remember those beautiful lines:
“The night has a thousand eyes and the day but one,
Yet the light of the whole world dies with the setting sun.
“The mind has a thousand eyes and the heart but one,
Yet the light of the whole life dies when love is done.”
MISS FESSENDEN.
Mother, I will speak! I know she never loved her husband—I know she
always loved Luciano. I only wish she had gone to him. It would have
been a higher standard of morality. There! [_She drops into her chair.
MRS. FESSENDEN opens her mouth, but finds no words._]
MISS JENNINGS.
Goodness!
MRS. STEDMAN.
[_To MRS. FESSENDEN._]
That’s—what—comes! Maria Fessenden, didn’t I tell you two years ago not
to let her go to Hindle Wakes?
MRS. BROKMORTON.
But what has all this got to do with the discussion of the play as a
play? This is a drama class, not a mothers’ meeting.
MRS. BENNETT.
[_A good deal scared, as she knows it is her previous remarks
that have inspired MISS FESSENDEN to her outburst._]
To defend and ask comprehension for the attitude of Latin dramatists is a
very different thing from—
[_As before each lady continues her views, the separate
sentences rising as a bugle-note sounds out above an
orchestra._]
MRS. FESSENDEN.
[_Raps._]
Ladies, orderly discussion is impossible unless you speak one at a time.
My daughter has uttered an extraordinary statement of her views. I should
like to ask each member of the class separately whether she agrees with
these views. [_Her expression says “dares to agree.”_]
MRS. BROKMORTON.
Pardon me, Madam Chairman, but it seems to me your daughter’s views as to
whether Anna should have gone with Luciano or not are wholly irrelevant.
They do not concern us. They are unimportant. Now, Giacosa—
MRS. FESSENDEN.
Pardon me, Mrs. Brokmorton, you may be right technically, but I am a
mother first, chairman of this class second. There is a far higher
question involved than consideration of a play. I shall put the question
to each one! [_She fixes MISS JENNINGS with her eye._] Miss Jennings, do
you?
MISS JENNINGS.
[_With a gulp. She has been weeping off and on from the general
intensity and the difficulty of keeping her minutes._]
No.
MRS. FESSENDEN.
Mrs. Stedman, do you?
MRS. STEDMAN.
No!!
MRS. FESSENDEN.
Mrs. Brokmorton, do you?
MRS. BROKMORTON.
Of course not; but it doesn’t matter—
MRS. BENNETT.
[_Badly scared, feeling she has precipitated the row. She wants
to say “No,” and almost does so, then, recalling she must stand
by MISS FESSENDEN, she murmurs_:]
I don’t think so.
MRS. FESSENDEN.
You don’t think so! That means you agree at heart, but don’t dare say so?
Am I right?
MRS. BENNETT.
No, no! Oh, dear!
MRS. FESSENDEN.
It would seem the younger generation does not know the meaning of the
word S-I-N.
[_Hurly-burly begins again._]
MRS. FESSENDEN.
Order! Order!
CURTAIN.
EXTREME UNCTION
_Played for the first time on October 23 and 24, 1914, by Miss ISABEL
MCBIRNEY, Miss VOLNEY FOSTER, Mrs. EDWARD POPE, Mrs. HENRY HUBBARD, and
Mr. ROSECRANS BALDWIN._
EXTREME UNCTION.
CHARACTERS:
A DYING PROSTITUTE
A SALVATION ARMY LASSIE
A SOCIETY LADY
A DOCTOR
A NURSE
SCENE: _The screened space around a high, narrow bed in a
hospital ward. Record-card hanging above. The screens have
anti-septic white sheets over them._
_When the curtain rises the nurse is straightening and tucking
in with uncomfortable tightness the white counterpane of the
bed. On the bed, with eyes closed, lies what is left of a girl
of eighteen or twenty. The nurse takes the thermometer from the
girl’s mouth, looks at it, shakes her head, and makes a record
note on the chart. She gives the girl water to drink and leaves
her with a final pull to straighten the bedclothes. The girl
tosses restlessly, moans a little and impatiently kicks at and
pulls the bedclothes out at the foot, exclaiming, “God, I wish
they’d lemme ’lone!”_
[_THE LADY enters._]
THE LADY.
Hattie dear, were you sleeping? No? See, I’ve brought you some roses.
Aren’t they fresh and sweet? Shall I put them in water?
THE GIRL.
I don’ want ’em!
THE LADY.
All right, dear. We’ll just put them aside. I know sometimes the perfume
is too strong if one isn’t quite oneself. Shall I read to you?
THE GIRL.
If you want to.
THE LADY.
What shall I read?
THE GIRL.
I don’ care.
THE LADY.
A story, perhaps?
THE GIRL.
All right—fire it off.
THE LADY.
And then afterwards, Hattie dear, perhaps if you’d let me, the
twenty-third psalm. It’s so gentle and quiet! You might go to sleep—and
when you awakened you’d hear those comforting words.
THE GIRL.
Is that the one about the valley? God, but I’m sick of it! Gives me the
jimmies. Got a story?
[_THE LADY puts the flowers back in their box—takes off her
wrap and settles herself to read aloud from a magazine._]
Marianna Lane swung back and forth, back and forth, in the
hammock, tapping her small, brown toe on the porch as she
swung. It was a charming porch, framed in clematis and
woodbine, but Marianna had no eye for its good points. She
was lying with two slim arms clasped behind her head, staring
vacantly up at the ceiling and composing a poem. On the
wicker table beside her stood a glass of malted milk and a
teaspoon. They were not the subject of the poem, but they were
nevertheless responsible for it. Her cousin Frank, who lived in
the next house, had been inspired to make up an insulting ditty.
“Grocerman, bring a can
Baby-food for Mary Ann!”
[_THE GIRL listens for a moment with a faint show of interest,
then goes back to her restless tossing._]
THE GIRL.
[_Interrupting._]
Say, d’ye know I’m done for?
THE LADY.
Oh no! You’re getting better every day.
THE GIRL.
Oh, quit it! I’m goin’, I tell ye. I’ve got a head-piece on me, haven’t
I? I can tell—they’ve stopped doin’ all them things to me. The doctor
just sets down there where you are and looks at me—and, say—he’s got
gump, that doctor. He’s the only one knows I know.
THE LADY.
You mustn’t talk like that. I’m sure you’re going to get well. [_Girl
makes an angry snort._] Now try and lie quiet. You mustn’t get excited,
you know, it isn’t good for sick people. I’ll go on with the story.
You’ll see. Now listen, will you, dear? It’s quite interesting. [_Reads._]
“Grocerman, bring a can
Baby-food for Mary Ann!”
he sang loudly over the hedge whenever he caught sight
of Marianna’s middy blouse and yellow pigtails. That was
yesterday. To-day the malted milk was standing untouched upon
the wicker table, and Marianna in the hammock was trying to
think up an offensive rhyme for Frank. When she found it, she
intended to go around on the other side of the house and shout
it as loud as ever she could in the direction of her uncle’s
garden. This, it is true, was a tame revenge. What Marianna
really wanted to do was to go over and pinch her cousin Frank;
but that, unhappily, was out of the question, as Frank had a
cold, and she was strictly forbidden to go near anybody with a
cold.[3]
THE GIRL.
[_Interrupting._]
Lady, where d’ you think you’re goin’ to when you kick it? Tell me!
THE LADY.
Why—I don’t know—To Heaven, I hope—but you mustn’t—
[Illustration: THE GIRL: I’M SO TIRED, I’D LIKE SOMETHING NICER]
THE GIRL.
What makes you think you’re goin’ to Heaven?
THE LADY.
Well—I think so because—well—because I’ve always tried to do right—no,
no—I didn’t mean that exactly. Of course I’ve done millions of wrong
things—but I mean— Oh, Hattie dear, Heaven is such a vague term! All we
know is that it is a beautiful place where we’ll be happy, and that we’re
going there.
THE GIRL.
How do you know we’re goin’?
THE LADY.
I don’t know. I believe.
THE GIRL.
But how do you know the wrong things you done won’t keep you out?
THE LADY.
Now I’m afraid you’re exciting yourself—
THE GIRL.
Oh, Lord, cut that out! I’m excited, all right, all right! Guess you’d be
if you had the thoughts I got goin’ ’round in your head all the time—but
there’s no sense talkin’ them out. Nobody can’t do nothin’ for me now!
THE LADY.
Oh, you mustn’t say that!
THE GIRL.
Well, can ye?
THE LADY.
I’ll try, if you will tell me what is troubling you.
THE GIRL.
Oh, Gawd! She wants to know what’s troublin’ me, she does!
THE LADY.
Can’t you tell me? Perhaps I could help you.
THE GIRL.
You said you done wrong things. What was they?
THE LADY.
I—I don’t know exactly.
THE GIRL.
You don’t know?
THE LADY.
Why, I suppose I could think of lots of things, but—
THE GIRL.
She could “think of lots o’ things”! Has to stop to remember. Oh, gee!
Guess she’ll get in.
THE LADY.
Oh, please don’t laugh like that! Listen! Whatever you have done, no
matter how dreadful, if you are sorry it will be all right. Don’t be
afraid.
THE GIRL.
Is that true?
THE LADY.
Yes.
THE GIRL.
I don’t believe it.
THE LADY.
It is true, nevertheless.
THE GIRL.
Well, if you ain’t sorry?
THE LADY.
But surely you are—you must be!
THE GIRL.
No, I ain’t. It was better dead.
THE LADY.
What do you mean?
THE GIRL.
I tell ye, it was better to be dead. Say, Lady—in them wrong things you
done you can’t remember did ye—did ye ever kill a kid that hadn’t hardly
breathed? Say, did ye—did ye?
THE LADY.
Oh, oh! What shall I do? Hattie! Hattie! Try and stop crying. I’m so
grieved for you. Tell me what you wish—only don’t cry so!
THE GIRL.
I ain’t sorry.
THE LADY.
No, no, never mind that. Tell me if you want to, tell me—about it.
THE GIRL.
An’ I ain’t sorry for what cum first—him—it was all I ever had that time,
that little, weeny time!
THE LADY.
Wait a moment—wouldn’t you rather have a clergyman?
THE GIRL.
No! There’s one comes ’round here. I don’ want to tell him nothin’.
THE LADY.
Very well—go on.
THE GIRL.
It was so little, and it squawked! It squawked awful!
THE LADY.
Oh don’t!
THE GIRL.
You don’t want me to tell ye?
THE LADY.
Yes, yes.
THE GIRL.
Oh, what’s the use? What’s the use? You can’t do nothin’. Nobody kin. I
ain’t sorry! The kid’s better dead, lots better. It’s what cum after. I’m
so dirty! I’m so dirty! I’ll never get clean! Oh, what’s gona happen when
I die? What’s gona happen? An’ I gotta die soon!
THE LADY.
You mustn’t feel so; you mustn’t! God is kind and good and merciful. He
will forgive you. Ask Him to!
THE GIRL.
I did ask Him to—lots o’ times. It don’ do no good. I ain’t sorry!
Everybody says you gotta feel sorry, an’ I ain’t. A girl kid’s better
dead, I tell ye! That’s why I done it. I loved it, ’fore it came, ’cause
it was his’n. After I done it nothin’ mattered—nothin’! So I— And I gotta
die soon. What’s gona happen?
[_During the preceding the sound of a tambourine and singing
has been heard outside. As THE GIRL cries out the last words
THE LADY, finding no answer, goes to the window. She has a
sudden thought._]
THE LADY.
I’ll be back in a moment! [_She goes out._]
[_Nothing is heard but THE GIRL’S sobs for a moment. Then THE
LADY ushers in a SALVATION ARMY LASSIE, her tambourine held
tightly, but jingling a little. She stands embarrassed by the
foot of the bed. THE GIRL stares at her._]
THE GIRL.
I know them kind, too.
THE LASSIE.
Can’t I do something for you?
THE GIRL.
No—not now. You’re a good sort enough—but—I ain’t sorry— I tell ye—I
ain’t, I ain’t!
THE LASSIE.
[_To LADY._]
What d’ye want me for? What’ll I do?
THE LADY.
Couldn’t you sing something brave and cheerful? You were singing so
nicely out there.
THE LASSIE.
[_To GIRL._]
Shall I?
THE GIRL.
No, they won’t let ye. It ’u’d make a noise.
THE LADY.
Sing it low.
THE LASSIE.
[_In a sing-song voice, swaying, half chanting, half speaking._]
Shall we gather at the river—the beautiful, the beautiful river, etc.
THE GIRL.
[_After trying to listen for a stanza or two._]
Oh, cut it out! I don’t want ye to sing to me. I want ye to tell me
what’s gona happen. Oh, don’ nobody know? I’m so ’fraid—so ’fraid!
[_As her voice rises the nurse, who has, unobserved, looked in
during the singing, enters with THE DOCTOR. He bows slightly to
THE LADY and THE LASSIE, then goes quickly to THE GIRL, putting
his hand on her forehead._]
THE DOCTOR.
Why, child, what troubles you?
THE GIRL.
[_Clinging to his hand._]
Doctor! Everybody says I got to be sorry to get in. I ain’t sorry, an’
I’m ’fraid, I’m ’fraid.
THE DOCTOR.
To get in where?
THE GIRL.
Heaven, where you’ll be happy.
THE DOCTOR.
That is very interesting. How do you suppose they found that out? How do
they know, I mean?
THE LADY.
Doctor, I didn’t tell her that.
THE DOCTOR.
Didn’t you? She seems strangely excited. [_He seats himself by the bed._]
Come, child, let’s talk about it.
[_He motions to the nurse that she is not needed. She goes out.
THE SALVATION ARMY LASSIE makes an awkward little bow and gets
herself out. THE LADY stands at the foot of the bed listening
for a few moments, then slips quietly out._]
THE DOCTOR.
Now, tell me what is on your mind. But try and stop crying and speak
plainly, for I want to understand what you say.
THE GIRL.
I’m gona die, ain’t I?
THE DOCTOR.
Yes.
THE GIRL.
When?
THE DOCTOR.
I don’t know.
THE GIRL.
Soon?
THE DOCTOR.
Yes.
THE GIRL.
How soon? Tomorrow?
THE DOCTOR.
No, not tomorrow. Perhaps in a month, perhaps longer.
THE GIRL.
Will I get sorry ’fore I go?
THE DOCTOR.
How can I tell? But what does it matter? Why do you want to be sorry
especially? What good would it do? It is all passed, isn’t it? Nothing
can change that.
THE GIRL.
But I gotta be—to get in.
THE DOCTOR.
You seem very sure on that point.
THE GIRL.
But everybody says I gotta be.
THE DOCTOR.
What is the use saying it or thinking it when nobody knows?
THE GIRL.
What you sayin’?
THE DOCTOR.
You and I can believe differently if we want to. But why in the world
should you be asking me all these hard questions? I’ve never been to
heaven, have I? I don’t know whether you have to be sorry to get in or
not. How do you suppose they found all that out?
THE GIRL.
But ain’t I gotta be punished somewhere till I git sorry?
THE DOCTOR.
Do you remember the other night when the pain was so bad?
THE GIRL.
Yep.
THE DOCTOR.
And I told you you would have to bear it, that I could do nothing for
you, and that you must be quiet, not to disturb the others?
THE GIRL.
Oh, don’t I remember!
THE DOCTOR.
I guess that’s about enough punishment for one little girl. You’ve been
pretty unhappy lately, haven’t you, with the pain and the terrible
thoughts? I think it’s about time something else turned up for you that
would be nicer, don’t you?
THE GIRL.
Turned up?
THE DOCTOR.
Yes, something that would make up for all this. Do you know, child, as
I’ve gone through these wards day after day ’tending to all you sick
folks I’ve about come to the conclusion that there must be—something
nicer—
THE GIRL.
Tell me more about it.
THE DOCTOR.
Well, now—there’s another queer question. Didn’t I tell you I don’t know
anything to tell? I’ve never been there. I should think you would have
found out a little something, since you’re planning to go so soon. But
no, I don’t suppose you know much more than the rest of us. And when you
get there you will probably forget all about me and how much I’d like to
know what’s happening to my little patient. No use, I suppose, asking you
to tie a red string on your finger and say, “That’s to send Dr. Carroll a
little message.” Is there any way, do you think you could remember?
THE GIRL.
You’re kiddin’ me!
THE DOCTOR.
Indeed I am not. I long to know with all my heart, and I suppose it will
be years and years before I do. Why, just think, you—you, are going to
have a great adventure. You are going on a journey to a far country where
you’ll find out lots of things, and here am I, jogging along up and
down, to and fro, between my office and this hospital, and wondering and
wondering and wondering! What a lucky little girl you are!
THE GIRL.
And I don’t have to be sorry—to git in?
THE DOCTOR.
Didn’t I tell you you were going soon, anyway? You can be sorry if you
want to—but I think it is more interesting to dream about the strange
things there will be to discover at the end of the journey.
THE GIRL.
Will there be gates of gold that open wide, and angels standin’ by with
shinin’ wings?
THE DOCTOR.
Wouldn’t you like to know? And so would I. You mustn’t forget to send
that message. Will you? Do be careful to be accurate and try to speak
distinctly. You know that a great many wise men have promised to send
messages back, yet all that seems to come are foolish words. If you
will look at everything carefully and find a way of telling me, I’ll
write it down for all the world to ponder. Oh—then we should really
know something—not just be groping—groping—groping in the dark. If you
only could, if you only could! I wonder—[_In his turn he gazes at her
intently, then rises abruptly._] Well, child, I must go on. Shall I teach
you a few questions before you go, so you’ll be sure and find out for me
the most important things?
THE GIRL.
Oh, Doctor!
THE DOCTOR.
You’d like to do something for me, wouldn’t you, child?
[_THE GIRL reaches out for his hand and kisses it humbly, then
gazes at him._]
THE DOCTOR.
Well, that would be the most wonderful thing in the world, only you must
be very, very careful, and you must do a lot of thinking before you go,
about what I’ve said. It is important to understand. Don’t waste any time
thinking about what is passed, will you?
THE GIRL.
No, Doctor.
THE DOCTOR.
We must talk it all over. There aren’t many people I could trust to
remember exactly all the things I want to know. But you can if you try
hard. [_He touches the bell; the nurse appears._] Now, Miss Bryant, Miss
Hattie and I have several important things to discuss and there isn’t
much time left, so if she wants me at any time call me and I’ll come. And
I think while she has so much thinking on hand about what I’m asking her
to do for me, she had better not see other visitors. You don’t mind, do
you?
THE GIRL.
No, no! I don’ want ’em! Doctor, when will it come? Doctor, will I know
soon?
THE DOCTOR.
Soon, I think; very soon. [_He takes her hand a second, then goes out,
motioning the nurse to precede him._]
THE GIRL.
Soon! He said it would be very soon—and I’m so tired! I’d like something
nicer. [_She settles herself with a little sigh, and falls asleep._]
CURTAIN.
THE LETTER
_Played for the first time on August 18 and 19, 1915, by Mr. CHAS.
ATKINSON, Mr. ERNST VON AMMON, and Mr. JOHN ROOT._
THE LETTER.
CHARACTERS:
HORACE TANNER.
JOHN ROBERTS.
BELL-BOY.
TIME: _Midnight of a summer night. Present day._
SCENE: _Writing-room of a club. Entrances at back and right._
_When the curtain rises the two men are seated on opposite
sides of the room, facing away from each other. HORACE TANNER
is occupied in opening, throwing away or laying aside a pile of
mail which is on the writing-table before him. JOHN ROBERTS is
writing a letter, which he folds, seals and addresses. Finding
himself without a stamp, he leaves the room, back. Neither man
is conscious of the other’s presence. TANNER starts to answer
a note, refers to a letter he has put aside, then lets his pen
drop and stares in front of him listlessly. He is a man between
thirty-five and forty with a clean-cut fine face. The jaw is
square, the eyes and brow those of a dreamer._
[_The BELL-BOY enters._]
BELL-BOY.
This Mr. Tanner, sir?
TANNER.
Yes. What is it?
BELL-BOY.
Letter for you, sir. [_Holds out a tray with a long sealed envelope._]
TANNER.
I got my mail at the desk when I arrived. Where was this?
BELL-BOY.
It is a registered letter, sir. The clerk always keeps ’em in the safe.
TANNER.
I see. Thank you.
[_The BELL-BOY goes out. TANNER opens the envelope slowly,
after looking curiously at the handwriting. Inside is another
envelope of which the seal has been broken. Around this is a
half-sheet of note-paper. At the handwriting on the second
envelope TANNER gives a start. He glances at the note, then
throws it aside and becomes absorbed in the contents of the
inner envelope. The letter he reads is not long, perhaps four
or five pages. He turns it over and over, trying to find more.
He has laid the envelope, the one on which the writing has
startled him, beside him on the desk. As he reads, leaning
forward, the envelope is pushed by his elbow onto the floor and
lies there unnoticed. TANNER is so absorbed he does not notice
or look up as ROBERTS re-enters from back. ROBERTS is a man of
address and strength. His mouth has set lines around it. He is,
perhaps, forty-five to fifty. He is dressed in mourning and
looks careworn. As he enters, a lighted cigar is in his hand,
but it is soon put down and forgotten. He thinks he recognizes
TANNER, then sees he is mistaken. He is about to return to his
desk when his eye falls on the envelope on the floor. He picks
it up courteously, saying, “I beg your pardon.” TANNER does not
hear him. As ROBERTS places the envelope on the table he sees
the handwriting. He is plainly amazed and glances sharply at
TANNER, who is still re-reading the letter._]
ROBERTS.
That is my wife’s handwriting. She is dead. The name on the envelope,
James Douglas, is that of a friend of hers and of mine. You have a letter
there in the same handwriting. Where did you get it?
[_TANNER holds the letter tightly in his left hand and makes no
answer._]
ROBERTS.
Where did you get it?
TANNER.
I decline to answer.
ROBERTS.
The letter does not belong to you.
[_For answer TANNER folds it, puts it in his pocket, rises and
bows._]
TANNER.
I will bid you good-night.
ROBERTS.
Not until you have explained how you come to have my wife’s letter in
your possession, and why you were so absorbed in it as not to hear me
when I spoke.
TANNER.
Why should I answer when you have no right to ask me the question?
ROBERTS.
No right! Was she not my wife?
TANNER.
No.
ROBERTS.
How do you know that?
TANNER.
Again I decline to answer.
ROBERTS.
Did you know my wife?
TANNER.
You mean Mrs. Roberts? Yes.
ROBERTS.
You know the person to whom the letter is directed?
TANNER.
No.
ROBERTS.
Yet you will not explain?
TANNER.
I see no obligation to do so.
ROBERTS.
Was the letter sent you?
TANNER.
Presumably, or given. One does not steal letters.
ROBERTS.
Can you not understand how it is that I should feel I had the right to
ask an explanation?
TANNER.
Well, to be frank, I cannot. In my code, which no doubt is peculiar, no
one has rights over another, even when that other is living—when he is
dead still less. That the woman who bore your name wrote a letter to a
friend, of which you were ignorant, is a sufficient reason for me to
desire to protect its contents now from your curiosity. [_TANNER gathers
up his papers._]
ROBERTS.
Admitting that I have not the right, have you? If you have, how came you
by it?
TANNER.
You forget that I answer only such of your questions as I choose to
answer. I think we had better say good-night. [_He moves towards the
door, right._]
ROBERTS.
Wait! You have convinced me that the question of rights is not one to
raise now. May there not be other questions involved, of kindness, of
consideration, of humanity? If I ask you, to give me easement of pain,
ask it as one human being in distress cries out to another, what will you
say then?
TANNER.
Merely that in this particular instance the justice of withholding is
more important than the doubtful “kindness,” as you call it, of giving.
[_ROBERTS turns away and bows his head, then sits down at the
writing-table and tries to write. His distress is so genuine
that for the first time TANNER shows an interest in him._]
TANNER.
This talk is becoming painful to us both. It had better be ended. You ask
information which I cannot give. Let the matter end there.
ROBERTS.
Will you tell me your name?
TANNER.
I have no reason for not doing so. Horace Tanner.
ROBERTS.
[_Glancing at him as if the name were familiar._]
You are Horace Tanner, and you have in your possession a letter from my
wife addressed to James Douglas? Mr. Tanner, you and I have met under
extraordinary circumstances, and spoken together as men speak once or
twice in a lifetime. It is not possible for us to part now—that is,
it is not possible for me, with no further speech. I acknowledge that
I exceeded my rights in demanding an explanation. I want to win your
acquiescence by another method. Evidently you know something of what lay
between my wife and myself. Until tonight I thought no one knew. [_A
pause._] I will tell you the story if you wish. Shall I?
[_TANNER walks backwards and forwards behind ROBERTS, who
is seated. It is evidently a difficult decision. ROBERTS is
not looking at him. ROBERTS’ eyes are downcast, as he is
embarrassed with his own offer._]
ROBERTS.
[_Over his shoulder._]