_Late afternoon of the same day._
_Mrs. Beeler sits in a low chair near the window. She has ceased
reading the Testament, which lies open in her lap._
_Uncle Abe sits on the floor with Annie. They are playing with building
blocks, piling up and tearing down various ambitious structures. Rhoda
enters from outside, with hat and cloak, carrying a large bunch of
Easter lilies._
RHODA.
_Kissing her aunt._
Still sitting up! You're not strong enough yet to do this. See, I've
brought you some Easter lilies.
_She hands one to Mrs. Beeler. As she takes off her things, she
sees the old Negro gazing at her._
Well, Uncle Abe?
UNCLE ABE.
I's awake an' a-watchin', honey!
_He turns again to the child, shaking his head as at some unspoken
thought, while Rhoda arranges the flowers in a vase._
MRS. BEELER.
Rhoda!
RHODA.
Yes, Aunt Mary?
MRS. BEELER.
Come here.
_Rhoda approaches. Mrs. Beeler speaks low, with suppressed
excitement._
What is the news, outside?
RHODA.
You mustn't excite yourself. You must keep your strength.
MRS. BEELER.
I shall be strong enough.--Are the people still gathering from the
town?
RHODA.
Yes, and they keep coming in from other places.
MRS. BEELER.
Are there many of them?
RHODA.
Many! Many! It's as if the whole world knew.
MRS. BEELER.
The more there are, the greater will be the witness.--_Pause._ When do
you think he will go out to them?
RHODA.
They believe he is waiting for Easter morning.
_Martha enters from kitchen, with bonnet and shawl on, and a large
basket in her hand._
MARTHA.
Mary, you'd ought to be abed. You're tempting Providence.
_She takes off her bonnet and shawl, and deposits the basket._
I saw your doctor down in the village, and he allowed he'd come up to
see you this afternoon. He was all on end about your bein' able to
walk.
RHODA.
I didn't know till to-day you had a doctor.
MRS. BEELER.
Yes. He's a young man who's just come here to build up a practice.
MARTHA.
_To Rhoda._
You better finish packin' the basket. There's a lot o' hungry mouths to
feed out yonder.
_Exit by hall door. Rhoda continues the preparation of the basket,
taking articles from the cupboard and packing them. Annie has
climbed on a chair by the picture of Pan and the Pilgrim. She
points at the figure of Pan._
ANNIE.
Uncle Abe, tell me who that is.
UNCLE ABE.
_Glancing at Mrs. Beeler and Rhoda._
H'sh!
ANNIE.
What's he doing up there in the bushes, blowing on that funny whistle?
UNCLE ABE.
Look hyah, chil', you jus' wastin' my time. I got frough wif dis hyah
fool pictuh long 'go!
_He tries to draw her away; she resists._
ANNIE.
_Petulantly._
Uncle Abe! Who is it?
UNCLE ABE.
_Whispers, makes big eyes._
That thah's Ole Nick, that's who that thah is! That thah's de Black
Man!
_Annie, terror-stricken, jumps down and retreats to her mother's
chair. Mrs. Beeler rouses from her revery and strokes her child's
head._
MRS. BEELER.
Oh, my child, how happy you are to see this while you are so young! You
will never forget, will you, dear?
ANNIE.
_Fidgeting._
Forget what?
MRS. BEELER.
Tell me that whatever happens to you in the world, you won't forget
that once, when you were a little girl, you saw the heavens standing
open, and felt that God was very near, and full of pity for His
children.
ANNIE.
I don't know what you're talking about! I can't hardly breathe the way
people are in this house.
MRS. BEELER.
You will understand, some day, what wonderful things your childish eyes
looked on.
_Annie retreats to Uncle Abe, who bends over the child and whispers
in her ear. She grows amused, and begins to sway as to a tune, then
chants._
ANNIE.
"Mary an' a' Martha's jus' gone along,
Mary an' a' Martha's jus' gone along,
Mary an' a' Martha's jus' gone along,
Ring dem charmin' bells."
_As she finishes the rhyme she runs out into the hall. Mrs. Beeler
begins again to read her Testament. The old negro approaches Mrs.
Beeler and Rhoda, and speaks mysteriously._
UNCLE ABE.
That thah chil' she's talkin' sense. They's sumpin' ain't right about
dis hyah house.
MRS. BEELER.
Not right? What do you mean?
UNCLE ABE.
_Shakes his head dubiously._
Dunno, Mis' Beeler. I's jes' a ole fool colored pusson, been waitin'
fer de great day what de 'Postle done promise. En hyah's de great day
'bout to dawn, an' de Lawd's Chosen 'bout to show Hisse'f in clouds o'
glory 'fore de worl', an' lo 'n' behol'--
_He leans closer and whispers._
de Lawd's Chosen One, he's done got a spell on 'im!
MRS. BEELER.
_Shocked and startled._
Uncle Abe!
UNCLE ABE.
_Pointing at the Pan and the Pilgrim._
Why do you keep that thah pictuh nail up thah fur?
MRS. BEELER.
My husband likes it.
UNCLE ABE.
Mighty funny kin' o' man, like to hev de Black Man lookin' pop-eyed at
folks all day an' all night, puttin' de spell on folks!
MRS. BEELER.
That's not the Black Man.
UNCLE ABE.
That's him, shore's yo' born! Jes' what he looks like. I's seen 'im,
more'n once.
RHODA.
Seen the Black Man, Uncle?
UNCLE ABE.
Yais, ma'am. I's spied 'im, sittin' in de paw-paw bushes in de
springtime, when de snakes a-runnin', an' de jays a-hollerin', and de
crick a-talkin' sassy to hisse'f.
_He leans nearer, more mysteriously._
En what you s'pose I heerd him whis'lin', for all de worl' lak dem
scan'lous bluejays?
_Chants in a high, trilling voice._
"Chillun, chillun, they ain' no Gawd, they ain' no sin nor no jedgment,
they's jes' springtime an' happy days, and folks carryin' on. Whar's
yo' lil gal, Abe Johnson? Whar's yo' lil sweet-heart gal?" An' me on'y
got religion wintah befo', peekin' roun' pie-eyed, skeered good. En fo'
you could say "De Lawd's my Shepherd," kerchunk goes de Black Man in de
mud-puddle, change' into a big green bullfrog!
MRS. BEELER.
You just imagined all that.
UNCLE ABE.
_Indignant._
Jes' 'magine! Don' I know de Devil when I sees him, near 'nough to say
"Howdy"?
MRS. BEELER.
There isn't any Devil.
UNCLE ABE.
_Astounded._
Ain't no Devil?
MRS. BEELER.
No.
_Uncle Abe goes, with puzzled headshakings, towards the kitchen
door. He stops to smell the Easter lilies, then raises his head and
looks at her again, with puzzled scrutiny._
UNCLE ABE.
Mis' Beelah, did I understan' you to say--they ain'--no Devil?
MRS. BEELER.
_Touching her breast._
Only here, Uncle Abe.
_The old negro stares at her and Rhoda, and goes into the kitchen,
feeling his own breast and shaking his head dubiously. Mrs. Beeler
looks at the picture._
Do you think your Uncle Mat would mind if we took that picture down?
_Rhoda unpins the picture from the wall, rolls it up, and lays it
on the bookshelf. Her aunt goes on, hesitatingly._
Do you know, Rhoda, I have sometimes thought--You won't be hurt?
RHODA.
No.
MRS. BEELER.
I--I know what that old negro says is all foolishness, but--there _is_
something the matter with Mr. Michaelis. Have you noticed?
RHODA.
_Avoiding her aunt's gaze._
Yes.
MRS. BEELER.
Just when his great work is about to begin!--What do you think it can
be?
RHODA.
How should I know, Aunt Mary?
MRS. BEELER.
I thought maybe--Rhoda, I have seen him look at you so strangely!
Like--like the Pilgrim in the picture, when he hears that heathen
creature playing on the pipe.--You are such a wild creature, or you
used to be.
_Rhoda comes to her aunt and stands a moment in silence._
RHODA.
Auntie.
MRS. BEELER.
Yes?
RHODA.
I think I ought to go away.
MRS. BEELER.
_Astonished._
Go away? Why?
RHODA.
So as not to--hinder him.
MRS. BEELER.
_Caressing her._
There, you have taken what I said too seriously. It was only a sick
woman's imagination.
RHODA.
No, it was the truth. You see it, though you try not to. Even Uncle Abe
sees it. Just when Mr. Michaelis most needs his strength, weakness has
come upon him.
MRS. BEELER.
You mean--?
_She hesitates._
You mean--because of you?--Rhoda, look at me.
_Rhoda avoids her aunt's gaze; Mrs. Beeler draws down the girl's
face and gazes at it._
Is there anything--that I don't know--between you and him?
RHODA.
I--I must go away.--I ought to have gone before.
MRS. BEELER.
My child, this--this troubles me very much. He is different from other
men, and you--and you--
RHODA.
_With passion._
Say it, say it! What am I?
MRS. BEELER.
Don't be hurt, Rhoda, but--you have a wild nature. You are like your
father. I remember when he used to drive over to see sister Jane, with
his keen face and eagle eyes, behind his span of wild colts, I used to
tremble for my gentle sister. You are just like him, or you used to be.
_Rhoda breaks away from her aunt, and takes her hat and cloak. Mrs.
Beeler rises with perturbation, and crosses to detain her._
What are you going to do?
RHODA.
I am going away--I _must_ go away.
_Martha enters from the hall._
MRS. BEELER.
_Speaks lower._
Promise me you won't! Promise me!
MARTHA.
To look at that, now! Seein' you on your feet, Mary, gives me a new
start every time.
MRS. BEELER.
_To Rhoda._
You promise?
_Rhoda bows her head as in assent._
MARTHA.
Doctor's in the parlor. Shall I bring him in here?
MRS. BEELER.
No. I think I will rest awhile. He can come to my room.
_She walks unsteadily. The others try to help her, but she motions
them back._
No. It's so good to feel that I can walk alone!
MARTHA.
It does beat all!
MRS. BEELER.
I'll just lie down on the couch. I want to go out, before dark, and
speak to the people.
_Mr. Beeler enters from the kitchen and crosses to help his wife.
The others give place to him._
Oh Mat, our good days are coming back! I shall be strong and well for
you again.
BEELER.
Yes, Mary. There will be nothing to separate us any more.
MRS. BEELER.
_Points at his books._
Not even--them?
_He goes to the alcove, takes the books from the shelf, raises the
lid of the window-seat, and throws them in._
_Mrs. Beeler points to the pictures of Darwin and Spencer._
Nor them?
_He unpins the pictures, lays them upon the heap of books, and
returns to her._
You don't know how happy that makes me!
_They go out by the hall door, Martha, as she lowers the lid of the
window-seat, points derisively at the heap._
MARTHA.
That's a good riddance of bad rubbish!
_She comes to the table and continues packing the basket._
You'd better help me with this basket. Them folks will starve to death,
if the neighborhood round don't give 'em a bite to eat.
_Rhoda fetches other articles from the cupboard._
I'd like to know what they think we are made of, with butter at
twenty-five cents a pound and flour worth its weight in diamonds!
RHODA.
All the neighbors are helping, and none of them with our cause for
thankfulness.
MARTHA.
That's no sign you should go plasterin' on that butter like you was a
bricklayer tryin' to bust the contractor!
_She takes the bread from Rhoda and scrapes the butter thin._
RHODA.
_As the clock strikes five._
It's time for Aunt Mary to have her tea. Shall I make it?
MARTHA.
You make it! Not unless you want to lay her flat on her back again!
_As she flounces out, Annie enters from the hall. She points with
one hand at the retreating Martha, with the other toward her
mother's room._
ANNIE.
_Sings with sly emphasis._
"Mary an' a' Martha's jus' gone along,
Mary an' a' Martha's jus' gone along,
Mary an' a' Martha's jus' gone along,
Ring dem charmin' bells."
_She climbs upon a chair by the table, and fingers the contents of
basket as she sings._
RHODA.
What's got into you, little imp?
ANNIE.
_Brazenly._
I've been peeping through mamma's keyhole.
RHODA.
That's not nice.
ANNIE.
I know it, but the minister's in there and Dr. Littlefield.
RHODA.
_Startled._
Who?
ANNIE.
You know, mamma's doctor.--Oh, he's never come since you've been here.
RHODA.
_In a changed voice, as she takes the child by the shoulders._
What does he look like?
ANNIE.
Don't, you're hurting me!--He's too red in the face, and looks kind
of--insulting--and he wears the most _beautiful_ neckties, and--
_Exhausted by her efforts at description._
Oh, I don't know!
_She sings as she climbs down, and goes out by the kitchen door._
"Free grace, undyin' love,
Free grace, undyin' love,
Free grace, undyin' love,
Ring dem lovely bells."
_Dr. Littlefield enters from Mrs. Beeler's room. He speaks back to
Beeler on the threshold._
LITTLEFIELD.
Don't bother! I'll find it.
_Looking for something, he approaches Rhoda, who has her back
turned._
Beg pardon. Have you seen a pocket thermometer I left here?
_She faces him. He starts back in surprise._
Bless my soul and body! Rhoda Williams!
_He closes the hall door, returns to her, and stands somewhat
disconcerted._
Here, of all places!
RHODA.
Mrs. Beeler is my aunt.
LITTLEFIELD.
Well, well! The world is small.--Been here long?
RHODA.
Only a month.
LITTLEFIELD.
And before that?
RHODA.
It's a long story. Besides, you wouldn't understand.
LITTLEFIELD.
You might let me try. What in the world have you been doing all this
time?
RHODA.
I have been searching for something.
LITTLEFIELD.
What was it?
RHODA.
My own lost self. My own--lost soul.
LITTLEFIELD.
_Amused at her solemnity._
You're a queer bundle of goods. Always were. Head full of solemn
notions about life, and at the same time, when it came to a lark,--Oh,
I'm no grandmother, but when you got on your high horse--well!
_He waves his hands expressively._
RHODA.
_Bursts out._
The great town, the people, the noise, and the lights--after seventeen
years of life on a dead prairie, where I'd hardly heard a laugh or seen
a happy face!--All the same, the prairie had me still.
LITTLEFIELD.
You don't mean you went back to the farm?
RHODA.
I mean that the years I'd spent out there in that endless stretch of
earth and sky--.
_She breaks off, with a weary gesture._
There's no use going into that. You wouldn't understand.
LITTLEFIELD.
No, I walk on simple shoe leather and eat mere victuals.--Just the
same, it wasn't square of you to clear out that way--vanish into air
without a word or a sign.
RHODA.
_Looking at him steadily._
You know very well why I went.
LITTLEFIELD.
_Returning her gaze, unabashed, chants with meaning and relish._
"Hey diddle, diddle,
The cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped over the moon."
_Rhoda takes up the basket and goes toward the outer door. He
intercepts her._
RHODA.
Let me pass.
LITTLEFIELD.
You're not taking part in this camp-meeting enthusiasm, are you?
RHODA.
Yes.
_As he stares at her, his astonishment changes to amusement; he
chuckles to himself, then bursts out laughing, as in humorous
reminiscence._
LITTLEFIELD.
Bless my soul! And to think that only a couple of little years ago--Oh,
_bless_ my soul!
_The stair door opens. Michaelis appears. His face in flushed, his
hair disordered, and his whole person expresses a feverish and
precarious exaltation._
MICHAELIS.
_Looks at Littlefield with vague query, then at Rhoda._
Excuse me, I am very thirsty. I came down for a glass of water.
_Rhoda goes to the kitchen door, where she turns. The doctor puts
on a pair of nose-glasses and scans Michaelis with interest. He
holds out his hand, which Michaelis takes._
LITTLEFIELD.
We ought to know each other. We're colleagues, in a way.
MICHAELIS.
Colleagues?
LITTLEFIELD.
In a way, yes. I'm a practising physician.
_Exit Rhoda._
You seem to have the call on us professionals, to judge by the number
of your clients out yonder.
_He points out of the window._
To say nothing of Exhibit One!
_He points to the hall door._
MICHAELIS.
_Vaguely._
I--I don't know that I--
_Rhoda enters from the kitchen, with water, which he takes._
Thank you.
_He drinks thirstily. Mr. Beeler appears in the hall door; he looks
at the group, taken aback._
BEELER.
Oh--!
LITTLEFIELD.
I stopped to chat with your niece. She and I happen to be old
acquaintances.
BEELER.
You don't say?--Would you mind coming in here for a minute?
LITTLEFIELD.
_Following him out._
What's up?
BEELER.
My wife's got it in her head that she's called upon to--
_Door closes. Michaelis, who has followed Littlefield with his
eyes, sets down the glass, and turns slowly to Rhoda._
MICHAELIS.
Who is that?
RHODA.
My aunt's doctor.
MICHAELIS.
You know him well?
RHODA.
Yes.--No.
MICHAELIS.
What does that mean?
RHODA.
I haven't seen him for nearly two years.--I can't remember much about
the person I was, two years ago.
MICHAELIS.
Yes! Yes! I understand.
_He turns away, lifting his hands, speaking half to himself._
That these lives of ours should be poured like a jelly, from one mould
into another, until God Himself cannot remember what they were two
years ago, or two hours ago!
RHODA.
Why do you say that?
_He does not answer, but walks nervously about. Rhoda, watching
him, speaks, after a silence._
Last month--out West--were there many people there?
MICHAELIS.
No.--Two or three.
RHODA.
The papers said--
MICHAELIS.
When the crowd began to gather, I--went away.
RHODA.
Why?
MICHAELIS.
My time had not come.
_He has stopped before the map and stands gazing at it._
RHODA.
Has it come now?
_She comes closer._
--Has your time come now?
MICHAELIS.
Yes.
RHODA.
How do you know?
MICHAELIS.
_Points at the map._
It is written there!
RHODA.
How do you mean, written there?
MICHAELIS.
Can't you see it?
RHODA.
I see the map, nothing more.
MICHAELIS.
_Points again, gazing fixedly._
It seems to me to be written in fire.
RHODA.
What seems written?
MICHAELIS.
What I have been doing, all these five years.
RHODA.
Since your work began?
MICHAELIS.
It has never begun. Many times I have thought, "Now," and some man or
woman has risen up healed, and looked at me with eyes of prophecy. But
a Voice would cry, "On, on!" and I would go forward, driven by a force
and a will not my own.--I didn't know what it all meant, but I know
now.
_He points at the map, his manner transformed with excitement and
exaltation._
It is written there. It is written in letters of fire. My eyes are
opened, and I see!
RHODA.
_Following his gaze, then looking at him again, awed and
bewildered._
What is it that you see?
MICHAELIS.
The cross!
RHODA.
I--I don't understand.
MICHAELIS.
All those places where the hand was lifted for a moment, and the power
flowed into me--
_He places his finger at various points on the map; these points
lie in two transverse lines, between the Mississippi and the
Pacific; one line runs roughly north and south, the other east and
west._
Look! There was such a place, and there another, and there, and there.
And there was one, and there, and there.--Do you see?
RHODA.
I see.--It makes a kind of cross.
MICHAELIS.
You see it too! And do you see what it means--this sign that my feet
have marked across the length and breadth of a continent?
_He begins again to pace the room._
--And that crowd of stricken souls out yonder, raised up as by miracle,
their broken bodies crying to be healed,--do you see what they mean?
RHODA.
_In a steady voice._
They mean what my aunt said this morning. They mean that your great
hour has come.
MICHAELIS.
My hour! my hour!
_He comes nearer, and speaks in a quieter tone._
I knew a young Indian once, a Hopi boy, who made songs and sang them to
his people. One evening we sat on the roof of the chief's house and
asked him to sing. He shook his head, and went away in the starlight.
The next morning, I found him among the rocks under the mesa, with an
empty bottle by his side.--He never sang again! Drunkenness had taken
him. He never sang again, or made another verse.
RHODA.
What has that to do with you? It's not--? You don't mean that you--?
MICHAELIS.
No. There is a stronger drink for such as I am!
RHODA.
_Forcing herself to go on._
What--"stronger drink"?
MICHAELIS.
_Wildly._
The wine of this world! The wine-bowl that crowns the feasting table of
the children of this world.
RHODA.
What do you mean by--the wine of this world?
MICHAELIS.
You know that! Every woman knows.
_He points out of the window, at the sky flushed with sunset
color._
Out there, at this moment, in city and country, souls, thousands upon
thousands of souls, are dashing in pieces the cup that holds the wine
of heaven, the wine of God's shed blood, and lifting the cups of
passion and of love, that crown the feasting table of the children of
this earth! Look! The very sky is blood-red with the lifted cups. And
we two are in the midst of them. Listen what I sing there, on the hills
of light in the sunset: "Oh, how beautiful upon the mountains are the
feet of my beloved!"
_A song rises outside, loud and near at hand--Michaelis listens,
his expression gradually changing from passionate excitement to
brooding distress._
_Vaguely, as the music grows fainter and dies away._
I--we were saying--.
_He grasps her arm in nervous apprehension._
For God's sake, tell me.--Are there many people--waiting--out there?
RHODA.
Hundreds, if not thousands.
MICHAELIS.
_Walks about._
Thousands.--Thousands of thousands!--
_He stops beside her._
You won't leave me alone?
RHODA.
_Hesitates, then speaks with decision._
No.
MICHAELIS.
_Continuing his walk._
Thousands of thousands!
_The hall door opens, Dr. Littlefield and a Clergyman, the Rev.
John Culpepper, enter. The latter stares inquiringly from Michaelis
to the Doctor, who nods affirmatively, and adjusts his glasses._
CULPEPPER.
_Mutters to Littlefield._
Nonsense! Sacrilegious nonsense!
LITTLEFIELD.
_Same tone._
I've done my best.
_Behind them comes Mrs. Beeler, supported by her Husband. At the
same moment Martha enters from the kitchen, with tea; Uncle Abe and
Annie follow._
BEELER.
_On the threshold._
Mary, take another minute to consider.
_Mrs. Beeler, as if without hearing this protest, gazes at
Michaelis, and advances into the room with a gesture of the arms
which causes her supporter to loosen his hold, though he follows
slightly behind, to render aid if necessary._
MRS. BEELER.
_To Michaelis._
Tell me that I may go out, and stand before them for a testimony!
LITTLEFIELD.
As a physician, I must formally protest.
CULPEPPER.
And I as a minister of the Gospel.
MRS. BEELER.
_To Michaelis, with a nervous, despairing gesture._
Speak to them! Explain to them! I am too weak.
_There is a sound of excited voices outside, near at hand, then a
sudden trample of footsteps at the entrance door. As Beeler goes
hurriedly to the door it bursts open and a young woman with a baby
in her arms crowds past him, and stands looking wildly about the
room._
BEELER.
_As he forces the others back._
You can't come in here, my friends! Stand back!
_The woman gazes from one to another of the men. The old negro
points at Michaelis. She advances to him, holding out the child._
MOTHER.
Don't let my baby die! For Christ's sake, don't let him die!
_He examines the child's face, touches the mother's head tenderly,
and signs to Rhoda to take them into the inner room._
MICHAELIS.
Take her with you, I will come.
RHODA.
_With gentle urgency, to the woman._
Come with me.
_She leads the woman out through the hall door._
MICHAELIS.
_To Mrs. Beeler, as he points outside._
Tell them to wait until to-morrow at sunrise.
_Mr. and Mrs. Beeler move toward the entrance door; some of the
others start after, some linger, curious to know what will happen
to the child. Michaelis turns upon them with a commanding gesture._
Go, all of you!
_The room is cleared except for Littlefield, who goes last, stops
in the doorway, closes the door, and approaches Michaelis. He
speaks in a friendly and reasonable tone._
LITTLEFIELD.
You're on the wrong track, my friend.
MICHAELIS.
I asked you to go.
LITTLEFIELD.
I heard you. I want to say a word or two first. For your own sake and
for that woman's sake, you'd better listen. You can't do anything for
her baby.
MICHAELIS.
Is that for you to say?
LITTLEFIELD.
Yes, sir! It is most decidedly for me to say.
MICHAELIS.
By what authority?
LITTLEFIELD.
By the authority of medical knowledge.--You are a very remarkable man,
with a very remarkable gift. In your own field, I take off my hat to
you. If you knew yourself as science knows you, you might make the
greatest doctor living. Your handling of Mrs. Beeler's case was
masterly. But--come right down to it--_you_ didn't work the cure.
MICHAELIS.
I know that.
LITTLEFIELD.
Who do you think did?
MICHAELIS.
_Raising his hands._
He whom I serve, and whom you blaspheme!
LITTLEFIELD.
No, sir! He whom _I_ serve, and whom _you_ blaspheme--Nature. Or
rather, Mrs. Beeler did it herself.
MICHAELIS.
Herself?
LITTLEFIELD.
You gave her a jog, so to speak, here, or here,
_Touches his brain and heart._
and she did the rest. But you can't do the same to everybody. Above
all, you can't do it to a baby in arms. There's nothing either here or
here,
_Touches brain and heart._
to get hold of. I'm a modest man, and as I say, in your own field
you're a wonder. But in a case like this one--
_He points to the hall door._
I'm worth a million of you.
MICHAELIS.
_Moves as if to give place to him, with a challenging gesture
toward the door._
Try!
LITTLEFIELD.
_Shrugs._
Not much! The woman wouldn't listen to me. And if she did, and I
failed--oh, I'm no miracle worker!--they'd make short work of me, out
there.
_He points out and adds significantly._
They're in no mood for failures, out there.
_Michaelis's gaze, as if in spite of himself, goes to the window.
He rests his hand on the table, to stop its trembling. Littlefield
goes on, watching him with interest._
Nervously speaking, you are a high power machine. The dynamo that runs
you is what is called "faith," "religious inspiration," or whatnot.
It's a dynamo which nowadays easily gets out of order. Well, my friend,
as a doctor, I warn you that your little dynamo is out of order.--In
other words, you've lost your grip. You're in a funk.
_Rhoda opens the hall door and looks anxiously at the two. Michaelis
approaches her with averted eyes. As he is about to pass out, she
speaks timidly._
RHODA.
Do you want me?
MICHAELIS.
_In a toneless voice._
No.
_She watches him until the inner door shuts. She and Littlefield
confront each other in silence for a moment across the width of the
room._
RHODA.
_Forcing herself to speak calmly._
Please go.
LITTLEFIELD.
_Drops his professional tone for one of cynical badinage._
You make up well as one of the Wise Virgins, whose lamps are trimmed
and burning for the bridegroom to pass by. I hope that personage won't
disappoint you, nor the several hundred others, out yonder, whose lamps
are trimmed and burning.
_The outer door opens. Mrs. Beeler enters, supported by her
husband, and accompanied by Martha and the Rev. Culpepper, with
Uncle Abe following in the rear. Rhoda hastens to her aunt's side._
MRS. BEELER.
Ah, Rhoda, I wish you had been out there with me. Such beautiful human
faces! Such poor, suffering, believing human faces, lit up by such a
wonderful new hope!
_She turns to the minister._
Wasn't it a wonderful thing to see?
CULPEPPER.
It is wonderful to see human nature so credulous. And to me, very
painful.
MRS. BEELER.
To-morrow you will see how right these poor souls are to lift their
trust so high.--
_To Rhoda._
Where is he now?
_Rhoda points in the direction of her own room._
How happy that young mother's heart will be to-night!
UNCLE ABE.
_Solemnly._
Amen!
CULPEPPER.
_In a dry tone._
We will hope so.
_They move to the hall door, where Beeler resigns his wife to
Rhoda. The two pass out._
_Culpepper, Littlefield, and Beeler remain. During the following
conversation, Martha lights the lamp, after directing Uncle Abe, by
a gesture, to take the provision basket into the kitchen. He does
so._
LITTLEFIELD.
_Pointing through the window._
They're just laying siege to you, ain't they? I guess they won't let
your man give them the slip, this time--even though you do let him run
loose.
BEELER.
_With severity._
You have seen my wife walk alone to-day, the first time in five years.
LITTLEFIELD.
I beg your pardon. I understand how you feel about it.
_Martha goes out into the kitchen._
And even if it proves to be only temporary--
BEELER.
Temporary!
LITTLEFIELD.
Permanent, let us hope. Anyway, it's a very remarkable case.
Astonishing. I've only known one just like it--personally, I mean.
BEELER.
_Astounded._
Just like it?
LITTLEFIELD.
Well, pretty much. Happened in Chicago when I was an interne at St.
Luke's.
BEELER.
Then it's not--there's nothing--peculiar about it?
LITTLEFIELD.
Yes, sir-ree! Mighty peculiar!
BEELER.
I mean nothing, as you might say, outside nature?
LITTLEFIELD.
O, bless you, you can't get outside nature nowadays!
_Moves his hands in a wide circle._
Tight as a drum, no air-holes.--Devilish queer, though--pardon me, Mr.
Culpepper--really amazing, the power of the mind over the body.
CULPEPPER.
Would you be good enough to let us hear some of your professional
experiences?
LITTLEFIELD.
_Lights a cigarette, as he leans on the edge of the table._
Don't have to go to professional medicine for cases. They're lying
around loose. Why, when I was at Ann Arbor--in a fraternity
initiation--we bared a chap's shoulders, showed him a white-hot poker,
blindfolded him, told him to stand steady, and--touched him with a
piece of ice. A piece of ice, I tell you! What happened? Damned if
it--pardon me, Mr. Culpepper--blessed if it didn't _burn_ him--carries
the scars to this day. Then there was that case in Denver. Ever hear
about that? A young girl, nervous patient. Nails driven through the
palms of her hands,--tenpenny nails,--under the hypnotic suggestion
that she wasn't being hurt. Didn't leave a cicatrice as big as a bee
sting! Fact!
BEELER.
You think my wife's case is like these?
LITTLEFIELD.
Precisely; with religious excitement to help out.
_He points outside._
They're getting ready for Kingdom-come over it, out yonder, dear Dr.
Culpepper.
BEELER.
They're worked up enough, if that's all that's needed.
LITTLEFIELD.
Worked up! Elijah in a chariot of fire, distributing cure-alls as he
mounts to glory. They've got their ascension robes on, especially the
niggers.
CULPEPPER.
_With severity._
I take it you are the late Dr. Martin's successor.
LITTLEFIELD.
I have the honor.
CULPEPPER.
Old Dr. Martin would never have taken a flippant tone in such a crisis.
LITTLEFIELD.
Flippant? By no means! A little light-headed. My profession is
attacked. At its very roots, sir.--
_With relish._
As far as that goes, I'm afraid yours is, too.
CULPEPPER.
_To Beeler, ignoring the gibe._
Am I to understand that you countenance these proceedings?
BEELER.
_Pointing to the invalid chair._
If your wife had spent five years helpless in that chair, I guess you'd
countenance any proceedings that set her on her feet.
CULPEPPER.
_Towers threateningly._
If your wife is the woman she was, she would rather sit helpless
forever beside the Rock of Ages, than dance and flaunt herself in the
house of idols!
BEELER.
_With depreciating humor._
O, I guess she ain't doin' much flauntin' of herself in any house of
idols.--You've heard Doctor here say it's all natural enough. Maybe
this kind of cure is the coming thing.
LITTLEFIELD.
The Brother would drive us doctors into the poorhouse, if he could keep
up the pace. And you preachers, too, as far as that goes. If he could
keep up the pace! Well--
_Sucks at his cigarette deliberately._
lucky for us, he _can't_ keep it up.
BEELER.
Why can't he keep it up?
LITTLEFIELD.
Can't stand the strain.--Oh, I haven't seen him operate, but I'm
willing to bet his miracles take it out of him!
CULPEPPER.
_Takes his hat and goes toward the outer door._
Miracles, indeed!
LITTLEFIELD.
_Following._
Oh, wait for me, Doctor; we're both in the same boat!
BEELER.
Hope you gentlemen will come back again to-night, and soon too. Don't
know what'll happen if things go wrong in there.
_Points towards the hall._
LITTLEFIELD.
All right--you can count on me--
BEELER.
_To Culpepper._
And you?
CULPEPPER.
I seldom shirk my duty.
_Beeler closes the door after them._
_Martha enters from the kitchen, with a pan of dough, which she
sets before the fire to raise._
BEELER.
You keepin' an eye out, Marthy?
MARTHA.
Guess your barn'd 'a' been afire, if I hadn't been keepin' an eye out.
BEELER.
I warned 'em about fire!
MARTHA.
Haymow ketched. If I hadn't been there to put it out, we'd 'a' been
without a roof by now.
BEELER.
Guess I better go keep an eye out myself.
MARTHA.
Guess you had!
_Beeler goes out by the kitchen. Martha takes up mechanically her
eternal task of setting things to rights--gathering up Annie's toys
and arranging the furniture in more precise order. Meanwhile, Rhoda
enters from the hall with the mother of the sick child, a frail
young woman of nervous type. She clings to Rhoda feverishly._
MOTHER.
Don't leave me!
RHODA.
You mustn't worry. Your baby will get well.
_Rhoda sinks in a low easy chair before the fire, and the woman
kneels beside her, her face hidden on the chair arm._
You must keep up your courage and your trust. That will help more than
anything.
MOTHER.
I'm afraid!
RHODA.
Think of those others out there, who are waiting too, without the
glimpse of comfort you've had.
MOTHER.
_Bursts out._
I ain't had no comfort! When I heard him pray for my child, I--I don't
know--I kept sayin' to myself--"O God, it's me that's stretchin' out my
hands to you, not him. Don't punish me for his cold words!"
_Martha, who has been listening, shakes her head significantly._
RHODA.
Cold words!
MOTHER.
Yes, I know it's wrong. I'll try to feel different. It's because I
ain't had nothin' to do with religion for so long.--If my baby gets
well, I'll make up for it. I'll make up for everything.
_The woman rises. Rhoda kisses her._
RHODA.
I shall be here if you want me. And I shall--pray for you.
_The mother goes out. Distant singing is heard. Martha comes to the
mantelpiece with matches, which she arranges in the match tray. She
looks at Rhoda, who sits with closed eyes._
MARTHA.
Guess you're about dead beat.
RHODA.
I think I never was so tired in my life.
MARTHA.
Worry does it, more'n work. Better try and doze off, Rhody.
_The hall door opens, and Annie enters. She comes to Martha, and
clings nervously to her skirts._
ANNIE.
Aunt Martha! I want to stay with you. You're the only person in this
house that ain't different. What's the matter with Mamma?
MARTHA.
She's cured, I reckon.
ANNIE.
How did she get cured?
MARTHA.
You can search me!
ANNIE.
Did that man cure her?
MARTHA.
That's what she says, and I don't hear him denyin' it.
ANNIE.
_Whining._
I don't want her to be cured!
MARTHA.
Annie Beeler! Don't want your mother to be cured?
ANNIE.
No, I don't. I want her to be like she always has been. She don't seem
like my Mamma at all this way. What's the matter with all those people
out there? Why don't we have any supper?
_She bursts out crying and clings feverishly to Martha._
Oh, what's going to happen to us?
MARTHA.
There, Annie, don't cry.
_She looks at Rhoda, throws a cover over her knees, and draws Annie
away, speaking low._
Come out in the kitchen, and I'll give you your supper.
_Exeunt. The singing grows louder and nearer. Michaelis enters from
the hall. His hair is dishevelled, his collar open, his manner
feverish and distraught. He looks closely at Rhoda, sees she is
sleeping, then paces the floor nervously, gazing out of the window
in the direction of the singing. At length he comes to Rhoda again,
and bends over her, studying her face. She starts up, confused and
terror-stricken, from her doze._
RHODA.
What--what is the matter? Oh, you frightened me so!
_Michaelis turns away without answering._
What has happened? Why are you here?
MICHAELIS.
You had dropped asleep. You are weary.
RHODA.
_Collecting her thoughts with difficulty._
I was dreaming--such a strange dream.
MICHAELIS.
What did you dream?
RHODA.
I thought it was morning; the sun had risen, and--and you were out
there, in the midst of the crowd.
MICHAELIS.
_Excitedly._
Go on! What happened?
RHODA.
I--I can't remember the rest.
MICHAELIS.
_Grasps her arm, speaks low._
You must remember! Did I--succeed?
RHODA.
_Helplessly._
I--it's all a blur in my mind.
MICHAELIS.
_Darkly._
You don't want me to know that, in your dream, I failed.
RHODA.
No, no. That is not so.
_Pause. She speaks with hesitation._
Perhaps this is not the time. Perhaps you are not ready.
MICHAELIS.
What does that matter? _He_ is ready.
_He points at the map._
RHODA.
_Gazing at the map, with mystic conviction._
You will succeed! You must succeed!
_He paces the room. She stops him, pointing toward the hall door._
How is the child?
_He hesitates. She repeats the words anxiously._
How is the child?
_He shakes his head gloomily for answer._
It will get well, I am sure.
MICHAELIS.
If it does not, I am judged.
RHODA.
Oh, don't say that or think it!
MICHAELIS.
I am weighed in the balance and found wanting!
RHODA.
You cannot hang the whole issue and meaning of your life upon so slight
a thread.
MICHAELIS.
The whole issue and meaning of the world hang on threads as slight. If
this one is slight. To the mother it is not slight, nor to the God who
put into her eyes, as she looked at me, all the doubt and question of
the suffering earth.
RHODA.
You must remember that it is only a little child. Its mind is not open.
You cannot influence it--can you?
MICHAELIS.
Once that little life in my hand would have been as clay in the hands
of the potter. If I cannot help now, it is because my ministry has been
taken from me and given to another, who will be strong where I am weak,
and faithful where I am unfaithful.
_Another song rises outside, distant._
RHODA.
_Comes closer to him._
Tell me this. Speak plainly to me. Is it because of me that your
weakness and unfaith have come upon you? Is it because of me?
MICHAELIS.
_Looking at her steadily._
Yes.--
_He comes nearer._
Before creation, beyond time, God not yet risen from His sleep, you
stand and call to me, and I listen in a dream that I dreamed before
Eden.
RHODA.
_Shrinking from him._
You must not say such things to me.--You must not think of me so.--You
must not!
_He follows her, his passion mounting._
MICHAELIS.
All my life long I have known you, and fled from you, I have heard you
singing on the hills of sleep and have fled from you into the waking
day. I have seen you in the spring forest, dancing and throwing your
webs of sunlight to snare me; on moonlit mountains, laughing and
calling; in the streets of crowded cities, beckoning and disappearing
in the crowd--and everywhere I have fled from you, holding above my
head the sign of God's power in me, my gift and my mission.--What use?
What use? It has crumbled, and I do not care!
RHODA.
Oh, don't speak such words, I beseech you. Let me go. This must not,
shall not be!
_She makes another attempt to escape. He presses upon her until she
stands at bay._
MICHAELIS.
You are all that I have feared and shunned and missed on earth, and now
I have you, the rest is as nothing.
_He takes her, feebly resisting, into his arms._
I know a place out there, high in the great mountains. Heaven-piercing
walls of stone, a valley of trees and sweet water in the midst--grass
and flowers, such flowers as you have never dreamed could grow.--There
we will take our happiness. A year--a month--a day--what matter? We
will make a lifetime of each hour!
RHODA.
_Yielding to his embrace, whispers._
Don't talk. Don't think. Only--love me. A little while. A little while.
_The deep hush of their embrace is broken by a cry from within. The
young mother opens the hall door, in a distraction of terror and
grief._
MOTHER.
Come here! Come quick!
_Michaelis and Rhoda draw apart. He stares at the woman, as if not
remembering who she is._
I can't rouse him! My baby's gone. Oh, my God, he's dead!
_She disappears. Rhoda follows, drawing Michaelis, dazed and half
resisting, with her. The room remains vacant for a short time, the
stage held by distant singing. Beeler enters from the kitchen.
There is a knock at the outer door, which he opens. Littlefield,
Culpepper, and Uncle Abe enter._
LITTLEFIELD.
Your man hasn't vamoosed, has he? Uncle Abe here says he saw the Indian
boy slipping by in the fog.
BEELER.
_Turns to the negro inquiringly._
Alone?
UNCLE ABE.
_Mumbles half to himself._
'Lone. 'Spec' he was alone. Didn't even have his own flesh and bones
wif 'im!
BEELER.
What's that?
UNCLE ABE.
_Holds up his right hand, which he eyes with superstitious
interest._
Put dis hyar han' right frough him!--Shore's you're bo'n. Right plum'
frough 'im whar he lives.
CULPEPPER.
Mediaeval! Absolutely mediaeval!
LITTLEFIELD.
Not a bit of it. It's up to date, and a little more, too.
CULPEPPER.
I'm astonished that you take this situation flippantly.
LITTLEFIELD.
Not for a minute. My bread and butter are at stake.
_Wickedly._
Yours too, you know.
_Mrs. Beeler enters, alone, from the hall. She is in a state of
vague alarm. Her husband hastens to help her._
MRS. BEELER.
What is it? What is the matter? I thought I heard--
_She breaks off, as a murmur of voices rises outside. There is a
sound of stumbling and crowding on the outer steps, and violent
knocking. The outer door is forced open, and a crowd of excited
people is about to pour into the room. Beeler, the Doctor, and the
Preacher are able to force the crowd back only after several have
made an entrance._
BEELER.
Keep back! You can't come in here.
_As he pushes them roughly back, excited voices speak together._
VOICES IN THE CROWD.
Where is he?--They say he's gone away. We seen his boy makin' for the
woods.--Oh, it's not true! Make him come out.
BEELER.
Curse you, keep back, I say!
_Rhoda has entered from the hall, and Martha from the kitchen. The
two women support Mrs. Beeler, who remains standing, the fear
deepening in her face._
A VOICE.
_On the outskirts of the crowd._
Where's he gone to?
BEELER.
He's here. In the next room. Keep back! Here he comes now.
_Michaelis appears in the hall door. There is a low murmur of
excitement, expectation, and awe among the people crowded in the
entrance. Beeler crosses to help his wife, and the other men step
to one side, leaving Michaelis to confront the crowd alone.
Confused, half-whispered exclamations:_
VOICES IN THE CROWD.
Hallelujah! Emmanuel!
A NEGRO.
Praise de Lamb.
A WOMAN.
_Above the murmuring voices._
"He hath arisen, and His enemies are scattered."
MICHAELIS.
Who said that?
_A woman, obscurely seen in the crowd, lifts her hands and cries
again, this time in a voice ecstatic and piercing._
A WOMAN.
"The Lord hath arisen, and His enemies are scattered!"
MICHAELIS.
His enemies are scattered! Year after year I have heard His voice
calling me--and year after year I have said, "Show me the way." And He
showed me the way. He brought me to this house, and He raised up the
believing multitude around me. But in that hour I failed Him, I failed
Him. He has smitten me, as His enemies are smitten.--As a whirlwind He
has scattered me and taken my strength from me forever.
_He advances into the room, with a gesture backward through the
open door._
In yonder room a child lies dead on its mother's knees, and the
mother's eyes follow me with curses.
_At the news of the child's death, Mrs. Beeler has sunk with a low
moan into a chair, where she lies white and motionless. Michaelis
turns to her._
And here lies one who rose at my call, and was as one risen; but now--
_He breaks off, raises his hand to her, and speaks in a voice of
pleading._
Arise, my sister!
_She makes a feeble gesture of the left hand._
Rise up once more, I beseech you!
_She attempts to rise, but falls back helpless._
BEELER.
_Bending over her._
Can't you get up, Mother?
_She shakes her head._
MICHAELIS.
_Turning to the people._
Despair not, for another will come, and another and yet another, to
show you the way. But as for me--
_He sinks down by the table, and gazes before him, muttering in a
tragic whisper._
Broken! Broken! Broken!
CURTAIN