BILL PORTER
A Drama of O. Henry in Prison
BY
UPTON SINCLAIR
PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR
PASADENA, CALIFORNIA
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COPYRIGHT, 1925
BY UPTON SINCLAIR
All rights reserved in all countries including the Scandinavian
For rights of production address the Author
Printed in the United States of America
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FOREWORD
The central figure of this play is the writer of short stories known to
all the world as O. Henry. His name was William Sydney Porter; “Bill”
Porter to his intimates in the Ohio State Penitentiary, where, beginning
at the age of thirty-six, he served a sentence of three years and three
months for embezzlement of national bank funds.
This play follows, as literally as possible, the facts concerning “Bill”
Porter’s life and behavior in prison, as revealed in his letters and
other published records. The writer of the play has had the advantage of
much conversation with Al Jennings, who was Porter’s intimate both in
prison and previously in Central America, where they had sought refuge
from the law. Mr. Jennings, who appears as a character in this play, has
been good enough to go over the manuscript, and the author here pays
tribute to the kindness and genial spirit of an ex-train bandit,
ex-convict, ex-lawyer, ex-evangelist, and almost successful candidate
for governor of Oklahoma. Mr. Jennings has written a book, “Through the
Shadows with O. Henry,” published by the H. K. Fly Company, also by the
A. L. Burt Company.
This play deals with the soul of a creative artist, working despite ill
fortune. Throughout the play there has been employed a convention
additional to those customary on our stage. Whenever colored lighting is
used, the scenes beheld and the characters appearing are not real, but
are the children of “Bill” Porter’s brain. They may be persons who have
previously appeared as real, but they are now present in the thoughts of
the hero. In this form they change, they assume new personalities and
take on new roles, in the magic chemistry of art. Let no one be puzzled
because these artist imaginings mix up all times and places, the past
and the present, the living and the dead; for that is the way of the
imagination. The play tries to show a writer at work; how he takes the
experiences of his life, and revises and reshapes them according to his
temperament.
The stories of O. Henry alluded to in the play are as follows: Act I, “A
Municipal Report,” from the volume “Strictly Business”; Act II, “A
Retrieved Reformation,” from the volume “Roads of Destiny”—a story
better known by the title of the play which was made from it, “Alias
Jimmie Valentine”; Act III, “Holding up a Train,” “Makes the Whole World
Kin,” and “The Day We Celebrate,” from “Sixes and Sevens,” and “The
Fourth in Salvador,” from “Roads of Destiny”; Act IV, “The Guardian of
the Accolade,” from “Roads of Destiny,” and “An Unfinished Story,” from
“The Four Million.”
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SCENE: State Penitentiary at Columbus, Ohio.
TIME: 1899.
Act. I: The drug-store of the prison hospital.
Act. II: The same.
Act. III: The postoffice of the prison.
Act. IV: The drug-store again.
CHARACTERS.
BIGGINS _pickpocket_
BILL PORTER _night drug-clerk of the prison hospital_
PURZON _swindler_
JOE _Negro trusty_
MARGARET _Porter’s little daughter_
ATHOL _Porter’s deceased wife_
ESPIRITU DE LA VINA _Porter’s temptation_
DR. WALTERS _night physician of the prison_
AL JENNINGS _train-bandit_
THE JUDGE _of “Bankers’ Row”_
DELACOUR _of the same_
JIMMIE VALENTINE _cracksman_
RAIDLER _the Oklahoma terror_
GENERAL DINGO _of the Salvador revolution_
DULCIE _the little shop-girl_
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BILL PORTER
ACT I.
SCENE: _The drug-store of the prison hospital._
_A long counter runs all the way across the stage, from right to left,
at the back part of the stage. On the far side of the counter, away from
the audience, the convicts file by, entering at the right and going off
at the left, having their orders for drugs filled by the clerk. On the
side of the counter nearest to the audience is the portion of the room
in which the drugs and supplies are kept, and in which the clerk works.
This portion has an entrance at right, to the hospital, and one at the
left, to a hall. At right center is a flat-topped desk, with a chair
facing left; another chair on the other side of the desk. All the way
under the counter, and along the walls at right and left, are rows of
shelves occupied by boxes and bottles large and small, as in an ordinary
drug-store. These shelves turn upon pivots, making possible a quick
change of the room, at the end of Act II and of Act IV, into a bank._
AT RISE: _Those convicts who have listed themselves as sick are getting
their evening supply of drugs. They file along from right to left,
hard-faced, desolate looking men both white and black, clad in the
old-fashioned black and white striped convict suits. They shove bits of
paper over the counter, and take their pills or powders, for the most
part silently, sometimes with a grunt or a growl. A guard stands by the
door, watching them, a club in his hand; the guard wearing blue uniform
with brass buttons._
_Bill Porter, the night drug-clerk on duty, takes the prescriptions and
fills them silently and swiftly; they are all standard prescriptions,
which he has ready mixed and measured, and for the most part all he does
is to shove out two or three pills, or a powder folded up in blue paper.
He is a smooth-shaven, fair-haired man of thirty-seven, not stout but
well filled out, benevolent, but reserved in manner. He wears a white
hospital costume, clean, but old and worn. The Negro, Joe, a trusty, is
puttering about the place, making a pretense at dusting off the contents
of the shelves with a rag. He wears a dingy grey uniform, with black
stripe down the trousers._
_Biggins_ (_next to the last man in the line; a lean, wiry street-rat
and pickpocket; he talks out of the corner of his mouth, so that the
guard will not detect him_): Say, Buddy, can’t yer give us somethin’
different from these here white pills?
_Porter_: I am filling your prescription.
_Biggins_: Well, can’t yer wait till yer make yer rounds, an give us
somethin’ else?
_Porter_: If you want me to prescribe for you, you’ll have to apply when
I’m making my rounds.
_Biggins_: Thanks, Buddy, fer the tip. The croaker’s been t’rowin’ dese
here white bullets down me troat fer a month now—
_Purzon_ (_the last convict in the line; a big man, broad, beefy-faced,
noisy, who has passed worthless checks by posing as a ranchman_): Cheer
up, kid, there’s nothin’ in ’em but a lump of dough. (_he hands over his
slip of paper, and receives a couple of pills_). Don’t I get a powder
too? The croaker said I should.
_Porter_: He didn’t write it down.
_Purzon_: Well, for God’s sake, what kind of a deal is that? He told me
I was to have digitalis.
_Porter_: There’s digitalis in one of those pills.
_Purzon_: Well, they look exactly alike! A fat lot they care what they
feed you in this joint—that bonehead croaker don’t take as much trouble
as if he was keepin’ dogs.
_Porter_ (_sternly_): Move along now. If you have any quarrel with the
doctor, say it to him.
_Purzon_ (_snarling_): Ah, you fat stool-pigeon!
_Porter_: Move on! I’ve never yet reported a man in this place, but I’m
not paid to listen to you abuse my chief.
(_The guard, noticing the talk, approaches and pokes Purzon roughly with
his stick; the last of the line moves off._)
_Joe_ (_coming forward, humbly; a large, athletic-looking black fellow,
in the thirties_): Please, suh, Misteh Porteh, could you gimme a little
tention befo you shuts up de boxes?
_Porter_: What is it?
_Joe_: Ah got what you might call a little inclination to de
constipulation, an Ah could use a couple of dem double-barrel shotgun
shells. (_as Porter shoves him a couple of pills_) Thankee, boss. (_he
resumes his pretense at dusting, and Porter puts the covers on his
boxes, and goes to his desk with a weary sigh_) Ah bet you is tahd when
you gets done wid dat line. (_silence_) Dey mussa been two hundred men
in dat line dis evenin. Dey keeps a comin an a comin, an it doan seem to
do em no good. (_he is inviting conversation, but Porter sits at his
desk lost in thought_) Misteh Porteh—
_Porter_: Well?
_Joe_: Dey sho is a lot of misery in dis place.
_Porter_: There is.
_Joe_: Dey sho is one _mountain_ of misery in dis place!
_Porter_ (_looks at papers on his desk, crumples them up into a ball,
and makes as if to throw them into a wire trash-basket, which stands at
the side of his desk nearest to the audience; he discovers that the
basket is full to overflowing_): See here, don’t you remember my saying
anything to you about keeping a little room at least on the _top_ of
this trash-basket?
_Joe_: Yes, boss, dasso. Ah’s powerful fogetful; but you does sho fill
up dat trash-basket! Seems like you spen de whole night writin paper an
tearin it up.
_Porter_: Have they made you custodian of the hospital stationery?
_Joe_: No, boss, Ah’s only de custodian of de hospital trash-baskets.
But if yo jes wouldn’t roll em up into balls, so dey fill up so much
room! If you wouldn’t tear em into little bits, so dey spill out through
de holes!
_Porter_: I don’t care to have my writings read in this place.
_Joe_: Yes, boss, Ah understan; but make yoself easy—Ah cant read a line
of his hyar hanwritin.
_Porter_: Well, save me the job of nagging.
_Joe_: Yes, boss, Ah sho try. But you know how it is, if Ah was a
first-class rememberin niggeh, I wouldn’t be doin a term in de Ohio
State penitentiary, Ah’d be a spick and span porteh in a Pullman car,
jing-jinglin de quartehs in mah pocket. (_imitating car porter_)
Nashville de nex stop, suh! Brush you off, suh?
_Porter_: Quit your chatter and get out of here!
(_Joe takes trash-basket and runs; Porter takes mail from pocket and
glances at letter; then sits in attitude of despair, his head in his
hands. Joe returns with empty basket, and begins to make a pretense of
sweeping the floor with a broom, at the same time peering at Porter,
trying to see his face._)
_Porter_ (_without looking up_): Wouldn’t it be possible for you to get
this room swept before I come on duty?
_Joe_: Misteh Porteh, you dunno how dey keep me on de jump in dis place—
_Porter_: They seem to turn you loose at this precise hour every
evening, so you can come in and fill my lungs with dust.
_Joe_: Ah’ll jes keep a sorteh circulatin roun wid dis broom, so de capn
think Ah’m workin if he comes, but Ah wont make dust enough to botheh
you. (_Porter continues to sit in attitude of dejection; Joe manifests
first curiosity, then sympathy; he tries to attract attention_) Ah-hum!
(_Porter does not look up_) Ah-hum!
_Porter_: What is it, Joe?
_Joe_: Misteh Porteh—
_Porter_: Well?
_Joe_: Ah’s got somethin else besides dis hyar constipulation.
_Porter_: What you got?
_Joe_: Ah’s got somethin—you might call it a sorteh constipulation of de
vocabulary.
_Porter_: How’s that?
_Joe_: Ah wuks roun dis hispital, an Ah keeps mah eyes open, an Ah sees
Misteh Porteh doan say much to nobody in dis place. Ah thinks it oveh,
an Ah thinks maybe he’d like it if Ah was to come up an say, right still
and quaht: Misteh Porteh, Ah’s jes a niggeh.
_Porter_: Indeed, Joe!
_Joe_: Dey got me in de penitentiary in de state of Ohio, Misteh Porteh,
but Ah was raised down in Tennessee, an Ah knows what a genleman is; so
Ah comes to you an says: Ah’s a niggeh.
_Porter_: Well, Joe, I’m glad you spoke. I won’t be so lonesome!
_Joe_: Ah wants you to know, Misteh Porteh, it warnt makin no trouble fo
white folks what got me in his place. It was a black man what Ah cut. Ah
had a little yellah gal, an dat niggeh hadnt no business to be foolin
wid her. Ah wouldn’t a done him no real harm, if it hadnt been dat he
come on me so quick, Ah didn’t have a chance to bend mah razor back. You
knows how it is wid razors?
_Porter_: No, Joe, I don’t think I ever fought with razors.
_Joe_: Well, you bends him back, all de way roun, an den you only got
bout a half inch of blade, an he doan cut so deep, you cant do no real
harm. But Ah mos cut dat black man’s neck through, so de jedge, he give
it to me hard. Ah says to him, Jedge, if you knowed what Ah knows bout
dat niggeh, you’d pay me fo service to de state of Ohio. But it was a
Yankee jedge, an he doan smile.
_Porter_: He gave you life?
_Joe_: Not dat bad—twenty years. Ah reckons to git six years an eight
months off fo good behavior—an den, Misteh Porteh, Ah’s goin back to de
good ole state of Tennessee. Dey got me up hyar to work in de steel
mills—Ah thought Ah’d make some money an buy me a tater patch an a mule;
but Ah’s goin back home, wha dey knows what a genleman is. You comes
from de South, Misteh Porteh?
_Porter_: North Carolina.
_Joe_: Ah knowed it! Dey was somethin in de way you looked at me. Mah
ole daddy belonged to de Jedge Adair famly. You ever heah of de Judge
Adair famly in Nashville? Ah lak to tell you bout dat famly, Misteh
Porteh, den you see Ah knows what a genleman is, an how to talk to em.
_Porter_: Sit down, Joe.
_Joe_: Naw, suh, Ah reckon Ah keep circulatin dis hyar broom roun jes a
bit—de capn he might come a driftin in hyar, an you knows how it is, Ah
doan take no littlest chance fo to lose mah job as trusty—Ah wants to
spend dem extra six years an eight months in de state of Tennessee, an
not in de state of Ohio. Well, de Jedge Adair famly was one of de
tip-top families, dey was sho nuff quality. But den de wah come, an you
know how de Yankees come to Nashville, an de slaves was free. Mah ole
daddy wanted to stick by de famly, but dey couldn’t keep him, dey didn’t
have enough to eat fo dem selves. De Jedge he died, an dey was only Miss
Azalea Adair lef, an dey was dis fine ole mansion all fallin in ruins,
an dis fine lady livin in it an not enough to eat. She done married a
man—he jes married her fo to live off what he thought she had, an when
she doan have no money he curse her an he strike her—yes, Misteh Porteh,
an you knows what would be goin on in de heart of an old slave what was
raised in de famly, an knowin things was goin on like dat, an Miss
Azalea Adair so proud, an hidin it all from de world. Well, mah ole
daddy he got out an work fo de Yankees and save up an buy him a hack an
a horse, an he drive, an make a little money, an when he know Miss
Azalea Adair not have anything to eat, he take her a dollar or two. An
den Major Caswell—dat’s de husban’s name—he find out she got dat money,
an he take it away from her, so he kin go down an show off in de
bar-room of de big hotel, struttin roun an treatin all de genlemen what
he know. You ever hear anything like dat in de South, Misteh Porteh?
_Porter_: No, I can’t say I ever did.
_Joe_: Well, Miss Azalea Adair she try all de time to find some way to
earn money. Dey had a great liberry in de house, an she read all dem
books, an got dem in her haid, an she begin to write. Of course, de
editors up Noth, day was glad to git what a great lady like Miss Azalea
Adair write, so dey sent a man down from New Yok fo to see her an pay
her money, an git her to sen some mo writin. An mah ole daddy, he was de
hackman what met dat Yankee man, an drove him to Miss Azalea Adair’s
home. It was a ole hack, de horse was so weak he could hardly
stagger—cause you see how it was, all de money what de fares brung in
had to go to keep Miss Azalea Adair alive. Well, dat Yankee man, he pay
Miss Azalea Adair fifty dollars fo what she write, an den he go away. An
Major Caswell—dat’s de husban—he find out she got dat money, an he grab
her by de wrist an twist it till she mos faint—she too proud to make a
soun, you know—an he take dat money an sneak off. Mah old daddy, he peek
through de do an he see dat happen. He take de kitchen knife an sneak
out an folleh de Major—it was in de night, an black dark—an he stab him
through an kill him an take de money. Yes, suh, he was a white man, too,
but dis ole niggeh slave, he kill him.
_Porter_: And did they catch him?
_Joe_: Mah old daddy? Naw, suh, boss, dey doan ketch him, he die in his
bed wid de preacher prayin oveh him an de angels a waitin fo his soul.
Maybe de police have some idea what happen, but dey wasn’t anbody care
much bout dat ornery Major Caswell. An Miss Azalea Adair course she doan
never speculate nothin, cause my ole man he doan take her dat fifty
dollars all to onst, he jes kinds string it out, one or two dollars when
he see day warnt nothin in de pantry.
_Porter_: What a story! What a story! And you say—by George! You say
that happened in Nashville?
_Joe_: Yes, Misteh Porteh.
_Porter_: Well, now, that’s a funny thing. I was reading the other
day—here, I think I have it in these magazines—here’s a fellow who says
you couldn’t tell an interesting story about Nashville, Tennessee!
_Joe_: What’s de matter wid Nashville?
_Porter_: He thinks it’s too slow, too old-fashioned. Here’s what he
says. (_reads_) “Fancy a novel about Chicago or Buffalo, let us say, or
Nashville, Tennessee! There are just three big cities in the United
States that are ‘story cities’—New York, of course, New Orleans, and,
best of the lot, San Francisco.”
_Joe_: Well, Ah doan know nothin bout books, Misteh Porteh—
_Porter_: I know a little, and hope to know more. I’m writing some
stories, and maybe some day I’ll write that story about Miss Azalea
Adair. Is she dead?
_Joe_: Yes, suh, dey all daid.
_Porter_: I’ll quote that fellow who says you couldn’t write about
Nashville, Tennessee. I tell you Joe, you can write about any place
where human beings live—provided you know how to get into their hearts
and report what’s going on there; it doesn’t matter who they are—white
or black—or where they are—in jail, or in Nashville. A story is a report
on human hearts. I’ll call this one “A Municipal Report”; quote the
statistics about Nashville—all the commonplace things, and then tell how
I go there, and run into the old hackman that was once a slave, and
drives his tumble-down old rig to earn a dollar, to buy food for his
starving mistress in the mansion! I can make them cry over that! (_a
pause_)
_Joe_: Misteh Porteh.
_Porter_: Well?
_Joe_: Somethin—Ah dunno if Ah’d ought to say it. Ah was in dis room las
night, when you got through wid sewin up dat feller wid de busted
haid—an you was all alone—leastways you thought you was, an Ah didn’t
like to make no noise. (_a pause_) Ah like to say dis, Misteh Porteh,
you doan have to feel shamed—dey’s lots o fellers cryin in dis place.
(_a pause_) Dey gits you locked up, an yo cell-mate’s snorin—oh, den de
tears come a runnin onto de pillow. You know, Misteh Porteh, dey was a
little kinky headed yalleh baby, de prettiest little thing you ever see;
Ah thinks what become of him, maybe he’s crying tonight cause he doan
get enough to eat—it jes seem like mo’n Ah can stan.
_Porter_: You were married, then?
_Joe_: Naw suh, we wasn zacly married—dis was a kindeh what you might
say engagement baby. (_grins_) But Ah guess Ah done loss dat yelleh gal
fo keeps now, she doan write to me, Ah reckon she got some new felleh.
(_a pause_) You got folks outside, Misteh Porteh?
_Porter_: I’ve got a little girl.
_Joe_: Sho nuff? Well, now! How ole dat little gal?
_Porter_: Eleven.
_Joe_: Her mammy daid?
_Porter_: Yes.
_Joe_: Dat’s hard! Dat’s sho nuff hard, Misteh Porteh! She got folks
takin care of her?
_Porter_: She lives with her grandparents.
_Joe_: Ah wondeh, is you got a picture of dat chile?
_Porter_: Yes, I have. (_he opens drawer of desk and hands a photograph
to Joe_)
_Joe_: Dat’s a pretty little gal! A sho nuff sweet chile! What dey call
her, Misteh Porteh?
_Porter_: Margaret’s her name.
_Joe_: Margaret. Dat’s a right nice-soundin name. Ah doan wondeh you
miss dat little lily. Do she know whah her pappy is?
_Porter_: She has no idea.
_Joe_: Oh, doan you let nobody tell her, Misteh Porteh!
_Porter_: Never until I tell her with my own lips.
_Joe_: Dat’s right, dat’s right! She’ll believe what her pappy tells
her. Ah bet it ain’t so bad as some folks made it look like.
_Porter_: That is a question I never discuss with anyone in this place.
_Joe_: Ah understan you, boss. Ah reckon you aint showed dis hyar
picture to many. But when a genleman from de South talk wid a niggeh,
it’s like he was a chile, talkin to his black mammy. Dat little Miss
Margaret got a ole mammy what take care of her?
_Porter_: Yes, Joe. (_he puts away photograph_) Every night I sit here
and write, and all the time I’m thinking of one thing, to get enough
money to send Margaret a present at Christmas. I didn’t have anything
for her birthday, and I’m sure not going to fail again! Miss Azalea
Adair will help me out.
_Joe_: She’d a liked dat first rate, Misteh Porteh.
_Porter_: What did she look like?
_Joe_: She had white hair, an her dresses was old, but de laundrin was
new; a little lady, hardly anything to her; gentle an quaht—you know
what dem Southern ladies is.
_Porter_: And your old daddy, tell me about him.
_Joe_: He was a big black man, big as me; proud feller, his grandaddy
was a king in de Congo. Yes, suh, Misteh Porteh, suh, you needn’t laugh,
dat’s a fact; dey was lots o great men captured an sold to be slaves.
Uncle Caesar, dey call him, an he wore a long coat like de ginrals in
Ginral Lee’s army. It was ole and patched, an de rain had washed it an
de sun had faded it, but you could see it was a ginral’s coat—gold lace
an tassels on it, an when dey was all gone, mah ole daddy he was boun to
show it was a ginral’s coat, so he had mah mammy sew on rope to make
loops an tassels an eppilets an things. An he would have to git himself
tied up in it wid twine, cause all de buttons was gone, only one las
button up near de top, a fine yelleh button, big as a half dollar. Yes
suh, dat was a sho fine coat—Ah reckon mah ole daddy he wear it befo de
throne of grace, cause dey done buried him in it. He stan by de do’ of
de hack, wid his whip in one han an a ole feather duster in de odder, an
he make like to dust off de seat of de hack, an he say: “Step right in,
suh; aint a speck of dust in it—jes got back from a funeral, suh. Kyar
you anywhere in de town fo fifty cents.” He sho knew how to git de money
out of genlemen.
_Porter_: I know, I’ve had them operate on me. I can see a whole mob of
them, lined up in front of a depot; they come charging at you—like a
race riot, a company of freedmen, or Arabs, or Zulus, armed with whips.
_Joe_: Jes so, boss; jes so!
_Porter_: Uncle Caesar, as you describe him, might be the old hackman
who drove me and Miss Athol Estes, that summer night when we ran away to
get married. I was afraid the old hack would fall to pieces at the next
bump. We hadn’t very far to go—for Miss Athol sang in the choir of the
Presbyterian church, and the minister was good enough to marry us. One
thing more; tell me what Major Caswell looked like.
_Joe_: De Major? He was one of dese fellers dat hunt roun in a hotel
lobby, like a starved dog lookin fo a bone. He would hit a spittoon wid
a squirt of tobacco juice farther’n any man in de place. He was always
fightin de war oveh—I heerd de Judge tell him once, he was one of dese
perfessional Southerners. He had a big face, kindeh red an pulpy-like,
an sleepy. I tell you who he look like, dat convict feller what was
cursin at de doctor jes now. You could take him fo de Major on a dark
night. (_a voice calling, off-stage right: “Joe!”_) Da’s de capn!
(_calls_) Yes, boss!
_Porter_: See here, you black-skinned rascal, if you tell anybody what
we’ve been talking about, I’ll take the ebony hide off you!
_Joe_ (_grins_): Naw, suh, Misteh Porteh, suh, Ah knows mah place. Us
Southerners got to stan together. You lemme be yo body-servant, Ah take
care of you like you belonged to de Jedge Adair famly! (_moves
reluctantly towards exit_) You was in de drug business befo you come
hyar, Misteh Porteh?
_Porter_: When I was a lad I worked five years in my uncle’s drug-store.
_Joe_: Ah bet you like to member dem days!
_Porter_: It was the little town of Greensboro. You know how it is down
South in the springtime, the sweet odor of the honeysuckle, and the
mocking-birds singing; this time in the evening there’s chairs in front
of the store, and the girls come in their white muslin dresses, and the
perfumes you sold them yesterday now make you kind of drunk while you’re
squirting out vanilla and strawberry flavors! And Babe Harmony, clerk to
the justice of the peace, has fetched his old guitar. (_faint sound of
music: “Carry me back to old Virginny.”_) He’s singing wha de cotton and
de golden taters grow—
_Joe_ (_waving his hands_): Oh, Misteh Porteh, doan tell me bout dem
things, you make me spen de whole night cryin! Ah got to hustle, boss,
Ah dassn linger, Ah doan want to spen dem extra six years an eight
months in de state of Ohio! (_runs off right; the music continues
faintly_)
_Porter_ (_sits at desk, in meditation_): A Municipal Report. Nashville,
Tennessee. What have I got about Nashville? That old atlas, perhaps!
(_digs out atlas from under a pile of books_) T-E—Tennessee—Nashville.
(_reading slowly_) “Nashville, a city, port of delivery, and the capital
of the State of Tennessee, is on the Cumberland River, and on the N. C.
& St. L. and the L. & N. railroads. This city is regarded as the most
important educational center in the South.” Umm‑m‑m‑. “Nashville
occupies a foremost place among the manufacturing centers of the
country. It is the fifth boot and shoe market in the United States, the
largest candy and cracker manufacturing city in the South, and does an
enormous wholesale drygoods, grocery and drug business.” That’s bully!
(_sits lost in thought; gradually the lights shift to pale violet
color_) Uncle Caesar! His grandaddy was a king in the Congo! (_Uncle
Caesar enters at right, silently, like a ghost. Music: “Old black Joe.”
He is Joe, the convict, made up in the role of his old father, with a
woolly grey wig, a dilapidated coachman’s hat, and the extraordinary
“ginral’s coat” previously described. He carries a coachman’s whip in
one hand, and a feather duster in the other._) He must have got that
coat from some Confederate officers. It was worn all through the war, it
has been in battles. And that one button, that yellow button, big as a
half a dollar, the last of the tribe, reminder of the dead glory. He
looks out for customers, he hunts them as his grandaddy used to hunt
heads in the Congo. He’s one of the crowd of hackmen—he storms down on
you like a race riot, a company of freedmen, or Arabs, or Zulus, armed
with whips!
(_Uncle Caesar looks about, with growing energy and excitement;
appearing to discover Porter, he stretches out the whip, crying_): Kyar
you anywhere in de town, boss, fo fifty cents! (_he dusts an imaginary
hack with his duster_) Step right in, suh; aint a speck of dust in
it—jes got back from a funeral.
_Porter_: Driver, take me to the home of Miss Azalea Adair.
_Uncle Caesar_ (_stretches out his arm, as if barring Porter’s way; an
expression of suspicion and enmity on his face_): What’s dat? (_then,
recovering himself, with blandishing air_) What you gwine da fo, boss?
_Porter_: What’s that to you?
_Uncle Caesar_: Nothin, suh, jes nuthin. Only it’s a lonesome kind of
part of town and few folks ever has business out dah. Step right in, de
seats is clean.
_Porter_: All right; if that old hack of yours don’t fall to pieces at
the next bump. (_a pause; Porter turns his eyes to the atlas, and
reads_). “The city has an area of 10 square miles; 181 miles of streets,
of which 137 are paved; a system of waterworks which cost $2,000,000,
with 77 miles of mains.” (_takes out his purse, rises, and offers Uncle
Caesar a half and a quarter dollar_) Here’s a quarter extra for you.
_Uncle Caesar_: It’s two dollars, suh.
_Porter_: How’s that? I plainly heard you call out: “Fifty cents to any
part of the town.”
_Uncle Caesar_: It’s two dollars, suh. It’s a long way from de hotel.
_Porter_: It’s within the city limits, and well within them. Don’t think
that you have picked up a greenhorn Yankee. Do you see those hills over
there in the East? Well, I was born on the other side, in North
Carolina. You old fool nigger, can’t you tell people from other people
when you see ’em?
_Uncle Caesar_ (_grins_): Is you from de South, suh? Ah reckon it was
dem shoes of yourn fooled me. Dey is somethin sharp on de toes fo a
Southern genleman to wear.
_Porter_: Then the charge is fifty cents, I suppose?
_Uncle Caesar_: Boss, fifty cents is right; but Ah needs two dollars,
suh; Ah’m _bleeged_ to have two dollars. Ah ain’t _demandin_ it now,
suh; after Ah knows whah you’s from; Ah’m jes sayin dat Ah _has_ to have
two dollars tonight, and business is mighty po.
_Porter_: (_reaches for his pocket_) You confounded old rascal, you
ought to be turned over to the police. But you know; you know; YOU KNOW!
_Uncle Caesar_: Yes, boss, Ah knows; Ah knows; AH KNOWS! (_bowing and
scraping, slides into the background_)
_Porter_ (_returns to study of the atlas; reads_): “In November, 1864,
the Confederate General Hood advanced against Nashville, where he shut
up a National force under General Thomas. The latter then sallied forth
and defeated the Confederates in a terrible conflict.” That’s the
history of it; but that wouldn’t satisfy Major Caswell. He’s a
professional Southerner. A good phrase! I know the type. When he bangs
the bar with his fist, the first gun at Fort Sumter re-echoes. When he
fires the last one at Appomattox, I begin to hope for a chance to get
away! (_Major Caswell enters right, silently; he is the convict Purzon,
made up as a Southern gentleman, with a string tie, a slouch hat and a
Prince Albert; he stands in shadow, barely visible; behind him is the
frail figure of a woman, still less visible_). But he twists the wrist
of a woman! The rat with the blabbing lip! (_the Major turns upon the
woman and enacts the role of twisting her wrist and taking some money
from her by force; she moans feebly_) But she’s too proud to make a
sound! She’s a Southern lady—God bless her—and she hides her grief from
the world! (_the woman sinks to the ground, invisible in the darkness;
the Major comes forward, holding the money in his hand; he counts it
with exultation_)
_The Major_: Fifty dollars! A real haul that time! I can live like a
gentleman fo once. Step up, suh, say the word, suh, the drinks are on
me. The South comes back to her own! The guns of Fort Sumter re-echo
again! The Confederate General Hood drives the damn Yankees in rout befo
him, and Nashville is free once mo, a place fit fo a gentleman to live
in. What’ll you have, Colonel?
(_Uncle Caesar has been crouching in the shadows, watching the scene. He
now steals out with a butcher knife in his hand and leaps upon the
Major, who turns and defends himself, trying to hold the Negro off. In
the struggle the Major tears the button from Uncle Caesar’s coat; as the
Negro stabs him, he falls, clutching the button in his hand. Uncle
Caesar takes the money from him, and then steals off_).
_Porter_ (_has been watching the drama with excitement, now and then
gesturing as if he were directing the actions of the players; he now
advances, gazing upon the body_): Stabbed him to the heart! A white man
he was, and the old Negro slave killed him! But he leaves a clue—see,
the Major has torn the one last button from the old Negro’s coat, and he
holds that button in his dead hand! That’s where I come upon the
scene—I’ll be the man from New York who brings the fifty dollars to Miss
Azalea Adair. I discover how Major Caswell robbed his wife; I know that
the Negro will take the money back to her; so I take that button out of
the Major’s hand—(_he stoops and takes the button_) So when the police
come and find the body, they don’t know what to make of it! (_two
policemen enter silently; they discover the body, make a swift
investigation, and then pick up the body and carry it off, right_) And
so the old Negro escapes, and dies in his bed with the preacher praying
over him, and the angels waiting for his soul. And something has
happened—(_exulting_)—a drama! A real story—in Nashville, Tennessee! (_a
pause_) Oh, they’ll have to take that story! That’s a masterpiece, and I
know it! I’ll get money for that—and buy Margaret a real present.
What’ll it be? A pony, perhaps! No, that would cost too much to keep.
It’ll be a doll, the most beautiful doll in the very fanciest shop in
New York. Margaret, dear, how would you like to have a doll—a big one in
a pink crepe dress, with pink ribbons in her hair—and when you lay her
down she closes her eyes, and when you squeeze her she says “Mamma!”
(_Margaret enters, at left, moving softly, in dream fashion; a frail,
sensitive, eager child, dressed in white muslin; she carries the big
doll as described, and gazes at it with ecstasy. Music._)
_Porter_: Do you like it, dear?
_Margaret_: Oh, Papa, she’s so sweet! Just listen! (_she squeezes the
doll, which says “Mamma!”_) She says “Mamma!” Oh, I wish Mamma could be
here to hear her! (_runs to Porter_) But you’re here. Papa! You’ve come
back to me. Have you come to stay?
_Porter_: Yes, sweetheart, never to go away.
_Margaret_: Oh, Papa, I’ve missed you so! Why did you stay so long?
_Porter_: That’s a sad story, dear.
_Margaret_: They wouldn’t tell me a thing about it—where you were or
what you were doing.
_Porter_: Listen, dear, it’s hard for me to tell you, but I have to tell
you some day. You’ll never doubt Papa, will you?
_Margaret_: Doubt you, Papa?
_Porter_: No, of course not. It’s something very cruel, and I hate to
make you unhappy, but you must know, you must! All those years—three and
more while Papa was away from you—they had put him in prison.
_Margaret_ (_horrified_): In prison!
_Porter_: Yes, dear. There were people who accused Papa of taking some
money that didn’t belong to him—money from a bank. But listen, Margaret,
dear, you’ll never doubt what Papa tells you—
_Margaret_ (_wide-eyed_): Why, of course not, Papa!
_Porter_: I want you to know that Papa never got that money. Other
people got it and they blamed it on him. They ran the bank carelessly,
and Papa was never a good hand to take care of money, you know. And
Mamma was ill, we had many dreadful troubles. When they accused Papa—oh,
it was cruel, with things about it in the newspapers, and Papa had to go
into court, and be charged with it, and have to tell things about other
people that he couldn’t bear to tell. I ought to have gone, Margaret,
dear, I ought to have faced it out and told everything. But I always
hated money so, and money matters—I was on my way to the trial, and I
fell into a sort of panic, I just couldn’t face it, I went to New
Orleans and took a steamer to Central America. You remember the first
time Papa was away, for half a year—you were young then—
_Margaret_: I remember it, Papa. Mamma and I packed up your overcoat,
and some good things to eat, and sent them to you.
_Porter_: I had been traveling all over Central America and South
America and Mexico. First I thought I could get some sort of little home
there, and have you and Mamma come; but I couldn’t earn a living there,
and I was so unhappy. Then I learned that Mamma was worse—at the very
time she packed that overcoat she was hardly able to move. So I got
desperate, I didn’t care what happened to me, I came back, and Mamma
died in my arms. And then I gave myself up, I let them take me and try
me in court. I sat and hardly knew what was happening to me; I didn’t
say a word that I might have said in my own defense. My heart was
breaking, dear, but I couldn’t let you know it—I had to pretend to be
happy, and make jokes, and tell you I’d be back soon—(_he sobs, and the
child with him_) I had to tell grandma and grandpa to hide from you
where I was, and wait until I came out. I wanted to tell you with my own
lips, so you would know Papa was innocent—
_Margaret_: Of course, Papa! Of course!
_Porter_: Oh, sweetheart, I can never tell you about that place, and
what I suffered there. Only one thing kept me alive—the thought that
some day I’d be with you again. All the time I was in the prison I used
to write stories—I was the night drug-clerk, I slept in the day-time and
was on duty at night, and I’d spend long hours writing stories. Some of
them were published—and do you know what I spent the money for? To send
presents to you! That lovely dolly—I spent hours thinking about that
dolly, and how happy it would make you. I used to sit at my desk and
imagine you with that dolly, all the sweet things you’d say to it—
_Margaret_ (_gazing enraptured at the doll_): Oh, such a sweet dolly!
Oh, Papa—did you know, when you lay her down she shuts her eyes, and
that makes it easy to play she’s asleep! And when you squeeze her she
says “Mamma!” Do you suppose I could teach her to say “Papa”?
_Porter_: Maybe I can find another that will say “Papa!”
_Margaret_: And a baby dolly, and a mammy dolly to take care of her! A
whole dolly family! Oh! Oh! (_claps her hands_) And Papa! Such a lovely
pink dress! I’m going to make her an every-day dress, because this is
too fine except for parties.
_Porter_: Do you know what that dress reminds me of, Margaret? The one
your Mamma wore the day we were married.
_Margaret_: Tell me about it!
_Porter_: Well, you see, grandma and grandpa didn’t want Mamma to marry,
because she wasn’t well, even in those young days. But we just loved
each other too much, so we ran away, and were married by the Reverend
Mr. Smoot of the Presbyterian church, where Mamma sang in the choir. It
was a day in the summertime—in Texas; I can see Mamma in the lovely pink
crepe dress, soft and fluffy—
(_Athol enters, right, as described, a frail delicate girl of eighteen,
wearing a pink dress to match that of the doll. Music: “Silver threads
among the gold.”_)
She was the loveliest thing in the whole wide state of Texas that
morning—and Texas is a wide state, I tell you! I was thinking about her
last night, and I wrote: (_he reads from manuscript, and meantime
Margaret slips back into the shadows, and Athol comes forward,
manifesting pleasure in the words_). “The Bride! Word of words in the
epiphany of life and love. The scent of the flowers, the booty of the
bee, the primal drip of spring waters, the overture of the lark, the
twist of lemon peel on the cocktail of creation—such is the bride. Holy
is the wife; revered the mother; galluptious is the summer girl—but the
bride is the certified check among the wedding presents that gods send
in when man is married to mortality.... Dear kind fairy, please cut out
those orders for money and 40 H. P. touring cars and fame and a new
growth of hair and the presidency of the boat club. Instead of any of
them turn backward—oh, turn backward and give us just a teeny-weeny bit
of our wedding trip over again. Just an hour, dear fairy, so we can
remember how the grass and poplar trees looked, and the bow of those
bonnet strings tied beneath her chin.”
_Porter_ (_rises and goes to Athol_): Dearest! You have come!
_Athol_: For always, Will.
_Porter_: For always, and for happiness.
_Athol_: You’re going to be good to me, Will?
_Porter_: With the goodness of a whole choir of angels, and the choir of
the First Presbyterian Church thrown in! The goodness of a case of the
finest old silk-velvet Kentucky Bourbon, with due accompaniments of
sugar, mint and ice—
_Athol_: Oh, Will, what a metaphor! You know what you promised me about
your fondness for Bourbon!
_Porter_: Let it be inscribed—a promissory note—on the back of our
marriage certificate.
_Athol_: It is inscribed on my heart, Will—
_Porter_: Where I shall read it most frequently! Marriages are laundered
in heaven, their promises sprinkled by the celestial water-wagon—
_Espiritu de la Vina_ (_enters left; a Spanish girl with vivid brunette
coloring, clad in scanty dancer’s costume of scarlet and orange. She
carries castanets, with which she emphasizes her mockery. She passes,
ogling Porter, and singing_)
A beber, a beber, a apurar
Las Copas de licor
Que el vino hara olvidar
Las penas del amor.
_Athol_: Will, who is that woman?
_Porter_: A Mexican girl I used to know—a long time ago, dear, when I
was ranching—
_Athol_: Why should you know such a woman?
_Porter_: It was before I met you, dearest. There was no disloyalty to
you.
_Athol_: But, Will—
_Porter_: Every man has a temptation, Athol; and she was mine. I have
resisted her; I shall always resist her—more easily with you by my side.
_Athol_: What is her name?
_Porter_: Espiritu, they call her—Espiritu de la Vina. She is gay, and
men flock to her—but I have chosen the water-wagon for my chariot to
heaven!
(_Espiritu dances off left, with a burst of mocking laughter_)
_Porter_ (_to Athol_): Dearest love, there is no one in the world for me
but you. We have a lifetime of bliss before us. (_he looks about
impatiently_) Where’s that old nigger hackman? He swore he’d be here on
time! (_shouts_) Hey, there, you good-for-nothing old grandson of a
bob-tailed monkey, what do you mean by being late when you know I’m
trying to elope with the sweetest girl in the whole wide state of Texas?
_Caesar_ (_runs on, right_): Yes, boss, here Ah is, Johnny on de spot!
(_makes as if to dust off the seat of a carriage_) Step right in, suh;
aint a speck of dust in it—jes got back from a funeral, suh. Kyar you
anywhere in de town fo fifty cents. Dis de young lady? She’s a sho nuff
sweet bride! Right dis way, Miss, de preacher is a-waiting! (_Music:
Lohengrin wedding march. The Negro offers her his arm, gallantly, and
leads her off, right, as if escorting her to the coach_) Dis way, ma’am,
dis way to de weddin festivities!
(_Porter stands gazing after them, yearningly. Gradually the white light
returns; a brisk step is heard_)
_Dr. Walters_ (_night physician of the prison, a young man, enters
left_): Well, Porter?
_Porter_: Good evening, doctor.
_Dr. Walters_: Everything all right?
_Porter_: A few men dying, as you know.
_Dr. Walters_: I hear that poor fellow, Jimmie Valentine, is laid up
again. Wonder how he hangs on.
_Porter_: It’s a poor place for his kind of trouble.
_Dr. Walters_: Yes, they all ought to be out in the sunshine. But then
they’d all run away. So what can you do?
_Porter_: I have no answer for that, doctor.
_Dr. Walters_: They say Jimmie Valentine was a first-class safe-cracker.
_Porter_: So he tells me.
_Dr. Walters_: Used to make a specialty of opening a safe in a few
seconds, they say—he had a trick all his own. Well, he’ll have a chance
to try his skill on the golden gates.
_Porter_: Doctor, I’m told Valentine has an old mother outside, and he’s
never been allowed to see her. Have you any idea of the reason?
_Dr. Walters_: I never have ideas on such subjects, Porter; I leave them
to the warden. I think you’d be well-advised to do the same.
_Porter_: Yes, sir; I understand you.
_Dr. Walters_: Have those medical supplies come?
_Porter_: Yes. They’ll be unpacked and on the shelves before morning.
_Dr. Walters_: Those aspirin tablets made up?
_Porter_: All ready.
_Dr. Walters_: You know, Porter, we can buy such things made up, if you
prefer.
_Porter_: No, sir, I’ve plenty of time—no complaint on that score. I was
brought up to percolate my own paregoric and roll my own pills.
_Dr. Walters_: By the way, Porter—this is serious—I’ve been looking into
the matter of that missing alcohol; there’s more of it gone.
_Porter_: Is that so, doctor?
_Dr. Walters_: Is there anybody you suspect?
_Porter_: Well, you know how it is in a prison, there are many men who
might take alcohol; but there’s no one I have any reason to name.
_Dr. Walters_: Well, it has certainly got to be stopped. I don’t like
the job of playing detective, but some one has to do it. I’ll slip a
little drug into the alcohol, and make somebody mighty sick.
_Porter_: I’ll do my best to watch, doctor; but you know I’m not here
all the time.
_Dr. Walters_: I have an interesting dissection to do this evening. If
there are any calls, you might go for me.
_Porter_: All right, doctor.
_Dr. Walters_: You’ve come to know our line of drugs about as well as I
do.
(_He goes off. Porter sits at desk, his head in his hands. The light
fades to red. Sound of guitar and castanets, rising louder. Espiritu de
la Vina enters, dancing seductively; she directs her attention to
Porter, who gradually looks up, gazing at her; she sings_)
A beber, a beber, a apurar
Las Copas de licor
Que el vino hara olvidar
Las penas del amor.
(_Porter watches her more and more intensely, half rising to join her.
She dances her way to a shelf of bottles, from which she takes down a
large square druggist’s bottle, labeled with a red letter “A.” She
carries it to him, and sets it on the desk before him, then dances back,
and takes from the shelf an enlarged druggist’s label, in red letters:
“Alcohol.” She sets this also before him, and sings in a burst of
excitement_)
De este sabroso jugo, la blanca espuma
Aleja de las penas la negra bruma,
Si Dios hubiera hecho
De vino el mar, de vino el mar,
Yo me volviera pato, para nadar, para nadar:—
Esta es la vida, bebamos mas,
Esta es la vida, bebamos mas.
_The curtain falls with Porter’s eyes riveted upon the bottle._
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