SCENE VIII._Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays

[_Adolf appears on the right, deadly pale, a streak of blood on

his left cheek, a fixed expression in his eyes, white foam on his

mouth._]

GUSTAV [_moves back_]. No, here he is--settle with him now! See if he'll

be as generous to you as I was. Good-by.

[_He turns to the left, stops after a few steps, and remains

standing._]

THEKLA [_goes toward Adolf with outstretched arms_]. Adolf! [_Adolf

sinks down in his chair by the table on the left. Thekla throws herself

over him and caresses him._] Adolf! My darling child, are you alive?

Speak! Speak! Forgive your wicked Thekla! Forgive me! Forgive me!

Forgive me! Little brother must answer. Does he hear? My God, he doesn't

hear me! He's dead! Good God! O my God! Help! Help us!

GUSTAV. Quite true, she loves him as well--poor creature!

[_Curtain._]

AUTUMN FIRES

A COMEDY

BY GUSTAV WIED

TRANSLATED BY BENJAMIN F. GLAZER.

PERSONS

HELMS, }

KRAKAU, }

HANSEN, }

JOHNSTON, } [_Old Men, inmates of an old men's home_].

HAMMER, }

BUFFE, }

BOLLING, }

KNUT [_An eighteen-year-old boy_].

The professional and amateur stage rights are reserved by the

translator, Mr. Benjamin F. Glazer, Editorial Department, _The Press_,

Philadelphia, Pa., to whom all requests for permission to produce the

play should be made.

AUTUMN FIRES

A COMEDY IN ONE ACT BY GUSTAV WIED

[_The room of Helms and Krakau in the Old Men's Home. The time

is afternoon of a late September day. There is a window at right

looking out on the street and another at left overlooking a

courtyard. There is a single door back center which opens into a

corridor on both sides of which are similar doors in long regular

rows and at the end of which is a stairway from the lower floors._

_An imaginary line divides the room into two equal parts. Helms

lives on the street side and Krakau on the side nearest the

courtyard. In each division there is a bed, chiffonier, a

cupboard, a table, a sofa and several chairs. The stove is on

Krakau's side, but by way of compensation Helms has an upholstered

arm chair with a tall back. A lamp hangs in the exact center of

the ceiling._

_Though there is a low screen which can be used as partial

partition between the two divisions it is now folded and standing

against the back wall, and the two tables are placed down center,

end to end, so that the place is for all present purposes a single

room._

_Helms' side is conspicuously ill kept and in disorder; Krakau's

side is spick and span. On Helms' table there is a vase filled

with flowers and near it a pair of gray woolen socks and a pair of

heavy mittens. There is also a photograph of a boy in a polished

nickel standing-frame._

_Helms, his spectacles on his nose, sits in his great arm chair at

the table and reads a newspaper._

_Krakau sits next to him working out a problem on a chess board._

_There is a short pause after the curtain rises._]

KRAKAU. There, I've done it again.

HELMS [_without looking up from his paper_]. It's easy enough if one

cheats.

KRAKAU. Who cheats?

HELMS. Well, year after year you work out the same problem. Anybody can

do that.

KRAKAU [_rearranging the chessmen_]. You can't.

HELMS. Just try another problem once, then see how smart you are.

KRAKAU. I'm quite satisfied with this one. [_Moves a piece._] Going to

have chocolate to-day?

HELMS [_contemptuously_]. Chocolate! What for?

KRAKAU. I thought on account of it being your birthday--

HELMS. Chocolate! That's a drink for women. On my birthday I serve wine.

KRAKAU. Hmmm! Wine, eh? Who's coming?

HELMS. Just one floor.

KRAKAU. Bolling too?

HELMS. I suppose Buffe will bring him along.

KRAKAU. And he won't have a word to say.

HELMS. He never has a word to say.

KRAKAU. No, never.

HELMS. Must you rattle those pieces like that?

KRAKAU. Can I help it if they are heavy? [_Moves them more carefully._]

You are always complaining about noise. You only do it to remind me how

well you can hear.

HELMS. Your hearing has gotten a good deal worse this year, hasn't it?

Hansen says so, too.

KRAKAU. Hansen! A lot he knows! [_Moves a piece._] Is there anything

about you in the paper?

HELMS. Nonsense! What should there be?

KRAKAU. Your eightieth birthday. They put all kinds of foolishness in

the papers these days.

HELMS. Didn't you hear what I said? There is nothing.

KRAKAU. I heard you.

HELMS [_regards him distrustfully over his spectacles_]. Have you been

reading this paper while I was out?

KRAKAU [_loftily_]. I always read the paper at night, you know.

Newspaper ought to be read by lamplight.

HELMS. Boasting about your eyesight again.

KRAKAU. Yes, I have excellent eyes. [_Knocks solemnly on wood._]

HELMS. Did you read the "personal notes"?

KRAKAU [_indignantly_]. I told you I haven't touched your old paper.

HELMS. My son-in-law has been appointed postal inspector.

KRAKAU. Postal Inspector! That's not a very high office. I suppose that

is why Knut hasn't turned up to-day.

HELMS [_resentfully_]. You haven't congratulated me.

KRAKAU. Because he's a postal inspector? Hump! Congratulations. [_Pushes

aside the chessboard and rises._]

HELMS [_ironically_]. Thanks. Ah, if my daughter had lived, she would be

proud.

KRAKAU [_over his shoulder_]. If Mary's gray cat had been a horse she

could have gone riding in the park.

HELMS [_regarding him sharply over his glasses_]. Do you know what I

have noticed, Krakau? [_Krakau does not answer._] I have noticed that

whenever I mention my son-in-law you get mad.

KRAKAU. So?

HELMS [_querulously_]. Yes you do. I noticed it long ago. I don't see

what you've got against him. His son Knut is your godson, too.

KRAKAU. We'll not talk about that, Helms.

HELMS. But I want to talk about it. We have been friends for sixty

years, you and me, and--

KRAKAU [_suddenly_]. Why didn't Knut send regards to me in his birthday

letter?

HELMS. Ha, you're jealous, that's what you are. After all, it's my

birthday, not yours.

KRAKAU. He never forgot to send regards to _you_ on _my_ birthday.

HELMS [_beating his breast_]. Well, he's my grandson and he's only your

godson.

KRAKAU [_incredulously_]. So--e?

HELMS. Well, isn't he your godson?

KRAKAU. Yes.

HELMS. Then why do you say so--e like that?

KRAKAU [_restraining himself_]. We'd better not talk about that. I told

you so before.

HELMS. But, damn it, I insist upon talking about it. I want to know what

you mean.

KRAKAU. That's all right.

HELMS. It isn't the first time you've made the same stupid remark.... Do

you mean to insinuate that he isn't my grandson? Is that what you're

driving at?

KRAKAU. For the third time, let's drop the subject. [_Down in the

courtyard a hand organ begins to play._] There's the old organ

grinder.... This is Thursday.

HELMS. You needn't tell me. I can hear for myself.

KRAKAU. It's your turn to give him something.

HELMS. I have no small change. Lay it out for me.

KRAKAU. Remember you owe me for the pack of matches.

HELMS. This will make seventeen.

KRAKAU. [_Wraps a coin in a bit of paper._] I just want to make sure

you've got it right. You always argue about it afterwards.

HELMS. Hmm!

KRAKAU. [_Opens the window, throws out the coin. The music plays more

vigorously, then suddenly stops._] The porter is chasing him away.... I

suppose it's because Larsen is sick downstairs.

HELMS [_laughs angrily_]. Huh! You were in an awful hurry about throwing

that money down, weren't you? Well, I won't pay you for that.

KRAKAU [_hastily closing the window_]. What kind of a way is that?

HELMS. You should have waited until he'd played a few tunes.

KRAKAU. How was I going to know the porter would chase him away?

HELMS. That's your lookout. You should have waited, then you would have

seen, I won't pay you back.

KRAKAU. You're a damned old swindler, Helms, and you always were.

[_Turns away and pulls out his pipe._]

HELMS [_sees the pipe_]. I can't bear tobacco smoke to-day; my throat's

too bad.

KRAKAU. Let me tell you something; I take no orders from you.

HELMS. I'll complain to the superintendent. Smoke hurts my throat, and

you know it.

KRAKAU. Huh! Won't you complain to your postal clerk son-in-law, too?

HELMS. No, but I'll tell Knut when he comes. I don't see why I let you

be his godfather anyway. They wanted some one else, but I said: "No,

let's ask Krakau; it will please him." I was a fool.

KRAKAU. You asked me because you knew I'd give him a handsome present.

Old miser that you are!

HELMS. But you've always been jealous because I am his grandfather while

you are only his godfather.

KRAKAU. So--!

HELMS [_furious_]. Don't you dare to smoke, do you hear!

KRAKAU. Who's smoking? [_Puts the pipe back in his pocket._]

HELMS. You needn't pretend you are not jealous. Why, when my daughter

was alive and came to visit me here you used to crawl over to your own

side and hide your envious face.

KRAKAU. She didn't come to see me.

HELMS. Well, you might at least have been polite.... But you were always

a false friend. You never forgave me for having a wife and family while

you were a lonely old bachelor.

KRAKAU. So--e!

HELMS. Don't make that nasty noise! It's true; you know it's true. To

this day I remember how angry you were when Andrea was born. For two

years you didn't set foot in my house. You said you couldn't bear

children about.... But if she had been your own child--

KRAKAU. Can't you talk about anything else?

HELMS. And you wouldn't come to my wife's funeral either. I shall never

forgive you that, Krakau,--the wife of your best friend--and now you

want to smoke though you know I have a weak throat.

KRAKAU. Why will you talk like an idiot? Don't you see the pipe is in my

pocket.

HELMS. Well, you were going to smoke, weren't you? And there's another

thing: It never occurred to you to congratulate me when I told you my

son-in-law had been made a postal clerk.

KRAKAU [_ironically_]. I do congratulate you. But you needn't be so

stuck up about it. He's not the only postal inspector in the world.

HELMS. Who's stuck up? Not a bit of it! I was thinking of Knut. He'll be

better provided for now his father has a good position. Isn't it natural

for me to think of Knut's welfare? I am his grandfather.

KRAKAU. So--o?

HELMS. There you go again with your So--o! My daughter's son is my

grandson. Any fool knows that.

KRAKAU. Many a fool has believed he was a daughter's father--and wasn't.

HELMS. What's that? My daughter...? You are an idiot.

KRAKAU. Do you remember what happened to Adam Harbee?

HELMS. That has nothing to do with the case. My wife was not that sort

of a woman. You'll concede that.

KRAKAU. Ye-es.

HELMS. Well, then--but what can an innocent old bachelor like you know

of such things.

KRAKAU. Are you going to talk stuck up again, Helms?

HELMS. Sure I will: I am too stuck up to let an ignorant bachelor like

you teach me what's what about married life. What do you know about it?

Virgin!

KRAKAU [_infuriated_]. I'll tell you what I know about it. You are not

Andrea's father at all.

HELMS [_laughs incredulously_]. Ain't I? Well, if I may take the liberty

to ask, who is her father?

KRAKAU. That's all right. We'll not talk about it any more.

HELMS. Oh yes, we will! Who is her father, if I am not?

KRAKAU. That's all right.

HELMS. Just empty talk, eh? I might have known it. You just say such

things because I owe you seventeen pfennig.

KRAKAU. Twenty-seven! I laid out ten for cake last Friday.

HELMS. Twenty-seven, then. And that's why you make up these stories to

annoy me.

KRAKAU.. Have it your way.

HELMS [_whimpering_]. Why don't you speak out, then? If I am not

Andrea's father, who is? You can't leave it like this. Who is the man

you accuse, eh? Was it Axel?

KRAKAU [_scornfully_]. No.

HELMS. Or Summensen?

KRAKAU. Do you suppose Caroline would mix up with a couple of swine like

that?

HELMS. Of course I don't. It's you that's been putting such things in my

head. You don't know what you are talking about.

KRAKAU. I know what I know.

HELMS [_pounds on the table_]. Who was he then? Speak up or admit that

you are a filthy liar.

KRAKAU [_with sudden determination_]. I was her father. Now you know it.

HELMS [_derisively_]. You!... Ha, ha, ha!... You! God knows how you hit

on that idea. Do tell us about it.

KRAKAU [_savagely; he is on his own side of the room now_]. Yes, I'll

tell you about it.... With pleasure, my dear Helms!... I had made up my

mind to carry the secret with me to the grave ... but I can't stand your

overbearing ways any more.... Now it comes out.... And thank God for

it.... You were a devil to your wife and you have been a devil to me,

Helms, all the fifteen years we have lived in this room.

HELMS. Ha, ha! So I've been a devil, eh? The things one lives and

learns!

KRAKAU. Yes, a devil--a devil on wheels. You whine and crow and fuss and

scold ... nothing suits you ... no matter how hard I try ... and you are

mean and niggardly.... Every pfennig must be pulled out of you like a

tooth.

HELMS. I don't throw my money in the street.

KRAKAU. Nobody throws his money in the street, but you can't get along

without spending money, can you?

HELMS. No.

KRAKAU. No, but you expected Caroline to. Instead of money you gave her

compliments. Naturally she came to me for help. She had to have pin

money and clothes.

HELMS. And you gave her money.

KRAKAU. Of course I did.

HELMS. Yes, what then?

KRAKAU. Of course it was humiliating to her. She was very unhappy. I did

my best to console her.

HELMS. And then Andrea was born.

KRAKAU. Yes.

HELMS [_bitterly_]. That was ... that was powerful consolation, Krakau,

I must say.... But tell me how you are so sure that Andrea was your

daughter.

KRAKAU. Caroline told me herself. Besides, didn't I know that she had

lived with you ten years before and never had a child.

HELMS [_pathetically_]. No. [_With a flash of anger._] Why didn't you

tell me this before?

KRAKAU [_who is half sorry now_]. Why should I have told you?

HELMS [_without heeding him; mumbles half to himself, shaking his

head_]. And if she was your daughter, then Knut is your grandson and you

are also his godfather ... and to me he is nothing [_bows his head_]. I

am eighty years old to-day, Krakau.... It is hard to be told such a

thing when you are eighty....

KRAKAU [_has gone over to him, sympathetically touching his shoulder_].

I'm sorry, Helms. I wish I hadn't told you. But you made me so angry it

just popped out.... But don't worry ... everything will be just the same

as before--

HELMS [_shakes his head mournfully_]. No.

KRAKAU. But yes! I don't want him all for myself. We can share him,

can't we?

HELMS. Share him?

KRAKAU. Of course. Instead of being your grandson Knut will be _our_

grandson, that's all.

HELMS [_sits up proudly_]. Knut is nothing to me.

KRAKAU. But nobody knows that.

HELMS. He is a perfect stranger.

KRAKAU. But nobody knows it except you and me--don't you see?

HELMS. You would throw it up to me every day.

KRAKAU. Never! We should be equal partners. And oh, the long talks we

could have about him!... Before it was different ... you were so stuck

up about your grandson, I couldn't bear it any longer.... But now we can

both be stuck up.

HELMS [_hotly_]. No.... Go over on your own side. I don't want you

here.... I want to be alone.

KRAKAU. Helms....

HELMS. Get out of here, I say.... And take your flowers with you. I

accept no presents from the like of you.

KRAKAU. The flowers--?

HELMS. Yes, take them away. And take [_chokes over the word_] take

Knut's picture, too, and the stockings his father sent.... I guess

they're yours by right.

KRAKAU [_indignantly_]. I'll do nothing of the kind. My name's not Carl

Helms.

HELMS. Well, take the flowers then.

KRAKAU [_takes the flowers_]. I can do that, all right.

HELMS. And see that you don't come on my side again without asking

permission.

KRAKAU [_walks a few paces; turns around_]. Hadn't I better straighten

up a bit before your guests come?

HELMS. You leave my things alone ... and mind your business.

[_Krakau goes with the flowers to his own side._]

HELMS. You've got the best of everything anyhow. The stove is on your

side and the morning sun. Wouldn't you like to take my arm chair too,

and my pictures? Don't mind me, you know.

[_Krakau does not answer. There is a pause. A clock outside

strikes five._]

KRAKAU. The clock's striking five.

HELMS. Let it strike.

[_There is another pause. A knock on the door is heard. Neither

answers it. There is a louder knock._]

KRAKAU. [_Impatiently._] Why don't you answer the door?

HELMS. I'm not in the humor for company.

KRAKAU. But some one is knocking.

HELMS. What's that to me? [_There is a third knock._]

KRAKAU. Obstinate old fool. [_Loudly._] Come in.

[_Hansen and Johnston enter. Behind them in the hallway Buffe can

be seen with Bolling on his arm. Farther back Hammer is seen._

[_Krakau rises, goes to the window and stands there, looking

gloomily out into the courtyard._]

HANSEN [_leaving the door open_]. The others are coming. Well,

congratulations, Helms.

HELMS. Thank you.

JOHNSTON. Many happy returns. [_They shake hands._]

BUFFE [_entering with Bolling_]. I'll have to put him in your arm chair.

HELMS. Right over there.

BUFFE. [_Helping Bolling to the chair._] Our heartiest congratulations,

eh, Bolling?

BOLLING. Hey?

BUFFE [_speaking close to his ear_]. I say we congratulate Helms on his

birthday.

BOLLING. No. It's nothing to boast about.

HAMMER [_entering_]. Congratulations!

HANSEN. Now we're all here.

HELMS. Make yourselves comfortable. [_They all take seats._]

[_Bolling sits rigid in the arm chair absently twirling his

fingers._

_Krakau, who has once or twice shown the impulse to go over to

Helms, stirs uneasily but turns his back to his window._

_A silence falls._

_Suddenly Hansen begins to whistle, a tuneless mournful strain._]

JOHNSTON [_whispering confidentially_]. My dear Peter, one doesn't

whistle at a birthday party.

HANSEN [_mocking him_]. My dear Henry, mind your own affairs.

JOHNSTON. You have the soul of a greengrocer.

HANSEN. You have the manners of a barber.

BUFFE [_laughing_]. Those boys are always fighting.

HAMMER. But they can't live without each other.

BUFFE [_to Hammer_]. Aren't you lonely since Kruger died?

HAMMER. It is lonesome sometimes, but I have more room now.

BUFFE. My wrists are so full of rheumatism I can hardly bend them any

more.

HAMMER. There's something the matter with all of us. How is your throat,

Helms?

HELMS. Pretty good. [_There is silence again._]

HANSEN. Fine weather to-day.

JOHNSTON. Regular birthday weather.

HAMMER. On my birthday it always rains.

HANSEN [_points to the window_]. You can see the sun from here.

BUFFE. I read in the papers about your son-in-law's appointment.

HELMS [_shortly_]. Yes?

JOHNSTON. Yes, we must congratulate you over again.

HANSEN. Helms is the luckiest man in the place.

HAMMER. Has your grandson been here yet?

HELMS. No.

BUFFE. Of course he's coming.

HELMS. I don't know.

JOHNSTON. Of course he'll come on your birthday. He's a fine young

fellow.

HANSEN. Yes, indeed, Helms, you should be proud of him.

HAMMER [_sees Knut's portrait_]. There he is. [_All except Helms and

Bolling look at the picture._]

HANSEN. Looks something like his grandfather.

JOHNSTON. Yes, it's a striking resemblance.

HAMMER. The nose.

JOHNSTON. And the eyes--look at the eyes.

HANSEN. Yes.

BUFFE. We are looking at his grandson's picture, Bolling.

[_Bolling stares indifferently. Helms casts apprehensive glances

at Krakau._]

HAMMER. Look at the gifts.

HANSEN. He's a lucky man.

JOHNSTON [_with a sigh_]. Ah yes, when you have your family--

BUFFE [_showing the stockings_]. Helms got some wonderful birthday

presents, Bolling.

BOLLING [_feeling them_]. Good wool.

HANSEN [_suddenly_]. What is Krakau doing over there?

HELMS [_angrily_]. Yes, why don't you stop skulking over there like a

homeless dog.

BUFFE [_to Hammer_]. They have quarreled.

HAMMER. I guess so. [_To Hansen._] Have they had a fight?

HANSEN. I don't know.

JOHNSTON. That's right, be sociable, Krakau.

HELMS [_irritably_]. Why don't you get the wine, Krakau?

KRAKAU. How should I know--

HELMS [_interrupts_]. You know it is in the closet. [_Krakau takes

bottle and glasses from the cupboard._]

HAMMER [_delighted_]. Did you say wine?

BUFFE. Wine! Did you hear?

HANSEN. You might think Helms was a postal inspector himself.

JOHNSTON. More than that! He's a millionaire in disguise. Krakau can

tell you--he has stockings full of good red gold.

[_Krakau pours the wine. All watch with eager eyes. The sun now

shines full in the room._]

KRAKAU. Hadn't we better push the tables together.

HELMS [_petulantly_]. No. It's my birthday. And we can do very well

without your table.

HAMMER. There'd be more room with both tables.

BUFFE. We can't all sit around one table.

HELMS. All right--push them together. [_They do so._]

JOHNSTON. We must fix our tables this way, too, Peter.

HANSEN. All right.

BUFFE [_to Bolling_]. Come over to the table; we are going to have wine.

[_Bolling stands up. They move his chair to the table. He sits

again._]

HANSEN. Why are you so quiet, Bolling?

BOLLING. Everything there is to say has been said.

JOHNSTON. He's a smart man. [_Nods admiringly._]

HANSEN. Ha, ha, ha!

BOLLING [_suddenly to Krakau_]. What's that you are pouring?

KRAKAU. Sherry.

BOLLING [_angrily_]. I can't stand port wine.

KRAKAU. Yes, but this is sherry.

BOLLING. Port wine is poison.

HAMMER. But this is sherry.

BOLLING. Port wine is poison.

BUFFE. Yes, Bolling; but this is sherry; it won't hurt you.

BOLLING. Poison--port wine is.

JOHNSTON [_raising his glass._] Many happy returns!

HAMMER. Many future birthdays!

HANSEN. Happy ones!

BUFFE. Bolling, we are drinking to Helms.

BOLLING. It isn't port wine, is it?

BUFFE. No, indeed,--sherry.

BOLLING. I da'sn't drink port.

BUFFE. It's a toast to Helms.

BOLLING. Why?

BUFFE. He's eighty years old to-day.

BOLLING. I am ninety-two. That's nothing to be glad about.

[_All except Bolling raise their glasses. They utter cheery

exclamations and drink._]

HELMS. Thanks; thank you!

BOLLING [_raising his glass_]. Congratulations, Helms. I hope you never

get as old as me.

HAMMER [_angrily_]. That's no way to talk, Bolling.

HANSEN. He's spoiling the whole party.

BUFFE [_apologetically_]. Bolling's tired of living.

JOHNSTON. You're joking.

BUFFE. No; really he is. He wants to die.

JOHNSTON. Nonsense! How can any one _want_ to die? It's against human

nature.

KRAKAU [_who has taken cigars from the cupboard_]. Who wants to smoke?

HANSEN [_with delight._] Cigars too!

[_Krakau passes the cigars. Hansen, Hammer and Johnston each take

one. The sun now shines on the table and men._]

BUFFE. The sun is as red as wine.

HANSEN [_with a sigh_]. Autumn is coming.

HANSEN. We've had Autumn weather for two weeks past.

HELMS. Unseasonable weather! I hate it. [_During the entire scene he has

been ill at ease, casting frequent apprehensive glances at Krakau, who

avoids his gaze._]

BUFFE. It isn't like it used to be.

HAMMER. No. When the calendar said _Summer_ we _had_ Summer.

BOLLING [_apropos of nothing_]. I am ninety-two.

BUFFE [_explaining apologetically_]. He always says that. It's on his

mind.

KRAKAU. I hear that the nurse downstairs is engaged to be married.

HANSEN. Yes, with the doctor.

JOHNSTON. The hospital doctor?

KRAKAU. Yes; he's a sick man himself.

HAMMER. Then it's a good thing she's a nurse.

HELMS. Every young woman ought to be trained as a nurse.

BUFFE [_to Bolling_]. The nurse in the hospital is going to marry the

doctor.

BOLLING. I was married, too.

HELMS. Fill the glasses, Krakau. [_Krakau does._]

BUFFE. How is Larsen's brain fever getting along?

HANSEN. He must be worse. The porter chased the organ grinder away.

HAMMER. I thought I heard the organ. Is this Thursday?

KRAKAU. Thursday, September twentieth.

HELMS [_testily_]. Don't show off, Krakau.

JOHNSTON [_raises his glass_]. Here's health. Splendid sherry.

KRAKAU [_to Buffe_]. Why aren't you drinking?

BUFFE. Thanks. I never take more than one glass. This sunshine warms you

as much as wine.

HAMMER. I have the morning sun in my window.

HANSEN. So have I. It wakes me up every morning. It's supposed to be

healthy.

HELMS. Krakau stole it from me.

KRAKAU. You know very well that--

HELMS. Yes you did. And the stove, too.

KRAKAU. The stove--

HELMS. Isn't the morning sun on your side?

KRAKAU. Yes, but--

HELMS. And the stove, too?

KRAKAU. Didn't you--

HELMS. Nothing of the kind. You live on the east side, and the morning

sun is healthiest.

KRAKAU. We can change, for my part.

HELMS. Do you hear that? Now he wants to steal my view of the street,

too?

HAMMER. What do you old friends want to quarrel for?

JOHNSTON. And on your birthday.

HELMS. Who is quarreling?

BUFFE. You may be well satisfied with the afternoon sun, Helms. See how

beautifully it shines in the window. Look at the sun, Bolling.

BOLLING. I've seen it before.

BUFFE [_explaining with pride_]. Bolling used to be a carpenter, you

know. He traveled all over the world.

BOLLING. I have seen everything.

[_There is a rap at the door. Silence. Krakau opens it, Knut

enters._]

KNUT [_to Krakau_]. Hello, Grandpop! [_To Helms, shaking his hand._]

Congratulations, grandfather. [_To the others._] Hello, everybody.

[_The old men nod their heads, delighted. Buffe whispers to

Bolling._]

BUFFE. It's Knut. The son of Helms' daughter.

BOLLING. I had a son.

HELMS. I'm glad you came my--my son [_glares at Krakau defiantly._]

KNUT. I can only stay a minute. Have you heard about father's

appointment?

JOHNSTON. He's been bragging to us about it, sonny.

HAMMER. And treated us to sherry.

BOLLING. Port wine is poison.

HANSEN. And cigars.

KNUT. Not really!

HELMS. Why don't you hang up your cap?

KNUT. I must be off in a minute. Back to school. I had only an hour's

leave, and it takes half an hour to ride each way.

BUFFE. How old are you, my boy?

KNUT. Seventeen.

BUFFE. It's sixty-one years since I was that young. He's only seventeen,

Bolling.

BOLLING. I was seventeen--once. Now I'm ninety-two.

HAMMER. I am seventy-three.

KNUT. Let's add up the number of years in this room.

HELMS. There's too many. It can't be done.

KNUT [_with a laugh_]. Let's try. [_Rapidly._] Mr. Bolling is 92 and

grandfather is 80; that's 172.

HELMS. There's quick counting for you!

KNUT. How old are you, Mr. Buffe?

BUFFE. Seventy-eight.

KNUT. That's 250.

HAMMER [_in wonderment_]. Two hundred and fifty!

KNUT. And you, grandpop?

KRAKAU. Seventy.

KNUT. 320. And you, Mr. Hammer?

HAMMER. Seventy-three.

KNUT. 393.

JOHNSTON. Think of that!

KNUT. And Mr. Hansen?

[_All the old people except Bolling and Hansen, snigger. Hansen

turns away, offended._]

KNUT. Don't you know how old you are, sir?

HANSEN. Of course, I know.

HELMS. He's ashamed to tell you. Ha, ha!

BUFFE. He's afraid. Ha, ha!

HANSEN. Who's afraid? [_Reluctantly._] I'm only sixty.

THE OLD PEOPLE. "Only a boy." "Not dry behind the ears." "He'll grow."

"Poor child."

KNUT. That makes 453.

JOHNSTON [_beats his chest_]. I am seventy-five.

KNUT. That gives us 528 altogether.

HAMMER. Five hundred and twenty-eight! What a head the boy has on him.

BUFFE [_to Bolling_]. All together we are 528 years old.

BOLLING. What does it matter?

HELMS. We'd be older still if there weren't a boy among us.

JOHNSTON. Yes, Hansen spoils it by being so young.

KRAKAU. You'll have to hurry, Hansen.

HAMMER. Yes, so you will.

BUFFE. Why don't you take something to make you grow?

HANSEN. Oh, let me alone!

KNUT. Well, I must be going.

THE OLD PEOPLE. "What a pity." "Can't you be late for once?" "The

teacher won't mind."

KNUT. I really must. Good-by, grandfather.... Hope you live eighty years

more.... Good-by, grandpop.... Good-by, everybody. Good luck! [_He

exits._]

HAMMER. You can see him go from here. [_Goes to the window._]

HANSEN. Can you? [_Joins him._]

[_All go to the window except Bolling, who sits stiff and

abstracted in his chair._]

HELMS. Open it. [_He helps Johnston do so._]

JOHNSTON. There he goes.

KRAKAU. He is waving to us. [_All wave back._]

BUFFE. What a fine lad!

KRAKAU. Good-by. [_All shout good-by. Bolling does not stir._]

BUFFE [_turning away from the window, with a sigh_]. He's gone.

HANSEN [_low_]. Yes, he's gone.

JOHNSTON. It's nice to have young people around once in a while.

BUFFE [_nods sadly_]. Yes.

JOHNSTON. You have a fine young grandson, Helms.

HELMS [_with an uneasy glance at Krakau_]. Yes, I can't complain of him.

BUFFE. It's good to have a family that look after you.

HANSEN. It's good to have a family at all. Many people haven't.

HAMMER. No.

BOLLING. No. They die.

HELMS [_sharply_]. Close the window, Krakau. There's a draught. [_Krakau

closes the window._]

HAMMER. Yes, the sun is down.

BUFFE. Yes.

HANSEN. Isn't it time we were going?

JOHNSTON. These _young_ people should be early to bed. [_Laughter._]

BUFFE. It really is time to go. Thank you, Helms. It was a nice party.

HELMS. Going already? [_Glances uneasily at Krakau._]

BUFFE. It's near supper time, you know. We are going, Bolling.

HAMMER. Then we'll go too.... We enjoyed your party, Helms.

HELMS. The pleasure was mine.

JOHNSTON. Good night, Helms. Next time it's my party.

HELMS. When?

JOHNSTON. October 23rd.

HANSEN. Good-by--and many thanks.

HELMS. Not at all, not at all.

BUFFE. Are you ready, Bolling?

BOLLING. Hum! [_He rises._]

BUFFE. Good-by, everybody. [_To Bolling._] Say good-by.

BOLLING. Good-by.

[_Krakau holds open the door. The guests file out talking gayly.

He closes the door and their voices are faintly heard outside._]

[_Helms bustles about uneasily._]

KRAKAU [_on his own side_]. Well, it went off very nicely.

HELMS. Yes, very well--very well.

KRAKAU. Want me to help you straighten up?

HELMS. No--I can do it myself.

[_There is a pause. Krakau takes back his chairs._]

KRAKAU. We'll want to move my table back.

HELMS [_seizing one end of it_]. Well, come on! Where are you?

KRAKAU [_taking the other end hastily_]. Coming, coming!

[_The table moved, there is another pause. Each is on his own

side. Helms potters helplessly with the bottles and glasses._]

KRAKAU. Need any help?

HELMS. You stand there doing nothing and you ask me-- [_The rest is

a sullen growl._]

[_Krakau takes the glasses, puts them on a tray and carries them

across to left._]

HELMS. Where are you going with my glasses?

KRAKAU [_stops_]. I was going to wash them.

HELMS. Well, don't forget whom they belong to.

KRAKAU. Don't worry. [_Puts the glasses on the wash stand._] Shall I

light the lamp?

HELMS. You can't see in the dark, can you?

KRAKAU [_lighting the hanging lamp_]. Knut behaved very nicely, didn't

he?

HELMS [_moodily_]. Yes.

KRAKAU. He made everybody happy with his high spirits.

HELMS. Not me.

KRAKAU [_hastily changing the subject_]. It's funny about old Bolling.

How he's changed in the last year! He never talks any more.

HELMS. When you get to be ninety-two and not a relation in the

world--[_His voice breaks in self-pity._]

KRAKAU [_finished with the lamp, makes a little solicitous gesture

behind his friend's back, but immediately busies himself with putting

things to right_]. Where do you want these things to go?

HELMS. On the chiffonier ... next to the other.... Bolling is so old he

feels superfluous.... I am getting like that--

KRAKAU [_hastily_]. Where do these stockings and things go?

HELMS. Next to the last drawer.

KRAKAU. I guess you are all fixed now.... There's nothing else? [_Turns

from the chiffonier, having closed the drawer, and starts for his own

side of the room._]

HELMS [_suddenly_]. It's a terrible thing you've done to me, Krakau!

KRAKAU [_in surprise_]. What now?

HELMS [_his voice trembling_]. You have made my dead wife a strumpet and

my dead daughter a bastard. [_Krakau bridles and turns to him with

clenched fists. Helms continues pitifully._] And you have robbed me in

my old age of a grandson ... all I have in the world. [_Querulously

musing._] When men are young they see red and kill for that sort of

thing ... yes ... they kill.... But when you are old it's different....

I can't even be very angry with you, Krakau.... Isn't it queer?... It's

all so far back ... in the past ... impersonal ... and blurred like a

half-remembered dream.

KRAKAU [_with contrition_]. I shouldn't have told you.

HELMS. You shouldn't have told me.... No ... but you did ... and I can't

be angry with you.... I am an old fool.... After all ... honor ...

fidelity ... marriage vows ... what do they matter when there is nothing

to do but to sit and count the days until you die?

KRAKAU [_chokingly_]. Helms!

HELMS [_with a flash of anger_]. But Knut matters. He _is_ my grandson

... in spite of you.... You shan't take him away from me.

KRAKAU. I don't want to take him away from you.

HELMS. Your blood ... perhaps ... but _my grandson_--

KRAKAU [_eagerly_]. Of course, he is, Helms. We can share him between

us. Don't you see? He need never know. No one need know ... just you

and I.... We can have him together ... our own little secret.

HELMS [_looks at him_]. Nobody else will know?

KRAKAU [_solemnly_]. Not a soul. I swear it.

HELMS. Nobody?

KRAKAU. Nobody.

HELMS [_a faint smile dispels his frown_]. And when we talk about Knut

you won't say "So-o" any more?

KRAKAU. Never ... for hereafter he'll be _our_ Knut ... just as if you

were his father and I his mother.

HELMS [_the idea pleases him, considers it, then gives his assent like a

child playing a game_]. No, I'll be the mother. And we can quarrel about

him ... of course, in a friendly way.

KRAKAU. Always friendly.

HELMS. And just think--we shall have something to talk about all the

time.

KRAKAU. Especially at night ... after supper ... under the lamp.

HELMS. And when we are in bed in the dark and cannot sleep.

KRAKAU. Always about our Knut.

HELMS. Ha, ha.... Do you know, Krakau, I think you should have told me

long ago.

KRAKAU. I was afraid.

HELMS. Afraid! Absurd. What was there to be afraid about? You can see

for yourself that we are better friends since you told me. [_Goes to the

chiffonier and gets the photograph._] He does look something like you.

KRAKAU [_magnanimously_]. Oh, no! He's your wife's son all over.

HELMS [_with equal magnanimity_]. He looks a good deal like you just the

same.... Don't you want to borrow this for a few days?

KRAKAU. Why, you only got it this morning.

HELMS. Never mind. Take it.... Saturday I'll get it back from you. Then

in a few days I'll lend it to you again.

KRAKAU. Thanks. [_Takes the photograph_]. Can I borrow the paper, too?

HELMS. Sure, take it with you.... And lend me your chess men, will you?

KRAKAU [_with animation_]. I'll get it for you. [_Goes to his own

chiffonier for it._]

HELMS. We might as well move the tables together. It's more comfortable

that way.

KRAKAU. Certainly. [_Comes down with the chessboard and helps move the

tables._]

HELMS. Now you take my arm chair and read your paper. I'll play over

here.

KRAKAU. I wouldn't think of taking your chair.

HELMS. You do as you are told. [_Sits on an ordinary chair._] I can

reach better from one of these anyway.

KRAKAU. Oh, well. [_Sits in the arm chair and unfolds the newspaper.

There is a pause._]

HELMS. Why don't you light your pipe?

KRAKAU. Your throat--

HELMS. My throat is all right. Go on and smoke.

KRAKAU [_comfortably lights his pipe, relaxes_]. Well, now we'll see how

good you are at working out problems.

HELMS. I don't think I can do it.

KRAKAU [_reading_]. Sure you can.

HELMS. Look here. Would you check with the bishop?

KRAKAU [_studies the board_]. No ... that loses you the queen.... Hum

... you've sort of mixed it up.... Back with that rook.

HELMS. How's that?

KRAKAU. Brilliant!

HELMS. Knut is back at school by this time.

KRAKAU. Yes, probably studying his lessons.

HELMS. He's a boy.

KRAKAU. None better.

HELMS. Isn't it nice to talk about him like this ... calm and

friendly?... You have no cause to be jealous any more, ha, ha!

KRAKAU. And you needn't be stuck up any more, ha, ha!

HELMS. No, ha, ha! There, I've muddled it again.

KRAKAU. No, you haven't.... Just move here ... and here.

HELMS [_suddenly takes out his purse_]. By the way, I owe you

twenty-seven pfennig.

KRAKAU. There's no hurry.

HELMS. Take it!

KRAKAU. All right. [_He rises._]

HELMS. Where are you going?

KRAKAU [_at the chiffonier_]. We forgot the flowers.

HELMS. Oh, yes!

KRAKAU. They smell so fragrant. [_Puts them on the table._]

HELMS [_takes a flower and puts it in Krakau's buttonhole_]. You must

wear one.

KRAKAU [_overcome_]. Thank you, Helms, thank you. [_They bend over the

chessboard again._]

HELMS [_rubs his hands with delight_]. Now white moves.

KRAKAU [_considering_]. White moves.... I should say ... there ... that

pawn ... I'd sacrifice it.

HELMS [_picks it up with playful tenderness_]. Poor little white pawn!

[_Places it on the board._]

[_They study the next move absorbedly as the curtain falls._]

[_Curtain._]

BROTHERS

A SARDONIC COMEDY

BY LEWIS BEACH

CHARACTERS

SETH.

LON.

PA.

BROTHERS was first presented by the Provincetown Players, New York.

Applications for permission to produce BROTHERS should be addressed to

Frank Shay, Four Christopher Street, New York City. No performance may

take place without his consent.

BROTHERS

A SARDONIC COMEDY BY LEWIS BEACH

[SCENE: _A very small room in a tar-papered shanty, reeking

poverty. The entrance is center-back,--a few boards nailed

together for a door. A similar door, opening into the bedroom of

the shack, upstage right. Downstage left, a broken window. Left

center, a rusty cooking stove. Above it, a series of shelves

holding a few dishes and cooking utensils. Rough board table in

the center of the room. A kitchen chair at the right of the table.

A large wooden rocker near the stove; rope and wire hold it

together. An arm-chair, below the bedroom door is full of

newspapers. Several heterogeneous colored prints culled from

out-of-date newspapers and calendars are tacked on the

rain-stained walls. When the entrance door is open we see a

cleared, sandy spot with a background of scrub oaks and jack

pines._

_The curtain rises on the late afternoon of a spring day._

_A man of forty enters, leaving the bedroom door open behind him.

His small head and childish face, on a tall, thin, and extremely

erect body, resemble those of a species of putty-like rubber doll

whose head may be reshaped by the hand. He wears a winter cap,

blue flannel shirt, well-worn trousers with suspenders, and

sneakers that were once white. Outside shirt sleeves are rolled to

the elbow; undershirt sleeves are not. His shoes make no noise;

nevertheless, he comes on tiptoe, his eyes fixed on the shelves.

For a moment he stops and glances into the room he has just

quitted. Satisfied, he squats before the shelves. He hesitates,

then quickly lifts from a lower shelf an inverted cooking vessel,

and grasps a small tin box which was hidden under it. He inspects

the box, trying to decide whether he can pry open its lock._]

[_The voice of an old, infirm man in the adjoining room_]: Seth?

SETH [_alarmed; starts to return the box to the shelf_]. Yes, Pa? [_His

voice is pitched high._]

PA [_querulously_]. What yuh doin'?

SETH. Jest settin'.

PA. Don't yuh go near my tin box 'til I'm dead.

[_Seth makes no answer._]

PA. D'yuh hear?

SETH. I hear.

PA. I won't heve no one know nothin' 'bout my last will an' testament

'til I'm dead.

[_There is a pause. Seth is regarding the box intently._]

PA. Seth?

SETH [_peevishly_]. What d'yuh want?

PA. Bring me a drink.

SETH. There ain't no more water in the pail.

PA. There's lots in the well this spring.

[_A pause. Seth continues his scrutiny of the lock._]

PA. My throat's burnin' up.

SETH. Well, maybe I kin find a drop. [_Puts the box on the shelf and

re-covers it; in doing so makes a slight noise._]

PA. What's that noise?

SETH. I'm gettin' yuh a drink!

[_Seth strolls to the stove, lifts the top from the kettle, and

looks inside. He finds a tin cup and fills it with water. Looking

into the kettle again, he sees there is little water left. Why

make a trip to the pump necessary? Back into the kettle goes some

of the water. Cup in hand, he moves toward the bedroom. He reaches

the door when a sagging bellied man enters from the yard. It is

Lon, the elder, shorter brother. His face has become molded into

an expressionless stare, and his every movement seems to be made

with an effort. An abused man, Lon, the most ill-treated fellow

in the world. At least, so he is ever at pains to have all

understand. He wears an old felt hat, cotton shirt, badly patched

trousers, suspenders attached to the buttons of his trousers with

string, and shoes that are almost soleless. His shirt, stained

with sweat, is opened at the throat, revealing red flannel

underwear. When Seth sees Lon he immediately closes the bedroom

door, silently turns the key in the lock, and puts the key in his

pocket. For a moment the men stand looking at each other,

reminding one of two roosters. Then Seth strolls to the stove,

pours the water into the kettle, and planks himself down in the

rocker. Lon glances once or twice at the bedroom door, but moves

not to it. He watches Seth suspiciously. Finally he speaks._]

LON [_in an expressionless drawl_]. I hear Pa's dyin'.

SETH. Yuh hear right.

LON [_with a motion of his head toward the bedroom_]. Is he in there?

SETH. Yes.

[_Lon hesitates, then moves slowly toward Pa's room. An idea

strikes Seth suddenly and he interrupts Lon's progress._]

SETH. He's asleep.

[_Lon stops. Seth fills his pipe and lights it. Lon takes his

corncob from his pocket and coughs meaningly. Seth looks at Lon,

sees what he wants, but does not offer him tobacco. Lon puts his

pipe back in his pocket, moves to the table, sits, and sighs. He

crosses his right foot so Seth sees what was once the sole of his

shoe._]

SETH. What did yuh come here fur?

LON. 'Cause Pa's dyin'.

SETH. Yuh never come when he was about.

LON. Wall, no one ever seed yuh a settin' here much.

SETH [_fleeringly_]. Suppose yuh want t' know what he's left yuh.

LON. Wall, ... it warn't comfortable comin' three miles an' a quarter on

a day like this un.

SETH [_cackles_]. Sand's hot on yer bare naked feet, ain't it?

LON [_moves his feet_]. Yuh kin talk about my holey boots. If I didn't

heve no mouths but my own t' feed I guess I could buy new ones too. So

there, Seth Polland!

SETH. Jacobs offered yuh a job at the fisheries same as me.

LON. It's too fur t' hoof it twict a day.

SETH. Yuh could sleep at the fisheries.

LON. I got t' look after my kids.

SETH [_grins_]. 'Tain't my fault yuh've kids.

LON [_threateningly_]. Don't yuh talk 'bout that! [_Pause._] Yer woman

had t' leave yuh. [_Laughs._] Yuh didn't give her 'nough t' eat.

SETH [_indifferently_]. She warn't no good.

LON. She had t' leave yuh same as Ma left Pa twenty years ago. Pa's

dyin' fur sure?

SETH. Who told yuh?

LON. Ma.

SETH [_greatly surprised_]. Ma? [_suspiciously._] What you got t' do

with her?

LON. I was passin' her place this mornin'. Furst time I spoke t' her in

a year.

SETH. I ain't in two.

LON [_in despair_]. Seth, she's cut twenty cords o' wood t' sell.

SETH [_shaking his head_]. An' me without a roof o' my own.

LON. Me an' the kids wonder sometimes where our next meal's comin' from.

SETH [_as though there were something better in store for him_]. Oh,

wall.

LON [_pricks up his ears; coughs_]. If I had this house I could work at

the fisheries.

SETH. But yuh ain't a goin' t' git it.

LON [_alarmed_]. Pa ain't gone an' left it t' yuh?

SETH. Pa deeded this t' Doc last winter.

LON [_amazed and angered_]. He did?

SETH. Doc said he could live here 'till he died. But it's Doc's.

LON. It warn't right.

SETH. Wall, he had t' pay fur his physics some way. He told me yuh

wouldn't help him out.

LON. And Pa told me yuh wouldn't. An' yuh ain't got two kids t' feed.

[_Pause._] There's Pa's old shanty down the road. If I had that I could

work at the fisheries.

[_Seth's smile is his only response._]

Pa still owns it, don't he?

SETH. There warn't no call fur him t' make his last will an' testament

if he don't.

LON [_brightens_]. He's left his last will an' testament?

SETH. Yes. I'm figgerin' on sellin' the place t' Doc.

LON [_emphatically_]. Pa ain't a left it t' yuh!

SETH. Doc'll want it.

LON [_forcefully_]. Where's the will an' testament?

SETH [_with a gesture_]. In the tin box under that there kittle.

[_Lon hurries to the shelves, picks up the dish, and grasps the

box._]

LON [_disappointed_]. It's locked.

SETH. An' the key's round Pa's neck.

LON. Let's git it.

SETH. Pa won't give it t' us.

LON. Yuh said he was sleepin'.

SETH. I mean--he might wake up.

[_Lon inspects the box further._]

LON. I think I could open it.

SETH. Pa might ask t' see it.

LON. Hell. [_Puts the box back on the shelf._]

SETH. Doc'll want the place seein' as how it's right next t' this un.

[_Lon is very nervous._]

Yuh might jest as wall go home.

LON. No, yuh don't! Yuh can't make me believe Pa's left it t' yuh.

[_Takes off his hat and mops his brow with his sleeve. The top of his

head is very bald._]

SETH. Then what yuh gettin' so excited 'bout?

LON. I ain't excited. [_Puts his hat on._] It jest makes me mad 'cause

yuh say Pa's left it t' yuh, an' I know he ain't. See? There warn't no

call fur him t' heve willed an' testamented it t' yuh. Yuh've only

yerself t' look after an' I've two motherless kids.

SETH. Every one knows how much Pa thought o' them.

LON. It warn't my fault if they thumbed their noses at him.

SETH. Yuh could o' basted 'em.

LON. They's like their Ma. Bastin' never done her no good, God rest her

soul. All the same, Pa knowd how hard it is fur me t' keep their bellies

full. Why, when we heve bread Alexander never wants less than half the

loaf! An' all the work I gits t' do is what the city folks who come t'

the Beach in the summer gives me.

SETH. Huh! Jest as though I didn't know 'bout yuh. Mr. Breckenridge told

me yuh wouldn't even contract t' chop his wood fur him. An' there yuh

sits all winter long in that God-fursaken shanty o' yourn, with trees

all round yuh, an' yuh won't put an ax t' one 'til yer own fires dies

out.

LON. My back ain't never been strong. Choppin' puts the kinks in it. Yuh

kin talk, yuh kin, Seth Polland, with a soft job at the fisheries an'

three squares a day which yuh don't heve t' cook yourself. Nothin' t' do

all winter but walk round them cottages an' see that no one broke in.

An' I'm the one who knows how often yuh walk round them cottages. I wish

I hed yer snap. [_Sits._] But I ain't never had no luck.

SETH [_defending himself_]. I walk round them cottages jest as often as

I need t' walk round them cottages.

LON. Huh! I could tell a tale. Who was it set with his feet in the oven

last winter, an' let Jack Tompkins break into them cottages--_with

keys_? [_Seth does not answer._] I could tell, I could. But I ain't a

goin' t' 'til they put me on the witness-stand. [_Pause._] But the furst

initials o' his name is Seth Polland.

SETH [_rising instantly_]. Lon Polland, yuh ever tell an' I'll skin yuh

alive.

LON. Huh!

SETH. Skin yuh like a pole-cat.

LON. Huh!

[_Seth turns, knocks the ashes from his pipe into the stove. Lon

rises; takes Seth's chair and rocks vigorously._]

SETH. Yuh know what I got on yuh.

[_Lon's bravado is short-lived. He rocks less strenuously._]

SETH. Yuh thought I didn't see yuh, but I was right on the spot when yuh

set fire t' Mr. Rogers' bath-house.

[_Lon stops rocking._]

SETH. Right behind a jack pine I was an' seed yuh do it. An' yuh done it

'cause Mr. Rogers leaved Jessup paint the house when yuh thought yuh

ought t' had the job.

LON [_rises_]. I got t' be a gettin' home a fore dark an' tend t' my

stock.

SETH. Stock? [_Cackles. Pulls out his tobacco-pouch and fills his pipe.

Lon shows his pipe again._] A blind mare an' a rooster. [_Drops pouch on

the table as he lights his pipe._]

LON. Rooster's dead. [_Moves stealthily toward the table._]

SETH. What of?

LON. Pip.

SETH. Starvation.

LON. I would a killed him this long time, but Victoria howled so when I

threatened. The fowl used t' wake me in winter same as summer with his

crowin'.

[_As Lon finishes his speech he reaches for the pouch. But Seth's

hand is quicker. Seth moves to the rocker and sits, dangling the

pouch temptingly by one finger. Lon puts his pipe in his pocket._]

SETH. Should think yuh'd want t' set round 'til Pa dies, bein' as yer so

sure he's left yuh his property.

LON. He oughter a left it t' me.

SETH. Well, I'm a tellin' yuh it's mine.

LON. Yuh ain't got no right t' it. [_Mops his head again._] Pa begged

yuh t' come an' live with him, offered yuh this fine roof over yer head,

an' yuh was too cussed even t' do that fur him. An' now yuh expect he's

made yuh his heir.

SETH. I've treated him righter 'an yuh.

LON. Yuh ain't.

[_Suddenly something seems to snap in Seth's brain. He looks as

though he were in intense pain._]

SETH [_gasping_]. Maybe he's left it t' the two o' us!

LON. _What?_

SETH. Maybe he's divided the place a 'tween us.

LON [_shakes his head_]. Oh, he wouldn't be so unhuman as that.

SETH. He would. He was always settin' one agin' t' other.

LON. He used t' tell me I had t' figger how t' git the best o' yuh or

he'd baste me.

SETH. He was all the time whettin' us on when we was kids.

LON. It was him showed me how t' shake my old clock so it'd run fur five

minutes, an' then you'd swop that pail yuh found fur it.

SETH. Huh! He give me his gum t' stop up the hole in that pail. Yuh

wouldn't know it leaked an' we could laugh at yuh when you had t' carry

water in it.

LON [_pathetically_]. There warn't never more 'an a pint left when I got

t' the house. An' Pa always hed such a thirst.

SETH. He'd like t' laugh at us in his grave.

LON. It jest tickled him t' raise hell a 'tween us.

SETH [_rises_]. I'll take my oath he's divided the old shanty an' the

two acres a 'tween us. [_Drops into his chair like a condemned man._]

An' I figgered I'd be sellin' them t' Doc t'morrow.

LON. Me an' the kids was a goin' t' heve a garden on the cleared spot.

SETH. A garden in that sand?

LON. Radishes an' rutabagas.

SETH [_persuasively; his manner becomes kind_]. Lon, what yuh need is

the shanty.

LON [_droning_]. The shanty ain't no good t' me without I hes the ground

fur it t' set on.

SETH. Yuh can tear it down an' use the lumber t' mend yer old leaky one.

LON. I want the shanty t' live in so I kin git a soft job at the

fisheries. [_Sympathetically._] You ought t' have a shanty, Seth.

Supposin' yuh was t' take sick. They wouldn't keep yuh at the fisheries

then. Yuh take my place an' give me Pa's.

SETH [_flashing into anger_]. I want the two acres t' sell Doc. Yer old

place leaks like a net! [_Then, fearing he has been too disparaging:_]

But yuh could make it real comfortable with the lumber in--

LON [_cutting in_]. I'll make a bargain. I'll leave yuh a bed-stead an'

a table if yuh'll take my place.

SETH. I don't want it! I want Pa's old place.

LON. An' I want it. I'm older 'an yuh.

SETH. I got the best claim t' it.

LON. Yuh ain't. We with three mouths t' feed. Yer a swindler, yuh are.

Yuh always tried t' cheat me.

SETH. No one kin say that t' me. I'm an honest man. But I'm a goin' 't

heve the two acres if I heve t' go t' law.

LON. Wall, yuh ain't a goin' t' wreck me.

SETH [_calmly; philosophically again_]. Maybe yer right, Lon, when yuh

say I ought t' have a roof. I'll tell yuh what I'll do, seein' as how

yer my brother. Yuh give me the ground an' the house on it, an' I'll

make yuh a present o' twenty-five dollars.

LON. That's a lie! Yuh ain't got twenty-five dollars t' yer name.

SETH. Yuh think so.

LON. Every one in these parts knows yuh owes Hawkins forty-three dollars

an twenty-nine cents he kin't collect. Give me the house an' ground, an'

I'll give yuh my own house an' my note fur twenty-five dollars.

SETH. Yer note! I'm a goin' t' heve Pa's old place.

LON. An' I say that yuh or no swindler like yuh is a goin' t' cheat me

out o' it.

SETH. I ain't a swindler, yuh wall-eyed son--

LON [_advancing_]. Take it back. Don't yuh call me dissipated names.

SETH. I'll never take it back!

[_Lon doubles his fists and strikes; but the blow lands in the air

as Seth grabs Lon. They fight furiously and in dead earnest,

though there is no ethics to the struggle. The rickety furniture

trembles as they advance and retreat. Seth is quicker and lighter

and less easily winded; but Lon's bulk is not readily moved, and,

despite his "weak back," he can still wield his arms. It looks

like a fight to the finish. Isn't their future at stake? And they

are giving vent to a hatred bred by their father. But suddenly

Pa's voice is heard, calling wildly to Seth. The men do not move:

the voice seems to have paralyzed their muscles. For a moment they

stand dazed. Then consciousness comes to them: they realize that

the waiting is over. They tear to the bedroom. A silence follows.

They must be fascinated by the ghost of the old man._]

SETH [_in the bedroom; quietly_]. He's gone, Lon.

LON [_in the bedroom_]. Yer right, Seth.

[_Then their voices rise in dispute._]

Don't yuh take it!

SETH. I've got it!

LON. It's mine!

SETH. It ain't!

LON. Yuh kin't--

SETH. Shut up!

[_They rush into the kitchen, Seth in advance, Lon close on his

heels. The younger throws the cooking-dish to the floor, grabs the

box, and hurries to the table. As though they were about to

discover a world's secret, they unlock the box, each as near to it

as possible, his arms tense, fingers itching, ready to ward off a

blow or seize the treasure. From the box, Seth takes an old

tobacco-pouch, a jack-knife, a bit of heavy cord, a couple of

letters. These are contemptuously thrown on the table. The will

lies at the bottom of the box. Lon snatches it. Seth would take it

from him._]

LON. Hold off! I'm jest a goin' t' read it.

[_Seth curbs his impatience. Lon opens the document and reads,

slowly and haltingly._]

"I, Nathaniel Polland, o' Sandy Point in the County o' Rhodes an' State

o' Michigan, bein' o' sound mind an' memory, do make, publish, an'

declare this t' be my last Will an' Testament in manner followin',

viz--." What does "viz" mean?

[_Unable to bear the suspense longer, Seth seizes the paper. He

scans it until his eyes catch the all-important paragraph._]

SETH. "--Bequeath all my earthly possessions to my wife, Jennie

Polland."

[_Their thunderbolt has descended. They stand like two men

suddenly deprived of thought and motion. Medusa's victims could

not have been more pitiable. They have been hurled from their El

Dorado, which, at the worst, was to have been their common

property._

_Then Seth's voice comes to him, and sufficient strength to drop

into a chair._]

SETH. The damned old critter.

LON. I'll be swaned.

SETH [_blazing out_]. That's gratitude.

LON. After all we done fur him.

SETH [_pathetically_]. An' me a plannin' these last five years on

gettin' that house an' ground.

LON. My kids are packin' our furniture this afternoon, gettin' ready t'

move in.

SETH [_with supreme disgust_]. Leavin' it t' Ma.

LON. Her who he ain't hardly spoke t' in twenty years.

SETH. Jest as though yuh an' me wasn't alive.

LON. We'd a given him our last pipeful.

SETH. His own flesh an' blood.

LON. Why, he told me more 'an a thousand times he hated Ma.

SETH. She don't need it.

LON. She's ready fur the grave-yard.

SETH. She's that stingy, cuttin' an' choppin' wood, sellin it t' the

city folks. We might a knowd.

LON. An' me a comin' all the three miles an' a quarter t' see him a fore

he died.

SETH. I been settin' here two days a waitin'.

LON. An' then t' treat us like that. [_Wipes his mouth._] Why, the hull

place ain't worth a damn!

SETH. A cavin'-in shanty an' two acres yuh couldn't grow weeds on.

LON. A pile o' sand.

SETH [_rising; bursting into fire like an apparently dead rocket_]. She

ain't a goin' t' heve it!

LON. What?

SETH. I won't let Ma heve it!

LON. But how yuh goin' t' stop her? 'Twon't do no good t' tear up the

will an' testament. It's rec-ord-ed.

SETH. Don't make no difference. She ain't a goin' t' heve that place.

LON [_eagerly_]. But how yuh goin'--?

SETH. I don't know. But I'm a goin' t'.

LON. It ain't hers by rights.

SETH. Didn't she leave him twenty years ago?

LON. Why, she ain't even expectin' it!

SETH. She'll never miss it if she don't git it.

LON [_shaking his head_]. Me an' the kids packed up, ready t' move in.

[_There is a silence. Lon deep in his disappointment, Seth making

his brain work as it has never worked before. And he is rewarded

for his diligence. A suggestion of his sneering smile comes to his

face._]

SETH. Lon?

LON. Yes?

SETH [_looks about, making sure that only his brother is listening_].

Yuh 'member what yuh done t' Rogers when he didn't leave yuh paint his

bath-house?

LON [_his eyes open wide_]. Burn it?

SETH. Sh!

LON. Oh, no!

SETH. Yuh don't want Ma t' heve it, does yuh?

LON. When I burned that bath-house I didn't sleep good fur a couple o'

nights. I dreamed o' the sheriff.

SETH. Nobody knows but me. An' nobody'll know yuh an' me set fire t'

Pa's old place.

LON. Yuh swear yuh won't never tell?

SETH [_raising his right hand_]. I swear.

LON. Yuh won't never try an' make out I done it next time we run agin

each other fur district school-inspector?

SETH [_raising his right hand_]. I swear. 'Cause if I kin't have Pa's

old place, no one kin.

LON. Got matches?

SETH. Yes. An' Pa's kerosene-can's got 'bout a pint in it. [_Takes the

can from the bottom shelf._]

LON. I may as wall take these papers along with me. [_Picks up the

newspapers._]

[_Seth moves to the table. Begins to fill his pipe. Lon takes his

corncob from his pocket and coughs. Seth looks at Lon, meditates,

then speaks._]

SETH. Heve a smoke, Lon?

LON. Maybe I will.

[_Lon fills his pipe.--Seth strikes a match, lights his own pipe

first, then hands the match to Lon._]

SETH. We're brothers.

LON. The same flesh an' blood has got t' treat each other right.

[_Lon starts to put Seth's tobacco-pouch in his pocket, but Seth

stops him._]

SETH. An' we wouldn't be treatin' each other right if we let Pa's

property come into Ma's hands.

[_Seth carries the kerosene, Lon the papers. They go out the back

door and disappear. Thus, in disgust and rage, the brothers are

united. Then Seth's voice is heard._]

SETH [_in the yard_]. Wait a minute, Lon.

[_Seth returns. He picks up Pa's tobacco-pouch, knife and

scissors, glances toward the door to see that Lon isn't watching,

and sticks them into his pocket._]

LON [_in the yard_]. What yuh doin', Seth? [_Appears at the door._]

SETH. I thought I left somethin' valuable. But I ain't. [_He leaves._]

[_Lon and Seth pass out of sight._]

[_Curtain._]

IN THE MORGUE

A PLAY

BY SADA COWAN

IN THE MORGUE is reprinted from "The Forum" by special permission of

Miss Sada Cowan. Application for right of performing IN THE MORGUE

must be made to Miss Sada Cowan, The Authors' League, New York City.

IN THE MORGUE

A PLAY BY SADA COWAN

[PLACE: _In the morgue of a foreign city_.]

[SCENE: _A small almost empty room with the rear wall of glass.

Before this glass black curtains are drawn. An old man ... Caren

... sits at a low table, well forward, sorting and arranging

papers, writing from time to time. A lamp upon the table, is so

shaded as to concentrate the light and throws Caren's wicked face

into sharp relief. The room conveys a feeling of unfriendliness,

coldness and gloom. Caren is old, so old he is somewhat decrepit

... hard, shrill and tottering. His features are sharp, his

fingers are as talons. He seems almost as a vulture ... perhaps

for hovering too long among the unbeloved dead._]

CAREN [_calling to some one behind the black curtain_]. What was the

number of that last one?

HELPER [_putting out his head_]. Thirteen. [_He disappears._]

CAREN [_writes and repeats_]. Thirteen....

VOICES [_are heard, rough and harsh, from in back of the curtains_].

Shove that stiff up! He's got more room than what's coming to him.

CAREN [_calling, without rising_]. Who is it you're moving?

VOICE. Thirteen. Any reason why he should sprawl?

CAREN. Not a bit. Shove him along.

[_The curtains part. There is a swift vision of brilliant light

within, and bodies laid out upon tables of ice._]

KRAIG [_a man, scarcely more than a boy, over-wrought and hysterical,

with his hands pressed close to his throbbing temples, bursts out_].

Oh.... Oh! Let me stay here just a moment away from that horror.

CAREN [_glancing up from his writing and smiles_]. You're all the same

the first day.

KRAIG. Oh.... Oh!

CAREN. That last one got you ... eh?

KRAIG [_bitterly_]. So young ... so young!

CAREN. Must have been a good looker. Much as you can tell the way his

face is banged up. I'll bet his own mother wouldn't know him.

KRAIG [_turning aside_]. Don't!

CAREN [_titters_]. He ... he ... he! Number thirteen...! I hope he ain't

superstitious.

KRAIG. He has nothing more to fear.

CAREN [_with dread_]. There's no tellin'.

KRAIG. He's dead.... [_Enviously._] ... Dead!

CAREN [_angry_]. Fool!

KRAIG [_watching through the glass at the placid figure, enviously_].

Dead!

CAREN [_exasperated_]. Bah!

KRAIG [_suddenly has a hideous thought and turns swiftly to Caren_]. You

think it was fair...? He went of his own free will?

CAREN. Eh...? What put that into your head?

KRAIG. No clothes ... naked!

CAREN. A lot of them do that when they take the plunge. It ain't so easy

to identify them. It saves a lot of bother, too. We stick 'em on the

slabs a while and then....

KRAIG [_shuddering_]. Don't! It makes me cold ... cold! [_Again he parts

the curtains and looks through the glass._] He's so calm ... so still. I

wonder if he suffered first! [_With a clutch of hatred in his voice._] I

wonder if--he starved!

CAREN. That soft white kitten? Not much. Did you get a squint at his

hands? He's never even tied his own tie.

KRAIG [_laughs_]. And he's here!

CAREN [_looking at Kraig_]. This is a funny job for a kid like you to

pick.

KRAIG [_turning away_]. I'm not as young as I look. I've got three

little ones already. [_With deep anguish._] And another on the way.

CAREN. It's a queer hang out for a kid like you, just the same.

KRAIG [_hysterically, almost beside himself_]. I tell you ... there's

another on the way.

CAREN. What do you mean by that?

KRAIG. Nothing! [_A pause, then bitterly._] Oh there's one joy down

here. You can burrow and hide like a rat from it all. The damn carriages

don't roll by before your eyes. The women don't!... Oh, those women, how

I hate them. Their silks, their jewels, their soft white skins. Fed!

Clothed! Housed!... [_Clenching his fists._] While Martha starves! Oh,

God! They drive by laughing and I could choke them! Listen what

happened. [_He comes closer to Caren and speaks fanatically._] Yesterday

in the park I stood there ... shivering ... wondering! And all at once

the mad hate came into my heart and I felt that I could kill. [_Caren

looks alarmed._] And then.... Ha ... ha ... ha! Then.... The King....

The King drove by. [_Laughing bitterly, and with a great flourish._] And

off came my hat! [_Making fun of himself._] My hat came off my head, Old

Man, and I bowed and cringed [_vehemently_] WITH THE HATE IN MY HEART. I

could have torn the warm furs from his throat and wrapped my fingers in

their place [_his hands clench spasmodically_]. Ugh!

CAREN [_thoroughly alarmed_]. Hush.... Hush! You mustn't talk so of our

King. A nice young boy he is.

KRAIG. Oh the hate ... the hate. Perhaps it will leave me here in this

hall of the dead. [_Glancing about._] It all seems so level here. So

level.

CAREN [_with the first faint touch of sympathy_]. You're right. Here's

the one spot on earth where you get fair play. That's what I like. There

ain't no rich and there ain't no poor. And there ain't no class nor

nothing. Every man gets a square deal here ... a square deal.

KRAIG. Perhaps that's worth dying for--a square deal.

CAREN. Dying ... bah! Wait until you've seen a few more of them slung on

the slabs. You'll lose your longing for death. I'm an old man, but....

KRAIG. If only I can see more of it. If only I can bear it.

CAREN. The pay's not bad?

KRAIG. It would be bad at any price.

CAREN [_shaking his finger childishly_]. Tut ... tut! We're fair here

... fair. There ain't no flowers ... he ... he ... he ... and there

ain't no song [_he chuckles_], but....

KRAIG [_with intense passion, pacing to and fro, and never pausing,

while he speaks very rapidly_]. If only the living could have what is

spent on the dead. All the waste ... the hateful waste. Flowers wilting

in dead hands. Stones weighing down dead hearts. While living bodies

famish and living eyes burn for the sight of beauty. Oh, I wonder the

dead don't scream out at our madness. I wonder the graves don't burst

with the pain of it all.

CAREN. Have they shut me up with a maniac? Have you gone stark out of

your mind?

[_There is a loud knocking on the door, to the right._]

CAREN [_opens it a crack and peeps out cautiously_]. What do you want?

VOICE. Let me in.

CAREN. Get away.

VOICE [_piteously, clamoring_]. Let me look once ... just once.

CAREN [_harshly_]. Got a pass?

VOICE. No ... no. Oh, let me in.

CAREN [_bangs the door shut_]. Get away.

VOICE [_brokenly_]. Let me look once ... just once. [_Caren opens the

door a crack._] Are there any ... women?

CAREN. Women? Of course, there's women ... always women. What is it

you've craving? The sight of the beauties or the smell of their stinking

flesh? Go on ... get out. This isn't a bawdy house. [_He slams the door

to and walks away._]

KRAIG. What is it he wants?

CAREN. A peep at the stiffs. Probably looking for his girl. [_He passes

out of sight, behind the black curtain._]

KRAIG. Oh! [_Cautiously he peeps after Caren, then opens the door a

crack and calls in a whisper_]. Man!... You can see the new ones

through the panel there. Lift up the curtain. There's two. A blond

haired girl and a boy. [_He turns swiftly as the curtains part and Caren

reenters. Softly he shuts the door, then stands watching into the

hallway through a glass partition._] Poor soul!

CAREN [_mumbles as he returns_]. There's something queer about that last

young stiff.

KRAIG. Number thirteen?

CAREN. Yes, number thirteen. You may have been right after all. Perhaps

it wasn't fair play to put him in the river. There's some mystery ...

something wrong. [_Tittering._] He ... he ... he! Not number thirteen

for nothing.

KRAIG [_watching outside_]. How do you know there's anything wrong?

CAREN. That's telling, Sonny. [_With deep meaning._] But you get wise

quick ... looking at the dead.

KRAIG. Ugh!

CAREN. People are telephoning and messengers are on the way. Pah ...

things like this are a nuisance. They keep one late. What are you

watching?

KRAIG. That man who was here at the door. He doesn't go away. I wonder

what keeps him here.

CAREN. Conscience! Scared to death he'll find his girl. Afraid not to

look for her.

KRAIG. You mean?...

CAREN. Oh, there's just two things drives people into the water. The

men ... 'cause they've got too little inside 'em.... The women....

KRAIG [_furious_]. Stop!

CAREN [_alarmed, yet brazen ... scratching his head_]. He ... he ... he!

Pretty clever little joke. He ... he!

[_Kraig begins to pace the room, his hands pressed to his temples._]

CAREN. I must tell that to the boys inside. [_He starts to go._] Pretty

clever little joke!...

KRAIG [_watching, excitedly_]. There's something wrong with the fellow.

I'd better see.

CAREN [_pausing_]. You'd better shut your eyes and see nothing.

KRAIG. He is staggering.

CAREN. Let him stagger.

KRAIG. He may be ill. He may be--starving.

CAREN. He's come to a good place to lose his appetite.

KRAIG. Oh, let me see what's wrong with him ... please.

CAREN. You go out that door and you don't come back. [_A pause._] I

guess you'll stay.

KRAIG [_looks his hatred_]. Just as you say.

[_Outside the door there is a short, sharp scream._]

VOICE. Maria!

KRAIG. He's fallen.

CAREN. He'll get up.

KRAIG. I wonder what happened.

CAREN. Perhaps he got a peep at the new blonde. [_There is now a violent

banging on the door._]

KRAIG. He's here.

[_Caren opens the door cautiously a crack._]

VOICE [_outside_]. My woman!... Maria!

CAREN. If you can identify her shut up your racket. Go to the first door

at the right and make arrangements to take her away.

VOICE [_crushed and broken_]. Maria.

CAREN. Shut up! Bottle the tears until you get home. The first door to

the right.

VOICE [_pleading_]. Cover her. For the love of the Lord ... cover her.

Don't let her lie like that.

CAREN. Ain't she covered enough to suit you?

VOICE. Cover her ... cover her.

CAREN. Afraid she'll catch cold? Go on ... get out! [_He slams the

door._]

KRAIG [_walks to the black curtains and parts them slightly_]. His woman

... his LOVE. [_Sighing and glancing towards the door_.] Poor devil!

CAREN. What's the matter with you, Softy?

KRAIG. Nothing. I was just thinking.

CAREN. Don't be a fool.

KRAIG [_again walking back and looking at the woman_]. Couldn't we cover

her just a little? The sheet seems to have slipped.

CAREN. And no harm done. Meat's meat.

KRAIG [_dreamily_]. Her hair would cover her like a mantle. How soft and

white she is. And how happy she seems. I wonder just when that look came

into her face. It surely wasn't there when she plunged into the river.

CAREN [_annoyed_]. You ought to be nurse maid to a doll baby. What are

you anyway?

KRAIG [_indifferently_]. A dreamer ... a creator ... a starver!

CAREN. Well, you're the wrong sort for in here. This is one place where

you get down to facts; truth. No lies, no frills, no dreams. Dreams

don't count [_banging his fist for emphasis_]. Money don't count. Power

don't count ... beauty don't count. Nothing counts.

KRAIG [_hotly_]. Then it's not truth if beauty and dreams don't count.

That's what we starved for, Martha and I.

CAREN [_softening a little_]. Well, you won't starve here. It's a fair

place ... fair. The King himself wouldn't be treated no different than a

beggar. The man with brains and the man without.... [_The curtains part

and a helper enters._]

HELPER. Some one wants to blink at number thirteen. He's got two swell

dames with him. Can they go in?

CAREN. If their permit's all right. Yes. Bring them in.

HELPER. They won't come in here. They want to go in the private way.

CAREN. I know there's some mystery about number thirteen....

HELPER. Yes, there is. He's a swell ... a big one. I shouldn't wonder

if....

CAREN. Go on. Get out. [_The helper goes._]

KRAIG. Aren't you going to cover the boy before you let them enter?

CAREN. If they can't see him how are they going to know him? He ain't a

tailor's dummy.

KRAIG. It all seems horrible.

CAREN. I guess you'll never see a second day at this.

KRAIG. Oh.... Oh, I don't know.

CAREN. You think I'm going to tuck on a few extras just because he's a

swell. [_Yelling._] Don't I keep telling you 'til there's not a breath

left in my body, that there ain't no class here? [_The helper reenters

and hears the last words. He stands breathless._] Tramp or gentleman,

they're all alike. Now get that into your head and let it grow.

HELPER [_has been stammering trying to speak_]. I oughtn't to tell.

They'd kill me if they knew. It's to be kept a secret, but....

CAREN. What's the matter?

HELPER. Number thirteen.... [_Stammering._] He ... he....

CAREN. Well, what about him?

HELPER. He ain't a loafer. He ain't a tramp. He ain't even a gentleman.

He....

CAREN. Who is he? Quick!

HELPER. Our.... [_Exultantly._] Our King!

CAREN [_open-mouthed, aghast_]. Our ... King!

KRAIG [_laughing triumphantly_]. Ha ... ha ... ha ... ha--HERE! [_He

clasps his hands together._]

CAREN [_excited_]. Are you mad, Boy, mad? Our King! Oh!

[_Kraig laughs. Both men stare at him horrified._]

HELPER [_to Caren_]. Ain't you got a flag or something ... some little

mark of respect to cover his nibs?

CAREN [_to Kraig_]. Run upstairs and get that big silk flag that....

[_as Kraig does not move_]. Go.

KRAIG [_immovable, abruptly ceasing to laugh_]. No.

CAREN [_threateningly_]. What do you mean? No?

KRAIG [_hysterically_]. This is one place in the world where all are

treated fair. Dreams don't count. POWER don't count. There's no rich, no

poor....

CAREN. Shut up and get that flag.

KRAIG. You're going to cover him ... but she.... Oh! [_Both men

disappear behind the curtains, cringing and bowing to people within.

Caren, with his back to the curtains, does not realize that he is

alone._] Even death can't level. No ... not even death. [_For a second

he stares ahead of him piercingly into space, standing taut and rigid.

Then commences to laugh in pure hysteria as_

[_The Curtain Slowly Falls._]

A DEATH IN FEVER FLAT

A PLAY

BY GEORGE W. CRONYN

Reprinted from _Shadowland_, a magazine, by permission of the

publishers and the author. The professional and amateur stage rights

of this play are strictly reserved by the author. Applications for

permission to produce this play should be made to Frank Shay, Care

Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Ohio.

SCENE: _In the great Far West, i. e., far from the "Movie" West_.

CHARACTERS

HANK [_proprietor of the Good Hope Roadhouse_].

LON PURDY [_about whom the play is concerned_].

MIZPAH [_his wife, called "Padie"_].

THE STAGE DRIVER.

THE GHOST OF HARVEY MACE.

THE GHOST OF THE OTHER MAN.

THE TIME _is the present, about 11 P. M._

This is not a Bret Harte play, nor is it designed for W. S. Hart.

And it should be performed with none of that customary and specious

braggadoccio of western plays.

A DEATH IN FEVER FLAT

A PLAY BY GEORGE W. CRONYN

[_THE SCENE is laid in the so-called dining-room of one of those

forlorn hostelries of the great Plains, which goes by the name of

Mace's Good Hope Roadhouse, a derisive title evidently intended to

signify the traveler's hope of early escape from its desiccated

hospitality._

_This room is sometimes reluctantly frequented by a rare guest,

usually a passenger on his way via auto stage, to some place else,

whom delays en route have reduced to this last extremity of

lodging for the night. The room is a kind of lumber yard of

disused cheap hotel furniture._

_Nothing can be drearier._

_Most of this junk is heaped along the left (stage) wall, and it

has a settled look of confusion which the processes of gradual

decay will, apparently, never disturb. Tables tip crazily against

the plaster of the greasy wall. Chairs upturned on these, project

thin legs, like the bones of desert places, toward a ceiling

fantastically stained. One table smaller than the rest, sees

occasional use, for it stands somewhat out of the debris and has

about it three chairs reasonably intact. A pack of cards and

several dirty glasses adorn the top._

_A stairway rises along the right wall, beginning at the rear, and

attaining to a rickety landing, supported by a single post of

doubtful strength, to which is affixed a glass lamp in a bracket.

(Inasmuch as the stairway is turned away from the audience, those

who ascend are completely hidden until their heads top the last

riser.) At the right front, between the landing and the

proscenium, a door (now shut) leads to the Bar, the one spot of

brightness in this lump, the shining crack at its sill bespeaking

the good cheer beyond. And that crack is the only illumination to

this morgue of defunct appetites, for the moonlight, which enters

by way of a small window at the right, is rather an obscuration,

inasmuch as it heightens the barren mystery of the room's

entombing shadows._

_Double doors center of rear wall lead to the outside. A window on

either side of the door._

_So much for the melancholy set._

_From the Bar percolates the lubricated melodiousness of the few

regular customers who constitute the population of Fever Flat,

with the exception of three worn-out women folks, two haggard cows

and three hundred or so variegated dogs. The female element are to

home, the dogs, astray and astir, with lamentable choruses._

_Sounds from the Bar, samples only._]

A JOLLY SOUL [_hoarsely_]. Pitch into her, boys! Tune up your gullets!

[_With quavering pathos._] "She was born in old Kentucky"--

ANOTHER SUCH [_with peeve_]. Aw, shet up, that's moldy! Giv's that

Tennessee warble, Hank!

VOICE OF HANK [_rather rich and fine_].

"When your heart was mine, true love,

And your head lay on my breast,

You could make me believe

By the falling of your arm

That the sun rose up in the west--"

[_There is a momentary pause, filled in by--_

A VOICE. Y'oughter go courtin' with that throat o' yourn, Hank.

Mace [_as if misanthrope_]. Aw, women--

[_During the laugh that follows, an auto horn blares outside and a

bright shaft is visible through the rear windows._]

VOICES. Stage's come! Stage's come!

[_There are sounds indicating the rapid evacuation of the Bar,

and a moment later one of the rear doors is jerked open and the

Stage Driver enters, dragging in two heavy suitcases which he

deposits near the small table with appropriate grunts, meanwhile

encouraging the passengers to enter._]

STAGE DRIVER. Uh! perty lumpy bags--come in, folks, come in! Seems like

you might be carryin' all your b'longings.

[_The two passengers enter; the man, quickly, nervously, almost

furtively; the woman, with that weariness which ignores everything

except its own condition._]

STAGE DRIVER. Come in and set, lady; don't be skeered. Looks a little

spooky, but Hank'll have a glim fer ye in two shakes. [_Places a chair

for her._] Here, I know you're plumb tuckered. Make y'self t'home.

[_Looking around at the drear surroundings._] 'S fer 's yer able.

THE MAN. I thought the stage went through to Hollow Eye to-night?

DRIVER. Well, sir, she do, but this time she don't. I've been havin' to

run ten miles on low already and I jest don't _dast_ take her across

that thirty miles of sand the way she is. She'll drink water like a

thusty hoss and like as not lay down and die on us half way out. Then

where'd we be? No sir; you folks'll just have to camp here at Fever Flat

till I kin do a tinkerin' job to-morrow mornin'. So I'll step into the

Bar and tell Hank you're here. [_At the door to the Bar._] Hank'll do

the best he kin fer ye. He's a squ'ar man. Good-night to ye! [_Goes out,

leaving the door half open._]

THE MAN [_briefly_]. Good-night. [_Looking about._] What a hole! Like

somebody died here and they'd gone off and left it all stand just the

way it was. [_He goes to the open door at the rear and stares at the

naked moonlit buttes._] Them hills gits my goat. They're nothin' but

blitherin skeletons, and this bunch of shacks they call Fever Flat looks

like no more'n a damn bone yard to me. [_Shutting the door._] Ugh! it's

cold in here. Feel like I was sittin' on my own grave's edge.

THE WOMAN [_scarcely raising her head, and speaking with no emotion, in

a dead dry voice._] You didn't use to be so pernickety, when you was

punchin' on the range, Lon.

LON [_waspishly_]. And you didn't use to look like a hag, neither,

Padie.

PADIE [_with a momentary flash_]. Drink's poisoning your tongue, too.

LON [_viciously_]. Who's drinking? Cain't I take a thimbleful now'n then

without all this jawin'?

PADIE. You ain't takin' thimblefuls. You're just soakin' it up. You'll

be gettin' snakes if you keep on. 'n then, what'll _I_ do? [_Resuming

her air of weary indifference._] Not that I care so much what you do

with yourself--or what becomes of me. Nothing matters.

LON [_petulent and aggrieved_]. There you go, actin' abused. How 'bout

_my_ rights 'n pleasures? Ain't got none, I s'pose.

PADIE. Oh, shut up, you make me sick.

[_Hank enters; a ruddy, vigorous, young man, strangely out of

place among all this rubbish. He wears a barkeeper's apron and

speaks cordially._]

HANK. Howdyedo, folks! Howdye do! Well, this is a kinda rough lay-out

fer you-all. Y'see the Stage is due here at five, and stops fer grub,

then makes Hollow Eye by about nine, but here 'tis ... [_pulls out

watch_] half an hour of midnight an' I s'pose you ain't et, yet, eh?

[_Lights the glass lamp._]

PADIE. Thanks. We've had sandwiches, but maybe my husband'd like

something.

LON [_significantly_]. Wet.

[_Padie shrugs indifferently, and fixes her hair. As she turns

toward Hank, the light for the first time falls full on his face.

Padie stares fixedly at him, and half rises, with a little cry._]

LON [_with a quick, startled glance at Hank, speaks to her in a sharp,

threatening voice_]. Padie! Sit down! Are you gittin' plumb loco drivin'

out so late in autymobiles? [_To Hank, apologetically._] You kinda

flustered us, mister, cause you have a little the look a friend of ourn

that died suddint. Mournful case. Pardner o'mine. No, you're not much

like. He was tall, heavy-built and lighter complected. Must a been

consid'ble older, too.

PADIE [_almost in a whisper_]. No.

LON. Older, I say. My wife's kinda wrought up by this here little spell

of travelin'.

HANK [_sympathetically_]. Oh, you're not used to it, eh?

PADIE [_slowly and deliberately_]. We've been at it--[_draws out the

word into a burden_] years.

LON [_impatiently_]. That is, off'n on, m'dear. Only off'n on.

PADIE [_monotonously_]. All the time.

HANK [_trying to be a little jocose to break the oppressive

atmosphere_]. Should think you might hanker after yer own nest, lady.

PADIE [_rising rudely_]. Well, just keep your thoughts!

HANK [_completely abashed_]. Yes, ma'am. Your room is just at the top of

the landin'. I'll make ye a light. [_He hustles away upstairs to cover

his embarrassment, taking the suitcases with him._]

LON [_irritably_]. You're always tryin' to belittle me in public. Is

that any way fer a wife to act? I wanta know.

PADIE. What do you always lie so fer?

LON [_with rising voice_]. That's my business. I'll do as I damn please.

And don't you go too fer, crossin' me. I won't stand it. Some day I'll

up, an--

PADIE [_contemptuously_]. Beat me. That's all that's left to _you_,

wife-beater.

[_Lon raises his hand as though to strike her, but lets it fall as

Hank reappears on the landing._]

HANK. Excuse me, m'am. Have you your own towels by you? Ourn is pretty

scaly. It's been so long since we've had in women folks, at least,

ladies.

PADIE [_moving toward the stair_]. Thanks, we have some.

[_Lon to Padie as Hank, hidden from audience, descends._]

LON. You might as well be decent, Padie. You ain't got none other but

me.

PADIE [_bitterly_]. Yes, you've took me from 'em. We've been trapsin and

trapsin till I'm plumb sick. Yes, I'm--

[_Her voice breaks and she runs blindly toward the stair,

almost into the arms of Hank, which further increases his

consternation._]

HANK [_holding her off_]. Stidy, stidy. There's the ladder, m'am. Can't

I fetch you somethin'? Toddy?

[_Padie shakes her head, runs up, and slams her door._]

HANK [_to Lon in friendly fashion_]. Women folks is cur'us, cur'us.

LON [_surlily_]. Take my advice and keep free from 'em.

HANK. It was a woman did fer my brother.

LON [_with increased interest_]. Oh, you've got a brother, eh?

HANK [_simply_]. Had.

LON. Where is he?

HANK. Down at Laguna Madre, Arizony.

LON [_leaning forward and gripping the edge of the table_]. Ranchin'?

HANK. Buried.

LON [_haltingly_]. How--what were you saying--about a woman?

HANK. A woman done fer him. That's what they said, I don't know. I

didn't git there fer a long time. There was a mix-up.

LON. Well, well. That's strange.

HANK [_eagerly_]. I s'pose you heard of it? It was in all the papers. It

even got as fer as Denver.

LON. No, I don't remember. But I've read of similar cases.

HANK. You've been to Arizony, I s'pose.

LON. No, not quite. I've been all around them parts, but never Arizony.

HANK. 'Tain't what you'd call a perty country, but it's mighty

satisfyin'. Too blame cold up here.

LON. Why don't you move?

HANK. I'm agoin' to, but you see my brother had half interest in this

here tavern and there was some litigation about it. Case's just

finished. I been here three years, ever since he went. But I'm pullin'

my stakes, you bet. I wouldn't be _buried_ here! Would you?

LON [_dryly_]. I'd rather not.

HANK. So she took me fer a friend that'd croaked, eh? That's cur'us.

LON. Eh? What's that? Who?

HANK. Your wife.

LON. Oh, yes. Well, he was a good ten years older. And dark-complected.

HANK. Thought you said he was light.

LON. Mebbe I did. Well, he mought have been a trifle lighten'n you, but

then, size him up by the average, he was dark. Let's fergit him. Bring

us a bottle of your best--and see that the glass is clean.

HANK. To be sure. [_Goes out._]

[_Lon sits with his head between his hands, brooding. The voice of

Hank rises from the Bar, rendering the second verse of the

Tennessee "warble."_]

HANK [_in the Bar_].

There's many a girl can go all round about

And hear the small birds sing.

And many a girl that stays at home alone,

And rocks the cradle and spins.

[_As the song ends, the door at the rear opens soundlessly,

revealing the vast expanse of moonlit plains and desolate buttes.

Lon shivers and turns up his coat collar, finally facing about to

discover the cause of the chill. Observing the open door, he goes

to it, closes and locks it, the click of the key being distinctly

audible. He then returns and sits as before, and again the song

comes._]

HANK [_in the Bar_].

There's many a star shall jangle in the west;

There's many a leaf below.

There's many a damn that will light upon the man

For treating a poor girl so.

[_Now both of the double doors swing open, without sound. Lon

shivers, then, looking over his shoulder, suddenly gets up, glares

about him and makes hastily for the door to the Bar, where he

almost collides with Hank entering with bottle and glass._]

HANK. Here, mister, I was just comin'.

LON. What the devil's the matter with your doors?

HANK. Them? Oh, the lock's no good. When the wind's southwest they fly

right open. Got to be wedged with a shingle.

[_He goes over to the doors, slams them shut, picks up a shingle

from the floor and inserts firmly between them._]

LON [_relieved_]. H'm. Well, that's all right.

HANK. Now it's blame cur'us the way old places gits. You'll hear these

floor boards creak at times like as if som'un was sneakin' over 'em

b'ar-foot. Feller told me onct it was made by contrapshun and

temper'ture. Mebbe so, but I reckon [_knowingly_] there's more goes on

around than we give credit fer.

[_Hank dusts off the table and puts bottle and glass down. Lon

seizes them eagerly and begins drinking._]

LON [_after a couple of glasses_]. You mean--spirits?

HANK. Well, I dunno as you'd call 'em that. But it's a fact, there's

more liquor goes over the Bar than gits paid for. 'Tain't _stole_

either. It just _goes_.... As old Pete Gunderson used to say, "I'm a

hell of a th'usty p'uson, and when I croak I'll be a hell of a th'usty

spirit." I sometimes wonder--

[_Padie appears above, in a loose dressing sack, her hair hanging

in a great wavy mass, and holding a pitcher._]

PADIE. Lon, please fetch some water.

LON [_not moving_]. I don't dast go out in the night. I've caught a kind

of chill from to-day's drive.

HANK [_going up the stairs_]. I'll fetch it you, m'am.

[_She comes down to meet him and the two are momentarily hidden

from the audience. Lon continues to drink steadily, pouring down

one glass after another. Hank reappears, treading with a certain

gayety, and goes out rear, whistling the Tennessee "warble."_]

PADIE [_leaning out of the shadow of the stairway toward her husband_].

Ain't you comin' up soon, Lon?

LON [_ignoring the query_]. Scarcely no resemblance whatever.

PADIE [_with sudden fierceness_]. You lie!

[_She ascends to the top of the landing. Outside a pump cranks

dismally._]

PADIE [_relenting a little_]. You'll be seein' things, Lon, if you keep

it up.

LON [_rising, perfectly steady_]. Mind your business. Wish to hell I had

a newspaper.

[_He goes out through the door to the Bar, while Padie runs a comb

reflectively through the exuberant tumult of her dark hair. Hank

enters and stops a moment, half blinded by the light, then looks

up, and shading his eyes, smiles._]

PADIE [_coyly_]. Is it the light in your eyes, mister?

HANK [_daringly_]. It's you, ma'am, are blinding them. [_He runs up the

stairs with the pitcher._]

PADIE [_bending toward him as he comes near the top steps_]. You'd

better reach it to me. Maybe the landing'll not hold the two of us.

HANK. It'll hold two that have such light hearts as we.

PADIE. Ah, you don't know mine, mister.

HANK [_reaching her the pitcher_]. There, the clumsy mut I am! Spillt

the cold water on your pretty bare toes!

[_As she leans over to take the pitcher her hair falls suddenly

about his head, almost covering his face._]

PADIE [_drawing it back, with a deft twirl_]. I've most smothered you!

HANK. I wouldn't want a sweeter death.

PADIE [_looking down into his eyes_]. Indeed, you're the picture of--an

old lover of mine.

HANK. I'd rather be the picture of the new.

[_He makes as if to clasp her about the ankles, but she puts a

hand on his shoulder and pushes him gently back._]

PADIE. You've been very kind to a wanderer--from Arizony. Don't spoil

it. Good-night!

HANK [_turning about, mutters_]. Good-night.

[_He clatters loudly down the stairs as Lon reenters, studying a

newspaper. Lon seats himself, still absorbed. Hank favors him with

a glare of positive hatred._]

HANK [_with a sneer_]. All fixed fer the night, eh?

LON [_grunting_]. G'night.

HANK. Well, I hope you like this country better'n Arizony.

LON [_starting out of the news_]. The hell you say!

HANK. Your wife was wishing herself back there.

LON [_settling back to his paper and bottle_]. Well, that's where she

come from. I don't. Women allus want what they ain't got.

HANK [_retiring_].

When your heart was mine, true love,

And your head lay on my breast,

[_He goes out, closing the door._]

You could make me believe by the falling of your arm

That the sun rose in the west.

[_During the singing of this last stanza, the double doors swing

wide as before, revealing a Figure standing motionless outside,

bathed in moonlight. At the same time the flame in the glass lamp

begins to flicker and wane. Lon holds the paper closer to his

face, finally almost buries his nose in it, as if conscious of the

Presence, but stubbornly resolved to ignore it. The Figure moves,

and as it crosses the threshold the feeble light expires. Lon,

however, still sits, as if absorbed in the newspaper, pretending

to sip from the glass. The Figure in a thin mocking voice, echoes

the song of the other, standing just behind Lon's chair._]

THE FIGURE [_a thin echo_].

You could make me believe by the falling of your arm

That the sun rose up in the west.--

[_Lon picks up the soiled pack of cards from the table and begins

to shuffle them mechanically, nor does he once turn toward the

apparition._]

LON [_in a hoarse whisper_]. And what'r _you_ doin' here?

[_The Figure sits down nonchalantly in a chair a little to one

side of Lon's. He is dressed in the western style, that is,

without style, corduroys, heavy boots, flannel shirt. In fact, he

looks almost natural. But there is a curious dark mark in the

center of his forehead--or is it a round, dark hole?_]

LON [_petulantly_]. Cain't you stay where you was put--with a heap o'

rocks on top o' ye?

THE FIGURE [_thinly ironical_]. Can't seem to give up the old habits, y'

know.

LON [_thickly, tossing the pack down_]. What's the hell's a corpse got

to do with habits?

GHOST [_unmoved_]. You pore fool, you'll _learn_ when you come over.

LON [_huskily_]. Come over--wh'ar?

GHOST [_significantly_]. Where I am. [_Sings in a quavering voice._]

There's many a girl can go all round about

And hear the small birds sing--

LON [_snarling_]. Dry up on them corpse tunes o' yourn, Harvey Mace.

GHOST [_leering_]. Oh, you recognize me, eh? You recognize your old

friend and pardner, do you, Lon Purdy?

LON [_sullenly_]. I _knowed_ you'd come.

GHOST [_triumphantly_]. And you believe in me, eh? Well, that's good,

too.

LON [_stubbornly_]. Believe? Well! I knowed I'd be seein' things soon,

what with the booze. I knowed it'd be the snakes or you. Padie told me

I'd be seein' things.

GHOST [_maliciously_]. So you believe in _her_, anyway. Well, how's

Padie--and the children?

LON. You know damn well we ain't had none.

GHOST. What, no children! How unfortunate! The house of love not to be

graced with fruit ... sterile, sterile.

LON [_belligerently_]. Er you referrin' to me?

GHOST. To your spiritual union only, my friend. Physically, I know,

nothing was wanting for a perfect match,--female form divine to mate

with big blond beast. A race of superpeople!

LON. What the hell 'r' you gabbin'? You allus had a lot of talky-talk.

That's what made a hit with Padie, before, before--

GHOST. Before the Other Man came along and cut us both out. [_Sings._]

And many a girl that stays at home alone

And rocks the cradle and spins.

GHOST [_reflectively_]. Yes, I'm afraid we both stood up pretty poorly

alongside him. I had the words, the brain, the idea. I could charm her,

tantalize her, quicken her mind, arouse her imagination. That's why I

cut you out with her.

LON [_sneeringly_]. Gab!

GHOST. Yes, gab. It was one better to her than mere brute--guts! You

personified strength. You didn't have nerves enough to be afraid of

anything. You had endurance, cheek, deviltry, and a kind of raw good

nature. These took with the gay, immature girl she was, until I came.

You had--Guts; I had--Gab.

LON. And the Other Feller?

GHOST. He had the Gift.

LON. What you mean?

GHOST. He was a full man. His personality exuded from him like incense.

It wrapped and enfolded you and warmed you, and yet it was not a grain

feminine, but deeply, proudly masculine. You tolerated him, I--loved

him. I had the fine passion for Padie, but when I first saw the two of

them together I _knew_ she was his, or [_with a keen, stern look at

Lon_] _ought_ to be ... and she _has_ been, always.

LON [_jumping to his feet, and knocking over his chair_]. You lie like

hell! She's mine! She's been mine all these three years! I won her and I

own her! What little of love she ever had fer you or him is buried down

in Laguna Madre with the bones of both of ye! And all hell can't take

her from me!

GHOST [_rising tall and pale_]. _He_ kin, and he's done it! You

_thought_ you'd got her. But he's had her, or rather, she's had _him_ in

her heart ever since they took the rope from his neck and pronounced him

legally dead, and justice vindicated, and laid him away in the desert.

All that time since, he's belonged to her. When you laid by her side

nights, it was _his_ arm she felt about her waist, not yours; his breath

was on her cheek, and his heart was beating against hers. Oh you poor,

poor fool!

LON [_throwing his glass straight at the ghost_]. You lyin' pup!

GHOST [_bursting into a gale of eerie laughter_]. Ha! ha! ha! you _poor_

fool! _Now_ you believe in me!

[_Lon whips out his revolver and aims at the ghost, then slowly

returns it to the holster, as he realizes the futility of the

move._]

GHOST. Go on, my boy! Let's have another one here. [_He points to the

dark hole in his forehead._]

[_Lon, wiping his own face with the back of his hand, and

shuddering, slumps down into his seat and stares vacantly at the

table._]

GHOST. Another one, just like the last--for your friend and pardner.

[_He stresses the words with intense irony._] Do you remember the

_last_ time you pulled that trick? What a foxy one it was! How astutely

planned! _Planned_, my friend. I remember when we two went up the canyon

together, just such a shining night as this, I asked you why you had

borrowed--the Other Man's horse, and you said, yours was a little lame.

Oh! excellent dissembler! Most crafty of liars! You _stole_ that horse.

You stole that horse to put a rope around the Other Man's neck! You knew

the pinto was shod different from any pony in those parts. You knew

where they'd track him to, when they found the job you'd done. Then we

sat down to smokes and cards. And I remember the curious glitter in your

eyes. I was dealing. [_The Ghost shuffles the cards on the table, then

lays down the pack in front of Lon._] Cut!

[_Lon mechanically obeys._]

GHOST [_dealing_]. And after several hands, you brought up the subject

of Padie. And I told you I was out of the race--and that you'd better

get out too, because the best man already had her. And then--and then I

sensed you were going to draw, and when I had my gun out, it was empty.

Clever boy! You had it fixed right. And so you plugged me square. And

the moon and stars went out for me and I dropped into the black gulf.

[_Lon, throwing his hand down, buries his face in his hands,

groaning._]

GHOST [_pitilessly_]. You left me with my face to the stars for the

coyotes to find. Then, very coolly, you turned the Other Man's horse

toward home and sent him off cracking. And you jumped to a pinon log

that led off to a ledge of lava where your footprints wouldn't show. And

you turned up in half an hour with the boys in town. Then you inquired

casually where the Other Man was. You _knew_, you devil! You knew they'd

never get an alibi from him for that night, 'cause--Padie was with him.

Padie had her dear arms about his neck while you, clever dog! were out

fixing to put a rope there. And you done it, too! _Won_ her? Yes, you

did--like hell! After the trial was all over, and the dead buried, me

and him, you passed a dirty whisper around town about her, and then

married her, to save her good name. That's how you won her.

[_There is an immense silence, broken only by the heavy breathing of

Lon, which comes in rattling gasps._]

GHOST [_sings_].

There's many a star shall jangle in the west,

There's many a leaf below,

There's many a damn that will light upon the man

For treating a poor girl so.

GHOST. But I ain't forgot all you done for me. Neither has the Other

Man, [_with deep solemnity_] and he's come--to settle too--

LON [_staggering up_]. No! I don't believe in you! You're nothin' at

all! There ain't no--

[_Lon sways and catches at the table; as he swings around, the

figure of Another stands outside the door, a tall figure with

something white twisted about its neck. Lon with a cry of horror

puts out his arms as if to ward off the apparition and backs

slowly toward the left wall._]

FIRST GHOST [_coming toward him_]. Murderer! betrayer! We've come to

settle!

LON [_screaming_]. No! no! no! I don't believe--

[_He falls, and the pile of rubbishy furniture topples over on to

him with a crash. The two apparitions vanish. The door to the bar

is flung open and Hank leaps in, at the same moment that Padie

appears above, whitely clad._]

PADIE. Lon! Lon! What's the matter?

HANK [_going toward the pile of stuff_]. Go back! It's something

terrible.

[_He heaves the heavy pieces from the body and drags it out, as

Padie, with a long cry, flies down the stairs. He feels the breast

quickly and rises before Padie reaches the table._]

HANK. I'm afraid he's done for.

PADIE [_drawing a deep quivering breath_]. Oh.

HANK. He must 'a' fell.

PADIE. I knew--drink'd do fer him.

HANK. Did you--love him--so much?

PADIE [_very low_]. Once--a little. [_With sudden, fierce joy._] I don't

care! Now--I kin--live!

HANK [_looking out over the desert where the dawn begins to show_]. Both

of us.

[_Curtain._]

THE SLAVE WITH TWO FACES

AN ALLEGORY

BY MARY CAROLYN DAVIES

Reprinted from No. 6, of the "Flying Stag Plays," published by Egmont

Arens, by special permission of Miss Davies. The professional and

amateur stage rights on this play are strictly reserved by the author.

Applications for permission to produce this play should be made to

Egmont Arens, 17 West 8th Street, New York.

THE SLAVE WITH TWO FACES was first produced in New York City by the

Provincetown Players, on January 25th, 1918, with the following cast:

LIFE, THE SLAVE _Ida Rauh._

FIRST GIRL _Blanche Hays._

SECOND GIRL _Dorothy Upjohn._

A WOMAN _Alice MacDougal._

A MAN _O. K. Liveright._

A YOUNG MAN _Hutchinson Collins._

A WORKMAN _O. K. Liveright._

_And Others._

Scene designed by Norman Jacobsen. Produced under the direction of

Nina Moise. Incidental music written by Alfred Kreymborg.

THE SLAVE WITH TWO FACES

AN ALLEGORY BY MARY CAROLYN DAVIES

[_THE SCENE is a wood through which runs a path. Wild rose bushes

and other wood-things border it. On opposite sides of the path

stand two girls waiting. They have not looked at each other. The

girls wear that useful sort of gown which, with the addition of a

crown, makes a queen--without, makes a peasant. The first girl

wears a crown. The second carries one carelessly in her hand._]

FIRST GIRL [_looking across at the other_]. For whom are you waiting?

SECOND GIRL. I am waiting for Life.

FIRST GIRL. I am waiting for Life also.

SECOND GIRL. They said that he would pass this way. Do you believe that

he will pass this way?

FIRST GIRL. He passes all ways.

SECOND GIRL [_still breathing quickly_]. I ran to meet Life.

FIRST GIRL. Are you not afraid of him?

SECOND GIRL. Yes. That is why I ran to meet him.

FIRST GIRL [_to herself_]. I, too, ran to meet him.

SECOND GIRL. Ah! he is coming!

FIRST GIRL. No. It is only the little quarreling words of the leaves,

and the winds that are always urging them to go away.

SECOND GIRL. The leaves do not go.

FIRST GIRL. Some day they will go. And that the wind knows.

FIRST GIRL. Why are you not wearing your crown?

SECOND GIRL. Why should we wear crowns? [_She places the crown upon her

head._]

FIRST GIRL. Do you not know?

SECOND GIRL. No.

FIRST GIRL. That is all of wisdom--the wearing of crowns before the eyes

of Life.

SECOND GIRL. I do not understand you.

FIRST GIRL. Few understand wisdom--even those who need it most--

SECOND GIRL. He is coming! I heard a sound.

FIRST GIRL. It was only the sound of a petal dreaming that it had fallen

from the rose-tree.

SECOND GIRL. I have waited--

FIRST GIRL. We all long for him. We cry out to him. When he comes, he

hurts us, he tortures us. He kills us, unless we know the secret.

SECOND GIRL. What is the secret?

FIRST GIRL. That he is a slave. He pretends! He pretends! But always he

knows in his heart that he is a slave. Only of those who have learned

his secret is he afraid.

SECOND GIRL. Tell me more!

FIRST GIRL. Over those who are afraid of him he is a tyrant. He

obeys--Kings and Queens!

SECOND GIRL. Then that--

FIRST GIRL. --Is why we must never let him see us without our crowns!

SECOND GIRL. How do you know these things?

FIRST GIRL. They were told me by an old wise man, who sits outside the

gate of our town.

SECOND GIRL. How did he know? Because he was one of those who are kings?

FIRST GIRL. No. Because he was one of those who are afraid.

SECOND GIRL [_dreamily_]. I have heard that Life is very beautiful. Is

he so? I have heard also that he is supremely ugly; that his mouth is

wide and grinning, that his eyes slant, and his nostrils are thick. Is

he so?--or is he--very beautiful?

FIRST GIRL. Perhaps you will see--for yourself--Ah!

SECOND GIRL.

[_As Life saunters into view at the farthest bend of the path. He

walks like a conqueror. But there is something ugly in his

appearance. Life sees the girls just as a sudden sun-ray catches

the jewels of their crowns. He cringes and walks like a hunchback

slave. He is beautiful now._]

FIRST GIRL. He has seen our crowns!

SECOND GIRL. Ah!

FIRST GIRL. Remember! You are only safe--as long as you remain his

master. Never forget that he is a slave, and that you are a queen.

SECOND GIRL [_to herself_]. I must never let him see me without my

crown.

FIRST GIRL. Hush! He is coming!

SECOND GIRL. He is very beautiful--

FIRST GIRL. While he is a slave.

SECOND GIRL [_not hearing_]. He is--very beautiful--

FIRST GIRL. Life!

[_Life bows to the ground at her feet._]

SECOND GIRL [_in delight_]. Ah!

FIRST GIRL. Life, I would have opals on a platter.

[_Life bows in assent._]

SECOND GIRL. Oh-h!

FIRST GIRL. And pearls!

[_Life bows._]

SECOND GIRL. Ah!

FIRST GIRL. And a little castle set within a hedge.

[_Life bows._]

SECOND GIRL. Yes--

FIRST GIRL. I would have a fair prince to think tinkling words about me.

And I would have a strawberry tart, with little flutings in the crust.

Go, see that these things are made ready for me.

[_Life bows in assent and turns to go._]

SECOND GIRL. Ah!

FIRST GIRL. See? It is so that one must act. It is thus one must manage

him. So and not otherwise it is done. Now--do you try. [_She plucks a

rose from a bush beside her, and twirls it in her fingers._]

SECOND GIRL. Life! [_Life kneels._] I have a wish for a gown of gold.

[_Life bows._]

FIRST GIRL. Yes!

[_And over his bowed head, the two laugh gayly at the ease of his

subjection._]

SECOND GIRL. And a little garden where I may walk and think of trumpets

blowing.

[_Life bows._]

SECOND GIRL. It is a good rule.

FIRST GIRL [_calling slave back as he is leaving_]. I have a wish for a

gray steed. [_Life bows._] Bring me a little page, too. With golden

hair. And with a dimple.

[_Life acquiesces, and starts to leave._]