THIEF [_suspiciously_]. Grandmother agai_Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays

CLARA. As a little girl. Painted on ivory. See that quaint old coral

necklace. And those adorable yellow curls. And the pink circle comb.

Would you like it?

THIEF. Trying to appeal to my sympathy. I've a good notion to take it to

punish you. I wonder if it IS your grandmother. There isn't the

slightest family resemblance. Look here!--it is!--it's a copy of the

Selby miniature! Woman, do you know who that IS? It's Harriet Beecher

Stowe at twelve. What have you done with my overcoat?

CHARLES. I give up. Here it is. Clara, that was too bad.

CLARA. I wanted to see if he'd know.

CHARLES. There's no use trying to save us after this. We'll just have to

bear the disgrace.

THIEF. Charles, you're a trump! I'll even take that old daub for YOU.

Give it to me.

CHARLES. Wait a minute. You won't have to. Say, Clara, where is that old

picture of Cousin Paul? It's just as bad as it pretends to be, if

genuineness is all you want.

THIEF [_suspiciously_]. Who is Cousin Paul? Don't try to ring in Daniel

Webster on me.

CHARLES. Cousin of mine. Lives on a farm near Madison, Wisconsin.

THIEF. You don't claim the picture is by Sargent or Whistler?

CLARA. It couldn't be--

THIEF [_ignoring her pointedly_]. Do you, Charles?

CHARLES. Certainly not. It's a water color of the purest water, and

almost a speaking likeness.

THIEF. I'll take Cousin Paul. Probably he has human interest.

CHARLES. That's the last thing I should have thought of in connection

with Cousin Paul.

THIEF. Bring him, but wrapped, please. My courage might fail me if I saw

him face to face.

CHARLES [_leaving room for picture_]. Mine always does.

THIEF. While Charles is wrapping up the picture, I want to know how you

got back so early. Your maid said you were going to the Garrick.

CLARA. We told her so. But we went to the moving pictures.

THIEF. You ought not to go to the movies. It will destroy your literary

taste and weaken your minds.

CLARA. I don't care for them myself, but Charles won't see anything

else.

THIEF. You ought to make him. Men only go to the theater anyway because

their wives take them. They'd rather stay at home or play billiards. You

have a chance right there. Charles will go where you take him. By and by

he will begin to like it. Now to-night there was a Granville Barker show

at the Garrick, and you went to the movies to see a woman whose idea of

cuteness is to act as if she had a case of arrested mental development.

CHARLES [_entering, doing up picture_]. Silly old films, anyway. But

Clara will go. Goes afternoons when I'm not here, and then drags me off

again in the evening. Here's your picture, as soon as I get it tied up.

Can't tell you how grateful we are. Shall we make it unanimous, Clara?

CLARA. I haven't the vote, you know. Clumsy! give me the picture.

THIEF. Don't try to thank me. If you'll give up this shamming I'll feel

repaid for my time and trouble [_looking at watch_]. By Jove! it's far

too much time. I must make tracks this minute. I'll feel repaid if

you'll take my advice about the theater for one thing, and--why don't

you bundle all this imitation junk together and sell it and get one

genuine good thing?

[_Clara leaves, apparently for more string._]

CHARLES. Who'd buy them?

THIEF. There must be other people in the world with taste as infallibly

bad as yours.

CHARLES. Call that honest?

THIEF. Certainly. I'm not telling you to sell them as relics. You

couldn't in the first place, except to a home for the aged and indigent

blind. But I know a man who needs them. They'd rejoice his heart. They'd

be things of beauty to him. I wish I could help you pick out something

with your money. But I don't dare risk seeing you again.

CLARA [_reentering, with the picture tied_]. Why not? There's honor

among thieves.

THIEF. There _is_. If you were thieves, I'd know just how far to trust

you. Now, I'd be willing to trust Charles as man to man. Gentleman's

agreement. But [_looking at Clara_] I don't know--

CHARLES. Clara is just as honest as we are--with her own class. But your

profession puts you outside the pale with her; you're her natural enemy.

You haven't any rights. But you've been a liberal education for us both.

THIEF. I've been liberal. You meet me--listen!--there are footsteps on

the porch. I--I've waited too long. Here I've stood talking--

CHARLES. Well, stop it now, can't you? I don't see how you've ever got

anywhere. Hide!

THIEF. No, it can't be done. If you'll play fair, I'm safe enough here

in this room, safer than anywhere else. Pretend I'm a friend of yours.

You will? Gentleman's agreement? [_He shakes hands with Charles._]

CHARLES. Gentleman's agreement. My word of honor.

CLARA [_offers her hand as Charles starts for the door_]. Gentleman's

agreement, but only in this. I haven't forgiven you for what you've

said. If I ever get you in a tight place--look out.

THIEF [_taking her hand_]. Don't tell more than one necessary lie. It's

so easy to get started in that sort of thing. Stick to it that I'm a

friend of the family and that I've been spending the evening. God knows

I have!

CLARA. I'll try to stick to that. But can't I improvise a little? It's

such fun!

THIEF. Not a bit. Not one little white lie.

CHARLES [_entering with a young man behind him_]. It's a man from the

_News_. He says he was out here on another story and he's got a big

scoop. There's been some artistic burglary in the neighborhood and he's

run onto it. I told him we hadn't lost anything and that we don't want

to get into the papers; but he wants us to answer a few questions.

REPORTER. Please do. I need some stuff about the neighborhood.

CLARA. I don't know, Charles, but that it's our duty. [_She smiles

wickedly at the thief._] Something we say may help catch the thieves.

Perhaps we owe it to law and order.

REPORTER. That's right. Would you object if I used your name?

[_Charles and the thief motion to Clara to keep still, but

throughout the rest of the conversation she disregards their

frantic signals, and sails serenely on._]

CLARA. I don't know that we should mind if you mention us nicely. Will

the Hempsteds be in? I shan't mind it, if they don't.

REPORTER. Good for you. Now, have you--

CLARA. We have missed something. We haven't had time to look thoroughly,

but we do know that one of our pictures is gone.

[_The men are motioning to her, but she goes on sweetly._]

REPORTER. A-a-ah! Valuable picture. He hasn't taken anything that wasn't

best of its class. Remarkable chap. Must be the same one that rifled the

Pierpont collection of illuminated manuscripts. Culled the finest pieces

without a mistake.

THIEF [_interested_]. He made one big mistake. He--[_stops short_].

REPORTER. Know the Pierponts?

THIEF. Er--ye-es. I've been in their house. [_Retires from the

conversation. Clara smiles._]

REPORTER. Well, believe me, if he's taken anything, your reputation as

collectors is made. Picture, eh? Old master, I suppose?

CLARA. A family portrait. We treasured it for that. Associations, you

know.

REPORTER. Must have been valuable, all right. Depend on him to know. He

doesn't run away with any junk. Who was the artist?

CLARA. We don't know--definitely.

REPORTER. Never heard it attributed to anybody?

CLARA. We don't care to make any point of such things. But there have

been people who have thought--it was not--a--a Gilbert Stuart.

CHARLES. Clara!

CLARA. I don't know much about such things myself. But our friend [_nods

toward the thief_], Mr.--Mr. Hibbard--who has some reputation as a

collector, has always said that it was--not. In spite of that fact, he

had offered to take it off our hands.

CHARLES. Clara, you're going too far--

REPORTER. She's quite right. You're wrong, Mr. Hibbard. You may be good,

but this fellow KNOWS. Too bad you didn't take it while the taking was

good. This fellow never sells. Of course he can't exhibit. Just loves

beautiful things. No, sir, it was real.

THIEF [_between his teeth_]. It wasn't. Of all the--

CLARA [_smiling_]. You take your beating so ungracefully, Mr. Hibbard.

The case, you see, is all against you.

THIEF. Be careful. The picture may be found at any minute. Don't go too

far.

CLARA. I hardly think it will be found unless the thief is caught. And I

have such perfect confidence in his good sense that I don't expect that.

REPORTER. Lots of time for a getaway. When was he here?

CLARA. He was gone when we came from the theater. But we must almost

have caught him. Some of our finest things were gathered together here

on the table ready for his flight. How he must have hated to leave them,

all the miniatures and the cloisonne. I almost feel sorry for him.

CHARLES. I do.

CLARA. You see, we went to the Garrick for the Granville Barker show.

Mr. Hibbard took us [_she smiles sweetly at him_]. I'm devoted to the

best in drama and I always insist that Charles and Mr. Hibbard shall

take me only to the finest things. And now we come home to find

our--you're sure it was a Gilbert Stuart?--gone.

THIEF. I've got to be getting out of here! Can't stay a minute longer!

Charles, I wish you luck in that reform we were speaking of, but I

haven't much hope [_looking at Clara_]. There is such a thing as total

depravity. Oh, here! [_taking package from under his arm_]. What am I

thinking of? I was running away with your package [_hands it to Clara_].

CLARA [_refusing it_]. Oh, but it's yours, Mr. Hibbard. I couldn't think

of taking it. Really, you must keep it to remember us by. Put it among

your art treasures at home, next to your lovely illuminated manuscripts,

and whenever you look at it remember us and this delightful evening,

from which we are all taking away so much. You must keep it--that's part

of the bargain, isn't it? And now are we even?

THIEF. Even? Far from it. I yield you your woman's right to the last

word, and I admit it's the best [_stoops and kisses her hand_].

Good-night, Clara. [_To the reporter._] May I give you a lift back to

town?

REPORTER. Thanks. As far as the Hempsteds' corner. Good-night. Thank

you for this much help. [_Exeunt._]

CHARLES. Thank goodness, they've gone. What relief! That pace is too

rapid for me. You had me running round in circles. But he's got the

picture, and we're safe at last. But don't you think, Clara, you took

some awful risks. You goaded him pretty far.

CLARA. I had to. Did you hear him call me Clara?

CHARLES [_chuckling_]. He doesn't know our name. But he wasn't a bad

fellow, was he? I couldn't help liking him in spite of his impudence.

CLARA. You showed it. You took sides with him against me all the time

the reporter was here. But, you know, he was right about our house. It's

all wrong. The Hempsteds would see it in a minute. I believe I'll clear

out this cabinet and have this room done over in mahogany.

CHARLES. Too expensive this winter.

CLARA. Birch will do just as well--nobody knows the difference. Listen!

is he coming back?

REPORTER [_in the doorway_]. Excuse me--listen. Mr. Hibbard says you've

given him the wrong package. He says you need this to go with the

picture of your grandmother. And he says, sir, that you need to get wise

to your own family. He's waiting for me. Good-night! [_Exit._]

CHARLES [_angrily_]. Get wise to my own family? He may know all about

art [_undoing the picture_], but I guess I know my own relatives.

[_Holds up picture so that audience can see it, but he can't._] And if

that isn't a picture of my own cousin Paul, I'll eat--[_sees Clara

laughing_]. What the devil! [_Looks at picture, which represents George

Washington._] Clara! you did that! [_laughs uproariously_]. You little

cheat!

[_Curtain._]

THE MEDICINE SHOW

A COMEDY

BY STUART WALKER

THE MEDICINE SHOW was first produced by Stuart Walker's Portmanteau

Theatre, with the following cast:

LUT'ER _Williard Webster_.

GIZ _Edgar Stehli_.

DR. STEV'N VANDEXTER _Lew Medbury_.

CHARACTERS

LUT'ER.

GIZ.

DR. STEV'N VANDEXTER.

_THE SCENE is on the south bank of the Ohio River. An old soap box,

a log and a large stone are visible. The river is supposed to flow

between the stage and the audience. In the background, at the lop of

the "grade," is the village of Rock Springs._

Reprinted from "Portmanteau Plays" published by Stewart & Kidd

Company, Cincinnati, Ohio, by special permission of Stewart and Kidd.

The professional and amateur stage rights are strictly reserved by

Mr. Stuart Walker.

THE MEDICINE SHOW

A COMEDY BY STUART WALKER

[_PROLOGUE: This is only a quarter of a play. Its faults are many.

Come, glory in them with us._

_You are a little boy once more lying on your rounded belly on the

cool, damp sands beside the beautiful river. You are still young

enough to see the wonder that everywhere touches the world; and

men are in the world--all sorts of men. But you can still look

upon them with the shining eyes of brotherhood. You can still feel

the mystery that is true understanding. Everywhere about you men

and things are reaching for the infinite, each in his own way, be

it big or little, be it the moon or a medicine show; and you

yourself are not yet decided whether to reach for the stars or go

a-fishing. Brother!_

_Lut'er enters or rather oozes in._

_He is a tall, expressionless, uncooerdinated person who might be

called filthy were it not for the fact that the dirt on his skin

and on his clothes seems an inherent part of him. He has a wan

smile that--what there is of it--is not displeasing. Strangely

enough, his face is always smooth-shaven. He carries a fishing

pole made from a tree twig and equipped with a thread knotted

frequently and a bent pin for hook._

_Lut'er looks about and his eyes light on the stone. He attempts

to move it with his bare foot to the water's edge, but it is too

heavy for him. Next he looks at the log, raises his foot to move

it, then abandons the attempt because his eyes rest on the lighter

soap box. This he puts in position, never deigning to touch it

with his hands. Then he sits calmly and drawing a fishing worm

from the pocket of his shirt fastens it on the pin-hook and casts

his line into the water. Thereafter he takes no apparent interest

in fishing._

_After a moment Giz enters._

_Giz is somewhat dirtier than Lut'er but the dirt is less

assimilated and consequently less to be condoned. Besides he

is fuzzy with a beard of long standing. He may have been shaved

some Saturdays ago--but quite ago._

_Giz doesn't speak to Lut'er and Lut'er doesn't speak to Giz, but

Lut'er suggests life by continued chewing and he acknowledges the

proximity of Giz by spitting and wiping his lips with his hand.

Giz having tried the log and the rock finally chooses the rock and

acknowledges Lut'er's salivary greeting by spitting also; but he

wipes his mouth on his sleeve._

_After a moment he reaches forward with his bare foot and touches

the water._]

GIZ. 'Tis warm as fresh milk.

[_Lut'er, not to be wholly unresponsive, spits. A fresh silence

falls upon them._]

GIZ. 'S Hattie Brown came in?

[_Lut'er spits and almost shakes his head negatively._]

She's a mighty good little steam-boat.

LUT'ER. She's water-logged.

GIZ. She ain't water-logged.

LUT'ER. She is.

GIZ. She ain't.

LUT'ER. She is.

GIZ. She ain't.

[_The argument dies of malnutrition. After a moment of silence Giz

speaks._]

GIZ. 'S river raisin'?

LUT'ER. Nup!

[_Silence._]

GIZ. Fallin'?

LUT'ER. Nup!

GIZ. Standin' still?

LUT'ER. Uh!

[_The conversation might continue if Giz did not catch a mosquito on

his leg._]

GIZ. Gosh! A galler-nipper at noonday!

[_Lut'er scratches back of his ear warily._]

GIZ. An' look at the whelp!

[_Giz scratches actively, examines the wound and anoints it with

tobacco juice._

_The Play would be ended at this moment for lack of varied action

if Dr. Stev'n Vandexter did not enter._

_He is an eager, healthy-looking man with a whitish beard that

long washing in Ohio River water has turned yellowish. He wears

spectacles and his clothes and general appearance are somewhat an

improvement upon Lut'er and Giz. Furthermore he wears what were

shoes and both supports of his suspenders are fairly intact. He is

whittling a piece of white pine with a large jack-knife._

_Seeing Lut'er and Giz he draws the log between them and sits._

_After a moment in which three cuds are audibly chewed, Dr. Stev'n

speaks._]

DOCTOR. What gits me is how they done it.

[_For the first time Lut'er turns his head as admission that some

one is there. Giz looks up with a dawn of interest under his

beard. Silence._]

DOCTOR. I traded a two-pound catfish for a box of that salve: an' I

don't see how they done it.

[_Lut'er having turned his head keeps it turned. Evidently Dr.

Stev'n always has something of interest to say._]

GIZ. Kickapoo?

DOCTOR. Ye'. Kickapoo Indian Salve. I don't think no Indian never seen

it.

[_He looks at Giz for acquiescence._]

GIZ. Y'ain't never sure about nothin' these days.

[_Dr. Stev'n looks at Lut'er for acquiescence also, and Lut'er

approving turns his head forward and spits assent._]

DOCTOR. I smelled it an' it smelled like ker'sene. I biled it an' it

biled over an' burnt up like ker'sene.... I don't think it was nothin'

but ker'sene an' lard.

GIZ. Reckon 't wuz common ker'sene?

DOCTOR. I don't know whether 't wuz common ker'sene but I know 't wuz

ker'sene.... An' I bet ker'sene'll cure heaps o' troubles if yer use it

right.

GIZ. That air doctor said the salve ud cure most anything.

LUT'ER [_as though a voice from the grave, long forgotten_]. Which

doctor?

GIZ. The man doctor--him with the p'inted musstash.

LUT'ER. I seen him take a egg outer Jimmie Weldon's ear--an' Jimmie

swore he didn't have no hen in his head.

DOCTOR. But the lady doctor said it warn't so good--effie-cacious she

called it--withouten you took two bottles o' the buildin' up medicine, a

box o' the liver pills an' a bottle o' the hair fluid.

GIZ. She knowed a lot. She told me just how I felt an' she said she

hated to trouble me but I had a internal ailment. An' she said I needed

all their medicine jus' like the Indians used it. But I told her I

didn't have no money so she said maybe the box o' liver pills would do

if I'd bring 'em some corn for their supper.

DOCTOR. Y' got the liver pills?

GIZ. Uh-huh.

LUT'ER. Took any?

GIZ. Nup, I'm savin' 'em.

LUT'ER. What fur?

GIZ. Till I'm feelin' sicker'n I am now.

DOCTOR. Where are they?

GIZ. In m' pocket.

[_They chew in silence for a minute._]

DOCTOR. Yes, sir! It smelled like ker'sene ter me--and ker'sene 't

wuz.... Ker'sene'll cure heaps o' things if you use it right.

[_He punctuates his talk with covert glances at Giz. His thoughts

are on the pills._]

DOCTOR. Which pocket yer pills in, Giz?

GIZ [_discouragingly_]. M' hip pocket.

[_Again they chew._]

DOCTOR. The Family Medicine Book where I learned ter be a doctor said

camphor an' ker'sene an' lard rubbed on flannel an' put on the chest 'ud

cure tizic, maybe. [_He looks at Giz._]

DOCTOR. An' what ud cure tizic ought ter cure anything, I think.... I'd

'a' cured m' second wife if the winder hadn't blowed out an' she got

kivered with snow. Atter that she jus' wheezed until she couldn't wheeze

no longer. An' so when I went courtin' m' third wife, I took a stitch

in time an' told her about the camphor an' ker'sene an' lard.

[_Ruefully._] She's a tur'ble healthy woman. [_His feelings and his

curiosity having overcome his tact, he blurts out._] Giz, why'n th' hell

don't yer show us yer pills!

GIZ. Well--if yer wanner see 'em--here they air.

[_He takes the dirty, mashed box out of his hip pocket and hands

it to the Doctor. The Doctor opens the box and smells the pills._]

DOCTOR. Ker'sene.... Smell 'em, Lut'er. [_He holds the box close to

Luter's nose._]

LUT'ER [_with the least possible expenditure of energy_]. Uh!

DOCTOR. Ker'sene!... Well, I guess it's good for the liver, too....

Gimme one, Giz?

GIZ. I ain't got so many I can be givin' 'em ter everybody.

DOCTOR. Jus' one, Giz.

GIZ. She said I ought ter take 'em all fer a cure.

LUT'ER. What yer got, Giz? [_Calling a man by name is a great effort for

Lut'er._]

GIZ. Mostly a tired feelin' an' sometimes a crick in th' back. [_Lut'er

displays a sympathy undreamed of._]

LUT'ER. Gimme one, Giz.

GIZ. Gosh! You want th' whole box, don't yer?

LUT'ER. Keep yer pills. [_He spits._]

DOCTOR. What's ailin' _you_, Lut'er?

LUT'ER. Oh, a tired feelin'. [_There is a long moment of suspended

animation, but the Doctor knows that the mills of the gods grind

slowly--and he waits for Lut'er to continue._] An' a crick in m' back.

DOCTOR. I'll cure yer, Lut'er. [_Lut'er just looks._] If that Kickapoo

doctor with the p'inted muss-tash kin cure yer, I guess I can.

GIZ [_who has been thinking pretty hard_]. Got any terbaccer, Doc?

DOCTOR. Yep.

GIZ. Well, here's a pill fer a chaw. [_He and the Doctor rise._]

[_Giz takes a pill out of the box and the Doctor takes his tobacco

from his pocket, reaches out his hand for the pill and holds out

the tobacco, placing his thumb definitely on the plug so that Giz

can bite off so much and no more. Giz bites and the Doctor takes

over the pill. Lut'er not to be outdone takes a battered plug of

tobacco from his pocket and bites of an unlimited "chaw." The

Doctor takes his knife from his pocket and cuts the pill, smelling

it._]

DOCTOR. Ker'sene! [_He tastes it._] Ker'sene! Now I been thinkin' things

over, Lut'er and Giz.... [_He tastes the pill again._] Ker'sene,

sure! [_He sits down on the log once more, spits carefully and crosses

his legs._] I got a business proposition to make. [_Silence. Lut'er

spits and crosses his legs, and Giz just spits._]

DOCTOR. There ain't enough home industry here in Rock Springs. We got a

canning fact'ry and a stea'mill; but here comes a medicine show from

Ioway--a Kickapoo Indian Medicine Show from Ioway! Now--what we need in

Rock Springs is a medicine show! [_He waits for the effect upon his

audience._]

LUT'ER [_after a pause_]. How yer goin' ter git it?

DOCTOR. Well, here's my proposition. Ain't we got as much horse sense as

them Ioway Indians?

LUT'ER. A damn sight more. [_That is the evident answer to the Doctor,

but Lut'er develops a further idea._] We got the country from the

Indians.

GIZ [_after a moment of accumulating admiration_]. By Golly, Lut'er, yer

right.

DOCTOR. Now, I got some medicine science. I'd 'a' cured my second wife

if it hadn't been for that busted winder.

GIZ. Yeh, but what come o' yer first wife?

DOCTOR. I could 'a' cured her, too, only I hadn't found the Family

Medicine Book then.

LUT'ER. Well, what I wanter know is--what's yer proposition.... I'm in a

hurry.... Here comes the Hattie Brown.

[_The Hattie Brown and the whistle of the steam-mill indicate

noon. Lut'er takes in the line--removes the fishing worm and puts

it in his pocket._]

DOCTOR. Well, I'll make the salve an' do the talkin'; Giz'll sort o'

whoop things up a bit and Lut'er'll git cured.

LUT'ER. What'll I get cured of?

DOCTOR. Oh, lumbago an' tired feelin' ... crick in the back and tizic.

LUT'ER. But who'll take a egg out o' somebody's ear?

DOCTOR. Giz'll learn that.

LUT'ER [_with a wan smile that memory illuminates._] An' who'll play the

pianny?

DOCTOR. Besteena, my daughter.

LUT'ER. Where we goin'?

DOCTOR. We'll go ter Lavanny first.

LUT'ER. How'll we git there?

DOCTOR. Walk--unless somebody give us a tote.

GIZ. We kin go in my John-boat.

LUT'ER. Who'll row? [_There is fear in his voice._]

GIZ. We'll take turns. [_Lut'er looks with terror upon Giz._]

LUT'ER. How fur is it?

DOCTOR. Three an' a half mile.... Will you go, Lut'er?

LUT'ER [_evidently thinking deeply_]. How fur is it?

GIZ. Three an' a half mile.

DOCTOR. Will yer go, Lut'er?

LUT'ER. Uh-h.

DOCTOR. Huh?

GIZ. He said, uh-huh.

[_Lut'er chews in silence._]

DOCTOR. I thought he said uh-uh.

GIZ. He said uh-huh.

DOCTOR. He didn't say nothin' o' the sort--he said uh-uh.

[_They turn to Lut'er questioningly. He is chewing intensely._]

LUT'ER [_after a pause_]. How fur did yer say it wuz?

DOCTOR. Three an' a half mile.

[_Silence._]

GIZ. We'll each take a oar.

[_Silence. A stentorian voice is heard calling "Stee'vun." The

Doctor rises, hastily._]

DOCTOR. What d'yer say, Lut'er?

LUT'ER. It's three an' a half mile ter Lavanny--an' three an' a half

mile back.... Pretty fur.

DOCTOR. We kin come back on the current.

LUT'ER. Three an' a half mile air three an' a half mile--current or no

current.

[_Again the masterful female voice calls "Stee'vun." There is no

mistaking its meaning. The Doctor is torn between home and

business. Lut'er takes up his rod, rebaits the hook with the

fishing-worm from his pocket and casts his line into the river._]

LUT'ER. I'll think it over ... but I ain't givin' yuh no hope.... Three

an' a half mile one way air pretty fur ... but two ways--it's turruble.

DOCTOR. Come on, Giz. We'll talk it over.

[_The Doctor and Giz leave Lut'er to his problem. Lut'er is

undecided. He is at a crisis in his life. He spits thoughtfully

and looks after the retreating Doctor and Giz._]

LUT'ER. Three an' a half mile.... [_He takes in his line and removes the

fishing-worm. He rises and looks again after the Doctor and Giz. He

hesitates._] ... two ways.... [_He starts in the opposite direction, as

he justifies himself to his inner self._] Rock Springs is fur enough fur

me! [_When he disappears the play is over._]

[_Curtain._]

FOR ALL TIME

A PLAY

BY RITA WELLMAN

CHARACTERS

MONSIEUR ROBERT.

NANETTE.

DIANE BERTRAL.

MADAME LE BARGY.

TIME: _France, 1915_.

Dedicated to

MAURICE MAETERLINCK,

Whose essay in

"The Wrack of the Storm"

inspired this play.

Application for the right of performing FOR ALL TIME must be

made to Rita Wellman, 142 East 18th Street, New York.

FOR ALL TIME

A PLAY BY RITA WELLMAN

[_SCENE: Sitting room in the house of Madame le Bargy. Furnished

in excellent taste. Main entrance center, this leads into a hall.

Another entrance left, back. French window right near back, near

this stands a large wing chair. Couch left, well forward. Chairs

near this. Nanette comes from the entrance left as Monsieur Robert

comes into the room from entrance center. Nanette is a European

old maid. Her dark eyes are full of fire and her lips are bitter.

She speaks quickly and sharply and is always on the defensive.

Monsieur Robert is well groomed, gentle, weak and likable. Nanette

is in deep mourning. Monsieur Robert carries a small bunch of

flowers which he holds awkwardly and fussily as if they

embarrassed him._]

NANETTE. Monsieur Robert....

ROBERT [_coming forward_]. Nanette.... How are you, Nanette! You look

thinner.

NANETTE. Yes, it's the mourning. It's unbecoming.

ROBERT. I shouldn't say that, Nanette. How is Madame? Tell me. [_Nanette

gives an eloquent shrug._] I haven't dared to come before. You know how

I hate anything--anything like a scene.

NANETTE [_sitting left_]. Sit down, Monsieur Robert. [_He sits in a

chair forward right._] It was cowardly of you not to come to see Madame.

ROBERT. Yes, I know. I am such a coward. I cannot imagine how I came to

be such a coward, Nanette. I am afraid to do anything any more. Yet my

mind keeps so active. How do you account for that? It's my imagination.

It seems to run ahead and do things in my place. In these times I am all

over the world at once. Nanette, will you believe it, that I suffer

actually with every man in the trenches?

NANETTE [_contemptuously_]. Oh, I daresay.

ROBERT. You don't understand my case. I am fifty-five. I have lived for

my work always. Why should I give it up now that the world has gone mad?

Some one must stay behind and keep things together. Some one must

conduct the dull march of everyday life. We can't all be heroes.

NANETTE. Your work!

ROBERT. Well, to be at the head of a big charity. That is something.

Countless lives, numberless families are in my care. I am sort of a

father to them all, Nanette.

NANETTE. They could have a mother as well.

ROBERT [_with pained eagerness_]. Do you really think that?

NANETTE. I know it. There are many women as well fitted for your post as

you--better fitted, in fact.

ROBERT. Oh, surely not. I have had the experience of years. I love my

work so. I love my little people.

NANETTE. You have made a pleasure out of what should be only your duty.

It isn't the poor who couldn't get along without you, Monsieur Robert.

It's you who couldn't get along without the poor.

ROBERT. Well, are we all to live merely to do our duty? Is that what the

Germans are going to teach us--to be machines like themselves?

NANETTE. I suppose after all, you are better off where you are.

ROBERT. How do you mean, Nanette?

NANETTE. You are more of a woman than a man after all.

ROBERT. You were always bitter against me, Nanette.

NANETTE. You were always superior with me, because I was not beautiful

like Madame nor young like Maurice.

ROBERT. How did you say she was, Nanette?

NANETTE. You will find her greatly changed.

ROBERT. I wanted to come to her as soon as she came, from Aix les Bains.

When she went to recover the body.

NANETTE [_in a tone of deep feeling_]. Yes, when we went hoping to find

Maurice.

ROBERT [_softly_]. Tell me about his death.

NANETTE. There were terrible days in which we could learn nothing

certain. Several times they gave up hope. What hope! It only made

certainty more unbearable.

ROBERT. They found him at last.

NANETTE. Yes, they found Maurice.

ROBERT. The French. That was good.

NANETTE. No, the Germans.

ROBERT. But Madame wrote me....

NANETTE. That was a lie she told you. The Germans found him. It was they

who had the privilege of putting him away to his final rest. He had just

won his cross.

ROBERT. He won the cross!

NANETTE. Yes, didn't you hear? That very week. [_Almost overcome with

emotion she rises._] We have it now. [_She goes out back a moment and

returns with a small black box which she opens reverently._] Here is all

that we have left of Maurice. [_She hands him a picture post card._]

This was taken only the day before.... [_She hands him a letter._] This

was the last letter ... you can see the date.... He was never so

confident or full of life.... There is even a joke about me. He was

always making fun of me. I don't know why. [_She hands him a revolver._]

Here is his revolver. [_She takes out the small box with the cross of

war and hesitates to give it to him._] This--this is what we have left

in place of Maurice. [_With a violent look she opens the box and then

suddenly hands it to him._]

ROBERT. You mustn't look on it in that way, Nanette.

NANETTE. I can't help it.

ROBERT [_reading_]. Maurice Paul le Bargy. Little Maurice! He was never

meant for action either. Do you remember how we used to tease him? He

hated to make any decision. He loved life's dreams and nuances.

NANETTE. He was nothing but a dreamer. Madame and I were talking only

yesterday of his garden--did we ever tell you of the garden he had when

he was a boy?

ROBERT [_handing her the box very carefully_]. No. Tell me about the

garden.

NANETTE. He made himself a garden, everything in it was arranged as if

for people only an inch high.

ROBERT. But there are no such people.

NANETTE. Of course not. That is why every one made fun of him. But he

went on building it just the same. It was scaled so that he was a giant

in it. There were little houses and little walks and little boats

sailing on lakes two feet across. The geraniums were great trees, his

pet turtle was like a prehistoric monster, and the hollyhocks pierced

heaven itself. When people told him that no one could really enjoy such

a garden he said that the ants could, and they ought to appreciate a

little beauty because they were always so busy.

ROBERT. That was like Maurice. How vast the sky must have seemed to him

who loved minute shadowy things!

NANETTE. He was always timid. Everything violent frightened him. They

made him positively ill. And how he dreaded the sea! Do you remember how

Madame tried to get him to swim?

ROBERT. But he did learn to swim finally.

NANETTE. Yes. But he told me one day--"Nanette, when I hear the surf my

whole body shakes with fear. I feel as if some terrible giant were

calling me. I hate the great sea."

ROBERT. And he fell into the sea, didn't he?

NANETTE. Two thousand feet.

ROBERT. What he must have endured all alone!

NANETTE. No one can know.

[_After a pause._]

ROBERT. You say Madame has changed?

NANETTE [_looking toward left before speaking_]. Yes.

ROBERT. Why do you look around like that? Is there anything wrong?

NANETTE. Yes, there is.

ROBERT. What do you mean? Is Madame very ill?

NANETTE. There has been a change.

ROBERT. What kind of a change?

NANETTE. Madame has changed. You wouldn't know her, Monsieur Robert.

ROBERT. You mean she has grown old? Madame was always so beautiful. Has

her hair turned white?

NANETTE. No, it isn't that.

ROBERT. You mean she is so stricken she can't talk with me? She won't

see me?

NANETTE. She will see you. But for your own peace of mind I advise you

to go away. I will tell her that you came. That will be the best way.

ROBERT. A change, you say? You mean she has altered so....

NANETTE. Yes. The truth is, it is Madame's mind.

ROBERT. Her mind! No, no, don't tell me that. That is the worst of all.

Do you mean that she is not clear in her mind? She wouldn't know me? She

wouldn't be able to remember? Nanette, I can't believe it. I can't

believe that this great and beautiful woman could give in like that.

Everywhere you see the small ones breaking down. But the great spirits

like hers--oh they must keep up. What else is there left for us if they

give up, too?

NANETTE. If you could hear her talk, Monsieur Robert. The things she

says.... Sometimes I have to run away and lock my door. I am afraid of

her.

ROBERT. I cannot stay now, Nanette. I couldn't bear it. It was hard

enough for me before. What can I say to her, Nanette, when my own grief

finds no comfort? Maurice was like my own son. He was the fruit of my

own soul. Into him went all the spiritual love I had for Madame, the

love which for fourteen years....

NANETTE. Monsieur Robert!

ROBERT. Oh, Nanette, forget your piety for once and let me speak my

heart out.

NANETTE [_with her strange, bitter coldness_]. No, Monsieur Robert, I

can never forget what you call my--piety.

ROBERT. No, you never can. That is why I have never been able to talk to

you. Your heart is closed to all but Maurice.

NANETTE. Yes, that is true. My heart has been like one of those vases of

domestic use which the ancients buried with the dead in their tombs. All

that was warm and beautiful in me is closed away forever with Maurice.

Although I was never more to him than a familiar object which was a part

of his everyday life. Only his old nurse.

ROBERT. How did he come to inspire such love in every one who came near

him?

NANETTE. Because he was young and beautiful.

ROBERT. But that is simply a temporary state.

NANETTE. Maurice would always have been young and beautiful.

ROBERT. Yes, he made you believe that. When he talked with you you felt

glad and young as if you'd heard music.

NANETTE. He loved life.

ROBERT. Yet he was a coward.

NANETTE. But he always dared to do what he was afraid to do.

ROBERT. Yes, that is where he was different from me. That is what I have

never been able to do--to dare as far as I could imagine.

[_He goes slowly toward the back._]

NANETTE [_rising_]. You are going?

ROBERT. Yes. I can't see her. You see the state I am in. What could I

say to her? I had better go.

NANETTE. Yes, it is the best way for you both.

[_Robert hesitates at the chair right. He tentatively puts a hand

out to touch the arm of it, and regards it curiously._]

NANETTE [_unsteadily_]. What are you doing?

ROBERT. It is strange.... [_Suddenly he falls into the chair and buries

his head in the cushions, sobbing and calling._] Maurice! Maurice!

NANETTE [_hoarsely_]. Monsieur Robert. [_As he does not answer--sharply

and frightened._] Monsieur Robert!

ROBERT [_rises slowly, a little dazed, but calm_]. Yes, yes, I know. I

am trying your nerves. Forgive me. I am going now, Nanette. Here--I was

forgetting--The flowers I brought for Madame. You will give them to her,

Nanette.

NANETTE. Monsieur Robert, why did you act in that way just now? Why did

you go to that chair?

ROBERT. I don't know.

NANETTE. When we came home from Aix les Bains I thought Madame would go

wild. She tore her clothes. She went striding about the house from room

to room calling at the top of her voice--Maurice, Maurice. She went into

all the rooms, into his room, looking into the closets--everywhere--Then

she came running down here. She went back into the back sitting room

where she is now--then back into this room. At last she came to that

chair.

ROBERT. To that chair, Nanette? Are you sure?

NANETTE. To that very chair. Then she flung herself down into it and

cried. That was the first time she had cried. I went away. When I came

back she was still there. And then this strange and terrible change came

over her.

ROBERT. How do you mean?

NANETTE. A peculiar quiet, an awful calm like death--only more terrible.

ROBERT. Yes, that is how I felt.

NANETTE. Just now in that chair?

ROBERT. Yes, just now.

NANETTE. A calm, you say?

ROBERT. Yes, like a hand pressed over my heart.

NANETTE. But you seemed happier, Monsieur Robert.

ROBERT. I am happier, Nanette. [_He goes toward back._] I am going.

[_He goes out at center. Nanette watches him dumbfounded. She then

gets the black box, carefully puts away her keepsakes, and takes

the box out center, returning almost at the same time that Diane

Bertral enters. Diane Bertral is a beautiful woman of about

twenty-eight. She is nervous and ill at ease, almost hysterical._]

DIANE. Does Madame le Bargy live here?

NANETTE. Yes, she does. Where can Julie be? Did the maid let you in?

DIANE. No, the gentleman who just went out ... he left the door open for

me. He evidently thought I was a friend.

NANETTE. Did you want to see Madame le Bargy?

DIANE. Yes, very much. Could I see her, do you think?

NANETTE. She is back in her own sitting room. She isn't to be disturbed.

DIANE. No, I suppose not. I shouldn't have come.

NANETTE. If you wished to speak with her about anything important I can

take the message.

DIANE [_absently_]. No--no....

NANETTE [_regarding her suspiciously_]. You know Madame le Bargy

personally?

DIANE. No, no, I don't.

NANETTE. I thought not.

[_Sitting._]

DIANE. May I sit down here for a moment? I am so tired. I have walked

all the way, or rather I have run most of it. I am all out of breath.

NANETTE. If you will let me know your message at once.... Otherwise

there is a seat down at the concierge. I am very busy.

[_She goes toward back, with her lips set._]

DIANE [_rising_]. The truth is.... I can't tell you. It is something

personal.

NANETTE. Something personal? Perhaps you are mistaken in the Madame le

Bargy ... this is Madame Jeanne le Bargy--the writer....

DIANE. Yes, yes, I know. Mightn't I speak with her for a moment?

NANETTE. That is impossible. Since the death of her son Madame le Bargy

has seen no one. No one at all.

DIANE. I might have known. Let me think. My mind has been so confused

lately. I have been in such a state of mind--I don't know what to do. I

came running here without any idea in my head. I felt that I would be

all right if I could only see Madame le Bargy.

NANETTE [_tersely_]. Perhaps Mademoiselle had better see the doctor. At

the end of the street--number 27--you will find an excellent physician.

DIANE. No physician on earth can cure me.

NANETTE [_after giving her an uneasy, distrustful look_]. Well, since

you cannot see Madame le Bargy, and since you have no message for her, I

must ask you please to excuse me. I am busy.

[_She stands waiting for Diane to go, regarding her with undisguised

hostility._]

DIANE. Yes, I will go. Why did I ever come? It was a mad idea. I see now

that the things which seem so simple and easy in the heat of your own

mind are the hardest of all to accomplish when you meet the coldness of

other minds. Don't trouble about me. I am going. I didn't come to harm

you or Madame in any way.

[_As she goes toward the door she passes the chair at right and stops.

She goes toward it curiously, then hopefully. Finally she flings herself

into it as Robert has done, and sobs the name--"Maurice! Maurice!"_]

NANETTE [_horrified_]. Mademoiselle!

[_Diane rises slowly, looking about her in a dazed way. Then she

suddenly leaves the chair._]

DIANE [_quietly_]. Forgive me. I will go quietly now.

NANETTE [_trembling_]. Mademoiselle. Just now--you spoke a name....

DIANE. Yes.

NANETTE. Was it--Maurice?

DIANE. Yes.

NANETTE [_drawing away, her face going black_]. I see.

DIANE [_going up to her curiously_]. Who are you?

NANETTE [_drawing herself up, showing the utmost contempt, hatred and

fear of Diane_]. Who are _you_?

DIANE. My name is Diane Bertral.

NANETTE. Who _are_ you?

DIANE. Just that.

NANETTE [_as before_]. I see.

DIANE [_passionately_]. Madame, listen to me....

NANETTE. Mademoiselle....

DIANE. Mademoiselle--are you--Nanette?

NANETTE [_who seems to grow small with dread_]. Those who know me well

call me that.

DIANE. He often spoke of you. He told me of you. You were his old nurse.

You were very dear to him. He always said he was the only person to

reach your heart. [_Seizing Nanette's hand._] Nanette! Let me call you

Nanette! Let me touch you. Let me know that heart which he could waken.

I am so in need of help. I am so in need of love.

NANETTE [_drawing away_]. Mademoiselle!

DIANE. You have lost Maurice. You know what I feel. Only you can know.

Help me. Let us help each other! We can never be strangers for our

hearts bear the same sorrow.

NANETTE. I don't understand. [_Growing stern with the realization._]

Maurice! Can it be that Maurice.... No, that is impossible. He was not

like that.

DIANE. Nanette. I loved Maurice. He loved me.

NANETTE [_recoiling as if at a great obscenity_]. Oh!

DIANE. Why do you speak like that? What could there be in our love for

each other that was wrong? If you only knew what we were to each other.

If you only knew, Nanette....

NANETTE [_hoarsely_]. Maurice.... I can scarcely believe it.

DIANE. Let me talk to you about him. Let me tell you about us. [_She

sits on the couch left, and feverishly begins to talk._] I am an

actress. We met at a supper party after the theater. You know how shy

Maurice was. He was afraid of most people. I saw that. I drew him to one

side and got him to talk. He was like a child when any one took a real

interest in him. He told me all about himself at once, about you, and

about Madame le Bargy....

NANETTE [_passionately_]. Oh, keep still!

DIANE [_not noticing Nanette's hostility_]. And about your house in the

country, and his garden and books and his piano and all the things he

loved. Then he went on and told me about his work, and how he wanted to

be a great writer, how he wanted to carry on what was best in the French

theater. He promised to show me his play.

NANETTE. His play!

DIANE. I told him to come to my house and read it to me. He came the

next day. It was the twenty-first of March. I remember the date

perfectly.

NANETTE. We always left town on that day, but we could not get Maurice

to go, so we had to leave him behind. Now I understand.

DIANE. Yes. He stayed to lunch with me, and that afternoon I had him

read his play to me. Do you remember how beautiful his voice was? It

started in a sort of sing song, like a child singing itself to sleep,

but as he went on his voice grew deeper and stronger, all your senses

melted into his voice and he carried you along as if on a great wave of

emotion, of ecstasy. Monsieur Laugier came later. He was my manager

then. I had Maurice read the play to him. And later some other people

came, and every one urged Monsieur Laugier to take the play. I begged

him to read it. I will never forget it. It seemed to me the most

important thing in the world. Well, as you know, Monsieur Laugier did

produce Maurice's play. And, although they wouldn't let me be in it, I

always considered it my play, too.

NANETTE. Then the story he told us of his meeting with Monsieur

Laugier--that wasn't true?

DIANE. No. I invented that for him to tell you.

NANETTE. He lied to us!

DIANE. You would never have understood.

NANETTE. Let me think--Maurice's play was produced in September, 1913.

That is two years ago. Two years.... Maurice lived here with us--day

after day--saying nothing--telling us nothing--We never suspected. We

never dreamed that he would deceive us.

DIANE. He did not deceive you. Not even the closest hearts can reveal

everything.

NANETTE. But to continue to see you ... all that time! It is

unthinkable.

DIANE. How could he explain what he didn't understand himself? How could

he tell you of what was a mystery to him? From the first moment we met

we lived and thought and felt as one being.

NANETTE [_vehemently_]. No! With us he was like that! He was like that

with us.

DIANE. With me!

NANETTE. To think of it! A common actress!

DIANE [_jumping up_]. How could you?

NANETTE. If I had known of this affair I would have gone straight to

you.

DIANE. And what could you have done?

NANETTE [_significantly_]. I could have found a way.

DIANE. You are a terrible old woman.

NANETTE. Am I terrible? I had to fight my way when I was your

age--because I was not pretty. I had the choice of being a free drudge

or some man's slave. So I chose to toil alone. In order to get along

alone I had to stifle every drop of humanity in my being. I had to bind

up my human instincts as they bind up the breasts of mothers who flow

too bounteously with life-blood long after their babes have need of it.

I had to become sharp and bitter because sweetness and softness get

crushed under in the battle to live. I learned to fight and I forgot to

feel. Then, when I was used up and hard I met Madame le Bargy and she

took me into her house because I had one valuable thing left. I had

learned that it is wiser to be honest. I was there when Maurice was

born.

DIANE. You were with him from the very beginning then.

NANETTE. I was an old maid of thirty-five. I had always lived alone. I

hadn't ever had a dog to care for. Then all at once I had this baby,

this little baby. I had his baby cries to call me. I had his tiny hands

to kiss. I used to press my lips against his throbbing head, against the

soft fissure where life and death meet, and I would say to myself,

"Here, with one pressure I can crush away life. Here, with one pressure

is where immortal life must have entered."

DIANE. Then later--when he grew up....

NANETTE. Day by day I watched over him. Madame was busy. Even after her

husband died she was in the world. She had her writing. She had her

friends. Her heart was fed in a hundred different ways. While I--I had

only Maurice.

DIANE. I understand.

NANETTE. I lived only for Maurice. When I saw that it was raining I

thought of Maurice. When I saw that the sun shone I thought of Maurice.

If I was awakened suddenly in the night his name was on my lips. It

seemed to me I could not take a deep breath for fear of disturbing his

image against my heart.

DIANE. Nanette! Can you believe that I have felt that way too?

NANETTE. You!

DIANE. Yes, yes, I have. Nanette, when he was little, when he was a boy

growing up, did you never think of me?

NANETTE. Of you!

DIANE. Yes, of the woman who would eventually take your place. Didn't

you think of what she would be like, didn't you plan her, didn't you

pray that she might be fine and great and beautiful? I know you did. You

must have! Well, I tried to mold myself that way. I tried to be worthy

of every dream you could have had for him, that his mother could have

had. That is how I loved him.

NANETTE. Do you know what I thought of when the idea of a woman for

Maurice came into my mind? I thought that when she came--if she ever

did--

[_She pauses, looking ahead of her._]

DIANE. Yes?

NANETTE [_turning and looking at Diane vindictively_]. I would kill her!

DIANE. Nanette, I would have killed myself rather than harm Maurice.

NANETTE. Then why did you allow him to throw himself away?

DIANE. Throw himself away! Nanette, I never knew what love was until

Maurice came. I was older than he. I knew life better. I knew myself

better. I had struggled. You say that you had to struggle because you

weren't pretty. I had to struggle because I was. You can't know what it

is to have every other man you meet want to possess you, not because he

loves you, but because your face suggests love to him and he hasn't

learned to know the difference. He finds that out later, and then he

reproaches you for being beautiful.

NANETTE. To think that Maurice should fall so low!

DIANE. But I came to know things. I was determined to find love. From

man to man, Nanette, I climbed up and up, picking my way, falling and

getting up again. Only the truly educated can love. I loved Maurice with

all the wisdom I had accumulated in years of suffering. I gave him a

perfect gift I had molded in pain.

NANETTE. You! What had _you_ to give?

DIANE. Then the war broke out.

NANETTE. Yes, the war. Maurice was one of the first. He made up his mind

at once.

DIANE. No, he did _not_ make up his mind at once.

NANETTE [_with a dreadful realization_]. Then it was....

DIANE. I made up his mind for him.

NANETTE [_vehemently_]. You did it! It was you then! You sent Maurice to

war. After they excused him! After they gave him a post at home! You

sent him to his death. Oh, I hated you before, but now....

DIANE. His mother and you clung to him. There was one excuse after the

other. You made him believe that he was too delicate and sensitive. You

used all of your influence. Madame le Bargy tried in every way to keep

him. She even testified officially that Maurice was weak from birth and

had dizzy spells and an unaccountable fear of the sea. And you testified

under oath to a long and dangerous illness he had had in childhood.

NANETTE. I did that. And it was all a lie.

DIANE. But all the time I was urging him to go. We three women fought

for mastery. But you see who won! I did! When he came to me at

nights--in the country--to my little house where we had been so happy,

there, there, in the very room where we were nearest, then I persuaded

him. With my kisses, Nanette, with my arms, with all the power I had

over him--then was when I thrust him away.

NANETTE [_triumphantly_]. You didn't love him then!

DIANE [_passionately_]. Could I love Maurice and see him stay behind?

Could I really want him to save his body for me when thousands were

giving theirs for France?

NANETTE. For France.... But what of us?

DIANE. Oh, the selfishness of those who have never really loved!

NANETTE. Never loved! How can you say that I have never loved?

DIANE. What can you know of my loss? Your love was a habit. It was the

love you could have lavished on a dog, or a horse or anything. But with

me--now that he is gone, I have lost everything. I have no place to

turn. I haven't even memory, as you have. Your love always took on the

color of memory, but mine was a living, flaming thing, necessary as food

and drink--as life itself!

NANETTE [_white with passion_]. But my love was pure and yours was not.

[_She crosses the room._] Good God, to think that this thing should ever

have happened to us in this house! [_She covers her face with her hands

and runs out back._]

[_After a moment Madame le Bargy enters, left. She is a handsome

woman of fifty or more. She wears a long loose gown of white silk.

Her voice is perfectly modulated and beautiful. There is about her

a gentleness and nobility of perfect spiritual strength. She looks

at Diane curiously for a moment, and then goes to her with hand

outstretched. During the following the day is fast becoming dark,

and the sun's setting is seen from the French window._]

MADAME LE BARGY. I heard Nanette's voice. She has a habit of keeping

people from me, although I am always glad to see any one. May I know

your name?

DIANE. My name is Diane Bertral.

MADAME LE BARGY. Diane Bertral. I have never heard of you.

DIANE. No. I am an actress. But I am not so very well known. Are you

Madame le Bargy?

MADAME LE BARGY. Yes. Won't you sit down on the couch there? Why did you

come to see me, Mademoiselle?

[_She sits at right forward._]

DIANE [_embarrassed_]. I came.... I don't know why I came, Madame le

Bargy.

MADAME LE BARGY. You know some one I know, perhaps--some friend of us

both.

DIANE. Yes, that is it. Some one we have both--lost.

MADAME LE BARGY [_with a quick look at Diane_]. A _dear_ friend?

DIANE. Yes, a very dear friend.

MADAME LE BARGY. Do you mean--Maurice?

DIANE. Yes.

MADAME LE BARGY. You knew him well?

DIANE. I loved him.

MADAME LE BARGY. Yes, I know.

DIANE [_astonished_]. You know!

MADAME LE BARGY. Yes, Maurice has told me.

DIANE. No, no; that I am sure of. I am sure he never has. He has never

told a soul. That was our agreement. We were to keep it secret and

sacred. Not even you were to know, not as long as we lived.

MADAME LE BARGY [_gently_]. But after...?

DIANE [_puzzled_]. After?

MADAME LE BARGY. How long did you know Maurice?

DIANE. It would be two years this March.

MADAME LE BARGY. You loved each other all that time?

DIANE. From the very first. We never had any of those preliminaries in

which people have a chance to deceive each other. We came together

directly and frankly and we never regretted it.

MADAME LE BARGY. Maurice was very young.

DIANE. He was twenty-four. He was eager for life. But you two had kept

him back. You had warmed his heart with your kind of love until he had

begun to think it was the only love which is worthy.

MADAME LE BARGY. And you believe that that isn't so?

DIANE [_simply_]. I believe that there can be no flame like the love

between two young people who are one.

MADAME LE BARGY [_going to Diane and putting a hand on her shoulder_].

Poor little woman.

DIANE [_astounded_]. Madame!

MADAME LE BARGY. You have been suffering a great deal, Diane.

DIANE [_bursting into wild weeping_]. Oh, Madame, how good you are, how

kind you are! [_Grasping Madame's arms, she trembles and sobs._] Oh, how

can I ever tell you? Thank you, thank you! [_She jumps up and paces

about the room._] What am I going to do with myself? How can I go on? I

simply can't stand it. If I had only died with Maurice! If I could only

have died in his place! Oh, the cruelty of it! Why did they have to pick

out _my_ lover? Surely there are thousands of others. Why did it have to

be just mine? Mine--when I needed him so! He might have been spared a

little longer, to give me time to get used to it. That would have been

better. But now! Just as he was beginning to be of service, too. Why he

hadn't been there a year yet. Not even a year! [_Beating her hips

violently._] I could tear myself to pieces. I hate myself for going on

living. I detest myself for being alive when he is dead.

MADAME LE BARGY [_who has watched Diane with infinite pity--softly_].

Diane, do you think that I loved my son?

DIANE [_in surprise_]. Why, yes, Madame, I believe that you loved

Maurice.

MADAME LE BARGY. You think that my love was not as great as yours?

DIANE. No, I don't think so. You had had your life. Maurice and I were

only beginning ours.

MADAME LE BARGY. Which do you think is the greater love, Diane, the love

which endures for the moment, or the love which endures for all time?

DIANE [_puzzled_]. For all time...?

MADAME LE BARGY. For all time.

DIANE. We have the dear lips to kiss, the dear head to caress, but when

these are gone there is only memory--and that is torture.

MADAME LE BARGY. What if I should tell you that Maurice still lives,

Diane?

DIANE [_rushing to her_]. Madame! My God, is this true?

MADAME LE BARGY [_gently_]. Maurice still lives, Diane. He talks with me

every day.

DIANE [_slowly_]. He talks with you....

MADAME LE BARGY [_holding her gaze_]. Yes, Diane, he talks with me.

DIANE [_the hope dies out of her face and she turns away_]. I

understand.

MADAME LE BARGY. You see, you did not love Maurice.

DIANE. How can you tell me that--that I didn't love him?

MADAME LE BARGY. Because you don't continue to do so.

DIANE. But how can I love what no longer exists?

MADAME LE BARGY. Oh, the selfishness of those who have never really

loved!

DIANE. That is what I said to Nanette--and now you say the same thing to

me.

MADAME LE BARGY. Diane, when I knew for certain that Maurice had fallen

into the sea, that they had recovered his body, that he was buried in

German soil, then I felt that I should never live another moment. I felt

as you have felt. I wanted to die. I could not bear it. I came here to

this house. I was mad for the sight of him, for the things that he had

touched and loved. I flew into his room and dragged his clothes from the

pegs and crushed them to me, but even the odor and touch of his personal

belongings was not enough to calm me. I came into this room. Then I drew

near that chair. Something--I don't know what--drove me to sit in it. I

flung myself into it as if it were into his arms, and I wept out all my

grief. Then, all at once, a great calm came over me. I looked upon my

solemn black dress in amazement and distaste. I looked into my solemn

and black heart with surprise and shame. I felt that Maurice was

_alive_, that he was not _dead_, Diane. Then I remembered, as I sat

there, that it was in this chair that he had sat when he came to say

good-by. There he had sat talking happily and confidently--he had seemed

filled with radiance. And so he has talked to me again and again. Every

day, at the same time, at twilight, I have sat there and felt myself

with Maurice. We have talked together, just as we always did. There is

nothing weird or supernatural about it, Diane. He is just as we knew

him, as we knew him in those swift, strange moments when, in a flash,

the body seems to slip aside and spirit rushes out to meet spirit. That

is all. People see me cheerful and smiling and they say that I am mad.

The few to whom I have told of these talks pity me and are sure that I

have lost my reason. Perhaps, in a worldly sense, I am mad. But I know

this, Diane, that Maurice lives as usual, more truly, than he did six

weeks ago. I know that his youth has not been sacrificed in vain. As the

dead plant enriches the soil from which it grew and into which it

finally falls, so will this young soul in all its bloom enrich the life

out of which it sprang and from which it can never entirely disappear.

DIANE [_after a pause--rising_]. That is beautiful, but I cannot do it.

[_Stretching out her arms._] My arms are aching with emptiness.

MADAME LE BARGY. You see that you did not really love, Diane.

DIANE. Perhaps not. But it was the greatest I was capable of.

[_She gets a scarf she has dropped and goes toward the back._]

MADAME LE BARGY [_softly_]. This is the time, Diane.

DIANE. When you talk with him?

MADAME LE BARGY. Yes.

[_Diane goes slowly and sinks into the chair wearily. Suddenly she

flings her arms out, crying "Maurice, Maurice." Madame le Bargy

rises and goes to her._]

DIANE. Maurice, come back to me! Dear God, give him back to me!

[_Nanette enters at back with her black box. She sees Diane in the

chair. Suddenly she takes out the revolver and shoots Diane._]

NANETTE. Maurice! Forgive me!

MADAME LE BARGY. Nanette! Child! My child! [_She rushes to take Diane in

her arms._] Nanette, what have you done, what have you done?

NANETTE. I have rid Maurice of a stain.

DIANE [_calling softly_]. Maurice, Maurice.... Oh, I knew you couldn't

stay away. I knew you would come back to me. Now we will never be

separated. We will be together like this for always--for all time.

MADAME LE BARGY [_softly_]. For all time, Diane.

NANETTE [_kneeling beside Diane--crossing herself_]. For all time.

[_Curtain._]

THE FINGER OF GOD

A PLAY

BY PERCIVAL WILDE

Professional stage and motion picture rights reserved.

THE FINGER OF GOD was produced by the Wisconsin Players at the

Wisconsin Little Theatre, Milwaukee, Wis., March 28, 1916, and

subsequently, with the following cast:

STRICKLAND _Frederick Irving Deakin_.

BENSON _Harry V. Meissner_.

A GIRL _Marjorie Frances Hollis_.

Under the direction of FREDERIC IRVING DEAKIN.

Reprinted from "Dawn, and Other One-Act Plays of Life To-day" by

permission of, and special arrangement with, Mr. Wilde. The acting

rights in this play are strictly reserved. Performances may be

given by _amateurs_ upon payment to the author of a royalty of

five dollars ($5.00) for each performance. Production by

professional actors, without the written consent of the author, is

forbidden. Persons who wish to produce this play should apply to

Mr. Percival Wilde, in care of Walter H. Baker & Co., 5 Hamilton

Place, Boston, Mass.

THE FINGER OF GOD

A PLAY BY PERCIVAL WILDE

[_The living room of Strickland's apartment. At the rear, a

doorway, heavily curtained, leads into another room. At the left

of the doorway, a bay window, also heavily curtained, is set into

the diagonal wall. Near the center, an ornate writing desk, upon

which is a telephone. At the right, the main entrance. The

furnishings, in general, are luxurious and costly._

_As the curtain rises Strickland, kneeling, is burning papers in a

grate near the main door. Benson, his valet, is packing a suitcase

which lies open on the writing desk. It is ten-thirty; a bitterly

cold night in winter._]

STRICKLAND. Benson!

BENSON. Yes, sir.

STRICKLAND. Close the window: it's cold.

BENSON [_goes to the window_]. The window _is_ closed, sir. It's been

closed all evening.

STRICKLAND [_shivers and buttons his coat tightly_]. Benson.

BENSON. Yes, sir?

STRICKLAND. Don't forget a heavy overcoat.

BENSON. I've put it in already, sir.

STRICKLAND. Plenty of fresh linen?

BENSON. Yes, sir.

STRICKLAND. Collars and ties?

BENSON. I've looked out for everything, sir.

STRICKLAND [_after a pause_]. You sent off the trunks this afternoon?

BENSON. Yes, sir.

STRICKLAND. You're sure they can't be traced?

BENSON. I had one wagon take them to a vacant lot, and another wagon

take them to the station.

STRICKLAND. Good!

BENSON. I checked them through to Chicago. Here are the checks. [_He

hands them over._] What train do we take, sir?

STRICKLAND. _I_ take the midnight. You follow me some time next week. We

mustn't be seen leaving town together.

BENSON. How will I find you in Chicago?

STRICKLAND. You won't. You'll take rooms somewheres, and I'll take rooms

somewheres else till it's all blown over. When I want you I'll put an ad

in the "Tribune."

BENSON. You don't know when that will be, sir?

STRICKLAND. As soon as I think it is safe. It may be two weeks. It may

be a couple of months. But you will stay in Chicago till you hear from

me one way or the other. You understand?

BENSON. Yes, sir.

STRICKLAND. Have you plenty of money?

BENSON. Not enough to last a couple of months.

STRICKLAND [_producing a large pocketbook_]. How much do you want?

BENSON. Five or six hundred.

STRICKLAND [_takes out a few bills. Stops_]. Wait a minute! I left that

much in my bureau drawer.

[_He goes toward the door._]

BENSON. Mr. Strickland?

STRICKLAND. Yes?

BENSON. It's the midnight train for Chicago, isn't it?

STRICKLAND. Yes.

[_He goes into the next room._]

BENSON [_waits an instant. Then he lifts the telephone receiver, and

speaks very quietly_]. Hello. Murray Hill 3500.... Hello. This Finley?

This is Benson.... He's going to take the midnight train for Chicago.

Pennsylvania. You had better arrest him at the station. If he once gets

to Chicago you'll never find him. And, Finley, you won't forget _me_,

will you?... I want five thousand dollars for it. Yes, five thousand.

That's little enough. He's got almost three hundred thousand on him, and

you won't turn in _all_ of that to Headquarters. Yes, it's cash. Large

bills. [_Strickland's step is heard._] Midnight for Chicago.

[_Benson hangs up the receiver and is busy with the suitcase as

Strickland enters._]

STRICKLAND. Here's your money, Benson. Count it.

BENSON [_after counting_]. Six hundred dollars, thank you, sir. [_He

picks up the closed suitcase._] Shall I go now?

STRICKLAND. No. Wait a minute. [_He goes to the telephone._] Hello,

Madison Square 7900 ... Pennsylvania? I want a stateroom for Chicago,

midnight train. Yes, to-night.

BENSON. Don't give your own name, sir.

STRICKLAND. No. The name is Stevens.... Oh, you have one reserved in

that name already? Well, this is _Alfred_ Stevens.... You have it

reserved in that name? Then give me another stateroom.... What? You

haven't any other? [_He pauses in an instant's thought. Then,

decisively_]: Never mind, then. Good-by. [_He turns to Benson._] Benson,

go right down to the Pennsylvania, and get the stateroom that is

reserved for Alfred Stevens. You've got to get there before he does.

Wait for me at the train gate.

BENSON. Yes, sir.

STRICKLAND. Don't waste any time. I'll see you later.

BENSON. Very well, sir.

[_He takes up the suitcase, and goes._]

STRICKLAND [_left alone, opens drawer after drawer of the desk

systematically, dumping what few papers are still left into the fire.

Outside a wintry gale whistles, and shakes the locked window. Suddenly

there is a knock at the door. He pauses, very much startled. A little

wait, and then the knock, a single knock, is repeated. He rises, goes to

the door, opens it._] Who's there?

A GIRL. I, sir.

[_She enters. She is young: certainly under thirty: perhaps under

twenty-five: possibly still younger. A somewhat shabby boa of some

dark fur encircles her neck, and makes her pallid face stand out

with startling distinctness from beneath a mass of lustrous brown

hair. And as she steps over the threshold she gives a little

shiver of comfort, for it is cold outside, and her thin shoulders

have been shielded from the driving snow by a threadbare coat. She

enters the warm room gracefully, and little rivulets of melted ice

trickle to the floor from her inadequate clothing. Her lips are

blue. Her hands tremble in their worn white gloves. A seat before

a blazing fire, or perhaps, a sip of some strong cordial--this is

what she needs. But Strickland has no time for such things. He

greets her with a volley of questions._]

STRICKLAND. Who are you?

THE GIRL. Who, don't you remember me, sir?

STRICKLAND. No.

THE GIRL. I'm from the office, sir.

STRICKLAND. The office?

THE GIRL. _Your_ office. I'm one of your personal stenographers, sir.

STRICKLAND. Oh. I suppose I didn't recognize you on account of the hat.

What do you want?

THE GIRL. There were some letters which came late this afternoon--

STRICKLAND [_interrupting harshly_]. And you're bothering me with them

now? [_He crosses to the door, and holds it open.]_ I've got no time.

Good night.

THE GIRL [_timidly_]. I thought you'd want to see these letters.

STRICKLAND. Plenty of time to-morrow.

THE GIRL. But you won't be here to-morrow, will you?

STRICKLAND [_starting violently_]. Won't be here? What do you mean?

THE GIRL. You're taking the train to Chicago to-night.

STRICKLAND. How did you know--[_He stops himself. Then, with forced

ease._] Taking a train to Chicago? Of course not! What put that in your

head?

THE GIRL. Why, you told me, sir.

STRICKLAND. _I_ told you?

THE GIRL. You said so this afternoon.

STRICKLAND [_harshly_]. I didn't see you this afternoon!

THE GIRL [_without contradicting him_]. No, sir? [_She produces a

time-table._] Then I found this time-table.

[_She holds it out. He snatches it._]

STRICKLAND. Where did you find it?

THE GIRL. On your desk, sir.

STRICKLAND. On my desk?

THE GIRL. Yes, sir.

STRICKLAND [_suddenly and directly_]. You're lying!

THE GIRL. Why, Mr. Strickland!

STRICKLAND. That time-table never reached my desk! I lost it between the

railroad station and my office.

THE GIRL. Did you, sir? But it's the same time-table: you see, you

checked the midnight train. [_He looks at her suspiciously._] I reserved

a stateroom for you.

STRICKLAND [_astonished_]. You reserved a stateroom?

THE GIRL [_smiling_]. I knew you'd forget it. You have your head so full

of other things. So I telephoned as soon as you left the office.

STRICKLAND [_biting his lip angrily_]. I suppose you made the

reservation in my own name?

THE GIRL. No, sir.

STRICKLAND [_immensely surprised_]. What?

THE GIRL. I thought you'd prefer some other name: you didn't want your

trip to be known.

STRICKLAND. No, I didn't. [_A good deal startled, he looks at her as if

he were about to ask, "How did you know that?" She returns his gaze

unflinchingly. The question remains unasked. But a sudden thought

strikes him._] What name did you give?

THE GIRL. Stevens, sir.

STRICKLAND [_thunderstruck_]. Stevens?

THE GIRL. Alfred Stevens.

STRICKLAND [_gasping_]. What made you choose that name?

THE GIRL. I don't know, sir.

STRICKLAND. You don't _know_?

THE GIRL. No, sir. It was just the first name that popped into my head.

I said "Stevens," and when the clerk asked for the first name, I said

"Alfred."

STRICKLAND [_after a pause_]. Have you ever _known_ anybody of that

name?

THE GIRL. No, sir.

STRICKLAND [_with curious insistence_]. You are _sure_ you never knew

anybody of that name?

THE GIRL. How can I be sure? I may have; I don't remember it.

STRICKLAND [_abruptly_]. How old are you? [_He gives her no time to

answer._] You're not twenty, are you?

THE GIRL [_smiling_]. Do you think so?

STRICKLAND [_continuing the current of his thoughts_]. And I'm

forty-seven. It was more than twenty-five years ago.... You couldn't

have known.

THE GIRL [_after a pause_]. No, sir.

STRICKLAND [_looking at her with something of fear in his eye_]. What is

your name?

THE GIRL. Does it matter? You didn't recognize my _face_ a few minutes

ago; my _name_ can't mean much to you. I'm just one of the office force:

I'm the girl who answers when you push the button three times. [_She

opens a handbag._] These are the letters I brought with me.

STRICKLAND [_not offering to take them_]. What are they about?

THE GIRL [_opening the first_]. This is from a woman who wants to invest

some money.

STRICKLAND. How much?

THE GIRL. Only a thousand dollars.

STRICKLAND. Why didn't you turn it over to the clerks?

THE GIRL. The savings of a lifetime, she writes.

STRICKLAND. What of it?

THE GIRL. She wrote that she had confidence in you. She says that she

wants you to invest it for her yourself.

STRICKLAND. You shouldn't have bothered me with that. [_He pauses._] Did

she inclose the money?

THE GIRL. Yes. A certified check.

[_She hands it over to him._]

STRICKLAND [_taking the check, and putting it in his pocketbook_]. Write

her--oh, you know what to write: that I will give the matter my personal

attention.

THE GIRL. Yes, sir. She says she doesn't want a big return on her

investment. She wants something that will be perfectly safe, and she

knows you will take care of her.

STRICKLAND. Yes. Of course. What else have you?

THE GIRL. A dozen other letters like it.

STRICKLAND. All from old women?

THE GIRL [_seriously_]. Some of them. Here is one from a young man who

has saved a little money. He says that when he gets a little more he's

going to open a store, and go into business for himself. Here is another

from a girl whose father was an ironworker. He was killed accidentally,

and she wants you to invest the insurance. Here is another from--but

they're all pretty much alike.

STRICKLAND. Why did you bring them here?

THE GIRL. Every one of these letters asks you to do the investing

yourself.

STRICKLAND. Oh!

THE GIRL. And you're leaving town to-night. Here are the checks. [_She

passes them over._] Every one of them is made out to you personally; not

to the firm.

STRICKLAND [_after a pause_]. You shouldn't have come here.... I haven't

time to bother with that sort of thing. Every man who has five dollars

to invest asks the head of the firm to attend to it himself. It means

nothing. I get hundreds of letters like those.

THE GIRL. Still--

STRICKLAND. What?

THE GIRL. You must do something to deserve such letters or they wouldn't

keep on coming in. [_She smiles._] It's a wonderful thing to inspire

such confidence in people?

STRICKLAND. Do you think so?

THE GIRL. It is more than wonderful! It is magnificent! These people

don't know you from Adam. Not one in a hundred has seen you: not one in

a thousand calls you by your first name. But they've all heard of you:

you're as real to them as if you were a member of their family. And what

is even more real than you is your reputation! Something in which they

rest their absolute confidence: something in which they place their

implicit trust!

STRICKLAND [_slowly_]. So you think there are few honest men?

THE GIRL. No: there are many of them. But there is something about you

that is different: something in the tone of your voice: something in the

way you shake hands: something in the look of your eye, that is

reassuring. There is never a doubt--never a question about you. Oh, it's

splendid! Simply splendid! [_She pauses._] What a satisfaction it must

be to you to walk along the street and know that every one you meet must

say to himself, "There goes an honest man!" It's been such an

inspiration to me!

STRICKLAND. To _you_?

THE GIRL. Oh, I know that I'm just one of the office force to you. You

don't even know my name. But you don't imagine that any one can see you

as I have seen you, can work with you as I have worked with you, without

there being _some_ kind of an effect? You know, in my own troubles--

STRICKLAND [_interrupting_]. So _you_ have troubles?

THE GIRL. You don't pay me a very big salary, and there are others whom

I must help. But I'm not complaining. [_She smiles._] I--I used to be

like the other girls. I used to watch the clock. I used to count the

hours and the minutes till the day's work was over. But it's different

now.

STRICKLAND [_slowly_]. How--different?

THE GIRL. I thought it over, and I made up my mind that it wasn't right

to count the minutes you worked for an honest man. [_Strickland turns

away._] And there is a new pleasure in my work: I do my best--that's all

I can do, but _you_ do your best, and it's the _least_ I can do.

STRICKLAND [_after a pause_]. Are you sure--I do my best? Are you sure I

am an honest man?

THE GIRL. Don't you know it yourself, Mr. Strickland?

STRICKLAND [_after another pause_]. You remember--a few minutes ago, you

spoke the name of Alfred Stevens?

THE GIRL. Yes.

STRICKLAND. Suppose I told you that there once _was_ an Alfred Stevens?

[_The girl does not answer._] Suppose I told you that Stevens, whom I

knew, stole money--stole it when there was no excuse for it--when he

didn't need it. His people had plenty, and they gave him plenty. But the

chance came, and he couldn't resist the temptation.... He was eighteen

years old then.

THE GIRL [_gently_]. Only a boy.

STRICKLAND. Only a boy, yes, but he had the dishonest streak in him!

Other boys passed by the same opportunity. Stevens didn't even know what

to do with the money when he had stolen it. They caught him in less than

twenty-four hours. It was almost funny.

THE GIRL. He was punished.

STRICKLAND [_nodding_]. He served a year in jail. God! What a year! His

folks wouldn't do a thing for him: they said such a thing had never

happened in the family. And they let him take the consequences. [_He

pauses._] When he got out--[_stopping to correct himself_]--when he was

_let_ out, his family offered him help. But he was too proud to accept

the help: it hadn't been offered when he needed it most. He told his

family that he never wanted to see them again. He changed his name so

they couldn't find him. He left his home town. He came here.

THE GIRL. And he has been honest ever since!

STRICKLAND. Ever since: for twenty-eight years! It was hard at times,

terribly hard! In the beginning, when he had to go hungry and cold, when

he saw other men riding around in carriages, he wondered if he hadn't

made a mistake. He had knocked about a good deal; he had learnt a lot,

and he wouldn't have been caught so easily the second time. It was

_almost_ worth taking the chance! It was _almost_ worth getting a foot

of lead pipe, and waiting in some dark street, waiting, waiting for some

sleek _honest_ man with his pockets full of money! It would have been so

simple! And he knew _how_! I don't know why he didn't do it.

THE GIRL. Tell me more.

STRICKLAND. He managed to live. It wasn't pleasant living. But he stayed

alive! I don't like to think of what he did to stay alive: it was

humiliating; it was shameful, because he hadn't been brought up to do

that kind of thing, but it was honest. Honest, and when he walked home

from his work at six o'clock, walked home to save the nickel, his

betters never crowded him because they didn't want to soil their clothes

with his _honest_ dirt! He had thought the year in jail was terrible.

The first year he was free was worse. He had never been hungry in jail.

THE GIRL. Then his chance came.

STRICKLAND. Yes, it _was_ a chance. He found a purse in the gutter, and

he returned it to the owner before he had made up his mind whether to

keep it or not. So they said he was honest! He knew he wasn't! He knew

that he had returned it because there was so much money in it that he

was afraid to keep it, but he never told them that. And when the man who

owned the purse gave him a job, he worked--worked because he was afraid

not to work--worked so that he wouldn't have any time to think, because

he knew that if he began to think, he would begin to steal! Then they

said he was a hard worker, and they promoted him: they made him manager.

That gave him more chances to steal, but there were so many men watching

him, so many men anxious for him to make a slip so that they might climb

over him, that he didn't dare.

[_He pauses._]

THE GIRL. And then?

STRICKLAND. The rest was easy. Nothing succeeds like a good reputation,

and he didn't steal because he knew they'd catch him. [_He pauses

again._] But he wasn't honest at bottom! The rotten streak was still

there! After twenty-eight years things began to be bad. He speculated:

lost all the money he could call his own, and he made up his mind to

take other money that _wasn't_ his own, all he could lay his hands on,

and run off with it! It was wrong! It was the work of a lifetime gone to

hell! But it was the rottenness in him coming to the surface! It was the

thief he thought dead coming to life again!

THE GIRL [_after a pause_]. What a pity!

STRICKLAND. He had been honest so long--he had made other people think

that he was honest so long, that he had made _himself_ think that he was

honest!

THE GIRL. Was he wrong, Mr. Strickland?

STRICKLAND [_looking into her eyes; very quietly_]. Stevens, please.

[_There is a long pause._] I don't know what sent you: who sent you: but

you've come here to-night as I am running away. You're too late. You

can't stop me. Not even the finger of God Himself could stop me! I've

gone too far. [_He goes on in a voice which is low, but terrible in its

earnestness._] Here is money! [_He pulls out his pocketbook._] Hundreds

of thousands of it, not a cent of it mine! And I'm stealing it, do you

understand me? _Stealing_ it! To-morrow the firm will be bankrupt, and

there'll be a reward out for me. [_He smiles grimly, and bows._] Here,

if you please, is your honest man! What have you to say to him?

THE GIRL [_very quietly_]. The man who has been honest so long that he

has made _himself_ think that he is honest can't steal!

STRICKLAND [_hoarsely_]. You believe _that_?

THE GIRL [_opening her bag again_]. I was left a little money this week:

only a few hundred dollars, hardly enough to bother you with. Will you

take care of it for me--Alfred Stevens?

STRICKLAND. Good God!

[_And utterly unnerved he collapses to a chair. There is a long

pause._]

THE GIRL [_crossing slowly to the window, and drawing aside the

curtain_]. Look! What a beautiful night! The thousands of sleeping

houses! The millions of shining stars! And the lights beneath! And in

the distance, how the stars and the lights meet! So that one cannot say:

"Here Gods ends; Here Man begins."

[_The telephone rings, harshly, and shrilly. Strickland goes to the

receiver._]

STRICKLAND [_quietly_]. Yes?... You're afraid I'm going to miss the

train?... Yes? Well, I'm _going_ to miss the train!... I'm going to stay

and face the music! [_Hysterically._] I'm an honest man, d'ye hear me?

I'm an honest man. [_And furiously, he pitches the telephone to the

floor, and stands panting, shivering, on the spot. From the window a

soft radiance beckons, and trembling in every limb, putting out his

hands as if to ward off some unseen obstacle, he moves there slowly._]

Did you hear what I told him? I'm going to make good. I'm going to face

the music! Because I'm an honest man! An honest man!

[_He gasps, stops abruptly, and in a sudden panic-stricken

movement, tears the curtains down. The window is closed--has never

been opened--but the girl has vanished. And as Strickland, burying

his face in his hands, drops to his knees in awe,_

_The Curtain Falls._]

NIGHT

A PLAY

BY SHOLOM ASCH

Translated by Jack Robbins.

NIGHT was originally produced by the East-West Players, at the

Berkeley Theatre, New York City, April 7, 1916, with the following

cast:

THE OUTCAST [_prostitute_] _Miriam Reinhardt_.

THE DRUNKARD _Mark Hoffman_.

THE BEGGAR _Maxim Vodianoy_.

THE BASTARD _Jack Dickler_.

THE FOOL _Max Lieberman_.

THE THIEF _Gustav Blum_.

HELENKA _Elizabeth Meltzer_.

THE DRUNKARD'S WIFE _Bryna Zaranov_.

Produced under the direction of GUSTAV BLUM.

Applications for permission to produce NIGHT must be addressed to

Mr. Sholom Asch, 3 Bank Street, New York.

NIGHT

A PLAY BY SHOLOM ASCH

[_Night in a market place. A small fire burns near a well. On a

bench near it sleeps the Beggar. The old Prostitute is warming

herself. There is the sound of dogs barking in the distance. Vast

shadows move about the market-place. The Drunkard emerges from the

gloom of the night._]

DRUNKARD. Good evening, Madam Prostitute. [_Listens to the dogs._] Why

are the dogs whining like this to-night?

PROSTITUTE. They must be seeing things.

DRUNKARD. Yes, your black soul. Perhaps they think you a devil. That's

why they chase all over the butchers' stalls. No wonder. They've reason

to be afraid.

BEGGAR [_in his sleep_]. He-he-he. Ha-ha-ha.

PROSTITUTE. A drunkard and a prostitute are the same thing. None of us

is clean of sin.

BEGGAR [_sleepily_]. Don't take me for a "pal."

[_Sleeps on._]

DRUNKARD. Leave him alone. He sings hymns the whole day long.

BEGGAR. Poverty is no sin.

DRUNKARD. Don't mix in. [_To the Prostitute._] What do dogs see at

night?

PROSTITUTE. They say that on the first of May the Holy Mother walks

through the market place, and gathers all the stray souls.

DRUNKARD. What have the dogs got to do with it?

PROSTITUTE. They are people laden with sins. People who died without the

Holy Sacrament, and who were buried outside of the fence. At night they

roam about the market in the shape of dogs. They run about in the stalls

of the butchers. The devil, too, stays there, but when the first of May

comes and the prayers begin, the Holy Mother walks through the

market-place. The souls of the damned cling to her dress, and she takes

them with her to Heaven.

[_Pause for a minute._]

BEGGAR [_turning in his sleep_]. Strong vinegar bursts the cask. Her

soul must be black indeed.

DRUNKARD. It's awful to look into it. You'll be among them yet....

PROSTITUTE. I'm not afraid of that. The mercy of God is great. It will

reach even me. But all of you will be among the dogs too. Those who live

in the street come back to the street after death.

BEGGAR. The street is the home of the beggar. Poverty is no sin.

[_Stretches himself and sleeps on. There is a pause. The Fool

comes out of the darkness. He is tall, with a vacant, good-humored

face, dressed in a soldier's hat, with a wooden toy-sword in his

girdle. He grins kindly._]

DRUNKARD. Ah, good evening, Napoleon. [_He salutes the Fool._] Where do

you hail from?

FOOL [_grins and chuckles_]. From Turkey. I have driven out the Turk.

DRUNKARD. And where is your army?

FOOL. I have left it on the Vistula.

DRUNKARD. And when will you drive the Russians out of there?

FOOL. I have given my orders already.

DRUNKARD. Are they being carried out?

FOOL. I only need to draw my sword.

DRUNKARD. Your sword?

FOOL. Napoleon gave it to me.

PROSTITUTE. Leave him be. Every one is crazy in his way. [_To the

fool._] You are cold. Come to the fire. He wanders about the hollows the

whole night long.

FOOL [_smiles_]. I've quartered all of my soldiers, but I have no place

for myself to sleep in.

PROSTITUTE. A fool, and yet he knows what he says. [_Gives him bread._]

Do you want to eat?

FOOL. I get my dinner from the tables of Kings.

BEGGAR [_awaking_]. You've brought the fool here too? He's got the whole

market place to be crazy in, and he comes here, where honest people

sleep.

[_Takes his stick and tries to reach the Fool._]

PROSTITUTE [_defending the Fool_]. Leave him alone I tell you. Crazy

though he be, he still wants to be among people. Like aches for like.

BEGGAR. Let him go to the graveyard, and yell his craziness out among

the graves;--and not disturb honest men in their sleep. The street is

the beggar's home, and I don't want to share it with madmen. All that

the people throw out of their homes, wanders into the street.

[_He chases the Fool away, and lies down._]

DRUNKARD. Who made you boss here? The street belongs to all. Lie down in

the city hall, in the mayor's bed, if you want to have rest.

PROSTITUTE. Keep still. He has a right to the place. He's had it long

enough.

DRUNKARD. What kind of a right? Are you a newcomer? How long have you

been here?

PROSTITUTE. All my life. I was born in the street, there, behind the

fence near the church. My mother pointed out the place to me. I have

never known any other home, but the street. In the daytime it belongs to

all. When people open their shops, and peasants come in their wagons,

and trade begins, I feel a stranger here, and I hide in the fields near

the cemetery. But when night comes, and people retire into their holes,

then the street is mine. I know every nook and corner of the market

place. It is my home.

DRUNKARD. You've said it well. In that house there, I have a home, a

bed, and a wife. In the daytime I work there. I sit among boots, and

drive nails into heels and soles. And I bear my wife's nagging and

cursing patiently.... But when night comes I can't stand it any longer.

The house becomes too small for me. Something draws me into the street.

PROSTITUTE. It is the curse of the street that rests on you as it does

on the howling dogs. All of us are damned, and we are punished here for

our sins. And we will not be delivered, till the Holy Mother will come,

and we will take hold of her dress, and our souls will be freed.

BEGGAR [_in his sleep_]. He-he-he. Ha-ha-ha.

DRUNKARD [_becomes sad, bows his head_]. In the daytime I don't mind

it. Then I am like other people. I work like all do. But when night

comes....

PROSTITUTE. It's the curse of the street. Don't worry. God will pity all

of us. His mercy is great.

[_The cry of a child comes from the distance. It resembles the

howling of a dog._]

DRUNKARD. What's that?

PROSTITUTE. That's Manka's bastard. He strays the street. He wants to

come near the fire.

DRUNKARD. Call him here.

PROSTITUTE. Keep still. [_She points to the Beggar._] He will chase the

boy away. They believe the boy is born of the Devil.

DRUNKARD. Who made him boss here? All of us are children of the Devil.

[_He calls to the boy as one calls to a dog._] Come here, you.

[_A dumb boy, all in rags, drags himself near. He makes noises

like a little beast. He trembles with cold. The Prostitute tries

to quiet him._]

PROSTITUTE. He lies the whole night behind his mother's doorstep. She is

afraid of her husband. Sometimes she gives him a piece of bread, when no

one looks. Thus he crawls like a worm in the street--human flesh and

blood.

DRUNKARD. Let him come near the fire--so. [_He pushes the boy nearer to

the fire._] Give him a piece of bread. I'll take care of any one who

tries to hurt him.

BEGGAR [_awaking_]. No. That's too much. Who brought this here? You know

that the Devil is in him?

[_Tries to chase the boy away._]

PROSTITUTE [_hiding the boy in her shawl_]. Have pity.

BEGGAR. You're the Devil's wife. That's why you pity his child.

[_Tries to reach the boy._]

DRUNKARD [_tears the stick from the Beggar's hand_]. We're all the

children of the Devil. You've no more on your hide than he has.

BEGGAR. Don't you start anything. I am a Christian, and believe in God.

I've no home. That's why I sleep on the street. Every dog finds his

hole. But I won't live together with the Devil. And I won't be the

neighbor of a harlot either. Nor was a drunkard ever a friend of mine.

[_He gathers his belongings._] What are you running after me for? This

whole street belongs to the Devil. Why are you trying to stop me?

[_He tries to go away._]

PROSTITUTE [_detaining him_]. Don't leave us. Let him only warm himself.

He'll go away.

BEGGAR. It does me little honor to be with folk like you anyway.

[_He goes away._]

DRUNKARD. Why do you hold him back? Let him go if he thinks us below his

dignity.

PROSTITUTE. And do you really think it an honor for one to remain with

you? That man is decent at least.

DRUNKARD. Ah, you grow pious as you grow old.

PROSTITUTE. I have always wanted to be in decent company.

[_As the Beggar disappears, strange figures begin to show

themselves in the darkness. Most of them are half-naked. The Fool

also comes back. A dog comes wandering into the crowd._]

PROSTITUTE [_looking around in terror_]. It's awful to be with so many

sick people. Not one amongst them who is of sound mind. Not one who has

a clean conscience. The Beggar has gone away.

DRUNKARD [_with fear_]. The dogs have also come to the fire.

PROSTITUTE. Even they are drawn to people.

[_There is a short pause. The Bastard begins to wail._]

DRUNKARD. What's the trouble with him? Take him away.

PROSTITUTE. That's the Devil in him crying--see him gazing at something.

[_The day begins to grow gray in the east. Strange, awful light

falls over all. Now one, now another corner of the street appears

and disappears. All is covered with shadows as in twilight._]

DRUNKARD. Praised be God. The dawn.

PROSTITUTE. How different the light is to-day.

[_The dogs begin to howl._]

DRUNKARD. What are the dogs howling about? Chase them away from the

fire.

PROSTITUTE. They are looking somewheres. They sniff at the air. They

must see something now.

[_In the distance is heard the sound of beating against tin

plates. The dogs howl with fright._]

PROSTITUTE. Something is coming near to us.

[_The Fool laughs._]

DRUNKARD. What is the Fool laughing at? What is he gazing at? Chase him

away from the fire.

PROSTITUTE. They all see more clearly than we.

[_The dogs howl again, and gather in one group. Footsteps

approach._]

DRUNKARD [_frightened_]. Something is coming near to us.

[_A minute's pause. All waiting in fear. The Thief appears. He

carries a woman on his shoulders. The woman has a child in her

arms. They are followed by small, poorly clad boys who hold

trumpets and kettles in their hands, and make as much noise as

they can._]

THIEF [_thunders_]. Fall on your knees. Draw off your hats! Do you see

who is coming? The queen! The queen! [_All grow pale, and move aside.

The Thief walks into their midst._] Who is there? Ah, the Fool. Well,

how are your armies getting along? Hold them in readiness. Hold them in

readiness. The Drunkard! Ah, the right man for the game. [_He bows._]

With awe do I kiss the little hand of Madame Prostitute. [_To the

Bastard_]: And your little heir is here also? [_To the woman_]: Take

them with you, oh, Queen. They too are dogs like us, thrown into the

street. Let them come with us, We have room for many, many.

WOMAN. Take them with us, my man. We will all go together.

THIEF [_letting the Woman down_]. Our company is growing big. Come with

us.

DRUNKARD [_awaking from his torpor and looking at the Thief_]. So you

are the thief they let out of prison not long ago. And I was afraid of

you a little while ago. [_He spits._] That's a fine joke. Always at your

play. Who's the woman, and the children? Where did you get them?

THIEF. Brother, this is not play. [_He points to the Woman._] She is a

queen. [_He points to the children._] And they are princes. Every one a

prince. At your knees before her! Take off your hat.

DRUNKARD. I know this gentleman quite well. He likes to joke.

[_The Thief comes close to him._]

THIEF. To-night is the night when the dogs are delivered. Look at her.

[_He points at the Woman._] Look at us. We were locked in, and we have

come out. We are all one family--dogs. We wander on the street. Men have

shut their doors in our faces. Come, dogs. We will unite to-day. Throw

off your chains, and shake yourself as if you were shaking dust from

your shoulders. You are men after all. I have known you from childhood.

I knew your mother.

DRUNKARD [_wondering_]. I don't know what you mean.

THIEF. Look at yourself. What have they made of you? You walk the street

all night like an outcast. Your children are afraid of you. They hide

when they see you drunk on the street, and weep for you. Are you to

blame for it? You were made one with a mass of flesh you hate. You sit

bent over your boots the whole day long, and curses and blows are hurled

at your head. And when night comes you crawl in the gutter, and you will

crawl there till you will be freed from shame.

DRUNKARD. What are you telling me this for?

THIEF. And are you to blame for this? Have you had one minute of

happiness in your whole life? Who took care of you? You were raised by

your stepfather's cane. Show me the scars on your body. They beat you

from childhood on; first your stepfather, then your "step-wife." No one

ever spoke to you as to a friend. No one ever comforted you in your

grief.

[_The Drunkard falls to the ground and weeps._]

THIEF [_to the Woman_]. And he is an honest man. I know him. We went to

the same school. He had an honest mother. She loved him only as a mother

can. [_Whispering to the Woman._] She brought him bread behind his

stepfather's back.

DRUNKARD. I will never drink again. I give my word of honor.

[_He weeps._]

THIEF. Don't cry, brother. We are all dogs of the street. But we unite

to-day. Come with us, come. We will care for you. We will all be

together. Take the Prostitute, and come with us.

[_The old Prostitute rises and looks amazed._]

PROSTITUTE. Me?

THIEF [_taking her hand_]. We will not turn you, nor avoid you. We know

what you are. You are not to blame. Who brought you up? Who was your

mother? You were born in the street like a goat. Every stone, every hole

in the earth caresses you like a mother. You were thrown into the street

at birth, and men ran from you as from a leper. Any wonder that this is

what became of you? You lay in the street like an old, dirty rag.

PROSTITUTE [_half-crying_]. I am not worthy of such comforting words by

a gentleman.

THIEF. You are worthy. You are like all of us. Your skin is dirty, but

your soul is clean. Wash your sins away, throw the curse from off your

shoulders, and you will become a human being like all of us. You too

long for people. I know you. You are good, you love humanity. It is they

who have cursed you so. You were always a clean child. Wait. Wait. [_He

takes water from the well, and pours it on her._] I wash your head, and

you are a human being like the rest of us. The curse is removed from

you. Look around yourself. Spring is here. Its fragrance is everywhere.

You are a girl yet, a mere child. You know no wickedness. You are in

your father's garden. Your mother sits near the window and looks at

you. You are walking with your beloved.

[_He takes the Drunkard, puts him side by side with the

Prostitute, joins their hands, and leads them back and forth._]

PROSTITUTE [_smiles_]. Don't talk to me like that.

THIEF. You are being married now. Virgins come and bring you your bridal

dress, your veil, your myrtle wreath. You are chaste. They lead you to

the altar. Your mother lays her hand on your head and blesses you. Sweet

harp music is heard. Your bridegroom takes his place beside you.

[_The Prostitute breaks out into tears._]

DRUNKARD [_excited_]. I will be together with her. I will defend her. I

will not let them insult her. She is my sister. I will work for her.

THIEF. That's the way. The dogs unite to-day. [_He takes the Bastard in

his arms and kisses him on the forehead._] And, he, too, is our child.

All of us are dogs of the street. All of us unite to-day.

DRUNKARD [_takes the boy from the Thief_]. He is our child. He will be

with us. [_He takes the arm of the Prostitute._] Come, we will go

together. I will work for you. You will bring him up, and he will be our

child. [_He takes the shawl from the Prostitute, and wraps himself and

the boy in it._] What? You do not hear? Listen. I mean it with my whole

heart.

[_The Prostitute does not hear. She looks with awe at the Woman._]

THIEF. That's the way. That's the way. That's the way. To-day we unite.

We go together. We will be one with the dogs. [_He caresses all he finds

on the street._] Blow the trumpets, boys. Beat the drums. We choose a

queen to-day. [_To the Fool._] The army waits for you, with swords in

their hands, with spears ready. Do you see the cannon all trained? All

wait for your command. Do you see the foe around you? [_He points to the

street with a broad majestic gesture._] Here stands the army.

FOOL [_happily_]. Yes, yes.

THIEF. Give your order, Napoleon. You are our general. Draw the sword,

and command!

FOOL [_draws his wooden sword and cries loudly as if he saw an army in

the market-place_]. Present arms!

THIEF [_loudly_]. That's the way. The dogs unite to-day. All will unite.

We choose a queen to-day. [_He points to the Woman._] She is worthy of

wearing the crown of the street. Come, queen. Mount to your throne. [_He

bends his back._] Boys, blow your trumpets. Beat your drums. At your

knees. All hats off. The queen comes. The queen comes. So will we go to

our land.

[_It is grown lighter. The face of the Woman has grown young and

beautiful, and begins to look like the face of the Holy Mother._]

PROSTITUTE [_who has looked at the Woman with awe, recognizes her in the

gray light, as she sits on the Thief's shoulders with the child in her

arms. She falls to her knees before her, and cries in an unearthly

voice_]. Oh, see, see. It is the Holy Mother. Look at her--her face. She

has come from the church. Oh, it is the holy picture before which I

always pray. I know her. Our Holy Mother in her very flesh. [_She gives

a great cry, and falls prostrate before the Woman._] Oh, Mother, Mother,

take me under Thy protection. [_She falls prostrate, unable to talk any

more. The others are infected with the spirit of her words. They look

with fear at the Woman's face. They recognize the Madonna. They bend

half-ways on their knees. The Thief, who has let her down from his

shoulders, takes off his hat and kneels with the rest. All prostrate

themselves. There is the sound of a church-bell. It is day. From the

open window of a house across the way, leans out the wife of the

Drunkard, and yells._] Ah, ah, what are you doing there. Come into the

house. There is work to be done.

DRUNKARD [_roused from his ecstasy, tears his hand away from that of the

Prostitute, and looks at the Woman with the Thief._] Ha-ha-ha. That's

Helenka, Andrey the Plasterer's wife. Ha-ha-ha. He's cracked a good

joke.

[_He runs away. The others awake as if from sleep. The Prostitute

suddenly rises. Helenka tries to escape from the Thief's hands._]

HELENKA. Why did you drag me into the street?

THIEF [_holding her hand_.] Come with me. Remember what we said. Come to

another land with me.

HELENKA [_weeping_]. What does he want with me? Why did he drag me into

the street? Come home, children.

[_All run from him._]

THIEF [_stands near the well, and thunders after them_]. Dogs, where are

you running?... You dogs, you damned dogs.... [_Townspeople come to the

well with pails, grumbling._] Get out of the way....

[_Curtain._]

FORGOTTEN SOULS

A PLAY

BY DAVID PINSKI

TRANSLATED AND EDITED BY ISAAC GOLDBERG, PH.D.

PERSONS

FANNY SEGAL [_owner of a tailoring establishment_].

LIZZIE EHRLICH [_a pianist_], } [_Miss Segal's boarders_].

HINDES [_a teacher_], }

PLACE: _A Russian Provincial Town_.

TIME: _1916_.

Reprinted from "Six Plays of the Yiddish Theatre" by permission of,

and special arrangements with, Dr. Isaac Goldberg and David Pinski.

FORGOTTEN SOULS

A PLAY BY DAVID PINSKI

[SCENE: _Workroom at Fanny Segal's. A door to the left of the

spectator, another in the back. A large table, covered with

various materials; at each side of the table a sewing machine. On

the wall to the right, a three-panelled mirror; in the corner, a

large wardrobe. Not far from the wardrobe two dressmaker's forms,

covered with cloaks. In the middle a broad armchair. Evening._]

FANNY [_runs out through the rear door and soon returns with a letter in

her hand. She tears it nervously open and is absorbed in reading.

Suddenly she gives a scream of delight_]. Oh!--Oh! [_Passes her hand

over her face and through her hair, looks at the letter, cries out anew,

breathing with difficulty. Looks at the letter once more, and exclaims

heavily._] You! My love! My love! [_She is lost for a moment in thought,

then calls._] Lizzie! Lizzie! Lizzie!

LIZZIE [_enters, dressed up as if for a ball, sticking a pin in her hat.

Mocks Fanny's tone._] What's up? What's up? What's up?

FANNY. Read this! Quickly! It's from Berman!

LIZZIE [_takes the letter_]. Why see! We've just been talking about him.

And they really accepted his drama?

[_Looks at the letter._]

FANNY [_looks on, too, in great excitement_].

LIZZIE [_as she reads_]. That's fine! [_Turns over a page and continues

reading._] Why! This is an actual proposal of marriage, Fanny, my dear!

FANNY [_her breath short from delight_]. Did you understand it that way,

too?

LIZZIE [_still looking at the letter_]. How can it be interpreted

otherwise? [_About to read the letter aloud._] Ahem! [_Reads with a

certain solemnity._] "My drama has been accepted and will be produced

this very winter. The conditions of the contract are first-rate, and the

director promises me a great success, and incidentally a great

reputation." [_Reads over some passages in an indistinct nasal monotone,

then continues._] "My! You ought to see me now.--I've sung and danced so

much that it'll be a wonder to me if I'm not asked to move. I feel so

strong. And now to write, to create, to do things!" [_Reads again in a

nasal monotone, and soon with greater solemnity than before, and a

certain tenderness._] "And now, I hope, better days are in store for us,

happiness of such a nature that you cannot be indifferent to it."

[_Stops reading._] That's a bit veiled, but it's plain talk just the

same. [_Gives Fanny the letter. Speaks lovingly._] Lucky woman! My

darling Fanny! [_Embraces her._] You dear! [_Kisses her._]

FANNY. So that's the way you understand it, too? [_Speaks in gasps,

trembling all over._] Oh! Oh!

[_Covers her face with the letter, takes it to her lips and

breathes with difficulty. She takes from her right sleeve a

handkerchief and wipes her eyes._]

LIZZIE [_moved, embracing her with both arms_]. My dear Fanny! How happy

I am! You dear, you! [_Dreamily._] Now I know how I'll play at the

Ginsbergs' to-night! I'll put my whole soul into the music, and it will

be the merriest, cheeriest soul that ever lived in the world.

FANNY [_bends down and kisses her forehead_]. My faithful friend!

LIZZIE. At last! My dream's come true!

FANNY [_drops into the armchair_]. Your dream?

LIZZIE [_takes a piece of cloth from the table, spreads it out on the

floor, and kneels before Fanny_]. Listen. I dreamed for you a hero

before whom the world, even before seeing him, would bare its head. I

dreamed for you a triumphal march of powerful harmonies, a genius, a

superman, such as only you deserve.

FANNY. Sh! Sh! Don't talk like that!

LIZZIE. No, no. You can't take that away from me. As long as I shall

live I'll never cease admiring you. There aren't many sisters in the

world like you. Why, you never have given a thought to yourself, never a

look, but have worked with might and main to make a somebody out of your

sister. I'll tell you the truth. I've often had the most unfriendly

feelings toward your sister Olga. She takes it so easy there in

Petrograd, while you--

FANNY [_tenderly_]. You're a naughty girl.

LIZZIE. I simply couldn't see how things went on,--how you were working

yourself to death.

FANNY. But that was my happiness, and now I am amply repaid for it, to

see Olga placed upon an independent footing, with a great future before

her as a painter.

LIZZIE. That kind of happiness did not appeal very much to me. I wanted,

for you, a different kind of happiness,--the happiness of being a wife,

of being a mother, of loving and being loved.

FANNY [_in a reverie_]. I had already weaned my thoughts away from love

and family life as the only happiness.

LIZZIE. You poor soul!

FANNY. When my mother died, my road was clearly mapped out for me: to be

to my sister, who is eight years younger than I, both a father and a

mother. That purpose was great and holy to me. I never thought of

anything else. Only in the early twenties, between twenty-two and

twenty-five, a longing for something else came to me. Not that my sister

became a burden to me, God forbid, but I wanted something more, a full

life, happiness and--love. At that time I used to cry very much, and wet

my pillow with my tears, and I was very unhappy. And I was easily

angered then, too, so you see I was far from an angel.

LIZZIE [_draws Fanny nearer, and kisses her_]. You darling, you!

FANNY. But later the longing left me, as if it had been charmed away.

Olga grew older, and her talents began to ripen. Then I forgot myself

altogether, and she became again my sole concern.

LIZZIE. And is that all?

FANNY. What else can there be? Of course, when my sister went to

Petrograd she was no longer under my immediate care and I was left all

alone. The old longing re-awoke in my bosom but I told myself that one

of my years had no right to expect happiness and love? So I determined

to tear out, to uproot from my heart every longing. I tried to convince

myself that my goal in life had already been attained--that I had placed

a helpless child securely upon her feet--

LIZZIE. But you loved Berman all the time, didn't you?

FANNY. Yes, I loved him all the time, but I fought my feelings. Life had

taught me to restrain and to suppress my desires. I argued: He is too

far above me--

LIZZIE. Too far above you?

FANNY [_continuing_]. And I am too worn-out for him. And furthermore, I

tried to make myself believe that his daily visits here were accidental,

that they were not intended for me at all, but for his friend and nephew

Hindes, who happens to board with me.

LIZZIE. But how could you help perceiving that he was something more

than indifference to you? You must have been able to read it in his

eyes.

FANNY [_smiling_]. Well, you see how it is! And perhaps for the very

reason that I had abandoned all ideas of love, and had sought to deceive

myself into believing that I was a dried-up twig on the tree of live--

LIZZIE [_jumping up_]. My! How you sinned against yourself!

FANNY [_rising_]. But now the sap and the strength flow again within

me,--now I am young once more.--Ah! Life, life!--To enjoy it, to drink

it down in copious draughts, to feel it in every pulse-beat--Oh, Lizzie,

play me a triumphal march, a song of joy, of jubilation....

LIZZIE. So that the very walls will dance and the heavens join in the

chorus. [_Goes to the door at the left, singing._] "Joy, thou goddess,

fair, immortal, daughter of Elysium, Mad with rapture--" [_Suddenly

stops._] Sh! Hindes is coming!

[_Listens._]

FANNY [_she has been standing as if entranced; her whole body trembles

as she awakens to her surroundings. She puts her finger to her nose,

warningly._] Don't say a word to him about it.

LIZZIE. I will! He must know it, he must be happy over it, too. And if

he truly loves you, he will be happy to learn it. And then, once for all

he'll get rid of his notions about winning you.

FANNY. Don't be so inconsiderate.

LIZZIE. Leave it to me!... Hindes! Hindes!

FANNY. It's high time you left for the Ginsbergs'.

LIZZIE. I've a few minutes yet.... Hindes! Hindes!

HINDES [_appears at the rear door. He wears spectacles; under his left

arm a crutch, under his right arm books, and in his hands various bags

of food_].

FANNY [_steals out through the door at the left_].

HINDES. Good evening. What's the news?

LIZZIE. Come here! Quick! Fa--

HINDES. Won't you give me time to carry my parcels into my room?

LIZZIE. Not even a second! Fanny has--

HINDES [_taking an apple from a bag_]. Have an apple.

LIZZIE [_refusing it_]. Let me speak, won't you! Fa--

HINDES. May I at least sit down?

LIZZIE [_loudly_]. Fanny has received a letter from Berman!

HINDES [_taking a seat_]. Saying that his drama has been accepted. I,

too, have received a letter from Berman.

LIZZIE. That's nothing. The point is that he is seeking to make a match

with her. He has practically proposed to her.

HINDES [_astonished_]. Practically proposed? To Fanny?

LIZZIE. Yes, and when Fanny comes back you just see to it that you wish

her a right friendly congratulation, and that you make no--[_Stops

suddenly._] Hm! I came near saying something silly.--Oh, I'm so happy,

and I'd just have the whole world happy with me. Do you hear? You must

help her celebrate, do you hear? And now, good night to you, for I must

run along to the Ginsbergs'.

[_Turns to the door at the left singing: "Joy, thou goddess, fair,

immortal...."_]

HINDES [_calling after her_]. But--the devil. Miss Ehrlich!

LIZZIE [_at the door_]. I haven't a single moment to spare for the

devil.

[_She disappears._]

HINDES [_grunts angrily, throws his crutch to the ground, places his

books and his packages on a chair, and mumbles_]. What mockery is this!

[_Takes out a letter from his inside pocket and reads it over

several times. Grunts again. Rests his head heavily upon his

hands, and looks vacantly forward, as if deeply puzzled._]

FANNY [_enters, embarrassed_]. Good evening, Hindes!

HINDES [_mumbles, without changing his position_]. Good evening!

FANNY [_looks at him in embarrassment, and begins to busy herself with

the cloaks on the forms._]

HINDES [_still in the same position. He taps his foot nervously. He soon

ceases this, and speaks without looking at Fanny_]. Miss Segal, will you

permit me to see Berman's letter?

FANNY [_with a nervous laugh_]. That's a bit indiscreet--not at all like

a cavalier.

HINDES [_same position and same tone_]. Will you permit me to see

Berman's letter?

FANNY [_with a laugh of embarrassment, throws him the letter, which she

has been holding in her sleeve_]. Read it, if that's how you feel.

HINDES [_bends slowly down, gets the letter, commences to read it, and

then to grumble_]. H'm! So! [_He lets the letter fall to his knee, and

stares vacantly before him. He shakes his foot nervously and mumbles as

if to himself._] To be such an idiot!

FANNY [_regards him with astonishment_].

HINDES [_somewhat more softly_]. To be such an idiot!

FANNY [_laughing, still embarrassed_]. Who?

HINDES. Not I.

[_Picks up his crutch, the books and the parcels, arises, and

gives the letter to Fanny._]

FANNY [_beseechingly_]. Hindes, don't take it so badly. You make me very

sad.

HINDES. I'm going to my room, so you won't see me.

FANNY [_as before_]. Don't speak to me like that, Hindes. Be my good

friend, as you always were. [_In a lower tone, embarrassed._] And be

good to Berman. For you know, between us, between you and me, there

could never have been anything more than friendship.

HINDES. There is no need of your telling me that. I know what I know and

have no fault to find with you.

FANNY. Then why are you so upset, and why do you reproach yourself?

HINDES. Because....

FANNY. Because what?

HINDES [_after an inner struggle, stormily_]. Because I am in a rage! To

think of a chap writing such a veiled, ambiguous, absolutely botched

sentence, and cooking up such a mess!

FANNY. What do you mean by all this?

HINDES. You know, Miss Segal, what my feelings are toward you, and you

know that I wish you all happiness. I assure you that I would bury deep

within me all my grief and all my longing, and would rejoice with a full

heart--if things were as you understood them from Berman's letter.

FANNY. As I understood them from Berman's letter?

HINDES. --And what rouses my anger and makes me hesitate is that it

should have had to happen to you and that I must be the surgeon to cut

the cataract from your eye.

FANNY [_astounded_]. Drop your rhetorical figures. End your work. Cut

away, since you've begun the cutting.

HINDES [_without looking at her, deeply stirred_]. Berman did not mean

you.

FANNY. Not me?

HINDES. Not you, but your sister.

FANNY [_with an outcry_]. Oh!--

HINDES. He writes me that his first meeting with her was as if the

splendor of God had suddenly shone down upon him,--that gradually he was

inflamed by a fiery passion, and that he hopes his love is returned,

that....

FANNY [_falls upon a chair, her face turned toward the table. She breaks

into moaning_]. She has taken from me everything!

[_In deepest despair, with cries from her innermost being, she

tears at her hair._]

HINDES [_drops his books and packages to the floor. Limps over to Fanny,

and removes her hands from her head_]. You have good reason to weep, but

not to harm yourself.

FANNY [_hysterically_]. She has taken from me everything! My ambition to

study, my youth, my fondest hopes, and now....

HINDES. And now?--Nothing. As you see, Berman never loved you. If it

hadn't been for that unfortunate, ambiguous, absolutely botched, simply

idiotic sentence....

FANNY [_softly_]. Hindes, I feel that I no longer care to live.

HINDES. Folly!

FANNY. I feel as if my heart had been torn in two. My soul is empty,

desolate ... as if an abyss had opened before me.... What have I now in

life for? I can live no longer!

HINDES. Folly! Nonsense!

FANNY. I have already lived my life....

HINDES. Absurd!

FANNY [_resolutely_]. I know what I'm talking about, and I know what to

do.

[_Silence._]

HINDES [_regarding her closely. With blunt emphasis_]. You're thinking

now over what death you shall choose.

FANNY [_motionless_].

HINDES [_taking a seat_]. Let me tell you a story. There was once upon a

time a man who--not through doubt and misfortune, but rather through

good times and pleasures, came to the conclusion that life wasn't worth

living. So he went off to buy a revolver. On his way a great clamor

arose in the street. A house had caught fire and in a moment was in

flames. Suddenly, at one of the windows in the top story there appeared

a woman. The firemen had placed their highest ladders against the

building and a man began to climb up. That man was none other than our

candidate for suicide. He took the woman out of the window, gave her to

the firemen who had followed him up, and then went through the window

into the house. The surrounding crowd trembled with fear lest the house

should cave in at the very last moment. Flames already appeared at the

window, and people were sure that the hero had been burned to death

inside. But he had not been burned; he soon appeared on the roof, with a

small child in his arms. The ladders could not reach to this height, so

the firemen threw him a rope. He tied the rope about the child and

lowered it to the firemen. But he himself was beyond rescue. He folded

his hands over his heart, and tears trickled from his eyes. He, who but

a moment before had sought death, now desired not to die. No, he wanted

to live, for in that moment he had found a purpose: to live and to do

good.

FANNY [_angrily_]. To do good! I'm tired of doing good!

HINDES. Don't sin against yourself, Fanny!

FANNY. Do good! I have done good; I have lived for others, not myself;

and now you can see for yourself that I have not fulfilled my life. I

feel as wretched as the most miserable, as the most wicked, and I long

for death even as the most unhappy!

HINDES [_looking at her from under his spectacles_]. Does Olga know of

your feelings toward Berman?

FANNY [_angrily_]. I don't know what she knows.

HINDES. Can't you give me any better reply than that?

FANNY. What can I know? I used to write her letters just full of Berman.

HINDES. Could Olga have gathered from them that you were not

indifferently disposed toward him?

FANNY. What do you mean by this cross-examination?

HINDES. I have a notion that if you were to do what you have in your

mind at present,--a thing I cannot bring myself to name,--then Olga

would not accept Berman's love. Rather she would take her own life,

since she would look upon herself as the cause of your death.

FANNY. What's this you've thought up?

HINDES. Just what you heard.

FANNY. And you mean--?

HINDES. --That you know your sister and ought to realize what she's

liable to do.

FANNY [_in a fit of anger_]. First she takes away my life, and now she

will not let me die!

[_Her head sinks to the table._]

HINDES. There spoke the true Fanny, the Fanny of yore.

FANNY [_weeps bitterly_].

HINDES. Well may you weep. Weep, Fanny, weep until the tears come no

more. But when that is over, then dry your eyes and never weep again.

Dry forever the source of all your tears. That's exactly what I did, do

you understand? Such people as you and I, robbed of personal happiness,

must either weep forever, or never weep at all. I chose the latter

course. Harden yourself, Fanny, and then fold your arms on your breast

and look fearlessly forward into life, fulfilling it as your heart

dictates.

FANNY [_continues weeping_].

HINDES [_noticing Berman's letter on the table, takes it up and throws

it down angrily_]. Such a botched, idiotic sentence! And he's a poet!

FANNY [_raising her head_]. If things are as you say, then Olga will in

any case reject Berman. She will imagine that she is taking him away

from me, and such a thing she would never do.

HINDES. Perhaps. [_Suddenly, bluntly._] And what will be the effect of

all this upon you?

FANNY [_brokenly_]. Who's thinking of self? I mean that I want her to

have him.

HINDES. There's the old Fanny again!

FANNY. Ah! Enough of that! Better help me with some suggestion.

HINDES. Some suggestion? Be her matchmaker.

FANNY. And suppose she should turn the tables and want to be my

matchmaker?

HINDES. We've got to think that over.

[_Silence._]

FANNY [_brokenly_]. Hindes!

HINDES. What?

FANNY. I have an idea.

HINDES. Good.

FANNY. But I need your aid.

HINDES. Count on me, if I'm able.

FANNY. Do you promise?

HINDES. Blindly?

FANNY. Blindly.

HINDES [_looks at her_]. Why must I promise you blindly? If I'm able,

you may be sure I'll help.

FANNY [_brokenly, yet in embarrassment_]. Take me.... Marry me.

HINDES [_for a moment he looks at her, then picks up his crutch, his

books and the packages_].

FANNY [_beseechingly_]. Hindes! If I should marry, Olga wouldn't have

any obstacle in her way.

HINDES. Miss Segal, I have loved you, and still do. But I refuse to be

the altar upon which you shall sacrifice yourself.

FANNY. But a moment ago you dissuaded me from death. Will you now drive

me back to it?

HINDES. Your sister will be able to find happiness without Berman.

FANNY. But if she loves him?--

HINDES. Then she'll suffer, just as we do.

FANNY. No! Olga must not suffer! Do you hear! I'll not have it!

HINDES. That is very nice of you.

FANNY [_through her tears_]. Hindes, I no longer know you.

HINDES [_turns toward the door_]. Good night.

FANNY [_is overcome by sobbing_].

HINDES [_limps to the door, then stops. Looks downwards, then raises his

eyes toward Fanny_]. Miss Segal, why is it that during all the time that

I have boarded with you I have made no declaration of love, that I have

never proposed marriage?

FANNY [_weeps_].

HINDES. I'll tell you. Wasn't it because I knew that you didn't love me,

and because I wanted your love, not merely your respect?

FANNY [_firmly_]. No. You didn't do it simply because you knew that I

would refuse you.

HINDES. And suppose I expected "Yes" from you?

FANNY. Then you would have proposed.

HINDES. And married you without your love?

FANNY. Yes.

HINDES. But then I didn't know that you loved another.

FANNY [_brokenly_]. The other no longer exists for me.

HINDES [_looks again at the floor. Silence_].

FANNY. Hindes!

HINDES. Yes?

FANNY. Come nearer to me.

HINDES. I am lame.

FANNY. Put all your bundles aside.

HINDES [_hesitates for a moment, then puts down his books and

packages_].

FANNY [_as if in embarrassment_]. Everything.... Everything....

HINDES [_bluntly_]. Don't be ashamed. Say just what you mean: Lay aside

the crutch, too.

[_He lays aside the crutch._]

FANNY [_arises, takes his hand_]. Hindes, you know my attitude toward

you. You know how highly I esteem you, how happy I've always been to

possess in you a good, true friend.... [_Nestles her head against him,

coyly._] Embrace me, and give me a kiss, a hot, passionate kiss. Put

into it your whole love, make it express your whole true soul.

[_Brokenly, and in tears._] I tell you, our life will be--happy. We

souls, forgotten by happiness, will yet find it--in our own way--as best

we can. [_Less tearfully._] You'll see how it'll soon be. Lizzie will

come home and she'll play us a march of jubilation, a march of joy....

[_Brokenly._] She owes it to me!... I'll dance, I tell you; I'll dance

for two. You'll see. And I'll sing. I'll turn things upside down.

Hindes, kiss me, hotly, hotly.

HINDES [_passionately, through tears_]. You.... You....

[_He gives her a long kiss, as if entranced._]

[_Slow Curtain._]

* * * * *

BIBLIOGRAPHY

OF THE LITTLE THEATRE

FOREWORD

What is wanting in this list the reader will only too soon discover for

himself. I do not, however, wish to offer a faltering apology for the

incompleteness of the work. In truth, it needs none. Nevertheless, a

brief word of explanation may not be amiss.

The duties of the bibliographer are more or less mechanical. He merely

collects his data from the most available sources or from arcana known

only to a few, arranges his material alphabetically and sends his copy

to the printer.

THIEF [_suspiciously_]. Grandmother again?