THE NEIGHBOR [_with a sneer_]. Christmas_Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays

Beckers? Well, they was all put out on the sidewalk this afternoon.

Becker's been sick, ye know, an' ain't paid his rent an' his wife's got

a two weeks' old baby. It sort o' stunned Mis' Becker, an' she sat on

one of the mattresses out there an' wouldn't move, an' nobody couldn't

do nothin' with her. But they ain't the only ones has bad luck--Smith,

the painter, fell off a ladder an' got killed. They took him to the

hospital, but it wasn't no use--his head was all mashed in. His wife's

got them five boys an' Smith never saved a cent, though he warn't a

drinkin' man. It's a good thing Smith's children is boys--they can make

their livin' easier!

THE WOMAN [_smiling faintly_]. Ain't ye got no cheerful news to tell?

It's Christmas Eve, ye know.

THE NEIGHBOR. Christmas Eve don't seem to prevent people from dyin' an'

bein' turned out o' house an' home. Did ye hear how bad the dipthery is?

They say as how if it gits much worse they'll have to close the school

in our ward. Two o' the Homan children's dead with it. The first one

wasn't sick but two days, an' they say his face all turned black 'fore

he died. But it's a good thing they're gone, for the Homans ain't got

enough to feed the other six. Did ye hear 'bout Jim Kelly drinkin'

again? Swore off for two months, an' then took to it harder'n

ever--perty near killed the baby one night.

THE WOMAN [_with a wan, beseeching smile_]. Won't you please not tell me

any more? It just breaks me heart.

THE NEIGHBOR [_grimly_]. I ain't got no other kind o' news to tell. I

s'pose I might's well go home.

THE WOMAN. No, don't ye go. I like to have ye here when ye're kinder.

THE NEIGHBOR [_fingering the bed clothes and smoothing them over the

woman_]. Well, it's gettin' late, an' I guess ye ought to go to sleep.

THE WOMAN. Oh, no, I won't go to slape till the girls come. They'll

bring me somethin' to give me strength. If they'd on'y come soon.

THE NEIGHBOR. Ye ain't goin' to set up 'til they git home?

THE OLD WOMAN. That we are. We're kapin' the cilebratin' till they come.

THE NEIGHBOR. What celebratin'?

THE OLD WOMAN. Why, the Christmas, to be shure. We're goin' to have high

jinks to-night. In the ould counthry 'tis always Christmas Day, but here

'tis begun on Christmas Eve, an' we're on'y waitin' for the girls,

because they know how to fix things betther nor Mary an' me.

THE NEIGHBOR [_staring_]. But ain't they workin' in the store?

THE OLD WOMAN. Yes, but they're comin' home early to-night.

THE NEIGHBOR [_laughing ironically_]. Don't ye fool yerselves. Why,

they've got to work harder to-night than any in the whole year.

THE WOMAN [_wistfully_]. But they did say they'd thry to come home

early.

THE NEIGHBOR. The store's all crowded to-night. Folks 'at's got money

to spend never remembers it till the last minute. If they didn't have

none they'd be thinkin' 'bout it long ahead. Well, I got to be movin'. I

wouldn't stay awake, if I was you.

THE OLD WOMAN. Sthay and kape the Christmas wid us! We'll be havin' high

jinks by an' by. Sthay, now, an' help us wid our jollity!

THE NEIGHBOR. Nay, I left my children in bed, an' I got to go back to

'em. An' I got to get some rest myself--I got that ironin' ahead o' me

in the mornin'. You folks better get yer own rest. [_She rises and walks

to the door._]

THE OLD WOMAN [_beamingly_]. David an' Michael's comin'. [_The Neighbor

stands with her back against the door and her hand on the knob, staring

at the Old Woman._]

THE OLD WOMAN [_smiling rapturously_]. Yis, we're goin' to have a gran'

time. [_The Neighbor looks puzzled and fearful and troubled, first at

the Woman and then at the Old Woman. Finally, without a word, she opens

the door and goes out._]

THE OLD WOMAN [_going about in a tottering sort of dance_]. David an'

Michael's comin' an' the shepherds for the fairies will show thim the

way.

THE WOMAN. If the girls would on'y come! If they'd give me somethin' so

as I wouldn't be so tired!

THE OLD WOMAN. There's niver a sthar an' there's nobody to give thim a

kind word an' the counthry roads are dark an' foul, but they've got the

little folk to guide thim! An' whin they reach the city--the poor,

lonesome shepherds from the hills!--they'll find naught but coldness an'

hardness an' hurry. [_Questioningly._] Will the fairies show thim the

way? Fairies' eyes be used to darkness, but can they see where it is

black night in one corner an' a blaze o' light in another? [_She goes to

the window for the third time, opens it and leans far out for a long

time, then turns about and goes on in her monotone, closing the

window.--She seems by this time quite to have forgotten the presence of

the pallid woman on the bed, who has closed her eyes, and lies like one

dead._]

THE OLD WOMAN. Nay, there's niver a sthar, an' the clouds are hangin'

heavier an' lower an' the flakes o' snow are fallin'. Poor little folk

guidin' thim poor lost shepherds, leadin' thim by the hand so gently

because there's no others to be kind to thim, an' bringin' thim to the

manger o' the Blessed Babe. [_She comes over to her rocking-chair and

again sits down in it, rocks slowly to and fro, nodding her head in time

to the motion._] Poor little mite of a babe, so cold an' unwelcome an'

forgotten save by the silly ould shepherds from the hills! The silly

ould shepherds from the strength o' the hills, who are comin' through

the darkness in the lead o' the little folk! [_She speaks slower and

lower, and finally drops into a quiet crooning--it stops and the Old

Woman has fallen asleep._]

[_Curtain._]

[_While the curtain is down the pallid, sick woman upon the bed

dies, the Old Woman being asleep does not notice the slight

struggle with death. The fire has gone out in the stove, and the

light in the lamp, and the stage is in complete darkness when the

two girls come stumbling in. They are too tired to speak, too

weary to show surprise that the occupants of the room are not

awake. They fumble about, trying to find matches in the darkness,

and finally discover them and a candle in the safe. They light the

candle and place it upon the table by the scraggy little

evergreen-tree. They turn about and discern their grandmother

asleep in the rocking-chair. Hurriedly they turn to the bed and

discover their mother lying there dead. For a full minute they

stand gazing at her, the surprise, wonder, awe, misery increasing

in their faces; then with screams they run to the bed, throw

themselves on their knees and bury their faces, sobbing, in the

bedclothes at the Woman's feet._]

[_Curtain._]

ILE

A PLAY

BY EUGENE G. O'NEILL

CHARACTERS

BEN [_the cabin boy_].

THE STEWARD.

CAPTAIN KEENEY.

SLOCUM [_second mate_].

MRS. KEENEY.

JOE [_a harpooner_].

_Members of the crew of the Atlantic Queen._

ILE was first produced by the Provincetown Players, New York City, on

the night of November 30th, 1917, with the following cast:

BEN [_the cabin boy_] _Harold Conley_.

THE STEWARD _Robert Edwards_.

CAPTAIN KEENEY _H. Collins_.

MR. SLOCUM [_second mate_] _Ira Remsen_.

MRS. KEENEY _Clara Savage_.

JOE [_the harpooner_] _Lewis B. Ell_.

Produced under the direction of MISS NINA MOISE. Scenery by MR. LEWIS

B. ELL.

Reprinted from "The Moon of the Caribbees and Six Other Plays of the

Sea" by special permission of Eugene O'Neill. The professional and

amateur stage rights on this play are strictly reserved by the author.

Applications for permission to produce the play should be made to Mr.

Eugene G. O'Neill, Provincetown, Mass.

ILE

A PLAY BY EUGENE G. O'NEILL

[_SCENE: Captain Keeney's cabin on board the steam whaling ship

Atlantic Queen--a small, square compartment about eight feet high

with a skylight in the center looking out on the poop deck. On the

left (the stern of the ship) a long bench with rough cushions is

built in against the wall. In front of the bench a table. Over the

bench, several curtained port-holes._

_In the rear left, a door leading to the captain's sleeping

quarters. To the right of the door a small organ, looking as if it

were brand new, is placed against the wall._

_On the right, to the rear, a marble-topped sideboard. On the

sideboard, a woman's sewing basket. Farther forward, a doorway

leading to the companion-way, and past the officers' quarters to

the main deck._

_In the center of the room, a stove. From the middle of the

ceiling a hanging lamp is suspended. The walls of the cabin are

painted white._

_There is no rolling of the ship, and the light which comes

through the sky-light is sickly and faint, indicating one of those

gray days of calm when ocean and sky are alike dead. The silence

is unbroken except for the measured tread of some one walking up

and down on the poop deck overhead._

_It is nearing two bells--one o'clock--in the afternoon of a day

in the year 1895._

* * * * *

_At the rise of the curtain there is a moment of intense silence.

Then The Steward enters and commences to clear the table of the

few dishes which still remain on it after the Captain's dinner. He

is an old, grizzled man dressed in dungaree pants, a sweater, and

a woolen cap with ear flaps. His manner is sullen and angry. He

stops stacking up the plates and casts a quick glance upward at

the skylight; then tiptoes over to the closed door in rear and

listens with his ear pressed to the crack. What he hears makes his

face darken and he mutters a furious curse. There is a noise from

the doorway on the right and he darts back to the table._

_Ben enters. He is an over-grown gawky boy with a long, pinched

face. He is dressed in sweater, fur cap, etc. His teeth are

chattering with the cold and he hurries to the stove where he

stands for a moment shivering, blowing on his hands, slapping them

against his sides, on the verge of crying._]

THE STEWARD [_in relieved tones--seeing who it is_]. Oh, 'tis you, is

it? What're ye shiverin' 'bout? Stay by the stove where ye belong and

ye'll find no need of chatterin'.

BEN. It's c-c-cold. [_Trying to control his chattering

teeth--derisively._] Who d'ye think it were--the Old Man?

THE STEWARD [_makes a threatening move--Ben shrinks away_]. None o' your

lip, young un, or I'll learn ye. [_More kindly._] Where was it ye've

been all o' the time--the fo'c's'tle?

BEN. Yes.

THE STEWARD. Let the Old Man see ye up for'ard monkeyshinin' with the

hands and ye'll get a hidin' ye'll not forget in a hurry.

BEN. Aw, he don't see nothin'. [_A trace of awe in his tones--he glances

upward._] He jest walks up and down like he didn't notice nobody--and

stares at the ice to the no'the'ard.

THE STEWARD [_the same tone of awe creeping into his voice_]. He's

always starin' at the ice. [_In a sudden rage, shaking his fist at the

skylight._] Ice, ice, ice! Damn him and damn the ice! Holdin' us in for

nigh on a year--nothin' to see but ice--stuck in it like a fly in

molasses!

BEN [_apprehensively_]. Ssshh! He'll hear ye.

THE STEWARD [_raging_]. Aye, damn, and damn the Arctic seas, and damn

this rotten whalin' ship of his, and damn me for a fool to ever ship on

it! [_Subsiding as if realizing the uselessness of this

outburst--shaking his head--slowly, with deep conviction._] He's a hard

man--as hard a man as ever sailed the seas.

BEN [_solemnly_]. Aye.

THE STEWARD. The two years we all signed up for are done this day! Two

years o' this dog's life, and no luck in the fishin', and the hands half

starved with the food runnin' low, rotten as it is; and not a sign of

him turnin' back for home! [_Bitterly._] Home! I begin to doubt if ever

I'll set foot on land again. [_Excitedly._] What is it he thinks he's

goin' to do? Keep us all up here after our time is worked out till the

last man of us is starved to death or frozen? We've grub enough hardly

to last out the voyage back if we started now. What are the men goin' to

do 'bout it? Did ye hear any talk in the fo'c's'tle?

BEN [_going over to him--in a half whisper_]. They said if he don't put

back south for home to-day they're goin' to mutiny.

THE STEWARD [_with grim satisfaction_]. Mutiny? Aye, 'tis the only thing

they can do; and serve him right after the manner he's treated them--'s

if they weren't no better nor dogs.

BEN. The ice is all broke up to s'uth'ard. They's clear water s'far 's

you can see. He ain't got no excuse for not turnin' back for home, the

men says.

THE STEWARD [_bitterly_]. He won't look nowheres but no'the'ard where

they's only the ice to see. He don't want to see no clear water. All he

thinks on is gettin' the ile--'s if it was our fault he ain't had good

luck with the whales. [_Shaking his head._] I think the man's mighty

nigh losin' his senses.

BEN [_awed_]. D'you really think he's crazy?

THE STEWARD. Aye, it's the punishment o' God on him. Did ye ever hear of

a man who wasn't crazy do the things he does? [_Pointing to the door in

rear._] Who but a man that's mad would take his woman--and as sweet a

woman as ever was--on a rotten whalin' ship to the Arctic seas to be

locked in by the ice for nigh on a year, and maybe lose her senses

forever--for it's sure she'll never be the same again.

BEN [_sadly_]. She useter be awful nice to me before--[_His eyes grow

wide and frightened._] she got--like she is.

THE STEWARD. Aye, she was good to all of us. 'Twould have been hell on

board without her; for he's a hard man--a hard, hard man--a driver if

there ever was one. [_With a grim laugh._] I hope he's satisfied

now--drivin' her on till she's near lost her mind. And who could blame

her? 'Tis a God's wonder we're not a ship full of crazed people--with

the ice all the time, and the quiet so thick you're afraid to hear your

own voice.

BEN [_with a frightened glance toward the door on right_]. She don't

never speak to me no more--jest looks at me 's if she didn't know me.

THE STEWARD. She don't know no one--but him. She talks to him--when she

does talk--right enough.

BEN. She does nothin' all day long now but sit and sew--and then she

cries to herself without makin' no noise. I've seen her.

THE STEWARD. Aye, I could hear her through the door a while back.

BEN [_tiptoes over to the door and listens_]. She's cryin' now.

THE STEWARD [_furiously--shaking his fist_]. God send his soul to hell

for the devil he is!

[_There is the noise of some one coming slowly down the

companion-way stairs. The Steward hurries to his stacked-up

dishes. He is so nervous from fright that he knocks off the top

one which falls and breaks on the floor. He stands aghast,

trembling with dread. Ben is violently rubbing off the organ with

a piece of cloth which he has snatched from his pocket. Captain

Keeney appears in the doorway on right and comes into the cabin,

removing his fur cap as he does so. He is a man of about forty,

around five-ten in height but looking much shorter on account of

the enormous proportions of his shoulders and chest. His face is

massive and deeply lined, with gray-blue eyes of a bleak hardness,

and a tightly-clenched, thin-lipped mouth. His thick hair is long

and gray. He is dressed in a heavy blue jacket and blue pants

stuffed into his sea-boots. He is followed into the cabin by the

Second Mate, a rangy six-footer with a lean weather-beaten face.

The Mate is dressed about the same as the captain. He is a man of

thirty or so._]

KEENEY [_comes toward The Steward with a stern look on his face. The

Steward is visibly frightened and the stack of dishes rattles in his

trembling hands. Keeney draws back his fist and The Steward shrinks

away. The fist is gradually lowered and Keeney speaks slowly_]. 'Twould

be like hitting a worm. It is nigh on two bells, Mr. Steward, and this

truck not cleared yet.

THE STEWARD [_stammering_]. Y-y-yes, sir.

KEENEY. Instead of doin' your rightful work ye've been below here

gossipin' old women's talk with that boy. [_To Ben, fiercely._] Get out

o' this you! Clean up the chart room. [_Ben darts past the Mate to the

open doorway._] Pick up that dish, Mr. Steward!

THE STEWARD [_doing so with difficulty_]. Yes, sir.

KEENEY. The next dish you break, Mr. Steward, you take a bath in the

Behring Sea at the end of a rope.

THE STEWARD [_trembling_]. Yes, sir.

[_He hurries out. The Second Mate walks slowly over to the

Captain._]

MATE. I warn't 'specially anxious the man at the wheel should catch what

I wanted to say to you, sir. That's why I asked you to come below.

KEENEY [_impatiently_]. Speak your say, Mr. Slocum.

MATE [_unconsciously lowering his voice_]. I'm afeared there'll be

trouble with the hands by the look o' things. They'll likely turn ugly,

every blessed one o' them, if you don't put back. The two years they

signed up for is up to-day.

KEENEY. And d'you think you're tellin' me something new, Mr. Slocum?

I've felt it in the air this long time past. D'you think I've not seen

their ugly looks and the grudgin' way they worked?

[_The door in rear is opened and Mrs. Keeney stands in the

doorway. She is a slight, sweet-faced little woman, primly dressed

in black. Her eyes are red from weeping and her face drawn and

pale. She takes in the cabin with a frightened glance and stands

as if fixed to the spot by some nameless dread, clasping and

unclasping her hands nervously. The two men turn and look at

her._]

KEENEY [_with rough tenderness_]. Well, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY [_as if awakening from a dream_]. David, I--

[_She is silent. The Mate starts for the doorway._]

KEENEY [_turning to him--sharply_]. Wait!

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY. D'you want anything, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY [_after a pause during which she seems to be endeavoring to

collect her thoughts_]. I thought maybe--I'd go up on deck, David, to

get a breath of fresh air.

[_She stands humbly awaiting his permission. He and The Mate

exchange a significant glance._]

KEENEY. It's too cold, Annie. You'd best stay below. There's nothing to

look at on deck--but ice.

MRS. KEENEY [_monotonously_]. I know--ice, ice, ice! But there's nothing

to see down here but these walls.

[_She makes a gesture of loathing._]

KEENEY. You can play the organ, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY [_dully_]. I hate the organ. It puts me in mind of home.

KEENEY [_a touch of resentment in his voice_]. I got it jest for you!

MRS. KEENEY [_dully_]. I know. [_She turns away from them and walks

slowly to the bench on left. She lifts up one of the curtains and looks

through a porthole; then utters an exclamation of joy._] Ah, water!

Clear water! As far as I can see! How good it looks after all these

months of ice! [_She turns round to them, her face transfigured with

joy._] Ah, now I must go up on deck and look at it, David!

KEENEY [_frowning_]. Best not to-day, Annie. Best wait for a day when

the sun shines.

MRS. KEENEY [_desperately_]. But the sun never shines in this terrible

place.

KEENEY [_a tone of command in his voice_]. Best not to-day, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY [_crumbling before this command--abjectly_]. Very well,

David.

[_She stands there, staring straight before her as if in a

daze.--The two men look at her uneasily._]

KEENEY [_sharply_]. Annie!

MRS. KEENEY [_dully_]. Yes, David.

KEENEY. Me and Mr. Slocum has business to talk about--ship's business.

MRS. KEENEY. Very well, David.

[_She goes slowly out, rear, and leaves the door three-quarters

shut behind her._]

KEENEY. Best not have her on deck if they's goin' to be any trouble.

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY. And trouble they's going to be. I feel it in my bones. [_Takes a

revolver from the pocket of his coat and examines it._] Got your'n?

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY. Not that we'll have to use 'em--not if I know their breed of

dog--jest to frighten 'em up a bit. [_Grimly._] I ain't never been

forced to use one yit; and trouble I've had by land and by sea s'long as

I kin remember, and will have till my dyin' day, I reckon.

MATE [_hesitatingly_]. Then you ain't goin'--to turn back?

KEENEY. Turn back! Mr. Slocum, did you ever hear o' me pointin' s'uth

for home with only a measly four hundred barrel of ile in the hold?

MATE [_hastily_]. But the grub's gittin' low.

KEENEY. They's enough to last a long time yit, if they're careful with

it; and they's plenty of water.

MATE. They say it's not fit to eat--what's left; and the two years they

signed on fur is up to-day. They might make trouble for you in the

courts when we git home.

KEENEY. Let them make what law trouble they kin! I don't give a damn

'bout the money. I've got to git the ile! [_Glancing sharply at the

Mate._] You ain't turnin' no sea lawyer, be you, Mr. Slocum?

MATE [_flushing_]. Not by a hell of a sight, sir.

KEENEY. What do the fools want to go home fur now? Their share o' the

four hundred barrel wouldn't keep them in chewin' terbacco.

MATE [_slowly_]. They wants to git back to their old folks an' things, I

s'pose.

KEENEY [_looking at him searchingly_]. 'N you want to turn back too.

[_The Mate looks down confusedly before his sharp gaze._] Don't lie, Mr.

Slocum. It's writ down plain in your eyes. [_With grim sarcasm._] I

hope, Mr. Slocum, you ain't agoin' to jine the men agin me.

MATE [_indignantly_]. That ain't fair, sir, to say sich things.

KEENEY [_with satisfaction_]. I warn't much afeard o' that, Tom. You

been with me nigh on ten year and I've learned ye whalin'. No man kin

say I ain't a good master, if I be a hard one.

MATE. I warn't thinkin' of myself, sir--'bout turnin' home, I mean.

[_Desperately._] But Mrs. Keeney, sir--seems like she ain't jest

satisfied up here, ailin' like--what with the cold an' bad luck an' the

ice an' all.

KEENEY [_his face clouding--rebukingly, but not severely_]. That's my

business, Mr. Slocum. I'll thank you to steer a clear course o' that.

[_A pause._] The ice'll break up soon to no'the'ard. I could see it

startin' to-day. And when it goes and we git some sun Annie'll pick up.

[_Another pause--then he bursts forth._] It ain't the damned money

what's keepin' me up in the Northern seas, Tom. But I can't go back to

Homeport with a measly four hundred barrel of ile. I'd die fust. I ain't

never come back home in all my days without a full ship. Ain't that

true?

MATE. Yes, sir; but this voyage you been ice-bound, an'--

KEENEY [_scornfully_]. And d'you s'pose any of 'em would believe

that--any o' them skippers I've beaten voyage after voyage? Can't you

hear 'em laughin' and sneerin'--Tibbots n' Harris n' Simms and the

rest--and all o' Homeport makin' fun o' me? "Dave Keeney, what boasts

he's the best whalin' skipper out o' Homeport, comin' back with a measly

four hundred barrel of ile!" [_The thought of this drives him into a

frenzy and he smashes his fist down on the marble top of the

sideboard._] I got to git the ile, I tell you! How could I figger on

this ice? It's never been so bad before in the thirty year I been

acomin' here. And now it's breakin' up. In a couple o' days it'll be all

gone. And they's whale here, plenty of 'em. I know they is and I ain't

never gone wrong yit. I got to git the ile! I got to git it in spite of

all hell, and by God, I ain't agoin' home till I do git it!

[_There is the sound of subdued sobbing from the door in rear. The

two men stand silent for a moment, listening. Then Keeney goes

over to the door and looks in. He hesitates for a moment as if he

were going to enter--then closes the door softly. Joe, the

harpooner, an enormous six-footer with a battered, ugly face,

enters from right and stands waiting for the Captain to notice

him._]

KEENEY [_turning and seeing him_]. Don't be standin' there like a hawk,

Harpooner. Speak up!

JOE [_confusedly_]. We want--the men, sir--they wants to send a

depitation aft to have a word with you.

KEENEY [_furiously_]. Tell 'em to go to--[_Checks himself and continues

grimly._] Tell 'em to come. I'll see 'em.

JOE. Aye, aye, sir.

[_He goes out._]

KEENEY [_with a grim smile_]. Here it comes, the trouble you spoke of,

Mr. Slocum, and we'll make short shift of it. It's better to crush such

things at the start than let them make headway.

MATE [_worriedly_]. Shall I wake up the First and Fourth, sir? We might

need their help.

KEENEY. No, let them sleep. I'm well able to handle this alone, Mr.

Slocum.

[_There is the shuffling of footsteps from outside and five of the

crew crowd into the cabin, led by Joe. All are dressed

alike--sweaters, sea boots, etc. They glance uneasily at the

Captain, twirling their fur caps in their hands._]

KEENEY [_after a pause_]. Well? Who's to speak fur ye?

JOE [_stepping forward with an air of bravado_]. I be.

KEENEY [_eyeing him up and down coldly_]. So you be. Then speak your say

and be quick about it.

JOE [_trying not to wilt before the Captain's glance and avoiding his

eyes_]. The time we signed up for is done to-day.

KEENEY [_icily_]. You're tellin' me nothin' I don't know.

JOE. You ain't p'intin' fur home yit, far s'we kin see.

KEENEY. No, and I ain't agoin' to till this ship is full of ile.

JOE. You can't go no further no'the with the ice before ye.

KEENEY. The ice is breaking up.

JOE [_after a slight pause, during which the others mumble angrily to

one another_]. The grub we're gittin' now is rotten.

KEENEY. It's good enough fur ye. Better men than ye are have eaten

worse.

[_There is a chorus of angry exclamations from the crowd._]

JOE [_encouraged by this support_]. We ain't agoin' to work no more less

you puts back for home.

KEENEY [_fiercely_]. You ain't, ain't you?

JOE. No; and the law courts'll say we was right.

KEENEY. To hell with your law courts! We're at sea now and I'm the law

on this ship! [_Edging up toward the harpooner._] And every mother's son

of you what don't obey orders goes in irons.

[_There are more angry exclamations from the crew. Mrs. Keeney

appears in the doorway in rear and looks on with startled eyes.

None of the men notice her._]

JOE [_with bravado_]. Then we're agoin' to mutiny and take the old

hooker home ourselves. Ain't we, boys?

[_As he turns his head to look at the others, Keeney's fist shoots

out to the side of his jaw. Joe goes down in a heap and lies

there. Mrs. Keeney gives a shriek and hides her face in her hands.

The men pull out their sheath knives and start a rush, but stop

when they find themselves confronted by the revolvers of Keeney

and the Mate._]

KEENEY [_his eyes and voice snapping_]. Hold still! [_The men stand

huddled together in a sullen silence. Keeney's voice is full of

mockery._] You's found out it ain't safe to mutiny on this ship, ain't

you? And now git for'ard where ye belong, and--[_He gives Joe's body a

contemptuous kick._] drag him with you. And remember, the first man of

ye I see shirkin' I'll shoot dead as sure as there's a sea under us, and

you can tell the rest the same. Git for'ard now! Quick! [_The men leave

in cowed silence, carrying Joe with them. Keeney turns to the Mate with

a short laugh and puts his revolver back in his pocket._] Best get up on

deck, Mr. Slocum, and see to it they don't try none of their skulkin'

tricks. We'll have to keep an eye peeled from now on. I know 'em.

MATE. Yes, sir.

[_He goes out, right. Keeney hears his wife's hysterical weeping

and turns around in surprise--then walks slowly to her side._]

KEENEY [_putting an arm around her shoulder--with gruff tenderness_].

There, there, Annie. Don't be feared. It's all past and gone.

MRS. KEENEY [_shrinking away from him_]. Oh, I can't bear it! I can't

bear it any longer!

KEENEY [_gently_]. Can't bear what, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY [_hysterically_]. All this horrible brutality, and these

brutes of men, and this terrible ship, and this prison cell of a room,

and the ice all around, and the silence.

[_After this outburst she calms down and wipes her eyes with her

handkerchief._]

KEENEY [_after a pause during which he looks down at her with a puzzled

frown_]. Remember, I warn't hankerin' to have you come on this voyage,

Annie.

MRS. KEENEY. I wanted to be with you, David, don't you see? I didn't

want to wait back there in the house all alone as I've been doing these

last six years since we were married--waiting, and watching, and

fearing--with nothing to keep my mind occupied--not able to go back

teaching school on account of being Dave Keeney's wife. I used to dream

of sailing on the great, wide, glorious ocean. I wanted to be by your

side in the danger and vigorous life of it all. I wanted to see you the

hero they make you out to be in Homeport. And instead [_Her voice grows

tremulous_] all I find is ice and cold--and brutality! [_Her voice

breaks._]

KEENEY. I warned you what it'd be, Annie. "Whalin' ain't no ladies' tea

party," I says to you, "and you better stay to home where you've got all

your woman's comforts." [_Shaking his head._] But you was so set on it.

MRS. KEENEY [_wearily_]. Oh, I know it isn't your fault, David. You see,

I didn't believe you. I guess I was dreaming about the old Vikings in

the story books and I thought you were one of them.

KEENEY [_protestingly_]. I done my best to make it as cozy and

comfortable as could be. [_Mrs. Keeney looks around her in wild scorn._]

I even sent to the city for that organ for ye, thinkin' it might be

soothin' to ye to be playin' it times when they was calms and things was

dull like.

MRS. KEENEY [_wearily_]. Yes, you were very kind, David. I know that.

[_She goes to left and lifts the curtains from the porthole and looks

out--then suddenly bursts forth_]: I won't stand it--I can't stand

it--pent up by these walls like a prisoner. [_She runs over to him and

throws her arms around him, weeping. He puts his arm protectingly over

her shoulders._] Take me away from here, David! If I don't get away from

here, out of this terrible ship, I'll go mad! Take me home, David! I

can't think any more. I feel as if the cold and the silence were

crushing down on my brain. I'm afraid. Take me home!

KEENEY [_holds her at arm's length and looks at her face anxiously_].

Best go to bed, Annie. You ain't yourself. You got fever. Your eyes look

so strange like. I ain't never seen you look this way before.

MRS. KEENEY [_laughing hysterically_]. It's the ice and the cold and the

silence--they'd make any one look strange.

KEENEY [_soothingly_]. In a month or two, with good luck, three at the

most, I'll have her filled with ile and then we'll give her everything

she'll stand and p'int for home.

MRS. KEENEY. But we can't wait for that--I can't wait. I want to get

home. And the men won't wait. They want to get home. It's cruel, it's

brutal for you to keep them. You must sail back. You've got no excuse.

There's clear water to the south now. If you've a heart at all you've

got to turn back.

KEENEY [_harshly_]. I can't, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY. Why can't you?

KEENEY. A woman couldn't rightly understand my reason.

MRS. KEENEY [_wildly_]. Because it's a stubborn reason. Oh, I heard you

talking with the second mate. You're afraid the other captains will

sneer at you because you didn't come back with a full ship. You want to

live up to your silly reputation even if you do have to beat and starve

men and drive me mad to do it.

KEENEY [_his jaw set stubbornly_]. It ain't that, Annie. Them skippers

would never dare sneer to my face. It ain't so much what any one'd

say--but--[_He hesitates, struggling to express his meaning_] you

see--I've always done it--since my first voyage as skipper. I always

come back--with a full ship--and--it don't seem right not to--somehow. I

been always first whalin' skipper out o' Homeport, and--don't you see my

meanin', Annie? [_He glances at her. She is not looking at him, but

staring dully in front of her, not hearing a word he is saying._] Annie!

[_She comes to herself with a start._] Best turn in, Annie, there's a

good woman. You ain't well.

MRS. KEENEY [_resisting his attempts to guide her to the door in rear_].

David! Won't you please turn back?

KEENEY [_gently_]. I can't, Annie--not yet awhile. You don't see my

meanin'. I got to git the ile.

MRS. KEENEY. It'd be different if you needed the money, but you don't.

You've got more than plenty.

KEENEY [_impatiently_]. It ain't the money I'm thinkin' of. D'you think

I'm as mean as that?

MRS. KEENEY [_dully_]. No--I don't know--I can't understand.

[_Intensely._] Oh, I want to be home in the old house once more, and see

my own kitchen again, and hear a woman's voice talking to me and be able

to talk to her. Two years! It seems so long ago--as if I'd been dead and

could never go back.

KEENEY [_worried by her strange tone and the far-away look in her

eyes_.] Best go to bed, Annie. You ain't well.

MRS. KEENEY [_not appearing to hear him_]. I used to be lonely when you

were away. I used to think Homeport was a stupid, monotonous place. Then

I used to go down on the beach, especially when it was windy and the

breakers were rolling in, and I'd dream of the fine, free life you must

be leading. [_She gives a laugh which is half a sob._] I used to love

the sea then. [_She pauses; then continues with slow intensity._] But

now--I don't ever want to see the sea again.

KEENEY [_thinking to humor her_]. 'Tis no fit place for a woman, that's

sure. I was a fool to bring ye.

MRS. KEENEY [_after a pause--passing her hand over her eyes with a

gesture of pathetic weariness_]. How long would it take us to reach

home--if we started now?

KEENEY [_frowning_]. 'Bout two months, I reckon, Annie, with fair luck.

MRS. KEENEY [_counts on her fingers--then murmurs with a rapt smile_].

That would be August, the latter part of August, wouldn't it? It was on

the twenty-fifth of August we were married, David, wasn't it?

KEENEY [_trying to conceal the fact that her memories have moved

him--gruffly_]. Don't you remember?

MRS. KEENEY [_vaguely--again passes her hand over her eyes_]. My memory

is leaving me--up here in the ice. It was so long ago. [_A pause--then

she smiles dreamily._] It's June now. The lilacs will be all in bloom in

the front yard--and the climbing roses on the trellis to the side of the

house--they're budding--

[_She suddenly covers her face with her hands and commences to

sob._]

KEENEY [_disturbed_]. Go in and rest, Annie. You're all worn out cryin'

over what can't be helped.

MRS. KEENEY [_suddenly throwing her arms around his neck and clinging to

him_]. You love me, don't you, David?

KEENEY [_in amazed embarrassment at this outburst_]. Love you? Why d'you

ask me such a question, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY [_shaking him fiercely_]. But you do, don't you, David? Tell

me!

KEENEY. I'm your husband, Annie, and you're my wife. Could there be

aught but love between us after all these years?

MRS. KEENEY [_shaking him again--still more fiercely_]. Then you do love

me. Say it!

KEENEY [_simply_]. I do, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY [_gives a sigh of relief--her hands drop to her sides.

Keeney regards her anxiously. She passes her hand across her eyes and

murmurs half to herself_]: I sometimes think if we could only have had a

child--[_Keeney turns away from her, deeply moved. She grabs his arm and

turns him around to face her--intensely._] And I've always been a good

wife to you, haven't I, David?

KEENEY [_his voice betraying his emotion_]. No man has ever had a

better, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY. And I've never asked for much from you, have I, David? Have

KEENEY. You know you could have all I got the power to give ye, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY [_wildly_]. Then do this, this once, for my sake, for God's

sake--take me home! It's killing me, this life--the brutality and cold

and horror of it. I'm going mad. I can feel the threat in the air. I

can't bear the silence threatening me--day after gray day and every day

the same. I can't bear it. [_Sobbing._] I'll go mad, I know I will. Take

me home, David, if you love me as you say. I'm afraid. For the love of

God, take me home!

[_She throws her arms around him, weeping against his shoulder.

His face betrays the tremendous struggle going on within him. He

holds her out at arm's length, his expression softening. For a

moment his shoulders sag, he becomes old, his iron spirit weakens

as he looks at her tear-stained face._]

KEENEY [_dragging out the words with an effort_]. I'll do it, Annie--for

your sake--if you say it's needful for ye.

MRS. KEENEY [_with wild joy--kissing him_]. God bless you for that,

David!

[_He turns away from her silently and walks toward the

companion-way. Just at that moment there is a clatter of footsteps

on the stairs and the Second Mate enters the cabin._]

MATE [_excitedly_]. The ice is breakin' up to no'the'ard, sir. There's a

clear passage through the floe, and clear water beyond, the lookout

says.

[_Keeney straightens himself like a man coming out of a trance.

Mrs. Keeney looks at the Mate with terrified eyes._]

KEENEY [_dazedly--trying to collect his thoughts_]. A clear passage? To

no'the'ard?

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY [_his voice suddenly grim with determination_]. Then get her

ready and we'll drive her through.

MATE. Aye, aye, sir.

MRS. KEENEY [_appealingly_]. David! David!

KEENEY [_not heeding her_]. Will the men turn to willin' or must we drag

'em out?

MATE. They'll turn to willin' enough. You put the fear o' God into 'em,

sir. They're meek as lambs.

KEENEY. Then drive 'em--both watches. [_With grim determination._]

They's whale t'other side o' this floe and we're agoin' to git 'em.

MATE. Aye, aye, sir.

[_He goes out hurriedly. A moment later there is the sound of

scuffling feet from the deck outside and the Mate's voice shouting

orders._]

KEENEY [_speaking aloud to himself--derisively_]. And I was agoin' home

like a yaller dog!

MRS. KEENEY [_imploringly_]. David!

KEENEY [_sternly_]. Woman, you ain't adoin' right when you meddle in

men's business and weaken 'em. You can't know my feelin's. I got to

prove a man to be a good husband for ye to take pride in. I got to git

the ile, I tell ye.

MRS. KEENEY [_supplicatingly_]. David! Aren't you going home?

KEENEY [_ignoring this question--commandingly_]. You ain't well. Go and

lay down a mite. [_He starts for the door._] I got to git on deck.

[_He goes out. She cries after him in anguish, "David!" A pause.

She passes her hand across her eyes--then commences to laugh

hysterically and goes to the organ. She sits down and starts to

play wildly an old hymn, "There is rest for the weary." Keeney

reenters from the doorway to the deck and stands looking at her

angrily. He comes over and grabs her roughly by the shoulder._]

KEENEY. Woman, what foolish mockin' is this? [_She laughs wildly and he

starts back from her in alarm._] Annie! What is it? [_She doesn't answer

him. Keeney's voice trembles._] Don't you know me, Annie?

[_He puts both hands on her shoulders and turns her around so that

he can look into her eyes. She stares up at him with a stupid

expression, a vague smile on her lips. He stumbles away from her,

and she commences softly to play the organ again._]

KEENEY [_swallowing hard--in a hoarse whisper, as if he had difficulty

in speaking_]. You said--you was agoin' mad--God!

[_A long wail is heard from the deck above, "Ah, bl-o-o-o-ow!" A

moment later the Mate's face appears through the skylight. He

cannot see Mrs. Keeney._]

MATE [_in great excitement_]. Whales, sir--a whole school of 'em--off

the star-b'd quarter 'bout five miles away--big ones!

KEENEY [_galvanized into action_]. Are you lowerin' the boats?

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY [_with grim decision_]. I'm acomin' with ye.

MATE. Aye, aye, sir. [_Jubilantly._] You'll git the ile now right

enough, sir.

[_His head is withdrawn and he can be heard shouting orders._]

KEENEY [_turning to his wife_]. Annie! Did you hear him? I'll git the

ile. [_She doesn't answer or seem to know he is there. He gives a hard

laugh which is almost a groan._] I know you're foolin' me, Annie. You

ain't out of your mind--[_Anxiously._] be you? I'll git the ile now

right enough--jest a little while longer, Annie--then we'll turn

home'ard. I can't turn back now, you see that, don't you? I've got to

git the ile. [_In sudden terror._] Answer me! You ain't mad, be you?

[_She keeps on playing the organ, but makes no reply. The Mate's

face appears again through the skylight._]

MATE. All ready, sir.

[_Keeney turns his back on his wife and strides to the doorway,

where he stands for a moment and looks back at her in anguish,

fighting to control his feelings._]

MATE. Comin', sir?

KEENEY [_his face suddenly grows hard with determination_]. Aye.

[_He turns abruptly and goes out. Mrs. Keeney does not appear to

notice his departure. Her whole attention seems centered in the

organ. She sits with half-closed eyes, her body swaying a little

from side to side to the rhythm of the hymn. Her fingers move

faster and faster and she is playing wildly and discordantly as

the_

_Curtain falls._]

THE NURSERY MAID OF HEAVEN

A MIRACLE PLAY

BY THOMAS WOOD STEVENS

Based on a story by Vernon Lee.

THE NURSERY MAID OF HEAVEN was first produced by the School of the

Drama, Carnegie Institute of Technology, Pittsburgh, Pa., on the night

of November 14, 1919, with the following cast:

SISTER BENVENUTA _Hazel Beck_.

SISTER GRIMANA _Alicia S. Guthrie_.

SISTER ROSALBA _Grey McAuley_.

THE ABBESS _Dorothy Rubinstein_.

THE SISTER SACRISTAN _Inez D. R. Hazel_.

ATALANTA BADOER [_a novice_] _Carolyn McCampbell_.

ABBE FILOSI _Wm. R. Dean_.

THE PUPPET MAN _Lawrence Paquin_.

BEELZEBUBB SATANASSO _James S. Church_.

SCENE I: The Chapter-Room of the Convent of Our Lady of the

Rosebush, Cividale.

SCENE II: Benvenuta's cell.

SCENE III: The Chapter-Room.

TIME: _Early in the eighteenth century. Some days elapse between

scenes_.

Stage settings and properties by ALEXANDER WYCKOFF and DAVID S.

GAITHER.

Lightning by ARLEIGH B. WILLIAMSON.

Costumes by SARA E. BENNETT and LELA MAY AULTMAN.

Music by CHARLES PEARSON.

The amateur and professional stage rights to THE NURSERY MAID OF

HEAVEN are reserved by the author. Applications for permission to

produce the play should be addressed to Frank Shay, Stewart & Kidd

Company, Cincinnati, Ohio. No performance may be given without his

consent.

THE NURSERY MAID OF HEAVEN

A MIRACLE PLAY BY THOMAS WOOD STEVENS

[_SCENE I: Atalanta, the novice, sits, rebellious and sullen, on

the steps of the Mother Superior's dais. From time to time nuns

and novices pass across the stage to the left, on their way to the

refectory. Sister Grimana, an old nun, comes down to Atalanta

purposefully._]

GRIMANA. Sulking again, are you? Waiting for Sister Benvenuta, are you?

[_Atalanta is silent._]

Remembering things that are really no concern of yours; and thinking

they concern you because you remember them--doubtless quite

inaccurately. I know. It's a way of the Badoer family--and of the

Loredani, too, for that matter. When you were a child there was

confiture with the bread--and you threw away the crust; and they let you

do it, and now you can't find your vocation.

[_She taps her foot impatiently._]

Well--well--will you come?

[_Atalanta is still silent, her face hard with resolution._]

I might mention it to the Sister Sacristan. She'd fetch you.

[_Atalanta gives her a look of scornful disgust._]

It's as well you didn't say that in so many words, Sister.

[_Atalanta looks straight before her, a statue of silence._]

Perhaps there is some one you would prefer to have me call, before the

Sister Sacristan comes to fetch you? Sister Rosalba?

[_No response._]

So it must be Sister Benvenuta, must it?

ATALANTA. I would speak with her.

GRIMANA. Oho! You would speak with her! And so you shall--for the love I

bore your mother when we were children together. But what good she can

do you, with her chatter and laughing--childish laughing and chatter--I

can't see. I'll send her to you. And meantime, count your buttons.

That's my advice. Count your buttons.

[_She comes close and speaks more confidentially._]

That helps greatly--it did when I was your age.

[_Grimana goes off. Atalanta mechanically runs her fingers over

the buttons of her novice's cape; as she arrives at the end of the

row, she mutters._]

ATALANTA. Even you, Benvenuta!

[_At the second word she rises abruptly, her hands on the veil._]

Heaven forgive me!

[_She tears off the veil just as Benvenuta enters from the left.

Benvenuta limps down around the Mother Superior's throne, and on

seeing Atalanta with her veil off, bursts into laughter._]

ATALANTA. Even you, Benvenuta! What amuses you so?

BENVENUTA. It's your hair. It's so funny--it's so long since I've seen

your hair, Atalanta, dear.

ATALANTA [_sullenly_]. It's not that I want to talk to you about. You

needn't have laughed.

BENVENUTA. I know, dear. I shouldn't have laughed, but I always do. I'm

so unworthy. I can't seem to help it, though I tell myself, often and

often, that it's trifling and worldly to laugh so much, and undignified,

too, before the children and novices. I will try not to laugh, Atalanta.

Sister Grimana said you wanted me. What is it, dear?

[_She looks at Atalanta and smothers another laugh._]

Put on your veil, child.

ATALANTA. Don't call me child--I'm only three years younger than you,

and I'm taller.

[_She puts on the veil again, still sullen._]

BENVENUTA. You're only a novice and I call you a child--very properly,

too. And if you want me to talk to you, you must listen--like a good

child.

[_A step is heard approaching and a rattle of keys; Atalanta pulls

at Benvenuta's dress as if to draw her down beside her._]

ATALANTA. It's the Sister Sacristan. Now she'll make me go, and there's

something you must tell me--you must--I beg of you.

[_The Sister Sacristan comes in and goes straight to Atalanta,

ignoring Benvenuta. Her keys are audible as she walks._]

THE SISTER SACRISTAN. Well, Mistress Perverse and Disobedient? Not come

to reason yet?

BENVENUTA. Pray you, Sister Sacristan, pardon her. Let me speak with her

a little while--only a little while. Her tasks can wait--

SISTER SACRISTAN. Her tasks! Praise the Blessed Mother, in this noble

house we need not depend on the novices for anything. It's not

that--it's the discipline in the pigeon cot. The Mother Abbess will be

displeased--

BENVENUTA. Pray you, Sister Sacristan. This novice has asked of me some

spiritual admonition. She is my kinswoman, and I cannot refuse it. So I

ask you for a little time with her, to speak to her of spiritual things,

and perhaps bring her some comfort, to the end that her holy vocation

may the sooner come. I ask it in humility, Sister Sacristan.

SISTER SACRISTAN [_crossing to the closet, which she unlocks_].

Admonition, eh?

[_She takes out some vestments, which she hangs over her arm,

closing the door._]

BENVENUTA. I ask you to remember, Sister, that last Thursday I took upon

myself the vexed matter of the hair of the two new novices, and that it

throve in my charge.

SISTER SACRISTAN. Yes--throve. You so coddled them that they cried for

you each night after, and are more trouble to the lay sisters than ever.

But since she's your kinswoman--have it as you will. I look for little

effect from your admonitions, I may as well tell you.

[_She removes her keys and goes out, without locking the closet._]

ATALANTA. That was good of you, Benvenuta. Now, listen to me. I am

unworthy. I am unhappy. I feel no call. Tell me--tell me about the

world, Sister Benvenuta--I beg you, tell me--

BENVENUTA. I will tell you of God's love, and of this holy life--

ATALANTA [_leading her to the stairway, where she sits down_]. Yes--I

know. But first, tell me about the world.

BENVENUTA. I only tell you by way of admonition--that you may see how

hollow is the world, and full of delusion--

ATALANTA. I understand you. Go on.

[_She draws Benvenuta down beside her._]

BENVENUTA. You must know then, that I--even I, Sister Benvenuta, was a

most worldly little girl. I can remember so clearly how I used to run

madly through the gardens, and roll on the grass like--like a wild

puppy, and bury my face in the roses--till they scratched my nose and

the warm scent made me dizzy. And then I would climb on the wall and

watch the barges go by, with the strong men sculling them, and the women

under the awnings sorting crabs and prawns.

ATALANTA. Tell me about the barge people.

BENVENUTA. That was all I saw of them. And then they would take me to my

lady mother, of a forenoon, while she was having her hair powdered and

curled; and there would be a black page bringing her chocolate, and her

serving cavalier would be leaning beside her mirror taking snuff.

ATALANTA. Yes--tell me about the cavalier servant.

BENVENUTA. That was all I ever saw of him. But he was very worldly, I am

sure.

ATALANTA. I wish you had seen more of him. And your mother? Did she have

little children?

BENVENUTA. You know well I was the youngest of our family. That was why

I was destined for the benefice we possessed in this high born convent.

ATALANTA. Tell me about your father?

BENVENUTA. I used only to see him once in a month, and I was much

frightened of him--he was so noble and so just.

ATALANTA. Oh, he was a father of that sort, was he?

BENVENUTA. And when he did receive me, he had a handkerchief like a

turban around his head, and horn spectacles on his nose, and he would be

making gold with an astrologer, or putting devils in retorts. That was

what he said he was doing, but I know now that he deceived me; he was a

very worldly man, though he was so noble and just.

ATALANTA. Tell me, Benvenuta, when you were in the world, did you ever

see mothers and babies--tiny babies--not old at all?

BENVENUTA. The only one was in the picture in our chapel--the panel in

the center with the Blessed Mother and the little Child Christ. He was

so sweet, and his eyes were as if they would open in a moment and then I

should know what color of eyes they were.

ATALANTA [_glancing toward the Sacristy closet_]. And that's why you so

love the Bambino they keep in the Sacristy closet?

BENVENUTA. Yes.

ATALANTA [_more passionately_]. And was it easy for you,

Benvenuta--always easy in your heart, to give up the world?

BENVENUTA. I was destined for this, dear.

ATALANTA [_rising_]. I am not sure. I was not destined. I am--

BENVENUTA. Ssh! Dear Atalanta. Be quiet. Be calm. Yes, I was worldly,

and I gave it up willingly--

ATALANTA. Yes, it was easy for you, and so you think it should be for

me. You never even saw a little baby with her mother. You were destined,

and you were the youngest--

BENVENUTA. It was for the best. I was unworthy, but I gave up the world

willingly--

ATALANTA [_bitterly_]. Willingly--you were lame, and--

[_She stops, biting her lips. There is a pause._]

BENVENUTA. Yes. I was a little lame. But I was a worldly little girl.

ATALANTA. Forgive me, dear sister. I meant no hurt.

BENVENUTA. You did not hurt me. [_Another pause._]

ATALANTA. Dear Benvenuta, one thing I must tell you. I must. It happened

just before I came here.

[_Benvenuta looks at her soberly._]

BENVENUTA. Are you sure it is to me you should tell it?

ATALANTA. It is not a sin--not something I could confess, dear. It was

this. Just as you looked over the wall at the barges, it was. In our

gardens there was a time when the old gardener brought a vinedresser to

help him. And the vinedresser's wife came with his dinner and their

baby. And I came on them eating under the ilex trees, very secretly, of

course. And the baby was clambering over her. She was no older than I am

now--the vinedresser's wife. And she fed the baby at her breast in the

deep shade under the ilexes. And I talked to her. Then the old gardener

came, and of course I walked away, very haughtily, as became a daughter

of the house. But hear me, sister. I cannot forget her, the

vinedresser's wife with the baby clambering over her, under the shade of

the ilex trees, I cannot put her out of my thoughts.

BENVENUTA. I understand you, dear. I cannot put out of my thoughts the

poor little Bambino in the Sacristy closet all the year around, shut up

with the saint's bones and the spare vestments, and he with only a piece

of stiff purple and gold stuff around his middle.

ATALANTA. I cannot think that the same. The vinedresser's baby was

alive--so alive.

BENVENUTA. It is much the same, I think.

ATALANTA. Anyway, I am glad I told you, Benvenuta. Why can I not forget

about it?

BENVENUTA [_laying her hand on Atalanta's head_]. It would be better if

you could forget it, Atalanta. You must go now.

ATALANTA. One moment--don't take your hand away. I had to tell somebody.

[_Both look off in a sort of dreamy ecstasy, thinking of the two

babies. Grimana enters again. Atalanta rises._]

ATALANTA. I am full of thankfulness, Sister Benvenuta. I will go to my

task.

[_Atalanta bows her head and follows Grimana out. A muffled

droning chorus is heard from the chapel. Benvenuta watches the

others go off, and then speaks to the Bambino through the door of

the Sacristy closet._]

BENVENUTA. My dear--my dear little Great One, can you hear my voice

through the door? Dear little child Christ, I am so sorry for you, alone

for days and days in the closet with the holy relics and the wax lights.

And at night it must be very cold for you. I wish I might touch you,

dear little Great One, with my hands.

[_She tries the door and, finding it unfastened, draws back from it

a moment._]

It is open; the Sister Sacristan has left it unlocked. For this I am

thankful, for I am sure you put it into her mind to leave it so--or that

you by your divine power and foresight put it out of her mind to lock it

as she intended.

[_She opens the door and looks in._]

If only I could get appointed Sacristan! But I am too young and being

lame would prevent my getting on to the step-ladders, as a Sacristan

must. But I would never leave you alone among the relics in their

cotton-wool, little Great One. And now--just for a moment lest the

Sister Sacristan come back--I will take you out of the closet.

[_She brings out the Bambino._]

I will show you the chapter room, for while you have seen all places,

and the high heavens and all the hells, it will be pleasant to you to

see the chapter room, after so long in the closet. See, yonder is the

seat of the Mother Abbess. She is very great, and very holy, and of the

high house of the Morosini. And that way is to the refectory and the

work room. And that way is to the chapel--up the stairs. And up that way

are our cells, where I sleep and where I pray to dream of you, little

Great One. Touch my cheek, I pray you.... How cold your hands are!...

Touch my cheek as she said the vinedresser's babe touched his mother's--

[_She stops suddenly, and then reverently returns the Bambino to

his place. She kneels before the open door._]

Forgive me, dear little Child Christ. I spoke not in vain glory. But all

my life I have waited, not knowing for what ... but happy ... dreaming

that sometime.... If it be a sin I will confess it--I will.

[_Again the rattle of keys is heard. Benvenuta stands up hurriedly

and speaks in a half whisper._]

She is coming back to lock the closet. But I will get you a coat for the

cold nights. Your hands were so cold. I will get you a warm coat--that I

promise, dear little Great One.

[_She closes the door and stands before it looking consciously

innocent, as the Sister Sacristan enters. The Sister Sacristan is

not deceived, however._]

SISTER SACRISTAN. By your leave, Sister Benvenuta.

[_She ostentatiously locks the closed door._]

BENVENUTA. Sister Sacristan, I trust the novice you left in my charge

has returned to her task.

SISTER SACRISTAN. I trust she has.

BENVENUTA [_after a pause_]. I wish I might help you with your duties

sometimes, Sister.

SISTER SACRISTAN. I do not need you, little sister.

BENVENUTA. I am sorry.

[_Mechanically she counts her buttons._]

[_Enter the Abbess._]

THE ABBESS [_to the Sacristan_]. Sister, go into the chapel and tell the

Reverend Father that the Bolognese puppet man is waiting, and say that I

wish to see him here; and bid the Reverend Father bring the manuscript

of his poem for Shrove Tuesday.

[_The Sister Sacristan goes out. Benvenuta remains, waiting

patiently for a word from the Abbess._]

Well, my little sister?

BENVENUTA. I pray you, Mother.

ABBESS. I listen, little sister.

BENVENUTA. It is about the little Child Christ. I pray you that a coat

may be made for him--a warm coat of soft silk; for at Christmas he lies

out in the draughty manger before the altar, and even at other times he

is very cold at night here in the Sacristy closet. And I pray you,

Mother?

ABBESS. I listen.

[_Reenter the Sister Sacristan._]

BENVENUTA. That I may help with the making of the coat, for all that I

sew so badly.

ABBESS [_smiling_]. Truly, our little sister Benvenuta Loredan was born

to be the nursery-maid of Heaven.

SISTER SACRISTAN. Is it for me to know also, Mother?

ABBESS. Our little sister wishes that a coat of warm silk be made for

the little Bambino, against next Christmas in the cold of the chapel.

SISTER SACRISTAN. I suspected something of that kind.

ABBESS. You do not approve, sister?

SISTER SACRISTAN. No, mother. It would be taking the time and money from

the redressing of the skeleton of Saint Prosdoscimus, which is a most

creditable relic, of unquestioned authenticity, with real diamond loops

in his eye holes; this skeleton ought to be made fit to exhibit for

veneration. And besides, this Bambino never had any clothes, and so far

as I know never wanted any. The purple sash is only for modesty's sake.

And as for such a new-fangled proposal coming from Sister

Benvenuta--that alone--

ABBESS. That will do. Fie, fie, little sister. The Sacred Bambino is not

your serving Cavalier, that you should wish to cover him with silk and

velvet. Is the Reverend Father coming?

SISTER SACRISTAN. Immediately, mother. He only stayed to gather his

manuscript.

ABBESS. Call in the man with the puppets.

[_Exit Sister Sacristan._]

And now, little sister, you may go. You see it is not wise, ... your

thought for the Bambino.

BENVENUTA. No, mother. I see it is not wise.

[_Benvenuta goes up the staircase and off at the left.--The Abbess

seats herself in the chair of State. The Father Confessor comes in

from the Chapel._]

ABBESS. You are welcome, Father.

ABBE FILOSI [_bowing very low_]. Happy greetings, Reverendissima.

ABBESS. I have sent for you because the puppet man, the Bolognese one

you sent for, has come to make his bargain for the Shrove-tide play, and

I wished you to be present, lest he fail to serve your inspiration

worthily.

ABBE FILOSI. I am grateful for your care in the matter, Reverendissima.

[_Enter Sister Sacristan._]

ABBESS. The fellow is waiting?

[_The Sister Sacristan bows._]

Show him in.

[_The Sister Sacristan goes out._]

And now, Father, I pray that you will make terms for your play, as you

please.

ABBE FILOSI. Perhaps I had better not do that, Reverendissima. Poets are

proverbially improvident--

ABBESS. That does not matter in the least. Whatever he charges, I shall

beat him down.

[_The Sister Sacristan brings in the Puppet Man, who carries a bag

of his puppets on his arm. He bows extravagantly to the Abbess._]

PUPPET MAN. Excellenza Reverendissima, my prayers shall in the future be

lightened by the memory of your presence. Reverend Father, I am humbly

your servant.

[_The Abbess nods to Father Filosi._]

ABBE FILOSI. You have been summoned here, sir, with regard to the Shrove

Tuesday play which her Excellenza condescends to give for the

edification of the friends of this noble convent. She has commissioned

me to write the poem, and she graciously proposes to allow you to

perform it with your puppets.

PUPPET MAN. I am honored, and in me all my craft is honored.

ABBE FILOSI. I have here the manuscript of my poor device.

PUPPET MAN. I cannot have so excellent a work so slightly spoken of.

ABBE FILOSI. A trifle ... a trifle. But I trust, when you have done your

part, it may amuse the novices and the ladies--noble guests of Our Lady

of the Rosebush.

PUPPET MAN. Is it from the gospels, or a saint's story?

ABBE FILOSI. Humbly, it is the story of Judith.

PUPPET MAN. Humbly, as an artist, I am filled with delight. And I have

for it just the figures you could wish. A Judith, lovely beyond the

power of song, and a Prince, heavy with gold, and a cavalier for the

lady--

ABBE FILOSI. That will not serve. In my play she goes with only her

maid-servant to the tent of the Holophernes.

PUPPET MAN. It is not usual, in Venice. Will it not be deemed strange by

the ladies present?

ABBE FILOSI. Better so, than its author be deemed ignorant by the

learned Reverendissima, who will grace your performance personally.

PUPPET MAN [_stiffly_]. I bow to your learning, Reverend Father.

ABBE FILOSI. My poem will require of you some artistry, and not all of

the stale and accustomed sort.

[_The Puppet Man bows._]

I shall require, for example, that the head of the Holophernes be

actually and visibly severed.

PUPPET MAN. I will undertake it, and moreover, I will promise a goodly

flow of red blood from the corpus of the Holophernes.

ABBE FILOSI. Excellent. Further, there is required a Triumph of Judith,

in a car of state, and a figure of Time, speaking, and a Religion, out

of the clouds, who speaks some verse in praise of the Reverendissima and

of the noble house of the Morosini. All this must be carried out

precisely.

PUPPET MAN. All this I undertake, seeing how famous is this convent, and

of how illustrious a house is its Abbessa. Suffer me to inquire if the

entire poem is of a lofty and tragic nature.

ABBE FILOSI. Certainly.

PUPPET MAN. This is a great honor to me, but a ruinous one as well. For

I see I shall have no opportunity to bring on my most potent figures--my

Harlequino with the seven wires, and--

ABBE FILOSI. Harlequino does not appear in the poem.

PUPPET MAN. But might he not appear in an interlude? Let me suggest, in

all humility, that I might perform an interlude between the Harlequino

and the serving-wench of Judith, after the death of the Holophernes?

ABBE FILOSI. Dio, dio--what a profanation!

ABBESS. Come, come, your Reverence, I see no profanation in it. We must

not be too severe--too lofty. Think of our guests, and of the novices,

mere children in heart--who will be witnessing our play. Let there be

something in it for the liking of all, I should say.

ABBE FILOSI. But, Reverendissima--

PUPPET MAN. I could assure you of the success of the poem, if you would

permit it.

ABBESS. I am sure it will be permitted. And now, sir, there are some

other matters to be settled. First, we shall require that you bring here

your puppets, in advance of the play, for our inspection, lest there be

anything ungodly and unfit about them.

PUPPET MAN. It is the custom. I have brought some; and you shall have

the others when I have conned the reverend Father's poem, and know which

ones shall be required.

[_Opens his bag and takes out puppets._]

Here is a lady who might serve for Judith. And here a Prince, though I

have a richer one, better perhaps for the Holophernes. And here a

devil--a Satanasso, and here--

ABBESS. Leave them all on the table. I will have them examined at

leisure. Now, sir, tell me what you expect to be paid for this

performance?

PUPPET MAN [_fingering his manuscript_]. Reverendissima, considering the

difficulties of the poem, and the Holophernes to be visibly beheaded,

and the great fame of this convent, that is said to require of every

novice sixteen quarterings to her crest and a thousand ducats of dowry,

and considering the illustrious family of which the Abbessa herself

descends--I will perform the poem in the best manner for twelve ducats.

ABBESS. Considering just the matters you mention, and the honor to you

to bring your puppets into this convent at all, you shall have five

ducats.

PUPPET MAN. Five ducats--Reverendissima, I cannot have heard you

aright--five ducats.

ABBESS. Five ducats.

PUPPET MAN. Mercy of the Saints! Five ducats for Shrove Tuesday, and a

Holophernes to be visibly beheaded--in a most illustrious convent, too.

It is ruin to me, Reverendissima--black ruin.

ABBESS. Five ducats you shall have.

PUPPET MAN [_starting to put his puppets back in the bag_]. It is not

possible, Reverendissima. No one of my craft could do it--even the worst

of them would ask more than I have. Mere jugglers and bunglers from

Padua would ask twenty ducats. And the fame of this convent! I see I

have been deceived,--

ABBESS. Be silent, sir. You cannot trifle with me. Put down your

trinkets. Do you know who I am, and of what family in the world? Well,

sir?

PUPPET MAN [_slowly putting down his puppets again_]. Maybe it will

profit me in the sight of the Saints--

ABBESS. I need not warn you further. Be prepared for the performance in

the best style against Shrove Tuesday. And if all goes well, I may add a

ducat to your fee.

[_She taps a gong on the table, and the Sister Sacristan enters.

The Puppet Man, dismissed, bows himself out, clutching the

manuscript to his breast. The Sacristan follows him out, returning

at once._]

Now, Father, since the play is yours, it shall also be yours to pass on

the propriety of the figures.

ABBE FILOSI. I do not seek the responsibility, Reverendissima. Will you

not excuse me?

ABBESS. You have some intention in this, Father?

ABBE FILOSI. Will you not excuse me?

ABBESS [_smiling_]. Certainly not. What troubles you about it?

ABBE FILOSI. Reverendissima, I would gladly have passed it in silence.

Your wisdom in matters of the world--and of the Church--is greater than

mine. But look you now. This Judith I think shows more of her bosom than

is seemly.

ABBESS [_with asperity_]. I will instruct you. By the laws on the serene

Republic, a Venetian lady may show one-half of her bosom and no more,

and there is no immodesty in the proceeding. This law the lady Judith

obeys.

ABBE FILOSI. I do not dissent from your wisdom, nor from the law of

Venice. Still, it seems to me there would be more propriety in it if we

were to have a collarette of tissue pinned about her--the eyes of all

the novices, remember--

ABBESS. I remember also our guests, many of them ladies of the first

houses, who would certainly take it amiss, and as a reflection upon

themselves--

ABBE FILOSI. I wish with all my heart, Reverendissima, you had excused

me.

ABBESS [_turning to Sister Sacristan_]. I will ask the Sisters Grimana

Emo and Rosalba Foscarini to examine the puppets.

[_The Sister Sacristan goes out._]

Their learning in theology may not be profound, but they know the

world's judgment, coming as they do of the first families.

[_The Abbe Filosi bows low._]

ABBE FILOSI. I shall be at your service, Reverendissima.

ABBESS. I thank you enough for the poem. Farewell.

[_He bows himself out, at right, as Sister Grimana and Sister

Rosalba enter left._]

GRIMANA. You have sent for us, Mother?

ABBESS. In the matter of the Shrove Tuesday play--yes. The puppets will

be brought in advance, as usual. These few the show-man has already

left.

GRIMANA. You wish them to be looked over, as usual?

ABBESS. Not quite as usual. This year they are to appear in a play or

poem which the Father Confessor has written for us--dealing with the

story of Judith. Now the good Abbe, though a man of great learning and a

graceful poet withal, has not the advantage of family that some of our

sisters--

GRIMANA. And some of our guests--

ROSALBA. I remember once, at a fete in the gardens of my uncle, the

Doge--

ABBESS. I need instruct you no further. I do not wish anything ungodly

or unfit to appear; nor do I wish anything in the play to suggest that

there is any impropriety in the illustrious audience.

GRIMANA. I understand, Mother. It is chiefly a question of the dressing

of the ladies.

ABBESS. Precisely. I shall leave it in your charge. Remembering, Sister

Grimana, the laws of Venice and the customs of the house of your father,

the most illustrious Admiral, and you Sister Rosalba, the fetes in the

gardens of your uncle, the Doge--surely it will be properly cared for.

[_Exit the Abbess._]

GRIMANA. All this because we have been given a bourgeois Confessor--

ROSALBA. No matter for that, Sister. I love puppets. We had once a

puppet festival, when they played the whole history of the Serene

Republic, and there were great ships with puppet sailors--

[_They begin to separate the puppets with their wires and strings.

Enter Sister Benvenuta._]

BENVENUTA. Oh, the joy! Are these for the Shrove Tuesday play? If only

we could show them to--

[_She glances toward the Sacristy closet, stops, and goes on._]

Sister Rosalba, can you make them dance?

GRIMANA. Dance, forsooth--to what music, sister?

ROSALBA. You might sing for them, Sister.

GRIMANA. Aye, so I might.--Time was when I knew tunes enough.

BENVENUTA. There is a lute in the cloister--left from the musical mass.

And my cousin Atalanta can play it--I should like to hear some music

here.

[_She glances at the closet._]

I'll fetch her.

[_She goes off to find Atalanta._]

GRIMANA. What personages have we here? This lady for Judith?

ROSALBA. That can scarcely be, Judith was black haired.

GRIMANA. Nothing of the sort. She had hair of a dark red--a smoldering

color.

ROSALBA. Was she not of the tribe?--

GRIMANA. What matters the tribe? In her picture by Titian, in the great

hall of my father's house--

ROSALBA. We had a Judith also--by Jacopo Bellini. He was Titian's

master. Her hair was black.

GRIMANA. You may be right. In our picture by Titian, now I remember it,

the head was so covered with a wonderful jeweled crown that we could see

little of the hair.

[_Rosalba is somewhat put down by the splendor of Grimana's

Titian. Benvenuta comes back with Atalanta, who carries a lute. As

she appears Grimana untangles and holds up another puppet--the

Beelzebubb._]

GRIMANA. Here's a personage of terror.

[_She turns the figure and moves it threateningly toward

Benvenuta, who looks at Beelzebubb and is instantly seized with a

wild fit of laughter._]

Saint Mark preserve us! You are queerly pleased, Sister. It's not many

that laugh at this figure.

ROSALBA [_reading the figure's label_]. He's Beelzebubb Satanasso,

Prince of all Devils.

BENVENUTA. I pray your pardon. I could not keep from laughing. I can

never look at a devil without laughing. He seems so anxious to

understand, and so important with the responsibility of being Prince of

all Devils.

ROSALBA. You may laugh if you like, but you should remember how ready he

is to slip away with the unwary souls of people who laugh at him. How he

is always in wait, by day and by night, for a wavering thought or a rift

in one's faith--

GRIMANA. See here the pouch he carries to put your soul in. Truly,

Sister, he might pluck you off like a cherry.

ATALANTA [_shuddering_]. Dear Sister Grimana--I beg of you--

GRIMANA. And he comes at the call of the secret thought--that's what

makes him look so anxious--lest he should not be listening when you call

him, and the Saints come to your soul first, and warn it--

ATALANTA. Sister Grimana!

BENVENUTA. Still, I can never look at him without laughing. He is droll.

Atalanta, the lute.

[_Atalanta brings forward the lute and tries the strings. Rosalba

takes up the puppet of the lady._]

I saw the show-man. He was a most ill-favored man. Sister Rosalba, do

you think he was excommunicate.

ROSALBA. Of course not. And if he were, that would not make his puppets

excommunicate.

GRIMANA. What if it did? A noble convent has privileges. It would not

matter to us.

ATALANTA. What shall I play?

GRIMANA. Can you play? [_She sings_]:

Go visto una colomba el cielo andare

Che la svolava su per un giardino

In mezzo 'l peto la gavea do ale

E in boca la tegniva un zenzamino!

ATALANTA. I do not know the air. But I can play a furlana.

BENVENUTA. That will be gay, Atalanta. Play a furlana, I beg you.

GRIMANA. That will serve, Sister Rosalba, your prince.

[_As Atalanta plays, Grimana manipulates the Judith and Rosalba

the Prince. They are unskillful and the puppets dance crudely, but

Benvenuta looks on in ecstasy, falling slowly back until she

stands by the door of the closet. As she does so two or three more

nuns and novices come furtively in at the back and stand watching

the performance. As the dance of the puppets grows more animated

the Abbess enters with the Sister Sacristan. For a moment the

others do not see her, and the play continues. Then she speaks

coldly and evenly._]

ABBESS. Sisters, is this the solemn judgment I bespoke on these

trinkets? Sister Grimana!

[_Grimana lays down the puppets and comes forward._]

Sister Rosalba!

[_Rosalba also comes forward._]

I will consider this, and will give out the penances in chapter.

GRIMANA. Yes, Mother.

[_Rosalba stands with her head bowed and her fingers run along the

buttons of her cape._]

ABBESS. There has been too much playing of lutes, too much worldly

anticipation and imagining among us. So I have decided that all the holy

relics shall be re-furbished, and all the vestments mended and cleaned,

against Shrove Tuesday. And all other work, whether of embroidery or of

whatever nature, shall wait till this be done. Sister Sacristan, let the

tasks be set at once.

[_The sisters bow their heads and go out, the Sister Sacristan

following Rosalba and Grimana off. Benvenuta stands still in an

attitude of deep humility._]

Well, little Sister?

BENVENUTA. Holy Mother, I am waiting for my penance.

ABBESS. Your penance, Benvenuta?

BENVENUTA. The fault was mine. I brought Atalanta with her lute. I was

to blame for it all. I am heedless, and unworthy, and stained with

worldliness, Mother.

ABBESS. There, there, my child. I will overlook it.

[_Benvenuta turns away, weeping furtively._]

Come here, little Sister. Why should you weep? I have said I will

overlook it.

BENVENUTA. I weep because I am unworthy to be penanced. I am nothing.

ABBESS. You are nothing? Is not this the very essence of humility?

Little Sister, when I forgave you your fault, did you doubt my wisdom?

BENVENUTA. Yes, holy Mother. Oh, I have sinned in vain glory. I doubted.

But I did not mean to doubt.

ABBESS [_smiling_]. Come hither, little Sister. If I must set you a

penance, what would you have it be?

BENVENUTA. I would have it ... no....

[_She hesitates._]

ABBESS. Speak, Sister.

BENVENUTA. I would have you set me to the making of a coat for the Holy

Bambino, as I asked of you before.

ABBESS. That would hardly be a penance. And, besides, you sew so badly.

BENVENUTA. Yes, Mother. I sew badly. And it would not really be a

penance.

[_The Sister Sacristan comes in and takes from the closet some

cloth and a reliquary or two. She lays them on the table,

preparing them for work._]

ABBESS. I will speak of this another time. Another time, little Sister.

[_Benvenuta stands very still. The Abbess turns to the Sister

Sacristan._]

What have you there?

SISTER SACRISTAN. The fine lawn for the surplices for His Eminence.

ABBESS. That can wait. I do not think it wise to leave the workroom

alone while the relics are being done over.

[_She stands in the doorway. The Sister Sacristan is about to

follow, but notices Benvenuta and goes over ostentatiously to lock

the closet; then she goes out after the Abbess. Benvenuta stands

still and her eyes go from the closet to the cloth and takes up a

piece of lawn, and carries it with her to the closet door._]

BENVENUTA. Dear little Great One, I see no way but this to keep my

promise. I do not understand what the Holy Mother means. But I will do

my penance when she determines it. I do sew very badly, dear little

Great One, but I will make the stitches slowly, night by night in my

cell, and every one of them, no matter how far askew, shall have all the

love of my heart drawn tight in it. I have promised you a coat, little

Great One, and I will surely keep my promise.

[_She steals upstairs in the gathering darkness. The organ in the

chapel is heard, faintly at first, then swelling in exultation.

Slowly, after she disappears, the door of the closet opens of

itself, and from within a golden light glows across the room and

up the stair. The Curtain Falls._]

[_SCENE II. In her white-walled cell, with its one high window

looking over the tree tops into the night sky, Benvenuta sits

alone, sewing, with great labor and difficulty, by the light of a

candle. There is a soft knock, and Atalanta slips in, bringing

something concealed under her cape._]

BENVENUTA. Have you brought it, dear?

ATALANTA. I've got the coat of the gardener's child, but I fear it is

not what you wanted.

BENVENUTA. I'm sure it will serve. Why do you fear for it?

ATALANTA. Because it's the little girl's coat. The boy's I could not

get, for he has but the one, and the nights are so cold.

BENVENUTA. So they are--and we wouldn't have the poor lad shivering.

Perhaps the girl's will serve. Did you get the thread of gold?

ATALANTA. Yes, dear.

[_There is a pause._]

You wouldn't be happier telling me all about it? Or letting me help you,

perhaps?

BENVENUTA. What good were there in that? You sew as badly as I do,

child.

ATALANTA. It's not kind of you to say so.

BENVENUTA. I'm sorry, Atalanta, dear. And it's most ungrateful of

me--for you are helping me--helping me very much. And as for my telling

you--it's a great secret, and you should be content to know as much as

you do of it.

ATALANTA. I'm afraid I know too much of it now. I'm afraid I ought to be

confessing what I know already.

BENVENUTA. Confessing it. Oh, no; Atalanta, dear--

ATALANTA. I'm afraid I ought--unless you tell me more.

BENVENUTA. Oh, I see. Now, listen, my child. This matter is one

concerning my devotions--a private matter surely, and needing no

confessions from you.

ATALANTA. Then why these secret messages, and the gold thread, and the

gardener's child's coat to be got by stealth?

BENVENUTA. For what I am doing, I would call for help from you--or from

any one--from the Evil One himself, if it would serve. But it is surely

no sin--though it might get you into trouble to help me with it,

Atalanta, dear.

ATALANTA. Prt! That's not what I mind.

BENVENUTA. You--you love me enough to be troubled for my sake, a little,

dear?

ATALANTA [_breaking out_]. I would flout the Mother Abbess to her face

for you, Benvenuta. It's that you try to keep me in the dark that I mind

about it. I'm going.

[_Atalanta turns sharply and goes. Benvenuta lays out the little

coat of the gardener's child, and lays her lawn, already cut, upon

it. She seems discouraged, turns it over, and tries again. Then

with an air of resolution, she takes it up and sews fiercely,

pricking her fingers, stopping to put them to her mouth, and going

on doggedly._]

BENVENUTA. I promised it, dear little Great One, and I would give my

soul to keep my promise, but I fear me it will never comfort you.

[_She sews for a minute in silence. Then lifts her head with a

sudden thought, and says aloud with a firm resolution_]:

I would give my soul.

[_She waits. After a moment there is a light tapping of footsteps;

then a marked rapping, as of hoofs on a pavement; she shivers, and

starts up in sudden terror, as Beelzebubb Satanasso confronts her.

He is like the Devil Puppet in every respect, but the size of a

small man. He bows low in a mechanical sort of way as if jointed.

She gazes at him in wonder, laughs nervously and suppresses her

laughter._]

BEELZEBUBB [_in a voice like a Jews' harp_]. Sister Benvenuta, did I

hear you call for me, or wish for me to come?

BENVENUTA. Yes, I called you.

BEELZEBUBB. You wished me to help you?

BENVENUTA. Yes.

BEELZEBUBB. You know who I am.

[_He points to his label._]

BENVENUTA. I know. You are Beelzebubb Satanasso, Prince of all Devils.

[_She suppresses a laugh._]

BEELZEBUBB. You have made a promise, and you cannot keep it, so you call

for help. I come, for I am always ready. Now tell me precisely what it

is you want.

BENVENUTA. I have promised a coat to the little Child--

BEELZEBUBB. That will do. It were better not to speak the name. What

sort of a coat do you wish?

BENVENUTA. May I have just what I like?

BEELZEBUBB. Certainly you may, my dear--if you are ready to pay for it.

BENVENUTA. I am ready. And I should like a little coat like the one on

the second of the Magi in the Adoration by Bellini that is over the

altar in our chapel at home--in the house of the Duke Loredano.

BEELZEBUBB. Let me understand exactly. The coat is to be like the coat

on the second figure to the left from the center of the picture?

BENVENUTA. Yes--no, there's a Saint Joseph also at the back. He would be

the third--from the Holy--

BEELZEBUBB. I pray you, keep the names of these people out of it.

BENVENUTA. These people!

[_Benvenuta's hand moves as if she were about to cross herself._]

BEELZEBUBB. And let your hand fall. You were about to make--to make some

sort of sign with it. These practices are very distasteful to me. I

cannot help you--or even stay for an interview--if you persist in them.

BENVENUTA. I beg your forgiveness. I had no intention--

BEELZEBUBB. I believe that--it is merely a habit you have learned--but

it is distasteful to me.

BENVENUTA. I will not offend you again.

BEELZEBUBB. Now to business. You wish of me a coat, a rich coat like

that on the third figure from the center of the picture that is in your

father's chapel at Venice. And the size--

BENVENUTA. To fit the little Child--

BEELZEBUBB [_interrupting sharply_]. I beg of you! I understand. The

coat is of what color?

BENVENUTA. It is the coat of the second of the Magi--

[_He puts up his hand, and she checks herself._]

It is of carmine silk damask with gold thread, and the inner vest is of

white lawn. I wish it precisely like the picture, since you promise so

much.

BEELZEBUBB. It shall be so. I will undertake to bring you the coat. And

in exchange I ask only that you sign your name here.

[_He takes out a parchment contract, with a great red seal on it._]

I regret that ink will not do. You must prick one of your fingers. I am

very sorry, but there is no other way.

BENVENUTA. Prick my finger? Once?

BEELZEBUBB. Only once, to secure the drop of blood. I am sorry to ask

it, but--

BENVENUTA. As though it never happened to me before!

[_She pricks her finger and squeezes out a drop of Blood. He

whips out a quill pen, and deftly wets it with the blood._]

BEELZEBUBB. You will sign here.

BENVENUTA. And what does it say? I should be loath to sign anything

unworthy of my family, or of this noble convent--

BEELZEBUBB. There is nothing novel about it--the form is quite usual,

and has been signed, I assure you, by many of the highest families in

Venice. It merely binds me at once to furnish you the rich coat, and

you to give me your little flame of a soul--when I come for it. That is

all.

BENVENUTA. Give me the pen.

[_She signs the contract. He passes his hand thrice across the

pouch and then takes from it the coat, and lays it across her lap.

He steps back and bows stiffly, folding the contract and

smiling._]

BEELZEBUBB. My dear young lady--my dear little sister.

[_He bows again, and vanishes; again the organ is heard, and

Benvenuta is left, her face glowing in ecstasy, the carmine coat

across her knees._]

[_Curtain._]

[SCENE III: _The Chapter Room. Night. The Abbess giving orders to

Grimana, Rosalba, the Sister Sacristan and others, about the

midnight office._]

ABBESS. All are to be present. None are to be indulged. I beg you, so

inform the sisters.

[_Rosalba goes out._]

And the novices are all to be in their places. I know the hour is late

for them, and many are young, but this is an exceptional night.

Stay.--The novice Atalanta Badoer--I shall require her apart from the

others. She will be needed with her lute.

GRIMANA. I will look to it, Reverend Mother.

[_She sets about to gather her embroidery._]

ABBESS. Now in the matter of the relics and vestments?

SISTER SACRISTAN. The relics are all re-furbished and repacked in new

cotton-wool, Reverend Mother.

ABBESS. And the vestments?

SISTER SACRISTAN. The vestments are all in order--

[_She is about to mention something about the vestments, but stops

herself._]

ABBESS. Go on.

SISTER SACRISTAN. I must report, as a matter of duty, Reverend Mother,

that certain goods--a piece of fine lawn--cannot be found. It was laid

out here to be used for the new surplice for His Eminence.

ABBESS. I do not like this. Tell me what you know of it.

SISTER SACRISTAN. This is all I know. Except that when I returned here,

the door to the Sacristy Closet was open--

ABBESS. Who was here at the time?

SISTER SACRISTAN. Sister Benvenuta was left here. When I returned she

was gone, and the closet was open, and the lawn--

GRIMANA [_interceding_]. I beg you, Reverend Mother--

ABBESS. Sister Grimana, I have given you your task. Be about it.

[_Grimana touches the buttons of her cape one by one, and then turns

and goes out._]

Sister, remember that the Sister Benvenuta comes of the noble house of

the Loredani. Guard your tongue.

[_The Sister Sacristan stands gloomily biting her lips._]

If she has removed the cloth to some other place, it does not matter.

Remember who she is, and that she is after all a child in mind, in

heart. We will speak no more of this.

SISTER SACRISTAN. No, Reverend Mother.

ABBESS. Send Sister Rosalba to me.

SISTER SACRISTAN. She is coming now, Reverend Mother.

[_Rosalba comes in and the Sister Sacristan goes out._]

ABBESS. I wish to speak with Benvenuta, Sister.

ROSALBA. I will fetch her, Reverend Mother.

ABBESS. One moment. You have observed her of late?

ROSALBA. Yes, Mother.

ABBESS. She seems pale, and not so strong as she was. And her mind--but

then she was always a simple child.

ROSALBA. Of course, I do not know the cause of her pallor. Perhaps a

penance she is undergoing secretly.

[_The suggestion is half a question as are those of the Abbess as

well._]

She is still very young, Reverend Mother.

ABBESS. She has confided nothing to you, nor to Grimana?

ROSALBA. Not to me, Mother. Shall I call Sister Grimana?

ABBESS. No. Send Benvenuta to me. And ask Grimana to send the novice

Atalanta also--a little later.

[_Rosalba goes out. The Abbess goes over and examines the Sacristy

Closet door, tries the lock, finds it fast, and returns to her

chair. Benvenuta enters. She is more pale than before, and looks

frailer, and her limp is more apparent, but her eyes are wide, and

rove about the room, and her expression is of one who has found

her happiness. The Abbess speaks to her kindly._]

ABBESS. My child, I have called you to me because you have seemed so

pale, and I fear you have burdened yourself beyond your strength.

BENVENUTA. No, Reverend Mother. I am not burdened.

ABBESS. You are not performing any secret penance?

BENVENUTA. None, Mother.

ABBESS. Answer me truly, Benvenuta. You have not been contemplating some

penance, and so been filled with anxiety.

BENVENUTA. I look for no penance in this life, Reverend Mother, beyond

such as may be imposed upon me.

ABBESS. Nothing beyond your strength will be imposed. If you have need

of more sleep, I would be willing to relax for you, for a time.

BENVENUTA. I do not need it, Reverend Mother.

[_Atalanta enters, sees the Abbess, and stands waiting._]

ABBESS. If you should find yourself overburdened, little Sister, come to

me. That will do. Atalanta, one moment.

[_Atalanta steps forward. Benvenuta starts to go, but lingers._]

I shall need your help with the lute to-night. I know you play it well.

The best lute player among the lay sisters is ill. You can play from

notes?

ATALANTA. If it be not too difficult, Reverend Mother.

ABBESS. It is simple. But I will have them give you the music, against

the time when you will be needed.

[_The Abbess goes out toward the Chapel. Benvenuta comes down to

Atalanta._]

BENVENUTA. Atalanta, dear!

ATALANTA. Yes, Benvenuta.

BENVENUTA. There is something I must talk to you about. I have put it

off because I have been deep in my own thoughts. You told me not so long

ago that you could not find your call, that the world still beckoned

you.

ATALANTA. Yes, it did. But I have been calmer since we spoke of it.

There was a thing in my heart that had to be spoken out--

BENVENUTA. Yes.

ATALANTA. I spoke it out to you, and since then it has not troubled me.

BENVENUTA. It was about the vinedresser's baby in your father's garden?

ATALANTA. Yes.

BENVENUTA. You told me about it here--in this room, was it not?

ATALANTA. Yes. Surely it was here. How strangely you speak, Benvenuta.

Have you forgotten? It was after that you asked me to get the gold

thread, and the child's coat.

BENVENUTA. So I did. I had almost forgotten it.

ATALANTA. It was a great comfort to me to tell you, Sister--and to serve

you. Why have you asked nothing more of me?

BENVENUTA. I have all the help I need, now.

[_A pause. Atalanta looks at Benvenuta wonderingly._]

The vinedresser's baby--did you ever hold him in your arms?

ATALANTA. No.

BENVENUTA. Nor ever felt his lips soft and moist against your cheek, nor

his fingers warm on your neck?

ATALANTA. No. I only saw the child, as I told you.

BENVENUTA. I remember now. You only saw him.

[_Another pause. Benvenuta is looking toward the Sacristy closet._]

Atalanta, dear, do you know that we can only be happy by pleasing those

we love most--that is what people live for, I think. And dear, remember

this: the happiness you saw on the face of the vinedresser's wife was as

torment beside the joy that is glowing in me.

[_Her eyes meet Atalanta's for a moment._]

Don't, dear--don't think it too strange. Everything is strange, after

all.

ATALANTA. Your face was like hers, then.

BENVENUTA. Please don't say that, dear. It's--it's foolish--isn't it?

But I told you once I was waiting for something--all my life waiting.

And now--and now!

[_She touches Atalanta's head, lightly, and goes off upstairs

toward her cell. Atalanta is left looking after her. Grimana comes

in._]

GRIMANA. Well, mistress. Prideful over not sitting with the novices this

night, eh? The lute-playing comes in well at last, does it?

ATALANTA. Oh, Sister Grimana, I--

[_She stops, confused._]

GRIMANA. What is it, child?

ATALANTA. It's Benvenuta. Have you seen her? Have you?--

GRIMANA. Yes, dear, I've seen. She's young. These times come to all of

us, I suppose. But they pass. Calm, child. Count your buttons.

ATALANTA. I was frightened, Sister Grimana.

GRIMANA. Aye, you'll frighten the novices just so in your turn. But just

the same, I wish she wouldn't--

[_The Abbess reenters, as a bell strikes from the chapel. Rosalba

comes on from the left, with two or three sisters._]

ABBESS. It is time. Let us all proceed to the chapel.

[_The Sister Sacristan carrying the lute and some music, enters

from the chapel._]

Are all the sisters assembled?

SISTER SACRISTAN. All save those who are here, and Sister Benvenuta.

ABBESS. Please you, Sister Grimana, go for Benvenuta.

[_Grimana goes up the stairs._]

SISTER SACRISTAN. Here is the lute, Atalanta Badoer. The notes are

clear, and the times you are to play them are written there.

ATALANTA. My hands tremble so. I'm afraid I shall fail in it.

ABBESS. Courage, child. I know it is the first time, but you will do

well--I am sure you will do well. Come, let us take our places.

[_Grimana enters on the steps, in great trouble of mind. She

carries in her hand the puppet of the Beelzebubb, twisted and

shattered and singed with fire._]

GRIMANA. Reverend Mother, forgive me. I have seen--I have seen--

[_She clasps and unclasps her hands, unable to speak._]

ABBESS. What was it, Grimana?

GRIMANA. I scarcely know, Mother. Mary be my shield!

ABBESS. Speak, Sister.

GRIMANA. There was a great light through every crevice of the door of

her cell. And music in the air--like harps and viols d'amour. And on the

floor outside I found this--shattered and half burnt--this puppet. And

from within, sounds--

ABBESS. Tell me all, Sister.

GRIMANA [_her fingers on the buttons of her cape_]. Sounds as of a

mother and her babe, cooing and kissing and caressing each other.

ABBESS. Call the Father Confessor.

[_The Sister Sacristan goes out toward the chapel._]

We must look to this. If her mind have broken under some penance--

ATALANTA. Let me go--

ABBESS. No. She was so pale--

[_The Sister Sacristan returns with the Abbe Filosi._]

Reverend Father, the little sister of the house of Loredan--

[_Then, the upper corridor is filled with a growing light--the

same radiant gold that streamed from the Sacristy closet. The

sisters bless themselves and most of them fall on their knees. In

the light Benvenuta appears walking erect, her lameness gone, and

holding before her the Christ Child, in a wondrous robe of carmine

silk damask. She laughs softly with the babe as she passes, and

when she has passed off toward the chapel, whence the organ is

again heard, the light fades._]

ABBE FILOSI [_in a hushed voice_]. A miracle!

ABBESS. She is healed! A miracle of the Holy Child. Blessed Mother--thy

Holy Child in our house.

[_Atalanta goes swiftly up the steps and off after Benvenuta._]

ABBE FILOSI. Let there be a special service of thanksgiving.

ABBESS. Let all hearts be uplifted!

[_Atalanta returns, trailing her lute behind her, and sinks down at

the head of the stairway, sobbing._]

[_Curtain._]

THREE TRAVELERS WATCH A SUNRISE

A PLAY

BY WALLACE STEVENS

Reprinted from "Poetry" (Chicago) by permission of Mr. Wallace Stevens

and Miss Harriet Monroe. Applications for permission to produce this

play should be addressed to Mr. Wallace Stevens, 125 Trumbull Street,

Hartford, Conn.

THREE TRAVELERS WATCH A SUNRISE

A PLAY BY WALLACE STEVENS

[_The characters are three Chinese, two negroes and a girl._

_The scene represents a forest of heavy trees on a hilltop in

eastern Pennsylvania. To the right is a road, obscured by bushes.

It is about four o'clock of a morning in August, at the present

time._

_When the curtain rises, the stage is dark. The limb of a tree

creaks. A negro carrying a lantern passes along the road. The

sound is repeated. The negro comes through the bushes, raises his

lantern and looks through the trees. Discerning a dark object

among the branches, he shrinks back, crosses stage, and goes out

through the wood to the left._

_A second negro comes through the bushes to the right. He carries

two large baskets, which he places on the ground just inside of

the bushes. Enter three Chinese, one of whom carries a lantern.

They pause on the road,_]

SECOND CHINESE. All you need,

To find poetry,

Is to look for it with a lantern. [_The

Chinese laugh._]

THIRD CHINESE. I could find it without,

On an August night,

If I saw no more

Then the dew on the barns.

[_The Second Negro makes a sound to attract their attention. The

three Chinese come through the bushes. The first is short, fat,

quizzical, and of middle age. The second is of middle height, thin

and turning gray; a man of sense and sympathy. The third is a

young man, intent, detached. They wear European clothes._]

SECOND CHINESE [_glancing at the baskets_].

Dew is water to see,

Not water to drink:

We have forgotten water to drink.

Yet I am content

Just to see sunrise again.

I have not seen it

Since the day we left Pekin.

It filled my doorway,

Like whispering women.

FIRST CHINESE. And I have never seen it.

If we have no water,

Do find a melon for me

In the baskets.

[_The Second Negro, who has been opening the baskets, hands the

First Chinese a melon._]

FIRST CHINESE. Is there no spring?

[_The negro takes a water bottle of red porcelain from one of the

baskets and places it near the Third Chinese._]

SECOND CHINESE [_to Third Chinese_].

Your porcelain water bottle.

[_One of the baskets contains costumes of silk, red, blue and

green. During the following speeches, the Chinese put on these

costumes, with the assistance of the negro, and seat themselves on

the ground._]

THIRD CHINESE. This fetches its own water.

[_Takes the bottle and places it on the ground in the center of

the stage._]

I drink from it, dry as it is,

As you from maxims, [_To Second Chinese._]

Or you from melons. [_To First Chinese._]

FIRST CHINESE. Not as I, from melons.

Be sure of that.

SECOND CHINESE. Well, it is true of maxims.

[_He finds a book in the pocket of his costume, and reads from it._]

"The court had known poverty and wretchedness; humanity had invaded

its seclusion, with its suffering and its pity."

[_The limb of the tree creaks._]

Yes: it is true of maxims,

Just as it is true of poets,

Or wise men, or nobles,

Or jade.

FIRST CHINESE. Drink from wise men? From jade?

Is there no spring?

[_Turning to the negro, who has taken a jug from one of the

baskets._]

Fill it and return.

[_The negro removes a large candle from one of the baskets and

hands it to the First Chinese; then takes the jug and the lantern

and enters the trees to the left. The First Chinese lights the

candle and places it on the ground near the water bottle._]

THIRD CHINESE. There is a seclusion of porcelain

That humanity never invades.

FIRST CHINESE [_with sarcasm_]. Porcelain!

THIRD CHINESE. It is like the seclusion of sunrise,

Before it shines on any house.

FIRST CHINESE. Pooh!

SECOND CHINESE. This candle is the sun;

This bottle is earth:

It is an illustration

Used by generations of hermits.

The point of difference from reality

Is this:

That, in this illustration,

The earth remains of one color--

It remains red,

It remains what it is.

But when the sun shines on the earth,

In reality

It does not shine on a thing that remains

What it was yesterday.

The sun rises

On whatever the earth happens to be.

THIRD CHINESE. And there are indeterminate moments

Before it rises,

Like this, [_With a backward gesture._]

Before one can tell

What the bottle is going to be--

Porcelain, Venetian glass,

Egyptian ...

Well, there are moments

When the candle, sputtering up,

Finds itself in seclusion, [_He raises the candle in the air._]

And shines, perhaps, for the beauty of shining.

That is the seclusion of sunrise

Before it shines on any house. [_Replacing the candle._]

FIRST CHINESE [_wagging his head_]. As abstract as porcelain.

SECOND CHINESE. Such seclusion knows beauty

As the court knew it.

The court woke

In its windless pavilions,

And gazed on chosen mornings,

As it gazed

On chosen porcelain.

What the court saw was always of the same color,

And well shaped,

And seen in a clear light. [_He points to the candle._]

It never woke to see,

And never knew,

The flawed jars,

The weak colors,

The contorted glass.

It never knew

The poor lights. [_He opens his book significantly._]

When the court knew beauty only,

And in seclusion,

It had neither love nor wisdom.

These came through poverty

And wretchedness,

Through suffering and pity. [_He pauses._]

It is the invasion of humanity

That counts.

[_The limb of the tree creaks. The First Chinese turns, for a

moment, in the direction of the sound._]

FIRST CHINESE [_thoughtfully_]. The light of the most tranquil candle

Would shudder on a bloody salver.

SECOND CHINESE [_with a gesture of disregard_].

It is the invasion

That counts.

If it be supposed that we are three figures

Painted on porcelain

As we sit here,

That we are painted on this very bottle,

The hermit of the place,

Holding this candle to us,

Would wonder;

But if it be supposed

That we are painted as warriors,

The candle would tremble in his hands;

Or if it be supposed, for example,

That we are painted as three dead men,

He could not see the steadiest light,

For sorrow.

It would be true

If an emperor himself

Held the candle.

He would forget the porcelain

For the figures painted on it.

THIRD CHINESE [_shrugging his shoulders_].

Let the candle shine for the beauty of shining.

I dislike the invasion

And long for the windless pavilions.

And yet it may be true

That nothing is beautiful

Except with reference to ourselves,

Nor ugly,

Nor high, [_Pointing to the sky._]

Nor low. [_Pointing to the candle._]

No: not even sunrise.

Can you play of this [_Mockingly to First Chinese._]

For us? [_He stands up._]

FIRST CHINESE [_hesitatingly_]. I have a song

Called _Mistress and Maid_.

It is of no interest to hermits

Or emperors,

Yet it has a bearing;

For if we affect sunrise,

We affect all things.

THIRD CHINESE. It is a pity it is of women.

Sing it.

[_He takes an instrument from one of the baskets and hands it to

the First Chinese, who sings the following song, accompanying

himself, somewhat tunelessly, on the instrument. The Third Chinese

takes various things out of the basket for tea. He arranges fruit.

The First Chinese watches him while he plays. The Second Chinese

gazes at the ground. The sky shows the first signs of morning._]

FIRST CHINESE. The mistress says, in a harsh voice,

"He will be thinking in strange countries

Of the white stones near my door,

And I--I am tired of him."

She says sharply, to her maid,

"Sing to yourself no more."

Then the maid says, to herself,

"He will be thinking in strange countries

Of the white stones near her door;

But it is me he will see

At the window, as before.

"He will be thinking in strange countries

Of the green gown I wore.

He was saying good-by to her."

The maid drops her eyes and says to her mistress,

"I shall sing to myself no more."

THIRD CHINESE. That affects the white stones,

To be sure. [_They laugh._]

FIRST CHINESE. And it affects the green gown.

SECOND CHINESE. Here comes our black man.

[_The Second Negro returns, somewhat agitated, with water but

without his lantern. He hands the jug to the Third Chinese. The

First Chinese from time to time strikes the instrument. The Third

Chinese, who faces the left, peers in the direction from which the

negro has come._]

THIRD CHINESE. You have left your lantern behind you.

It shines, among the trees,

Like evening Venus in a cloud-top.

[_The Second Negro grins but makes no explanation. He seats

himself behind the Chinese to the right._]

FIRST CHINESE. Or like a ripe strawberry

Among its leaves. [_They laugh._]

I heard to-night

That they are searching the hill

For an Italian.

He disappeared with his neighbor's daughter.

SECOND CHINESE [_confidently_]. I am sure you heard

The first eloping footfall,

And the drum

Of pursuing feet.

FIRST CHINESE [_amusedly_]. It was not an elopement.

The young gentleman was seen

To climb the hill,

In the manner of a tragedian

Who sweats.

Such things happen in the evening.

He was

_Un miserable_.

SECOND CHINESE. Reach the lady quickly.

[_The First Chinese strikes the instrument twice as a prelude to

his narrative._]

FIRST CHINESE. There are as many points of view

From which to regard her

As there are sides to a round bottle.

[_Pointing to the water bottle._]

She was represented to me

As beautiful.

[_They laugh. The First Chinese strikes the instrument, and looks

at the Third Chinese, who yawns._]

FIRST CHINESE [_reciting_]. She was as beautiful as a porcelain water

bottle.

[_He strikes the instrument in an insinuating manner._]

FIRST CHINESE. She was represented to me

As young.

Therefore my song should go

Of the color of blood.

[_He strikes the instrument. The limb of the tree creaks. The

First Chinese notices it and puts his hand on the knee of the

Second Chinese, who is seated between him and the Third Chinese,

to call attention to the sound. They are all seated so that they

do not face the spot from which the sound comes. A dark object,

hanging to the limb of the tree, becomes a dim silhouette. The sky

grows constantly brighter. No color is to be seen until the end of

the play._]

SECOND CHINESE [_to First Chinese_]. It is only a tree

Creaking in the night wind.

THIRD CHINESE [_shrugging his shoulders_].

There would be no creaking

In the windless pavilions.

FIRST CHINESE [_resuming_]. So far the lady of the present ballad

Would have been studied

By the hermit and his candle

With much philosophy;

And possibly the emperor would have cried,

"More light!"

But it is a way with ballads

That the more pleasing they are

The worse end they come to;

For here it was also represented

That the lady was poor--

The hermit's candle would have thrown

Alarming shadows,

And the emperor would have held

The porcelain in one hand ...

She was represented as clinging

To that sweaty tragedian,

And weeping up the hill.

SECOND CHINESE [_with a grimace_]. It does not sound like an

elopement.

FIRST CHINESE. It is a doleful ballad,

Fit for keyholes.

THIRD CHINESE. Shall we hear more?

SECOND CHINESE. Why not?

THIRD CHINESE. We came for isolation,

To rest in sunrise.

SECOND CHINESE [_raising his book slightly_]. But this will be a part

of sunrise,

And can you tell how it will end?--

Venetian,

Egyptian,

Contorted glass ...

[_He turns toward the light in the sky to the right, darkening the

candle with his hands._]

In the meantime, the candle shines, [_Indicating the sunrise._]

As you say, [_To the Third Chinese._]

For the beauty of shining.

FIRST CHINESE [_sympathetically_]. Oh! it will end badly.

The lady's father

Came clapping behind them

To the foot of the hill.

He came crying,

"Anna, Anna, Anna!" [_Imitating._]

He was alone without her,

Just as the young gentleman

Was alone without her:

Three beggars, you see,

Begging for one another.

[_The First Negro, carrying two lanterns, approaches cautiously

through the trees. At the sight of him, the Second Negro, seated

near the Chinese, jumps to his feet. The Chinese get up in alarm.

The Second Negro goes around the Chinese toward the First Negro.

All see the body of a man hanging to the limb of the tree. They

gather together, keeping their eyes fixed on it. The First Negro

comes out of the trees and places the lanterns on the ground. He

looks at the group and then at the body._]

First Chinese [_moved_]. The young gentleman of the ballad.

THIRD CHINESE [_slowly, approaching the body_]. And the end of the

ballad.

Take away the bushes.

[_The negroes commence to pull away the bushes._]

SECOND CHINESE. Death, the hermit,

Needs no candle

In his hermitage.

[_The Second Chinese snuffs out the candle. The First Chinese puts

out the lanterns. As the bushes are pulled away, the figure of a

girl, sitting half stupefied under the tree, suddenly becomes

apparent to the Second Chinese and then to the Third Chinese. They

step back. The negroes move to the left. When the First Chinese

sees the girl, the instrument slips from his hands and falls

noisily to the ground. The girl stirs._]

SECOND CHINESE [_to the girl_]. Is that you, Anna?

[_The girl starts. She raises her head, looks around slowly, leaps

to her feet and screams._]

SECOND CHINESE [_gently_]. Is that you, Anna?

[_She turns quickly toward the body, looks at it fixedly and totters

up the stage._]

ANNA [_bitterly_]. Go.

Tell my father:

He is dead.

[_The Second and Third Chinese support her. The First Negro

whispers to the First Chinese, then takes the lanterns and goes

through the opening to the road, where he disappears in the

direction of the valley._]

FIRST CHINESE [_to Second Chinese_].

Bring up fresh water

From the spring.

[_The Second Negro takes the jug and enters the trees to the left.

The girl comes gradually to herself. She looks at the Chinese and

at the sky. She turns her back toward the body, shuddering, and

does not look at it again._]

ANNA. It will soon be sunrise.

SECOND CHINESE. One candle replaces

Another.

[_The First Chinese walks toward the bushes to the right. He

stands by the roadside, as if to attract the attention of any one

passing._]

ANNA [_simply_]. When he was in his fields,

I worked in ours--

Wore purple to see;

And when I was in his garden

I wore gold ear-rings.

Last evening I met him on the road.

He asked me to walk with him

To the top of the hill.

I felt the evil,

But he wanted nothing.

He hanged himself in front of me.

[_She looks for support. The Second and Third Chinese help her

toward the road.--At the roadside, the First Chinese takes the

place of the Third Chinese. The girl and the two Chinese go

through the bushes and disappear down the road. The stage is empty

except for the Third Chinese. He walks slowly across the stage,

pushing the instrument out of his way with his foot. It

reverberates. He looks at the water bottle._]

THIRD CHINESE. Of the color of blood ...

Seclusion of porcelain ...

Seclusion of sunrise ...

[_He picks up the water bottle._]

The candle of the sun

Will shine soon

On this hermit earth. [_Indicating the bottle._]

It will shine soon

Upon the trees,

And find a new thing [_Indicating the body._]

Painted on this porcelain, [_Indicating the trees._]

But not on this. [_Indicating the bottle._]

[_He places the bottle on the ground. A narrow cloud over the

valley becomes red. He turns toward it, then walks to the right.

He finds the book of the Second Chinese lying on the ground, picks

it up and turns over the leaves._]

Red is not only

The color of blood,

Or [_Indicating the body._]

Of a man's eyes,

Or [_Pointedly._]

Of a girl's.

And as the red of the sun

Is one thing to me

And one thing to another,

So it is the green of one tree [_Indicating._]

And the green of another,

Which without it would all be black.

Sunrise is multiplied,

Like the earth on which it shines,

By the eyes that open on it,

Even dead eyes,

As red is multiplied by the leaves of trees.

[_Toward the end of this speech, the Second Negro comes from the

trees to the left, without being seen. The Third Chinese, whose

back is turned toward the negro, walks through the bushes to the

right and disappears on the road. The negro looks around at the

object on the stage. He sees the instrument, seats himself before

it and strikes it several times, listening to the sound. One or

two birds twitter. A voice, urging a horse, is heard at a

distance. There is the crack of a whip. The negro stands up, walks

to the right and remains at the side of the road._]

[_The Curtain Falls Slowly._]

SHAM

A SOCIAL SATIRE

BY FRANK G. TOMPKINS

THREE PEOPLE

CHARLES, _the Householder_.

CLARA, _his Wife_.

THE THIEF.

Originally produced by Sam Hume as the dedicatory piece of the new

Arts & Crafts Theater, Detroit, and by Maurice Browne of the Chicago

Art Theater.

Reprinted from "The Stewart-Kidd Modern Plays," edited by Frank Shay.

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 Mr. Frank Shay, care Stewart & Kidd Co.,

Cincinnati, U. S. A.

SHAM

A SOCIAL SATIRE BY FRANK G. TOMPKINS

[_SCENE: A darkened room. After a moment the door opens, admitting

a streak of light. A man peers in cautiously. As soon as he is

sure that the room is unoccupied, he steps inside and feels along

the wall until he finds the switch which floods the room with

light. He is dressed in impeccable taste--evidently a man of

culture. From time to time he bites appreciatively on a ham

sandwich as he looks about him, apparently viewing the room for

the first time. Nothing pleases him until a vase over the mantel

catches his eye. He picks it up, looks at the bottom, puts it down

hard, and mutters, "Imitation." Other articles receive the same

disdainful verdict. The whole room is beneath his notice. He

starts to sit down before the fire and enjoy his sandwich.

Suddenly he pauses to listen, looks about him hurriedly for some

place to hide, thinks better of it, and takes his stand opposite

the door, smiling pleasantly and expectantly. The door opens and a

young woman enters with a man at her heels. As she sees the thief

she stifles a scream and retreats, backing the man out behind her.

The thief smiles and waits. Soon the door opens again, and the man

enters with the woman clinging to him. They stand opposite the

thief and stare at him, not sure what they ought to say or do._]

THIEF [_pleasantly_]. Good evening! [_Pause._] Good evening, good

evening. You surprised me. Can't say I expected you home so soon. Was

the play an awful bore? [_Pause._] We-e-ell, can't one of you speak. I

CAN carry on a conversation alone, but the question-and-answer method is

usually preferred. If one of you will ask me how I do, we might get a

step farther.

CLARA [_breathlessly_]. You--you--[_With growing conviction._] You're a

thief!

THIEF. Exactly. And you, madame? The mistress of the house, I presume.

Or are you another thief? The traditional one that it takes to catch the

first?

CLARA. This--this is OUR house. Charles, why don't you do something?

Don't stand there like a--Make him go away! Tell him he mustn't take

anything. [_Advancing toward the thief and speaking all in one

sentence._] What have you taken? Give it to me instantly. How dare you!

Charles, take it away from him.

CHARLES [_apparently not afraid, a little amused, but uncertain what to

do, finally adopting the bullying tone._] I say, old man, you'd better

clear out. We've come home. You know you can't--come now, give it up. Be

sensible. I don't want to use force--

THIEF. I don't want you to.

CHARLES. If you've got anything of ours--We aren't helpless, you know.

[_He starts to draw something black and shiny from his overcoat pocket.

It might be a pistol, but he does not reveal its shape._]

THIEF. Let's see those glasses. Give them here. [_Takes them from the

uncertain Charles._] Perhaps they're better than mine. Fine cases.

[_Tries them._] Humph! Window glass! Take them back. You're not armed,

you know. I threw your revolver down the cold-air shaft. Never carry one

myself--in business hours. Yours was in the bottom of your bureau

drawer. Bad shape, those bureau drawers were in. Nice and neat on top;

rat's nest below. Shows up your character in great shape, old man.

Always tell your man by his bureau drawers. Didn't it ever occur to you

that a thief might drop in on you some night? What would he think of

you?

CHARLES. I don't think--

THIEF. You should. I said to myself when I opened that drawer: "They put

up a great surface, but they're shams. Probably streak that runs through

everything they do." You ought to begin with real neatness. This other

sort of thing is just a form of dishonesty.

CLARA. You! Talking to US about honesty--in our house!

THIEF. Just the place for honesty. Begin at home. Let's--

CLARA. Charles, I won't stand this? Grab hold of him. Search him. You

hold him. I'll telephone.

THIEF. You can't.

CLARA. You've cut the wires.

THIEF. Didn't have to. Your telephone service has been cut off by the

company. I found that out before I came. I suspect you neglected the

bill. You ought not to, makes no end of trouble. Inconvenienced me this

evening. Better get it put in right away.

CLARA. Charles, do I have to stand here and be insulted?

THIEF. Sit down. Won't you, please! This is your last ham-sandwich, so I

can't offer you any, but there's plenty of beer in the cellar, if you

care for it. I don't recommend it, but perhaps you're used to it.

CLARA [_almost crying_]. Charles, are you going to let him preach to us

all night! I won't have it. Being lectured by a thief!

CHARLES. You can't stop a man's talking, my dear, especially this sort

of man. Can't you see he's a born preacher? Old man, while advice is

going round, let me tell you that you've missed your calling. Why don't

you go in for reform? Ought to go big.

CLARA. Oh, Charles! Don't talk to him. You're a good deal bigger than he

is.

THIEF. Maybe I'll jiu-jitsu him.

CLARA. He's insulting you now, Charles. Please try. I'll hold his feet.

THIEF. No doubt you would. But that wouldn't stop my talking. You'd be

taking an unfair advantage, too; I couldn't kick a lady, could I?

Besides, there are two of you. You leave it to Charles and me. Let's

have fair play, at least.

CLARA. Fair play? I'd like to know--

THIEF. Ple-e-ase, don't screech! My head aches and your voice pierces

so. Let's sit down quietly and discuss the situation like well-bred

people, and when we've come to some understanding, I'll go.

CLARA. Yes, after you've taken everything in the house and criticized

everything else you can't take, our manners and our morals.

CHARLES. But he isn't taking anything now, is he? Let the poor chap

criticize, can't you? I don't suppose he often meets his--er--customers

socially. He's just dying for a good old visit. Lonesome profession,

isn't it, old man?

CLARA. If you WON'T do anything, I'll call the neighbors.

THIEF. No neighbors to call. Nearest one a block away, and he isn't at

home. That comes of living in a fashionable suburb. Don't believe you

can afford it, either. WON'T you sit down, madame? I can't till you do.

Well, then I shall have to stand, and I've been on my feet all day. It's

hardly considerate [_plaintively_]. I don't talk so well on my feet,

either. It will take me much longer this way. [_Clara bounces into a

chair, meaningfully._] Thank you, that's better [_sighs with relief as

he sinks into the easy chair_]. I knew I could appeal to your better

nature. Have a cigarette? [_Charles accepts one from his beautiful

case._] And you, madame?

CLARA [_puts out her hand, but withdraws it quickly_]. Thank you, I

don't care to smoke--with a thief.

THIEF. Right. Better not smoke, anyway. I'm so old-fashioned, I hate to

see women smoke. None of the women in my family do it. Perhaps we're too

conventional--

CLARA. I don't know that I care to be like the women of your family. I

_will_ have one, if you please. No doubt you get them from a man of

taste.

THIEF. Your next-door neighbor. This is--was--his case. Exquisite taste.

Seen this case often, I suppose? [_He eyes them closely._] Great

friends? Or perhaps you don't move in the same circles. [_Clara glares

at him._] Pardon me. Tactless of me, but how could I guess? Well,

here's your chance to get acquainted with his cigarettes. Will you have

one now?

CLARA. I don't receive stolen goods.

THIEF. That's a little hard on Charles, isn't it? He seems to be

enjoying his.

CHARLES. Bully cigarette. Hempsted's a connoisseur. Truth is--we don't

know the Hempsteds. They've never called.

THIEF. That's right, Charles. Tell the truth and shame [_with a jerk of

his head toward Clara_]--you know who.

CLARA. Charles, there isn't any reason, I'm sure--

THIEF. Quietly, please. Remember my head. I'm sorry, but I must decline

to discuss your social prospects with you, and also your neighbors'

shortcomings, much as we should all enjoy it. There isn't time for that.

Let's get down to business. The question we've got to decide and decide

very quickly is, What would you like to have me take?

CLARA [_aghast_]. What would we--what would we like to have you take?

Why--why--you can't take anything now; we're here. Of all the nerve!

What would we like--

THIEF. It gains by repetition, doesn't it?

CHARLES. You've got me, old man. You'll have to come again. I may be

slow, but I don't for the moment see the necessity for your taking

anything.

THIEF. I was afraid of this. I'll have to begin farther back. Look here

now, just suppose I go away and don't take anything [_with an air of

triumph_]. How would you like that?

CHARLES. Suits me to a "T." How about you, my dear? Think you can be

firm and bear up under it?

THIEF. Don't be sarcastic. You're too big. Only women and little men

should be sarcastic. Besides, it isn't fair to me, when I'm trying to

help you. Here am I, trying to get you out of a mighty ticklish

situation, and you go and get funny. It isn't right.

CHARLES. Beg pardon, old man. Try us in words of one syllable. You see

this is a new situation for us. But we're anxious to learn.

THIEF. Listen, then. See if you can follow this. Now there's nothing in

your house that I want; nothing that I could for a moment contemplate

keeping without a good deal of pain to myself.

CLARA. We're trying to spare you. But if you care to know, we had the

advice of Elsie de Wolfe.

THIEF [_wonderingly_]. Elsie de Wolfe? Elsie, how could you! Now, if you

had asked me to guess, I should have said--the Pullman Company. I

shudder to think of owning any of this bric-a-brac myself. But it must

be done. Here am I offering to burden myself with something I don't

want, wouldn't keep for worlds, and couldn't sell. [_Growing a little

oratorical._] Why do I do this?

CHARLES. Yes, why do you?

CLARA. Hush, Charles; it's a rhetorical question; he wants to answer it

himself.

THIEF. I do it to accommodate you. Must I be even plainer? Imagine that

I go away, refusing to take anything in spite of your protests. Imagine

it's to-morrow. The police and the reporters have caught wind of the

story. Something has been taken from every house in Sargent Road--except

one. The nature of the articles shows that the thief is a man of rare

discrimination. To be quite frank--a connoisseur.

CLARA. A connoisseur of what? Humph!

THIEF. And a connoisseur of such judgment that to have him pass your

Rubens by is to cast doubt upon its authenticity. I do not exaggerate.

Let me tell you that from the Hempsteds--[_Clara leans forward, all

interest._]--but that would take too long. [_She leans back._] The

public immediately asks, Why did the thief take nothing from 2819

Sargent Road? The answer is too obvious: There is nothing worth taking

at 2819 Sargent Road.

CHARLES [_comprehendingly_]. Um-hu-m!

THIEF. The public laughs. Worse still, the neighbors laugh. What becomes

of social pretensions after that? It's a serious thing, laughter is. It

puts anybody's case out of court. And it's a serious thing to have a

thief pass you by. People have been socially marooned for less than

that. Have I made myself clear? Are you ready for the question? What

would you like to have me take?

CHARLES. Now, old man, I say that's neat. Sure you aren't a lawyer?

THIEF. I have studied the law--but not from that side.

CLARA. It's all bosh. Why couldn't we claim we'd lost something very

valuable, something we'd never had?

THIEF [_solemnly_]. That's the most shameless proposal I've ever heard.

Yes, you could _lie_ about it. I can't conceal from you what I think of

your moral standards.

CHARLES. I can't imagine you concealing anything unpleasant.

CLARA. It's no worse than--

THIEF. Your moral sense is blunted. But I can't attend to that now.

Think of this: Suppose, as I said, I should take nothing and you should

publish that bare-faced lie, and then I should get caught. Would I

shield you? Never. Or suppose I shouldn't get caught. Has no one entered

your house since you have been here? Doesn't your maid know what you

have? Can you trust her not to talk? No, no, it isn't worth the risk. It

isn't even common sense, to say nothing of the moral aspects of the

case. Why do people never stop to think of the practical advantages of

having things stolen! Endless possibilities! Why, a woman loses a $5

brooch and it's immediately worth $15. The longer it stays lost, the

more diamonds it had in it, until she prays God every night that it

won't be found. Look at the advertising she gets out of it. And does she

learn anything from it? Never. Let a harmless thief appear in her room

and she yells like a hyena instead of saying to him, like a sensible

woman: "Hands up; I've got you right where I want you; you take those

imitation pearls off my dresser and get to hell out of here. If I ever

see you or those pearls around here again, I'll hand you over to the

police." That's what she ought to say. It's the chance of her life. But

unless she's an actress, she misses it absolutely. A thief doesn't

expect gratitude, but it seems to me he might at least expect

understanding and intelligent cooeperation. Here are you facing disgrace,

and here am I willing to save you. And what do I get? Sarcasm, cheap

sarcasm!

CHARLES. I beg your pardon, old man. I'm truly sorry. You're just too

advanced for us. Clara, there's an idea in it. What do you think?

CLARA. It has its possibilities. Now if he'll let me choose--Isn't there

a joker in it somewhere? Let me think. We might let you have something.

What do you want?

THIEF [_indignantly_]. What do I want? I--don't want--anything. Can't

you see that? The question is, What do you want me to have? And please

be a little considerate. Don't ask me to take the pianola or the

ice-box. Can't you make up your minds? Let me help you. Haven't you got

some old wedding gifts? Everybody has. Regular white elephants, yet you

don't dare get rid of them for fear the donors will come to see you and

miss them. A discriminating thief is a godsend. All you have to do is

write: "Dear Maude and Fred: Last night our house was broken into, and

of course the first thing that was taken was that lovely Roycroft chair

you gave us." Or choose what you like. Here's opportunity knocking at

your door. Make it something ugly as you please, but something genuine.

I hate sham.

CLARA. Charles, it's our chance. There's that lovely, hand-carved--

THIEF. Stop! I saw it [_shuddering_]. It has the marks of the machine

all over it. Not that. I can't take that.

CLARA. Beggars shouldn't be--

THIEF. Where's my coat? That settles it.

CLARA. Oh, don't go! I didn't mean it. Honestly I didn't. It just

slipped out. You mustn't leave us like this--

THIEF. I don't have to put up with such--

CLARA. Oh, please stay, and take something! Haven't we anything you

want? Charles, hold him; don't let him go. No, that won't do any good.

Talk to him--

CHARLES. Don't be so sensitive, old man. She didn't mean it. You know

how those old sayings slip out--just say themselves. She only called you

a little beggar anyway. You ought to hear what she calls me sometimes.

THIEF. I don't want to. I'm not her husband. And I don't believe she

does it in the same way, either. But I'm not going to be mean about

this. I'll give you another chance. Trot out your curios.

CHARLES. How about this? Old luster set of Clara's grandmother's. I'm

no judge of such things myself, but if you could use it, take it.

Granddad gave it to her when they were sweethearts, didn't he, Clara?

THIEF. That! Old luster? That jug won't be four years old its next

birthday. Don't lay such things to your grandmother. Have some respect

for the dead. If you gave more than $3.98 for it, they saw you coming.

CLARA. You don't know anything about it. You're just trying to humiliate

us because you know you have the upper hand.

THIEF. All right. Go ahead. Take your own risks.

CLARA. There's this Sheffield tray?

THIEF. No.

CHARLES. Do you like Wedgewood?

THIEF. Yes, where is it? [_Looks at it._] No.

CLARA. This darling hawthorne vase--

THIEF. Please take it away. It isn't hawthorne.

CHARLES. I suppose Cloisonne--

THIEF. If they were any of them what you call them. But they aren't.

CHARLES. Well, if you'd consider burnt wood. That's a genuine burn.

THIEF. Nothing short of cremation would do it justice. Of course I've

got to take one of them, if they're all you've got. But honestly, there

isn't one genuine thing in this house, except Charles--and--and the ham

sandwich.

CLARA [_takes miniature from cabinet_]. I wonder if you would treasure

this as I do. It's very dear to me. It's grandmother--

THE NEIGHBOR [_with a sneer_]. Christmas Day! Did ye hear 'bout the