [backing]. Or else, mechanic as
well as artificer, I could have fashioned a
giant grasshopper, with steel joints, which,
impelled by successive explosions of saltpeter, would have hopped with me to the
azure meadows where graze the starry
flocks 




398


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


DE GUICHE [unconsciously following
CYRANO, and counting on his fingers]. That
makes three!
CYRANO. Since smoke by its nature
ascends, I could have blown into an appropriate globe a sufficient quantity to ascend
with me!
DE GUICHE [as above, more and more astonished]. Four!
CYRANO. Since Phoebe, the moongoddess, when she is at wane, is greedy,
O beeves! of your marrow,... with that
marrow have besmeared myself!
DE GUICHE [amazed]. Five!
CYRANO [who while talking has backed,
followed by DE GUICHE, to the further side of
the square, near a bench]. Or else, I could
have placed myself upon an iron plate,
have taken a magnet of suitable size, and
thrown it in the air! That way is a very
good one! The magnet flies upward, the
iron instantly after; the magnet no sooner
overtaken than you fling it up again....
The rest is clear! You can go upward indefinitely.
DE GUICHE. Six!... But here are six
excellent methods! Which of the six, my
dear sir, did you select?
CYRANO. A seventh!
DE GUICHE. Did you, indeed? And
what was that?
CYRANO. I give you a hundred guesses!
DE GUICHE. I must confess that I should
like to know!
CYRANO [imitating the noise of the surf,
and making great mysterious gestures].
Hoo-ish! hoo-ish!
DE GUICHE. Well! What is that?
CYRANO. Cannot you guess?
DE GUICHE. No!
CYRANO. The tide!... At the hour in
which the moon attracts the deep, I lay
down upon the sands, after a sea-bath...
and, my head being drawn up first, - the
reason of this, you see, that the hair will
hold a quantity of water in its mop!I rose in the air, straight, beautifully
straight, like an angel. I rose... I rose
softly... without an effort... when,
suddenly, I felt a shock. Then...
DE GUICHE [lured on by curiosity, taking
a seat on the bench]. Well,... then?


CYRANO. Then... [resuming his natural
voice.] The time is up, monsieur, and I
release you. They are married.
DE GUICHE [getting to his feet with a leap].
I am dreaming or drunk! That voice?
[The door of ROXANE'S house opens; lackeys
appear carrying lighted candelabra. CYRANO removes his hat.] And that nose!.. Cyrano!
CYRANO [bowing]. Cyrano. They have
exchanged rings within the quarter of the
hour.
DE GUICHE. Who have? [He turns round.
Tableau. Behind the lackey stand ROXANE
and CHRISTIAN holding hands. The CAPUCHIN follows them smiling. RAGUENEAU
holds high a flambeau. The DUENNA closes
the procession, bewildered, in her bedgown.]
Heavens! [To ROXANE.] You! [Recognizing
CHRISTIAN with amazement.] He? [Bowing
to ROXANE.] Your astuteness compels my
admiration! [To CYRANO.] My compliments to you, ingenious inventor of flying
machines. Your experiences would have
beguiled a saint on the threshold of Paradise! Make a note of them.... They can
be used again, with profit, in a book!
CYRANO [bowing]. I will confidently follow your advice.
THE CAPUCHIN [to DE GUICHE, pointing
at the lovers, and wagging his great white
beard with satisfaction]. A beautiful couple,
my son, brought together by you!
DE GUICHE [eyeing him frigidly]. As
you say! [To ROXANE.] And now proceed,
Madame, to take leave of your husband.
ROXANE. What?
DE GUICHE [to CHRISTIANJ. The regiment is on the point of starting. You are
to join it!
ROXANE. Togotowar?
DE GUICHE. Of course!
ROXANE. But the cadets are not going!
DE GUICHE. They are! [Taking out the
paper which he had put in his pocket.] Here
is the order. [To CHRISTIAN.] I beg you
will take it to the Captain, baron, yourself.
ROXANE [throwing herself in CHRISTIAN'S
arms]. Christian!
DE GUICHE [to CYRANO, with a malignant
laugh]. The wedding night is somewhat
far as yet!




CYRANO DE BERGERAC


399


-


CYRANO [aside]. He thinks that he is
giving me great pain!
CHRISTIAN [to ROXANE]. Oh, once more,
dear!... Once more!
CYRANO. Be reasonable... Come!...
Enough!
CHRISTIAN [still clasping ROXANE]. Oh,
it is hard to leave her.... You cannot
know...
CYRANO [trying to draw him away]. I
know.
[Drums are heard in the distance
sounding a march.]
DE GUICHE [at the back]. The regiment
is on its way!
ROXANE [to CYRANO, while she clings to
CHRISTIAN whom he is trying to draw away].
Oh!... I entrust him   to  your care!
Promise that under no circumstance shall
his life be placed in danger!
CYRANO. I will endeavor... but obviously cannot promise...
ROXANE [same business]. Promise that
he will be careful of himself!
CYRANO. I will do my best, but...
ROXANE [as above]. That during this
terrible siege he shall not take harm from
the cold!
CYRANO. I will try, but...
ROXANE [as above]. That he will be true
to me!
CYRANO. Of course, but yet, you see...
ROXANE [as above]. That he will write
to me often!
CYRANO [stopping]. Ah, that... I promise freely!
CURTAIN
ACT FOURTH
THE GASCONY CADETS
The post occupied at the siege of Arras
by the company of CARBON DE CASTELJALOUX. At the back, across the whole stage,
sloping earthwork. Beyond this is seen a
plain stretching to the horizon; the country
is covered with constructions relating to the
siege. In the distance, against the sky, the
outlines of the walls and roofs of Arras.
Tents; scattered arms; drums, etc. It is
shortly before sunrise. The East is yellow.




I


Sentinels at even  intertals.  Camp-fires.
The GASCONY CADETS lie asleep, rolled in
their cloaks. CARBON DE CASTEL-JALOUX
and LE BRET are watching. All are very
pale and gaunt. CHRISTIAN lies sleeping
among the others, in his military cape, in
the foreground, his face lighted by one of
the camp-fires. Silence.
LE BRET. It is dreadful!
CARBON. Yes. Nothing left.
LE BRET. Mordious!
CARBON [warning him by a gesture to
speak lower]. Curse in a whisper! You
will wake them!... [To the CADETS.]
Hush! Go to sleep! [To LE BRET.] Who
sleeps dines.
LE BRET. Who lies awake misses two
good things... What a situation!
[A few shots are heard in the distance.]
CARBON. The devil take their popping!
They will wake my young ones!... [To
the CADETS who lift their heads.] Go to
sleep!
[The CADETS lie down again. Other
shots are heard, nearer.]
ONE OF THE CADETS [stirring]. The
devil! Again?
CARBON. It is nothing. It is Cyrano
getting home.
[The heads which had started up,
go down again.]
A SENTINEL [outside]. Ventrebleu! Who
goes there?
CYRANO'S VOICE. Bergerac!
THE SENTINEL [upon the embankment].
Ventrebleu! Who goes there?
CYRANO [appearing at the top of the embankment]. Bergerac, blockhead!
[He comes down. LE BRET goes to
him, uneasy.]
LE BRET. Ah, thank God!
CYRANO [warning him by a sign to wake
no one]. Hush!
LE BRET. Wounded?
CYRANO. Do you not know that it ha.
become a habit with them to miss me?
LE BRET. To me, it seems a little excessive that you should. every morning,
for the sake of taking a letter, risk...
CYRANO [stopping in front of CHRISTIAN].




400


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


I promised that he would write often. [He
looks at CHRISTIAN.] He sleeps. He has
grown pale. If the poor little girl could
know that he is starving.... But handsome as ever!
LE BRET. Go at once and sleep.
CYRANO. Le Bret, do not grumble!
Learn this: I nightly cross the Spanish
lines at a point where I know beforehand
every one will be drunk.
LE BRET. You ought some time to bring
us back some victuals!
CYRANO. I must be lightly burdened to
flit through!... But I know that there
will be events before the evening. The
French, unless I am much mistaken, will
eat or die.
LE BRET. Oh, tell us!
CYRANO. No, I am not certain... You
will see!
CARBON. What a shameful reversal of
the order of things, that the besieger should
be starved!
LE BRET. Alas! never was more complicated siege than this of Arras: We besiege Arras, and, caught in a trap, are ourselves besieged by the Cardinal-prince of
Spain....
CYRANO. Some one now ought to come
and besiege him.
LE BRET. I am not joking!
CYRANO. Oh, oh!
LE BRET. To think, ungrateful boy,
that every day you risk a life precious as
yours, solely to carry... [CYRANO goes
toward one of the tents.] Where are you
going?
CYRANO. I am going to write another.
[He lifts the canvas flap, and disappears in the tent. Daybreak
has brightened. Rosy flush. The
city of Arras at the horizon
catches a golden light. The report of a cannon is heard, followed at once by a drum-call,
very far away, at the left. Other
drums beat, nearer. The drumcalls answer one another, come
nearer, come very near, and go
off, decreasing, dying in the distance, toward the right, having
made the circuit of the camp.


Noise of general awakening.
Voices of officers in the distance.]
CARBON [with a sigh]. The reveille...
Ah, me!... [The CADETS stir in their
cloaks, stretch.] An end to the succulent
slumbers! I know but too well what their
first word will be!
ONE OF THE CADETS [sitting up]. I am
famished!
OTHER CADET. I believe I am dying!
ALL. Oh!...
CARBON. Getup!
THIRD CADET. I cannot go a step!
FOURTH CADET. I have not strength to
stir!
FIRST CADET [looking at himself in a bit
of armor]. My tongue is coated:i it must
be the weather that is indigestible!
OTHER CADET. Any one who wants
them, can have all my titles of nobility for
a Chester cheese... or part of one!
OTHER CADET. If my stomach does not
have something put into it to take up the
attention of my gastric juice, I shall retire
into my tent before long... like Achilles!
OTHER CADET. Yes, they ought to provide us with bread!
CARBON [going to the tent into which
CYRANO has retired; low]. Cyrano!
OTHER CADETS. We cannot stand this
much longer!
CARBON [as above, at the door of the tent].
To the rescue, Cyrano! You who succeed
so well always in cheering them, come and
make them pluck up spirits!
SECOND CADET [falling upon FIRST CADET
who is chewing something]. What are you
chewing, man?
FIRST CADET. A bit of gun-tow fried in
axle-grease... using a burganet as frying
pan. The suburbs of Arras are not precisely rich in game....        I
OTHER CADET [entering]. I have been
hunting!
OTHER CADET [the same]. I have been
fishing!
ALL [rising and falling upon the newcomers]. What? - what did you catch? -
A pheasant? - A carp? - Quick! quick!. Let us see!
THE HUNTSMAN. A sparrow!
THE ANGLER. A gudgeon 




CYRANO DE BERGERAC


401


ALL [exasperated]. Enough of this! Let
us revolt!
CARBON. To the rescue, Cyrano!
[It is now broad daylight.]
CYRANO [coming out of the tent, tranquil,
a pen behind his ear, a book in his hand].
What is the matter? [Silence. To FIRST
CADET.] Why do you go off like that, with
that slouching gait?
THE CADET. I have something away
down in my heels which inconveniences
me.
CYRANO. And what is that?
THE CADET. My stomach.
CYRANO. That is where mine is, too.
THE CADET. Then you too must be inconvenienced.
CYRANO. No. The size of the hollow
within me merely increases my sense of
my size.
SECOND CADET. I happen to have teeth,
long ones!
CYRANO. The better will you bite...
in good time!
THIRD CADET. I reverberate like a drum!
CYRANO. You will be of use... to sound
the charge!
OTHER CADET. I have a buzzing in my
ears!
CYRANO. A mistake. Empty belly, no
ears. You hear no buzzing.
OTHER CADET. Ah, a trifling article to
eat... and a little oil upon it!
CYRANO [taking off the CADET' morion
and placing it in his hand]. That is seasoned.
OTHER CADET. What is there we could
devour?
CYRANO [tossing him the book he has been
holding]. Try the Iliad!
OTHER CADET. The minister, in Paris,
makes his four meals a day!
CYRANO. You feel it remiss in him not
to send you a bit of partridge?
THE SAME. Why should he not? And
some wine!
CYRANO. Richelieu, some Burgundy, if
you please?
THE SAME. He might, by one of his
Capuchins!
CYRANO. By his Eminence, perhaps, in
sober gray?


OTHER CADET. No ogre was ever so
hungry!
CYRANO. You may have your fill yet of
humble-pie!
FIRST CADET [shrugging his shoulders].
Forever jests!... puns!... mots!
CYRANO. Le mot forever, indeed! And
I would wish to die, on a fine evening,
under a rose-flushed sky, delivering myself
of a good mot in a good cause!...Ah,
yes, the best were indeed, far from feverbed and potion, pierced with the only noble
weapon, by an adversary worthy of oneself, to fall upon a glorious field, the point
of a sword through his heart, the point of
a jest on his lips!...
ALL [in a wail]. I am hungry!
CYRANO [folding his arms]. God ha'
mercy! can you think of nothing buteating?... Come here, Bertrandou the fifer, once
the shepherd! Take from the double case
one of your fifes: breathe into it, play to
this pack of guzzlers and of gluttons our
homely melodies, of haunting rhythm,
every note of which appeals like a little
sister, through whose every strain are heard
strains of beloved voices... mild melodies
whose slowness brings to mind the slowness
of the smoke upcurling from our native
hamlet hearths... melodies that seem to
speak to a man in his native dialect!...
[The old fifer sits down and makes ready his
fife.] To-day let the fife, martial unwillingly, be reminded, while your fingers upon
its slender stem flutter like birds in a delicate minuet, that before being ebony it was
reed; surprise itself by what you make it
sing,... let it feel restored to it the soul
of its youth, rustic and peaceable! [The
old man begins playing Languedoc tunes.]
Listen, Gascons! It is no more, beneath
his fingers, the shrill fife of the camp, but
the soft flute of the wocdland! It is no
more, between his lips, the whistling note
of battle, but the lowly lay of goatherds
leading their flocks to feed!... Hark!... It sings of the valley: the heath, the
forest!... of the little shepherd, sunburned under his crimson cap!... the
green delight of evening on the river!...
Hark, Gascons all! It sings of Gascony!
[Every head has drooped; all eyes




402


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


have grown dreamy; tears are
furtively brushed away with a
sleeve, the hem of a cloak.]
CARBON [to CYRANO, low]. You are
making them weep!
CYRANO. With homesickness!... a nobler pain than hunger... not physical:
mental! I am glad the seat of their suffering should have removed... that the gripe
should now afflict their hearts!
CARBON. But you weaken them, making
them weep!
CYRANO [beckoning to a drummer]. Never
fear! The hero in their veins is quickly
roused. It is enough to...
[He signs to the drummer who begins drumming.]
ALL [starting to their feet and snatching up
their arms]. Hein?... What?... What is it?
CYRANO [smiling]. You see?... The
sound of the drum was enough! Farewell
dreams, regrets, old homestead, love...
What comes with the fife with the drum
may go...
ONE OF THE CADETS [looking off at the
back]. Ah! ah!... Here comes Monsieur
de Guiche!
ALL THE CADETS [grumbling]. Hoo...
CYRANO [smiling]. Flattering murmur...
ONE OF THE CADETS. He bores us!...
OTHER CADET. Showing himself off,
with his broad point collar on top of his
armor!...
OTHER CADET. As if lace were worn
with steel!
FIRST CADET. Convenient, if you have
a boil on your neck to cover...
SECOND CADET. There is another courtier for you!
OTHER CADET. His uncle's own nephew!
CARBON. He is a Gascon, nevertheless!
FIRST CADET. Not genuine!... Never
trust him. For a Gascon, look you, must
be something of a madman: nothing is
so deadly to deal with as a Gascon who is
completely rational!
LE BRET. He is pale!
OTHER CADET. He is hungry, as hungry
as any poor devil of us! But his corselet
being freely embellished with gilt studs,
his stomach-ache is radiant in the sun!
CYRANO [eagerly]. Let us not appear to


suffer, either! You, your cards, your
pipes, your dice... [All briskly set themselves to playing with cards and dice, on
the heads of drums, on stools, on cloaks
spread over the ground. They light long
tobacco pipes.] And I will be reading
Descartes....
[He walks to and fro, forward and
backward, reading a small book
which he has taken from his
pocket. Tableau.]
[Enter DE GUICHE. Every one appears absorbed and satisfied. DE GUICHE is very
pale. He goes toward CARBON.]
DE GUICHE [to CARBON]. Ah, goodmorning. [They look at each other attentively. Aside, with satisfaction.] He is pale
as plaster.
CARBON [same business]. His eyes are
all that is left of him.
DE GUICHE [looking at the CADETS]. So
here are the wrongheaded rascals?.
Yes, gentlemen, it is reported to me on
every side that I am your scoff and derision; that the cadets, highland nobility,
Bearn clodhoppers, Perigord baronets,
cannot express sufficient contempt for their
colonel; call me intriguer, courtier, find
it irksome to their taste that I should wear,
with my cuirass, a collar of Genoese point,
and never cease to air their wondering indignation that a man should be a Gascon
without being a vagabond! [Silence. The
CADETS continue smoking and playing.]
Shall I have you punished by your captain?... I do not like to.
CARBON. Did you otherwise, however,... I am free, and punish only...
DE GUICHE. Ah?...
CARBON. My company is paid by myself, belongs to me. I obey no orders but
such as relate to war.
DE GUICHE. Ah, is it so? Enough, then.
I will treat your taunts with simple scorn.
My fashion of deporting myself under fire is
well known. You are not unaware of the
manner in which yesterday, at Bapaume,
I forced back the columns of the Comte
de Bucquoi; gathering my men together
to plunge forward like an avalanche, three
times I charged him....




CYRANO DE BERGERAC


403


CYRANO [without lifting his nose from his
book]. And your white scarf?
DE GUICHE [surprised and self-satisfied].
You heard of that circumstance?... In
fact, it happened that as I was wheeling
about to collect my men for the third
charge, I was caught in a stream of fugitives which bore me onward to the edge
of the enemy. I was in danger of being
captured and cut off with an arquebuse,
when I had the presence of mind to untie
and let slip to the ground the white scarf
which proclaimed my military grade. Thus
was I enabled, undistinguished, to withdraw from among the Spaniards, and thereupon returning with my reinspirited men,
to defeat them. Well?... What do you
say to the incident?
[The CADETS have appeared not to
be listening; at this point, however, hands with cards and diceboxes remain suspended in the
air; no pipe-smoke is ejected; all
expresses expectation.]
CYRANO. That never would Henry the
Fourth, however great the number of his
opponents, have consented to diminish his
presence by the size of his white plume.
[Silent joy. Cards fall, dice rattle,
smoke upwreathes.]
D)E GUICHE. The trick was successful,
however!
[As before, expectation suspends
gambling and smoking.]
CYRANO. Very likely. But one should
not resign the honor of being a target.
[Cards, dice, smoke, fall, rattle, and upwreathe, as before, in expression of increasing glee.] Had I been at hand when you
allowed your scarf to drop - the quality of
our courage, monsieur, shows different in
this, - I would have picked it up and worn
it....
DE GUICHE. Ah, yes, - more of your
Gascon bragging!...
CYRANO. Bragging?.    Lend me the
scarf. I engage to mount, ahead of all, to
the assault, wearing it crosswise upon my
breast!
- DE GUICHE. A Gascon's offer, that too!
You know that the scarf was left in the
enemy's camp, by the banks of the Scarpe,


where bullets since then have hailed...
whence no one can bring it back!
CYRANO [taking a white scarf from his
pocket and handing it to DE GUICHE]. Here
it is.
[Silence. The CADETS smother their
laughter behind cards and in
dice-boxes. DE GUICHE turns
around, looks at them; instantly
they become grave; one of them,
with an air of unconcern, whistles
the tune played earlier by the
fifer.]
DE GUICHE [taking the scarf]. I thank
you. I shall be able with this shred of
white to make a signal... which I was
hesitating to make....
[He goes to the top of the bank and
waves the scarf.]
ALL. What now?... Vhat is this?
THE SENTINEL [at the top of the bank].
A man... over there... running off...
DE GUICHE [coming forward again]. It
is a supposed Spanish spy. He is very
useful to us. The information he carries
to the enemy is that which I give him, -
so that their decisions are influenced by us.
CYRANO. He is a scoundrel!
DE GUICHE [coolly tying on his scarf].
He is a convenience. We were saying?... Ah, I was about to tell you. Last
night, having resolved upon a desperate
stroke to obtain supplies, the Marshal
secretly set out for Dourlens. The royal
sutlers are encamped there. He expects to
join them by way of the tilled fields; but,
to provide against interference, he took
with him troops in such number that, certainly, if we were now attacked, the enemy
would find easy work. Half of the army is
absent from the camp.
CARBON. If the Spaniards knew that, it
might be serious. But they do not know.
DE GUICHE. They do. And are going
to attack us.
CARBON. Ah!
DE GUICHE. My pretended spy came
to warn me of their intention. He said,
moreover: I can direct the attack. At
what point shall it be? I will lead them to
suppose it the least strong, and they will
centre their efforts against it. I answered:




404


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


Very well. Go from the camp. Look down
the line. Let them attack at the point I
signal from.
CARBON [to the CADETS]. Gentlemen,
get ready!
[All get up. Noise of swords and
belts being buckled on.]
DE GUICHE. They will be here in an
hour.
FIRST CADET. Oh!... if there is a
whole hour!...
[All sit down again, and go on with
their games.]
DE GUICHE [to CARBON]. The main object is to gain time. The Marshal is on his
way back.
CARBON. And to gain time?
DE GUICHE. You will be so obliging as
to keep them busy killing you.
CYRANO. Ah, this is your revenge!
DE GUICHE. I will not pretend that if I
had been fond of you, I would have thus
singled out you and yours; but, as your
bravery is unquestionably beyond that of
others, I am serving my King at the same
time as my inclination.
CYRANO. Suffer me, monsieur, to express my gratitude.
DE GUICHE. I know that you affect
fighting one against a hundred. You will
not complain of lacking opportunity.
[He goes toward the back with
CARBON.]
CYRANO [to the CADETS]. We shall now
be able, gentlemen, to add to the Gascon
escutcheon, which bears, as it is, six chevrons, or and azure, the chevron that was
wanting to complete it, - blood-red!
[DE GUICHE at the back speaks low
with CARBON. Orders are given.
All is made ready to repel an
attack. CYRANO goes toward
CHRISTIAN, who stands motionless, with folded arms.]
CYRANO [laying his hand on CHRISTIAN'S
shoulder]. Christian?
CHRISTIAN [shaking his head]. Roxane!
CYRANO. Ah me!
CHRISTIAN. I wish I might at least put
my whole heart's last blessing in a beautiful letter!
CTRANO. I mistrusted that it would


come to-day... [he takes a letter from his
doublet] and I have written your farewells.
CHRISTIAN. Let me see!
CYRANO. You wish to see it?...
CHRISTIAN   [taking  the letter].  Yes!
[He opens the letter, begins to read, stops
short.] Ah?...
CYRANO. What?
CHRISTIAN. That little round blister?
CYRANO [hurriedly taking back the letter,
and looking at it with an artless air]. A
blister?
CHRISTIAN. It is a tear!
CYRANO. It looks like one, does it not?... A poet, you see, is sometimes caught
in his own snare, - that is what constitutes the interest, the charm!...This
letter, you must know, is very touching.
In writing it I apparently made myself shed
tears.
CHRISTIAN. Shed tears?...
CYRANO. Yes, because... well, to die
is not terrible at all... but never to see
her again,... never!... that, you know,
is horrible beyond all thinking.... And,
things having taken the turn they have, I
shall not see her... [CHRISTIAN looks at
him] we shall not see her.. [hastily]
you will not see her....
CHRISTIAN [snatching the letter from him].
Give me the letter! [Noise in the distance.]
VOICE OF A SENTINEL. Ventrebleu, who
goes there?
[Shots. Noise of voices, tinkling of
bells.]
CARBON. What is it?
THE SENTINEL [on the top of the bank].
A coach!                 [All run to see.]
[Noisy exclamations.] What? - In the
camp? - It is driving into the camp! - It
comes from the direction of the enemy!
The devil! Fire upon it! - No! the coachman is shouting something! - What does
he say? - He shouts: Service of the King!
DE GUICHE. What? Service of the King?
[All come down from the bank and
fall into order.]
CARBON. Hats off, all!
DE GUICHE [at the corner]. Service of
the King! Stand back, low rabble, and
give it room to turn around with a handsome sweep!




CYRANO DE BERGERAC


405


[The coach comes in at a trot. It is covered
with mud and dust. The curtains are
drawn. Two lackeys behind. It comes
to a standstill.]
CARBON [shouting]. Salute!
[Drums roll. All the CADETS uncover.]
DE GuICHE. Let down the steps!
[Two men hurry forward. The
coach door opens.]
ROXANE [stepping from the carriage].
Good-morning!
[At the sound of a feminine voice,
all the men, in the act of bowing
low, straighten themselves. Consternation.]
DE GUICHE. Service of the King! You?
ROXANE. Of the only King!... of
Love!
CYRANO. Ah, great God!
CHRISTIAN [rushing to her]. You! Why
are you here?
ROXANE. This siege lasted too long!
CHRISTIAN. Why have you come?
ROXANE. I will tell you!
CYRANO [who at the sound of her voice has
started, then stood motionless without venturing to look her way]. God!... can I trust
myself to look at her?
DE GUICHE. You cannot remain here.
ROXANE. But I can, - I can, indeed!
Will you favor me with a drum? [She seats
herself upon a drum brought forward for
her.] There! I thank you! [She laughs.]
They fired upon my carriage. [Proudly.]
A patrol!- It does look rather as if it
were made out of a pumpkin, does it not?
like Cinderella's coach! and the footmen
made out of rats! [Blowing a kiss to CHRISTIAN.] How do you do? [Looking at them
all.] You do not look overjoyed!... Arras
is a long way from Paris, do you know it?
[Catching sight of CYRANO.] Cousin, delighted!
CYRANO [coming toward her]. But how
did you...?
ROXANE. How did I find the army?
Dear me, cousin, that was simple: I followed straight along the line of devastation.... Ah, I should never have believed in such horrors had I not seen them I


Gentlemen, if that is the service of your
King, I like mine better!
CYRANO. But this is mad!... By what
way did you come?
ROXANE. Way?...      drove through
the Spaniards' camp.
FIRST CADET. Ah, what will keep lovely
woman from her way!
DE GUICHE. But how did you contrive
to get through their lines"
LE BRET. That must have been difficult...
ROXANE. No, not very. I simply drove
through them, in my coach, at a trot. If
a hidalgo, with arrogant front, showed
likely to stop us, I put my face at the
window, wearing my sweetest smile, and,
those gentlemen being, -- let the FreIch
not grudge my saying so! - the most gallant in the world,... I passed!
CARBON. Such a smile is a passport,
certainly!... But you must have been
not unfrequently bidden to stand and deliver where you were going?
ROXANE. Not unfrequently, you are
right. Whereupon I would say, "I am
going to see my lover! " At once, the
fiercest looking Spaniard of them all would
gravely close my carriage door; and, with
a gesture the King might emulate, motion
aside the musket-barrels levelled at me;
and, superb at once for grace and haughti.
ness, bringing his spurs together, and lift.
ing his plumed hat, bow low and say,
"Pass, senorita, pass!"
CHRISTIAN. But, Roxane...
ROXANE. I said, "My lover!" yes, forgive me! - You see, if I had said, "My
husband!" they would never have let me
by!
CHRISTIAN. But...
ROXANE. What troubles you?
DE GUICHE. You must leave at once.
ROXANE. I?
CYRANO. At once!
LE BRET. As fast as you can.
CHRISTIAN. Yes, you rust.
ROXANE. But why?
CHRISTIAN [embarrassed]. Because...
CYRANO [embarrassed too]. In three
quarters of an hour...
DE GUICHE [the same]. Or an hour...




406


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


CARBON [the same]. You had much
better...
LE BRET [the same]. You might...
ROXANE. I shall remain. You are going
to fight.
ALL. Oh, no!... No!
ROXANE. He is my husband! [She throws
herself in CHRISTIAN'S arms.] Let me be
killed with you!
CHRISTIAN. How your eyes shine!
ROXANE. I will tell you why they shine!
DE GUICHE [desperately]. It is a post of
horrible probabilities!
ROXANE [turning toward him]. What 
of horrible?...
CYRANO. In proof of which he appointed
us to it!...
ROXANE. Ah, you wish me made a
widow?
DE GUICHE. I swear to you...
ROXANE. No! Now I have lost all regard.... Now I will surely not go....
Besides, I think it fun!
CYRANO. What? The precieuse contained a heroine?
ROXANE. Monsieur de Bergerac, I am a
cousin of yours!
ONE OF THE CADETS. Never think but
that we will take good care of you!
ROXANE [more and more excited]. I am
sure you will, my friends!
OTHER CADET. The whole camp smells
of iris!
ROXANE. By good fortune I put on a
hat that will look well in battle! [Glancing
toward DE GUICHE.] But perhaps it is
time the Count should go. - The battle
might begin.
DE GUICHE. Ah, it is intolerable! - I
am going to inspect my guns, and coming
back. - You still have time: think better
of it!
ROXANE. Never!    [Exit DE GUICHE.]
CHRISTIAN [imploring]. Roxane!
ROXANE. No!
FIRST CADET. She is going to stay!
ALL [hurrying about, pushing one another, snatching things from one another].
A comb! - Soap! - My jacket is torn, a
needle! - A  ribbon! - Lend me your
pocket-mirror! -  My cuffs! -  Curlingirons! - A razor!


ROXANE [to CYRANO, who is still pleading with her]. No! Nothing shall prevail
upon me to stir from this spot!
CARBON [after having, like the others,
tightened his belt, dusted himself, brushed
his hat, straightened his feather, pulled down
his cuffs, approaches ROXANE, and ceremoniously]. It is, perhaps, proper, since
you are going to stay, that I should present
to you a few of the gentlemen about to
have the honor of dying in your presence... [ROXANE bows, and stands waiting,
with her arm through CHRISTIAN'S.] Baron
Peyrescous de Colignac!
THE CADET [bowing]. Madame!
CARBON [continuing to present the
CADETS]. Baron de Casterac de Cahuzac,
- Vidame de Malgouyre Estressac Lesbas d'Escarabiot, - Chevalier d'AntignacJuzet, - Baron Hillot de Blagnac-Salechan
de Castel Crabioules...
ROXANE. But how many names have
you apiece?
BARON HILLOT. Innumerable!
CARBON [to ROXANE]. Open your hand
with the handkerchief!
ROXANE [opens her hand; the handkerchief
drops]. Why?
[The whole company starts forward
to pick it up.]
CARBON [instantly catching it]. My
company had no flag! Now, my word,
it will have the prettiest one in the army!
ROXANE [smiling]. It is rather small!
CARBON [fastening the handkerchief on
the staff of his captain's spear]. But it is
lace!
ONE OF THE CADETS [to the others]. I
could die without a murmur, having looked
upon that beautiful face, if I had so much
as a walnut inside me!...
CARBON [who has overheard, indignant].
Shame!... to talk of food when an exquisite woman...
ROXANE. But the air of the camp is
searching, and I myself am hungry:
Patties, jellied meat, light wine... are
what I should like best! Will you kindly
bring me some?          [Consternation.]
ONE OF THE CADETS. Bring you some?
OTHER CADET. And where, great God,
shall we get them?




CYRANO DE BERGERAC


407


ROXANE [quietly]. In my coach.
ALL. What?
ROXANE. But there is much to be done,
carving and boning and serving. Look
more closely at my coachman, gentlemen,
and you will recognize a precious individual: the sauces, if we wish, can be warmed
over...
THE CADETS [springing toward the coach].
It is Ragueneau! [Cheers.] Oh! Oh!
ROXANE [watching them]. Poor fellows!
CYRANO [kissing her hand]. Kind fairy!
RAGUENEAU [standing upon the box-seat
like a vender at a public fair]. Gentlemen!
[Enthusiasm.]
THE CADETS. Bravo! Bravo!
RAGUENEAU. How should the Spaniards,
when so much beauty passed, suspect the
repast?                     [Applause.]
CYRANO [low to CHRISTIAN]. Hm! Hm!
Christian!
RAGUENEAU. Absorbed in gallantry, no
heed took they... [he takes a dish from
the box-seat]... of galantine!
[Applause. The galantine is passed
from hand to hand.]
CYRANO [low to CHRISTIAN]. A word
with you....
RAGUENEAU. Venus kept their eyes fixed
upon herself, while Diana slipped past with
the... [he brandishes a joint] game!
[Enthusiasm. The joint is seized
by twenty hands at once.]
CYRANO [low to CHRISTIAN]. I must
speak with you.
ROXANE [to the CADETS who come forward, their arms full of provisions]. Spread
it all upon the ground!
[Assisted by the two imperturbable
footmen who were on the back of
the coach, she arranges everything on the grass.]
ROXANE [to CHRISTIAN whom CYRANO is
trying to draw aside]. Make yourself useful,
sir!
[CHRISTIAN comes and helps her.
CYRANO gives evidence of uneasiness.]
RAGUENEAU. A truffled peacock!
FIRST CADET [radiant, comes forward
cutting off a large slice of ham]. Praise the
pigs, we shall not go to our last fight with


nothing in our b... [correcting himself at
sight of ROXANE] hm... stomachs!
RAGUENEAU [flinging the carriage cushions]. The cushions are stuffed with snipe!
[Tumult. The cushions are ripped
open. Laughter. Joy.]
RAGUENEAU [flinging bottles of red wine].
Molten ruby! [Bottles of white wine.]
Fluid topaz!
ROXANE [throwing a folded tablecloth to
CYRANO]. Unfold the cloth: Hey!... be
nimble!
RAGUENEAU [waving one of the coach
lanterns]. Each lantern is a little larder!
CYRANO [low to CHRISTIAN, while together
they spread the cloth]. I must speak with
you before you speak with her...
RAGUENEAU. The handle of my whip,
behold, is a sausage!
ROXANE [pouring wine, dispensing it].
Since we are the ones to be killed, morbleu,
we will not fret ourselves about the rest of
the army! Everything for the Gascons!.. And if De Guiche comes, nobody must
invite him! [Going from me to the other.]
Gently! You have time.... You must not
eat so fast! There, drink  What are you
crying about?
FIRST CADET. It is too good!
ROXANE. Hush! White wine or red? -
Bread for Monsieur de Carbon! - A knife!
- Pass your plate! - You prefer crust? -
A little more? —Let me help you.Champagne? - A wing? --
CYRANO [following ROXANE, his hands
full of dishes, helping her]. I adore her!
ROXANE [going to CHRISTIAN]. What
will you take?
CHRISTIAN. Nothing!
ROXANE. Oh, but you must take something! This biscuit - in a little Muscatel
- just a little?
CHRISTIAN [trying to keep her from going].
Tell me what made you come?
ROXANE. I owe myself to those poor
fellows... Be patient,... By and by...
LE BRET [who had gone toward the back
to pass a loaf of bread on the end of a pike
to the SENTINEL upon the earthwork]. De
Guiche!
CYRANO. Presto! Vanish basket, flagon,
platter and pan! Hurry! Let us look




408


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


as if nothing were! [To RAGUENEAU.]
Take a flying leap on to your box! - Is
everything hidden?
[In a wink, all the eatables have been
pushed into the tents, or hidden
under clothes, cloaks, hats.]
[Enter DE GUICHE, hurriedly; he stops short,
sniffing the air. Silence.]
DE GUICHE. What a good smell!
ONE OF THE CADETS [singing, with effect
of mental abstraction]. To lo lo lo....
DE GUICHE [stopping and looking at him
closely]. What is the matter with you -
you, there? You are red as a crab.
THE CADET. I? Nothing... It is just my
blood.... We are going to fight: it tells...
OTHER CADET. Poom..    poom...
poom...
DE GUICHE [turning]. What is this?
THE CADET [slightly intoxicated]. Nothing... A song... just a little song.
DE GUICHE. You look in good spirits,
my boy!
THE CADET. Danger affects me that way!
DE GUICHE [calling CARBON DE CASTELJALOUX to give an order]. Captain, I...
[He stops at sight of his face.] Peste! You
look in good spirits, too.
CARBON (flushed, holding a bottle behind
him; with an evasive gesture]. Oh!...
DE GUICHE. I had a cannon left over,
which I have ordered them to place [he
points in the wing] there, in that corner, and
which your men can use, if necessary...
ONE OF THE CADETS [swaying from one
foot to the other]. Charming attention!
OTHER CADET [smiling sugarily]. Our
thanks for your gracious thoughtfulness!
DE GUICHE. Have they gone mad?... [Drily.] As you are not accustomed
to handling a cannon, look out for its
kicking...
FIRST CADET. Ah, pfft!...
DE GUICHE [going toward him, furious].
But...
THE CADET. A cannon knows better
than to kick a Gascon!
DE GUICHE [seizing him by the arm and
shaking him]. You are all tipsy: on what?
THE CADET [magnificently]. The smell
of powder!


DE GUICHE [shrugs his shoulders, pushes
aside the CADET, and goes rapidly toward
ROXANE]. Quick, Madame! what -have
you condescended to decide?
ROXANE. I remain.
DE GUICHE. Retire, I beseech you!
ROXANE. No.
DE GUICHE. If you are determined, then... Let me have a musket!
CARBON. What do vou mean?
DE GUICHE. I, too, will remain.
CYRANO. At last, monsieur, an instance
of pure and simple bravery!
FIRST CADET. Might you be a Gascon,
lace collar notwithstanding?
DE GUICHE. I do not leave a woman in
danger.
SECOND CADET [to FIRST CADET]. Look
here! I think he might be given something to eat!
[All the food reappears, as if by
magic.]
DE GUICHE [his eyes brightening]. Provisions?
THIRD CADET. Under every waistcoat!
DE GUICHE [mastering himself, haughtily]. Do you imagine that 1 will eat your
leavings?
CYRANO [bowing]. You are improving!
DE GUICHE [proudly, falling at the last
of the sentence into a slightly GASCON accent].
I will fight before I eat!
FIRST CADET [exultant]. Fight! Eat!... He spoke with an accent!
DE GUICHE [laughing]. I did?
THE CADET. He is one of us!
[All fall to dancing.]
CARBON [who a moment before disappeared behind the earthworks, reappearing
at the top]. I have placed my pikemen.
They are a determined troop...
[He points at a line of pikes projecting above the bank.]
DE GUICHE [to ROXANE, bowing]. Will
you accept my hand and pass them in
review?
[She takes his hand; they go toward
the bank. Every one uncovers and
follows.]
CHRISTIAN [going to CYRANO, quickly].
Speak! Be quick!
[As ROXANE appears at the top of




CYRANO DE BERGERAC


409


the bank, the pikes disappear,
lowered in a salute, and a cheer
goes up; ROXANE bows.]
PIKEMEN [outside]. Vivat!
CHRISTIAN. What did you want to tell
me?
CYRANO. In case Roxane...
CHRISTIAN. Well?
CYRANO. Should speak to you of the
letters...
CHRISTIAN. Yes, the letters. I know!
CYRANO. Do not commit the blunder of
appearing surprised...
CHRISTIAN. At what?
CYRANO. I must tell you!... It is
quite simple, and merely comes into my
mind to-day because I see her. You
have...
CHRISTIAN. Hurry!
CYRANO. You... you have written to
her oftener than you suppose...
CHRISTIAN. Oh, have I?
CYRANO. Yes. It was my business, you
see. I had undertaken to interpret your
passion, and sometimes I wrote without
having told you I should write.
CHRISTIAN. Ah?
CYRANO. It is very simple.
CHRISTIAN. But how did you succeed
since we have been so closely surrounded,
in...?
CYRANO. Oh, before daybreak I could
cross the lines...
CHRISTIAN [folding his arms]. Ah, that
is very simple, too?... And how many
times a week have I been writing? Twice?
Three times? Four?...
CYRANO. More.
CHRISTIAN. Every day?
CYRANO. Yes, every day... twice.
CHRISTIAN [violently]. And you cared so
much about it that you were willing to
brave death....
CYRANO [seeing ROXANE who returns].
Be still... Not before her!
[He goes quickly into his tent.
CADETS come and go at the back.
CARBON and DE GUICHE give
orders.]
ROXANE [running to CHRISTIAN]. And
now, Christian...
CHRISTIAN [taking her handsl. And now,


you shall tell me why, over these fearful
roads, through these ranks of rough soldiery, you risked your dear self to join me?
ROXANE. Because of the letters!
CHRISTIAN. The..? What did you
say?
ROXANE. It is through your fault that
I have been exposed to such and so many
dangers. It is your letters that have gone
to my head! Ah, think how many you
have written me in a month, each one more
beautiful...
CHRISTIAN. 'What?.. Because of a
few little love letters...
ROXANE. Say nothing! You cannot
understand! Listen: The truth is that I
took to idolizing you one evening, when, below my window, in a voice I did not know
before, your soul began to reveal itself....
Think then what the effect should be of
your letters, which have been like your
voice heard constantly for one month, your
voice of that evening, so tender, caressing... You must bear it as you can, I have
come to you! Prudent Penelope would
not have stayed at home with her eternal
tapestry, if Ulysses, her lord, had written
as you write... but, impulsive as Helen,
have tossed aside her yarns, and flown to
join him!
CHRISTIAN. But...
ROXANE. I read them, I re-read them,
in reading I grew faint... I became your
own indeed! Each fluttering leaf was like
a petal of your soul wafted to me... In
every word of those letters, love is felt as
a flame would be felt, — love, compelling,
sincere, profound...
CHRISTIAN. Ah, sincere, profound?...
You say that it can be felt, Roxane?
ROXANE. He asks mre!
CHRISTIAN. And so you came?...
ROXANE. I came —oh Christian, my
own, my master! If I were to kneel at your
feet you would lift me, I know. It is my
soul therefore which kneels, and never can
you lift it from that posture! - I came to
implore your pardon -- as it is fitting, for
we are both perhaps about to die! - your
pardon for having done you the wrong, at
first, in my shallowness, of loving you...
for mere looking!




4Io


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


CHRISTIAN [in alarm]. Ah, Roxane!...
ROXANE. Later, dear one, grown less
shallow - similar to a bird which flutters
before it can fly, - your gallant exterior appealing to me still, but your soul appealing
equally, I loved you for both!...
CHRISTIAN. And now?
ROXANE. Now at last yourself are vanquished by yourself: I love you for your
soul alone...
CHRISTIAN [drawing away]. Ah, Roxane!
ROXANE. Rejoice! For to be loved for
that wherewith we are clothed so fleetingly
must put a noble heart to torture.....
Your dear thought at last casts your dear
face in shadow: the harmonious lineaments whereby at first you pleased me,.
I do not see them, now my eyes are open!
CHRISTIAN. Oh!
ROXANE. You question your own
triumph?
CHRISTIAN [sorrowfully]. Roxane!
ROXANE. I understand, you cannot conceive of such a love in me?
CHRISTIAN. I do not wish to be loved
like that! I wish to be loved quite simply...
ROXANE. For that which other women
till now have loved in you? Ah, let yourself be loved in a better way.
CHRISTIAN. No... I was happier before!...
ROXANE. Ah, you do not understand!
It is now that I love you most, that I truly
love you. It is that which makes you, you
-can you not grasp it?- that I worship... And did you no longer walk our
earth like a young martial Apollo...
CHRISTIAN. Say no more!
ROXANE. Still would I love you!...
Yes, though a blight should have fallen
upon your face and form...
CHRISTIAN. Do not say it!
ROXANE. But I do say it,... I do!
CHRISTIAN. What? If I were ugly, distinctly, offensively?
ROXANE. If you were ugly, dear, I
swear it!
CHRISTIAN. God!
ROXANE. And you are glad, profoundly
glad?
CHRISTIAN [in a smothered voice]. Yes...


ROXANE. What is it?
CHRISTIAN [pushing her gently away].
Nothing. I have a word or two to say
to some one: your leave, for a second...
ROXANE. But...
CHRISTIAN [pointing at a group of CADETS
at the back]. In my selfish love, I have
kept you from those poor brothers....
Go, smile on them a little, before they die,
dear... go!
ROXANE [moved]. Dear Christian!
[She goes toward the GAScoNs at
the back; they respectfully gather
around her.]
CHRISTIAN [calling toward CYRANO'S
tent]. Cyrano!
CYRANO [appears, armed for battle].
What is it?... How pale you are!
CHRISTIAN. She does not love me any
more!
CYRANO. What do you mean?
CHRISTIAN. She loves you.
CYRANO. No!
CHRISTIAN. She only loves my soul!
CYRANO. No!
CHRISTIAN. Yes! Therefore it is you
she loves... and you love her...
CYRANO. I...
CHRISTIAN. I know it!
CYRANO. It is true.
CHRISTIAN. To madness!
CYRANO. More.
CHRISTIAN. Tell her then.
CYRANO. No!
CHRISTIAN. Why not?
CYRANO. Look at me!
CHRISTIAN. She would love me grown
ugly.
CYRANO. She told you so?
CHRISTIAN. With the utmost frankness!
CYRANO. Ah! I am glad she should
have told you that! But, believe me, believe me, place no faith in such a mad asseveration! Dear God, I am glad such a
thought should have come to her, and that
she should have spoken it, - but believe
me, do not take her at her word: Never
cease to be the handsome fellow you are.... She would not forgive me!
CHRISTIAN. That is what I wish to discover.
CYRANO. No! no!




CYRANO DE BERGERAC


411


CHRISTIAN. Let her choose between us!
You shall tell her everything.
CYRANO. No... No... I refuse the
ordeal!
CHRISTIAN. Shall I stand in the way of
your happiness because my outside is not
so much amiss?
CYRANO. And I? shall I destroy yours,
because, thanks to the hazard that sets us
upon earth, I have the gift of expressing. what you perhaps feel?
CHRISTIAN. You shall tell her everything!
CYRANO. He persists in tempting me...
It is a mistake... and cruel!
CHRISTIAN. I am weary of carrying
about, in my own self, a rival!
CYRANO. Christian!
CHRISTIAN. Our marriage... contracted without witnesses... can be annulled... if we survive!
CYRANO. He persists!...
CHRISTIAN. Yes. I will be loved for
my sole self, or not at all! - I am going to
see what they are about. Look! I will
walk to the end of the line and back...
Tell her, and let her pronounce between
US.
CYRANO. She will pronounce for you.
CHRISTIAN. I can but hope she will!
[calling] Roxane!
CYRAJO. No! No!
ROXANE [coming forward]. What is it?
CHRISTIAN. Cyrano has something to
tell you... something important!
[ROXANE goes hurriedly to CYRANO. Exit CHRISTIAN.]
ROXANE. Something important?
CYRANO [distracted]. He is gone!...
[To ROXANE.] Nothing whatever! He
attaches - but you must know him of old!
- he attaches importance to trifles...
ROXANE [quickly]. He did not believe
what I told him a moment ago?... I
saw that he did not believe...
CYRANO [taking her hand]. But did you
in very truth tell him the truth?
ROXANE. Yes. Yes. I should love him
even....        She hesitates a second.]
CYRANO [smiling sadly]. You do not
like to say it before me?
ROXANE. But...


CYRANO. I shall not mind!... Even
if he were ugly?
ROXANE. Yes.. Ugly. [Musket shots
outside.] They are firing!
CYRANO [ardently]. Dreadfully ugly?
ROXANE. Dreadfully.
CYRANO. Disfigured?
ROXANE. Disfigured!
CYRANO. Grotesque?
ROXANE. Nothing could make him grotesque... to me.
CYRANO. You would love him still?
ROXANE. I believe that I should love
him more... if that were possible!
CYRANO [losing his head, aside]. My
God, perhaps she means it... perhaps it
is true... and that way is happiness!
[To ROXANE.] I... Roxane... listen!
LE BRET [comes in hurriedly; calls softly].
Cyrano!
CYRANO [turning]. Hein?
LE BRET. Hush!
[He whispers c few words to
CYRANO.]
CYRANO [letting ROXANE'S hand drop,
with a cry]. Ah!...
ROXANE. What ails you?
CYRANO [to himself, in consternation]. It
is finished!            [Musket reports.]
ROXANE. What is it? What is happening? Who is firing?
[She goes to the back to look off.]
CYRANO. It is finished.... My lips are
sealed forevermore!
[CADETS come in, attempting to conceal
something they carry cmong them; they
surround it, preventing ROXANE's seeing zt.]
ROXANE. What has happened?
CYRANO [quickly stopping her as she
starts toward them]. Nothing!
ROXANE. These men?...
CYRANO [drawing her away]. Pay no
attention to them!
ROXANE. But what were you about to
say to me before?
CYRANO. What was I about to say?...
Oh, nothing!... Nothing whatever, I assure
you. [Solemnly.] I swear that Christian'>
spirit, that his soul, were... [in terror,
correcting himself] are the greatest that...




CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


ROXANE. Were?... [With a great cry.]
Ah!...
[Runs to the group of CADETS, and
thrusts them aside.]
CYRANO. It is finished!
ROXANE [seeing CHRISTIAN stretched out
in his cloak]. Christian!
LE BRET [to CYRANO]. At the enemy's
first shot!
[ROXANE throws herself on CHRISTIAN'S body. Musket reports.
Clashing of swords. Tramping.
Drums.]
CARBON [sword in hand]. The attack!
To your muskets!
[Followed by the CADETS he goes to
the further side of the earthworks.]
ROXANE. Christian!
CARBON'S VOICE [beyond the earthworks].
Make haste!
ROXANE. Christian!
CARBON. Fall into line!
ROXANE. Christian!
CARBON. Measure... match!
[RAGUENEAU has come running in
with water in a steel cap.]
CHRISTIAN [in a dying voice]. Roxane!
CYRANO [quick, low in CHRISTIAN'S ear,
while ROXANE, distracted, dips into the
water a fragment of linen torn from  her
breast to bind his wound]. I have told
her everything!... You are still the one
she loves!     [CHRISTIAN closes his eyes.]
ROXANE. What, dear love?
CARBON. Muzzle... high!
ROXANE [to CYRANO]. He is not
dead?...
CARBON. Open charge.. with teeth!
ROXANE. I feel his cheek grow cold
against my own!
CARBON. Take aim!
ROXANE. A letter on his breast....
[She opens it.] To me!
CYRANO [aside]. My letter!
CARBON. Fire!
[Musket shots. Cries. Roar of
battle.]
CYRANO [trying to free his hand which
ROXANE clasps kneeling]. But, Roxane,
they are fighting.
ROXANE [clinging]. No!... Stay with
me a little!... He is dead. You are the


only one that truly knew him.... [She
cries subduedly.] Was he not an exquisite
being,... an exceptional, marvellous being?...
CYRANO [standing bareheaded]. Yes,
Roxane.
ROXANE. A poet without his peer,...
one verily to reverence?
CYRANO. Yes, Roxane.
ROXANE. A sublime spirit?
CYRANO. Yes, Roxane.
ROXANE. A profound heart, such as the
profane could never have understood...
a soul as noble as it was charming?...
CYRANO [firmly]. Yes, Roxane.
ROXANE [throwing herself on CHRISTIAN'S
body]. And he is dead!
CYRANO [aside, drawing his sword]. And
I have now only to die, since, without
knowing it, she mourns my death in his!
[Trumpets in the distance.]
DE GUICHE [reappears on the top of the
bank, bareheaded, his forehead bloody; in
a thundering voice]. The signal they promised! The flourish of trumpets!... The
French are entering the camp with supplies!... Stand fast a little longer!
ROXANE. Upon his letter... blood,.. tears!
A VOICE [outside, shouting]. Surrender!
VOICES OF THE CADETS. No!
RAGUENEAU [who from the tqp of the
coach is watching the battle beyond the
bank]. The conflict rages hotter!...
CYRANO [to DE GUICHE pointing at RoxANE]. Take her away!... I am     going
to charge.
ROXANE [kissing the letter, in a dying
voice]. His blood!... his tears!
RAGUENEAU [leaping from the coach and
running to ROXANE]. She is fainting!
DE GUICHE [at the top of the bank, to the
CADETS, madly]. Stand fast!
VOICE [outside]. Surrender!
VOICES OF THE CADETS. No!
CYRANO [to DE GUICHE]. Your courage
none will question... [Pointing at RoxANE.] Fly for the sake of saving her!
DE GUICHE [runs to ROXANE and lifts
her in his arms]. So be it! But we shall
win the day if you can hold out a little
longer...




CYRANO DE BERGERAC


4I3


CYRANO. We can. [To ROXANE, whom
DE GUICHE, helped by RAGUENEAU, is
carrying off insensible.] Good-bye, Roxane!
[Tumult. Cries. CADETS reappear,
wounded, andfall upon the stage.
CYRANO dashing forward to join
the combatants is stopped on the
crest of the bank by CARBON
covered with blood.]
CARBON. We are losing ground... I
have got two halberd wounds...
CYRANO [yelling to the GAscoNs]. Steadfast!... Never give them  an inch!...
Brave boys! [To CARBON.] Fear nothing!
I have various deaths to avenge: Christian's and all my hopes'! [They come
down. CYRANO brandishes the spear at the
head of which ROXANE'S handkerchief is
fastened.] Float free, little cobweb flag,
embroidered with her initials! [He drives
the spear-staff into the earth; shouts to the
CADETS.] Fall on them, boys!... Crush
them! [To the fifer.] Fifer, play!
[The fifer plays. Some of the
wounded get to their feet again.
Some of the CADETS, coming
down the bank, group themselves
around CYRANO and the little
flag. The coach, filled and covered with men, bristles with
muskets and becomes a redoubt.]
ONE OF THE CADETS [appears upon the top
of the bank backing while he fights; he cries].
They are coming up the slope!
[Falls dead.]
CYRANO. We will welcome them!
[Above the bank suddenly rises a formidable
array of enemies. The great banners of
the Imperial Army appear.]
CYRANO. Fire!       [General discharge.]
CRY [among the hostile ranks]. Fire!
[Shots returned. CADETS drop on
every side.]
A SPANISH OFFICER [taking off his hat].
What are these men, so determined all to
be killed?
CYRANO [declaiming, as he stands in the
midst of flying bullets].
They are the Gascony Cadets
Of Carbon de Castel-Jaloux;




I


Famed fighters, liars, desperates...
[He leaps forward, followed by a
handful of survivors.]
They are the Gascony Cadets!...
[The rest is lost in the confusion of
battle.]
CURTAIN
ACT FIFTH
CYRANO S GAZETTE
Fifteen years later, 1655. The park belonging to the convent of the Sisters of the
Cross, in Paris.
Superb shade-trees. At the left, the house;
several doors opening on to broad terrace
with steps. In the centre of the stage, huge
trees standing alone in a clear oval space. At
the right, first wing, a semicircular stone seat,
surrounded by large box-trees.
All along the back of the stage, an avenue
of chestnut-trees, which loads, at the right,
fourth wing, to the door of a chapel seen
through trees. Through the double row of
trees overarching the avenue are seen lawns,
other avenues, clumps of trees, the further
recesses of the park, the sky.
The chapel opens by a small side-door
into  a colonnade, overrun   by a scarlet
creeper; the colonnade comes forward and
is lost to sight behind the box-trees at the
right.
It is Autumn. The leaves are turning,
above the still fresh grass. Dark patches
of evergreens, box and yew. Under each
tree a mat of yellow leaves. Fallen leaves
litter the whole stage, crackle underfoot, lie
thick on the terrace and the seats.
Between the seat at the right and the tree in
the centre, a large embroidery frame, in front
of which a small chair. Baskets full of wools,
in skeins and balls. On the frame, a piece of
tapestry, partly done.
At the rise of the curtain, nuns come and
go in the park; a few are seated on the stone
seat around an older nun, leaves are falling.
SISTER MARTHA [to MOTHER MARGARET].
Sister Claire, after putting on her cap
went back to the mirror, to see herself
again.




414


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


MOTHER MARGARET [to SISTER CLAIRE].
It was unbecoming, my child.
SISTER CLAIRE. But Sister Martha, today, after finishing her portion, went back
to the tart for a plum. I saw her!
MOTHER MARGARET [to SISTER MARTHA].
My child, it was ill done.
SISTER CLAIRE. I merely glanced!...
SISTER MARTHA. The plum was about so
big!...
MOTHER MARGARET. This evening,
when Monsieur Cyrano comes, I will tell
him.
SISTER CLAIRE [alarmed]. No! He will
laugh at us!
SISTER MARTHA. He will say that nuns
are very vain!
SISTER CLAIRE. And very greedy!
MOTHER MARGARET. And really very
good.
SISTER CLAIRE. Mother Margaret, is it
not true that he has come here every
Saturday in the last ten years?
MOTHER MARGARET. Longer! Ever
since his cousin brought among our linen
coifs her coif of crape, the worldly symbol
of her mourning, which settled like a sable
bird amidst our flock of white some fourteen years ago.
SISTER MARTHA. He alone, since she
took her abode in our cloister, has art to
dispel her never-lessening sorrow.
ALL THE NUNS. He is so droll! - It is
merry when he comes! - He teases us! -
He is delightful! —We are greatly attached to him! - We are making Angelica
paste to offer him!
SISTER MARTHA. He is not, however, a
very good Catholic!
SISTER CLAIRE. We will convert him.
THE NUNS. We will! We will!
MOTHER MARGARET. I forbid your renewing that attempt, my children. Do not
trouble him: he might not come so often!
SISTER MARTHA. But... God!
MOTHER MARGARET. Set your hearts at
rest: God must know him of old!
SISTER MARTHA. But every Saturday,
when he comes, he says to me as soon as
he sees me, "Sister, I ate meat, yesterday!"
MOTHER MARGARET. Ah, that is what he


says?... Well, when he last said it, he
had eaten nothing for two days.
SISTER MARTHA. Mother!
MOTHER MARGARET. He is poor.
SISTER MARTHA. Who told you?
MOTHER MARGARET. Monsieur Le Bret.
SISTER MARTHA. Does no one offer him
assistance?
MOTHER MARGARET. No, he would take
offence.
[In one of the avenues at the back, appears
ROXANE, in black, wearing a widow's
coif and long mourning veil; DE GUICHE,
markedly older, magnificently dressed,
walks beside her. They go very slowly.
MOTHER MARGARET gets up.]
MOTHER MARGARET. Come, we must go
within. Madame Magdeleine is walking
in the park with a visitor.
SISTER MARTHA [low to SISTER CLAIRE].
Is not that the Marshal-duke de Grammont?
SISTER CLAIRE [looking]. I think it is!
SISTER MARTHA. He has not been to see
her in many months!
THE NUNS. He is much engaged! - The
Court! - The Camp! -
SISTER CLAIRE. Cares of this world!
[Exeunt. DE GUICHE and ROXANE
come forward silently, and stop
near the embroidery frame. A
pause.]
DE GUICHE. And so you live here, uselessly fair, always in mourning?
ROXANE. Always.
DE GUICHE. As faithful as of old?
ROXANE. As faithful.
DE GUICHE [after a time]. Have you
forgiven me?
ROXANE. Since I am here.
[Other silence.]
DE GUICHE. And he was really such a
rare being?
ROXANE. To understand, one must have
known him!
DE GUICHE. Ah, one must have known
him!... Perhaps I did not know him
well enough. And his last letter, still and
always, against your heart?
ROXANE. I wear it on this velvet, as a
more holy scapular.




CYRANO DE BERGERAC


415


DE GUICHE. Even dead, you love him?
ROXANE. It seems to me sometimes he
is but half dead, that our hearts have not
been severed, that his love still wraps me
round, no less than ever living!
DE GUICHE [after another silence]. Does
Cyrano come here to see you?
ROXANE. Yes, often. That faithful
friend fulfils by me the office of gazette.
His visits are regular. He comes: when
the weather is fine, his armchair is brought
out under the trees. I wait for him here
with my work; the hour strikes; on the
last stroke, I hear - I do not even turn to
see who comes! - his cane upon the steps;
he takes his seat; he rallies me upon my
never-ending tapestry; he tells off the
events of the week, and... [LE BRET appears on the steps.] Ah, Le Bret! [LE BRET
comes down the steps.] How does your friend?
LE BRET. Ill.
THE DUKE. Oh!
ROXANE. He exaggerates!...
LE BRET. All is come to pass as I foretold: neglect! poverty! his writings ever
breeding him new enemies! Fraud he
attacks in every embodiment: usurpers,
pious pretenders, plagiarists, asses in
lions' skins... all! He attacks all!
ROXANE. No one, however, but stands in
profound respect of his sword. They will
never succeed in silencing him.
DE GUICHE [shaking his head]. Who
knows?
LE BRET. What I fear is not the aggression of man; what I fear is loneliness
and want and winter creeping upon him
like stealthy wolves in his miserable attic;
they are the insidious foes that will have
him by the throat at last!... Every day
he tightens his belt by an eyelet; his poor
great nose is pinched, and turned the sallow of old ivory; the worn black serge you
see him in is the only coat he has!
DE GUICHE. Ah, there is one who did
not succeed!... Nevertheless, do not
pity him too much.
LE BRET [with a bitter smile]. Marshal!...
DE GUICHE. Do not pity him too much:
he signed no bonds with the world; he has
lived free in his thought as in his actions.


LE BRET [as above]. Duke...
DE GUICHE [haughtily]. I know, yes: I
have everything, he has nothing.... But
I should like to shake hands with him.
[Bowing to ROXANE.] Good-bye.
ROXANE. I will go with you to the door.
[DE GUICHE bows to LE BRET and
goes with ROXANE toward the
terrace steps.]
DE GUICHE [stopping, while she goes up
the steps]. Yes, sometimes I envy him.
You see, when a man has succeeded too
well in life, he is not unlikely to feel - dear
me! without having committed any very
serious wrong!- a multitudinous disgust
of himself, the sum of which does not constitute a real remorse, but an obscure uneasiness; and a ducal mantle, while it
sweeps up the stairs of greatness, may trail
in its furry lining a rustling of sere illusions
and regrets, as, when you slowly climb toward those doors, your black gown trails
the withered leaves.
ROXANE [ironical]. Are you not unusually pensive?...
DE GUICHE. Ah, yes" [As he is about to
leave, abruptly.] Monsieur Le Bret! [To
ROXANE.] Will you allow me? A word.
[He goes to LE BRET, and lowering his voice.]
It is true that no one will dare overtly to
attack your friend, but many have him in
particular disrelish; and some one was saying to me yesterday, al; the Queen's, "It
seems not unlikely that this Cyrano will
meet with an accident."
LE BRET. Ah?...
DE GUICHE. Yes. Let him keep indoors. Let him be cautious.
LE BRET [lifting his arms toward Heaven].
Cautious!... He is coming here. I will
warn him. Warn him!... Yes, but...
ROXANE [who has been standing at the
head of the steps, to a nun who comes toward her]. What is it?
THE NUN. Ragueneau begs to see you,
Madame.
ROXANE. Let him come in. [To DE
GUICHE and LE BRET.] He comes to plead
distress. Having determined one day to
be an author, he became in turn precentor...
LE BRET. Bath-house keeper...




CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


ROXANE. Actor...
LE BRET. Beadle...
ROXANE. Barber...
LE BRET. Arch-lute teacher...
ROXANE. I wonder what he is now!
RAGUENEAU [entering precipitately]. Ah,
madame! [He sees LE BRET.] Monsieur!
ROXANE [smiling]. Begin telling your
misfortunes to Le Bret. I am coming back.
RAGUENEAU. But, madame...
[ROXANE leaves without listening,
with the DUKE. RAGUENEAU
goes to LE BRET.]
RAGUENEAU. It is better so. Since you
are here, I had liefer not tell her! Less
than half an hour ago, I was going to see
your friend. I was not thirty feet from
his door, when I saw him come out. I
hurried to catch up with him. He was
about to turn the corner. I started to run,
when from a window below which he was
passing - was it pure mischance? It may
have been! - a lackey drops a block of
wood...
LE BRET. Ah, the cowards!... Cyrano!
RAGUENEAU. I reach the spot, and find
him...
LE BRET. Horrible!
RAGUENEAU. Our friend, monsieur, our
poet, stretched upon the ground, with a
great hole in his head!
LE BRET. He is dead?
RAGUENEAU. No, but... God have
mercy! I carried him to his lodging...
Ah, his lodging! You should see that
lodging of his!
LE BRET. IS he in pain?
RAGUENEAU. No, monsieur, he is unconscious.
LE BRET. Has a doctor seen him?
RAGUENEAU. One came... out of good
nature.
LE BRET. My poor, poor Cyrano!...
We must not tell Roxane outright. And
the doctor?...
RAGUENEAU. He talked... I hardly
grasped... of fever... cerebral inflammation! Ah, if you should see him, with his
head done up in cloths!... Let us hurry.. No one is there to tend him... And
he might die if he attempted to get up!
LE BRET [dragging RAGUENEAU off at the


right]. This way. Come, it is shorter
through the chapel.
ROXANE [appearing at the head of the
steps, catching sight of LE BRET hurrying
off through the colonnade which leads to the
chapel side-door]. Monsieur Le Bret! [LE
BRET and RAGUENEAU make their escape
without answering.] Le Bret not turning
back when he is called?... Poor Ragueneau must be in some new trouble! [She
comes down the steps.] How beautiful..
how beautiful, this golden-hazy waning
day of September at its wane! My sorrowful mood, which the exuberant gladness of
April offends, Autumn, the dreamy and
subdued, lures on to smile... [She sits
down at her embroidery frame. Two NUNS
come from the house bringing a large armchair which they place under the tree.] Ah,
here comes the classic armchair in which
my old friend always sits!
SISTER MARTHA. The best in the convent parlor!
ROXANE. I thank you, sister. [The
nuns withdraw.] He will be here in a moment. [She adjusts the embroidery frame
before her.] There! The clock is striking... My wools!... The clock has struck?... I wonder at this!... Is it possible
that for the first time he is late?... It
must be that the sister who keeps the
door...my thimble? ah, here it is!...
is detaining him to exhort him to repentance... [A pause.] She exhorts him at
some length!... He cannot be much
longer... A withered leaf! [She brushes
away the dead leaf which has dropped on
the embroidery.]  Surely nothing  could
keep... My scissors?... in my workbag!... could keep him from coming!
A NUN [appearing at the head of the
steps]. Monsieur de Bergerac!
ROXANE [without turning round]. What
was I saying?... [She begins to embroider.
CYRANO appears, exceedingly pale, his hat
drawn down over his eyes. The NUN who
has shown him into the garden, withdraws.
He comes down the steps very slowly, with
evident difficulty to keep on his feet, leaning
heavily on his cane. ROXANE proceeds with
her sewing.] Ah, these dull soft shades!...
How shall I match them? [To CYRANO, in




CYRANO DE BERGERAC


417


a tone of friendly chiding.] After fourteen
years, for the first time you are late!
CYRANO [who has reached the armchair
and seated himself, in a jolly voice which
contrasts with his face]. Yes, it seems incredible! I am savage at it. I was detained, spite of all I could do!...
ROXANE. By?...
CYRANO. A somewhat inopportune call.
ROXANE [absent-minded, sewing]. Ah,
yes... some troublesome fellow!
CYRANO. Cousin, it was a troublesome
Madam.
ROXANE. You excused yourself?
CYRANO. Yes. I said, "Your pardon,
but this is Saturday, on which day I am
due in certain dwelling. On no account
do I ever fail. Come back in an hour!"
ROXANE [lightly]. Well, she will have
to wait some time to see you. I shall not
let you go before evening.
CYRANO. Perhaps... I shall have to
go a little earlier.
[He closes his eyes and is silent a
moment.   SISTER MARTHA is
seen crossing the park from the
chapel to the terrace. ROXANE
sees her and beckons to her by
a slight motion of her head.]
ROXANE [to CYRANO]. Are you not going
to tease Sister Martha to-day?
CYRANO [quickly, opening his eyes]. I
am indeed! [In a comically gruff voice.]
Sister Martha, come nearer! [The NUN
demurely comes toward him.] Ha! ha! ha!
Beautiful eyes, ever studying the ground!
SISTER MARTHA [lifting her eyes and
smiling]. But... [She sees his face and
makes a gesture of surprise.] Oh!
CYRANO [low, pointing at ROXANE].
Hush!... It is nothing! [In a swaggering
voice, aloud.] Yesterday, I ate meat!
SISTER MARTHA. I am sure you did!
[Aside.] That is why he is so pale! [Quickly,
low.] Come to the refectory presently. I
shall have ready for you there a good
bowl of broth... You will come!
CYRANO. Yes, yes, yes.
SISTER MARTHA. Ah, you are more
reasonable to-day!
ROXANE [hearing them whisper]. She is
trying to convert you?


SISTER MARTHA. Indeed I am not!
CYRANO. It is true, you, usually almost
discursive in the holy cause, are reading
me no sermon! You amaze me! [With
comical fury.] I will amaze you, too!
Listen, you are authorized... [With the
air of casting about in his mind, and finding
the jest he wants.] Ah, now I shall amaze
you! to... pray for me, this evening...
in the chapel.
ROXANE. Oh oh!
CYRANO [laughing]. Sister Martha...
lost in amazement!
SISTER MARTHA [gently]. I did not wait
for your authorization.   [She goes in.]
CYRANO [turning to RCIXANE, who is bending over her embroidery]. The devil, tapestry.. the devil, if I hope to live to see the
end of you!
ROXANE I was waiting for that jest.
[A slight gust of wind makes the
leaves fall.]
CYRANO. The leaves!
ROXANE [looking up from her work and
gazing off toward the avenues]. They are
the russet gold of a Venetian beauty's
hair... Watch them fall!
CYRANO. How consummately they do
it! In that brief fluttering from bough to
ground, how they contrive still to put
beauty! And though foredoomed to
moulder upon the earth that draws them,
they wish their fall invested with the grace
of a free bird's flight!
ROXANE. Serious, you.?
CYRANO [remembering himself]. Not at
all, Roxane!
ROXANE. Come, never mind the falling
leaves! Tell me the news, instead...
Where is my budget?
CYRANO. Here it is!
ROXANE. Ah!
CYRANO [growing paler and paler, and
struggling with pain]. Saturday, the nineteenth: The king having filled his dish
eight times with Cette preserves, and
emptied it, was taken with a fever; his
distemper, for high treason, was condemned to be let blood, and now the royal
pulse is rid of febriculosity! On Sunday:
at the Queen's great ball, were burned
seven hundred and sixty-three wax candles;




CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


I


our troops, it is said, defeated Austrian
John; four sorcerers were hanged; Madame
Athis's little dog had a distressing turn,
the case called for a...
ROXANE. Monsieur de Bergerac, leave
out the little dog!
CYRANO. Monday,... nothing, or next
to it: Lygdamire took a fresh lover.
ROXANE. Oh!
CYRANO [over whose face is coming a
change more and more marked]. Tuesday:
the whole Court assembled at Fontainebleau. Wednesday, the fair Monglat said
to Count Fiesco "No!" Thursday, Mancini, Queen of France,... or little less.
Twenty-fifth, the fair Monglat said to
Count Fiesco "Yes!" And Saturday, the
twenty-sixth...
[He closes his eyes. His head drops
on his breast. Silence.]
ROXANE [surprised at hearing nothing
further, turns, looks at him and starts to
her feet in alarm]. Has he fainted? [She
runs to him, calling.] Cyrano!
CYRANO [opening his eyes, in a faint
voice]. What is it?... What is the matter!
[He sees ROXANE bending over him, hurriedly readjusts his hat, pulling it more
closely over his head, and shrinks back in his
armchair in terror.] No! no! I assure you,
it is nothing!... Do not mind me!
ROXANE. But surely...
CYRANO. It is merely the wound I received at Arras... Sometimes... you
know.. even now...
ROXANE. Poor friend!
CYRANO. But it is nothing... It will
pass... [He smiles with effort.] It has passed.
ROXANE. Each one of us has his wound:
I too have mine. It is here, never to heal,
that ancient wound... [She places her
hand on her breast.] It is here, beneath the
yellowing letter on which are still faintly
visible tear-drops and drops of blood!
[The light is beginning to grow less.]
CYRANO. His letter?...Did you not
once say that some day...you might
show it to me?
ROXANE. Ah!.. Do you wish?...
His letter?
CYRANO. Yes... to-day.. I wish
to...




-


ROXANE [handing him the little bag from
her neck]. Here!
CYRANO. I may open it?
ROXANE. Open it... read!
[She goes back to her embroidery
frame, folds it up, orders her
wools.]
CYRANO. "Good-bye, Roxane! I am
going to die!"
ROXANE [stopping in astonishment]. You
are reading it aloud?
CYRANO [reading]. "It is fated to come
this evening, beloved, I believe! My soul
is heavy, oppressed with love it had not
time to utter.. and now Time is at
end! Never again, never again shall my
worshipping eyes..."
ROXANE. How strangely you read his
letter!
CYRANO [continuing]. "... whose passionate revel it was, kiss in its fleeting
grace your every gesture. One, usual to
you, of tucking back a little curl, comes to
my mind... and I cannot refrain from
crying out..."
ROXANE. How strangely you read his
letter!...
[The darkness gradually increases.]
CYRANO. "and I cry out: Good-bye!"
ROXANE. You read it...
CYRANO. "my dearest, my darling,...
my treasure..."
ROXANE.... in a voice...
CYRANO. ".. my love!.."
ROXANE.... in a voice... a voice
which I am not hearing for the first time!
[ROXANE comes quietly nearer to
him, without his seeing it; she
steps behind his armchair, bends
noiselessly over his shoulder,
looks at the, letter. The darkness
deepens.]
CYRANO. "... My heart never desisted for a second from your side... and
I am and shall be in the world that has no
end, the one who loved you without measure, the one..."
ROXANE [laying her hand on his shoulder].
How can you go on reading? It is dark.
[CYRANO starts, and turns round; sees her
close to him, makes a gesture of dismay and
hangs his head. Then, in the darkness which




CYRANO DE BERGERAC


419


has completely closed round them, she says
slowly, clasping her hands.] And he, for
fourteen years, has played the part of the
comical old friend who came to cheer me!
CYRANO. Roxane!
ROXANE. So it was you.
CYRANO. No, no, Roxane!
ROXANE. I ought to have divined it, if
only by the way in which he speaks my
name!
CYRANO. No, it was not I!
ROXANE. So it was you!
CYRANO. I swear to you...
ROXANE. Ah, I detect at last the whole
generous imposture: The letters...were
yours!
CYRANO. No!
ROXANE. The tender fancy, the dear
folly,... yours!
CYRANO. No!
ROXANE. The voice in the night, was
yours!
CYRANO. I swear to you that it was
not!
ROXANE. The soul... was yours!
CYRANO. I did not love you, no!
ROXANE. And you loved me!
CYRANO. Not I... it was the other!
ROXANE. You loved me!
CYRANO. No!
ROXANE. Already your denial comes
more faintly!
CYRANO. No, no, my darling love, I did
not love you!
ROXANE. Ah, how many things within
the hour have died... how many have
been born! Why, why have..been silent these long years, when on this letter,
in which he had no part, the tears were
yours?
CYRANO [handing her the letter]. Because... the blood was his.
ROXANE. Then why let the sublime bond
of this silence be loosed to-day?
CYRANO. Why?
[LE BRET and RAGUENEAU enter running.]
LE BRET. Madness! Monstrous madness!... Ah, I was sure of it! There he
is!
CYRANO [smiling and straightening himself]. Tiens! Where else?


LE BRET. Madame, lie is likely to have
got his death by getting out of bed!
ROXANE. Merciful God! A moment
ago, then... that faintness... that...?
CYRANO. It is true. I had not finished
telling you the news. And on Saturday,
the twenty-sixth, an hour after sundown,
Monsieur de Bergerac died of murder done
upon him.
[He takes off his hat; his head is
seen wrapped in bandages.]
ROXANE. What is he saying?...
Cyrano?... Those bandages about his
head?... Ah, what have they done to
you?... Why?...
CYRANO. "Happy who falls, cut off by
a hero, with an honest sword through his
heart!" I am quoting from myself!...
Fate will have his laugh at us!... Here
am I killed, in a trap, from behind, by
a lackey, with a log! Nothing could be
completer! In my whole life I shall have
not had anything I wanted... not even
a decent death!
RAGUENEAU. Ah, monsieur!...
CYRANO. Ragueneau, do not sob like
that! [Holding out his hand to him.] And
what is the news with you, these latter
days, fellow-poet?
RAGUENEAU [through his tears]. I am
candle-snuffer at Moliere's theatre.
CYRANO. Moliere!
RAGUENEAU. But I intend to leave no
later than to-morrow. Yes, I am indignant! Yesterday, they were giving Scapin,
and I saw that he has appropriated a scene
of yours.
LE BRET. A whole scene?
RAGUENEAU. Yes, monsieur. The one
in which occurs the famous "What the
devil was he doing in..."
LE BRET. Moliere has taken that from
you!
CYRANO. Hush! hush! He did well to
take it! [To RAGUENEAU.] The scene was
very effective, was it not?
RAGUENEAU. Ah, monsieur, the public
laughed... laughed!
CYRANO. Yes, to the end, I shall have
been the one who prompted... and was
forgotten! [To ROXANE.] Do you remember that evening on which Christian spoke




420


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


to you from below the balcony? There
was the epitome of my life: while I have
stood below in darkness, others have
climbed to gather the kiss and glory! It
is well done, and on the brink of my grave
I approve it: Moliere has genius... Christian was a fine fellow! [At this moment,
the chapel bell having rung, the NUNs are
seen passing at the back, along the avenue,
on their way to service.] Let them hasten
to their prayers... the bell is summoning
them...
ROXANE [rising and calling]. Sister!
Sister!
CYRANO [holding her back]. No! No!
do not leave me to fetch anybody! When
you came back I might not be here to rejoice... [The NUNS have gone into the
chapel; the organ is heard.] I longed for
a little music... it comes in time!
ROXANE. I love you... you shall live!
CYRANO. No! for it is only in the fairytale that the shy and awkward prince
when he hears the beloved say "I love
you!" feels his ungainliness melt and
drop from him in the sunshine of those
words!...But you would always know
full well, dear Heart, that there had taken
place in your poor slave no beautifying
change!
ROXANE. I have hurt you... I have
wrecked your life, I!... I!
CYRANO. You?... The reverse! Woman's sweetness I had never known. My
mother... thought me unflattering. I had
no sister. Later, I shunned Love's crossroad in fear of mocking eyes. To you I
owe having had, at least, among the gentle
and fair, a friend. Thanks to you there
has passed across my life the rustle of a
woman's gown.
LE BRET [calling his attention to the
moonlight peering through the branches].
Your other friend, among the gentle and
fair, is there... she comes to see you!
CYRANO [smiling to the moon]. I see her!
ROXANE. I never loved but one...
and twice I lose him!
CYRANO. Le Bret, I shall ascend into
the opalescent moon, without need this
time of a flying-machine!
ROXANE. What are you saying?


CYRANO. Yes, it is there, you may be
sure, I shall be sent for my Paradise. More
than one soul of those 1 have loved must
be apportioned there... There I shall
find Socrates and Galileo!
LE BRET [in revolt]. No! No! It is too
senseless, too cruel, too unfair! So true a
poet! So great a heart! To die.. like
this! To die!...
CYRANO. As ever... Le Bret is grumbling!
LE BRET [bursting into tears]. My friend!
My friend!
CYRANO [lifting himself, his eyes wild].
They are the Gascony Cadets!... Man
in the gross... Eh, yes!... the weakness of the weakest point...
LE BRET. Learned... even in his
delirium!...
CYRANO. Copernicus said...
ROXANE. Oh!
CYRANO. But what the devil was he
doing... and what the devil was he doing
in that galley?
Philosopher and physicist,
Musician, rhymester, duellist,
Explorer of the upper blue,
Retorter apt with point and point,
Lover as well, - not for his peace!
Here lies Hercule Savinien
De Cyrano de Bergerac,
Who was everything... but of account!
But, your pardons, I must go... I wish
to keep no one waiting... See, a moonbeam, come to take me home! [He has
dropped in his chair; ROXANE'S weeping
calls him back to reality; he looks at her
and gently stroking her mourning veil.] I
do not wish... indeed, I do not wish...
that you should sorrow less for Christian,
the comely and the kind! Only I wish
that when the everlasting cold shall have
seized upon my fibres, this funereal veil
should have a twofold meaning, andc the
mourning you wear for him be worn for
me too.... a little!
ROXANE. I promise...
CYRANO [seized with a great shivering,
starts to his feet]. Not there! No! Not
in an elbow-chair! [All draw nearer to
help him.] Let no one stay me! No one!




CYRANO DE BERGERAC


421


[He goes and stands against the tree.] Nothing but this tree! [Silence.] She comes,
Mors, the indiscriminate Madam!.
Already I am booted with marble...
gauntleted with lead! [He stiffens himself.] Ah, since she is on her way, I will
await her standing... [He draws his
sword.] Sword in hand!
LE BRET. Cyrano!
ROXANE [swooning]. Cyrano!
[All start back, terrified.]
CYRANO. I believe she is looking at
me... that she dares to look at my nose,
the bony baggage who has none! [He
raises his sword.] What are you saying?
That it is no use?... I know it! But
one does not fight because there is hope of
winning! No!... no!... it is much
finer to fight when it is no use!... What
are all those? You are a thousand strong?... Ah, I know you now... all my ancient
enemies!... Hypocrisy?... [He beats
with his sword, in the vacancy.] Take this!
and this! Ha! Ha! Compromises?...
and Prejudices? and dastardly Expedients?
[He strikes.] That I should come to terms,


I?... Never! Never!... Ah, you are
there too, you, bloated and pompous Silliness! I know full well that you will lay
me low at last....No matter: whilst I
have breath, I will fight you, 1 will fight
you, I will fight you T ]He waves his sword
in great sweeping circles, and stops, panting.]
Yes, you have wrested from me everything,
laurel as well as rose... Work your
wills!... Spite of your worst, something
will still be left me to take whither I go... and to-night when I enter God's
house, in saluting, broadly will I sweep
the azure threshold with what despite of
all I carry  forth unblemished and unbent.. [He starts forward, with lifted
sword.]... and that is...
[The sword fa!ls from his hands,
he staggers, drops in the arms
of LE BRET and RAGUENEAU.]
ROXANE [bending over him and kissing
his forehead]. That is?...
CYRANO [opens his eyes again, recognizes
her and says with a smile].... My plume!
CURTAIN








I Z
PASTEUR
A PLAY IN FIVE ACTS
By SACHA GUITRY
Translated by IRVING H. BROWN




COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY SACHA GUITRY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
This translation is published by permission of and special arrangement with the author.
All the rights of production, of translation, of adaptation, and of representation reserved under International Copyright Act




TO MY FATHER
AS A TOKEN OF LOVE, GRATITUDE, AND
ADMIRATION
S.








PREFACE
IT was while reading the beautiful work of M. Rene Vallery-Radot that the idea came to
me to make Pasteur the hero of a play.
I thought of it frequently - but the presentation on the stage of such a personage
seemed to me impossible, and I was on the point of renouncing the project when my
father did me the honor of asking me to write a play for him. The idea of Pasteur came
to my mind again, and I re-read the book which had aroused my enthusiasm three years
before. In re-reading those magnificent pages my emotion was even greater than it had
been before. It seemed to me that I had the right to undertake a work for which I felt
an irresistible desire.
In several instances I have used entire sentences pronounced by Louis Pasteur, not
only at the meetings of the Academy of Medicine, but at the Sorbonne and elsewhere.
These sentences are in italics in the play.
I do not believe that I have at any time betrayed the memory of a man whose life I
passionately admire, whose memory I venerate, and to whose immortal glory it will be
sweet to me to have contributed in the feeble measure, alas, of my ability.
SACHA GUITRY




CHARACTERS
Louis PASTEUR
HIs STUDENTS
A DOCTOR
THE PRESIDENT OF THE ACADEMY OF MEDICINE
AN OLD SAVANT
TWO DOCTORS
JOSEPH MEISTER
HIS GRANDFATHER
VALET DE CHAMBRE
THE PRESIDENT OF THE REPUBLIC
During the meeting of the Academy of Medicine, at
the opening of Act II, the voice of M. Poggiale is
heard and that of M. Jules Guerin




PASTEUR
ACT I
1870


SCENE: The laboratory of Louis PASTEUR. When the curtain goes up five of his
students are discovered. They are waiting for
him.
THIRD STUDENT. The latest news is n't
encouraging...
FIRST STUDENT. No...
FOURTH STUDENT. When do you go?
FIFTH STUDENT. The first day...
FOURTH STUDENT. So do I... How
about you Normal students, you won't be
called?
SECOND STUDENT. It doesn't look like it.
FIRST STUDENT. I don't think there's
anything to worry about, after all. It's the
fifth alarm in three years.
SECOND STUDENT. Wait till we get tonight's news!
THIRD STUDENT. What's today's lecture
about?
FIRST STUDENT. I suppose he'll continue...
THIRD STUDENT. He was nervous yesterday.
SECOND STUDENT. As far as that goes,
he's been nervous ever since he returned
from Munich.
FOURTH STUDENT. Just what happened
there?
FIRST STUDENT. He told me the other
day, but I think it would be better not to
talk to him about it.
FOURTH STUDENT. Of course not. Tell
us.
FIRST STUDENT. He made the trip just
to see Liebig and to convince him of his
theory of fermentations. He listened to
him, but refused to discuss the matter on
the pretext that he was not well.
FOURTH STUDENT. That shows all right
that he's weakening and won't admit it.


FIRST STUDENT. Certainly, but that
was n't enough for Pasteur. He's never
satisfied until he's convinced his opponent.
THIRD STUDENT. He certainly has
temperament.
FIFTH STUDENT. Yes, but I think it's
partly temper.
FIRST STUDENT. Do you think he's badtempered?
FIFTH STUDENT. He does n't seem easy
to get along with.
FIRST STUDENT. What can you expect?
Why should he be easy to get along with?
He's chief exponent of the exact sciences.
You know, it seems to me, one would have
to be quite skeptical to be able to smile,
and above everything Lle has a horror of
skepticism! Doubters are odious to him,
because they do him harm, because they
hold him back without ever being of any
use to him. People who doubt always
doubt on general principles, as a matter of
fact - they never furnish any proofs —
all they do is sit and smile. It seems as
though they were afraid of any precision.
Truth must hit them in the face before
they'll acknowledge it. Those who've
never discovered a trace of truth are so
conceited that they imagine that it's undiscoverable. And you and I who have
seen him work, we must admit, must n't
we, that one cannot really know him if he
even so much as asks him for the proof of
any theory he advances.
FIFTH STUDENT. Then your confidence
in him is absolute?
FIRST STUDENT. Yes, indeed: I look
upon him as - a natural force - as -
something superhuman. He's so genuine,
so great! Moreover I can never look at him
or hear him without a feeling that I can't
put into words. And you feel as I do 




430


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


THE REST. We certainly doFIRST STUDENT. Why should we be
patronizing, then, because he is n't here?
FIFTH STUDENT. I admire him profoundly -
FIRST STUDENT. That is not what we're
talking about. It is n't a question of admiring him.
FIFTH STUDENT. HoweverFIRST STUDENT. You can do better than
that.
FIFTH STUDENT. I can't worship him,
though.
FIRST STUDENT. And why not? I
worship him: I've been here longer than
any of you. Not one of you has taken his
course for more than two months - and
you, this is only the third time you've been
here. You can't realize yet, and I know
why, all right; you've never yet seen him
make a discovery.
FIFTH STUDENT. I know everything he's
done so far.
FIRST STUDENT. I know, old man, but
you've never seen him on the scent - you
have never seen him at work -searching
for himself - finding for all. Remember I
would n't speak of any of these things before everybody, because I should seem like
a fanatic, but between us, take my word
for it, you could n't speak so of him if you
had ever seen him live that supreme instant when suddenly the unknown probable becomes before his eyes a formal and
definite certainty - if you had ever seen
his face grow pale and be transformed with
a beauty, I swear, really God-like! Six
months from now we can talk this over
again!
FIFTH STUDENT. You think that he
can't make a mistake?
FIRST STUDENT. He make a mistake! I
give you my word such an idea seems absolutely preposterous to me. How can he
-he never starts out without knowing
where he's going to end.
FIFTH STUDENT. Why, then, he must be
God Almighty.
FIRST STUDENT. Umphm!
FIFTH STUDENT. You're joking?
FIRST STUDENT. I never joke where he's
concerned.


FIFTH STUDENT. Then you believe in
God?
FIRST STUDENT. No, but I believe in
him! Yes, you can laugh if you want to,
only don't try too hard.
FIFTH STUDENT. I'm not laughing, my
dear man, and I respect your enthusiasm,
but see here, now that we're on the subject will you explain to me, seeing that you
don't believe in God, how it happens that
he has such a deep Faith?
FIRST STUDENT. He has Faith, - because, in the first place, all of us have a
little down deep in our hearts, - and
while most of us try to get rid of it, his own
has been heightened because he's both the
most modest man in the world and the
most self-confident you've ever seen.
FIFTH STUDENT. I don't understand.
FIRST STUDENT. How well he could explain it to you!
FIFTH STUDENT. You try.
FIRST STUDENT. He has such confidence
in himself, he is so convinced that some day
he will attain the end he has set for himself - that his modesty must persuade
him to believe that a mere man, without
the aid of a Supreme Power, would never
be able to realize the projects conceived by
his genius. His faith gives him courage,
perhaps, to persevere in a work he would
abandon if he felt he was all alone. When
you come to fully appreciate the character
of the man we're talking about, you'll
admit the necessity, in certain exceptional beings, of a kind of superstition,
without which their pride would be overbearing. Faith is not a weakness so long as
one places his daily work above it. For
him it is not a refuge - and if you ever
spoke to him of discouragement you'd
see him point to the laboratory - not to
the church - and you'd hear these words
which are graven on my memory: "There
is the remedy!" As to his private life,
which I know also, take my word, it will
serve as an example some day. Hush!
Here he is!
[LouIs PASTEUR has come in. His students
stand and bow to him.]


PASTEUR. Good morning!




PASTEUR


431


ALL. Good morning, Master.
PASTEUR. Excuse me for being late.
THIRD STUDENT. You're not ill, are you,
Master?
PASTEUR. Not at all! No! I'm uneasy!
ALL. Ah!PASTEUR. Yes. However, I must admit
they seemed calmer at the Cabinet Office
this morning than yesterday. All the
danger is not entirely averted and I believe I can see how matters may be arranged within two or three days, - however, we'll know for certain by evening.
But in the peculiar state of mind in which
I happen to be, I should like very much,
my friends, to ask if you care if I put off
our lecture till tomorrow.
ALL. Why, certainly not, Master.
PASTEUR. It is n't to get rid of you, that
I ask this. Stay here, stay, please, let's all
wait together - and - chat till we get
the news.
[All accept willingly, but the silence
which ensues, a respectful and
constrained silence, proves how
little PASTEUR is in the habit of
chatting.]
PASTEUR. How old are you, my boy?
FIFTH STUDENT. Twenty-three, Master.
[PASTEUR smiles at him; the student
is embarrassed.]
PASTEUR. How unfortunate it would be
-- [a pause] You're married, are n't you?
THIRD STUDENT. Yes, Master.
PASTEUR [having looked at all of them].
My dear friends [a pause]. Have you any
idea that the people realize what's likely
to happen?
FIRST STUDENT. I don't think so.
SECOND STUDENT. At any rate, wherever you go, people seem quite confident
and unconcerned. - Last night I was at
the Varietes Theatre, and there was an
enormous crowd -
THIRD STUDENT. What was the play?
SECOND STUDENT. La Belle H6elne.
Schneider is wonderful.
THIRD STUDENT. You never go to the
theatre, Monsieur Pasteur?
PASTEUR. Yes - sometimes.
THIRD STUDENT. But you've never been
to the Vari6ets?




I


PASTEUR. Hum - once, I think. Is it
amusing?
SECOND STUDENT. They have an admirable company.
PASTEUR. I get up so early that, really,
I'm rather tired by evening.
THIRD STUDENT. Besides, Master, you
probably don't enjoy the theatre?
PASTEUR. Why not? I wish I had the
leisure to know it and enjoy it better. I
enjoy everything, my bcy, and I never
condemn anything which may contribute
to my country's fame. It's too bad my
work won't permit me to take up everything that might interest me. What is
La Belle Helene?
SECOND STUDENT. It's a comic opera,
Master.
PASTEUR. Well, now, that's all right.
Don't be ashamed today of what amused
you yesterday. You're young enough so
that your work won't suffer from the
amusements you indulge i a! You say that
the crowd seemed to you rather unconscious of the present situation?
SECOND STUDENT. Yes.
PASTEUR. Too much so, unfortunately.
I wish I might say a few things, that are a
reproach to my country, without seeming
too much like a grumbler. Even now people think I complain too much -and I
don't say a tenth of what I think. For
more than twenty years I've suffered at
the disregard France has shown for great
works of the mind. We are still paying for
Marat's mistakes. Do you remember what
Lagrange said after Lavoisier's death on
the scaffold? He said: "It only took them a
moment to cut off that head and a hundred
years, perhaps, will be too short to produce
another like it." Without a doubt, the
victim of its political instability, France
has done nothing to maintain, to spread,
and develop the progress of science in our
country. She has been satisfied with simply
going along on the original impetus. She
has lived on her past, imagining herself
ever greater because of the scientific discoveries to which she owed her material
prosperity, without realizing that she has
been foolishly allowing the sources to
be exhausted, while neighboring nations,




432


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


stimulated from within, have diverted the
stream to their own ends and rendered it
productive by their labor, and by their
efforts and sacrifices wisely combined.
While Germany has been increasing the
number of its universities, and encouraging
a most wholesome rivalry among them
and has surrounded its professors and doctors with honor and consideration, France
enervated by revolutions, always engaged
in a vain search for the best form of government, has given only divided attention to
its institutions of higher learning. And
nevertheless, all foreign nations acknowledged our superiority. Great discoveries,
great ideas in the realms of Art, Science,
and Letters, in a word all the disinterested
work of the mind in every field, have introduced into the whole social order a spirit
of discernment which submits everything
to the candid examination of reason, condemns ignorance, and banishes prejudice
and errors. For twenty years I've been
fighting to get people out of the rut, and
those who don't dismiss my ideas with a
shrug, listen without paying much attention. They consider me a visionary. Good
Heavens! When you think of the number
of people who must have become discouraged! One must love his country very
dearly, my friends, to have the strength to
bear with her weaknesses! The sixth of
September, 1867, I sent the Emperor a
note in which I brought to his attention
the fact that I found it impossible to carry
on my work without a laboratory. He was
quite willing to transmit through Duruy
the order to have the laboratory constructed immediately. In October of the
following year it had not been commenced,
and when I fell sick, a government order
came to discontinue the work, because it
was said that Monsieur Pasteur would
not live the week out. The utilization of
my discoveries was dependent on my life!
And, if you sometimes see me sad and out
of sorts, it is because I have n't always the
strength to be angry. Discouraged, never!
- Tired, sometimes - as today! - They
are shouting in the street! Quick! See
what it is!
[The THIRD STUDENT goes out on


the run. A pause. PASTEUR
and the rest await his return,
without stirring.]
THIRD STUDENT [entering out of breath].
Monsieur Pasteur! War's declared! I'm
going to tell my family.
[PASTEUR shakes hands with him.
A moment later he is gone. A
pause. They all look at the
Master.]
PASTEUR. Who of you go the first day?
FIFTH STUDENT. I, Monsieur Pasteur, I
can go.
PASTEUR. Good, let me kiss you, my
boy. Goodbye.
FIFTH STUDENT. Goodbye, Master.
[He shakes hands with his comrades,
then goes out.]
PASTEUR. And you?
FIRST STUDENT. We three are Normal
students.
PASTEUR. Good! [A pause.] Well, let's
get to work, boys. Let's get to work! Let's
not waste a second! [Then addressing the
FIRST STUDENT.] Tomorrow I'll send my
doctor's degree back to Germany. Let's
work. I'll dictate: "Our cruelest enemies,
bacteria.."
CURTAIN
ACT II
1880
The first part of the act takes place in the
assembly room of the Academy of Medicine.
PASTEUR. Several weeks ago you were debating as to how the Academy might, in a
higher degree, introduce the true scientific
spirit into its work and discussions. Let me
indicate a way which, I am fully confident,
will prove successful. It consists in a sort of
mental pledge on the part of each one of us
never to call this desk a "tribune," never to
speak of a communication made here as a
"discourse," or to call one an "orator" who
has just spoken or is just about to speak!
Let us leave such expressions to deliberative
political bodies which discuss things which
are often so difficult to prove!  [Applause.]
THE PRESIDENT OF TIIE ACADEMY. We
did well, gentlemen, to applaud the sug



PASTEUR


433


gestion of Monsieur Pasteur-and I personally congratulate him for having made
it. Giving each of you his turn, Monsieur
Poggiale has the floor 
POGGIALE. I have only a few words to
say and it is to Monsieur Pasteur that I
speak! We all of us here have the same
regard for him - and, for my part, I
gladly accept his suggestions as to our
meetings, on condition that he will have
a little regard for our traditions! Now,
Monsieur Pasteur told us that he tried to
discover spontaneous generation for twenty
years. - He will search for it a great while
longer, and, notwithstanding his courage
and his perseverance, I doubt whether he
will find it - the question is practically
insoluble. In the meantime, those who,
like me, have no fixed opinion about spontaneous generation reserve the right to
verify, to examine and to discuss the facts,
one after another, as they are advanced,
from whatever source they may comePASTEUR. What! I have been at work on
a subject for twenty years, and I have no right
to an opinion - and the right to verify, to
examine and to discuss, and to question shall
belong especially to those who do nothing to
enlighten, to those who just happen to read
our works more or less attentively, their feet
on the andirons in their studies!!! You
have no opinion upon spontaneous generation, my dear colleague, I can readily believe
it, although it is regrettable! You say that
in the present state of science it is wisest not
to have an opinion? Very well; but as for me
I have one!... My opinion, nay, my conviction is, that spontaneous generation is a
myth!... What conclusion do you entertain
as to my experiments?... How is it that
you do not see the essential difference between me and my adversaries? I have contradicted all their assertions with the proofs
in my hands and they have never dared seriously to contradict one of mine!... What is
your intention, then? To contest my assertions! Then attack my experiments! Prove
that they are inexact instead of continually
making new ones which are only variations
of my own, but into which you introduce
errors which later must be pointed out to you!
[Prolonged movement of surprise.]


M. POGGIALE. There are still a number
of points, Monsieur Pasteur, to be cleared
up on the subject of fermentation!
PASTEUR. But what sort of an idea have
you, then, in regard to scientific progress?
Science takes a step, then another, then it
stops and reflects before taking a third! Does
the impossibility of taking this last step
nullify the good results from the first two? A
mother takes her nursing child and puts him
down, and says to him: "Walk!" The child
takes a step, then another, then stops unsteadily... Would you do right, then, to
say to him: " You're hesitating, you'll never
walk!" Let me tell you thai the characteristic
feature of true theories is iheir fruitfulness!
Moreover, I have decided to reply today
to certain insinuations which I can no
longer tolerate!
Certain of my adversaries think, for example, that on the question of spontaneous
generation, I am obeying a prejudice, a conclusion formed in advance.
I consider such insinuations insulting...
[Sensation.]
Now, Science'should never concern itself
in any way with the philosophical consequences of its work! I repeat that the doctrine
of spontaneous generation is a myth. I still
defy my adversaries to contradict me, and
with the same independence I add: so much
the worse for them if their philosophical or
political ideas are imperiled by my researches! In each one of us are two men, the
scientist who aspires to bring about a knowledge of nature and who has started with a
clean slate... and the man of sentiment, a
believer or a skeptic, the man who weeps for
his children when they are no more, who
cannot, alas! prove that he will see them again,
but who believes and hopee so, who does n't
want to be wiped out of existence like a microorganism, and who says to himself that the
life force that is in him will be transformed.
The two domains are distinct and woe to him
who would make one encroach upon the
other, in the imperfect condition of human
knowledge.                    [Applause.]
I am not willing to leave this desk without having said exactly what I think to
certain of you who persist in disputing the
results of my experiments.




434


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


Do you know what you need, Monsieur
Fremy? It's to get the habit of using the
microscope!... You are always trying to
evade the question...
[One hears an "Oh!" followed by
a prolonged sensation.]
And, when you answer me, you never
furnish the slightest proof... while I- I
intend to enclose you in a circle of demonstrations!        [Considerable confusion.]
I would have you know, sir, that the best
proof that an experimenter is upon the right
track is that his works are constantly productive.
Never take any other guide than experiment!
I would also have you know, gentlemen,. that Science, in our century, is the soul
-of national prosperity and the living fountain
of all progress! Of course, politics, with its
vexatious daily questions, seems to be our
guide...mere delusion! Our advance is
due to certain scientific discoveries and their
applications!
Why did France conquer in '92? It was
because Science had added'to the courage of
our fathers the material means to fight and
to conquer!... Why was it that in 1870
France did not find superior men in its hour
of peril? It was because of the contempt
which she had had for the great works of the
mind!...
It is time to turn about. It is necessary for
each one of us, by incessant labor, to endeavor
to shape the future. With all my might I
denounce those who persist in prolonging discussions with the evident purpose of hindering researches which they cannot comprehend!
So the doctors are skeptical in regard to
germs! The little creatures seem funny to
them! However, no matter what happens,
they must recognize their existence...
I know that one of us, M. Jules Guerin,
said at Bouley this summer: "All I want is
to down Pasteur."... Very well, Monsieur
Jules Guerin, I'm waiting... I'm still
waiting!... On what point are you so
anxious to down me?
M. JULES GUERIN. When the time
comes, Monsieur Pasteur, I...
PASTEUR. But the time has come, my


dear colleague! Speak out... please...
Is it still in regard to small-pox?
M. JULES GUERIN. Yes, my dear colleague!... I assert that human vaccine is
the product of small-pox in animals, inoculated in man and humanized by successive transmissions through human beings!...
PASTEUR. Now!... Now!... Now!...
Why, my dear colleague, reflect upon what
you have just said to me... You have just
declared in short that vaccine is vaccine...
Superb!         [Laughter and confusion.]
Well, I tell you that to set up the claim
to explain the relation between small-pox
and vaccine, without even mentioning the
word small-pox, is merely juggling with
words...
[Violent confusion, shouts. The
student of PASTEUR, the first
student in Act I, appears and
remains speechless, listening to
the tumult. PASTEUR dominates
the noise.]
You are wrong to insist, Monsieur Guerin!
You're talking about something you don't
know anything about!... You're still back
in the days when we used lint, Monsieur
Guerin!... We have already gotten a long
way ahead of you!... It won't do you any
good simply to make phrases and shake your
fist at me... No more words, sir... give
me facts, arguments... Enough time has
been lost, can't you see!... I have noted your
recent declaration... From this time forth
we are face to face, Monsieur Guerin, and we
shall see which one of us comes out crippled
and bruised from this struggle!
[The tumult begins again. A few
minutes later these words are
heard: "The meeting is adjourned."]
[It is now the second part of the act. It
takes place in a small room, a sort of cloak
room next to the audience room. PASTEUR,
accompanied by an OLD SAVANT, enters,
flushed, beside himself, still feverishly excited.]
PASTEUR. Well, if I did wrong, so much
the worse!... I've held that in for too
long a time!




PASTEUR


435


PASTEUR                   435


OLD SAVANT. But that was terrible,
what happened there... you know..
terrible...I've never seen anything like
it! You acted like a mad man... You
were n't master of your thoughts!...
PASTEUR. Indeed!... Not master of
my thoughts! I knew just what I was saying... and I'm ready to repeat to them
everything that I just said!...
OLD SAVANT. Take my advice it would
be better not to re-open the matter!...
You used terms... I give you my word... that these walls are not accustomed to!
PASTEUR. Let them get accustomed!...
Certainly and I freely admit that I did n't
use the academic style to which you're all
accustomed!... I took the shortest course!... How much time you waste in shaping
phrases... my poor friends!
OLD SAVANT. Do not forget that we
are next to the French Academy...
PASTEUR. Well, it can't be helped, but
it's too bad... since it has a deplorable
influence on you!...
THE PUPIL. In regard to this, Master,
I'd like...
PASTEUR. By and by, my son, by and
by!... I shan't come again, that's all
there is to it!... If the meetings are to
consist of conversations I shall henceforth
refrain from attending them!... I shall
make my communication to you in writing!... As for seeking to prove to them the
statements I make.. I must also give
that up, must n't I?
OLD SAVANT. Why, no...
PASTEUR. Why, yes!... Don't you remember the day I brought to one of our
meetings a cage with'three live chickens in
it, to convince those who still doubted? My!
How amusing it seemed to them! You've
never gotten over it... Some were furious,
others smiled! Was it really so comical?
OLD SAVANT. Theoretically. You are
always right, my dear Pasteur...
PASTEUR. Not at all, not theoretically.. I don't care to be right theoretically... I want to be and am absolutely right!
OLD SAVANT. I meant that even your
criticism just now was pertinent... but
the words which you used...were not
exactly what we had expected...




PASTEUR. Oh! But you never expect
anything!...You imagine that all life is
bound up in your existence... and as
your existence is bound up in the Academy,
you'll never get very far!... When once
you're there, you say to yourself: "It's the
end!" In your eyes it's a place of final
rest... but I don't agree with you at all!... And do you know, the ones who are
the most bitterly opposed to me?... the
doctors... because I'm not a doctor! To
be sure, I come along and interfere with
their habits without any warning... I
upset their dangerous routine... I climb
over the last wall behind which they believe themselves sheltered.. then, naturally, they get angry and cry, "Shame!"
So much the worse!...  hey shan't stop
me!... I know I'm right... I have all
but reached the goal... I will attain it!... What?... Should I risk my life every
day and hesitate to disturb their sweet repose?... I should say not!... I could
never forgive myself. They don't realize
all they owe to one who introduces something
new!... Some of these doctors are rogues,
let me tell you!
OLD SAVANT. Ssh!... Ssh!... Ssh!...
PASTEUR. You can't keep me still!...
When you think that they would n't believe in antiseptics!... When you think
that I even had to beg them to sterilize
their instruments before performing an
operation!... I don't like those physicians who are always giving the impression that they have just saved some
one... and who calmly imagine that the
patient's pain is over as soon as their visit
is over!
OLD SAVANT. They are n't all of them
rogues...
PASTEUR. Oh! Why, no, of course not...
and those who are not don't need me...
I'm only concerned with the rest!... I'm
only concerned with those who evade me... every time I try to show them their
errors... Let me assure you, however, that
if they'd be willing to acknowledge their
errors, the discussions would never become
embittered... It's their stubbornness
which irritates me!... They talk of their
moral position, to which they've no right,




436


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


while I'm talking to them of the health
of the world!... Our errors are vital,
remember that... If an archaeologist
makes a mistake in deciphering a text of
the seventh century B.C.... my goodness, his mistake won't have very serious
consequences... For such men, for
whose work I have infinite respect, it's the
past which is in question... for us it's
the future... and that affects us quite
differently!
OLD SAVANT. But, my great, my good
Pasteur, you might have said all that...
without attacking poor old Guerin...
He's eighty years old...
PASTEUR. Am I to blame that he's as
old as that? Why does he attack me?...
Did I ever concern myself about him?...
No!
OLD SAVANT. You don't agree on a
certain point...
PASTEUR. But what does he know about
it?... He thinks that he has n't the same
opinion as I!'...
[Two physicians have just entered.]
FIRST PHYSICIAN. My dear Pasteur,
we're here on a very painful... and delicate mission...
PASTEUR. Well, what's the matter now?
SECOND PHYSICIAN. Our friend, M.
Jules Guerin, being offended by expressions
which you used, a little while ago... has
sent us to you as seconds...
PASTEUR. Seconds for what?
FIRST PHYSICIAN. The words which you
saw fit to use...
PASTEUR. Well, then...
SECOND PHYSICIAN. He demands satisfaction with weapons...
PASTEUR. A duel?...
THE Two PHYSICIANS. Yes...
PASTEUR. There you are... there you
are, gentlemen, this is what we've come
to!.. Now see the result of your methods!... I propose to cure their fellow-beings
and they propose a duel... This is getting
to be really funny!... You might make
me laugh, gentlemen, and it seems that
would hardly do!... No, but really can
you picture me fighting a duel with that old
gentleman? You have a strange way of
understanding science!... You were quite


right, we don't agree, M. Guerin and I...
You can tell M. Guerin for me, that we
don't agree!
FIRST PHYSICIAN. Why... M. Guerin
knows that very well!... And it's precisely because you don't agree with him... that we're here...
PASTEUR. Very well, but... when
M. Guerin agrees with me on a point which
seems to me vastly more important...
perhaps I shall consider the possibility of
fighting him!... But, as long as he won't
use the word human small-pox, I don't
care to meet him!...That would be altogether too simple?...Ah! He claims
that human vaccine is the product of the
small-pox of animals- humanized, as he
calls it... Very well, we shall see!...
And then, to cap the climax, he wants to
fight!...
FIRST PHYSICIAN. You insulted him...
PASTEUR. I insulted him?
SECOND PHYSICIAN. You said to him
that we'd see, one of these days, "which
one of you would come out of the conflict
crippled."
PASTEUR. It's a prediction, not an insult!
FIRST PHYSICIAN. We must fulfill our
mission...
PASTEUR. Certainly! Certainly! Fulfill
it...
SECOND PHYSICIAN. YOU must put us in
touch with two of your friends...
PASTEUR. What friends?
FIRST PHYSICIAN. Your seconds...
PASTEUR. My seconds! What a farce!... Very well, see Beclard and Bergeron,
they're always ready to second me!...
But don't deceive yourselves!... There'll
be no duel, that's not the way I fight!...
SECOND PHYSICIAN. But supposing he
had struck you?...
PASTEUR. Supposing he had struck me?
~..But, you see, it is n't a question of
striking... we're not schoolboys!
OLD SAVANT. My dear Pasteur, just remember that a single word from you could
settle all this...
PASTEUR. What word?
OLD SAVANT. Express to these gentlemen that you regret...
PASTEUR. What?




PASTEUR


437


OLD SAVANT. That you used words
which perhaps were a little stronger than
you intended...
PASTEUR. Not at all!... I thought I
was very clear...
OLD SAVANT. Too much so...
PASTEUR. NO...
OLD SAVANT. Remember that the stenographic report of the meeting will appear
in the official Bulletin of the Academy...
PASTEUR. Listen, once for all! I shall
do exactly what the President of the Academy advises me. Not having the right to do
otherwise I am ready to modify whatever
may seem to have exceeded the right of criticism or of legitimate defense!... Yes, I'm
perfectly willing to modify the printed
text... not having written it... but
what I've said, I will not retract! And as
to M. Guerin, advise him to let me alone
henceforth... He boasted that he'd
"down Pasteur"... these are his exact
words... Will he be so good as to give up
the idea?... I bid you good day, gentlemen!...
[The two physicians go towards
the back of the stage. As they are
going out they meet the PRESIDENT OF THE ACADEMY who has
just entered. They exchange a
few words.]
THE STUDENT. Master, I should like to
tell you -
PASTEUR. Just a minute, my boy, just a
minute -
PRESIDENT OF THE ACADEMY. My dear
Pasteur -
PASTEUR. My dear President, I am
sorry -
PRESIDENT OF THE ACADEMY. I'm more
sorry than you, my dear Pasteur, and you
will understand why - This incident will
have no sequel - for you have just said to
those gentlemen exactly what you ought
to have said to them - but I was obliged
to adjourn the meeting which deprived me
of a very great pleasure -At the conclusion
of today's session I was going to tell you
a great piece of news-and I should have
been glad to do it in the presence of all
your colleagues - who, frequently, alas!
do not give you those tributes of attention


and admiration which your genius and the
vast importance of your research might
demand. You have opened up more than
one new channel and you have a right to
our respect and to our gratitude. I was to
have presented to you, at the close of the
session, in behalf of the government, the
insignia of the Grand Cross of the Legion
of Honor... Here they are with the assurance of my deepest and most sincere
admiration.      [He hands him a case.]
PASTEUR.   My dear President, I'm
ashamed to have deprived you of this
pleasure... I'm ashamed, and at the same
time I'm very proud of the honor which
they are kind enough to do me!... I wish
to consider it as a mark of encouragement... and shall not consider it as a reward...
for I should n't feel worthy of it as yet...
but I hope and believe tht... my health
will permit me to reach the goal... to
which I aspire... and, then... I shall
perhaps really merit... this mark of
esteem and confidence which my country
is good enough to confer upon me!...
But, how does it happen, on the one hand... that the government of France is
willing to recognize the usefulness of my
discoveries... although, in such matters
her judgment is inevitably limited...
while, on the other hand.. those who by
their positions ought not to entangle themselves in trivial discussions... how does
it happen that the former are more clearsighted than the latter?... This is a very
great honor... I am deeply moved by
it... but it is not the thing I wanted most
today... It's very fine!.. it's...it's
magnificent - but they - they - why
won't they understand?...
PRESIDENT OF THE ACADEMY. Pasteur,
they are your colleagues... and you do
them much harm in doing so much
good!...
PASTEUR. What a miserable state of
affairs!... [Turning to his student.] Look,
my boy, is n't this fine... and how good
they are to me!... How pleased Madame
Pasteur and my dear children will be...
STUDENT. And that's not all, Master...
PASTEUR. What else is there?
STUDENT. Mr. President, you'll be very




438


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


pleased to hear what I came to tell M. Pasteur...
PRESIDENT OF THE ACADEMY. Go on,
go on...
STUDENT. The death of M. Littre leaves
a place vacant in the French Academy...
PASTEUR. Oh! no, no, no... not
that!...
STUDENT. But, Master, it's done...
PASTEUR. What, it's done?
STUDENT. I knew that the matter would
come up at once... I went there, I've just
come from there... you will be unanimously elected!... On the subject of the
usual visits, M. Alexandre Dumas used
exactly these words; he said: "I forbid
Pasteur to come to my house... I will go
myself to thank him for being indeed willing to be one of us!"...
PASTEUR. Oh!...
STUDENT. And M. Renan at once expressed the desire to receive you!...
PRESIDENT OF THE ACADEMY. My dear
friend...
[He shakes both his hands, the OLD
SAVANT does the same.]
PASTEUR. Oh... Oh... How wonderful... How wonderful it all is!... Thank
you, my boy!... It's splendid... it's... it's overwhelming... just think...
the French Academy... how am I going
to talk to them... I who have already
expressed myself here in such a peculiar
way...
PRESIDENT OF THE ACADEMY. You won't
need to get exasperated there... you will
have no one to contradict you... I'm
quite easy as far as you are concerned...
you'll make a fine impression there!
STUDENT. I'm so happy for your sake,
Master...
PASTEUR. And I, my son, I'm so happy
for yours... and for the great who are no
longer here... and who were my masters!... How wonderful it all is... how
moved I am... how!... Oh!... They're
going to understand, are n't they, my dear
friend, now... they'll finally understand,
won't they?
PRESIDENT OF THE ACADEMY. Why, yes!
PASTEUR. It would really be too bad...
it would be very unfortunate!... It would


really be abominable for me... I know
very well... that... all these honors...
would seem to me disproportionate...
would seem to me unjust... would perhaps seem odious to me... if they did n't
consider them absolutely deserved!... It
occurs to me... it just occurs to me...
and I swear to you... I swear to you sincerely from the bottom of my heart, that
I'm overcome by what has just happened
in the last ten minutes... when I
think of what happened, a little while ago!... I feel a certain doubt... I don't know
how to express it... which embarrasses
me... which troubles me greatly... I'm
not willing that they should impose silence
upon me... I will not permit them to
keep me silent... with anything like that.
It has been their way, perhaps, of answering questions which I have n't asked!...
I'm willing to accept all these splendid
things, these magnificent things... but let
there be no false impression, no misunderstanding... I didn't ask for it... it's
very wonderful... it's... all that one
could wish for, but it must n't bind me...
Don't let them get it into their heads that
such a thing could happen!... It would
be too easy!... Be sure and tell them, my
dear President, that at the next session
I'm going to continue!... I feel in duty
bound to tell you that in a few days I'm
going to have to communicate to them the
first results of some work which I've
undertaken in the matter of a new discovery... It relates to a method of curing
hydrophobia!
THE PRESIDENT AND THE OLD SAVANT.
Oh!...
PASTEUR. Yes!... I'm satisfied with
the experiments I've made...and I'm
going to tell them about it before having
completely attained my end!... I'm going to do this in a spirit of fairness... so
that they may have the possibility of following me and of having a part in it...
Let me tell you that all this... well... it
seems very wonderful... to me...only
I'm not through, you understand... so
then, 1 only wish that we could all agree,
every one of us... I'm in the midst of a
piece of work... and they won't prevent




PASTEUR


439


me from continuing... I'd like to believe
that in presence of these... [he shows
the insignia of the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honor]... they will have patience to listen to me to the end!... To
say that human vaccine is the product of
the small-pox of animals humanized...
Oh!!!
Once more he is filled with anger as
THE CURTAIN FALLS
ACT III
1885
The scene is the same as Act I, PASTEUR'S
study. He is at his desk writing. After a
time there is a knock.
PASTEUR. Come in! [The STUDENT enters.]
Come in, my friend, I beg you...
STUDENT. I'm not disturbing you,
Master? Am I?
PASTEUR. Not at all, not at all!...
Never!... Anything new happened?
STUDENT. No, Master...
PASTEUR. You look worried.
STUDENT. No! No!...
PASTEUR. Will you be good enough to
look over the proofs of the address I delivered in Edinburgh... I'm afraid I may
have overlooked some mistakes.
STUDENT. Yes, Master.
PASTEUR. It was fine, was n't it, what
they did over there! It was magnificent!... And you see that recognition has come
at last!... It was really superb...
STUDENT. Oh, yes!... And you were
very much moved, Master...
PASTEUR. Very much... I admit...
STUDENT. And you could n't believe
that it was you they were cheering. You
kept looking about for the person they
were applauding when you entered...
PASTEUR. It was so tremendous...
that, of course, I could n't believe it was
for me... Besides, it was n't for me...
I merely represented French Science...
STUDENT. H'm...
PASTEUR. After all... how could I believe that a foreign country should have
wanted to do for me what France has not


yet felt it her duty to do... It would be a
lesson... but it would be bad!... Above
all... I don't want the newspapers to
give that impression... I should be...
ashamed... Moreover, I'm going to
publish my address in order to make things
perfectly definite!... I've sometimes gone
too far... I've often been hasty...
well, I was fighting!... but the goal is
reached... now I'm calm...
A scientist ought to be concerned with what
they'll say of him in a hundred years and not
with the insults or compliments of the present!
I was so absolutely right;, that at present
it's my duty to be silent and to work while
I wait for the material results of my discoveries!... I went on experimenting. I
felt it my duty to attract the attention of
those who doubted, so that they would n't
be too much surprised... I have succeeded, it's done!... I told them, before,
that I was on the right track... they
would n't believe me... so much the
worse for them!... If they had followed
me from the first day, if they had n't lost
so much time in discussions... we would
all have reached the goal at the same time!... I have really done everything I could
not to be entirely alone!... The discovery
of a serum for hydrophobia, and its results
are today incontestable... the way is
open for the cure of all other diseases...
I'm through arguing nowl... So, 1 beg
you all, not to bring up any controversy in
my name from now on... Everything's
proved, I don't care to answer any more
arguments, that's over!... Now, let's get
to work!
STUDENT. Very well, Master!
PASTEUR. I say, "let's work!"... However, I'm going to rest today, for I'm tired!
[He rises.] I slept badly during the entire
trip... And you?
STUDENT. Not very well...
PASTEUR. But, what's the matter with
you? You're not looking fit...
STUDENT. I...
PASTEUR. Go on, my friend, tell me...
You can tell your old Master everything!
STUDENT. Monsieur Pasteur, I'm going
through a terrible crisis...
PASTEUR. Go on!




440


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


STUDENT. Terrible... and I've come
to you for advice.
PASTEUR. You did well, my friend...
What's it about? H'm... Why! Is it
hard to say?
STUDENT. Yes...
PASTEUR. Write it for me... [He points
to a pad of paper. The pupil takes a pencil
out of his pocket, writes a few words on the
sheet which he hands to the Master. PASTEUR
having read it.] You must n't... One
must never hurt any one!
STUDENT. Oh, but if you knew...
PASTEUR. I don't need to know... I
know, I know that you must not!...
STUDENT. There are certain situations...
PASTEUR. No!... There are men to
meet them!...
STUDENT. Besides, there are women...
PASTEUR. Yes... but that makes no difference... Above all one must be a man!
You must never make any one suffer!...
STUDENT. And when some one has made
you suffer?...
PASTEUR. You must n't let them!...
STUDENT. H'm...
PASTEUR. '1 mean to say by that, that
one should n't think of other things than
those which really concern him. And take
my word for it, other people don't... they
must n't, they can't hurt you as much as
you imagine!... It's only the harm which
one himself does that matters!...The
rest is of little consequence if one has a
clear conscience... and work!
STUDENT. But when you're carried
away by passion?...
PASTEUR. But one must n't let himself
be carried away! One must have constant
control over his actions! No weakness...
my friend, no slavery!... You are evidently passing through a crisis... very
well, it will give you a chance to stand
face to face with yourself so that you may
know yourself better, and so that you may
see how strong you can be! It's a test...
study yourself. Don't seek out people who
give you advice... look rather to those
who set you an example...
STUDENT. I look to you, Monsieur Pasteur... and I admire you... but, you!!!


PASTEUR. I'm not so perfect, since I'm
lacking in sympathy for you.
STUDENT. For me?
PASTEUR. Absolutely! I can't even get
interested in what you just told me... because I find you hesitating... and I don't
like that!.. This very moment, you're
hesitating to do something bad. To me,
it's as if you hesitated to do something
good!... Now, one must never hesitate... One should always do what's right
and one must never do what's wrong! You
know very well what you ought to do!...
Take a straight line towards the infinite
and never swerve!... When one does n't
know, when one's feeling his way, one
may hesitate... but when one knows...
that's all there is to it... he must go
ahead!... And, now, since you've asked
my advice... I advise you to work at
home for a while...
STUDENT. Why?
PASTEUR.   Because!... You'll come
back when you're feeling better!... I'm
upset on your account because of this talk
we've just had!... I don't wish to prolong it, and I prefer not to take the matter
up again!... How old are you?
STUDENT. Forty...
PASTEUR. You've been married for...
STUDENT. For twenty years...
PASTEUR. And, if I understand rightly.. it's, above all, a question of her happiness?
STUDENT. Yes...
PASTEUR. It's just as I thought...
You're hurting some one... You want to
make yourself believe that you're doing
so... and you try to find in passion an
excuse which your conscience denies you!... [He has gone back and seated himself at
his desk. A pause.] Excuse me, my friend,
I have work to do... you... you'll have
to think things over... Then, in a few
days, we shall see each other again!...
STUDENT. Very well, Master...
[During the last part of PASTEUR'S
speech the STUDENT has seen
from the window some one rapidly coming across the court-yard
and he says, "Oh!"... then
goes out hurriedly. PASTEUR,




PASTEUR


441


left alone, has resumed his work... and now re-reads what he
was writing just before the STUDENT came in.]
PASTEUR [alone, reading]. "As a man, as
far back as I can remember I do not believe
I have ever met a student without saying to
him: Work and persevere! Work is really
recreation and it is the only thing of value to
a man and to his country. Whatever career
you embrace, aim high. Venerate great men
and great things." [There is a knock.] Come
in!
[The door opens slowly and little JOSEPH
MEISTER comes in supported by his
GRANDFATHER and the STUDENT. The
child has his hands and one leg covered
with bandages.]
STUDENT. Master!...
PASTEUR. What is it?
STUDENT. Master!...
PASTEUR [raising his head at last]. What?... Oh!... No?... Bitten?...
STUDENT. Yes...
PASTEUR. Hurry, hurry!... Come here... come, my little boy... don't be
afraid... surely, don't be afraid of me...
Come here...
[And he has him sit down facing
him.]
THE GRANDFATHER. You're Monsieur
Pasteur, monsieur?
PASTEUR. Yes, monsieur... Now, tell
me quickly how it happened...
THE GRANDFATHER. It happened very
simply!... The child was going to school
at Meissengott... when the dog met him
and jumped at him... and being a great
deal stronger, naturally, - the child fell
down... and he only thought of protecting his face with his hands, - while the
animal was biting him!... A stone-mason
who was passing saw the struggle, and
came with a bar of iron... and pounded
the dirty brute so that it ran away... and
then lifted the child who was covered with
blood and brought him home to us. In the
meantime the dog ran to the house of his
master, Theodore Vone, the grocer of
Meissengott, and bit him in the arm...
then Theodore took his gun and killed him.


They opened the dog and found hay, straw
and bits of wood in his stomach. I'm telling you these things as they told me I
should...
PASTEUR. Yes, yes... and then...
Go on...
THE GRANDFATHER. When the child
was back in the house they washed his
bites with fresh water... but as they kept
hurting him very much, they took him to
the apothecary who told us we ought to
see a doctor... then they went to Dr.
Weber at Vill!... He put something on
his hands and leg, and told us that they
would be better the next day!... But the
next day they were n't any better at all...
quite the contrary... the little fellow...
cried a great deal...and then he had a
fever... he was sort of restless...his
whole body was in convulsions... and
then he was cold...and then he was
very much frightened... and then he was
very thirsty... Then the doctor, who came
to see him the next day, saw clearly that
things were not going well... He told us
that he was afraid of hydrophobia... and
then he told us that there was only one
man who might possibly save him, and that
was Monsieur Pasteur... because he had
just found, he said, something for that disease... although he was not a physician... then he gave us a letter for you, monsieur...and I brought the little one...
because the mother was taken sick after
this blow... and so here's the letter for
you, monsieur.
PASTEUR. Let me have it. Let me have
it...
[PASTEUR opens the letter and
glances through it.]
THE GRANDFATHER. As to Theodore
Vone... there's no cause to worry about
him... the nasty dog's teeth did n't even
go through his shirt... so, he's all right... but the little fellow... it's more serious... unfortunately... [To the child.]
How do you feel, my boy?
[The child does not reply.]
PASTEUR. What, he was bitten Thursday?
THE GRANDFATHER. Yes, monsieur...
PASTEUR. Oh! You should have come
sooner...




442


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


THE GRANDFATHER. Well! To come
from Alsace, monsieur, takes time!
PASTEUR. Come here, my little man...
come, don't be afraid.
THE GRANDFATHER [in PASTEUR'S ear].
You'd better be careful on your own account, monsieur.. the doctor told me
that we must look out for his saliva...
PASTEUR. Yes, yes... thanks!.
Come here, my boy.. poor little man!
Show me your hands... How old is
he?
THE GRANDFATHER. He's just nine!...
PASTEUR. Let me see them! Let me see
them.
[He removes the bandages which
cover his hands.]
THE GRANDFATHER. It's true what the
doctor said?
PASTEUR. Alas!... Sit down, my boy.. [To the STUDENT.] We must... at
once!..
STUDENT. Very well, Master...
PASTEUR. The janitor of the laboratory
always sleeps here, does n't he?
STUDENT. Yes, Master...
PASTEUR. Have the bed made up immediately...
STUDENT. Very well, Master...
PASTEUR. And put the child to bed at
once. Have Madame Henriette look after
him! [To the child.] We're going to fix you
up, my little man. [The STUDENT goes out.
To the GRANDFATHER.] Take him that way... they'll put him to bed at once...
THE GRANDFATHER. You are n't going
to hurt him...
PASTEUR. No. No... indeed... Come. my child, come!... Help him. What?.. You're afraid?... Oh!...
[He holds out his arms, the child
holds out his, and PASTEUR carries him to the next room.]
THE GRANDFATHER. He's not going to
hurt him...
STUDENT [who just entered]. He's going
to save him for you!
THE GRANDFATHER. May the good
Lord grant it...
PASTEUR [reentering]. Stay with him,
mind you! Some one's going to come and
undress him!... Go in... [The GRAND

FATHER goes. On entering the STUDENT has
put down a porcelain tray on which are all
the articles necessary for the inoculation.
PASTEUR to the STUDENT.] You have everything there we need?
STUDENT. Yes, Master...
PASTEUR. You've notified the doctor?
STUDENT. Yes, Master...
PASTEUR. You told him that...
STUDENT. Yes, Master, and here he
is!
PASTEUR [to the DOCTOR entering]. You
know about it, my dear friend?
THE DOCTOR. Yes, what a moment this
is!...
PASTEUR. Harrowing!...
THE DOCTOR. It's nevertheless what
you've been waiting for!...
PASTEUR. I didn't hope for this! Of
course, I really thought that some day the
thing would happen and that they would
bring a... but the idea that it would be a
child never occurred to me!...
THE DOCTOR. You want me to make the
inoculation at once?
PASTEUR. Yes! Yes, yes...
THE DOCTOR [to the STUDENT]. I can
understand what his feeling must be...
last night he used these very words: " When
I approach a child I am inspired with two
sentiments... that of fondness for the present, that of respect for what he may one day
be." So you think!...
PASTEUR. For just a minute I've been
torn with intense anguish... I can't
just express it!... Yes, I've been positive
for months... I'm sure I've found it...
But now, it's not a question of experiments... it's no longer a question of waiting
to know whether I'm entirely right... I
must be right, the life of a little boy is
at stake... and I will not let you make
the inoculation until you've given your
word of honor that you're certain of the
result!
THE DOCTOR. Very well, I give you my
word of honor!
PASTEUR. Think it over.. had n't
you better? Remember that I might kill
him!
THE DOCTOR. But nevertheless... look... all your experiments...




PASTEUR


443


PASTEUR. Let me repeat, they were only
experiments!.. For the last few minutes
all the criticisms which have been made
to me... and to which I would not listen... have all flashed before me very
clearly.
THE DOCTOR. Let's see! Let's see!.
When was he bitten?
PASTEUR. Last Thursday.
THE DOCTOR. Did they apply a red-hot
iron?
PASTEUR. No, the doctor who sent him
to me only cauterized with carbolic acid...
THE DOCTOR. It's certainly very serious!
PASTEUR. Why?
THE DOCTOR. HOW old is he?
PASTEUR. Nine...
THE DOCTOR. Poor little fellow!... I
understand you perfectly... naturally, if
he died!...
PASTEUR. Pardon... if he died I
would n't be responsible! The dog that bit
him was mad... and if I don't make the
inoculation the child is certainly doomed to
die, when you consider the seriousness of
his wounds...
THE DOCTOR. Of course... Yes... an
accident might occur... and if this child
succumbs to his wounds!!!....
PASTEUR. If I had died this morning,
what would you do at this moment?
THE DOCTOR....
PASTEUR. Ah! Ah!...
STUDENT. He saw him hesitate!
PASTEUR. So you, you, my co-worker,
you have n't faith in me?
THE DOCTOR. You have n't faith in
yourself!...
PASTEUR. What?...
THE DOCTOR. Well!...
PASTEUR. And I should be the cause
of...? No! indeed! above everything,
let's have no misunderstanding... I'm
asking your opinion... I'm not giving you
mine! My own was formed long ago. I
wanted to know yours!...
THE DOCTOR. And I immediately gave
my word of honor!
PASTEUR.   Certainly, certainly! 
Come... Come! [Preceded by the STUDENT
who has taken the tray, the DOCTOR and


PASTEUR enter the room where the child is.
For a few minutes the stage is empty. One
hears only the reassuring voice of the DOCTOR
who is talking to the child. Then PASTEUR
reappears.] He was very much afraid, at
first... but it did n't hurt him!
[The DOCTOR and the SrUDENT enter.]
THE DOCTOR. And we won't know
before...
PASTEUR. Fourteen days!...
THE DOCTOR. Would you like to have
me remain with you?...
PASTEUR. No, my friend, thank you...
I'm going to leave in five minutes myself...
THE DOCTOR. I'11 see you tomorrow
morning... then...
PASTEUR. Tomorrow... Thank you...
Goodbye...
THE DOCTOR. Goodbye...
[The I)CToR goes out.]
PASTEUR [addressing the STUDENT]. His
grandfather ought not to be left with him
above all things... it will only excite him
more.
STUDENT. He's no longer in the room...
PASTEUR. Have some one find him a
place for the night...
STUDENT. I saw to it, Master...
PASTEUR. Thanks!...I've kept you
very late...
STUDENT. Oh! Master...
PASTEUR. I'm going to drop you off at
your home. Put on your coat...
STUDENT. All right, Master. Thank
you...
[He goes out. PASTEUR puts on his
overcoat and hct. Then he goes
to the door of the room where the
child is.]
PASTEUR. You'll carry out my instructions carefully, won't you? I'll see you tomorrow morning! [The STUDENT reenters.
PASTEUR at his desk arranges some papers
leisurely. He then takes two or three steps.
Then:] Listen, my son. [He takes off his overcoat and hat.] I couldn't... You're going to my house... take my carriage...
you'll tell Madame Pasteur what's happened... ask her to be good enough to
excuse me... she'll understand why I'm




444


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


going to spend the night here... I'll see
you tomorrow...
[PASTEUR, left alone goes and listens at the
door at the left, and then, as
THE CURTAIN FALLS
He starts pacing back and forth. It will last
the whole night through.]
ACT IV
1888
Arbois. The scene represents the drawingroom of PASTEUR'S paternal home. At the
rise of the curtain the STUDENT is discovered.
He is seated at a small table near PASTEUR'S
desk, writing. Two large windows open on
the sunny garden. A few minutes later the
DOCTOR is shown in by the valet de chambre.
THE DOCTOR. Good morning...
THE STUDENT. Oh! Good morning!
Doctor... and may I say... at last!... I have been waiting for you so anxiously...
THE DOCTOR. IS he as ill as that?
THE STUDENT. Unfortunately! doctor,
I'm afraid he's very ill...
THE DOCTOR. He's in bed?...
THE STUDENT. Oh, no!... He's in the
garden with Madame Pasteur and the children...
THE DOCTOR. I received word from you
day before yesterday... I could n't come
any sooner!... Does Madame Pasteur
know that you sent for me?
THE STUDENT. Yes, but she'll pretend
she does n't know about it... if he happened to be displeased, I would take all
the consequences myself!
THE DOCTOR. Besides, so he won't be,... I might find some pretext or other for
my visit... or better still, so as not to
spoil the effect, I can attribute it to the
real anxiety which I've felt since our last
meeting...
THE STUDENT. Yes, perhaps...
THE DOCTOR. I came of my own accord,
that's all!
THE STUDENT. You found him changed,
then?
THE DOCTOR. Yes!... He works a


great deal too much... Think of it, here's
a man who has n't taken a rest for fifty
years!... He still has a laboratory, here?
The STUDENT. He certainly has!
THE DOCTOR. Then, he must go away!... What's the good of a regimen, what's
the good of medicine if he keeps on working!
THE STUDENT. The man is n't born who
can make him give up his laboratory!...
Nevertheless, please, do everything in the
world you can, doctor...
THE DOCTOR. You know him as well as
I do, don't you? Whether or not he'll
take my advice depends on the mood he's
in... I can't tell anything about it in
advance. I can't even be prepared!...
Pasteur is n't like a patient... and if I
had to prescribe for him... I believe that,
in spite of myself, I should first ask his
advice!...
THE STUDENT. I thought, nevertheless,
it was my duty to warn you!
THE DOCTOR. You did just right... I
should like so much to be able to prolong
such a life!...
THE STUDENT. I'll go and tell him that
you've just come...
THE DOCTOR. Yes, but I prefer to see
him alone.
THE STUDENT. Of course.
[The STUDENT goes out towards the
garden.]
[A moment later PASTEUR appears.]
PASTEUR. No?... Oh!... How good
of you to come and see your old friend...
so far!... What a pleasant surprise!.
You're going to stay with us several days,
I hope... How are you?...
THE DOCTOR. How do you do, my great
Master...
PASTEUR. Sit down!... Sit down, so
that I can look at you awhile!... Why!
Why! You're not looking very well.
THE DOCTOR. I'm tired...
PASTEUR. But you must n't let yourself
get tired... you must n't do too much...
you must n't go beyond your strength!...
We all of us have a bad habit of putting
off the rest we need till rather late! You
see one must have some strength left to




PASTEUR


445


be able to rest!... However, I'm sure
that I shall be wiser than any of you, and
that I shall stop when I ought to...
THE DOCTOR. H'm! Are you quite sure
of it?... And whom will you consult
when the time comes...
PASTEUR. You!
THE DOCTOR. And the day when I advise you to stop... to ease up a little on
your work...
PASTEUR. I...
THE DOCTOR. Will you listen to me
then?
PASTEUR. Why, yes...
THE DOCTOR. Even if I did n't wait
until you asked my advice?
PASTEUR. Well, why not!...
THE DOCTOR. Even if I were to tell you
so... to-day...
PASTEUR. To-day?
THE DOCTOR. Yes.
PASTEUR. Then it seems to you that...
THE DOCTOR. Yes...
PASTEUR. Really?
THE DOCTOR. Yes...
PASTEUR. Without examining me further.
THE DOCTOR. Yes...
PASTEUR. Is it very apparent?
THE DOCTOR. Yes...
PASTEUR. Serious?
THE DOCTOR. Yes...
PASTEUR. Very serious?
THE DOCTOR. I think...
PASTEUR. Ah! Ah!... I've changed a
great deal?
THE DOCTOR. Yes!
'PASTEUR. That's why you came?
THE DOCTOR. Yes...
PASTEUR. They've been worried about
me?
THE DOCTOR. Yes!... You have something under way...
PASTEUR. Yes...
THE DOCTOR. Important?
PASTEUR. Very... epilepsy!
THE DOCTOR. Ah...
PASTEUR. I might say that it's pretty
well along, and that Roux will be able to
go on with it alone admirably, if I have to
go... still I should have preferred!...
The question which arises is this. -. at the


present moment am I in a condition to
make a final effort which will be effective... or had I better take a little rest...
with the distinct understanding that the
rest is likely to be beneficial?...You
understand me, don't you... if it means
the end I'd much rather give a last pull in
the harness, right away!... It would be
heart-breaking to be obliged to take a rest
that's unnecessary! Consider carefully!... You must n't, out of friendship, make
me lose any time, if my days are numbered!.. That would be doing me a
very ill turn; pay close attention to what
you say! If it's a question of days, I shall
go back to Paris this evening, I shall shut
myself in my laboratory and never come
out of it again... if i';'s a question of
months... I'm quite willing to rest for
three weeks... you understand?
THE DOCTOR. Why, I think it's a question of years, Pasteur, if you rest...
PASTEUR. Years?
THE DOCTOR. Yes..
PASTEUR. Well, then, my friend, I've
plenty of time!... You know, you frightened me... and I trembled for epilepsy!
Years... why, that's longer than I need!
Think of it... I need six months... and
if I have several years to live after that... I don't know what I shall do with
them!...
THE DOCTOR. Oh! I'm not worried at
all!...
PASTEUR. But you did quite right to
come, and it was very good of you to have
put yourself out!... If that's the case all
I have to do is to remain here quietly...
THE DOCTOR. Oh, not at all...
PASTEUR. Why?
THE DOCTOR. On account of your laboratory...
PASTEUR. I won't set foot inside it...
THE DOCTOR. I defy you not to do it...
PASTEUR. I'm going to lock it... and
give you the key...
THE DOCTOR. Some night you'd break
down the door!.. No. No, no!... And
besides the air here in the Jura does n't do
you any good just now...
PASTEUR. Where would you have me
go?




446


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


THE DOCTOR. To the Riviera...
PASTEUR. Ouch!...
THE DOCTOR. Yes...
PASTEUR. But where?
THE DOCTOR. To Bordighera...
PASTEUR. Oh! Oh!... That's very
far...
THE DOCTOR. Precisely!...
PASTEUR. Now, listen... I'm going to
think it over... I'll see...
THE DOCTOR. You must do it!...
PASTEUR. That's only a good reason!... At any rate, I'll think it over... and
perhaps the idea of taking them all there
will settle it... for it would do them good
and give them pleasure!... I'll give you
my answer tomorrow!... Thanks, my
good friend, for thinking so much of me... for I'm  not worth it... for I must
tell you something... you're going to
have a complaint to lodge against me...
for I must tell you that since I've been
here I've practiced medicine in a most illegal fashion! Would you believe that my
neighbors here in the country don't know
me very well, and they think I'm a physician! Just this morning a good man came
to consult me because he had pains in his
stomach..and I assure you that I was
greatly embarrassed... However, I advised
him to take some bi-carbonate of soda...
I think that can't do him any harm?
THE DOCTOR. Oh, no...
PASTEUR. If they ever found out here in
the country that I'm not a physician...
I'm quite sure they would take me for a
charlatan! In fact.. that almost happened to me in the Academy of Medicine..once!
THE DOCTOR. How they must regret it
today!
PASTEUR. They regret it? Never! Anyway, I've gotten used to it; it would n't
have been so easy if I'd been all alone...
but in the end I've gotten used to it...
and I never get angry any more, now! As
long as I had n't attained my end, their
malice made me indignant... but at
present, naturally it doesn't bother me!
I've been so rewarded for my efforts...
that sometimes I'm ashamed in the presence of those who fought me so!... It's


unbelievable how uncompromising I was
with them.. and I used to call them
names when they would n't try to understand... I don't dare show myself nowadays. Besides, I don't want to show myself anywhere. I've been seen too much...
they've done enough for me as it is...
it's over!
THE DOCTOR. France has not yet finished with you...
PASTEUR. You're greedy!
THE DOCTOR. Greedy for justice,
yes!...
PASTEUR. For goodness' sake, what more
would you have them do?... Why not a
statue! Remember that I belong to all the
academies of the whole world... and I
believe that I have all the decorations
there are... excepting one... obviously!
THE DOCTOR. Which is that?
PASTEUR. The Royal Order of Prussia.
I've just refused it a second time!...
Alsace is a question of humanity with me... they have torn it away from me...
and they no longer exist as far as I'm
concerned...
VALET DE CHAMBRE [entering]. There's
a little boy who wishes to speak to you,
monsieur...
PASTEUR. Have him come in! [The
VALET DE CHAMBRE goes out.] It's doubtless some little country lad who probably
has a cold!...you'll look after this one
yourself, won't you... eh?
THE DOCTOR. Yes...
[JOSEPH MEISTER appears at this moment.]
JOSEPH MEISTER. Good morning, Monsieur Pasteur!...
PASTEUR. Come a little nearer, little
boy. I can't see you well... [The child
takes a few  steps.] But... you're all
right?...
JOSEPH MEISTER. I'm the Meister
boy!...
PASTEUR. Oh! My boy... Come here... Quick... come here... so I can look
at you... come here... you're not ill,
I hope?...
JOSEPH MEISTER. Oh, no, Monsieur
Pasteur, quite the contrary... it's because I'm very well that I came...




PASTEUR


447


PASTEUR. Oh! That's fine... how
good of you to come to see me! You came
to show me how well you are, did n't you?
JOSEPH MEISTER. Why, yes, Monsieur
Pasteur...
PASTEUR. That's my little boy... you
remember... the first... that I saved!...And you're getting along nicely, are n't
you?
JOSEPH MEISTER. Oh! yes, Monsieur
Pasteur...
PASTEUR. And you're never, never ill,
any more, are you?
JOSEPH MEISTER. Oh! Never...
PASTEUR. That's fine!... Let me see
your hands... You can hardly see anything any more now... that's first-rate!... He was so sick, the poor little man...
and he was so brave!... Do you remember when you played with the rabbits back
there?... He knew that I had to kill them.. and often he'd ask me to spare them... and I always did as he asked me!...
You're a big boy, now... I hope! Do you
go to school?
JOSEPH MEISTER. Yes, Monsieur Pasteur...
PASTEUR. You must go, you know...
and besides you must work hard! It's
good to work hard!... you'll see!...
You must get to be a very intelligent little
boy... You must really be an honor to
me... you owe me that much, don't you?.. Do you know what you owe me?
JOSEPH MEISTER. My mama told me
that I owed my life to you!...
PASTEUR. How beautiful these words
are from those little lips!... Is n't it
beautiful to hear those words?... This
little child owes his life to me!... If he
were an orphan, I would never be separated
from him!... His little life is even more
precious to me than if I had given it to
him... because he trusted it to me under
the most dreadful circumstances... and
I was able to give it back to him.
THE DOCTOR. I appreciate your feeling,
Pasteur...
PASTEUR. It's beyond words, my friend!.. Oh! How nice of you to come to see
me, my dear... You're a dear little fellow
to do that... and you must thank your


mama for me!... What's that book you
have under your arm?
JOSEPH MEISTER. It's my prize for this
year...
PASTEUR. His prize!... You got a
prize!!!
JOSEPH MEISTER. It was to show it to
you that I came!...
PASTEUR. And just to think he does n't
realize what he's doing for me!... First
show me your lovely sparkling eyes...
look straight at me.... look into my eyes... and tell me that you're never in pain... never...
JOSEPH MEISTER. Never... Never...
PASTEUR. Thanks, thanks, thanks! I
love you!
[He kisses him and for an instant
holds him close in his arms.
Then the STUDENT appears.]
THE DOCTOR. It's the little Meister
boy...
THE STUDENT. Ah!...
PASTEUR. You must tell Madame Pasteur that the child is here... and that I
want a lunch prepared for him... a good
lunch... do you like chocolate?
JOSEPH MEISTER. Yes, Monsieur Pasteur...
PASTEUR. Have some made right
away...
THE STUDENT. I'11 see to it, Master...
[He goes out.]
PASTEUR [to the DOCTOR]. My friend,
just now I'm going through a wonderful
experience!... This little fellow's visit
has done me more good than you can ever
imagine!... He's a fine little lad, is n't
he?
THE DOCTOR. Yes, indeed...
PASTEUR. I have never seen a handsomer boy myself!... You're going to
look after me all right, are n't you? I shall
do everything you tell me to do... I want
to live... I want to live a little longer...
I should like to save others... Oh! If 1
could only save them all!... If I must go
tomorrow, I'll go tomorrow... tell Madame Pasteur so... let her know that
I've become submissive... and that on the
Riviera I shan't work... that I'll rest...
and tell her that I'll come right away...




448


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


but I would like to be alone with the little
lad a moment longer...
THE DOCTOR. I'm going... I'm going
to tell her the good news.  [He goes out.]
PASTEUR. Come over here, dear, near
to me... and now show me your prize...
Oh! What a lovely book... Robinson
Crusoe! It is a very fine book. Ah! I see
you won first prize in arithmetic... that's
fine and I want to congratulate you. See,
here's something for you,...
[He takes from his pocketbcok a
hundred franc note which he
gives him.]
JOSEPH MEISTER. Oh...
PASTEUR. It's for you and your mama...sit here on my knee... so!... and
now, do you want to do something nice
for me... if it is n't asking too much...
show me how you can read...
JOSEPH MEISTER [reading]. "One day a
great ship was... wrecked"...
PASTEUR. Yes...
JOSEPH MEISTER [continuing]. "and was... swallowed up by the waves."
PASTEUR. Very good! You read right
along... That's fine!... and write...
Do you know how to write?
JOSEPH MEISTER. Yes.
PASTEUR. You like to write?
JOSEPH MEISTER. Yes...
PASTEUR. YOU ought to like it very
much... and you must learn to write
very well... so as to be able to write to
me... You wouldn't mind writing to me?
JOSEPH MEISTER. I'd like to, Monsieur
Pasteur...
PASTEUR. You must be able to let me
hear from you... h'm...
JOSEPH MEISTER. Yes, Monsieur Pasteur...
PASTEUR. Here... wait a minute...
I 'm going to address an envelope, wait...
here it is. "Monsieur Louis Pasteur.
Arbois, near Poligny, Jura." And now,
down at the bottom you put, "Please forward," like that... here it is!... you
see... you can do the rest yourself by
copying this one... and every month
you'll let me hear from you... won't you?
It's a promise?... You know that I'll be
looking for them...


JOSEPH MEISTER. Yes, Monsieur Pasteur...
PASTEUR. Here they are, take them...
six sheets and six envelopes... now I'11
always be able to hear from you...
JOSEPH MEISTER. What, always.
with six envelopes?
PASTEUR. You'd like more?
JOSEPH MEISTER. Oh! yes...
PASTEUR. You want the whole box?
JOSEPH MEISTER. Well... Yes...
PASTEUR. Perhaps that's a good many...after all!... If the last ones come
back to you, you must n't be angry with
me!
JOSEPH MEISTER. It will be because
you've gone away...
PASTEUR. Yes...
JOSEPH MEISTER. Where?
PASTEUR. Where I did n't want you to
go!
JOSEPH MEISTER. Why not?
PASTEUR. Because it's not the place for
children!
THE VALET DE CHAMBRE [entering]. The
chocolate's ready, sir!...
PASTEUR. We're coming!... come...
come and show Madame Pasteur your prize... come.. [He takes the child by the
hand, and speaking to persons who are in the
garden, he says:] Let me introduce my little
doctor...
and
THE CURTAIN FALLS
ACT V
DECEMBER 27, 1892.
The scene represents the hall outside of the
amphitheatre at the Sorbonne. On this day
PASTEUR is seventy years old. He is surrounded by men who regard him with awe
and respect. He is in an armchair, the rest
are standing. One cannot hear all that the
group are saying to him, but one can hear
him saying constantly, "Thanks! Thanks!
Thanks!"
THE DOCTOR. What are they waiting for?
THE STUDENT. They're waiting until
the crowd is seated before having him go
in...




PASTEUR


449


-.


THE DOCTOR. Has the President of the
Republic arrived?
THE STUDENT. Not yet.
THE DOCTOR. He's supposed to, is n't
he?
THE STUDENT. So it seems...
[The DOCTOR goes up stage and
exits.]
PASTEUR. My dear friend...?
THE STUDENT. Master...
PASTEUR. I'd like to know just what's
going to happen...
THE STUDENT. I 've no idea, Master...
PASTEUR. There are a lot of people...?
THE STUDENT. Yes, Master, a great
many; the whole of the amphitheatre of
the Sorbonne is packed...
PASTEUR. Oh! Why... who's there?
THE STUDENT. Master, there are [taking the programme from his pocket and reading] the delegates from the Academies of
France and of foreign countries... all
the members of the Institute, all the University professors, deputations from the
Normal College, from the Polytechnic,
from the Central College, from the Colleges
of Pharmacy and Agriculture... the President of the Council, the President of the
House of Representatives; the President
of the Senate... all the Ministers, all the
Ambassadors...
PASTEUR. Oh... It's too much...
Why...?
THE STUDENT. The classes of rhetoric
and philosophy from all the colleges of
Paris...
PASTEUR. Boys... Ah! That's fine!
[Applause is heard.] Who's just entered?
THE STUDENT. Who's just entered?
A PHYSICIAN. Lister!
THE STUDENT. It's Lister...
PASTEUR. What, Lister came... At
his age!... It's too much!... It's too
much!...
THE STUDENT. Master... I found a
letter for you at the Institute this morning; it was addressed to Arbois... Do you
want me to keep it and give it to you this
evening...
PASTEUR. No, no... Give it here...
[The STUDENT gives it to him. PASTEUR
having opened it and glanced through it.] Oh




r... it's from my little boy... it's from
little Meister... and it's a very nice letter... very well written... very... and they
are new envelopes... it's paper which he
bought himself!
THE DOCTOR [coming from the background
and going up to PASTEUR]. Pasteur, I can't
tell you what I feel... Something wonderful is going to happen in a moment!...
You're going to see the whole world standing before you proclaiming "Thanks"...
I know the state of your health... and I
wished to prepare you somewhat!... If
you have had to strive... if, at times,
you've met opposition.... if often you've
had to complain of a constant and reprehensible indifference...you are to reap,
in a few minutes, the wonderful harvest
of your magnificent work!... The people
out there for several months have been
preparing the way to immortality. All that
human beings can do, once they understand... they have done... without reservation, without compulsion... with all
their heart! Each according to his knowledge, according to his ability... brings to
you this day the tribute of his gratitude!
PASTEUR. Oh!... Thank you, my
friend, thank you... but I'd like to know
exactly what's going to take place...
THE DOCTOR. Very well! It's this...
The President of the Academy of Science
will present you with a medal commemorating this never-to-be-forgotten day...
PASTEUR. Ah!...
THE DOCTOR. The President of the
Municipal Council will bring you an address from the Council...
PASTEUR. Ah!...
THE DOCTOR. One of the students of
the Veterinary School of Alfort will present
you with its medal...
PASTEUR. Ah!...
THE DOCTOR. You will be presented
with an album containing the signatures of
all the residents of Arbcis, then the Mayor
of Dole will hand you the facsimile of your
birth certificate and a photograph of your
birthplace...
PASTEUR. Ah!...
THE DOCTOR. The Governor General of
Algeria will inform you. that he is naming




45~


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


a village in the province of Constantine
after you...
PASTEUR. Ah!... They ought to have
told me all this... beforehand.. then I
could have spoken of it in my address..
I can't now!... Besides, I know very well
that I shan't be able to deliver it myself...
I shan't be able... it's necessary that...
where's my son?
THE DOCTOR. He's right near...
PASTEUR. Hand him my address...
here it is... take it.. let him read it..
they'll understand, won't they... that a
man can't... stand up under all this...
h'm?
THE DOCTOR. Why, yes; why, yes!...
PASTEUR. And you can easily see that
it's too much since I can't stand it!
[The PRESIDENT OF THE REPUBLIC has just
come in followed by several people.]
THE STUDENT [announcing]. The President of the Republic...
[PASTEUR makes an effort to rise,
but the PRESIDENT OF THE REPUBLIC comes to him so quickly
that he has n't time to do so.]
THE PRESIDENT OF THE REPUBLIC. I
don't want to enter the hall without you,
Monsieur Pasteur... because it is not I
for whom they are waiting... and I've
come to get you. I wish, before any one
else does, to express to you, in the name of
your country, the eternal gratitude which
is due you. By your genius, you have
saved human life... from the most terrible ills... France, and the whole world,
bring to you today the testimony of their
respect and of their veneration. The noblest and choicest words are all too feeble,
Monsieur Pasteur, and seem poor indeed... when used in connection with you!
You are a great man when you might have
contented yourself with being a great scientist. Your life will be an inspiration...
and from the bottom of my heart I hope
that it may be prolonged a great while so
that you may witness the inestimable
benefits of your wonderful discoveries. Already thousands and thousands would be
dead but for you... and that's why we're
so moved in your presence! You have reproached us often for not having enough
veneration for great men... you have
counseled us to honor especially those
who, in science, in letters and in art have
contributed greatly to the glory of their
country... and I'm happy today to be able
to follow your advice.... I'm happy and
proud to be able to say these things to you!... Will you permit me, Monsieur Pasteur,
to embrace you in the name of France?
[PASTEUR is now standing and the
PRESIDENT OF THE REPUBLIC
gives him the accolade. Then, in
the profound silence which follows, PASTEUR says:]
PASTEUR. And I firmly believe that science
and peace will triumph over ignorance and
war and that nations will combine, not to
destroy but to build up.
[The PRESIDENT OF THE REPUBLIC respectfully offers PASTEUR
his arm, and the two move towards the door which opens
into the great amphitheatre of
the Sorbonne. As they cross
the threshold, the Marseillaise
bursts forth while at the same
time a mighty shout is heard:]
LONG LIVE PASTEUR!




"MORAL"
A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS
BY LUDWIG THOMA
Translated by CHARLES RECHT




COPYRIGHT, 19i6, BY ALFRED KNOPFF
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
The stage rights are reserved by the translator. This translation is reprinted by Permission of and special arrangement with Charles Recht




PERSONS OF THE PLAY


FRITZ BEERMANN, a wealthy landowner and banker
LENA BEERMANN, his wife
EFFIE BEERMANN, their daughter
KOMMERZIENRAT ADOLPH BOLLAND, capitalist and manufacturer
CLARA BOLLAND, his wife
DR. HAUSER, an ex-judge
FRAU LUND, an old lady
HANS JACOB DOBLER, a poet
FRAULEIN KOCH-PINNEBERG, an artiste
PRIVATDOZENT DR. WASNER, a gymnasium professor
FREIHERR VON SIMBACH, the Police Commissioner of the Duchy
ASSESSOR OSCAR STROEBEL, a police official
MADAME NINON DE HAUTEVILLE, a lady of leisure
FREIHERR GENERAL BOTHO VON SCHMETTAU, also known as Zurnberg.
A Gentleman-in-waiting and Adjutant to His Highness, the Duke
JOSEPH REISACHER, a clerk of the Police Department
BETTY, a maid at Beermann's
Two man-servants and a policeman




THE PRESUMPTION
The esteemed, sensitive public will assume that the action takes place in Emilsburg, the
capital of the Duchy of Gerlestein. The first and third acts occur in the house of HERR FRITZ
BEERMANN; the second act, in the Police Headquarters. It all happens between Sunday afternoon and Monday evening.
To be free from blame, the producers will please note that:
BEERMANN is in the fifties; jovial; lively; with gray side-whiskers and chin carefully
shaved.
FRAU BEERMANN is in the late forties, though youthful looking for her age.
FRAU LUND, sixty-eight; a woman of impressive appearance; her manner is energetic; her
mass of white hair is carefully coiffured.
FRAU BOLLAND, about forty-five; stout; talkative.
DR. WASNER, a tall German professor with full blond beard; deep-voiced; wears pince-nez
with black tortoise-shell rim and broad black cord.
HANS JACOB DOBLER is a poet; he is dressed in a poor-fitting cut-away coat; unkempt
mustache and Van Dyke beard.
FRXULEIN PINNEBERG, a feminist, wears a loose-fitting gown.
DR. HAUSER, fifty; smooth-shaven; wears gold-rimmed spectacles.
VON SCHMETTAU, sixty; remains stately looking with effort; military bearing.
MADAME DE HAUTEVILLE; indefinitely twenty; her ultra-fashionable Parisian gowns
invite the cloak and suit patrons.




"MORAL"
ACT I
FURTHER APOLOGY


Card room in BEERMANN'S house. In the
background a swinging door opens into the
dining room. To the right a smaller door
leads to the music room. On the left side another door opens into the entrance hall. To
left up stage in a corner a small card table
with chairs. To right up stage a large sofa
and comfortable chairs. Parallel to background down stage, tea table with coffee service
thereon; near it to right, smaller table, on it a
humidor.
A butler is engaged at the tea table, another
man-servant is holding swinging door open.
[Business of getting up from table.] Many
voices and rattle of chairs are heard from
dining room. Through swinging doors enter
BOLLAND and FRAU BEERMANN, BEERMANN with FRAU BOLLAND, DR. HAUSER
with EFFIE, DR. WASNER with FRAULEIN
KOCH-PINNEBERG, DOBLER alone.
General greeting of "Mahlzeit."
DR. WASNER is vigorously shaking hands
-going to FRAU BEERMANN says, "Ich
wunsche Gesegnete Mahlzeit."
The servants pass around coffee - BEERMANN conversing with BOLLAND comes down
stage...
BOLLAND. You will receive two thousand
votes more than the Socialists. That's
certain.
BEERMANN [skeptical]. No, - no.
BOLLAND. If all the Liberals combine
with the Conservatives, the result cannot
be in doubt.
BEERMANN [taking coffee from the servant].
If...
BOLLAND. Fusion is here. It's the logical
development. I am an old politician. The
time for discussion is over. Now it's a
straight fight to a finish.
DR. WASNER [coming nearer]. The Ger

man fatherland is rallying to the support
of the national flag.
BEERMANN. But there are controversies
everywhere. I know best. I always am
told by campaign managers: don't say this
and don't say that.
BOLLAND. In what way?
BEERMANN. For instance, I'm to speak
at the Liberal Club the day after to-morrow. You would not expect me to say the
same things I told the Conservatives last
night...?
BOLLAND. Your details, of course, must
differ. But fundamentally it amounts to
the same thing.
BEERMANN. The same thing? Believe
me, all this masking confuses me. [Drinks.]
EFFIE [calling across the tea table where she
has been standing with others]. Papa! Listen to Frau Bolland. She also says that the
Indian Dancer is so interesting.
FRAU BOLLAND. Positively won-derful,
Herr Beermann! You can conceive the entire spirit of the Orient.
EFFIE. Why have n't we gone to see her?
FRAU BOLLAND. You surely ought to go.
Professor Stohr - you know him - told
me he never in his life saw anything so
gorgeous.
FRXULEIN KOCH-PIN:NEBERG. She's so
picturesque in her greenish gowns.
FRAU BOLLAND. I did not know that the
Hindoos could be so charming.
BEERMANN. We'll have a look at her
some night.
EFFIE. But to-morrow night is her last
appearance.
BEERMANN [going to the humidor]. Very
well, darling. Will you remind me of it
to-morrow? [Taking a box of cigars offers
one to DOBLER who is standing near him.]
Smoke?




456


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


DOBLER [taking one]. Thanks. But I am
not accustomed to the imported ones.
BEERMANN [patronizingly]. You'll get
used to high living soon enough.
BOLLAND [to DOBLER]. How long have
you been in the city now?
DOBLER. Two years.
BOLLAND. And before that you were in... eh?
FRAU BOLLAND. You must excuse him,
Herr Dobler. Why, in Unterschlettenbach,
dear... You know that!
BOLLAND [correcting himself]. Certainly.
Bit of literary history. Mighty interesting
place that Unterschlettenbach... eh?
DOBLER. Hardly, Herr Kommerzienrat.
Poor and unsanitary. Most of its inhabitants are miners.
BOLLAND. Fancy that! And I never
knew it. Full of miners! Tell me, though
what do you think of our set here...?
How do you like this well-to-do circle... the big city... wealthy surroundings?
'DOBLER [lighting a cigar]. I like it well
enough. But I think I shall always feel out
of place here.
BOLLAND. Can't get used to it?
DOBLER. Everything is so different. It
seems to me at times as though I had suddenly entered a beautiful house while outdoors my old comrade was awaiting me
patiently - the open road.
FRAU BOLLAND. Is n't that won-derful? So very re-a-lis-tic-ally put! I can
just picture it. Oh, Herr Dobler... I must
tell you: your novel - my husband and I
talk about it all day long.
BOLLAND. Tell me, though - did you
yourself experience the life of that young
man you describe?
DOBLER. It's the story of my youth.
BOLLAND. But it's somewhat colored by
poetic imagination?
DOBLER. N-o.
BOLLAND. For instance, you have never
actually starved?
DOBLER. Oh, yes. There's no imagination in that.
BOLLAND. Just the way you describe it
- so that everything turned red?
DOBLER. Everything had a pink color.


On one occasion I did not eat anything for
four and one-half days.
FRAU BEERMANN [compassionately]. You
poor thing!
FRAU BOLLAND. That's exceedingly interesting!
BOLLAND. DO tell us all about it! Then
you saw dancing fires?
DOBLER. Yes. Everything danced before my eyes, and I saw it all through a
hazy veil, and towards the end my hearing
was affected.
BOLLAND. You don't say so? Your hearing also?
DOBLER. When anyone spoke to me it
sounded as if he stood a great distance off
- a great distance.
FRAU BOLLAND. Our set never dreams of
such things.
BEERMANN. How did it all turn out?
DOBLER. What do you mean?
BEERMANN.' Well, in the end you got
something to eat again?
DOBLER. Finally I fainted; I was found
lying in a meadow, and was taken to the
hospital.
FRAU BEERMANN [sighing]. Are such
things still possible in our day?
FRAU BOLLAND. What can you expect -
of these idealists!
DR. HAUSER. They deserve nothing
better.
BEERMANN. And after you were in the
hospital - how did you get out?
DOBLER. As soon as I got stronger.
Later on I became a printer —found a
position-studied, and published my book.
BEERMANN. That's all in your novel, I
know. But the part where you describe
how you were a tramp - that's not true?
DOBLER. Yes, I "hoboed" almost a
whole year.
FRAU BOLLAND. "Hoboed"! Fancy
that! How unique!
FRAULEIN KOCH-PINNEBERG. I can just
picture it. Tramping along the railroad
tracks.
DOBLER. Yes. You folks think you can
picture it with four square meals a day.
But it's quite different, I assure you. There
were three of us at that time. We worked
our way from Basel upwards - sometimes




MORAL


457


on the left - sometimes on the right bank
of the Rhine. In Worms we spent the last
of our money and we had to peddle for
hand-outs.
FRAU BOLLAND [not understanding him].
"Hand-outs"? What is that?
DOBLER [with pathos]. To beg for something to eat, gnadige Frau, for our daily
bread.
[They all remain silent. Only the
voice of the butler who is serving
liqueur can be heard: "Cognac,
monsieur! Chartreuse! Champagne?"]
BEERMANN [taking a glass]. To a man of
refinement, such an existence must have
been quite unbearable.
DOBLER [taking a glass of cognac from the
butler]. Unpleasant. [Drinking.] But you
lose your sensitiveness. At first it is hard
-- but one learns. In one hot day on the
road.. when you get fagged out - and
with every stone hurting your feet - you'll
learn. The dust blinds you - but you've
got to go on just the same. In the evening
you come to a small hamlet with smoke
curling above the house-tops and the
houses themselves look cozy - then you
have to hold your hat in your hand and
beg for a plate of warm soup.
[A short pause.]
DR. WASNER [deep bass voice]. Home,
sweet home!
BOLLAND. The story reminds me exactly of my late father.
FRAU BOLLAND. But, Adolph!
BOLLAND. Indeed, I say it does!
FRAU BOLLAND. How can you draw
such a comparison? Herr Dobler has become a celebrated poet.
BOLLAND. My father also achieved
something in life. At his funeral four hundred employees followed the coffin.
FRAU BOLLAND [impatiently]. We've
heard that before... Herr Dobler, did
you write poetry in those days?
DOBLER. No, Frau Bolland. Much later.
FRAU BOLLAND. I'll have to read your
novel all over again, now that I know it is
all autobiographical.
FRAU BEERMANN [to DR. WASNER]. You
were going to sing, Herr Professor?


DR. WASNER. I promised...
FRAU BEERMANN. Yes, do; Effie will
accompany you.
DR. WASNER. If Fraulein will be so
kind... but I don't know how my voice
is to-day...
FRAU BOLLAND. You sing so beautiful-ly.
DR. WASNER. So much campaign work.
Politics corrupts even the voice.
FRAULEIN KOCH-PINNEBERG. Do oblige
us.
[FRAU  BOLLAND, FRAU    BEERMANN, DR. WASNER, FRAULEIN
KOCH, EFFIE go out into the
music room.]
BEERMANN. It's a pity that the professor is going to sing. We could have
started a game of skat. Have some more
cognac?
DR. HAUSER. No, thanks.
DOBLER. Thanks. No more for me.
[BOLLAND seats himself on sofa;
DR. HAUSER and DOBLER sit in
chairs; BEERMANN lights a fresh
cigar. The butler goes into the
music room and as he opens the
door, the sound of the piano is
heard.]
BOLLAND. As I said before, Herr Dobler,
your story reminded me very much of my
late father.
DR. HAUSER. Of the well known Kommerzienrat Bolland?
BOLLAND [sinks deep into chair; crosses
legs]. Never mind, he was not always
a wealthy Kommerzienrat. [Turning to
DOBLER.] Picture to yourself a winter
landscape - it's bitter cold - a gray sky
- it is snowing and everything is wrapped
in snow. Through all this we see a youth
walking - rather staggering - along the
forest road from Perleberg. A half-starved
young man.
[He pauses arnd brushes ashes from
his cigar. The butler enters from
the music room to get a glass of
water; then he goes out again.
While the door is open, the trembling bass baritone voice of PROF.
WASNER i, heard.]
"In deinen Augen hab ich einst gelesen




458


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


Von Lieb' und - Glick - von Lieb'
Und Glick den Schein..." 1
[The door closes and the sound is
shut off.]
BOLLAND [now continues his speech]. And
now the snow falls faster and faster. This
poor young man had par tout nothing to
eat since the morning. He becomes very
weak; sits down on a bundle of twigs and
falls asleep. Just by sheer chance it happens that a man from Perleberg passing by
sees this dejected, snowed-in figure and
takes the young fellow home with him. [He
pauses.] And this young man later became
my father...
HAUSER. And Herr Kommerzienrat
Bolland.
BOLLAND. Yes. Herr Kommerzienrat
Bolland. [To DOBLER.] Now don't you
consider it quite remarkable? Wouldn't
that make a fine novel?
DOBLER. Yes.. Yes.
BOLLAND. That could be worked up very
nicely, could n't it? A poor young man -
the snow-covered landscape...
HAUSER. And that bundle of twigs.
DOBLER. Fortune has her unique whims
and likes to turn the tables.
BOLLAND. That's it exactly. Fortune
delights in turning the tables.
HAUSER. Unique whims? No. That
sort of thing happens every day.
BOLLAND. What happens every day?
HAUSER. The story of a poor young man
who becomes a millionaire. Every large
factory boasts of a like progenitor.
BOLLAND. Do you think so?
HAUSER. And the poor young man grows
poorer with each telling. Your son, Herr
Bolland, in his description will have his
grandfather freeze to death on the bundle
of twigs.
BOLLAND. Upon my word the story is
gospel. [To DOBLER.] I'd make use of that
plot... How he founded his business and
how it grew and grew...
[As FRAU BEERMANN enters from the music
1 (Translated:)
"In thy dear eyes I once read the story
Of Love and Joy - of Love
And Joy agleam.... "


room, the tremulous voice of PROF.
WASNER is heard.]
"Behit dich Gott, es hat nicht sollen
sein." 1
[The closing of the door shuts off the
sound.]
DOBLER. In one respect you are right.
The character of the self-made man 2 has
hardly been treated in contemporary German literature.
BOLLAND [with enthusiasm]. That's just
what I claim. Always about the poor people only. But take a man who has a large
income - one who makes a success of his
business, that also is poetry.
HAUSER. I'd have my ledger novelized,
if I were you, Bolland.
[A maid opens door, admitting FRAU LUND.]
FRAU BEERMANN [welcoming FRAU
LUND]. Mama Lund, how good of you.
FRAU LUND [vivaciously]. Always glad to
come here. Good afternoon, gentlemen.
Where is my little Effie?
FRAU BEERMANN. In the music room.
[To the maid.] Please tell my daughter...
FRAU LUND. No, no, don't disturb her.
BEERMANN. Permit me. [Introducing.].. Herr Hans Jacob Dobler, our famous
poet...
FRAU LUND [taking his hand]. A famous
poet? Delighted.
BOLLAND. Author of "Life Story of
Hans "...
FRAU LUND [pleasantly to DOBLER]. If I
were younger, Herr Dobler, I would certainly make believe that I read your book.
But at my age I find that sort of thing
too tiresome. What is the "Life Story of
Hans"?
DOBLER. It is a novel, gnadige Frau.
BOLLAND. A masterpiece.
FRAU LUND. Then my ignorance is unpardonable. I'll soon make reparation.
[FRAU BOLLANDfollowed by EFFIE,
DR. WASNER and FRAULEIN
KOCH hurry out of the music
room.]
FRAU BOLLAND. I am off for the Arts
1 God guard thee well, it was but a dream.
2 So in original.




MORAL


459


Club. I'll be late, I fear. [To FRAU LUND.]
Oh, how do you do, Frau Lund?
EFFIE [hurries over to FRAU LUND and
kisses her hand]. Mama Lund!
FRAU LUND. How is my little mischiefmaker? When are you coming to see me?
EFFIE. I would gladly come... but, I
am so busy with music lessons and Professor Stohr's lectures...
FRAU LUND. And this and that and your
eighteen years. You are quite right, my
dear.
FRAU BOLLAND [to FRAU BEERMANN].
May Effie come along? They say there
are very won-der-ful paintings at the Arts
Club.
FRAU BEERMANN [turning to FRAU LUND].
I don't know if...
FRAU LUND. Of course, let her go along.
She has such a pretty little dress. Why
should she be here with us old people? The
gentlemen will entertain us...
FRAU BOLLAND. But then we'll have to
hurry. It is quite late. Good-bye, Frau
Beermann. I enjoyed myself so much.
Good-bye, my dear Frau Lund. So glad to
have seen you again. Good-bye, good-bye. Adolph!
BOLLAND. Yes, Mother.
FRAU BOLLAND. You won't forget the
theater to-night? At eight. The Viennese
actor is so fine.
[Off to left. Followed by EFFIE and
FRXULEIN KOCH. FRAU BOLLAND in the doorway.]
FRAU BOLLAND. Will you come with us,
Herr Dobler. You can explain so many
things.
DOBLER. I'll be glad to.
[Shaking hands with FRAU BEERMANN and bowing.]
BEERMANN. Come soon again, Herr
Poet.
BOLLAND. And think over the story I
told you.
[DOBLER goes out left, following
FRAU BOLLAND, EFFIE, and
FRAULEIN KOCH.]
FRAU LUND [to FRAU BEERMANN]. I'll
just have a cup of coffee.
FRAU BEERMANN. I'll tell them to make
a fresh cup for you. A fresh cup of coffee.


[To the butler who is clearing the table.] Tell
the chef -
[Butler goes out through the middle
door. In the meantime FRAU
BOLLAND again appears through
left.]
FRAU BOLLAND. Adolph!
BOLLAND. Yes - wifey?
FRAU BOLLAND. Thursday the circus
comes to town, don't forget to reserve
seats.
BOLLAND. All right!
FRAU BOLLAND [while going out]. I'm
still a child when the circus comes.
[FRAU LUND seats herself on sofa.
Next to her on the right FRAU
BEERMANN; BEERMANN and
BOLLAND sit opposite in large
leather chairs. HAUSER is standing behind the sofa leaning
against it.]
FRAU LUND [to HAUSER]. Tell me, Judge,
where have you been keeping yourself all
this time?
HAUSER. In my office, Frau Lund, only
in my office. But I hear that you were on
the Riviera.
FRAU LUND. Four weeks in Monte Carlo.
Children, I gambled like an old viveur.
BEERMANN. What luck?
FRAU LUND. I lost, of course - I'm too
old to set the world on fire. But, Beermann,
I hear all sorts of surprises about you. You
are a candidate for the Reichstag?
BEERMANN. Yes, they nominated me.
FRAU LUND. Who are "they"?
BEERMANN. The combined Liberals and
Conservatives...
HAUSER. And the Conservatives and
Liberals combined.
FRAU LUND. Formerly these were distinct parties.
HAUSER. Formerly, - formerly.
BEERMANN. Now there is fusion.
FRAu LUND [to FRAU ]EERMANN]. You
never told me that your husband was in
politics.
FRAU BEERMANN. He never was - up
to two weeks ago.
FRAU LUND. How quickly things change!
And of all the people... you!
BEERMANN. What's so startling in that?




460


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


FRAU LUND. You told me that you
never even read the newspapers.
BOLLAND. We all are cordially grateful
to Beermann that in an hour of need he
made this sacrifice.
FRAU LUND. The way you talk about
the "hour of need" and "sacrifice," Herr
Kommerzienrat, it seems to me that you
would have been the better candidate.
BOLLAND. Oh, I am too pronouncedly
Liberal.
HAUSER. And that's an incurable disease!
BOLLAND. At any rate it makes my
nomination impossible. A man was needed
who was not known as a party-man.
FRAU LUND. It would seem then that
our friend Beermann has become a politician because he... is no politician?
HAUSER. That's what is known as
"fusion."
BEERMANN. Allow me to ask a question.
Why should I not become a Reichstag
deputy?
HAUSER. Quite right! Frau Lund -
tell him - why should n't he?
BEERMANN. Because I am a novice in
politics? We all have to make a start.
HAUSER. It's the only calling where one
can start any day, Frau Lund, without being called upon to produce qualifications.
BOLLAND. There you can tell the lawyer.
You'd like to establish a civil service examination for members of the Reichstag?
HAUSER. You are not afraid that it
might hurt them?
BEERMANN [with importance]. Let me
tell you, Judge. What a person achieves in
real life is far greater than all your book
wisdom. We have too many lawyers anyway. It's one of our national misfortunes.
FRAU LUND [merrily to FRAU BEERMANN].
Look! He's beginning to debate already.
BOLLAND [careless pose]. As you know,
I run a soap factory where I employ four
hundred and sixty-two workmen... let
me repeat it, four hundred and sixty-two
workmen. Their livelihood and welfare
lies in the palm of my hand; don't you
think that requires brains?
HAUSER. But...
BOLLAND [interrupting]. Do you realize


what the amount of detail and the manage.
ment of the whole factory means?
HAUSER. But friend Beermann never
even worked in a soap factory. How can
that apply to him?
BEERMANN. Oh, what's the use of discussing things if you're joking.
HAUSER. Really, I can't see the connection.
BEERMANN. At any rate, I'm a better
candidate than the book-binder whom the
Socialists have put up against me.
BOLLAND. Beermann has had greater
experience and has a broader point of view.
FRAU LUND. Then there's something
else I heard about Herr Beermann, that 1
don't like at all.
BEERMANN. About me?
FRAU LUND. Yes, I hear that you are the
President of the new Society for the Suppression of Vice. What makes you do such
things? That is n't nice.
FRAU BEERMANN. I fully agree with you.
BEERMANN. You do? For what reasons?
When honest men select me as their Presi
dent, is that mere flattery?
FRAU LUND. It is not becoming to you,
and you are insincere in it.
FRAU BEERMANN. It's as false as anything can be, and you speak about problems
which you have never understood.
BEERMANN. Pardon me! I ought to
know best what is becoming for me.
FRAU LUND. There's no one in the world
I dislike as much as a preacher. But if a
person wants to be one... then, according
to the gospel he ought to live on bread and
water. It does n't go well with champagne
and lobster.
BEERMANN. Do the Scriptures command
that we must be poor to be honorable?
FRAU LUND. No, Beermann, but if I
still remember, they speak of a camel and
a needle.
BOLLAND. The ladies evidently are not
acquainted with the purposes of our new
society. I am sure they would subscribe to
everyone of the principles which are incorporated in our by-laws.
FRAU LUND. I certainly would not.
BOLLAND [feeling in his side pocket]. At
least read our "Appeal to the Public."




MORAL


46i


FRAU LUND [refusing]. No, thank you.
BOLLAND. Every woman will rejoice
when she reads it.
FRAU LUND. Do you think so? How exceedingly amusing your societies are! So,
cards and bowling no longer offer sufficient
entertainment. You have to moralize.
HAUSER. I can't help thinking of the
notorious starvation freak at the circus
who gets his meals on the sly every day.
DR. WASNER. Of course, every conviction can be made ridiculous once it's regarded as insincere. You should n't accuse
without proof.
HAUSER. Herr Professor, politeness requires that each individual be regarded as
the exception - but not an entire club.
BOLLAND. It is a pity, indeed, that a
great movement like ours is disposed of by
a few trifling remarks. That embitters our
task of curing the nation of social diseases.
FRAU LUND. Where did you get your
Doctor's license to cure?
DR. WASNER. It's sad enough that the
cure is left to only a few of us.
HAUSER. Well, I'11 remain a patient.
You '11 need a few anyway to keep up your
business.
BEERMANN. I consider all this a very
cheap kind of humor. I used to joke about
these matters myself, but if you will only
look upon this problem from a serious
point of view, when your eyes are opened
to the...
FRAU BEERMANN.... Your newly acquired ways of talking are quite unbearable.
BEERMANN. Please, don't make a scene.
FRAU BEERMANN. We have been married for twenty-six years; have been very
fortunate with our own children. Why
worry about other people?
BEERMANN. You are not logical, my
love. The mere fact that I brought up my
children properly is all the more reason for
my joining this movement...
FRAU BEERMANN. You did n't lose much
sleep about their education.
BEERMANN. Evidently I did n't neglect
anything.
FRAU LUND. I'm afraid you pride yourselves on a degree of will power you never
exercised.


BEERMANN. Never exercised? My dear
Frau Lund, what do you know about the
temptations which confront us men? What
does a woman know about them?
FRAU LUND. The only thing we women
don't know about is the manner in which
these temptations terminate.
BEERMANN. Our movement intends to
do away with these very deceptions. We
want to protect the traditions of the home
which women treasure.
FRAU LUND. No. We women also treasure modesty. We dislike to see men pretend to have better morals than they
actually have.
BEERMANN. Seriously, Frau Lund. Public immorality must hurt you more.
FRAU LUND. You are mistaken. It requires a genuine manly feeling to sympathize with misery.
DR. WASNER. Misery and vice are different problems.
FRAU LUND. They're not. And that is
why we will never agree.
FRAU BEERMANN. All the more reason
why my husband should not set himself up
as an example. He knows nothing of worry
or care.
BEERMANN. We can never subscribe to
Frau Lund's principles.
FRAU LUND. No principles, please!
BOLLAND. Out of sheer opposition you
will say that you hold different ones from us.
FRAU LUND. No. I will say that I hold
none at all.
BOLLAND 
and     [together]. But, gnddige Frau!
WASNER )
FRAU LUND. I can't help it. I lost them
some place on my journey through life. I
have learned that all your principles have
loop-holes through which people can conveniently slip out and take their friends
along with them. So I had my choice of
either surrendering them or dishonestly
preaching them to others.
DR. WASNER. Real principles of life are
never given up.
HAUSER [with sarcasm]. Cheers from the
gallery!
BOLLAND. Principles of morality are the
laws of nature - they are her dictates.




462


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


FRAU LUND. Is that the reason you have
started your Society for the Suppression of
Vice? Do you imagine your by-laws are
stronger than the laws of nature?
DR. WASNER. May I make just one
remark?
BEERMANN. What is it?
DR. WASNER [stroking his beard]. In
summing up the matter we can come to
this decision: women have a beautiful
privilege. Certain facts in life remain a
closed book to them. We men, unfortunately, have to come into contact with
them.
HAUSER. Did you say unfortunately?
DR. WASNER. Please don't interrupt. I
maintain "unfortunately"! For the last
four years, I have been persistently following obscene literature, and to-day I have
gotten together a collection of it, which I
daresay is pretty complete. So I am speaking of matters about which I am thoroughly
informed. [With importance.] The degree
of vulgarity our people have reached is
incredible.
FRAU LUND. And you have been the
"persistent collector" of this vulgarity?
DR. WASNER. Let me assure you that I
took upon myself this task with loathing.
HAUSER. Herr Professor, in all my life I
have never met a man who for four years
voluntarily did something which was loathsome to him.
DR. WASNER. You have no business to
make such a remark.
HAUSER. Have you derived no satisfaction from it at all?
DR. WASNER. Satisfaction - if you
mean the satisfaction of participating in
the uplift of our people.
FRAU LUND. Uplift? Our reformers capitalize our national lack of good taste.
Good proof of that are the moral works of
art which you patronize.
DR. WASNER. The matter we are discussing is more serious than reforming bad
taste.
FRAU LUND. There is nothing more
serious.
DR. WASNER [knowingly]. If you but
knew, Frau Lund!
FRAU LUND. I don't have to call and see


your collection. Frankly, to me, the most
obscene picture in your gallery could not
be more disgusting than the talk you carry
on in your meetings.
BEERMANN. Oh! Oh!
FRAU LUND. The nudity of the human
body is not disgusting. It is the nudity of
your mind. No vice is as repulsive as that
virtue of yours which loudly uncovers itself
in public - in market places. Vice has at
least the shame to hide itself.
BEERMANN [to BOLLAND]. Can you
understand her?
BOLLAND. I must admit, I can't.
DR. WASNER. Gnadige Frau stated that
vice hides itself. But in spite of that it
exists.
BOLLAND. Yes, she admitted that it
exists.
DR. WASNER. Shall we tolerate it
merely because it crawls into dark nooks
and corners?
FRAU LUND. You reformers! Let more
sunshine into this world and vice will not find
so many dark corners and nooks to hide in.
BOLLAND. You would not be as opposed
to us if you had a son who would be exposed
to the temptations of our great cities.
FRAU LUND. I would be ashamed of myself if for personal reasons I became narrowminded.
BEERMANN. But just stop to think!
Picture a healthy young man in his prime
falling into the hands of one of these abominable creatures!
FRAU LUND. I could picture something
worse than that.
BEERMANN. Still worse?
FRAU LUND. For instance, if he should,
with all the credulity of youth, enter into
the work of your society.
BOLLAND. Well! Well!
BEERMANN. You don't seem to take
anything seriously to-day.
FRAU LUND. Very seriously; this young
man perhaps does reach the stage where he
sincerely pities your so-called abominable
creature. Then he has really advanced in
his morality. Let the pity impress itself
deeply upon him and your abominable
creature has preached better to him than
all your high-sounding phrases.




MORAL


463


BOLLAND. I am simply dumbfounded.
DR. WASNER. Then you even believe
that our society exerts a bad influence?
FRAU LUND [very positively]. Yes.
BOLLAND [with irony]. Fancy! University professors, philanthropists and a general who are with us in this work- they
are, of course, the ones who are likely to
corrupt the morals of the younger generation. Frau Lund, no doubt, would like
to send our young men to the good Ladies
of the Pavement.
DR. WASNER. In what way is our influence bad?
FRAU LUND [with warmth]. The young
man who joins your society does it only
to ape you and to advance his own ends
and vainglory. He forever deprives himself of understanding the meaning of life
and of becoming helpful to those who
suffer.
BOLLAND. Well, what do you think of
such statements?
FRAU BEERMANN. They are splendid. I
would be very thankful if my boy would
embody the ideals of Frau Lund.
BEERMANN. Lena, I simply forbid you
to say such things.
FRAU BEERMANN. Really?
BEERMANN. Everybody knows that
Frau Lund is a radical, but I don't want
you to fall into that habit.
FRAU BEERMANN. I don't acquire new
habits as rapidly as you.
HAUSER [to BEERMANN]. Don't get excited. A politician must give everyone an
opportunity to express his views.
IR. WASNER. I teach young people and
I heartily wish they'd continue to seek
their ideals among high-minded men and
not in the dark city streets.
BOLLAND. Right! And not in the dark
city streets.
FRAU LUND. Nor there, Herr Kommerzienrat, where the veil of shame is rudely
torn from inborn sensitiveness and it is
shorn of every secret charm.
DR. WASNER. Correct! We do want to
deprive it of its charm.
FRAU LUND. You succeed in doing that;
no tenderness can survive the brutal frankness of your meetings.


DR. WASNER. It is not a national German trait to sugar-coat sin.
FRAU LUND. Why do you confound all
lack of refinement with the national character?
DR. WASNER. Because it is good German to call a spade a spade.
BEERMANN [getting up]. Why argue to
no purpose? Let's start our game of skat.
BOLLAND. Because it appears to be a
conflict of two different philosophies.
BEERMANN [rises, goes to card table, opens
a drawer, takes out a deck of cards and opens
them]. It's always the same old story.
Never start anything with women! They
must have the last word.
[Sits down at card table. BOLLAND
gets up and sits beside him.]
FRAU LUND [laughing]. Spoken again
like a typical reformer.
DR. WASNER [rising]. I don't want to
continue this argument, but if by any
chance you have gained the impression
that I regard this matter from a prejudiced
viewpoint, I will cheerfully admit it. I do.
BEERMANN [calling]. Oh, do come on,
Herr Professor.
DR. WASNER [turning to card table]. I'm
coming. [To others.] I admit with pride
that I am prejudiced. For me there exists
only one question: How can I best serve
my fatherland?
BOLLAND. Herr Professor!
DR. WASNER [turning io table]. Just a
moment....[To others.] Let the sturdy
qualities of our people be conserved.
That stand is unassailable. Then I will be
sure that my efforts have at least...
BEERMANN [loudly]. But, my dear
Wasner!
WASNER [not dismayed, continuing]....
at least a national scope.
HAUSER. Would n't you rather play
skat, Professor?
WASNER [going over to card table]. There
remains only one thing for me to say. If I
have used sharp words, I want to apologize.
[Takes a seat.]
BEERMANN. You deal, Professor.
DR. WASNER [shuffling the cards and talking at the same time]. For me there exists
but one ideal. That which Tacitus de



464


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


scribed as it once prevailed among the old
Teutons. Quamquam severa illic matrimonia nec ullam morum partem magis laudaveris. [He lets BOLLAND cut and then deals.]
The most praiseworthy trait of the Teutons
was the strictness of their marriage customs. Nam prope soli Barbarorum singulis
uxoribus contenti sunt. They were almost
the only barbarians to content themselves
with a single wife.
BEERMANN [loudly]. Tournee!
BOLLAND. I'll go you!
BEERMANN. Twenty!
BOLLAND. I'll better that!
BEERMANN. Take it! Gras-Solo!
[They play. HAUSER, FRAU LUND,
FRAU BEERMANN remain sitting
at right.]
FRAU LUND. At last the Fatherland is
saved.
FRAU BEERMANN. It's the only occupation for which nature intended them. They
should not tinker with national problems.
HAUSER. Have patience. Political ambition dies out after the first defeat.
FRAU BEERMANN.... which I hope will
happen.
HAUSER. That's as certain as fate. Else
he never would have been nominated.
BEERMANN [calling from the card table]. I
have pretty sharp hearing!
HAUSER. A very fine acquisition, Beermann, when you grow old.
BOLLAND [throwing a card on the table].
Fifty-nine and four make sixty-three! The
rest you can take.
[They throw down their cards; BOLLAND collects them and shuffles.]
WASNER [half turning to HAUSER]. And
then there is the celebrated passage, "Ergo
septa pudicitia agunt, nullis... spectaculorum illecebris corruptce."
BEERMANN. I have six cards.
BOLLAND. The bottom one belongs to
the Professor.
WASNER [as before, continuing]. So the
wife lived surrounded by tenderness and
care...and so forth, "Literarum secreta... " Secret communications were not
tolerated by either husband or wife.
BEERMANN. Please drop that Tacitus.
It's your chance to lead...


WASNER. I pass...
BOLLAND. So do I.
BEERMANN [loudly and enthusiastically].
That's the way to get at them! Trumps!
And trumps again.
WASNER    [murmuring].  "Paucissima
adulteria in tam numerosa gente..."
[Gradually lapses into silence and
then continues to play with
energy.]
FRAU LUND [with a glance towards the
card table]. Why do we take our principles
so seriously?... It's really ridiculous how
our every opinion soon turns into religious
beliefs.
WASNER. The matter is dead serious.
FRAU LUND. Who will think of it tomorrow?
HAUSER [nodding towards card table]. Not
they, of course. But there are cleverer
people. The so-called thinking public in
Germany must have some national problem to solve. It finds some such, readily
enough in order to play with it. Meanwhile they take no notice that the party in
power 1 are lining their pockets.
FRAU LUND. Have n't they always been
doing that?
HAUSER. Yes, but not with such ease.
Here and there they were rapped over the
knuckles. But nowadays they could cart
away the entire capitol.
FRAU LUND. There's not so much left
to-day.
HAUSER. A couple of pieces anyhow to
take along as keepsakes.
FRAU LUND. In my days I saw one reform after another on the bargain counter;
but we women remain mere spectators
while ideals come and go; we cannot realize how much they mean to men.
HAUSER. My dear Frau Lund, if a real
reform should effectively rise among us
some day, then you women will have to
lend a helping hand. With those [nodding
towards card table] kindergarten heroes
nothing can be accomplished.
FRAU BEERMANN. What influence can
we exert so long as men organize their societies for the protection of women's virtue!
HAUSER. These henpecked gentlemen
1 Men with the brass buttons.




MORAL


-465


always nominate themselves chastity's
guardians.
FRAU BEERMANN. They are of importance only when they can get someone to
listen. I'd like to go to their meetings and
tell them that.
HAUSER. Their meetings -bosh! Their
sort only couple their nonsense with a few
self-evident generalities which no one
would really oppose. No, first of all they
must be educated and that you women
alone can accomplish.
FRAU LUND. You say that as if we had
any influence on public opinion.
HAUSER. You do all the applauding.
The whole game is played for you. If you
withdraw your applause not a single one
of the peacocks of virtue will open up his
gospel feathers for exhibition. It is indeed
of great importance to you that they do
not banish all refinement from our social
life.
FRAU LUND 1 [citing].
"Yes, while still thy sanctuaries of pleasure
Crowned this earth like in Arcadia
Joy had no penalty nor trader's measure.."
DR. WASNER [when the citation began listened over his cards, now falls in with deep
bass]. "... Venus Amathusia."
BOLLAND [angrily breaking in]. Man
alive, why did n't you play your Ace of
Spades? If you had brought out that Ace
you'd have a trump -then you'd beat
this with a trump.. and then another
trump...
BEERMANN. Now, beloved friends and
countrymen, no post-mortem speeches.
[While dealing cards.] You cut, Bolland.
BOLLAND [cutting cards]. Make use of
your trumps, Herr Professor. I am trying
to play into your hands.
DR. WASNER. I thought...
BOLLAND. You didn't. If you had
you'd play differently.
1 In original:
FRAU LUND [zitierend].
Ja, da eur Wonnedienst noch glanzte,
Wie ganz anders, anders war es da!
Da man deine Tempel noch bekranzte...
DR. WASNER [hat beim Zitieren der Schillerischer
Verse heriZber gehorcht und fdllt nun mit tiefen Basse
en].... Venus Amathusia.


BEERMANN [speaking to FRAU LUND,
while dealing]. How far have you gotten
with your moralizing? Have we agreed yet
- [Laughing.] Yes; yes; these women
folks!
WASNER [arranging cards in his hand].
They were citing Schiller a moment ago.
We must not forget, ladies, that it was
Schiller himself who awakened the national
spirit of our race.
HAUSER. Your national spirit unfortunately found its way into the strangest
kinds of containers.
DR. WASNER. I decidedly protest against
such a poor opinion. If the sincere religious
sentiment of the German element...
BOLLAND [interrupting him]. We are
waiting for you, Herr Pro:fessor. Are you
finally going to announce your cards?
DR. WASNER [continuing his pathetic
tone]. I pass.
HAUSER. The steady contact with school
children keeps our educators refreshingly
naive. 'That man still bel:ieves in the superiority of the Teutonic element.
FRAU LUND. And in the stability of our
special German moral standard.
HAUSER. Until some little scandal crops
up again. By the way, we shall soon have
one right in our city.
FRAU BEERMANN [with interest]. Here?
HAUSER. To-morrow you'll read all
about it in the newspapers. The police
have made a discovery which may prove
more than they bargained for.
FRAU BEERMANN. Here'
[BEERMANN, head sideways, listens
over his cards.]
HAUSER. Last night the police arrested
a woman who kept a very cpen house. She
colored it by going under a fancy French
name, and they say only entertained the
best of society. She kept a diary which fell
into the hands of the police.
BEERMANN [leaves his seat, comes forward, right]. A diary?
BOLLAND [drops his cards and rises].What
sort of a diary?
HAUSER. Oh! Just a naughty little inventory of all of her visitors.
BEERMANN. What is the name of the
lady?




466


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


HAUSER. Some French name which
sounds to me like rouge.
BEERMANN. I can't understand how you
could forget her name.
BOLLAND. I can't either as long as you
seem to know all about it.
FRAU BEERMANN [to BEERMANN]. But,
Fritz, why should you worry about it?
BEERMANN. Well... am I the President of the Vice Suppression Society, or
am I not...?
CURTAIN
ACT II
An office at Police Headquarters. To rear
on the left stands the Assessor's desk. To the
right against the wall, the desk of REISACHER,
the police clerk. Left front is a sofa with two
chairs. On the right wall is a telephone. Side
entrance left. Another entrance in the middle.
STROEBEL and REISACHER are seated with
their backs to one another. STROEBEL is reading a newspaper; REISACHER is writing.
Short pause.
STROEBEL [half turning]. Reisacher!
REISACHER [also turning]. Yes, Herr
Assessor.'
STROEBEL. Are you familiar with the expression "those higher up"?
REISACHER. Yes, Herr Assessor.
STROEBEL. What do you understand by
it?
REISACHER. Those are the folks who
are something and have money somewhere.
STROEBEL. IS it used to express contempt or class hatred?
REISACHER   [eagerly]. Well... well!
"The higher ups" are respected.
STROEBEL. Are you certain?
REISACHER. Absolutely.
[They both turn around to their
former positions; STROEBEL continues to read, and REISACHER
to write. Short pause.]
STROEBEL [half turning]. Reisacher!
REISACHER [does likewise]. Yes, Herr
Assessor.
STROEBEL. After all, it means class
hatred.
1 An assessor is a petty police official.


REISACHER. No, no.
STROEBEL. Pay attention. Here it says
[he reads]: "Of course, for those higher up
there are no laws." That means, I take it,
that the rich are beyond the control of the
law. By "control of the law," I wish you
to understand I am attacking the humiliating and anarchistic notion that the law
does not apply equally to rich and poor.
Also I want to besmirch the rich, by designating them by a slang expression.
REISACHER. Yes, Herr Assessor.
STROEBEL. Then how can you say it
does not express class hatred and contempt?
REISACHER. Because, then again, you
see, people who have money are respected
anyway.
STROEBEL. YOU will never learn to
think precisely, Reisacher.
REISACHER. Yes, Herr Assessor.
[Both resume their former positions.
Short pause.]
[Police Commissioner, FREIHERR VON SIMBACH, enters left. STROEBEL lays aside
his paper, rises and salutes. REISACHER writes hurriedly.]
COMMISSIONER.' 'Morning, Herr Assessor. [To REISACHER.] Take your work
outside, Reisacher, until I have finished.
[REISACHER exit through middle door.] I
want to ask you a few questions, Herr
Stroebel. [STROEBEL bows. The COMMISSIONER during the conversation takes center
of stage and speaks nonchalantly and somewhat drawlingly.] I read your report. Day
before yesterday, that was on Saturday,
you ordered the arrest of a certain woman.
STROEBEL. Yes, Commissioner.
COMMISSIONER. Well, what about her?
STROEBEL. According to the report of
Lieutenant Schmuttermaier, we have in
our hands a very dangerous person.
COMMISSIONER. Is that so!
STROEBEL. Within a short time she has
almost demoralized our city.
COMMISSIONER. She has been in the city
about three or four years...
STROEBEL. She has, according to the
report.
COMMISSIONER. In what way has she
1 President of Police, in original.




MORAL


467


-


been dangerous? Did bald-headed gentlemen loosen up a bit in her house or are
there special charges against her?
STROEBEL. No special ones, but her
whole behavior. She had a beautiful apartment in the best residential district. According to the report, the neighbors began
to talk about her. She dressed in a rather
fast and fashionable manner...
COMMISSIONER. Then because she did
not cater to the common people, you consider her so terrible?
STROEBEL. No, Commissioner.
COMMISSIONER. I thought not. Remember, please, I don't want you to get any of
the popular ideas about the corruption of
our best society. Slit skirts cause as much
harm. [STROEBEL bows.] What is her name?
STROEBEL. Ninon de Hauteville. But
her real name is Therese Hochstetter.
COMMISSIONER. H-a-u-t-e V-i-l-l-e?
STROEBEL. She comes of a good family.
Her father was a Peruvian consul. When
he lost his money, she married a consular
secretary. He divorced her four years ago.
COMMISSIONER. Indeed. So she is a
person of refinement.
STROEBEL. But she has...
COMMISSIONER.... A demoralizing influence. I know all about that. Tell me,
what made you arrest her?
STROEBEL [with importance]. Eight days
ago, I received a letter severely rebuking
the police because her place was tolerated...
COMMISSIONER. Who was the letter
from?
STROEBEL [hesitatingly]. It was... really. anonymous.
COMMISSIONER. I hope that you are very
careful about anonymous communications.
STROEBEL. Generally, I pay little attention to them. But this letter was so
full of details, I simply had to consider it.
Of course, only as a hint and I intended to
get proof. I gave it to Schmuttermaier and
told him to keep the Hochstetter woman
under strict surveillance. Saturday at
noon we obtained positive evidence.
COMMISSIONER. Then?
STROEBEL. Then I ordered Schmuttermaier to raid the place...




I


COMMISSIONER.... During which you
found a diary in her apartments?
STROEBEL. Yes, Commissioner; a diary
with the names of her visitors. The dates
and their social standing. Everything.
COMMISSIONER. Have you finished reading it?
STROEBEL. No, sir. I just glanced at it.
I only got it from Schmuttermaier an hour
ago. I was not in the office yesterday.
COMMISSIONER [thoughtfully]. It's too
late to do anything to-day. [Consulting his
watch.] Let me see. Bring me an exact
report of all important names contained in
the diary... at ten to-morrow morning.
STROEBEL. Yes, Commissioner, at ten
o'clock.
COMMISSIONER. And remember, it's
very important that you make this report
personally. Don't let the clerk see the
diary. It has not yet been in his hands?
STROEBEL [going to hi,: desk]. No. It's
locked up in my desk.
COMMISSIONER. Time enough to bring
it to me to-morrow morning when you
make your report.
STROEBEL. How do you want me to get
my data, Commissioner? Shall I summon
the important people involved?
COMMISSIONER [with emphasis]. Only...
the important...names... that's all.
By the way, how far have you gone in the
case? Have you taken any further steps?
STROEBEL. NO. I will examine the Hochstetter woman in a little while...
COMMISSIONER. And Schmuttermaier?
Has he orders to make any further raids?
STROEBEL. Not yet. I want to read the
diary first.
COMMISSIONER. Above all, I do not want
him to act without instructions. People of
no importance like to do important things.
STROEBEL. Yes, Commissioner. Your
orders will be carried out.
COMMISSIONER. Orders? I never give
orders. You have your duties to perform.
I don't care to tell you what to do... But
there must be no further raids until I have
seen the diary.
STROEBEL. Certainly, Commissioner.
COMMISSIONER. At the same time, don't
neglect your duty.




468


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


STROEBEL. I will do everything necessary for the promotion of public decency.
COMMISSIONER [who has been pacing the
roon, turns suddenly]. Public decency?
Very well, very well... [Short pause.] We
occupy a most peculiar position. Do we
not, Herr Stroebel? [STROEBEL bows.] We
know fully the existing difference between
official... and let me say... personal
sensitiveness, do we not? [STROEBEL bows
in accord.] I mention this merely because
you spoke of public decency. There is a
decency about which you and I privately
might have most interesting discussions.
As far as I am concerned, such decency can
be without limits. But there is anotherthe public decency - which it is our business to police. This has its very precise
limits. For example, a scandal. Scandal of
any description. Am I right, Herr Assessor?
STROEBEL [clicks his heels together]. Certainly, Commissioner.
COMMISSIONER. That brings me to another matter. For the past few weeks,
there has been in the city a so-called Society for the Suppression of Vice. Have
you any sympathy with these people?
STROEBEL. I know of their aims...
COMMISSIONER. Their aims do not interest me a bit. I mean, do you personally cooperate with them?
STROEBEL. Not... yet.
COMMISSIONER. Not yet?... Hem!...
This Society is likely to interest itself in
this case. If someone comes to see me,
Herr Stroebel, I will refer him to you.
[STROEBEL bows.] Kindly bear this one
thing in mind. These men have political
ambition, and are playing to the press. On
the whole the thing shows conservative
tendencies.
STROEBEL. Certainly, Commissioner.
COMMISSIONER. Welcome them with
open arms. Agree gratefully to every suggestion for the betterment of the people,
et cetera. Listen with respectful appreciation but do nothing further.
STROEBEL [uncertain]. Nothing further?...
COMMISSIONER. No... nothing further.
STROEBEL. Yes, Commissioner.
COMMISSIONER. These people must re

main assured that they wield a great influence. As a matter of fact, they have
none at all and it's a good thing they
have n't.
STROEBEL. So, I may...
COMMISSIONER.... Do everything you
can be responsible for. As a matter of
principle, I do not like to give orders. You
will submit that report then [consulting his
watch] at ten to-morrow? Good morning!
[Goes toward the door left, remains standing
a moment, then turns around.] You have
been rather zealous in your work, I must
say. [STROEBEL bows slightly.] To arrest a
woman on the strength of an anonymous
letter shows excessive zeal. [STROEBEL
bows slightly.] I like to see my men energetic but [clears his throat] bear in mind
what I just said. Careful of a scandal!
Good morning!
[Exit. STROEBEL sits down and
stares at ceiling. He swings his
chair around, then whistles.]
[REISACHER comes in through middle door
and seats himself at his desk. He
coughs.]
STROEBEL [half turning]. Reisacher.
REISACHER [does likewise]. Yes, Herr
Assessor.
STROEBEL. How long have you been in
the Police Department?
REISACHER. It will be eighteen years
this fall.
STROEBEL. YOU have seen many a
change, no doubt?
REISACHER. Surely.
STROEBEL. Tell me, how long has our
Commissioner been in office?
REISACHER. The Commissioner? Oh... it's seven. No, let me see, it's eight
years...
STROEBEL. Hem... do you really suppose he wants us to keep our eyes wide open
all the time?
REISACHER [eagerly]. Certainly. That's
what he wants.
STROEBEL. Does he?... [Short pause.]
I had an idea he did n't want us to be too
strict for fear of notoriety.
REISACHER [eagerly]. No, no. He certainly would not like that.




MORAL


469


STROEBEL [turns around completely]. Listen, Reisacher, you contradict yourself all
the time.
REISACHER [turns around likewise]. I beg
your pardon, Herr Stroebel. May I suggest...
STROEBEL. But you are always contradicting yourself. First you say yes, and
then you say no.
REISACHER. I beg your pardon, Herr
Assessor Stroebel. I wanted to say that
in the Police Department it is like this:
Everything you do is all right, if it turns
out all right.
STROEBEL [turns back to his desk]. You
will never learn to formulate a thought
precisely.
REISACHER [also turns]. All right, Herr
Stroebel.
[Short pause. STROEBEL reads.
REISACHER writes.]
[A commotion is heard through the middle
door, which is thrown open and NINON
DE HAUTEVILLE enters. Behind her a
policeman, who holds her tightly by the
arm. She tries to free herself.]
HAUTEVILLE. [She wears a large picture
hat, and is highly perfumed.] Keep your
hands off me. I have n't killed anyone.
Please, let me go.
STROEBEL. [He has risen.] What's the
matter?
POLICE OFFICER [releasing her, stands at
attention]. Have the honor, sir, to report
this disreputable woman -the Hochstetter
person.
HAUTEVILLE. Please, help me, sir. I am
being handled like the commonest criminal.
STROEBEL. Why do you keep that hat
on? You are not paying us a visit?
HAUTEVILLE. Indeed not! I am not
paying a visit. If I lived to be a hundred,
it would never occur to me to pay you a
visit.
STROEBEL. Don't talk so much. Do you
understand? [To REISACHER.] Get your
report book ready.
HAUTEVILLE. IS this the complaint office? I demand to know at least why I was
arrested.
STROEBEL. Oh, here you'll find that out


soon enough. [To the officer.] You can go
now.     [Officer exit through middle door.]
HAUTEVILLE.   Oh,   monsieur, what
shameful treatment. I was locked up in a
cell with two ordinary street walkers. You
will help me, won't you?
STROEBEL [who has crossed over to REISACHER]. Please don't be so familiar.
HAUTEVILLE. I am so helpless. No one
will listen to me. No one answers me. An
awful looking woman brought me a cup of
yellow broth and a rusty spoon - [indicating with her hand] so big. "Eat," she said,
and threw it down and left. You will see
to it, sir, that my friends are notified, won't
you?
STROEBEL [glancing over REISACHER'S
shoulder]. Your friends cannot help you
here. [To REISACHER.] Don't make the
margin so wide. You are wasting good
paper. [To HAUTEVILLE.] Your friends can
do nothing at all for you.
HAUTEVILLE. You think so, do you?
One single word and I'll be set free.
STROEBEL [contemptuously]. Indeed!
HAUTEVILLE. Before the day is over
everyone of you will have to apologize to
me. Yes, before this day is over.
STROEBEL. Certainly. [To REISACHER.]
The word "Assessor" has two "s's" in all
cases.
HAUTEVILLE. If you people had the least
idea whom you disturbed. If you knew
whom you compelled to hide in the wardrobe.
STROEBEL [turning quickly to HAUTEVILLE]. In the wardrobe? So! [To REISACHER.] Make a note of that, Reisacher.
[With emphasis.] So someone escaped us
by hiding in the wardrobe.
HAUTEVILLE. Yes, someone escaped you
by hiding in the wardrobe.
STROEBEL [suddenly very friendly]. Upon
my word, Madame, I believe that we understand each other fully. You are a clever
woman. You will not try to deny the facts.
HAUTEVILLE. Not one solitary thing. I
am most anxious that you should try to
find out all.
STROEBEL. Bravo! I came near saying
that I respect you for that;. [Benevolently.]
You know, Hochstetter, every man is




470


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


liable to make a fool of himself now and
then.
HAUTEVILLE. Indeed they are! I know
best what fools men do make of themselves.
STROEBEL. Now and then people violate
the law. But they ought not to deny it
afterwards. That's the sad part of it, because we always find out the truth in the
end.
HAUTEVILLE. I wish you had it now.
STROEBEL. We have a clue. But you are
a woman of character, I admit. I take off
my hat to you.
HAUTEVILLE. Indeed!
STROEBEL. I certainly do.
HAUTEVILLE. I was afraid I had lost all
refinement after spending the last two
nights in such company.
STROEBEL [benevolently]. No doubt, it
was a trifle hard.
HAUTEVILLE. It was terrible. They
really do make me pay for discreetness.
STROEBEL. Your patrons are the very
men who make it so hard for you. They
get you into trouble and then expect you
to protect them. Is n't it so?
HAUTEVILLE. What an experience for
me! To have my apartment raided at
night and be simply dragged away myself.
STROEBEL. That is too much.
HAUTEVILLE. I was not even allowed to
take along a change of underwear. Then I
am locked up with women who have every
known variety of vermin.
STROEBEL. And with all that they expect you to remain silent!
HAUTEVILLE. When I want to comb my
hair, the matron gives me a comb which
these women have been using a whole
week.
STROEBEL. That simply can't go on.
HAUTEVILLE. And the air! I never knew
that such odors existed on this earth.
STROEBEL. Still you are to shield the
others! After all, you know, I think that
discreetness is just talk.
HAUTEVILLE. Talk?
STROEBEL. I mean if anybody ever had
a moral right to give things away, fully
and freely, you are that person;... after
all you have suffered.


HAUTEVILLE. That's right. I am that
person.
STROEBEL. Well, then; did somebody
escape into that wardrobe?
HAUTEVILLE. Yes, somebody did escape
into that wardrobe.
STROEBEL [eagerly]. Who? [Short pause.]
HAUTEVILLE [laughs curtly]. Who?
STROEBEL [more sharply]. Who on Saturday night at 10 o'clock escaped the
search of the police by hiding in the wardrobe?
HAUTEVILLE [laughs curtly]. It is quite
unnecessary for me to tell you that.
STROEBEL [sharply]. Why?
HAUTEVILLE. You are certain to find it
out ultimately.
STROEBEL. Ultimately?
HAUTEVILLE. Even if I wanted to I
could not tell! Lord, when a person gets
strictly accustomed to never mentioning
any name, it is almost impossible to do it.
I believe that I would have to learn how
first.
STROEBEL [shouting]. And you will learn
it; I promise you that. You...
HAUTEVILLE. Mais monsieur!
STROEBEL [shouting]. No "monsieur"
about it. Here you'll talk good plain
English.
HAUTEVILLE. But why are you getting
so excited?
STROEBEL [to REISACHER]. I am nice to
this person. I reason with her, and she says
that she will first have to learn how to expose her crowd. [Shouts.] Decency is what
you'll have to learn and I'11 teach it to you.
HAUTEVILLE. Oh, not this very minute.
STROEBEL. I know you. I know your
sort! You want to gain time so that you
can concoct the blackest lies.
HAUTEVILLE [calmly]. That would be
entirely superfluous. The cleverest lie
could not help me half as much as the
simple truth.
STROEBEL. Out with it!
HAUTEVILLE. It's better if you find it
out through someone else.
STROEBEL. That's your opinion.
HAUTEVILLE. You would only be embarrassed and I would be guilty of a breach
of confidence.




MORAL


47I


STROEBEL [with contempt]. As though
people confided in such as you.
HAUTEVILLE. I think that they rely
upon the fact that our loyalty is not "just
talk."
STROEBEL [again calm]. Listen to me. I
do not think that you entirely understand
your position. [HAUTEVILLE shrugs her
shoulders.] No, I don't think that you
know at all what is involved.
HAUTEVILLE. On the contrary, it is far
worse that you don't seem to realize who is
involved.
STROEBEL [quickly]. In what?
HAUTEVILLE. In the wardrobe.
STROEBEL. Have you lost your senses?
You are a prisoner here. Do you want to
poke fun at us?
HAUTEVILLE. No.
STROEBEL. Then don't consider yourself
so important with those meaning insinuations.
HAUTEVILLE. If I did, I'd soon lose my
importance after eating that yellow broth
from those rusty tin plates.
STROEBEL. And that will continue for
some time.
HAUTEVILLE [energetically]. No, it will
not. I tell you right now that I will not
spend another night in that dirty hole. I
will not be mistreated any longer.
STROEBEL [with sarcasm]. Of course we
are going to ask you for your kind permission.
HAUTEVILLE. I will not remain here. If
they think I will let them ruin me, they're
very much mistaken. This is an outrage
and here fair play stops.
STROEBEL. The likes of you and fair
play!
HAUTEVILLE [bitterly]. Yes, the likes of
me. Every day we hear the confessions of
those very people who publicly show contempt for us. We know how false are all
virtuous words with which they condemn
us, but we remain silent.
STROEBEL. Of course, you do all this out
of pure sense of fair play?
[He imitates the motion of counting
money.]
HAUTEVILLE. Money?... My dear fellow, with money our patrons pay well for


that very thing which they later on call
indecent. You get as much decency from
us for money as you get from other people,
but believe me, we could shatter many
illusions.
STROEBEL. Well, make a beginning right
here.
HAUTEVILLE. It ought to be impossible
here. The police have as few illusions as
we. That is, provided they are properly
instructed.
STROEBEL. That's right now, put us in
the same class with yourself.
HAUTEVILLE. Why not? We and the
police could easily ruin the credit of virtue,
but neither of us do it. You -you because you regard that credit as a good substitute for the principal, and we, - Lord,
because we need this credit as well.
STROEBEL. Both of us"
HAUTEVILLE. The very moment that
public virtue loses its credit, the secret
vices will drop in market value.
STROEBEL. What are you talking about
anyway?
HAUTEVILLE. I'm telling you why both
of us must hush things up.
STROEBEL. Then you are not convinced
that there is a real public morality?
HAUTEVILLE. You mean that morality
which you put on with your street clothes?
I know it well. Gentlemen take it off in
my apartment and hang it up in my wardrobe, and there I can inspect it very thoroughly. It is truly remarkable how our
respected gentlemen still make formal social visits in costumes which have so often
been patched.
REISACHER [who up to this point apparently without paying any attention, has been
sitting with his back toward them, turns halfway round]. Pardon me, Herr Assessor.
STROEBEL [impatiently]. Now what do
you want?
REISACHER. Pardon me, Herr Assessor,
shall I put all this talk into the minutes?
STROEBEL. No, I will dictate to you
later. [To HAUTEVILLE.] You know that
you are not here to amuse yourself.
HAUTEVILLE. I know that.
STROEBEL. Listen to me quietly. You
hinted before that if we kept you here an



472


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


other night you would confess everything.
Well I tell you here and now that we will
not keep you here one, but a number of
nights. You can ease your conscience at
once.
HAUTEVILLE. I would only make yours
the heavier for it.
STROEBEL. My conscience?
HAUTEVILLE. Yes, if I tell you here,
there will be no possibility of a mistake,
but everything must remain a mistake.
STROEBEL. I have patience with you,
but I will not let you fool me. Now get
yourself together and consider every word.
What must remain a mistake?
HAUTEVILLE. Everything that has happened since Saturday night.
STROEBEL. All that must remain a
mistake?
HAUTEVILLE. It simply must not have
happened. No one broke into my apartment. No one arrested me. No one compelled anyone to hide in the wardrobe.
STROEBEL [shouts]. And no one ever saw
such an insolent female.
HAUTEVILLE. This browbeating.
STROEBEL. It is meant for such as you.
HAUTEVILLE [indignantly stopping her
ears]. It reminds one so much of the tin
plates and the comb.
STROEBEL [angrily pacing the room]. I
never heard anything like it. Picture it!
She makes insinuations as though we had
something to be afraid of. [He stops pacing
and faces her.] You evidently imagine that
the whole government would run away
from you.
HAUTEVILLE. No, but it ran away from
your Lieutenant.
STROEBEL. Where?
HAUTEVILLE. Into the wardrobe.
STROEBEL [pacing up and down]. I will
bring that fellow out of your wardrobe. I
will bring him to light. Into bright daylight! [Remains standing in front of
HAUTEVILLE.] What did you say?
HAUTEVILLE. Non.
STROEBEL [resuming his pacing]. One of
those fine fellows who wallow in the mire
and then expect us to make exceptions.
[Stops pacing, facing HAUTEVILLE.] What
were you saying?


HAUTEVILLE. Nothing.
STROEBEL. Sad enough that now and
again a halfway decent person strays into
your place.
HAUTEVILLE. He can only regret that
he was disturbed.
STROEBEL [goes quickly to desk and unlocks a drawer]. Besides, do not deceive
yourself. We do not need your disclosures.
[He takes out a rather bulky paper, a school
composition book, and holds it triumphantly
in the air.] There; do you recognize this?
HAUTEVILLE [quietly, without a single
trace of surprise]. It looks like my diary.
STROEBEL. It is your book. It was
found in your desk.
HAUTEVILLE [very calm]. The desk was
locked.
STROEBEL. It was broken open. Well?
What about your loyalty now?
HAUTEVILLE [shrugs her shoulders]. I
kept it. I have n't a fire-proof safe.
STROEBEL [contemptuously]. Would you
by chance like to show me the name?
HAUTEVILLE. What name?
STROEBEL. Of the gentleman in the
wardrobe.
HAUTEVILLE [laughs]. His name really is
not in it.
STROEBEL. DO not evade but show me.
HAUTEVILLE. Oh, there are parties
whose names are not in the Hotel Register.
They travel incognito.
STROEBEL [persuadingly]. Hochstetter, I
have an impression that you are not such a
stupid girl, and I believe that you would
like to [pointing to the diary] take good care
of your - patrons. If you do not immediately reveal the name of that man, I will
summon the whole bunch.
HAUTEVILLE   [shrugs  her shoulders].
That's something I cannot stop you from
doing.
STROEBEL. What then is your belief in
fair play?
HAUTEVILLE. I never submitted that
diary to you. You could not have gotten
it from me voluntarily, but it quite suits
me that the officer found it in my desk.
STROEBEL. Why?
HAUTEVILLE. Because he might have
searched for it in the wardrobe.




MORAL


473


STROEBEL. Now my patience is at an
end. [Presses the button on his desk.] I will
have no consideration for anyone.
HAUTEVILLE. After all, perhaps you will.
For yourself.       [Police officer enters.]
STROEBEL. Take this woman downstairs.
[The officer leaves with HAUTEVILLE. STROEBEL sits down, pushes the chair angrily to the
desk, then gets up and throws the diary and
several other books on the desk, saying to
himself:] Never heard anything like it!
Such impudence!
[REISACHER looks at him with
amusement. A   knock at the
door.]
STROEBEL [formally]. Come in!
BEERMANN [enters hastily from the left.
He breathes heavily. He has a handkerchief
in his hand, with which he frequently mops
his brow]. Is this the proper department at
last? I am being sent all around the building. [Breathing heavily.] I hope I am finally
in the proper bureau.
STROEBEL. What do you want?
BEERMANN. Pardon me for a moment
while I catch my breath. I climbed twice
to the third floor and again down to the
ground floor. The Commissioner sent me
to room 147 and there they told me to go
to room 174.
STROEBEL. Who sent you?
BEERMANN [taking a deep breath]. The
Commissioner. I really wanted to speak to
him personally, but he told me I should go
to the gentleman who has "Morality."
Are you the gentleman who has all the
morality?
STROEBEL. Certainly.
BEERMANN. At last. [Mopping his brow.]
Good God, when a matter is so urgent and
so much depends on it they ought not to
chase one all over the building. I must rest
a bit. All this excitement and running up
and down stairs... So you are the gentleman who has the matter in hand.
STROEBEL. What matter?
BEERMANN. On Saturday night a lady
was arrested. A Madame de Hauteville,
and certain papers were taken from her.
Have you those papers here?
STROEBEL. What business is that of
yours?


BEERMANN. My name is Beermann;
Fritz Beermann, the banker. I am the
Chairman of the Society for the Suppression of Vice.
STROEBEL [very politely]. Oh, indeed!
Pardon me! I did n't recall your name immediately, but I was expecting you.
BEERMANN [startled]. You - were expecting - me?
STROEBEL. The Commissioner said that
you would undoubtedly call on us.
BEERMANN. He said that I undoubtedly
would call? But he never mentioned a
word to me about that, and I saw him just
a moment ago. Perhaps after all it will be
better if I go down to see him again?
STROEBEL. That is not necessary. I
have full charge of the matter.
BEERMANN. Oh, yes, quite right; you
have charge of the matter. And you have
those writings here too?
STROEBEL. The diary'? [He indicates
the desk.] Here it is.
BEERMANN [peeps anxiously over]. Then
it is a regular diary?
STROEBEL. Quite correctly kept. Gives
date and names. Even little jesting remarks about the people concerned.
BEERMANN [shouts]. But that is an unheard-of insolence!
STROEBEL. Yes.
BEERMANN. Why does she write such
things? To what purpose? Can't she herself realize how dangerous it is? Fancy, a
woman whose whole stock in trade is secrecy, keeping an address book of her patrons. Confound her!
STROEBEL. But to us as evidence it is
priceless.
BEERMANN. I ask you -- why does she
record such things?
STROEBEL. We can only be glad of it,
Herr Beermann.
BEERMANN. We?
STROEBEL. She'd lie. I tell you she'd
deny everything, and that puts an end to
the case. [Holding the diary in the air.] But
here we have the whole bunch.
BEERMANN. As though she wanted to
turn State's evidence...
STROEBEL. Let her just come to court
with her confounded fine talk. [Imitating




474


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


HAUTEVILLE'S manners:] "It simply must
not have happened." I will drive her to
the wall with what happened. We will
simply bring up those fellows, one after
the other.
BEERMANN [dismayed]. To court!
STROEBEL. Certainly, and that means;
hand on the Bible and swear. Then we
shall see if "no one compelled anyone to
hide in the wardrobe."
BEERMANN. How?
STROEBEL. They will not commit perjury.
BEERMANN. That's utterly impossible!
STROEBEL. I will make it quite warm for
that man, in any event.
BEERMANN. But, Counselor!
STROEBEL   [clinking  heels].  Assessor
Stroebel.
BEERMANN. But, Assessor, that is simply impossible. You do not want to ruin
the family life of the entire city, do you?
STROEBEL. In what way?
BEERMANN. Do you expect a respectable
gentleman to appear in court and in the
presence of all people to say, yes; it is true
that I... and so forth?
STROEBEL. Why not?
BEERMANN [shouting]. But they are all
respectable fathers of families!
STROEBEL. But, my dear Herr Beermann,
what difference does that make to me?
BEERMANN. It must make a difference.
It makes a difference to everybody at all
times.
STROEBEL. I assure you that I am not a
bit sentimental.
BEERMANN [glancing over to REISACHER].
Could we have a few words together, alone?
STROEBEL. If you wish it. Reisacher,
finish your police report in the outer office.
REISACHER. Certainly, Herr Assessor.
[Takes several sheets of paper and
goes out through the middle door.]
STROEBEL. Do have a seat, Herr
Beermann.
[BEERMANN sits down on the sofa.
STROEBEL does likewise.]
BEERMANN [mopping his brow]. A personal question, Herr Assessor, are you
married?
STROEBEL. No.


BEERMANN. I thought not. If you had
a family you would not speak in that
fashion of sentimentality.
STROEBEL. If I had a family, I would
not, to begin with, be involved in this.
BEERMANN. But...
STROEBEL. My name would not appear
in the diary of Hauteville.
BEERMANN. You never can tell.
STROEBEL. Excuse me. What is there
left of family life when such things happen?
BEERMANN. What do you mean? If nobody finds it out?
STROEBEL. But such a man must live
constantly under a deception.
BEERMANN. My dear Assessor. If the
white lie ceases in married life, the couple
drifts apart.
STROEBEL. I cannot believe that!
BEERMANN [persuadingly]. Take my
word for it. In every happy marriage the
parties lie to each other to keep their affection from cooling.
STROEBEL. But both of them remain
faithful.
BEERMANN. Not in the least.
STROEBEL. Don't say that!
BEERMANN. Not in the least; anyhow
not to the very letter. A husband is true
to his wife even if he... and so forth.
STROEBEL. Your views surprise me.
BEERMANN. This is what I mean. He is
true in his own fashion. He remains kind
to his wife, takes a good care of his family,
and that is the principal thing. That other
which you have in mind is only an ideal.
STROEBEL. Ideals are lived up to.
BEERMANN. Well, yes. But if we don't
live up to them, we at least respect them.
STROEBEL. Herr Beermann, I am astounded. You are the President of the Society for the Suppression of Vice?
BEERMANN. Can I help it that I was
elected?
STROEBEL. But at least you represent
the views of your Society. I thought you
came here for that reason.
BEERMANN. For what reason?
STROEBEL. To express your satisfaction at
our discovery of the business of this person.
BEERMANN. You thought I came here on
that account?




MORAL


475


-


STROEBEL. Did n't you?
BEERMANN [mopping his brow with his
handkerchief]. You'll have to pardon me,
Herr Assessor; I am still affected by that
running up and down stairs.
STROEBEL. Perhaps our conversation
tires you?
BEERMANN. Don't mention it. I simply
cannot follow you so quickly. A moment
ago you mentioned a diary, did n't you?
STROEBEL. Of this Hauteville woman. -
Yes.
BEERMANN. Have you been through
this diary?
STROEBEL. No. I have not had time yet.
BEERMANN. But you just spoke about
some jesting comments in it.
STROEBEL. Only those I noticed in
glancing through it.
BEERMANN [relieved]. Ah!
STROEBEL. Besides, I must tell you,
Herr Beermann, that the contents of this
book must remain a secret to you. My
orders are not to show it to anyone.
BEERMANN. No, no. I don't want to
know anything about it.
STROEBEL. You will find out everything
later when the matter comes up in court.
BEERMANN [dismayed]. Will it be read
there?
STROEBEL. Certainly. To-day I can
only tell you that we will proceed vigorously. You can satisfy your Society on
that point.
BEERMANN [rising]. But that does n't
satisfy me at all. Think of the consequences.
STROEBEL [rising also]. What do you
care about the consequences. Your Society
has its very high aims. Your propaganda
states that you will prosecute the outcast
of society with iron energy and now you
see your ideals realized.
BEERMANN. Our propaganda states that
we will intervene from national, moral and
social viewpoints, to protect the marriage
vows. If this scandal becomes public the
marriage relationship will be undermined.
STROEBEL. What sort of moral viewpoint do you call that?
BEERMANN. It is the Society's. Don't
you understand that the influential class of
society will be involved I




I


STROEBEL. Then that class will have
only itself to blame.
BEERMANN. That's out of the question.
We must find a loop-hole.
STROEBEL. Within the, scope of the law
there are no loop-holes.
BEERMANN. Don't tell me that. Well
then, go around the law.
STROEBEL [surprised]. Herr Beermann!
BEERMANN. Of course! I have lived
long enough to know that.
STROEBEL. I shall do my duty.
BEERMANN. Am I interfering with your
duty? I belong to that class of people whrespect the police only because the police
respect our social position.
STROEBEL. I appreciate that.
BEERMANN. I also take part in political
life. I am a candidate for the Reichstag
and as such I have a decided opinion about
these matters.
STROEBEL. Without doubt, Herr Beermann.
BEERMANN. Well then, there are, in extreme cases, ways around the law, and
there must be.
STROEBEL. I am of a different opinion.
BEERMANN. God knows, it is not the
business of the police to provoke this
enormous scandal. All authority will be
destroyed. It will shatter the respect of the
masses for the people higher up.
STROEBEL. But this scandal was provoked - [knocking on the diary with his
finger] - by these very people.
BEERMANN. If a man once in a while
goes into a certain room - that is no
scandal. It only becomes a scandal when
the story is made known to every Tom,
Dick and Harry. That's what must be
prevented!
STROEBEL. I value the humane motive
which evidently is prompting you, Herr
Beermann. But you must admit that we
are acting entirely in accord with the views
of the classes you mention.
BEERMANN. You are nct!
STROEBEL. Yes, we are. Two weeks ago
the good people here founded a Society because they felt it was necessary to proceed
more severely against public immorality...
BEERMANN.... Against immorality in




476


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


the lower strata where it easily degenerates
into licentiousness. As the President of
this Society, I, at least, ought to know
what was intended.
STROEBEL. Even Frau Hochstetter belongs to the lower strata. If we are now
stepping on anybody's corns, I am very
sorry...
BEERMANN. The police have no business
to do anything they will be sorry for later
on. Good Lord, had the Commissioner
only listened to me. An affair like this
should not be treated in such a purely
business-like way.
STROEBEL. The Commissioner can only
tell you the same thing. He cannot change
the law.
BEERMANN. Anything can be done.
STROEBEL. Not at this stage. We could
probably have prevented it had we known
that this case would have such far-reaching
consequences, but now here are the proofs.
[Pointing to the diary.] No one in the world
can destroy them, not even the Commissioner.
BEERMANN. Then what do you propose
to do with them?
STROEBEL. They are going down to the
District Attorney's office. The avalanche
is on its way.
BEERMANN. And we have simply to wait
and watch what it hits?
[Telephone bell rings.]
STROEBEL. Pardon me a moment.
[Goes to the right to the telephone.
While STROEBEL is answering
the telephone, and has his back
to BEERMANN, the latter crosses
to the desk and tries to look into
the diary. Timidly he opens it
several times, but shuts it again
quickly, when he fears that
STROEBEL will turn around.]
STROEBEL [answering the telephone]. Police Department... Assessor Stroebel
speaking. Who is this please... yes, this
is Assessor Stroebel... Yes, Commissioner... [pause] I understand you, I will
remain in the office... Yes, I examined
the Hochstetter woman... Yes, this
Madame Hauteville... [pause] I will remain in the office until you call... Yes,


Commissioner. Good-bye. [He hangs up the
receiver. BEERMANN energetically closes the
book and tries to appear indifferent.] Now
you can convince yourself, Herr Beermann,
the Commissioner himself is following up
this matter. He wants to have another conference with me about it to-day.
BEERMANN. Am I to wait helplessly
until the catastrophe happens?
STROEBEL. You must be consistent...
BEERMANN. It is possible that my best
friends, acquaintances or relatives are involved...
STROEBEL. You must remain consistent.
Does n't this splendidly justify the founding of your Society?
BEERMANN [in a rage]. Oh, leave me
alone with your stupid Vice Society. Are
we not all human, after all!
STROEBEL. I do not understand you.
BEERMANN. Do you realize what severe
pangs of conscience I suffer? Last night as
I pictured to myself all that is about to
happen, all these family misfortunes, 1
asked myself this question: what really is
morality? And... I could not find the
answer.
STROEBEL. Although you are...
BEERMANN. Although I am Chairman
of the Society for the Suppression of Vice,
yes, sir. Then I asked myself this: Which is
the more important: that we are moral, or
that we seem moral?
STROEBEL. Have you found the answer?
BEERMANN. I have. I have become fully
convinced that it is far more important for
the people to believe in our morality.
STROEBEL. But you did n't need a Society for that.
BEERMANN. Yes, we did. Just to be
moral is something that I can accomplish
in my room by myself, but that has
no educational value. The important thing
is to ally one's self publicly with moral
issues. This has a beneficial effect on the
family and state.
STROEBEL. I daresay that this side of the
question has not occurred to me.
BEERMANN. Just consider. Morality
holds exactly the same position as religion.
We must always create the impression that
there is such a thing and we must make




MORAL


477


each other believe that each of us have it.
Do you suppose for one moment that religion would last if the Church dealt publicly with our sins? But she forgives them
quietly. The State ought to be just as
shrewd.
STROEBEL. Many a thing you say seems
quite true.
BEERMANN. It is true, you can depend
upon it.
STROEBEL. Theoretically perhaps. But
that does not change it one bit. As long as
the law prescribes it, these offenses [pointing
to the diary] must be dealt with publicly.
BEERMANN. Although you know that
thus public decency will be undermined.
[STROEBEL shrugs his shoulders.] Although
the State will suffer by it?
STROEBEL [again shrugs his shoulders].
Well...
BEERMANN. The Administration knows
very well the sort of conservative element
there is in the Society for the Suppression
of Vice.
STROEBEL. Yes, and values it highly.
BEERMANN. Let us suppose - I do not
know if it be so - but let us just suppose
that only one member of the Society once
had a weak little moment and his name
were in this book...
STROEBEL [energetically]. Then he would
be summoned to court without regard or
mercy.
BEERMANN. And the whole Society
would be made ridiculous and would go up
in the air.
STROEBEL [shrugs his shoulders]. Well...
BEERMANN [shouts]. That is the height
of folly, I tell you!
STROEBBL [instructively]. It is the fulfilment of our duty. You are a layman.
With you sentiments play an important
part. We, the police, on the other hand are
compelled to sacrifice our feelings to our
duty.
BEERMANN [holding his hands to his ears].
Oh, stop that!
STROEBEL. Official duty blocks our way.
BEERMANN [angrily]. But even a jackass
can jump over blocks.
STROEBEL [offended]. Herr Beermann, I
did not hear that remark.


BEERMANN. Let me tell you something!
Do you know what we have been doing for
the past three weeks?... Talking ourselves hoarse in order to bring about an
election friendly to the present administration. For the past three weeks it has
been nothing but Fatherland, and the
state and religion! And this is your gratitude! In the devil's own name - just picture it to yourself - a man who has been
fighting the opposition in thirty different
political meetings might be involved in
this.
STROEBEL [shrugs his sioulders]. What
can I do?
BEERMANN. Is the Administration going
to deliver him over to his opponents?
STROEBEL. We would be very sorry for
him, but we would have to summon him to
court.
BEERMANN. Without regard or mercy-?
[Telephone bell rings loudly.]
STROEBEL. Pardon me for a moment.
[STROEBEL goes to the telephone and this time
he turns completely around so that his back
is toward BEERMANN.] Police Department... yes... Commissioner; this is Stroebel
at the telephone... [Short pause.] When
she was arrested?... When she was arrested there was Lieutenant Schmuttermaier and an officer..  [Short pause.]
Just one policeman... [Pause.]...Yes,
Commissioner [short pause] I should tell
that Lieutenant [short interruption] jackass
Schmuttermaier to come over to the office
immediately... [Short pause.] I shall
wait for you until you come... Yes,
Commissioner.
[During this telephone conversation
BEERMANN steps near to the desk.
With a shaking hand he takes up
the diary, but quickly puts it down
again. Then he picks it up again
and with a rapid and energetic
movement puts ii' into his breast
pocket. STROEBEL with a rebuked demeanor goes from the
telephone to the desk. BEERMANN
turns around so that STROEBEL
cannot see his face. He is disturbed and coughs in order to hide
his embarrassment. STROEBEL




478


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


presses a button on REISACHER'S
desk.]
BEERMANN [while coughing]. I realize
now that nothing more can be done. I
shan't take up your time.
STROEBEL [anxiously]. No, no, please
remain. The Commissioner himself will be
here in a moment. Then you may talk to
him.
BEERMANN. But you just told me that
there was no use waiting...
[REISACHER enters through center door.]
STROEBEL. [urgently to REISACHER].
Reisacher, go and look for Lieutenant
Schmuttermaier immediately. If he is not
in the building, send to his home or telephone for him. Leave word that he must
come over immediately.
REISACHER. Yes, Herr Assessor.
[Goes out quickly through center
door.]
BEERMANN. You said yourself that there
would be no use. I guess I'd better go.
STROEBEL [perturbed]. But do wait for
the Commissioner.
BEERMANN. There is no use in my waiting. I... I did all I could... there seems
to be no use... well, then.... Goodbye!
[About to go through door on left,
but the door is quickly opened
and the COMMISSIONER appears
with BARON SCHMETTAU. The
former holds the door open for the
BARON. After they have come in,
he shuts the door.]
COMMISSIONER [to the BARON]. If yOU
please, Herr Baron... [To BEERMANN.]
Ah... here is our President of the Society
for the Suppression of Vice. [BEERMANN
bows slightly - COMMISSIONER continuing
contemptuously.] Well, have you accomplished your mission? [BEERMANN nods.]
Are you satisfied with this arrest or would
you like to have us do more? [Angrily.]
Once for all, Sir, I forbid you to meddle
with the affairs of this office. You can
preach your principles wherever else you
like, but here I will stand for no interference. [BEERMANN timidly creeps along the
wall, and bows himself out.] [COMMISSIONER


to BARON SCHMETTAU.] Whenever the police bungle anything, look for reformers.
SCHMETTAU [with a glance at STROEBEL].
Will you introduce me?
COMMISSIONER. Assessor Stroebel, —
Freiherr von Schmettau, Adjutant to his
Highness, Prince Emil.
[STROEBEL clicks his heels together
and bows deeply. SCHMETTAU
thanks him curtly.]
COMMISSIONER [sharply]. Herr Assessor,
I have asked Herr Baron Schmettau to
come with me in order that in his presence
I might correct a pitiable lack of tact,
which to my regret, and contrary to all my
intentions, was perpetrated by Lieutenant
Schmuttermaier.
SCHMETTAU. It was abominable.
COMMISSIONER. What orders did that
man have?
STROEBEL [nervously]. Do you mean in
the case of Hochstetter, Commissioner?
COMMISSIONER. Yes, sir, Madame de
Hauteville. Who made the raid on her
apartment?
STROEBEL. The raid?
COMMISSIONER. I hope before you arrested her you informed yourself exactly
with whom you were dealing.
STROEBEL. Certainly...
COMMISSIONER.... And the result?
STROEBEL. I ascertained that this woman
was violating public decency.
COMMISSIONER. I am going to ask you,
Assessor, as my inferior in office, to confine
yourself to more direct answers, please.
What did the investigation disclose?
STROEBEL. That she received questionable visits from gentlemen.
COMMISSIONER. Questionable? Then
does Schmuttermaier know who these gentlemen were?
STROEBEL. He does not...
COMMISSIONER. No? Did n't he investigate a matter which seemed so questionable
to him?
STROEBEL. He just wanted to ascertain
that these visits were meant for Hauteville.
COMMISSIONER. So -? I have some
truly competent officials. And who and
what it was did not bother the man at all?




MORAL


479


STROEBEL. I myself thought that that
would be found out later.
COMMISSIONER. There are certain things
in the world you would not be likely to look
for and less likely to find. You have been
treating this thing as though you were
dealing with a common ordinary pickpocket. [To BARON SCHMETTAU.] You see
it is just as I told you... the man did not
have the slightest idea... [To STROEBEL.]
Did this fellow, Schmuttermaier, see anyone in the flat or did he hear if anyone was
there?
STROEBEL. No, Commissioner.
COMMISSIONER [to BARON SCHMETTAU].
It is just as I told you...
STROEBEL. Furthermore, I have heard
since that there was somebody in the
apartment.
COMMISSIONER [quickly]. Who?
STROEBEL. That, I have been unable to
find out yet, but Hauteville made several
insinuations as though someone had been
hidden in a wardrobe.
COMMISSIONER [to BARON SCHMETTAU].
To be sure - someone - was -  To my
profoundest regret, His Highness, our beloved Hereditary Prince Emil.
STROEBEL [crushed]. I... did n't have
the slightest idea...
COMMISSIONER. You people ought to
have an idea once in a while. If this
Schmuttermaier had any ability, it would
not have happened. But it is the old story,
not a trace of independent ability and
tact.
STROEBEL. I don't know what apology
I can offer.
COMMISSIONER. Neither do I. Besides
Herr Baron Schmettau himself was obliged
to go through this very unpleasant incident.
SCHMETTAU. [SCHMETTAU speaks very
precisely but puts a slight emphasis on his s.]
I was completely dumbfounded. I cannot
understand how it could happen. Just picture it... Lord knows... I was and am
of the opinion that our young Highness
must learn to know life. Faith, it is not my
business to act as his pastor...
COMMISSIONER. If you please, Herr
Baron, that goes without saying...


SCHMETTAU. That of course is merely my
opinion. I am a man of the world and of
affairs. I consider it fitting that his Highness should learn to know life...
COMMISSIONER. But I entirely share
your opinion.
SCHMETTAU. A moment ago the word
"decency" was used. In my position I can
listen to such words from the pulpit, but
outside of the church I deem them entirely
out of place.
COMMISSIONER [to Assessor]. You used
that expression.
SCHMETTAU. If anyone wants to claim
that my bearing is not a proper one, he will
have to prove it with a revolver in his
hand.
STROEBEL. I did not think that the word
would offend you.
SCHMETTAU. It did offend me. Such expressions are fitting in an asylum for feebleminded people. They should never be used
to characterize the recreation of Cavaliers.
COMMISSIONER. May I put in a good
word for my Assessor? It certainly was not
his intention to offend you.
SCHMETTAU. It was not his intention.
[To the Assessor.] Then I will assume that
it was never said. [The Assessor clicks his
heels.] I am somewhat nettled, but you
cannot be surprised at that. You can
imagine with what care I undertook this
task. This Madame de Hauteville was
recommended to me by reliable parties.
She has good manners and does not talk.
COMMISSIONER. In her way, she certainly seems a very decent person.
SCHMETTAU. Absolutely. Since it was
my belief that His Highness must learn to
know life, I could not find a better place.
[To the COMMISSIONER.] We understand
each other?
COMMISSIONER. Certainly.
SCHMETTAU. Every guarantee against
vulgarity; everything tip-top. Now picture
it to yourself. I do all a man possibly can
and this inconceivably awful scandal happens.
COMMISSIONER. It is the old story.
These people have no tact.
SCHMETTAU. That does n't help me any.
I am not trying to mix in your business.




480


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


That never occurred to me. But this does
not help me one bit. The whole blame attaches to me. I simply will be told that
such things should not have happened.
That is an unheard-of business.
COMMISSIONER [to Assessor]. For which
you are to blame.
SCHMETTAU. Had I a suspicion that this
was contemplated, I would have informed
you.
COMMISSIONER. If you only had!
SCHMETTAU. Who would think of such
things? We all take it for granted that the
police first of all respect protection!
STROEBEL. On my word of honor, Herr
Baron. Not even in my dreams did I think
of an occurrence like this.
SCHMETTAU [squares his shoulders]. Is it
so difficult for you to think?
COMMISSIONER. That's just what I say.
If a man knows his work thoroughly these
things come to him. But people who are
interested in the uplift movements are always in the clouds.
SCHMEITAU. This Lieutenant or whatever that fellow was, behaved as though he
was collecting material for a socialist newspaper. His Highness was hardly in the
house five minutes when there was a loud
ringing. Then someone in heavy shoes ran
up against the door like a drunken sailor.
Madame de Hauteville breaks into the
room and cries, "Your Highness, how unfortunate I am. The police are here," she
says. "Leave them alone," I say, "they
will go away presently." "Impossible,"
she says, "I can never permit His Highness to be found by the police in my place.
I will take the blame upon myself entirely."
Fancy the tact of that woman! "Impossible," she says, "that His Highness should
be caught in my place"
COMMISSIONER. Really, very decent!
SCHMETTAU. Indeed it is. Immediately
it dawns on me that she is right. The situation is getting terrible. That policeman is
likely to demand His Highness' identification. What shall we do? Madame says,
"For Heaven's sake hide in the wardrobe!"
Outside, that fool is making quite a rumpus.
He knocks, rings, shouts and barks. The
neighborhood is getting aroused and heads


are popping out from right and left and in
the midst of this terrible commotion, there
we stand - Highness and I. What shall
we do? A few moments later, His Highness
is cramped beside me in the wardrobe, in
between different pieces of woman's apparel. With great difficulty we are able to
draw our breath.
STROEBEL. If I had only had an inkling
about it.
COMMISSIONER [angrily]. The police are
expected to grasp conditions.
SCHMETTAU. Then what followed? In
heavy-nailed shoes the men go from room
to room. Doors are opened and slammed.
The fellows use loud and coarse language,
and three or four times they stand in front
of the wardrobe. Upon my word, I actually
feel how His Highness is perspiring. Just
picture to yourself the situation if that
brute had opened the closet! Just picture
that and you can realize how much courage
I had!
COMMISSIONER. You must have suffered
terribly.
SCHMETTAU. What I suffered does not
matter. In such moments one does not
think of anything else but Highness. What
an outrage! Finally the steps disappear.
Madame Hauteville, who throughout behaved most decently and whose conduct
was above reproach, is led away and Highness and I can leave the wardrobe where
we spent an entire twenty minutes. And
now I ask again, "How can such mistakes
happen?"
COMMISSIONER [to Assessor]. You shall
find the answer to this.
SCHMETTAU. Upstairs the woman is still
in her cell. The newspapers are full of
the scandal, and Highness suffers agonies
when he realizes the possibilities which can
develop at any moment.
COMMISSIONER. Herr Baron, you need
not worry any longer. Now I am taking
the matter entirely into my hands. [Consulting his watch, he speaks with affected
calmness.] It is now a quarter to one. This
evening at eight o'clock Madame de
Hauteville will be set free and everything
will be so arranged that her discharge will
arouse no suspicion.




MORAL


48I


STROEBEL. But how are you going to do
it...?
COMMISSIONER. The details of this arrangement are your affair.
CURTAIN
ACT III
BEERMANN'S library. Elegantly furnished.
A desk is backed up against a large baywindow on the right. Opposite is a large
book-case, and next to this a sofa. A long
double door with small French panes somewhat to the left. On the left of stage a small
table and a few comfortable leather chairs.
On the right a simple door.
[BEERMANN enters through the middle door.
He goes to the desk, unlocks a drawer
and takes out the diary of HAUTEVILLE.
He looks carefully about him, then picks
out a volume of an encyclopedia from
the book-case, opens it quickly and places
the diary inside. He seats himself and
begins to read. At this moment the center door is opened slowly, and FRAU
BEERMANN stands on the threshold.]
FRAU BEERMANN. Are you alone, Fritz?
BEERMANN [frightened, slams the book so
that the diary is concealed in it]. Goodness,
you did frighten me!
FRAU BEERMANN. I did not know how
nervous you were until yesterday.
BEERMANN. Oh, what, nervous? I am
overworked and irritable. Every single
day, I have to prepare a new speech.
FRAU BEERMANN. IS it in that work that
I disturbed you? Pardon me.
BEERMANN. Do you want anything?
FRAU BEERMANN. I just wanted to have
a few serious words with you.
BEERMANN. But not necessarily at this
moment. To-morrow or...
EFFIE [opening the glass door, calls in].
Oh, papa, did you forget?
BEERMANN [uneasily]. Forget what?
EFFIE [entering]. Were n't we to see the
Indian dancer to-day?
BEERMANN. Well, it can't be done to-day.
EFFIE. That's a shame; I wanted so
much to see her and to-night is her last
appearance.


BEERMANN. Then we will wait until the
next one comes along.
EFFIE. I don't see why just we have to
have this bad luck.
BEERMANN [with emphasis]. Because I
have more important things to do than to
watch your hop, skip and jump.
EFFIE [jolly]. Oh, are n't you cranky?
BEERMANN. I am not atl all disposed for
such nonsense.
EFFIE [going over to the desk, picks up the
volume of the encyclopedia].. All this comes
from your politics; now I will simply confiscate your ammunition.
BEERMANN [excited]. Give me that book.
EFFIE [jumping away]. No, no, papa, you
will only get sick.
BEERMANN [shouts]. I forbid these
stupid jokes! Put that book down!
FRAU BEERMANN. What is the matter?
BEERMANN. I never could tolerate disobedient children, that's all.
EFFIE [placing the book on the desk]. Oh,
pardon me, papa.
BEERMANN [grasps the volume tightly and
places it in the book-case]. All fooling has its
limits; don't forget that.
EFFIE. Now I suppose as a punishment,
we can't see the dancer.
BEERMANN. Really, I would rather go
with you than - sit here, but it is absolutely impossible.
FRAU BEERMANN. Go now, darling; I
must talk to papa alone.
BEERMANN. But I have n't the time.
FRAU   BEERMANN    [positively].  That
much of it you have.
EFFIE. Good-bye, papa dear. [Goes out.]
[FRAU BEERMANN seats herself on
the sofa next to the book-case.
BEERMANN stands leaning with
his back against the desk.
Through the large window the
evening sun can be seen so that
BEERMANN'S face is in its light,
while FRAU BEERMANN sits in
the half-dusk.]
BEERMANN. Lena dear, do we really
have...?
FRAU BEERMANN. We do.
BEERMANN. Can't it be postponed?




482


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


FRAU BEERMANN. I have postponed it
many a year, but now it is high time.
BEERMANN [disturbed]. Many a year?
What are you referring to?
FRAU BEERMANN. I have a request to
make to you.
BEERMANN. With pleasure...
FRAU BEERMANN. Don't make a laughing-stock of your family.
BEERMANN. In what way?
FRAU BEERMANN. Don't make a laughing-stock of your family, I beg you.
BEERMANN. Please don't talk in riddles.
FRAU BEERMANN. These are not very
great riddles to you.
BEERMANN. Speak plainly, won't you?
FRAU BEERMANN. No. I am not going
to speak more plainly.
BEERMANN. As your husband, I demand
it.
FRAU BEERMANN. N-no.
BEERMANN. That is very sad. There
should be no secrets at all between husband and wife.
FRAU BEERMANN. IS this a principle
again? Fancy all these great secrets!
[BEERMANN shrugs his shoulders.] No.
Now take it for granted that I know a
thing or two about you.
BEERMANN [with anxiety]. You?
FRAU BEERMANN. Several things. Some
which you must know only too well. After
all, that principle of yours has not been
violated. There remain no secrets whatever between us.
BEERMANN. I assure you I shall not rack
my brains about it.
FRAU BEERMANN. Nor would I want
you to regard me as sitting in judgment on
your acts.
BEERMANN [with a false pathos]. Instead
of telling me freely and frankly of the
gossip you have heard about me; then I
could defend myself.
FRAU BEERMANN. That is just what I
want to avoid. To me it appears somewhat
childish when a man tries to justify...
BEERMANN [just as before]. In this manner, the lowest gossip can destroy the happiness of any family.
FRAU BEERMANN [seriously]. Fritz, really,
there is no one listening to us just now.


BEERMANN. You are not taking me in
earnest.
FRAU BEERMANN. No, and it is our good
fortune that I am not. At least, my good
fortune.
BEERMANN. You call that good fortune?
I might have expected something different
from you.
FRAU BEERMANN. No, sir, you did not.
If you will be honest with me, you will
admit that. This many a year, we have
been playing a common farce. You acted
the true Christian head of the family and
I the all-believing audience.
BEERMANN. How nice!
FRAU BEERMANN. Not nice but it's true.
Perhaps the fault is not entirely ours, for
we learned it from our parents. You men
are supposed to impress us with your greatness and we women are to stand by and
admire.
BEERMANN. Do you find that impossible?
FRAU BEERMANN. Even the best Christian family principles must have some
foundation. What was I supposed to admire?
BEERMANN. You ask that now?
FRAU BEERMANN. Perhaps I gave it up
sooner than others. But that is due to our
relationship. We were always together.
Where is a man to get pose and character
enough to last him for twenty-four hours
every day?
BEERMANN. So that is about your conception of our married life?
FRAU BEERMANN. That is it exactly.
BEERMANN. And after all the years...
FRAU BEERMANN. I acquired it rather
early.
BEERMANN. Now, after twenty-six years
you declare that you are unhappy.
FRAU BEERMANN. No, Fritz, it has not
led us to unhappiness. There has been no
sudden shattering of an ideal. Our marriage was not an ideal and... don't feel
offended... your personality was never so
immaculate, that one stain more or less
would spoil the effect.
BEERMANN [excited]. But there must be
some sort of reason back of all these reproaches?




MORAL


483


-.


FRAU BEERMANN. If you think them
reproaches, then we do not understand
each other.
BEERMANN. What else are they?
FRAU BEERMANN. I meant it merely as
a request. Do not bring your family into
ridicule.
BEERMANN. You are playing hide and
seek all the time. In what way am I likely
to do that?
FRAU BEERMANN. With your moral
priesthood to which you have absolutely
no right.
BEERMANN. No right?
FRAU BEERMANN. Not the slightest one.
But you are creating enemies who will
make a laughing-stock of us all, if they find
out certain things. Those things can be
found out whether we like it or not.
BEERMANN [forced laughter]. Lena dear,
I believe you are jealous.
FRAU BEERMANN [quietly]. Jealous, of
what? [Short pause.] I hope that you credit
me with at least good taste enough not to
be jealous of my so-called right, and...
otherwise what can I lose? No, Fritz, I am
not jealous. [Short pause, it is getting
darker.] I had to get accustomed to it;
that's true. This secrecy, the petty lies
and the false gravity irritated me a little
bit too much at first, but I made an effort
so that I could still retain a feeling of comradeship. I overcame it daily, because -
well, because I never really took you seriously.                      [Pause.]
BEERMANN [with a false pathos]. Lena,
dear, do you realize what things you are
saying?
FRAU BEERMANN. Yes, fully.
BEERMANN [as above]. That is dreadful.
Every word is a... catastrophe! I have
until to-day, I have until this hour, believed in our established quiet happiness.
Now shall all this pass away?
FRAU BEERMANN. Nothing but your
confidence in my blindness shall pass away.
BEERMANN. Think it over. There can
be no real family life after people lose faith
in each other.
FRAU BEERMANN. Oh, a person gets used
even to that.
BEERMANN. No. Lena, listen. Someone




I


has been telling you tales and I cannot defend myself, because I don't know what I
am accused of. You must tell me everything right now. I demand it of you.
FRAU BEERMANN. If I wanted to do
that, I would have to begin "many, many
years ago..."
BEERMANN. Well, why did n't you do it
then?
FRAU BEERMANN. You. can well understand, I had my reasons.
BEERMANN. For such silence there can
be no reasons.
FRAU BEERMANN. I could shut my eyes
and remain silent. That was my privilege.
But if I had spoken out and permitted you
to appease me... no, that was something
beyond me. To do that I would have been
obliged to lie and for that I, for one, have
not the ability. [BEERMANN makes a motzon.] No, do not interrupt me. These
things will have no consequences as long
as I do not wish them to, but if I should
name them, then they would have.
BEERMANN. Then shall I let this suspicion rest upon me?
FRAU BEERMANN. Yes.
BEERMANN. How coldly you speak. If
what you suspect were true, you could not
be so indifferent about it.
FRAU BEERMANN. Do the by-laws of
your Society prescribe that in cases like
these the wife shall be unhappy?
BEERMANN. Imagine! The many years
that you and I have lived together and you
had these suspicions right along and never
said a word about them. Why do you
speak to-day?
FRAU BEERMANN. Because you have
reached the point where our friendship for
one another may break. Everything I see
and hear from you now hurts me. You
speak in a tone of strictness, which must be
unpleasant even to you. For weeks past
there has been nothing around me but lies.
What you say to me, all that you say to
the children, and what you preached here
publicly last night. Every word hurts my
ears and urges me to contradict you; I am
silent and by doing that I endorse your lies.
BEERMANN. But, Lena...
FRAU BEERMANN. Finally when your




484


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


I


every glance is artificial, each motion of
yours is a pose. Then it is unbearable.
Add to that my anxiety for our children.
How shall they still retain faith in us, if
through an accident their eyes are opened?
I have remained silent all this time for their
sake and now you are inviting the whole
world to speak. I cannot continue to live
this life of worry and hypocrisy. All that I
have already overcome awakens again and
appears to me more ugly than ever before.
I do not know if I can still believe in your
good fellowship and remain your friend.
[She rises and goes slowly to the
door.]
BEERMANN. I do not seem to know you
any more. During our entire married life,
you have not spoken as seriously as in the
last fifteen minutes.
FRAU BEERMANN. That perhaps was my
great mistake. But I have paid for it.
[She opens the door.]
BEERMANN. Lena dear, have you nothing further to tell me?
FRAU BEERMANN. I just beg of you; do
not bring your family into ridicule. [Exit.]
[BEERMANN for a while remains
standing, lost in thought; then he
turns on the electric light, sighing,
goes over to the book-case, takes
out the volume of the encyclopedia wherein the diary of MADAME DE HAUTEVILLE is hidden,
opens it and reads standing. A
knock on the door. Frightened,
he quickly hides the diary in his
side pocket.]
BEERMANN. Come in.
[JUSTIZRAT HAUSER enters on the left.]
HAUSER. Lord; good evening.
BEERMANN [hurrying toward him]. Lord;
how glad I am that you have come!
HAUSER. Has anything happened?
BEERMANN. N- no.
HAUSER. I received your message that
you must see me to-night without fail.
BEERMANN. Yes, I was at your house
twice.
HAUSER. Unfortunately, I was not there.
[He has taken off his overcoat and is layingit on
a chair.] Tell me, you seem to me all upset.




BEERMANN. I am upset.
HAUSER. I suppose that is why you
sent for me. Well, then, what is it?
BEERMANN. Have a seat, please. [They
sit down to the left on the sofa.] I must begin
a little way back... Have a cigar? [He
goes over to the humidor, takes out a box of
cigars and offers it to HAUSER, who takes
one.] I must begin a little way back...
Can you remember the subject we discussed last night?
HAUSER. The genuinely righteous moral
life? [He lights his cigar.] Of course, I remember it. Such sermons are not easily
forgotten.
BEERMANN. Do you know I got the impression that you have a rather liberal
viewpoint.
HAUSER. Liberal?
BEERMANN. I mean that you are not a
prude.
HAUSER. I am an old lawyer, you know,
and just out of sheer habit contradict people. I made myself blacker than I actually
am. So, if you have scruples on my account...
BEERMANN. I merely mentioned it because you understand life and I must speak
to someone who judges more liberally than
our narrow-minded bourgeois.
HAUSER. More liberally than you judged
last night?
BEERMANN. I was overzealous, but don't
let us talk about it. I want to ask you for
advice. [Short pause.] You lawyers are
bound to respect professional secrets?
HAUSER. We must respect them.
BEERMANN. What I am about to tell
you, you will probably find most astounding, but it is to be considered absolutely
confidential. Even though your client confesses a crime, you are not permitted to
divulge the information?
HAUSER. What a careful criminal you
are!
BEERMANN. It is possible that you will
find this information most unpleasant.
HAUSER [bends and talks in a low voice].
Now don't worry about me, Beermann. I
will know how to protect your interests.
The law gives me the right to remain silent
in any event.




MORAL


485


BEERMANN. Well, then... [nervously
runs his fingers through his hair] I really
have to begin a little way back. The last
few days I have been thinking a great deal
about monogamy. I am surely the last
person to doubt the high moral value of
the marriage vow, but there is something
to be said on the other side. It is indeed a
very ticklish theme to discuss.
HAUSER. Suppose then that we skip the
prologue and the few opening chapters and
start at once with the affair of Madame
Hauteville.
BEERMANN. How do you know...?
HAUSER. I suspected. You probably are
not the first one who has come to confess to
me. Since last night many consciences have
been jolted. So you, too, belong to that
crowd?
BEERMANN. You ask yourself how such
things are possible?
HAUSER. No, sir, I never ask myself
such stupid questions.
BEERMANN. You have always believed
that, an undisturbed happiness prevailed in
my family.
HAUSER [quickly]. Beermann, I resent
that! Do not try to make yourself interesting.
BEERMANN. Don't take it the wrong
way. I am not blaming anybody. I just
want to...
HAUSER. You even want to find moral
justification for your immorality.
BEERMANN. I know well enough that it
is unjustifiable. I have been saying that to
myself a hundred thousand times. Do not
think that I overcame my principles so
easily.
HAUSER. All you had to overcome was
your timidity.
BEERMANN [sighing deeply]. If you only
knew.
HAUSER. Of course you did not land on
the primrose path with both feet, but you
climbed carefully over the fence - just as
befits a man of your embonpoint.
BEERMANN. I expected something better
from you than mere mocking.
HAUSER. What do you want me to do?
Shall I weep because you have sinned?
Why? What good would it do you? That


is the way of your kind. As long as no one
has proofs against you, your virtue must
always be under the spotlight, but the very
minute you trip up, some peculiar background of justification ought to be invented
for the smallest sin. No, my dear friend.
The world's moral system will not go to
pieces just because you slipped and broke
your nose.
BEERMANN. You canrot realize what
suffering you are inflicting upon me right
now.
HAUSER. NOW please don't make long
speeches. You did not call me here to
grant you absolution. You want me to
help you to quash this affair.
BEERMANN [jumps up quickly from his
chair]. Yes, you must do that. Good Lord,
I beg you. I am in a terrible position. You
have not the slightest idea how nervous I
am.
HAUSER. Will you please sit down and
stop exaggerating?
BEERMANN [sits down]. No man living
can have sufficient imagination to enlarge
on this. Imagine it! Any moment the police are likely to come here and arrest me.
HAUSER [seriously]. Have you been
carrying on so badly at Ha teville's?
BEERMANN. No. Not there. That is not
worth while mentioning.
HAUSER. Why then do you fear the
police? That's all nonsense. Now just
consider everything quietly and calmly.
By the way, has your wife any suspicions...?
BEERMANN. Of this affair? I don't think
so. She has just a general one... but
what's the use of bothering with trifles!
You know that this stupid woman kept a
diary, and that they found it in her apartment.
HAUSER. Assuredly I know it. Without
that diary we would not have so many
penitents in the City.
BEERMANN. Imagine my position. I
know positively that my name is in that
book. It means that I am simply done for
by the cursed thing.
HAUSER. Is it so certain that your name
is in the book?
BEERMANN [loudly], Yes, sir.




486


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


HAUSER. It may be possible that...
BEERMANN. It is not at all possible. My
name is there. Shall I quietly sit and wait
until I am ruined? You know that I would
be ruined if it became public. Fancy, I,
the candidate for the Reichstag; I, the
President of the Society for the Suppression
of Vice! All the papers would be full of it.
HAUSER. Oh, yes, it would be quite.interesting.
BEERMANN. Then think of the consequences here in the City! In the family!
Why, I would be killed outright! Lord,
how I tried to hammer it into the head of
that stupid man in the Police Department
so he could understand what terrible mischief this will make.
HAUSER [frightened]. You went to Police Headquarters?
BEERMANN. Of course, I was there.
HAUSER. Did you confess?
BEERMANN. How can you suppose that?
[Sits down again.] I spoke for the others. I
explained to the official that he is showing
up the influential element; that he is injuring the established order of society,but [he touches his forehead with his palm.]
that fellow has nothing but police ordinances in his head.
HAUSER. Shouting will not help us a bit.
Remain cool and collected. One thing is
important, at this moment. Has the diary
reached the District Attorney's office?
BEERMANN. No, it has not.
HAUSER. Well, as long as it remains in
the Police Department there are still possibilities.
BEERMANN. It is not in the Police Department either.
HAUSER. Of course it is there. Where
else should it be?
BEERMANN [indicating his side pocket].
Here.
HAUSER [amazed]. What?
BEERMANN [takes the diary out of his side
pocket and places it on the table]. Here it is.
HAUSER. So, this is the celebrated diary
of Madame Hauteville. [BEERMANN nods.]
Who gave it to you?
BEERMANN. Nobody. I just took it.
HAUSER. YOU mean; you sto...
BEERMANN.... Stole it, yes, sir.


HAUSER [pulls back his chair and breaks
into a loud laugh]. You did that! [He
laughs.]... Say, that's pretty good. Now
I am beginning to respect you. Confound
it, I would never have given you credit for
a stunt like this.
[He laughs and slaps his knee.]
BEERMANN. Laugh, while I am dying of
fright.
HAUSER. Don't spoil my good impression of you! I am on the point of admiring
you. [He laughs again.] Let me apologize.
I always held you as a wishy-washy bourgeois and now you go and pull this thing off.
BEERMANN. You had better give me
some advice. I have not had a quiet moment since I took the book. I want to
destroy it but how can I? If I tear it up
the pieces will be found.
HAUSER. Burn it.
BEERMANN. Where? There is no fire in
the house, except in the kitchen range. If
I hide it, I shall always have to run to and
fro to see if it is there, and I feel less safe
if I have it on my person. Then I have always a feeling as though that thing were
bulging out my pocket; and the police must
be missing it by this time.
HAUSER. Oh, tear out the page on which
your name appears and send it back anonymously.
BEERMANN. Impossible. My name appears on almost every second page.
HAUSER. Oh... so.
BEERMANN. What shall I do when the
police ask me for the book?
HAUSER. There is only one way; you
know nothing about it.
BEERMANN. But they will be dead certain that I have it.
HAUSER. Remain firm. For Heaven's
sake, don't fall into the trap that by confessing you will improve this fine job.
[A loud and prolonged ringing of
the electric bell is heard.]
BEERMANN [frightened, exclaims]. There,
do you hear that?
HAUSER. Some visitor, I suppose.
BEERMANN. This is no time to make
visits. [Anxiously picking up the diary.]
What shall I do with that damned thing?
[Takes out a volume of the encyclopedia and




MORAL


487


wants to hide the diary in it, but hesitates,
and then puts the volume back on the shelf.]
Lord, where shall I put it?
HAUSER. Come, give it to me.
[BEERMANN gives him the book and
HAUSER puts it in his side
pocket.]
HAUSER. No one will search me for it.
BEERMANN. Stay here with me...
please.
HAUSER. If it gives you any pleasure,
yes; but man alive, pull yourself together.
Suppose it really were the police; you are
trembling all over. [A knock on the door.]
BEERMANN [crouching]. Quiet now. [Another knock.] Come in.
[BETTY comes in from the left and hands
BEERMANN a visiting card.]
BETTY. The gentleman says it is very
urgent.
BEERMANN. [With a trembling hand BEERMANN takes up the visiting card and reads.]
Professor Wasner. [He sighs audibly and
then says with forced vigor.] Show the
gentleman up.              [BETTY exit.]
BEERMANN. And this has been my state
of mind for the past six hours.
HAUSER [offering him his hand]. Now be
brave, my dear friend, and even if they
should come to you, just deny it outright.
You'll know how to lie. A man of such
rare abilities... Good night.
[Goes out on the left. In the doorway, he almost collides with PROFESSOR WASNER. They greet
each other.]
WASNER [wears a cape, the left corner
thrown picturesquely over his right shoulder,
holds a large slouch hat in his hand. His hair
is disheveled. His flaxen beard falls on his
chest]. I am here in regard to the most remarkable matter a man ever came to consult another about.
BEERMANN [very nervous]. Must it be today, Herr Professor?
WASNER. The situation permits of no
delay.
BEERMANN. But it is getting so late.
WASNER. I admit that this is hardly the
proper time to make visits. Nevertheless,
I entreat you to hear me. [BEERMANN seats


himself at the desk, takes out a large handkerchief and presses it against his forehead.
WASNER remains standing and continues.]
For many years, as you well know, I undertook the task of collecting all publications
which have been undermining public
morals. I daresay to-day, that my collection is most complete and that I have
unquestionably proven the harm of pornographic literature. What corrupting influence this temptation has through suggestion and imagination can to-day no
longer be doubted, because - [an impressive pause; WASNER lowers his voice]- I
myself fell a victim to it. [BEERMANN remains in his apathetic atitude. Pause.] I
can well understand that you lack words.
I, too, became, on account of it, much disgusted with my character. I asked myself
if I still have the right to participate in the
moral salvation of our people and I have
decided affirmatively only after a thorough
examination.                  [Pause.]
BEERMANN   [absent-mindedly]. Yes...
yes... Herr Professor.
WASNER. You are entitled to know
everything. Only spare me the details.
Briefly stated, one day I could not view
my collection as objectively as usual and
through a friend I was induced to make a
most damnable visit. I assure you that I
simply loathe that fellow.
BEERMANN. But just why are you telling
me all this?
WASNER. Because together we have
fought against immorality shoulder to
shoulder. I ask you if you still deem me
worthy to strive for our common ideal.
BEERMANN. For my part, go as far as
you like, I won't stop you.
WASNER. Then you will not deny me
your assistance?
BEERMANN. Suppose we discuss all this
to-morrow, Herr Professor?
WASNER. To-morrow will be too late.
[BEERMANN falls back into his chair in an
attitude of apathy.] After my false step I
became convinced that it is my duty to
protect others from this temptation. My
feeling of duty became stronger until finally
I wrote a letter to be exact - an anonymous letter - to the police, wherein I de



488


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


manded emphatically that they put an end
to the misconduct of this person.
BEERMANN [now attentive]. Really that
was not nice.
WASNER. I wanted to assure myself
that within I still had the right to belong
to the Society for the Suppression of Vice.
BEERMANN. I consider that rather mean.
You should always be grateful.
WASNER. This very feeling would have
made me feel still more guilty. [BEERMANN
shrugs his shoulders nervously.] But now-I
come to the reason for my being here. My
information had results... This creature
was arrested and to-day after dinner my
false friend comes to tell me that he had
not been careful, had mentioned to her my
name, and I am certainly indexed in the
book she kept. This book was found in her
place by the police.
BEERMANN [jumping up]. What's her
name?
WASNER. Hauteville.
BEERMANN. So, it is you to whom we
are indebted for this scandal. [Angrily.]
Do you fully realize what you have accomplished? How many respectable fathers of
families you have brought to the very
verge of despair?
WASNER. I know it.
BEERMANN. You don't.
WASNER. I came here for that very
reason.
BEERMANN   [not understanding  him].
What? 
WASNER. I came here to request you on
behalf of the others to call to-night a
meeting of the Executive Committee. The
Society must do everything in its power to
keep this case out of court.
BEERMANN. Why the devil did you
write that anonymous letter?
WASNER. Listen to me, I beg of you.
Someone is involved in this who is very
dear to you. As soon as I received the
information, I hastened to Police Headquarters immediately and wanted to intervene there as the representative of the
Society for the Suppression of Vice. But
when I mentioned that name I was very
formally thrown out. On the steps, whom
do you think I met but our mutual friend,


Kommerzienrat Bolland! He too had been
in the Commissioner's office and had the
same bad luck. I told him my troubles and
he admitted to me that he also had been
lured into the den of this Siren.
BEERMANN. Kommerzienrat!
WASNER. Unfortunately. But that is
something I can't at all account for. He
hardly could have been led into temptation
through a collection of documentary exhibits.
BEERMANN. And what do you want of
me now?
WASNER. Our friend sends me to you.
He would have come himself but the shock
threw him into a sick-bed. He entreats you
urgently to call a meeting of the Executive
Committee, immediately. We have very
influential people in our midst who must
bring pressure to bear on the Department
of the Interior in order to hush up this
affair.
BEERMANN. If only you had not written
that anonymous letter.
WASNER. I felt a moral duty to do
it.
BEERMANN. And now it is our moral
duty to patch up this matter.
[BETTY enters on the left.]
BETTY [hands BEERMANN a calling card].
The gentleman says it is very urgent.
BEERMANN [reads]. "Assessor Stroebel."
[Frightened; to BETTY.] Tell him I am out
of town. [BETTY about to leave.] No, tell
him I am sick - or, Betty, show the gentleman up.              [BETTY goes out.]
WASNER. At what time shall the Executive Committee meet?
BEERMANN [excited]. Oh, leave me alone
with your Executive Committee.
WASNER. You must not desert us in our
hour of peril. A leader's fate is bound up
with his followers according to German
tradition.
BEERMANN [as before]. It is all your fault
anyway.
WASNER. Shall I then tell our sick friend
that we cannot count on your support?
BEERMANN. If I am so situated that I
can, I will be over to see him in an hour. I
can't promise you more now.




MORAL


489


[ASSESSOR STROEBEL enters on left and remains standing in the doorway.]
STROEBEL [very seriously]. Herr Beermann, I must speak to you privately.
BEERMANN [confused]. You - with me?
Well, since you must, I suppose you must.
WASNER. Well, I am going. [WASNER
exit left. STROEBEL enters. WASNER remains standing on the threshold.] The Executive Committee will be called to the sick
bed of our friend. We shall await our chairman.
[He goes. STROEBEL and BEERMANN remain standing, silent,
facing each other.]
STROEBEL. You are surprised, I presume, that I come here at this unusual
hour.
BEERMANN. Why should I be surprised?
STROEBEL. You will have to pardon me.
The matter which brings me here is unusual and urgent.
BEERMANN. Oh, don't mention it.
[A short pause. They both clear
their throats.]
STROEBEL. You were in my office this
morning...
BEERMANN. Was I?
STROEBEL. Why, of course you were in
my office this morning.
BEERMANN. Oh, yes, yes. I remember
we had a short conference. I must ask you
to excuse me, Herr Assessor. I am suffering with an awful ringing in the ears. It
makes me so forgetful.
STROEBEL. But I hope you still remember what we spoke about.
BEERMANN. Very dimly. If you would
remind me of it perhaps it will not be so
difficult.
STROEBEL. You came on account of the
Hauteville case.
BEERMANN. So-o?
STROEBEL. Or the Hochstetter...
BEERMANN. Well, since you say so, it
must be so.
STROEBEL. First I thought you came to
express your satisfaction that we had
caught this person...
BEERMANN. No, that was not my purpose.


STROEBEL. I am sure it was n't. I was
quite surprised that you were not satisfied
with her arrest.
BEERMANN. Why should n't I not be satisfied with her arrest?
STROEBEL [nervously]. But, Herr Beermann, you will recollect how we discussed
the diary.
BEERMANN [quickly]. A diary? I know
nothing about it.
STROEBEL. You even became quite excited about it.
BEERMANN. I know nothing whatever
of any diary. You never showed me any
book at all. Of that I am very positive.
STROEBEL [in despair]. It is just my
confounded luck to find you in this predicament. You are evidently suffering.
BEERMANN. An awful ringing in my
ears -
STROEBEL. I would leave you at once if
the least delay were possible. But I simply
must speak to you about it to-night. Can't
you get relief by taking:medicine?
BEERMANN. No medicine can help me.
I can only tell you that I do not know anything about any diary.
STROEBEL. Lord, Lord, leave the diary
out of it altogether. It is absolutely of no
importance.
BEERMANN. It is of no importance?
STROEBEL. Of course, it is safely locked
in my desk...
BEERMANN. IS that so? Well, then, I
can't understand why you hurried to see
me to-night.
STROEBEL [very embarrassed]. But that is
exactly what I wanted l;o explain to you.
But how shall I do it? You scarcely remember any more than that you were in
my office this morning. It is incredible how
misfortune has been persecuting me since
noon.
BEERMANN [greatly relieved]. Well, calm
yourself, Herr Assessor. It will come out
right in the end.
STROEBEL [downcast]. No, it can never
come out right.
BEERMANN [soothinglyl. Sit down nicely
in this chair -so! I'll sit next to you
here -so!... And now let us see about
it. [They seat themselves on the left, up




49~


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


stage.] Do you know, I am beginning to
feel much better already. So the diary is
in your desk.
STROEBEL. For my part, let it be buried
a thousand feet deep. For God's sake,
don't talk of it any more. It takes us away
from my subject.
BEERMANN. That's right. We shan't
talk of it any more. Now let me see, I
called on you about the Hauteville case...
STROEBEL. And on this occasion you
demanded that the police suppress the
matter.
BEERMANN. Quite true, I did that.
STROEBEL. There you are! And that's
why I thought you were mostly interested
in avoiding scandal.
BEERMANN. In what way?
STROEBEL. Not personally, but from a
wholly humanitarian or civic standpoint.
You even told me that just because of your
position as President of the Society for the
Suppression of Vice, you regarded it as your
duty to keep this matter out of the courts..
BEERMANN. Only for the common welfare.
STROEBEL. And out of consideration for
public opinion. I had the impression that
these considerations were of great importance to you.
BEERMANN. And still are. Do you think
I change my views? I repeat to you, that
I would consider this court trial a misfortune because it would be contrary to the
established order of Society.
STROEBEL. Then we are agreed in our
principles!
BEERMANN. You too?
STROEBEL. Absolutely.
BEERMANN. I thought that you had...
this forenoon...
STROEBEL. And I was also mistaken because you did n't seem to remember. But
at any rate, we agree in our principles.
[They shake hands.] Although that does not
accomplish anything still it is a great relief
to me that we understand each other. I am
coming now to the real purpose of my visit.
[He clears his throat.] Herr Beermann, I
must demand your word of honor that not
a syllable of what I tell you will ever pass
your lips.


BEERMANN. My sacred word of honor.
STROEBEL. These are official secrets,
perhaps even State secrets, and a single
careless word might have tremendous consequences.
BEERMANN. You can depend on me.
STROEBEL. Not even to your family.
BEERMANN. Not a breath.
STROEBEL. To tell you: Since you were
at my office this morning there were most
remarkable developments, quite unique in
their way. But I have your word of honor
- have I not?
BEERMANN. My sacred word of honor.
STROEBEL [bends low and protects his
mouth with his hand and whispers]. That
very night when Madame Hauteville's
apartment was raided, without our knowledge a very distinguished person was hidden there.
BEERMANN. I can imagine.
STROEBEL [loudly]. You can't imagine
it at all. [Whispering.] Our young heir,
Prince Emil, was there himself.
BEERMANN [surprised, slapping his thigh].
Now what do you think of that!
STROEBEL [loudly]. You can understand
that I am not telling you this as a mere bit
of gossip, but certain important reasons
compel me to. That which you mentioned
before about the reasons of State was fulfilled. Fulfilled to the very letter. All
possibilities of prosecuting this person at
present have simply gone up in the air.
BEERMANN [starting from his seat]. Then
everything is all right.
STROEBEL. There's nothing "all right"
about it. Keep your seat, Herr Beermann.
Of course our desire to prosecute has disappeared, but the lady in question is still
at headquarters and we don't know how
to get rid of her.
BEERMANN.     Madame    Hauteville?
[STROEBEL nods.] Just forget to lock the
door and she'll vanish.
STROEBEL [shaking his head]. No,...
for a great many reasons. Do you think I
did not try hard to find a solution? First,
if we openly permit her to escape, the whole
City will know it to-morrow; the press will
take it up and there will be a far greater
scandal than the court proceedings would




MORAL


49I




cause. No, sir, at least the letter of the law
must be carried out. Madame Hauteville
must give a bond. She will be set free and
then she must escape. That's the only way
we can protect ourselves from criticism.
Do you understand me?
BEERMANN. You mean... about the
bail?
STROEBEL. Yes, sir, the bail first of all.
But if it were only the bail! Just think!
She does n't want to go at all.
BEERMANN. She does not want to...?
STROEBEL. No. I gave her another hearing this afternoon and told her that we
don't care to bother with her any more.
"Listen," I said to her, "you are lucky.
Give bail of Five Thousand Marks, and
you will be free in ten minutes. There is a
ten o'clock train for Brussels to-morrow
morning." [The bell in the hall rings.] What
do you suppose she said? She laughed.
She knows very well why we are so humane, but she will not give a bond of five
marks, even if by luck she had it. She says
that she has already prepared for a trial. I
talked to her politely, then rudely. She
will not budge. She laughs and laughs and
that's all.
[Knock at the door. Maid enters with a
visiting card.]
BEERMANN [to the maid]. What does it
all mean to-night, at this hour? This is not
a hotel. [Takes the card and reads.] Freiherr
Botho von Schmettau, Herr auf Zurnberg?
STROEBEL. Do receive this gentleman,
please.
BEERMANN. Now, while we are conferring?
STROEBEL. Yes, now, if you please.
BEERMANN [to the maid]. Ask the gentleman to come in.          [BETTY exit.]
STROEBEL. He is Adjutant to the young
Prince. I told him I was going to see you,
and you can realize how upset he is.
BEERMANN. If it affords you pleasure.
STROEBEL. It does. The entire responsibility rests on me and I at least must show
that I have left nothing undone.
[Knock on the door.]
BEERMANN. Come in.




I


I


[SCHMETTAU enters.]
SCHMETTAU. Good evening.
STROEBEL [rising. BEERMANN rises also].
May I introduce you gentlemen? Herr
Beermann, the banker- Herr Baron
Schmettau.
SCHMETTAU. We have already had a
glimpse of each other to-day.
BEERMANN. Yes, I remember.
SCHMETTAU. YOU are the President of
the Local Morality Club. Before we go
further I must tell you that I do not at all
agree with those views...
STROEBEL [interrupting with anxiety].
Herr Baron, may I call your attention to
the fact that Herr Beermann, personally,
is far above these narrow theories.
SCHMETTAU. I am glad to hear it. Besides as theories they're not so bad.
BEERMANN. As theories! That's what
I say.
SCHMETTAU. Well, there you are!
STROEBEL. Herr Beermann is also the
candidate of the local Conservative-Liberal
Coalition.
SCHMETTAU. Then he is certainly no
stickler for high-flown notions. I should
be right glad if we understood each other.
And how far are you, gentlemen?
STROEBEL. In principles we are agreed.
BEERMANN. Absolutely.
SCHMETTAU. Then we shall have no difficulty in finding the right solution.
STROEBEL. I have taken Herr Beermann
into our confidence.
SCHMETTAU. That was a very disagreeable mishap, was it not? Very bad. Whoever has any patriotism can realize it.
BEERMANN. Herr Baron was also...
SCHMETTAU. Locked in the closet.
STROEBEL. Permit me to revert to the
facts. I was just telling Herr Beermann
that this Hauteville woman refuses to
leave. She boasts that she has not the bail
and even if she had it, she would not pay it.
SCHMETTAU. Confound her! She controls the situation.
STROEBEL. Now we come to the most
difficult part of it. She says that if she is
compelled to leave the City and is deprived
of her livelihood, she wants proper damages




492


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


for it. Of course I told the woman that
this, to say the least, was an extortionate
demand. Well then, she says, we will have
a trial in court.
BEERMANN. The fox! She knows well
that's out of the question.
SCHMETTAU. I am very grateful to you
for these sentiments.
STROEBEL. I asked what she considered
proper damages. "Ten thousand marks,"
she says. I almost lost my senses. With
the necessary bail that would make fifteen
thousand marks.
SCHMETTAU. In the end perhaps that is
not so gigantic.
STROEBEL. Who is going to pay it?
SCHMETTAU. Not we, of course. Our
State is a poor paymaster.
STROEBEL. Here is a fine mess, which I
cannot solve - at least not I. Herr Beermann, you said yourself that your Society
for the Suppression of Vice is vitally inter

ested in the undisturbed maintenance of
the popular belief in morality. For the
members of your Society, it ought to be
quite easy to collect that sum. I know of
no other way.
BEERMANN. [With folded hands he stands
in a pensive mood.] The Executive Committee is expecting its chairman. And I
know of a professor who alone ought to
pay an extra thousand for a letter he wrote.
[To the others.] Gentlemen, briefly speaking, I will do it. On behalf of the Society,
I pledge this sum.
SCHMETTAU. Herr von Beermann, I can
only say that you have acted honorably.
The House of Emil the Benevolent knows
on whom to confer an order.
[He offers his hand.]
BEERMANN. But let me assure you, Herr
Baron, I did not do it expecting a reward.
CURTAIN




LIVING HOURS
By ARTHUR SCHNITZLER
Translated by GRACE ISABEL COLBRON




From Anatol and Other Plays in Boni and Liveright's Modern Library, Copyright, 1917. Reprinted
by arrangement with the translator, Grace Isabel Colbron, and the publishers, Messrs. Boni and Liveright




CHARACTERS
ANTON HAUSDORFER
HEINRICH
BORROMIUS, gardener








LIVING HOURS


A carefully tended little garden in a suburb
of Vienna. A small house fills the right side
of the stage, the veranda towards the garden.
Three steps lead down from the veranda.
Under a spreading tree on the left side of the
stage, down towards the front, is a little table
surrounded by several chairs, one of them a
comfortable armchair. A high iron railing
running from the left side at back over to the
house, separates the garden from the street.
Beyond are the trees and grassy stretches of a
park. It is early Autumn, near the close of
day. Deep stillness broods over the garden.
BORROMAUS, the gardener, is working at a
flower-bed. He is an old man, with rather
longish gray hair. ANTON HAUSDORFER
comes slowly down the steps from the veranda.
HAUSDORFER is nearly sixty, smooth-shaven,
with close-cut, gray hair but young eyes. He
wears a quiet dark suit, easy in fit, but well
made, and a broad-brimmed, dark straw hat.
HAUSDORFER. Good evening, Borromaus.
BORROMAUS. Good evening, sir. You've
been to the city this afternoon, have n't
you, sir?
HAUSDORFER. No.
BORROMXUS. I thought maybe, sir, because you did n't take your coffee out here
in the arbor this afternoon either.
HAUSDORFER. No, I did not go to town.
I was in the house, lying on the sofa. I had
a bit of a headache. What are you doing
now? You'll soon have the entire garden
turned over.
BORROMXUS. Surely, sir, it's quite necessary. We may have a frost any night now.
I'm not lettin' these mild nights deceive
me, once it's October. Do you remember
the Autumn of '93, sir? We sat outdoors
that evening, the 28th of October it was,
and next morning at three there was a
heavy frost. And in '87 and '88 it was the
same way. No, sir, I'm not lettin' these
fine days deceive me.
HAUSDORFER. Quite right, Borromaus.


[He looks on at the work.] And what shall we
plant here now?
[He falls into deep thought and pays
little heed to the answer.]
BORROMAUS. Just what I wanted to
talk to you about, sir. I went over to see
Franz today -
HAUSDORFER [absentlyl. Who?
BORROMXUS [surprised]. Why, Franz,
sir, - Baron Weiseneck's gardener across
the way. He thinks a bit of himself but he
knows a bit, too. He's studied it all in
books, twenty or more of them he has on
his shelf, so I don't mind askin' him a
question now and then --
HAUSDORFER [he has not been listening].
Yes, yes, - you ought tc, do that -
BORROMAUS. Do what, sir?
HAUSDORFER. Whatever he told you.
I'm quite willing you should.
BORROMXUS [still more surprised]. But,
sir, I have n't said anything yet -
HAUSDORFER [as before]. It will be the
right thing to do, no doubt.
BORROMAUS [now quite alarmed]. Why,
sir -
HAUSDORFER [as if awakening]. What is it?
BORROMAUS. Oh, sir, I understand - if
I may take the liberty of asking, sir -
I'm sure it's that Mrs. Councillor is
worse again. [HAUSDORFER does not answer, BORROMAUS becomes embarrassed.] I
thought maybe, sir, since it's over three
weeks that the lady was out here the last
time -
HAUSDORFER. She is dead -I thank
you for your sympathy - Mrs. Councillor
is dead.       [He sits down by the table.]
BORROMAUS [startled, pulls off his cap
hastily]. Oh- sir -   [There is a pause.]
HAUSDORFER. Yes. She will never come
out here again to see us.
BORROMAUS. Is it possible, sir! I did n't
think the lady was as ill as that. [Shakes
his head.] And quite a young lady one
might almost say.




498


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


HAUSDORFER. Young, Borromaus? Well,
she was seven years younger than I. But
then I'm nearly sixty.
BORROMXUS. Yes, that's true, sir.
HAUSDORFER. Still, people do live longer
than that.
BORROMAUS. You see, sir, it's because I
saw Mrs. Councillor so often, almost every
day it seems like now, in these fifteen or
twenty years 
HAUSDORFER. Yes, we were all younger
twenty years ago.
BORROMXUS. But even this last year,
sir, she did n't look like an old lady. And
this summer, when she grew so pale and
thin - anyone would have thought —
why, one evening, sir, when I went past
the gate late and saw her sitting here, I
really thought - beggin' your pardon, sir,
I thought it must be Mrs. Councillor's
younger sister.
HAUSDORFER [after a short pause]. Well,
Borromaus, and what did our arrogant
friend Franz have to say?
BORROMAUS. Oh, no, sir, I won't bother
you with such things now. [Kisses his
hand.] I know what it means, sir, I had a
wife once and - buried her. [He is suddenly frightened at what he has said.] That
is - I meant, sir -
HAUSDORFER. I understand, Borromaus.          [There is another pause.]
BORROMXUS. And the young gentleman,
sir?
HAUSDORFER. Who?
BORROMAUS. Young Mr. Heinrich, sir.
Oh, dear, it's too dreadful! When I think
how he used to bring his mother out here
all this last year, and then come for her
again in the evening 
HAUSDORFER. Yes, he's greatly to be
pitied.
BORROMXUS. Is he ill himself, sir, that
he does n't come out here?
HAUSDORFER. No, no, I expect him any
day. He has been away, traveling. But he
should return any day now. He had to
rest a little - to brighten himself up - he
has to work again.
BORROMAUS. Yes, sir, when a man has
his calling -
HAUSDORFER. And such a calling - a


poet! [He rises.] A poet! Do you know
what that means?
BORROMAUS. Why, yes, sir 
HAUSDORFER. No, you don't —you
don't know anything about it. We don't
know anything about it at all, - we ordinary mortals, who can do nothing but putter about in our gardens -
BORROMAUS. Oh, sir, but you once
hadHAUSDORFER. You mean, I had something else to do once upon a time? But it
was n't any better than what I'm doing
now. I sat at a desk in an office, in the
city, from eight o'clock until two, sometimes even until three or four.
BORROMAUS. It must be right hard to
sit in one spot for six hours every day. I've
often felt sorry for you, sir, in those days,
when you could n't get out here until so
late. And when it was Winter -
HAUSDORFER. One has to do something,
Borromaus. Another man has my desk
now, and if he sticks at it as long as I did
he'll get his pension, too, and someone else
will fall into his place. It matters so little
who sits there, anyone would do. But a
poet - he's a different sort of being from
you and me, Borromaus. When he retires
it may be a long, long time before anyone
comes to fill his place. A poet must take
good care of himself, he owes it to the world
- you understand that, Borromaus?
BORROMAUS. Why, yes, sir.
HAUSDORFER. NO, you don't-you
don't understand it at all. Have you noticed anything queer about Heinrich? -
anything unusual? Have you never noticed the halo around his head? No?
Well, there you see, you don't understand
it at all. [BORROMXUS laughs, then looks
serious.] Don't worry about me, Borromaus. I'm not losing my mind. I don't
mean a real halo, only an imaginary one.
You could n't see it - nor could I - but
his mother saw it.
BORROMAUS. Yes, I know what you
mean, sir. You mean the papers say so
much about Mr. Heinrich, although he's
so young yet - and because people talk
about him - and that's it, is n't it?
[He draws his hand around his




LIVING HOURS


499


head as if describing a halo.
HEINRICH, dressed in deep
mourning, passes back of the
fence. He bows and goes on into
the house. HAUSDORFER looks
after him and BORROMXUS follows HAUSDORFER's glance with
his eyes.]
HAUSDORFER. Here he comes.
[He remains seated, silent.]
BORROMXUS. If you please, sir - I
have n't had any chance yet to tell the
young gentleman how sorry I am -
[HEINRICH comes out onto the veranda from
the house.]
HAUSDORFER. Go and tell him now -
tell him you are sorry for him.
[BORROMXUS goes to meet HEINRICH who comes down the steps
into the garden and takes the old
man's hand.]
HEINRICH. Thank you, Borromaus - I
understand. I thank you.
[BORROMXUS goes out R. softly, as
HEINRICH comes down towards
the table. HAUSDORFER rises
now, goes a step or two to meet
him and takes his hand.]
HAUSDORFER. You've come home again?
HEINRICH. Yes, sooner than I thought.
It is better at homeHAUSDORFER [nods]. You went awaythat same evening?
HEINRICH. Yes. I went home from the
cemetery, packed my bag and left. I
could n't have endured the night in the
house.
HAUSDORFER. I can understand. Where
did you go?
HEINRICH. I went to Salzburg first.
HAUSDORFER. Indeed?
HEINRICH. I've always felt happy there.
It's a consoling town -
HAUSDORFER. Are there such towns?
That would be fortunate.
HEINRICH. There are such towns -
under certain conditions. I did not go to
Salzburg on a mere chance. I had an experience once, seven or eight years ago -
tragic, or, at least, painful - you know,
Mr. Hausdorfer, one of those affairs -


well, I thought I would never get over it.
I went away, and I went to Salzburg. And
that very afternoon, during a solitary stroll
in Hellbrunn, in the charming Roccoco
garden, I felt my pain lighten. Next morning I awoke strong and well - and could
work again.
HAUSDORFER. Is it possible?
HEINRICH. Of course, I was scarcely
twenty then, and it was Springtime - you
have to take that into consideration.
HAUSDORFER. Yes - that's true.
HEINRICH. But this time I found no
comfort - nothing - rather the contrary.
HAUSDORFER. Then there are times
when Hellbrunn cannot heal? How long
did you stay in Salzburg?
HEINRICH. I left the next day - left for
Munich. I hoped for the quieting influence
of the old pictures. I went to the old
Pinakothek where my beloved Diirers and
Holbeins hang - and there, for the first
time in many, many months, I seemed to
feel relief. [There is a pause.] You don't
mind my telling you all this, do you? I feel
a real need to talk it all out with youHAUSDORFER [takes his hand, speaks more
kindly than before]. Please doHEINRICH. Thank you. [He sits down.]
You see, Mr. Hausdorfer, I've - I've felt
it deeply - that you and I - during these
last years - that we seem to have - to
have grown so apart.
HAUSDORFER. How do you mean?
HEINRICH. I've seen it plainly - that
you - that you were n't as fond of me as
you were once, - long ago, - when I was
a little boy playing on the meadow there.
HAUSDORFER. Yes - that was a long
time ago, Heinrich. And you must acknowledge that it was you who first - oh,
well, it's only natural that you should want
to go your own way. It was n't particularly interesting out here for a young man
- you have your own circle of friends.
But I have not complained - or have I?
HEINRICH. Oh, no. But I wanted you
to know how deeply - after this unsuccessful journey, this flight - how deeply I
realize that you are nearer to me than
anyone else. You will understand. You
know how grateful I must be to you. You




500


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


were so much to my poor mother - you
made her last years of life beautiful!
HAUSDORFER [with a gesture of protest].
Yes -yes - but tell me more about
yourself. You went to Munich and you
saw the pictures? And they comforted
you?
HEINRICH. Only as long as I remained
in the cool, quiet halls. When I stepped out
into the street again, it was all gone. And
then the evenings - the long, lonely evenings! I tried to work, to think - impossible I Everything seemed dead within me.
[There is a pause. He rises.] How long will
this last, I wonder?
HAUSDORFER. It must be distressing -
when you're used to regular work -
HEINRICH. Used to it? I have n't been
-for a long time now. That's just the
trouble. I have n't accomplished anything
for two or three years. You know -
HAUSDORFER. Yes - I know.
HEINRICH. It was an absolute impossibility. To see someone you love - your
mother, suffering - suffering like that 
and to know that there is no hope - and
that she knows it - that was the terrible
part of it - this knowledge that I could
see shining in her eyes when I sat by her
bed evenings, reading to her. [There is a
long pause.] I have given up the apartment.
HAUSDORFER. You have? Well, it
would be too large for you alone.
HEINRICH. Apart from that - I could
never write a line in those rooms again.
Night after night I'd still believe that I
could hear that moaning from the next
room, that moaning that cut deep into my
heart, that robbed me of the power or the
desire to work -to live even. Oh, my
God - [Pause.] Do you know what
Dr. Heusser told me the Sunday before her
death?
HAUSDORFER. What was it?
HEINRICH. He said - it might go on -
for two or three years more.
HAUSDORFER [with a start that is almost
of anger]. Two or three years more?
[Controlling himself.] He said it might go
on for two or three years more? -
HEINRICH. Yes. And it would have been
much worse. She would n't have been able


to leave her room -she couldn't even
have had her few hours out here - here in
this garden where she's always been so
happy.
[He stands looking down at the
empty armchair.]
HAUSDORFER. I might have found my
way into town occasionally - don't you
think?
HEINRICH [with a sense of shame]. Dear
Mr. Hausdorfer, here I am talking about
myself all this time - I am young - there
may be something of a future for me yet -
but you - how much you have lost!
HAUSDORFER. Yes, I have lost much.
HEINRICH. I know how near my mother
was to you. I have always known iteven - then - years ago.
HAUSDORFER. Even thenHEINRICH. I was not so very little when
he - who was my father - left us.
HAUSDORFER. Yes - yes.
HEINRICH. I can still remember the day
mother told me that my papa had gone
away. When he did not return I imagined
he must be dead and I used to cry bitterly,
some nights. Then one day I met him on
the street with - the other woman - for
whose sake he had deserted my mother. I
hid in a doorway that he might not see me
- I felt ashamed, child that I was. Oh,
yes, I early learned to understand that my
mother was free - as free as if she had
been widowed.
HAUSDORFER. Then - it seems - you
have forgiven us.
HEINRICH [slightly offended]. I beg your
pardon, I must have expressed myself
awkwardly. [Warmer again.] Why should
n't we talk naturally and simply about
natural, simple things, particularly in a
moment like this. I long to press your
hand, as a son to a father, for I know how
my mother loved you.
[It is now growing dark. The lanterns on the street are lit up one
by one.]
HAUSDORFER. Love? That would not
mean so much. Love comes easily when
one is young. We were friends, Heinrich,
old people and friends. Do you know what
that means? Or has the word no meaning




LIVING HOURS


5oI


yet for such young ears? Ah, yes, how
could you understand it? —you young
people- with the world opening before
you - the future at your feet - and you,
just you with your gifts, your prospects -
no wonder -
HEINRICH. Oh, you are mistaken, Mr.
Hausdorfer, I do understand it. If I could
bring her back to you - to us - could
bring back my poor mother and see her
sitting there, - if only just for one evening
- what would I not give to do it?
HAUSDORFER [bitterly]. What would you
give?
HEINRICH [hesitating]. I feel now as if
I would give my entire future, all I can
accomplish, all that I hope to achievegive it all for that.
HAUSDORFER. Heinrich, don't be angry
- but - you don't believe that yourself.
HEINRICH. If I could do it - if it lay in
my powerHAUSDORFER. No, Heinrich, that is not
true - even if it lay in your power - I
know you —I know you all-I know
what you are like - you artists - all of
you.
HEINRICH. All of us? I do not have to
answer for anyone else.
HAUSDORFER. No, you do not have to
answer for anyone else. But when I say
all of you, I know what I mean. There was
a man in my office - about ten years ago
it was - he occupied himself with music
in his leisure hours; something of his was
given as a concert by the Choral Society.
His name was Franz Thomas. He lost an
only child, a boy of seven, handsome and
intelligent. I knew him, he used to come
to the office with his mother sometimes.
Diphtheria killed him one night, and I went
to pay my visit of condolence. He - the
father - was at the piano playing - and
the dead child lay in his coffin in the very
same room. He sat there playing and he
didn't stop when I came in -he just
nodded to me and whispered, when I came
up behind him: "Listen to this, Mr.
Hausdorfer -this is in memory of my
poor boy - the melody just came to me -"
and there lay the dead child in its coffin -
yes - it turned me cold -


HEINRICH [listens with great interest and
finally with a sense of satisfaction]. Yes - I
think I can understand that many people
- many very worthy people, feel a sort of
horror at such things.
HAUSDORFER. Horror? That is the right
word.
HEINRICH. But tell me, Mr. Hausdorfer,
are n't they to be envied - the people who
can escape like that - escape from their
sorrows into their work, into their art? -
who may even possess the magic power to
shape their grief into something beautiful,
instead of pouring it out in useless tears?
HAUSDORFER. Into something beautiful? Does that bring back the dead?
HEINRICH. As little as do the tears. I
don't say that our joy in our work can outweigh the grief for a beloved one lost. But
is n't it all that is left to us? This work of
ours? Will you not tend your garden as
carefully as before? And I - I long for the
day when I shall be able to work again, to
accomplish something worth while. We
must all bow to the inevitable.
HAUSDORFER. To the inevitable- yes,
that may be true.
HEINRICH. This was inevitable.
HAUSDORFER. No -no —
HEINRICH [slightly surprised]. But it
was. Why torture yourself with such
thoughts? Did n't you speak to the doctor
yourself not more than six weeks ago - he
told you the truth then -- it had to come.
HAUSDORFER. But not so soon -not
yet.
HEINRICH. How can you say that, Mr.
Hausdorfer? You don't mean —that there
was any neglect -
HAUSDORFER. Oh, no- oh, no, forgive
me. Everything was done that could possibly be done.
HEINRICH. Well, then?
HAUSDORFER. Did n't you tell me yourself, just now, that she might have had two
or three years more to live?
HEINRICH. Why, yes, that's true. But
the doctor warned us that death might
come suddenly any day -- you know that
as well as I do.
HAUSDORFER. Suddenly? Yes, it came
suddenly enough. [Hesitating, then with




502


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


decision.] But whether it came - naturally
- that's another question.
HEINRICH [startled]. What? Why? - I
don't understand how you could suggest
such a thing -when there was n't the
slightest - the doctor would surely have
noticed 
HAUSDORFER. Why should he? An
overdose of morphine - death before
morning - the family are prepared -
HEINRICH. You say that - with such
strange conviction - did my mother ever
- speak about -?
HAUSDORFER. I am not mistaken - let
that suffice.
HEINRICH. Since you have already said
so much, Mr. Hausdorfer, you will understand that I -
HAUSDORFER. I know what I am talking
about - don't ask any more.
HEINRICH. You mean -- the letter on
her desk -
HAUSDORFER [nods]. Yes.
[There is a pause.]
HEINRICH [alarmed, doubtful]. The letter? Hm -Yet why should I be surprised? How many times in those terrible
nights have I asked myself —I will confess it now, even at the risk of giving you
the horrors - I have asked myself why we
poor mortals should suffer so much misery
- such agony, when it is in our power to
end it all any moment.
HAUSDORFER. Heinrich!
HEINRICH. If my mother has donewhat you say she has - then she has done
right.
HAUSDORFER. Heinrich!
HEINRICH. That is my honest opinion.
HAUSDORFER. But you don't know,
Heinrich - you don't know the truth. She
would have lived on - even in torture -
as long as God gave her life - she would
have lived on for my sake and for her own
- for our few hours in the garden here -
so full of memories of our youth, and our
happiness. She died for your sake, Heinrich
- now you know, - she died for you.
HEINRICH [in growing excitement]. For
me -? For me? I don't understand you
at all - for me? What do you mean?
HAUSDORFER. Can't you really under

stand? Can't you imagine? Did n't you
speak of it yourself, just now?
HEINRICH. Speak of what?
HAUSDORFER. Have n't you just told me
what has been going on in you this last
year? And do you think your mother
would n't notice it?
HEINRICH. Notice what?
HAUSDORFER. That her illness hampered
you in your work? - that you could n't
write- that you were afraid your talent
was dead -that you - you -were the
martyr, that you were a ruined man - she
saw all that - and because she saw it -
HEINRICH. Because of that? Oh, no,
no - it is n't possible.
HAUSDORFER. She was your mother -
it was quite possible.
HEINRICH. Oh, no, no. Mr. Hausdorfer,
your grief leads you into surmises that are
quite unjustified. Of course I realize that
my state of mind cannot have been a secret
to my mother - although I did my best to
hide it from her. But that this should have
been the reason for - oh, no - no.
HAUSDORFER [interrupting vehemently].
Why won't you believe me? Do you think
I am lying to you? Why should I? [He
takes a letter from his pocket.] Here, read
this - read this - this letter was written
with full consciousness —it's the letter
that was found on her desk. She wrote it
that last evening - and half an hour later
- read it - read it - it's all there - because she saw you suffer - she saw you -
suffer - she - left us - before her time
had come - that's why - she died.
HEINRICH [reads the letter quickly].
Mother! mother! [He sinks down as if
crushed]. For me- for my sake - why
then - then I am her - oh, my GodMother!
[He kneels before the armchair
burying his head in its seat.
HAUSDORFER looks down at him
and nods slowly. There is a long
pause. Finally HEINRICH rises
and speaks quietly.]
HEINRICH. I will go now. I can imagine
how painful it is for you to see me here.
This letter - [He still holds it in his hand.]it is written in full consciousness and it




LIVING HOURS


503


tells the truth. I cannot doubt it. [After a
moment's hesitation.] But may I - may I
call your attention to one sentence?
HAUSDORFER. Which?
HEINRICH. This one, in which my
mother implores you never to betray the.
contents of this letter to me. [Reading.] "I
implore you -" She implores you to
leave me in the belief that she died a
natural death. This letter was intended for
you alone and certainly not for me.
HAUSDORFER. But I intend that you
shall know of it. I take the responsibility.
You will survive it.
HEINRICH. Your action has destroyed
the very reason for her voluntary death,
for her great sacrifice. She did not will
that I should feel myself her murderer, that
I should go through life as one accursed.
And some day you may come to realize
that you have done a great wrong, not only
to me but to her - a wrong as great as
mine has been.
HAUSDORFER. I will take it upon myself, Heinrich- I can tell you, - you.
You will not feel guilty long -you will
live on - you will work - you will shape
it into something beautiful.
HEINRICH. That is my right -it is
even my duty now. There is nothing for
me now but to kill myself, or to give the
proof that my mother - has not died in vain.


HAUSDORFER. Heinrich! Your mother
was alive less than a month ago and you
can talk like this? She killed herself for
your sake - and you carl shake it off? A
few days more and you'll be thinking, perhaps, that what she did was only her duty.
Am I not right? You are all alike, you artists - great and small -all alike - proud,
arrogant! What is all your writing - even
if you were the greatest genius - what is
all your writing compared to one such living hour? - one of those hours when your
mother sat here in this armchair and talked
to us - or just sat silent - but she was
here - and she was alive - she was alive
- alive!
HEINRICH. Living houws? They live no
longer than the life of him who remembers
them. And it is no mean vocation to give
such hours an enduring existence beyond
the grave. Good-bye, Mr. Hausdorfer.
Today your grief gives you the right to
misunderstand me. In the Spring, when
your garden blooms anew, we will meet
again. For you, too, - will go on living.
[He goes out through the veranda.
As he opens the door of the house
a broad stream of light from the
lamp shines out into the now
darkened garden.]


CURTAIN








THE CONCERT
A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS
BY HERMANN BAHR
Translated by BA YARD QUINCY MORGAN




This translation is printed by permission of and special arrangement with the author




PERSONS
GUSTAV HEIN, Pianist
MARIE, HIS Wife
FRANK JURA
DELPHINA, HIS Wife
EVA GERNDL
POLLINGER
MRS. POLLINGER
MISS VAYNER, Maid
MISS SELMA MEIER
MISS GARDEN
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER
MRS. FANNY MELL
MRS. KANN








THE CONCERT
FIRST ACT


HEIN'S drawing-room. In the left wall,
door to MARIE'S room; centre, door to the
music-room; in the right wall, door to the
anteroom. Pictures of GUSTAV HEIN, a
bust of GUSTAV HEIN. To the left a table
and chairs. By the right-hand door, a fireplace, farther front a sofa backed against the
wall, before it a small round table and chairs.
Flowers in tall narrow vases everywhere.
Everything is "bright," comfortable, and
costly, of an agreeable, easy elegance.
On the table to the left: Bouquets of tulips,
narcissus, and lilacs, just laid down; a pile
of unopened pale-blue, yellow, and pink
notes, with monograms on them; also a travelling bag of yellow leather, half packed. On
the table to the right a pile of unopened
notes.
The door to the music-room is open; a
great black Steinway is visible, and on the
wall laurel wreaths with large bows of ribbon.
The door to the right is also open.
HEIN [43; tall, strikingly slender - which
he tries to accentuate by his dress -and
very youthful in his rapid movements; coalblack hair falling in long smooth locks on his
shoulders; his restless countenance smooth
shaven, very intelligent, with a slant toward
mockery, which disturbs the banal amiableness of his expression; it would be the head of
a crafty cosmopolite or diplomat but for the
long hair, which gives him a sort of professionally artistic air; he is effeminately
coquettish, especially when in conversation
he suddenly opens wide his heavy, somewhat
sleepy eyes, to stare abstractedly into space;
he speaks with an affected cordiality, and his
caressing voice has a pleading, cajoling
quality, yet he easily forgets himself, and
when he is impatient, it becomes harsh and
shrill; he is wearing an automobile coat; he
is to the right in the music-room, invisible as
yet, and can hardly fend off the thronging


ladies]. Believe me, ladies, I am inconsolable! An oversight of my secretary,
quite evidently, which I cannot as yet even
explain to myself, for you can surely
imagine, most honored ladies, that I -
[still invisible, he suddenly breaks off, on
failing to find something, and calls impatiently toward the anteroom] Miss Vayner!
[And immediately resuming his gentle tone.]
As I was saying, I am inconsolable, I could
not imagine that my secretary -and I
cannot understand it, either, he had instructions yesterday to notify you ladies at
once, and I have no idea what - [again
calling toward the anteroom in his impatient
tone, still more vehemently, as he becomes
visible for a moment, shooting to the door of
the music-room, pyjamas over his arm, a
small bag in his hand, accompanied by the
ladies] Miss Vayner! [Vanishes again at
once to the right in the music-room and continues with softly plaintive voice.] You see
me inconsolable, ladies. In two days, to
be sure, I shall be back again, but you can
imagine how anxious I shall be about you
during those two days. [Again in the other
tone, shouting with rage.] Miss Vayner!
MRS. FANNY MELL [short, excited, scatterbrained; runs out into the drawing-room,
calling towards the anteroom]. Miss Vayner!
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER [blonde, fat,
tragic; steps into the doorway, leans against
the jamb, and sighs with tears in her eyes].
Oh dear, oh dear!
MIss SELMA MEIER [enthusiastic, breathless; storms after MRS. MELL, calling towards the anteroom]. Miss Vayner!
MRS. FANNY MELL [in front of the righthand door, calling into the anteroom]. Miss
Vayner! [About to enter the anteroom, she
collides with EVA GERNDL; starts back before the huge bouquet which the latter holds
out.] Oh!
EVA [nineteen; very slender, phantastic;




5Io


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


dressed to suggest a snake, with Klimt 1 eyes,
Klimt hair, everything Klimt; tries in every
way to be nervously iridescent; is perpetually
excited and suspicious; occasionally she forgets herself and her assumed expression
drops, revealing an innocent, appealing
Viennese face with large, wondering, childlike eyes; first appears a monstrous bouquet
of yellow tulips, which she is carrying, then
follows herself; she starts at MRS. FANNY
MELL and asks with immediate deep mistrust]. What? What is it? What has happened?
MRS. FANNY MELL [with a backward
glance into the music-room, and an expression of the utmost horror]. He's going away!
Miss SELMA MEIER [joins them]. He's
going away!
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER [tragically, with
deep voice]. The Master's going away!
[Comes forward slowly.]
EVA [choking over the words]. Go-ing
a-way?
MRS. FANNY      MELL   [quickly].  No
lesson -
Miss SELMA MEIER [chiming in]. None
tomorrow andMRS. FANNY MELL [interrupting]. He's
going to give a 6oncert -
Miss SELMA MEIER [interposing]. The
secretary was to have notified us -
MRS. FANNY MELL. He did n't notify
me -
Miss SELMA MEIER. Nor meMRS. FANNY MELL [to EVA]. Did he
write to you?
EVA [still quite speechless]. Who, me?
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER [joining them;
tragically]. The Master's going away!
EVA [breathless]. Not a word, not a
word! But there - there -
[Struggles for breath.]
HEIN [in the music-room, invisible; calls
toward the anteroom]. Miss Vayner!
EVA. There's a mystery in this.
[Drops her bouquet with a brief
shriek, puts her hand to her
heart, and sinks on the sofa.]
MRS. KANN [short, stocky, asthmatic; a
gigantic hat and many rings; shoots out of the
music-room]. Miss Vayner!
1 Contemporaneous painter.


MRS. FANNY MELL [running into the
anteroom]. Miss Vayner!      [Exit right.]
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER [makes for the
anteroom, but remains by the right-hand
door; sighing]. Oh dear, oh dear!
MRS. KANN [waddles toward EVA]. No
lesson, the Master's going away!
EVA [her eyes closed, with feeble voice].
Water, water!
[Lies picturesquely on the sofa.]
MRS. KANN [inquiring indifferently,
without stirring]. What's the matter with
you?
HEIN [from the music-room laden with
pyjamas, satchel, and a foot-warmer, which
MISS GARDEN is insisting on taking from
him; he protests, affectedly, like a bashful
child]. No, no! What are you thinking of?
That will never do, my child.
[Goes toward the left-hand table.]
Miss GARDEN [American; extravagantly
and exotically got up; tugs at the footwarmer]. Oh, do give it to me, Master!
Give it to me! Oh, it makes me happy!
MRS. KANN [waddles up to HEIN]. No,
to me, Master, to me!
[EVA opens her eyes, blinking, and
as no one takes any notice of her,
she gets up and reaches for her
bouquet.]
HEIN [protesting as before]. No, children,
no! It really won't do at all. That's not
for your delicate hands.
[MRS. KANN seizes his pyjamas
and holds them aloft. Miss
GARDEN snatches away the footwarmer and presses it to her
breast.]
HEIN [centre, between them, satchel in
hand; lamenting with pained reproach]. Fie,
children! Shame, children! Are you mad?
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER [stepping up behind him from the right-hand door; slowly,
with deep tenderness, pleading]. Master!
HEIN [unconcernedly, quickly]. Yes, my
child?
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER [with heavy
fervor]. Confide the satchel to me, Master!
HEIN [quickly lays his hand protectingly
on the satchel; again in the same pouting and
protesting tone as before]. No, children, now
stop it. You know I don't like to have




THE CONCERT


5"


you carry it so far. It makes me all confused.
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER [with profound
sadness]. And am I the only one to get no
favors?
HEIN [looks coquettishly at her, smiles,
and hands her the satchel]. Who could resist such eyes? [Claps his hands; in a different tone, impatiently.] But now hurry up
and finish this packing some time. It's
high time. If you don't I'll actually miss
my - concert. [Merrily.] Hurry, children,
hurry.
[Miss GARDEN, MRS. KANN, and
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER set to
packing the yellow bag at the lefthand table.]
EVA [steps up to HEIN, who notices her for
the first time, and hands him the yellow
tulips]. Revered Master!
HEIN [with affected surprise, taking the
tulips]. Oh, the lovely, lovely flowers! Oh,
thank you! And do you know, child, that
those are my favorite flowers?
EVA [feigning joyful astonishment]. Not
really?
HEIN [caressing them, coquettishly]. Yes,
indeed.
EVA. Truly, Master?
HEIN. Little Eva guesses my most
secret thoughts.
EVA. I only wish the Master would
guess mine!
HEIN [coquettishly]. Well?
EVA [softly]. I'd like to go along.
[Looks impudently at him.]
HEIN [startled, confused; suddenly in a
hard, impatient tone]. What, how, where
to?
EVA [boldly]. To the concert.
HEIN   [quickly]. Which - [vexed] Oh!
[sharply] What are you thinking of?
EVA [impudently]. To the concert you
are going to give. I don't know where.
But why not?
HEIN [vehemently]. No. Out of the question, my child. [More mildly.] Yes, and
perhaps have it said that I drag the whole
crowd of my pupils along with me? That
would be a treat for the gentlemen of the
press. And besides, child, it's not a public
concert at all, but in a chateau, belong

ing to Countess - but the name does n't
matter, I don't want people to know it, it
would look as if I wanted to make a boast
of it, and you know, my child, I hate nothing worse than anything that smacks of
advertising. [Suddenly assuming a very
agreeable, flattering tone.] So be a dear and
keep my secret. Will you?
EVA [with hypocritical candor]. Yes,
Master.
HEIN. Little Eva will surely not betray
me? Oh, no, I know her too well. And if
she is good and knows how to hold her
tongue, then -
EVA. Then?
HEIN [with a coquettish glance]. Hm!
Who knows?
EVA. Then can I go along another time,
to the - concert?
HEIN [his face quite near hers, coquettishly].
Who knows?
EVA [slowly]. Even to such a very
secret concert?
HEIN [suddenly irrita!ed, dryly]. My
dear child, rather use these few days to get
in some good practice for once. Your touch
is most deficient. That's what comes of
having all kinds of folly in your head. I
can take a joke. But Art, my child, Art
demands complete devotion. [He leaves her
standing and turns from her toward the lefthand table; suddenly in a different, whining
tone.] But not the foot-warmer! What are
you doing there, the foot-warmer does n't
go into the bag!
[MRS. KANN, MIss GARDEN, and
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER pull
everything out of the bag again:
EVA follows HIEIN with her eyes
for a moment, then stamps her
foot angrily and goes to the fireplace, where she remains, defiant.]
Miss VAYNER [27; anxious, harassed;
bringing an automobile cap, breathless,
comes through the anteroom door]. Here is
the -
[MRS. FANNY MELL and Miss
SELMA MEIER behind MIss
VAYNER, go straight to the lefthand table.]
HEIN [upon hearing Miss VAYNER'S




51 2


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


voice, without turning around, busy over his
bag; complaining impatiently]. At last,
Miss Vayner! Where have you been keeping yourself, Miss Vayner? Don't you
know I'm going away, Miss Vayner? And
you leave me all alone. I really must say,
I have other things on my mind.
MISS VAYNER [holds out the cap to him,
breathless]. I was looking for your cap,
sir.
HEIN [with impatient irritation]. Oh, yes,
my cap.
MISS VAYNER. It was hanging in the
apple-tree in the garden.
HEIN [vexed]. Well! You might have
thought of that. [Looks at her reproachfully;
in the tone of one deeply wounded.] Miss
Vayner, Miss Vayner!
MISS VAYNER [conscious of guilt; softly,
beseechingly, crushed]. Pardon me, sir.
HEIN [impatient, whining; pointing to the
bag, which he cannot close]. But now come
here, won't you, and help us. [As she dashes
toward the table.] But first go and see if
John is ready. It's high time, Miss Vayner.
Tell him to come for the bag at once. [As
she dashes toward the anteroom door.] And
Miss Vayner, Miss Vayner! Have you
told my wife -?
MIss VAYNER [at the door]. Right away,
sir.                         [Exit right.]
HEIN [shouts madly after her]. No, Miss
Vayner. Listen, can't you!
MRS. FANNY MELL [dashing to the anteroom door]. Miss Vayner!
Miss GARDEN [working over the bag]. We
must stuff the things in. Then it will go all
Fight.
Miss SELMA MEIER [dashing to the anteroom door]. Miss Vayner!
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER [with deep
voice]. Oh dear, oh dear!
MIss VAYNER [outside, to the right]. Yes?
[Appears at the door breathless.]
HEIN [despairing, whining]. First of all
call my wife, won't you? I asked you to
call my wife, Miss Vayner!
MIss VAYNER [rushes to the left-hand
door]. Yes, sir.
HEIN. And give me my cap, why don't
you? Why don't you give me my cap?
MISs VAYNER [has had the cap in her


hand all this time; at the door, wholly disconcerted]. The cap? Your cap, sir?
MRS. FANNY MELL. The cap, Miss
Vayner!
Miss SELMA MEIER. The cap!
HEIN [roaring]. You've got it in your
hand!
Miss VAYNER [startled]. Yes, sir.
[Runs to him with it.].
HEIN [taking the cap and putting it on].
But first of all my wife, Miss Vayner. And
you have n't called John for me yet. And
then you must come and shut my bag
some time!
MISS VAYNER [at the door]. Right away,
sir.                          [Exit left.]
HEIN [lamenting]. If I don't do everything myself! You see, ladies. Ah, yes,
children, it's hard, this being famous.
[Walks toward the right, perceives EVA;
angrily.] And you might help a little, too,
instead of molding yourself into a picturesque statuette there by the fireplace. With
your laziness, my child, you will never get
anywhere. How many more times have I
got to tell you that?
EVA [angry, quite softly]. You have offended me too deeply.
HEIN [forced to laugh by her angry face].
How so? When?
EVA. Do you think I don't know?
HEIN [uneasy]. What?
EVA. Everything.
HEIN [impatient]. What do you mean?
EVA [with a mocking obeisance]. Good
luck to your - concert, revered Master.
HEIN [uneasy, stern]. Child, I insist that
you -
Miss GARDEN [has at last succeeded in
getting the bag shut; triumphant]. It's shut!
MRS. KANN [triumphant]. Shut!
Miss SELMA MEIER [rushes up to HEIN].
It's shut! Master, the bag is shut!
[EVA returns to the fireplace, her
back to the others.]
MRS. FANNY MELL. But the keys?
Miss GARDEN and MRS KANN [carrying
the bag to the anteroom door]. Yes, the keys?
HEIN [searching his pockets]. The keys?
MARIE [32; blonde, petite, very dainty;
her face is much too intelligent to be beautiful;
there is over her whole being a great calm,




THE CONCERT


513


which is however deceptive; she is very unostentatiously dressed, with almost coquettish
simplicity; comes through the left-hand door,
which Miss VAYNER closes after her; seeing
the ladies, she nods briefly, remaining at the
left by the table]. What is it, Gus?
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER [to Miss VAYNER]. The keys, Miss Vayner! Oh dear!
HEIN [toward MARIE, still searching all
his pockets for the keys; hastily].  Good
morning, Marie. I just wanted to tell you
that I - [interrupts himself, stops short,
and cries furiously] I have n't the keys!
Miss Vayner, Miss Vayner!
Miss VAYNER. The keys must be in the
music-room.
[Runs through centre door into the
music-room.]
Miss GARDEN and MRS. KANN [drop the
bag by the anteroom door and rush into the
music-room]. In the music-room!
[MRS. FANNY MELL and Miss
SELMA   MEIER   rush into the
music-room.    MRS.    CLAIRE
FLODERER follows them into the
music-room with slow tragic
steps.]
HEIN [calling into the music-room; angry,
complaining]. And Miss Vayner, is n't
John ready yet? [With a half turn to EVA;
impatiently, curtly.] Ah, Mrs. Eva, perhaps you'll do me the favor to run and see
about John. Will you?
[EVA vexed; controls her vexation
and nods shortly; exit right.]
HEIN [joins MARIE at the left; in conversing with her his voice takes on an occasional timidity or embarrassment which is
otherwise foreign to him]. I only want to
say a hurried goodbye to you, Marie: just
think, I've got to go away for a couple of
days, it came about quite suddenly, just
now, early this morning in fact, but [with a
short embarrassed laugh] we need n't take
solemn farewell, I'll be back in two or
three days, it will be good for me to get
out of the harness for a while, it's a concert, you know, quite insignificant, by the
way, the chief point is to give me a little
fresh air, and on the side I intend, now that
the opportunity offers, you understand of
course 


MARIE [with unconcealed sarcasm]. I
thought right away it was going to be a
concert.
HEIN [brought up short by her tone; offended]. Marie! [Looking at her, he has to
laugh; merrily.] But you are right, that
would be too stupid, I'm surely not going
to lie to you. You won't give me away,
only I have to say that before [with a gesture toward the music-room] before my
geese, for believe me, Marie, they are terrible, it's no go any more, I must get away
for a couple of days, I want to go up to the
cabin, to lie in the woods for a few days
and listen to the birds, I can't stand it any
more and spring is here now, that's when
it always comes over me, and I've honestly
earned two or three days' vacation, don't
you think?
MARIE. You have honestly earned them.
And it is very nice of you not to lie to me.
HEIN [looks at her doubtfully to see if she
is serious]. Yes, don't you think so? [Continuing hastily.] And of course you won't
give me away to the geese, they don't
need to know, it would only start more
gossip again. [In a lively tone.] You know
how people are, they'd say I was tired or
I was sick, or I don't know what all, especially at my age, they're always counting up the years on me as it is. Nowadays
they treat every musician over twenty as
a patriarch. So you understand why I
prefer to say that I'm going away for a
concert, it's really wiser. [Laughing.] And
of course you won't give me away.
MARIE. No, I won't give you away.
You know that I can hold my tongue,
don't you?
HEIN. If you could only get rid of that
ironical tone. You often say the nicest
things in a tone that makes them positively
uncanny.
MARIE [simulates astonishment]. I?
HEIN [uncertainly]. Or do I imagine it?
[Quickly glossing it over.] It's possible, of
course, my nerves are all unstrung again,
good heavens, just remember what a winter
it's been, first the big concert tour, then
running here from one function to another,
and all day long these geese. Do calm
then down, won't you, or some one of




514


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


them will throw herself in front of my car
one of these days.
MARIE. My dear Gus, how can I? You
know they all hate me.
HEIN. Why?
MARIE. I suppose they think I take you
from them. There is danger connected
with being your wife.
HEIN   [laughing].  But you're quite
brave about it.
MARIE [resigned to her fate]. One learns
to be.
[JOHN, HEIN'S chauffeur, comes through the
anteroom door and takes the bag. EVA
enters with JOHN; goes to fireplace.]
HEIN [perceiving JOHN]. Well, at last,
John. Are we ready?
JOHN. We are, sir. [Exit right with bag.]
HEIN. And high time, too. [Giving
MARIE his hand.] So take good care of
yourself, and in two days I'll be with you
again.                 [Kisses her hand.]
[MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER comes out of the
music-room.]
MARIE. Only don't overexert yourself.
HEIN [confused by her tone]. Oh, you!
You're always making fun of me.
MARIE [feigning concern]. Well, a concert like thatHEIN [embraces her impetuously]. Goodbye, goodbye. [Kisses her.] Goodbye.
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER [seeing him kiss
her; tragically]. Oh dear!
MISS VAYNER, MISS GARDEN, MRS.
FANNY MELL, MRS. KANN, and Miss
SELMA MEIER [in the music-room, all shouting at once]. There they are! The keys are
found! Found, found! Give them to me!
Let me have them!
[They rush forward out of the
music-room, crowding and shouting, Miss VAYNER at the head
with the keys, Miss GARDEN
last.]
HEIN [taking to flight before them, putting
on his motoring goggles]. But now quickly,
God help me. [Waves his hand once more
to his wife and runs to the anteroom door.]
Goodbye, goodbye! And the foot-warmer,
Miss Vayner! Don't forget the foot

warmer! In three days, children, I'll be
back again. Have you the satchel, Miss
Vayner? And hold your thumbs, children,
for my concert! [Exit right; still speaking.]
And practice good and hard, children,
good and hard! Think of me and practice.
Miss Vayner, I've forgotten the flowers!
The flowers, the flowers must go too. And
the letters, my letters. Just practice hard.
Always practice good and hard, children,
[His voice dies away, the chugging
of the car is heard. MARIE, smiling, exits slowly to left.]
Miss VAYNER, MRS. FANNY MELL, MRS.
KANN, and Miss SELMA MEIER [crowd out
behind HEIN, to the right; their voices are
heard outside]. The flowers, for goodness
sake, the flowers!
[MIss GARDEN, just at the anteroom door, turns once more to
get the flowers and letters. MRS.
CLAIRE FLODERER anticipates
her, rushes to the table, gathers
up flowers and letters, and solemnly carries them out, measuring Miss GARDEN with threatening glance.]
Miss GARDEN [full of hate and wrath].
Oh, that horrible person! I hate her!
Miss SELMA MEIER [comes back through
the anteroom door; breathless]. The flowers!
He has forgotten the flowers!
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER [pressing them
firmly to her bosom; solemnly, with heavy
voice]. I have his flowers.  [Exzt right.]
[Miss SELMA MEIER stands disappointed and unhappy at the
anteroom door, and lets MRS.
FLODERER pass.]
EVA [steps quickly to Miss GARDEN;
sharply]. I must speak with you. You've
the most sense of any of them.
Miss GARDEN [astonished]. Oh, yes.
EVA [calling]. Selma!
MIss SELMA MEIER [starting]. Yes?
[Joins her.]
EVA [stepping between them, taking each
by the hand; sharply]. You believe in this
concert? [Scornfully.] You believe in this
concert? [Full of contempt.] You believe in
this concert?
[Drops their hands and leaves




THE CONCERT


515


them, to sit down in the middle
of the sofa.]
MIss SELMA MEIER [after a pause, pondering, curious, advancing to the sofa]. You
think -?
Miss GARDEN [after a pause, slowly moving up beside Miss MEIER]. I don't believe, but I don't know.
EVA. But I know. [Beckons them both
quite close to her; then whispering mysteriously, very quickly and sharply.] Only yesterday he didn't know anything about
this concert, did he? We were here, I
guess! [Both nod.] It's only this morning
that this concert heaves in sight. This
morning. [Both nod.] Of course he says
his secretary was supposed to write us.
Says so. But did the secretary write you?
[MIss MEIER shakes her head.] No! Did
he write you? [Miss GARDEN the same.]
No! Did he write me? No! Therefore,
therefore, therefore!
MIss SELMA MEIER [eagerly]. Therefore?
Miss GARDEN [drawling]. Therefore?
EVA. Or did you ever hear of a concert
existing one day that did n't the day before?
MIss SELMA MEIER [quickly, convinced].
No!
EVA. Think it over.
Miss GARDEN [slowly, drawling]. No.
EVA [in triumph]. But now notice. Nobody knew there would n't be a lesson today. Everybody came. I didn't know,
you didn't know, Miss Garden didn't
know, nor Mrs. Fanny Mell, nor Mrs.
Kann, and not even Mrs. Claire Floderer,
his tragic muse [mocking her]. Oh dear!
no, and I asked Miss Vayner, and she
didn't know it, no, not one. Not one
knew it, everybody came. Only one knew
it, for she did n't come. Who did n't come?
Mrs. Delphina Jura did n't come. So she
must have known.
Miss SELMA MEIER [excited]. That's
true.
Miss GARDEN [slowly, drawling]. That's
true.
EVA [solemnly confirming]. That is true.
And thereforeMIss SELMA MEIER [sticking her head
out]. Therefore?


MIss GARDEN [doing likewise, slowly].
Therefore- [as she begins to comprehend,
joyfully agreeing] I see, I see, I see!
EVA [continuing her conclusion]... it is
clear, that this concert, which Gustav Hein
is giving today, is named Mrs. Delphina
Jura.
Miss GARDEN     [outraged]. Oh,  that
shameful person!
EVA [assenting from a full heart]. Yes,
indeed, Miss Garden. You have found the
true word for it. I was once in the Sacred
Heart with that lady.
Miss SELMA MEIER [horrified]. Do you
really think that Gustav Hein, that that
Jura person -?
EVA. Even Gustav Hein is only a man.
It is well known how weak they are. She
has seduced him.
Miss GARDEN. She has a nose like a
pug dog.
EVA. What does Gustav Hein know
about it? He lives on a higher plane.
MIss SELMA MEIER [mocking, bitter, contemptuous]. With her! With her! With
Mrs. Delphina Jura!
EVA [triumphing]. Not yet! For I am
still here. Not yet!
Miss SELMA MEIER [curiously]. But if
you think that they have -
EVA. They're already in the auto. In
three hours they can he in the canyon.
From there it's hardly an hour's walk to
the cabin. It's known all over town that
Gustav Hein always goes to that cabin,
his little hunting lodge up there in the
woods, every time, every time- oh, you
know. Every time he begins a new concert.
Miss SELMA MEIER [still unable to overcome her astonishment]. No, no. No doubt
of it. You are right.
Miss GARDEN [outraged]. Horrible.
EVA [with a shrug]. An artist needs that
sort of thing.
Miss SELMA MEIER [with quick assent].
Yes, one must n't be narrow, Miss Garden.
EVA [suddenly growing angry, with raised
voice]. Yes. But- but he does n't need
Mrs. Jura.
Miss SELMA MEIER. No!
EVA [with growing anger]. But of course
Mrs. Jura always thinks she's got to be




5I6


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


first everywhere. Always pushing herself
forward, always wants a taste of everything. Oh, I knew it, from the very first
day she suddenly hove in sight here. Mrs.
Jura had suddenly discovered her musical
heart. [Sarcastically.] Musical, poor Delphina, good Lord! Just as she had to
marry Jura, when skeeing came into vogue,
for at that time he was on top. There's
not a single genuine fibre in that woman.
[In a different tone, full of compassion;
very swiftly.] I'm awfully sorry for the
poor man. Such a sensible, simple, nice
man. These men are a mystery. And now,
hardly a year after their marriage, not
even a year after their marriage - that's
no way to do. I'm no prude, I'm a modern
woman too; who can resist the impulse of
the heart? But a decent woman observes
a certain interval, after all. Not a year
after their marriage. The poor man. But
I could have foretold it. I know dear
Delphina. And she- [again very angry;
with a scornful resolution, as she jumps up]
she shall learn to know me too. [Crosses
the room.] Look out for me. Oho, Oho!
You shall learn to know me, never fear,
my proud little Dell. Oho, look out for me.
[Rubs her hands maliciously.]
Miss SELMA MEIER [runs after her;
eager]. What are you going to do?
[EvA merely laughs, without answering.]
Miss GARDEN [urgently]. Oh, speak!
Tell us!
[EVA merely laughs scornfully,
rushing about the room.]
Miss SELMA MEIER [eagerly]. Speak, do!
You have some plan.
Miss GARDEN. I am terribly curious.
Miss SELMA MEIER. You're going to do
something.
Miss GARDEN. Oh, speak! Oh, speak!
Miss SELMA MEIER. What are you going to do?
EVA [stops laughing and running; quickly,
sharply]. I will - [steps in between them,
taking each by the hand, and looks grandiloquently at them; after a pause, slowly,
simply, calmly] I will save the Master.
MIss SELMA MEIER [intoxicated]. Glorious!


Miss GARDEN [admiring]. Oh, you are a
daring woman.
EVA [simply]. I shall save the Master.
MIss SELMA MEIER [eagerly]. How?
Miss GARDEN. I 'd like to help save him.
Miss SELMA MEIER. Do tell us your
plan.
Miss GARDEN. Oh, tell us, tell us!
EVA [with a superior smile, very decisively,
very quietly]. I shall save the Master.
[Drops their hands and turns to the anteroom door.] Goodbye.
Miss SELMA MEIER [excited]. What is it?
Where are you going?
EVA. I have no more time.
Miss GARDEN. Oh, take me with you!
EVA. Tomorrow you shall hear all about
it.
Miss VAYNER [outside at the right; invisible; shouting]. No, I shan't let you go.
You must come with me to the mistress.
EVA [attentive to the clamor; curious].
What's this?           [Stands listening.]
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER [outside, invisible; with agitated voice]. But listen,
when I tell youMiss SELMA MEIER [whispering excitedly].
Here's excitement.    [Stands listening.]
Miss VAYNER [outside]. No, you must
come with me.
Miss GARDEN [enthusiastic]. Oh, today's terribly full of excitement.
[Stands listening.]
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER [outside]. When
I tell you -
EVA [listening, mockingly]. The tragic
muse!
Miss VAYNER [appearing in the anteroom door, a small framed picture in her
hand, dragging MRS. FLODERER after her;
very much excited]. It is my duty to report
this to my mistress.
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER [appearing behind MiSS VAYNER]. But first listen to me,
while I explain to youMiss VAYNER. The mistress shall decide. [About to drag MRS. FLODERER Off
to the left, now perceives EVA and the others,
and stops in wonderment]. Oh! The ladies
are still here?
EVA, MIss SELMA MEIER, and Miss
GARDEN [crowding about MIss VAYNER and




THE CONCERT


517


MRS. FLODERER, inquiring curiously and
all at once]. What has happened? Speak,
Miss Vayner. Tell us about it, Mrs.
Floderer. What's the matter with you?
What's the excitement?
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER [in tragic complaint]. This person has had the impudence -
Miss VAYNER [interrupting, brandishing the picture]. Pardon me, ladies, this
picture 
EVA [craning her neck]. What sort of a
picture?
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER [with deep voice,
in a constant drawl]. It's not true, only -
Miss SELMA MEIER [craning her neck].
Let's see.
Miss GARDEN [craning her neck]. A picture? Oh!
MIss VAYNER [shouting]. Listen, won't
you? Mrs. Floderer -
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER. This person
lies!
Miss SELMA MEIER. Listen, now, listen!
Tell us about it.
EVA [to MRS. FLODERER, vehemently]. Do
let her tell us about it.
MISS VAYNER [almost crying with agitation]. I just caught Mrs. Floderer taking
this picture from the wall in the anteroom
and carrying it off.
EVA [outraged]. Oh!
MIss SELMA MEIER [horrified]. Oh!
Miss GARDEN [coolly]. Oh!
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER [softly lamenting, almost in tears]. But I was only going
to —
MISS VAYNER [lowering the picture and
regarding it; in a different tone, enraptured].
A picture of the Master at seventeen.
EVA [crowding close to MISS VAYNER, to
look at the picture over her shoulder; forgetting everything, enraptured]. Those dear
eyes!
Miss SELMA MEIER [crouding close to
Miss VAYNER on the other side; enraptured].
That soft mouth!
Miss GARDEN [behind Miss VAYNER,
looking over her shoulder at the picture; enraptured]. Oh, his mouth has grown much
larger since then.
MRS. C   IRE FLODERER [crowding close


to MIss VAYNER, regarding the picture; enraptured]. His mouth is still soft.
Miss GARDEN. Oh, now his mouth is
splendidly hard.
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER. Soft!
EVA [deciding]. His mouth is hard and
soft at the same time.
MISS SELMA MEIER [in enthusiastic assent]. Yes!
Miss VAYNER [suddenly bethinking herself, raises the picture, accusingly]. And it
is this precious picture that Mrs. Floderer
wanted to steal.
Miss GARDEN, EVA, Miss SELMA MEIER
[recoiling, speaking at once. Oh! Horrible!
No!
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERIER [in tragic asservation]. No! Not to s:eal. No. I only
want to have it photographed for myself.
EVA [quickly]. And for me, too, Mrs.
Floderer.
Miss SELMA MEIER [quickly]. For me, too.
Miss GARDEN [quickly]. Oh, yes, for me,
too.
MISS GARDEN, EVA, M:[SS SELMA MEIER
[pressing Miss VAYNER, ail talking]. Surely
she can do that. Let her do it. That's
permissible. Why not? She only wants
a photograph of it. For us all.
MISS VAYNER [in altered tone, with blissful hope]. For me, too?
Miss SELMA MEIER [urging]. For us all,
of course!
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER. Of course for
you, too.
[Stretches out her hand for the picture.]
Miss VAYNER [regarding the picture in
rapture]. For me, too!
MRs. CLAIRE FLODERER. Give me the
picture.
Miss GARDEN and MIss SELMA MEIER.
For us all, of course! But give her the
picture. Don't you hear?
MIss VAYNER. If you'll promise me,
that I can really -
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER, MISS GARDEN,
and MIss SELMA MEIER. Don't you hear?
Everybody gets a picture. Give it to her.
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER [seizes the picture and presses it to her]. Everybody gets
a picture.




5I8


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


EVA [suddenly puts her hand to her heart
and shrieks; then breathlessly]. There's
not a moment to lose!
[Dashes off to the right.]
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER [startled by
EVA'S cry; tragically]. What has happened?
Miss VAYNER [startled by EVA'S cry].
Good gracious!          [Starts after her.]
MISS SELMA MEIER [steps in front of her;
triumphant]. No! Let her go.
Miss GARDEN. She must go.
MISS VAYNER [alarmed]. What ails her?
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER. She was very
pale.
MISS GARDEN [proudly]. Oh, you know
nothing yet.
Miss SELMA MEIER [triumphant]. She is
going to save the Master.
Miss GARDEN. She is going to save the
Master.
Miss VAYNER [excited, almost crying].
Good gracious!
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER [tragically, with
deep voice]. Oh dear! Oh dear!
MIss VAYNER. What about the Master?
MISS SELMA MEIER [proudly]. Oh, you
know nothing yet.
MISS VAYNER [breathless]. Oh, speak!
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER     [deep-voiced].
Oh speak!
MISS SELMA MEIER [laughing, very
quickly]. You see, the concertMiss GARDEN [breaks in, laughing]. Yes,
the concert -
Miss VAYNER [eager]. The concert?
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER [anxiously].
The concert?
Miss SELMA MEIER [voice pitched very
high]. Is no concert at all, butMiss GARDEN [laughing, drawling]. No
concert at all.
MISS VAYNER [speechless]. No concert?
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER [pressing the
picture to her bosom; urgently, anxiously].
But? But?
MISS SELMA MEIER [in high, piercing
tone]. But Mrs. JuraMiss VAYNER [with a short outcry]. Mrs.
Jura?
Miss GARDEN [drawling]. Mrs. Delphina
Jura,


Miss SELMA MEIER [high voice]. Mrs.
Delphina Jura has seduced the Master!
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER [tragic, deepvoiced]. Oh dear!
Miss VAYNER [in an outburst]. But I
had a foreboding of it.    [Begins to cry.]
Miss SELMA MEIER. They have gone up
to the cabin togetherMiss VAYNER [shudders; crying.] To the
cabin!
Miss SELMA MEIER. Where the Master
always -
Miss GARDEN. Yes, that's where the
Master usuallyMRS. CLAIRE FLODERER [deep, hollow
voice]. To the cabin! With her!
Miss VAYNER [crying]. And I suspected
Mrs. Eva.
MARIE [opens the left-hand door; invisible]. Miss Vayner!
Miss VAYNER [tries to compose herself].
Yes, ma'am!    [Motions to the ladies to go.]
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER [starts at the
sound of MARIE'S voice]. Oh dear!
[Steals tragically to the anteroom
door.]
MARIE [entering, perceives the ladies; surprised]. The ladies are still here?
Miss VAYNER [embarrassed]. The ladies
were just going to -
Miss SELMA MEIER [haughty, cool]. We
are just going to-[Bowing curtly.] Good
day.                       [Goes to right.]
MARIE. Don't let me disturb you.
[Goes into the music-room.]
Miss GARDEN [slowly]. Goodbye.
[Rustles out to the right with contemptuous mien.]
MRS. CLAIRE FLODERER       [tragic, with
heavy voice]. And that is his wife.
[Exit right].
Miss SELMA MEIER. In that, all men
are alike. Even the most exalted.
[Exit right. Miss VAYNER closes
the anteroom door behind them,
then comes back into the room.]
MARIE [comes out of the music-room,
flowers in her hand]. There are still flowers
lying everywhere in there. Bring them to
me, please. And bring a few vases.
[Miss VAYNER goes into t1 msicroom.]




THE CONCERT


5I9


MARIE [goes to the table and sorts the
flowers; then she looks up and scans the
room, sniffing; turning up her nose, calling
into the music-room]. And open the windows in there.
[Sits down by the table, sorting the
flowers.]
MISSVAYNER [calling back]. Yes, ma'am!
[Pause; then she returns, bringing
flowers and two vases.]
MARIE [takes one of the vases]. Thank
you. [Filling the vase.] And Miss Vayner,
please endeavor to break the ladies of taking up their residence here. After all, this
is not a club-house.
Miss VAYNER [obedient, with slightly
trembling voice]. Yes, ma'am.
MARIE [quietly]. I told you this not long
ago, and don't wish to have to say it again.
[Pointing to the vase she has filled.] On the
little table, please.
Miss VAYNER. It shall not happen
again. Only today, with the ladies so excited - [Carries the vase to the right-hand
table.] It was impossible to calm them,
Mrs. Hein.
MARIE [with almost imperceptible irony].
Were the ladies excited?
Miss VAYNER [by the right-hand table].
Yes. Very.
MARIE. And why?
Miss VAYNER. Mistress must surely
know how the ladies are, how attached
they are to the Master. Well, and when
they suddenly heard today that he was going away, to give a concert -
[Stops short at the word, which jogs
her memory; tears fill her eyes
again.]
MARIE. And what objection have the
ladies to the concert? [Pointing to the
second vase.] Put that on the piano, please.
MIss VAYNER [comes back to the table,
very confused]. No, of course they can have
no objection to the concert. No, of course
not. But they were.
[She takes the vase, forgetting where
to take it, and looks helplessly
around.]
MARIE [observes her confusion, watches
her, and then repeats quietly]. On the
piano, please.


MIss VAYNER [startled, hastily]. Certainly, ma'am. [Goes into the music-room
and takes the vase to the piano; then returning, hoping to be allowed to go.] Do you
need anything else, ma'a:m?
MARIE. Come here a moment, Miss
Vayner. [MIss VAYNER obeys.] Come and
sit down a moment. [MISS VAYNER does
so.] Now, look at me, please. [Miss
VAYNER looks up, embarrassed.]   Why,
you've been crying.
MIss VAYNER [confused]. I? Oh, no!
MARIE. Perhaps the concert does n't
suit you, either?
MIss VAYNER. Me? Oh, no. [Amending.] Oh, yes.
MARIE. Then what ails you?
MIss VAYNER. Why, nothing, ma'am.
Really not.
MARIE. Well, then, why have you been
crying?
Miss VAYNER [begins to cry]. I have n't
been crying.
MARIE. No? And now?
MIss VAYNER [crying]. I've only, I've
only-              [Wringing her hands.]
MARIE. Well, what have you?
MIss VAYNER [crying, wailing]. My
nerves, my nerves, ma'am!
MARIE. But you never used to have any
nerves! Never!
Miss VAYNER [blowing her nose]. No.
MARIE. Listen now, I want to tell you
something.
Miss VAYNER [blowing her nose]. Yes.
MARIE. It is your fourth month here. I
have been very pleased with you. I was
already hoping you would do. You know
no one has succeeded yet.
MIss VAYNER [pleading]. But, Mrs.
Hein, you know I want to -
MARIE [interrupting]. Just listen to me,
Miss Vayner. You remember what I told
you? When you presented yourself? [Miss
VAYNER nods vehemently.l I told you what
you would have to do here, said it was very,
very little, and that it would surely be very
easy for you and that you would certainly
feel very happy with us, but for one great
difficulty which exists here, and on which all
your predecessors have been shipwrecked.
You remember?




520


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


Miss VAYNER. Yes, ma'am.
MARIE. I told you that your predecessors had always fallen in love with my
husband, and that that repeatedly turned
out to be an impossible situation. That, I
said to you, is the great difficulty in our
house. And you promised meMiss VAYNER [asseverating]. But, Mrs.
Hein!
MARIE. For consider, Miss Vayner, it
won't do. Every time it has proved that it
won't do. My husband does n't like it at
all: his pupils notice it right away and
gossip, - you know how the ladies are, -
and then I get the blame. For my husband wants peace in his house at least, and
I can't blame him for it. And therefore,
sorry as I should be to lose you, since I am
really very well satisfied with you, there
would be nothing else for me to do. Our
experiences in that line have been too terrible. And now tell me: wouldn't it still
be possible to avoid that? Perhaps we
might still find some remedy. For if you
go, and another one comes, in a month it
will be the same story over again. The
mere thought makes me quite despondent.
And so I say, would n't it be possible,
Miss Vayner?
Miss VAYNER [bawling]. The Master is
so handsome!
MARIE [at her wits' end]. Yes, but good
gracious!
Miss VAYNER [bawling]. And I don't
want anything, nothing at all. Only don't
send me away.
MARIE. That's all very well. But one
day my husband will notice it just the
same, and then it's all over. You'll see. It
makes him too furious. And then I can't
help you, either.
Miss VAYNER [suddenly angry]. And the
ladies of the school? They're all in love
with him, too. He does n't say anything
about that. Why does he let them?
MARIE. That's different. The ladies of
the school - after all, that can't be helped.
That belongs to his profession. Don't you
see, that's what he gets paid for, that's
what we live on. You surely must see that.
In his profession he restrains himself. But
for that very reason he may well demand


to have peace in his own house. I'm only
doing this for your own good, you know.
I merely warn you. It's the same story
over and over again.
Miss VAYNER [drying her tears, crushed].
I thank you, ma'am. I thank you very
much. [Seizes MARIE'S hand and kisses it.]
You are so good, ma'am.
[Begins to cry again.]
MARIE. So I say, take yourself in hand
a little. It simply will not do. I shan't be
able to help you then. I must do as my
husband wishes. [A knock at the anteroom
door.] Go and see who that is.
[Miss VAYNER gets up and goes to
the door.]
A VOICE [outside]. One moment, Miss
Vayner.
[Miss VAYNER exit right. MARIE
watches her out of sight, then
leans back smiling, her intelligent eyes looking straight ahead;
inwardly much amused.]
Miss VAYNER [through the anteroom
door, with a large bouquet of violets; she
brings it to the table and says, emphasizing
the name with noticeable compassion]. It's
only the violets from Countess Negra.
[Goes to chimney and fetches a vase
for them.]
MARIE [smiles imperceptibly; then once
more in her serious, quiet tone, in which only
at times a faint trace of irony is heard.] You
see, Miss Vayner, you must n't do that,either.
MISS VAYNER [startled]. What, ma'am?
MARIE. You say [imitating her compassionate tone] the violets from Countess
Negra. With such compassion in your
voice, that one involuntarily asks: for
pity's sake, what has happened to the poor
countess?
MISS VAYNER [much embarrassed]. Oh,
no, ma'am, surely not.
MARIE. But it sounded like that.
Miss VAYNER [growing more and more
confused]. Not at all, ma'am! How should
I come to do that?
MARIE. It sounded as if you meant to
say: this poor countess with her delicate
violets, she does n't dream of the concert,
either. That is the way it sounded.




THE CONCERT


521


MIss VAYNER [blushing with embarrassment]. No, ma'am, really, I have no idea -
MARIE [continuing imperturbably]. And
that can't help attracting my attention,
can it? What am I to think? My husband
gives a concert, and I learn from you that
the ladies are beside themselves over it,
and you yourself are all excited, and now
you speak of the countess in such a tone
that one would think she had met with a
great misfortune. Is n't that bound to set
me thinking of all sorts of things? Why
does it excite the ladies when my husband
gives a concert? And why does our maid
cry when my husband gives a concert?
And why does one commiserate Countess
Negra when my husband gives a concert?
Must n't it make me suspect that somehow
or other there might be some mysterious
connection in all this?
MIss VAYNER [with the utmost agitation].
No, Mrs. Hein! How could you even
imagine it? That is a wretched misunderstanding, I swear to you, no!
MARIE [hardly able to conceal her amusement any longer]. No?
MIss VAYNER [beside herself]. I swear to
you, ma'am!
MARIE. But then you see how careful
one must be, and that in your position it is
not advisable to be too deeply initiated.
Is n't that so?
MIss VAYNER [beseechingly]. Forgive me,
ma'am!
MARIE. Well, calm yourself. In my
case it does n't matter so much, because I
am unsuspicious. Only it must n't be made
too hard for me, now must it?
Miss VAYNER [looks dully at her and says
mechanically]. Yes, ma'am.
[There is a knock at the anteroom
door, she goes to it.]
A VOICE [outside]. One moment, Miss
Vayner.
[MARIE follows her with smiling
eyes, then rises and carries the
vase of the violets into the musicroom.]
MIss VAYNER [through the anteroom
door]. Mrs. Eva Gerndl insists on speaking
with you, ma'am!
MARIE [coming back; repeating the name,


as she cannot place it immediately]. Eva
Gerndl?
MIss VAYNER. One of the ladies. The
one with the hair.
[Outlines in gesture EVA'S coiffure.]
MARIE. Oh, that one?       The snake!
[Curtly.] Tell the lady that my husband
will not be back for two days.
Miss VAYNER. No, she said expressly
that she wished to speak with Mrs. Hein
herself -
MARIE [shrugging her shoulders, declining]. I beg to be excused.
[Goes back into the music-room.]
Miss VAYNER. Yes, ma'am.
[Exit right. MARIE returns from
the music-room, with several unopened, colored notes in her hand;
she looks at the addresses, one
after the other, and smells of them,
turning up her nose; then looks
through the room, notices the
letters on the small table, inspects
and smells of them also, and adds
them to the others.]
Miss VAYNER [through the anteroom door,
a calling card in her hand]. Mrs. Gerndl
begs urgently that you will read what she
has written.     [Hands MARIE the card.]
MARIE [at the right-hand table; takes the
card; handing the maid the letters]. Please
don't let these letters lie around everywhere. My husband wishes them to be
kept. Perhaps he will read them later on,
after he has retired. [Reads the card; then
repeats with a shrug, sotto voce.] "It is a
question of the Master's life or death."
[Looks straight ahead for a moment, quietly;
then with a shrug.] Ask her in.
[Miss VAYNER exit right with the
letters; she ushers EVA in, then
closes the door.]
EVA [comes through the anteroom door,
with every sign of the greatest agitation; after
making MARIE a low bow, breathless]. Pardon me, dear madam, but I cannot do
otherwise. I have done something frightful.
Oh, what have I done!
MARIE [formally]. Please have a seat.
[Seats herself on a chair by the
right-hand table.]
EVA. No, for God's sake! Time presses,




522


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


else all is lost. [Wringing her hands.] And
yet it was only for love that I did it. For
excess of love, believe me.
MARIE [very quiet]. And whom do you
love?
EVA [most astonished; quickly]. Him, of
course, the Master.
MARIE [feigning astonishment; largo].
My husband?
EVA [looks up in utmost surprise, at a loss
how to give immediate answer; then embarrassed, meekly]. Yes, Mrs. Hein.
MARIE [again quite calm, formally]. But
do please have a seat.
EVA [seats herself meekly; then, hesitatingly, half in excuse]. Of course, we all love
him.
MARIE [again greatly astonished]. Who?
EVA [innocently]. All the ladies of the
school.
MARIE [as if scarcely able to restrain her
anger any more]. But that, I must say, is
most singular.
EVA [taken aback]. Why, did n't you
know that?
MARIE [very vigorously]. I?
EVA [anxiously]. I only mean -
MARIE [feigning a steadily rising anger].
Yes, I know, you mean, and you think I
could - how can you dare -?
EVA [anxious, quickly]. Of course I may
be mistaken.
MARIE. And you come to my residence
to tell me that to my face? I must confess
thatEVA. But no, Mrs. Hein, that isn't
what I came for at all, but - but won't
you please listen to me?
MARIE. Do you love my husband or
not?
EVA [with increasing anxiety and rapidity].
Why, that does n't make any difference at
all now, Mrs. Hein.
MARIE. It makes very much difference
to me, Mrs. Gerndl.
EVA [beseechingly]. For time is pressingMARIE. Do you love my husband or
not?
EVA [very quickly]. I do love him, certainly, but that does n't matter, Mrs.
Hein, for he does n't know it, he will never


know it, I swear to you, but save him! Oh,
save him! [Jumps up and runs through the
room.] Oh, what have I done! What have
I done!
MARIE [as soon as EvA'S back is turned,
shows her face again quietly smiling, understanding; then speaks calmly]. Well, what
have you done?
EVA [comes back to the table]. You see,
you know I was in such a rage, because, for
I, of course, I can't help that, I love him,
but he does n't know it, he will never know
it, I swear to you, I only want to love him
in secret, that does n't do any harm, does
it, but, so just imagine, I love him so, and
when I heard, that is, when I thought,
when I imagined - [Perceiving that she is
getting more and more involved, in the greatest fear.] Good God, and meanwhile time
is flying and perhaps [with an outburst], perhaps he's already dead!
MARIE [frightened, serious]. Well, what
is it, anyway? Do come to the point.
[Rises.]
EVA [crying]. I telegraphed Mr. Jura,
for you see I only thought he would kill
her, and it was n't until afterward that it
occurred to me that he might kill him, too.
[Running through the room again]. Heavens,
what have I done! What have I done! I
never thought of that.
MARIE [considering, calmer again]. Mr.
Jura -? [Smiling.] Mr. Jura doesn't
appear so dangerous to me.
EVA [rushes forward]. But you don't
know. I telegraphed him that his wife was
gone with the Master. And the exact location of the cabin. Oh, what have I done!
What have I done!
MARIE. When?
EVA. In an hour they'll be there.
MARIE. No, when did you telegraph?
EVA. Right after I left here. Then when
it occurred to me that he might kill him,
too, I went right back to the office, but the
telegram had already gone. [With another
outburst.] And what's to be done now?
MARIE [after calculating; smiling]. In any
case he can't be dead yet. Not time enough.
EVA [with a glimmer of hope]. No?
MARIE [dryly]. No.
EVA. But what shall we do?




THE CONCERT


523


MARIE. I shall do nothing.
EVA [horrified]. Mrs. Hein! For mercy's
sake!
MARIE. You wired Mr. Jura that my
husband has gone away with Mrs. Jura, up
to our cabin?
EVA [nodding quickly]. Yes.
MARIE. Now if Mr. Jura gets this telegram and it just happens that his wife is
really not at home -
EVA [involuntarily, quickly]. She is n't at
home, because of course -
MARIE [continuing imperturbably]. And
further, if Mr. Jura thinks so ill of his wife
and trusts her so little that he does n't
simply throw the telegram into the wastebasket -
EVA [very quickly]. Out of the question!
No man will do that. And he must know
his wife.
MARIE [continuing imperturbably]. Well
then, then Mr. Jura will take an automobile, drive to the canyon, be there in three
hours, and then walk from there to the
cabin, which he can easily reach in an hour
by a perfectly beautiful path; and the
cabin will be empty, and that will be a
good lesson to him, to teach him that a
man who believes every silly calumny
merely makes himself ridiculous. For the
cabin will be empty, of course. Did n't my
husband tell me that he had a concert? Or
do you think my husband lies to me and
deceives me?
EVA [very quickly]. No, no.
MARIE. Well, then.
EVA [fearful]. But if perhaps after allMARIE. What?
EVA [faster and faster]. If perhaps by
some unhappy chanceMARIE. What kind of a chance?
EVA. I just mean, you don't know this
fearful woman, and the Master, in his
goodness of heart, who knows —
MARIE. Ah, you mean, if the cabin 
EVA [hastily]. Yes, if the cabin were
not -
MARIE. If the cabin were not empty?
EVA [tensely]. Yes.
MARIE. If my husband had lied to me?
If my husband were a wretch?
EVA [adjuring herl. Oh, you don't know


how dangerous this person is. She has
simply ensnared the Master.
MARIE [coolly]. Oh, in that case!
EVA [with the utmost tension]. In that
case?
MARIE [coolly, slowly]. In that case
Mr. Jura will kill his wife, or my husband,
or both, depending on his temperament.
EVA [shutting both ears].. Horrible!
MARIE [coolly, almost to caricature]. In
that case of course I can do nothing. And
I must plainly say that a man who deceives
me - [Breaks off with a shrug and a disdainful gesture; then, in a different tone.]
And I can say that the more calmly, as of
course I am quite certain that my husband
is not deceiving me. Don't you think so?
EVA [wholly forgetting herself, impetuously]. But, Mrs. Hein, then I must tell
you -                  Stops, frightened.]
MARIE. What? What could you tell
me? We have been married eleven years.
In that time I surely oughrt to have noticed
something? Don't you think so?
[EVA stares at her and can say
nothing.]
MARIE [amused by her embarrassment].
But say your say. What were you going to
tell me?
EVA [shakes her head, quite at a loss]. No,
no. Nothing, nothing, really. [Again dashing across the room.] What have I done!
Wretched me! What have I done!
MARIE. And yet there's such a simple
remedy.
EVA [rushes at her; with a last gleam of
hope]. Yes? What?
MARIE. Simply go to Mr. Jura's house.
You will surely find him at home, and with
his wife.
EVA [once more looks at MARIE, disconcerted, then gives up; quickly]. You are
right. [Runs to the anteroomdoor, but immediately returns once more; formally]. Pardon me, Mrs. Hein, for disturbing you. It
must have been an error.
[A deep bow, which her haste
makes very awkward, then exit
right.]
MARIE. And do not forget to tell Mr.
Jura who sent him the telegram.
[When EVA ie gone, her face be



524


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


comes serious, and she stands a
moment in thought, then goes to
the anteroom door and rings.]
[MISS VAYNER appears in the doorway.]
MARIE. Please look and see if Mr. Jura
has a telephone. Mr. Frank Jura. If he
has one, please ask if he is at home. And
give him my name and say that I wish to
speak with him and call me. But do it
right away.
MISS VAYNER. Yes, ma'am.
[Exit, leaving the door open; the
telephone bell is heard to ring.]
MARIE [impatient, walks up and down;
she is now very serious; after a pause, calling
impatiently toward the right]. Well, Miss
Vayner?
MISS VAYNER [calling]. Right away,
ma'am. [Again the telephone bell is heard.]
[MARIE again pacing restlessly;
she picks at the flowers and can
scarcely control herself.]
MIss VAYNER [appears in the doorway].
Mr. Jura is not at home. He left scarcely
half an hour ago.
[MARIE merely nods briefly, stands
in thought.]
A VOICE [outside, to the right; calling].
Miss Vayner!
[MARIE goes into the music-room.]
MISS VAYNER [disappears and at once
returns in haste]. Mr. Jura would like to
speak with you.
MARIE [in the music-room, coming forward, pleased]. At the telephone? Was he
there -?
MIss VAYNER. No, it is Mr. Jura himself. He is here.
MARIE [very happily]. He is here? Show
him in.
[She cannot but laugh, and now
has herself fully under control.
Miss VAYNER exit right, ushers
JURA in, and closes the door behind him.]
[JURA 25; short, slight, seemingly frail; all
his force seems concentrated in his head,
which looks disproportionately large;
smooth, fair hair, cut short, his forehead very prominent, large, very bright,
very jolly blue eyes, which, when he be

comes vivacious in conversation, almost
seem to project, with an almost staring
expression; he stands crooked and has a
habit of holding his elbows tight against
his body and gesturing only with his
forearms, making him at times not unlike a marionette; in conversation he
likes to advance quite close to his interlocutor, and feels the need of taking him
by the hand and twisting one of his buttons, or pulling a thread out of his coat;
he is very engaging and adaptable, and
his whole manner conveys a certain
pleading, coaxing air, while at the same
time it is clear that at bottom he is
laughing at everybody, stands in awe of
none, and is accustomed to take liberties;
he has all kinds of strange ways, as, for
instance, never standing still, but constantly hopping from one foot on to the
other, or, when impatient - his customary condition - scraping both feet;
this gives his whole being a leaping,
flickering character, he is like a candle
in the hand of a tipsy man; his carriage
is so slovenly that at first glance one
takes him to be poorly dressed, and only
gradually discovers, with surprise, how
expensively, though to be sure quite unfashionably, he is dressed, only that his
clothes hang about him as about a beanpole; if at first he almost looks like a discharged actor, presently one rather takes
him for a person who likes to wear a
ridiculous disguise; he wears a crumpled,
light gray Italian soft hat, a soft blue
shirt with a badly tied white tie, a very
loose suit of coarse raw silk, which has
very many, very large pockets, with
newspapers, books, and a quantity of
pencils in them, blue socks, and yellow
sandals; he enters quickly through the
anteroom door, tumbling into the room,
looks curiously at MARIE, laughs, nods
laughingly at her, and waits to hear
what she will say.]
MARIE [looks at him with a smile, immediately set wholly at rest by his appearance, and then says, merely to say something]. Mr. Jura?
JURA [laughing]. Do you still know me?




THE CONCERT


525


-


Of course we have often seen each other in
company, at a distance. [Laughing, half
excusing.] My wife drags me around everywhere.
MARIE [going to the sofa and sitting down].
Yes, I have had the pleasure. [Invites him
to be seated.] Please be seated.
JURA [threatening her with his finger]. We
shall see whether it is a pleasure. [Looking
through the room, perceiving the flowers; seriously.] But you should n't do that. Have
you no garden?
MARIE [surprised]. Oh, yes. Why?
JURA. Then why don't you leave the
flowers in the garden? Flowers belong in
the garden.
MARIE. They are so beautiful, they
make the whole room bright.
JURA [seriously, impersonally]. If any
one wanted to cut off your head, - you
are beautiful, too. It is base to cut flowers,
because it hurts them. And is n't it uncomfortable for you to sit among corpses?
[Takes the vase from the little table and puts
it on the left-hand table.] Terrible, that people don't understand the simplest things.
If people hurt each other, why let them,
there is at least some sense in that; for it
enlivens. But to hurt the poor flowers,
that can't even defend themselves! [Returns to the little table and looks smiling at
MARIE, with a coaxing glance.] Are you
offended? Oh, no!
MARIE [smiling]. No.
JURA [heartily]. You understand? Nobody must ever take offence at me. For
I don't mean it that way. [Sits.] And of
course you are very clever.
MARIE [merrily]. You think so?
JURA [looks her squarely in the eye]. Why,
any one can see that. I mean, not clever
with the head, that's no good either. No,
one must be clever like a dog, with the nose.
MARIE [clutches involuntarily at hers].
With the nose?
JURA [seriously]. In man it is an inward
nose, as it were. That is why you struck
me right away.
MARIE. But you have never spoken
with me.
JURA. Why, you can't talk in company.
Heaven forbid! So when I encounter some




one above the average in company, I think
to myself: Now be sure not to make his or
her acquaintance, for you'll only spoil them
for yourself. Because, you see, if a stupid
person says something stupid - that's not
so bad. But when a clever person does it,
that's horrible. But in company even the
cleverest person says only stupid things,
because he must or he'll become unpopular,
because he's a suspicious character as it is.
MARIE. You, too?
JURA [tickled]. No, I'm permitted. I can
be clever, they let me do it. Because it is
my specialty to pass for cracked.
MARIE [somewhat haughtily]. And that
gives you pleasure?
JURA [gravely]. No.
MARIE. Otherwise, of course, you would
n't go into society.
JURA [with utter gravity]. Why, I don't
go. My wife takes me along.
[Looks up and laughs.]
MARIE [smiling]. So that's your case?
JURA [nods]. The reverse of yours. The
cleverer half is always the victim.
MARIE [slightly displeased]. But you
hardly know my husband.
JURA. I have seen him.
MARIE [piqued]. Do you think it very
tactful -?
JURA [tickled]. You shall be astonished
to see how tactless I am. [Serious.] People
are so tactful that they never reach an
understanding. Instead of telling each
other frankly: I am thus and so, I like this
and I don't like that, and in return you
may be this way and that way, like this
and not like that, up to this point extends
my territory, up to that point yours, and
now let's be good neighbors. It's true, my
dear lady! You can get along with a dog
and you can get along with a cat, but you
must know whether it's a dog or a cat.
But our so-called tact prevents that. Clarity is what we need, clarity is the only
thing; then everything will be possible.
And there is no clarity except among the
tactless.
MARIE. You like to hear yourself talk.
JURA. Very much. For it is a pleasure
to listen to a person who is clear about
himself.




526


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


MARIE. It is very kind of you to afford
me this pleasure too.
JURA. But that is not really the reason
for my being here.
MARIE. I thought it was.
JURA [laughing]. No, I am not so philanthropic, not at all. [Looks at her.] I suppose
you are terribly curious to know what I do
want. It is comical enough. [In a different
tone; naive.] No doubt you have heard
much about me? [Suddenly startled, as
MARIE looks at him with a smile.] Why are
you looking at me? Have I-? [Clutches
at his tie.] No, I actually have my tie on.
I so easily forget it and then the ladies always look at me. But I have it, what more
do you want? [Looks laughingly at her.]
You have such an agreeably clever face. I
am certainly not deceived in you. Well?
MARIE [adopting his inquiring tone].
Well?
JURA. Ah, yes, you are right, it is my
move. Do you know my wife?
MARIE [cool]. We have met.
JURA. Don't be embarrassed.
MARIE. I have no means of judging her.
JURA. You are embarrassed.
MARIE. She is one of my husband's
pupils.
JURA. But you have nothing else against
her?
MARIE. Why?
JURA. Because I have something else
against your husband.
MARIE [rejecting his tone]. I love my
husband.
JURA. I love my wife.
MARIE. Then we are at one.
JURA. Except for one thing. It is a large
difference. You see, my wife is false to me.
Just think. Quite certainly.
MARIE. And to tell me that -?
JURA [nods]. Yes. That is why I am
here. You have a little time, have n't you?
And it surely interests you. That always
interests a woman.
MARIE. Why, it is very flattering for
me, that you should come just to me for
advice, and yet I don't knowJURA. Advice? No. Oh, no! Only I am
not clear in my mind what I ought to do.
I must think about it.


MARIE. And so you are doing your
thinking in my presence?
JURA [nods]. For proper thought demands that one think out loud. I need
that. When I don't know what to do, I
ask somebody, but not to learn something
from his answer: when I ask him, the answer comes to me of its own accord. Just
try it, you will see. And it works best with
a person who is nothing to you, and to
whom you are nothing, so that the whole
procedure is purely objective. Just like
you in this case. That's why. And what
I ask of you is so little. Is n't it? You
have a little time, I hope?
MARIE [slowly]. Willingly. You are
surely right. For I believe we have a certain similarity of tone, you and I. Hence
we shall readily understand each other.
[They measure each other for a moment.]
And it pleases me to see a person, without
much ado, show himself exactly as he is.
JURA [struck by her last words, looks
searchingly at her, uncertain whether he has
understood her aright, and how much she
really knows; suddenly, in a wholly different
tone, carelessly]. You have a good neck. I
mean: well formed. You should n't lock it
up so tight. [Touching his collar.] Open it
up, why don't you? If people must put on
clothes, at least not more than is absolutely necessary. You'll see, we shall yet
get over that entirely.
MARIE. I don't have to follow all the
new fads.
JURA. You ought to! One always ought
to. For there is no choice but to follow the
new fads or the old ones. The new ones
are at least a change. [Graciously.] But as
you will.
MARIE. If you don't insist on it.
JURA [dryly.] Often it sounds as if you
were making fun of me. But I don't object.
MARIE. No?
JURA. Only one must know it. And you
will permit me for my part to remain serious, because that is my nature.
MARIE. Pray do.
[Again they measure each other for
a moment.]
JURA. Very good. - I have already informed you that my wife is false to me, as




THE CONCERT


527


we are wont to call it when a man notices
that, his wife is beginning to prefer another
man. This has certainly been the case with
mine for some time. How far she has gone
toward the logical conclusion, I do not
know. But it seems - At least I have just
now received a telegram from an unknown
benefactor, saying that she has gone away,
with that man whom she is inclined to prefer to me. Actually she did go away today.
According to her assurance: to visit an
aunt. Whom, there can be no doubt, she
really has. Now, the friendly communicant informs me with very praiseworthy
exactitude where she is to be found. It
would not be so very far, it is said to be a
lovely spot, and the weather is beautiful.
But I am still more or less uncertain, nevertheless, whether to undertake the expedition or not. And the principal thing seems
to me, as you will have already observed,
that in any event one should first of all
make clear to himself what he really wants.
Don't you think so? But that is just what
I don't know at present.
MARIE [noticeably impatient]. Have you
the telegram with you?
JURA [not at all embarrassed, quite unconcerned; quickly]. Yes. Here. [Dips into one
pocket, then another, then a third, pulling
out notebooks, a roll of newspapers, and several books, lays them on the table, and says,
pointing to one of the books, in an objectively
informing tone.] There's a very singular
book that some one has written. He says
that the life of man moves in regular waves,
good and bad waves. Or that in our life
there are, so to speak, series, like the red
and black series on the roulette wheel. He
remarks for example - [turns the pages,
looking for the passage] wait, where is that?
MARIE [half vexed, half impatient]. Is
that an indispensable part of it?
JURA [acts as if he had been absent-minded
and merely forgotten; closes the book and
continues, clearing his pockets]. Oh! No, it
really is n't. And yet again, it really is.
Because ultimately everything in life is a
part of it, each a part of all, and if in astronomy we learn that something is different from what we previously supposed,
then little by little all the rest of our life


must be changed by it, and the only
wretched part of it is that people find it so
hard to make up their minds to this. Thus,
for example, if the man is right about his
series and it turns out that I am just now
in a black series, the tragic one, you know,
then what shall I -? [Itas emptied his
pockets, stops short; with a shrug.] I must
have left the telegram somewhere.
MARIE. That will please your maid.
JURA [dryly]. She certainly has no need
of it.
MARIE. Then you seem to believe that
the telegram tells the truth?
JURA. Certainly. - I was n't even surprised. For I could see an aunt in my
wife's face.
MARIE. And you did not try to prevent
her?
JURA [looking up in surprise, staring at
her with his great eyes; suddenly very serious,
and in a peculiar tone]. Prevent? Prevent
a human being from seeking happiness?
Or what he thinks is happiness? No, I
should never care to do that. [Again in a
different tone, dryly.] And it is no use.
[Again in his serious and resolute tone.] No,
if she believes it is her happiness. And the
question is only whether it is her happiness.
MARIE. And you?
JURA [wondering, because he does not
understand what she means]. I?
MARIE. Yes.
JURA. What about me?
MARIE. Something depends on you, too.
JURA. Oh, no. If it is really her happiness, she is right. In fact, that is probably
the only right there is, which no one, for
no reason on earth, may deny his fellowman.
MARIE. You do not love your wife. For
otherwise -
JURA [quickly, almost vehemently]. For
otherwise, you mean, I must make every
effort to make her unhappy. Is that it?
MARIE [taken aback]. Or you love her
with an almost superhuman love.
JURA [irritated, vehement]. I am a perfectly ordinary person, not at all "super,"
I must insist on that. And besides, I really
don't know whether I love my wife, because I don't know whether I can love any




528


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


one person, because I had rather love all
people, or at least several.
MARIE. That is too much for me.
JURA [irritated, leaping up, gesturing].
As soon as something is quite simple and
self-evident, it's too much for everybody!
[Going to the left-hand table in his vexation.]
They find nothing natural but the highflown. [Pointing to a vase of tulips.] You
love tulips?
MARIE [curious to see what he is driving
at]. Yes.
JURA. Very much?
MARIE. Very much.
JURA [pointing to a vase of violets]. You
love violets?
MARIE. Yes.
JURA. Very much?
MARIE [merrily]. Very much.
JURA. And you never think of saying:
Hold, that won't do, I must n't love the
violets, because I already love the tulips.
[Returning to the little table; shouting.] Or
do you?
MARIE [laughing]. No.
JURA. No! [Gesticulating.] Well then,
well then, well then! What an unreasonable demand, that 'I must bury all my
great, lovely emotion in one single person.
But of course that's only our old exploded
senseless property conception, transferred
from things to persons, where it becomes
wholly unendurable. The natural thing
would be to love everybody. But because
everything that is natural is a sin, man
must be compelled to love just one person.
MARIE. But then your wife is right, if
she - if in addition to the tulip she seeks
out a violet.
JURA [quickly]. Yes, if it were that. But
no. That's not it. You don't know my
wife. She's still completely bound up in
the Either-Or.
MARIE. Have n't you taught her that
yet?
JURA. Why, you see, that is a defect in
me: I have such respect for the spiritual
freedom of my fellow-man, that even in
his stupidity I don't like to disturb him.
[As MARIE laughs.] No, seriously, that is
my greatest fault. And for that reason my
wife thinks I don't care about her, and


feels herself neglected. But because I myself regard it as an importunity when any
one tries to labor with me, -with my soul,
I mean, - and because I think that every
one must settle such things with himself, I
thought it was better to leave her alone,
until she should find herself in the course of
her own development. I see now that that
was perhaps wrong. In time one sees
everything, but too late. For the result
was that she gradually thought herself
quite forsaken. And then - of course.
[Vehemently.] And that's why I say that
our famous tact is all nonsense. The
thing to do is to take hold of a person
good and hard, to put him on the right
road. And especially women seem to want
that. Don't they?
MARIE. So you are going to take hold
of her good and hard now?
JURA. That's just what I don't know.
For perhaps it's already too late. Now
she's already up there with the other man.
And everything would still be all right, if
I only knew what sort of man he is. [Advancing to her and sitting beside her on the
sofa.] For you see, my wife, who as I say is
still wholly in the Either-Or stage, not at
all violets and tulips, my wife unquestionably fancies again that this is the Great
Love. Now if the man only imagines the
same thing, why then everything would be
well.
MARIE [wondering]. And you?
JURA [laughing; but naively, not cynically]. Never fear, I'll find another, too.
[Suddenly vexed, almost desperate.] Oh, you
don't understand me. People simply won't
understand it. I'm not like that. I love
my wife really very dearly, but whether
she just happens to be with me, or thinks
she is better off with some one else, that
does n't matter so much. And if I am fond
of her, that's no reason for taking it amiss
if she does what in her opinion is the best
thing for her. Otherwise it would be terrible to be loved. And similarly, if I love
her, that's no reason, for goodness' sake,
why I should n't perhaps love another
woman just as much. And if a person has
a certain talent for loving, why should we
restrict him so in it? I don't know what's




THE CONCERT


529


ehe matter with people. We're forever
hearing that everybody is to try to develop
his aptitudes as much as possible. So that's
only logical then, is n't it?
MARIE. Well, your wife is logical.
JURA [very animated]. And she's right.
As to that, all sensible people think alike
nowadays. Only that some say it openly
and others don't. But those who don't
say it are the ones to act it most. Don't
you think so?
MARIE. But then what more do you
want, if you conclude that she is right?
Then why not let her alone? In that case
it's very simple.
JURA [quickly]. She is right, but I am
afraid. That's the trouble. [Slower, again
very grave, softly.] Afraid for her. Because
I don't know this man. Because therefore
I don't know whether she is not deceived
in him. For it might be that what is to her
the great happiness, might be for him perhaps only an adventure. [Quite softly.] And
that would be terrible for her, I know her.
From that I must preserve her.
MARIE [after a slight pause, softly]. My
dear sir, you love your wife.
JURA [vehemently]. But that's what I've
been telling you all along.
MARIE [vehemently]. But then don't give
her up.
JURA [vehemently]. But if it's better for
her. If he's the kind of man that she can
be happy with.
MARIE [vehemently]. But if you love her.
JURA [despairing]. Oh, but you're slow
of understanding.
MARIE. That I certainly do not understand.
JURA [quickly]. Well, don't you love
your husband?
MARIE. Yes.
JURA [quickly]. And?
MARIE [looking steadily at him]. And?
What?
JURA [recollecting, hesitating]. Oh.[Quickly.] No, I was just thinking. But
let's suppose a case, let's assume, one can
assume something, I take it?
MARIE. Yes. What?
JURA. Let's assume that your husband
had fallen in love with another woman -


MARIE. And?
JURA. Well and, and wanted to leave
you, we'll assume. What then?
MARIE. I would fight for him with my
whole strength.
JURA [surprised, naive]. Really?
MARIE. With my whole strength or
cunning, with every weapon that I could
command.
JURA. Really! [Stands up and goes away
from the sofa.] And you look so sensible.
[After a few paces; reflectin!7.] But that's it,
that makes it so much more difficult.
[Again turns to her; in a different tone.] Do
you know what my first thought was, when
the telegram came?
[At the word he involuntarily
grasps at one of his coat pockets.]
MARIE [observes it; innocently]. Are you
quite sure you have n't the telegram with
you?
JURA [calmly lying]. Quite. You know I
looked once. [Pretends to look again.] It's
certainly lying on my table.
MARIE. Well, what was your first
thought?
JURA [advances to the table and sits down].
It is such a pity that you don't know my
wife better. Then you could understand
why I am afraid. You see, she has an almost pathetic longing for the Beautiful
[with a shrug], what people call the Beautiful, and thinks there must be some way of
catching it, as it were. Which is the error
of most human beings, who hope that
beauty, scattered as it is all over the world
and in an infinity of parts, can somewhere,
some time, be found wholly concentrated
in a single specimen. And so she stands
with open mouth before the world, and the
roast pigeons of fortune are to fly into it.
We are acquainted with a poet, and he is
forever calling her a "seeker." I find that
a horrible word, but I can imagine some
meaning in it, the poet certainly not. Well,
and the first pigeon was myself. [Excusingly.] Up there in the snow - you know
I was a penniless student and had hired
out to the hotel as teacher of winter sports,
and the young ladies learned skeeing of
me,- up there in the snow I suppose I
may have seemed very desirable to them,




530


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


[Laughs.] And you know my wife has the
trait of always wanting to have the best of
everything. And when she wants anything,
she is very extreme. That is how it happened.
MARIE. You fell in love with her?
JURA. I was really never exactly asked.
And I was completely dazzled by her
beauty, by her whole manner, which was
wholly new to a poor devil like me, and of
course by her wealth, too. That of course.
For I must say it was very agreeable to me
to marry riches. You see, it is an indispensable part of the education of a fully
developed man that he should scorn wealth,
and of course you can only do that if you
have it. In short, we were very happy. But
in town she seems little by little to have
found that here I am perhaps not the best
after all, and so the seeker gradually began
to seek again. [In a different tone.] By the
way, you must not take too literally everything I say, for I sometimes color things,
which, however, makes no ultimate difference, since nobody ever knows just how
such things have really come about. In
any case I am to blame for everything, if
there is such a thing as guilt in connection
with natural phenomena. And if things
turn out ill now, I should really feel deeply
ashamed of myself.
MARIE [thoughtfully]. You are a strange
person.
JURA. Don't hesitate to say that I am
a comical person. People always think that
when anybody does the natural thing.
MARIE. And now when the telegram
came today?
JURA. Yes - now when the telegram
came today, my first thought was to drive
to the spot. But only for fear that she
might perhaps be deceived in the man, in
her disappointment with me and with her
bent for always reaching out for everything that glitters. So I say, to drive to
the spot and confront this man and[Observing MARIE'S anxious face; suddenly
laughing heartily.] Oh, no, not what you
think. [Pantomime of firing a pistol.] Not
bang-bang! [Stands up, laughing heartily.]
No, no! Do I look like that? So very
knightly? That is an error. No, but to


drive there and confront the two of them,
without any weapons, and merely to say
to them, quite simply: Why this concealment? You can have each other. Well,
then the truth must come out, don't you
think? For either the man will be overjoyed and embrace me and leap for joy,
and that will be a sign that he feels as she
does, that it is for him the Great Happiness, for him, too - well, then bravo! Or
it may also be that the man will get a
great fright. [The idea makes him laugh.]
Yes, that may happen too. [Passing suddenly from laughter to gravity.] Poor Delly!
But after all it's better to know it at once.
It will hurt her a little, to be sure. But
never mind, she must surely see that it's
better to be waked somewhat roughly, out
of her first slumber as it were, before she
has had time to enter deeply into her
dream. And I shall comfort her, never fear.
MARIE. The plan is not bad. Then you
would have clarity in any case.
JURA. But I have quite forgotten one
thing: the man has a wife, too.
MARIE [astonished, drawling]. Oh! That
complicates it, to be sure.
JURA. Very much. For even if everything else agrees, and my fear was baseless,
if the man really loves my wife, just as she
loves him, there is still this question left:
What shall we do with his wife?
MARIE. Yes. What shall we do with his
wife?
JURA. Of course everything depends in
the first instance on whether she is sensible
or not.
MARIE. It is always better to assume
that in such matters a woman is not
sensible.
JURA. That would be terrible. For
stupid women are veritable genuises at
tangling the simplest human relations.
MARIE. But what good would it do if
she were a sensible woman?
JURA. Why, then the day is won.
MARIE. How so?
JURA. Well, we'll say to her: Now these
two love each other. A sensible woman
must surely understand that.
MARIE. I don't believe that. No woman
is as sensible as that.




THE CONCERT


53I


I


JURA [vexed]. But what does the person
want?
MARIE. Her husband.
JURA. But if he loves the other woman.
MARIE. She will hope what you fear:
that for her husband it is perhaps only an
adventure.
JURA [impatiently]. But the man has
already been asked and has stated, we'll
assume, that it is not.
MARIE. But she, who knows her husband, will maintain that he has often been
in error. And she will say: let's wait and
see, oftentimes what looked like the great
passion has turned out to be only a tiny
flame, let's wait and see.
JURA [furious]. Yes, and she could always say that. Again and again: let's wait
and see. Well, and how long? And what's
to be done with the two of them meanwhile? Shall they two for the nonce, experimentally, until we know whether it's
a real love or an episode-? Which you
might say would be the opposite of a
separation from bed and board, turned
around, would n't it? No, no, I don't like
that at all.
MARIE. And even if the wife had the
feeling that it was more than an adventure
to her husband, she will still say, if I know
women: But I have this man now -
JURA. But then she would n't have him
any more, or at most only in name.
MARIE. Perhaps that is enough for her.
JURA. But since he no longer belongs to
her in spirit, what has she of him?
MARIE. And what has she otherwise? If she
gives him up in name too, then what has she?
JURA. Well I don't know what I can do
for her.
MARIE. What has she then, I say? No
longer even the hope that he will perhaps
some day come back to her after all, not
even the pleasure of his familiar presence,
not even the sound of his voice in the
house, to remind her sometimes of happier
days. Now, when he comes back, from the
other woman or women -
JURA [startled, outraged]. You surely
don't believe that heMARIE. Why, we're just assuming,
are n't we, we're just supposing a case.




JURA [only half reassured]. Yes, of course.
MARIE [continuing]. And so, when he
comes home, sometimes he still sits down
with her of an evening and they play
chess -
JURA [quickly]. You play chess? My
wife does n't.
MARIE. Or dominoes, we can assume
that, just as you wish.
JURA. No, chess is very good, I can
imagine it, I myself like chess very much.
And soMARIE [continuing]. And so there the
two sit, the faithless husband and the poor
wife, and play chess, and for half an hour,
face to face with his beloved form, she
can once more imagine that everything is
really as it used to be, in the happy time of
young love. That is not much, but is it
something.
JURA [thoughtfully]. Yes, I can imagine
that.       [Paces thoughtfully to and fro.]
MARIE. And what should induce the
poor woman to give this up too? Don't
you think yourself that that is asking a
good deal of her?
JURA [to and fro, thoughtfully]. One
would really have to find some one for her.
MARIE [not understanding at once]. What?
JURA [to and fro, thoughtfully, casually].
Some one else, who will play chess with her.
MARIE [quickly]. Oh. in that case!
[Looks up and has to laugh, but checks herself again at once.] Then of course. Yes, if
the wife is n't expected to seal up her own
life for the sake of another woman. If in
place of the old life a new one is opened up.
Yes, in that case - perhaps!
JURA [to and fro, only half listening, busy
with his thoughts]. That would really be an
idea.
MARIE [eagerly]. And that's the only
way to get a real test of the man.
JURA [attentive, coming to a standstill]. A
real test?
MARIE. For as long as the man still has
the feeling that his wife is sitting forsaken
and mourning for him and waiting to see if
he won't come back to her after all, that is
such an agreeable feeling for a man that it
proves nothing if at first he decides to
choose the other one.




532


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


JURA [listening eagerly and considering].
You think so? Of course you ought to
know men.
MARIE [smiling]. Why, ask yourself!
JURA [surprised]. I? Why, I'm not a[stops and corrects himself] no, what people
nowadays call a "man," I certainly am not.
MARIE [continuing]. But, but if on the
other hand the man actually can endure
the thought that his wife, the former one,
is beginning a new life, a life without him,
a life with another man, if his love for the
second one is so strong that he can even
get over that, then it is no adventure, then
you can risk it, then it must surely be the
Great Passion, the supreme one.
JURA [eagerly]. Yes, yes, you are right,
that would be the best test, men really
seem to be like that. And now see what a
remarkable coincidence we have here. For
all the while since I began to consider giving up my wife, if she can really be happier
with another man, I've constantly been
thinking that in that case I want to look
around too, and marry again as soon as
possible. I should n't like to live alone any
more, in an empty house - [as MARIE
Smiles] no, I mean, not by day, either -
for I must say that marriage has suited me
very well. To live with a woman, there's
something wonderful about it. And I don't
know whether it makes so very much difference which one it is. I wonder whether
we don't overdo the idea that it must be
just this one and no other. I don't know.
I think marriage as such is perfectly beautiful, quite in general, marriage per se,
probably with any woman. Of course if
she is n't a positive monster.
MARIE [smiling]. Well, that's one thing
you 'd have to find out, whether she was a
monster.
JURA [comes to a stand behind the table
and looks at MARIE searchingly; gravely,
with conviction]. No, no. It would surely
be a success.
MARIE. The only difficulty will be that
she may think you are perhaps merely
playing a game with her -
JURA [interrupting, asseverating]. Oh, no!
MARIE. Merely to frighten the other
woman or to alienate the man from her by


jealousy; for of course no woman would
surrender herself to any such purpose.
JURA. But who thinks of any such
thing?
MARIE [looking squarely at him]. Not
you?
JURA [from honest conviction]. Not I!
[Quickly.] How glad I am. For really, that
was the worst of it, to have to go about a
long search for another one, and I so unskilled in such matters. I should certainly
have made a fool of myself. No, it must
absolutely not be a game, if for no other
reason that if you try to make a game out
of such a thing, you never succeed, for in
that case your play is bad from the very
start.
MARIE [with gentle irony]. Yes, it is better to play with conviction.
JURA [looking constantly at her, more and
more eagerly]. And you know, really, I
can't imagine anything more lovely. Don't
you see, to get to know a woman of entirely
different stamp from my wife. And perhaps anyway, as long as men are young,
they ought first to become acquainted with
marriage in general, so to speak, with marriage and women in general, so as gradually
to become so far developed that he can
then make the right choice and be able to
judge for himself what kind of woman is
best suited for him- which surely calls
for a certain spiritual maturity, that only
comes in later years. Gracious, I am still
so young, you see.
MARIE. [with gentle irony]. But you had
better not say that to this woman.
JURA. What?
MARIE. That you are really taking her
as a preceptress more than anything else.
JURA [quickly]. Why, that is flattering
for her.
MARIE. Who knows?
JURA [advancing one step, eager]. And
what do you think?
MARIE. What?
JURA [slowly]. Do you believe that if I
make this woman a serious proposal, do
you believe -
MARIE [smiling]. Wholly serious?
JURA. Yes. And do you believe that
she -




THE CONCERT


533


MARIE [gravely, slowly]. I can imagine
that if she is a sensible woman, and if she
has the feeling that for her husband it is
more than a mere adventure 
JURA [quickly interrupting]. It is surely
more.
MARIE [smiling, quickly]. Just now you
were not so certain.
JURA [positively, quickly]. But the more
I think of it! And so, if she has the feeling that for her husband it is more than a
mere adventure-?
MARIE. And if you succeed in inspiring
her with confidence in you -
JURA [quickly]. Oh, I shall.
MARIE [slowly]. Then -
JURA [intent]. Then?
MARIE [slowly]. Then I could well
imagine -
[Stops, looks at him with a smile
and nods.]
JURA [looks at her gravely for another
moment; then suddenly, hastily, in a very
light tone]. Well, then let's do it, shall we?
But then let's start right away. [Takes his
hat and runs to the door.] I have an automobile here.
MARIE [feigning surprise]. But what?
Who? Did n't you sayJURA [impatiently]. Please, no more longwinded discussion now!
MARIE [rises; merrily]. So you lied to
me?
JURA [laughing]. No, for of course you
knew.
MARIE. But how did you know that I
knew?
JURA [presses the electric button by the
anteroom door]. But of course.
MARIE. No, not at all. How could you
know?
[MIss VAYNER through the ante-room door.]
JURA [to MISS VAYNER]. Mrs. Hein's
things. She is going out driving. Quickly,
quickly!        [Miss VAYNER exit right.]
JURA [looking after her, laughing]. She,
too. Your husband seems to make them all
melancholy. Just wait, I'11 cheer the house
up.
MARIE. But how could you know that
I knew?


JURA [vexed, putting his hand in.his
pocket]. Why, is n't the telegram from you?
MARIE [vexed]. You could think that
I-?
JURA. Who else?
[Pulls the telegram out of his
pocket.]'
MARIE. Why, you have the telegram!
JURA. Of course.
MARIE. But you told meJURA. Never tell superfluous truth.
[Merrily.] And then it might not have
been quite tactful, eh? [Grave again.] But
if the telegram is not from you, then how
could you know?
MARIE [going to the left-hand door]. Your
informant was so kind as to notify me, too.
[At the door, coquettishly.] But the main
thing is still lacking.
JURA [going toward the table; wondering].
What is that?
MARIE. You have n't yet won my confidence.
JURA. Have no fear. Are n't we going
to have a three-hour drive together in the
automobile?  [Taking the things from  the
table and putting them back into his pockets;
impatiently.] But do make haste, or we
shall be too late. [Suddenly grave.] I should
not like to be too late.
MARIE. Have no fear. We shall not be
too late. I know my husband. My husband takes his time.
JURA [looks at her, then grasps her meaning and has to laugh]. Oh! [Shrugging his
shoulders, philosophically.] And after all,
suppose he did n't!
CURTAIN
SECOND ACT
The big room to the left of the cabin. Furnished like a peasant's room. Pine wood.
In the left foreground, a small door to the
second room of the cabin. In the centre wall,
door to corridor and kitchen. Window to
right. In the corner to the left of the central
door a large old tile stove. To the right of the
middle door, against the wall, a very broad
old black sofa. In the middle of the room a
square table with four rustic chairs; above it




534


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


an old-fashioned hanging lamp. On the left
wall, between stove and door, a sideboard.
Flower-pots in the windows. Everywhere, as
decoration, old painted plates, mugs, coffee
cups. At the window a sewing-table and an
upholstered chair.
POLLINGER in the forties; his very thick,
close-cropped hair is already quite gray at the
temples; short, thick moustache, also turning
gray, otherwise clean shaven; a broad, very
red face, with angry eyes and heavy bones;
thick-set, stocky, not just tall; a type of the
rustic gourmand and tippler who is aging
and will not admit it, but is tormented by
fear of a stroke; jacket, leather breeches,
woolen socks, thick felt shoes; lies on the sofa,
a heavy cloth wrapped around his knees, fast
asleep, snoring; in front of the sofa, on the
ground, his stick.
MRS. POLLINGER [nearing 40; tall, stately,
massive, a powerful, alert, quick-tongued
person, who tolerates no interference; outside]. Hey, Pollinger! Don't ye hear?
Pollinger!
[Enters through the centre door and slams it.]
POLLINGER [awakes, begins to sit up, immediately jumps with pain, and his hand
goes to his knee]. Gosh a'mighty!
MRS. POLLINGER [contemptuously]. Oh,
o' course, there he lies sleepin' again.
POLLINGER [rubbing his knee; angrily].
Wall, ef ye know I'm sleepin', then let me
be. [Lamenting.] Gosh a'mighty! Can't ye
leave a sick man in peace?
[Lying down again.]
MRS. POLLINGER. Listen, Pollinger!
Git up! The Master's comin'!
POLLINGER [throwing off the cover, leaping
up, quite transformed with joy]. Hooray!
The Master?    Is it true? Reelly true?
[Bends down to pick up his stick, again feels
the pain in his knee.] Jerusalem! [Angry, to
his wife.] Can't ye pick up my stick for me,
when ye see I need it?
MRS. POLLINGER [picks it up for him and
looks at him contemptuously]. Fine ye look!
Shame on ye!
POLLINGER. Gout's no shame.
MRS. POLLINGER. But boozin' is! When
ye can't stand it any more.
POLLINGER [limping along with his stick;


cheered]. The Master's comin'! The master's comin'!
MRS. POLLINGER [seems not so pleased;
surveying him contemptuously once more].
The Master keeps himself better. He has
n't got the gout yet.
[Goes to the sideboard and takes out
dishes.]
POLLINGER. An' when's he comin', hey?
Lordy, the Master! I'm cur'us to see what
he's picked out this time. Begun to get
reel anxious about him. [Figuring up.]
F'r it must be a good year an' a ha'f ago.
Ye know, that time with the countess.
MRS. POLLINGER [urging him on impatiently]. Wall, git on with ye, do! What
ye standin' there for? What ye waitin' for?
POLLINGER [startled]. Why, ye spose he's
comin' today?
MRS. POLLINGER [putting a tray with
glasses and cups on the table]. Any minute.
POLLINGER [excited]. Land sakes! Bring
me my shoes.
MRS. POLLINGER. The postmaster down
in the canyon jist sent up word, he telegraphed him, the boy jist came. So git a
move on ye. [Grumbling.] Ye know how
he is. Everything's got to go double quick.
POLLINGER [angry]. Wall, what's bitin'
you? Stid o' jumpin' for joy 'cause the
Master's comin' -
MRS. POLLINGER [busied with the tray;
dryly]. Jump yourself.
POLLINGER [angry, brandishing his stick].
Wall, ain't you glad?
MRS. POLLINGER [grumbling]. It's time
the Master got some sense, too.
POLLINGER [with emphasis, proudly].
Nope. That's where ye don't know the
Master. He is n't goin' to be sensible this
long time, he's goin' to stay young.
MRS. POLLINGER [with a scornful glance
at him]. Till the first thing ye know it'll
double him up, same as you. Like's two
peas.
POLLINGER [wailing]. Bring me my shoes.
MRS. POLLINGER [furious]. Git 'em yerself. Can't ye see I've got my hands full!
[Through the centre door, which she
slams violently.]
POLLINGER [angry]. Thunder an' lightnin'! Damn these wimmen-folk! Soon's




THE CONCERT


535


they think ye're gittin' old, they'd make a
nobody of ye. [Straightens up angrily.] No,
no! Don't git old, whatever ye do. An' ye
dassen't give in to old age, either. Must
n't act like it, or it'll nab ye in a jiffy.
But if ye don't take any notice of it, then
it loses confidence an' lets ye alone for
a while. No, must n't act like it. [Tries
to step out firmly, and stamps his foot; feeling
the pains in his knee again, angrily.] Ow,
gosh a'mighty! [Voices are heard outside,
those of MRS. POLLINGER and HEIN, laughing and calling.] Lordy, the Master's here
a'ready.       [Hurries to the centre door.]
HEIN [invisible, outside]. Straight ahead,
please. This is the way into the palace.
[He opens the centre door and lets
DELPHINA enter.]
I)ELPHINA [17; medium height, very
slender, her face still quite childlike, which
with its little snub nose arid the wide-open
eyes has a somewhat inquiringly and helplessly wondering expression, which does not
wholly agree with her airs of a great lady;
short dress of rough dull green wool, and a
small Alpine hat; she is heated with walking,
stimulated by the wind, illuminated by expectation, and looks curiously about the
room; clapping her hands]. Oh, that is
dear! How perfectly dear! How charming!
HEIN [follows her; without automobile
coat, in hunting costume; he is slightly weary
from his walk and does not wish to show it;
pointing to the left-hand door]. Now, first of
all, go and make yourself comfortable.
[Calling.] Polly, have him bring up the
things right away. [Seeing POLLINGER.]
Well, Pollinger, old boy! Here we are
again.
POLLINGER [quite touched, grinning]. Yes,
sir, yes, sir! [Calls, furious.] My shoes,
Polly! Will ye bring me my shoes this
instant?
HEIN [goes up to DELPHINA, to left of the
table, and takes her tenderly by the hand].
Well? Do you like it, little one?
DELPHINA [leans against him]. Perfectly
lovely, Gustav. Everything is so perfectly
lovely.
HEIN. Only a bit small, just the two
rooms. You know, this is that famous
little cottage for two the poets sing about.


Then will Your Majesty condescend to
remain?
DELPHINA [with upward cast of infatuated
eyes]. Oh, I wish I might stay here for life.
[Coquettishly.] If you wish it.
HEIN [pointing to the left-hand door]. But
now first of all make yourself comfortable.
[A MAID through the centre door,
carrying HEIN'S yellow bag, the
satchel, the two automobile coats,
and their two handbags, goes
into the room at left. POLLINGER
helps the maid and follows her.]
HEIN [calling]. And Polly, the coffee as
soon as possible. Show your skill. Don't
disgrace me.
MRS. POLLINGER [outside]. Leave it to
me, sir.
HEIN [to DELPHINA]. Everything will be
ready in no time. And then you'll make
yourself comfortable and have a nice rest,
just as if you were at home, and -
DELPHINA [with a blissfIu smile]. Yes.
HEIN [languishing, softly]. And then[He looks coquettishly at her.]
DELPHINA [shivering; softly, beseechingly].
Gustav!
[THE MAID out of the left-hand
door to the centre door, and exit.]
[POLLINGER from the left-hand door.]
HEIN. Well, Pollinger, is everything
ready?
POLLINGER. Yes, sir.
HEIN [to DELPHINA, pointing]. You
hear, little one. And if you need anything,
I'll be waiting here. But take your time,
you must be terribly tired, are n't you?
DELPHINA [going to the door; laughing].
Oh, not a bit. What from?
HEIN. Well, it's quite a walk up here.
DELPHINA [already in tihe doorway]. Oh,
I'd have liked to go on and on indefinitely.
To walk with you through the woods!
[Looks tenderly at him; then with a smile.]
Here goes! I'll be right back.
HEIN [bows ceremoniously and deeply to
her, saluting solemnly with both hands]. Au
revoir.
[DELPHINA smiling, exit left, closes
the door.]
HEIN [calling after her]. And take your




536


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


time. Don't get yourself tired. [Comes
back to centre and stretches.] Pollinger, the
path has never been so bad.
POLLINGER. Why, sir, that can't be.
HEIN [lifting his feet]. Never. Roots and
stones, horrible.
POLLINGER. Wall, what d' ye expect, in
the woods.
HEIN. No, no. The path used to be
better. I hope the coffee comes soon. [In a
different tone, seating himself on a chair to
the right of the table, propping his arms comfortably on it, and looking at POLLINGER;
merrily.] Well, Pollinger, let's look at
you. What did I hear about you? Gout?
So Polly says. [Grimacing.] Gout? Fie,
Pollinger!
POLLINGER. Wall, sir, what ye goin' to
do? It's beginnin' sort o' slow like.
HEIN [suspiciously]. What is?
POLLINGER [with a shrug]. Gittin' old.
HEIN [indignant]. Who? [Reproachfully.]
Pollinger!
POLLINGER. Wall, I can't help it.
HEIN [much surprised]. Why, what do
you mean? You can't be more than four
or five years older than I am.
POLLINGER. Three, sir.
HEIN. Why, then you're no more than a
mere child. [Peevishly.] Don't let them
talk you down, Pollinger. I'll wager your
wife's back of this. The women are keen
on making us settle down. Remember this,
that up to his fiftieth year a man is still in
process of development. Not until his
fiftieth year, often even later, does he reach
his highest mark, and he can maintain
himself there for many years more. Only
you must n't drink so much, Pollinger.
POLLINGER [seating himself comfortably
to the left of the table]. Right enough, sir.
But if ye're still in process of development,
as you say, sir, an' as is surely c'rect, then
that's jist why drinkin's a part of it, 's ye
might say, 'cause otherwise, 'cause if ye
give up drinkin', that'd be a sign that you
yerself think the process of development's
prob'ly at an end. An' when ye come to
think that, then yer highest mark's in a
bad way. That's why, sir. Why does a
man do it, 'xcept to have a proof that he's
still young?


HEIN [thoughtfully]. Well, yes, of course;
must n't give up, of course one must n't
give up. You're right about that, that
would be a mistake, no, one must n't give
up. And it's ridiculous, too, Pollinger, a
man at your time of life. [Quite vexed at
him.] I'd never have thought it of you.
Look at Polly. How well preserved she is.
The women know how.
POLLINGER. Wall, the wimmen don't do
as much as we do.
HEIN [eagerly]. That's not the reason,
on the contrary. The more a man does,
the fresher he keeps himself. Look at me.
And I certainly don't spare myself. To
rest is to rust, says the proverb. I don't
rust. Not anywhere. [Suddenly shouting,
almost angry.] Look at me. I'm not a bit
old. And why should I be? Ridiculous! I
don't see that at all. [Suddenly calm again.]
The only thing is, you must n't give in,
Pollinger.
POLLINGER. No, sir, no, sir, absolutely
not. An' that's just why I think it's cert'nly more sensible not to give it up yet,
drinkin' an' spreein'. Might be putty
risky.
HEIN [thoughtfully]. It may be. [In a
different tone.] Do you still have that army
tobacco?
POLLINGER [pulls, his pouch from his
pocket]. Why, o' course, sir.
HEIN. Give it here. And bring me my
pipe.
[POLLINGER brings a small wooden
pipe from the sideboard.]
HEIN. I'd like to try it once more. It
always used to taste so good to me. Much
better than that stupid imported stuff in
town. [Sighing, as he looks through the room.]
Oh, you've no idea how well off you are,
anyway. While we down there in the city,
faugh! [Lights the pipe and puffs luxuriously.] We're fools, we folks down there.
You can take my word for it. To sit here
and know nothing and be at peace! How
often I imagine that, how often I long for
it. What fools we are. Else I'd never go
away from here, but just stay on with you,
old Pollinger. What do you say?
POLLINGER [overjoyed]. Why, sir, that'd
be the greatest happiness we could have!




THE CONCERT


537


HEIN [with an effort, shaking off this
mood]. Later, later. The time will come.
Later, some day. Some day when I'm old.
POLLINGER [laughing]. Then it's a long
way off.
HEIN. Yes. For the moment we've not
got that far yet. They won't let me go
yet. You just ought to see how they go
on with me. You must come to town some
time, to one of my concerts - [recollects
himself at that word and has to laugh, with a
glance at the left-hand door] to a real concert. [Grave again, almost sad.] No, can't
do it yet, they won't let me go. Got to see
it through, as long as you're young. [Laying aside the pipe, which evidently does not
taste good to him; screwing up his face.]
Surely that is n't the same tobacco.
POLLINGER. 'T is indeed, sir.
HEIN. It used to taste different.
[Smoking again.]
POLLINGER. Maybe because ye're not so
used to it any more.
HEIN [reckoning]. Let's see, how long is
it since I was here last? It must be almost
a year.
POLLINGER. A year an' a ha'f, exact. A
year an' a ha'f ago, in the fall.
HEIN [quite astonished, shaking his head].
A year and a half, this time.
POLLINGER. We'd just had the first
snow. The countess was so pleased. Remember, sir?
I HEIN [unpleasantly affected by the recollection of the countess, curtly declining the
topic]. Yes, yes.
POLLINGER. Wall, it's been a long while
this time.
HEIN [spitting, laying aside the pipe].
That can't possibly be the same tobacco.
[Grimacing.] Ugh!
POLLINGER [insisting]. But cert'nly, sir,
the very same.
HEIN [woefully]. And it always used to
taste so good to me. [Sniffing.] Take the
pipe away.            [Lights a cigarette.]
POLLINGER [shuffles forward to take away
the pipe]. I s'pose a man's taste changes as
he gits older.
HEIN [clicks his tongue angrily; then, looking at POLLINGER'S felt slippers]. What
kind of shoes have you got there?


POLLINGER [embarrassed, vexed]. I told
Polly to bring me my shoes. But she's
completely lost her head, she's so tickled.
I'll jist see -
[Starts for door, pipe in hand.]
HEIN. No, don't. What for? [Still attentively regarding the slippers, as he crosses
his legs and runs his fingers over one shoe.]
Those shoes must be very agreeable.
POLLINGER. Ye see, I feel it in my toes
specially, an' then nothir' feels so good as
to be able to spread out yer foot good an'
soft.
HEIN. It is certainly not healthy to have
tight shoes.
POLLINGER. Did n't use to bother me,
but as time goes on ye git fussier 'bout
everything. [Has returned the pipe to the
sideboard, and shuts it.] I've got a second
pair, by the way. An' if ye'd like -
HEIN [quickly]. Yes, bring them.
POLLINGER. Right away.
[Starts for centre door.]
HEIN [rises; quickly]. And still, wait a
minute. [Takes a few steps toward the lefthand door, looks at it, then turns around
again.] Not now. Tomorrow you can, tomorrow I'll have them [drawing out the
words, thoughtfully], tomorrow morning.
[In a different tone, quickly.] Just now I'd
rather have you see to getting that coffee
here.
MRS. POLLINGER [puts her head in at the
centre door]. Can I bring in the coffee, sir?
HEIN [quickly, delighted]. Why of cour -
[breaks off in the middle of the word and
again goes to the left-hand door] wait a
moment.              [Knocks at the door.]
DELPHINA [outside, invisible; with a shriek
of alarm]. Don't come in!
HEIN. The coffee is here.
DELPHINA. No, not yet!
HEIN. Will it take long?
DELPHINA. One second.
HEIN. Oh, Lord.
[Motions to MRS. POLLINGER to
wait. MRS. POLLINGER exit.]
DELPHINA [outside, lamenting]. I can't
get my hair up.
HEIN [with customary gallantry, but without particular gusto]. Want any help?
[He leans against the jamb and




538


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


thrusts his hands in his trousers'
pockets.]
DELPHINA [alarmed]. No! Don't come
in! No!
HEIN [all of this as by custom, almost
mechanically, with a bored countenance and
a studied tenderness of tone]. I'd so much
like to help. And you'll be surprised how
clever I am. May I?
DELPHINA [horrified, imploring]. No!
For pity's sake, Gustav!
HEIN [still in an ardent tone and with
bored face]. Just a little. Please, please.
I'll close my eyes.
DELPHINA [shrieking]. No! No!
HEIN [all in a simulated tone of sensual
excitement]. Oh, but only just a very little
bit.
[He turns the knob, but stands so
that it is easily seen that he does
not dream of really going in.]
DELPHINA [shrieks, slams the door shut,
and throws her weight against it]. For pity's
sake, Gustav, no violence, or I swear to
you I will jump out of the window.
HEIN [yields at once, making no further
attempt to enter, and holding his hand firmly
on the knob as he whispers excitedly]. Oh,
how cruel! Tantalus, Tantalus! You demand the impossible of me.
DELPHINA [threatening]. I'Ul jump out
of the window.
HEIN [pleading]. No, no. I'll be obedient. I will strive to hold my throbbing
pulse in check.      [Lets go of the knob.]
DELPHINA [in a different tone]. Listen,
Gustav.
HEIN. Yes?
DELPHINA. Have n't you a full-length
mirror in the house?
HEIN. No, I really forgot.
DELPHINA. Well, it does n't matter, I
can get along, I'll be with you in five
minutes.
HEIN [going away from the door, resignedly]. Now it's only five minutes more.
[To POLLINGER.] And every time we forget
that full-length mirror. Do write to me
and remind me of it. [In a different tone,
sternly.] And I should think you'd learn
some time to go out of the room at the
proper time. I don't need any witnesses of


my passion. [As POLLINGER is going out,
calling after him, impatient, irritated.] And
have Polly come along with that coffee.
Five minutes! Who knows what that
means?
[Lies down on the sofa and stretches
out comfortably.]
POLLINGER [exit through the middle door,
which he leaves open; calling]. Polly, the
coffee! Don't ye hear, Polly?
MRS. POLLINGER [calling]. I'm comin'!
HEIN [stretching comfortably, a little
weary, with a glance at the flowers in the window]. Eyah! It's nice here. We're fools.
MRS. POLLINGER [through the middle
door, bringing the coffee on a tray]. Shall I
pour it?
[POLLINGER bringing a tray with
glasses, water, and cognac.]
HEIN. Yes, pour me a cup. And bring
it here. From here you have such a pretty
view of the treetops.
[POLLINGER places a chair beside
the sofa. MRS. POLLINGER has
poured a cup and sets it on the
chair.]
HEIN. You don't know, folks, how well
off you are here. And spring is peeping in,
spring is here again. That's the secret, the
spring just entices you every time it comes
again.
POLLINGER. That's right, sir. That's
what I say myself. When the springtime
comes again, a man just can't help himself,
it carries him away.
MRS. POLLINGER [stands by the sofa,
waiting for HEIN to taste the coffee; to POLLINGER, dryly]. Yes, it carries you away to
the tavern.
POLLINGER [philosophically]. One this
way, the other that way.
MRS. POLLINGER [reminding]. Don't ye
let the coffee git cold, sir. [Jesting clumsily.]
0' course ye don't need it, got beauty
enough.
HEIN [has tasted the coffee, looks up sniffing, and nods significantly to MRS. POLLINGER]. Mmm!
MRS. POLLINGER [proudly, pleased, with
emphasis]. Don't ye think so?
HEIN [drinks again; then, comfortably].
One ought to take a few days



THE CONCERT


539


POLLINGER [rejoiced, heartily]. Ah, stay
a while, sir.
MRS. POLLINGER     [heartily].  That's
right, do stay a while for once. It's just
the prettiest days that's comin' now.
HEIN. I know. Not now. I can't do it
now, but one of these days, one of these
days I'll really come to stay a while. [With
a sudden inspiration that makes him very
happy.] And I'll tell you what, then I'll
come alone.
MRS. POLLINGER [quickly]. That 'ud be
lovely.
HEIN [stretching; with yearning]. A few
days up here with you, just all alone, and
do nothing but maybe take a little walk
in the woods, but mostly just lie here on
this nice sofa and have nothing to think
about for once and be all alone. [Sighing.]
Eyah!
DELPHINA [through the left-hand door; in
a morning dress; smiling]. Here I am.
HEIN [still buried in thought; carelessly].
What? [Now notices DELPHINA and recollects quickly.] Oh, yes, Yes! [Jumps up,
not without an effort, and again assumes his
youthful tone; with a glance at her dress, admiringly, as he comes forward.] Oh, oh!
What a poem!
[POLLINGER at DELPHINA'S appearance, exit through centre
door. MRS. POLLINGER takes
time to convey HEIN'S cup from
chair to table; then exit centre.]
HEIN [pointing with one hand to the dress,
with the other to the flowers in the window].
Spring here and spring yonder, who could
help being in bliss?
DELPHINA [with a slighting glance at her
dress]. Oh, this poor rag! [Sits down at the
table.] Did it take me very long?
HEIN [fills her cup]. Horribly.
DELPHINA. Why, I was so quick!
HEIN. You were divinely quick.
DELPHINA. Well, then.
HEIN [as he sits down on the chair behind
the table]. But to my impatient longing it
was an eternity just the same. [Acting injured.] Don't you understand that?
DELPHINA [languishing, softly]. Don't
you think it was to me too?
HEIN [snatches at her hand in artificial


passion, in a tone of voluptuous outburst].
Oh, you, you!
DELPHINA [quickly withdraws her hand,
cowering, and then says, with a slightly repelling gesture of both hands, smiling, coquettish]. First the coffee!
HEIN [with an impatient movement]. Oh!
But I always thought so.
DELPHINA. What?
HEIN. Your nature is cold, through and
through.
DELPHINA [laying her hand on her heart;
with pained reproach]. I? Oh, Gustav!
HEIN [still injured]. Why, any one can
see it. And remember: in the car a while
ago.
DELPHINA [indignant, with abhorrence].
In the car! Fie!
HEIN. True passion pays no heed to
that.
DELPHINA [in a pleadiLng tone, softly].
And you must remember, Gustav: it is the
first time.
HEIN [drinking coffee; carelessly]. Really?
DELPHINA [deeply wounded]. Gustav!
[Begins to cry a little.] Oh, Gustav, if you
could think -
HEIN [to pacify her; lightly]. No, no,
certainly not.
DELPHINA [has immediately ceased to cry,
solemnly asseverating]. You are truly the
only man in the whole world-!
HEIN [agreeing carelessly, as if that were a
matter of course]. Yes, of course.
DELPHINA [solemnly]. I can swear that
to you.
HEIN. Why, I know it, child. Do you
suppose, that if I did n't have the feeling -
DELPHINA. Oh, yes, you have that feeling, have n't you?
HEIN. For believe me, nothing has ever
been more contemptible to me than when
it was not the call of the heart that compels
two souls irresistibly together. The call of
the heart must sanctify it and - [breaks
off, bored; again drinking coffee, falling out
of his r6le, carelessly] and so on, you understand me?
DELPHINA [touched]. I understand you.
[Casting up her eyes.] And if you feel it that
way, GustavHEIN [in careless confirmation]. Yes. Of




S40


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


-


course. Only I am not the man to use big
words.
DELPHINA [smiling happily]. I have always understood you right away, without
a word.
HEIN [drinking coffee]. So it should be.
[There is a loud knock at the centre
door. DELPHINA utters a brief
cry of fear and half rises.]
HEIN [startled, vexed, shouting]. What is
it? Come in! [Forces her down into her
chair again; smiling.] No fear, child. No
one that knows you will come up here.
POLLINGER [through the centre door, bringing a large round cake; purposely lo6king
away from them, so as to be sure to see nothing]. We forgot the cake.
[Puts it on the table; then exit
centre.]
HEIN [delighted, very animatedly]. Oh
yes. Give it here. I knew I was missing
something all the time. [Cuts the cake and
gives DELPHINA a piece; merrily.] Is n't it
really very nice here? Speak up. Or are
you perhaps sorry?
DELPHINA [smiling]. I hope I shall not
be sorry.
HEIN [in excellent humor]. And when I
think that I really ought to be sitting down
yonder, banging the box, with those horrible women [shakes himself with horror],
brrr!
DELPHINA [with faint doubt, suspiciously].
Are they so very horrible to you?
HEIN. Unspeakably!
DELPHINA. But then you dissemble well.
For, Gustav, you're terribly flirty with all
of them.
HEIN [surprised]. I?
DELPHINA. Every one thinks you are in
love with her.
HEIN. Gracious, that's a part of it.
With the competition nowadays. My profession, child! Duty!
DELPHINA [coquettishly]. If it only is n't
duty in my case -
HEIN [merrily]. No, child, that far my
zeal for duty does not carry me. These with
you are what you might call extra lessons.
DELPHINA![with coquettish pain]. How
many extra lessons have you already given,
I wonder?




I


HEIN. Dear me, people exaggerate terribly. Just like the tax-collector: if you
are n't an absolute beggar, he makes you
out a millionaire.
DELPHINA. But you're no beggar, at
any rate.
HEIN. Well, no! [Vexed and irritated.]
Now don't begin that sort of thing. Always the same old song, all women are
alike in that. [Calmer; transition to jollity.]
Well, what should I have done? We've
only known each other for six weeks. I
could n't know that one day Mrs. Delphina
Jura was suddenly going to appear. If you
had come twenty years ago!
DELPHINA. Why, I was n't on the earth
at all then.
HEIN. Well, you see! Then that's your
fault. And so in the meantime I have tried
to make myself useful in other quarters.
DELPHINA [coquettish]. But if I had come
twenty years ago?
HEIN. Then I should certainly have
become the faithfullest man that has ever
lived. I feel that. But as it is, that position
has remained unfilled, thanks to you. Are
you satisfied now?
DELPHINA [pouting]. Oh, Gustav, you're
making fun of me.
HEIN. Not in the least.
DELPHINA. Can't you imagine, how terrible it is for me - [looking through the
room.] I keep thinking: how many women
have been here with you?
HEIN. Well, after all, I can't have a
whole collection of cabins.
DELPHINA. And at every speech I think:
how many women have you said that to?
HEIN. Ah, child, you take me to be
terribly unoriginal. [In a different tone,
taking her hand, again making an effort to
be tender.] Dear little Delly! Look at me.
Right in the eye. [Tilts up her head by the
chin.] Are you really so stupid? Can't you
tell that these words have never before
been spoken, but are now being dictated
by my heart, just for you alone?
DELPHINA [blissfully, with closed eyes].
Yes, Gustav? Yes?
HEIN [draws her to him, her head in his
hands.] Dear silly child, beloved child.
[Kisses her.]




THE CONCERT


541


DELPHINA [without resisting]. Don't,
Gustav. I implore you.
HEIN [releases her again at once and steps
away from her]. Forgive me, I could not
resist. [Puts his hand over his eyes and
stands a moment, as if struggling for air;
then, withdrawing his hand from his eyes,
smiling, as he sits down again.] Now I'm
good again.
IELPHINA [has remained for a moment
expectantly in her yielding posture, then she
slowly sits up again in some confusion and
says softly]. I thank you for being so considerate. You feel how terrible it is for a
modest woman. [Suddenly jumps up and
shakes herself; excitedly, with hot voice,
quickly.] But now come, come! Please
come!
HEIN [getting up slowly, startled]. Where to?
DELPHINA. I can't stand it any more,
Gustav!
IEIN. But child!
DELPHINA. I want to go out, away, into
the forest, be a dear and come with me. I
can't stand it here any more.
HEIN [relieved, reassured]. Oh.
I)ELPHINA [almost swaying with excitement]. Outside it's so wonderfully beautiful, and everything's in bloom, and the
birds are singing. I can't sit here in the
room, I want to go racing through the
woods, just go racing, deeper and deeper
into the woods, for hours and hours, till the
night comes. Do come, Gustav, come with
me, it's so perfectly lovely, just to walk
with you in the bright springtime deep into
the woods! Come, Gustav, come!
[Seizes him by both hands, to drag
him away.]
HEIN [who seems to have no particular
liking for it; hesitating]. I don't just know
whether that's advisable, do you think it
is? Won't you get too tired? You're not
accustomed to it.
I)ELPHINA [shaking herself, laughing].
Tired! What are you thinking of? I could
run to the end of the world. Oh come, do
come.- We'll climb way up somewhere
and sit down where you can look far out
over the land, and we won't leave until the
night has fallen, and it will be all dark and
I shall be so deliciously afraid, and then


you'll take me in your strong arms and
carry me away, wherever you will, and I
shall know nothing more and be wholly
yours, and feel nothing more but just you
alone.               [Sinks on his breast.]
HEIN [to whom this outburst is inconvenient]. Child, child, wake up. What is
the matter with you? What is it?
DELPHINA [resting on his breast, with
closed eyes, smiling, softly]. Love is the
matter, and it is beautiful.
HEIN [concerned]. And in any case you
would have to change your clothes first.
When the sun goes down, it's bitterly cold
up here, it's the easiest thing to catch cold.
I really don't know whether it would n't
be wiser -
DELPHINA [freeing herself from him and
stamping defiantly]. No, no, no! If I want
to? [Merrily.] And I do want to, I want to,
and when I want something I have to have
it. [Again takes him by the hand, to draw
him out.] So you'd better some right away,
it's no use, come along now, come; good
gracious, what a man! [Tries to pull him
toward the centre door. There is a loud
knocking at the door. She drops HEIN'S
hand in terror and recoils, involuntarily
taking the direction of the left-hand door.]
For mercy's sake!
HEIN [also startled by the violent knocking;
furious, shouting toward the centre door].
What is the matter now? [To DELPHINA,
crossly.] Don't be childish. Who should
come up here-? [Again speaking toward
the door.] Well, what is it?
POLLINGER [at the door; he merely puts his
head in]. Sir!
HEIN [impatiently]. Well?
POLLINGER. A gentleman, sir.
[DELPHINA goes to the left doorway.]
HEIN [who cannot believe it]. How so?
Who is it? Not here, surely?
POLLINGER. A gentleman from town.
JURA [outside, still invisible, calling]. My
name is Jura.
[DELPHINA with a brief shriek,
flees into the other room; exit.]
HEIN [involuntarily places himself so as
to keep his back turned to the left-hand door;
vehemently, loudly]. Well, tell the gentleman -




542


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


JURA [shoves POLLINGER aside and enters;
with a very cheerful countenance]. What is
it? It's simpler for you to tell me, is n't it?
[To POLLINGER.] Go, my good man. You
can go.
[HEIN angrily motions POLLINGER
out. POLLINGER exit centre and
closes the door.]
JURA [looking through the room]. My, but
you really have a charming place here.
HEIN [has recovered his composure and
assumes a very haughty, condescending air;
hesitatingly, gropingly, as it were, as if he
could not quite recollect]. Mr. Jura, Jura?
JURA [looking quietly at him]. Yes, yes.
The husband of the woman. - But where
is my wife?
HEIN [calmly, wondering]. Your wife?
Did n't your wife come with you? [With a
gesture of starting for the centre door.] Then
she must still be outside.
JURA [laughs; easily]. No, no. She's been
here for some time. [Points to the left-hand
door; curiously.] Is she there? [Cordially.]
Don't let's torture her. It must be most
uncomfortable for her, in there.
[Starts for the left-hand door.]
HEIN [blocks his way; he now wishes to
provoke a quarrel, in a haughty, insulting
tone]. I cannot"but find your conduct at
least very strange, my dear sir. Most
strange, on my word. We hardly know
each other, and I really don't know -
JURA [remains much amused; nodding].
Yes, we hardly know each other, but
[laughing], but that did n't embarrass you
when you took my wife away from meHEIN [flaring up]. Sir!
JURA [calmly completing his sentence].
Whereby after all a certain connection has
been established between us. Don't you
think?
HEIN [in an intentionally insulting tone,
vehemently]. Sir, I really do not know what
you want.
JURA [amicably]. Why, that's just what
I'm going to tell you. [Beseeching.] But
please call my wife. What foolishness!
Why should I rehearse the same story first
to you and then to her; that would be too
stupid. A man's time is really worth something better.


HEIN [with great reserve, curtly]. I repeat
to you that I absolutely do not understand
what you are driving at, there must be
some misunderstanding, wholly incomprehensible to me, and of course I could simply
[he makes a gesture of showing JURA the
door], but I am in any case, if that will
satisfy you, quite ready to -
JURA [calling a halt]. Word of honor, I
know, I know, of course. But let's not
waste time with formalities. Why won't
you rather go and get my wife at once?
HEIN [roaring]. But when you hear that
IJURA [holding his ears]. I hear.
HEIN [roaring]. I have n't the slightest
desire to let you make a fool of me any
longer.
JURA. But why do you get so excited?
I have n't done anything to you, it's the
other way around.
HEIN. And you will simply force me to
throw you out on the spot.
JURA. You think so? [Looks at him
searchingly from the side.] I don't believe
you are a bit stronger. I only look so.
[Shoves his sleeve back and feels his
muscles.]
HEIN [curtly, full of contempt]. It is
simply silly, the way you conduct yourself.
JURA [with laughing eyes]. Aha! How
you'd like to insult me?
[Laughs cheerfully at him.]
HEIN [very glad to have brought the conversation to that point; challengingly, scornfully, shrugging his shoulders]. If it insults
you, then by all meansJURA [adopting his tone, completing his
sentence, quickly]. You are at my disposal.
HEIN [repeating, challengingly]. I am at
your disposal.
JURA [laughing, easily]. But I am not.
No, you will not succeed. You cannot
insult me.
HEIN [picking up this word, to be insulted
by it; shouting]. I cannot insult you? What
do you mean by saying I cannot insult
you? You are becoming insolent.
JURA [wishing to explain that he has misunderstood]. But -
HEIN [growing more vehement, louder].
What do you mean? I must beg for an ex



THE CONCERT


543


planation of your meaning. Why can I
not insult you? What can you advance
against me? Why?
JURA [explaining]. Why, I only mean
that I don't let myself be insulted, never.
HEIN [louder]. Well, if you won't let
yourself be insulted, then defend yourself
at least! [Roaring.] For I am insulting
you!
JURA [involuntarily raising his own voice;
very quickly]. Oh, no, you are not insulting
me.
HEIN [very quickly]. Why, I've been insulting you all this time.
JURA [very quickly]. No, you're not insulting me at all.
IEIN [beside himself, very quickly]. Well,
what more do you want? Shall I thrash
you?
JURA [very quickly]. No! - [Looks wonderingly at him; then naively.] Why should
you?
HEIN [roaring]. You surely must have
some sort of a feeling of honor in you!
JURA [very decidedly, but very quietly].
No! Certainly not. But if I had, would
that be a reason for thrashing me?
HEIN [roaring]. Well, then what do you
want of me?
JURA [very quietly]. Well, you don't let
me speak.
HEIN [roaring]. Speak then, and end
this.
JURA [quietly, pleading]. But first do go
and get my wife.
HEIN [roaring]. I have already told
youJURA [quietly, pleading]. So you really
won't go and get my wife?
HEIN [controls himself; quietly, sharply,
decisively]. I have told you that your wife
is not here. I have no idea how you could
hit upon that idea. I repeat to you again,
that it must be a misunderstanding which
is wholly incomprehensible to me. And I
give you once more my word of honor -
JURA. Now there! Don't you see she is
here.
HEIN [roaring]. If I give you my word
of honor -
JURA [quickly, eagerly]. One only gives
his word of honor when it's necessary.


Otherwise there would n"t be any object
in it.
HEIN [parrying; eagerly]. If you do not
believe my word of honor -
JURA [with eager assurance]. Oh, but I
do. I counted on it.
HEIN [ending his sentence]. Then we two
have nothing more to say to each other.
[Turns his back on him and walks
up and down ithe room in front
of the table.]
JURA [looks after him, then steps forward
from behind the table into the centre; resignedly]. Very well, then. If you wish.
So then my wife is not here.
HEIN [pacing up and down; curtly]. No.
JURA. I must admit that this causes me
no little embarrassment. I am sorry.
HEIN [pacing up and down, impatient,
irritated]. Well, do you wish to find your
wife here?
JURA. Yes. For it would be so much
easier to talk. And human life is so short.
HEIN [pacing up and down; impatiently].
I don't know what else we should have to
say to each other.
JURA [cheerfully]. Oh, very much. It's
only just beginning now. You will be
surprised. [Going to the centre door.] Just
be patient. [He opens the door and calls
through it.] Marie dear, please come in.
MARIE [outside, invisible]. Yes, Frank.
[She enters in tourist costume; nodding amicably to HEIN.] Good evening, Gus.
HEIN [coming to a stand before the table;
taken aback]. Marie! Why, what -?
JURA. Please be seated, Marie.
[Offers her a chair to the left of the
table.]
DELPHINA [from the left-hand door; furious, rushing at JURA]. What do you mean
by calling this woman by her first name?
HEIN [stamping his foot angrily; to DELPHINA]. What are you thinking of, how can
you -?
DELPHINA [almost crying with anger; to
HEIN]. Let me be. I'm certainly not going
to sit by and listen to my husband calling
a strange woman -
[MARIE has seated herself, and
looks at DELPHINA with a smile
of quiet amusement.]




544


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


JURA [very quiet and very friendly toward
all]. Right away, Delly. You shall know
everything. But be seated. [To HEIN.]
Excuse me if force of habit makes me continue to call my first wife Delly.
DELPHINA [with a quick outcry]. Frank!
JURA. Right away, Delly. One thing at
a time. But have a seat. [As DELPHINA is
about to sit down beside MARIE; pointing to
the chair opposite MARIE, on the right of the
table.] No, you had better sit there, please.
[With a glance at the two ladies.] One can
never tell, and a large table between is
certainly better. [To HEIN.] And won't
you have a seat too?
HEIN [declining curtly, ironically]. You
are too kind. [Steps behind DELPHINA'S
chair, stands with arms crossed, and keeps
looking at MARIE; curtly, to JURA.] Now
will you tell us what all this means?
JURA. Right away. [Sits down behind
the table.] It won't take long at all. All we
want is to put things in order here.
HEIN [suddenly angry]. Marie, that
youMARIE. Please, listen to him first, Gus.
He is right.
JURA. That's just it, he won't listen to
me. It might have all been settled this
long time.
HEIN [bitter, urging]. Well?
JURA. May I first allow myself a few
questions? And first of all I want to ask
you, Delly; tell me -
DELPHINA [with pinched voice]. What?
JURA. Tell me: do you love this man?
[DELPHINA quivers and bends her
head.]
HEIN [piqued]. How do you come to -?
JURA. One may ask, I suppose? She
can say so. It's no disgrace.
MARIE [in a mild tone]. We just want to
know.
HEIN [piqued]. What is it to you, anyway?
MARIE [half excusing]. Well, it is something to me, after all.
JURA. One thing at a time, please.
Speak, Delly: you do love this man?
[DELPHINA is silent.]
JURA [after a slight pause]. For I cannot
imagine that you are spending your days


with a man, or in the dwelling of a man.
without -
HEIN [interrupting, wishing to make some
objection]. Sir, permitJURA [with lively asseveration; naively].
But I am permitting!
HEIN [vehemently]. What I mroan isJURA. But let her answer, won't you?
HEIN [to DELPHINA, imperiously, curtly].
Answer!
JURA. No, you must n't intimidate her.
Let her tell the truth quite frankly. - Be
perfectly easy. If perhaps the fact is that
in the last analysis you don't love him at
all, but have simply been entertaining
yourself with him -
HEIN [furious]. Mr. Jura, now -
JURA [interrupting, very decidedly]. Mr.
Hein, now -
MARIE [interrupting]. But people, now
- now let her finally have her say.
JURA [quietly agreeing]. Yes.
HEIN [piqued, urgently]. All right, then!
JURA [to DELPHINA, quietly]. So reflect
and tell us, you need have no fear whatever.
And I assure you in advance, we shall be
content in any case.
DELPHINA [starting up, piqued, vehementlyi. Oh? You are content?
JURA [wondering]. Well, why should n't
I be?
DELPHINA [angry]. You are content if I
love another man? So long as I know that!
Oh, if you are content!
JURA. But child, whether I am or not,
what shall I do about it? I can't change it
any more than you, if you love him.
DELPHINA [defiantly, challengingly]. And
I do love him, I love him.
HEIN [corroborating]. She loves me. Of
course.
JURA [to HEIN, to show him that he has no
need to get excited]. I have not doubted it
in the least. [Then, rising; looking at HEIN.]
And you?
HEIN. I? I also have not doubted it.
JURA. No, I know that, but whether
you love her too?
HEIN [vehemently]. That's no business
of anybody in the world.
JURA [quietly, but decidedly]. Excuse me,
it's very much the business of all three of us.




THE CONCERT


545


HEIN [furious]. I can love whom I will.
Nobody on earth has the power or the right
to forbid me.
JURA. You can, indeed. And in fact it
pleases me very much that you -
HEIN [more and more irritated]. Sir,
whether I please you or not -
JURA [interrupting]. It pleases me very
much that youHEIN [roaring]. I will not please you.
JURA [also shouting]. But you do! You
cannot forbid me.
MARIE [conciliating]. After all, that
does n't matter so very much.
JURA [already quieted]. No. You are
right. And all 1 meant was that if you have
the courage to follow your heart unconcernedly - then why won't you have the
courage to confess it with the same unconcern?
HEIN [piqued]. Courage, courage! Much
courage about that. You doubt my
courage?
JURA. Not at all. And it really would n't
be at all kind of you to leave my wife in
the lurch now. So why not say that you
love her.
DELPHINA [looks anxiously at HEIN,
softly]. Gustav!
MARIE [quietly]. Gustav, you  really
need not consider me. It is very dear of
you, but quite unnecessary, I assure you.
And you're not usually like this.
HEIN [more and more irritated]. What
ails you all? You're fairly driving me to it.
JURA [comfortably]. Then say it, do!
Why will you still deny it?
HEIN [furious]. I'm not denying anything. [Roaring.] Well, of course I love
her.
JURA [relieved]. Well, at last!
MARIE [relieved]. Well, at last!
JURA. And now tell me one more thing,
and then we'll be done in a jiffy. I'd just
like to know how long you think, approximately, it is going to last.
HEIN [shouting]. Sir, are you mad?
JURA [with unshaken calm; to DELPHINA].
In your case I suppose I may assume that
it is for ever?
DELPHINA [embittered, defiant]. Yes, you
can.


JURA. And you, sir?
HEIN [embittered]. Have you perhaps
brought a notary along, to take a record of
it?
JURA. Your word is sufficient.
HEIN. I am not accustomed to measure
my feelings with a yardstick.
JURA. Yet you must have formed a
certain opinion about it?
HEIN. No.
JURA. You love my wife. But before
her you have loved others?
HEIN [roaring]. Yes.
JURA. Then you should be able to figure
up about how long it usually lasts with
you.
HEIN [roaring]. No.
JURA. That surprises me. With your
experience I should be able to figure it.
HEIN [shortly]. Not I. I love Delphina
today. Whether I shall still love her tomorrow, I do not yet know.
JURA. But that will hardly satisfy her.
DELPHINA [defiantly, proudly]. It does
satisfy me. For I know it.
JURA [warning, slowly, with admonishing
finger]. Now, Delly, think: well upon it.
DELPHINA [sullenly].. love him and
shall always love him, and I ask nothing
else. [With a scornful outburst.] You love
Mrs. Marie, too. So you must know how
it is.
JURA. Just be patient. That will come
later. One thing at a time. [Rubbing his
hands.] So point number one is settled.
You love my wife, and my wife loves you.
And now see how well th.s fits. For just
imagine. I love your wife, and your wife
loves me. [Shoves his crossed arms on the
table, and leans forward.] How fortunate we
four people are. So you see we can celebrate our marriage right now on this very
day.
[Looks around the table with a laugh
of pleasure.]
HEIN [suddenly very calmr, as he begins to
suspect that all this is merely a prearranged
game]. You have a sense of humor. For
you surely cannot seriously imagine that
an affair of such importance -
JURA [breaking in]. Nothing is important but one's feeling.




546


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


HEIN [quickly, impatiently]. But at least
it needs to be thought over.
JURA. You should really have thought
it over beforehand [pointing his finger at
DELPHINA], beforehand! However, as you
will. I am quite ready to discuss the matter
with you again in the most thorough manner, tomorrow or any time. I have time
and can stay here as long as you like;
please dispose of my time as you will. In
the main, of course, we are already at one.
And that makes me very glad. [With a
sudden idea, as if recollecting, as he rises and
goes to MARIE.] Yes and, and now only do
I consider myself justified, dear Marie, in
giving you the first kiss. How much nicer
it is, when one can do it with a good conscience.
[He takes her head in his hands and
kisses her on the mouth. DELPHINA, as JURA kisses MARIE,
starts up from her chair and
turns away so vehemently as to
bump into HEIN, standing behind her.]
HEIN [7ecoiling; startled]. What's the
matter with you?
DELPHINA [vehemently, almost weeping
with rage, softly]. Why don't you kiss me?
[About to sink on his breast.]
HEIN [declining, shortly]. Don't. [Going
away from her toward the centre door; aloud.]
I don't think it's in very good taste to
make a public show of such things.
JURA [MARIE'S head still in his hands,
half turning to HEIN]. But as soon as a relation once takes on a connubial color, this
is really a part of it, don't you think?
HEIN [indifferently]. Don't mind me.
[Calling at the door.] Pollinger.
MARIE. What do you want?
HEIN [pacing up and down the room;
shortly, dryly]. Light. It's getting dark,
you can hardly see any more, and first
thing you know we might be getting our
wives mixed up.
MARIE. Yes, and some one must tell
Pollinger to set up another bed here. Somebody can sleep on the sofa.
JURA [much amused]. Ah, there are only
these two rooms here?
MARIE, Yes, there are only these two


rooms here. Heretofore they have always
been ample.
[POLLINGER enters at centre.]
HEIN [to POLLINGER]. The lamp.
[POLLINGER mounts the chair behind the table and liahts the
lamp.]
HEIN [pointing to the table]. And clear
that away. And tell Polly that there will
be four to supper. And then, we need something else to sleep on. I suppose you have
something?
POLLINGER [has lighted the. lamp and is
clearing away the dishes]. Must be 'n old
army cot in the cellar. Right away, sir.
[Exit centre with the dishes.]
HEIN [in very ill humor at the thought of
having to sleep on the cot]. Who's to sleep
on the cot?
MARIE. We must divide up, anyway.
HEIN [piqued]. I'm curious.
JURA. If there are only two rooms, then
it can only be done either by having the
two married couples sleep together -
HEIN [impatient, irritated]. You have a
tendency to jest about everything!
JURA. Well, is that a jest, for goodness
sake?
HEIN [impatient]. Well, go on, go on.
JURA [continuing]. And so if by couples,
then we should still have to decide which
ones, that is, whether the former -
DELPHINA [vehemently protesting, full of
hate]. No!
JURA [with a shrug]. Or the present
ones.
HEIN [impatient, vexed]. No, no! What
nonsense.
JURA. Well, then the only other thing -
MARIE. And that will be the wisest.
The two gentlemen will sleep together, and
we two also. [Stands up and takes one step
in front of the table toward DELPHINA, really
only an offer to meet her halfway; smiling.]
We shall get along peacefully. Shan't we,
Mrs. Delphina? And we too must finally
get to know each other a little.
DELPHINA [advances involuntarily toward
MARIE, in front of the table, much excited
and confused]. I? We? Of course, that is,
but - [begins to cry, is ashamed, and runs




THE CONCERT


547


past MARIE to the left-hand door.] Excuse
me.
[Exit through the door, which she
slams behind her.]
JURA [has meanwhile gone around the
table toward the right and HEIN; amused].
We hardly need to become acquainted
now. We've already become quite intimate, I think.
[Laughs heartily, rubbing his hands
and looking amusedly at HEIN.
MARIE looks after DELPHINA
with a smile, then with a shrug
goes slowly to the sideboard and
opens it, to inspect the contents.]
HEIN [observing JURA; with his previous
suspicion]. You have a sense of humor.
JURA [significantly]. Sometimes that is
a piece of great fortune, Mr. Hein.
HEIN [significantly, slowly, 'half in question]. I hope you have a sense of humor.
JURA [understands him; evading, smiling].
Well, you must n't overestimate my sense
of humor, either. [Laughs.] But we shall
certainly understand each other in time
very well. You please me more and more.
HEIN [half laughing, half vexed]. Do you
perhaps love me too? For you are very,
very versatile in your emotions, versatile
and generous.
JURA [beaming with pleasure, eagerly
agreeing]. Yes. For really I am in love
with all human beings. It does n't matter
who they are.
HEIN [with a shake of the head]. You are
a singular person.
JURA [modestly declining]. I am merely
young. That is all, Mr. Hein.
HEIN [suddenly very serious, almost a
trifle sad]. Yes, that may be.
MARIE [discovering in the sideboard an old
set of quaint chessmen; much delighted]. Oh,
here is still the old game of chess, with the
dear funny pieces. Look.
[Puts it on the table.]
JURA [eagerly, curiously]. Chess?
[Quickly advances to the table and
helps MARIE to set up the
pieces.]
HEIN [delighted]. Is that still here? I
did n't know that.      [Goes to the table.]


JURA [laughing]. The fat queen is really
lovely.
HEIN [to JURA, with sympathy]. You
play chess?
JURA. Passionately.
HEIN [pleased]. Oh.
JURA. And it is excellent training for
life, because it teaches you. that reason can
do anything.
MARIE [has seated herself on the left-hand
chair and is about to begin]. Now whom am
I playing?
JURA [to HEIN]. You.
HEIN [to JURA]. No, you.
JURA [stepping behind MARIE'S chair].
No, no, I like to look on.
HEIN [sits on the chair behind the table;
merry]. You're forever leaguing yourselves
against me. [Lights a cigarette.] Well, we'll
see! Ready?
MARIE [solemnly]. Begin!
HEIN. Yes, you began yesterday.
[Makes the first move. MARIE
makes her first move.]
JURA [at HEIN'S first move; nodding
eagerly]. Aha!
[DELPHINA through the left-hand
door; looks with surprise at the
players; as she is not noticed at
all by them, she goes slowly to the
window at right and seats herself
there on the upholstered chair,
looking out.]
HEIN [making another move]. Yes indeed,
my dear Marie, we understand each other
very well.
[The first moves are made very
rapidly.]
JURA [looking on contentedly, nodding].
The Spanish opening. The game of Master
Rui Lopez de Segura! [To HEIN.] You
just wait.
HEIN [playing]. No, no! Keep your
pawn. I know that trap.
JURA [admiring HEIN'S play]. With true
artists it's really only the hand that plays,
they're so thoroughly in practice.
HEIN   [playing, carelessly].  Yes, one
leaves it to his hand.
[DELPHINA sits at the window,
looking out; now she looks up at
the players, who do not observe




548


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


her, and suddenly rises, feeling
her abandonment, to open the
window; the window rattles.]
HEIN [looking up from the game at the
sound]. What's the matter? [Only now observing DELPHINA; carelessly.] Oh, you're
there.              [Makes another move.]
DELPHINA [to HEIN]. I'm only opening
the window.
[She stands at the open window and
looks out into the dark forest.]
HEIN [playing, answering absently]. Yes.
JURA [delighted at a move by MARIE,
eagerly]. Excellent. [Laughing at HEIN.]
Well, what now?
fLooks at HEIN with tense anticipation; leaning over the table.
MARIE looks intently at HEIN,
awaiting his move.]
DELPHINA [standing at the window, looking out]. Now it's quite dark and the
woods are rustling; the night is veiling
everything.
HEIN [thinking about the move he is to
make; toward DELPHINA, mechanically, absently]. Well —that's what you wanted.
Is n't it?
[Seizes his knight and holds it
aloft, still hesitating.]
DELPHINA [looks toward the players and
says sadly, thoughtfully lowering her head,
softly]. Yes.
CURTAIN
THIRD ACT
The same room as in the second act. Only
now there is a narrow army cot leaning in the
left-hand corner beside the sideboard, already
folded up. Early morning, beautiful day,
bright sunlight.
MARIE [in the chair to the left of the table,
breakfasting; covers are laid for four]. But
Mrs. Pollinger. I simply don't understand
you.
MRS. POLLINGER [standing behind the
table, lamenting]. Wall, don't it make ye
feel bad when a man won't hear reason at
all?
MARIE [amused]. Oh, good gracious,
these men.


MRS. POLLINGER. At first ye keep sayin'
to yerself: Wall, wait till he's got a little
bit older. An' then when it gits to that,
it's worse 'n ever.
MARIE. Well, haven't you ever noticed -?
MRS. POLLINGER. What?
MARIE. You know men never do get
any older.
MRS. POLLINGER [wondering]. Ye don't
say.
MARIE [laughing]. No.
MRS. POLLINGER [quickly]. Wall, for the
land's sake don't ye tell my husban' that.
Ef he hears that! They's on'y one good
thing about it, he's so 'fraid o' gittin' old.
MARIE. No, men don't get any older,
they get younger all the time, Mrs. Pollinger. Until at last, some a little earlier,
some a little later, along about the middle
of the forties, they're like children again.
Yes, Mrs. Pollinger, our children. You
must steer your course by that, and when
once you've become used to it, it's all right.
MRS. POLLINGER [lamenting]. Ef he
could on'y leave his cursed drinkin' alone.
Drinkin' an' spreein'. But no!
MARIE. Some have this, and some have
that, but none of them can give it up.
MRS. POLLINGER. An' it gits worse
every year.
MARIE [agreeing, confirming]. It gets
worse every year. And therefore, Mrs.
Pollinger -
MRS. POLLINGER [listening greedily].
Yes?
MARIE. Therefore it's necessary for the
woman to become wiser every year.
MRS. POLLINGER [agreeing thoughtfully].
That's true, true o' course. But ef a man
'ud on'y give ye credit for it, at least.
MARIE. That is true. But they won't
give us credit.
DELPHINA [comes through the left-hand
door; bowing, embarrassed; softly]. Good
morning.
MARIE. Good morning. [Looks at DELPHINA smiling.] Well, did you sleep your
fill? The men have been out this long time.
MRS. POLLINGER [curtseying to DELPHINA, as she prepares to reach for the
coffee-pot]. May I fill your cup? 




TH[E CONCERT


549


DELPHINA [sits down on the chair in front
of the table; nodding]. Please. I am hungry.
[Embarrassed.] I'm used to having breakfast in bed.
MRS. POLLINGER has filled the cup, suddenly recollecting]. Mercy, an' I forgot all
about the honey.   [Goes to the centre door.]
Would n't the Master be in a fine rage.
MARIE. Why, has n't he had breakfast
yet?
MRS. POLLINGER [going out]. No.
[Exit centre.]
DELPHINA [putting up her hair; unhappy].
Oh dear, and this combing my hair, all
alone.
MARIE [sweetly]. Why did n't you call
me?
DELPHINA [delighted, surprised]. Yes?
Would you have?
MARIE [smiling]. Gladly.
DELPHINA [quickly]. Thank you very
much.
[Is embarrassed and quickly takes
her spoon to begin to breakfast.]
MARIE [stretching out her hand toward her;
in a warning tone]. But -!
DELPHINA [obediently]. Yes?
MARIE. May I give you a bit of advice?
DELPHINA. Please do.
MARIE. I would advise you to wait
breakfast until my hus- [correcting herself] until Gustav comes back.
DELPHINA [disappointed, meekly]. You
would?
MARIE. He is used to that. He does n't
like it at all to breakfast alone.
DELPHINA [looking wonderingly at MARIE,
who is breakfasting with enjoyment; in an
almost envious tone]. But how about you?
MARIE [as if she did not understand the
question]. I?
DELPHINA [enviously]. You're having
yours now.
MARIE [as if just comprehending]. Oh,
that! [Laughing.] Why, I don't need to
wait for him. Not any more.
DELPHINA [uneasy]. Yes, that's so.
MARIE. But he might take it very ill of
you. And justly. For we must observe the
habits of the man we love. For that reason,
if you wish, I will gladly call your attention
to everything and initiate you into every


thing. For you simply cannot imagine how
terribly touchy he is.
DELPHINA [uneasy]. Oh! I shall be very
grateful to you.
[Gets up and goes toward the right.]
MARIE. What is the matter? Won't you
stay with me for a little while?
DELPHINA [dejected]. I only want to sit
a little farther away. You know, the smell
of the coffee - [Sits down on the chair by
the window, at right, sadly.] For I'm really
used to having my breakfast in bed.
MARIE [severely]. No, he does n't like
that at all, not at all!
DELPHINA [more to herself, to give herself
courage]. I can manage that.
MARIE [after a slight pause, in which she
observes DELPHINA with cmusement; in a
different tone; carelessly]. Did you sleep well?
DELPHINA [quite dejected]. Oh yes, thank
you.
MARIE [softly]. I woke up once, and it
seemed as if you were crying to yourself.
DELPHINA [lowers her head, flushing; embarrassed]. Oh, I often cry in my sleep.
[Involuntarily  confessing.]  And  I was
afraid. It's all so strange.
MARIE [carelessly]. It's easily understood, you had probably imagined it would
be different.
DELPHINA [softly]. And [ was so terribly
sorry for Frank.
MARIE [feigning surprise]. For Frank?
Why? We shall be very happy together.
DELPHINA [with an outburst]. I never
would have thought it of him. [Rises and
goes to the table.] Not one year after our
marriage! Men are so bal. [Angrily.] I
don't want to have anything more to d(
with any man.
[Takes a roll and bites into it.]
MARIE. One always thinks that.
MRS. POLLINGER [with the honey, through
the centre door]. There. Now ev'rthing's
ready.
MARIE. When did the Master go out?
MRS. POLLINGER. Right after sunup.
[With a glance at the cot.] I guess he didn't
like his bed. It's at least two hours ago.
MARIE [with an amused glance at the cot;
to DELPHINA]. Well, then it can't be 9s
very long before he'll be back.




55o


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


DELPHINA [with guilty mien lays the half
roll on the table again; to MRS. POLLINGER].
And when did my - [she stops, ashamed to
say "my husband," and wishing to correct
herself] when did -
[She stops again, because it won't
do for her to call him MR. JURA;
she makes a helpless gesture.]
MRS. POLLINGER [as she does not understand, largo]. What d'ye mean, ma'am?
DELPHINA [at a loss]. I mean, when - I
mean, whetherMARIE [interrupting, to help out DELPHINA]. She means, when did - [acts as if
she too were embarrassed for the proper name
for JURA] she means, whether - [glad to
find a recourse; quickly] whether the two
gentlemen went out together?
MRS. POLLINGER. No, the other gentleman did n't go out till much later.
[She assures herself with a survey
that everything is in good order
and that she is not further
needed; then exit centre.]
DELPHINA [with a sigh of relief, when
MRS. POLLINGER is gone]. One does feel so
embarrassed before the servants in such
cases.
MARIE. For most people it's fortunate
that at least they are embarrassed before
the servants. Otherwise-!
DELPHINA [with a sudden resolve, very
decisively, reaching for the coffee-pot]. I
think I will breakfast. It is certainly not
good for me.
MARIE [warning anxiously]. Mrs. Jura!
I don't know! Of course it's nothing to me,
but I would n't advise you to do it. I don't
know! I warn you!
DELPHINA [relinquishing the pot; furious,
quickly]. He surely cannot demand that -
MARIE. You'll be surprised to find all
the things he demands. [Looks at her with
a smile.] Just wait until you're married to
him: you'll begin a new life. For our dear
Gustav knows how to keep one on the run,
he does indeed. For the world-famed great
man is really a perfect child, that can't
take one step forward if one does n't help
him and think for him and do everything
for him. Between ourselves, of course, but
you won't say anything and then you'll


see it yourself when you're once married.
And in a way that is something very beautiful for a woman, to give up her own life
altogether and bring it to the man of her
love as a sacrifice, to belong only to him,
and not to exist for herself at all; perhaps
it is the most beautiful experience any
woman can possibly have. But it will be a
little hard for you just at the beginning,
for it takes some patience, patience and
strong nerves. But one becomes used to it
and it is the lot of woman.
DELPHINA   [with inward  opposition].
Nowadays people have a different idea
about that, about the lot of woman. Nowadays a woman may also demand her right
to a certain freedom.
MARIE 'very quietly]. Not his wife. Oh
no, not his wife! [Smiling.] You'll see
when you're once married.
DELPHINA [quickly]. But I am married.
MARIE. Yes, you have been married,
but with Gustav it's quite different. Not
for one moment has one any peace. And
especially in the fall, when he goes on his
big concert tour. Oh, then I've often been
really quite exhausted. Of course it was n't
possible at all without me, for I always
have to go along when he has a concertthat is when it is a [smiling] real concert.
And the real concerts are almost more frequent. And then he's quite different, that
is, he's excited. Oh, awful! And I have to
dress him like a little child, or he'll forget
everything, and then his collar's too tight
and his tie does n't fit, and his shoes hurt
him, well, just awful. And then to sit
waiting in some hot, stuffy little room,
while he's playing outside, is not very
jolly either. You make up for it by sitting
alone in the hotel, for he goes out afterwards with the enthusiasts, male and
female, and then of course his wife can't
go along, for a married pianist does n't
take well, and he dare n't let it be known.
But then when he comes back to the hotel,
along about three or four in the morning,
then he wakes me up, for then he's very
communicative and insists on telling all
about it. But in the morning I must pack
while he is still sleeping, for of course we
must go on by the next train. And then




THE CONCERT


55I


you must n't on any account say anything,
still less ask any question, in the morning
he can't stand that at all. Yes, indeed,
that's a very different Gustav Hein that
you'll learn to know then, but in return
you'll have him all to yourself. Well,
you '11 see all this for yourself, when you're
once married.
DELPHINA   [involuntarily raging, sotto
voce]. I'm not married yet!
MARIE [as if misunderstanding]. Why,
we shall all try to hasten the formalities as
much as possible - of course I understand
your impatience. [In a different tone.] But
now be nice and tell me something about
my husband, or rather your husband. I
must learn over again too.
DELPHINA [angrily]. About Frank? No,
there you must excuse me, I really don't
know a thing. There's nothing to be said
about Frank, he's not so interesting.
[Almost weeps with anger.]
MARIE [hears the tearful ring in her voice
and acts surprised]. Why, what is the
matter?
DELPHINA    [ashamed].  I?   Nothing.
Nothing at all! What should be the matter? Hunger! Yes, hunger! [At sight of the
coffee, angry again.] I must take the air a
bit. I'll go out there [points to the window] and wait behind the house, excuse
me.
[Exit quickly through the centre
door.]
MARIE. I will call you as soon as Gustav
comes.
[Looks after her for a moment, still
smiling, then her face becomes
serious, she lowers her head,
covers it with both hands, and
sits thus until she slowly lifts
her head again and her face once
more takes on its intelligent smile
of assurance.]
[POLLINGER through the centre door.]
MARIE. What is it?
POLLINGER. I'm a-goin' down in to the
canyon now, an' I was told to ask what the
butcher's to bring tomorro'.
MARIE. You'll have to ask the Master
about that.


POLLINGER. I did, an' he said I was to
ask the missus.
MARIE. Me?
POLLINGER. Yes.
MARIE. No, he can't have meant me.
POLLINGER. Yep. He says in so many
words: Ye'll have to ask the missus 'bout
that.
MARIE. But he meant Mrs. Jura.
POLLINGER [slightly surprised, but in this
house already used to anything and hence
composed again at once]. That so? - That
so! Then I'll ask Mrs. Jura. 'Scuse me!
[He opens the centre door, but
waits at the door until HEIN and
JURA have entered, then exit.]
HEIN [still invisible, outside at the centre
door; insisting on giving JURA the precedence, with cheerful voice]. No, no! After
you, please!
JURA [still invisible, outside at the centre
door; insisting on giving HEIN the precedence, with animated deprecation; merry
voice]. After you! Please, after you!
HEIN. On no condition whatever!
JURA. No, then I'll go back into the
woods again.
HEIN [forcing JURA into the room, merrily].
We'll just see who's master here.
JURA [laughing]. Well, if you use violence -! [Enters through the centre door,
and becomes somewhat embarrassed as his
eye falls on MARIE; his hands are full
of dripping water-plants.] Good morning,
Mrs. Marie. Where do you suppose I
can -? [He points to the plants and looks
perplexedly about.] We've been fishing.
There's a glorious pool out in the woods.
[POLLINGER exit through the centre
door. MARIE has nodded at
JURA, notices his embarrassed
tone, and looks wonderingly at
him.]
HEIN [has entered after JURA; in very
good humor]. It was wonderful!
JURA. But where -?
MARIE [pointing to the left-hand door]. In
the other room, please.
JURA [hastily, visibly glad to get away;
going to the left-hand door]. Yes. I'll be
right back. [Already at the door, turning half
around.] But then I must visit the pool




552


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS




once more today. You'll come along?
There's many another catch there, you'll
open your eyes!
[Exit, laughing with pleasure.]
HEIN [kisses MARIE on the forehead by
force of habit; then, looking after JURA]. You
know, he's a very pleasant fellow. All the
things he knows and the way all nature is
alive to him! An uncommonly sensible and
agreeable young fellow; I should n't have
thought it possible. [Noticing that MARIE
smiles; half excusing.] We met each other
in the path, and after all he's my guest,
is n't he? And so we got to talking, he
knows so much and I like him very much
anyway. [Sits down on the chair behind the
table.] We must keep up the acquaintance.
It's a shame how little I really know about
nature. And now there seems to be a new
generation growing up which is remarkable,
quite different. [He observes that MARIE
has had her breakfast; in a different tone,
crossly.] What's the matter with you today?
MARIE. I have had my breakfast.
HEIN [indignant, with emphasis]. Without me?
MARIE [rising]. I'll go and call Mrs.
Jura right away.
HEIN [without becoming excited, merely
with faint ill humor, as one averts an unwelcome jest; curtly]. Now stop that. Don't
spoil this lovely morning for me. [Pleasantly, merrily.] Don't be silly!
MARIE [standing to left of the table; very
serious, slowly]. Whether I am silly, my
dear Gustav, whether it is not perhaps
silly of me, -dear me, one can never
know that in advance. But now it's settled, once for all.
HEIN. You certainly don't think that I
think you're in earnest?
MARIE. Frank has my word and I have
his.
HEIN [measures her from top to toe]. At
your age! [With a shrug, contemptuous.]
And that young fellow!
MARIE. You just said yourself how
sensible and agreeableHEIN [interrupting]. 'But he is ten years
younger than you.
MARIE. Then how much younger must
she be than you?


I.


HEIN [vehemently]. But do I want to
marry her? I'm not thinking of it.
MARIE. You're only thinking of deceiving me.
HEIN [irritated, impatient]. Deceiving!
As if you had n't always known.
MARIE. But now I won't have it any
more. No, I will not endure it any more.
HEIN [furious]. Now all of a sudden!
MARIE. Yes, you're right there, I should
never have endured it. But there is still
time.
HEIN [jumps up; lamenting like a child,
almost whimpering]. No, no, no! I don't
like this! So early, on such a lovely morning! When you know that I need to have
peace early in the morning! All year long
a man works like a slave without getting
anything out of it, and then when he
finally has a day off for once, you take
it this way. [Complaining and pleading.]
Marie!
MARIE. Well, I'm very sorry, Gustav,
but some time we have to talk to each
other seriously.
HEIN [with vigorous refusal]. No! I
won't! And what for?
MARIE. For as things have been going
up to now, GustavHEIN [stops his ears, childishly obstinate].
No, I won't, I won't, and if you don't
stop-              [Goes to the centre door.]
MARIE. But I will.
HEIN [with the utmost rage]. I say no!
MARIE. And this once in life you'll just
have to do as I will.
HEIN [looks at her a moment, taken aback;
then whimpering again]. No! [With a
vehement movement of both arms; in the utmost rage, roaring.] No! [Like an obstinate
boy, running away.] No, I say!
[Exit impetuously through the
centre door, which he slams behind him.]
MARIE [looks after him, the seriousness
fading from her intelligent face; she goes past
the table 'to the right and calls out of the window]. Mrs. Jura! [Then once again, louder.]
Mrs. Delphina!
[As she hears JURA enter, she turns
toward him, but remains at the
right.]




THE CONCERT


553


JURA [through the left-hand door; quickly,
amused]. There, that's done now. [As he
notes that HEIN is gone, again slightly embarrassed.] But where is your husband?
MARIE. Since when have we been so
formal?
JURA [with an embarrassed laugh]. Oh. 
I just thought, there's nobody else around.
MARIE [sternly]. Frank!
JURA [embarrassed]. Yes?
MARIE. Come here a minute!
JURA [advances to her past the table]. What
is it?
MARIE. I have almost a suspicion.
JURA [eagerly]. No, oh no.
MARIE. I have almost a suspicion that
you are not in earnest.
JURA [emphatically]. That's only, people
always think that, because I simply can't
look serious. [In animated explanation.]
With my big teeth and because my mouth
is always open, people always think I'm
laughing. [Verygravely.] Noindeed! When
I once make a promise, Marie, I keep it.
MARIE [slowly]. I hope so!
JURA [half to himself]. Why that would
be disgraceful. - [In a different tone.] But
where is your husband?
MARIE [sits down on the upholstered chair
by the window to the right and takes some
fancy work from the drawer of the little table.]
He'll be right back. He's simply working
off a little fury outside, but his breakfast
is still here. So he'll not be long.
JURA [steps close to MARIE; ingenuously].
Do you know, Marie, it seems to me that
you undervalue your husband.
MARIE. You think so?
JURA [with great zeal]. Certainly! Of
course he may have many points that are
perhaps not exactly agreeable for a woman,
granted. But yet I find him a very remarkable man just the same. I have never realized that so clearly heretofore. His masquerading, his posing must not deceive you,
at bottom you find a very genuine and true
individuality, and whoever comes to know
him more intimately, as I have now, and
has any faculty of judging human beings
humanly, must surely say 
MARIE [interrupting, as if reflecting].
You think sQ?


JURA [with animation]. Certainly! [Observing that she is laughing, almost vehemently.] You're all unjust to him, I've
noticed that! I used to be myself, but just
wait, now that I know him I shan't give in
until you -
MARIE [interrupting; ironically]. Splendid, Frank! And yet that was not really
the purpose for which we came here.
JURA [subdued, very quickly]. No, it
really was n't. [Looks down a moment in
perplexity, then sees the joke himself and
begins to laugh heartily at it, rubbing his
hands the while; amused, largo.] No, it
really was n't.
DELPHINA [through the centre door; taken
aback on seeing JURA]. I thought you were
calling me, Mrs. Marie.
MARIE [rises and goes past the table to the
left]. Yes.
JURA [around the table to the right, toward
DELPHINA; very eagerly]. You've come in
the nick of time. You see we're disputing
because Mrs. Marie, as happens so often
in married life, completely misjudges her
husband and does not dream what kind of
a man he really is, in fact I must say she
wholly fails to see the intrinsic worth of
this man; there's really something fatal
about marriage. But I'm sure you will
agree with me, for you surely also have
the feeling that he - [Suddenly silenced
as MARIE begins to laugh aloud, and looks
wonderingly at her.] What's the matter?
What are you laughing at?
MARIE [ceases laughing and puts on a
grave face]. No, no, I'm not laughing at
all.
JURA [shaking his head]. As soon as you
talk seriously with women, they begin to
laugh.
MARIE [splits a roll, spreads it with butter
and inserts ham]. But for the moment it is
more important for Mrs. Delphina that she
should learn to make his ham sandwiches.
Hein-sandwiches, as he calls them. There's
a Hein-cake too, by the way; you must n't
let me forget to give you the recipe. For in
these matters he is so terribly particular. -
Did you notice? Cut as thin as possible,
that is the bread, but spread as thick as
possible; and he likes a dainty shape.




554


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


Otherwise, you know, it can spoil the whole
forenoon for him, he's very exacting about
it. [Handing DELPHINA the knife.] Here
you are.
[DELPHINA by the table to the left,
beside MARIE, makes a sandwich.]
JURA [sits down on a chair to the right of
the table and breakfasts; watching the women, laughing, to DELPHINA]. Oh you, with
your awkward paws, I wonder how you'll
come out.
HEIN [through the centre door, straight to
the chair behind the table; to DELPHINA].
Good morning, Del —[he chokes over the
name, he swallows and then repeats very
formally]. Good morning. [Sits down and
begins to eat with great appetite; to JURA,
very cordially.] Well, everything done?
JURA [nods; then very eagerly]. But we
must certainly go back to the pool once
more.
HEIN. Of course. I'm very eager about
it, I'm fairly excited over it. What did
you say was the name of those things?
Eu-?
JURA. Euglenas.
HEIN. It even sounds pretty. And you
claim that we can't determine whether
they are plants or animals?
JURA [with great animation, almost triumphantly]. They can't decide themselves,
the dear little Euglenas themselves, now
scarcely resisting the inclination to become
animals, now again restrained as if by fear,
and so they hover between plant and animal, a little of each, but not completely
either, just as —[beginning to laugh] as the
modern man hovers between animal and
God and is just as unable to decide. Is n't
that splendid?
[DELPHINA hands HEIN the plate
of sandwiches.]
HEIN [agreeing with JURA]. Splendid.
[Notices the plate of sandwiches; suspiciously.] What's this for? What is it?
MARIE. Mrs. Jura has made your sandwiches for you.
HEIN [takes the plate and puts it distrustfully away; crossly to MARIE]. What
are you up to again? When you know that
I only like yours.


MARIE. Well, she's got to learn it
now.
HEIN. Nobody can do that but you.
[He takes the plate again, again
surveys it distrustfully, and sets
it aside with vexation. Slight
pause, in which all are embarrassed. DELPHINA injured,
goes to the left around the table
and sits down on the chair in
front of the table, hoping to
breakfast at last.]
JURA [has finished eating and rises
quickly]. There! I'll go on ahead. It's
really a shame to waste a single minute indoors. Meet you at the pool.
[Goes to the centre door.]
HEIN. I'll follow you right away.
JURA [at the door; on a sudden impulse, to
MARIE]. And then I'd like it, Mrs.Marie, if you could spare me a moment -
MARIE [as if about to rise]. Why surely,
Frank. Whenever you say. I've always
time for you!
JURA [quickly]. No, it's not so important.
I'll come back later. [One more amiable
nod to her, then exit through the centre door,
only to open it again; putting his head in.]
Goodbye, Delly.                  [Exit.]
HEIN [piqued, to MARIE]. What does he
want of you? [With malice.] Or are you
interested in the Euglenas too?
MARIE [with a shrug]. Perhaps.
HEIN [suddenly turning his irritation
against DELPHINA]. And by the way, I
must tell you, Mrs. Delphina, that you
have given me an utterly false account of
your husband. From your descriptions I
had expected a dry, tedious scientistand I find the most remarkable man, with
a spirit that is artistic through and
through, and fairly scintillant with youth.
Why is it that women have no eyes to see
the intrinsic worth of a man? Though I do
not reproach you for it, it seems to be a
fixed attribute of feminine nature. [With a
side glance at MARIE, in a tone of deep injury.] Women are capable of living for ten
years with a man without seeing what he
is and what his wife has in him. Remarkable, indeed!
POLLINGER [through the centre door; ad.




THE CONCERT


555


vances to the left of table and steps up beside DELPHINA; to her]. How much meat
shall I order, ma'am?
[HEIN looks up from his meal
and at first merely stares in
wonder at POLLINGER.]
MARIE [after a slight pause; as DELPHINA does not answer]. Mrs. Delphina,
Pollinger is asking you.
DELPHINA [startled]. Me?
POLLINGER. Yes, how much meat I'm
to order.
DELPHINA [anxious, helplessly]. Why, I
don't know.
HEIN [vehementl]y. Pollinger!
POLLINGER. Yes?
HEIN. Are you drunk this early in the
morning?
POLLINGER [wondering]. No.
HEIN [rebukingly]. Then whom are you
asking?
POLLINGER. The missus!- Master said
I was to ask the missus, an' [blinking leftward at MARIE] the missus told me to ask
[blinking rightward at DELPHINA] the missus.
HEIN. Ass!
POLLINGER [vexed, almost rudely]. 'T's
all the same to me, but I've got to know
how much meat.
HEIN [flaring up, roaring]. Well, who is
the mistress here?
POLLINGER [also roaring]. Wall, I
thought [bobbing his head at MARIE] the
missus was the missus, but the missus said
[bobbing his head at DELPHINA] the missus
was the missus! So what was I to -? I
don't know what to make of it!
MARIE [at an angry glance from HEIN;
feigning innocence, shrugging her shoulders].
I thought -!
HEIN [curtly dismissing POLLINGER]. All
right. Later. [As POLLINGER goes to the
centre door; with new rage.] And don't come
in like that unless somebody calls you.
Knock first, at least.
POLLINGER [already at the door; turns to
HEIN once more, in surprise; expressing his
wonderment very emphatically; angrily and
loudly]. What, d' ye mean even now?
HEIN [roaring]. Yes, even now! Why
not now?


POLLINGER [angry, very loud]. A' right!
[Exit.]
HEIN [angry]. The old toper. [To MARIE,
still more vehemently.] But, you're incredible
yourself. As if you had simply laid a plot
to - [suddenly breaks off with a glance at
DELPHINA, controls himself and says to
DELPHINA in a voice as polite as it is unfriendly] May I beg you to be so kind as
to leave us alone for a moment? I have
something to say to my wife. - [In an
altered tone, pointing to the left-hand door.]
My old upright piano is in there, you can
practice, it won't hurt you a bit.
[DELPHINA rises reluctantly, with
a sorrowful glance at the food.]
MARIE. But do let her have her breakfast first.
HEIN [impatient, unsympathetic]. Heavens, she can eat a little later for once;
don't make such a fuss. [Almost shouting at
DELPHINA.] It won't make any difference
to you, will it?
DELPHINA [already moving toward the
door, with a last sorrowful look at the food,
intimidated]. No, certainly not.  [Exit.]
HEIN [calling after her, mechanically].
Anyway, you ought to practice for a couple
of hours the first thing every morning, otherwise you'll never get any power into your
fingers.
MARIE [really somewhat vexed]. You're
not very polite to your guests.
[Rises and returns to the small
table by the window, to sit down
and take up her fancy work.]
HEIN [shortly]. My dear, that's all very
well, but I should hope I still have the
right to be alone with my wife for once
and undisturbed. [In a different tone,
softly, almost sentimentally.] You know how
I love this half-hour at breakfast with you.
Otherwise I hardly have anything of you
any more. [As MARIE is silent, again in a
changed tone, complaining peevishly.] And
what does this mean? What do you mean
by telling Pollinger to ask Mrs. Jura about
household affairs?
MARIE. My dear friend, I no longer have
the right to give orders hereHEIN [still in the same vexed, complaining
tone]. Dear!




CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


MARIE [continuing]. And so it was a
very welcome opportunity to initiate my
successor, so that little by little -
HEIN [jumps up; vehemently]. This nonsense has gone on long enough. [Lights a
cigarette; then more calmly.] Shall I once
more solemnly declare to you that I am
not dreaming of marrying her?
MARIE [lightly]. Poor woman. What is
she to do then?
HEIN [unsympathetically]. Her life with
her husband is good enough.
MARIE. Only you keep forgetting that
her husband is now going to be mine.
HEIN. He is n't!
MARIE [with a shrug]. All right, Gus, but
now it's too late. Yesterday you were perfectly satisfied. Now he has my word.
HEIN [walks past the table and over to her,
stands still before her and looks reproachfully
at her; shaking his head]. What has come
over you, Marie?
MARIE. Let us spare each other unnecessary reproaches and make the parting as
painless as possible.
HEIN [smoking, pacing up and down before the table]. From his point of view I can
see some sense in it. What should that
splendid fellow do with such a-doll?
[After a few paces, turning again to her and
standing still.] But you! [Reproachfully,
with conviction]. After all, you have me.
MARIE [in simple inquiry]. When do I?
HEIN [looks wonderingly at her]. What?
MARIE. I ask when I have you! Yes, when
you are tired or sick or some time when you
have n't had a success. And, yes, then too,
at meals. You have faith in my cooking.
HEIN [quickly]. Well, and that proves to
youMARIE. That I am a housekeeper to
your complete satisfaction. But you see,
Gus, in the long run that's not very much
for a woman.
HEIN [quickly]. Must I tell you now
how- [raging] do you want me to give
you a declaration of love?
MARIE [highly delighted]. Oh yes!
HEIN [furious]. No! - It would be too
ridiculous at my age. [Seriously]. No, if
you do not feel yourself what you are to
me, I cannot tell you. I cannot.


MARIE. They say you can do it quite
well. - If the enthusiasts are to be believed.
HEIN [carelessly, almost contemptuously].
Gracious yes, if you mean the so-called
love! [Suddenly serious again, in a firm
voice.] But you may believe me when I say
that I have never loved any one but you.
[Again in a different tone, half didactic, half
irritated.] There's a difference between loving a woman and simply - loving her.
MARIE. But suppose I wanted to have
just that experience for once?
HEIN [leaning against the table; frankly].
Don't wish for that. It really does n't pay.
I at least must say frankly that I envy
every man who has been spared it.
MARIE [comfortably]. ButGus,thenwhy?
HEIN [not understanding]. Why what?
MARIE. Then why do you keep doing it
over and over?
HEIN [with a shrug, irritated]. Good
gracious, why?
MARIE [looking straight at him]. Yes,
why?
HEIN [taken aback, looking at her]. How
should I know? [Again bursting out vehemently and vexedly.] And besides I'm my
own master and can do or not do what I
will.
MARIE [steadily busied with her fancy
work; calmly]. With yourself. With yourself you can do or not do what you will. As
far as you are concerned. But when it concerns me you will have to permit me to say
yes or no to it, according to my feeling, as
you do according to yours.
HEIN [taken aback, looks at her; then as he
turns away to the left and begins to pace up
and down again, in a tone of mingled vexation and forced jollity]. Since when have
you been so terribly disagreeable, Moll? -
On such a lovely day! [Pointing to the
window.] Just look. Do you want to spoil
my good humor?
MARIE [dryly]. You have often spoiled
mine -
HEIN [honestly astonished]. I?
MARIE. On the loveliest days, when I
sat alone at home and knew that you were
having a - concert, one of these concerts.
That was disagreeable too, Gus.




THE CONCERT


557


HEIN [gravely, softly]. You never said
anything.
MARIE. You might have observed it.
HEIN [in his impatiently peevish tone].
Oh, you expect me to think of everything!
MARIE. That's why I'm taking the
burden off you now, and am going to think
of myself.
HEIN [in the same peevish tone]. What is
the matter with you all of a sudden? What
ails you?
MARIE. I have been thinking, and I
have decided that it is no marriage, the
way we live together.
HEIN [pacing up and down; carelessly].
Why not?
MARIE. Cross your heart, Gus, and say
that this is a marriage.
HEIN [impatiently]. Marriage, child!
Good heavens, marriage! That's these
new-fangled notions. What is marriage?
But all this comes from those silly books
that they write nowadays. Why will you
read such stuff? Marriage! What is marriage? Then call it something else. But,
but it's wonderful just the same. [Injured.]
To me it's wonderful. [Comes to a stand
and looks across at MARIE; meekly.] Not to
you?
MARIE [slowly]. To me?
HEIN [impatiently]. Yes.
MARIE [weighing the word, with emphasis
on the first syllable]. Wonderful?
HEIN [furious]. Now don't quibble about
the word, you know exactly what I mean.
MARIE [slowly]. Wonderful- my feeling for you is wonderful -
HEIN [interrupting; curtly, as if that settled everything]. Well then.
MARIE [continuing]. Even to this instant, strange to say.
HEIN [piqued, growling]. Strange to say?
MARIE. But it might be that just for
that reason, because I wish to preserve
that wonderful feeling, that I must leave
you, before it crumbles away.
HEIN [suddenly furiously jealous]. And
go to that young gentleman there? He
collects emotions too, does he? Like his
Eu- [has forgotten the word and gropes for
it] Eu, Eugenias or whatever you call
them? [Close before her.] I warn you. Be


on your guard against t:hat sort of man;
They are deceivers. Take my word for it,
I know people.
MARIE [smiling]. No, Gus, you certainly
don't, what you do is to adjust people to
your own satisfaction. As you happen to
want them, that's the way you see them.
For which reason you have always seen in
me only a dear, quiet little woman, happy
in looking upon your greatness, but incapable of following its flight, good at
housekeeping.
HEIN [very gravely]. There you do me
great injustice, Marie. No, the beautiful
thing for me was the assured feeling of
your joy in me, in me as a whole, with all
its consequences, even when they are not
always wholly pleasurable.
MARIE. But in the course of time, Gus,
those "consequences," as you call them,
have grown to be pretty numerous.
HEIN [naively]. I should have thought
you would say to yourself: all that is a part
of him, constituted as he is, otherwise he
would n't be rounded out and that would
be a pity, I don't want him to [groping for
a moment for the word] wither up, as most
people do.
MARIE. You must surely admit that I
have made every effort to keep you from
withering.
HEIN [without noticing her irony]. Yes!
And for that I was so grateful to you, because I assumed that you understood that
it is simply a part of my complete nature
to need glamour and motion around me,
whether it's beautiful pictures and costly
utensils or ornaments and all kinds of
baubles and this other, -the smiles of
women.
MARIE. But they have rather overdone
the smiling.
HEIN [furious]. I can't live like a monk!
- [Again childishly stubborn, almost whimpering.] Once for all, I need that sort of
thing, the flicker and rustle and glitter of
life about me.
MARIE [looking up from her work, slowly].
Still?
HEIN [vehemently]. Now more than ever.
- I can't suddenly stop now. Or do you
think I'm old already? [Pacing furiously.]




CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


A newspaper chap wrote not long ago:
The still handsome Gustav Hein! You
understand the infamy? "Still handsome!" - And everywhere I meet that all
of a sudden. Because they can't attack my
ability, the gentlemen who stand behind
me, in their impatience, determined to get
my place for themselves, they count up
my years, thinking that will do it, for of
course no calumny is too stupid for the
public. [Shouting.] But I'm not going to
abdicate this long time, I can still face
down the whole gang of them! [Changing
his tone, persuasively, as if she surely must
see this.] And now just think if I should
suddenly turn into a sober married man,
would n't they all say: look, he's beginning to retire! [In a didactic tone.] Yes, my
dear, the man who gives up the battle deserves to be beaten. [Again more calmly.]
Don't you understand that? Women, my
dear Marie, are success. That is why one
needs it. And then too one needs it for his
emotional life. I don't want to be old yet.
MARIE [smiling]. But Gus, is n't that a
little as if a man would n't take off his
summer clothes, so as to keep winter away?
In the end the winter will come anyhow,
and you'll simply freeze all the more.
[Again in her ironical tone.] Anyway, you
've given me quite a plausible explanation of why you keep doing it over and
over.
HEIN [vexed, quickly]. If you could only
get out of the habit of always saying that
I do it.
MARIE. Why, who else?
HEIN [vehemently]. Well, not I at least!
MARIE. You surely won't try to persuade me that it's they. Gustav, stop and
think a bit.
HEIN [thoughtfully]. They? Well, I
won't exactly claim that either. It sort of
begins of itself.
MARIE [lightly]. Oh, it's this "it" that's
to blame for everything, is it?
HEIN. It! I can't say it any differently.
[Turns the chair to the right of the table
around toward her and seats himself; explaining.] You know, it's like a playerpiano, the roll unwinds, quite mechanically,
you understand?


MARIE [amused]. Not quite.
HEIN [quickly; pleased to have found a
comparison]. Or like a game of chess.
When you know how to play it. Imagine
two good players, one of them begins and
the other one knows right away: Aha, the
Spanish opening, or the queen's gambit
and so on, you see? And now it goes on
without thought, move after move, the
fingers taking care of it quite mechanically,
till all at once you're in the midst of the
game, are n't you?
MARIE. Well, and?
HEIN. Well, and that's the way it is
with women, all at once you're in the
midst of the game, before you've had any
time to think. [Leaning back in his chair.]
Well, then what's left for me to do, do be
fair-minded. I have to go out to functions,
that's business. And they seat somebody
beside me. Well, how shall I talk to her?
What about? And otherwise as like as not
she'll start on music, and that's really
more than a man can stand. Anything
rather than that, for heaven's sake. Well
and so it just goes on, once the game is
opened, move after move, Spanish opening,
queen's gambit or Scotch game, according
to the opening, quite mechanically, by
reflex action, while one can at least pursue
his quiet musings undisturbed. [Impatiently, eagerly.] Good heavens, just imagine it. The lady sits there beside you,
expectant, for after all you have a reputation- what are you going to do? You
are bored, for of course a real conversation
is not possible with our ladies, and yet you
can't be impolite, and so just to say something you look at her and say: You are a
strange creature. And you're lost from
that moment. Or you say: Spring will soon
be here. Lost again. Or you say, in any
sort of connection: Goethe and Frau von
Stein —! Utterly lost. You're always
lost, for no matter what you say, she
responds, then you do the same, if only
out of laziness, for all you need is to let
your tongue go, and so it goes on irresistibly, and you have n't noticed at all that
you're in the midst of the game. But then
you can't suddenly get up and declare: Oh,
excuse me, I was n't intending to play. -




THE CONCERT


559


Probably she was n't either, but dear me,
when you sit side by side like that - and
dinners get longer and longer - [impatiently] you must understand that! [Summing up, in an almost pedantically didactic
tone.] In my intercourse with women little by little a certain combination of phrases
or politenesses, or whatever you want to
call it, has developed, and now it functions
all by itself, without really asking me at
all - [shrugging his shoulders] my dear, I
am really helpless in the matter.
MARIE. And that is called love?
HEIN [confirming; quite serious]. That
is called love. You can rest assured that
in nine hundred and ninety-nine out of
a thousand cases - it's nothing but - in
our set, of course I mean, among [gropes for
a word] cultivated people! A table conversation, a gramophone record, nothing
more. To which is added in the case of a
man like me the vanity of our dear ladies:
having had the good fortune to sit beside
you, they simply make use of it and insist
on a - well, say an autograph. [Again almost whimpering.] And what am I to do?
For that's just a part of it. Would n't it
be a poor grocer's clerk that did n't have
every cook falling in love with him? [Looks
into space a moment; then in a different
tone; very seriously, softly.] Let me have a
few more years, after that I hope we shan't
need it any more. [Lowering his head,
thoughtfully to himself, softly.] And then -
[lifts his head and looks at MARIE very seriously] then - [suddenly jumping up and
stepping beside her; very heartily, very hap.
pily, almost exuberantly; quickly] then, my
dear old Moll, then we'll move away from
the stupid city and into the cabin here and
then -
MARIE [humorously declining]. No, not
into this cabin, please!
HEIN [very quickly, very happily]. Or
anywhere you say, to the seashore or into
the woods or the desert, only away from
the city and to ourselves. And then, Moll,
you shall learn to know the true Gus, a
Gustav as yet undiscovered, who no longer
needs to be the famous Hein, [Laughing
hilariously.] And then at last I'll even be
able P afford the luxury of being old.


[Claps his hands and begins to leap and
dance through the room like a child.] How
nice that'll be, how nice! [Hearing the lefthand door move, he stops short, suddenly
serious again, and shouts furiously at DELPHINA.] What is it? Didn't I expressly
ask you -! Can't one have one moment -?
DELPHINA [with swift decision, has entered; intimidated by HEI:'s rage]. I just
thought - and [with her whole force, defiantly] and because I haven't had any
breakfast yet -!
HEIN [steps in front of her; vehemently].
You were going to practice, I thought. I
have n't heard anything.
DELPHINA [almost crying with anger].
After breakfast!
HEIN [takes her by the shoulders and once
more shoves her through the left-hand door;
beginning to be amused himself]. Practice
away! Just practice in the meantime. I'11
call you when we're through.
[DELPHINA thrust through the door
by HEIN, exit left; inside she begins to play scales on the piano.]
HEIN [his hand on the knob of the halfopen door, listens a moment to her playing;
then shaking his head, with contempt]. That
empty, soulless, ineffectual touch contains
all she is. [With a click of the tongue.] Pooh!
[Shuts the door, the playing is no longer
heard, he goes to the right again; with a
glance at'MARIE, merrily.] What sort of a
gloomy face is this you're putting on again?
MARIE [gravely]. I'm just wondering.
[HEIN makes a questioning gesture.]
MARIE. And I ask myself whether you
have never thought that one of these
women, to whom you present your, your
autograph, might also be a worth-while
person, and how much you are perhaps
destroying in her.
HEIN [carelessly]. Oh, these modern
young women!
MARIE. And I don't suppose they are
all alike.
HEIN [lightly]. No, but you can imagine
that a woman who betrays her husband is
hardly likely to be one of the "worthwhile" people.




560


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


MARIE [shaking her head]. You say that?
On my word, the worst seducers are always
the worst Philistines.
HEIN [slightly vexed]. A "worth-while"
woman does not betray her husband. That
does n't make a man a Philistine. Why
have n't you betrayed me?
MARIE [laughing]. Why? - I don't
know myself. But - [with altered tone;
slightly threatening] but if for example you
really refuse to set me free to go to my
beloved Frank 
HEIN [merrily, dryly]. I refuse.
MARIE [shrugging her shoulders, dubiously]. Well, then-!
HEIN [merry, comfortably]. Well, then?
MARIE. Then to be sure you force me -
HEIN. You mean-?
MARIE. Then you force me to betray you.
HEIN [merry, shortly]. All right.
MARIE. All right?
HEIN [with a gesture of blessing her]. Betray me.
MARIE [in the same tone]. All right.
HEIN [with malice]. For you'll make a
mess of it. You don't know how.
MARIE. Are you so sure?
HEIN [stands close before her, merely
looks at her and nods; then, seriously]. And
you see that's what I call a marriage, a
true marriage. [Again more lightly.] For
it all depends on the woman, only on the
woman. [Walks toward the left, laughing, in
very high spirits.] But now I'm simply
curious to see how you'll go about it. You
with your beloved Frank and with the
[nodding his head toward the left-hand door]
pianist. [Maliciously.] There you've got
into a nice mess.             [Laughs.]
MARIE [reflecting]. Well, first of all you
willHEIN. I? I shall nothing!
MARIE [with slight impatience]. Allow
me!
HEIN [very quickly]. I allow nothing. I
know nothing, the whole thing does not
concern me in the least.
MARIE. You'll surely have to tell
Delphina -
HEIN [imperturbably]. Not a word. You
'11 kindly settle it among yourselves. I
did n't start it.


MARIE. Then who did?
HEIN [honestly astonished]. Certainly not
I! [Puts both hands on his heart, protesting.]
I? [As he suddenly recollects; crossly.] Oh,
well, to that extent, if you mean that, to
be sure - [changes his tone; with solemn
assurance] but look here, I really can't do a
thing, for in love affairs, if they don't run
smoothly, I'm terribly awkward, I really
am.
MARIE [catching up the word; sarcastic].
You'd rather have them run smoothly, of
course?
HEIN [merry]. No, no, God forbid.
[Maliciously.] But you'll have to make the
arrangements, I'm not ambitious in such
matters, I'll duck. [Stealing on tiptoe to the
centre door.] You've deserved the punishment.
DELPHINA [through the left-hand door,
going with the utmost resolution to the table].
I must have my breakfast.
[Sits down on the chair before the
table and begins to eat ravenously.]
HEIN [behind the table; suddenly assuming
a captivating amiableness; handing her the
plate of sandwiches and the honey]. Oh, yes,
that's right. I suppose you're hungry already? Oh, poor Delly! And you practiced
so hard. Here you are, here! [Puts everything before her; to MARIE.] You'll see that
our poor Delly wants for nothing? And
then talk the thing out, just talk the whole
thing out.
[Running off merrily and hastily;
exit through the centre door.]
MARIE [while HEIN is leaving, as she rises
and approaches DELPHINA; in a peculiarly
heavy and emphatic tone]. Yes. Gustav! No
matter how hard it may be for me. [Advances to DELPHINA, who takes her two hands
and turns her around; she looks at her sadly
for a moment, then suddenly embraces her;
then, softly.] Be happy with him. I don't
wish anything but your happiness. And
you will make him happy, yes, you will.
[Strokes her hair tenderly.] I should never
have thought I could do it. And I should
have grudged him to any one else. But
you! You are the wife that he needs.
What am    I?  [Sadly smiling.]  An old




THE CONCERT


56i


woman. But you will make him happy
and I shall help you, for I will always be
at hand, like a faithful domestic spirit, I
had to promise him that and I solemnly
swear it to you - for I am so fond of him!
[With an outburst.] Oh, I am so fond of
him!
DELPHINA [trying to free herself; piqued].
But since you're going to marry Frank -!
MARIE [interrupting; with slight contempt]. Gracious, dear child, Frank! One
surely can't compare the two, do you think
so? I certainly like Frank very much, but
Frank and Gustav!
DELPHINA [with increasing pique]. You
are unjust to Frank!
MARIE. Why no, only -Frank is no
Gustav Hein.
DELPHINA [embittered]. Then I simply
don't understand -
MARIE. What?
DELPHINA [outraged]. Why you did n't
stay with Gustav Hein!
MARIE. But, my dearest friend, I should
have been glad to stay with him! But since
he loves you! What else is there for me?
It's natural to look for a refuge wherever
you can find one.
DELPHINA [outraged]. Refuge!
MARIE. You see I don't wish for more
than some quiet spot in which to dedicate
myself to the fond recollection of Gustav
Hein.
DELPHINA [jumping up, embittered]. You
seem to imagine Frank as very easily
satisfied.
MARIE. Why, he's not spoiled.
DELPHINA [almost crying]. I thought
that at least you loved him. For -
MARIE. Do be calm. Whatever is the
matter with you? [Shrugging her shoulders;
in a very indifferent tone.] Why, I do love
him. Of course with a different and quieter
love - of course that's natural when you
try to make coffee from the dregs.
DELPHINA [with the utmost resolution].
No, no!
MARIE. And he too must simply make
some sacrifice to make Gustav happy. We
must all make a sacrifice: he, I, you - you
of course also, for you will have to give up
a good many things, but what difference,


if only Gustav is happy? If only Gustav is
happy!
DELPHINA [with an outburst]. No, no -
I'd rather give him up.
MARIE [seizes both her iands again; with
the utmost surprise]. Give him up? Give
up Gustav Hein? Child, you are surely
not in earnest?
JURA [quickly through the centre door;
stops short as he perceives DELPHINA, this
being visibly unpleasant to him]. Listen,
Delly, I must beg you -
MARIE [goes straight towards JURA, opening her arms to him]. Oh, there you are,
dear Frank!
[Holds up her face to be kissed.
DELPHINA    makes an    angry
gesture.]
JURA [kisses MARIE absent-mindedly;
then hastily to DELPHINA!. I must beg you
to leave us alone for a moment.
DELPHINA [angrily]. I'm just sent away
all the time.
JURA [very hastily]. I'll explain to you
afterward -
MARIE. Do let her have her breakfast
first.
JURA [impatiently, very hastily]. Time
enough for that. [Very impatiently, to
DELPHINA.] Now do go away, please.
Don't you hear?
DELPHINA [taking the coffee with her; almost crying with anger]. I'm going!
[Goes to the left-hand door.]
JURA [following her with a plate]. Oh, you
have n't had your breakfast?
DELPHINA [crying]. No, I have n't had
my breakfast.                  [Exit left.]
JURA [at the door, with the plate; speaking
into the room, hastily]. Why, it's very nice
in there, too. And you can surely understand that one sometimes has things to
say, when any third person, even if it were
your best friend - can't you? [Very impatiently.] Take this, please.
[Hands her the plate and shuts the
door quickly.]
MARIE [behind the centre table; perplexed
by JURA'S haste, curiously]. What is it,
Frank?
JURA [stands before the left-hand door,
arms akimbo, and looks at her wide-eyed].




562


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


Well, this is a pretty mess! And the worst
of it is that you'll probably think I am the
one - [Takes two paces toward her.] And
yet I can say that in these twenty-four
hours of our acquaintance you have become
so really precious to me, and come closer
to me spiritually than perhaps any other
living soul. I have rarely known any one
with whom one could talk so from the
heart as with you; and you understand
everything. It must be very beautiful to
be married to you. For that's just what
one needs in married life.
MARIE [ironically]. Well, just the fact
that two people can talk pleasurably
and well to each other is after all not the
whole 
JURA. Really it's terribly stupid that
two people only have the choice of being
utter strangers or else being married right
off, whereas one ought rather to strive to
be on good terms with as many people as
possible, which is if anything actually impeded by marriage. How long will it take
before people see that and devise better
institutions?
MARIE [smiling]. And was it to ask me
this-?
JURA [begins to laugh heartily]. No, no,
it was n't, but you know how I am: I'm
forever encountering problems, it's terrible. But the worst of all the problems I
have yet encountered [begins to laugh afresh,
surveying her with a shake of the head] is
how such a sensible person as you -can be
so stupid, so stupid! [With plaintive surprise.] Marie, Marie! [Goes to her and asks
reproachfully.] Could you really seriously
think of having Gustav and Delphina
marry? Marie! Where were your eyes?
Why, those two would be the unhappiest
people in the world! [With still more
emphatic complaint, shrugging his shoulders.]
Marie!
MARIE [softly, in a wholly impersonal
tone that conceals her irony]. Frank, the
idea was not mine at all.
JURA [vehemently]. But I did n't know
Gustav at all. Why, he's quite different
from what I thought him. Delphina has
given me an utterly false description of
him. [Quietly, impersonally, sententiously.]


In these matters one can never rely on
women. [Again very animated and vexed.]
She evidently has n't the least conception
of him. Gushes, falls in love, and runs off -
and does n't know who, how, or what -
just like a woman! [With increasing animation.] For you're just as bad. [To mitigate the vehemence of his tone.] Don't be
angry, dear Marie, but you must surely
admit - [again very vehement]. I simply
don't understand you. You too evidently
have n't the least conception of himhow else could you have even dreamed of
leaving him? [Passing more and more to a
quarrelsome tone.] And with all your cleverness, you did n't see that Delphina lacks
everything, simply everything, that Gustav
needs in a wife? You did n't see that those
two, constituted as they are, would be
utterly miserable inside of a week? You
did n't see all that and would simply have
let them run blindly into it?
MARIE [meekly]. Yes, scold me well!
JURA. Now I'm going to tell you what
I've discovered. I have discovered that
for Gustav there is only one woman in the
world such as this strange person requires.
Yes, Marie.
MARIE [shrugging her shoulders]. Well,
all right.
JURA. And do you know who it is?
MARIE [indifferently]. No.
JURA [after a slight pause; importantly].
You. - In the whole world you, and you
only.
MARIE [smiling]. But Frank, I thought
that ten years ago when I married him.
JURA [irritated]. But then, the first time
everything did n't go just according to
your expectations, of course all that was
forgotten, and it was simply away from
him, away, no matter if he went down to
ruin, and perhaps another soul with him.
For goodness' sake, when you belong to a
person you've got to take a little pains
with him, don't you think so? [Again very
eager.] Anyway, one ought to take much
more pains with people, with all people!
MARIE [with quiet amusement]. Why,
I'm just beginning on you three.
JURA [surprised by her tone; with a sudden
suspicion]. Oh! [Begins to laugh; reproach.




THE CONCERT


563


fully.] But, Marie! Oh, oh! [Laughing
aloud.] I'll wager you weren't serious
with me from the very first.
MARIE. Not for one moment, Frank.
JURA [much amused]. You know I had a
sort of an uncertain feeling right away.
But you can lie! It's perfectly wonderful!
[Looks at her with admiration.]
MARIE. Marriage is a good school for
it. And after all one likes to have a little
entertainment once in a while.
JURA [laughing]. And so you won't be at
all offended if I - withdraw? [Suddenly
serious again.] Yes, but really only because it is better for both, for him and for
her.
MARIE [smiling]. No, I am not offended.
JURA [with childlike pleasure]. That's
nice, that's sensible!  You're such  a
splendid person! I'm fairly in love with
you.
MARIE [watches him with a smile and
shakes her head]. But now just tell me one
thing. I would so like to know.
JURA. Yes?
MARIE. You were ready to give up your
wife -?
JURA. Yes.
MARIE. And now you are ready again-?
JURA [nodding]. Yes, now I'm ready to
take her back again. And?
MARIE. And I'd so like to know: do you
really love your wife, or not?
JURA [eagerly]. Why, but that's very
simple.
MARIE. Do you love her, or not?
JURA [ingenuously, very eagerly]. Why,
according as it is better for her. - It all
depends on that. Does n't it?
MARIE   [shaking  her head, smiling].
You're inhuman, Frank.
JURA [eagerly, seriously]. Yes, that's
what they always say when a man acts
reasonably for once. And yet I'm convinced that we shall live to see that come
into style. [There is a loud knock at the lefthand door, he hastens to it.] Yes?
DELPHINA [outside, calling; greatly embittered]. Shall I disturb you?
JURA. Come right in.
MARIE [smiling]. We have just finished.
DE;LPHINA [entering; with utmost bitter

ness]. Oh, I don't want to disturb you on
any account. Not on any account.
[Starts for centre door.]
MARIE [going to centre door]. No, please
stay here. I must go to the kitchen, or
we'll really get nothing to eat today.
JURA [to whom it is not at all agreeable to
be alone with DELPHINA; embarrassed, to
MARIE]. Why are you going? Do stay.
MARIE [plaintively coquettish, to DELPHINA]. You see, he does n't give me a
moment's peace. [Making sheep's eyes at
JURA, pleading.] Only five minutes, Frank.
Do be sensible. Then I'll be with you
again.
[Escapes him; exit through the
centre door.]
JURA [does not understand at all and
merely murmurs with a shake of the head].
What's this, what's this'?
DELPHINA [indignant at MARIE'S sentimental tone; speaking after her, toward the
door]. I believe you! [Imitating MARIE.]
"Then I'll be with you again." [Full of
wrath.] I believe you! [Rushes at JURA
and grasps him by the hald.] Frank!
JURA [turns in alarm to her]. Yes! What's
the matter?
DELPHINA [in the utmost excitement].
Frank, listen to me. We have no time to
lose. Every moment is precious.
JURA [involuntarily infected by her excitement; hastily]. Well, what is it? What is
it?
DELPHINA [conjuring him]. Frank, this
woman is playing false with you!
JURA [laughing heartily at her; broadly].
Why, Delly! This woman -
DELPHINA [adjuring him]. Frank, you
don't know anything about women.
JURA [good humoredly didactic]. Delly,
you owe it to this woman -
DELPHINA [screaming]. Frank, this woman is a knave.
JURA [beginning to get angry]. Now listen,
I must really insist. This woman -
DELPHINA [as loudly as she possibly can].
This woman does not love you, Frank.
JURA [halts in his anger; taken aback,
very loudly, very shrill]. What?
[Begins to laugh all over his face.]
DELPLINA [triumphing]. No! [Chopping




564


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


off each word, emphasizing each one equally.]
She - does - not - love - you! No,
Frank!
JURA [shakes with laughter and agrees
heartily with her]. No.
DELPHINA [perfectly furious]. Don't
laugh like a fool, Frank, in -
JURA [is still laughing so hard that he cannot speak and merely motions to her with his
hands]. Oh my, oh my!
DELPHINA [continuing undisturbed]. In
your terrible infatuation you don't dream -
JURA [almost choking with laughter, motioning with his hands]. Oh, but I do, I do!
DELPHINA [still continuing]. That this
criminal woman merely wishes to use your
madness -
JURA [seizes her by both hands, shakes her,
and cries]. Now stop and let me explain to
you
DELPHINA [in the greatest fear, beseechingly]. No. I won't let you explain anything - later, Frank, tomorrow, Frank,
but now, Frank -[shaking him by both
hands] Frank, time is flying and any minute
this terrible woman can - Come!
[Tries to drag him away.]
JURA [frees himself from her]. But where
to? Do listen first.
DELPHINA [breathless]. Frank, for this
woman you are only a - [crying with rage]
a refuge! Frank, she called you a quiet
spot! Frank, dear, darling Frank!
[Casts herself weeping on his breast.]
JURA [holds the sobbing DELPHINA to his
breast]. Well, and Gustav? How about
Gustav? You love Gustav, don't you?
DELPHINA [on his breast, passionately
sobbing and crying like a child]. No, no, no,
I don't want to any more.
JURA [beginning to get angry again]. But
you did love Gustav?
DELPHINA [blubbering]. No, no, no!
[Sobbing still more violently.] Don't ask
me, I don't know, don't torture me so! I
can't tell about that. You must hold me
tighter, Frank.
JURA [tenderly stroking her hair, compassionately]. Delly, poor little Delly!
DELPHINA [tears herself away and draws
him with her by the hand; in the same feardriven tone as before]. But now come, come


away! Before the time passes. Come, come.
We must flee!
JURA [laughing]. Flee? Why flee, child?
DELPHINA [in utter fear]. Oh, do come,
or it will be too late. Frank, Frank, we
must flee before it's too late, we must,
Frank!
JURA [yielding]. All right, then we'll flee.
But I should like to say goodbye.
DELPHINA [crying out, in the utmost terror]. No, Frank, no! The moment we face
those two frightful people again, we're lost!
Frank, we can be in the canyon in an hour,
there we'll get a carriage, and then, Frank,
to ride with you out into the beautiful
springtime - Frank, if you ever loved me
the least little bit - [Again casts herself
on his breast.] Oh Frank, I never knew
how much I love you, Frank, my darling
Frank - [She hears the centre door open,
turns about with a start, sees HEIN, screams,
and runs off; beckoning to JURA; beseechingly.] Frank, Frank!
[Exit through the centre door.]
[HEIN has opened the centre door at her last
words, puts on an expression of consternation on seeing her in JURA'S arms,
steps a trifle to the left, with a slight bow,
to let her pass him, and looks amused at
JURA.]
JURA [hastening after her; as he goes out,
to HEIN, quickly; in amused explanation].
You see we're fleeing. I shall write you a
letter. [Exit through the centre door; he can
be heard outside saying to MARIE, very
hastily, much amused.] Goodbye, Marie,
goodbye!                          [Exit.]
MARIE [enters through the centre door,
which she closes behind her, and looks at
HEIN with a smile]. Well?
HEIN [nods]. Bravo.- You managed
that very cleverly.
MARIE. The easiest thing was simply to
make her abduct her husband.
HEIN [pacing through the room; with a
sigh of relief]. And so we're rid of them. -
[In a changed tone, regretfully.] And yet
I'm really sorry for him. But just the
nicest men you can't enjoy, because they
always have such wives. It's badly distributed. [Stops short, looks up and at




THE CONCERT


565


MARIE; smiling, tenderly.] I'm content.
And now - do you know what? Now we
two will stay here quite quietly for a couple
of days. Want to?
MARIE [smiling]. If you wish it.
HEIN. That's something I've always
wished for, to be alone up here for once.
[With yearning.] Alone!
MARIE [smiling; in her dry, ironical tone].
Alone.
HEIN [looks up, taken aback, then understands the reproach; in his childishly cross
and stubborn tone]. Oh, you know well
enough what I mean. - [Startled by a
sudden thought.] Only - no! [He puts his
hand to his hair; regretfully.] No, I'm sorry
to say we can't.
MARIE. Yes we can, Gustav. I brought
the hair-dye with me.
HEIN [delighted]. You are really an angel,
Marie, you think of everything. [Becoming
sentimental.] Oh, Marie, if I did n't have
you! [Seeing her laugh; vexed.] Yes, there
you are laughing again. There's something
so unwomanly about your mockery. With
you a man can never really - you have no
feeling, Marie.
MARIE [in her ironical tone]. That's the
trouble.
HEIN [slowly in an injured tone]. And
yet I can say to you that you are the only
woman I have ever really loved in all my
life. And when I think of the others
you can be assured that I don't understand
it myself.
MARIE [in ironical explanation]. Oh
well, Gus: Spanish opening, queen's gambit,
and so on.
HEIN [looks at her with a smile and shakes
his head; then seriously, very simply]. Never
again.
MARIE. Gus, it is n't safe to swear off.
HEIN [firmly]. No, Marie, never again.
I feel that. [MARIE goes to the centre door.]
HEIN [hearing her go, looking up]. What
is it?
MARIE. I must go into the kitchen
again. That will confirm you still more in
your good resolution.
[Exit through the centre door.]
HEIN [calling after her, much pleased].
Yes? Shall we eat soon? [Looks merrily


after her, then goes cheerfully to the sofa, lies
down at full length and stretches his limbs
luxuriously.] We're fools, all of us, we
city folks. [Lying flat and closing his eyes.]
Not to know anything more about it, or
care about anything or anybody. And no
concerts any more, of any kind. [Longingly.] Eyah! [There is a loud knock at the
centre door, he starts up; crossly.] Come in!
POLLINGER [puts his head in; alarmed].
Sir!
HEIN [furious]. What?
POLLINGER. A lady! Another lady!
HEIN [in his cross, scolding, almost whining tone]. What sort of a lady?
POLLINGER [shrugging his shoulders;
merely showing with his hands the size of the
hat]. Her hat's like this.
HEIN [roaring at him]. I mean what's
her name?
POLLINGER. You can't get it out of her,
she's too excited. But she says she '11 have
to kill herself otherwise.
HEIN [guesses that it is one of his pupils].
Aha! [Shrugging his shoulders.] Well.
[Nods to POLLINGER to let her in.
POLLINGER exit through the
centre door.]
HEIN [rising slowly and weariedly; vexed,
shaking his head]. Twenty-four hundred
and sixty-nine feet above sea-level!
EVA [through the centre door; gigantic hat,
fantastic Alpine costume; with a huge bouquet of white and lilac anemones; confused,
ashamed; breathes]. Master!
[She holds Out the flowers to him
with emphasis.]
HEIN [goes to meet her, at once resuming
his affected, gallant tone, and becoming a
Celadon once more]. Little Eve! What a
surprise! And the lovely flowers!
[Takes the bouquet.]
EVA. A few quiet wild-flowers from beside the path, but I picked them for you,
Master, and to each one clings one of my
thoughts of you, and to each one a secret
tear.
HEIN [absent-minded, merely to say something, and still in his customary sentimental
tone]. Yes, they are still quite wet. - But
what are these delicate little feet doing on
our rocks?




566


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


EVA [about to sink before him; ecstatically].
Master! Can you forgive me?
HEIN [lifts her up in the act, rather awkwardly, as the great bouquet gets in his way;
in affected consolation]. Poor Eve. What
is the matter with you? Whatever has
happened to my little Eve?
EVA [breathless again at the mere recollection]. It impelled me to come here, I felt
driven, yes, driven and lashed by fear and
shame and- [Wants to say "love," does not
dare, and substitutes for it an upward glance
and a sigh.] Oh, Master! [She seems to forget herself and to be sinking on his breast.]
What have I done? Oh, what have I
done?
HEIN [catches her in time to prevent her
sinking on his breast]. Little Eve! What is
the matter? Tell me!
EVA. I am a wretched woman.
HEIN [laying the flowers on the table;
absently]. Are you? Well and? Tell your
story.
EVA. Will you forgive me?
HEIN [quite carelessly]. Everything. Who
could resist your eyes?
EVA [sobbing]. You know it was I, it was
I, I, I - [Covers her face with both hands.]
Oh, horrible!
HEIN [feigning surprise]. It was you?
[Changing his tone, impersonally.] What
was you?
EVA [in a tone that also betrays how proud
she is of it]. It was I that telegraphed
Mr. Jura - [Suddenly very quickly, and
now in an unmistakably genuine tone.] But
only out of hatred against this shameless
person that is not worthy of you, Master,
for I swear to you, as true as I -
HEIN [interrupting hastily, amused]. She's
already gone.
EVA [quickly, grateful, happy]. She's already gone?
HEIN [with a brief gesture that indicates
all is settled]. Gone.
EVA [with blissful eyes, pressing her hand
to her heart]. Oh, Master! [Narrating again,
in eager assurance.] For really, only out of
hatred of this person and out of jealousy
and out of my unbounded reverence [repeats with an upward glance], and reverence - [with dropping voice] and not merely


reverence - [making her voice quiver and
lowering her eyes.] Oh, Master!
HEIN [busily, offering her the chair to the
right of the table]. But do have a seat,
child. You must be tired, little Eve.
EVA [seating herself on the chair to the
right of the table]. No, Master. Oh no, I am
not tired.
HEIN [trying to soothe her]. And hungry!
Just a minute and I'll[Turning toward the centre door.]
EVA [quickly grasps his hand and restrains
him]. No, Master, no! For I have you. -
[Leaning back, with closed eyes.] Oh, Master,
if you knew what it means to me that I
may be here with you, here in your cabin,
in the cabin!     [Shivers, shakes herself.]
HEIN [sitting on the table beside her;
lightly]. Yes, it is quite pleasant here,
is n't it? And especially in the spring,
when 
[Breaks off in alarm, as it occurs to
him that this is the ladies' cue,
and makes a grimace, eyeing her
from the side.]
EVA [with closed eyes]. Spring, yes! For
in me too, Master, the spring has come.
[Starts up in alarm, hearing MARIE enter.]
MARIE [through the centre door; has heard
the last words, smiles and nods amusedly;
going to the sideboard, to HEIN, who has half
turned toward her]. I did n't know you had
company. I just have to see if - [opens the
sideboard, nods, and takes a bottle out] yes.
HEIN [goes to MARIE, embarrassed; introducing]. Mrs. Eva, Eva -
[He does n't know her surname.]
EVA [rising, with a slight bow to MARIE].
Gerndl.
MARIE [with a slight bow to EVA]. Yes,
we know each other.
HEIN [going to MARIE; embarrassed].
One of my pupils. One of my most diligent
pupils.
MARIE [closing the sideboard; to EVA].
Please do not let yourself be disturbed in
the slightest.     [EVA sits down again.]
HEIN [to MARIE, crossly and whiningly,
softly]. What am I to do? You see, don't
you?
MARIE [softly]. I know: Spanish opening, queen's gambit -




THE CONCERT


567


HEIN [leaving MARIE again to go centre;
warding off, vehemently]. No, no!
MARIE [already back at the centre door].
And do you know who else is here?
HEIN [indignant]. Who?
MARIE. Our Miss Vayner. Just arrived.
HEIN [furious, shouting]. What does she
want?
MARIE [with a shrug]. She says she was
impelled. By fear, I believe. Anyway,
what odds? [Exit through the centre door.]
HEIN [furious and vehement]. No, no!
[Again steps behind EVA, makes a
grimace, and does n't know what
to do with her.]
EVA [sitting quite still; after a slight pause,
softly]. Master.
HEIN [carelessly]. Yes?
EVA [softly]. May I make you a confession?
HEIN [carelessly, conventionally]. Surely.
EVA [softly]. This is the loveliest hour of
my existence.
HEIN [involuntarily falling into his affected gallant tone]. Oh, little Eve!
EVA. Life can offer me nothing lovelier.
HEIN [sits down on the table again, beside
her]. Really? [He lays his hand lightly on
her hair.] You are a strange creature.
[Startled by his own words, he withdraws his hand and makes a face.]
EVA [blissfully]. How do you know that?
- Oh, Gustav! You are the first man who
has understood me!
[HEIN merely nods mechanically,
as he knew she would say this.]


EVA [takes his hand and presses it to her
heart]. Yes, Gustav, you have discovered
me. You feel that I am different. Different
from the others. And therefore you feel,
too, what I must suffer. Out yonder in the
dullness of the commonplace. I in my
boundless soul-solitude.
HEIN [nodding, having expected the word;
registering it, so to speak]. Soul-solitude.
EVA. Oh, Gustav. Sometimes when I
sit at home, lost in quiet thoughts of you,
there in my little music-room - the great
black piano, a black portiere concealing the
door, black, with a figure of burning red
hearts, and everything is so solemnly severe, no ornament, no picture save yours
and the white-gleaming bust of Goethe.
HEIN [with a gesture, as much as to say:
Well, there! nodding]. Goethe.
EVA. Foryou two are the guardian saints
of my wretched life.
HEIN [resigned, mechanically]. Goethe
and Frau von Stein.
EVA [springs up with a cry]. Gustav!
How you guess my secret thoughts!
[Throws herself on his breast.] That is what
I have always longed for. [In his arms.]
Heavens, what am I doing? Don't, Gustav,
don't!
HEIN [closing his arms about her; mechanically]. My darling little Eve.
EVA [shivering]. What are you doing?
Gustav. Gustav! Don't, don't!
HEIN [resignedly]. I must, I must.


CURTAIN








GIOCONDA
BY GABRIELE D' ANNUNZIO
Translated by ARTHUR SYMONS




Reprinted by permission of and special arrangement with
William Heinemann, Publisher, London, England




FOR
ELEONORA DUSE
OF THE BEAUTIFUL HANDS




DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Lucio SETTALA
LORENZO GADDI
CosImO DALBO
SILvIA SETTALA
FRANCESCA DONI
GIOCONDA DIANTI
LITTLE BEATA
LA SIRENETTA
LQ. ~ r:lo
At Florence, and on the coast of Pisa
at the present time




GIOCONDA
THE FIRST ACT


A quiet, foursquare room, in which the
arrangement of everything indicates a search
after a singular harmony, revealing the secret
of a profound correspondence between the
visible lines and the quality of the inhabiting
mind that has chosen and loved them. All
around seems to have been set in order by the
hands of one of the thoughtful Graces. The
aspect of the place evokes the image of a gentle
ind secluded life.
Two large windows are open on the garden
beneath; through one of them can be seen,
rising against the placid fields of the sky, the
little hill of San Miniato, and its bright
Basilica, and the convent, and the church of
the Cronaca, "la Bella Villanella," the purest vessel of Franciscan simplicity.
There is a door opening into an inner
room, another leading out. It is the afternoon. Through both windows enter the light,
breath, and melody of April.
[SILVIA SETTALA and the old man LORENZO
GADDI are seen on the threshold of the
first door, side by side, as they both
come into the fresh spring atmosphere.]
SILVIA SETTALA. Ah, blessed be life!
Because I have always kept one hope
alight, to-day I can bless life.
LORENZO GADDI. New life, dear Silvia,
good brave soul, so good and so strong!
The storm is over. Lucio has come back to
you, full of gratitude and of tenderness,
after all the evil. It is as if he were born
again. Just now he had the eyes of a child.
SILVIA SETTALA. All his goodness
comes back to him when you are with
him. When he calls you Maestro his voice
becomes so affectionate that it must make
your heart beat, the father's heart that
you have for him.
LORENZO GADDI. Just now he had the
same eyes that I saw in him when he came
to me for the first time and I put the clay


into his hands. His eyes were gentle and
wondering; but from that moment his
thumb was full of energy, a revealing
thing. I have kept his first sketch. I
thought of giving it to you on the day of
your betrothal. I will give it to you in
token of your new happiness.
SILVIA SETTALA. Thanks, Maestro.
LORENZO GADDI. It is the head of a
woman crowned with laurels. I remember
there was rather a bad model there. As he
worked, he hardly looked at her. Sometimes he seemed absorbed, sometimes anxious. There came out of his hands a sort
of confused mask, through which one half
saw I know not what heroic lineaments.
For some moments he remained perplexed
and discouraged, almost ashamed, at the
sight of his work, not daring to turn to
me. But suddenly, before letting it out of
his hands, with a few touches he set a
crown of laurel about the head. How it
delighted me! He wanted to crown in the
clay his own unaccomplished dream. The
end of his day's work was an act of pride
and of faith. I loved him from that instant, for that crown. I will give you the
sketch. Perhaps, if you look at it closely,
you will discover the ardent face of Sappho, that ideal figure which, only a few
years later, he was able to bring to perfection, in a masterpiece.
SILVIA SETTALA.  [Listening eagerly.]
Sit down, sit down, Maestro; stay a little
longer, I beg of you. Sit here, by the window. Stay a few minutes longer. I have a
thousand things to tell you, and I do not
know how to tell you one of them. If I
could overcome this continual tremor! I
want you to understand....
LORENZO GADDI. IS it joy that makes
you tremble?
[He sits down near the window.
SILVIA, leaning back against the




574


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


window-sill, remains with her
face turned towards him; her
face is seen against the blue air,
the little hill standing out in the
background.]
SILVIA SETTALA. I do not know if it is
joy. Sometimes everything that has been,
all the evil, all the sorrow, and even the
blood, and the wound, all melts away,
vanishes, is wiped out into oblivion, is
there no more. Sometimes everything that
has been, all that horrible weight of memory, thickens and thickens, and grows
compact and opaque and hard as a wall,
like a rock that I shall never be able to surmount. Just now, when you spoke to me,
when you offered me that unexpected gift,
I thought: "Ah, now I shall take that gift
in my hands, that morsel of clay into which
he cast the first seed of his dreams, as into a
fruitful soil; I shall take it in my hands, I
shall go to him smiling, bearing intact the
better part of his soul and of his life; and I
shall not speak, and he will see in me the
guardian of all his goods, and he will never
go away from me ny more, and we shall
be young again, we\shall be young again!"
I thought that, and the thought and the
act were mingled in one, with an incredible
ease. Your words transfigured the world.
Then, do you know, a breath passed, a
vapour, the merest breathing, a mere nothing, and cast down everything, and destroyed everything, and the anxiety came
back, and the dread, and the tremor. 0
April! [Suddenly she turns to the light,
drawing a deep breath.] How this air troubles one, and yet how pure it is! All one's
hope and despair pass in the wind with the
dust of flowers. [She leans out, calling.]
Beata! Beata!
LORENZO GADDI. Is the little one in the
garden?             -~
SILVIA SETTALA. There she is, she is
running about between the rose-bushes.
She is wild with delight. Beata! She has
hidden herself behind a hedge, the rogue.
She is laughing. Do you hear her laughing? Ah, when she laughs, I know the joy
of flowers when they are filled to the brim
with dew. That is how her fresh laughter
fills my heart to overflowing.


LORENZO GADDI. Perhaps Lucio too
hears her, and is consoled.
SILVIA SETTALA. [Grave and trembling,
leaning towards the Maestro, and taking his
hands.] You think then that he will really
be healed of all his wounds? You think he
will come back to me with all his soul?
Did you feel that, when you saw him,
when you talked with him? What did
your heart say?
LORENZO GADDI. It seemed to me, just
now, that he had the look of a man who
begins to live over again with a new sense
of life. He who has seen the face of death
cannot but have seen in that instant the
face of truth also. The bandage is taken
off his eyes. He knows you now wholly.
SILVIA SETTALA. Maestro, Maestro, if
you deceive yourself, if it is a vain hope,
what will become of me? All my strength
is worn out.
LORENZO GADDI. But what is there now
to fear?
SILVIA SETTALA. He wanted to die; but/
the other, the other woman lives, and I)
know that she is implacable.
LORENZO GADDI. And what could she
do now?
SILVIA SETTALA. She could do anything,
if she were still loved.
LORENZO GADDI. Still loved? Beyond
death?
SILVIA SETTALA. Beyond death. Ah, if
you knew my anguish! It was for her that
he wanted to die, in a moment of rage and
of delirium. Think how he must have
loved her, if the thought of me, if the
thought of Beata, could not restrain him!
Then, in that awful moment, he was her
prey wholly; he was at the height of his
fever, of his agony, and all the rest of the
world was blotted out. Think how he
must have loved her! [The woman's voice
is subdued but lacerating. The old man bows
his head.] Now, who can say what took
place in him, after the blow, when the
mist of death passed before his soul? Has
he awakened without memory? Does he
see an abyss between his life as it renews
itself and the part of himself that he left
behind in that mist? Or else, or else the
image has risen again out of the depths,




GIOCONDA


575


and remains there, against the shadow,
dominant, in indestructible relief? Tell me!
LORENZO GADDI.* [Perplexed.] Who can
say?
SILVIA SETTALA. [In a sorrowful voice.]
Ah, now you yourself dare not console me
any longer. Then, it is so? There is no
help?
LORENZO GADDI. [Taking her hands.]
No, no, Silvia. I meant: who can say what
change is brought about in a nature like
his by so mysterious a force? Everything
in him speaks of some new good thing that
has come to him. Look at him when he
smiles. Just now, yonder, before you left
him to come out with me, when he kissed
those dear hands of yours, did you not feel
that his whole heart melted into tenderness
and humility?
SILVIA  SETTALA.  [Her face slightly
flushed.] Yes, it is true.
LORENZO GADDI. [Looking at her hands.]
Dear, dear hands, brave and beautiful,
steadfast and beautiful! Your hands are
extraordinarily beautiful, Silvia. If sorrow
has too often set them together, it has sublimated them also, perfected them. They
are perfect. Do you remember the woman
of Verrocchio, the woman with the bunch
of flowers, with the clustering hair? Ah,
she is there! [He perceives, from the look
and smile of SILVIA, that there is a copy of
the bust on a little cupboard in a corner of the
room.] So you have realised the relationship. Those two hands seem of the same
blood as yours, they are of the same essence. They live - do they not? - with
so luminous a life that the rest of the figure
is darkened by them.
SILVIA SETTALA. [Smiling.] Oh, young,
always young in soul!
LORENZO GADDI. When Lucio comes
back to his work, he ought to model your
hands the first day. I have a fragment of
ancient marble, found in the Oricellari
Gardens. I will give it to him, that he
may chisel them in that, and lay them up
like a votive offering.
SILvIA SETTALA. [A cloud passing across
her forehead.] Do you think he will come
back to his work soon? Will he wish to?
Have you spoken of it with him?


LORENZO GADDI. Yes, just now, when
you were not there.
SILVIA SETTALA. What did he say?
LORENZO GADDI. Vague, delicious things,
a convalescent's dreams. I know them.
I too was once ill. It seems to him now
as if he has lost hold of his art, as if he
had no longer any power over it, as if he
had become a stranger to beauty. Then
again it seems to him as if his thumbs had
assumed a magic force, and that at a mere
touch he can evoke forms out of the clay as
easily as in dreams. He is somewhat uneasy about the disorder in which he fancies
his studio was left, on the Mugnone yonder. He asked me to go and see. Have you
the key?
SILVIA SETTALA. [Anxiously.] There is
the caretaker.
LORENZO GADDI. How long is it since
you were there?
SILVIA SETTALA. Since this began. I
never had the courage to go back again. I
feel as if I should see the stains of blood, and
find traces of her everywhere. She is still
mistress there. That place is still her domain.
LORENZO GADDI. The domain of a
statue.
SILVIA SETTALA. No, no. Do you not
know that she had a key? She came and
went there as if it belonged to her. Ah, I
have told you, I have told you; she lives,
and is implacable.
LORENZO GADDI. Are you sure that she
came back, after what happened?
SILVIA SETTALA. Sure. Her insolence
has no bounds. She is without pity and
without shame.
LORENZO GADDI. And he, Lucio, does
he know?
SILVIA SETTALA. He does not know.
But he will surely know it sooner or later.
She will find a way of lIting him know.
LORENZO GADDI. But why?
SILVIA SETTALA. Because she is implacable, because she will not relinquish
her prey. [A pause. The old man is silent.
The woman's voice becomes harsh and
tremulous.] And the statue, the Sphinx,
have you seen it?
LORENZO GADDI. [After a moment's
hesitation.] Yes. I have seen it.




576


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


SILVIA SETTALA. Was it he who showed
it to you?
LORENZO GADDI. Yes, one day last
October. He had just finished it.
[A pause.]
SILVIA SETTALA. [In a trembling voice,
which almost fails her.] It is wonderful, is
it not? Tell me.
LORENZO GADDI. Yes, it is exquisitely
beautiful.
SILVIA SETTALA. For eternity!
[A pause, burdened with a thousand
undefined.and inevitable things.]
THE VOICE OF BEATA. [From the garden.]
Mamma! Mamma!
LORENZO GADDI. The child is calling
you.
SILVIA SETTALA. [Starting up, and leaning out of the window.] Beata! Ah, there
she is; my sister Francesca is coming across
the garden; she is coming here with Cosimo
Dalbo. Do you know? Cosimo has returned from Cairo; he arrived at Florence
last night. Lucio will be delighted to see
him.
LORENZO GADDI. [Rising to go.] Goodbye, then, dear Silvia: I shall see you perhaps to-morrow.
SILVIA SETTALA. Stay a little longer. My
sister would like to see you.
LORENZO GADDI. I must go. I am late
now.
SILVIA SETTALA. When shall I have the
gift you promised me?
LORENZO GADDI. Perhaps to-morrow.
SILVIA SETTALA. No perhaps, no perhaps. I shall expect you. You must come
here often, every day. Your presence does
us good. Do not forsake me. I trust in
you, Maestro. Remember that a menace
is still hanging over my head.
LORENZO GADDI. Do not fear. Keep up
your courage!
SILVIA SETTALA. [Moving towards the
door.] Here is Francesca.
[FRANCESCA DONI enters, goes up to her sister, and embraces her. COSIMO DALBO,
who follows her, shakes hands with
LORENZO GADDI, who is on the point of
going out.]
FRANCESCA DONI. Do you see whom I


am bringing? We met outside the gate.
How are you, Maestro? Are you going just
as I come in? 
[She shakes hands with the old
man.]
SILVIA SETTALA. [Holding out her hand
cordially.] Welcome back, Dalbo. We
were expecting you. Lucio is impatient to
see you.
COSIMO DALBO. [With affectionate solicitude.] How is he now? Is he up? Is he
quite well?
SILVIA SETTALA. He is convalescent;
still a little weak; but getting stronger every
day. The wound is entirely closed. You
will see him in a minute. The doctor is with
him; I will go and tell him you are here.
It will be a great delight for him. He
has asked after you several times to-day.
He is impatient to see you. [She turns to
LORENZO GADDI.] To-morrow, then.
[She goes out with a light and rapid
step. The sister, the MAESTRO,
and the friend follow her with
their eyes.]
FRANCESCA DONI. [With a kindly smile.]
Poor Silvia! For the last few days, she
seems as if she had wings. When I look at
her sometimes, it seems to me as if she
is going to take flight towards happiness.
And no one deserves happiness more; is it
not true, Maestro? You know her.
LORENZO GADDI. Yes, she is really as
your sisterly eyes see her. She comes
winged out of her martyrdom. There is a
sort of incessant quiver in her. I felt it just
now, when she stood near me. Truly she is
in a state of grace. There is no height to
which she could not attain. Lucio has in
his hands a life of flame, an infinite force.
FRANCESCA DONI. You were with him
some time to-day.
LORENZO GADDI. Yes, hours.
FRANCESCA DONI. How was he?
LORENZO GADDI. Running over with
sweetness, and a little bewildered. You will
see him presently, Dalbo. His sensitiveness is a danger. Those who love him can
do him much good and much harm. A word
agitates and convulses him. Watch over all
your words, you who love him. Good-bye.
I must go.     [Takes leave of them both.]




GIOCONDA


577


FRANCESCA DONI. Good-bye, Maestro.
Perhaps we shall see you here again tomorrow. I hope so. You have a horror of
my stairs! [She accompanies the old man to
the door; then returns to the friend.] What a
fire of intelligence and of goodness, in that
old man! When he comes into a room he
seems to bring comfort to all. The sad rejoice and the merry become fervent.
COSIMO DALBO. He inspires the soul; he
belongs to the noblest race of mankind.
His work is a continual exaltation of life; it
is the continual force of communicating a
spark, whether to his statues or to the creatures whom he meets by the way. Lorenzo
Gaddi seems to me to deserve a far higher
fame than he receives from his contemporaries.
FRANCESCA DONI. It is true, it is true.
If you knew what energy and what delicacy
he showed, in that horrible affair! When
the thing happened, my sister was not
there; she was with our mother, at Pisa,
with Beata. The thing happened in the
studio, there, on the Mugnone, in the
evening. Only the caretaker heard the report. When he discovered the truth, he
ran to tell Lorenzo Gaddi before any one
else. In the anguish and horror of that
winter evening, in the midst of all the confusion and uncertainty, he alone never
lost his presence of mind, nor had a single instant's hesitation. He preserved a
strange lucidity, by which every one was
dominated. He made every arrangement:
all obeyed him. It was he who had poor
Lucio brought to the house here, half
dead. The doctor despaired of saving
him. He alone declared, with an obstinate
faith: "No, he will not die, he will not
die, he cannot die." I believed him. Ah,
what a heroic night, Dalbo. And then
the arrival of Silvia, his telling her himself, forbidding her to enter the room where
a mere breath might have quenched that
glimmer of life: and her strength, her incredible endurance under watching and
waiting for whole weeks, the proud and
silent vigilance with which she guarded
the threshold as if to hinder the coming
of death!
COSIMO DALBO. And I was far away,


unconscious of all, blissfully idle in a boat
on the Nile! Yet I had a kind of presentiment, before leaving. That was why I
tried every means to persuade Lucio to
go with me, as we had often dreamed of
doing together. He had then finished his
statue; and I thought that his liberty was
in that wonderful marble. He said, "Not
yet!" And a few months after he was
seeking it in death. Ah, if I had not gone
away, if I had stayed by him, if I had
been more faithful, if I had known how
to defend him against the enemy, nothing
would have happened.
FRANCESCA DONI. There is nothing to
regret if so much good can come out of so
much evil. Who knows in what sadness
of despair my sister might have perished,
if the violence of that act had not suddenly reunited her to Lucio! But do not
think that the enemy has laid down arms.
She has not abandoned the field.
COSIMO DALBO. Who? Gioconda Dianti?
FRANCESCA DONI. [Motioning to him to
be silent, and lowering her voice.] Do not
say that name!
]Lucio SETTALA appears on the threshold of
the door, leaning on the arm of SILVIA;
he is pale and thin, and his eyes look
extraordinarily large with suffering; a
faint, sweet smile gives refinement to a
voluptuous mouth.]
LucIo SETTALA. Cosino!
COSIMO DALBO. [Turning and running
up to him.] Oh, Lucio, dear, dear friend!
[He puts his arms abou,' the convalescent,
while SILVIA moves aside, nearer to her sister, and goes out with her, slowly, pausing
for a moment to look at her husband before
going.] You are well again, are you not?
You are not suffering now? I find you a
little pale, a little thin, but not so very
much. You look as I have seen you sometimes after a period of feverish work, when
you have been with your clay for twelve
hours a day, consumed with that fire. Do
you remember?
Lucio SETTALA. [Looking confusedly
about him, to see if SILVIA is still in the
room.] Yes, yes.




578


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


I


COsIMO DALBO. Then too your eyes
looked larger....
Lucio SETTALA. [With an indefinable,
almost childish restlessness.] And Silvia?
Where is Silvia gone? Was n't she here
with Francesca?
COSIMO DALBO. They have left us alone.
Lucio SETTALA. Why? She thinks,
perhaps.... No, I have nothing to tell
you, I know nothing now any more. Perhaps you know. For me, no; I don't remember. I don't want to remember. Tell
me about yourself! Tell me about yourself! Is the desert beautiful?
[He speaks in a singular way, as if
in a dream, with a mixture of
agitation and stupor.]
COSIMO DALBO. I will tell you. But you
must not tire yourself. I will tell you all
my pilgrimage; I will come here every
day, if I may; I will stay with you as long
as you like, only not long enough to tire
you. Sit here.
Lucio SETTALA. [Smiling.] Do you
think I am so feeble?
COSIMO DALBO. No, you are all right
now, but it is better for you not tc tire
yourself. Sit here. [He makes him sit down
near the window, and looks out at the hill
clearly outlined against the April sky.] Ah,
my dear friend, I have seen marvellous
things with these eyes, and they have
drunk light in comparison with which this
seems ashen; but, when I see again a
simple line like that (look at San Miniato!)
I seem to find myself again, after an interval of wandering. Look at that dear hill!
The pyramid of Cheops does not make
one forget the Bella Villanella; and more
thag once, in the gardens of Koubbeh and
Gizeh, hives of honey, chewing a grain of
resin, I thought of a slim Tuscan cypress
on the edge of a narrow grove of olives.
Lucio SETTALA. [Half closing his eyelids
under the breath of Spring.] It is good to be
here, is it not? There is an odour of violets.
Perhaps there is a bunch of violets in the
room. Silvia puts them everywhere, even
under my pillow.
COSIMO DALBO. Do you know, I have
brought you the violets of the desert, between the pages of a Koran, I gathered




-


them in the garden of a Persian monastery,
near the Thebaid, on the side of the Mokattam, on an eminence of sand. There, in
a cavern dug out of the mountain, covered
with carpets and cushions, the monks offer
their visitors a tea with a special flavour,
Arab tea, perfumed with violets.
Lucio SETTALA. And you have brought
them for me, buried in a book! How happy
you were to be able to gather them, so far
away; and I might have been with you.
COSIMO DALBO. There, all was oblivion.
I went up by a long, straight stone staircase, that leads from the foot of the mountain to the gate of the Bectaschiti. The
desert was all about; vast, hallucinating
dryness, in which there was no life but the
stirring of wind and the quivering of heat.
I could only distinguish here and there,
between the sand-heaps, the white stones
of Arab cemeteries. I heard the crying of
hawks high up in the sky. I saw on the
Nile multitudes of boats with great lateen
sails, white, slow, going on, going on, like
snow-flakes. And little by little I was
caught up into an ecstasy that you can
never have known, the ecstasy of light.
Lucio SETTALA. [In a far-off voice.]
And I might have been with you, loitering,
forgetting, dreaming, drunk with light.
You went down the Nile, did you not? in
an ancient boat loaded with wine-skins,
sacks, and cages. You landed on an island
towards evening; you were dressed in
white serge; you were thirsty; you drank
at a spring; you walked barefoot upon
flowers; and the odour was so strong that
you seemed to have forgotten hunger. Ah,
I thought, I felt, these things from my
pillow. And I followed you through the
desert, when the fever was at its height;
through a desert of red sand, sown with
glittering stones that splintered crackling
like twigs in the fire. [A pause. He leans
forward a little, saying in a clear voice and
with open eyes:] And the Sphinx?
COSIMO DALBO. I saw it first at night,
by the light of stars, sunken into the sand
that still keeps the violent imprint of
whirlwinds. The face and the croup rose
out of that quieted storm, all that was
human and all that was bestial in it. The




GIOCONDA


79
579


face, whose mutilations were hidden by the
shadow, seemed to me at that moment
exquisitely beautiful: calm, august, cerulean as the night, almost meek. There is
nothing in the world, Lucio, so much alone
as that; but my mind was, as it were, before multitudes who had slept, and on
whose eyelashes the dew had fallen. Then
I saw it again by day. The face was bestial, like the croup; the nose and throat
were eaten away; the droppings of birds
fouled the fillets. It was the heavy wingless monster imagined by the excavators of
tombs, by the embalmers of corpses. And
I saw, in the sun before me, your Sphinx,
pure and imperious, with wings imprisoned
alive in the shoulders.
Lucio SETTALA. [With a sudden emotion.] My statue? You mean my statue?
You saw it, ah, yes, before you went; and
you found it beautiful. [He looks uneasily
towards the door, fearing SILVIA might hear
him, and lowers his voice.] You found it
beautiful?
COSIMO DALBO. Exquisitely beautiful.
[Lucio covers his eyes with both
hands and remains for some
seconds as if trying to evoke a
vision in the darkness.]. 
Lucio SETTALA. [Uncovering his eyes.]
I no longer see it. It escapes me. It comes
and goes in a breath, confusedly. If I had
it here before me now it would seem new to
me: I should cry out. And yet I carved it,
with these hands! [He looks at his thin,
sensitive hands. His agitation increases.]
I don't know. I don't know. In the beginning of my fever, when I still had the
bullet in my flesh, and the continual murmuring of death in my lost soul, I saw it
standing at the foot of the bed, lit like a
torch, as if I myself had moulded it out of
some incandescent material. So for many
days and nights I saw it through my eyelids. It grew brighter as my fever increased. When my pulse burned it turned
to flame. It was as if all the blood shed at
its feet had gone up into it and boiled up in
it...
COSIMO DALBO. [Uneasily, looking towards the door, with the same fear.] Lucio,
Lucio, you said just now that you knew


nothing now, that you did not want to remember anything. Luci!
[He gently shakes his friend, who
remains rigid.]
Lucio SETTALA. [Recollecting himself.]
Do not fear. I have left it all far, far behind me, at the bottom of the sea. The
statue was drowned too, with all the rest,
after the shipwreck. That is why I can
no longer see it except confusedly, as if
through deep water.
COSIMO DALBO. It alone shall be saved,
to live for ever; and so much sorrow shall
not have been suffered in vain, so much
evil shall not have been useless, if one
thing so beautiful remains over, to be
added to the ornament of life.
Lucio SETTALA. [Smiling again with his
faint smile and speaking in his far-off voice.]
It is true. I sometimes think of the fate of
one whose ship and all that was in it went
down in a storm. On a day as calm as this,
he took a boat and a net, and he returned
to the place of the shipwreck, hoping to
draw something up out of the depths.
And, after much labour, he drew on shore a
statue. And the statue was so beautiful
that he wept for joy to see it again; and he
sat down on the seashore to gaze upon it,
and was content with that gain, and would
seek after nothing more: "well, I forget the
rest!" [He rises hastily.] Why has not
Silvia come back? [He listens.] Who is
laughing? Ah, it is Beata in the garden.
Look; San Miniato is all gold; it lightens.
Is there a more glorious light at Thebes?
COSIMO DALBO. The ecstasy of light!
I told you: you can know it nowhere
else. Circles, garlands, wheels, roses of
splendour, innumerable sparkles.... The
verses of the Paradiso recur to one's mind.
Only Dante has found dazzling words. In
certain hours the Nile becomes the flood
of topazes, the "marvellous gulf." Like a
stone in water, a gesture in the air arouses
thousands and thousands of waves. All
things swim in light; all the leaves drip
with it. The women, who pass along the
stream with full wine-skins, actually flame
like the angelic host in the song, "distinct
in light and form."
[LucIo, catching sight of a bunch of




580


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


violets on the table, takes them up
and buries his face in them, to
drink in their odour.]
Lucio SETTALA. [Still holding the violets
to his nostrils and half-closing his eyes with
delight.] Are the women of the Nile beautij ful?
COSIMO DALBO. Some, in youth, have
bodies of marvellous purity and elegance.
You, who like firm and active muscles, a
certain acerbity in form, long, nervous
legs, would find incomparable models
there. How often have I thought of you!
In the island of Elephantina I had a little
friend of fourteen; a girl golden as a date,
thin, lithe, firm, with strong, arched loins,
straight, strong legs, perfect knees; a very
rare thing, as you know. In all that hard
slenderness, which gave one the impression
of a javelin, sharp and precise, three things
delighted me with their infinitely soft
grace: the mouth, the shadow of the eyelashes, the tips of the fingers. She braided
her hair with fingers rosy-tipped like petals
dyed with purple: and to watch her in that
act, on the threshold of her white house,
was the delight of my mornings. I should
like to have taken her away with the statuettes, the scarabei, the cloths, the tobacco,
the scents, the weapons. I have brought
you a beautiful bow that I bought at Assouan, and that is a little like her.
LuCIO SETTALA. [With a slight perturbation, throwing back his head.] She must
have been a delicious creature!
COSIMO DALBO. Delicious and harmless.
She was like a beautiful bow, but her arrows were without venom.
Lucio SETTALA. You loved her?
COSIMO DALBO. As I love my horse and
my dogs.
Lucio SETTALA. Ah, you were happy
there; your life was light and easy. It
must have been the island of Elephantina
where I saw you come on shore, in a dream.
I might have been with you! But I will
go, I will leave here. Do you not long to
return? I will have a white house on the
Nile; I will make my statues with the
slime of the river, and set them up in that
light of yours that will turn them to gold
for me. Silvia! Silvia! [He calls towards


the door as if seized by a sudden impatience,
an anxious will to live.] Would it be too
late?
COSIMO DALBO. It is too late. The
great heats are coming on.
Lucio SETTALA. What does it matter?
I love summer heat, sultriness even. All
the pomegranates will be in flower in the
gardens, and when it rains they will see
those large, warm drops that make the
earth sigh for pleasure.
COSIMO DALBO. But the Khamsin?
when all the desert rises up against the
sun?
[SILVIA appears on the threshold, smiling,
her whole being visibly animated. She
has changed her gown; she is dressed in
a clearer, more spring-like colour; and
she carries in her hands a bunch of
fresh roses.]
SILVIA SETTALA. What do you say,
Dalbo, against the sun? Did you call,
Lucio?
Lucio SETTALA. [Re-taken by a kind of
restless timidity, as of a man who feels the
need of self-abandonment, to which he dares
not give way.] Yes, I called you, because I
thought. you were never coming back.
Cosimo was telling me of so many beautiful
things. I wanted you to hear them too.
[He looks at his wife with surprise in his
eyes, as if he discovered a new charm in her.]
Were you going out?
SILVIA SETTALA. [Blushing slightly.!
Ah, you are looking at my gown. I put it
on to see how it looked, while Francesca
was there. My sister sends her apologies to
you both for having gone without coming
to say good-bye. She was in a hurry: her
children were waiting for her. She hopes,
Dalbo, that you will come and see her
soon. [She puts the roses on a table.] Will
you dine with us to-night?
COSIMO DALBO. Thanks. I cannot tonight. My mother expects me.
SILVIA SETTALA. Naturally. To-morrow, then?
COSIMO DALBO. To-morrow. I will
bring my presents for you, Lucio.
Lucio SETTALA. [With childish curiosity.] Yes, yes, bring them, bring them.




GIOCONDA


58t


-


SILVIA SETTALA. [Smiling mysteriously.]
I too am to have a present to-morrow.
Lucio SETTALA. From whom?
SILVIA SETTALA. From the Maestro.
Lucio SETTALA. What?
SILVIA SETTALA. You shall see.
Lucio SETTALA. [With a joyous movement.] You too shall see all the beautiful
things that Cosimo has brought me: cloths,
scents, weapons, scarabeei....
COSIMO DALBO. Amulets against every
evil, talismans for happiness. On Gebel-elTair, in a Coptic convent, I found the
most powerful of scarabai. The monk told
me a long story of a cenobite who, at the
time of the first persecution, took refuge in
a vault, and found a mummy there, and
took it out of its swathings of balm, and
restored it to life, and the resuscitated
mummy, with its painted lips, told him
the story of its old life, which had been one
whole tissue of happiness. In the end, as
the cenobite wished to convert it, it preferred to lie down again in its embalmings;
but first it gave him the guardian scarabaeus. To tell you what use was made of it
by the solitary, and through what vicissitudes it passed across the centuries into the
hands of the good Copt, would take too
long. Certainly, a more powerful one is
not in all Egypt. Here it is: I offer it to
you, I offer it to you both.
[He hands the amulet to SILVIA,
who 'examines it carefully and
then passes it to LucIo, with a
sudden light in her eyes.]
SILVIA SETTALA. How blue it is. It is
brighter than a turquoise. Look.
CosIMO DALBO. The Copt said to me:
"Small as a gem, great as a destiny!"
[Lucio turns the mystic stone between his
fingers, which tremble a little, fumblingly.]
Good-bye then: to-morrow! Good night.
SILVIA SETTALA. [Picking a rose out of
the bunch and offering it to him.] Here is a
fresh rose in exchange for the amulet. Take
it to your mother.
COSIMO DALBO. Thanks. To-morrow!
[He salutes them again and goes out.]




I


VIA puts the roses in a vase. Both, in the
silence, hear the beating of their anxious
hearts. The setting sun gilds the room. In
the square of the window is seen the pallid
sky; San Miniato shines on the height; the
air is soft, without a breath of wind.
Lucio SETTALA. [Looking into the air,
and listening anxiously. There is a bee in
the room.
SILVIA SETTALA. [Raising her head.] A bee?
Lucio SETTALA. Yes. Don't you hear
it?           [Both listen to the murmur.]
SILVIA SETTALA. You are right.
Lucio SETTALA. Perhaps you brought
it in with the roses.
SILVIA SETTALA. Beata picked these.
Lucio SETTALA. I heard her laughing,
just now, down in the garden.
SILVIA SETTALA. How pleased she is to
be home again!
Lucio SETTALA. It was a good thing to
send her away then.
SILVIA SETTALA. She is stronger and
lovelier for having breathed the odour of
the pines. How good the spring must be
at Bocca d' Arno! Would you not like to
go there for a while?
Lucio SETTALA. There, by the sea....
Would you like it?
[Their voices are altered by a slight
tremor.]
SILVIA SETTALA. It has always been a
dream of mine to pass one spring there.
Lucio SETTALA. [Choked with emotion.]
Your dream is mine, Silvia.
[The amulet falls from his hands.]
SILVIA SETTALA. [Stooping quickly to
pick it up.] Ah, you have let it fall! They
would say it is a bad omen. See. I put it
on Beata's head. "Small as a gem, great
as a destiny!"
[She lays the amulet delicately
upon the roses.]
Lucio SETTALA. [Holding out his hands
to her, as if imploring.] Silvia! Silvia!
SILVIA SETTALA. [Running to him.] Do
you feel ill? You look paler. Ah, you have
tired yourself too much to-day, you are
worn out. Sit here, come. Will you sip
some of this cordial? Do you feel as if you
are going to faint? Tell me!


Lucio SETTALA smiles timidly, turning
the scarabceus be/ween his fingers, while SIL





582


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


Lucio SETTALA. [Taking her hands with
an outburst of love.] No, no, Silvia; I never
felt so well. You, you sit down, sit here;
and I at your feet, at last, with all my soul,
to adore you, to adore you! [She sinks back
on the divan and he falls on his knees before
her. She is convulsed and trembling, and lays
her hand on his lips, as if to keep him from
speaking. Breath and words pass between
her fingers.] At last! It was like a flood
coming from far off, a flood of all the
beautiful things and all the good things
that you have poured out on my life since
you began to love me; and my heart overflowed, ah, overflowed so that I staggered
under the weight of it, and fainted and
died of the pain and the sweetness of it,
because I dared not say....
SILVIA SETTALA. [Her face white, her
voice almost extinct.] No more, say no
more!
Lucio SETTALA. Hear me, hear me! All
the sorrows that you have suffered, the
wounds that you have received without a
cry, the tears that you have hidden lest I
should have shame and remorse, the smiles
with which you have veiled your agonies,
your infinite pity for my wanderings, your
invincible courage in the face of death,
your hard fight for my life, your hope always alight beside my bed, your watches,
cares, continual tremors, expectation, silence, joy, all that is deep, all that is sweet
and heroic in you, I know it all, I feel it all,
dear soul; and, if violence is enough to
break a yoke, if blood is enough for redemption (oh, let me speak!) I bless the
evening and the hour that brought me dying into this house of your martyrdom and
of your faith to receive once more at your
hands, these divine hands that tremble,
the gift of life.
[He presses his convulsed mouth
against the palms of her hands,
and she gazes at him through the
tears that moisten her eyelids,
transfigured with unexpected happiness.]
SILVIA SETTALA. [In a faint and broken
voice.] No more, say no more! My heart


cannot bear it. You suffocate me with joy.
I longed for one word from you, only one,
no more; and all at once you flood me with
love, you fill up every vein, you raise me to
the other side of hope, you outpass my
dreams, you give me happiness beyond all
expectation. Ah, what did you say of my
sorrows? What is sorrow endured, what is
silence constrained, what is a tear, what is
a smile, now, in the face of this flood that
bears me away? I feel as if by-and-by, for
you, for you, I shall be sorry not to have
suffered more. Perhaps I have not reached I
the depths of sorrow, but I know that I
have reached the height of happiness.
[She blindly caresses his head, as it lies on her
knees.] Rise, rise! Come nearer to my
heart, rest on me, give way to my tenderness, press my hands on your eyelids, be
silent, dream, call back the deep forces of
your life. Ah, it is not me alone that you
must love, not me alone, but the love I
have for you: love my love! I am not
beautiful, I am not worthy of your eyes, I
am a humble creature in the shadow; but
my love is wonderful, it is on high, on
high, it is alone, it is sure as the day, it is
stronger than death, it can work miracles;
it shall give you all that you ask. You can
ask more than you have ever hoped. [She
draws him to her heart, raising his head.
His eyes are closed, his lips tight set, he is as
pale as death, drunk and exhausted with
emotion.] Rise, rise! Come nearer to my
heart; rest on me. Do you not feel that
you can give yourself up to me? that nothing in the world is surer than my breast?
that you can find it always? Ah, I have
sometimes thought that this certitude
might intoxicate you like glory. [He kneels
before her with uplifted face; she with both
hands pushes back the hair to uncover his
whole forehead.] Beautiful, strong forehead,
sealed and blessed! May all the germs of
spring awaken in your new thoughts!
[Trembling she presses her lips to
his forehead. Silently he stretches
out his arms towards the suppliant. The sunset is like a
dawn.]




GIOCONDA


583


THE SECOND ACT
The same room, the same hour of the day.
A cloudy and changing sky is seen through
the window.
CosIMo DALBO is seated by a table, on
which he rests his elbows, putting his hand to
his forehead, grave and thoughtful. Lucio
SETTALA is on foot, restless and agitated; he
moves aboutFte-room uncertainly, giving way
to the anguish that oppresses him.
Lucio SETTALA. Yes, I am going to tell
you. Why should I hide the truth? From
you! I have had a letter, I have opened it,
read it.
COSIMO DALBO. From Gioconda?
Lucio SETTALA. From her.
COSIMO DALBO. A love etter?
Lucio SETTALA. Ilrburnt/my fingers.
COSIMO DALBO. Well? [He hesitates.
In a voice changed by emotion.] You still
love her?
LucIo SETTALA. [With a shudder of
dread.] No, no, no. 
COSIMO DALBO. [Looking into the depths
of his eyes.] You no longer love her?
Lucio SETTALA. [Entreatingly.] Oh, do
not torture me. I suffer.
COSIMO DALBO. But what is it then that
distresses you?             [A pause.]
Lucio SETTALA. Every day, at an hour
that I know, she waits for me, there, at the
foot of the statue, alone.
[Another pause. The two men
seem as f they saw before them
something strong and living, a
Will, evoked by those brief
words.]
CosIMo DALBO. She waits for you?
Where? In your studio? How could she
get in?
Lucio SETTALA. She has a key: the key
of that time.
COSIMO DALBO. She waits for you!
She thinks, she desires, then, that you
should still belong to her?
Lucio SETTALA. You have said it.
COSIMO DALBO. And what shall you do?
Lucio SETTALA. What shall I do?
[A pause.]
COSIMO DALBO. You vibrate like a flame.
Lucio SETTALA. I suffer.


COSIMO DALBO. You are burning.
Lucio SETTALA. [Vehemently.] No.
COSIMO DALBO. Listen. She is terrible.
One cannot fight against her save at a distance. That is why I wanted to take you
with me, across the sea. You preferred
death to the sea. Another (you know who,
and your heart bleeds for her) has saved
you from death. And now you can live


only for her.
Lucio SETTALA.
COSIMO DALBO.
from her.


It is true.
You must go away, fly


Lucio SETTALA. For always?
COSIMO DALBO. For some time.
Lucio SETTALA. She will wait for me.
COSIMO DALBO. YOU will be stronger.
Lucio SETTALA. Her power will have
increased. She will have more profoundly
impregnated with herself the place that is
dear to me for the work's sake that was
achieved there. I shall see her from far off,
like the guardian of a statue into which I
put the most vivid breath of my soul.
COSIMO DALBO. You love her.
Lucio SETTALA. [Despairingly.]  No.
I do not love her. But think: she will always be the stronger: she knows what conquers and what binds me; she is armed
with a fascination from which I cannot
free my soul except by tearing her out of
my heart. Must I try again?
COSIMO DALBO. Ah, you are raving!
Lucio SETTALA. The place where I have
dreamed, where I have worked, where I
have wept with joy, where I have cried on
glory, where I have seen death, is her conquest. She knows that I cannot keep
away from it or renounce it, that the most
precious part of my substance is diffused
there: and she waits for me, certain.
COSIMO DALBO. Does she then exercise
an inviolable right there? Can no one forbid her entrance?
Lucio SETTALA. [With a profound emotion.] Turn her out?
COSIMO DALBO. No: but there may be
another way, less hard, the simplest way::
ask her for the key which she has no right;
to retain.
Lucio SETTALA. And who is to ask her
for it?




584


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


COSIMO DALBO. Any one of us, I myself,
respectfully, in the name of necessity.
LucIo SETTALA. She would refuse, she
would look upon you as a stranger.
COSIMO DALBO. You yourself then.
Lucio SETTALA. I? I face her?
COSIMO DALBO. No, write to her.
[A pause.]
LucIo SETTALA. [With the accent of absolute impossibility.] I cannot. And it
would all be in vain.
COSIMO DALBO. But there is another
way: leave that house, clear out everything, take everything somewhere else.
You will thus avoid the intolerable sadness
of memory. How is it you do not realise
that change is necessary, if your life is to
renew itself, so that the companion you
have found again may help you in your
work? Would you have her sit where the
other had been? Would you have her always see before her eyes the vision of that
horrible evening?
LucIo SETTALA. [Smiling, disheartened
and bitter.] Well, yes, you are right: we
will leave here, we will go somewhere else,
we will choose a beautiful solitary place,
we will shake off the dust from old things,
open all the windows, let in the pure air,
take a heap of clay, a block of marble, set
up a monument to liberty. [He breaks off.
His voice becomes singularly calm.] One
morning, Gioconda will knock at the new
door; I shall open to her: she will come in:
without surprise I shall say to her, "Welcome." [Unable to restrain his bitterness.]
Ah, but you are like a child! The whole
thing seems to you no more than a key.
Call in a locksmith, change the lock, and I
am saved.
COSIMO DALBO. [Tenderly and sadly.]
Do not be angry. At first I thought you
had simply to rid yourself of an intruder.
Now I see that my advice was childish.
Lucio SETTALA. [Imploringly.] Cosimo,
my friend, do understand me!
CosIMo DALBO. I understand, but you
deny it.
Lucio SETTALA. [Again carried away by
excitement.] I deny nothing. I deny nothing. Would you have me cry to you that I
love her? [Looks about him in an aimless


bewilderment. Passes his hand across his
forehead with an air of suffering. Lowers his
voice.] You should have let me die. Think,
if I who was intoxicated with life, if I who
was frantic with strength and pride, if I
wanted to die, be sure I knew there was
an insuperable necessity for it. Not being
able to live either with or without her, I
resolved to quit the world. Think: I who
looked on the world as my garden, and had
every lust after every beauty! Be sure,
then, 'I knew there was an insuperable
necessity, an iron destiny. You should
have let me die.
COSIMO DALBO. You have forgotten the
divine miracle, cruelly.
Lucio SETTALA. I am not cruel. Because I was in horror of that cruelty towards which the violence of evil drew me,
because I would not trample upon a more
than human virtue, because I could not
endure the sweetness of a little unconscious voice questioning me, because I
wished to keep myself from the worst of all
(do you understand?) I made my resolve.
And because I am in horror of beginning
over again, therefore I hate myself; because to-day I am like one who has taken
a narcotic in despair, and who wakes up
again, after a sound sleep, and finds the
same old despair by his bedside.
CosIMo DALBO. The same! And your
first words are still in my ears: "I know
nothing now, I don't remember, I don't
want to remember any more." You
seemed as if you had forgotten all, as if you
reached out after some new good thing.
The sound of your voice is still in my ears
as you called to Beata's mother, getting up
hurriedly, impatient, as if with an ardour
that permits no delay. I still see the way
you looked at her, when she entered, tremulous as hope. And, surely, that night you
must needs have knelt to her, and she
must have wept over you, and both together must have felt the goodness of life.
Lucio SETTALA. Yes, yes, it was indeed
so: adoration! All my soul was prostrate
at her feet, knowing all that is divine in
her, with an intoxication of humility, with
a fervour of unspeakable gratitude. I was
carried away. You spoke of the ecstasy




GIOCONDA


585


of light: I experienced it in that moment.
Every stain was wiped out, every shadow
cleared away. Life had a new splendour.
I thought I was saved for ever.
[He breaks off.]
COSIMO DALBO. But then?
Lucio SETTALA. Then I knew that
there was something else that must be
abolished in me: the force that flows incessantly to my fingers, as if to reproduce.
COsIMO DALBO. What do you mean?
Lucio SETTALA. I mean that I should
perhaps have been saved, if I had forgotten
art also. Those days, there in my bed, as I
looked at my feeble hands, it seemed to me
incredible that I should ever create again;
it seemed to me as if I had lost all my
power. I felt completely estranged from
the world of form in which I had lived...
before I died. I thought: "Lucio Settala,
the sculptor, is dead." And I dreamt of
becoming the gardener of a little garden.
[He sits down, as if quieted,, half closing his
eyes, with a weary air, a scarcely visible
smile of irony.] To prune roses, water
them, pick the caterpillars off them, clip
the box with shears, train the ivy up the
walls, in a little garden sloping to the waters of oblivion; and not regret that one
has left on the other shore a-glorious park,
populous with laurels, and cypresses, and
myrtles, and marbles, and dreams. You
see me there, happy, with shining shears,
dressed in twill.
COSIMO DALBO. I do not see you.
Lucio SETTALA. It is a pity, my friend.
COSIMO DALBO. But who forbids your
return to the great park? You can return
to it by the alley of cypresses, and find
your tutelar genius at the end of the way.
Lucio SETTALA. [Leaping to his feet, like
one who again loses self-control.] Tutelar!
Ah, you seem to heap one word on another,
like bandages on lint, for fear of feeling the
pulsation of life. Have you ever put your
finger on an open artery, a torn tendon?
COSIMO DALBO. Lucio, your anger
grows on you every minute. You have
something wry and acrid, a kind of exasperation which hinders you from being
just. You are not yet out of convalescence,
you are not yet well. A sudden shock has


come to disturb the placid work that nature was carrying out in you. Your newborn strength festers. If my advice were
worth anything, I would bid you go at once
to Bocca d' Arno, as you proposed. There,
between the woods and the sea, you will
find once more a little calm, and you will
think over what your attitude must be;
and you will find too the goodness that will
give you light.
Lucio SETTALA. Goodness! goodness!
Do you think then that light must come
from goodness and not from that profound
instinct which turns and hurries my spirit
towards the most glorious images of life? I
was born to make statues. When a material form has gone out of my hands with
the imprint of beauty, the office assigned to
me by nature is fulfilled. I have not exceeded my own law, whether or not I have
exceeded the laws of right. Is it not really
true? Do you admit it?
COSIMO DALBO. Proceed.
Lucio SETTALA. [Lowering his voice.]
The sport of illusion has mated me with a
creature who was never meant for me.
She is a soul of inestimable price, before
whom I kneel and worship. But I am not a
sculptor of souls. She was not meant for
me. When the other appeared before me, I
thought of all the blocks of marble hidden
in the caves of far mountains, that I might
arrest in each of them one of her motions.
COSIMO DALBO. But now you have
obeyed the commandment of Nature, in
creating your masterpiece. When I saw
your statue I thought that you were free
from her. You have perpetuated a frail
sample of the species in an ideal and indestructible type. Are you not therefore
satisfied?
Lucio SETTALA. [M'ore excitedly.] A
thousand statues, not cne! She is always
diverse, like a cloud that from instant to
instant seems changed without your seeing
it change. Every motion of her body destroys one harmony and creates another
yet more beautiful. You implore her to
stay, to remain motionless; and across all
her immobility there passes a torrent of
obscure forces, as thoughts pass in the eyes.
Do you understand? do you understand?




586


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


The life of the eyes is the look, that indefinable thing, more expressive than any
word, than any sound, infinitely deep and
yet instantaneous as a breath, swifter than
a flash, innumerable, omnipotent: in a
word, the look. Now imagine the life of
the look diffused over all her body. Do
you understand? The quiver of an eyelid
transfigures a human face and expresses
an immensity of joy or sorrow. The eyelashes of the creature whom you love are
lowered: the shadow encircles you as the
waters encircle an island: they are raised:
the flame of summer burns up the world.
Another quiver: your soul dissolves like a
drop of water; another: you are lord of the
universe. Imagine that mystery over all
her body! Imagine through all her limbs,
from the forehead to the sole of the foot,
that flash of lightning, like life! Can one
chisel the look? The ancients made their
statues blind. Now, imagine, her whole
body is like the look. [A pause. He looks
about him suspiciously, in fear of being
heard. He comes nearer to his friend, who
listens with increasing emotion.] I have
told you: a thousand statues, not one. Her
beauty lives in every block of marble. I
felt this, with an anxiety made up of regret
and fervour, one day at Carrara, when she
was with me, and we saw, coming down
the mountain-side, those great oxen with
yokes, drawing the marble in waggons. An
aspect of her perfection was enclosed for
me in each of those formless masses. It
seemed to me as if there went out from her
towards the raw material a thousand lifegiving sparks, as from a shaken torch. We
had to choose a block. I remember, it was
a calm day. The marble shone in the sun
like the eternal snows. We heard from
time to time the rumbling of the mines
that tore asunder the bowels of the silent
mountain. I shall never forget that hour,
though I were to die over again. She went
into the midst of that concourse of white
cubes, stopping before each. She leant
over, observed the grain attentively,
seemed to explore the inner veins, hesitated, smiled, passed on. To my eyes her
garments were no covering. There was a
sort of divine affinity between her flesh


and the marble that she leant over until
her breath touched it. A confused aspiration seemed to rise to her from that inert
whiteness. The wind, the sun, the grandeur of the mountains, the long lines of
yoked oxen, and the ancient curve of the
yokes, and the creaking of the waggons,
and the cloud that rose from the Tirreno,
and the lofty flight of an eagle, everything I saw exalted my spirit into a limitless poetry, intoxicated as with a dream that
I had never equalled. Ah, Cosimo, Cosimo,
I have dared to throw away a life on which
there gleams the glory of such a memory.
When she laid her hand on the marble that
she had chosen, and turning to me said
"This," all the mountains, from root to
summit, breathed beauty. [An extraordinary fervour warms his voice and quickens
his gestures. The listener is carried away by
it, and makes no sign.] Ah, now you understand! You will never ask me again if I
am satisfied. Now you know how furious
must be my impatience when I think that
she is there now, alone, at the foot of the
Sphinx, awaiting me. Think, the statue
rises above her, immobile, immutable, in
its immunity from all sorrow; and she is
there, grieving, and her life is ebbing away,
and something of her perishes continually.
Delay is death. But you do not know, you
do not know...
[He speaks as if about to confide a
secret.]
COSIMO DALBO. What?
Lucio SETTALA. YOU do not know that
I had begun another statue?
COSIMO DALBO. Another?
Lucio SETTALA. Yes, it was left unfinished, sketched out in the clay. If the clay
dries, all is lost.
COSIMO DALBO. Well?
LucIO SETTALA. I thought it was lost.
[An irresistible smile shines in his eyes. His
voice trembles.] It is not lost; it still lives.
The last touch of the thumb is there, still
living.
[He makes the gesture of moulding
instinctively.]
COSIMO DALBO. How?
Lucio SETTALA. She knows the ways of
the art, she knows how the clay is kept




GIOCONDA


587


soft. Once she used to help me. She herself damped the cloths.
COSIMO DALBO. SO she thought of keeping the clay moist while you were dying!
Lucio SETTALA. Was not that too a way
of opposing death? Was not that too an
act of faith, admirable? She preserved my
work.
COSIMO DALBO. While the other preserved your life.
Lucio SETTALA. [Gloomily, lowering his
forehead, without looking at his friend, in an
almost hard voice.] Which of the two is
worth more? Life is intolerable to me, if
it was only given back with such a dragging weight on it..1 have told you: you
should have let me die. What greater renunciation can I make than that I have
made? Only death could stay the rush of
desire that drives my whole being, fatally,
towards its own particular good. Now I
live again: I recognise in myself the same
man, the same force. Who shall judge me
if I follow out my destiny?
COSIMO DALBO. [Terrified, taking him
by the arm as if to restrain him.] But what
will you do? Have you made up your
mind?
[Struck by the sudden terror in the
voice and gesture of his friend,
Lucio hesitates.]
Lucio SETTALA. [Putting his hands
through his hair feverishly.] What shall I
do? What shall I do? Do you know a
more cruel torture? I am dizzy; do you
understand? If I think that she is there,
and waiting for me, and the hours are
passing, and my strength being lost, and
my ardour burning itself away, dizziness
clutches hold of my soul, and I am in fear
that I shall be drawn there, perhaps tonight, perhaps to-morrow. Do you know
what that dizziness is? Ah, if I could reopen the wound that they have closed for me!
COSIMO DALBO. [Trying to lead him towards the window.] Be calm, be calm, Lucio.
Hush! I think I hear the voice...
LucIo SETTALA. [Starting.] Silvia's?
[He turns deathly pale.]
COSIMO DALBO. Yes. Be calm. You
are in a fever.
[He touches his forehead. Lucio


leans on the window-sill, as if all
his strength is leaving him.]
[SILVIA SETTALA enters with FRANCESCA
DONI. The latter has her arm round her
sister's waist.]
SILVIA SETTALA. Oh, Dalbo, are you
still here?
[She does not see LucIo's face,
which he has turned to the open
air.]
COSIMO DALBO. [Composing his countenance, and greeting FRLANCESCA.] Lucio
kept me.
SILVIA SETTALA. Had he a great deal to
tell you?
COSIMO DALBO. He always has a great
deal to tell me, sometimes too much. And
he is tired.
SILVIA SETTALA. Did he tell you that
we are going to Bocca d' Arno on Saturday?
COSIMO DALBO. Yes. I know.
FRANCESCA DONI. Have you ever been
to Bocca d'Arno?
COSIMO DALBO. No, never. I know the
country about Pisa: San Rossore, Gombo,
San Pietro in Grado; but I never went as
far as the mouth of the river. I know that
the coast is most lovely.
[SILVIA gazes fixedly at her husband, who remains leaning motionless against the window-sill.]
FRANCESCA DONI. Delicious at this
time of the year: a low, open coast, with
fine sand: sea, river, and woods: the scent
of resin and sea-grass: sea-gulls, nightingales. You ought to come often and see
Lucio while he is there.
COSIMO DALBO. With pleasure.
SILVIA SETTALA. We can put you up.
[She leaves her sister and goes towards her husband, with her
light step.]
FRANCESCA DONI. Our mother has a
simple house there, but it is large, white
inside and outside, in a thicket of oleanders
and tamarinds, and there is an Empire
spinet, which used to belong - fancy to
whom?-to a sister of Napoleon, the
Duchess of Lucca, the terrible, bony Elisa
Baciocchi: a spinet that sometimes wakes
and weeps under Silvia's fingers; and there




588


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


is a boat, if the Napoleonic relic does n't,
tempt you, a lovely boat, as white as the
house.
[SILvIA leans in silence against
LuCIo's shoulder, as if expectant. He remains absorbed.]
COSIMO DALBO. To live in a boat, on
the water, aimlessly, there is nothing so
refreshing. I have lived like that for
weeks and weeks.
FRANCESCA DONI. We ought to put our
convalescent in a boat, and confide him to
the good sea.
SILVIA SETTALA. [Touching her husband
lightly on the shoulder.] Lucio! [He starts
and turns.] What are you doing? We are
here. Here is Francesca.
[He looks his wife in the face, hesitatingly; then tries to smile.]
Lucio SETTALA. There is a shower coming. I was looking for the first drops: the
odour of the earth....
[He turns again towards the window, and holds out his open
hands; they tremble visibly.]
FRANCESCA DONI. April either weeps or
laughs.
Lucio SETTALA. Oh, Francesca, how are
you?
FRANCESCA DONI. Quite well. And you,
Lucio?
Lucio SETTALA. Quite well, quite well.
FRANCESCA DONI. Are you going away
on Saturday?
Lucio SETTALA. [Looking at his wife, in
a dreamy way.] Where?
FRANCESCA DONI. Why, to Bocca
d' Arno.
Lucio SETTALA. Ah, yes, true. My
memory is quite gone.
SILVIA SETTALA. DO yOU not feel well
to-day?
Lucio SETTALA. Yes, yes, quite well.
The weather upsets me a little; but I feel
well, pretty well. [In the tone with which he
pronounces these simple words there is an
excess of dissimulation, which gives him the
strangeness of a madman. It is evident that
the attention of the three bystanders is intolerable to him.] Are you going, Cosimo?
COSIMO DALBO. Yes, I am going. It is
time.                [He prepares to go.]


Lucio SETTALA. I will go with you as
far as the garden-gate.
[He leaves the window and goes towards the door, anxiously.]
SILVIA SETTALA. Are you going without
your hat?
Lucio SETTALA. Yes, I am hot. Don't
you feel how heavy the air is?
[He pauses on the threshold, waiting
for his friend. A sharp pain
suddenly goes through all hearts,
striking every one silent.]
COSIMO DALBO. Au revoir.
[He bows in a constrained way, and
goes out with Lucio. SILVIA
bends her head, knitting her
brows, as if she is thinking out
some resolution. Then it seems
as if she is lifted on a sudden
wave of energy.]
FRANCESCA DONI. Have you seen
Gaddi?
SILVIA SETTALA. Not yet. He has not
come to-day.
FRANCESCA DONI. Then you don't
know.
SILVIA SETTALA. What?
FRANCESCA DONI. What he has done?
SILVIA SETTALA. NO.
FRANCESCA DONI. He went to see
Dianti.
SILVIA SETTALA. [With restrained emotion.] To see her! When?
FRANCESCA DONI. Yesterday.
SILVIA SETTALA. And you have seen
him?
FRANCESCA DONI. Yes, I met him. He
told me...
SILVIA SETTALA. Speak, speak!
FRANCESCA DONI. He went to see her
yesterday, about three. He sent in his
name. He was admitted at once. She received him smilingly, bowed, never said a
word, stood before him, waiting for the old
man to speak, listened to him quietly and
respectfully. You can imagine what he
might have said to persuade her to give
back the key, to give up any further attempts, and not trouble a peace bought
back at the price of blood, and what sorrow! When he had finished she merely
asked: "Did Lucio Settala send you to




GIOCONDA


589


me?" On his reply in the negative, she
added very firmly: "Pardon me, but I
cannot admit that any one but he has the
right of asking what you have asked."
SILVIA SETTALA. [Turning pale and
drawing herself up as if for a contest.] Ah,
that is her last word. Well, there is
some one else who has an equal right and
who will insist on her right. We shall
see.
FRANCESCA DONI. [Startled.] What are
you thinking of doing, Silvia?
SILVIA SETTALA. What is necessary.
FRANCESCA DONI. What then?
SILVIA SETTALA. Seeing her, facing her,
in the place where she is an intruder. Do
you understand?
FRANCESCA DONI. You would go there?
SILVIA SETTALA. Yes, I am going there.
I know her time. You yourself know it.
I will wait for her. She shall see. We shall
meet face to face at last.
FRANCESCA DONI. You will not do it.
SILVIA SETTALA. Why not? Do you
think I have not the courage?
FRANCESCA DONI. I entreat you, Silvia!
SILVIA SETTALA. Do you think I
tremble?
FRANCESCA DONI. I entreat you!
SILVIA SETTALA. Oh, be sure, I shall not
lower my eyes, I shall not faint. You ought
to know me by now; I have gone through
more than one ordeal.
FRANCESCA DONI. I know, I know.
Nothing is too much for you. But think:
to go there, after all that, in the very place
where the horrible thing happened, there,
alone, face to face with that woman, who
has done you so much injury.
SILVIA SETTALA. Well? What of that?
Have I once - once, Francesca! - failed
to accomplish what seemed to me necessary? Tell me, have you ever known me
refuse a burden? From what torture have
I drawn back? I have faced many other
sorrows, as you know. You are afraid that
my heart will fail me if I set foot where he
fell? But I had the courage then to look at
him through the crack of the door, when
he lay on his bed of death, and there was
no one by me to support me; and, before
I was allowed to go to his bedside, the


surgeon's steel and the blood-stained lint
passed through my hands.
FRANCESCA DONI. Yes, yes, true: your
strength is great. Nothing is too much for
you. But think; this is not the same thing.
It is not the same thing to go there, and to
find yourself face to face with a woman
whom you do not know, capable of anything, obstinate, impudent.
SILVIA SETTALA. I have no fear of her.
What she does is base. Because she thinks
me weak and submissive, therefore she is
bold; because I have so long remained
silent and aloof, therefore she thinks she
can once more get the better of me. But
she is wrong. Then all I cared for was lost,
all resistance was useless. Now I have won
it back, and I defend it.
FRANCESCA DONI. My God! you are
throwing yourself into a hand to hand
contest. And if she resists?
SILVIA SETTALA. How resists? I have
my right. I can turn her out.
FRANCESCA DONI. Silvia, Silvia, my
sister, I entreat you; wait a few days longer,
think it over a little before you do this. Do
not be rash.
SILVIA SETTALA. Ah, you speak well,
you who are happy, you who are safe, you
whose life is secure and with nothing to
threaten your peace. Wait, think over!
But do you know the crisis in which I find
myself to-day? Do you know what I am
fighting for?  For my own self and for
Beata, for existence, for the light of my
eyes. Do you see? I cannot again go
through a martyrdom in which all my
nerves were torn to pieces; in which
every torture was tried on me. I have
given sorrow all I can give it; I have felt
the hard iron on my neck and on my wrists;
at the day's end my sleep was taken away
by the horror of the day to come, in which
I should have to go on living, and, in order
to live, squeeze out my heart drop by drop
when it seemed empty of everything. Ah,
you speak well, you! When you smile in
your home your smile returns to you in a
hundred rays, as if you lived in a crystal.
For me, smiling was one sorrow the more;
under it, I clenched my teeth; but Beata
never saw a tear in my eyes. That I might




59~


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


fulfil the promise of her name, when there
was not a fibre in me that was not wrenched
asunder, my hands were always held out
to her with flowers. I could not begin over
again. I would rather go away myself,
and find a little quiet seashore somewhere,
and lie down there with Beata and let the
sea take us.
FRANCESCA DONI. [Throwing her arms
around her sister's neck, and kissing her.]
What are you saying? what are you saying? You ought to be afraid of nothing
any longer. Does he not love you? Have
you not seen all his love come back? That
is what matters; all the rest is nothing.
[SILVIA closes her eyes for a few
instants, and the illusion brightens her face.]
SILVIA SETTALA. Yes, yes, I have seen
his love come back. It seems...How
could I doubt that voice? When I am not
there, he calls me, he looks for me; he
needs me; it seems as if I am to lead his
steps. [She shakes herself, withdraws from
her sister's arms, and becomes anxious again.]
Butto-day.... Did you see him? Did you
look at him? To-day he is not like he was
yesterday. A sudden change.... Did you
look at him when he was at the window,
leaning out? Did you hear the sound of
his words? Did you see how his arm
trembled when he stretched it out? Ah,
tell me if you too felt that something had
happened, that something had disturbed
him.
FRANCESCA DONI. He is still convalescent. Think; a mere nothing is enough to
disturb him, the air, the weather...
SILVIA SETTALA. NO, no, it is not that.
And did you not see? Cosimo Dalbo too
seemed to be making an effort to hide
some shadow. My eyes never deceive
me.
FRANCESCA DONI. No, it did not strike
me. He was talking with me.
SILVIA SETTALA. [With increasing agitation.] But Lucio went down to see him
out, and he has not yet come back. Or
perhaps he went across to the other side.
[Goes to the window, and looks through the
curtains.] Ah, he is still there, at the gate,
talking, talking. He seems beside himself.


[Lifts her eyes to the clouds.] The thunder
is coming. [Looks out again, very intently.]
FRANCESCA DONI. Call him!
SILVIA SETTALA. [Turning, as if seized
by a terrible thought.] I am sure of it, I am
sure of it.
FRANCESCA DONI. What are you thinking of now?
SILVIA SETTALA. [Pausing, and pronouncing the words distinctly, pale but resolute.] Lucio knows that she is waiting for
him.
FRANCESCA DONI. He knows? How?
SILVIA SETTALA. There is no doubt,
there is no doubt.
FRANCESCA DONI. You imagine it.
SILVIA SETTALA. I feel it; I am sure of it.
FRANCESCA DONI. But how?
SILVIA SETTALA. It was bound to come;
she was bound to find out the way one day
or another. How? A letter, perhaps. He
has received a letter.
FRANCESCA DONI. And you were not on
the watch?
SILVIA SETTALA. [Disdainfully.] Even
that?
FRANCESCA DONI. But perhaps you are
mistaken.
SILVIA SETTALA. I am not mistaken.
After the old man's visit, she wrote. Delay
is no longer possible now, not a day, not an
hour. You see the danger. Though he
may have come back to me with all his
soul, though he may have broken with her
entirely, though he may have gone back to
another life, another happiness, do you
not feel what might still be the fascination
for him of a woman who says, obstinate
and certain: "I am here, I wait"? To
know that she is there, that she is waiting
there every day, that nothing can dishearten her. Do you see the danger? If
Lucio knew this morning that she is waiting for him, he must know to-night, and
from my lips, that she waits for him no
longer. [An indomitable energy strengthens
and lifts her whole being.] He shall know it
to-night; I promise him. [She stretches out
her hand towards the window, with the gesture of one taking an oath.] Will you come
with me?
FRANCESCA DONI. [Anxious and en



GIOCONDA


591


I


treating.]  Silvia, Silvia, think for one
moment! Think what you are doing!
SILVIA SETTALA. I do not ask your aid.
I only ask you to come with me as far as
the door. For the rest, I alone suffice; it is
necessary that I should be alone. Will you?
What time is it?
[Turns to look at the time; goes
towards the table.]
FRANCESCA DONI. [Stopping her.] I entreat of you! Listen to me, Silvia! My
heart tells me that no good can come of
what you are wanting to do. Listen to
your sister! I entreat of you.
SILVIA SETTALA. [With a gesture of impatience.] Don't you know the game I am
playing? Let me be. I am going alone.
[Bends over the table, and looks at the time.]
Four o'clock. I have not a moment to lose.
Is your carriage there?
[The rain falls suddenly on the
trees in the garden.]
FRANCESCA DONI. See how it is pouring!
Don't go out! Put it off till to-morrow.
Come, listen. [Tries to draw her towards
her.] Wait at least till it stops raining.
SILVIA SETTALA. I have not a minute to
lose. I must be there before her; she must
find me there as if in my own house. Do
you understand? Let me go. Quick, my
hat, my cloak, my gloves. Giovanna!
[She goes into the next room calling
to her maid. FRANCESCA DONI,
terrified, goes towards the window, on which the rain is beating.]
FRANCESCA DONI. My God! my God!
[Looks into the garden; calls: Lucio! Lucio!
[Turns towards the door through
which her sister has gone out.]
SILVIA SETTALA. [Coming back, out of
breath.] I am ready. I left Beata there in
tears. She wanted to go out with me.
Stay, please; go and comfort her. I will go
alone. I shall take your carriage. Au revoir.          [Is about to kiss her sister.]
FRANCESCA DONI. You are going, then?
You have decided?
SILVIA SETTALA. I am going.
FRANCESCA DONI. I will go with you.
SILVIA SETTALA. Let us go. [Involuntarily she turns and looks around the room, as




if to embrace everything that is in it in one
look. The curtains tremble, the rain increases. She breathes in the damp fragrance
that enters at the window. For one instant
the strung bow of her will slackens. The
odour of the earth...
[She shivers, as she suddenly
catches sight of LucIo, who appears on the threshold, feverishly,
with bare head, his hair and his
clothes wet with rain. They look
at one another. An interval of
weighty silence.]
Lucio SETTALA. [In a hoarse voice.]
You are going out?
SILVIA SETTALA. Yes, I am going out.
Lucio SETTALA. How      pale you are!
[SILVIA puts her hand to her throat.] Where
are you going? It is a deluge.
[He touches his dripping hair.]
SILVIA SETTALA. I have to go out. I
shall not be long. Beata is in there, crying
because she wants to co:me with me. Go
and comfort her, tell her that perhaps I
will bring her back something beautiful.
[LucIo suddenly takes her hands
and looks her fixedly in the eyes.]
SILVIA SETTALA. [Mistress of herself,
with a clear and firm accent.] What is it,
Lucio? [He casts down has eyes. She withdraws her hands, shaking his as if in a farewell greeting. The temper of her will rings
out in her vivid voice.] Au revoir! Come,
Francesca. It is time.
[She goes out rapidly, followed by
her sister. LucIo SETTALA remains with bowed head, staggering under a thought that transfixes him.]
THE THIRD ACT
A high and spacious room, lighted by a
glass roof, covered with dark awnings. In the
wall at the back there is a rectangular opening, somewhat larger than a door, leading
into the sculptor's studio. On the architrave
are some fragments of the frieze of the Parthenon; against the two sides are two large
winged figures, "clothed with the wind," the
Nike of Samothrace and the other Nike sculptured by Pceonius for the DoriZ temple of




592


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


Olympia consecrated to Zeus; the opening is
covered by a red curtain.
In the left wall there is a door, hidden by a
rich and heavy portiere; in the left, a little
door is hidden by curtains. Wide divans,
covered with cloths and cushions, surround
the room. The figures are arranged carefully,
as if to induce meditation and reverie: a
bunch of corn in a copper vase stands before
the Eleusinian bas-relief of Demeter; a little
bronze Pegasus on a pedestal of "verde antico" stands before the Ludovisi Medusa.
The sentiment expressed by the aspect of
the place is very different from that which
softens the aspect of the room in the other
house, over against the mystic hill. Here the
choice and analogy of every form reveals an
aspiration! towards a carnal, victorious, and
creative life. The two divine messengers
seem to stir and widen the close atmosphere
incessantly with the rush of their immense
flight.
[SILVIA SETTALA stands in the middle of the
room, having laid down her hat, cloak,
and gloves. She seems trying to remember the things about her, almost to renew
her acquaintance with them, to re-establish a communion with them, not to feel
estranged from them. She represses her
anguish under her sister's eyes. FRANCESCA DONI is seated, because her knees
tremble and her heart beats too loud.]
SILVIA SETTALA. [Looking about her.]
It is strange; it seems larger.
FRANCESCA DONI. What?
SILVIA SETTALA. The room. It does n't
sem the same.
[She looks about her, as if breathing
an unfamiliar air. An interval
of silence.]
FRANCESCA DONI. [Listening.] Did you
shut the door?
SILVIA SETTALA. Yes, I shut it.
FRANCESCA DONI. We shall hear her
open it.
SILVIA SETTALA. Are you afraid? It is
not time yet. In a minute you must go.
FRANCESCA DONI. Where?
SILVIA SETTALA. Will you wait for me
in the carriage, in the street?
FRANCESCA DONI. No, it is impossible.


I want to be here, to be near you. Could I
not hide myself?
SILVIA SETTALA. Hide yourself, here?
No. I must be alone.
FRANCESCA DONI. Have pity on me! I
shall die of suspense.
SILVIA SETTALA. Wait. There ought to
be a secret door here. [Guided by memory,
she goes towards the wall where there is the
hidden door; looks, finds it, opens it. A
wave of light falls over her.] Do you see! It
goes from here into the model's room, then
into a corridor. At the end of the corridor
there is a door, which leads to the Mugnone. Will you go out that way?
FRANCESCA DONI. Yes, but let me stay
in the room or the corridor and wait. I
will wait till you call.
SILVIA SETTALA. You promise to wait
till I call?
FRANCESCA DONI. Yes, I promise.
SILVIA SETTALA. DO not fear. See,
there is the sun on the window.
[Both look out through the half open
door. The inner light shines on
their faces. A luminous streak
extends over the floor.]
FRANCESCA DONI. It is not raining now.
Look at all the primroses on the roadside.
SILVIA SETTALA. Go and wait on the
roadside, in the open air. Go.
FRANCESCA DONI. There is an old sick
horse, with his legs in the water. Do you
see? And the swallows skim across it. I
think...
[She starts and turns suddenly,
gazing at the motionless folds of
the portiere.]
SILVIA SETTALA. What is it?
FRANCESCA DONI. I thought I heard...
[Both listen.]
SILVIA SETTALA. No, you are mistaken.
It is still'early. And then the door on the
stairs makes a great noise when it closes.
Did you not hear it when we came in?
The walls tremble.
FRANCESCA DONI. [Imploringly.] Silvia!
SILVIA SETTALA. What is it now?
FRANCESCA DONI. Listen. There is still
time. Come away, come away at least for
to-day! Try, at least. She will know you




GIOCONDA


593




have been here. We will speak to the caretaker again. You ought to leave some sign
here, forget a glove, for instance. She will
understand, she will not return.
SILVIA SETTALA. A glove enough? Ah,
how easy everything is for your heart!
[She looks round her again, with a secret despair.] There is nothing left of me, here.
[The sister remains by the half-open door, her
figure partially lit up by the vivid reflection. Silvia moves some paces into the room.
An interval of silence.] Everything seems
larger, higher, darker.
FRANCESCA DONI. It is the shadow that
deceives you. There is not much light.
Draw back the awning over the skylight.
SILVIA SETTALA. No, it is better like
this. [She looks in every corner, as if seeking a trace.] Tell me... [Her voice chokes
with emotion.] That night they came for
you, and you hurried here. You were
here at the very beginning.. [Hesitates.]
Where was he? Do you remember exactly
where?
FRANCESCA DONI. There, in the studio,
under the statue. No, do not go!
[SILVIA turns towards the red curtain that hangs between the two
Victories. At her feet, like a dividing line, stretches the thin
zone of the sun.]
SILVIA SETTALA. [In a low voice.] The
statue is there.
FRANCESCA DONI. Do not go! [SILVIA
remains for some instants motionless and
silent before the closed curtain, from which
she is separated by the shining zone.] Do not
go! [SILvIA steps across the sunlight, almost
violently, as if to overcome an obstacle; with a
rapid movement she raises the curtain, slips
between the folds, and disappears. The curtain falls behind her, heavy and thick. There
are a few instants of silence, in which nothing
is heard but the rapid breathing of the sister.
Suddenly, within the purple depths, appears
the white face of Silvia, which seems irradiated with the light of the masterpiece. Her
bare hands, as they put aside the curtains,
seem to shine against the depths of colour.
Her eyes are intent, widened by wonder, dazzled, not by a vision of death, but by an image
of perfect life. The water gathers tremu



lously in her eyes. Two marvellous tears
form little by little, shine, and slowly run
down her cheeks. Before they reach her
mouth she stops them with her fingers, diffuses
them over her face, as if to bathe in lustral
dew; for it is not by the remembrance or the
trace of human bloodshed that she is moved,
but by the sight of a thing of beauty, solitary
and free. She has received the supreme gift of
beauty: a truce to anguish, a pause to fear.
The sublime lightning-flash of joy has shone
through her wounded soul for an instant,
rendering it crystalline as tears. These tears
are but the soul's mute and ardent offering
before a masterpiece.] Silvia, Silvia, you are
weeping.
SILVIA SETTALA. [In a subdued voice,
with a gesture of silence.] Hush! [She moves
away from the curtain, asking in a subdued
voice:] Have you seen? have you seen?
FRANCESCA    DONI.   [Misunderstanding,
with a start.] Who? Her? Is she there?
SILVIA SETTALA. No, the statue. [The
sister nods her head, with a gesture expressing
rapt admiration. The sound of a heavy door
closing is heard. Both start.] She is here.
Go, go.
FRANCESCA DONI. [Holding out her arms
towards her with a last agonised entreaty.]
Oh, my sister!
SILVIA SETTALA. [Recovering her former
energy.] Go! Do not fear.
[She pushes her sister out through
the door, and closes it. The zone
of sun disappears; the room returns to an even shadow.]
[SILVIA SETTALA is standing with her face
turned towards the door, her eyes fixed,
almost rigid in expectation. Through
the profound silence is heard distinctly
the turning of the key in the lock. SILVIA'S attitude does not change. A hand
lifts the portiere. (IOCONDA DIANTI
enters, closing the door behind her. At
first she does not perceive the adversary,
since she comes from the light into the
shadow and a thick veil covers her whole
face. When she perceives her, she stops,
with a choked cry. Both remain for
some instants facing one another without
speaking.]




594


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


SILVIA SETTALA. [With a firm and clear
accent, but without resentment or menace.]
I am Silvia Settala. [Her rival is silent, still
veiled. A pause.] And you?
GIOCONDA DIANTI. [In a low voice.] Do
you not know, Signora?
SILVIA SETTALA. [Stilt restraining herself.] I know only that you have entered
here, as into a place that belongs to you.
You find me here, as in my own house.
One of us two, therefore, usurps the right
of the other; one of us two is the intruder.
Which? [A pause.] I perhaps?
GIOCONDA DIANTI. [Always hidden under the veil, and in a low voice, as if to lessen
her audacity.] Perhaps.
[SILVIA SETTALA turns paler and
staggers a little, as if she had received a blow.]
SILVIA SETTALA. [Resolutely, quivering
with disdain.] Well, there is a woman who
has drawn a man into her net with the
worst allurements; who has torn him away
from the peace of home, the nobility of art,
the beauty of a dream which he had nourished for years with the flowers of his force;
who has dragged him into a turbid and
violent delirium, where he has lost all
sense of goodness and justice; who has inflicted on him the sharpest torments that
the cruelty of a torturer sick with ennui
could desire; who has exhausted and withered him up, keeping a perverse fever continually alight in his veins; who has rendered life intolerable to him; who has
armed his hand and turned it against his
own life; who in short, has known that he
was lying wounded to death on a far-off
bed, for days and days, while a ceaseless
fight went on about him against death; and
who has not had remorse, nor pity, nor
shame, but has gone back to the sinister
place before the blood was wiped off the
floor, meditating another attack upon her
prey, awaiting him again at the journey's
end, calculating one by one the effects of
her temerity and of her tenacity, promising
herself the pleasure of another ruin. There
is a woman who has done this, who has
said: "A strong and noble life flourished
freely in the world; I have seized it, bent it
back, beaten it down, then shattered it at a


blow. I thought I had destroyed it for
ever. And lo! it flourishes again, is renewed, re-arises, can put forth fresh flowers! About it the wounds close, the pains
are calmed, hope springs up again, joy can
smile! Shall I endure this wrong? Shall
I let myself be thus deluded? No, I will
begin again, I will hold on, I will overcome all resistance, I will be implacable."
There is a woman who has promised this
to herself, who has gripped her will like an
axe, who is prepared to deliver fresh blows
smiling. Do you know her? She has entered here with her face covered, she has
spoken in a dull voice, she has let fall a
cold word, calculating always on her own
audacity and on the other's submissiveness. Do you know her?
GIOCONDA DIANTI. [Without changing
her manner.] She whom I know is different. Only because she is sad in your presence, does she speak in a low voice. She
respects the great and sorrowful love that
has given you life; she admires the virtue
that exalts you. While you were speaking,
she understood that it was only in order to
comfort an unutterable despair that your
words had created a figure so different
from the real person. There is nothing implacable in her; but she herself obeys a
power that may be implacable.
SILVIA SETTALA. [Bitter and haughty.]
I know that you are practised in all tongues.
GIOCONDA DIANTI. Of what avail is this
harshness? Your first words had another
sound; and it seemed, when you asked me a
question, that you wanted simply to know
the truth.
SILVIA SETTALA. And what then is your
truth?
GIOCONDA DIANTI. The truth that matters, between us, is one only: truth of love.
You know it. But I fear to wound.
SILVIA SETTALA. Do not fear to wound.
GIOCONDA DIANTI. The woman against
whom you made such accusations was
ardently loved, and -suffer me to say
it!- with a glorious love. She did not
abase but exalt a strong life. And since the
last voice that she heard, a few hours before the terrible deed was accomplished,
the last was of love, she believes that she is




GIOCONDA


595


still loved. And this is the truth that matters.
SILVIA SETTALA. [Blindly.] She is wrong,
she is wrong... You are wrong! He loves
you no longer, he loves you no longer;
perhaps he has never loved you. His was
not love but a poisoning, but sharp slavery,
madness, and thirst. When he suffered
on his pillow, remembrance passed through
his eyes from time to time like a flash of
terror. Weeping at my feet, he has blessed
the blood that was poured out for his ransom. He does not love you, he does not
love you!
GIOCONDA DIANTI. Your love cries out
like a drowning man.
SILVIA SETTALA. He does not love you!
You have been a gad-fly to him, you have
made him frantic, you have driven him to
his death.
GIOCONDA DIANTI. Not I, not I, have
driven him to his death, but you yourself.
Yes, he wished to die, that he might cast
off a fetter, but not that which bound him
to me: another, yours, that which was set
upon him by your virtue or your rule, and
which made him suffer intolerably.
SILVIA SETTALA. Ah, there is nothing
that you dare not travesty! From him,
from his own mouth, in an hour when his
whole soul had risen up into the light, from
him I heard it: "If violence is enough to
break a yoke, let it be blessed!" From him
I heard it, when all his soul opened again
to the truth.
GIOCONDA DIANTI. But here, a few
hours before he gave way to the horrible
thought, here (all these things are witnesses to it) he said to me the most ardent
and the sweetest words of all his love; here
he once more called me life of his life, here
he told me once more his dream of forgetfulness, of liberty, of art, of joy. And here
he told me of the insupportableness of his
yoke, the inevitable weight of goodness,
more cruel than any other, and the horror
of daily suffering, the repugnance at returning to the house of silence and tears,
the repugnance at length become unconquerable.
SILVIA SETTALA. No, no. You lie.
GIOCONDA DIANTI. To escape that an

guish, one evening when all seemed to him
sadder and more silent than ever, he
sought death.
SILVIA SETTALA. You lie, you lie! I was
far away.
GIOCONDA DIANTI. And you accuse me
of having inflicted an infamous torment
upon him, of having been his torturer!
Ah, your hands, above all, your hands of
goodness and pardon, prepared for him
every night a bed of thorn, on which he
could not lie down. But, when he entered
here where I awaited him as one awaits the
creating God, he was transformed. Before
his work he recovered strength, joy, faith.
Yes, a continual fever burned in his blood,
kept alight by me (and this is all my pride);
but the fire of that fever has fashioned a
masterpiece.
[Points towards her statue, hidden
by the curtain.]
SILVIA SETTALA. It is not the first; it
will not be the last.
GIOCONDA DIANTI. Truly, it will not be
the last; because another is ready to leap
forth from its covering of clay, another has
palpitated already under the life-giving
thumb, another is half-alive, and waits
from moment to moment for the miracle of
art to draw it wholly forth to the light.
Ah, you cannot understand this impatience
of matter to which the gift of perfect life
has been promised! [SILVIA SETTALA turns
towards the curtain, takes a few  steps,
slowly, as if involuntarily, as if in obedience
to a mysterious attraction.] It is there; the
clay is there. That first breath that he infused into it, I have kept alive from day to
day, as one waters the furrow where the
seed lies deep. I have not let it perish.
The impress is there, intact. The last
touch, which his feverish hand set upon it
at the last hour, is visible there, energetic
and fresh as yesterday, so powerful that
my hope in the midst of all the agony of
sorrow is set there with a seal of life, and
takes strength from it. [SILVIA SETTALA
pauses in front of the curtain, as before, and
remains motionless and silent.] Yes, it is
true, you watched by the bedside of the
dying man, intent upon a ceaseless strife to
win him back from death; and for this be




CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


envied, and for this be praised to all eternity. You had strife, agitation, effort: you
had to accomplish a thing which seemed
superhuman, and which intoxicated you.
I, shut out, far off, in solitude, could only
gather and bind up, knitting my will together, my sorrow in a vow. My faith was
equal to yours; truly, it was leagued with
yours against death. The last creative
spark of his genius, of the divine fire that is
in him, I have not let it go out, I have kept
it alive, with a religious and uninterrupted
vigilance. Ah, who can say to what height
the preserving force of such a vow may
attain? [SILVIA SETTALA is about to turn
violently, as if to reply, but restrains herself.]
I know, I know: it is simple and easy
enough, what I have done; I know: it is no
heroic effort, it is the humble duty of a
menial. But it is not the act that matters.
What matters is the spirit in which the act
is accomplished; the fervour of it is all that
matters. Nothing is more sacred than the
work that begins to live. If the spirit in
which I have watched over it can reveal
itself to your soul, go and see! That the
work may go on living, my visible presence
is needful. Realising this necessity, you
will understand how in replying "Perhaps" to a question, I wished to respect a
doubt which might be in you, but which
was not in me, which is not in me. You
cannot feel at home here as in your own
house. This is not a house. Household
affections have no place here; domestic
virtues have no sanctuary here. This is a
place outside laws and beyond common
rights. Here a sculptor makes his statues.
He is alone here with the instruments of his
art. Now I am nothing but an instrument
of his art. Nature has sent me to him to
bring him a message, and to serve him. I
obey; I await him to serve him still. If he
entered now, he could take up the interrupted work which had begun to live under
his fingers. Go and see!
[SILVIA SETTALA stands before the
curtain, without advancing. An
increasing shiver shakes her
whole body, betraying her inner
agitation; while the words of her
rival become more and more


sharp and stinging, definite, and
at last hostile. Suddenly she
turns, panting, impetuous, resolved upon the last defence.]
SILVIA SETTALA. No. It is useless.
Your words are too clever. You are practised in all tongues. You transform into an
act of love and faith what is only an act of
policy or of treachery. The work that was
interrupted should have perished. With
the same hand that had impressed the sign
of life upon the clay, with the same hand he
grasped the weapon and turned it against
his heart. He did not doubt that he had
set the deepest of gulfs between himself
and his work. Death has passed there, and
has severed every bond. What was interrupted should be lost. Now he is born
again, he is a new man, he aspires towards
other conquests. In his eyes there is a new
light; his strength is impatient to create
other forms. All that is behind him, all
that is on the other side of the shadow, has
no longer any power or value. What does
it matter to him that an old piece of clay
should fall into dust? He has forgotten it.
He will find fresher pieces, into which to
infuse the breath of his new birth, and to
model into the image of the idea that now
inflames him. Away with the old clay!
How could you profess to think that you | '
were necessary to his art?  Nothing is 
necessary to the man who creates. All
converges in him. You say that Nature
sent you to him to bear him a message.
Well, he has received it, he has understood
it, and he has responded to it with a sublime expression. What other could he derive from you? What other could you give
him? It is not given to man to attain
twice the same summit, to accomplish
twice the same prodigy. You are left there,
on the other side of the shadow, far off,
alone, on the old earth. He goes towards
the new earth now, where he shall receive
other messages. His strength seems virgin, and the beauty of the world is infinite.
GIOCONDA DIANTI. [Taken aback by the
unexpected vigour which repels her, becoming
more acrid, more haughty than ever, and
with an air of defiance.] I am living and am
here; and he has found in me more than




GIOCONDA


597


one aspect, and the words still intoxicate
me that he said when he spoke to me of
his vision, different every morning when I
come before him. Up to yesterday, certainly, he did not know that I was waiting
for him; and his unconsciousness has deceived you. But to-day he knows. Do you
understand? He knows that I am here,
that I await him. This morning a letter
told him, a letter which came into his
hands, which he has read. And I am certain - do you understand? - I am certain that he will come. Perhaps he is on
the way, perhaps he is near the door.
Shall we wait for him?
[An extraordinary change comes
over the face of SILVIA. It seems
as if something strange and horrible enters into her. She is like
one suddenly caught in the coils,
writhing in the fascination of
the serpent, blindly. The ancient fatality of deceit suddenly
assails the soul of the pure
woman, conquers and contaminates it. At the last words of the
enemy she breaks into an unexpected laugh, bitter, atrocious,
provocative, that renders her unrecognisable. GIOCONDA DIANTI
seems overcome by it.]
SILVIA SETTALA. Enough, enough. Too
many words. The game has lasted too
long. Ah. your certainty, your pride! But
how could you believe that I should have
come here to contest the way with you, to
forbid your entrance, to face your audacity, if I had not had a certainty far more
sound than yours to warrant me? I know
your letter of yesterday, it was shown to
me, I know not if with more astonishment
or disgust.
GIOCONDA DIANTI. [Overcome.] No, it is
not possible!
SILVIA SETTALA. Yes, it is so. As for the
answer, I bring it. Lucio Settala has lost
the memory of what has been, and asks to be
left in peace. He hopes that your pride will
prevent you from becoming importunate.
GIOCONDA DIANTI. [Beside herself.] He
sends you? he himself? It is his answer?
his?


SILVIA SETTALA. His, his. I would have
spared you this harshness if you had not
forced me. Will you go now?
GIOCONDA DIANTI. [Her voice hoarse
with rage and shame.] I am turned out?
[Fury suffocates her, and gives her a frantic
vigour. The vindictive and devastating wild
beast seems to awaken in her. Through her
flexible and powerful body passes the same
force which contracts the homicidal muscles
of feline animals in ambush. The veil, which
she has kept on her face like a dark mask,
renders more formidable the attitude of one
ready to do injury in any way and with any
weapon.] Turned out? [SILVIA SETTALA
stands convulsed and livid before the furious
woman, and it is not the spectacle of that fury
which terrifies her, but something which she
sees within herself, something horrible and
irreparable: her lie.] Ah, you have brought
him to this! How? how? Binding the soul
like the wound with cotton-wool? doctoring him with your soft hands? He is unmade, finished, a useless rag. I understand;
now I understand. Poor thing! poor thing!
Ah, why is he not dead, rather than the
survivor of his soul? He is finished, then, a
poor beggar whom you lead by the hand in
the empty streets. All is destroyed, all is
lost. He will never lift his head again, his
eye is darkened.
SILVIA SETTALA. [Interrupting her.] Be
silent, be silent! He is living and strong;
never had he such light in himself. God be
praised!
GIOCOINDA DIANTI. [Frantically.] It is
not true. I, I was his strength, his youth,
his light. Tell him! Tell him! He has become old; from to-day he is limp and soulless. I carry away with me (tell him!) all
that was most free, ardent, and proud in
him. The blood that he poured out there,
under my statue, was the last blood of his
youth. What you have re-infused into his
heart is without flame, is weak, is vile.
Tell him! I carry away with me to-day all
that was his power and his pride and his
joy and his all. He is finished. Tell him!
[Fury blinds and suffocates her. It is as if
she is invaded by a turbid destructive will, as
by a demon. All her being contracts in the
necessity of accomplishing an immediate act




598


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


of destruction. A sudden thought precipitates
that instinct towards an aim.] And that
statue which is mine, which belongs to me,
which he has made out of the life that I
have shed from me drop by drop, that
statue which is mine... [She rushes like a
wild beast towards the closed curtain, raises
it and passes through.]... well, I will shatter it, I will cast it down!
[SILVIA SETTALA utters a cry, and
rushes forward to prevent the
crime. Both disappear behind
the curtain. The rapid breathing
of a brief struggle is heard.]
SILVIA SETTALA. [Crying out.] No, no,
it is not true, it is not true! I lied!
[The despairing words are covered
by the sound of a mass that inclines and falls, the fracture of
the falling statue; then follows
another lacerating cry from Silvia, torn by agony from her very
vitals.]
[FRANCESCA DONI appears, mad with terror, running towards the cry, which she
recognises; while GIOCONDA DIANTI is
seen between the curtains, still veiled, in
the attitude of one who has committed a
murder and seeks to escape.]
FRANCESCA DONI. Assassin! Assassin!
[She stoops to succour her sister, while the other
rushes out.] Silvia, Silvia, my sister, my sister! What has she done to you, what has
she done to you? Ah, the hands, the hands.
[Her voice expresses the horror of
one who sees something frightful.]
SILVIA SETTALA. Take me away! Take
me away!
FRANCESCA DONI. My God, my God!
They were underneath! My God! They
are crushed! Water! water! There is none
here. Wait.
SILVIA SETTALA. Ah, what agony! I
cannot bear it: I am dying. Take me
away! [She appears between the red curtains, her face inexpressibly contracted by
agony, while her sister bends to support her
two hands wrapped in a piece of wet cloth,
taken from the clay, through which the blood
oozes.] What agony! I cannot bear it any
longer. [She is about to faint, when all at


once Lucio SETTALA rushes into the room
like a madman. She trembles, fixing on him
her great eyes full of tears, in which her despairing soul dies.] You, you, you!
FRANCESCA DONI. [Still supporting the
two poor crushed hands that drench the
cloth in which the incurable wreck is hidden.]
Support her, support her! She is falling.
[Lucio SETTALA supports the poor
bleeding creature, almost faint.ing, in his arms. But, before
losing consciousness, she turns
her glazing eyes towards the curtains as if to indicate the statue.]
SILVIA SETTALA. [In a dying voice.] It.. is safe.
THE FOURTH ACT
A ground floor room, white and simple,
with two side walls making an angle, almost
entirely open to the light, which comes through
a sort of large window, after the manner of a
tepidarium. The blinds are raised, and
through the window-panes can be seen oleanders, tamarinds, rushes, pines, golden
sands dotted with dead seaweed, the sea calm
and dotted with lateen sails, the peaceful
mouth of the Arno, beyond the river the wild
thickets of Gombo, the Cascine di San Rossore,
the far-off marble mountain of Carrara.
A door, leading to the interior, is on the
third side. By the side of the door, on a
bracket, is the Lady with the bunch of flowers,
the famous figure of Andrea del Verrocchio,
a new guest, come from the other house, like a
faithful companion, whose beautiful hands
are always flawless, as they make a graceful
gesture toward the heart. On the other side
is an old spinet, of the time of Elisa Baciocchi, Duchess of Lucca, with its case of dull
wood inlaid with bright wood, borne by little
gilded Cariatides in the Empire style, with
its four pedals united in the form of a small
harp.
It is an afternoon in September. The smile
of vanishing summer seems to lay an enchantment over everything. In the deserted
room the soul of music sleeping in the forgotten instrument makes itself felt, as if the
hidden strings were touched by the calm
rhythm of the neighbouring sea.




GIOCONDA


599


[SILVIA SETTALA appears on the threshold,
from the inner room; she pauses; takes
several steps towards the window; looks
into the distance, looks about her with
infinitely sad eyes. In her way of moving there is a sense of something wanting, calling up a vague image of clipped
wings, a vague sentiment of strength
humbled and shorn, of nobility brought
low, of broken harmony. She is dressed
in an ash-coloured gown, with a hem of
black, like a thread of mourning. Long
sleeves hide her arms without hands,
which she sometimes lets drop by her
side, and sometimes sets together, drawn
a little back, as if to hide them in the
folds, with a movement of shame and
sorrow.]
[From outside, between the thick oleanders,
appears a girlish figure, LA SIRENETTA, half fairy and half beggar girl,
peering in. She glides towards the window with a furtive step, holding up in
one hand a fold cf her apron filled with
seaweed, shells, and star-fish.]
SILVIA SETTALA. [Catching sight of her,
and going towards her with a smile.] Oh, la
Sirenetta! Come, come.
LA SIRENETTA. [Coming forward to the
window.] Do you remember me? [She remains outside so that her face is seen through
the shimmer of the glass, which seems to continue about her the incessant, tremulous radiance of the sea. She is young, slender, graceful; her yellow hair is in disorder, her face the
colour of ruddy gold, her teeth white as the
bones of the cuttle-fish, her eyes humid and
sea-green, her neck long and thin, with a
necklace of shells about it; in her whole person
something inexpressibly fresh and glancing,
which makes one think of a creature impregnated with sea-salt, dipped in the moving waters, coming out of the hiding-places of
the rocks. Her petticoat of striped white and
blue, torn and discoloured, falls only just
below the knees, leaving her legs bare; her
bluish apron drips and smells of the brine
like a filter; her bare feet, in contrast with the
brown colour that the sun has given her flesh,
are singularly pallid, like the roots of aquatic
plants. And her voice is limpid and childish;


and some of the words that she speaks seem to
light up her ingenuous face with a mysterious
happiness.] Do you remember me, pretty
lady?
SILVIA SETTALA. I remember you; I remember you.
LA SIRENETTA. Do you remember me?
Who am I?
SILVIA SETTALA. Are you not la Sirenetta?
LA SIRENETTA. Yes, you have remembered me. When did you come back?
SILVIA SETTALA. Not long ago.
LA SIRENETTA. You will stay?
SILVIA SETTALA. A long time longer.
LA SIRENETTA. Till the winter, perhaps.
SILVIA SETTALA. Perhaps.
LA SIRENETTA. And your little girl?
SILVIA SETTALA. I expect her to-day.
She is coming.
LA SIRENETTA. Beata! Is n't she called
Beata?
SILVIA SETTALA. Yes, Beata.
LA SIRENETTA. You, called her that,
Beata, not Beatrice. When she was here,
she asked me every day for star-fish, stars
of the sea. Did she tell you? She made me
sing. Did she tell you?
SILVIA SETTALA. Yes, she told me. She
remembers you. She likes you.
LA SIRENETTA. She likes me! I know.
She gave me some of her bread every
day.
SILVIA SETTALA. You shall have it
every day, if you like. Bread and food,
Sirenetta, morning and night, whenever
you like. Remember.
LA SIRENETTA. Morning and night I
will bring you a star-fish. Will you have
one? A pretty one, larger than a hand?
[SILVIA SETTALA, troubled, draws
back her arms with an instinctive
movement.]
SILVIA SETTALA. No, no, keep it for
Beata.
LA SIRENETTA. [Surprised.] Won't you
have it?
SILVIA SETTALA. Tell me instead what
you do with your life, tell me how you
spend the day. Is it true that you talk with
the sirens of the sea? Tell me all about it,
Sirenetta.




60o


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


LA SIRENETTA.   Seven  sisters were
we,
Our mirror the fountain-head,
All of us fair to see.
"Flower of the bulrush makes no bread,
Hedgerow mulberry makes no wine,
Blade of grass no linen fine,"
The mother to the sisters said;
All of us fair to see,
And our mirror the fountain-head.
The first was fain to spin,
And wished for spindles of gold;
The second to weave threads in,
And wished for shuttles of gold;
The third to sew at her leisure,
And wished for needles of gold;
The fourth to cook for her pleasure,
And wished for platters of gold;
The fifth to sleep beyond measure,
And wished for dreams of gold;
The sixth to sleep night away,
And wished for coverings of gold;
The last to sing all day,
To sing for evermore,
And wished for nothing more.
[She laughs with a quick glittering
laugh that seems to tinkle against
her shining teeth.]
Do you like this story?
SILVIA SETTALA. [Charmed by the grace of
the simple creature.] Is that all? Why don't
you go on?
LA SIRENETTA. If you sit here, I will
put you to sleep as I put your child to
sleep on the sands. Are you not sleepy
now? Sleep is good, in September.
September bears to the plain
The windy breath of the mountain rain,
And puts the summer to sleep again.
Amen.
SILVIA SETTALA. No. Go on with your
story, Sirenetta.
LA SIRENETTA. The olive darkens for
shedding,
Sorrow speeds the wedding,
Oil and tears wait for the treading.
SILvIA SETTALA. Go on with your story,
Sirenetta.
LA SIRENETTA. Where had we got?
SILVIA SETTALA. "And wished for
nothing more!"        [A pause.]
LA SIRENETTA. Ah, here it is:


"Flowers of the bulrush makes no
bread,
Hedgerow mulberry makes no wine,
Blade of grass no linen fine,"
The mother to the sisters said;
All of us fair to see,
And our mirror the fountain-head.
And so the first one spun
Her own heart's woe for the morrow;
And so the second wove,
And wove the cloth of sorrow;
And so the third one sewed
A poisoned shirt to wear;
And so the fourth one cooked
A dish of heart's despair;
And so the fifth one slept
Under the coverings of teath;
And so the sixth one dreamt
In the arms of death.
The mother wept full sore,
And sighed away her breath;
But the last, that only sang
To sing, to sing all day,
To sing for evermore,
Found her a happy fate.
[She lowers her voice and makes it
secret and remote.]
The sirens of the bay
Called her to be their mate.  [A pause.]
SILVIA SETTALA. Then it is true that
you talk with the sirens?
LA SIRENETTA. [Putting her forefinger to
her lips.] Must n't ask! 
SILVIA SETTALA. Is it true that no one
knows where you sleep at night?
LA SIRENETTA. [With the same gesture.]
Must n't ask!
SILVIA SETTALA. Shall I give you shelter,
here in the house?
LA SIRENETTA. [Looking intently in her
face, as if she had not heard the question.]
Your eyes are sad. I did not know what
troubled me when I looked at them. Now
I see: you have a great sorrow in your
eyes. Some one of yours is dead.
SILVIA SETTALA. You alone can comfort
me.
LA SIRENETTA. Who of yours is dead?
SILVIA SETTALA. Must n't ask!
LA SIRENETTA. Now I see you: you are
not the same. I was thinking of a swallow,
last September, who had lost his longest




GIOCONDA


6o0


feathers, and was nearly drowned in the
sea. What have they done to you? Something wicked has been done to you.
SILVIA SETTALA. Must n't ask!
[Instinctively she hides her arms
without hands in the folds of her
garment, with a sorrowful movement, which does not escape the
notice of the bewitching creature;
who suddenly, as if intentionally, drops the end of her apron,
so that her little sea treasure falls
and is scattered over the ground.]
LA SIRENETTA. [Stooping and choosing.]
Will you have a star-fish, a pretty one,
bigger than a hand? Look! [She shows the
mutilated woman a large sea-star with five
rays.] Take it! I give it to you. [The mutilated woman shakes her head in sign of refusal, pressing her lips together, as if to keep
down the knot that tightens in her throat.]
Can't you? Are your hands sick, tied up?
[The mutilated woman nods her head. LA
SIRENETTA'S voice becomes tremulous with
pity.] Did you fall into the fire? Were you
burnt? Do they still hurt? Or are they
getting better?
SILVIA SETTALA. [In a scarcely audible
voice.] I have n't any hands.
LA SIRENETTA. [Rising in affright.] You
have n't any! They have cut them off?
No hands? [The mutilated woman nods her
head, frightfully pale. The other shivers with
horror.] No, no, no! It is n't true. [She
keeps her eyes fixed on the folds of the garment in which the mutilated woman hides her
arms.] Tell me it is n't true.
SILVIA SETTALA. I have n't any hands.
LA SIRENETTA. Why? why?
SILVIA SETTALA. Must n't ask!
LA SIRENETTA. Ah, what a cruel thing!
SILVIA SETTALA. I gave them away.
LA SIRENETTA. You gave them away?
To whom?
SILVIA SETTALA. To my love.
LA SIRENETTA. Ah, what a cruel love!
How beautiful they were, how beautiful!
Do you think I don't remember? I have
kissed them; many many times. I have
kissed them with this mouth. They gave
me bread, a pomegranate, a cup of milk.
They were as beautiful as if the dawn had


made them with a breath, as white as the
flower of the foam, more delicate than the
embroidery that the wind makes on the
sand; they moved like the sun in the water,
they talked better than the tongue or the
eyes, they said kind words, what they gave
turned to gold. I remember them! I see
them, I see them. One day they were playing with the warm sand: the sand ran between the fingers as through a sieve, and
they were pleased at playing; and Beata
looked at them and laughed; and I looked
at them and had the same pleasure. One
day they peeled an orange; and made it
into many pieces, and touched me with
one of them, and it was as sweet as a honeycomb. One day they wrapped a handkerchief about the little one's foot, and she
was crying because a crab had nipped her,
and the pain stopped all at once, and the
little one began to run along the shore.
One day they played with those lovely
curls, and of every curl they made a ring
for every finger, and then began over again,
and then began over again; and Beata fell
asleep with the dew on her lips.
SILVIA SETTALA. [In a choking voice.]
Don't say any more! don"t say any more!
LA SIRENETTA. Ah, what a cruel love!
[A pause. She remains pensive.] And where
are they? Far away, all alone, in the earth,
deep down. Did they bury them? Where?
In a pretty garden? [A pause. The mutilated woman shuts her eyes and leans
her head against the window, in which the
quiver of the sea is reflected.] Did you see
them taken away? How white they were!
They have wrapped them up in strong
ointment. And the rings? With all the
rings? There was one with a green stone,
and one with three pearls, and one of gold
and iron twisted, and a smooth one, a shining hoop, and only that one was on the
third finger. [A pause. An indefinable expression appears on the face of the mutilated
woman, as she lets her arms drop by her sides,
while the rigidity of her whole body slackens.]
What are you thinking about? Dreaming of them? If they should grow warm
again.... [The mutilated woman opens her
eyes and starts, as if suddenly awakened.
Her arms quiver.] What is the matter?




602


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


SILVIA SETTALA. It is strange. Sometimes it really seems to me as if I have
them again, I seem to feel the blood rise to
the tips of my fingers. When you spoke, I
had them: they were more beautiful, Sirenetta!
LA SIRENETTA. More beautiful?
SILVIA SETTALA. You will comfort me,
Sirenetta. I cannot take your star-fish, but
I can see your eyes and hear your voice.
Keep near me, now I have found you again.
I would like to have you for a sister.
LA SIRENETTA. I would like you to have
my hands, if they were not so rough and
dark.
SILVIA SETTALA. Your hands are happy
hands: they touch the leaves, the flowers, the sand, the water, the stones, children, animals, all innocent things. You are
happy, Sirenetta: your soul is born again
every morning; now it is little as a pearl,
and now it is large as the sea. You have
nothing and everything; you know nothing
and everything.
LA SIRENETTA. [Turning suddenly and
interrupting her.] Did you feel the gust?
Look, look how many swallows on the sea!
There are more than a thousand: a living
cloud. Look how they shine! Now they
are off; they are going on a long journey,
to a far away land; the shadow walks over
the water with them; some feathers are
falling; evening will come on; they will
meet the ships on the high sea; they will
see the fires, hear the songs of the sailors;
the sailors will see them pass; they will
pass close to the sails; one of them will
strike against the sails, and fall on the
deck, tired. One night, a cloud of tired
swallows fell upon a ship like a flock of
starlings on the deck and quite covered it.
The sailors never touched them. They
never moved, for fear of frightening them;
they never spoke, so that they might go to
sleep. And as they were all over the stock
of the anchor and the bar of the rudder,
that night the ship went drifting under the
moon. But at dawn... Ah, who is calling
to you? [She interrupts her dream, hearing
a strange voice among the oleanders; and
prepares to fly.] Good-bye, good-bye.
SILVIA SETTALA. [Anxiously.] It is my


sister. Do not run away, do not go, Sirenetta. Stay here near. Beata is coming.
LA SIRENETTA. Good-bye, good-bye. I
will come back.
[Runs towards the sea, vanishing
into the sunlight.]
[FRANCESCA DONI appears between the oleanders, followed by the old man, LORENZO
GADDI.]
FRANCESCA DONI. Do you see who I
am bringing you?
SILVIA  SETTALA.   [Anxiously.]  And
Beata? And Beata?
FRANCESCA DONI. She is coming presently. I left her with Faustina. I came
beforehand, so that she should not come
to you unexpectedly.
SILVIA SETTALA. Dear Maestro, how
pleased I am to see you!
[The old man instinctively stretches
out his hands towards her. She
bends slightly and offers him her
forehead, which he touches with
his lips.]
LORENZO GADDI. [Concealing his emotion.] How happy I am to see you again,
dear Silvia, and to see you up and well
again! The sea helps you. The sea is
always the great comforter. At Forte
dei Marmi, yonder, I thought much of
you.
SILVIA SETTALA. Is Forte dei Marmi far
from here?
LORENZO GADDI. [Pointing to the distant shore.] Yonder, under Serravizza, on
this side of Massa.
[They look out of the window into
the distance.]
FRANCESCA DONI. How well one can
see the mountains of Carrara to-day! You
can count the peaks one by one. I never
remember a clearer day than this. Who
was with you, Silvia? La Sirenetta? I
thought I saw her running towards the sea.
And then here are her traces: sea-weed,
shells, star-fish.
[She points to the childish treasures
scattered over the ground.]
SILVIA SETTALA. Yes, she was with me
just now.
LORENZO GADDI. Who is la Sirenetta?




GIOCONDA


603


FRANCESCA DONI. A little wandering
mad creature.
SILVIA SETTALA. A seer, who has the
gift of song; a creature of dream and truth,
who seems a spirit of the sea. You should
know her and love her as I do. When you
know her and hear her speak, you find out
many deep things. Truly she will seem to
you perfect: she always gives and never
asks. 
LORENZO GADDI. She is like you in that.
SILVIA SETTALA. Alas, no. I should like
to have been like her in that; but the light
died away before the deceit of life. What
blindness! I asked so much, that to obtain
it, I stooped to tell a lie: I came out mutilated, maimed, in punishment for my lie. I
had stretched out my hands too violently
towards a good thing that fate denied me.
I do not lament or weep. Since I must live,
I will live. Perhaps one day my soul will
be healed. I felt some hope arise in me, as I
listened to the voice of that simple and
guileless creature who can teach eternal
things. She has promised to bring me a
star-fish every morning. [She tries to smile.
The sister stands near the window and seems
to be looking intently at the distant mountains; but there is a shadow of sadness over
her gentle face.] Look, Maestro, at the lady
with the bunch of flowers. She has come
with me. Now, if I look at her, there is
something mournful in her for me: all the
same I could not separate myself from her.
Do you remember, Maestro, that day in
April, that garlanded head?
LORENZO GADDI. I remember, I remember.
SILVIA SETTALA. The new life!
LORENZO GADDI. There was an omen in
everything.
SILVIA SETTALA. When I see the camels
pass loaded with faggots, there, on the
other side of the Arno, in the thickets of
Gombo, I think of the arrival of Cosimo
Dalbo, of the joy of that evening, of the
scarabaeus that I put in the midst of a
bunch of roses that Beata had picked.
[Turns towards her sister.] 0 Francesca, I
speak, and all the while my heart troubles
me so that I can resist no longer. Where is
Beata?


FRANCESCA DONI. [Wrung with pain.]
You want to see her now? You are strong?
SILVIA SETTALA. Yes, yes, I am strong,
I am ready. Suspense is worse.
FRANCESCA DONI. Then I will go and
bring her to you.
SILVIA SETTALA. [Unable to contain her
anxiety.] Wait a minute. Will you not
stay with us here to-night, Maestro? I
should be glad.
LORENZO GADDI. Well, yes, I will stay.
SILVIA SETTALA. We cal put you up. I
will have your room got ready. Wait,
Francesca, a minute.
[She is convulsed with emotion,
which she can no longer restrain.
She goes towards the door like
one who runs away to hide the
tears that are about to break
forth.]
FRANCESCA DONI. Shall I come, Silvia?
SILVIA SETTALA. [With a choking voice.]
No, no.                     [Goes out.]
FRANCESCA DONI. Ah, the curse, the
curse! Do you see her? While she was
in bed, under the bedclothes, bound up,
bleeding, all the horror of the thing did not
appear. But now that she is on her feet
again, now that she moves, walks, sees her
friends, returns to her old ways, is about
to use the gestures that she used to use!
Think of it!
LORENZO GADDI. Yes, it is too frightful
a fate. I remember what you said to her so
tenderly, as you looked at her, on that day
in April: "You seem as if you had wings!"
The beauty and lightness of her hands gave
her the aspect of a winged thing. There
was in her a kind of incessant quiver.
Now it is as if she dragged herself along.
FRANCESCA DONI. And it was a useless
sacrifice, like all the others; it has done
nothing, changed nothing: that is where it
is so frightful a fate. If Lucio had stayed
with her, I believe she would have been
happy to have been able to give that last
proof, to have been able to sacrifice for
him her living hands. But she knows now
all the truth, in all its nakedness. Ah,
what an infamous thing! Would you have
believed that Lucio was capable of it?
Tell me.




604


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


LORENZO GADDI. He too has his fate,
and he obeys it. As he was not master of
his death, so he is not master of his life. I
saw him yesterday. He had written me at
Forte dei Marmi to ask me to go to the
quarry and send him a block. I saw him
yesterday in his studio. His face is so
thin that it seems burnt up in the fire of
his eyes. When he speaks, he becomes
strangely excited. It troubled me. He
works, works, works, with a terrible fury:
perhaps he is seeking to rid himself of a
thought that gnaws him.
FRANCESCA DONI. The statue is still
there?
LORENZO GADDI. It is still there, without arms. He has left it so: he would not
restore it. So, on the pedestal, it looks
really like an ancient marble, dug up in
one of the Cyclades. There is in it something sacred and tragic, after the divine
immolation.
FRANCESCA DONI. [In a low voice.] And
that woman, the Gioconda, was there?
LORENZO GADDI. She was there, silent.
When one looks at her, and thinks that
she is the cause of so much evil, truly
one cannot curse her in his heart; no,
one cannot, when one looks at her. I have
never seen so great a mystery in mortal
flesh.
[A pause. The old man and the
sister remain in thought, for
some instants, with bowed heads.]
FRANCESCA DONI. [Sighing because of the
anguish that oppresses her.] My God, my
God! And now it is time to bring Beata to
her mother, and they will see one another
again, after all that has happened; and the
little one will learn the truth, will know the
horrible thing.. How is one to hide it, from
her, remembering all her caresses, and mad
for them! You saw her, you heard her, of
old....
[SILVIA SETTALA reappears on the threshold.
Her eyes are burning and all her body is
contracted by a spasmodic force.]
SILVIA SETTALA. I am here, Francesca;
I am ready. The room is ready, Maestro,
if you would like to go to it.
LORENZO GADDI. [Going towards her, and


in a voice trembling with emotion.] Courage!
It is the last ordeal.
[He goes out by the door. The mutilated woman goes towards her
sister, breathlessly.]
SILVIA SETTALA. Now go, go! Bring her.
I will wait here.
[The sister puts her arms round her
neck and kisses her in silence.
Then she goes out towards the
sea, and disappears rapidly
among the oleanders.]
SILVIA SETTALA, breathlessly, looks through
the midst of the boughs lighted by the oblique
rays of the sun. The hour is exquisitely
peaceful. The light is more limpid than the
windows of the white room; the sea is tranquil
as the flower of the flax, so motionless that the
long reflections of the mirrored sails seem to
touch the bottom; the stream seems to create
that immense repose, pouring out the perennial wave of its peace; the health-giving
woods, penetrated with fluid gold, rejoice
narvellously, almost as if they lost their roots
that they might swim in the delight of their
odour; the marble Alps in the distance trace
a line of beauty on the sky, in which they
seem to reveal the dream arising out of their
imprisoned populace of sleeping statues.
[LA SIRENETTA reappears in the silence,
through which her pure voice is heard.]
LA SIRENETTA. Are you alone?
SILVIA SETTALA. [Agitated.] Yes. I am
waiting.
LA SIRENETTA. [Coming close to her.]
Have you been crying?
SILVIA SETTALA. Yes, a little.
LA SIRENETTA. [With infinite pity.] You
seem as if you had been crying for a year.
Your eyes are burning. Your heart hurts
you too much.
SILVIA SETTALA. Don't speak. I cannot
crush my heart. [She presses herself against
the trunk of the nearest oleander, convulsed,
no longer able to endure the agony of waiting.] She is coming now, she is coming
now.
[She moves away from the tree and
re-enters the room, as if seized with
terror, like one seeking refuge.]
THE VOICE OF BEATA. [From        among




GIOCONDA


605


the oleanders.] Mamma! Mamma! [The
mother starts, and turns, frightfully pallid.]
Mamma!
[The child rushes towards her
mother with a cry of joy, her
face lit up, heated, her hair in
disorder, panting after a long
run, carrying an untidy bunch
of flowers. As she runs in,
the bunch falls. The mutilated
woman stoops towards the little
arms that clasp her neck, and
offers her death-like face to the
furious kisses.]
SILVIA SETTALA. Beata! Beata!
BEATA. [Panting.] Ah, how I have run,
how I have run! I ran away from them, all
alone. I ran, I ran. They did n't want to
let me come. Ah, but I ran away from
them, with my bunch of flowers.
[Covers her mother's face with fresh
kisses.]
SILVIA SETTALA. You are all damp with
sweat, you are hot, burning... My God!
[In her rush of tenderness she instinctively makes a movement as
if to wipe the child's face; but
stops and hides her arms in the
folds of her garments; and a
shiver of visible horror runs
through her.]
BEATA. Why don't you take me up?
Why don't you put your arms round me?
Take me up, take me up, mamma!
[She rises on tiptoe, to be caught into
her mother's embrace. The mother
takes a step backwards, blindly.]
SILVIA SETTALA. Beata!
BEATA [Following her.] Don't you want
me? don't you want me?
SILVIA SETTALA. Beata!
[She tries to feign a smile with her


ashen lips, distorted by unspeakable sorrow.]
BEATA. IS it for fun? What are you
hiding? 0, give, give me what you are
hiding!
SILVIA SETTALA. Beata! Beata!
BEATA. I have brought you flowers,
such a lot of flowers. Do you see? do you
see? [As she turns to pick up the fallen bunch,
she perceives her little wild friend, and remembers her.]  Oh, Sirenetta! Are you
there? [LA SIRENETTA is there, before the
window, standing, a silent witness, with her
eyes fixed on the sorrowful mother. As the repeated breath of the wind passes between the
fronds of an arbutus and makes it tremble, so
the sorrow of the mother seems to invest and
penetrate that slender body which the oblique
rays of the sun ring with bands of gold.] Do
you see what a lot? All for you! [The child
picks up the bunch.] Take it!
[She runs towards her mother again,
who steps back.]
SILVIA SETTALA. Beata! Beata!
BEATA. [Astonished.] Don't you want
them? Take them! Take them!
SILVIA SETTALA. Beata!
[She falls on her knees, overcome
with sorrow, as if stricken by an
unendurable blow, falls on her
knees before her frightened child;
and a flood of tears, that bursts
from her eyes like blood from a
wound, bathes her face.]
BEATA. You are crying? You are


crying?


[Frightened she throws herself upon
her mother's breast, with all her
flowers. LA SIRE:ETTA, who has
also fallen on her knees, lays her
forehead and the palms of her
hands upon the ground.]








THE BONDS OF INTEREST
A COMEDY IN A PROLOGUE AND THREE ACTS
BY JACINTO BENAVENTE




Reprinted by special permission of Charles Scribner's Sons, from Plays by Benavente, First Series
Translated with an Introduction by John Garrett Underhill. Copyright, 1917




TO
RAFAEL GASSET




CHARACTERS
DONA SIRENA
SILVIA
THE WIFE OF POLICHINELLE
COLUMBINE
LAURA
RISELA
LEANDER
CRISPIN
THE DOCTOR
POLICHINELLE
HARLEQUIN
THE CAPTAIN
PANTALOON
THE INNKEEPER
THE SECRETARY
1ST AND 2D SERVANTS AT THE INN
1ST AND 2D CONSTABLES
The action takes place in an imaginary country at the beginning of the Seventeenth Century




THE BONDS OF INTEREST
PROLOGUE


Spoken by CRISPIN
A conventional drop at the front, having a
door in the middle, curtained.
Here you have the mummer of the antique farce who enlivened in the country
inns the hard-earned leisure of the carter,
who made the simple rustics gape with
wonder in the square of every rural town
and village, who in the populous cities
drew about him great bewildering assemblages, as in Paris where Tabarin set
up his scaffold on the Pont-Neuf and challenged the attention of the passers-by,
from the learned doctor pausing a moment
on his solemn errand to smooth out the
wrinkles on his brow at some merry quip
of old-time farce, to the light-hearted cutpurse who there whiled away his hours of
ease as he cheated his hunger with a smile,
to prelate and noble dame and great
grandee in stately carriages, soldier and
merchant and student and maid. Men
of every rank and condition shared in the
rejoicing - men who were never brought
together in any other way -the grave
laughing to see the laughter of the gay
rather than at the wit of the farce, the
wise with the foolish, the poor with the
rich, so staid and formal in their ordinary
aspect, and the rich to see the poor laugh,
their consciences a little easier at the
thought: "Even the poor can smile." For
nothing is so contagious as the sympathy
of a smile.
Sometimes our humble farce mounted
up to Princes' Palaces on the whims of the
mighty and the great; yet there its rogueries were not less free. It was the common
heritage of great and small. Its rude jests,
its sharp and biting sentences it took from
the people, from that lowly wisdom of the


poor which knows how to suffer and bear
all, and which was softened in those days
by resignation in men who did not expect
too much of the world and so were able to
laugh at the world without bitterness and
without hate.
From its humble origins Lope de Rueda
and Shakespere and Molire lifted it up,
bestowing upon it high patents of nobility,
and like enamoured princes of the fairytales, elevated poor Cinderella to the topmost thrones of Poetry and of Art. But
our farce to-night cannot claim such distinguished lineage, contrived for your
amusement by the inquiring spirit of a
restless poet of to-day.
This is a little play of puppets, impossible in theme, without any reality at all.
You will soon see how everything happens
in it that could never happen, how its personages are not real men and women, nor
the shadows of them, but dolls or marionettes of paste and cardboard, moving upon
wires which are visible even in a little light
and to the dimmest eye. They are the
grotesque masks of the Italian Commedia
dell' Arte, not as boisterous as they once
were, because they have aged with the
years and have been able to think much in
so long a time. The author is aware that so
primitive a spectacle is unworthy of the
culture of these days; he throws himself
upon your courtesy and upon your goodness of heart. He only asks that you should
make yourselves as young as possible.
The world has grown old, but art never
can reconcile itself to growing old, and so,
to seem young again, it descends to these
fripperies. And that is the reason that
these outworn puppets have presumed to
come to amuse you to-night with their
child's play.




6I2


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


-




THE FIRST ACT
A plaza in a city. The facade of an Inn is
at the right, having a practicable door, with a
knocker upon it. Above the door is a sign
which reads INN.
[LEANDER and CRISPIN enter from the left.]
LEANDER. This must be a very great
city, Crispin. Its riches and its power appear in everything.
CRISPIN. Yes, there are two cities. Pray
God that we have chanced upon the better
one!
LEANDER. Two cities do you say,
Crispin? Ah! Now I understand -an
old city and a new city, one on either side
of the river.
CRISPIN. What has the river to do with
it, or newness or age? I say two cities just
as there are in every city in the world; one
for people who arrive with money and the
other for persons who arrive like us.
LEANDER. We are lucky to have arrived
at all without falling into the hands of
Justice. I should be heartily glad to stop
here awhile and rest myself, for I am tired
of this running about the world so continually.
CRISPIN. Not I! No, it is the natural
condition of the free-born subjects of the
Kingdom of Roguery, of whom am 1, not
to remain seated long in any one place,
unless it be through compulsion, as to say
in the galleys, where, believe me, they are
very hard seats. But now since we have
happened upon this city, and to all appearances it is a well-fortified and provisioned
one, let us like prudent captains map out
our plan of battle beforehand, if we are to
conquer it with any advantage to ourselves.
LEANDER. A pretty army we shall make
to besiege it.
CRISPIN. We are men and we have to
do with men.
LEANDER. All our wealth is on our
backs. You were not willing to take off
these clothes and sell them, when by doing
so we could easily have obtained money.
CRISPIN. I would sooner take off my
skin than my good clothes. As the world
goes nothing is so important as appear



ances, and the clothes, as you must admit,
are the first things to appear.
LEANDER. What are we going to do,
Crispin? Hunger and fatigue have been
too much for me. I am overcome; I cannot
talk.
CRISPIN. There is nothing for us to do
but to take advantage of our talents and
our effrontery, for without effrontery talents are of no use. The best thing, as it
seems to me, will be for you to talk as little
as possible, but be very impressive when
you do, and put on the airs of a gentleman
of quality. From time to time then I will
permit you to strike me across the back.
When anybody asks you a question, reply
mysteriously, and if you open your mouth
upon your own account, be sure that it is
with dignity, as if you were pronouncing
sentence. You are young; you have a fine
presence. Until now you have known only
how to dissipate your resources; this is the
time for you to begin to profit by them.
Put yourself in my hands. There is nothing so useful to a man as to have some one
always at his heels to point out his merits,
for modesty in one's self is imbecility, while
self-praise is madness, and so between the
two we come into disfavor with the world.
Men are like merchandise; they are worth
more or less according to the skill of the
salesman who markets them. I tell you,
though you were but muddy glass, I will so
contrive that in my hands you shall pass
for pure diamond. And now let us knock
at the door of this inn, for surely it is the
proper thing to have lodgings on the main
square.
LEANDER. You say at this inn? But
how are we going to pay?
CRISPIN. If we are to be stopped by a
little thing like that, then we had better
search out an asylum or an almshouse or
else beg on the streets, if so be that you
incline to virtue. Or if to force, then back
to the highway and cut the throat of the
first passer-by. If we are to live upon our
means, strictly speaking, we have no other
means to live.
LEANDER. I have letters of introduction
to persons of importance in this city, who
will be able to lend us aid.


I




THE BONDS OF INTEREST


613


CRISPIN. Then tear those letters up;
never think of such baseness again! Introduce yourself to no man when you are in
need. Those would be pretty letters of
credit indeed! To-day you will be received
with the greatest courtesy; they will tell
you that their houses and their persons are
to be considered as yours. The next time
you call, the servant will tell you that his
master is not at home. No, he is not expected soon... and at the next visit nobody will trouble so much as to open the
door. This is a world of giving and taking,
a shop, a mart, a place of exchange, and
before you ask you have to offer.
LEANDER. But what can I offer when I
have nothing?
CRISPIN. How low an opinion you must
have of yourself! Is a man in himself, then,
worth nothing? A man may be a soldier,
and by his valor win great victories. He
may be a husband or a lover, and with
love's sweet, oblivious medicine, restore
some noble dame to health, or some damsel
of high degree, who has been pining away
through melancholy. He may be the servant of some mighty and powerful lord,
who becomes attached to him and raises
him up through his favor, and he may be so
many other things besides that I have not
the breath even to begin to run them over.
When one wants to climb, why any stair
will do.
LEANDER. But if I have not even that
stair?
CRISPIN. Then accept my shoulders, and
I will lift you up. I offer you the top.
LEANDER. And if we both fall down upon
the ground?
CRISPIN. God grant that it may be soft!
[Knocking at the inn-door.] Hello! Ho,
within there! Hello, I say, in the inn!
Devil of an innkeeper! Does no one answer?
What sort of a tavern is this?
LEANDER. Why are you making all this
noise when as yet you have scarcely begun
to call?
CRISPIN. Because it is monstrous that
they should make us wait like this! [Calling
again more loudly.] Hello within! Who's
there, I say? Hello in the house! Hello, you
thousand devils!


INNKEEPER. [Within.] Who's there?
What knocking and what shouting at my
door! Is this the way to stand and wait?
Out, I say!
CRISPIN. It is too much! And now he
will tell us that this dilapidated old tavern
is a fit lodging for a gentleman.
[The INNKEEPER and Two SERVANTS come out 9f the Inn.]
INNKEEPER. Softly, sirs, softly; for this
is not a tavern but an inn, and great gentlemen have been lodged in this house.
CRISPIN. I would like to have seen those
same great gentlemen - gentle, a little
more or less. What? It is easy enough to
see by these rascals that they are not accustomed to waiting on persons of quality.
They stand there like blockheads without
running to do our service.
INNKEEPER. My life! But you are impertinent!
LEANDER. My servant is a little forward,
perhaps. You will find him somewhat hasty
in his temper. However, your inn will be
good enough for the brie: time that we
shall be able to remain in it. Prepare an
apartment for me and another for my servant, and let us spare these idle words.
INNKEEPER. I beg your pardon, sir. If
you had only spoken before.... I don't
know how it is, but somehow gentlemen are
always so much more polite than their
servants.
CRISPIN. The fact is my master is so
good-natured that he will put up with anything. But I know what is proper for his
service, and I have no mind to wink at
villainy. Lead us to our apartments.
INNKEEPER. But where is your luggage?
CRISPIN. Do you suppose that we are
carrying our luggage with us on our backs,
like a soldier's knapsack, or trundling it like
students' bundles in our hands? Know that
my master has eight carts coming after
him, which will arrive if he stays here long
enough, and at that he will only remain for
the time which is absolutely necessary to
conclude the secret mission with which he
has been instructed in this city.
LEANDER. Will you be silent and hold
your tongue? What secret is it possible to




614


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


keep with you? If I am discovered through
your impudence, through your misguided
talk....
[He threatens and strikes CRISPIN,
with his sword.]
CRISPIN. Help! He is killing me!
[Running.]
INNKEEPER. [Interposing between LEANDER and CRISPIN.] Hold, sir!
LEANDER. Let me chastise him! The
most intolerable of vices is this desire to talk.
INNKEEPER. Do not beat him, sir!
LEANDER. Let me at him! Let me at
him! Will the slave never learn?
[As he is about to strike CRISPIN,
CRISPIN runs and hides himself
behind the INNKEEPER, who receives all the blows.]
CRISPIN. [Crying out.] Ay! Ay! Ay!
INNKEEPER. Ay, say I! For I got all the
blows!
LEANDER. [To CRISPIN.] Now you see
what you have done. This poor man has
received all the blows. Down! Down! Beg
his pardon!
INNKEEPER. It will not be necessary,
sir. I pardon him willingly. [To the servants.] What are you doing standing there?
Prepare the rooms in which the Emperor of
Mantua is accustomed to reside when he is
stopping in this house, and let dinner be
made ready for these gentlemen.
CRISPIN. Perhaps it would be as well if I
saw to that myself, otherwise they may
delay and spoil everything, and commit a
thousand blunders for which I shall be held
responsible, for my master, as you see, is
not a man to submit to insult. I am with
you, sirrahs - and remember who it is you
serve, for the greatest good fortune or the
direst calamity in the world enters at this
moment behind you through these doors.
[The servants, followed by CRISPIN,
re-enter the Inn.]
INNKEEPER. [To LEANDER.] Will you be
good enough to let me have your name,
where you come from, and the business
which brings you to this city?
LEANDER. [Seeing CRISPIN re-enter from
the Inn.] My servant will let you have
them. Learn not to bother me with foolish
questions.        [He goes into the Inn.]


CRISPIN. What have you done now?
You have not dared to question my master? If you want to keep him so much as
another hour in your house, never speak to
him again. No! Not one word!
INNKEEPER. But the laws are very strict.
It is absolutely necessary that the questions
should be answered. The law in this city -
CRISPIN. Never mention the law to my
master! Silence! Silence! And for shame!
You do not know whom you have in your
house; no, and if you did, you would not be
wasting your time on these impertinences.
INNKEEPER. But am I not to be told at
least -
CRISPIN. Bolt of Heaven! Silence! Or
I will call my master, and he will tell you
whatever he sees fit- and then you will
not understand. Take care! Look to it
that he wants for nothing! Wait on him
with every one of your five senses, or you
will have good reason to regret it! Have
you no knowledge of men? Can't you read
character? Don't you see who my master
is? What? How is that? What do you
say? No reply?... Come! Come!...
In!...
[He goes into the Inn, pushing the
INNKEEPER before him.]
[The CAPTAIN and HARLEQUIN enter from
the left.]
HARLEQUIN. As we return from the
fields which surround this fair city - and
beyond a doubt they are the best part of
it - it seems that without intending it we
have happened upon this inn. What a creature of habit is man! And surely it is a vile
habit, this being obliged to eat every day.
CAPTAIN. The sweet music of your
verses had quite deprived me of all thought.
Delightful privilege of the poet!
HARLEQUIN. Which does not prevent
him from being equally lacking upon his
own part. The poet wants everything. I
approach this inn with fear. Will they
consent to trust us to-day? If not, we
must rely upon your sword.
CAPTAIN. My sword? The soldier's
sword, like the poet's lyre, is little valued
in this city of merchants and traders. We
have fallen upon evil days.




THE BONDS OF INTEREST


6i5


HARLEQUIN. We have. Sublime poesy,
which sings of great and glorious exploits,
is no more. It is equally profitless to offer
your genius to the great to praise or to
lampoon them. Flattery and satire are
both alike to them. They neither thank
you for the one nor fear the other, nor do
they read them. Aretino himself would
have starved to death in these days.
CAPTAIN. But tell me, how is it with us?
What is the position of the soldier? Because we were defeated in the late wars -
more through these base traffickers who
govern us and send us to defend their interests without enthusiasm and without
arms, than through any power of the enemy,
as if a man could fight with his whole heart
for what he did not love - defeated by
these traffickers who did not contribute so
much as a single soldier to our ranks or lend
one single penny to the cause but upon
good interest and yet better security; who,
as soon as they scented danger and saw
their pockets in jeopardy, threatened to
make common cause with the enemy —
now they blame us, they abuse us and
despise us, and seek to economize out of
our martial misery, which is the little pay
that they give us, and would dismiss us if
they dared, if they were not afraid that
some day all those whom they have oppressed by their tyranny and their greed
would rise up and turn against them. And
woe to them when they do, if we remember
that day on which side lie duty and justice!
HARLEQUIN. When that day comes you
will find us at your side.
CAPTAIN. Poets cannot be depended
upon for anything. Your spirits are like
the opal, which looks different in every
light. You are in an ecstasy to-day over
what is about to be born, and to-morrow
over what is in the last stages of dissolution. You have a special weakness for
falling in love with ruins, which to my
mind is a melancholy thing. And since as
a rule you sit up all night, you more often
see the sun set than the day break; you
know more about going down than you do
of rising.
HARLEQUIN. That cannot truthfully be
said of me. I have often seen the sun rise


when I had no place to lay my head. Besides, how can you expect a man to hail
the day as blithely as the lark when it
always breaks so unfortunately for him? -
What say you? Shall we try our fate?
CAPTAIN. It cannot be avoided. Be
seated, and let us await what our good
host has in store.
HARLEQUIN. [Calling into the Inn.]
Hello, there! Ho! Who serves to-day?
[The INNKEEPER enters.]
INNKEEPER. Ah, gentlemen! Is it you?
I am sorry, but there is no entertainment
at the Inn to-day.
CAPTAIN. And for what reason, if it is
proper to ask the question?
INNKEEPER. A proper question for you
to ask. Do you suppose that I trust nobody for what is consumed in this house?
CAPTAIN. Ah! Is that the reason? And
are we not persons of credit, who are to be
trusted?
INNKEEPER. No; not by me. And as I
never expect to collect anything, you have
had all that courtesy requires out of me
already. This being the case, you will be
so kind as to remove yourselves from my
door.
HARLEQUIN. Do you imply that there
is nothing to be counted between us but
money? Are all the praises that we have
lavished upon your house in all parts of
the country to go for nothing? I have
even composed a sonnet in your honor, in
which I celebrate the virtues of your stewed
partridges and hare pie! And as for my
friend, the Captain, you may rest assured
that he alone would uphold the reputation
of your hostelry against an army. Is that
a feat which is worth nothing? Is there
nothing but clinking of coins in your ears?
INNKEEPER. I am not in a jesting mood;
it does not suit my humor. I want none
of your sonnets, nor the Captain's sword
either, which might better be employed
in other business.
CAPTAIN. Name of Mars! You are
right. Better employed upon an impudent
rascal's back, flaying of his hide!
[Threatening him and striking him
with his sword.]




6I6


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


INNKEEPER. [Crying out.] What? How
is this? You strike me? Help! Justice!
HARLEQUIN. [Restraining the CAPTAIN.]
Don't run your head into a noose on account of such a worthless scamp.
CAPTAIN. I shall kill him.
[Striking him.]
INNKEEPER. Help! Justice!
[The Two SERVANTS enter, running, from
the Inn.]
SERVANTS. They are killing our master!
INNKEEPER. Save me!
CAPTAIN. Not one of them shall remain
alive!
INNKEEPER. Will no one come?
[CRISPIN and LEANDER enter.]
LEANDER. What is this brawl?
CRISPIN. In the presence of my master?
Before the house where he resides? Is
there no rest possible, nor quiet? Hold!
Or I shall summon Justice. Order! Quiet!
INNKEEPER. This will be the ruin of me 
With such a dignitary stopping in my
house! 
HARLEQUIN. Who is he?
INNKEEPER. Never dare to ask me his
name!
CAPTAIN. Your pardon, sir, if we have
disturbed your rest, but this rascally
villain -
INNKEEPER. It was n't my fault, my
lord. These unblushing scoundrels 
CAPTAIN. What? I? Unblushing - I?
I can bear no more!
CRISPIN. Hold, sir Captain, for one is
here who is able to redress your wrongs, if
so be you have had them of this man.
INNKEEPER. Consider, sir, that for more
than a month these fellows have eaten at
my expense without the payment of one
penny - without so much as the thought
of payment; and now because I refuse to
serve them to-day, they turn upon me.
HARLEQUIN. I do not turn because I
am accustomed to face that which is unpleasant.
CAPTAIN. IS it reasonable that a soldier
should not be given credit?
HARLEQUIN. IS it reasonable that a
sonnet should be allowed to pass for noth

ing, although it is written with the best of
flourishes in praise of his stewed partridges
and hare pies? And all this upon credit on
my part, for I have never tasted one of
them, but only his eternal mutton and potatoes.
CRISPIN. These two noble gentlemen
are right. It is infamous that a poet and a
soldier should be denied in this manner.
HARLEQUIN. Ah, sir! You have a great
soul!
CRISPIN. No, I have not -but my
master, who is here present. Being a
grand gentleman, there is nothing which
appeals to him so much in the world as a
poet or a soldier.
LEANDER. To be sure. I agree with you.
CRISPIN. You need have no doubt but
that while he remains in this city you will
be treated with the consideration you deserve. You shall want for nothing. Whatever expense you may be at in this inn, is
to be placed upon his account.
LEANDER. To be sure. I agree with you.
CRISPIN. And let the landlord look to it
that you get your deserts!
INNKEEPER. Sir!...
CRISPIN. And don't be so stingy with
those partridges and hairy pies. It is not
proper that a poet like Signor Harlequin
should be obliged to draw upon his imagination in his descriptions of such material
things.
HARLEQUIN. What? Do you know my
name?
CRISPIN. No, I do not; but my master,
being such a great gentleman, knows all
the poets who exist or who ever did exist in
the world, provided always that they were
worthy of the name.
LEANDER. To be sure. I agree with you.
CRISPIN. And none of them is more
famous than you, Signor Harlequin.
Whenever I consider that you have not
been treated here with the respect whict
is your due -
INNKEEPER. Your pardon, sir. Then
shall be made welcome, as you desire. It i
sufficient that you should be their security
CAPTAIN. Sir, if I can be of service t
you in any way...
CRISPIN. What? Is it a small service t




THE BONDS OF INTEREST


be permitted to know you? 0 glorious
Captain, worthy only to be sung by this
immortal poet!
HARLEQUIN. Sir!
CAPTAIN. Sir!
HARLEQUIN. So my verses are known to
you?
CRISPIN. How? Known? And if known
would it ever be possible to forget them?
Is not that wonderful sonnet yours, which
begins:
"The soft hand which caresses and which
slays"...
HARLEQUIN. What?
CRISPIN. What?
"The soft hand which caresses and which
slays"...
It does not say what.
HARLEQUIN. Nonsense! No, that is not
my sonnet.
CRISPIN. Then it is worthy of being
yours. And you, Captain! Who is not
familiar with your marvellous exploits?
Was it not you who, alone, with twenty
men, assaulted the Castle of the Red
Rock in the famous battle of the Black
Field?
CAPTAIN. You know, then?
CRISPIN. How?... Do I know? Oh!
Many a time, transported, I have listened
to my master recount the story of your
prowess! Twenty men, twenty, and you in
front of them, and in front of you the castle. Boom! Boom! Boom! from the castle, shots and bombards, darts and flaming
squibs and boiling oil! And the twenty
men all standing there like one man, and
you in front of them! And from above:
Boom! Boom! Boom! And the roll of the
drums: Rum-a-tum-tum! And the blare
of the trumpets: Tara! Tara-ra! And you
all the while there alone with your sword:
Swish! Swish! Swish! A blow here, a
blow there. Or without your sword....
Above, below.... A head, an arm....
[He begins to rain blows about him
right and left, and to kick, using
his fists, his feet, and the flat side
of his sword indifferently.]
SERVANTS. Ay! Ay! Oh! Oh!
INNKEEPER. Hold! Hold! Restrain
yourself! You don't know what you are


doing. You are all excited.... It is as if
the battle were really taking place....
CRISPIN. How? I am excited? Know
that I always feel in my breast the animus
belli, the thirst for war!
CAPTAIN. It seems almost as if you
must have been there.
CRISPIN. To hear my master describe it
is the same as being there. No, it is preferable to it. And is such a soldier, the hero of
the Red Rocks in the Black Fields, to be
insulted thus? Ah! How fortunate it is
that my master was present, and that important business had brought him to this
city, for he will see to it that you are accorded the consideration you deserve. So
sublime a poet, so great a captain!...
[To the servants.] Quick! What are you
doing there? Bring the best food that you
have in the house and set it before these
gentlemen. And first of all get a bottle of
good wine; it will be a rare pleasure to my
master to drink with them. He will esteem
himself indeed fortunate. Don't stand
there and stare! Quick! Bestir yourselves!
INNKEEPER. Run, run! I go.... We
are getting something out of this after all.
[The INNKEEPER and the Two
SERVANTS run into the Inn.]
HARLEQUIN. Ah, sir! How can we ever
repay you?
CAPTAIN. How? We certainly never
shall....
CRISPIN. Let nobody speak of payment
before my master. The very thought gives
offense. Be seated, be seated. My master,
who has wined and dined so many princes,
so many noblemen at his table, will deem
this an even greater pleasure.
LEANDER. TO be sure. I agree with you.
CRISPIN. My master is not a man of
many words; but, as you see, the few that
he does speak are, as it were, fraught with
wisdom.
HARLEQUIN. His grandeur appears in
everything.
CAPTAIN. You have no idea what a
comfort it is to our drooping spirits to find
a noble gentleman like you who condescends to treat us with consideration.
CRISPIN. Why, this is nothing to what
he will condescend to do! I know that my




6I8


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


master will never rest satisfied to stop at
such a trifle. He will elevate you to his own
level, and then hold you up beside him on
the same exalted plane. He is just that
kind of a man.
LEANDER. [To CRISPIN.] Don't let your
tongue run away with you, Crispin.
CRISPIN. My master is averse to foolish
talk; but you will soon know him by his
deeds.
[The INNKEEPER and the SERVANTS re-enter,
bringing wine and provisions which
they place upon the table.]
INNKEEPER. Here is the wine - and the
dinner.
CRISPIN. Drink, drink and eat! See
that they want for nothing; my master is
agreeable. He will be responsible. His responsibility is fortunately not in question.
If you would like anything you don't see,
don't hesitate to ask for it. My master will
order it. And let the landlord look to it
that it is brought promptly, for verily at
this business, he is the sorriest kind of a
knave.
INNKEEPER. To be sure.... I don't
agree with you.
CRISPIN. Not another word! You insult
my master.
CAPTAIN. Your very good health!
LEANDER. Your good healths, gentlemen! To the health of the greatest poet
and the best soldier in the world!
HARLEQUIN. To the health of the noblest
gentleman!
CAPTAIN. The most liberal and the
most generous!
CRISPIN. In the world! Excuse me, but
I must drink too, though it may seem presumptuous. But on a day like this, this
day of days, which has brought together
the sublimest poet, the bravest captain,
the noblest gentleman, and the most faithful servant in the universe... [They
drink.] Now you will permit my master to
retire. The important business which
brings him to the city admits of no further
delay.
LEANDER. To be sure.
CRISPIN. You will not fail to return


every day and present your respects to
him?
HARLEQUIN. Every hour! And I am
going to bring with me all the poets and
all the musicians of my acquaintance, to
serenade him with music and songs.
CAPTAIN. I shall bring my whole company with me with torches and banners.
LEANDER. You will offend my modesty.
CRISPIN. And now eat, drink! Mind
you, sirrahs! About it! Quick! Serve
these gentlemen. [To the CAPTAIN.] A
word in your ear. Are you out of money?
CAPTAIN. What shall I say?
CRISPIN. Say no more. [To the INNKEEPER.] Eh! This way! Let these gentlemen have forty or fifty crowns on my master's account, as a present from him. Omit
nothing! See that they are satisfied.
INNKEEPER. Don't worry, sir. Forty or
fifty, did you say?
CRISPIN. While you are about it, better
make it sixty. Your health, gentlemen!
CAPTAIN. Long life to the noblest gentleman in the world!
HARLEQUIN. Long life!
CRISPIN. Shout long life, too, you uncivil people.
INNKEEPER AND SERVANTS. Long life!
Long life!
CRISPIN. Long life to the sublimest poet
and the best soldier in the world!
ALL. Long life!
LEANDER. [To CRISPIN.] Are you mad,
Crispin? What are you doing? How are
we ever going to get out of this?
CRISPIN. The same way that we got in.
You see now poesy and arms are ours. On!
We shall achieve the conquest of the world!
[All exchange bows and salutations, after which LEANDER and
CRISPIN go out upon the left, as
they came in. The CAPTAIN and
HARLEQUIN attack the dinner
which is set before them by the
INNKEEPER and the SERVANTS,
who wait upon them assiduously
with anticipation of their every
want.]


CURTAIN




THE BONDS OF INTEREST


6I9




THE SECOND ACT
A garden with the facade of a pavilion
opening upon it.
[DORA SIRENA and COLUMBINE enter from
the pavilion.]
SIRENA. IS it not enough to deprive a
woman of her five senses, Columbine?
Can it be possible that a lady should see
herself placed in so embarrassing a position
and by low, unfeeling people? How did
you ever dare to show yourself in my presence with such a tale?
COLUMBINE. But sooner or later would
n't you have had to know it?
SIRENA. I had rather have died first.
But did they all say the same?
COLUMBINE. All, one after the other,
exactly as I have told it to you. The tailor
absolutely refuses to send you the gown until you have paid him everything that you
owe.
SIRENA. Impudent rascal! Everything
that I owe him. The barefaced highwayman! And does he not stand indebted for
his reputation and his very credit in this
city to me? Until I employed him in the
decoration of my person he did not know,
so to speak, what it was to dress a lady.
COLUMBINE. All the cooks and musicians and servants say the same. They
refuse to play to-night or to appear at the
fete unless they are all paid beforehand.
SIRENA. The rogues! The brood of
vipers! Whence does such insolence
spring? Were these people not born to
serve? Are they to be paid nowadays in
nothing but money? Is money the only
thing which has value in the world? Woe
unto her who is left without a husband to
look after her, as I am, without male relatives, alas, without any masculine connection! A woman by herself is worth nothing
in the world, be she never so noble or virtuous. 0 day foretold of the Apocalypse!
Surely Antichrist has come!
COLUMBINE. I never saw you so put out
before. I hardly know you. You have always been able to rise above these calamities.
SIRENA. Those were other days, Colum-.


bine. Then I had my youth to count on,
and my beauty, as powerful allies. Princes
and great grandees cast themselves at my
feet.
COLUMBINE. But on the other hand you
did not have the experience and knowledge
of the world which you have now. And as
far as beauty is concerned, surely you never
shone with such refulgence as to-daythat is, if you will listen to me.
SIRENA. Don't attempt to flatter me.
Do you suppose that:[ should ever have
got myself into such a fix if I had been the
Dofia Sirena of my twenties?
COLUMBINE. Your twenty suitors?
SIRENA. What do you think? I had no
end of suitors. And you who have not yet
begun upon twenty, you have not the sense
to perceive what that means and to profit
by it. I would never have believed it possible. Otherwise should I have adopted you
for my niece if I had, though I saw myself
abandoned by every man in the world and
reduced to live alone with a maid servant?
If instead of wasting your youth on this
impecunious Harlequin, this poet who can
bring you nothing but ballads and verses,
you had had the sense to make a proper
use of your time, we should not be languishing now in this humiliating dilemma.
COLUMBINE. What do you expect? I
am too young to resign myself to being
loved without loving. If I am ever to become skilful in making others suffer for
love of me, surely I must learn first what it
is one suffers when one loves. And when I
do, I am positive I shall be able to profit by
it. I have not yet turned twenty, but you
must not think because of that I have so
little sense as to marry Harlequin.
SIRENA. I would not trust you. You are
capricious, flighty, and allow yourself to be
run away with by your imagination. But
first let us consider what is to be done.
How are we to extricate ourselves from
this horrible dilemma? In a short time the
guests will arrive - all persons of quality
and importance, and among them Signor
Polichinelle and his wife and daughter,
who, for various reasons, are of more account to me than the rest. You know my
house has been frequented of late by several




620


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


noble gentlemen, somewhat frayed in their
nobility, it is true, as I am, through want
of means. For any one of them, the daughter of Signor Polichinelle, with her rich
dowry and the priceless sum which she will
inherit upon her father's death, would be
an untold treasure. She has many suitors,
but I interpose my influence with Signor
Polichinelle and with his wife in favor of
them all. Whichever one should be fortunate I know that he will requite my good
offices with his bounty, because I have
made them all sign an agreement which
assures me of it. I have no other means
than this to repair my state. If now some
rich merchant or some trader by some
lucky chance should fall in love with
you... Ah, who can say? This house
might become again what it was in other
days. But if the insolence of these people
breaks out to-night, if I cannot give the
fete.... No! I cannot think of it! It
would be the death of me!
COLUMBINE. Do not trouble yourself,
Dofia Sirena. We have enough in the
house to provide the entertainment. As
for the music and the servants, Signor
Harlequin will be able to supply them -
he is not a poet and in love with me for
nothing. Many singers and choice spirits of
his acquaintance will willingly lend themselves to any adventure. You will see that
nothing will be lacking, and your guests
will all say that they have never been
present at so marvellous a fete in their
lives.
SIRENA. Ah, Columbine! If that could
only be, how greatly you would rise in my
estimation! Run, run and seek out your
poet.... There is no time to lose.
COLUMBINE. My poet? Surely he is
walking up and down now on the other side
of the garden, waiting for a sign.
SIRENA. I fear it would not be proper
for me to be present at your interview. I
ought not to demean myself by soliciting
his favors. I leave all that to you. Let
nothing be wanting at the fete and you
shall be well repaid, for these terrible
straits through which we are passing tonight cannot continue forever- or else I
am not Dofia Sirena!


COLUMBINE. All will be well. Have no
fear.
[DONA SIRENA goes out through
the pavilion.]
COLUMBINE. [Stepping toward the right
and   calling.]  Harlequin!  Harlequin!
[CRISPIN enters.] It is n't he!
CRISPIN. Be not afraid, beautiful Columbine, mistress of the mightiest poet,
who yet has not been able to heighten in
his verses the splendors of your charm. If
the picture must always be different from
reality, the advantage in this case is all
on the side of reality. You can imagine,
no doubt, what the picture must have
been.
COLUMBINE. Are you a poet, too, or
only a courtier and a flatterer?
CRISPIN. I am the best friend of your
lover Harlequin, although I only met him
to-day; but he has had ample proof of my
friendship in this brief time. My greatest
desire has been to salute you, and Signor
Harlequin would not have been the poet
that I take him for, had he not trusted to
my friendship implicitly. But for his confidence I should have been in danger of
falling in love with you simply upon the
opportunity which he has afforded me of
seeing you.
COLUMBINE. Signor Harlequin trusted
as much in my love as he did to your
friendship. Don't take so much credit to
yourself. It is as foolish to trust a man
while he lives as a woman while she loves.
CRISPIN. Now I see that you are not so
fatal to the sight as to the ear.
COLUMBINE. Pardon me. Before the
fete to-night I must speak with Signor
Harlequin, and...
CRISPIN. It will not be necessary. That
is why I have come, a poor ambassador
from him and from my master, who stoops
to kiss your hand.
COLUMBINE. Who is your master, if I
may ask that question?
CRISPIN. The noblest and most powerful gentleman in the world. Permit me for
the present not to mention his name. Soon
it will be known. My master desires to
salute Dofia Sirena and to be present at her
fete to-night.




THE BONDS OF INTEREST


621


COLUMBINE. At her fete? Don't you
know...
CRISPIN. I know everything. That is
my business —to investigate. I know
that there were certain inconveniences
which threatened to becloud it; but there
will be none. Everything is provided for.
COLUMBINE. What! Then you do
know?
CRISPIN. I assure you everything is provided for - a sumptuous reception, lights
and fireworks, musicians and sweet song.
It will be the most brilliant fete which ever
was in the world.
COLUMBINE. Ah, then you are an enchanter?
CRISPIN. Now you begin to know me.
But I shall only tell you that I do not bring
good fortune with me for nothing. The
people of this city are so intelligent that I
am sure they will be incapable of frowning
upon it and discouraging it with foolish
scruples when they see it arrive. My master knows that Signor Polichinelle and his
only daughter, the beautiful Silvia, the
richest heiress in the city, are to be present
at the fete to-night. My master has to fall
in love with her, my master has to marry
her; and my master will know how to requite in fitting fashion the good offices of
Dofia Sirena and of yourself in the matter,
if so be that you do him the honor to assist
in his suit.
COLUMBINE. Your speech is impertinent. Such boldness gives offense.
CRISPIN. Time presses and I have no
leisure to pay compliments.
COLUMBINE. If the master is to be
judged by the man...
CRISPIN. Reassure yourself. You will
find my master the most courteous, the
most affable gentleman in the world. My
effrontery permits him to be modest. The
hard necessities of life sometimes compel
the noblest cavalier to descend to the devices of the ruffian, just as sometimes they
oblige the noblest ladies, in order to maintain their state, to stoop to menial tricks,
and this mixture of ruin and nobility in one
person is out of harmony with nature. It is
better to divide among two persons that
which is usually found confused clumsily


and joined in one. My master and myself,
as being one person, are each a part of the
other. Would it could be always so! We
have all within ourselves a great and splendid gentleman of lofty hopes and towering
ideals, capable of everything that is noble
and everything that is good - and by his
side, a humble servant born to forlorn
hopes and miserable and hidden things,
who employs himself in the base actions to
which we are enforced by life. The art of
living is so to separate the two that when
we fall into any ignominy we can say: "It
was not my fault; it was not I. It was my
servant." In the greatest misery to which
we sink there is always something in us
which rises superior to ourselves. We
should despise ourselves too much if we
did not believe that we were better than
our lives. Of course you know who my
master is: he is the one of the towering
thoughts, of the lofty, beautiful ideals. Of
course you know who I am: I am the one of
the forlorn and hidden things, the one who
grovels and toils on the ground, delving
among falsehood and humiliation and lies.
Only there is something in me which redeems me and elevates me in my own eyes.
It is the loyalty of my service, this loyalty
which humiliates and abases itself that another may fly, that he may always be the
lord of the towering thoughts, of the lofty,
beautiful ideals.
[Music is heard in the distance.]
COLUMBINE. What is this music?
CRISPIN. The music which my master is
bringing with him to the fete with all his
pages and all the attendants of his train,
accompanied by a great court of poets and
singers presided over by Signor Harlequin,
and an entire legion of soldiers with the
Captain at their head, illuminating his
coming with torches, with rockets and red
fire.
COLUMBINE. Who is your master, that
he is able to do so much? I run to tell my
lady....
CRISPIN. It will not be necessary. She
is here.
[DONA SIRENA enters from the pavilion.]
SIRENA. What is this? Who has pre



622


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


pared this music? What troop of people is
arriving at my door?
COLUMBINE. Ask no questions. Know
that to-day a great gentleman has arrived
in this city, and it is he who offers you this
fete to-night. His servant will tell you
everything. I hardly know myself whether
I have been talking to a great rogue or a
great madman. Whichever it is, I assure
you that he is a most extraordinary man.
SIRENA. Then it is not Harlequin?
COLUMBINE. Ask no questions. It is all
a work of magic!
CRISPIN. Dofia Sirena, my master begs
permission to kiss your hand. So great a
lady and so noble a gentleman ought not,
when they meet, to descend to indignities
inappropriate to their state. That is why,
before he arrives, I have come to tell you
everything. I am acquainted with a thousand notable exploits of your history,
which should I but refer to them, would
be sufficient to assure me attention. But
it might seem impertinence to mention
them. [Handing her a paper.] My master
acknowledges in this paper over his signature the great sum which he will be in your
debt should you be able to fulfil upon your
part that which he has here the honor to
propose.
SIRENA. What paper and what debt is
this? [Reading the paper to herself.] How?
A hundred thousand crowns at once and
an equal quantity upon the death of Signor
Polichinelle, if your master succeeds in
marrying his daughter? What insolence
and what infamy have we here? And to a
lady! Do you know to whom you are
speaking? Do you know what house this
is?
CRISPIN. Dofa Sirena! Forego your
wrath. There is nobody present to warrant
such concern. Put that paper away with
the others, and let us not refer to the matter again. My master proposes nothing
which is improper to you, nor would you
consent that he should do so. Whatever
may happen hereafter will be the work of
chance and of love. I, the servant, was the
one who set this unworthy snare. You are
ever the noble dame, my master the virtuous cavalier, and as you meet in this festi

val to-night, you will talk of a thousand
gallant and priceless things, as your guests
stroll by and whisper enviously in praise of
the ladies' beauty and the exquisite artfulness of their dress, the splendor and magnificence of the entertainment, the sweetness of the music, the nimble grace of the
dancers' feet. And who is to say that this
is not the whole story? Is not life just this
- a fete in which the music serves to cover
up the words, the words to cover up the
thoughts? Then let the music sound, let
conversation flash and sparkle with its
smiles, let the supper be well served -
this is all that concerns the guests. See,
here is my master, who comes to salute you
in all courtesy.
[LEANDER, HARLEQUIN, and the CAPTAIN
enter from the right.]
LEANDER. Dofia Sirena, I kiss your
hand.
SIRENA. Sir....
LEANDER. My servant has already told
you in my name much more than I myself
could say.
CRISPIN. Being a gentleman of discretion, my master is a man of few words.
His admiration is mute.
HARLEQUIN. He wisely knows how to
admire.
CAPTAIN. True merit.
HARLEQUIN. True valor.
CAPTAIN. The divine art of poesy.
HARLEQUIN. The incomparable science
of war.
CAPTAIN. His greatness appears in
everything!
HARLEQUIN. He is the noblest gentleman in the world.
CAPTAIN. My sword shall always be at
his service.
HARLEQUIN. I shall dedicate my greatest poem to his glory.
CRISPIN. Enough! Enough! You will
offend his native modesty. See how he
tries to hide himself and slip away. He is a
violet.
SIRENA. Surely he has no need to speak
for himself who can make others talk like
this in his praise.
[After bows and salutations the men




THE BONDS OF INTEREST


623


all withdraw upon the right,
DORA SIRENA and COLUMBINE
remaining alone.]
SIRENA. What do you think of this,
Columbine?
COLUMBINE. I think that the master is
most attractive in his figure and the servant most captivating in his impertinence.
SIRENA. We shall take advantage of
them both. For either I know nothing of
the world or about men, or else fortune
this day has set her foot within my doors.
COLUMBINE. Surely then it must be
fortune, for you do know something of the
world, and about men - what don't you
know!
SIRENA. Here are Risela and Laura, the
first to arrive.
COLUMBINE. When were they the last
at anything? I leave them to you; I must
not lose sight of our cavalier.
[She goes out to the right.]
[LAURA and RISELA enter.]
SIRENA. My dears! Do you know, I
was beginning to worry already for fear
that you would not come?
LAURA. What? Is it really so late?
SIRENA. Naturally it is late before I
worry about you.
RISELA. We were obliged to disappoint
at two other f6tes so as not to miss yours.
LAURA. Though we understood that
you might not be able to give it to-night.
We heard that you were indisposed.
SIRENA. If only to rebuke gossipers I
should have given it though I had died.
RISELA. And we should have been present at it even though we had died.
LAURA. But of course you have not
heard the news?
RISELA. Nobody is talking of anything
else.
LAURA. A mysterious personage has
arrived in the city. Some say that he is
a secret ambassador from Venice or from
France.
RISELA. Others say that he has come to
seek a wife for the Grand Turk.
LAURA. They say he is beautiful as an
Adonis.
RISELA. If we could only manage to


meet him! - What a pity! You ought to
have invited him to your fete.
SIRENA. It was not necessary, my dears.
He himself sent an ambassador begging
permission to come. He is now in my house,
and I have not the slightest doubt but that
you will be talking to him soon.
LAURA. What is that? I told you that
we made no mistake when we came.
Something was sure to happen.
RISELA. How we shall be envied tonight!
LAURA. Everybody is mad to know him.
SIRENA. It was no effort for me. It was
sufficient for him to hear that I was receiving in my house.
RISELA. Of course -- the old story. No
person of importance ever arrives in the
city, but it seems he runs at once and pays
his attentions to you.
LAURA. I am impatient to see him.
Lead us to him, on your life!
RISELA. Yes! Take us where he is.
SIRENA. I beg your pardons- Signor
Polichinelle arriving with his family. But,
my dears, you will not wait. You need no
introductions.
RISELA. Certainly not! Come, Laura.
LAURA. Come, Risela, before the crowd
grows too great and it is impossible to get
near.
[LAURA and RISELA go out to
the right.]
[POLICHINELLE, the WIFE OF POLICHINELLE,
and SILVIA enter.]
SIRENA. 0, Signor Polichinelle! I was
afraid you were not coming. Until now I
really did not know whether or not I was to
have a fete!
POLICHINELLE. It was not my fault; it
was my wife's. With forty gowns to select
from, she can never make up her mind
which to put on.
WIFE OF POLICHINELLE. Yes, if I were
to please him I should make an exhibition
of myself. Any suggestion will do. As it is,
you see that I have really not had time to
put on anything.
SIRENA. But you never were more beautiful!
POLICHINELLE. Well, she is not display



624


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


ing one-half of her jewels. If she were, she
could not support the weight of the treasure.
SIRENA. Who has a better right to be
proud than you have, Signor Polichinelle?
What your wife displays are the riches
which you have acquired by your labor.
WIFE OF POLICHINELLE. I tell him this
is the time to enjoy them. He ought to be
ambitious and seek to rise in the world.
Instead, all he thinks about is how he can
marry his daughter to some trader.
SIRENA. 0, Signor Polichinelle! Your
daughter deserves a great deal better than
a trader. Surely you hold your daughter
far too high for trade. Such a thing is not
to be thought of for one moment. You
have no right to sacrifice her heart to a
bargain. What do you say, Silvia?
POLICHINELLE. She would prefer some
waxed-up dandy. Instead of listening to
my advice, she reads novels and poetry.
It disgusts me.
SILVIA. I always do as my father says,
unless it is displeasing to my mother or distasteful to me.
SIRENA. You speak very sensibly.
WIFE OF POLICHINELLE. Her father has
an idea that there is nothing but money to
be had in the world.
POLICHINELLE. I have an idea that
without money there is nothing to be had
out of the world. Money is the one thing
which counts. It buys everything.
SIRENA. Oh, I cannot hear you talk like
that! What of virtue, what of intelligence,
what of noble blood?
POLICHINELLE. They all have their
price. You know it. And nobody knows it
better than I do, for I have bought heavily
in those lines, and found them reasonable.
SIRENA. 0, Signor Polichinelle! You
are in a playful humor this evening. You
know very well that money will not buy
everything, and if your daughter should
fall in love with some noble gentleman,
you would not dream of attempting to oppose her. I can see that you have a father's
heart.
POLICHINELLE. I have. I would do anything for my daughter.
SIRENA. Even ruin yourself?


POLICHINELLE. That would not be anything for my daughter. Why, I would steal
first, rob, murder - anything....
SIRENA. I felt sure that you must know
some way to recoup yourself. But the fete
is crowded already! Come with me, Silvia.
I have picked out a handsome gentleman
to dance with you. You will make a striking couple - ideal!
[All go out upon the right except
SIGNOR POLICHINELLE, who is
detained as he is about to do so
by CRISPIN, who enters and accosts him.]
CRISPIN. Signor Polichinelle! With
your permission.... A word with you....
POLICHINELLE. Who calls me? What
do you want?
CRISPIN. You don't remember me? It
is not surprising. Time blots out everything, and when what has been blotted out
was unpleasant, after a while we do not
remember even the blot, but hurry and
paint over it with bright colors, like these
with which you now hide your capers from
the world. Why, when I knew you, Signor
Polichinelle, you had hard work to cover
your nakedness with a couple of muddy
rags!
POLICHINELLE Who are you and where
did you know me?
CRISPIN. I was a mere boy then; you
were a grown man. But you cannot have
forgotten so soon all those glorious exploits
on the high seas, all those victories gained
over the Turks, to which we contributed
not a little with our heroic strength, both
pulling chained at the same noble oar in
the same victorious galley?
POLICHINELLE. Impudent scoundrel!
Silence, or -
CRISPIN. Or you will do with me as you
did with your first master in Naples, or
with your first wife in Bologna, or with
that usurious Jew in Venice?
POLICHINELLE. Silence! Who are you
who know so much and talk so freely?
CRISPIN. I am - what you were. One
who will come to be what you are - as
you have done. Not with the same violence as you, for these are other days and
only madmen   onmmit murder now, and




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625


lovers, and poor ignorant wretches who
fall armed upon the wayfarer in dark alleys
or along the solitary highway. Despicable
gallows-birds! Negligible!
POLICHINELLE. What do you want of
me? Money, is it not? Well, we can meet
again; this is not the place....
CRISPIN. Do not trouble yourself about
your money. I only want to be your friend,
your ally, as in those days.
POLICHINELLE. What can I do for you?
CRISPIN. Nothing; for to-day I am the
one who is going to do for you, and oblige
you with a warning. [Directing him to look
off upon the right.] Do you see your daughter there - how she is dancing with that
young gentleman? How coyly she blushes
at his gallant compliments! Well, that
gentleman is my master.
POLICHINELLE. Your master? Then he
must be an adventurer, a rogue, a blackguard, like...
CRISPIN. Like us, you were going to say?
No, he is more dangerous than we, because, as you see, he has a fine figure, and
there is a mystery and an enchantment in
his glance and a sweetness in his voice
which go straight to the heart, and which
stir it as at the recital of some sad tale. Is
not this enough to make any woman fall in
love? Never say that I did not warn you.
Run and separate your daughter from this
man and never permit her to dance with
him again, no, nor to speak to him, so long
as she shall live.
POLICHINELLE. Do you mean to say
that he is your master and is this the way
you serve him?
CRISPIN. Are you surprised? Have you
forgotten already how it was when you
were a servant? And I have not planned to
assassinate him yet.
POLICHINELLE. You are right. A master
is always despicable. But what interest
have you in serving me?
CRISPIN. TO come safe into some good
port, as we often did when we rowed together at the oar. Then sometimes you
used to say to me: "You are stronger than
I, row for me." In this galley in which we
are to-day, you are stronger than I. Row
for me, for your faithful friend of other


days, for life is a horrible vile galley and I
have rowed so long.
[He goes out by the way he came in.]
[DONA SIRENA, the WIFE OF POLICHINELLE,
RISELA, and LAURA re-enter.]
LAURA. Only Donia Sirena could have
given such a fete!
RISELA. To-night she has outstripped
all the others.
SIRENA. The presence of so distinguished
a gentleman was an added attraction.
POLICHINELLE. Bul1 Silvia? Where is
Silvia? What have you done with my
daughter?
SIRENA. Do not disturb yourself, Signor
Polichinelle. Your daughter is in excellent
hands, and you may rest assured that she
will remain in them as long as she is in my
house.
RISELA. There were no attentions for
any one but her.
LAURA. All the smiles were for her.
RISELA. And all the sighs!
POLICHINELLE. Whose? This mysterious gentleman's? I do not like it. This
must stop -
SIRENA. But Signor Polichinelle!
POLICHINELLE. Away! Let me be! I
know what I am doing.  [He rushes out.]
SIRENA. What is the matter? What infatuation is this?
WIFE OF POLICHINELLE. Now you see
what sort of man he is. He is going to commit an outrage on that gentleman. He
wants to marry his daughter to a trader,
does he - a clinker of worthless coin? He
wants to make her unhappy for the rest of
her life.
SIRENA. No, anything rather than that!
Remember - you are her mother and this
is the time for you to interpose your authority.
WIFE OF POLICHINELLE. Look! He has
spoken to him and the cavalier drops
Silvia's hand and retires, hanging his head.
LAURA. And now Signor Polichinelle is
attacking your daughter!
SIRENA. Come! Come! Such conduct
cannot be tolerated in my house.
RISELA. Signora Polichinelle, in spite of
your riches you are an unfortunate woman.




626


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


WIFE OF POLICHINELLE. Would you believe it, he even forgets himself so far
sometimes as to turn upon me?
LAURA. Is it possible? And are you a
woman to submit to that?
WIFE OF POLICHINELLE. He makes it up
afterward by giving me a handsome present.
SIRENA. Well, there are husbands of
my acquaintance who never even think of
making up....         [They all go out.]
[LEANDER and CRISPIN enter.]
CRISPIN. What is this sadness, this dejection? I expected to find you in better
spirits.
LEANDER. I was never unfortunate till
now; at least it never mattered to me
whether or not I was unfortunate. Let us
fly, Crispin, let us fly from this city before
any one can discover us and find out who
we are.
CRISPIN. If we fly it will be after every
one has discovered us and they are running
after us to detain us and bring us back
in spite of ourselves. It would be most
discourteous to depart with such scant
ceremony without bidding our attentive
friends good-by.
LEANDER. Do not jest, Crispin; I am in
despair.
CRISPIN. So you are. And just when
our hopes are under fullest sail.
LEANDER. What could you expect?
You wanted me to pretend to be in love,
but I have not been able to pretend it.
CRISPIN. Why not?
LEANDER. Because I love - I love in
spirit and in truth!
CRISPIN. Silvia? Is that what you are
complaining about?
LEANDER. I never believed it possible a
man could love like this. I never believed
that I could ever love. Through all my
wandering life along the dusty roads, I was
not only the one who passed, I was the one
who fled, the enemy of the harvest and the
field, the enemy of man, enemy of sunshine
and the day. Sometimes the fruit of the
wayside tree, stolen, not given, left some
savor of joy on my parched lips, and sometimes, after many a bitter day, resting at


night beneath the stars, the calm repose of
heaven would invite and soothe me to a.dream of something that might be in my
life like that calm night sky, brooding infinite over my soul - serene! And so tonight, in the enchantment of this fete, it
seemed to me as if there had come a calm, a
peace into my life - and I was dreaming!
Ah! How I did dream! But to-morrow it
will be again the bitter flight with justice
at our heels, and I cannot bear that they
should take me here where she is, and where
she may ever have cause to be ashamed at
having known me.
CRISPIN. Why, I thought that you had
been received with favor! And I was not
the only one who noticed it. Dofia Sirena
and our good friends, the Captain and the
poet, have been most eloquent in your
praises. To that rare excellent mother, the
Wife of Polichinelle, who thinks of nothing
but how she can relate herself by marriage
to some nobleman, you have seemed the
son-in-law of her dreams. As for Signor
Polichinelle...
LEANDER. He knows... he suspects....
CRISPIN. Naturally. It is not so easy to
deceive Signor Polichinelle as it is an ordinary man. An old fox like him has to be
cheated truthfully. I decided that the best
thing for us to do was to tell him everything.
LEANDER. How so?
CRISPIN. Obviously. He knows me of
old. When I told him that you were my
master, he rightly supposed that the master must be worthy of the man. And upon
my part, in appreciation of his confidence,
I warned him not to permit you under any
circumstances to come near to or speak
with his daughter.
LEANDER. You did? Then what have I
to hope?
CRISPIN. You are a fool! Why, that
Signor Polichinelle will exert all his authority to prevent you from meeting her.
LEANDER. I do not understand.
CRISPIN. In that way he will become
our most powerful ally, for if he opposes it,
that will be enough to make his wife take
the opposite side, and the daughter will
fall in love with you madly. You have no




THE BONDS OF INTEREST


627


idea what a young and beautiful daughter
of a rich father, who has been brought up
to the gratification of her every whim, can
do when she finds out for the first time in
her life that somebody is opposing her
wishes. I am certain that this very night,
before the fete is over, she will find some
way of eluding the vigilance of her father
at whatever cost, and return to speak with
you.
LEANDER. But can't you see that Signor
Polichinelle is nothing to me, no, nor the
wide world either? It is she, only she! It
is to her that I am unwilling to appear unworthy or mean, it is to her - to her that I
cannot lie.
CRISPIN. Bah! Enough of this nonsense! Don't tell me that. It is too late to
draw back. Think what will happen if we
vacillate now and hesitate in going on.
You say that you have fallen in love? Well,
this real love will serve us better than if it
were put on. Otherwise you would have
wanted to get through with it too quickly.
If insolence and effrontery are the only
qualities which are of use elsewhere, in love
a faint suggestion of timidity is of advantage to a man. Timidity in a man always
makes the woman bolder. If you don't believe it, here is the innocent Silvia now,
skulking in the shadows and only waiting
for a chance to come near until I retire or
am concealed.
LEANDER. Silvia, do you say?
CRISPIN. Hush! You may frighten her.
When she is with you, remember, discretion - only a few words, very few. Adore
her, admire her, contemplate her, and let
the enchantment of this night of pallid
blue speak for you, propitious as it is to
love, and whisper to her in the music
whose soft notes die away amid the foliage
and fall upon our ears like sad overtones of
this festival of joy.
LEANDER. Do not trifle, Crispin! Do
not trifle with my love! It will be my
death.
CRISPIN. Why should I trifle with it?
I know, too, it is not always well to grovel
on the ground. Sometimes we must soar
and mount up into the sky better to dominate the earth. Mount now and soar

and I will grovel still. The world lies in our
hands!          [He goes out to the right.]
[SILVIA enters.]
LEANDER. Silvia!
SILVIA. IS it you? You must pardon
me. I did not expect to find you here.
LEANDER. I fly from the festival. I am
saddened by this joy.
SILVIA. What? You, too?
LEANDER. Too, do you say? Does joy
sadden you, too?
SILVIA. My father is angry with me.
He never spoke to me like this before.
And he was discourteous to you. Will you
forgive him?
LEANDER. Yes. I forgive him everything. But you must not make him angry
upon my account. Return to the company. They will be looking for you. If
they find you here with me...
SILVIA. You are right. But you must
come, too. Why should you be so sad?
LEANDER. No, I must slip away without
anybody seeing me, without their knowing
I am gone. I must go far away.
SILVIA. What? But you have important
business in the city. I know you have....
You will have to stay a long, long time.
LEANDER. No, no! Not another day,
not another hour!
SILVIA. But then... You have not
lied to me?
LEANDER. Lied? No! Don't say that I
have lied! No; this is the one truth of my
whole life - this dream from which there
should be no awakening!
[The music of a song is heard in the
distance, continuing until the
curtain falls. I
SILVIA. It is Harlequin, singing....
What is the matter? You are crying. Is it
the music which makes you cry? Why will
you not tell me what it is that makes you
cry?
LEANDER. What makes me cry? The
song will tell you. Listen to ttie song!
SILVIA. We can hear only the music; the
words are lost, it is so far away. But don't
you know it? It is a song to the silence of
the night. It is called the "Kingdom of the
Soul," You must know it.




628


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


LEANDER. Say it over to me.
SILVIA:
The amorous night above the silent lover
Across the blue heaven spreads a nuptial
veil.
The night has strewn its diamonds on the
cover
Of a moonlit sky in drowsy August pale.
The garden in the shade now knows no
color,
Deep in the shadow of its obscurity
Lightly the leaflets flutter, sweetly smells
the flower,
And love broods there in silent sympathy.
You voices which sigh, you voices which
sing,
You voices which whisper sweet phrases of
love,
Intruders you are and a blasphemous
thing,
Like an oath at night-tide in a prayer sped
above.
Great Spirit of Silence, whom I adore,
There is in your silence the ineffable voice
Of those who have died loving in silence of
yore,
Of those who were silent and died of their
love;
Of those in their lives whose great love was
such
They were unable to tell it, their love was
so much!
Yours are the voices which nightly I hear,
Whispers of love and eternity near.
Mother of my soul, the light of this star,
Is it not the light of your eyes,
Which, like a drop of God's blood,
Trembles in the night
And fades at sunrise?
Tell him whom I love, I never shall love
More than him on the earth,
And when he fades away, light of my
eyes,
I shall kiss at sunrise
But the light of thy star!
LEANDER:
Mother of my soul, I never have loved
More than you on the earth.
And when you fade away, light of my
eyes,


I shall kiss at sunrise
The light of thy star.
[They remain in silence, embracing
and gazing into each other's eyes.]
CRISPIN. [Who appears at the right - to
himself.]
Poesy and night and madness of the
lover...
All has to serve us that to our net shall
come.
The victory is sure! Courage, charge and
over!
Who shall overcome us when love beats
the drum?
[SILVIA and LEANDER move slowly
off to the right, locked in each
other's arms. CRISPIN follows
them in silence, without being
seen. Slowly the
CURTAIN DESCENDS]
THE THIRD ACT
A room in LEANDER'S house.
[CRISPIN, the CAPTAIN, and HARLEQUIN
enter from the right.]
CRISPIN. Enter, gentlemen, and be
seated. Will you take something? Let me
give orders to have it brought. Hello
there! Ho!
CAPTAIN. No! By no means! We can
accept nothing.
HARLEQUIN. We came merely to offer
our services to your master after what we
have just heard.
CRISPIN. Incredible treachery, which,
believe me, shall not be suffered to remain
unpunished! I promise you if Signor.Polichinelle ever puts himself within the reach
of my hands 
HARLEQUIN. Ah! Now you see what an
advantage is possessed by us poets! I
have him always within the reach of my
verses. Oh! What a terrible satire I am
thinking of writing against him! The cutthroat! Old reprobate!
CAPTAIN. But you say your master was
not so much as even wounded?
CRISPIN. It might have killed him just
the same. Imagine! Set upon by a dozen




THE BONDS OF INTEREST


629


ruffians absolutely without warning....
Thanks, though, to his bravery, to his skill,
to my cries...
HARLEQUIN. Do you say that it happened at night as your master was talking
to Silvia over the wall of her garden?
CRISPIN. Naturally, my master had already been advised of what might happen.
But you know what sort of man he is. He
is not a person to be deterred by anything.
CAPTAIN. He ought to have notified us,
however.
HARLEQUIN. He ought, certainly, to
have notified the Captain. He would have
been delighted to have lent his aid.
CRISPIN. You know what my master is.
He is a host in himself.
CAPTAIN. But you say that he caught
one of the ruffians by the nape of the neck,
and the rascal confessed that it had all
been planned and arranged by Signor Polichinelle beforehand so as to rid himself of
your master?
CRISPIN. Who else could have had any
interest in it? His daughter is in love with
my master; her father wants to marry her
to suit himself. My master is opposing his
plans, and Signor Polichinelle has known
all his life how to get rid of disturbances.
Didn't he become a widower twice in a
very short time? Has n't he inherited all
that his relatives had, irrespective of age,
whether they were older or younger than he?
Everybody knows it; nobody will say that
I do him injustice. Ah! the riches of Signor
Polichinelle are an affront to our intelligence, a discouragement to honest labor.
A man like Signor Polichinelle could remain
rich only among a base and degenerate
people.
HARLEQUIN. I agree with you. I intend
to say all this in my satire - of course,
without mentioning names. Poetry does
not admit of such license.
CRISPIN. Much good, then, your satire
will do!
CAPTAIN. Leave him to me! Leave him
to me! I promise you if he once puts himself within the reach of my sword - ah!
But I am confident that he never will.
CRISPIN. My master would never consent to have an insult offered to Signor


Polichinelle. After all, he is Silvia's father.
The point is to let people in the city understand that an attempt has been made to
assassinate my master. Is that old fox to
be allowed to stifle the honest affection,
the generous passion of his daughter? It is
impossible.
HARLEQUIN. It is impossible. Love will
find a way.
CRISPIN. If my master had been some
impecunious beggar... Tell me, is n't
Signor Polichinelle the one who ought to
be congratulated that my master has condescended to fall in love with his daughter,
and is willing to accept him for his fatherin-law? - my master, who has rejected
the advances of so many damsels of high
degree; my master, for whom over four
princesses have comnitted I know not
how many absurdities! But who is here?
[Looking toward the right.] Ah, Columbine!
Come in, my beautiful Columbine! Do
not be afraid. [COLUMBINE enters from the
right.] We are all your friends, and our
mutual friendship will protect you from
our mutual admiration.
COLUMBINE. Dofia Sirena has sent me
for news of your master. It was scarcely
day when Silvia came to our house and
confided everything that had happened to
my mistress. She says that she will never
return to her father, nor leave my mistress,
unless it is to become the bride of Signor
Leander.
CRISPIN. Does she say that? 0, noble
girl! 0, constant, true-hearted lover!
HARLEQUIN. What an epithalamium I
shall write for their wedding!
COLUMBINE. Silvia is positive that
Leander is wounded. She heard the clash
of swords beneath the balcony, your cries
for help; then she fell senseless and they
found her in a swoon at daybreak. Tell me
how Signor Leander is, for she is beside
herself with anxiety to hear, and my lady
also is much distressed.
CRISPIN. Tell her that my master escaped with his life only through the unutterable power of love. Tell her that he is
dying now only from the incurable wounds
of love. Tell her that to the last... [Seeing LEANDER approach.] Ah, but here he




630


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


is himself, and he will be able to give you
later news than I.
[LEANDER enters.]
CAPTAIN. [Embracing him.] My dear,
good friend!
HARLEQUIN. [Embracing him.] My
friend and master!
COLUMBINE. Ah, Signor Leander, what
happiness! You are safe!
LEANDER. What? How did you know?
CRISPIN. Nothing else is talked about in
the city. People gather in groups in the
squares murmuring vengeance and venting
imprecations upon Signor Polichinelle.
LEANDER. What is this?
CAPTAIN. He had better not dare to
attempt your life a second time.
HARLEQUIN. He had better not dare to
attempt to arrest the true course of your
love.
COLUMBINE. It would be useless. Silvia
is in my mistress's house and she swears that
she will leave it only to become your bride.
LEANDER. Silvia in your house? But
her father...
COLUMBINE. Signor Polichinelle has all
he can do to look after himself.
CAPTAIN. What? I knew that man
would be up to something. Oh, of what
base uses money is capable!
HARLEQUIN. It is capable of everything
but love; of that it is incapable.
COLUMBINE. He tried to have you assassinated dishonorably in the dark.
CRISPIN. By twelve cutthroats. Twelve!
I counted them.
LEANDER. I n ade out only three or
four.
CRISPIN. My master will end by telling you that there was no danger so as
not to receive credit for his coolness and
his bravery - but I saw it. There were
twelve; twelve armed to the teeth, prepared to do murder. It seemed impossible
that he could escape with his life.
COLUMBINE. I must run and calm Silvia
and my mistress.
CRISPIN. Listen, Columbine. As to Silvia-would n't it be as well, perhaps, not
to calm her?
COLUMBINE. Leave that to my mistress.


Silvia is convinced that your master is
dead, and although Dofa Sirena is making
the most unheard-of efforts to console her,
it will not be long before she is here in spite
of the consequences.
CRISPIN. I ought to have known of what
your mistress was capable.
CAPTAIN. We must be going, too; there
is nothing here that we can do. The point
is to arouse the indignation of the people
against Signor Polichinelle.
HARLEQUIN. We shall stone his house;
we shall raise the whole city. Until to-day
not a single man has dared to lift his hand
against him; to-day we will all dare to do
it together. There is an uplift, a moral
earnestness in a crowd.
COLUMBINE. He will come creeping on
his knees and beg you to accept his daughter as your wife.
CRISPIN. Yes, yes, he will indeed! Run,
friends, run! The life of my master is not
secure. A man who has once made up his
mind to assassinate him is not likely to be
turned aside for a trifle.
CAPTAIN. Have no fear, my good friend.
HARLEQUIN. My friend and master!
COLUMBINE. Signor Leander!
LEANDER. Thanks to you all, my friends.
My loyal friends!
[All go out but LEANDER and
CRISPIN.]
LEANDER. What is this, Crispin? What
are you trying to do? Where do you expect
to come out with all your lies? Do you
know what I believe? You paid those
fellows yourself; it was your idea. I should
have got off badly enough among so many
if they had been in earnest.
CRISPIN. Have you the temerity to reproach me when I precipitate the fulfilment of your desires so skilfully?
LEANDER. No, Crispin, no. You know
you do not. I love Silvia. I am resolved: I
shall never win her love through deception,
come what may.
CRISPIN. YOU know very well, then,
what will come. Do you call it love to sit
down and resign yourself to losing what
you love for the sake of these quibbles of
conscience? Silvia herself would not thank
you for it.




THE BONDS OF INTEREST


631


LEANDER. What do you mean? If she
once learns who I am...
CRISPIN. By the time she finds out you
will no longer be the one that you are.
You will be her husband then, her beloved
husband, who is everything that is noble
and faithful and true, and whatever else
you like besides, or that her heart desires.
Once you are master of her heart - and
her fortune - will you not be a complete
and perfect gentleman? You will not be
like Signor Polichinelle, who, with all his
wealth which permits him so many luxuries,
has not yet been able to permit himself the
luxury of being honest. Deceit is natural
to him, but with you it was only necessity.
If you had not had me at your side you
would have starved to death before this
out of pure conscientiousness. Ah! do you
suppose that if I had thought for one moment that you were a man of another sort,
I would have been satisfied to devote your
abilities to love? No, I would have put
you into politics, and not merely the fortune of Signor Polichinelle would have
been ours, but a chastened and admiring
world. But you are not ambitious. You
will be satisfied to be happy.
LEANDER. But can't you see that no
good, no happiness, can come out of this?
If I could lie so as to make her love me
and in that way become rich, then it could
only be because I did not love. And if I
did not love, then how could I be happy?
And if I love, how can I lie?
CRISPIN. Don't lie, then. Love, love
passionately, entirely, with your whole
heart and soul. Put your love before everything else upon earth. Guard and protect
it. A lover does not lie when he keeps to
himself what he thinks might prejudice
the blind affection of his mistress.
LEANDER. These are subtleties, Crispin.
CRISPIN. Which you would have known
all about before if you had really been in
love. Love is all subtleties and the greatest
subtlety of them all is not that lovers deceive others - it is that they can so easily
deceive themselves.
LEANDER. I do not deceive myself,
Crispin. I am not one of those men who,
when they have sold their conscience,


think that they have also been able to
dispose of their intelligence as well.
CRISPIN. That is the reason I said you
would never make a good politician. You
are right. For the intelligence is the conscience of truth, and the man who parts
with that among the lies of this life is as
one who has lost himself. He is without
compass or sail. He will never be able to
find himself again, nor know himself, but
become in all his being just one more living
lie.
LEANDER. Where did you learn all these
things, Crispin?
CRISPIN. I meditated a little while in
the galleys, where this conscience of my
intelligence accused me of having been
more of a fool than a knave. If I had had
more knavery and less stupidity, instead
of rowing I might have commanded the
ship. So I swore never again to return to
the oar. You can see now what I am willing to do for your sake since I am on the
point of breaking my oath.
LEANDER. In what way?
CRISPIN. Our situation has become desperate. We have exhausted our credit, and
our dupes begin to demand something more
substantial than talk: the innkeeper who
entertained us so long vith such munificence, expecting that you would receive
your remittances; Signor Pantaloon, who,
hearing of the credit extended by the innkeeper, advanced us whatever was necessary to install us sumptuously in this house;
tradesmen of every description, who did
not hesitate to provide us with every luxury, dazzled by such display; Dofia Sirena
herself, who has lent us her invaluable
good offices in your love affair -they
have all only asked what was reasonable;
it would be unjust to expect more of them
or to complain of such delightful people.
The name of this fair city shall ever be
engraven upon my heart in letters of gold.
From this hour I claim it as my adopted
mother! But more than this, have you
forgotten that they have been searching
for us in other parts and following on our
heels? Can it be that all those glorious
exploits of Mantua and Florence have
been forgotten? Don't you recall that




632


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


famous lawsuit in Bologna? Three thousand two hundred pages of testimony already admitted against us before we withdrew in alarm at the sight of such prodigious expansive ability! Do you imagine
that it has not continued to grow under
the pen of that learned doctor and jurist,
who has taken it under his wing? How
many whereases and therefores must there
now be therefore, whereas they are all
there for no good? Do you still doubt? Do
you still hesitate and reprove me because
I give the battle to-day which is to decide
our fate forever at a single blow?
LEANDER. Let us fly!
CRISPIN. No! Let the despairing fly!
This day decides. We challenge fortune. I
have given you love; give me life!
LEANDER. But how can we save ourselves? What can I do? Tell me.
CRISPIN. Nothing yet. It will be enough
to accept what others offer. We have
intertwined ourselves with the interests of
many, and the bonds of interest will prove
our salvation.
[DORA SIRENA enters.]
SIRENA. Have I your permission, Signor
Leander?
LEANDER. Dofia Sirena! What? You in
my house?
SIRENA. I am conscious of the risk I
am running - the gossip of evil tongues.
What? Dofia Sirena in the house of a
young and gallant gentleman?
CRISPIN. My master will know how to
avoid all cause of scandal, if any indeed
could attach to your name.
SIRENA. Your master? I would not
trust him. Men are so boastful! But it is
idle to anticipate. What, sir, is this talk
about an attempt to kill you last night? I
have not heard another thing since I got
up in the morning. And Silvia! The poor
child! How she loves you! I would give a
great deal to know what it was that you
did to make her fall in love with you like that.
CRISPIN. My master feels that it was
what you did. He owes it all to you.
SIRENA. I should be the last one to deny
that he owes me anything. I have always
tried to speak well of him - a thing I had


no right to do, not knowing him sufficiently.
I have gone to great lengths in his service.
Now if you are false to your promise...
CRISPIN. You do not doubt my master?
Have you not the papers signed in his own
hand?
SIRENA. The hand is a good one and so
is the name. I don't bother about them. I
know what it is to trust, and I know that
Signor Leander will pay me what he owes.
But to-day has been a bitter day for me,
and if you could let me have to-day onehalf of what you have promised, I would
willingly forego the other half.
CRISPIN. To-day, do you say?
SIRENA. A day of tribulation! And
what makes it worse, it is twenty years
ago to-day that my second husband died,
who was my first - yes, my only love.
CRISPIN. May he rest in peace with all
the honors of the first!
SIRENA. The first was forced upon me
by my father. I never loved him, but in
spite of it he insisted upon being faithful
to me.
CRISPIN. What knowledge you have of
men, Dofa Sirena!
SIRENA. But let us leave these recollections, which are depressing, and turn to
hope. Would you believe it? Silvia insisted
upon coming with me.
LEANDER. Here? To this house?
SIRENA. Where do you suppose it was
that she insisted upon coming? What do
you say to that? What would Signor Polichinelle say? With all the city roused
against him, there would be nothing for
him to do but to have you marry.
LEANDER. No, no! Don't let her
come....
CRISPIN. Hush! You know my master
has a way of not saying what he means.
SIRENA. I know. What would he give
to see Silvia at his side, never to be separated from him more?
CRISPIN. What would he give? You
don't know what he would give!
SIRENA. That is the reason I ask.
CRISPIN. Ah, Dofia Sirena! If my master becomes the husband of Silvia to-day,
to-day he will pay you everything that he
has promised you.




THE BONDS OF INTEREST


633


SIRENA. And if he does not?
CRISPIN. Then you lose everything.
Suit yourself.
LEANDER. Silence, Crispin, silence!
Enough! I cannot submit to have my love
treated as a bargain. Go, Dofia Sirena!
Say to Silvia that she must return to her
father's house, that under no circumstances
is she ever to enter mine; that she must
forget me forever. I shall fly and hide myself in the desert places of the earth, where
no man shall see me, no, nor so much as
know my name. My name? I wonder -
have I a name?
CRISPIN. Will you be silent?
SIRENA. What is the matter with him?
What paroxysm is this? Return to your
senses! Come to your proper mind! How?
Renounce so glorious an enterprise for
nothing? You are not the only person who
is to be considered. Remember that there
are others who have put their confidence in
you. A lady of quality who has exposed
herself for your sake is not to be betrayed
with impunity. You will do no such thing.
You will not be so foolish. You will marry
Silvia or there will be one who will find a
way to bring you to a reckoning for all
your impostures. I am not so defenseless in
the world as you may think, Signor Leander.
CRISPIN. Dofa Sirena is right. But believe me, this fit of my master's - he is
offended by your reproaches, your want of
confidence.
SIRENA. I don't want confidence in your
master. And I might as well say it - I
don't want confidence in Signor Polichinelle. He is not a man to be trifled with,
either. After the outcry which you raised
against him by your stratagem of last
night -
CRISPIN. Stratagem, did you say?
SIRENA. Bah! Everybody knows it.
One of the rascals was a relative of mine,
and among the others I had connections.
Very well, sirs, very well! Signor Polichinelle has not been asleep. It is said in the
city that he has given information as to
who you are to Justice, and on what
grounds you may be apprehended. It is
said that a process has arrived to-day from
Bologna

CRISPIN. And a devil of a doctor with
it? Three thousand nine hundred folios...
SIRENA. So it is said and on good authority. You see that there is no time to lose.
CRISPIN. Who is losing and who is
wasting time but you? Return, return at
once to your house! Say to Silvia -
SIRENA. Silvia? Silvia is here. She
came along with me and Columbine as one
of the attendants in my train. She is waiting in the antechamber. I told her that you
were wounded horribly.
LEANDER. Oh, my Silvia!
SIRENA. She has reconciled herself to
your death. She hopes for nothing else.
She expects nothing else. She thinks nothing of what she risks in coming here to see
you. Well? Are we friends?
CRISPIN. You are adorable! [To LEANDER.] Quick! Lie down here. Stretch
yourself out in this chair. Seem sick, suffer,
faint - be downhearted. And remember,
if I am not satisfied with the appearance,
I will substitute the reality!
[Threatening him and forcing him
into a chair.]
LEANDER. Yes, I am in your power! I
see it, I know it! But Silvia shall never be!
Yes, let me see her. Tell her to come in. I
shall save her in spite of you, in spite of
everything, in spite even of herself!
CRISPIN. You know my master has a
way of not meaning what he says.
SIRENA. I never thought him such a
fool. Come with me.
[She goes out with CRISPIN.]
[SILVIA enters.]
LEANDER. Silvia! My Silvia!
SILVIA. But are n't you wounded?
LEANDER. No, don't you see? It was a
lie, another lie to bring you here. But
don't be afraid. Your father will come
soon; soon you will leave this house with
him without having any cause to reproach
me.... Ah! None but that I have disturbed the serenity of your soul with an
illusion of love which will be to you in the
future no more than the remembrance of
a dark and evil dream!
SILvIA. But Leander? Then your love
was not real?




634


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


LEANDER. My love was, yes. That is
why I could not deceive you. Leave this
place at once - before any but those who
brought you here discover that you came.
SILVIA. What are you afraid of? Am I
not safe in your house? I was not afraid to
come. What harm can happen to me at
your side?
LEANDER. You are right. None! My
love will protect you even from your innocence.
SILVIA. I can never go back to my
father's house —not after the horrible
thing which he did last night.
LEANDER. No, Silvia, do not blame your
father. It was not his fault; it was another
deception, another lie. Fly from me; forget
this miserable adventurer, this nameless
outcast, a fugitive from justice....
SILVIA. No, it is n't true. No! It is the
conduct of my father which makes me unworthy of your love. That is what it is. I
see it all now. I understand. Ay, for me!
LEANDER. Silvia! My Silvia! How cruel
your sweet words are! How cruel this
noble confidence of your heart, so innocent of evil and of life!
[CRISPIN enters, running.]
CRISPIN. Master! Master! Signor Polichinelle is coming!
SILVIA. My father!
LEANDER. It does n't matter. I shall
lead you to him with my own hand.
CRISPIN. But he is not coming alone.
There is a great crowd with him; the officers
of justice....
LEANDER. What? Ah! If they should
find you here? In my house! [To CRISPIN.]
I see it all now. You have told them. But
you shall not succeed in your design!
CRISPIN. I? No. Certainly not! For
this time this is in earnest and nothing can
save us now.
LEANDER. No, not us. Nor shall I try.
But her... Yes! Hide her, conceal her!
We must secrete her here.
SILVIA. But you?
LEANDER. Have no fear. Quick! They
are on the stair. [He hides SILVIA in a room
at the rear, meanwhile saying to CRISPIN.]
See what these fellows want. On your life


let no man set his foot within this room
after I am gone!... The game is up! It
is the end for me. [He runs to the window.]
CRISPIN. [Holding him back.] Master!
Master! Hold! Control yourself. Come to
your senses. Don't throw your life away!
LEANDER. I am not throwing my life
away.... There is no escape.... I am
saving her....
[He climbs through the window and
rapidly up outside and disappears.]
CRISPIN. Master! Master! H'm! Not
so bad after all. I thought he was going to
dash himself to pieces on the ground. Instead he has climbed higher.... There is
hope yet - he may yet learn to fly. It is
his region, the clouds.... Now I to mine,
the firm ground. And more need than ever
that I should make certain that it is solid
beneath my feet.
[He seats himself complacently in
an armchair.]
POLICHINELLE. [Without, to those who are
with him.] Guard the doors! Let no man
escape! No, nor woman either.... Nor
dog nor cat!
INNKEEPER. Where are they? Where
are these bandits? These assassins?
PANTALOON.    Justice!  Justice!  My
money! My money!
[SIGNOR POLICHINELLE, the INNKEEPER,
SIGNOR PANTALOON, the CAPTAIN,
HARLEQUIN, the DOCTOR, the SECRETARY, and two CONSTABLES enter,
bearing in their arms enormous scrolls
and protocols, or papers of the suit. All
enter from the right in the order named.
The DOCTOR and the SECRETARY pass
at once to the table and prepare to take
testimony. Such rolls and papers as
cannot be accommodated upon the table
the two CONSTABLES retain in their
hands, remaining standing for that
purpose at the rear.]
CAPTAIN. But can this be possible,
Crispin?
HARLEQUIN. Is it possible that such a
thing can be?
PANTALOON.    Justice!  Justice!  My
money! My money!




THE BONDS OF INTEREST


635


INNKEEPER. Seize them! Put them in
irons!
PANTALOON. Don't let them   escape!
Don't let them escape!
CRISPIN. What? How is this? Who
dares to desecrate with impious clamor the
house of a gentleman and a cavalier? Oh,
you may congratulate yourselves that my
master is not at home!
PANTALOON. Silence! Silence! For you
are his accomplice and you will be held to
answer to the same reckoning as he.
INNKEEPER. Accomplice, did you say?
As guilty as his pretended master!- for
he was the one who deceived me.
CAPTAIN. What is the meaning of this,
Crispin?
HARLEQUIN. IS there any truth in what
these people say?
POLICHINELLE. What have you to say
for yourself now, Crispin? You thought
you were a clever rogue to cut up your
capers with me. I tried to murder your
master, did I? I am an old miser who is
battening on his daughter's heart? All the
city is stirred up against me, is it, heaping
me with insults? Well, we shall see.
PANTALOON. Leave him to us, Signor
Polichinelle, for this is our affair. After
all, you have lost nothing. But I - all my
wealth which I lent him without security.
I am ruined for the rest of my life. What
will become of me?
INNKEEPER. What will become of me,
tell me that, when I spent what I never
had and even ran into debt so that he
might be served —as I thought —in a
manner befitting his station? It was my
destruction, my ruin.
CAPTAIN. We too were horribly deceived. What will be said of me when it is
known that I have put my sword at the
disposition of an adventurer?
HARLEQUIN. And of me, when I have dedicated sonnet after sonnet to his praise, just
as if he had been any ordinary gentleman?
POLICHINELLE. Ha! Ha! Ha!
PANTALOON. Yes, laugh, laugh, that is
right. You have lost nothing.
INNKEEPER. Nobody robbed you.
PANTALOON.   To work! To work!
Where is the other villain?


INNKEEPER. Better see what there is in
the house first.
CRISPIN. Slowly, slowly, gentlemen. If
you advance one other step -
[Threatening them with his sword.]
PANTALOON. What? You threaten us?
Again? Is such a thing to be endured?
Justice! Justice!
INNKEEPER. Yes, justice!
DOCTOR. Gentlemen, unless you listen
to me we shall get nowhere. No man may
take justice into his own hands, inasmuch
as justice is not haste ncr oppression nor
vengeance nor act of malice. Summum jus,
summum injuria; the more wrong, the more
justice. Justice is all wisdom, and wisdom
is all order, and order is all reason, and
reason is all procedure, and procedure is all
logic. Barbara, Celarent, Darii, Ferio,
Baralipton, deposit all your wrongs and all
your disputations with me, for if they are
to be of any validity they must all form a
part of this process which I have brought
in these protocols with me.
CRISPIN. The devil, you say! Has n't
it grown enough already?
DOCTOR. Herein are set down and inscribed divers other offenses of these defendants, whereunto must be added and
conjoined each and every one of those of
which you may accuse them now. And I
must be the advocate in all of them, for
that is the only way in which it will be
possible for you to obtain satisfaction and
justice. Write, Signor Secretary, and let
the said complainants depose.
PANTALOON. It might be better to settle our differences among ourselves. You
know what justice is.
INNKEEPER. Write nothing. It will only
be making the white black, and in the end
we shall be left without our money and
these rogues without punishment.
PANTALOON. Exactly. My money! My
money! And justice afterward.
DOCTOR. You unlearned, you uncivil,
you ignorant generation! What do you
know of justice? It is not enough for you
to say that you have suffered a wrong, unless there be plainly apparent therein an
intention to make you suffer that wrong;
that is to say, fraud or deceit, which are




636


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


not the same, although they are confounded
in the popular acceptation. But I say unto
you that only in the single case -
PANTALOON. Enough! Enough! You
will end by telling us that we are the guilty
ones.
DOCTOR. What else am I to think when
you persist in denying such a plain and
obvious fact?
INNKEEPER. I like that. Good! We
were robbed. Do you want any plainer or
more obvious fact?
DOCTOR. Know, then, that robbery is
not the same as theft, much less is it the
same as fraud or deceit, which again are
not the same as aforesaid. From the laws
of the Twelve Tables down to Justinian, to
Tribonian, to Emilian, to Triberian...
PANTALOON. We shall be cheated out
of our money. There is no one who can
reason me out of that.
POLICHINELLE. The Signor Doctor is
right. We can safely leave the matter to
him and everything will be attended to in
the process.
DOCTOR. Then write, Signor Secretary,
write.
CRISPIN. Will any one listen to me?
PANTALOON. No one, no one. Let that
rascal be quiet! Silence for that villain!
INNKEEPER. You will have a chance to
talk soon enough when you don't want
to.
DOCTOR. He will speak at the proper
moment, for justice requires that everybody should be afforded an opportunity to
talk. Write, write: In the city of... in
the matter of... But it would certainly
not be amiss if we proceeded first to an inventory of whatever there is in the house.
CRISPIN. [Before the door.] It certainly
would be a miss....
DOCTOR. Thence to progress to the deposit of security on the part of the complainants, so that there may be no question as to their good faith when they assert
that they have suffered a loss. Two thousand crowns will be sufficient from each of
you, to be secured by guarantees upon all
your goods and chattels.
PANTALOON. What is that? Two thousand crowns from us?


DOCTOR. I ought to make it eight; however, as you are persons of responsibility,
I take that fact into account. I allow nothing to escape me.
INNKEEPER. Hold! And write no more!
We cannot submit to this.
DOCTOR. What? Do you threaten justice? Open a separate process for battery
and the hand of violence raised against an
officer of the law in full performance of his
duties.
PANTALOON. This man will be the ruin
of us.
INNKEEPER. He is mad.
DOCTOR. What? Do you call me a man
and mad? Speak with more respect. Write!
Write! Open two more counts. There was
also an assault by word of mouth....
CRISPIN. Now see what you have done
through not listening to me.
PANTALOON. Talk, talk, for heaven's
sake! Talk! Anything would be better
than what is happening to us now.
CRISPIN. Then shut off this fellow, for
the love of mercy! He is raising up a
mountain with his protocols.
PANTALOON. Stop! Stop, I say!
INNKEEPER. Put down that pen!
DOCTOR. Let no man dare to raise his
hand.
CRISPIN. Signor Captain, then lend us
your sword. It also is the instrument of
justice.
CAPTAIN. [Going up to the table and delivering a tremendous blow with his sword
upon the papers on which the DOCTOR is engaged.] Have the kindness to desist.
DOCTOR. You see how ready I am to
comply with a reasonable request. Suspend
the actions. [They stop writing.] There is a
previous question to be adjudged. The
parties dispute among themselves. Nevertheless it will be proper to proceed with the
inventory...
PANTALOON. No! No!
DOCTOR. It is a formality which cannot
be waived.
CRISPIN. I don't think it would be
proper. When the proper time comes you
can write as much as you like. But let me
have permission first to speak for a moment
with these honorable gentlemen.




THE BONDS OF INTEREST


637


DOCTOR. If you wish to have what you
are about to say recorded as testimony...
CRISPIN. No! By no means. Not a
single word, or I shall not open my
mouth.
CAPTAIN. Better let the fellow talk.
CRISPIN. What shall I say? What are
you complaining about? That you have
lost your money? What do you want? To
get it back?
PANTALOON. Exactly! Exactly! My
money!
INNKEEPER. Our money!
CRISPIN. Then listen to me. Where do
you suppose that it is coming from when
you insist upon destroying the credit of my
master in this fashion, and so make his
marriage with the daughter of Signor
Polichinelle impossible? Name of Mars!
I had rather deal with a thousand knaves
than one fool. See what you have done
now and how you will be obliged to compound with justice for a half share of what
we owe you - I say owe you. How will
you be any better off if you succeed in
sending us to the galleys or to some worse
place? Will it put money in your pockets
to collect the welts on our skins? Will you
be richer or nobler or more powerful because we are ruined? On the other hand, if
you had not interrupted us at such an inopportune moment, to-day, this very day,
you would have received your money with
interest, which God knows is enough to
send you all to hang on the gallows to remain suspended forever, if justice were not
in these hands - and these pens. Now do
as you see fit; I have told you what you
ought to do.
DOCTOR. They will remain suspended
until further notice.
CAPTAIN. I would never have believed
it possible that their crimes could have
been so great.
POLICHINELLE. That Crispin.... He will
be capable of convincing them.
PANTALOON. [To the INNKEEPER.] What
do you think of this? Looking at it
calmly....
INNKEEPER. What do you think?
PANTALOON. YOU say that your master
was to have married the daughter of Signor


Polichinelle to-day? But suppose he refuses to give his consent?
CRISPIN. What good would that do
him? His daughter has run away with my
master. All the world will soon know it.
It is more important to him than it is to
any one else not to have it known that his
daughter has thrown herself away upon
a rapscallion, a man without character, a
fugitive from justice.
PANTALOON. Suppose this should turn
out to be true? What do you think?
INNKEEPER. Better not weaken. The
rogue breathes deceit. He is a master.
PANTALOON. You are right. No one can
tell how far to believe him. Justice! Justice!
CRISPIN. I warn you - you lose everything!
PANTALOON. Wait!... just a moment.
We will see. A word with you, Signor
Polichinelle.
POLICHINELLE. What do you want with
me?
PANTALOON. Suppose that we had made
a mistake in this complaint. Suppose that
Signor Leander should turn out to be, after
all, a noble, virtuous gentleman, incapable
of the slightest dishonest thought....
POLICHINELLE. What is that? Say that
again.
PANTALOON. Suppose that your daughter was in love with him madly, passionately, even to the point where she had run
away with him from your house?
POLICHINELLE. My daughter run away
from my house with that man? Who says
so? Show me the villain! Where is he?
PANTALOON. Don't get excited. It is
only in supposition.
POLICHINELLE. Well, sir, I shall not
tolerate it even in supposition.
PANTALOON. Try to listen more calmly.
Suppose all this should have happened.
Would n't the best thing for you to do be
to let them marry?
POLICHINELLE. Marry? I would see
them dead first. But it is useless to consider it. I see what you want. You are
scheming to recoup yourselves at my expense, you are such rogues yourselves. But
it shall not be! It shall not be!




638


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


PANTALOON. Take care! We had better
not talk about rogues while you are present.
INNKEEPER. Hear! Hear!
POLICHINELLE. Rogues, rogues! - conspiring to impoverish me. But it shall not
be! It shall not be!
DOCTOR. Have no fear, Signor Polichinelle. Even though they should be dissuaded and abandon their design, do you
suppose that this process will amount to
nothing? Do you imagine that one line of
what is written in it can ever be blotted
out, though two and fifty crimes be alleged
therein and proved against them, besides
as many more which require no proof?
PANTALOON. What do you say now,
Crispin?
CRISPIN. That though all those crimes
were proved three times and those that require no proof yet three times more than
the others, you would still be losing your
money and wasting your time, for we cannot pay what we do not have.
DOCTOR. Not at all. That is not good
law. For I have to be paid, whatever
happens.
CRISPIN. Then the complainants will
have to pay you. We shall have more than
we can do to pay our offenses with our backs.
DOCTOR. The rights of justice are inviolable, and the first of them is to attach
in its interest whatever there is in this
house.
PANTALOON. But what good will that
do us? How shall we get anything?
INNKEEPER. Of course not! Don't you
see?
DOCTOR. Write, write, for if we were to
talk forever we should never arrive at a
conclusion which would be more satisfactory.
PANTALOON AND INNKEEPER. No! No!
Not a word! Not a word!
CRISPIN. Hear me, first, Signor Doctor!
In your ear.... Suppose you were to be
paid at once, on the spot and without the
trouble of all this writing, your... what
is it that you call them? -crumbs of
justice?
DOCTOR. Perquisites of the law.
CRISPIN. Have it your own way. What
would you say to that?


DOCTOR. Why, in that case...
CRISPIN. Listen:- my master will be
rich to-day, influential, if Signor Polichinelle consents to his marrying his daughter. Remember that the young lady is the
only child of Signor Polichinelle; remember
that my master will be master indeed not
only of her... Remember....
DOCTOR. H'm! It certainly does deserve to be remembered.
PANTALOON. [To CRISPIN.] What does
he say?
INNKEEPER. What are you going to do?
DOCTOR. Let me consider. That fellow
clearly is not thick-witted. It is easy to see
that he is acquainted with legal precedent.
For if we remember that the wrong which
has been done was purely a pecuniary one,
and that every wrong which can be redressed in kind suffers in the reparation the
most fitting punishment; if we reflect that
in the barbaric and primitive law of vengeance it was written: an eye for an eye and
a tooth for a tooth, but not a tooth for an
eye nor an eye for a tooth, so in the present
instance it might be argued a crown for a
crown and money for money. He has not
taken your lives. Why not? The fact is
evidence that he did not wish you to take
his in return. He has not insulted your
persons, impugned your honor, your reputations. Why not? Plainly because he was
not willing to submit to a like indignity
from you. Equity is the supremest justice.
Equitas justiciam magna est. And from the
Pandects to Tribonian, including Emilianus Tribonianus....
PANTALOON. Include him. So long as
we get our money....
INNKEEPER. So long as he pays us....
POLICHINELLE. What is this nonsense?
How can he pay? What is the use of all
this talk?
CRISPIN. A great deal of use. As I was
saying, you are all deeply interested in
saving my master, in saving both of us, for
your own advantage, for the common good
of all. You, so as not to lose your money;
the Signor Doctor so as not to see all this
vast store of doctrine go for nothing, which
he is heaping up in those sarcophagi of
learning; the Signor Captain because




THE BONDS OF INTEREST


639


everybody knows that he was the friend of
my master, and it would not be creditable
to his valor to have it said that he had been
the dupe of an adventurer; you, Signor
Harlequin, because your poetic dithyrambs would lose all their merit as soon as
it became known with what little sense you
composed them; you, Signor Polichinelle,
my dear old friend, because your daughter
is now, in the sight of God and before man,
Signor Leander's wife.
POLICHINELLE. You lie! You lie! Impudent rascal! Cutthroat!
CRISPIN. I think then that we had better
proceed with the inventory of what there
is in the house. Write, write, and let all
these gentlemen be our witnesses. We can
begin with this apartment.
[He throws back the tapestry from the door at
the rear, and SILVIA, LEANDER, DONA
SIRENA, COLUMBINE, and the WIFE
OF POLICHINELLE appear, forming a
group.].
PANTALOON AND THE INNKEEPER. Silvia!
CAPTAIN AND HARLEQUIN. Together!
Both of them!
POLICHINELLE. IS it possible? What?
Are they all against me? My wife and
daughter, too? All, all, for my ruin?
Seize that man, these women, this impostor, or I with my own hand...
PANTALOON. Signor Polichinelle, are
you out of your head?
LEANDER. [Advancing toward the proscenium, accompanied by the others.] Your
daughter came to my house under the protection of Dofia Sirena, believing that I
was wounded; and I ran immediately in
search of your wife, so that she too might
be present with her and protect her. Silvia knows who I am, she knows the whole
story of my life of misery and wandering,
of cheats and deceptions and lies - how
it has been utterly vile; and I am sure
that no vestige of our dream of love any
longer remains in her heart. Take her away
from this place, take her away! That is
my only request before I deliver myself up
into the hands of justice.
POLICHINELLE. The punishment of my


daughter shall be my affair, but as for this
villain... Seize him, I say!
SILVIA. Father! If you do not save him
it will be my death. I love him, I shall love
him always; I love him now more than I
ever did, because his heart is noble. He has
been cruelly unfortunate; and he might
have made me his by a lie - but he would
not lie.
POLICHINELLE. Silence! Silence, foolish, unhappy girl! This is the result of the
bringing up of your mother, of her vanity,
her hallucinations, of all your romantic
reading, your music to the light of the
moon.
WIFE OF POLICHINELLE. Anything would
be preferable to having my daughter marry
a man like you, to be unhappy afterward
all the rest of her life, like her mother. Of
what use are my riches to me?
SIRENA. You are right, Signora Polichinelle. Of what use are riches without
love?
COLUMBINE. The same use as love without riches.
DOCTOR. Signor Polichinelle, under the
circumstances, the only thing for you to do
is to let them marry.
PANTALOON. Or there will be a scandal
in the city.
INNKEEPER. And everybody will be on
his side.
CAPTAIN. And we can never consent to
have you use force against your daughter.
DOCTOR. It will have to stand in the
process that they were surprised here together.
CRISPIN. And after all the only trouble
with my master was that he had no money;
no one could outdo him irL nobility of character; your grandchildren will be gentlemen - even if that quality does not extend up to the grandfather.
ALL. Let them marry! Let them marry!
PANTALOON. Or we will all turn upon
you.
INNKEEPER. And your history will be
brought to light - the secret story of your
life....
HARLEQUIN. And you will gain nothing
by that.
SIRENA. A lady begs it of you on her




640


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


knees, moved to tears by the spectacle of a
love so unusual in these days.
COLUMBINE. Which seems more like
love in a story.
ALL. Let them marry! Let them marry!
POLICHINELLE. Yes! let them marry in
an evil hour. My daughter shall be cut off
without dowry and without inheritance. I
will ruin my estate rather than that this
reprobate...
DOCTOR. You certainly will not do anything of the kind, Signor Polichinelle.
PANTALOON. Who ever heard of such
nonsense?
INNKEEPER. I should n't think of it for a
moment.
HARLEQUIN. What would people say?
CAPTAIN. We could never consent to it.
SILVIA. No, my dear father, I am the
one who cannot accept anything. I am the
one who must share the poverty of his fate.
I love him so.
LEANDER. That is the only condition
upon which I can accept your love.
[All run toward SILVIA and LEANDER.]
DOCTOR. What do you say? Are you
crazy?
PANTALOON. Preposterous! Absurd!
INNKEEPER. You are going to accept
everything.
HARLEQUIN. You will be happy and you
will be rich.
WIFE OF POLICHINELLE. What? My
daughter in poverty? Is this wretch the
hangman?
SIRENA. Remember that love is a delicate
babe and able to endure but fewprivations.
DOCTOR. It is clearly illegal. Signor
Polichinelle, you will sign a munificent
donation immediately as befits a person of
your dignity and importance, who is a kind
and loving father. Write, write, Signor
Secretary, for this is something to which
nobody will object.
ALL. [Except POLICHINELLE.] Write!
Write!
DOCTOR. And you, my dear, my innocent young lovers, resign yourselves to
riches. You have no right to carry your
prejudices to an extreme at which they become offensive to others.


PANTALOON. [To CRISPIN.] Now will
you pay us?
CRISPIN. Do you doubt it? But you
will have to swear first that Signor Leander
never owed you anything. See how he is
sacrificing himself upon your account, accepting this money which is repugnant to
him.
PANTALOON. We always knew that he
was a perfect gentleman.
INNKEEPER. Always.
HARLEQUIN. We all believed it.
CAPTAIN. And we shall continue to
maintain our belief.
CRISPIN. Now, Doctor, this process...
Do you suppose there is waste space
enough anywhere in the world for it to be
thrown away upon?
DOCTOR. My foresight has provided for
everything. All that will be necessary is to
change the punctuation. For example,
here where it says: "Whereas I depose and
declare, not without due sanction of law".. take out the comma and it reads:
"Whereas I depose and declare not without due sanction of law." And here:
"Wherefore he is not without due judgment condemned"... put in a comma
and it reads: "Wherefore he is not, without
due judgment condemned."...
CRISPIN. 0 excellent comma! 0 wonderful, 0 marvellous comma! Stupendous
Genius and Miracle of Justice! Oracle of
the Law! Thou Monster of Jurisprudence!
DOCTOR. Now I can rely upon the generosity of your master.
CRISPIN. You can. Nobody knows better than you do how money will change a
man.
SECRETARY. I was the one who put in
and took out the commas.
CRISPIN. While you are waiting for
something better, pray accept this chain.
It is of gold.
SECRETARY. H'm! How many carats
fine?
CRISPIN. YOU ought to know. You
understand commas and carats.
POLICHINELLE. I impose only one condition: - that this rogue leave your service forever.
CRISPIN. That will not be necessary,




THE BONDS OF INTEREST


64I


Signor Polichinelle. Do you suppose that I
am so poor in ambition as my master?
LEANDER. What? You are not going to
leave me, Crispin? It will not be without
sorrow on my part.
CRISPIN. It will not last long. I can be
of no further use to you. With me you will
be able to lay aside your lion's skin and
your old man's wisdom. What did I tell
you, sir? Between them all we were sure to
be saved. And believe me now, when you
are getting on in the world, the ties of love
are as nothing to the bonds of interest.
LEANDER. You are wrong. For without
the love of Silvia I should never have been
saved.
CRISPIN. And is love a slight interest? I
have always given due credit to the ideal
and I count upon it always. With this the
farce ends.
SILVIA. [To the audience.] You have
seen in it how these puppets have been
moved by plain and obvious strings, like
men and women in the farces of our lives -


strings which were their interests, their
passions, and all the illusions and petty
miseries of their state. Some are pulled by
the feet to lives of restless and weary wandering; some by the hands, to toil with
pain, to struggle with bitterness, to strike
with cunning, to slay with violence and
rage. But into the hearts of all there descends sometimes from heaven an invisible
thread, as if it were woven out of the sunlight and the moonbeams, the invisible
thread of love, which makes these men and
women, as it does these puppets which
seem like men, almost divine, and brings to
our foreheads the smile and splendors of
the dawn, lends wings to our drooping
spirits, and whispers to us still that this
farce is not all a farce, that there is something noble, something divine in our lives
which is true and which is eternal, and
which shall not close when the farce of life
shall close.
CURTAIN








THE LOWER DEPTHS
SCENES FROM RUSSIAN LIFE. IN FOUR ACTS
BY MAXIM GORKI
Translated by EDWIN HOPKINS




COPYRIGHT, I906, BY E. S. HOPKINS, JR.
COPYRIGHT, I920, BY THE FOUR SEAS COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Reprinted by permission of and special arrangement with
The Four Seas Company








DRAMATIS PERSONAE
(In the order in which they first speak in the play)
A BARON, 32 years old
KVASCHNYA, a market woman, about 40
BUBNOFF, a capmaker, 45
KLESHTSCH, ANDREW MITRITCH, locksmith, 40
NASTIAH, 24
ANNA, wife of KLESHTSCH, 30
SAHTIN, 40
AN ACTOR, 40
KoSTILIOFF, MICHAEL IVANOWITCH, lodging-house keeper, 54.
PWASKAA28.
NATASHA, sister of WASSILISSA, 20
LUKA, a pilgrim, 60
ALYoSCHKA, a shoemaker, 20
WASIIa,KARPOVNA, wife of KoSTILIOFF, 26
-MBVIEDEFF, uncle Of WASSMIssA, policeman, 50
A TARTAR, 40, a porter
KRIVOI ZOBA, 40, a porter
Several nameless tramps, supernumeraries




THE LOWER DEPTHS
ACT I


A basement-room resembling a cavern.
The massive, vaulted stone ceiling is black"ned with smoke, its rough plaster in places
broken off. The light falls inwardly from
above, through a square window on the left
(of one facing the footlights). The left corner,
PEPEL'S quarter, is separated from the rest
of the room by thin partitions, against which,
extending from beneath the window towards
C. is BUBNOFF'S bunk.
In the right corner is a great Russian stove,
the rear of which is set into the wall which
arches over it, the portion of the stove which
extends into the room being an incline up
which the personages must scramble to reach
the space under the archway.
In the massive wall to the right is a door
to the kitchen, in which KVASCHNYA, the
BARON, and NASTIAH live.
Below the window, on the left, is a broad
bed with dirty cotton curtains. Slightly L. C.
(adjoining PEPEL'S room) a flight of a few
steps leads back to a platform, from which, to
'he left and behind PEPEL'S room, lead other
4eps, to an entry or hallway.
A door opens inwardly on this platform,?while to the right another flight of stairs leads
to a room R. U. E. over the stove, in which the
proprietor and his family live. The balustrade is in a bad condition and a torn rug or
quilt lies over it.
Between the stove and the short flight of
steps stands a broad low bench with four legs,
which serves as a bunk. Another such bunk
is across the front of the stove, and a third is
at the right below the door to the kitchen. Near
this is a wooden block to which is secured a
small anvil and vise. KLESHTSCH sits on a
smaller block, at work on a pair of old locks,
into which he is fitting keys. At his feet are
two bundles of keys of various sizes, strung
on wire hoops, and a damaged samovar (a
tea urn commonly used in Russia), a hammer
and some files.


In the middle of the room a great table, two
benches, and a heavy tabouret, all unpainted
and dirty. KVASCHNYA, at the table R. cleaning a samovar, acts as housekeeper, while the
BARON L. C. chews on a piece of black bread,
and NASTIAH L. sits on the tabouret, her
elbows on the table, her face in her hands,
reading a tattered book. ANNA, in bed, concealed by the curtains, is frequently heard
coughing. BUBNOFF sits, tailor fashion on
his bench, measuring off on a form which he
holds between his knees, the pieces of an old
pair of trousers which he has ripped up, cutting out caps to the best advantage. Behind
him is a smashed hatbox from which he cuts
visors, stacking the perfect ones on two nails
in the partition and throwing the useless ones
about the room. Around him are bits of oilcloth and scraps.
SAHTIN, just awakening, on the bunk before the stove, grumbles and roars. On the
stove, hidden by the left springer of the arch,
the ACTOR is heard coughing and turning.
TIME: Early Spring. Morning.
BARON. Go on.
[Desiring more of the story.]
KVASCHNYA. Never, I tell you, my
friend - take it away. I've been through
it all, I want you to know. No treasure
could tempt me to marry again.
[SAHTIN grunts at this.]
BUBNOFF. [To SAHTIN.] What are you
grunting about?
KVASCHNYA. I, a free woman, my own
boss, shall I register my name in somebody else's passport, become a man's serf,
when nobody can say "that" to me now?
Don't let me dream about it. I'll never do
it. If he were a prince from America - I
would n't have him!
KLESHTSCH. You lie.
KVASCHNYA. [Turning toward him.]
Wh-at!                      [Turns back.]




648


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


KLESHTSCH. You are lying. You are
going to marry Abram.
BARON. [Rises, takes NASTIAH'S book
and reads the title.] " Disastrous Love."
[Laughs.]
NASTIAH. [Reaches for the book.] Here!
Give it back. Now; stop your joke.
[The BARON eyes her and waves
the book in the air.]
KVASCHNYA. [To KLESHTSCH again.]
You lie, you red-headed billy goat; speaking to me like that, the nerve of it!
BARON. [Gives NASTIAH a blow on the
head with the book.] What a silly goose you
are, Nastiah.
NASTIAH. Give it here.
[Snatches the book.]
KLESHTSCH. [To KVASCHNYA.] You are
a great lady!... But just the same you'll
be Abram's wife... That is what you want.
KVASCHNYA. Certainly. [Spoken ironically.] To be sure... What else...
And you beating your wife half to death.
KLESHTSCH. [Furiously.] Hold your
tongue, old slut! What's that to you?
KVASCHNYA. [Shouting.] Ah, ha! You
can't listen to the truth!
BARON. Now, they're let loose. Nastiah, - where are you?
NASTIAH. [Without raising her head.]
What? let me alone!
ANNA. [Putting her head out of the bed
curtains.] It is dawning already. For
Heaven's sake! Stop screaming and
quarreling.
KLESHTSCH. Croaking again!
[Contemptuously.]
ANNA. Every day that God gives, you
quarrel. Let me at least die in quiet.
BUBNOFF. The noise is n't keeping you
from dying.
KVASCHNYA. [Goes to ANNA.] Tell me,
Anna dear, how have you endured such a
brute?
ANNA. Let me be! Let me -
KVASCHNYA. Now, now, you poor
martyr. Still no better with your breast?
BARON. It is time for us to go to market, Kvaschnya.
KVASCHNYA. Then let's go now. [To
ANNA.] Would you like a cup of hot
custard?


ANNA. I don't need it; thank you,
though. Why should I still eat?
KVASCHNYA. Oh, eat! Hot food is always good. It is quieting. I will put it
away for you in a cup and when your appetite comes, then eat. [To the BARON.]
Let's go, sir. [To KLESHTSCH, going around
him.] Huh! you Satan!
ANNA. [Coughing.] Oh, God!
BARON. [Jostles NASTIAH on the nape of
the neck.] Drop it... you goose.
NASTIAH. [Murmurs.] Go on. I am not
in your way.
[Turns a page. The BARON whistles in derision; crosses to R. Exit
into kitchen following KvASCHNYA.]
SAHTIN. [Gets up from his bunk.] Who
was it that beat me up yesterday?
BUBNOFF. That's all the same to you.
SAHTIN. Suppose it is. But what for?
BUBNOFF. You played cards?
SAHTIN. Played cards? Oh, so I did.
BUBNOFF. That's why.
SAHTIN. Crooks!
ACTOR. [On the stove, thrusting his head
out.] They'll kill you once, some day.
SAHTIN. You are - a blockhead I
ACTOR. Why so?
SAHTIN. They could n't kill me twice,
could they?
ACTOR. [After a short silence.] I don't
see it. - Why not?
KLESHTSCH. [Turning to him.] Crawl
down off the stove and clean the place up!
You're too finicky, anyhow.
ACTOR. That's none of your business....
KLESHTSCH. Wait!..   When Wassilissa comes she will show you whose business it is.
ACTOR. The devil take Wassilissa. The
Baron must fix things up today, it's his
turn.... Baron!
BARON. [Enters R. from kitchen.] I
have n't time. I must go to market with
Kvaschnya.
ACTOR. That's nothing to me... Go to
the devil for all I care.. but the floor
must be swept up and it's your turn....
Don't imagine that I will do somebody
else's work.




THE LOWER DEPTHS


649


BARON. [Crosses to NASTIAH.] No?
Then the deuce take you! Nastengka will
sweep up alittle. Say! You! "Disastrous
Love!" Wake up!         [Takes the book.]
NASTIAH. [Rising.] What do you want?
Give it here, you mischief maker. And
this is a nobleman!
BARON. [Gives the book back.] Nastiah! Do
a little bit of sweeping for me - will you?
NASTIAH. [Goes R. Exit R. into kitchen.]
Sure, I'm crazy to.
KVASCHNYA. [Within, to the BARON.]
Come along. They can certainly clean up
without you. [Exit BARON R.] You, Actor,
you must do it. You were asked to do it, so
do it then. It won't break your back.
ACTOR. Now, always I - hm - I can't
understand it.
[The BARON enters from the kitchen carrying,
by means of a yoke, two baskets containing fat jars covered with rags.]
BARON. Pretty heavy today.
SAHTIN. You could do that without being a baron.
KvASCHNYA. [To the ACTOR.] See to it
that you sweep up.
[Exit to the entry L. U. E. preceded
by the BARON.]
ACTOR. [Crawls down from the stove.] I
must not inhale dust. It injures me [selfpityingly]. My organism is poisoned with
alcohol.
[Sits introspectively on the bunk
before the stove.]
SAHTIN. Orgism. Organism [derisively].
ANNA. [To KLESHTSCH.] Andrew Mitritch.
KLESHTSCH. What is the matter now?
ANNA. Kvaschnya left some custard for
me. Go eat it.
KLESHTSCH. [Crosses to her.] Won't you
eat?
ANNA. I won't. Why should I eat?
You - work. You must eat.
KLESHTSCH. Are you afraid? Do not
despair. Perhaps you'll be better again.
ANNA. Go, eat. My heart is grieved;
the end is near.
KLESHTSCH. [Moves away.] Oh, no; perhaps - you can get up yet - such things
bale happened.     [Exit R. into kitchen.]


ACTOR. [Loudly, as though suddenly
awakened from a dream.] Yesterday, in the
dispensary, the doctor said to me: "Your
organism is poisoned with alcohol, through
and through."
SAHTIN. [Laughing.] Orgism!
ACTOR. [With emphasis.] Not orgism,
but organism - or-gan-is-m.
SAHTIN. Sigambrer!
ACTOR. [With a depreciating movement of
the hand.] Ah! gibberish. I tell you I'm
speaking in earnest. My organism is poisoned... so that I shall be injured if I
sweep the room... and breathe the dust.
SAHTIN. Microbites... ha!
BUBNOFF. What are you muttering
about?
SAHTIN. Words... then there is still
another word: transcendental.
BUBNOFF. What does that mean?
SAHTIN. I don't know, I've forgotten.
BUBNOFF. Why do you say it then?
SAHTIN. Just so... I 'm tired of all our
words, Bubnoff. Every one of them I've
heard at least a thousand times.
ACTOR. As it says in Hamlet, "Words,
words, words."   A  magnificent piece,
"Hamlet" - I've played the grave digger.
KLESHTSCH. [Entering R. from the
kitchen.] Will you begin to play the broom?
ACTOR. That's very little to you.
[Strikes his breast with his fist.] "The fair
Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons. Be all
my sins remembered!"
[Within, somewhere in the distance, are heard dull cries and
the shrill sound of a policeman's
whistle. KLESHTSCH sits down
to work and the rasping of his
file is heard.]
SAHTIN. I love the incomprehensible
rare words. As a young man I was in the
telegraph service. I have read many books.
BUBNOFF. So you have been a telegraph
operator?
SAHTIN. To be sure. [Laughs.] Many
beautiful books exist, and a lot of curious
words. I was a man of education, understand that?
BUBNOFF. I've already heard so, a hundred times. What does the world care
what a man was. I, for example, was a




650


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


furrier, had my own place of business. My
arm was quite yellow -from the dye,
when I colored the furs - quite yellow,
my friend, up to the elbow. I thought that
my whole life long I could never wash it
clean, would descend, with yellow hands,
into my grave, and now look at them, they
are - simply dirty, see!
SAHTIN. And what more?
BUBNOFF. Nothing more.
SAHTIN. What of it all?
BUBNOFF. I mean only... by way of
example... no matter how gaily a man
lays the color on, it all rubs off again...
all off again! See!
SAHTIN. Hm!... My bones ache!
ACTOR. [Sits on the bunk before the stove,
his arms over his knees.] Education is a
rigmarole, the main thing is genius. I once
knew an actor... he could scarcely read
the words of his part, but he played his
hero in such a way that the walls of the
theatre shook with the ecstasy of the public...
SAHTIN. Bubnoff, give me five copecs.
BUBNOFF. I've got only two myself.
ACTOR. I say, genius a leading man
must have. Genius - believe in yourself,
in your own power....
SAHTIN. Give me five copecs and I will
believe that you are a genius, a hero, a
crocodile, a precinct captain. Kleshtsch,
give me a fiver.
KLESHTSCH. Go to the devil. There are
too many ragamuffins about.
SAHTIN. Stop scolding; I know you have
nothing.
ANNA. Andrew Mitritch... It is suffocating. It is hard....
KLESHTSCH. What can I do about that?
BUBNOFF. Open the door to the street
floor.
KLESHTSCH. Well said! You sit on
your bench and I on the ground. Let us
change places and then open the door...
I have a cold already.
BUBNOFF. [Undisturbed.] It is not for
me.... Your wife asks for it.
KLESHTSCH. [Scowling.] A good many
things are being asked for in this world.
SAHTIN. My headpiece hums. Ah, why
do people always go for your head?


BUBNOFF. Not only the head, but also
other parts of the body are often struck.
[Gets up.] I must get some thread. The
landlord and landlady are late today. But
they might be rotting already for all I know.
[Exit L. U. E. ANNA coughs.
SAHTIN, with his hands under
his neck, lies motionless.]
ACTOR. [Regards the atmosphere gloomily
and goes to ANNA'S bed.] Well, how is it?
Bad?
ANNA. It is stifling....
ACTOR. Shall I take you out into the
entry?... Get up then. [He helps the sick
woman up, throws tattered shawl over her
shoulders and supports her, as they totter up
the steps to the landing.] Come, now... be
brave. I, too, am a sick man - poisoned
with alcohol.
[Enter KOSTILIOFF, L. U. E.]
KOSTILIOFF. [At the door.] Out for a
promenade? What a fine couple - Jack
and Jill.
ACTOR. Stand aside. Don't you see that
- the sick are passing by?
KOSTILIOFF. All right, pass by, then.
[Humming the melody of a church hymn, he
takes a mistrustful look about the basement,
descends to the floor, leans his head to the left
as if to overhear something in PEPEL'S room.
KLESHTSCH claps furiously with the keys and
files noisily, the proprietor giving him a black
look.] Busy scraping, eh? [Crosses to R. F.]
KLESHTSCH. What?
KOSTILIOFF. Busy scraping, I said...
[Pause.] Hm- yes... What was I going
to say? [Hastily and in a lower tone.]
Was n't my wife there?
KLESHTSCH. Have n't seen her...
KOSTILIOFF. [Guardedly approaches the
door of PEPEL'S room.] How much space
you take for your two rubles a month!
That bed... You yourself sitting everlastingly here - nyah,1 five rubles' worth,
at least. I raise you half a ruble....
KLESHTSCH. Put a halter around my
neck... and raise me a little more. You
are an old man, you'll soon be rotting in
your grave... and you think of nothing
but half rubles.
1 An expression equivalent to no or yes.




THE LOWER DEPTHS,V 651


KOSTILIOFF. Why should I halter you?
Who would be the better for that? Live,
may God bless you, be content. Yet I
raise you half a ruble to buy oil for the holy
lamps... and my offering will burn before
the holy image... for the remission of my
sins, and thine also... You never think
yourself of your sins, I guess, do you...
ah, Andreuschka, what a sinful beast you
are... your wife languishing in agony
from your blows... nobody likes you,
nobody respects you... your work is so
grating that nobody can endure you....
KLESHTSCH. [Cries out.] Do you come... to hack me to pieces?
[SAHTIN roars aloud.]
KOSTILIOFF. [Shudders.] Ah... What
is the matter with you, my friend!
ACTOR. [Enters from stairs L. U. E.] I
took the woman into the entry... put her
in a chair and wrapped her up warm....
KOSTILIOFF. What a good Samaritan
you are. It will be rewarded....
ACTOR. When?
KOSTILIOFF. In the next world, brother
dear.... There they sit and reckon up our
every word and deed.
ACTOR. Why not, for the goodness of
my heart, give me some recompense here?
KOSTILIOFF. How can I do that?
ACTOR. Knock off half my debt....
KOSTILIOFF. Ha, ha, always having
your fun, little buck, always jollying...
Can goodness of the heart be ever repaid
with money? Goodness of the heart stands
higher than all the treasures of this world.
Nyah... and your debt - is only a debt.... There it stands.... Goodness of the
heart you must bestow upon an old man
without recompense....
ACTOR. You    are  a  cunning  old
knave....         [Exit R. into kitchen.]
[KLESHTSCH rises and goes upstairs, L. U. E.]
KOSTILIOFF. [To SAHTIN.] Who just
sneaked out? The scrape? He is not fond
of me, he, he!
SAHTIN. Who is fond of you except the
devil?
KOSTILIOFF. [Laughs quietly.] Don't
scold. I have you all so nicely... my dear
friends, butI.am.~ond of you all, my poor,


unhappy brethren, citizens of nowhere,
hapless and helpless... [Suddenly brisk.]
Tell me... is Waska at home?
SAHTIN. Look and see for yourself.
KOSTILIOFF. [Goes to PEPEL'S door,
L. U., and knocks.] Waska!
[Enter ACTOR R. standing in kitchen door
chewing something.]
PEPEL. [Within.7 Who's that?
KOSTILIOFF. Me, Waska....
PEPEL. [Within.] What do you want?...
KOSTILIOFF. [Stepping back.] Open the
door.
SAHTIN. [Pretending to be oblivious.] She
is there. The moment he opens it....
[The ACTOR chuckles to him.]
KOSTILIOFF. [Disturbed, softly.] How,
who is in there? What....
SAHTIN. Hm? LAre you speaking to me?
KOSTILIOFF. What did you say?
SAHTIN. Nothing at all... only... to
myself...
KOSTILIOFF. Take good care of yourself, my friend... you are too waggish.
[Knocks loudly on the door.] Wassili...
PEPEL. [Opening the door.] What are
you bothering me about?
KOSTILIOFF. [Peers into PEPEL'S room.]
I... you see... you see...
PEPEL. Have you brought the money?
KOSTILIOFF. I have a little business
with you.
PEPEL. Have you brought the money?
KOSTILIOFF. Which money?... wait.
PEPEL. Money, the seven rubles for the
watch, see!
KOSTrLIOFF.  Which watch, Waska 
Ah, you... none of your tricks.
EPEEL. Be careful. I sold you yesterday
in the presence of witnesses a watch for ten
rubles... I got three, and now I'll take
the other seven. Out with them. Whal
are you blinking about around here...
disturbing everybody.. and forgetting
the main thing....
KOSTILIOFF. Ssh! Not so quick, Waska
The watch was, indeed...
SAHTIN. Stolen.
KOSTILIOFF. [Stoutly, sharply.] I neve:
receive stolen goods.... How dare you..
PEPEL.. [Takea him by the shoulders.




)52


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


[ell me, why did you wake me up? What
lo you want?
KOSTILIOFF. I... Nothing at all... I
tm going already... when you act so.
PEPEL. Go then, and bring me the
noney.
KOSTILIOFF. [As he goes.] Tough cus-,omers... ah! ah!      [Exit L. U. E.]
ACTOR. Here is comedy for you!
SAHTIN. Very good, I like it....
PPEEL. What did he want?
SAHTIN. [Laughing.] Don't you catch
an? He was looking for his wife.... Say,
vhy don't you finish him, Waska?
PEPEL. Would it pay to spoil my life for
uch stuff?
SAHTIN. Spoil your life! Naturally you
aust do it cleverly... Then marry Wasilissa... and be our landlord...
PEPEL. That would be nice. You, my;uests, would soon guzzle up the whole,lace, and me in the bargain... I am
auch too open-handed for you. [Sits on the
unk, U.] Yes, old devil! Waked me up
ut of my best sleep... I was having a,eautiful dream. I dreamed that I was
shing, and suddenly I caught a big trout.
L trout, I tell you... only in dreams are
here such great trout.... I pulled and
ulled, till his gills almost snapped off...
nd just as I was finishing him with a
et... and thinking I had him....
SAHTIN. 'T wasn't any trout, 't was
Vassilissa.
ACTOR. He has had her in the net a long
rhile.
PEPEL. [Angrily.] Go to the devil...
'ith your Wassilissa.
KLESHTSCH. [Entering L. U. E.] It's
eastly cold outside....
ACTOR. Why didn't you bring Anna
ack? She will freeze to death.
KLESHTSCH. Natasha had taken her
long to the kitchen....
ACTOR. The old scamp will chase her
it....
KLESHTSCH. [Crosses R. D. and sits down
work.] Natasha will soon bring her
SAHTIN. Wassili, five copecs.
ACTOR. Yes, five copecs, Waska, give
i twenty.. 


PEPEL. If I don't hurry.... You'll
want a whole ruble... there!
[Gives the ACTOR a coin.]
SAHTIN. Giblartarr! There are no better men in the world than the thieves!
KLESHTSCH. They get their money easy... they don't work....
SAHTIN. Money comes easy to many,
but very few give it up easily... Work, if
you arrange it so that work gives me joy,
then perhaps I will work too... perhaps!
When work is a pleasure - then life is
beautiful... When you must work - then
life is slavery. [To ACTOR.] Come Sardanapalus, we will go....
ACTOR. Come, Nebuchadnezzar, I will
get as drunk as forty thousand topers.
[Exit both L. U. E.]
PEPEL. [Gapes.] How is your wife?
KLESHTSCH. [Pause.] She won't last
long, I guess.
PEPEL. When I sit and watch you so, I
think, what good comes of all your scraping.
KLESHTSCH. What else shall I do?
PEPEL. Do nothing.
KLESHTSCH. How shall I eat?
PEPEL. Other men eat without taking
so much trouble.
KLESHTSCH. Other men? You mean
this ragged pack of tramps here, idlers,
you call them men! I am a workingman... I am ashamed to look at them. I have
worked from childhood on. Do you think
that I shall never crawl out of this cesspool
again? It is quite certain, let me work the
skin off my hands, but I'll get out... wait
until after my wife dies... six months in
this hole... it seems like six years.
PEPEL. What are you complaining
about?... we are no worse than you.
KLESHTSCH. No worse... people living
on God's earth without honor or conscience?
PEPEL. [In an impartial tone, cool.]
What good is honor or conscience? You
can't put such things on your feet when
the snow is on the ground. Honor and conscience to those in power and authority.
BUBNOFF. [Enters L. U. E.] Ug-h! I'm
frozen stiff.
PEPEL. Tell me, Bubnoff, have you a
conscience?




THE LOWER DEPTHS


653


BUBNOFF. What? A conscience?
PEPEL. Yes.
BUBNOFF. What use is it to me? I'm
no millionaire....
PEPEL. That's what I say. Honor
and conscience are only for the rich -
and yet Kleshtsch, here, is pulling us over
the coals; we have no conscience he
says...
BUBNOFF. Does he want to borrow
some from us?
PEPEL. He has plenty of his own....
BUBNOFF. Maybe you'll sell us some?
No, it don't sell here. If it was broken hatboxes, I'd buy... but only on credit....
PEPEL. [Instructively, to KLESHTSCH.]
You're certainly a fool, Andreuschka. You
ought to hear what Sahtin says about a
conscience... or the Baron...
KLESHTSCH. I have nothing to talk to
them about....
PPEEL. They have more wit than you,
even if they are drunks....
BUBNOFF. When a clever fellow drinks,
he doubles his wit.
PEPEL. Sahtin says: every man wants
his neighbor to have some conscience -
but for himself, he can do without it...
and that's right.
[NATASHA enters L. U. E., and behind her
LUKA, with a staff in his hand, a sack
on his back, and a small kettle and tea
boiler at his girdle.]
LUKA. Good day to you, honest folks.
PEPEL. [Pulling his moustache.] A-h,
Natasha.
BUBNOFF. [To LUKA.] Honest were we
once, as you must know, but since last
spring, a year ago....
NATASHA. Here - a new lodger....
LUKA. [To BUBNOFF.] It's all the same
to me. I know how to respect thieves, too.
Any flea, say I, may be just as good as you
or me; all are black, and all jump...
that's the truth. Where shall I quarter
myself here, my love?
NATASHA. [Points to the kitchen door.]
Go in there... daddy.
LUKA. Thank you, my girl, as you say.. A warm corner is an old man's delight.            [Eitx R. into kitchen.]


PEPEL. What an agreeable old chap you
have brought along, Natasha?
NATASHA. No matter, he is more interesting than you.!Then to KLESHTSCH.]
Andrew, your wife is with us in the kitchen... come for her after a while.
KLESHTSCH. All right, I'11 come.
NATASHA. Be good to her now... we
won't have her long...
KLESHTSCH. I krow it...
NATASHA. Yes, you know it... but
that is not enough! Make it quite clear to
yourself, think what it means to die... it
is frightful....
PEPEL. You see I am not afraid...
NATASHA. The brave are not....
BUBNOFF. [Whistles.] The thread is
rotten.
PEPEL. Certainly I am not afraid, I
would welcome death right now. Take a
knife and strike me in the heart- not a
murmur will I utter. I would meet death
with joy... from  clean hands... like
yours.
NATASHA. [As she goes.] Do not say
anything which is not so, Pepel.
BUBNOFF. [Drawling.] The thread is
absolutely rotten.
NATASHA. [From the door to the entry.]
Don't forget your wife, Andrew.
KLESHTSCH. All right. [Exit NATASHA.]
PEPEL. A fine girl.
BUBNOFF. None better.
PEPEL. But what has set her against me
so? She alone... always refusing me...
but this life will be her ruin, all the same.
BUBNOFF. It is you who will be the ruin
of her.
PEPEL. I be her ruin... I pity her...
BUBNOFF. As the wolf pities the lamb.
PEPEL. You lie! I do pity her... Her
lot is very hard.... I see that....
KLESHTSCH. Just wait until Wassilissa
finds you together....
BUBNOFF. Yes, Wassilissa! Nobody can
play any tricks on her, the fiend.
PEPEL. [Stretches himself out on the bunk
U.] The devil take you both, prophets.
KLESHTSCH. Wait... and see....
LUKA. [Within, singing.] "In the dark
ness of midnight, no path can be found."
KLESHTSCH. Now he is beginning t(




654


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


howl.... [Crosses to L. U. E.] He too is
beginning.                    [Exit.]
PEPEL. My heart is in the depths..
why is it? We live and live and everything
goes well... then all of a sudden...
melancholy like a blighting frost settles
upon us. Life is used up....
BUBNOFF. Sad, melancholy, eh?...
PEPEL. Yes... by God.
LUKA. [Singing.] "No path can be
found."
PEPEL. Heh, you bag of bones.
LUKA. [Enters R.] Do you mean me?
PEPEL. Yes, you. Cut the singing out.
LUKA. [Crossing to C.] Don't you like
singing?
PPEEL. When singing is well sung, I
enjoy it.
LUKA. Then I do not sing well?
PEPEL. That's about right.
LUKA. Too bad, and I thought that I
sang beautifully. So it always goes. You
think to yourself, I have done that well,
but the public is not pleased....
PEPEL. [Laughs.] You are right, there.
BUBINOFF. Ump! roaring again, and just
now you said life was so sad, melancholy.
PEPL. What have you to say about it,
old raven?...
LUKA. Who is despondent?
PEPEL. I...
[The BARON enters L. U. E.]
LUKA. So, and there - in the kitchen
sits a girl reading a book and crying; upon
my word! Her tears flowing... I asked
her, what troubles you, my love - eh?
And she said: It is so pitiful... Whom do
you pity then? I asked.... See, here in
the book, the people, said she... And
that is how she passes her time to drive
away despondency, it appears....
BARON. She is a fool.
PEPEL. Have you had your tea, Baron?
[An invitation.]
BARON. Tea, yes... anything more?
PEPEL. Shall I stand for a bottle of
-urn, eh, that's right.
BARON. Of course... what more?
PEPEL. Let me ask you to stand on all
ours and bark like a dog.


BARON. Blockhead; are you a Crcesus?
Or are you drunk?
PEPEL. That's right, bark away. I shall
enjoy it.... You are a gentleman...
There was a time once when you did not
take us for human beings even... and so,
on... and so on.
BARON. Well, and what more?
PEPEL. What more? I'll let you bark:
now. You'll bark, won't you?
BARON. I have no objection on my own
account...booby. How can it be such
fun for you... When I know myself that
I am sunk deeper even than you.... Had'
you once dared you ought to have tried to)
get me on all fours when I was above you..
BUBNOFF. You are right.
LUKA. So I say too, you are right.
BUBNOFF. What has been has beerr.
Nothing is left but trash... we are not,
dukes here... the trappings are gone-... only the bare man remains....
LUKA. All are alike, know that.....
Were you once a baron, my friend?
BARON. What's that you say? Who are
you, sepulchre?
LUKA. [Laughs.] An earl I have seen.
already and a prince... too... But now
for the first time, a baron, and a seedy
one...
PEPEL. [Laughs.] Ha, ha, ha, I blush fsr
you, Baron.
BARON. Don't be an idiot, Wassili....
LUKA. Yes, yes, my friends. When I
look around me.. this life here.. ah!
BUBNOFF. This life,... why, this life
here would make any man howl, fromi
break-o'-day on, like a starving owl.
BARON. To be sure, we have all seemr
better days. I for example..On wakiii
up I used to drink my coffee in beda..
coffee with cream... that's right.
LUKA. And you are still a maUn  No
matter what somersaults you turn before
us, as a man you were born and as a man
you must die. The more I look about myself, the more I contemplate mankind, the
more interesting he grows... poorer and
poorer he sinks and higher and higher his
aspirations mount... obstinacy.
BARON. Tell me, old man... exactly
who you are... where do you come from?.'




THE LOWER DEPTHS


LUKA. Who? I?
BARON. Are you a pilgrim?
LUKA We are all pilgrims here on this
earth.... It has been said, even, I am
told, that our earth is only a pilgrimage
to Heaven's gate....
BARON. It is so, but tell me... have
you a passport?
LUKA. [Hesitatingly.] Who are you? A
detective?
PEPEL. [Briskly.] Well said, old man!
Ha, my lord, that went home!
3 BUBNOFF. He gets what is coming to
him....
BARON. [Disconcerted.] Well! well! I
am only joking, old man. I've no papers,
myself.
BUBNOFF. You lie!
BARON. That is to say... I have papers
'.     but they're of no use.
LUKA. So it is with all pen scratches...
they're of no use....
PEPEL. Baron! Come have one, for the
sake of thirst....
BARON. I'm with you. Bye-bye, see
you again, old chap.... You're a sly
dog....
LUKA. It may be true, my friend.
PEPEL. [At the door L. U. E.] Are you
coming?
[Exit followed quickly by the
BARON.]
LUKA. Has the man really been a baron?
BUBNOFF. Who knows? He has been a
nobleman, that is certain. Even now his
former air shows through. The manner
clings...
LUKA. Breeding is like the smallpox:
The man recovers, but the pits remain.
BUBNOFF. But otherwise he is a good
fellow... except that sometimes he is
overbearing.... As he was about your
passport....
ALYOSCHKA. [Enters L. U. E. drunk, an
accordeon under his arm. He whistles.] Hey,
there, neighbors.
BUBNOFF. What are you howling about?
ALYOSCHKA. Excuse me, please... pass
it over. I am a cozy boy....
BUBNOFF. Broken out again?
ALToOsCHKA. Why not? Police captain
Medviskmn has just chased me off his beat,


"Take your stand out of the street," says
he. No, no, I am still a youth of good temperament... the boss was jawing at me
too... bah, what do I care for bosses...
bah, everything is all a mistake, should a
tank be boss... I am a man, who...
never a wish have...has... I want
nothing... that settles it... now, take
me... for one ruble and twenty copecs
you can have me... and I want ab-solt-ly
nothing. [NASTIAH enters R. from kitchen.]
Offer me a million - and I will not take it.
And that whiskey barrel, to be boss over
me, a good man, no better than - it don't
go. I'11 not stand for it.
[NASTIAH remains standing at the
door, shaking her head at the
spectacle of ALYOSCHKA.]
LUKA. [Good-naturedly.] Ah, boy...
you can't unravel it.
BUBNOFF. There you have human folly.
ALYOSCHKA. [Lies down on the floor.]
Now, eat me up. Costs nothing. I am a
desperado. You just tell me, am I worse
than the others? How am I worse? Just
think, Medviskin said: "Don't show yourself on the street, or else I'll give you one
in the snout." But I'11 go... I'll lie down
crosswise in the street, let them choke me.
I want ab-solt-ly nothing....  [Rises.]
NASTIAH. Wretch... so young and putting on such airs....
ALYOSCHKA. [Sees her and kneels.] My
lady, my fraulein, mamsell! Parlez franqais... price current... I am jagging.
NASTIAH. [Whispers loudly.] Wassilissa.
[Sees her coming.]
WASSILISSA. [Opens door at head of stairs
R. U. E. to ALYOSCHKA.] Here again,...
already?
ALYOSCHKA. Good morning. Please,
come down.
WASSILISSA. Did n't I tell you, you
pup, not to show yourself here again?
[Descends.]
ALYOSCHKA. Wassilissa Karpovna - if
you please, I'll play you a funeral march.
WASSILISSA. [Pushes him on the shoulder.]
Get out!
ALYOSCHKA. [Shuffles to the door, L. U.
E.] No, I won't wait. First listen to the
funeral march.,, I've just learned it.,,




656


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


new music... wait a minute... you
must n't act so.
WASSILISSA. I will show you how I must
act... I'll put the whole street on your
track, you damned heathen... so, telling
folks on me.. 
ALYOSCHKA. [Runs out L. U. E.] No, I
am already gone.                [Exit.]
WASSILISSA. [To BUBNOFF.] See to it
that he does not set foot in here again, you
hear?
BUBNOFF. I'm not your watchman.
WASSILISSA. No, but you are a dead
beat. How much do you owe me?
BUBNOFF. [Calmly.] I have n't counted
it up....
WASSILISSA. Look out or I'll count it
up.
ALYOSCHKA. [Opens the door and cries.]
Wassilissa Karpovna, I am not afraid of
you... I am not afraid.
[He hides behind a cloth which
hangs over the balustrade and
LUKA laughs.]
WASSILISSA. And who are you?
LUKA. A pilgrim, a mere wanderer. I go
from place to place....
WASSILISSA. Will you stay over night.. or for good?
LUKA. I will see.
[ALYOSCHKA slips into the kitchen.]
WASSILISSA. Your passport.
LUKA. You may have it.
WASSILISSA. Give it to me, then.
LUKA. I'll get it presently... I'll drag
it to your room....
WASSILISSA. A pilgrim- You look it;
say a vagabond... that sounds more like
bhe truth....
LUKA. [Sighs.] You are not very hos-?itable, mother.
[WASSILISSA goes to PEPEL'S door.]
ALYOSCHKA. [Whispers, from the kitchen.]
las she gone?... hm.
WASSILISSA. [Turns on him.] Are you
Itill there?
[ALYOSCHKA disappears into the
kitchen,!whistling. NASTIAH and
LUKA laugh.]
BUBNOFF. [To WASSILISSA.] He is not
here....
WASSILISSA. Who?


BUBNOFF. Waska.
[ALYOSCHKA slips around to t.
stairs, exit L. U. E.]
WASSILISSA. Have I asked you for himt
BUBNOFF. I can see that you are looking
into every corner.
WASSILISSA. I am looking after things,
do you understand. Why have you not
swept up? How often have I told you that
you must keep the place clean?
BUBNOFF. It's the actor's turn today....
WASSILISSA. It makes no difference to
me whose turn it is. When the Health Department people come and fine me, I'll
have you thrown out...
BUBNOFF. [Calmly.] And what will you
live on, in that case?
WASSILISSA. See that not a speck of
dust is left. [Goes to the kitchen door to
NASTIAH.] And what are you standing
around like a post for? What are you
gawking about? Sweep up! Have you not 
seen... Natalya? Has she been here?
NASTIAH. I don't know... I have n'~
seen her.
WASSILISSA. Bubnoff, was my sister hei?
BUBNOFF. Certainly. She brought t e
old man.
WASSILISSA. And he, was he in his room?
BUBNOFF. Wassili... to 'be sure...
She was talking with Kleshtsch...Natalya....
WASSILISSA. I did not ask you who she
was talking with... Dirt everywhere, a
foot thick. Ah, you pigs. See that you
clean up... do you hear me?
[Exit quickly R. U. E.]
BUBNOFF. What a nasty temper that
woman has.
LUKA. A brutal wife.
NASTIAH. This life would brutalize anybody. And tied to such a husband - how
can she bear that?
BUBNOFF. She does not feel tied, so
very tight....
LUKA. Is she always... so biting?
BUBNOFF. Always... she was looking
for her lover, you see, and that dismayed
her.
LUKA. Um, so that's the trouble... ah,
yes, how many different people there art
JI           CCI    _ C      C —~I




THE LOWER DEPTHS


657


here on thjL       bssing around..*
a    ltg a gto lord it over therest ut in
spt-e it all bringing no pleaanness about,_
Bi6NOFF. They try, indeed, to bring
order about, but the wit is lacking...
which means that we must finally clean
up... Nastiah... won't you do it?...
NASTIAH. Certainly! Am I your chambermaid? [She remains silent for a time.]
I'll get drunk today... soaked full.
[Motion of her hand to her chin.]
BUBNOFF. Good business.
LUKA. Whft are you going to get drunk
for, my daughter? You were crying a
moment ago, and now you promise to get
drunk....
NASTIAH. [Defiantly.] And when I have
gotten drunk, I will cry again.. that's
all....
BUBNOFF. But it's not much.
LUKA. For what reason, tell me?
Everything has a cause, even the smallest
pimple in the face.
[NASTIAH is silent, shaking her
head.]
LUKA. Aye, aye, such is man... that's
the way with people, what will become of
them? I will sweep up myself. Where do
you keep the broom?
BUBNOFF. In the entry, behind the door.
[Exit LUKA L. U. E.] Tell me, Nastenka.
NASTIAH. [Sits R. U. before stove.] Um.
BUBNOFF. What has Wassilissa got
against Alyoschka, so much?
NASTIAH. He has told everybody that
Waska don't like her any more... is tired
of her, is going to give her up, for Natasha
interests him... I am going to pull out
and find another place....
BUBNOFF. Why so?
NASTIAH. I am tired of it. I am in the
way... superfluous.
BUBNOFF. [Thoughtfully.] Where would
n't you be superfluous? Everybody here
on earth is superfluous....
[NASTIAH shakes her head, rises and
goes quietly up-stairs R. U. E.]
[MEDvIEDEFF enters L. U. E. followed by
LUKA with the broom.]
MEDVIEDEFF. [To LUKA.] I don't remember having seen you.


LUKA. And the rest, you've seen them.
Do you know everybody?
MEDVIEDEFF. Along my beat I must
know everybody — and I don't know
you....
LUKA. You woulld, if your beat included
the whole world, but there is a small corner
which has been left off.     [Exit R.]
MEDVIEDEFF. [Crossing to BUBNOFF L.]
That's right. My beat is not large... but
the work is worse than in many bigger
ones. Just as I came off duty I had to take
that young cobbler Alyoschka to the station house. The rascal was sprawled out
on his back in the middle of the street, if
you can believe it, playing his accordeon
and bellowing: " I want for nothing, I wish
for nothing," and wagons coming both
ways and traffic everywhere.... He could
easily have been run over, or something
else happen... rattlebrain.... Of course
I locked him up... he is a little too fresh.
BUBNOFF. Come around tonight..
We'll have a game of checkers.
MEDVIEDEFF. I'll come... hm, yes...
but how is it about Waska?
BUBNOFF. All right.... Same old
thing....
MEDVIEDEFF. Still alive?
BUBNOFF. Why not, his life is worth living.
MEDVIEDEFF. [Doubtfully.] So... has
he? [LUKA enters R. from kitchen, and exit
L. U. E., a bucket to his hand.] Hm - yes... there is a rumor about... Waska...
have n't you heard?
BUBNOFF. I've heard lots of things.
MEDVIEDEFF. Something about Wassilissa, he... have you not noticed?
BUBNOFF. What?
MEDVIEDEFF.    hy... in general...
you know all about it but don't like to say
so... it is well known... [strongly] don't
lie, my friend!
BUBNOFF. Why should I lie?
MEDVIEDEFF. I thought... ah, the curs... they say, in short that Waska with
Wassilissa...so to  speak... nyah,
what do I care? I am not her father, but
only... her uncle.... It can't hurt me if
they can't laugh at me. [KVASCHNYA enters L. U. E.] A bad lot... ah, you have
come....




658


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


KVASCHNYA. My dear captain. Just
think, Bubnoff, he proposed to me again
at the market...
BUBNOFF. What of it... Why do you
put him off? He has money, and is a pretty
hearty lover, even yet....
MEDvIEDEFF. I,... to be sure.
KVASCHNYA. Ah, you old gray studhorse. No, don't come near. That foolishness happens to me only once in a lifetime,
and I've been through it already. Marriage, for a woman, is like jumping into the
river in winter; once she's done it, she remembers it all her life.
MEDVIEDEFF. Wait... the husbands
are not all the same....
KVASCHNYA. But I always remain the
same. When my dear husband- when
the devil took him - when he became a
carcass, damn his ghost, I did not leave the
house the whole day for joy; I sat there all
alone and could scarcely believe my happiness., MEDVIEDEFF. Why did you allow your
husband to beat you? If you had gone to
the police....
KVASCHNYA. Police! I complained to
God for eight years... and even God
could n't do anything. \
MEDVIEDEFF. But it is illegal now to
beat wives.... Law and order are now
enforced.... No man dare beat anybody
now, except for the sake of law and order.... Wife beating happens only in lawless
places....
LUKA. [Leads ANNA in, L. U. E.] Now,
look out... now we've crawled down...
ah, you poor child... How could you go
around alone so, in your condition? Where
is your bed?
ANNA. [Draws toward L. D.] Thank you,
daddy.
KVASCHNYA. There you have a married
woman... look at her.
LUKA. Such a poor, weak thing...
creeping about quite alone there up in the
entry, clinging to the walls —moaning
without cease... why did you allow her
to go out alone?
KVASCHNYA. We did not notice it -
pardon me, grandfather. Her lady in
waiting has probably gone for a stroll....


LUKA. So you laugh.... How can you
abandon another so? Whatever he may have
become-he still remains a human being.
MEDVIEDEFF. This ought to be investigated. If she dies suddenly? We shall be
mixed up in it. Give her every attention.
LUKA. Quite right, Mr. Captain....
MEDVIEDEFF. Hm... yes... you
may say so... though I'm not a captain
yet....
LUKA. Is it possible? But we should
conclude from your appearance that you
are a true hero.
[From above a noise, the stamping
of feet and smothered cries.]
MEDVIEDEFF. Not quite yet -looks
like a row.
BUBNOFF. It sounds like one....
KVASCHNYA. I'll go see.
MEDVIEDEFF. And I've got to go too.. ah; the service! Why should people
be pulled apart when they brawl? They
finally quit fighting of their own accord... when they are tired of thumping each
other... the best thing to do is to let
them get their bellies full of fighting...
then they don't row so often... they
are n't in shape to....
BUBNOFF. [Gets off his bench.] You must
lay your plan before the authorities....
KOSTILIOFF. [Throws open the door L. U.
E. and cries.] Abram... come... quick... Wassilissa is killing Natasha... come.. come!


ANNA.
henka!
LUKA.
ANNA.
ters...
LUKA.
looms.
ANNA.


[KVASCHNYA, MEDVIEDEFF, BUBNOFF run to the entry, L. U. E.,
and LUKA looks after them, shaking his head.]
Ah, God... the poor NatasWho is brawling there?
Our landlady... the two sis[Approaches ANNA.] Over heirBoth are well fed... both are


healthy....
LUKA. And you... what is your name?
ANNA. My name is Anna.... When I
look at you... you are so much like my
father, just like my own dear father...
you, too, are so kind and tender....




THE LOWER DEPTHS


LUKA. Because they have knocked me
about the world so much, that is why I am
tender.            [Chuckles to himself.]
ACT II
The same scene. Evening. SAHTIN, the
BARON, KRIVOI ZOBA and the TARTAR are
sitting on the bunk before the stove, playing
cards. KLESHTSCH and the ACTOR are
watching the game. BUBNOFF on his bench
is playing Parti-Dame with MEDVIEDEFF.
LUKA is sitting on the tabouret at ANNA'S
bed. The room is lit by two lamps, one hanging on the wall over the card players on the
right and the other above BUBNOFF'S bench.
TARTAR. I'll play one more game...
and then I quit....
BUBNOFF. Krivoi Zoba! A song. [He
sings.] "Though still the sun goes up and
down."
KRIVOI ZOBA. [Falling in.] "No gleam
can pierce to me in here...."
TARTAR. [To SAHTIN.] Shuffle the
cards, but no crooked business. We already know what a swindler you are.
BUBNOFF and KRIVOI ZOBA. [Sing together.] " By day and night my guards stand
watch - a - ach,
My prison window always near...."
ANNA. Illness and blows.... I have
endured... they have been my lot...
my whole life long.
LUKA. Ah, you poor child! Do not grieve.
MEDVIEDEFF. What nerve! Be careful!
BUBNOFF. Ah, ha! So... and so, and
so...      [Throws down card after card.]
TARTAR. [Threatens SAHTIN with his
fist.] What are you hiding the cards for! I
saw you... you.
KRIVOI ZOBA. Let him go, Hassan.
They're bound to cheat us, one way or another.... Sing some more, Bubnoff.
ANNA. I cannot remember to have ever
had enough to eat... with trembling and
fear... have I eaten every piece of bread.... I have trembled and constantly feared... lest I eat more than my share.... My
whole life long have I gone in rags... my
whole ill-fated life.... Why should this
have been?


LUKA. Ah, you poor child! You are
tired? It will soon be right!
ACTOR. [To KRIVOI ZOBA.] Play the
jack... the jack, damn it.
BARON. And we have.the king!
KLESHTSCH. These cards will always
win.
SAHTIN. So... they will.
MEDVIEDEFF. A queen!
BUBNOFF. Another... there!
ANNA. I am dying....
KLESHTSCH. [To the TARTAR.] There -
look out! Throw the cards down, prince,
stop playing.
ACTOR. Don't you think he knows what
to do?
BARON. Be careful, Andrejuschka, that
I don't throw you out of the house.
TARTAR. Again, I say. The pitcher goes
to the well, then it breaks...the same
with me....
[KLESHTSCH stakes his head and
goes behind BUBNOFF.]
ANNA. I am always thinking to myself:
My Saviour... shall I there too... in
that world... endure such tortures?
LUKA. No! Never!... You will suffer
nothing. Lie perfectly still... and have
no fear. You shall find peace there! Be
patient yet a little while.... We must all
suffer, my love.... Every one endures life
in his own way.
[He rises and goes hastily into the
kitchen R.]
BUBNOFF. "Spy on, with the might of
your eyes, forever."
KRIVOI ZOBA. "On freedom still my
thoughts shall dwell.... 
TOGETHER. "I cannot spring these
chains and locks -- a - ach....
Nor fly the walls of this cold cell...."
TARTAR. Stop! He has pushed a. card
up his sleeve.
BARON. [Confused.] No, where else
then?
ACTOR. [Convincingly.] You have made
a mistake, prince! It's not to be thought
of....
TARTAR. I saw it! Cheats! I play no
more!
SAHTIN. [Throwing the cards together.]
Then go your way, Hassan.... You know




66o


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


that we are cheats - so why did you play
with us?
BARON. He's lost forty copecs, you'd
think from the row that he'd lost three
hundred. And this is a prince!
TARTAR. [Violently.] Everybody must
play fair!
SAHTIN. But tell me why?
TARTAR. What does "why" mean?
SAHTIN. Just so... why?
TARTAR. Um, you don't know?
SAHTIN. I don't know, do you?
[The TARTAR spits angrily, all
laugh at him.]
KRIVOI ZOBA. [Cheerfully.] You are a
comical owl, Hassan. Think it over. If
they lived honestly they would starve in
three days....
TARTAR. What's that to me? People
must live honestly.
KRIVOI ZOBA. Same old story, I'd rather
have a drink of tea... cut loose, Bubnoff.
BUBNOFF. "Alas, these heavy chains of
iron, this armed patrol on ceaseless
guard...."
KRIVOI ZOBA. Come, Hassan. [Exit
singing.] "No, nevermore shall I break
through."
[The TARTAR threatens the BARON
with his fist, and then follows his
comrade. Exit R.]
SAHTIN. [To the BARON, laughing.]
Nyah, your worship, you've launched us
triumphantly into the mire. You, an educated man, and can't handle cards....
BARON. [Throwing up his hands.] The
devil knows how the cards should be handled.
ACTOR. No genius, no self-confidence... without that you'll never be any
good....
MEDVIEDEFF. I have a queen, and you
have two, hm, yes.
BUBNOFF. One is enough, if well played... your play.
KLESHTSCH. The game is lost, Abram
Ivanitsch.
MEDVIEDEFF. That is none of your business -understand? Hold your tongue....
SAHTIN. Fifty-three copecs won....
ACTOR. The three copecs are for me...
though what do I want with three copecs?


LUKA. [Entering from kitchen R.] You
soaked the Tartar dry. Are you going for
some?
BARON. Come with us!
SAHTIN. I'd just like to see you after
you've put a couple of dozen away....
LUKA. Surely I would n't look better
than I do sober...
ACTOR. Come, old fellow... I will declaim for you a pair of pretty couplets....
LUKA. Couplets? What are they?
ACTOR. Verses, don't you understand....
LUKA. Verses, for me... poems? What
do I want them for?
ACTOR. Ah, they are so comical... yet
sometimes so sad...
SAHTIN.  Are you    coming, couplet
singer?   [Exit L. U. E. with the BARON.]
ACTOR. I will catch up with you. [To
LUKA.] There is, old man, for example, a
poem  beginning....I have completely
forgotten it...  [Rubs his forehead.]
BUBNOFF. Your queen is lost... go.
MEDVIEDEFF. I played wrong, the devil
take it.
ACTOR. In the past, while my organism
was not as yet poisoned with alkohol, I
had a splendid memory... yes, patriarch!
Now... it is all up with me... time and
time again, with the greatest success I have
recited this poem... to thundering applause.... Do you know what applause
means, brother? It is the wine of wines... when I came out, in this posture [assumes an attitude] and then began.. [he
is silent]...not a word...have I retained. And the poem was my heart's delight.... Is that not frightful, patriarch?
[Clutches the air.]
LUKA. Alas, too bad... when the best
beloved has been forgotten. In that which
man loves, he finds his soul....
ACTOR. I have drowned my soul, patriarch.... I am a lost man.... And why
am I lost? Because I believe in myself no
more.... I am through....
LUKA. Why so, then. Be cured! The
drunkard, I have heard, can now be cured.
Without expense, my brother.... A dispensary has been erected... there you
may be cured without charge. They realize
now, you see, that the drunkard is also a




THE LOWER DEPTHS


66I


man, and they are glad when one comes to
allow himself to be cured. Hurry, then, go
there....
ACTOR. [Thoughtfully.] Where to? Where
is it?
LUKA. In a certain city... what is it
called? A strange name.... No, I can't
tell you right now... but listen to me:
You must begin to get ready! Be abstemious! Hold yourself together, and
suffer, endure thus,... and then you'll be
cured. Begin a new life... is that not
splendid, brother: a new life... now, decide... one, two, three!
ACTOR. [Smiling.] A new life... from
the start... that is beautiful.... Can it
be true? A new life? - [Laughs.] Nyah. yes! I can! I can!
LUKA. Why not? Man can achieve
everything... if he only will....
ACTOR. [Suddenly, as if awakened from a
dream.] You're a queer customer! So
long! See you again. [He whistles.] Meantime, old man.          [Exit L. U. E.]
ANNA. Daddy.
LUKA. What is it, little mother?
ANNA. Talk a little bit, to me....
LUKA. [Going to her.] Gladly... Let us
have a long chat.
[KLESHTSCH looks around, silently goes to the bed of his wife,
looks at her, gesticulates, as if
about to speak.]
LUKA. Well, brother?
KLESHTSCH. [Whispers as if in fear.]
Nothing.
[Goes slowly to door, L. U. E. Remains a few moments, then goes
out.]
LUKA. [Following him with his eyes.]
Your husband seems to be oppressed.
ANNA. I cannot think of him any more.
LUKA. Has he beaten you?
ANNA. How often... He has brought
me... to this.
BUBNOFF. My wife... had once an admirer. He played with kings and queens
quite splendidly, the rascal....
MEDVIEDEFF. Hm.
ANNA. Grandfather... Talk to me,
my dear... I am lonely....
LUKA. That is nothing. That may be


felt before death, my dove. It means nothing, dear. Have faith. You will die, you
see, and then enter into rest. Have fear of
nothing more, of nothing more. It will be
still, and peaceful... and you will lie
resting there. Death subdues everything... he is so tender with us... Only in
death shall rest be found, they say... and
such is the truth, my love! Where shall
rest be found here?
[PEPEL enters L. U. E. a little drunk, dishevelledand sullen. He sits on the bunk
by the kitchen door, silent and motionless.]
ANNA. And shall there be such torture
there?
LUKA. Nothing is there! Believe me,
nothing! Rest alone -- nothing else. They
will lead you before the Master and will
say: Look, oh, Master- thy servant
Anna is come....
MEDVIEDEFF. [Vigorously.] How can
you know what shall be said there: have
you ever heard?...
[PEPEL, at the sound of MEDVIEDEFF S voice, raises his head and
listens.]
LUKA. My information is reliable, Mr.
Commissioner....
MEDVIEDEFF.    [Softly.]  Hm, - yes.
Nyah, it is your affair... that means...
but I am not a commissioner....
BUBNOFF. Two birds with one stone....
MEDVIEDEFF. Ah, you, the devil take
you...
LUKA. And the Master will look upon
you in loving kindness and will say: "I
know this Anna!" "Now," he will say,
"lead her forth into Paradise. May she
there find peace.... I know her life was
wearisome... she is very tired... let her
have rest, our Anna."
ANNA. Grandfather... you, my dear.. if only it is so... if I there... find
peace... and feel nothing more....
LUKA. You will suffer nothing... nothing!
Only have faith! Die joyfully, without anxiety... Death to us, I say unto you, is like
a mother soothing her children....
ANNA. But.. perhaps... I will get
well again?




662


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


LUKA. [Laughing.] For what? To fresh
tortures?
ANNA. But I might still... live a little
while... a very little while... if there is
no torture beyond... I can afford to suffer at the end here a little more...
LUKA. There shall be no more pain...
none at all.
PEPEL. [Rising.] True -it may be,
and may not be!
ANNA. Ah, God....
LUKA. Ah, my dear boy....
MEDVIEDEFF. Who is howling there?
PEPEL. [Going to him.] Me, what's the
matter?
MEDVIEDEFF. People must keep quiet
in here.... You have no cause for howling.
PEPEL. Ah... blockhead! And you
her uncle... ha, ha!
LUKA. [Whispers to PEPEL.] Listen,
boy -not so loud. A woman is dying
here.... Her lips are covered with earth
already... don't disturb her....
PEPEL. As you say so, grandfather, I
will listen to you. You are a splendid chap,
pilgrim... you tell them  famously...
you're full of nice stories. Keep it up,
brother, keep it up... there is so little
pleasure in the world.
BUBNOFF. Is she dying for keeps?
LUKA. I guess she is not fooling.
BUBNOFF. Then we will finally be rid
of that coughing... a great nuisance, her
everlasting coughing... I take two....
MEDVIEDEFF. Ah,... the devil take
you.
PEPEL. Abram...
MEDVIEDEFF. I am not Abram... for
you...
PEPEL. Abrashka, tell me - is Natasha
still sick?
MEDVIEDEFF. Does that concern you?
PEPEL. No, but say: did Wassilissa
really beat her up so badly?
MEDVIEDEFF. And that's none of your
business either...that's a family affair.. who are you, anyhow, eh?
PEPEL. I may be who I am - but when
it suits me, I will take your Natasha away.
You will not see her again.
MEDVIEDEFF. [Interrupting his playing.]


What do you say? Whom are you talking
about? My niece shall... ach, you thief!
PEPEL. A thief - that you have not yet
caught...
MEDVIEDEFF. Wait! I'11 soon catch
you... in a very little while I will have
you...
PEPEL. Whenever it suits you... and
then your whole nest here will be torn up.
Do you think I'll hold my tongue when it
comes to the coroner? There you're badly
mistaken. Who incited you to theft, they
will ask - who put the opportunity before
you? Mischka Kostilioff and his wife.
And who received the stolen goods?
Mischka Kostilioff and his wife.
MEDVIEDEFF. You lie! Nobody will
believe it.
PEPEL. They will quickly believe —
because it is the truth. And I'll get you
into the muddle too, and the rest of you,
you gang of thieves- we shall soon see.
MEDVIEDEFF. [Uneasily.] Shut up!
Shut up! What have I done to you...
you mad dog....
PEPEL. What good have you done me?
LUKA. Quite right....
MEDVIEDEFF. [To LUKA.] What are you
croaking about? What business is this of
yours? This is a family affair....
BUBNOFF. [To LUKA.] Let them have it
out.... We two won't be haltered anyhow....
LUKA. [Softly.] I have done no harm. I
only think that if a man does not do another good - then he has done wrong.
MEDVIEDEFF. [Who does not understand
LUKA.] Look, you. We are all acquainted
here.... And you - who are you?
[Exit quickly L. U. E. angrily
fuming.]
LUKA. He has gone mad, Sir Cavalier... oho! Very peculiar, brothers, what we
have here, somewhat complicated.
PEPEL. He has gone to Wassilissa, now,
with it.
BUBNOFF. Don't make a fool of yourself, Wassili. Don't try to be the bravest.
Bravery, my boy, is good, when you go into
the woods for mushrooms.... It is out of
place here... they have you by the throat... in a jiffy.




THE LOWER DEPTHS


663


PEPEL. We shall see.... We Yaroslavs
are much too sly... we cannot be caught
with the bare hands... will you have a
fight... good, then we begin it....
LUKA. It would indeed, be better, boy,
to go away....
PEPEL. Where then? Tell me....
LUKA. Go... to Siberia.
PEPEL. Ha! Ha! Never; I'd rather
wait until they send me, at the expense of
the government....
LUKA. No, really, listen to me! Go
there; you can make your way in Siberia... they need such young fellows....
PEPEL. My way is already pointed out!
My father spent his life in prison, and that
fate is my legacy... when I was still a
small boy they called me a thief and the
son of a thief.
LUKA. A beautiful country, Siberia. A
golden land. A man with strength and a
clear head develops there... like a cucumber in a hot bed.
PEPEL. Tell me, pilgrim, why do you
fabricate so ceaselessly?
LUKA. How?
PEPEL. Are you deaf? Why do you lie, I
ask....
LUKA. When have I lied?
PEPEL. Right straight along.... It is
beautiful there, by your way of thinking,
and beautiful here... which is not true.
Why, then, do you lie?
LUKA. Believe me! Or go there and
convince yourself.... You will send me
thanks... why loiter here? And, frbm
whence comes your eagerness for truth?
Think it over: the truth is, they may make
an end of you here.
PEPEL. It is all the same... even a halter,
LUKA. You are a strange fellow. Why
will you put your head into it?
BUBNOFF. What are you two jawing
about? I don't catch on.... What kind
of truth do you want, Waska? What good
would it be to you? You know the truth
about yourself... and all the world knows
it....
PEPEL. Hold your snout. Don't, croak.
He shall tell me first... hear, pilgrim...
is there a God?
[LUKA laughs and remains silent.]


BUBNOFF. Mankind is like chips which
the storm sweeps away... the finished
house remains, but the chips are gone.
LUKA. [Softly.] If you believe in him,
there is a God; believenot and none existS 
~. What you believe i.!.!. exsts...-  4
-- iEPEL tooks silently surprised at
the old man.]         ' r,.
BUBNOFF. I'll have a drink of tea
now.. come with me to the ale house.
LUKA. [To PEPEL.] What are you staring at?
PEPEL. It means then... just so... wait.
BUBNOFF. Nyah, then I '11 go alone.
[Exit L. U. E., bumping into WASSILISSA.]
PEPEL. Then... do as you... then
you...
WASSILISSA. [To BUBNOFF.] Is 'Nastassja at home?
BUBNOFF. No...          [Exit L. U. E.]
PEPEL. Ah... there she is.
WASSILISSA. [Goes to ANNA'S bed.] Is she
still alive?
LUKA. Do not disturb her.
WASSILISSA. And you, what are you
loafing around for?
LUKA. I can go out, if I must....
WASSILISSA. [Approaching EPELS door.]
Wassili! I have business with you...
[LUKA goes to the door, L. U. E., opens it,
closes it noisily, then carefully climbs up the
stove and conceals himself. WASSILISSA has
entered PEPEL'S room. Within.] Waska,
come here.
PEPEL. I will not come... I will not....
WASSILISSA. [Re-enters.] What's the
matter? Why are you so mad?
PEPEL. It is tiresome.... I am sick of
the whole mess here....
WASSILISSA. And me, are you sick...
of me, too?
EPEL. You too.... WASSILISSA pulls
the shawl which is over her shoulders closely
together and presses her arm against her
breast. She goes to ANNA'S bed, looks cautiously behind the curtain, and returns to
PEPEL.] Nyah, so... speak....
WASSILISSA. What shall I say? No one
can be forced to love.. and I should be
unlike myself to beg for love... for your
frankness many thanks....




664


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


PEPEL. My frankness?
WASSILISSA. Yes, you say you are sick
of me... or is it not true? [PEPEL looks at
her in silence. She approaches him.] Why
do you stare? Do you not know me?
PEPEL. [With a deep breath.] You are
beautiful, Waska. [WASSILISSA puts her
arm around his neck: he shakes it off with a
movement of the shoulder.] But still my
heart has never belonged to you.... I
have gone on living with you... but I
have never truly liked you....
WASSILISSA. [Softly.] So... o... now
~.. um....
PEPEL. Now we have nothing more to
talk about.... Nothing more... go away... leave me alone.
WASSILISSA. Have you found pleasure
in another?
PEPEL. That is nothing to you.... If it
were so - I would not take you along for
a matchmaker...
WASSILISSA. [Meaningly.] Who knows.. perhaps I can bring it about.
PEPEL. [Suspiciously.] Who with?
WASSILISSA. You know who I mean...
don't deny it.... I talk straight out from
the shoulder... [Softly.] I will only say...you have deeply wronged me... without provocation you have struck me a
blow, as with a club... you always said
you loved me, and... all of a sudden....
PEPEL. All of a sudden... not at all... I have thought so, long... you have
no soul.... In a woman there should be a
soul. We men are animals... we know
nothing else... and men must first be
taught goodness... and you, what good
have you taught me?...
WASSILISSA. What has been has been.. I know that we cannot control the
impulses of our hearts... if you love me
no more - good... it is all the same to
me.
PEPEL. All right, then. It is settled. We
separate in friendship, without scandal...
pleasantly!
WASSILISSA. Stop, not so quick. During
the whole time that we have lived together... I have always hoped you would help
me out of this cesspool here... that you
would free me from my husband, from


my uncle... from this whole life... and
perhaps I have not loved you, Waska, at
all... perhaps in you I love only... my
one hope, my one dream... do you understand? I had hoped you would pull
me out....
PEPEL. You are no nail and I am no
tongs... I had thought you would finish
him; with your slyness... for you are sly
and quick-witted...  [Sits at R. table.]
WASSILISSA. [Leans towardshim.] Waska,
we will help each other....
PEPEL. How then?
WASSILISSA. [In a low tone, with expression.] My sister... you have taken a
fancy to her, I know it....
PEPEL. And you knock her about so
brutally on that account. I'll say this to
you, Waska: don't touch her again.
WASSILISSA. Wait. Not so hotly. It
can all be done quietly, in friendliness...
Marry her whenever you feel like it. I'll
find the money, three hundred rubles. If I
can get more I'll give you more....
PEPEL. [Rocks on his seat back and forth.]
Hold on... How do you mean that?
What for?
WASSILISSA. Free me from my husband.
Take that halter from my neck...
PEPEL. [Whistles.] Oho, I se-e! You
have thought it out well... the husband
in his grave, the admirer in Siberia, and
you yourself....
WASSILISSA. But Waska, why Siberia?
Not you yourself... your comrades. And
even if you did do it yourself - who would
know? Think... Natasha thine.... You
shall have money... to go away... anywhere... you free me forever... and for
my sister too; it will be a good thing for
her to be away from me. I can't look at
her without getting furious.... I hate her
on your account... I cannot control myself... I give her such blows that I myself
cry for pity...but -I strike her just
the same. And I will go on with it.
PEPEL. Beast! Don't sing praises of
your own cruelty.
WASSILISSA. I am not praising myself.
I only speak the truth. Remember, Waska,
you have already been imprisoned twice
by my husband..when you could not




THE LOWER DEPTHS


satisfy his greed.... He sticks to me like
vermin... for four years he has fed on me.
Such a man for a husband! And Natasha
dreads him too. He oppresses her and calls
her a beggar. He is a poison, a rank poison
for us all...
-- PEPEL. How cleverly you contrive it
all....
WASSILISSA. What I have said is not
contrived... It is quite clear to you....
Only a fool could not comprehend....
[KOSTILIOFF enters warily, L. U. E., and
sneaks forward.]
PEPEL. [To WASSILISSA.] No... go away!
WASSILISSA. Think it over. [Sees her
husband.] What's this! Dogging me again?
[PEPEL springs up and looks wildly
at KOSTILIOFF.]
KOSTILIOFF. Indeed... it is I... it is
I... and you are quite alone here? Ah... ah... Been chatting for a spell?
[Suddenly stamps his feet and screeches aloud,
to WASSILISSA.] Waska, you baggage...
you beggar, you deceptive carrion. [Then
frightened by his own cry which is answered
only by an echoless silence.] Have mercy on
me, Lord... You have again led me to
sin, Wassilissa... I search for you everywhere... [Squeakingly.] It is time to go
to bed. Have you forgot to fill the holy
lamp?... ah, you beggar, you swine!
[Waves his hands tremblingly in her
face. WASSILISSA goes slowly to
the door, L. U. E., and looks back
at PEPEL.]
PEPEL. [To KOSTILIOFF.] You! Go
your own way. Get out....
KOSTILIOFF. [Cries.] I am the master
here: Get out yourself, understand? Thief I
PEPEL. [Sternly.] Go your own way,
Mischka....
KOSTILIOFF. Be careful! Or else I'll...
[PEPEL seizes him by the collar and
shakes him. A noise of turning
and yawning is heard on the
stove. PEPEL loosens KOSTILIOFF, who, crying loudly, goes
out R. U. E. up the stairs.]
PEPEL.   [Jumps on bunk before stove.]
Who is there? Who is on the stove?
LUKA. [Poking his head out.] What?


PEPEL. Is it you?
LUKA. [Composedly.] I... I myself...
Who else would it be?... Ah, my God!
PEPEL. [Closes door L. U. E., looks for
key, but does not find it.] The devil...
crawl down, pilgrim.
LUKA. All right... I'll crawl down....
PEPEL. [Roughly.] Why did you climb
up on the stove?
LUKA. Where should I go?
PEPEL. Why did n't you go out into the
entry?
LUKA. Too cold, little brother... I am
an old man....
PPEEL. Did you hear?
LUKA. Without any trouble. Why not?
I am not deaf. Ah, my boy, you are
lucky, truly lucky.
PEPEL. [Mistrustfully.] I am lucky?
How so?
LUKA. Because... I climbed up on the
stove... that was your luck....
PEPEL. Why did you move about?
LUKA. 'Because I feel hot... luckily
for you, my orphan... and then I thought:
if the boy does not lose his head... and
strangle the old man....
PEPEL. Yes, I might easily have done
it... I hate him....
LUKA. It would not have been any
wonder... such things happen every day.
PEPEL. [Laughing.] Mm.... Have you
yourself not done something of the kind
some time?
LUKA. Listen, my boy, to what I tell
you: this woman, keep well away from
her. At no cost let her approach... She
will soon get her husband out of the way
more cleverly than you could ever manage
it. Don't listen to he:r, this offspring of
Satan! Look at me: not a hair left on my
head... and why? The women, and no
other reason.... I have known, perhaps,
more women than I have had hairs on my
head... and this Wassilissa... is worse
than the pest....
PEPEL. I don't know... whether to
thank you... or, are you too...
LUKA. Say no more.. Listen. If there
is a girl, take the one you like best - take
her by the hand and go away together;
quite away, a long way off....




666


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS




PEPEL. [Gloomily.] We cannot know
each other: who is good, who is bad....
Nothing certain is known to us....
LUKA. Of what importance can that be?
Man's ways vary... following the different desires of his heart; so he lives, good
today, bad tomorrow. And if you love
the girl, then pull out, settle it. Or go alone.
You are young, you have still time enough
to be enmeshed by a woman.
PEPEL. [Takes him by the shoulder.] No,
but say- why do you tell me all this?...
LUKA. Hold on. Let me go... I must
look after Anna.... Her throat is rattling.
[He go. s to ANNA'S bed, strikes the curtain
back, looks at the prostrate form and touches
it with his hand. PEPEL, uneasy and depressed, follows him.] Lord Jesus Christ,
All Powerful! receive in peace the soul of
this newcomer, thy servant Anna....
PEPEL. [Whispers.] Is she dead?
[Elevates himself to his full height
and looks without approaching.]
LUKA. [Whispering.] Her misery is
ended. And where is her husband?
PEPEL. In the barroom - of course.
LUKA. He must be told....
PEPEL. [Shrinking.] I do not love the
dead.
LUKA. [Goes to the door, L. U. E.] Why
should we love the dead? We must love
the living... the living....
PEPEL. I'11 go with you.
LUKA. Are you afraid?
PEPEL. I love them not....
[Exit hastily, with LUKA, L. U. E.
The stage remains empty for a
few moments. Behind the door,
L. U. E., is heard a dull, confused, unusual sound.]
[Enter the ACTOR, L. U. E. He remains
standing on the platform, his hand on
the door jamb, and cries.]
ACTOR. Old man! Luka! Heh, where
do you hide? Now I remember. Listen.
[Tremblingly takes two steps forward, puts himself in an attitude
and declaims.]
And if humanity to holy truth
No path by searching finds,
Then all the world shall praise the fool,




I


Who spins a dream to mesh their minds.
[NATASHA  appears behind   the
ACTOR in the door.]
[He continues.] Old man... listen!
And if the sun tomorrow shall forget
Upon the earth his light to stream,
Then all the world shall hail the fool,
With his illuminating red-gold dream.
NATASHA. [Laughs.] Look at the scarecrow. Maybe he has had one or two....
ACTOR. [Turns to her.] A-ah, it is you!
And where is our patriarch? Our loving,
kind-hearted pilgrim.... There is nobody... at home.... Natasha, farewell, farewell.
NATASHA. [Approaches him.] You have
just greeted me, and now you say farewell.
ACTOR. [Steps in her way.] I shall go....
I shall travel... when, soon as spring
comes, I shall be far away.
NATASHA. Let me by.... Where shall
you travel then?
ACTOR. I shall go to that city... I shall
be cured.... You must leave here, too...
Ophelia... get thee to a nunnery....
There is, you know, a hospital for organisms... for hard drinkers, so to speak... a splendid hospital... all marble...
marble floors... light... cleanliness...
good board - all free of charge! And marble floors, truly. I shall find it, this city,
I'll be myself again.... Begin a new life.... I am on the way to regeneration... as King Lear said! Do you know too,
Natasha... what my stage name is?
Svertchkoff-Savolszhinski I'm  called...
nobody knows that here, nobody... here
I am nameless... realize, if you can, how
it hurts to lose your name? Even dogs have
their names. [NATASHA goes softly past the
ACTOR, stands at ANNA'S bed and looks at
the dead body.] Without a name.  where
there is no name there is no man.
NATASHA. Look!... dear... why...
she is dead....
ACTOR. [Shaking his head.] Impossible....
NATASHA. [Stands aside.] In God's
name... look....
BUBNOFF. [Enters L. U. E.] What is
there to look at?
NATASHA. Anna is dead!




THE LOWER DEPTHS


667


BUBNOFF. Then there will be no more
coughing. [Goes to ANNA'S bed, looks for a
time at the dead body and then goes to his
place.] Somebody must tell Kleshtsch...
it's his business....
ACTOR. I'll go. I shall tell him... She,
too, has lost her name. [Exit ACTOR L. U. E.]
NATASHA. [In the centre of the room, to
herself partly.] And I... some time, shall
languish so, and die forsaken in a cellar....
BUBNOFF. [Spreading out an old torn
blanket on his shelf.] What is the matter. what are you muttering?
NATASHA. Nothing... only to myself.....
BUBNOFF. Are you expecting Waska?
Be careful with Waska.... He will knock
your skull in, some day, for you....
NATASHA. Is n't it all the same to me,
who knocks it in? I'd rather have it done
by him....
BUBNOFF. [Lies down.] As you prefer.. no funeral of mine.
NATASHA. It is the best thing for her
that could happen... to die... yet it is
pitiful... thou loving Master... what
did she live for?
BUBNOFF. So with everybody —but,
we live. Man is born, lives for a space of
time, and dies. I will die too... and you
will die... why pity the dead, then?
[LUKA, the TARTAR, KRIVOI ZOBA and
KLESHTSCH enter L. U. E. KLESHTSCH
follows behind the others in shaking
spirits.]
NATASHA. Sh-sh... Anna!
KRIvOI ZOBA. We have already heard... God take her soul....
TARTAR. [To KLESHTSCH.] She must be
taken out. She must be carried into the
entry. This is no place for the dead. The
living person can have a bed....
KLESHTSCH. [Whispering.] We will take
her out....
[All stand around the body.
KLESHTSCH looks at the remains
of his wife over the shoulders of
the others.]
KRIVOI ZOBA. [To the TARTAR.] Do you
think she will smell? No... while she was
still alive she dried up....


NATASHA. For God's sake... nobody
pities her... if anybody had but said a
word of kindness.
LUKA. Don't be hurt, my daughter. It
is nothing. What have we to do with pitying the dead? We have not enough for each
other. And you talk of pitying her.
BUBNOFF. [Gapes.] Why waste words... when she is dead - no words can help
her any more... against sickness certain
words can be used... against death,
nothing.
TARTAR. [Stepping aside.] The police
must be told....
KRIVOI ZOBA. Naturally —that is the
regulation. Kleshtsch, have you already
reported it?
KLESHTSCH.   No... now  comes the
funeral and I have only forty copecs in the
world....
KRIVOI ZOBA. Then borrow... or we
will take up a collection... everybody
give what he can, one five copecs, another
ten...but the police must soon be told.
Or else, at last, they will think you have
beaten your wife to death... or something else.
[Goes to the bunk, U. on which the
TARTAR is lying, and attempts to
lie down with him.]
NATASHA. [Goes to BUBNOFF'S bench.]
Now I shall dream about her... I always
dream of the dead.... I am afraid to be
alone.... It is so dark in the entry.
LUKA. [Follows with his eyes.] Be afraid
of the living..that is what I say to
you...
NATASHA. Take me up-stairs, daddy...
LUKA. Come... come... I will go
with you.    [Exit both L. U. E. Pause.]
KRIVOI ZOBA. [Yawns.] Oh, oh! [To the
TARTAR.] It will soon be spring now,
Hassan... Then there will be a little bit
of sun for you and me. The peasants now
are repairing their plows and harrows...
they will go to the field soon... hm -
yes..and we, Hassan. He is. already
snoring, cursed Mohammedan.
BUBNOFF. The Tartars are fond of sleep.
KLESHTSCH. [Standing in the middle of
the room staring stupidly before himself.]
What shall I begin to do now?




668


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


KRIVOI ZOBA. Lie down and sleep...
that's all...
KLESHTSCH. [Whispers.] And... she!
What shall be done with her?
[Nobody answers him.]
[Enter SAHTIN and the ACTOR, L. U. E.]
ACTOR. [Cries.] Old man! My true adviser.....
SAHTIN. Miklucka-Maclai comes... ho,
ho!
ACTOR. The thing is settled! Patriarch,
where is the city... where are you?
SAHTIN. Fata Morgana! He has deluded you... there are no cities... No,
no people... there is nothing at all!
ACTOR. Liar....
TARTAR. [Springing up.] Where is the
proprietor? I'll see the proprietor! If we
can't sleep here, he shall charge us nothing... the dead... the drunken....
[Exit quickly, R. U. E. SAHTIN
whistles after him.]
BUBNOFF. [Awakened.] Go to bed brats,
make no noise, the night is for sleep....
ACTOR. True... I have here [rubs his
forehead]. "Our nets have caught the
dead," as it says in a... chanson, from
Beranger.1
SAHTIN. The dead hear not. The dead
feel not. Howl... shout as much as you
like... the dead hear not!
[LUKA appears in the door.]
ACT III
[Translator's Note: In the Russian, the
third act takes place upon a new scene, but
as the scene of the previous acts may be
employed without necessitating any change
in dialogue or construction, the stage directions given in this act have the old scene
in view. The new scene is described as
follows:]
A vacant place between two buildings, filled
with rubbish and overgrown with weeds. In
the background, a high brick fire-wall, which
covers the heavens. Near it a small elder-tree.
On the right, a dark wall of reinforced wooden
beams, part of a barn or stable. On the left,
I In reality a quotation from Pushkin.


the gray wall of KOSTILIOFF'S lodging-house,
its rough plaster adhering only in places.
This wall runs diagonally, the rear wall of
the building, the corner being about the middle
of the scene, forming with the fire-wall a
narrow passageway. In the gray wall there
are two windows, one on a level with the earth,
the other four or five feet higher and nearer the
rear. Against the gray wall lies a great sled,
overturned, with a beam about three yards
long. Near the stable wall on the right is a
heap of old boards and hewn beams.
It is evening, the setting sun throws a red
light against the fire-wall. Spring has just
begun and the snow is scarcely melted. The
black twigs of the elder-tree have not begun to
swell.
On the beam, side by side, sit NATASHA and
NASTIAH. On the pile of boards LUKA and
the BARON. KLESHTSCH lies on a heap of
wood near the right wall. BUBNOFF is looking out of the lower window.
NASTIAH. [With closed eyes, moving her
head in time to the story, which she is telling
in a singsong voice.] In the night, then, he
came to the garden, to the summer-bower,
as we had arranged... I had waited long,
trembling for fear and grief... and he,
too, was trembling from head to foot, and
chalk white, but in his hand he held a...
pistol....
NATASHA. [Nibbling at sunflower seeds. 
Just listen... these students are all as
mad as March hares.
NASTIAH. And in a terrible voice, he said
to me: my true love....
BUBNOFF. Ha, ha, my "true" love, did
he say?
BARON. Be still there, let her humbug in
peace - you don't have to listen, if it
don't please you... go on.
NASTIAH. My heart's distraction, said
he, my golden treasure; my parents refuse
to allow me, said he, to marry you, and
threaten me with their curses if I do not
give you up, and so I must, said he, take
my life... and his pistol was frightfully
large, and loaded with ten bullets....
Farewell, said he, true friend of my heart!
My decision is irrevocable... I cannot
live without you. But I answered him,




THE LOWER DEPTHS


669


my never-to-be-forgotten friend... my
Raoul....
BUBNOFF. [Astonished.] What's his
name... Graul?
BARON. You are mistaken, Nastya! The
last time you called him Gaston.
NASTIAH. [Springing up.] Silence! You
vagabond curs! Can you understand what
love is... real, genuine love! And I... I
have tasted this genuine love. [To the
BARON.] You unworthy scamp... You
were an educated man... you say, have
drunk your coffee in bed....
LUKA. Have patience! Don't scold her!
Show human beings some consideration.... It is not what man says but why he
says it, - that's the point. Keep on, my
love - they don't mean anything.
BUBNOFF. Always laying on the bright
hues, raven... Nyah, cut loose again!
BARON. Go on.
NATASHA. Pay no attention to them...
who are they, anyway? They only speak
out of envy... because they have nothing
to tell about themselves...
NASTIAH. [Sits down again.] I don't
want to... I won't tell anything more... if they don't like to believe it... and
laugh about it. [Suddenly brightens up. Is
silent a few seconds, closes her eyes again and
begins in a loud and rapid voice, keeping
time with her hand, while in the distance
ringing music is heard.] And I answered
him: Joy of my life! 0 my glittering star!
Without you, I too, could not live... because I love you madly and must love you
always, as long as my heart beats in my
bosom! But, said I, rob yourself not of
your young life... for look, your dear
parents whose single joy you are- they
stand in need of you. Give me up... I
would rather pine away... out of longing
for you, my love... I am -alone... I
am - wholly yours... yes, let me die...
what matters it... I am good for nothing... and have nothing... absolutely
nothing...
[Covers her face with her hands and
cries softly.]
NATASHA. [Goes to her side, quietly.] Don't.
[LUKA strokes NASTIAH'S head,
laughing.]


BUBNOFF. [Laughs aloud.] Oh... ho... a deceiving minx,... eh?
BARON. [Laughs aloud.] Now - grandfather -do you believe what she tells?
She gets it all out of her book... out of
"Disastrous Love," all nonsense. Drop it.
NATASHA. What is that to you? You'd
better keep still. God has punished you
enough....
NASTIAH. [Furious.] You! Tell us,
where is your soul!
LUKA. [Takes her by,he hand.] Come
my love. Do not be angry... They mean
nothing, I know...:[- believe you.
You are right, and not they... if you
yourself believe it, then you have had just
such true love... Certainly, quite certainly. And he there, your lover, don't be
angry.... He only laughs perhaps...
about it... because he is envious... No
doubt in his whole life he never felt
anything genuine... No, certainly not.
Come!
NASTIAH. [Presses her arm against her
breast.] Grandfather. Before God... it is
true! It is all true..... A French student... Gastoscha was his name... and he
had a little black beard... he always
wore patent leather shoes.... May light- 
ning strike me instantly if it is n't true!
And how he loved me... oh, how he loved
me.
LUKA. I am sure. Say no more. I believe you. He wore patent leather shoes,
you say? Aye, aye, and you have naturally
loved him too.      [Exit both L. U. E.]
BARON. A stupid thing, good hearted
but stupid, intolerably stupid.
BUBNOFF. How can a man lie so unceasingly? Just like before a coroner.
NATASHA. Falsehood must indeed be
pleasanter than the truth... I... too.
BARON. What "I too?" Say more.
NATASHA. I too, think of lots of them... to myself... and wait....
BARON. For what?
NATASHA. [Laughing embarrassed.] Just
so... perhaps, think I... somebody will
come tomorrow... some. strange person... or there may happen.. something
that never happened before.... I have
already waited long... ] still am waiting




670


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


-.. and after all... to look at it right...
can anything great be expected? [Pause.]
BARON. [Laughing.] We can expect
nothing at all.... I least of all - I expect
nothing more. For me everything has already been. All is past... at an end...
what more?
NATOSHA. Sometimes, too, I imagine,
that tomorrow... I will die suddenly...
which fills me with fear.... In summer
we think   willingly  of death... then
comes the storm, and every moment one
may be struck by lightning....
BARON. Your life has not been laid in
easy lines.... Your sister has the disposition of a fiend.
NATASHA. Whose life is easy? All have
it hard, as far as I can see....
KLESHTSCH. [Who has previously lain
silent and motionless, springing up.] All?
That is not true! Not all! If it was hard
for all... then each of us could stand it... there would be nothing to complain
about.
BUBNOFF. Say, are you possessed by the
devil? Why howl?
[KLESHTSCH lies down again and
stares vacantly.]
BARON. I must see what Nastya is doing... I'll have to make up with her...
or we shall have no more money for whiskey.
BUBNOFF. People can never stop lying!
I can understand Nastyka; she is accustomed to painting her cheeks.... So she
tries it with the soul.. paints her little
soul red... but the rest, why do they do
it?  Luka, for example... turns everything into stories.. without ceremony... why does he always lie?... at his
age?...
BARON. [Goes L. U. E. laughing.] All of
us have gray souls.... We like to lay on a
bit of red.
LUKA. [Enters from L. U. E.] Tell me,
Baron, why do you torment the girl? Let
her alone.... Can't she cry to pass the
time away...she only sheds tears for
pleasure... what harm can that do you?
BARON. She is a soft-brained thing, pilgrim... It's hard to swallow... today
Raoul, tomorrow  Gaston... and ever



I


lastingly one and the same. But anyway,
I'll make up with her again. [Exit L. U. E.]
LUKA. Go, treat her with friendliness.. treat every one with friendliness -
injure no one.
NATASHA. How good you are, grandfather... how is it that you are so good?
LUKA. I am good, you say. Nyah...
if it is true, all right.... [Behind the red
wall is heard soft singing and accordeon
playing.] But you see, my girl -there
must be some one to be good... We
must have pity on mankind. Christ, remember, had pity for us all and so taught
us to be likewise. Have pity when there is
still time, believe me, it is very good. I
was once, for example, employed as a
watchman, at a country place which belonged to an engineer, not far from the city
of Tomsk, in Siberia. The house stood in
the middle of the forest, an out-of-the-way
location... and it was winter and I was
all alone in the country house.... It was
beautiful there... magnificent! And once... I heard them scrambling up!
NATASHA. Thieves!
LUKA. Yes. They crept higher and I
took my rifle and went outside. I looked
up: two men... as they were opening a
window and so busy that they did not see
anything of me at all... I cried to them:
Heh there..get out of that... and
would you think it, they fell on me with a
hand ax... I warned them - Halt, I
cried, or else I fire... then I aimed first at
one and then at the other. They fell on
their knees saying, pardon us. I was pretty
hot... on account of the hand ax, you
remember. You devils, I cried, I told you
to clear out and you did n't... and now, I
said, one of you go into the brush and get a
switch. It was done: And now, I commanded, one of you stretch out on the
ground, and the other thrash him... and
so they whipped each other at my command. And when they had each had a
sound beating, they said to me: Grandfather, said they, for the sake of Christ
give us a piece of bread. We have n't a bite
in our bodies. These, my daughter, were
the thieves [laughs] who had fallen upon
me with the hand ax. Yes... they were a




THE LOWER DEPTHS


671


pair of splendid fellows.... I said to them:
If only you had asked for bread! Then
they answered: We had gotten past that... we had asked and asked and nobody
would give us anything... endurance was
worn out... nyah, and so they remained
with me the whole winter. One of them,
Stephen by name, liked to take the rifle
and go into the woods... and the other,
Jakoff, was constantly ill, always coughing... the three of us watched the place, and
when spring came, they said farewell,
grandfather, and went away - to Russia....
NATASHA. Were they convicts, escaping?
LUKA. They were... fugitives...
they had left their colony... a pair of
splendid fellows.... If I had not had pity
on them - who knows what would have
happened. They might have killed me....
Then they would be taken to court again,
put in prison, sent back to Siberia... why
all that? You learn nothing good in prison,
nor in Siberia... but a man, what can he
not learn. Man may teach his fllowmn
something goo —.   ery simply. [Pause.]
— UBNOFF. Hm...yes...and I...
can never lie. Why should I do it? Always out with the truth, that is my way of
thinking, whether it pleases or not. Why
trouble to be considerate?
KLESHTSCH. [Springing up, as though
stabbed, crying.]  What (is the truth?
Where is the truth - where! [Beats with
his hands on his torn clothes.] There is the
truth- there! No work.... No strength... in the limbs - that is the truth! No
shelter... no shelter.... It is time to die,
that is your truth, curse it! What is it to
me, this -truth? Only let me sigh in
peace - let me sigh. What have I done?
Why the devil should we have truth?
Curse it, we can't live... that is the
truth!
BUBNOFF. Just listen... he is full of
matter....
LUKA. The good Lord... but say, my
friend, you....
KLESHTSCH. [Trembling with excitement.]
I have heard you talk of the truth. You,
pilgrim - you consoling every one...


and I say to you: I hate every one. And
this truth too, this accursed truth... do
you understand? Mark you, accursed
shall truth be.
[Hurries out, L. U. E., looking
back as he goes.]
LUKA. Aye, aye, aye; but he is out of his
head... and where can he be running?
NATASHA. He rages away like one gone
mad.
BUBNOFF. He laid it all down in the
proper order... as in a theatre... the
same thing happens often... he is not
accustomed to life....
PEPEL. [Enters slowly L. U. E.] Peace
to you honest folks! Nyah, Luka, old
devil - telling more stories?
LUKA. You ought to have seen     st
now, a man crying out.
PEPEL. Kleshtsch, you mean, him?
What is the matter with him now? He ran
past me, as if he were crazy....
LUKA. You will run the same way too,
when once it gets into your heart....
PEPEL. [Sits.] I can't endure him...
he is embittered, and proud. [He imitates
KLESHTSCH.] "I am a workingman..."
as though others were inferior to him...
Work indeed, if it gives you pleasure...
but why do you need to be so proud about
it? If you estimate men by work, then a
horse is better than any man. He pulls a
wagon -and holds his mouth about it.
Natasha... are your people at home?
NATASHA. They have gone to the graveyard... and then they were to go to
church.
PEPEL. You're therefore at leisure...
that happens seldom.
LUKA. [Thoughtfully to BUBNOFF.] You
say - the truth... but ithe truth is not a
cure for every ill... you cannot always
heal the soul with truth... for example,
the following case: I knew a man who believed in the land of justice....
BUBNOFF. In wh-at?
LUKA. In the land of justice. There
must be, said he, a land of justice somewhere in the world... in which unusual
men, so to speak, must live... good men,
who respect each other, who help each
other when they can... everything there




CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


is good and beautiful. It is a country which
every man should seek.... He was poor
and things went bad with him... so bad,
indeed, that soon nothing remained for
him to do but to lie down and die - but
still he did not lose courage. He often
laughed and said to himself: it makes no
difference - I can bear it! A little longer
yet will I wait - then throw this life aside
and go into the land of justice... it was
his only pleasure... this land of justice...
rEPEL. Yes, and... Has he gone there?
BUBNOFF. Where! Ha, ha, ha!
LUKA. At that time there was brought
to the place - the thing happened in Siberia -an exile, a man of learning...
with books and maps and all sorts of arts.. And the sick man spoke to the sage:
Tell me, I implore you, where lies the land
of justice, and how can one succeed in getting there. Then the learned man opened
his books and spread his maps out, and
searched and searched, but he found the
land of justice nowhere. Everything else
was correct, all countries were shown -
the land of justice alone did not appear.
PEPEL. [Softly.] No? Was it really not
there?               [BUBNOFF laughs.]
NATASHA. What are you laughing at?
Go on, grandfather.
LUKA. The man would not believe him... It must be there, said he... look
more closely! For all your books and
maps, said he, are not worth a whistle if
the land of justice is not shown on them.
The learned man felt himself insulted. My
maps, said he, are absolutely correct, and
a land of justice nowhere exists. So, the
other was furious. What, he cried - have
I now lived and lived and lived, endured
and endured, and always believed there
was such a country. And according to
your plans there is none! That is robbery.. and he said to the learned man: You
good-for-nothing  scamp... you  are a
cheat and no sage. Then he gave him a
sound blow over the skull, and still another.... [Is silent a few moments.] And
then he went home and choked himself...
[All are silent. LUKA looks silently at PEPEL and NATASHA.]


PEPEL. The devil take him... the
story is it not cheerful....
NATASHA. He could n't stand it... to
be so disappointed.
BUBNOFF. [In a surly tone.] All tales....
PEPEL. Hm, yes... there is your land
of justice... it was not to be found, it
seems....
NATASHA. One should have sympathy
for him... the poor man....
BUBNOFF. All imagination... ha, ha!
The land of justice -stuff! Ha, ha, ha,
ha!                  [Exit into kitchen.]
LUKA. [Looking after him.] He laughs,
ah yes. [Pause.] Yes, children... farewell... I shall leave you soon....
PEPEL. Where do you journey, then?
LUKA. To Little Russia.... I hear they
have discovered a new religion there.... I
will see what it is... yes... Men search
and search, always looking for something
better... may God give them patience.
PEPEL. Think you, they will find it?
LUKA. Who? Mankind? Certainly they
shall find it.....who vearns... he
finds... who  searches —zou
finds!. '.*..y...-..^^ "..-f-.
NATASHA. I wish them a happy journey.
I hope they will find something.
LUKA. That shall they surely do. But
we must help them, my daughter... must
respect them....
NATASHA. How shall I help them? I am
myself... so helpless....
PEPEL. [Restrained.] Listen to me, Natasha... I want to speak to you... in
his presence... he knows it... come...
with me!
NATASHA. Where? To Prison?
PEPEL. I have already told you that I
will give up stealing. By God, I will!
When I say a thing, I keep my word. I
have learned to read and write... I can
easily make a living. [With a movement of
the hand towards LUKA.] He advised me -
to try it in Siberia... to go of my own
accord.... How  does it strike you -
shall we go? Believe me, I am sick of this
life. Ah, Natasha! I see indeed how
things are... I have consoled my conscience with the thought that others steal
more than I - and are still respected...




THE LOWER DEPTHS


673


but how does that help me... not in the
least. But I have no regret... nor, as I
believe, any conscience.... But I feel one
thing: that I must live in a different way.
I must live better... I must live... so
that I can respect myself....
LUKA. Quite right, my boy. May God
be with you... May Christ help you! Well
resolved: a ilan ms res.t.iBaelf...
PEPEL. From childhood, I have been -
only a thief... Always I was called,
Waska, the pickpocket, Waska, the son of
a thief! See, it was of no consequence to
me, as long as they would have it so... so
they would have it... I was a thief, perhaps, only out of spite... because nobody
came along to call me anything except -
thief... You call me something else, Natasha... now?
NATASHA. [In low spirits.] I do not
quite believe it all... words are words...
and then... I don't know.... Today I
am disquieted... my heart is despondent. As though I dreaded something. You
would not begin today, Wassili....
PEPEL. When else, then! This is not
the first time I have spoken....
NATASHA. Shall I go with you.... I
love you... not too much.... Sometimes I like you... but then at times I
cannot look at you.. in any case I do
not love... when ne IvPs one sees.o
fault in the beloved... and I seefaltn
you....
PEPEL. You will soon love me, have no
fear! You will become accustomed to me.. only say "yes." For over_a year I havy
been watching you. and I see that you are
an honest.. a good, true woman...
I love you with all m  hea.
[WASSILISSA, still in gay stret dress, appears at the door at the head of the stair,
R. U. E. She stands with one hand on
the balustrade and the other on the door
post and laughs.]
NATASHA. So... you love me with all
your heart, and my sister....
PEPEL. [Embarrassed.] What do I care
for her? Her kind is nothing....
LUKA. It does not matter, my daughter.
One eats turnips when he ha no bread...


PEPEL. [Gloomily.] Have pity on me.
It is no easy life that I lead - friendless;
pursued like a wolf.... I sink like a man
in a swamp... whatever I clutch is slimy
and rotten... nothing is firm... your
sister though, would be different... if she
were not so avaricious... I would have
risked everything for her... If she had
only kept faith with me... but her heart
is set on something else... her heart is
full of greed... and longs for freedom —
and only that longing in order to become
more dissolute. She cannot help me...
but you - like a young fir-tree, you are
prickly but you give support....
LUKA. And I say to you: take him, my
daughter, take him. He is a good-hearted
boy. All you must do is to remind him
often that he is good... so that he will
not forget it. He will soon believe you.
Only say to him, often, Waska, u-&
good man... don't forget it! Think it
over, my love - what else shall you begin?
Your sister —she is a bad lot: and of
her husband - nothing good can be said
either: no words can be found to express
his baseness... and this whole life here... where shall you find a way out?...
But Waska... he is a lusty fellow.
NATASHA. I cannot find a way... I
know that... I have already thought it
over myself... but I... whom   can I
trust?... I see no way out....
PEPEL. There is but one way... but I
shall not let you take it... I would kill
you first....
NATASHA. [Laughing.] Just look... I
am not yet your wife, and you will already
kill me.
PEPEL. [Putting his arms around her.] Say
" yes," Natasha. It will soon be well....
NATASHA. [Presses him affectionately.]... One thing I will tell you, Wassili....
And God shall be my witness: if you strike
me a single time... or insult me... that
shall be the end... either I hang myself,
or...
PEPEL. May this hand wither up, if I
touch you....
LUKA. Don't be troubled, my love, you
can believe him. You are necessary to his
happiness, and he to yours....




674


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


WASSILISSA. [From above.] And the
match is made. May God give you love
and harmony.
NATASHA. They are already back...
Oh, God! They have seen us... ah,
Wassili!
PEPEL. What are you afraid of? Nobody
dares touch you now!
WASSILISSA. Do not be afraid, Natalya.
He will not strike you... He can neither
strike, nor love... I know him.
LUKA. [Softly.] Ah, such a woman... a
venomous snake....
WASSILISSA. He is only bold with
words....
KOSTILIOFF. [Enters R. from kitchen.]
Nataschka! What are you doing here,
lazy-bones? Gossiping, eh! Complaining
about your relatives: the samovar is not in
order, the table not cleared off.
NATASHA. [Going R. Kitchen.] You were
going to church, I thought....
KOSTILIOFF. It does not concern you
what we are going to do. Mind your own
business... do what you are told.
PEPEL. Shut up. She is not your servant
now.... Natalya, don't budge... don't
move a finger.
NATASHA. It is not for you to give orders
here.... Too soon yet for orders.
[Exit R.]
PEPEL. [To KOSTILIOFF.] Enough of
that. You have mortified the poor girl
enough! She is mine now.
KOSTILIOFF. You-u? When did you
buy her? What did you pay for her?
[WASSILISSA laughs aloud.]
LUKA. Wasja! Get out....
PEPEL. You're having a good time over
me, are n't you? You may weep yet 
WASSILISSA. What do you say! I am
afraid of you.              [Laughs.]
LUKA. Go away, Wassili! Don't you see
how she plays with you... pricks you on
- can't you understand?
PEPEL. Ah... so! [To WASSILISSA.]
Don't give yourself any trouble. What you
want will not be done.
WASSILISSA. And what 1 do not want
done, will not be done, Wasja!
PPEEL. [Threatens her with his fist.] We
shall see...           [Exit L. U. E.]


WASSILISSA. [As she goes cut R. U. E.] I
will prepare a glorious wedding for you.
KOSTILIOFF. [Advances on LUKA.] So... What are you stirring up, old man?
LUKA. Nothing, old man.
KOSTILIOFF. Um! You are going to
leave us, I hear!
LUKA. It is time.
KOSTILIOFF. Where to?
LUKA. Wherever my nose points.
KOSTILIOFF. You are going to become a
vagabond again. You seem to be a rolling
stone....
LUKA. Resting iron is rusting iron, says
the proverb.
KOSTILIOFF. That may be true of iron,
but a man must remain in one place...
Men cannot be tumbling about like cockroaches in the kitchen... first here, then
there.... A man must have a place which
he can call home.... He must not be
crawling aimlessly about the earth.
LUKA. And if one - is at home every
where?
KOSTILIOFF. Then he is only - a tramp.. a good-for-nothing fellow... a man
must make himself useful... he must
work....
LUKA. What's that you're saying?
KOSTILIOFF. Yes, indeed! What else
then?... You call yourself a wanderer, a
pilgrim.... What is a pilgrim? A pilgrim
is one who goes his own way - keeps to
himself... has peculiarities, so to speak,
is unlike other people... that's what we
understand about a true pilgrim.... He
ponders and unravels... and at last discovers something... perhaps the truth,
who knows.... He holds his truth for
himself, and remains silent. If he is a
true pilgrim, he remains silent.... Or, he
speaks so that no one understands him...
He has no wish to be gratified, does n't
turn people's heads, does not butt-in. How
others live - gives him no concern....
He lives proudly and in rectitude...
searches out the forest and the unfrequented places... where no one comes.
He is in nobody's way, condemns nobody... but prays for all... for all the sinners
of this world... for me, for you... for
all! He flies from the vanity of this world




THE LOWER DEPTHS


-


-to prayer. So it is. [Pause.] And you... what sort of a pilgrim are you... you
have not even a passport.... Every lawabiding citizen must have a passport...
all orderly people have passports...
yes....
LUKA. There are people and there are
men....
KOSTILIOFF. Don't get funny! Don't
give us any riddle... I am not your fool.... What do you mean by people - and
men?
LUKA. This is no riddle. I mean - there
are stony fields which are not worth sowing... and there are fertile fields...
whatever is sown thereon - yields a harvest... so it is....
KOSTILIOFF. And what does all this mean?
LUKA. You, for example... If God himself said to you: "Michailo, be a man,"
it is certain that it would be useless... As
you are, so you will remain for all time....
KOSTILIOFF. Ah... and do you know
that my wife's uncle is on the police force?
And if I...
WASSILISSA. [Enters R.] Michailo Ivanitsch, come drinkyos e tea....
KOSTILIOFF. [To LUKA.] Hear me, you -
keep out of this row - leave my house....
WASSILISSA. Yes, put on your knapsack,
old man... your tongue is too long...
who knows... perhaps you may be an
escaped convict.
KOSTILIOFF. Be sure that you disappear
today... or else... we shall see.
LUKA. Or else you will call your uncle,
eh? Call him... tell him, you can catch
a convict here, uncle... then your uncle
will receive a reward... three copecs....
BUBNOFF. [Looking out from over the
stove.] What business are you haggling
about... what is it... for three copecs?...
LUKA. We are trying to sell me.
WASSILISSA. [To her husband.] Let's go.
BUBNOFF. For three copecs. Take care
old man... or they will sell you for one
copec....
KOSTILIOFF. [To BUBNOFF.] What are
you staring out of there for, like a hobgoblin out of a tunnel?
[Approaches R. with WASBILSsa.]




I


WASSILISSA.  How   many  blat
there are in the world... how
knaves.
LUKA. I wish you a good appetite.
WASSILISSA. [Turns to him.] Take good
care of yourself - you dirty toadstool.
[Exit with KOSTILIOFF R.]
LUKA. Tonight- I leave.
BUBNOFF. You'll do right. It is always
best to go before it is too late...
LUKA. Quite right.
BUBNOFF. I speak from experience. I
took my own departure once at the right
moment, and saved myself a trip to Siberia.
LUKA. What do you say?
BUBNOFF. It is true. The case was thus:
my wife had a love affair with my assistant... and a very good assistant he was, I
must admit... he could make the most
beautiful polar bear furs from dog skins...
cat skins he dyed into Kangaroos... into
musk rats... into anything you could
wish... a very clever fellow. My wife
was madly in love with him. They hung
on each other so much that I feared every
moment they would poison me or put me
out of the world in some other way. I
whipped my wife often, and my assistant
whipped me... and I tell you he made a
savage job of it, too. Once he pulled half
my beard out and broke a rib for me. Naturally I was not particular when I struck
back... gave my wife one over the skull
with an iron yardstick... we were generally fighting like good fellows. Finally I
saw there was no chance for me... they
would surely fix it for me. Then I arranged
a plan - to kill my wife... I had quite
made up my mind. But in the nick of
time - I came to my senses - and cleared
out of the row....
LUKA. It was better so, let them be
quiet there making polar bears out of
dogs.
BUBNOFF. Worse luck, the shop was in
her name... only what I had on my back
I kept... though, to speak honestly, I
would have drunk the place up in no time... I am a glorious drunk you understand.
LUKA. A glorious drunk.
BUBNOFF. Oh, a glorious drunk. When
things come my way I soak up everything




CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS;. And then I am lazy... nothing
3 terrible than work.
AIHTIN and the ACTOR come in quarreling.]
SAHTIN. Nonsense! You will go nowhere. You're talking stupid stuff. Tell
me, pilgrim... what spark have you been
throwing into this burned stump?
ACTOR. You lie! Grandfather, tell him
that he lies. I go. I have worked today. I
have cleaned the pavement... and drunk
no whiskey. What do you say now? There,
see - two fifteeners, and I am sober.
SAHTIN. It is all wrong! Give it to me,
I'11 spend it on drink... or lose it at cards.
ACTOR. Let it alone. It is for the
journey.
LUKA. [To SAHTIN.] Listen you —why
do you try to upset his resolution?
SAHTIN. "Tell me, you wizard, darling of
the gods - what shall fate with my future
do?"' Moneyless, brother, I have played
everything away, broke. But the world is
not lost, old man, there are still sharper
knaves than I.
LUKA. You are a lusty brother, Constantine... a loveable man....
BUBNOFF. You actor, come here.
[The ACTOR goes to the stove and
talks apart with BUBNOFF.]
SAHTIN. When I was still young, I was
a jolly chicken. I look back on it with
pleasure.... I had the soul of a man....
I danced splendidly, acted, was a famous
bachelor... simply phenomenal!
LUKA. How then have you gotten so far
afield... hm?
SAHTIN. You are curious, old man. You
would know all... and what for?
LUKA. I always like to know about...
mankind's difficulties... and I do not
understand you, Constantine. When I
look at you; such a loveable man... so
sensible... then suddenly...
SAHTrN. The prison, grandfather. Four
years and seven months I have done, and
coming out, a discharged convict, I found
my course in life shut up....
LUKA. Oh, oh, oh! Why then were you
imprisoned?
SAHTIN. On account of a deceiver —
1 Citation from Pushkin.


whom I killed in a passion.... In prison,
too, I learned my art of card playing....
LUKA. And why did you kill him? On
account of a woman?
SAHTIN. On account of my own sister... Stop questioning... it annoys me....
It is... an old story... my sister is dead... nine years have gone by... she was a
splendid creature... my sister....
LUKA. You take life easily. It falls more
heavily on others.... Did you just now,
for example, hear the locksmith crying out
- oh, oh!
SAHTIN. Kleshtsch?
LUKA. The same. No work, he cried...
absolutely none....
SAHTIN. You will get accustomed to
that.... Tell me, what shall I now begin
to do?
LUKA. [Softly.] Look, there he comes....
[KLESHTSCH enters slowly L. U. E. with
sunken head.]
SAHTIN. Heh, there, widower! What are
you hanging your head for? What are you
brooding over?
KLESHTSCH. My skull is splitting from
it.... What shall I do now! My tools are
gone.... The funeral has eaten everything
up...
SAHTIN. I will give you a piece of advice.
Do nothing at all. Burden the earth with
your weight - simple enough.
KLESHTSCH. You advise well.... I -
still am ashamed before others.
SAHTIN. Drop it... people are not
ashamed to let you live worse than a dog.
Just imagine if you would not work, and I
would not work... and still hundreds and
thousands of others would not work...
and finally everybody - understand? -
everybody quit work and nobody did anything at all - what, do you think, would
happen then?
KLESHTSCH. Everybody would starve....
LUKA. [To SAHTIN.] There is such a
sect. "Jumpers," they call themselves....
They talk exactly like you....
SAHTIN. I know them.... They are not
at all such fools, pilgrim.
[From KOSTILIOFF'S room R. U. E.
screaming.]




THE LOWER DEPTHS


677


NATASHA. [Within.] What are you doing - stop... what have I done?
LUKA. [Disquieted.] Who is screaming
there? Was it not Natasha? Ah, you....
[From KOSTILIOFF'S room is heard
a loud alarm, and then from the
kitchen the sound of crashing
dishes.]
KOSTILIOFF. [Within, screaming.] Aah - you cat - you... heathen.
WASSILISSA.  [Within.]  Wait... I'll
give her... so... so... and so....
NATASHA. [Within.] Help! They are
killing me!
SAHTIN. [Runs up steps R. U. E. shouting.] Heh, there! What are you howling
about?
LUKA. [Walks about uneasily.] Waska... he must be called.... Wassili.... Oh,
God!... Children, my dears.
ACTOR. [Hurries out, L. U. E.] I'll bring
him... right away....
BUBNOFF. They're treating the poor
girl badly these days.
SAHTIN. Come, pilgrim.... We will be
witnesses....
LUKA. [Exit after SAHTIN R.] Why witnesses? Too often, already, have I been a
witness. If Waska would only come... oh!
this is terrible! terrible!
NATASHA. [Within.] Sister... dear sister... wah... wa... a....
BUBNOFF. Now they have stopped her
mouth.... I'11 see myself.
[The noise in KOSTILIOFF'S room
is weaker, and nothing comes
from the kitchen.]
KOSTILIOFF. [Within.] Halt!
[A door is slammed within, and the
whole noise is cut off as if by a
hatchet. On the stage, silence....
It is twilight.]. KLESHTSCH. [Sits on bench U. taking no
part, and rubbing his hands together. Then
he begins to mumble to himself, at first indistinctly. Then louder.] How then?... a
man must live. [Louder.] At least a shelter..  but no, not that... not even a corner
where I can lie down.... Nothing but the
bare mlan... helpless and deserted.
[Exit bent over, L. U. E. slowly.
For a few moments, ominous si

lence. Then somewhere within,
on the R. a terrible noise, a chaos
of tones, louder and louder and
nearer and nearer. Then a single
voice is heard.]
WASSILISSA. [Within.] I am her sister.
Let me go...
KOSTILIOFF. [Within.] What right have
you to interfere?
WASSILISSA. [Within.] You convict!
SAHTIN. [Within.] Bring Waska... be
quick... Zoba, strike.
[A policeman's whistle is heard.]
TARTAR. [Jumps down the steps, R. U. E.,
his right hand bound up.] What sort of
laws are these... to murder in broad daylight?
[KRIvOI ZOBA hurries in L. U. E., followed
by KOSTILIOFF.]
KRIVOI ZOBA. Now, he got it from me.
MEDVIEDEFF. How did you come to
strike him?
TARTAR. And you -do you not know
what your duty is?
MEDVIEDEFF. [Running after KRIVOI
ZOBA.] Stop! Give me my whistle back.
[Exit L. U. E.]
KOSTILIOFF. [Enters R. U. E.] Abram!
Catch him... hold him tight. He has
killed me....
[Down the steps R. U. E. come KVASCHNYA
and NASTIAH. They help NATASHA, who
is badly beaten up. SAHTIN runs up the
stairs, bumping into WASSILISSA, who
is throwing her arms about and trying to strike her sister. ALYOSCHKA is
jumping around like one possessed. He
whistles in WASSILISSA'S ear and howls.
A couple of ragged fellows and some men
and women appear L. U. E.]
SAHTIN. [To WASSILISSA.] Enough, you
damned owl!
WASSILISSA. Away, convict. If it costs
me my life, I will tear her to pieces.
KVASCHNYA. [Leads NATASHA aside.]
Stop, Karpovna.. for shame! How can
you be so inhuman?
MEDVIEDEFF. [Re-enters L. U. E., takes
SAHTIN by the collar.] A:.a! Now I have
you!




678


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


SAHTIN. Krivoi Zoba. Strike... Waska,
Waska.
[All storm the entrance, L. U. E.
NATASHA is taken to the bed, L.]
[PEPEL enters L. U. E. Pushes them away.]
PEPEL. Where is Natasha, you?
KOSTILIOFF. [Crouches on the steps R. U.
E.] Abram! Catch     Waska... brother,
help catch Waska...the thief... the
robber....
PEPEL. There, you old goat.
[Strikes KOSTILIOFF brutally. He
falls so that his body lies on the
landing, his legs hidden up the
stairs. PEPEL hurries to NATASHA.]
WASSILISSA. Fix Waska... friends...
do up the thief!
MEDVIEDEFF. [To SAHTIN.] You should
n't have interfered... this is a family
affair here. They are all related to each
other... and who are you?
PEPEL. [To NATASHA.] What did she
hit you with? Did she stab you?...
KVASCHNYA. Look what a beast. They
have scalded her legs with hot water.
NASTIAH. They turned the samovar
over....
TARTAR. It might have been an accident... if you are not sure you should
not accuse...
NATASHA. [Half unconscious.] Wassill.. take me away... hide me....
WASSILISSA. Look, my friends... come
here. He is dead... they have killed
him....
[All gather at the landing. BUBNOFF separates himself from the
others and crosses to PEPEL.]
BUBNOFF. [Softly-] Waska! The old
man... is done for.
PEPEL. [Looks at BUBNOFF as though he
did not understand.] Get a cab... she must
be taken to the hospital.... I'll settle the
bill.
BUBNOFF. Listen to what I'm saying.
Somebody has finished the old man....
rThe noise on the stage subsides like
a fire into which water has been
poured. Half aloud separate
sentences are uttered.]
Is it really true?


We have it there.
Terrible.
We had better get out, brother.
The devil!
We need clear heads now.
Get out before the police come.
[The group becomes smaller. BUBNOFF and the TARTAR disappear.
NASTIAH and KVASCHNYA stoop
to KOSTILIOFF'S body.]
WASSILISSA. [Rises and cries in a triumphant tone.] They have killed him...
my husband! And who did it? He, there!
Waska killed him. I saw it, my friends. I
saw it! Now, Waska! Police! Police!
PEPEL. [Leaves NATASHA.] Let me alone... get out of the way. [Stares at the body.
To WASSILISSA.] Now? Now you are glad?
[Kicks the body.] Scotched at last...the
old hound. Now you have your desire....
Shall I treat you in the same way... and
twist your necks?
[Falls on her, but is quietly caught
by SAHTIN and KRIVOI ZOBA.
WASSILISSA hides L. U. E.]
SAHTIN. Come to your senses.
KRIvOI ZOBA. P-r-r-r! Where would
you spring?
WASSILISSA. [Appearing again.] Nyah,
Waska, friend of my heart! Nobody escapes his fate... the police! Abram..
whistle!
MEDVIEDEFF. They have stolen my
whistle, the fiends....
ALYOSCHKA. Here it is.
[He whistles, MEDVIEDEFF chases
him.]
SAHTIN. [Leads PEPEL back to NATASHA.]
Don't worry Waska. Killed in a row... a
trifle! Only a short sentence for that....
WASSILISSA. Hold him tight. Waska
murdered him.... I saw it!
SAHTIN. I handed him a couple myself.... How much does an old man need?
Call me as a witness, Waska....
PEPEL. I... do I need to justify myself?... But Wassilissa.... I'll pull her
into it! She wanted it done.... She incited me to kill her husband.. yes, she
was the instigator....
NATASHA. [Suddenly springing up.]. Ah..     [In a loud voice.] Now it is clear.,,




THE LOWER DEPTHS


679


That's how it stands. Wassili! Listen,
good people: it was all arranged. He and
my sister, they plotted it out, they laid
their plans! I see, Wassili! Before...you
spoke with me... that was part of it!
Good people, she is his mistress...you
know it... everybody knows it.... They
understand each other. She, she instigated
the murder... her husband was in the
way... for that reason.. she beat me
so....
PEPEL. Natalija! What are you saying?... What are you saying?
SAHTIN. Foolish chatter.
WASSILISSA. She lies! All of it is lies.... I know of nothing.... Waska killed
him... he alone!
NATASHA. They have plotted it out....
They shall be convicted... both of
them....
SAHTIN. Here is a game for you....
Now Wassili, hold fast or they will drown
you.
KRIVOI ZOBA. I can't understand... ah.. far away from here.
PEPEL. Natalija.... Speak... are you
in earnest? Can you believe that I...
with her....
SAHTIN. For God's sake, Natasha, be
sensible.
WASSILISSA. [On the landing.] They
killed my husband... you high born...
Waska Pepel, the thief killed him, Mr.
Commissioner, I saw it... everybody saw
it.
NATASHA. [Waltzing about half senseless.]
Good people... my sister and Waska...
they killed him. Mr. Policeman... listen
to me... these two, my sister put him up
to it... her lover... she instigated him... there he is, the accursed -the two
did it. Arrest them... take them to court... and take me, too... to prison with
me! For the sake of God... to prison....
ACT IV
The same setting except that PEPEL'S room
is not to be seen, the partitions having been
removed. The anvil, too, where KLESHTSCH
sat, is gone. In the corner which was occupied by PEPEL'S chamber is a bunk on which


the TARTAR lies, restlessly rolling about and
groaning with pain. KLESHTSCH sits at the
table repairing an accordeon and now and
then trying the chords. At the other end of
the table sit SAHTIN, the BARON, and NASTIAH. Before them a bottle of spirits, three
bottles of beer and a great hunk of black bread.
On the stove the ACTOR, shifting about and
coughing. It is night. The stage is lit by a
lamp which is in the middle of the table. Outside the wind howls.
KLESHTSCH. Yes.... In the midst of the
row he disappeared.
BARON. He took flight before the police,
as a fog before the sun.
SAHTIN. So all sinners fly before the face
of the just.
NASTIAH. He was a splendid old man...
and you are not men... you are rust....
BARON. [Drinks.] To your health, lady!
SAHTIN. An interesting patriarch...
truly! Our Nastiah fell in love with him.
NASTIAH. True.... I fell in love with
him. He had an eye for everything... he
understood everything....
SAHTIN. [Laughs.] For some people he was
a Godsend... like mush for the toothless.
BARON. [Laughs.] Or a poultice for an
abscess.
KLESHTSCH. He had a sympathetic
heart... you here... h ave no sympathy.
SAHTIN. What good would it do you for
me to show you pity?
KLESHTSCH. You need not sympathize... but at least... do not injure me....
TARTAR. [Gets up on his bench and moves
his injured hand back and forth, as if it were
a baby.] The old man was good.... He
had respect for the law in his heart... and
whoever in his heart keeps the law...
that man is good. He who does not - is
lost....
BARON. What law do you mean, prince?
TARTAR. As you will... the law...
the law to you... you understand me.
BARON. Go on. 
TARTAR. Encroach upon no man...
there you have the law...
SAHTIN. With us in Russia it is called,
"Code for Criminal Punishment and Correction."




68o


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


BARON. With another "Code for Penalties Imposed by Justices of the Peace."
TARTAR. With us it is called the Koran.... Your Koran is your law... our Koran
we must carry in our hearts.
KLESHTSCH. [Tries the accordeon.] Don't
be forever hissing, you beast. WaLje
prince says is right.... We musTl'in.
c g LU  ~ L w. " accordiung to the
gSAL...
SAHTIN. Live so.
BARON. Try it.
TARTAR. Mohammed gave us the Koran... there you have your law, he said. Do,
as is written therein. Then a time shall
come when the Koran will not suffice... a
new time with new laws... for every
epoch has its own laws....
t |  SAHTIN. Yes, of course, our epoch gives
us " Criminal Code." A durable law, not so
J\easily worn off.
NASTIAH. [Knocks on the table with her
knuckles.] Now I would like to know...
exactly why I live... here with you? I shall
go... anywhere... to the end of the earth.
BARON. Without shoes, lady?
NASTIAH. Quite naked, as far as I care!
I shall crawl on all fours if you please.
BARON. That would be picturesque...
on all fours....
-NASTIAH. I would do it... willingly..  TTo ly need not have to look at your
snout again... ah, how dislg every -.thn1a,0 pfopme to.e. m
SAiTIN. When you go, take the actor
along with you.... He'll soon be going
anyhow... he has learned that exactly
half a mile from the end of the earth there
is a hospital for orgisms.....
ACTOR. [Sticks his head out over the edge
of the stove.] For organisms, blockhead.
SAHTIN. For organs which are poisoned
with alcohol.
ACTOR. Yes, he will soon be going, very
soon! You will see!
BARON. Who is this "he," sire?
ACTOR. It is I.
BARON. Merci, servant of the goddess,
who... ah, what is she called? The goddess of the drama, of tragedy... what is
her name?


ACTOR. The muse, blockhead, no goddess, but muse!
SAHTIN. Lachesis... Hera... Aphrodite... Atropos... the devil knows the
difference between them... and our young
adorer of the muse shall leave us... the
old man has wound him up....
BARON. The old man was a fool...
ACTOR. And you are ignorant savages.
You don't even know who Melpomene is.
Heartless... you will see - he will leave
you! "Interrupt not your orgy, black
souls," as Beranger says.... He will soon
find the place where there is nothing more... absolutely.
BARON. Where there is nothing more,
sire?
ACTOR. Yes! Nothing more, "this hole
here... it shall be my grave.... I die,
faded and powerless." And you, why do
you live? Why?
BARON. Just listen, you -Kean, or
Genius and Passion. Don't bellow so.
ACTOR. Hold your snout.... So I will,
I'll roar!
NASTIAH. [Raises her head from the table,
and waves her arms about.] Roar foreveir
They may hear it.
BARON. What is the meaning of that,
lady?
SAHTIN. Let her chatter, Baron... the
devil take them both... may they scream... may they run their heads together...
go on...it has a meaning... Don't in- 1/
jure others, as the old man said.. the f/
pilgrim has made us all rebellious.
KLESHTSCH. E.nticed us to start out... anc l     othimSef-tew-ay
BARON. The old man was a carlatan
NASTIAH. It is not true! You are yourself a charlatan.
BARON. Don't chatter, lady.
KLESHTSCH. He was no friend of truth,
the old man.... He stood with all his
might over against the truth... and after
all, he is right... of what use to me is all
truth, when I have n't a mouthful? There,
look at the prince. [Looks towards the TARTAR.]... He has crushed his hand at work... now they say, it must come off...
there you have the truth.
SAHTIN. [Strikes the table i:ith his gist.




THE LOWER DEPTHS


681


Be still! Asses! Say nothing ill of the old
man. [More quietly.] You, Baron, are the
biggest fool of all... you have no glimmering of sense - and you keep on chattering.
The old man a charlatan? What is truth?.Ma8LnkiXndjthe truth! He had seized that... but you have-not! You are as stupid
as a brick in the pavement. I understood
him very well, the old man.... He did
tell them lies, but he lied out of sympathy,
as the devil knows. There are many such
people who lie for brotherly sympathy's
sake.... I know I have read about it.
They lie so beautifully, with such spirit, so
wonderfully. We have such soothing, such
conciliating lies.... And there are lies
which justify taking the anvil away, and
the mashed hand of the toiler... which
bring charges against the starving.... I.. know these lies.... He who has a
timid heart... or lives at another's table,
should be lied to... it gives him courage... puts a mantle on his shoulders... but
he who is his own master, who is independent, and lives not from the sweat of another's brow... what are lies to him?
Thelie is the religion of serva     ster... the-t     h    hritn.e of fre
BARON. Bravo! Gloriously said! Exactly my idea! You speak.. like a man
of respectability!
SAHTIN. Why should n't a scoundrel
speak like a respectable man, when the respectable people talk so much like scoundrels?... I have forgotten much, but one
'thing I still keep. The old man? He had
a shrewd head on his shoulders.... He
worked on me like acid on an old, dirty
coin. To his health, let him live! Pour
one.... [NASTIAH pours a glass of beer and
hands it to SAHTIN. He laughs.] The old
man- he lived from within.... He saw
everything with his own eyes.... I asked
him once: "Grandfather, why do men really
live?".. [He tries in voice and manner
to imitate LUKA.] Man lives ever to give
birth to strength. T-here live, for example,
the carpenters, noisy, miserable people...
and suddenly in their midst is a carpenter
born... such a carpenter as the world has
neyer s~een:, he is above all, no oQthlr ar

penter can be compared to him. He gives
a new face to the whole trade... his own
face, so to speak... and with that simple
impulse it has advanced twenty years...
and so the others live... the locksmiths
and the shoemakers, and all the rest of the
working people... and the contractors...
and the same is true of other classesall to give birth to strength. (Every one
thinks that he for himself takes up loom
in the world, but it turns out that he is
here for another's benefit- for some one
better... a hundred years... or perhaps
longer... if we live so long... for the
sake of genius. [NASTIAH stares into SAHTIN'S face. KLESHTSCH stops working on the
accordeon and does nothing. The BARON lets
his head sink and drums with his fingers on
the table. The ACTOR sticks his head over
the edge of stove, and carefully crawls down.
SAHTIN goes on.] All, my children, all, live
only to give birth to strength. For that
reason we must respect everybody. We
cannot know who he is, for what purpose
born, or what he may yet fulfil... perhaps
he has been born for our good fortune...
or great benefit... and especially must
we respect the children...the little children... they must not suffer restraint..
let them live their lives... let them be respected. [Laughs quietly to himself. Pause.]
BARON. [Thoughlfully.] For the genius.... Hm, yes... that brings to mind my
own family... an old family... back to
Catherine's time... of the nobility...
knights... we came from France... and
entered the Russian service...dignities
accumulated on us.... Under Nicholas I.,
my grandfather, Gustav Deville... held
a high post... he was rich.... Had hundreds of serfs... horses... a cook...
NASTIAH. Don't be lying... it's all a
fake....
BARON. [Springing up.] Wh-at? Nyal... say more!
NASTIAH. It's all a fabrication.
BARON. [Cries.] A house in Moscow, i
house in Petersburg! Coaches...escutch
eons o, the coach door.
[KLESHTSCH takes the aecordeo'
and goes to the side R, where h
Qbserves the s~cene.l




682


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


NASTIAH. Never was such a thing.
BARON. Stop chattering! Dozens of
footmen... I tell you!
NASTIAH. [Tantalizing.] None.
BARON. I'11 kill you.
NASTIAH. There were no coaches.
SAHTIN. Let up, Nastenka. Don't make
him so furious.
BARON. Wait... you wench... my
grandfather -
NASTIAH. You had no grandfather...
none.                  [SAHTIN laughs.]
BARON. [Sinks back on the seat quite out
of breath with anger.] Sahtin, I tell you...
the harlot... what -  you laugh, too?
And you.... Won't believe me? [Cries
out desperately, striking the table with his
fists.] Go to the devil... all was as I say.
NASTIAH. [In a triumphant tone.] Ah,
ha! See how you bellow out! Now you
know how a person feels when nobody believes him.
KLESHTSCH. [Returns to table.] I thought
we should have a fight.
TARTAR. Stupid people... childish.
BARON. I... I'll not be made a fool of.... I have proof.... I have documents to
satisfy...
SAHTIN. Throw them in the stove. And
forget your grandfather's coach. In t
coach ot      t n   dy ge   nywhr.
ARON. How can she dare...
NASTIAH. Hear the noise he is making... oh, Lord, how dare I?
SAHTIN. But you see, she dares it. Is
she still worse than you? For she has certainly had in her past no coach and no
grandfather... perhaps not even a father
and mother....
BARON. [Quieting himself.] Go to the
devil.... You reason everything out so
coldbloodedly, while I... I believe I have
no temper....
SAHTIN. Make yourself one. It is a
useful thing.... [Pause.] Tell me, Nastiah, do you not go often to the hospital?
NASTIAH. What for?
SAHTIN. To Natasha?
NASTIAH. Why, have you dropped from
leaven? She has long been out... out
mnd gone.... Nowhere is she to be
ound....


SAHTIN. Gone? Disappeared?
KLESHTSCH. I would like to know
whether Waska got Wassilissa into trouble
or Wassilissa, Waska.
NASTIAH. Wassilissa? She will lie herself out. She is crafty. She will send Waska
to the mines.....
SAHTIN. For manslaughter in a row,
only imprisonment....
NASTIAH. Shame. Hard labor would be
better. You ought to be sentenced to hard
labor too. You ought to be swept away like
a pile of trash... into a ditch.
SAHTIN. [Taken aback.] What are you
talking about. You are certainly mad.
BARON. I '11 box your ears... impertinent hussy.
NASTIAH. Try it once, just touch me!
BARON. Certainly I'11 try it!
SAHTIN. Let her be. Don't touch her.
Don't insult any one. I always remember
the old man. [Laughs aloud.] Don't insult
mankind, not in her.... And if I should
be insulted so that my reputation was forever gone.... What should I then do....
Forgive. No and never!
BARON. [To NASTIAH.] Mark you! you:
I am not one of your kind... you...
wench...
NASTIAH. Ah, you wretch! You... you
live with me like a maggot in an apple.
[The men laugh understandingly.]
KLESHTSCH. Silly goose! A fine apple
you are....
BARON. Shall a man get mad... over
such... an idiot?
NASTIAH. You laugh? Don't sham! You
don't feel like laughing....
ACTOR. [Darkly.] Give him what is his.
NASTIAH. If I only... could: I would
take you all and... [Takes a cup from the
table and smashes it on the floor.] like that!
TARTAR. What are you breaking the
dishes for... dunce?
BARON. [Rising.] No, I must teach her
manners.
NASTIAH. [Going out.] Go to the devil.
SAHTIN. [Calls after her.] Let up, will
you? Why do you treat her so? Will you
frighten her?
NASTIAH. You wolves! It is time you
were dead.             [Exit L. U. E.]




THE LOWER DEPTHS


683


ACTOR. [Darkly.] Amen!
TARTAR. Ugh, mad folks these Russian
women! Hussies, unmanageable. The
Tartar women are not so, they know the
law.
KLESHTSCH. She must be given something that she will remember.
BARON. A low-born creature.
KLESHTSCH. [Tries the accordeon.] Ready,
and your owner is not to be seen... The
boy is a lively one.
SAHTIN. Now have a drink!
KLESHTSCH. [Drinks.] Thanks! It is
time to be turning in....
SAHTIN. You'll fall in with our habits
after awhile, eh?
KLESHTSCH. [Drinks and goes to the bunk
in the corner.] If I do.... Everywhere, in
the long run, people are to be found....
You do not see them at first... but later,
when you see truer, people are to be found
everywhere... and they are not so bad
after all...
[The TARTAR spreads a cloth out
over the bunk, sits down and
prays.]
BARON. [To SAHTIN, pointing to the TARTAR.] Just look.
SAHTIN. Let him alone..... He is a good
fellow.... Don't disturb him! [Laughs
aloud.] I am so chicken hearted today....
The devil may know what's coming.
BARON. You are always a little chicken
hearted when you have some spirits in
you... and rational then.
SAHTIN. When I am drunk everything
pleases me. Hm - yes... He prays?
Very beautiful of him. A man can believe
or not believe...that rests with him.
Man is free... he is responsible to himself
for everything: for his belief, his unbelief,
his love, his wisdom. (lan himself bears
the cost of all, is therefore - free.... Man
-that is the truth! But what's man?
Not you, nor I, not they - no, but you, I,
old Luka, Napoleon, Mohammed... all
in one... is man.') [Draws in the air the
outline of a man's&-ftrm.] Comprehend! It
is- something huge, including all beginnings and all endings... all is in man, all
is for man. Only man alone exists- the
rest is the work of his hand and his brow.


M-an! phenomenal. How loftily it sounds,
M-a-n! We must respect man... not compassion... degrade him not with pity...
but respect. Drink we, to the health of
man, baron. How splendid it is to feel
yourself a man. I... I, a former convict,
a murderer, a cheat... yes, when I pass
along the street, the people stare at me, as
though I were the most desperate of thieves... they get out of my way, they look
after me... and often say to me, thief,
why don't you work?... Work? What
for? To become satiated. [Laughs aloud.] I
have always hated those who eat themselves to death. It comes to nothing, baron,
to nothing. The man is the principal thing,
man stands higher t;han a full stomach.
[Rises from his place.]
BARON. [Shakes his head.] You are a
contemplator... that is wise... that
warms my heart.... I can't do it. [Looks,
around carefully ard continues in a lowl,
tone.] I am sometimes afraid, brother..
do you understand? I fear what may coni
next.
SAHTIN. [Goes up and down.] Nonsense
what shall man fear? 
BARON. As far back as I can remembe
it always seemed to me as though a fog li
on my brow. I never knew very well ju
what was the matter, was never at eas;... I felt as if my whole life long I hi
only put on my clothes and taken them,
again... why? No idea! I studied....
wore the uniform of an institute for tl 
nobility... but what I have learned,,
don't know.... I married... put on i
frock coat, then a night gown... select
a detestable wife -- why? I don't und(.
stand.... I went through everything -
and wore a shabby gray jacket and re( 
fuzzy trousers... but I finally went '
the dogs. Hardly took any notice of it.r
was employed at the Kameral Court.
had a uniform, a cap with cockade...
embezzled government money... pull
on the convict's jacket... then- wh  '
have on now... and all... as if cc
dream... funny, eh?            A
SAHTIN. Not very.... I find it rath
foolish.                         fb
BARON. Yes.... I think it was fob(




684


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS... But I must have been born for something... eh?
SAHTIN. [Laughs.] It is possible....
Man is born to give birth again to strength.
[Nods his head.] Yes... fine idea.
BARON. This... Natasjka.... Simply
ran out.... I will see where she has hidden.... Still, she....
[Exit L. U. E. Pause.]
ACTOR. You Tartar! [Pause.] Prince!
[The TARTAR turns his head.] Pray for
me.
TARTAR. What do you want?
ACTOR. [Softly.] You must pray... for
ne....
TARTAR. [After a short silence.] Pray for
yourself.
ACTOR. [Climbs quickly down from the
stove, mounts the table, pours a glass of
whiskey with trembling hand, drinks and
goes out hastily, almost running, L. U. E.]
Now, I go!
SAHTIN. Heh, you Sigambrer! Where
to?                        [He whistles.]
[MEDVIEDEFF in a woman's wadded jacket,
and BUBNOFF, enter R. U. E. BUBNOFF carries in one hand a bundle of
pretzels, in the other a couple of smoked
fish, under his arm a bottle of whiskey,
and in his coat pocket a second.]
MEDVIEDEFF. The camel is... a sort of
ass, so to speak. Only it has no ears.
BUBNOFF. Let up! You yourself...
ire a sort of jackass.
MEDVIEDEFF. The camel has no ears at
ill. It hears with the nostrils.
BUBNOFF. [To SAHTIN.] Friend of my
leart, I have searched for you in every bar'oom and dive. Take the bottle out, my
lands are full.
SAHTIN. Put the pretzels on the table
i id then you will have a free hand.
BUBNOFF. That's right.. you know
the law... you have a sly head....
MEDVIEDEFF. All scoundrels have sly.ds.... I know that... long. How
)uld they catch anything without slyness?
law-abiding citizen can be stupid, but a
ief must have brains in his head. But
out this camel, brother, you are wrong.re... a carme is a sort of riding deer,


I say... it has no horns... and no teeth,
either....
BUBNOFF. Where's the whole crowd
hiding? Nobody here. Say, you, come
out.... I treat today... who sits there
in the corner?
SAHTIN. You have already spent almost
everything, scarecrow.
BUBNOFF. Of course, this time my capital was small... which I had scraped together.... Krivoi Zoba! Where is Krivoi
Zoba?
KLESHTSCH. [Steps to the table.] He is not
there.
BUBNOFF. U-u-rrr! Bull dog. Brrju,
Brlyu, Brlyu, turkey cock! Don't be
barking and snarling! Drink, fast, don't
let your head hang.... I invite all, freely.
I love to do that, brother! If I was a rich
man, I would have a barroom in which
everything would be free, by God, with
music and a choir of singers. Come, drink,
eat, do you hear, quicken your souls. Come
to me, poor men, to my free barroom,
Sahtin! Brother! I would you... there,
take half my entire capital, there take
it.
SAHTIN. Oh, give it all to me....
BUBNOFF. All? My whole capital? Do
you want it?... There! A ruble...another... twenty... a couple of fivers...
a pair of two copec pieces... that is
all!
SAHTIN. Lovely... I'll keep it safely.... I'll win my money back with it.
MEDVIEDEFF. I am a witness... you
have given him the money in trust... how
much was it, though?
BUBNOFF. You? You are - a camel.... We need no witnesses.
ALYOSCHKA. [Enters L. U. E. with bare
feet.] Children! I have gotten my feet wet.!
BUBNOFF. Come - get your gullet wet... to balance matters. You're a lovely
boy, you sing and make music.. very
clever of you! But —drink... not too
much! Guzzling is very injurious, brother... very injurious....
ALYOSCHKA. I see that in you... you
only look like a man after you have gotten
drunk. Kleshtsch! Is my accordeon
mended?        [Sings and d ances withk i.




THE LOWER DEPTHS


685


If I were not such a tasty boy,
So lively, fresh and neat,
Then Madam Godfather would
Never again call me sweet.
Frozen stiff, children. It is cold.
MEDVIEDEFF. Hm - and if I may be
bold enough to ask: Who is Madam Godfather?
BUBNOFF. You... are not interested in
that! You have nothing to ask here now.
You are no policeman any more... that 's
afa. Neither police nor uncle....
ALYO HKA. But simply, auntie's hus'and! 
BTBNOFF. Of your nieces, one sits in
prison, the other is dying....
MEDVIEDEFF. [Expands his chest.] That
is not true: She is not dying. She has
simply gone away! [SAHTIN laughs aloud.]
BUBNOFF. Quite true, brother! A man
without nieces - is no uncle!
ALYOSCHKA. Your excellency, the pensioned drum-major of the belly brigade.
Nary a single cent have I,
While Madam Godfather has money,
But still I'm nice, I'm very very nice,
I'm as nice and as sweet as honey.
Brr, it is cold.
[KRIVOI ZOBA enters, then, until the end of
the act, couples, men and women, enter,
undress themselves, stretch out on the
bunks and grumble to themselves.]
KRIVOI ZOBA. Why did you run away,
Bubnoff?
BUBNOFF. Come here and sit down.
JI et's sing something, brother! My favorite hymn, eh?
TARTAR. It is night now, time for sleeping. Sing during the day.
SAHTIN. Let them sing, prince, come over
here.
TARTAR. Let them sing - and then a
row.... You sing and they fight.
BTULNOFF. [Going to him.] What's the
matter with your hand, prince? Has somebody cut it off?
TARTAR. Why cut it off? Let us wait.. Perhaps it will not be necessary to cut
it off... a hand is not made of iron...
cutting off is an easy thing to do....
KRIvOI ZOBA. It is a bad job, Hassanka!


What, are you without a hand? In our
business they only look at the hands and
the back.... A man without a hand is no
man at all! Might as well be dead. Come,
drink a glass with us.
KVASCHNYA. [Enters L. U. E.] Ah, my
dear tenants. Biting cold outside, slush... and raw.... Is my policeman there?
Heh, there, Commissioner!
MEDVIEDEFF. Here I am.
KVASCHNYA. You have my jacket on
again? What is the matter with you? You
have been having a bit, eh? That don't go.
MEDVIEDEFF. Bubnoff... has a birthday... and it is so cold, such slush....
KVASCHNYA. I'll teach you... such
slush.... But don't forget the rules of this
household... go to bed....
MEDVIEDEFF. [Exit R. to kitchen.] To
bed! I can.... I will... it is time..[Exit.]
SAHTIN. Why are you... so strict with
him?
KVASCHNYA. There is nothing else to do,
dear friend. A man like that must be
closely reined. I didnot marry him for fun.
He is military, I thought... and you are
a dangerous lot.... I, a woman, would be
no match for you... rlow he's beginning
to souse - no, my boy, that don't go.
SAHTIN. You made a bad selection in
your assistant....
KVASCHNYA. No, wait - he is all right.. you will not get me... and if you
did, the honeymoon would not last over a
week... you'd gamble the clothes off my
back.
SAHTIN. [Laughs.] That's no lie, I
would lose you....
KVASCHNYA. So, then. Alyoschka.
ALYOSCHKA. Here he is....
KVASCHNYA. Tell me, what gossip have
you been spreading about me?
ALYOSCHKA. I? Everything! I tell
everything that can honestly be told. What
a woman! say I. Simply an astonishing
woman. Flesh, fat, bones, over three hundred weight, and brains, not half a grain.
KVASCHNYA. Nyah, you lie, my young
man, I have quantities of brain.... No -
why do you tell folks that I beat my
policeman?
ALYOSCHKA. I thought, because you




686


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


tore his hair out..that is as good as a
beating.
KVASCHNYA. [Laughs.] You are a fool!
Why carry such dirt out of the house?...
that has grieved him sorely... he has
taken to drink from worry over your
gossip....
ALYOSCHKA. Listen: It is therefore true,
what the proverb says: that the hen has a
throat for liquor.
[SAHTIN and KLESHTSCH laugh.]
KVASCHNYA. But you are witty: and
tell me, what sort of animal you are,
Alyoschka?
ALYOSCHKA. I am a fellowwho fits snugly
into the world. The finest of the finest sort!
A regular jack of all trades. Where my eye
turns, there my heart follows.
BUBNOFF. [On the TARTAR'S bunk.]
Come, we will not let you sleep. Today
we'll sing... the whole night, eh, Krivoi
Zoba?
KRIVOI ZOBA. May we?
ALYOSCHKA. I'll play for you....
SAHTIN. And we will hear it.
TARTAR. [Grunting.] Nyah, old satan,


Bubna... pour me a glass: "We'll revel,
we'll drink until death gives the wink."
BUBNOFF. Pour him one, Sahtin!
Krivoi Zoba, sit down! Ah, brothers!
How little a man needs! I, for example,
I've only had a couple of swallows... and
walk tangled footed. Krivoi Zoba, strike
up... my favorite song. I will sing and
weep.
KRIVOI ZOBA. [Sings.] "Though still
the sun goes up and down.... "
BUBNOFF. [Falls in.] "No gleam can
pierce to me in here."
[The door is jerked open.]
BARON. [On the platform, crying.] Heh,
there... you! Come quick... come out!
In the yard... there... the actor...
has hanged himself!
[Silence, all stare at the BARON.
Behind him appears NASTIAH,
who with staring eyes goes to the
table.]
SAHTIN. [Softly.] He must spoil our song.. the fool.


CURTAIN




THE TRAGEDY OF LOVE
A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS
BY GUNNAR HEIBERG
Authorized translation from the Norwegian by EDWIN BJORKMA N




Dramatic and film rights reserved by the translator on behalf of the author
This translation is reprinted by permission and special arrangement,




PERSONS
KAREN
ERLING KRUSE, a forester
HARTVIG HADELN
AN OLD WOMAN
A PEASANT BOY
TRAIN PASSENGERS
A PEASANT WOMAN AND HER LITTLE SON
JOHANNES
A MAID








THE TRAGEDY OF LOVE
THE FIRST ACT


The inside of a hut used by the women
herding cattle on the mountain pastures during the summer. A window in the rear wall.
Under the window, a bench fastened to the
wall. On the right of the window, a door.
There is a fire in the open fireplace, which
stands near the foreground on the left. Logs
and a chopping block near the fireplace. A
bedstead along the same wall, further back.
A table and some chairs near the fireplace.
Wooden shelves along the walls, on which are
placed saucers, bowls of different sizes, and
parso. of copper. Wooden spoons are stuck
into the openings between the shelf boards. A
dark autumn evening. It is raining, and a
high wind is blowing. The wind increases in
force as the action progresses. A solitary
candle is burning on the table. Now and then
the branches of a small birch tree are heard
rapping at the window. An old woman is
going about the room, putting things in order.
ERLING KRUSE has just begun to unpack a
knapsack. Suddenly he grabs a wet raincoat
and puts it on.
ERLING. I heard somebody.
[He rushes out.]
OLD WOMAN. It was nothing but the
birch at the window.
[She fixes a couple of wooden torches
in their holders on the wall.]
ERLING.    [Returning.]  What   rotten
weather!
OLD WOMAN. Good weather for trolls to
be abroad.
ERLING. Black above and black below.
OLD WOMAN. And everything covered
by snow this morning.
ERLING. It is bad for the woods, too.
OLD WOMAN. Now everything is ready.
I am sleeping in the shed, if you should
want anything....
ERLING. Thanks, Groo. Good-night.
[The old woman leaves. ERLING


flings the raincoat into a corner.
Then he changes his mind. Picks
up the coat and arranges it
neatly to be dried. Produces a
bottle of Rhine wine and some
food. Suddcnly he claps his
hands over his head.]
ERLING. [With a radiant smile.] Now
she must come.
[The door is opened from,he outside. KAREN
enters, wrapped from head to foot in a
cloak. ERLING runs up to her. She
shrinks a little from him.]
KAREN. I am cold.
ERLING. I'll stoke!
[He piles a lot of wood on the fire.
KAREN stands still as before.]
ERLING. [Turning toward her, brightly.]
I knew you would come.
KAREN. Indeed?
ERLING. I could feel it.
KAREN. How could you know?
ERLING. You have come.
KAREN. [Almost with irritation.] But
not in the manner you mean. I have come
because you like me. Not because I like
you. Is n't that possible? Can you imagine
such a thing?
ERLING. You have come.
KAREN. It seemed that I had to keep
our agreement. It was to come here after
a year, on the anniversary - unless - if
not - if there had been no change in the
meantime.
ERLING. If you liked me as much as you
did a year ago -those were the words.
Have you been longing dreadfully?
KAREN. Less and less as the days went
by.
ERLING. Until the day you started.
KAREN. [Forgetting herself.] I did start
all of a sudden. [After a brief pause.] That
is nothing to smile at.




692


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


ERLING. I did n't smile. I only laughed.
Come and sit here by the fireplace.
KAREN. [Remaining as before.] What a
job to get here!
ERLING. HOW long did it take you from
the last farmstead?
KAREN. What time is it now?
ERLING. Nine.
KAREN. Then it took me five hours.
ERLING. Five hours on horseback in
such a weather... but... you are crying!
KAREN. I was scared on the way up
here. It was so cold and dark. Last year the
weather was fine, and we were a big party.
ERLING. This year the weather is bad,
and there are only two of us. The only two
people in the world.
[He starts to put his arm about her
waist.]
KAREN. [Quietly.] Don't! [Looking at
him.] It is against our agreement.
ERLING. [With a smile.] Is it?
KAREN. You ought to know, who have
kept it so well otherwise.
ERLING. By not writing a single line
during a whole year, you mean?
KAREN. Yes.
ERLING. Are you mad because I did n't?
KAREN. I did n't write either.
[The boy in charge of the horses appears in
the doorway.]
ERLING. I am coming. [To KAREN.] I'll
tell him that he can go home.
[He goes out after the boy. KAREN
takes a step after him as if to
stop him. Checks herself, but
shows signs of uneasiness.]
ERLING. [Returning.] How bright it is
in here! Did you light up?
KAREN. [Smiling.] No, I could n't. My
hands are too stiff.
ERLING. Now you must get warm.
[Takes off her cloak.] The sun rising out of
the fog!
KAREN. [Seating herself by the fireplace.]
It is not so easy, you know, for a young
lady of the upper class to go to a strange
gentleman in this way - all by herself -
in the midst of the night.
[ERLING hands her a glass of wine,
which she drinks.]


KAREN. Especially when she lives with
her two sisters and a brother in government service - ugh!
ERLING. [Imitating.] Ugh!
KAREN. To get away, she had to stuff
her sisters and the government official full
of lies - all in order to get up on this bare
mountain. [Breaking into sudden laughter.1
It's a dreadful story, is n't it?
ERLING. [With a smile.] Very.
KAREN. Particularly as the young lady
of twenty-five meant to stay in her own
chimney corner for the rest of her lifewhere she had begun to find peace and
quiet.
ERLING. From a stormy life.
KAREN. No, to escape it.
ERLING. [Smilingly and tenderly.] In my
company?
KAREN. [Turning to ERLING.] Not ex-.
actly. I am not afraid of you. I am not
afraid of going back again, if necessary.
Nor am I afraid of sending you back, if
that should prove necessary - not a bit!
ERLING. No - lots of courage!
KAREN. Lots, but not enough. I was a
little scared. Was, I said. When, all at
once, I found myself here. Because the one
thing I had made up my mind about, was
not to be caught by surprise. So you can't
wonder that I was a little upset when I
first got here.
ERLING. I have seen no signs of your
being upset.
KAREN. Why are you so frightfully sure
of yourself - so sure of everything - much
more than last year?
ERLING. [Softly and with great feeling.]
Because I love you a thousand times more
this year.
KAREN. Now the sun is hungry.
ERLING. [Pointing to the table.] Would
the sun like to start with a sardine?
[Both laugh. They seat themselves
at the table and eat a while without speaking.]
KAREN. Of course, I have often thought
that it might be rather pleasant, when
dressed in my best, to walk into a concert
hall with a very distinguished looking gentleman....
ERILNG, Or into a theatre, just before




THE TRAGEDY OF IOVE


693


the curtain is about to rise, so that every
one in the same row must get up....
KAREN. Exactly - schoal!
ERLING. Schoal!
[They remain silent again for a
while.]
KAREN. Do you know- it seems to me as
if everybody in love - or said to be in love
-had an awful time of it. While all the rest
look as if they were getting along splendidly.
ERLING. What a sad impression of life!
Where did you get it?
KAREN. Where I got it? Oh, drifting
along without any ties, one sees a little,
and hears a little, and feels a little - and
suddenly there is something that frightens,
and one does n't even know what it is. I,
for instance, have a fixed idea of having a
fixed idea, but I don't know what it is....
[Laughing.] Lord, how wise you look just
now!    [Again there is silence for a while.]
ERLING. I don't think I have ever had a
better time than this year.
KAREN. What did you do all the time?
ERLING. I longed for you.
KAREN. But then you were miserable?
ERLING. No, it was splendid.
KAREN. Do you think it splendid to
long all the time?
ERLING. Yes, when it is for you, Karen.
KAREN. I think it is the worst thing in
the world. I can't bear to long for anything.
It makes me mad. But bless your soul,
what else did you do?
ERLING. Went about feeling happy.
KAREN. Nothing else?
ERLING. Oh, I worked. [Rising.] It
seemed as if my work was lifted up - high,
high. It seemed to grow bigger and more
beautiful because I was thinking of you. I
saw nothing but your face. I saw it when I
pruned and grafted. I saw it when I sowed
and planted. The whole forest was full of
your charming face, with its bright, childlike eyes.
[He takes her by the hand and raises
her from the chair, pressing her
close to himself. KAREN stands
for a moment as if robbed of her
will; then -she walks over to the
other side of the hut and sits
down there.]


ERLING. [Places himself behind her chair;
unable to find words for a while; at last he
says in a very low voice.] I love those two
sisters of yours, and even the government
official.
KAREN. [Holding up her hand to him.!
You speak so prettily to me. [Then she
rises abruptly, walks away a few steps, but
turns back toward him; speaks pleadingly.]
Oh, let me go! Or go away yourself.
ERLING. [After a pause; with quiet intensity.] Don't you like me, Karen?
KAREN. [Sits down as if reassured by his
voice.] But... but...
ERLING. What?
KAREN. I thought everything would be
so different.
ERLING. You thought you would feel
much happier?
KAREN. Not happier.
ERLING. More solemn, perhaps. More
overwhelmed.
KAREN. [With a hesitant smile.] I
thought there would be a glitter as of gold
about everything.
ERLING. [Smiling back at her.] And now
you feel disappointed?
KAREN. [More cheerfully and speaking
faster.] First of all, I felt quite sure that,
when I came in here from that dreadful
darkness outside, you would be waiting for
me on your knees.
ERLING. Well, did n't I?
KAREN. [Gathering courage.] And if we
loved each other, how could a single room
hold us? The walls would burst. It would
turn the house upside down at least.
ERLING. [Coming close to her, deeply
stirred.] How beautiful! You make me see
things so much larger. [ feel now what a
great responsibility I have. I did n't know
- I did n't know how much I loved you.
I did n't know until now what a marvellous woman you are-so sure, so proud, and
your head so high.... [Passionately.] Now
I love.... Now I love for the first time....
Once more I love for the first time.
KAREN. [Who has closed her eyes; softly,
slowly.] And then it is so delightful...
ERLING. A little louder!
KAREN. So intoxicatingly delightful to
be asked...




694


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


ERLING. [Taking her hand.] Shall we
begin to-morrow?
KAREN. To-morrow?
ERLING. Yes, to-morrow.
KAREN. Begin what?
ERLING. To subjugate the earth. To
build the forest. We must have new forests
in this country: useful trees, and trees that
please the eye, and stately shade trees leading up to happy homes, and fruit trees, and
ornamental trees, and in the midst of all
those trees, Karen, our home - our forest
home.
KAREN. [Softly.] But first of all we
must see the world.
ERLING. Travel? Yes, of course. First
of all a long tour abroad. Oh, you can make
me do whatever you will.
KAREN. Can I?
ERLING. Anything. The forest itself,
and the hunt - I could give up everything,
if you wished it.
KAREN. Would you?
[There is a knock at the door. The door opens.
One hears that the wind has increased
and the storm grown worse. HARTVIG
HADELN enters. His eyes move slowly
and heavily, but there is wisdom in their
glance. His voice is very subdued, and so
are his movements. His head generally
droops a little. He is dressed in a thin
overcoat that is not buttoned. He wears
a small soft hat, which he does not take
off at once, and he carries a small handbag. He is wet through and through.]
HADELN. [Stopping at the door and shading his eyes with one hand.] How bright it
is in here! [After a while.] I have lost my
way in the mountains.
ERLING. Come up to the fire and get dried.
HADELN. [Looking around.] This must
be the home pasture of Gudbrand Kvenne.
ERLING. So it is.
HADELN. But all this light and festivity....[His face brightens up.] And such
bright and happy people! [A little embarrassed when he gets no reply.] It was all
blackness out there.
ERLING. Come up to the fire, please,
and have a glass of wine.
[He pours out a glass of wine.]


HADELN. [Staring at KAREN all the time.]
If you permit?
KAREN. [Politely, but rather curtly.] You
are welcome.
HADELN. [Standing as before.] I certainly
lost my bearings pretty badly - and yet I
have been here so many times. I tramp the
whole year almost.
[Seats himself on the bench under
the window.]
ERLING. Please come over to the fire.
You are soaking wet.
[KAREN goes up to ERLING and
puts her arm through his. All
remain silent for a few moments.]
HADELN. I don't mind losing my way
here at home, where I know the language.
KAREN. [Laughing involuntarily.] How
funny!
HADELN. All it means, I suppose, is that
we egoists find it rather hard to learn foreign languages. [After a pause.] I see the
place is occupied.  [New general pause.]
KAREN. There is only this one room.
But perhaps in the cowshed...
[She breaks off abruptly and turns
away from the two men.]
ERLING. [Noticing her embarrassment; in
a low voice.] My love! [Turning to HADELN
again.] This glass is for you, you know.
HADELN. [Rising unexpectedly and taking
off his hat.] My name is Hartvig Hadeln.
KAREN. [Instinctively.] He who...
HADELN. [Calmly and earnestly.] Who
writes such fine poems - yes.
ERLING. [Handing him the glass.] My
name is Erling Kruse, forester.
HADELN. And your wife?
KAREN. Just married.
[She puts her arm about ERLING'S
neck, and he draws her close
to himself. For a moment
they stand thus, close together.
HADELN stares at them. His
features stiffen into a painful,
almost hard expression.]
HADELN. [Raising his glass and speaking
very quietly.] Here is to a happy outcome
of the battle of love.
KAREN. [Turning her head toward him.]
The battle of love?
HADELN. The battle for superiority.




THE TRAGEDY OF LOVE


695


KAREN. [With her arm still about ERLING'S neck.] There can be no battle when
both love each other.
HADELN. Yes, always. And he who
loves most is always the loser, for he loses
the loved one.
[KAREN looks at him questioningly
and with the suggestion of a
smile.]
HADELN. [Smiling back.] You ought to
know that the more one loves, the more
dwindles the love of the other.
KAREN. Why don't you defend me,
Erling?
ERLING. [Who has been looking at KAREN
all the time without listening.] Pardon me, Mr.
Hadeln, but I did n't catch what you said.
HADELN. [Curtly.] I merely said that he
who is happy in his love does not love. He
merely vegetates.
KAREN. So it is impossible to love and
be happy?
HADELN. [Smiling.] I don't think love
pays any attention to happiness. If it is
there - good and well. If it is not - then
it is also good and well. But happiness has
no real connection with the matter.
KAREN. [More eagerly.] But when two
people love each other, they must be happy.
HADELN. Two people never love each
other.      [KAREN and ERLING laugh.]
HADELN. Never at the same time.
KAREN. [Struck by his words.] Never at
the same time?
HADELN. [Quickly, staring at her.] You
should know that.
KAREN. [Gazes at him a little frightened;
then she looks at ERLING, puts her arm about
his neck and speaks very fast and ardently.]
But it comes. It comes. Not at once, perhaps. But the moment comes when both
love each other with the same intensity.
HADELN. [Firmly.] Never. Not for a
second. When it looks that way, the scales
are merely hesitating. [Changing to banter
once more.] The only consolation left for us
poor people is that it only has a short time
to live anyhow.
ERLING. [Smiling.] Love?
KAREN. IS love about to die, poor thing?
HADELN. Yes, the love we now have
must soon die.


ERLING. What day,.f you please?
HADELN. The day we become truthful
to our children. The day we teach them to
appear like ourselves. In our laps and on
the school bench.
KAREN. What are we to teach them?
HADELN. Only one little thing: that it is
natural for our bodies to come together.
ERLING. Oh, that kind of love!
KAREN. [To ERLING.I Hush....
HADELN. [Still smiling, and addressing
himself chiefly to KAREN.] The soul is a
later invention, madam. The feeling of
shame springs from the transports of the
body. That feeling produces secrecy. And
from the secrecy comes what we call the
soul of love. But when we divulge the
secret, then there is not much left of the
soul. And that's the way love dies, poor
thing - sacred love, man's most beautiful
dream, the great poem of life, the sublime
stupidity, the divine madness. Pooh -
gone, as soon as the secrecy vamosed!
KAREN. [Impulsively.] Oh, there is always some one you prefer, some one you
love. You never cease to choose.
HADELN. [Firmly.] Then you will begin
to choose. [With a wave of his hand.] Now
everything is blind and accidental.
KAREN. [Slightly irritated.] How cocksure you are!
HADELN. [Quietly once more, and smiling.]
Why should I not be cocksure - I who
have written to the Emperor of Germany
and given him good advice. [When the
others stare at him.] Yes, this man here
with the wet hat. With my own hands.
And now I am waiting for an answer. [He
clucks rather than laughs.] But my appeal
has led to no results so far. And I have had
no answer -perhaps because I have no
standing address. I am on the go, you
know-day and night, all the year around.
[Quite seriously again.] Good-night, and
thanks!
ERLING. But the weather is horrible....
KAREN. [Who has stood pensive for a
while.] So that's the way you make poetry
-for poetry it was, I suppose, all this talk?
HADELN. Yes.
KAREN. [With some hesitation.] Have
you tried it yourself?




696


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


HADELN. [Smiling.] No, if I had, I
could not speak with such certainty.
KAREN. [With a slight smile.] Nothing
but words, then?
HADELN. Nothing but words. But in the
beginning was the Word, and the Word
was with God, you know. And the Word
was God. [After a while.] And words may
kill, too.
KAREN. Too...?
HADELN. Yes, love... I mean - it
happens also that love kills - if it is of
extra fine quality. But I must get away
from here. [With a near-smile.] I ought
really to put human life in order- and rearrange the conditions of the world a little
- before I go to bed. And I do it so much
better in the dark than here in the light
among real people. Good-bye.
[He disappears quietly. The storm
is heard raging outside. KAREN
goes quickly to the door and tries
to lock it, but cannot.]
ERLING. Want me to help?
[Goes up to her and locks the door
as he puts his left arm about her
waist. KAREN goes slowly to the
fireplace and sits down with her
feet close to the fire. ERLING
follows her and stands beside her;
begins to smile. KAREN looks
inquiringly at him.]
ERLING. Patent leather pumps. You
rode up the mountainside in patent leather
pumps. In this kind of weather.
KAREN. [Holding out her hand to him.] I
was afraid of not catching the train.
ERLING. [Draws her close to himself.] Oh,
Karen - Karen.
KAREN. [Softly.] Of course, you understand, there was nothing I wished more
than to grow fond of you.
ERLING. [Enraptured.] Your eyes close!
[Lets her go a moment; clapping his hands
together and speaking with intense feeling.] I think we shall bring joy with us
wherever we appear in the world — we
two.
KAREN. [Leaning close to him.] You and
I, Erling! Just we two!


THE SECOND ACT
The following year- in the spring. The
waiting room of a small railway station in
southern Germany. A mountain region. The
station is supposed to lie between two railway
lines, with a platform on either side. There
are doors in both side walls and windows in
the background. A lot of baggage is piled on
a bench.
[ERLING and KAREN come running in. Just
as they enter, the train whistle is heard.]
ERLING. There goes the train.
KAREN. [Simultaneously.] There goes
the train.
[They throw themselves laughingly
on a bench some distance away
from each other.]
KAREN. It was your fault, because you
insisted on walking.
ERLING. No, it was yours because you
would n't start in time.
KAREN. It was you who must say goodbye to every one of the dogs.
ERLING. No, it was you who could n't
decide which hat to put on.
[Both laugh again.]
ERLING. Now we have to wait exactly
one hour and thirty-seven minutes.
KAREN. Why do you read the train
table all the time when you know it by
heart? I think if we had a collision, you
would save that table first of all.
ERLING. No, first my herbarium, then
you, and last the table. [Looking out
through the window.] How beautiful it is
with all those brooks coming down the
mountainside. Just as in Norway. To-day
week I shall be in the midst of my own
forest - hooray!
KAREN. Yes, that will be fun, too....
ERLING. Poor Henriksen - he wanted
us so badly to stay abroad, so that he could
remain in charge all summer.
KAREN. That's out of the question, Mr.
Henriksen.
ERLING. Did you see that cross-section?
Look here. [He brings out a letter.] Henriksen has drawn a cross-section of a pine I
tapped last year. Look here. [Pointing with
his pencil.] After the first twenty years the


CURTAIN




THE TRAGEDY OF LOVE


697


marrow of the tree was no thicker than
that. But during the year we have been
away, after the swamp was drained, the
tree has grown - in one year alone - just
as much as it did during the first twenty
years. What do you think of that?
KAREN. It is nothing compared with
me. In the one year I have been with you,
my marrow has grown just as much as it
did during twenty-five years before I came
under rational treatment.
ERLING. "Rational treatment" is good.
Yes, there you see. And you are a tree that
craves a lot of light like the pine. It flourishes - well?
KAREN. It does not flourish in sandy soil.
ERLING. Oh! That's just what it does
- in sandy soil, with plenty of sun. But I
am a shade tree like the spruce, craving
deep, damp soil. That means, we need
different kinds of soil. In other words, we
don't fit together.
KAREN. [About his neck.] Oh, you!
[Quietly.] I grow quite solemn when I
consider what a man you are.
ERLING. [With a twinkle in his eye.] Not
merely solemn, I hope.
KAREN. [Gayly again.] I should say not.
ERLING. Because I am not entirely like
a spruce, I hope.
[KAREN takes a few dance steps
away from him; when he continues to smile at her, she stops
and looks at him with a halfsmile expressive of some uncertainty.]
ERLING. [Approachingherslowly.] What?
KAREN. [Imitating him.] What?
ERLING. [Nodding affirmatively.] Yes.
KAREN. I think you're crazy - the way
you talk. In the middle of the day.
ERLING. [Pressing her close to himself;
after a while.] It will be better when I get
to work again.
KAREN. [Smiling: softly.] Better?
ERLING. This state of intoxication cannot last all life.
KAREN. Why not?
ERLING. Speaking seriously - I long
frightfully to get back into the forest and
take hold again. You understand that,
don't you?


KAREN. Yes, indeed. And you can be
sure I'll help you.
ERLING. I am not afraid of saying,
Karen, that the whole world lies before us
like a dream of light and happiness.
KAREN. [Fervently.] Marvellously beautiful.
ERLING. This tour has been like a magnificent overture to our whole future.
KAREN. [Tenderly.] That's what I
meant to say when you interrupted me. I
do grow solemn when I begin to think. Because I think of you. And what you have
been to me. And then I[ grow thankful. A
stupid little beast, that's what I waswho thought I could keep myself from
loving you. You have turned me into a
full-grown human being - me who was so
stunted and crooked and tied up. It is fine
to draw a full breath, I can tell you. And
it is fine to be young again. Formerly it
was as if all that happened in the world,
and all the people in it, had no more reality
than shadows drifting by indifferently,
without my having anything to do with
them. And now - now - [She is searching
unsuccessfully for words; at last.] Now I
seem often to understand things and people
better than you- because half the time
you stand there like a booby, without any
understanding at all.
ERLING. Don't you think I have noticed it? It happens so many times that I
don't understand until long afterwards.
KAREN. Exactly.
ERLING. You conceited thing!
KAREN. Your own fault. Everything is
your fault: that I radiate happiness and
joy and kindness and sunlight and charm
and bewitching beauty and perennial ravishment. Behold.... What a figure!
What eyes! What a smile! What a...
ERLING. [Suddenly.] I have left our
field glasses behind. You didn't pack
them?
KAREN. No. Let us fly back to the
hotel and get them.
ERLING. No, you stay here - [pointing]
- and keep an eye on the baggage. I'll
go alone. There is plenty of time.
[Leaves quickly. A train is about
due. A few passengers arrive. A




698


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


peasant woman with a little boy
appears on one of the platforms.
The boy is crying. The woman
shakes him and scolds him.
KAREN goes over to the woman
and talks to her. One can see
that the woman is explaining
something to KAREN, who sits
down with her and the boy.
HARTVIG HADELN comes in after
a while. He carries a small handbag and a stick. He is covered
with dust and looks as if he were
tired out by a long walk. On
catching sight of KAREN, he
stops abruptly, apparently unable at first to make up his mind.
Then he starts past her to the
platform outside as if he had not
seen her. KAREN is seen to recognize him. After a moment's
hesitation, she goes after him.]
KAREN. How are you, Mr. Hadeln?
HADELN. [Turning around with a jerky
movement.] I come from Galicia.
KAREN. On foot?
HADELN. Yes. But I'll take the train
across the mountains. There are times
when it is cheaper to travel by train than
to walk.
KAREN. It looked as if you did n't care
to recognize me.
HADELN. [Involuntarily.] Yes.
KAREN. [Uncertain how to take it.] Indeed...?
[They stand a few moments without
talking.]
KAREN. I cannot help laughing. I was
just talking to that woman on the bench
over there. She was slapping her boy for
mere love of him.
[HADELN stands immovable, looking down at the floor, without a
sign of interest.]
KAREN. You know that he who loveth
his son... [HADELN remains as before.]
KAREN. But that was because the boy
wanted to get down on those glistening
rails. Each time the mother turned away,
he jumped down. She had brought him
back three times, she said. [She looks
around as if hoping to catch sight of ERLING.]


Yes.... [Looking at the woman again.]
But now the storm is stilled. Look at her.
[The woman can be seen playing
with the boy and kissing him.]
HADELN. [In his usual subdued voice.]
That night on the mountain, when I came
in from the darkness, it was as if a bright
blue sky of happiness and youth had
spanned its vault above the heads of yourself and him - your husband.
KAREN. Yes.
HADELN. And I sent a black cloud
across that sky.
KAREN. NO -not at all. A black cloud?
We did n't notice anything. We thought it
such fun to listen to you.
HADELN. I could not help doing it.
KAREN. How can you talk like that?
We noticed nothing at all. The only thing
was - it seemed so unreasonable to let you
go out into that frightful pouring rain.
HADELN. I promised myself that I
should try to explain if I ever met you.
KAREN. [Smiling.] But when you met
me, you would n't even recognize me.
HADELN. It seemed so difficult when the
time came to do it.
KAREN. You are no man of action.
HADELN. No.
KAREN. You who write so bravely-for
now, you know, I have read your poems.
HADELN. I fear it is only in my poems
I am brave and splendid.
KAREN. Do you go about like this all
the time, all by yourself? Tell me why you
do it.
HADELN. And then I didn't know
whether it was worth the trouble, as I had
no idea who you were.
KAREN. If I deserved that much trouble,
you mean.
HADELN. Yes. Or if I merely wished to
enjoy the sense of humiliating myself before you. And as I already have made a
laughing-stock of myself once to-day, I
thought it might be enough.
[KAREN looks at him uncomprehendingly.]
HADELN. Yes. An hour ago I stood on
that ridge up there. Then I heard laughter.
KAREN. Who laughed?
HADELN. I did.




THE TRAGEDY OF LOVE


699




KAREN. [Timidly, almost frightened.]
But - why did you laugh?
HADELN. What else can you do when
the sun is rising and you don't know which
suit to put on for the day - which one of
your souls. [After a pause.] I could n't
decide whether to kiss the foot-soles of
humanity, or refuse entirely to honor the
earth with my isolated and interesting
majesty. The weather was so fine, and the
sun shone so nicely, and the mountains
looked so friendly, that there was much to
say for both those ways of conducting my
life. And when I had stood talking loudly
to myself about all this for a while - then
came that laughter.
KAREN. [After a pause; abruptly.] You
should fall in love.
HADELN. [After a quick glance at her.]
With a lady?
KAREN. Yes - what else could there be?
HADELN. Why not just as well fall in
love with a great man, or an old wardrobe,
or the entire united humanity and animality, or just a little white lamb bearing
the sin of all the world? The result would
be the same as in the case of a lady. Either you kneel in the shadow, or your
naked ego wallows in the sunlight.
KAREN. [Pondering his words; after a
while.] Yes-butthatwouldbeniceforyou?
HADELN. But that is just what I cannot do.
KAREN. Why can't you?
HADELN. [Strongly stirred.] Because
there is not a thing I care for.
KAREN. Don't you care for anything?
HADELN. No, I don't care for anything.
[After a pause.] That is to say, there is
nothing for which I care more than for
anything else. And so everything seems
equally stupid. [After a new pause.] But
that night on the mountain....
KAREN. [Eagerly.] My wedding night.
HADELN. [Gives her a flash-like glance;
then.] I came out of the darkness, and there
you stood: so gloriously triumphant, so
proud, so youthfully strong, so joyfully
alive - and, oh, so radiantly confident. So
confident!
KAREN. [Smiling.] And then you cared
for something?
HADELN. Yes.


i


KAREN. For my confidence?
HADELN. Yes.
KAREN. And it made you happy?
HADELN. No, it made me angry.
KAREN. [Apparently shocked.] Angry?
But why?
HADELN. Because I could do nothing to
you.
KAREN. But you did me no harm.
HADELN. I tried.
KAREN. How?
HADELN. [With less force.] By using my
only weapon. My only miserable, poisoned
weapon. My words. I tried to shake your
confidence.
KAREN. [With suppressed pleasure.] And
you thought I was so very confident?
HADELN.   [Harshly.\  You   literally
sparkled with it.
KAREN. [As before.] L was not confident,
but you made me.
HADELN. I?
KAREN. Do you know when Erling and
I agreed to marry?
HADELN. That very night, perhaps.
KAREN. Yes, but when...
HADELN. Just before I came.... As I
appeared in the doorway, perhaps....
KAREN. After you came.
HADELN. After I came?
KAREN. While you were there. It was
your presence, your words - maybe the
very fact that you wished to disturb my
confidence - of which I knew nothing at
the time, of course - all this - it crystallized me. It made me confident. It caused
me to make up my mind, to choose - to
choose my own happiness. My miraculous
happiness. It is almost your fault, Mr.
Hadeln, that I now feel a happiness which
I think without equal in all the world. Yes,
you should be glad, indeed.
[HADELN goes toward the background to pick up his handbag.]
KAREN. [As if suddenly guessing the
truth; in a subdued tone, long drawn out; to
herself.] O-o-oh....
HADELN. [Coming forward again; gently.]
Apparently I cannot reach people with
malice even....
KAREN. [With deep feeling.] But you
have reached me to-day, Mr. Hadeln. I




CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


think you have been so nice and considerate
to me. I feel so proud because you have
confided in me. [Tenderly.] Do be a little
happy, Mr. Hadeln.... You must feel
happy because you have helped to make
two other people happy. I wish I could be
kind to you in return. You have such sad
eyes. And I feel so rich-so rich beyond all
bounds. And it is only right to say so, when
it is so, Mr. Hadeln —don't you think?
HADELN. [Quietly, but deeply touched.]
Yes. Yes.
KAREN. [Slowly, almost as if speaking
only to herself.] Yes, I am happy. [Abruptly.]
Because, you see, it is at the same time.
[HADELN stares at her.]
KAREN. Which you declared to be impossible.
HADELN. [Slightly embarrassed.] It does
make one a little queer to be so much alone.
KAREN. [Without listening to him.] But
Erling is the greatest man in the world.
[HADELN looks at her with a slight
smile.]
KAREN. Yes. Because the man you love
is the greatest. [Suddenly, as if in a burst
of terror.] If he let me go, I think I should
fall straight into the abyss. [After a pause.]
He is strong and inflexible. He is a stately
spruce standing in the sun - a light-loving
tree, as we forest people say. [Takes hold of
his handbag when, again, he shows an inclination to leave.] No, you must wait till
Erling comes. He, too, wants to see you.
He liked you so much. [Abruptly.] You
should have heard how he called after you
HADELN. Did he call after me?
KAREN. Oh, yes. No sooner were you
gone, than we rushed out - out through
the door - and called after you. "Mr.
Hadeln, Mr. Hadeln," we yelled. It was
quite terrible to cry out into the black
night like that. But it was too late. You
were already too far away. Or perhaps the
wind overcame our voices? [With a cry of
joy.] There is Erling!
[ERLING enters rapidly, carrying the field
glasses. KAREN takes hold of his arm
and leads him up to HADELN.]
KAREN. Don't you know Mr. Hadeln?
[HADELN, who has been sitting


with his head turned away, now
looks up at ERLING.]
ERLING. Yes, of course. I could n't see
your face. So you are in these parts, too?
Well, it's pleasant to meet a countryman
once more.
KAREN. And I have offered Mr. Hadeln
our best apologies for our lack of hospitality that night on the mountain? I told
him how we stood there calling after him
when he had gone?
ERLING. What?
KAREN. [Smiling.] Don't you remember? How we called after him with all our
might?
ERLING. No....
KAREN. [To HADELN.] I have quite
forgot to ask you if you are going back to
Norway now.
HADELN. Not until the fall.
ERLING. It will be fine to get home.
And to get to work. This kind of life makes
one stupid.
KAREN. Indeed?
ERLING. One is a human being besides.
KAREN. Indeed?
ERLING. One has other things to do in
this world.
HADELN. [With a wry smile.] Especially
you, I suppose.
[Both look questioningly at him.]
HADELN. You are the greatest man in
the world, I hear.
KAREN. Shame on you! Telling tales!
Shame!
ERLING. [Smiling.] What is that?
HADELN. Your wife says that you are
the greatest man in the world.
ERLING. Nonsense....
KAREN. The man you love is the greatest, I said. [To HADELN.] You must quote
correctly, at least.
ERLING. Oh, that's nothing but sentimental love talk.
[KAREN slightly startled by his
tone. HADELN gives vent to his
peculiar clucking laughter.]
KAREN. Just look at Mr. Hadeln. What
are you laughing at?
HADELN. [Smiling.] Once I heard of a
lady who thought, whenever she was in
love, that she had found the wisest man in




THE TRAGEDY OF LOVE


701


the world. She was a regular collector of
wise men. And the latest was always the
wisest. And once she got hold of a physicist - [he clucks again] - and then she
went about telling everybody that he had
discovered the law of gravitation - [more
clucking] - which she really believed.
[ERLING and KAREN laugh, too,
partly carried away by HADELN'S
queer way of laughing.]
HADELN. [Clucking.] But the best thing
of all was that finally he believed it, too....
ERLING. The physicist?
[All three burst into laughter.]
KAREN. [Threatening HADELN with her
finger.] I suppose you missed that black
cloud in the bright sky just now?
ERLING. What's that?
KAREN. Oh, that's a secret between
Mr. Hadeln and myself.
[HADELN who has become serious
and quiet again, picks up his
handbag.]
ERLING. [Still laughing; to KAREN.] But
I have discovered no law of gravitation. I
warn you of that right now.
KAREN. [Smiling.] No one has suspected
you. [To HADELN.] Must you go already?
ERLING. Are you not taking the same
train as we?
HADELN. No, I am going south.
ERLING. To Glatz?
HADELN. Yes.
ERLING. But then your train does not
leave until seven minutes after ours.
KAREN. [Smiling.] The time table! [To
HADELN.] Then you remember what you
promised? [When HADELN looks inquiringly at her.] Oh, he has already forgotten!
To look us up as soon as you get home.
ERLING. Yes, you must do that.
[Both shake hands with him.
HADELN goes out quietly to the
right. ERLING goes over to the
baggage. KAREN stands looking
after HADELN.]
KAREN. How strange!
ERLING. What?
[KAREN puts her hands to her face
and bursts into tears.]
ERLING. [Going up to her.] What is it,
Karen?


KAREN. It is as if I had never before
understood how happy I am. [Throwing
herself at his neck.] It seems impossible that
it can last.
ERLING. Oh, please.... Now, Karen!
Now!
KAREN. It is over now.
ERLING. And the train will soon be here.
Have we got everything? [Going over to the
baggage again; smiling.] You are a good one
when it comes to lying.
KAREN. [Failing to understand.] Lying?
ERLING. You who said that we stood
calling after him.
KAREN. [Smiling.] Don't you remember
how we stood there and called out: "Mr.
Hadeln! Mr. Hadeln!'
ERLING. No.
KAREN. You don't?
ERLING. No, it's a pure lie....
KAREN. A lie!... That is something
mean, I believe.... He was so unhappy,
and I thought it would make him feel a
little better.
ERLING. [Jestingly.] So that's what you
were confiding to each other! Perhaps you
even let him make love to you while I was
braving the heat and the sun to get the
field glasses.
KAREN. Why did you leave me?
ERLING. [Smiling.] The field glasses,
woman!
KAREN. Bother the field glasses! [After
a pause.] But you left me in the lurch,
you did.
ERLING. [Turning to look at her.] Did I
leave you in the lurch?
KAREN. Yes, when you said you could n't
remember that we called after him.
ERLING. That I could n't remember
yelling "Mr. Hadeln, Mr. Hadeln"?
KAREN. [Goes up to him, puts her arms
about his neck and speaks very affectionately.]
Can you imagine ever ceasing to love me?
ERLING. HOW can you ask such a question - such a stupid question?
[He kisses her on the brow.]
KAREN. [Leaves him, but stops after a
few steps.] Erling - suppose we don't go
home?
ERLING. What?
KAREN. Not yet, I mean. Let us go to




702


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


Paris first, as we have planned so many
times.
ERLING. Under no circumstances. Now
we must go home.
KAREN. Only half a year more.
ERLING. Half a year!
KAREN. Five months. Four. Three. I
beg you! Never have I loved you as now.
[She clings very close to him.]
ERLING. Now you are unreasonable,
Karen.
KAREN. Henriksen wants so badly to
remain in charge. And we can afford it,
can't we?
ERLING. Oh, afford it! That's not the
question. I cannot stand this any longer.
I cannot stand being kept away from my
work. I am looking forward to it with such
pleasure. It is absolutely necessary for me,
if I am not going to feel like a loafer.
KAREN. I could do anything for you.
[With strong emphasis.] Anything!
ERLING. And I for you, Karen. But this
is unreasonable.
KAREN. [Pleadingly.] Erling!
ERLING. No, Karen.
[At this moment the peasant woman
- who has entered from the
platform on the left during the
preceding conversation - utters
a piercing shriek and rushes out.
At the same time the noise of an
incoming train is heard. KAREN
and ERLING run to the door on
the left.]
KAREN. The boy has fallen down on the
track!                   [She runs out.]
ERLING. [Following her.] Karen! - Are
you crazy! Karen! [He runs out after her.]
KAREN. [Is heard after a few moments
crying very loudly outside.] Erling! Erling!
[Confused voices and a lot of noise
may be heard from the outside.
After a while a lot of people
enter from the platform talking
eagerly and loudly. The peasant
woman with her boy are among
the first to appear, ERLING and
KAREN among the last. When
the peasant woman has reached
the middle of the room, she suddenly turns about, runs up to


ERLING and KAREN, kneels
down before them and kisses the
hem of KAREN'S skirt.]
KAREN. [Turns quickly from the woman to
ERLING and throws herself into his arms.] I
love you! I love you unto death!
CURTAIN
THE THIRD ACT
Two years later. ERLING'S and KAREN'S
villa in the woods. A pleasant room, richly
and beautifully furnished. Here and there
hunting paraphernalia have been used for
decorative purposes. A  bust of KAREN.
There is a door in the rear wall leading to a
balcony. Heavy draperies before the door.
The room is on the second floor with a view
over the tops of tall trees toward distant mountains. It is a bright evening early in the fall.
Coffee things stand on a small table near the
foreground. KAREN is walking about the
room in a state of some disturbance and still
more uncertainty of mind. She sits down for
a while, but gets up again and begins to walk
as before. She stops before the bust. Strokes
her cheeks as if t6 smooth them. Then she
goes over to a chair with a handbag on it
and begins to pack down a few things. She
pulls herself together as ERLING enters with
JOHANNES. ERLING takes a rifle from the
wall and hands it to the boy.
ERLING. I think we'll try this one for a
change.
KAREN. [Pouring out coffee.] Your
coffee.
[The barking of dogs is heard outside.]
ERLING. The dogs are getting restless.
JOHANNES. They guess what's coming.
[He goes out.]
KAREN. Now I have packed what you
care most for.
ERLING. [Still busy with the guns.]
Thanks.
KAREN. Do you know what it is?
ERLING. No.
KAREN. [With a feeble smile.] You don't
even know what you care most for.
ERLING. Really, I can't remember.
KAREN. [Putting the handbag outside the




THE TRAGEDY OF LOVE


703


door.] You are never more happy or more
preoccupied than when you are going to
the plantation.
ERLING. The trees and the beasts, girl... [Suddenly.] That's what I care most
for. Especially the plantations, of course.
Why will you never go along nowadays?
KAREN. Oh - I merely seemed to be in
the way.
ERLING. [Preoccupied with the examination of another rifle.] Perhaps you mean
that the shoemaker ought to stick to his
last.                 [KAREN smiles.]
ERLING. What do you smile at?
KAREN. You have begun to use so many
proverbs lately.
ERLING. Have I? That's funny.
KAREN. You used to say that proverbs
were made for the mob.
ERLING. Yes, and that they had a taste
of every man's mouth. And now I use them
myself. That shows the depth to which a
man can fall. But what was it I was going
to say?... We were talking about the plantation..... Oh, yes - a secret I wished to
tell you. It is, that I am never more fond
of you than when I am in the woods.
KAREN. I am more fond of you when
you are here.
ERLING. [Smiling.] You said that so
dryly and casually. And there is nothing
more cozy than these late dinners we have
each time I am going up the mountain.
You are never more attractive. There is
about you a sort of - I had nearly said
coquettish charm, a little wistful, and so
bewitching that, really, I almost have to
tear myself away every time. And frankly
speaking, I feel rather flattered by that
little wistfulness.
KAREN. Yes, you are never in better
spirits - than at these farewell dinners.
ERLING. [Leaving the rifles and seating
himself at the coffee table.] How that wind
blew last night! I wonder what happened
to the young trees over at Losse. They are
only four years old.
KAREN. Poor little trees.
ERLING. Yes -and you should have
seen the telegraph pole on the hill. [Taking
a pencil from his pocket.] The wires had
been torn on both sides.


KAREN. [Acting it out.] And hung
straight down....
ERLING. [Drawing.] Yes - this way.
KAREN. How well I understand that.
ERLING. That's not difficult to understand.
KAREN. [Smiling.] How the telegraph
pole must have felt - of course not. [After
a pause.] That's the way the wind blew
our first night together.
ERLING. [Who has picked up a newspaper, smiling.] I shall never forget it.
What a marvellous evening, Karen.
KAREN. And night!
ERLING. And the appearance of that
strange chap Hadeln.
KAREN. He is not an enthusiast like you.
ERLING. I guess you are right. The fire
lies way down deep in him. He does not
flare up as I do. It's too bad that he never
comes to visit us up here. He is always on
the go, anyhow. And it was so pleasant
when he dropped in on us evenings in the
city. He promised surely that he would
come up once during the summer.
KAREN. I can very well do without him.
ERLING. That's so strange about you -
almost morbid, I might say -that you
seem able to do without anybody.
KAREN. Almost.
ERLING. Except me.
KAREN. Yes, except you.
ERLING. To-day your dress is so becoming again.... You are so different...
At times you look almost like a...
KAREN. Like a dowdy.
ERLING. [Smiling.] Yes - putting it
mildly.     [The dogs are heard outside.]
ERLING. [Rising.] Johannes is ready
with the cart.
KAREN. Oh, sit a little while longer. It
will still be light when you get there, even
if you don't leave for another hour. Soon
enough I shall be alone.
ERLING. [Who has seated himself again.]
There you see. You ought not to be so
very much alone. I do think it is a little
lonely here at times.
KAREN. When you are not in the woods.
ERLING. Exactly. But why don't you
ask one of your sisters up here, or bothor anybody else you may prefer?




704


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


KAREN. I don't care for company. It
was I who wished that we should move up
here earlier than both preceding years. It
was I who wished it.
ERLING. [Rising.] But in the spring we
go to Paris.
KAREN. Not on my account.
ERLING. Don't you wish to go to Paris
either now?
KAREN. Oh, no... as we didn't go
that time....
ERLING. But I was willing to go at that
time, too....
KAREN. Yes, but not until I had - behaved heroically.
ERLING. Yes, I should say so! Merely
to think of it makes me proud of you. [Acting it out.] There you swooped like a bird
down on the track - put your claws in the
child-swooped away again. [Admiringly.]
Then you were happy, Karen, when you
had saved that little boy.
KAREN. I did n't care a rap for the boy.
ERLING. What are you saying?
[He laughs out loud.]
KAREN. It was for your sake I did it.
ERLING. [Still smiling.] That's a good
one. [Having gone over to the window on the
left.] Say, Karen, what are you to do about
your shower bath? The shed is blown
down, I see.
KAREN. What does it matter? This
window is the only place from which I can
be seen. And there is no one in the whole
house but me and the maids.
[JOHANNES is heard cracking his
whip.]
ERLING. [Goes out on the balcony.] All
right, Johannes, I am coming. [Goes back
to the window.] There is plenty of water in
the drain now. That's not a shower. It's
a waterfall. It would be nice to see you,there - right in the cascade.
KAREN. You think so?
ERLING. In the full sunlight, like now -
yes!... But now for the serious side of
life! [Patting her.] The day after tomorrow you have me back again.
KAREN. Convey my regards then.
ERLING. To whom?
KAREN. The trees.
ERLING. I shall bring them regards from


the finest tree in the forest. [He gives her a
kiss.] Good-bye.
KAREN. Good-bye.
[ERLING goes out. KAREN stands
for a moment in the middle of the
room. Her features are distorted.
Her eyes stray helplessly.]
ERLING. [Outside.] Karen! Good-bye,
Karen. The day after to-morrow.
[One hears the cart moving.]
KAREN. [Runs to the balcony and cries
with all her might.] Erling! Erling! Come
back a moment!
[She walks back and forth. ERLING
comes in, whip in hand. They
stand for a moment looking at
each other; as he is about to
speak, she says:]
KAREN. Don't you love me any longer?
ERLING. [As if it were a joke.] Good-bye,
Karen.              [He is about to leave.]
KAREN. Answer me. Don't you love me
any longer?
ERLING. Yes.
KAREN. As much as ever?
ERLING. [Thinks a while; then calmly.]
In a different way.
KAREN. [Almost screaming.] Take the
whip and beat me! [She walks back and
forth a moment; then she stops and seems to
wake up as if in surprise; smiles a little;
speaks in a subdued voice, slowly, as if talking to herself.] So you don't love me any
longer, Erling Kruse?
ERLING. Yes, Karen. [He goes up to her.]
KAREN. [As before.] And when you came
to me last night, it was because I begged
you.
ERLING. Good heavens, Karen - that's
the way it always goes.
[He takes out his pencil and begins
to draw on a newspaper lying on
the table.]
KAREN. In curves.
ERLING. Yes - and in the beginning it
was I who suffered from unrequited love.
KAREN. Why did you take me then,
when I did n't care as much for you as you
for me? I resisted - I fought for my life.
ERLING. [Quietly, almost sternly.] Do
you regret?
KAREN. [Passionately.] Regret having




THE TRAGEDY OF LOVE


7o5


been happy? Why should I regret it because I am unhappy now?
ERLING. [Goes to the balcony and speaks
calmly.]- Put back the horse, Johannes.
KAREN. [Also at the balcony.] Don't put
back the horse, Johannes. [To ERLING;
pointing to the pencil which he is just putting
back into his pocket.] Can you draw this
with that pedant of yours?
ERLING. [Quietly and gently.] You know
there is nobody I care for but you,
Karen.
KAREN. If there only was, so that I
could hate her, and crush her, and triumph
over her. You may be sure I should triumph. I should make you jealous. Give
away a little of my body and a little of my
soul - a little here and a little there. Like
all the rest. But I have n't the strength.
Because I love you. I love you.
[ERLING goes to her.]
KAREN. Don't touch me. I listen and
listen, and there is no sign of help. [Tenderly, almost to herself.] I should make
new discoveries about my own body -
for you.... [Throwing herself on the floor
in front of him.] Search within yourself... See if there is nothing you have overlooked. We don't know ourselves.... How
could I know that I should be lying like
this....
ERLING. Get up, Karen.
KAREN. [Rising; halfway; shaking her
head as in grief.] Why?
ERLING. This won't do - either for you
or me.
KAREN. Why should I not beg for my
own life?
ERLING. [Firmly.] Get up.
[He tries to help her. She rises unaided and goes over to a chair.
He takes a seat at the other end
of the room.]
ERLING. [Calmly and gently.] I thought
we had grown up so far that we could tear
down the triumphal arch with its frills and
flowers and garlands that we built to ourselves while we were still in a trance,
thinking we were the only two people in
the world. There are other people, you
see, and there are other things than our
love. [Speaking with more emphasis and


feeling.] And if I now love you in a different way, it means only that I love you
more tenderly, more fully, more humanly,
I might say. Going up to the woods, I am
no sooner beyond the gate than I begin to
long for you. Even before I leave, it gives
me pleasure to think of my longing. While
we are still having dinner, even. And going
about up there, strong and glad and full of
my work- early in the fall, for instance,
as now, when the whole forest rings with a
deep note as if it were a titanic cello -
then I tremble with infinite joy. I go about
feeling myself the chosen one of all men. I
smile cunningly at my own secret, so big,
so joyous. I - the real winner in life am I... Up there I begin to see you more clearly
than when we are together here or in the
city. And the more clearly I see you, the
more I love you. I know - I believe 
no, I know that you are waiting for me in
the same way down here. I know it. Am I
right, Karen?
KAREN. [Nods affirmatively without looking up; speaks almost inaudibly.] Yes, I
have waited.
ERLING. [Rising.] I have torn down the
triumphal arch of the time when you were
the only one on one side and I on the other.
And every garland I took down brought
you closer to me. [Smiling.] Often it was
hard work, for we had built pretty solidly.
At last it became a real pleasure to tear
down the last remnants - because it was
only then I saw you as you are in reality -
full of truth, and charm, and harmony.
Yes, Karen -it is as if your mind and
your body were singing together. [Over to
her.] Never did your arm seem whiter or
smoother; never did I see your mouth
tremble, your eyes bursting with love,
as...
KAREN. [As before.] As up there in the
woods.
ERLING. As up there, indeed. Any pair
of sentimental sillies can build themselves
a triumphal arch. But really, it takes a
rare fortune to build a home like yours and
mine. [Deeply moved.] Take a look at the
world. Look at other people. Look at
almost all the people we know. [Seats himself; very much stirred.] It seems to me we




706


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


might well kneel down and give thanks -
thanks for what we have got.
[KAREN hiding her head, overcome
by emotion.]
ERLING. [Sitting down beside her.] My
little Karen — don't you think that I
know, too, that there is something mysterious, something enigmatic on the bottom
of every soul - something about which we
know nothing, and over which we have
little or no power. But are we not here to
help each other in that very connection?
[Puts his arm about her waist.] And I am
so happy and proud because my words can
bring you back to peace. Now as ever, I
feel that I am the one who can help you
and restore the balance of your mind after
a crisis like this. And, Karen, I can do so
because I have learned to see you as you
really are - [with a smile] now when the
intoxication is gone. [He rises and goes
quickly to the balcony.] Johannes! [Stopping
suddenly and breaking into laughter.] Just
look at Johannes. He has gone to sleep in
the bottom of the cart. This is the peaceful
life, I tell you. [Back to KAREN; speaking
in a burst of rejoicing.] Karen, Karen! I
feel that after what has occurred to-day a
new happiness will shed its light on us.
[Sits down beside her, places her arm about
his own neck and leans his head against
her breast.] My precious, precious Karen.
How sweet it is to lean my head against
your breast. And when I close my eyes, I
can see... [Looking up at her.] We shall
celebrate a new wedding night- as we
did that first time on the mountain. We'll
light the candles. Put champagne on the
table. Drink out of my silver cups. On
with all the prizes! [He presses her violently to himself.] Sorrow and suffering
have made you a thousand times more
beautiful. Now you are mine as never
before.
KAREN. [Disengages herself gently; goes
to the balcony and looks out, speaks at first
in a somewhat subdued tone, as if from a distance.] But that was the time I was happy.
ERLING. What time?
KAREN. When we were the only two
people in the world.
ERLING. [With a suggestion of weariness.]


But we are not the only two people in the
world.
KAREN. I hoped we were until to-day.
ERLING. But even then we were not.
KAREN. I thought we were.
ERLING. Don't you think what I just
told you is true?
KAREN. Yes - unfortunately.
ERLING. Unfortunately?
KAREN. That's what makes the whole
thing so unspeakably hopeless.
ERLING. What is hopeless?
KAREN. What you have told me to-day.
ERLING. That I am more fond of you
now?
KAREN. Than when you loved me.
ERLING. Love - love. You must be a
little reasonable. Everything in the world,
in nature. in man's mind, is subject to development. We change as the years go by.
And love changes, too.
KAREN. Then it is not my kind of love.
ERLING. [A little more impatiently.] We
cannot always be new to each other.
KAREN. You were always new to me -
in soul and in body.
ERLING. So you imagine now.. But we
cannot run counter to life itself. You are
not always the same either. At any rate,
you will turn into another person.
KAREN. A person, perhaps, whom I
don't know, and with whom I have no
happiness in common —an enemy who
thinks quite differently of what to me is the
only thing....
ERLING. But then you will also look at
everything differently.
KAREN. What does that help me now?
ERLING. It is as if you were talking into
space. Your words have such a distant
sound.
KAREN. Yes.
ERLING. You make yourself obdurate.
You cover up your eyes. You will not see.
No, you will not. [He has risen and stands
right in front of her; KAREN does not answer,
but seems to be looking past and beyond him.]
What's your complaint against me?
KAREN. Nothing at all.
ERLING. But really- it's too childish
to rebel against life itself.
KAREN. My life is also life.




THE TRAGEDY OF LOVE


707


ERLING. Our life is real life, Karen.
[Once more he speaks in a subdued tone and
with great gentleness.] You, who have such
a refined nature and who are so quiet and
sensible in all your ways, don't you feel
that the softer and more subdued note characterizing our life lately has a far greater
inward value, a far greater human value,
than the - the sensual transports of that
first time? It seems so strange that I should
have to ask such a question. Think for
yourself. All that we have lived together
these years, all that we have in common -
does it mean nothing at all to you? Our
common joys and our common mishaps -
all the inertia with which I have had to
contend, all the ill-will and stupidity? And
our memories? Our secrets? Our work?
Our common faith in the future? Our place
here? Our home?
KAREN. What has love to do with house
and home and that kind of thing?
ERLING. [Unable to answer at first.] By
the Lord -now I am scared! I don't
know you any longer. Do you wish to
destroy everything? All you say is so unreal that I can find no answer.
KAREN. [Speaking more toward him, but
still in the same far-off tone.] No. This is
the reality: that every day and every night
you got a step farther away from me. And
I followed you. Step by step. Followed
you by stealth. And I loved you more for
every step you took. Both because I loved
you and because you left me.
ERLING. You are sick, Karen.
KAREN. No more now. Not after the
day you said that you did n't love me as
before - that you loved me in a different
way. I knew it before, too. Night after
night, while you slept, I knew it. But I
did n't dare to let myself know it.
ERLING. Oh, Karen-dear Karen —
these are things you imagine.
KAREN. But to-day - every fine word
you spoke to me brought you many steps
away from me, farther and farther- off
into the woods, into yourself, and far away
beyond those northern mountains over
there. And now I can reach you no longer.
[Stretches her half-open hands with crooked
fingers toward him.] And you cannot see


me. On and on you went without seeing
me any longer.
ERLING. Without seeing you?
KAREN. No, you never saw me.
ERLING. This is nothing bit some sort
of sickly imagination that has got hold of
you.
KAREN. [With more feeling.] Is it a
sickly imagination that you did not see me?
ERLING. Yes - yes -- yes.
KAREN. Did you see me at night, when
I had my fingers on your throat? Did you
see me then?
ERLING. Karen!
KAREN. [Acting it out.] This way! [Repeating her gesture.] On the verge of choking you. Night after night. I wished to
stop you while I still could reach you.
[They stand staring at each other.
After a pause.]
KAREN. [Almost chanting.] That was
myself. My real self. [After a while, with
increased force.] You were the man who
had given me all the happiness in the world.
And as such you were;o die.
ERLING. [After a long pause.] And this is
happening in our room - [with a sweeping
gesture.] In your room and mine. It is you
and I who stand here talking together.
[Bursting out.l This is pure insanity!
KAREN. But this insanity is myself.
And the triumphal arch, and the sensual
transports, and the sickly imaginationthat's myself. All of it is myself. And for
me it is life, the real life, the only life worth
living: because I have nothing to do with
your trees, or your books, or your work for
other people, or the country, except in so
far as you have loved me. To me there was
only one serious thing — that we loved
each other. To me everything outside of
our love is ugly, ugly, ugly. What did it
matter if we became unhappy right down
to the bottoms of our souls, as long as we
loved each other? [Speaking vigorously and
clearly.] When you loved me - not now,
when you go around in the woods longing
for me - then I had a feeling of life - of
splendid, perilous life, with death close at
hand. Then everything was grand and
glorious. Then everything was luminous
and logical, and I understood everything.




708


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


-


Then I loved everything - your trees and
your pencil - because everything was consistently and joyfully indifferent except as
jolly little drops that merely swelled the
enormous, eternal wave carrying us two,
the only people in the world. [Still more
forcibly and with violent intensity of emotion.] And now! Here I stand in the light
of this dreadful evening, in the midst of
this desert stillness - I stand here like a
stranger to myself - like a cold stone
within which my soul is freezing. [Wildly
and fiercely.] Oh, if I were standing in the
desert, with a thousand miles of sand about
me, and a million stars above me. I alone.
Naked. Without a ribbon even. And a
lion came toward me - so that once more
I could feel the burst of life within me and
the menace of death!
ERLING. [Who has been staring dumbly
into space, speaks at last in a deep, muffed,
almost childish tone, as if not accustomed to
talk.] Can I help you, Karen?
KAREN. [Calmly and coldly.] No. Go to
your woods. That's where the enthusiasts
belong. Love has no use for them. It
needs only men and women who can love.
And you could n't, my little Erling.
ERLING. [Almost pleadingly.] Oh, Karen!
KAREN. [Wildly and fiercely again.] You
wished to see me stripped. Under the
shower down there. In the full sunlight.
Now you see me. Shamelessly stripped.
Without modesty. Everything laid bare.
Do you see me now? Can you see the
strumpet?
[ERLING drops into a chair with his
hands before his face.]
KAREN. [Draws a deep breath; then she
goes over to ERLING and looks at him with a
partly contemptuous and partly sorrowful
smile.] Now I am empty. [With a new outburst.] Until the night once more has filled
me full out of its black well. [Then almost
tenderly.] But, of course, it is not your
fault, Erling.
ERLING. [Raising his head; tenderly, but
firmly.] I don't understand. I can't understand. I feel poor and small. That is because I cannot understand. I did not know
that such a thing existed.
KAREN. No, how could you know?


i


-


ERLING. [Rising and speaking in a burst
of feeling as he goes toward her.] And I love
you. I love you so that I could tear the
wings off the wild bird that has perched on
the ruins of our burnt home.
KAREN. [Looking at him with flaming
eyes and an expression of wild joy; almost
breathless with expectation.] Erling!
ERLING. But I cannot. I cannot because I love you.
[He sits down, overcome by his
feelings.]
KAREN. [Calmly and quietly again.] Yes,
Erling. But then you will do what I ask
you - won't you?
ERLING. Yes - anything.
KAREN. I want you to go on to the
plantations.
ERLING. No.
KAREN. But you promised.
ERLING. I don't go.
KAREN. If I ask you nicely?
ERLING. Do you think I can leave you
now?
KAREN. That's very sweet of you. But
you can very well leave me. I want so
badly to be alone a while.
ERLING. I'll stay in the other room.
You don't have to see me.
KAREN. Not that way. I want to feel
alone.
ERLING. [Frightened.] But Karen...
KAREN. No need to be afraid. I am
calm now. Quite calm.
ERLING. I don't dare.
KAREN. When such a crisis, or whatever
you call it, is over, it is over. You know we
women overdo things so easily. Now it is
I who ask you to be sensible. It will be
good for both of us to be alone. You go up
to the plantations and get a little fresh air.
I stay here and take a cold shower. [With
a slight smile.] That is what I seem to need
- so that my body and my soul may sing
together once more. And when we meet
again the day after to-morrow, we shall be
a couple of different persons. [Goes to the
balcony.] Johannes - he is coming now.
[Smiling.] Pop, went the idyl! [Kissing
ERLING.] Good-bye now.
ERLING. Can't I stay?
KAREN. No, Erling.




THE TRAGEDY OF LOVE


709


ERLING. [Takes hold of her hand.] Karen.. [Interrupting himself.]  No, I don't
want to say anything more.
KAREN. You don't have to either. I can
feel what you feel. [After a pause.] And
never think of me in any other way.
[ERLING smiles, but at the same
time his whole face trembles;
goes out. KAREN remains standing on the same spot, immovable.]
ERLING. [Is heard calling from the outside.] Karen.
KAREN. [Goes to the balcony.] Yes.
ERLING. Throw down my whip.
KAREN. [Runs to the chair where the whip
is lying; stops suddenly; thinks for a moment; goes back to the balcony.] You can
send Johannes to get it.
JOHANNES. [Entering a moment later.] It
will be dark before we get there.
[KAREN points to the whip. JoHANNES picks it up and leaves.]
ERLING. [After a while; from the outside.]
Good-bye, Karen.
KAREN. [By the balcony, but without
showing herself.] Good-bye.
[She waves her handkerchief. ERLING is heard driving away.]
KAREN. [Sinks together.] He is going!
[She pulls herself together; stands erect and
haughty and defiant; then her limbs yield
beneath her; she clasps her hands.] Oh, God,
God!
[She sinks down on a chair and
hides her face.]
MAID. [Entering from the right after a
while.] There is a man downstairs asking
for you.
KAREN. [Outwardly quite calm.] Who is
it?
MAID. I don't know him.
KAREN. Is it the judge?
MAID. NO; it's no one I know. He came
just as Johannes got out of sight at the
turn.
KAREN. Did he ask for me?
MAID. Both for the master and you.
KAREN. Ask him to come up.
[KAREN goes out by the lower door
on the right. The MAID leaves by
the upper door on the same sdle.]


[HARTVIG HADELN enters a moment later.
He puts his hat and handbag on a chair
and stops for a moment near the door.
Then he catches sight of the bust of
KAREN and goes over to it. Looks at it
for a while, and once he puts his hand
up to its cheek. Just then the door to
KAREN'S room is opened, and she is
seen looking in for a moment. Then she
closes the door again. A few moments
later KAREN appears. She has on a
bathing cloak that covers her entirely.
She steals up to HAIDELN from behind.]
KAREN. So you found the way at last.
[She holds out her hand to him, so that her
naked arm is seen.] I'll be back in a moment - as soon as I have revived myself
by a bath.
[She goes out to the left. A moment
later the splashing of the shower
is heard.]
KAREN. [From the outside.] Hadeln.
HADELN.    [Rises quickly but remains
standing on the same spot.] Yes.
KAREN. [After a while.] Hadeln.
[HADELN goes to the window.]
KAREN. [As he gets there.] Is it not
beautiful? In this pouring sunlight?
CURTA IN
THE FOURTH ACT
Late at night the same day. The same
room. Candles are lighted on the table in the
foreground, on which appear also a champagne bottle and a bowl, of fruit. The wide
doors to the balcony stand open, but the curtains are drawn. KAREN, dressed in a soft,
light house dress, sits at the table. HADELN
is walking back and forth, evidently in a very
excited state of mind. He seems full of life
and fire.
HADELN. And you have chosen me for
your confidant - it is to me you have revealed your secret.... Why, it is almost
as if I had been a witness - no, as if I had
taken part myself in all the remarkable
happenings of this evening. I don't know
how to thank you enough for this proof of
trust and friendship.




7Io


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


KAREN. I have always felt that you
were my friend.
HADELN. And yet, how little I knew
about you! I guessed nothing, saw nothing.... Oh, I was a pretty poor friend.
KAREN. No, you are no poor friend -
you have listened so nicely to me.
HADELN. [Pleased.] You think I listened
nicely? Thank you! Thank you!
KAREN. And you asked in a way that
made answering easy. And the way you
looked at me with those eyes of yours
made me understand that you would have
stopped me if I had told anything but the
truth. It was good for me, you may be
sure, to have a chance of telling what has
happened. It is almost as if it had made a
change in everything.
HADELN. [Impulsively, as he stops walking.] No, no - not a change, I hope.
KAREN. As if it had made things a little
easier anyhow.
HADELN. [Walking again.] How tall and
powerful he seems in all his trustfulness -
Erling, I mean. [With a slight smile.] Yes,
I call him Erling, too.
KAREN. Yes, because he never lies.
HADELN. SO firm and so high-minded;
so blind and so manly.
KAREN. Oh, I had clear forgotten —
here's the champagne we were to have
when I had finished my fairy-tale.
HADELN. Fairy-tale is right. That is
just the word for it. Because it is at once
so simple and so extraordinary.
[KAREN hands him the bottle,
which he tries to open, but without
success. He puts it back on the
table and begins to walk again.]
HADELN. This has been the richest hour
of my life.
KAREN. [Follows him with her glance for
a moment; then.] And the champagne?
[HADELN makes another attempt to
open the bottle.]
KAREN. You had better use a knife.
HADELN. [Having tried with a knife.] I
can't. Let us call the maid.
KAREN. The maid has gone to bed hours
ago. [Picks up the bottle.] You have never
opened a bottle of champagne before, I
fear.


HADELN. NO.
KAREN. Nor drank it either?
HADELN. Quite often -that is, now
and then.
KAREN. [Fills the glasses; with a smile,
as she raises her own.] Here is to a happy
outcome of the battle of love!
HADELN. [Almost frightened; with a gesture as if he wished to push the thought away.]
No, no, no! Don't let us think of that
now —not now, when everything about
us is full of solemnity. [After a pause,
quoting.] "To tear the wings off the wild
bird that has perched on the ruins of our
burned house."
KAREN. [Seating herself; speaks with a
trace of fatigue.] Did I tell you that, too?
Of course, I told everything just as it happened, in order not to forget anything.
[Goes listlessly to the balcony; then quietly.]
Now it is too late for him to get home tonight.
HADELN. He believes everything must
come out all right. And he is full of longing
up there among his trees.
KAREN. [Automatically.] And all the
time he gets farther and farther away.
HADELN. Yes, yes. Without knowing it.
He goes toward the unknown, through
what is unknown. He is not done in advance with whatever may happen. To him
a new thing is really new. He is not a poor
codger like me, who has to turn and twist
everything like an old miser.... I cannot
help laughing at myself when I remember
how I went about for years thinking that
men were too small and pitiful for me. For
me! The fact was I did n't know them. I
never saw them. I saw nothing but my
own image in the mirror of my vanity. I
was busy creating new heroic models of
complete men, as I called it. And then,
when I got out into life, and my models
did n't fit, I was disappointed - but now
I understand that I was pleasantly disappointed. Then I withdrew within my
own self, proudly and contemptuously...
no, I fled -fled like a cowardly cur -
that's what I did!... As I went from
place to place, from country to country,
those models seemed to take shape —
while all the time I was staring about mej




THE TRAGEDY OF LOVE


7II


with unseeing eyes. Mostly they came out
of my own imagination, but at times I took
some of the great dead and re-modeled
them -spoiled them. Now and then I
took some of the few living people I had
met and made over their strong qualities -
in order to make them still stronger, as I
thought. With you, for instance, I have
now been pottering these two or three
years - adding and embellishing and cutting and polishing. And at the bottom of
my soul I carried secretly the joyous
thought of one day appearing before you
in all my glory. You were to kneel humbly
when I displayed my hidden treasures, my
rich discoveries, my noble human models.
And you were to call to me in anguish and
prayer: "Behold what a man you are!"
And now, behold the man I am not - behold the man I might be if I corresponded
to your magnificent proportions. [With
eyes full of fire.] Now - the first time I try
to show what I have, I find it withered and
decayed and reduced to dust- all of it.
Here I stand with two empty hands. The
whole art cabinet is crumbled to dust. It
was not even knocked down - it just vanished like mist before the sun of life.
[Rapturously.] And for that reason —
never have I felt more free or happy or
rich than I do now.
KAREN. [Smiling.] And all this because
I am unhappy?
HADELN. [As before.] No poem could
surpass what I have beheld to-day.
KAREN. A lot of good material, so to
speak.
HADELN. Yes. But not that alone. I am
no longer on the outside. I have become a
link in the chain of life. I care for something. Two human beings have conquered
me. I have seen two living creatures grow
up, higher and higher, straight into the air,
like strange, white, proud blossoms - no,
like two big, splendid human beings. They
leaned toward each other, and they leaned
away from each other, and they grew taller
and taller without suffering damage to
their souls, without losing their beauty,
without staining each other —way up
into the sky.
KAREN. [With some impatience.] And


what are you going to do with it now - all
this that you call beautiful and solemn?
Just wander along endlessly as before, and
think of it?
HADELN. Yes, I want to hold on to it.
Perhaps some day I, too, may take part -
in going toward the unknown.
[He seats himself.]
KAREN. [Running to the balcony.] Hush!
[She listens for a moment; then she goes back
and sits down opposite him.] And how
about yourself?
HADELN. Myself - what do you mean?
KAREN. Are you not also a living human
being, you who sit there staring at me with
those deep, deep eyes of yours, so that mine
must drop before them?
HADELN. [Looking at her with intense but
controlled emotion.] If I owned a sorrow
now, it would no longer be a dead sorrow
that lay rotting and fermenting in my
mind. It would be a living, splendid sorrow. [Rising.] Good-bye, Mrs. Karen.
KAREN. [Rising quickly.] Do you mean
to leave? You are not crazy? Are you so
frightened by life that you must run away?
HADELN. [Almost panic-stricken.] There
you see! I am a coward. A miserable coward. I thought I could escape.
KAREN. [Standing above him, her eyes
holding him..] What did you think you
could escape from?
HADELN. It was the approaching decision that scared me.
KAREN. [As before.] What decision?
HADELN. [Wringing his hands.] When
you love him and he loves you, and yet you
cannot reach each other - then - then...
KAREN. [Goes to an old wardrobe that
stands open and takes out two silver drinking
cups; while returning to the table she stops
suddenly with a cup in either hand; goes to
the balcony and listens; then back to the
table.] Do you think he would have gone
away if he loved me?
HADELN. No, when you ask me like
that, I cannot understand. But maybe, if
I could hear his own explanation...
KAREN. [Interrupting him.] Either one
loves, or one does not love.
HADELN. But you asked him to go.
KAREN. Asked him -- asked him! Look




7I2


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


- now we'll drink together. Out of silver
cups. [Shefillsthecups.] Hisprizes. Here's
to you-you sagacious, simple-minded
child who needs help and care much more
than I do!
HADELN. [Burying his face in his hands.]
Oh, Mrs. Karen - Karen.
KAREN. [Softly and tenderly, in anticipation of what she expects him to say.] Yes.
HADELN. How you do love him!
KAREN. [In the same tone, but with a suggestion of scorn.] And that makes you very
unhappy?
HADELN. [Looking up quickly.] No, no!
You must not believe that.
KAREN. [Walks impatiently away from
him; then she returns and stops right in front
of him.] No. Listen to me. No! I do not
love him. Not as he stood there, that big
hulk of a weakling, with tears in his eyes.
Nor when he stood over me with the whip
in his hand.
HADELN. [Rising.] With the whip?
KAREN. Yes, with the whip. And he
does not love me. I have been his mistress.
It was so convenient to have me as a part
of his well-ordered house -a foil for his
senses, that's what I was.
HADELN. And you, who could n't find
words enough to describe how frank and
honest he was, how kind and considerate -
how full of love for you in his own way?
KAREN. Yes, in his own way. As part
of his comfort. As something - something
nice he could n't do without. But did he
ever really see me? Did he notice what I
felt or suffered? Did he know anything
about my tears in the night, or my dead
smiles in the day? Did he notice how dead
they were?
HADELN. [Eagerly.] But he had to
learn from life. We don't know everything
at once.
KAREN. [More and more excitedly.] Yes,
we do know everything at once. We cannot go through life rehearsing a performance that will never take place. And I believe he saw, that he guessed, the state I
was in. But he didn't wish to see. It
scared him. He hoped it would pass. That
I should be crushed to earth by my love.
Then he would magnanimously raise me


up. He proved himself a coward - not a
gentle and considerate man - like you.
HADELN. [Earnestly and firmly.] You
must not speak badly of Erling Kruse,
whom you have taught me to like. You
feel hurt in your love, and for that reason
you talk in malice. But I am not so mean
that I can be a party to it. And so I would
be if I listened to such things when he cannot defend himself.
KAREN. [With a curt, cold laughter.] He
who is gone does not exist.
HADELN. [Looking sadly at her for a
while; then.] I understand that you are
raking in the coals - that you are searching for new strength to live your life.
KAREN. [Energetically.] The new strength
is there. I can feel it. Strength to take
life as it is.
HADELN. [With great sincerity.] Don't
say those nasty things. Don't take away
from me what you have given me. Permit
me to see you again as you were a moment
ago - full of majesty and tranquillity and
beauty. It has come to be the one thing of
which life consists for me.
KAREN. So we are to stagger along
under the burden of our misery, Erling and
I, just to let you enjoy the spectacle? Perhaps to give you the chance of writing a
poem about it?
HADELN. [Startled; after a pause, deeply
stirred.] That may have played a part,
too. But it was not the main thing. Because, Karen - Karen...
KAREN. Because you love me.
HADELN. Love [he does not quite finish
the word]... Have I ever said a word...
[Pause.] I wish I had never come here.
KAREN. [In a harsh tone; her eyes still
lighted by the same cold smile.] It is strange
that you did n't come before.
[HADELN sits down overpowered by
feeling.]
KAREN. That's why I called you when
I was taking my bath.
HADELN. [Sits thinking for a few moments; then.] I had forgotten....
KAREN. Oh, things of that kind stick in
a man's mind, even if he does n't know
it.
[HADELN rises and begins walking




THE TRAGEDY OF LOVE


713


back and forth in an aimless
fashion.]
KAREN. [Follows him with her eyes; then
in the same hard and cold voice.] Well?
[HADELN makes a sudden movement toward her; then he pulls
himself together and draws away
from her again.]
KAREN. [With arms folded; in the same
tone as before.] Well?
HADELN. [Approaching her once more.]
One thing I have seen to-day. There is
one thing I can feel in my innermost soul.
There is one thing that fills me with a joy
beyond all control.
KAREN. [Expectantly.] And that is?
HADELN. I can read it in your wild eyes.
KAREN. What do you see? Speak, man!
HADELN. That love kills.
KAREN. [Shrinking.] Does it kill?
HADELN. Always.
KAREN. Whom does it kill?
HADELN. [Hesitatingly.] Some one - one
or the other.
KAREN. Tell me whom?
HADELN. The one that cannot dole it
out grain by grain - the one that has not
turned love into a habit. [With increasing
force.] And you have not done so. You
cannot do it. You are strong. But love is
stronger than you. You are at its mercy.
And it will triumph over you.
KAREN. And this is the thing that fills
you with joy?
HADELN. [His features become contorted; his lips seem to stiffen; then he speaks
firmly and exultantly.] Yes.
[KAREN stares at him; a barely
noticeable smile flits across her
face.]
HADELN. [Sits down, shaking his head.]
What business had I to come here? Why
did I not stay among my miserable models
- my poor misshapen human beings?
Whenever I step into the light, I do so at
the wrong moment. Forgive me! Forgive
me! I did not mean it, as I said it. It was
nothing but a morbid fancy. You stood
there opposite me, cold as a corpse, and
goaded me on. It was nothing but a gurgitation of all that grudging greed, all that
futile conceit, that possesses a man who,


like me, goes about trying to appear more
truthful and more righteous than other
people. Believe me - oh, believe me - it
was nothing but poisonous talk - because
you stood there so radiant, so marvellously
full of life and passion.
KAREN. [Goes up to him so softly that he
does not notice her coming; bends over him
and speaks very gently and quietly.] Oh,
that velvety voice of yours!
[HADELN trembles from  head to
foot.]
KAREN. It seems to caress me. To pat
my cheek softly and gently. Why don't
you do so? [She takes his hand.] And the
softness and whiteness of your hand...
You have not the fists of a lumber-jack -
with bark on them. Pat me!
[She puts her hand to her own
cheek.]
HADELN. [Feebly, with a show of deprecation.] No, no, no!
KAREN. What peace and calm it brings!
How sweet it is to feel your soul rising toward mine. So tenderly - oh, so tenderly!
HADELN. [As before. I am nothing to
you but an accidental passer-by.
KAREN. Is not everything accidental,
Hartvig Hadeln, when love stands ready.
[After a pause.] That time, on the mountain, I did not love him. He compelled me
- in spite of my resistance. How different
this is. [Stroking his hair.] You do not
compel me. You are like a soft wax, upon
which I can stamp my own self just as it
is. You believe that you hurt others. But
you are the worst sufferer. You understand everything. Oh, how I could assist
you and console you.
HADELN. [Moaning.] Oh, Karen -
Karen - why do you say these things to
me? You, who belong to him with all your
soul and with the smallest particle of your
body!
KAREN. [Quietly.] We no longer live as
man and wife.
[She walks slowly away from him
to the balcony, where she stands
looking out.]
HADELN. [Looks after her for a while:
then he runs up to her and embraces her
passionately; pushes her head backwards




7I4


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


and covers her mouth with wild kisses.] Yes!
Yes! I love you! I love you! I love you!
[KAREN makes no resistance. HADELN lets her go for a moment.
KAREN remains standing on the
same spot like a statue.]
HADELN. What have I done?        Why
have n't I seen before how wretchedly unhappy you are?
KAREN. [Stands as before, but speaks as
if about to lose control of her mind.] Then I
am all the more in need of tenderness, of
love, of giving myself to the utmost - to
the very utmost. [Puts her hands to her
head; sways as if about to fall; then in an
outburst of passion.] And he is not here!
[She breaks into wild sobbing.] Why is he
not here? Why is he not here?
[Drops down on a chair. HADELN stands helpless, looking
about in a bewildered fashion.
The sound of wheels is heard
from the outside. KAREN rises.
Both stand listening. The noise
of the wheels is heard more and
more plainly.]
ERLING'S VOICE. [Heard from a distance.]
Karen! Karen! [Then more closely.] Karen!
[KAREN tries to answer, but cannot.
Her jaws tremble. Suddenly she
puts out the candles, leaving the
room almost in darkness.]
KAREN. [To HADELN.] Sit down there.
[Points to the sofa and makes a
movement as if about to seat
herself beside him.]
ERLING'S VOICE. [Now very close.] Are
you there, Karen?
KAREN. [As if changing her mind.] No.
[Once more in full control of herself.] Go out
on the balcony. Stay there until I call you.
HADELN. But...
KAREN. It is the first thing I ever asked
of you - and perhaps the only one.
[HADELN steps out on the balcony.
KAREN stands near the middle of
the room, a little toward the background.]
[ERLING enters hastily.]
ERLING. I could n't! I could n't go on
being angry. I had to come home. I longed


and longed as I sat there thinking of you
in the desert, with all the stars above you.
KAREN. Naked?
[ERLING takes hold of her hand and
wants to close her in his arms.]
KAREN. You are late.
ERLING. I hurried all I could.
KAREN. Too late.
ERLING. Too late?
KAREN. It is a question of watching the
right moment in this fleeting world.
ERLING. [Without catching the drift of her
words.] And who is here? The maid spoke
of company. [Catches sight of the table and
goes a little nearer to it.] Who is it, Karen?
[When she gives no answer, he says with a
smile.] Is it to be a secret? [After a pause.]
You are so... What is it?
KAREN. You see, we brought out champagne. And all the silver cups -your
prizes.
ERLING. [Quietly.] But I don't quite
understand, Karen....
KAREN. I have had a new wedding
night....
ERLING. [Puzzled.] That's a strange
sort of joke. [Goes to her and speaks tenderly.] Are you not well, Karen?
KAREN. I am free. We two have ceased
to live together.
ERLING. Have we ceased to live together?
KAREN. Yes - so far are you from me.
[ERLING looks questioningly at
her.]
KAREN. Am I not free? Am I not the
master of my own soul and body? Did I
not tell you before you left, that I was
shamelessly stripped, without all decency?
ERLING. I don't understand....
KAREN. [Comes forward; points to the
sofa, speaks with eyes ablaze.] There!That's where it happened.
[ERLING leaps toward her. She
grabs a hunting knife from the
wall.]
KAREN. Why did you not bring your
whip along?
ERLING. [Utters a hoarse cry as in horror
at having to believe her; then more calmly.]
You need no knife against me.
KAREN. Are you sure it was meant for
you?    [They stand staring at each other.]




THE TRAGEDY OF LOVE


715


ERLING. Who is it?
KAREN. So that's the first thing you
think of?
ERLING. [Runs into the room on the right,
but returns at once; stares at her; then, as she
remains cold as before.] Who is it?
[He runs toward the door on the
left.]
KAREN. He is gone.     [ERLING stops.]
KAREN. Do you know now what it is to
love?
ERLING. [In despair.] But what is this?
What is it? [With a sudden break of spirit,
as he turns to her.] Please have mercy on
me.
KAREN. [Moaning.] It is you who must
help me, for now I am in real danger. [In
a scream.] Help me!
ERLING. [A little more quietly.] You have
thrown me into the water, and you stand
on the wharf calling for me to help you.
Now you'll have to speak, Karen - explain what it is.... You won't? Who has
been here? You won't speak? [He stands
pondering for a few moments.] He cannot
be gone very far.
[He runs out through the door on the
left. KAREN drops the knife on
the floor and puts her hands up
to her face.]
[HADELN enters from the balcony, looking
like a broken   and worn-out man.
KAREN does not even notice him.]
HADELN. Mrs. Karen.
[A shock passes through KAREN;
as she turns and looks at him she
does not seem to recognize him at
once.]
HADELN. [Gently and tenderly.] You
have no use for me any longer?
KAREN. No.
HADELN. I can leave again?
KAREN. Yes.
HADELN. [Partly to himself.] So I can
leave?
[KAREN turns away her face.
HADELN, who has caught sight
of the knife, picks it up from the
floor and throws it on a small
marble-topped table close to KAREN, so that it strikes the top


with a ringing noise. KAREN
gives him a quick glance.
HADELN looks away. Then he
picks up his handbag and walks
out quietly.l
KAREN. [Stands undecided for a moment;
then she mutters.] Erling! [Cries more and
more loudly.] Erling! Erling!
[She flings herself down on the little
table; then rises again and stands
fumbling with the knife; finally
she drops it and runs to the balcony to look out. Voices are
heard in the stairway outside the
door on the right. KAREN runs
back to the little table and picks
up the knife; then she steps out
on the balcony, where she stands
hidden behind the curtains so
that only her left clinched hand
remains visible.]
[ERLING enters dragging with him HADELN,
whom he holds by the wrist.]
ERLING. [Calls through the door.] Karen!
[When there is no answer, he says to HADELN.]
So you were going to disappear.
HADELN. Yes.
ERLING. Why?
HADELN. Because your wife told me I
could go.
ERLING. Because you have - because
you are her lover? Have been for a long
time, perhaps?
HADELN. [Straightening himself up and
speaking with emphasis..] No.
ERLING. She has told me herself.
HADELN. I heard it.
ERLING. You heard it?
HADELN. I stood on the balcony.
ERLING. You were listening?
HADELN. She asked me.
ERLING. DO yOU do everything she asks?
HADELN. [With a fervor that he vainly
tries to suppress.] Yes.
ERLING. Then you heard what she herself told me?
HADELN. She spoke out of utter despair,
because she loves you and because she
thinks that you do not love her.
ERLING. [Walks back and forth a while.]
Karen! [After a pause.] What am    I to




716


CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS


believe? You are obliged to deny it, of
course.
HADELN. Believe me, Erling Kruse. Believe me. I wish you no harm. It is the
truth I tell you.
ERLING. What do you want here? Why
did you come here? What have we two to
do with each other? [Pause.] How shall I
ever get a moment's peace of mind? All
that we had of happiness and peace.... I
can never know what is true and what is
not. I can never more believe her. It will
be one long hell of tormenting uncertainty.
[Speaks in a low voice that almost breaks into
a sob.] Karen! Karen!
[He throws himself on a chair close
to the balcony. A scream is
heard from the balcony - a longdrawn, agonized scream. Both
men rush to the spot. KAREN
sinks slowly backward into the
room, dragging the curtain with
her as she falls. A starlit sky
becomes visible, with light wisps
of mist here and there. The five
lowermost stars of the Dipper
(or Charles's Wain) are seen in
all their glory, framed by the
tree-tops.]
ERLING. [Bending over her.] KarenKaren! [To HADELN.] Water!
[HADELN brings a glass of water
from the table.]
ERLING. Karen - answer me! [He
bathes her forehead with water; a moment
later he discovers blood on his hand and cries
in horror.] Blood!
HADELN. [Almost screaming.] Blood?
ERLING. [At the top of his voice.] Johannes! Johannes!
[In the meantime HADELN is seen
walking back and forth in a
violent state of excitement. He
is trying to speak, but cannot.
He is constantly putting one
hand up to his forehead.]
[The MAID enters.]
ERLING. My wife is hurt. Tell Johannes
to drive for the doctor. As fast as he can
go.


MAID. [As she is leaving.] Is it dangerous?
ERLING. [Merely waves her out; bends
over KAREN again; rises abruptly into
kneeling position and remains in that way.]
She is dead.
HADELN. [Approaches on tiptoe; bends
down to look at KAREN; cries out loudly and
wildly.] Yes! [He returns nervously to the
middle of the room.] I knew it.
ERLING. [Mutters without understanding
him.] You knew it?
HADELN. I could have kept her from it.
ERLING. What..?
HADELN. [Unable to control himself any
longer.] Because it was I who threw the
knife on the table so that it rang out.
ERLING. And you did n't stop her?
HADELN. No, because I loved her, and
she loved you.
ERLING. [Rising up.] Yes - me!
HADELN. [Ecstatically.] Is it not more
beautiful for love to kill than to die?
ERLING. [In a numbed manner, still unable to grasp the truth.] Karen is dead.
HADELN. [Goes nearer to ERLING, his
eyes blazing with madness.] Be proud,
Erling Kruse. Make a cross on your door.
A cross of blood. As a sign that love has
visited your house. [Points to the sky;
speaks with a strange joy in his voice.] Behold the stars - her stars!
ERLING. [Recalling KAREN'S words as he
stands staring at HADELN.] And the desert.
HADELN. The starry desert. There is
Charles's Wain, ready and waiting. There
is the tomb. The golden tomb - in which
all shall rest who have been slain by love.
[Calls out in a wildly irrational ecstasy.] We
are coming!
[He leaps from the balcony with
outstretched arms as if trying to
reach the stars.]
ERLING. [Stands for a while as if unable
to make out anything of what is happening;
then he looks dull-eyed about the place and
says in a toneless voice.] Our home....
[Finally he drags himself to KAREN, kneels
beside her, puts his face close to hers and says
as if expecting an answer.] Karen?


CURTAIN




APPENDIX
I. AUTHORS AND PLAYS
II. NOTES ON THE PRODUCTION OF PLAYS
III. A WORKING BOOK LIST IN CONTEMPORARY DRAMA
IV. A READING LIST IN CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS
V. INDEX OF CHARACTERS








APPENDIX
I. AUTHORS AND PLAYS
Dates in italics refer to the date of production; in roman type to the date of publication.
ENOCH ARNOLD BENNETT, born in North Staffordshire, England, May 27, 1867; was first in
the law and journalism, and has devoted himself exclusively to literature since 1900. PLAYS:
Cupid and Common Sense, 1908, 1909; What the Public Wants, 1909, 1909; The Honeymoon,
1911, 1911; Milestones (with Edward Knoblock), 1912, 1912; The Stepmother; A Good Woman;
A Question of Sex (published as Polite Farces for the Drawing-Room, 1912); The Great Adventure, 1913, 1913; Rivals for Rosamund (one act), 1914; The Title, 1918, 1918; Judith, 1919, 1919;
Sacred and Profane Love, 1919, 1919. Bennett's novel, Helen with. the High Hand, was
adapted to the stage by R. Pryce, 1914.
EDWARD KNOBLOCK (born Knoblauch), born in New York City, April 7, 1874; educated at
Harvard; became a naturalized British subject in 1916; studied drama in Paris. All playwriting
done in Europe. PLAYS: The Partikler Pet, 1910; The Shulamite (with Claude Askew), 1910;
The Cottage in the Air (adapted from Priscilla's Fortnight), 1910; Sister Beatrice (adapted from
Maeterlinck), 1910; The Farm, 1911; Kismet, an Arabian Night, 1911, 1911; Milestones (with
Arnold Bennett), 1912, 1912; Discovering America, 1912; The Headmaster (with Wilfred T.
Coleby), 191; England Expects (with Seymour Hicks), 1914; The Hawk (from the French of de
Croisset), 1914; My Lady's Dress, 1914, 1916; Marie-Odile, 1915, 191,5; Mouse, 1915; Hajj,
1915; The Way to Win; A War Committee; How to Get on; The Little Silver Ring (sketches),
1915; Long Live England, 1915; Paganini, 1916; Home on Leave, 1916; Tiger, Tiger, 1918; One,
1920.
WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM, born in 1874; was educated at King's School, Canterbury,
and at Heidelberg; first studied medicine; novelist and dramatist since his early twenties.
PLAYS: Schiffbriichig (at Berlin, in German), 1902; A Man of Honour, 1903, 1911; Lady Frederick, 1907, 1911; Jack Straw, 1908, 1911; Mrs. Dot, 1908, 1911; The Explorer, 1908, 1912; Penelope, 1909, 1912; Smith, 1909, 1913; The Tenth Man, 1910, 1913; Grace, 1910; Loaves and
Fishes, 1911; Landed Gentry, 1913; The Land of Promise, 1914; CarolirLe, 1916; Our Betters,
1917, 1921; Love in a Cottage, 1918; Caesar's Wife, 1919; Home and Beauty (called, in America,
Too Many Husbands), 1919.
JOHN DRINKWATER, born June 1, 1882; poet and critic; co-founder of the Pilgrim Players,
from which developed the Birmingham Repertory Theater; director and producer Birmingham
Repertory Theater, for which his plays have been written. PLAYS: Cophel;ua (one act in verse),
1911; Rebellion (three acts in verse), 1914, 1914; The Storm, 1915; The God of Quiet, 1916, 1917;
X-0, A Night of the Trojan War, 1917, 1917; Pawns, 1917, 1917 (these three published as
Pawns, Three One-Act Plays in Verse, 1917); Abraham Lincoln, 1918, 1918.
ST. JOHN GRIER ERVINE, born in Belfast, Ireland, December 28, 1883; dramatist and novelist; manager Abbey Theater, Dublin, 1915. PLAYS: The Magnanimous Lover, written 1907,
published 1912, produced Abbey Theater, 1913; Mixed Marriage, 1911, 1911; The Critics, 1913,
1914; The Orangeman, 1913, 1914; Jane Clegg, 1912, 1914; John Ferguson, 1916, 1915. (Four
Irish Plays, including Mixed Marriage, The Magnanimous Lover, The Critics, The Orangeman,
published 1914.)
LORD EDWARD JOHN MORETON DRAX PLUNKETT DUNSANY, the 18th Baron of a
line created in 1439, was born July 24, 1878; wrote Studies and Romances of Irish Legendry,
1909; The Book of Wonder, 1912, and other studies in Celtic romance; first plays were published
in The Irish Review, Dublin. PLAYS: The Glittering Gate, 1909, 1914; King Argimenes and the
Unknown Warrior, 1911, 1914; The Gods of the Mountain, 1911, 1914; The Golden Doom, 1912,
1914; The Lost Silk Hat, 1913, 1914 (these bound in one volume, New York, 1914); The Tents of
the Arabs, 1916, 1915; A Night at an Inn, 1916, 1916; The Queen's Enemies, 1916, 1916; The
Laughter of the Gods, 1919 (these four plays are included in Plays of Gods and Men, published
1917); Fame, 1920.




720                                 APPENDIX
EUGENE WALTER, born in Cleveland, Ohio, November 27,1874; engaged in journalism, amusement enterprises, and authorship. PLAYS: Sergeant James, 1901; The Flag Station, 1905; Paid
in Full, 1907; The Wolf, 1908; The Easiest Way, 1908, 1921; Inside the Circle, 1908; Just a Wife,
1910; Boots and Saddles, 191 0; Fine Feathers, 1911; The Trail of the Lonesome Pine, 1911; Just
a Woman, 1916; The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come, 1916; The Knife, 1917; The Assassin,
1917; Friendship, 1917; Q 4, 1917; The Sinking Ship, 1917; The Challenge, 1919; The Mongrel
Girl, 1920.
JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY (MRS. L. S. MARKS), born in New York; educated at
Radcliffe; taught for two years at Wellesley; has published several volumes of verse, among these
being The Wayfarers, 1898; Fortune and Men's Eyes, 1900; The Book of the Little Past, 1908;
The Singing Man, 1911. PLAYS: Marlowe, a drama, 1901; The Wings, 1905; The Piper, 1910,
1909; The Wolf of Gubbio, 1913; The Chameleon, 1917.
GEORGE COCHRANE HAZELTON, JR., born in Boscobel, Wisconsin; engaged in the practice
of law and in theatrical studies; author of novels and works on art and architecture. PLAYS:
Mistress Nell, 1900; Captain Molly, 1902; Edgar Allan Poe (also produced as The Raven), 1904;
The Cracksman, 1908; The Yellow Jacket (with J. Harry Benrimo), 1912,1913; Aphrodite (after
Pierre Frondaie's French version of the work by Pierre Louys), 1919; The Haunted Pajamas,
1920.
J. HARRY BENRIMO, known as "BENRIMO," a native of California, was a member of the
Morosco and Alcazar stock companies in San Francisco; played the part of the Pipe Bowl
Mender in the play of Chinese life in California, The First Born. Coming east was associated
with Frohman and Belasco; recently director of productions in England. PLAYS: The Yellow
Jacket (with George C. Hazelton, Jr.), 1912, 1913; The Willow Tree (with Harrison Rhodes),
1917.
GEORGES DE PORTO-RICHE, born in Bordeaux, May 20, 1849; poet and dramatist; his first
work of verse was published in 1871; early plays were in verse. PLAYS: Le Vertige, 1873; Un
Drame sous Philippe II, 1875; Le deux fautes, 1879; Don Juan (adaptation from Shadwell),
1879; Vanina (fantasy), 1879; Le Chance de Francoise, 1888, 1883 (translated as Francoise's
Luck, 1915, and as Lover's Luck, 1916); L'Infidele, 1890, 1898; L'Amoureuse, 1891, 1898; Le
Passe, 1898, 1898 (the last four published under the title of Theatre d'Amour, 1898); Le Malefilatre, 1904, 1904; Le Vieil Homme, 1911, 1911; Zubiri, 1912; Le Marchand d'Estampes, 1918.
EDMOND EUGENE ALEXIS ROSTAND, born April 1, 1868, at Marseilles; he was elected to
the French Academy in 1902 and died December 2, 1918. PLAYS: Le gant rouge, 1888; Les deux
Pierrots, 1891; Les Romanesques, 1894, 1894 (translated as The Fantasticks, 1900, and The
Romancers, 1901); La Princesse Lointaine, 1897, 1897 (translated as The Princess Far Away,
1899, and as The Lady of Dreams, 1912); Cyrano de Bergerac, 1897, 1897 (variously translated
under same title, 1898); La Samaritaine, 1898; L'Aiglon, 1900, 1900 (translated under same title,
1900); Chantecler, 1910, 1910 (translated under same title, 1910); Le bois sacre, 1910, 1910.
SACHA GUITRY, the 'son of Lucien Guitry, the famous actor of the Comedie Francaise and
director of the Renaissance Theater, was born February 21, 1885; began early to write for the
stage and has been a prolific composer of stage pieces of the daintier sort. CHIEF PLAYS: Le
page, 1901; Le Kwtz, 1905, 1907; Le mari qui faillit tout gater, 1905, 1908; Nono, 1905; Chez les
Zoaques, 1906, 1907; Les Nuees d'Aristophane, 1907; La Clef, 1907, 1907; Petite Hollande, 1908,
1908; Le Scandale de Monte Carlo, 1908, 1908; Le veilleur de nuit, 1911, 1911; Jean III; ou l'irr6sistible vocation du fils Mondoucet, 1912, 1912: Un beau mariage, 1912, 1912; La prise de
Berg-op-zoom, 1913, 1913 (adapted as The Real Thing, 1918); Il faut l'avoir (with A. Willemetz), 1915; Jean de la Fontaine, 1916; Faisons un Reve, 1916 (adapted as Sleeping Partners,
1917);L'archeveque et son fils, 1918; Deburau, 1918 (translated 1920); Pasteur, 1919, 1919. (See
Une Quinzaine des petites pieces, announced for publication in 1920.)
LUDWIG THOMA, born January 21, 1867, at Oberammergau, Bavaria; his first writing was done
under the name of Peter Schlemiehl; he has long been associated with the magazine Simplicissimus. PLAYS: Die Medaille (one act), 1902, 1902; Die Lokalbahn, 1902, 1902; Moral, 1908, 1908
(translated 1916); Erste Klasse (one act), 1910, 1910; Lottchen's Geburtstag (one act), 1911,
1911; Magdalena, 1912, 1912; Das Saiuglingsheim, 1913, 1913; Die Sippe, 1913, 1913; Der Erste
August, 1914, 1914.
ARTHUR SCHNITZLER, born in Vienna, May 15, 1862, the son of a noted throat specialist;
himself studied medicine and remained in scientific work for ten years after taking his degree in
1885; has written novels as well as plays. PLAYS: Anatol (seven dramatic scenes), 1889-1891,
1893 (paraphrased under same name by G. Barker, 1911); Das Marchen, 1891, 1894; Paracelsus




APPENDIX                                      721
(one act), 1892, 1899; Liebelei, 1894, 1896 (translated as Light o' Love, 1912); Freiwild, 1896,
1897; Reigen (dialogues), 1896-1897, 1903; Das Vermachtnis, 1897, 1898 (translated as The
Legacy, 1911); Die Gefahrtin (one act), 1898, 1899; Der Griine Kakadu (one act), 1898, 1899
(translated as The Green Cockatoo, 1913); Der Schleier der Beatrice, 1899, 1900; Die Frau mit
dem Dolche (one act), 1900, 1902 (translated as The Lady with the Dagger, 1904); Lebendige
Stunden (one act), 1901, 1902 (translated as Living Hours, 1906, and The Hour of Recognition,
1917); Die letzten Masken (one act), 1901, 1902 (translated as Last MNasks, 1917); Literatur
(one act), 1901, 1902 (translated as Literature, 1914; the last four published together, 1902,
under the title Lebendige Stunden); Der Puppenspieler (one act), 1902, 1906; Der tapfere Cassian, 1903, 1906; Der einsame Weg, 1903, 1904 (translated as The Lonely Way, 1915); Die
griechische Tanzerin, 1904, 1904; Zwischenspiel, 1904, 1905 (translated as Intermezzo, 1915);
Zum grossen Wurstel (one act), 1904, 1906; Der Ruf des Lebens, 1905, 1906; Diimmerseelen,
1907, 1908; Komtesse Mizzi, oder das Familientag, 1909, 1909 (translated as Countess Mizzie,
1915); Derjunge Medardus, 1909, 1910; Das weite Land, 1910, 1911; Professor Bernhardi, 1912,
1912; Frau Beate und ihr Sohn, 1913, 1913; Die Schwestern, 1918. In addition, Sclmitzler has
written two comic operas, Der tapfere Cassian, 1909, and Der Schleier der Pierrette, 1909.
Schnitzler's Collected Works were issued in Berlin, 1912.
HERMANN BAHR, born in Linz, Austria, July 19, 1863; educated at Vienna and Berlin; director
Free Theater, Berlin, 1890; founded Die Zeit, a weekly magazine in 1892; later connected with
Wiener Tageblatt, and the Austrian Volks Zeitung; director of the Deutsches Theater in Berlin.
PLAYS: Die neuen Menschen, 1887; La Marquesa d'Amaequi, 1888; Die grosse Sunde, 1889; Die
hiausliche Frau, 1893; Dora, 1893; Aus der Vorstadt, 1893; Die Nixe (from the Russian), 1896;
Juana, 1896; Die Tschaperl, 1899; Josephine, 1899; Der Star, 1899; Der Athlet, 1899; Wienerinnen, 1900; Der Franzl, 1900; Der Apostel, 1901; Der Krampus, 1901; Der Meister, 1903 (translated as The Master, 1918); Unter Sich, 1903; Sanna, 1904; Der Klub der Erliser, 1905; Der
Andere, 1905; Der arme Narr (one act), 1905 (translated as The Poor Fool, 1917); Ringelspiel,
1907, 1907; Die gelbe Nachtigall, 1909; Das Konzert, 1909 (translated. as The Concert, 1910);
Die Kinder, 1910; Das Tinzchen, 1911; Das Prinzip, 1912; Das Phantom, 1913, 1913; Der
Querulant, 1914; Der muntre Seifensieder, 1915; Die Stimme, 1917.
GABRIELE D' ANNUNZIO, born in Pescara (Abruzzi) in 1864; poet, novelist, and dramatist.
PLAYS: La parabola delle vergini fatue e delle vergini prudenti, 1897: La parabola del' uomo
ricco e del povero Lazaro, 1898; La parabola del figliuol prodigo, 1898; 11 sogno d' un mattino di
primavera, 1898 (translated as A Dream of a Spring Morning, 1902); Il sogno d' un tramonto
d' autunno, 1898 (translated as A Dream of an Autumn Sunset, 1904); La citta morta, 1898
(translated as The Dead City, 1900); La Gioconda, 1898, 1898 (translated as Gioconda, 1901);
La Gloria, 1899, 1899; Francesca da Rimini, 1901, 1901 (translated 1902); La Figlia di Jorio,
1904, 1904 (translated as The Daughter of Jorio, 1907); La fiaccola sotto il moggio, 1905; Piu che
1' amore, 1907; La nave, 1908 (translated as The Ship, 1909); Fedra, 1909; Le martyre de Saint
Sebastien, 1911 (written in French and translated into Italian same year); La Pisanelle, 1913
(written in French and translated into Italian, 1914); Parisina, 1913; La chevrefeuille, 1913
(written in French, translated into Italian as Il ferro; translated into English as The Honeysuckle, 1915); Cabiria, 1914 (for cinematograph); Amaranta, 1914; La Piave, 1918.
JACINTO BENAVENTE, born at Madrid, August 12, 1866; educated at the University of Madrid, and studied law; his first volume of Poems was published in 1893, followed in 1894 by his
first play. His produced dramatic works number 88, of which 52 are full-length plays, 26 plays
in one act, 3 monologues, and 7 translations from the French, English, and Catalan. Besides
these, 25 dramatic sketches in one act and a sequence of studies of Madrid life in six scenes have
been published, making the total of his published dramatic works 114. CHIEF PLAYS: Gente
conocida (In Society), 1894, 1904; La comida de las fieras (The Banquet of Wild Beasts), 1898,
1904; Cuento de amor (A Lover's Tale), 1899, 1904; Lo cursi (The Taint of Vulgarity), 1901,
1904; La gobernadora (The Governor's Wife), 1901, 1904 (in English, 1920, 1919); Amor de amar
(Love of Loving), 1902, 1904; La noche del sabado (Saturday Night), 1903, 1904 (in English,
1918*); La Princesa Bebe (Princess Bebe), 1909, 1905 (in English, 1919); Rosas de otoflo (Autumnal Roses), 1905, 1905 (in English, 1919); Los malhechores del bien (The Evil-doers of
Good), 1905, 1905 (in English, 1917); MAs fuerte que el amor (Stronger than Love), 1906, 1906;
El amor asusta (Love Shocks), 1907, 1908; Los intereses creados (The Bonds of Interest), 1907,
1908 (in English, 1919, 1917); Sefiora Ama, 1908, 1909; El marido de su viuda (His Widow's
Husband), 1908, 1909 (in English, 1917, 1917); La fuerza bruta (Brute Force), 1908, 1909; Por
las nubes (In the Clouds), 1909, 1909; La escuela de las princesas (The School of Princesses),
1909, 1910; El principe que todo lo aprendi6 en los libros (The Prince Who Learned Everything
Out of Books), 1909, 1910 (in English, 1918*); La losa de los suefos (The Graveyard of Dreams),
1911, 1914; La malquerida (The Ill-beloved), 1913, 1914 (translated and performed as The Passion Flower, 1920, 1917); La propia estimaci6n (His Proper Self), 1915, 1916; Campo de armifno
(Field of Ermine), 1916, 1916; La ciudad alegre y confiada (The City of Gaiety and Confidence),




722                                APPENDIX
2d part of Los intereses creados, 1916, 1916; La Inmaculada de los Dolores (Our Lady of Sorrows),
1918, 1918; La ley de los hijos (The Law of the Children), 1918, 1919; La vestal de occidente
(The Vestal of the West), 1919, 1920; La Cenicienta (Cinderella), 1919, 1920; Y va de cuento
(Once Upon a Time), 1919; Una sefiora (A Lady), 1920, 1920; Una pobre mujer (A Poor
Woman), 1920, 1920. To the above list should be added El nido ajeno (Thy Brother's House),
1894, 1904, and the farcical sketch No fumadores (No Smoking), published and performed in
English, 1919, 1919. Benavente has composed broad farce and melodrama, as well as libretti for
operettas and zarzuelas, titles of which are omitted here. Except where indicated by a *, the
dates not underscored above are those of publication in the collected library editions, whether
Spanish or English.
MAXIM    GORKI (ALICKSEI MAXIMOVITCH PIESHKOV), born March 14, 1868, has
been at various times peddler of kvass, scullery boy, gardener, baker's apprentice, novelist, and
playwright. PLAYS: The Middle Class, 1901, 1903 (translated as The Smug Citizen, 1906); The
Lower Depths, 1902, 1903 (translated into English under various titles, A Lodging for a Night,
A Night Refuge, Submerged, The Lower Depths); Summer Folk, 1903, 1904 (translated into'
English under this title, 1905); The Children of the Sun, 1905, 1905 (translated under this title,
1906); Barbarians, 1905, 1906; Enemies, 1906, 1906; The Last Ones, 1908; Odd Folk, 1910,
1910; Vassa Zheleznova, 1910; Children, 1910; The Meeting, 1910; The Zykovs, 1914. In addition, adaptations of Gorki's tales have been made for the stage as follows: Foma Gordeyev
and Mayakin, 1901; Foma Gordeyev, 1901; The Three, 1911; Malva, 1911.
GUNNAR HEIBERG, born November 18, 1857, at Christiania, Norway; studied stage technique
at the principal European theaters; stage director Bergen National Theater, 1884-88. PLAYS:
Tante Ulrikke, 1884 (Aunt Ukricke); Kong Midas, 1890 (King Midas); Kunstnere, 1893 (Artists); Balkonen, 1894 (The Balcony); Gerts Have, 1894 (The Garden of Gert); Det store Lod,
1895 (The Great Prize); Folkeraadet, 1897 (The People's Council); Harald Svans Mor, 1899
(Harald Swan's Mother); Kjaerlighed til Naesten, 1902, 1902 (Neighborly Love); Kjaerlighedens
Tragedie, 1905, 1904 (The Tragedy of Love); Jeg vil vaerge mit land, 1912 (My Life for My
Country); Paradesengen, 1913 (The Parade Bed).




II. NOTES ON THE PRODUCTION OF PLAYS
MILESTONES, by Arnold Bennett and Edward Knoblock, was first presented at the Royalty
Theater, London, March 5, 1912, by Messrs. Vedrenne and Eadie, with Mr. Dennis Eadie in the
part of John Rhead, Miss Haidee Wright as Gertrude Rhead, Miss Mary Jerrold as Rose Sibley,
Hubert Harben as Sam Sibley, Owen Nares as Lord Monkhurst, and Evelyn Weedon as Emily
Rhead. Running for more than a year, the play was repeated in November, 1914. The first
American production was made at the Liberty Theater, New York, September 17, 1912.
OUR BETTERS, by William Somerset Maugham, was produced by John D. Williams at the Hudson Theater, New York, March 12, 1917, Chrystal Herne playing Lady Grayston; Rose Coghlan, the Duchesse de Surennes; John Flood, Arthur Fenwick; and Diantha Pattison, Elizabeth
Saunders. The play has not before been published.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN, by John Drinkwater, was first presented at the Repertory Theater,
Birmingham, October 12, 1918. By Nigel Playfair and Arnold Bennett the play was taken to the
Lyric Theater, London, February 19, 1919, the r6le of Lincoln being in the hands of the Irish actor, William J. Rea; played throughout the year and on tour with Herbert Lomax in the title
role. The first New York production was made under the direction of William Harris, at the
Cort Theater, on December 15, 1919, with Frank McGlynn in the title r6le.
MIXED MARRIAGE, by St. John Ervine, was first performed at the Abbey Theater, Dublin, on
March 30, 1911, in a production by Lennox Robinson. The play was produced by the same players at the Court Theater, London, in June, 1911, and again in 1912. It was produced at Maxine
Elliott's Theater, New York, on December 11, 1911, by the Irish Theater Company, with Arthur
Sinclair, Sara Allgood, U. Wright, Cathleen Nesbitt, J. M. Kerrigan, and J. A. O'Rourke, and
was again played by the Irish Players on tour in the United States in 1913. The play was again
produced in New York in 1920.
KING ARGIMENES AND THE UNKNOWN WARRIOR, by Lord Dunsany, was produced
under direction of Mr. Nugent Monck at the Abbey Theater, Dublin, January 26, 1911. The
first American production was made by Stuart Walker in his Portmanteau Theater at New York,
December 18, 1916. The play has been variously performed by Little Theaters in England and
America.
THE EASIEST WAY, by Eugene Walter, had its first public performance in the Hartford Opera
House, Hartford, Connecticut, December 31, 1908. The first performance in New York was
made under direction of David Belasco in the Belasco-Stuyvesant Theater, January 19, 1909,
with Edward H. Robins in the part of John Madison, Joseph Kilgour as Willard Brockton,
William Sampson as Jim Weston, Frances Starr as Laura Murdock, Laura Nelson Hall as Effe
St. Clair, and Emma Dunn as Annie. The Easiest Way was repeated in New York in the spring
of 1911. The first London production was given at the Globe and Queen's Theaters, London, in
February and March, 1912. The play has not before been published.
THE PIPER, by Josephine Preston Peabody, was, in March, 1910, awarded the first prize from
among fifteen hundred plays submitted as the best play to open the Shakespeare Memorial
Theater at Stratford-on-Avon. It was produced at this theater by F. R. Benson in the same
year, and at the St. James Theater, London, in 1911. The first American production was made
at the New Theater, New York, January 30, 1911, with Edith Wynne Matthison in the part of
The Piper, Frank Gilmore as Michael, Jacob Wendell, Jr., as Cheat-the-Ievil, Ben Johnson as
Kurt, Pedro de Cordoba as Anselm, Cecil Yapp as Old Claus, and Olive Oliver as Veronika.
THE YELLOW JACKET, a Chinese play done in a Chinese manner, by George C. Hazelton and
Benrimo, was first produced in a matinee at the Fulton Theater, New York, November 4, 1912,
by William Harris, Jr., and Edgar Selwyn, managers, with Arthur Shaw as Property Man (the
part later assumed by Thomas E. Jackson), Signor Perugini as Chorus, George Relph as Wu Hoo
Git, Schuyler Ladd as Wu Fah Din (Daffodil), Antoinette Walker as Chow Wan, Juliette Day as
Moy Fah Loy (Plum Blossom), Reginald Barlow as Tai Fah Min, and Mark Price as Git Hok
Gar. Music was provided by William Furst. The play was later seen on tour. A later American
production was made by Mr. and Mrs. Coburn on November 9, 1916, at the Cort Theater, New
York and was moved to the Harris Theater December 25 of the same year. Various foreign productions have been made, The play opened at the Duke of York's Theater, London, March




724                               APPENDIX
27, 1913. March 30, 1914, it was presented at Berlin by Max Reinhardt at the Kammerspiele
Theater, and he later presented the play at Munich, Vienna, and Budapest. In Russia the play
was given under the direction of Stanislavski at the Moscow Art Theater. On April 23, 1916, a
distinguished adaptation of the play, by Jacinto Benavente, was given at Madrid.
A LOVING WIFE (L'AMOUREUSE), by Georges de Porto-Riche, was given for the first time at
the Od6on, Paris, April 25, 1891. It was repeated at this theater and also was seen in the Vaudeville in 1896, 1898, and 1899, again seen at the Renaissance in 1904, and finally came to the stage
of the Com6die-Frangaise June 5, 1908, in the repertoire of which theater it has remained one of
the most popular plays. Until it came to the Comedie-Francaise, the part of ttienne was most
frequently taken by M. Lucien Guitry, the part of Germaine by R6jane. At the Comedie the
part of ttienne has been taken by M. Grand. The play has not before been translated into English.
CYRANO DE BERGERAC, by Edmond Rostand, was produced December 28, 1897, at the
Theatre de la Porte Saint-Martin, with Constant Coquelin in the title role and the part of Roxane played by Mile. Legault, an event comparable in reclame, though hardly in historic importance, with the production of Hugo's Hernani almost seventy years before. Contrary to expectations, the production did not inaugurate a new movement in the theater, the play remaining isolated as the single highly distinguished representative of its type. The play was early seen
on the stages of all the countries of Europe. In French it was played in London in 1899 by
Coquelin and Bernhardt, and by the same players in New York in 1900. Various translations
have been made into English, by Gertrude Hall, Gladys Thomas, and M. F. Guillemand, Charles
Renauld, Helen B. Dole, and others. As adapted by Howard Thayer Kingsbury, the play was
presented at the Garden Theater, New York, October 3, 1898, with Richard Mansfield in the
title role and with Margaret Anglin as Roxane. The same night Augustin Daly produced another version of the play, with Ada Rehan in the part of Roxane. Mansfield's production was
highly successful, and he continued in the play throughout practically two seasons. A recent
adaptation was played by Robert Lorraine in London in 1919.
PASTEUR, by Sacha Guitry, was presented for the first time at the Theatre du Vaudeville, Paris,
January 25, 1919. The part of Louis Pasteur was taken by M. Lucien Guitry, the father of the
author, for whom the play was written. The play has not before been translated into English.
MORAL, by Ludwig Thoma, was first produced at the Kleines Theater, Berlin, in 1908. It was
produced in German at the Irving Place Theater, New York, in April, 1914.
LIVING HOURS (LEBENDIGE STUNDEN), by Arthur Schnitzler, has frequently been seen,
either alone or in company with the three other short plays included under this title in the published edition, in the theaters of Austria and Germany.
THE CONCERT (DAS KONZERT), by Hermann Bahr, was first presented at the Lessing Theater, Berlin, in 1909. Thereafter it was a favorite in Vienna and Munich. In German the play
was presented at the Bandbox Theater in New York in June, 1916. The American production, in
an adaptation by Leo Ditrichstein, with the adapter in the leading role, was made at the Belasco
Theater, October 4, 1910, Janet Beecher playing the wife, and the other leading r6les being taken
by William Morris and Jane Grey. In this adaptation the names of the original characters were
changed. The play was repeated in New York in 1918. It was produced at the Duke of York's
Theater, London, 1911.
LA GIOCONDA, by Gabriele d' Annunzio, was first produced in 1898 in Rome, with Duse in the
leading role. As rendered by the same actress, the play was seen in Paris and London in 1900
and in New York in 1902. A few performances were given in French in New York in 1914.
THE BONDS OF INTEREST, by Jacinto Benavente, was first presented at the Teatro Lara,
Madrid, Spain, December 9, 1907, and has been seen in various European countries. The present
translation, made by John Garrett Underhill, was produced by the Theater Guild in New York
in 1919, and at the Everyman Theater in London in September, 1920.
THE LOWER DEPTHS, by Maxim Gorki, was first produced at the Moscow Art Theater, December 18, 1902 (Russian style), with Moskvin and Kachalov in the chief roles. The play has
been produced in almost all the countries of the civilized world, including a production in Japan
in 1912. It continues to be produced in Moscow and Petrograd. In a German version entitled
Nachtasyl, it was produced at the Irving Place Theater, New York, as early as 1902 and as recently as 1918. The play was presented by Arthur Hopkins in New York in December, 1919.
Various translations of the play have been made under various titles. Literally translated, the
Russian title meaus "at the bottom,"




APPENDIX                                     725
THE TRAGEDY OF LOVE, by Gunnar Heiberg, had its first performance on January 16, 1905,
at the National Theater, Christiania, with Fru Johanna Dybwad (Norway's foremost actress)
as Karen, Egil Eide as Hadeln, and Nicolai Halvorsen as Erling. Later it was played twenty-one
times in other Norwegian cities, with the same cast. It was revived in 1908 and again in 1917 -18. In the fall of 1918 the play was produced at the Betty Nansen Theater, Copenhagen, with
Fru Nansen as Karen. It has also been played with success in Germany and Russia.




III. A WORKING BOOK LIST IN CONTEMPORARY
DRAMA
THE following book list is offered for the convenience of the student and the general reader.
While it offers a comprehensive survey of the critical literature of the recent theater there has
been no wish to make it an exhaustive bibliography.
BIBLIOGRAPHIES OF CONTEMPORARY DRAMA
Brown, F. C. A Selected List of Essays and Books about the Drama and Theater. Drama League of
America publications.
Dramatic Compositions copyrighted in the United States, 1870-1916. Two volumes. Government
Printing Office, Washington, D.C., 1918.
Dramatic Index, The Annual. Boston, 1909 if.
Foshay, F. E. Twentieth Century Dramas. Boston, 1915.
Modern Drama and Opera; Reading Lists in the Works of Various Authors. Boston, 1911-15.
Stage Year Book, The Annual. London, 1909 ff.
General bibliographies and selected play lists are found in Chandler, F. W., Aspects of Modern
Drama (New York, 1914); Clark, B. H., British and American Drama of Today (New York,
1915); Continental Drama of Today (1914); Lewisohn, L., The Modern Drama (New York, 1915);
Arnold, R. F., Das moderne Drama (Strassburg, 1908).
For bibliographies and play lists of the countries concerned see Boyd, E. A., Contemporary
Drama of Ireland (Boston, 1917); Chandler, F. W., Contemporary Drama of France (Boston, 1920);
Dickinson, T. H., Contemporary Drama of England (Boston, 1917); McClintock, L., Contemporary
Drama of Italy (Boston, 1920).
THEORY AND TECHNIQUE OF DRAMA AND THEATER
Archer, W., Playmaking; A Manual of Craftsmanship. Boston, 1912.
Bab, J., Neue Kritik der Bishne. Berlin, 1920.
Baker, G. P., Dramatic Technique. Boston, 1919.
Belasco, D., The Theatre Through its Stage Door. New York, 1919.
Benavente, J., El Teatro del Pueblo. Madrid, 1909.
Bulthaupt, H. A., Dramaturgie des Schauspiels. Four volumes. Oldenburg, 1907-08, vol. 4.
Burton, R., How to See a Play. New York, 1914.
Caffin, C. H., The Appreciation of the Drama. New York, 1908.
Clark, B. H., translator and editor, European Theories of the Drama. Cincinnati, 1918.
Courtney, W. L., Old Saws and Modern Instances. London, 1918.
Hamilton, C. M., The Theory of the Theatre (New York, 1910); Studies in Stagecraft (New York,
1914); Problems of the Playwright (New York, 1917).
Hopkins, A., How's your Second Act? New York, 1918.
Kilian, E., Aus der Praxis der modernen Dramaturgie. Munich, 1914.
Krows, A. E., Play Production in America. New York, 1916.
Lewis, B. R., The Technique of the One-Act Play. Boston, 1918.
Matthews, Brander. A S udy of he Drama (Boston, 1910); A Book about the Theatre (New York. 1916):
The Principle3 of P'aymaktng (New York, 1919). Editor. Columbia University Dramatic Museum
Publications, three series, 1914-18. Series I and III on playmaking.
Montague, C. E., Dramatic Values. London, 1911.
Pfeiffer, W. Dramatische Aufs&tze. Leipzig, 1912.
Price, W. T., Technique of the Drama (New York, 1897); The Analysis of Play Construciion and
Dramatic Principle (New York, 1908).
Schlag, H., Das Drama, Wesen, Theorie, und Technic. Essen, 1909.
Shaw, G. B., Dramatic Opinions and Essays. New York, 1907.
Strindberg, A., Dramaturgie. Translated into German by E. Schering. Munich, 1911.
Symons, A., Plays, Acting and Music. London, 1909.
Walkley, A. B., Drama and Life. London, 1907.
Zabel, E., Zur modernen Dramaturgie. Vol. 3. Oldenburg, 1903.




APPENDIX                                       727
RECENT MOVEMENTS IN THEATRICAL ART
Arnold, R. F., Das moderne Drama. Strassburg, 1908.
Bakshy, A., The Path of the Modern Russian Stage, and Other Essays. London, 1916.
Benoist, A., Le thedtre d'aujourd'hui. Paris, 1911, 1912.
Bjorkman, E., Voices of Tomorrow. New York, 1913.
Brisson, A., Le thedtre et les maours. Paris, 1906 if.
Busse, B., Das Drama. 3 vols. Leipzig, 1914.
Carter, H., The New Spirit in Drama and Art (New York, 1913); The Theatre of Max Reinhard
(London, 1914).
Chandler, F. W., Aspects of Modern Drama. New York, 1914.
Cheney, S., The New Movement in the Theatre (New York, 1914); The A:-t Theatre (New York,
1917); The Open-Air Theatre (New York, 1919).
Clark, B. H., The Continental Drama of Today. New York, 1914.
Cournos, J., Gordon Craig and the Theatre of the Future. London, 1913.
Craig, E. G., On the Art of the Theatre (Chicago, 1911); Towards a New Theatre (London, 1913); The
Theatre -Advancing (Boston, 1919).
Dukes, A., Modern Dramatists. Chicago, 1912.
Eulenberg, H., Der Krieg und die Kunst. Oldenburg, 1915.
Hagemann, C., Moderne Bihnenkunst. Berlin, 1916.
Hale, E. E., Jr., Dramatists of Today. New York, 1905, 1911.
Henderson, A., European Dramatists (New York, 1911); The Changing Drama (New York,
1914).
Herald, H., Max Reinhardt, ein Versuch iuber das Wesen der modernen Regie. Berlin, 1914.
Huneker, J., Iconoclasts: A Book of Dramatists. New York, 1905.
Johnson, A. E., The Russian Ballet. Boston, 1913.
Keinzl, H., Dramen der Gegenwart. Graz, 1905.
Kerr, A., Das neue Drama. Berlin, 1907.
Lewisohn, L., The Modern Drama. New York, 1915.
Lohmeyer, W., Die Dramaturgie der Massen. Berlin, 1913.
Moderwell, H. K., The Theatre of Today. New York, 1914.
Phelps, W. L., The Twentieth Century Theatre (New York, 1918); Essays on Modern Dramatists
(New York, 1919).
Rolland, R., Le thedtre du peuple, essai d'esthetique (Paris, 1913). Translated by Clark, B. H., as
The People's Theatre (New York, 1918).
Savits, J., Von der Absicht des Dramas. Munich, 1908.
Seche, A., L'evolution du the&tre contemporain. Paris, 1908.
Seyler, O. M., The Russian Theatre under the Revolution. Boston, 1920.
Sorel, A., Essais de psychologie dramatique. Paris, 1911.
Stuemcke, H., Theater und Krieg. Oldenburg, 1915.
Waugh, F. A., Outdoor Theatres, Design, Construction and Use. Boston, 1917.
For bibliography see Gamble, W. B., Development of Scenic Art and Stage Machinery. Publications of New York Public Library, 1920.
See The Drama, Chicago, 1911 to date; Poet Lore, Boston, 1889 to date; The Theatre Arts Magazine, New York, 1917 to date; Drama League Monthly, Mt. Morris, Ill., 1916 to date; The Mask,
Florence, Italy, 1913 to date; Poetry and Drama, London, 1913-14; Die Scaubiihne, Charlottenburg, 1914 to date.
ORGANIZATION AND THE THEATER
Archer, W., and Barker, H. G., Scheme and Estimates for a National Theatre. London, 1908.
Bierstadt, E. H., Portmanteau Plays. Introduction. New York, 1917.
Burleigh, L., The Community Theatre in Theory and Practice. Boston, 1917.
Dickinson, T. H., The Case of American Drama (Boston, 1915); The Insurgent Theatre (New York,
1917).
Howe, P. P., The Repertory Theatre: A Record and a Criticism. London, 1911.
Jones, H. A., The Renascence of the English Drama (London, 1895); Foundations of a National
Drama (London, 1912).
McCarthy, D., The Court Theatre, 1904-07. London, 1907.
Mackay, C. D., The Little Theatre in the United States. New York, 1917.
Mackaye, P., The Playhouse and the Play (New York, 1909); The Civic Theatre (New York,
1913).
Thalasso, A., Le thedtre libre: essai critique, historique et documentaire. Paris, 1909.




728


APPENDIX


ENGLISH DRAMA
Clark, B. H., British and American Drama of Today. New York, 1915.
Dickinson, T. H., Contemporary Drama of England. Boston, 1917.
Filon, A., The English Stage. London, 1897.
Fowell, F., and Palmer, F., Censorship in England. London, 1913.
George, W. L., Dramatic Actualities. London, 1914.
Montague, C. E., Dramatic Values. London, 1911.
Walkley, A. B., Drama and Life. London, 1907.
See the files of The Stage, The Stage Year Book, The Era, The Sketch, The Illustrated London News.
IRISH DRAMA
Bourgeois, M., J. M. Synge and the Irish Theatre. London, 1913.
Boyd, E. A., The Contemporary Drama of Ireland. Boston, 1917.
Gregory, Lady A., Our Irish Theatre. New York, 1913.
Krans, H. S., William Butler Yeats and the Irish Literary Revival. New York, 1904.
Moore, A., Hail and Farewell. 3 vols., London, 1911-16.
Weygandt, C., Irish Plays and Playwrights. Boston, 1913.
Yeats, W. B., The Irish Dramatic Movement. Vol. 4 of Collected Works, London, 1908.
AMERICAN DRAMA
Burton, R., The New American Drama. New York, 1913.
Clark, B. H., British and American Drama of Today. New York, 1915.
Dickinson, T. H., The Case of American Drama. Boston, 1915.
Eaton, W. P., The American Stage of Today (Boston, 1908); At the New Theatre and Others (Boston,
1910); Plays and Players (Cincinnati, 1916).
Frohman, D., Memories of a Manager. New York, 1911.
Hornblow, A., A History of the Theatre in America. New York, 1920.
Marcosson, I. F., and Frohman, D., Charles Frohman, Manager and Man. New York, 1916.
Moses, M. J., The American Dramatist. Boston, 1911.
Nathan, G. J., Another Book on the Theatre (New York, 1915); Mr. George Jean Nathan Presents
(New York, 1917); The Popular Theatre (New York, 1918); Comedians All (New York, 1919).
Towse, J. R., Sixty Years of the Theatre. New York, 1916.
Winter, W., The Life of David Belasco. New York, 1918.
See the files of the New York Dramatic Mirror, The Theatre Magazine, The Bookman.
FRENCH DRAMA
Benoist, A., Le thedtre d'aujourd'hui. Paris, 1912.
Bordeaux, H., La vie au thedtre. 3 vols., Paris, 1910-13.
Brisson, A., Le thedtre (Paris, 1918); Le thedtre pendant la guerre (Paris, 1919).
Capus, A., Le theatre. Paris, 1913.
Chandler, F. W., The Contemporary Drama of France. Boston, 1920.
Clark, B. H., Contemporary French Dramatists. Introduction. Cincinnati, 1915.
Doumic, R., Le thedtre nouveau (Paris, 1908); Les jeunes (Paris, 1913).
Filon. A., De Dumas a Rostand. Paris, 1898. Translated as Modern French Drama. London, 1898.
Flat, P., Figures du thedtre contemporain. 2 vols., Paris, 1912-13.
Mortier, A., Dramaturgie de Paris. Paris, 1918.
Sarcey, F., Quarante ans de thedtre. Paris, 1900.
GERMAN DRAMA
Arnold, R. F., Das moderne Drama. Strassburg, 1908.
Blei, F., Uber Wedekind, Sternheim und das Theater. Leipzig, 1915.
Friedmann, S., Das deutsche Drama des 19. Jahrhunderts. Leipzig, 1903.
Heller, O., Studies in Modern German Literature. Boston, 1905.
Hofmiiller, J., Zeitgenossen. Munich, 1910.
Pollard, P., Masks and Minstrels of New Germany. Boston, 1911.
Witkowski, G., German Drama of the 19th Century. New York, 1909.
See articles by B. H. Clark, Poet Lore, January, 1915; E. W. Freund, The Drama, November, 1912,
November, 1914, and May, 1915; A. von Ende, Poet Lore, March, 1907, and March, 1908; J. Peterson, Yale Review, April, 1914.
See files of Biihne und Welt, Berlin; Die Schaubihne, Charlottenburg; Zeitschrift fur Musil uend
Theater, Vienna,




APPENDIX                                       729
ITALIAN DRAMA
D' Ancona, A., and Bacci, O., Manuale della letteratura Italiana. Florence, 1910.
Croce, B., La letteratura della nuova Italia. Bari, 1915.
McLeod, A., Plays and Players of Modern Italy. Chicago, 1912.
McClintock, L., The Contemporary Drama of Italy. Boston, 1920.
Tonelli, L., L' Evoluzione del teatro contemporaneo in Italia. 1908.
See Lemmi, C., "The Italian Stage Today," The Drama, 1916; see Rivista teatrale Italiana
(d'arte, lirica e drammatica). Naples, 1901 to date.
SPANISH DRAMA
Francos Rodriguez, J., El teatro en espafa. 2 vols., Madrid, 1908, 1909.
Bueno, M., El teatro espaiol contempordneo. Madrid, 1909.
Bastinos, A. J., Arte dramatico espaniol contempordneo. Barcelona, 1914.
See various articles by Underhill, J. G., in The Drama, no. 25, Chicago, 1917 ("The One-Act
Play in Spain"); Drama League Monthly, vol. iI, no. 6, Chicago, 1917 ('The Modern Spanish
Drama"); Poet Lore, vol. xxiv, no. 2, Boston, 1918 ("Benavente as a Modern"); and introductions to Plays by Jacinto Benavente (New York, 1917, 1919); also introductions to Malvaloca (New
York, 1917), and Marta of the Lowlands (New York, 1915); Clark, B. H., Masterpieces of Modern
Spanish Drama (New York, 1917); Wallace, E., "The Spanish Drama of Today," in Atlantic
Monthly, 1908; Brouta, J., "The Spanish Stage," in The Drama, Chicago, 1914; Turrell, C. A.,
Introduction to Contemporary Spanish Dramatists (Boston, 1919); various articles by Brun, L., and
Milego, J., on the "Contemporary Spanish Theatre," in Nuestro Tiempo, Mladrid.
RUSSIAN DRAMA
Alecksinski, G., Russia and Europe (translated by B. Miall), New York, 1917.
Bakshy, A., The Path of the Modern Russian Stage and Other Essays. London, 1916.
Baring, M., Russian Essays and Stories (London, 1908); Landmarks in Russian Literature (New
York, 1910); An Outline of Russian Literature (New York, 1915).
Kropotkin, P., Ideals and Realities in Russian Literature. New York, 1905, 1915.
Olgin, M. J., A Guide to Russian Literature. New York, 1920.
Perski, S. M., Contemporary Russian Novelists. Boston, 1913.
Seyler, O. M., The Russian Theatre under the Revolution. Boston, 1920.
See Bechhofer, C. E., Five Russian Plays (New York, 1916); Pollock, J., "Glimpses of the Russian Theatre," in Fortnightly Review, 1920.
SCANDINAVIAN DRAMA
Brandes, G., Samlede Skrifter. Copenhagen, 1899-1910.
Gran, G., Norsk aandsliv, ny samling. Christiania, 1916.
Levertin, O., Samlade Skrifter. Stockholm, 1906-10.
Normann, I. C., Dansk Drama efter Halvfjerserne. Copenhagen, 1907.
0stergaard, V., Illustreret dansk Literaturhistorie. Copenhagen, 1907.
Schiick, H., and Warburg, K., Illustrerad svensk litteratur historia. Vol. 14. Stockholm, 1916.
See Hjalmar Bergstrom's, Karen Borneman and Lynggaard and Co., translated with introduction
by E. Bj6rkman.




IV. A READING LIST IN CONTEMPORARY
DRAMATISTS
ARNOLD BENNETT
See Darton, F. J. H., Arnold Bennett (London, 1915); Bennett, A., "Writing Plays," English
Review (London, 1913); "The Crisis in the Theatre," Preface to Cupid and Common Sense (London, 1908).
EDWARD KNOBLOCK
See The Theatre (New York, September, 1915).
WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM
See Collins, J. P., "W. Somerset Maugham, Playwright and Novelist," Bookman (London,
1919).
JOHN DRINKWATER
See St. John Ervine, in North American Review (December, 1919); Jack R. Crawford in The
Drama (vol. 10, 1919); Marguerite Wilkinson in The Touchstone (vol. 6, 1920); Introduction by
John Drinkwater to the Dramatic Works of St. John Hankin (New York, 1912).
ST. JOHN ERVINE
See Weygandt, C., Irish Plays and Playwrights; Boyd, E. A., Contemporary Drama of Ireland;
Ervine's "Some Impressions of My Elders," North American Review (February, 1920 if.); Clark,
B. H., British and American Drama of Today; C. Hamilton, Everybody's (March, 1913); Poetry and
Drama (December, 1914); The Touchstone (October, 1919).
LORD DUNSANY
See Bierstadt, E. H., Dunsany the Dramatist (Boston, 1917); Boyd, E. A., Contemporary
Drama of Ireland; Lord Dunsany's "Romance and the Modern Stage," in National Review (London, 1911); "Advice to the Aspiring Playwright," in Current Opinion (August, 1918); The Dial
(March, 1917); The Forum (April, 1917); The Bookman (January, 1917); The Touchstone (December, 1919).
EUGENE WALTER
See Clark, British and American Drama of Today; The Independent (January, 1909); The
Craftsman (March, 1909); The Forum (March, 1909); Current Literature (July, 1911); Life
(April, 1911); Literary Digest (April, 1911); The Drama (February, 1916); The Theatre (March,
1915).
JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY
See The Drama (no. 1); Clayton Hamilton in The Bookman (March, 1911); William Winter in
Harper's Weekly (February 18, 1911).
GEORGE C. HAZELTON, JR.
See Clayton Hamilton in The Bookman (December, 1912); Everybody's Magazine (February,
1913); Collier's (January, 1913); The Drama (no. 11); The English Review (May, 1913).
J. HARRY BENRIMO
See New York Dramatic Mirror (April 28, 1917).
GEORGES DE PORTO-RICHE
See Marx, C. R., Georges de Porto-Riche (Paris, 1912); Chandler, Contemporary Drama of
France; Clark, Contemporary French Dramatists; Filon, A., De Dumas c Rostand; Sorel, A., Essais
de psychologie dramatique (Paris, 1911).
EDMOND ROSTAND
See Haugmard, L., Edmond Rostand (Paris, 1910); Haraszti, J., Edmond Rostand (Paris, 1913);
Filon, A., De Dumas a Rostand; Chesterton, G. K., Five Types, A Book of Essays (New York,
1911); Clark, Continental Drama of Today, and Contemporary French Dramatists; Benoist, A., Le
thedtre d'aujourd'hui, Series 2; Hale, E. E., Drama of Today; Lewisohn, L., The Modern Drama;
Chandler, Contemporary Drama of France.
SACHA GUITRY
See Guitry, S., Jusqu'a nouvel ordre (Paris, 1916); Chandler, Contemporary Drama of France:
The International Magazine (September, 1913); The Theatre (January, 1913, and September,
1914); Current Opinion (August, 1915, and May, 1917); New York Dramatic Mirror (January,
1913, May 12, and October 27, 1917).




APPENDIX                                       73i
LUDWIG THOMA
See Arnold, R. F., Das moderne Drama; Pollard, P., Masks and Minstrels of New Germany;
New York Dramatic Mirror (April 15, 1914).
ARTHUR SCHNITZLER
See Reik, T., Arthur Schnitzler als psycholog (Minden, 1913); Kapp, J., Arthur Schnitzler (Leipzig, 1912); Pollard, Masks and Minstrels of New Germany; Clark, The Continental Drama of Today;
Dukes, Modern Dramatists; The Fortnightly Review (vol. 91, 1909); Grummann, P. H., in Poet
Lore (January and February, 1912); The Theatre Magazine (July, 1912).
HERMANN BAHR
See Friedenthal, J., Das Wedekindbuch (Munich, 1914); Pollard, Masks and Minstrels of New
Germany; Bihne und Welt (vol. 13); The Forum (1915).
GABRIELE D' ANNUNZIO
See Borgese, G. A., Gabriele D'Annunzio (Naples, 1909); McLeod, Plays and Players of Modern Italy; McClintock, Contemporary Drama of Italy; Symons, Studies in Prose and Verse;
Huneker, Iconoclasts; Sharp, W., Studies and Appreciations (New York, 1912); Clark, Continental
Drama of Today; Isola Pietro in Poet Lore (1908); Arundel del Re, in The Nineteenth Century
and After (1915); Henry James in Quarterly Review (vol. 199).
JACINTO BENAVENTE
See Benavente y Martinez, J., El teatro del pueblo (Madrid, 1909); Los dramaturgos espafloles
contempordneos (Valencia, 1917); Brouta, J., "The Spanish Stage," in The Drama (Chicago,
1914); M. Alarcon and J. G. Underhill in Poet Lore (March, April, 1918); The Drama (November, 1917); Introduction to Plays of Jacinto Benavente (1917), and Second Series (1919), by J. G.
Underhill.
MAXIM GORKY
Dillon, E. J., Maxim Gorky, His Life and Writings (1902); Ostwald, H.. Maxim Gorky (translated by F. A.Welby, London, 1909); Phelps, W. L., Essays on RussianNovelists(New York, 1911);
Symons, Studies in Prose and Verse; Huneker, Iconoclasts; Clark, Continental Drama of Today.
GUNNAR HEIBERG
Elster, Kristian, "Gunnar Heiberg som dramatiker," Litteraturen (vol. 2, Copenhagen, 1919);
Marburger, C., Knut Hamsun (Leipzig, 1910).




V. INDEX OF CHARACTERS


An Actor. The Lower Depths.
An Actress. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Alyoschka, a shoemaker. The Lower Depths.
Anna, wife of Kleshtsch. The Lower Depths.
Annie. The Easiest Way.
Anselm, a young priest, a man of Hamelin. The
Piper.
King Argimenes, Slave of King Darniak. King
Argimenes and the Unknown Warrior.
Queen Atharlia, Queen of King Darniak. King
Argimenes and the Unknown Warrior.
Axel the Smith, a man of Hamelin. The Piper.
Wife of Axel the Smith. The Piper
Barbara, daughter of Jacobus. The Piper.
A Baron. The Lower Depths.
Little Beata. Gioconda.
Fritz Beermann, a wealthy landowner and
banker. Moral.
Lena Beermann, his wife. Moral.
Effie Beermann, their daughter. Moral.
Bellerose. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Cyrano de Bergerac. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Bertrandou the Fifer. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Betty, a maid at Beermann's. Moral.
Montgomery Blair, Postmaster-General. Abraham Lincoln.
Lord Bleane. Our Betters.
Mrs. Goliath Blow. Abraham Lincoln.
Kommerzienrat Adolph Bolland, capitalist and
manufacturer. Moral.
Clara Bolland, his wife. Moral.
John Wilkes Booth. Abraham Lincoln.
A Bore. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Borromaius, gardener. Living Hours.
Le Bret. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Brissaille. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Willard Brockton. The Easiest Way.
Bubnoff, a capmaker. The Lower Depths.
A Burgher. Cyrano de Bergerac.
His Son. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Seven Cadets. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Queen Cahafra, Queen of King Darniak.  King
Argimenes and the Unknown Warrior.
Simon Cameron, a Cabinet Member. Abraham
Lincoln.
The Captain. The Bonds of Interest.
A Capuchin. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Captain Carbon de Castel-Jaloux. Cyrano de
Bergerac.
Principessa Della Cercola. Our Betters.
Salmon P. Chase, Secretary of the Treasury.
Abraham Lincoln.
Mladame de Chazal. A Loving Wife.
Cheat-the-Devil, a strolling player. The Piper.
Chee Moo (Kind Mother), first wife of Wu Sin
Yin. The Yellow Jacket.
The Widow Ching. The Yellow Jacket.


Chorus. The Yellow Jacket.
Chow Wan (Autumn Cloud). The Yellow Jacket.
Sister Claire. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Old Claus, a miser, a man of Hamelin. The Piper.
Thornton Clay. Our Betters.
A Clerk. Abraham Lincoln.
Second Clerk. Abraham Lincoln.
Third Clerk. Abraham Lincoln.
Columbine.   The Bonds of Interest.
1st and 2nd Constables. The Bonds of Interest.
Crispin. The Bonds of Interest.
Mr. Cuffney, a store-keeper. Abraham Lincoln.
Cuigy. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Mr. William Custis. Abraham Lincoln.
Cyrano de Bergerac. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Cosimo Dalbo. Gioconda.
King Darniak. King Argimenes and the Un.
known Warrior.
Pascal Delannoy. A Loving Wife.
Delphina, wife of Frank Jura. The Concert.
Dennis, an orderly.  Abraham Lincoln.
Gioconda Dianti. Gioconda.
Hans Jacob Dobler, a poet. Moral.
A Doctor. Abraham Lincoln.
A Doctor. Pasteur.
The Doctor. The Bonds of Interest.
Two Doctors. Pasteur.
Francesca Doni. Gioconda.
A Doorkeeper. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Due Jung Fah (Fuchsia Flower), second wife of
Wu Sin Yin. The Yellow Jacket.
The Duenna. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Ernest. Our Betters.
Arthur Fenwick. Our Betters.
]tienne Feriaud. A Loving Wife.
Germaine Feriaud. A Loving Wife.
Mrs. Claire Floderer.  The Concert.
A Flower-Girl. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Footman. Milestones.
Lorenzo Gaddi. Gioconda.
Miss Garden. The Concert.
Eva Gerndl. The Concert.
Gioconda Dianti. Gioconda.
Git Hok Gar (Philosopher and Scholar). The Yellow Jacket.
General Grant. Abraham Lincoln.
Lady Grayston. Our Betters.
Guards. Abraham Lincoln.
Comte de Guiche. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Hartvig Hadeln. The Tragedy of Love.
Hans the Butcher, a man of Hamelin. The Piper.
Wife of Hans the Butcher. The Piper.
Hansel, a child. The Piper.
Harlequin. The Bonds of Interest.




APPENDIX


733


Fleming Harvey. Our Betters.
Anton Hausdorfer. Living Hours.
Dr. Hauser, an ex-judge. Moral.
Madame Ninon de Hauteville, a lady of leisure.
Moral.
Hawkins, a clerk. Abraham Lincoln.
John Hay, a Secretary. Abraham Lincoln.
Gustav Hein, Pianist. The Concert.
Heinrich. Living Hours.
Madame Henriet. A Loving Wife.
Henry Hind, an attorney. Abraham Lincoln.
Burnett Hook, a Cabinet Member. Abraham
Lincoln.
The Idol-Guard.   King Argimenes and the Unknown Warrior.
Ilse, a child. The Piper.
The Innkeeper. The Bonds of Interest.
Jacobus the Burgomeister, a man of Hamelin.
The Piper.
Jan, a child. The Piper.
Caleb Jennings, representing Commissioners of
the Confederate States. Abraham Lincoln.
Jodelet. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Johannes. The Tragedy of Love.
Frank Jura. The Concert.
Mrs. Kann. The Concert.
Karen. The Tragedy of Love.
Kleshtsch, Andrew Mitritch, locksmith. The
Lower Depths.
Fraulein Koch-Pinneberg, an artiste. Moral.
Kom Loi (Spider). The Yellow Jacket.
Kostilioff, Michael Ivanowitch, lodging-house
keeper. The Lower Depths.
Krivoi Zoba, a porter. The Lower Depths.
Brling Kruse, a forester. The Tragedy of Love.
Kurt the Syndic, a man of Hamelin. The Piper.
Kvaschnya, a market woman. The Lower Depths.
Ladies and Gentlemen. Abraham Lincoln.
Laura. The Bonds of Interest.
Leander. The Bonds of Interest.
General Robert E. Lee. Abraham Lincoln.
Lee Sin (First Farmer). The Yellow Jacket.
A Light-Cavalry Man. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Ligniere. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Abraham Lincoln. Abraham Lincoln.
Mrs. Lincoln. Abraham Lincoln.
Ling Won (Spirit). The Yellow Jacket.
Lise. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Loy Gong (God of Thunder). The Yellow Jacket.
Luka, a pilgrim. The Lower Depths.
Frau Lund, an old lady. Moral.
James Macintosh, editor of a Republican Journal.
Abraham Lincoln.
Madeleine. A Loving Wife.
John Madison. The Easiest Way.
Maid. The Yellow Jacket.
A Maid. The Tragedy of Love.
Captain Malins. Abraham Lincoln.
Mother Margaret. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Marie, wife of Gustav Hein. The Concert.
Three Marquises. Cyrano de Bergerac.




I


Sister Martha. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Martin the Watch, a man of Hamelin. The Piper.
Wife of Martin the Watch. The Piper.
General Meade. Abraham Lincoln.
Medviedeff, uncle of Wassilissa, policeman.
The Lower Depths.
Miss Selma Meier. The Concert.
Joseph Meister. Pasteur.
His Grandfather. Pasteur.
Mrs. Fanny Mell. The Concert.
A Messenger. Abraham Lincoln.
Michael-the-Sword-Eater, a strolling player.
The Piper.
Lord Monkhurst. Milestones.
Montfleury. Cyrano de Bergerac.
A Mousquetaire. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Other Mousquetaires. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Mow Dan Fah (Peony). The Yellow Jacket.
Moy Fah Loy (Plum Blossom), daughter of Tai
Char Shoong. The Yellow Jacket.
Laura Murdock. The Easiest Way.
Nora Murray. Mixed Marriage.
Two Musicians. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Nastiah. The Lower Depths..
Natasha, sister of Wassilissa.  The Lower Depths.
Christian de Neuvillette. Cyrano de Bergerac.
A Spanish Officer. Cyrano de Bergerac.
A Young Officer. Abrahamr Lincoln.
Officers.  Abraham Lincoln.
Michael O'Hara.   Mixed pMarriage.
A Second Orderly. Abraham Lincoln.
Mrs. Otherly. Abraham Lincoln.
The King's Overseer. King Argimenes and the
Unknown Warrior.
Queen Oxara, Queen of King Darniak. King Argimenes and the Unknown Warrior.
Pages. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Pantaloon. The Bonds of Interest.
Train Passengers. The Tragedy of Love.
Louis Pasteur. Pasteur.
His Students. Pasteur.
Pastrycooks. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Antony Paxton. Our Betters.
A Peasant Boy. The Tragedy of Love.
A Peasant Woman and her little son. The Tragedy of Love.
Pepel, Waska. The Lower Depths.
Peter the Cobbler, a man of Hamelin. The Piper.
Peter the Sacristan, a man of Hamelin. The
Piper.
A Pickpocket. Cyrano de Bergerac.
The Piper, a strolling player. The Piper.
Poets. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Pole. Our Betters.
Polichinelle. The Bonds of Interest.
The Wife of Polichinelle. The Bonds of Interest.
Pollinger. The Concert.
Mrs. Pollinger. The Concert.
Arthur Preece. Milestones.
The President of the Academy of Medicine.
Pasteur.
The President of the Republic. Pasteur.
Elias Price, a lay preacher. Abraham Lincoln.
Property Man. The Yellow Jacket.




734


APPENDIX


Assistant Property Men. The Yellow Jacket.
A Prophet. King Argimenes and the Unknown
Warrior.
The Honourable Muriel Pym. Milestones.
Ned Pym. Milestones.
Ragueneau. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Hugh Rainey. Mixed Marriage.
John Rainey. Mixed Marriage.
Mrs. Rainey. Mixed Marriage.
Tom Rainey. Mixed Marriage.
Joseph Reisacher, a clerk of the Police Department. Moral.
Emily Rhead. Milestones.
Gertrude Rhead. Milestones.
John Rhead. Milestones.
Mrs. Rhead. Milestones.
Risela. The Bonds of Interest.
Roxane. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Rudi, a child. The Piper.
Sahtin. The Lower Depths.
Elfie St. Clair. The Easiest Way.
Elizabeth Saunders. Our Betters.
An Old Savant. Pasteur.
Freiherr General Botho von Schmettau, also
known as Zurnberg, a Gentleman-in-waiting and
Adjutant to His Highness, the Duke. Moral.
William Scott. Abraham Lincoln.
The Secretary. The Bonds of Interest.
See Noi (Nurse), in charge of Plum Blossom.
The Yellow Jacket.
See Quoe Fah (Four-Season Flower). The Yellow
Jacket.
The Servant of the King's Dog. King Argimenes
and the Unknown Warrior.
1st and 2nd Servants at the Inn. The Bonds of
Interest.
Lucio Settala. Gioconda.
Silvia Settala. Gioconda.
William H. Seward, Secretary of State. Abraham Lincoln.
Nancy Sibley. Milestones.
Richard Sibley. Milestones.
Rose Sibley. Milestones.
Samuel Sibley. Milestones.
Silvia. The Bonds of Interest.
Freiherr von Simbach, the Police Commissioner
of the Duchy. Moral.
Dofia Sirena. The Bonds of Interest.
La Sirenetta. Gioconda.
An Old Slave, Slave of King Darniak. King Argimenes and the Unknown Warrior.
A Young Slave, Slave of King Darniak. King
Argimenes and the Unknown Warrior.
Slaves of King Darniak. King Argimenes and
the Unknown Warrior.
Caleb Smith, a Cabinet Member. Abraham Lincoln.
Captain Sone. Abraham Lincoln


A Soubrette. Cyrano de Bergerac.
A Spectator. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Edwin M. Stanton. Abraham Lincoln.
Mr. Stone, a farmer. Abraham Lincoln.
Assessor Oscar Stroebel, a police official. Moral.
Suey Sin Fah (Lily Flower), wife of Lee Sin and
maid of the first wife, Chee Moo. The Yellow
Jacket.
Duchesse de Surennes. Our Betters.
Susan, a servant maid. Abraham Lincoln.
The Sweetmeat Vender. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Tai Char Shoong (Purveyor of Tea to the Emperor). The Yellow Jacket.
Tai Fah Min (Great Painted Face), father of Due
Jung Fah. The Yellow Jacket.
A Tartar, a porter, The Lower Depths.
Thompson. Milestones.
Queen Thragolind, Queen of King Darniak.
King Argimenes and the Unknown Warrior.
Town Crier, a man of Hamelin. The Piper.
Trude, a child. The Piper.
Tso (Fancy Beauty), maid to Due Jung Fah.
The Yellow Jacket.
William Tucker, a merchant. Abraham Lincoln.
Old Ursula. The Piper.
Valet de Chambre. Pasteur.
De Valvert. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Miss Vayner, maid. The Concert.
Veronika, the wife of Kurt. The Piper.
Catherine Villiers. A Loving Wife.
Privatdozent Dr. Wasner, a gymnasium professor.
Moral.
Wassilissa Karpovna, wife of Kostilioff. The
Lower Depths.
A Watchman. Cyrano de Bergerac.
Webster. Milestones.
Gideon Welles, a Cabinet Member. Abraha t
Lincoln.
Jim Weston. The Easiest Way.
Johnson White, representing Commissioners f
the Confederate States. Abraham Lincoln,
An Old Woman. The Tragedy of Love.
Wu Fah Din (Daffodil). The Yellow Jacket.
Wu Hoo Git (Young Hero of the Wu Family
destined for the Yellow Jacket. The Yell u
Jacket.
Wu Sin Yin (Great Sound Language), Govern i
of the Province. The Yellow Jacket.
Yin Suey Gong (Purveyor of Hearts). The 1 1 -low Jacket.
Yong Soo Kow (Hydrangea). The Yellow Jac, et.
Zarb, a slave born of slaves, Slave of King Dar
niak.  King Argimenes and the Unknown W;.i
rior.








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