_The next morning, just before sunrise. Both door and windows are open,
and a light breeze sways the curtains. Outside is a tree-shaded and
vine-clad porch, with balustrade, beyond which is a tangle of flowering
bushes and fruit trees in bloom. The effect is of a rich warm dawn--a
sudden onset of summer weather after a bleak spring._
_Beeler, with Uncle Abe looking on, is busy putting up the pictures
which he has taken down in the preceding act. Martha enters from the
hall._
BEELER.
_To Martha._
Is Mary up?
MARTHA.
Yes. Wants to go out on the porch and watch the sun rise, same as she's
done every Easter morning since Seth died.
BEELER.
Won't hurt her, I reckon, bad off as she is.--A reg'lar old-fashioned,
sunshiny, blossomy spring mornin'--summer here with a jump and fine
growin' weather.
_Pause._
All the same, sun might as well stay in China this Easter!
MARTHA.
Is that why you're tackin' up them fool pictures again?
BEELER.
Yes, ma'am. That's just why. Religion!
MARTHA.
You wa'n't so sure yesterday, when you saw your wife stand up on her
two dead feet and walk.
BEELER.
Well, she ain't walkin' now.
MARTHA.
No, she ain't, poor thing.
BEELER.
Natural cure, natural relapse. Doctor says the new medical books
explain it.
MARTHA.
Give it a name, maybe!
BEELER.
_Bursts out petulantly._
You women don't want things explained, any more'n Abe here! You prefer
hocus-pocus. And nothin' will teach you. Take Rhody! Sees Michaelis
flunk his job miserable. Sees Mary go down like a woman shot, hands and
legs paralyzed again,--Doctor says, for good, this time. And what does
the girl do about it? Spends the night out yonder laborin' with them
benighted sick folks, tellin' 'em the healer will make good. Lots of
makin' good he'll do!
_He points at the ceiling._
A fine picture of a healer he makes.
MARTHA.
_Looking up._
Still as a stone! I'd rather have him ragin' round same as yesterday,
like a lion with the epizootic.
BEELER.
He's a dead one. Rhody might as well give up tryin' to make folks think
different.
MARTHA.
Maybe Rhody holds she's to blame.
BEELER.
To blame? To blame for what?
MARTHA.
For him a-peterin' out.
BEELER.
What's she got to do with it?
MARTHA.
Maybe she ain't got nothin' to do with it, and maybe she's got a whole
lot.
BEELER.
Marthy, I don't want it to get out, but you're a plum' luny sentimental
old maid fool!
_Uncle Abe has been hovering, with superstitions interest, near the
picture of Pan and the Pilgrim. With side glances at it, he speaks,
taking advantage of the lull in conversation which follows Beeler's
outburst._
UNCLE ABE.
Mistah Beelah, 'scuse me troublin' you, but--'scuse me troublin' you.
BEELER.
What is it, Abe?
UNCLE ABE.
It's purty brash o' me to be askin', but--Mista Beelah, fur do Lawd's
sake give me that thar devil--pictuh!
BEELER.
What do _you_ want with it?
UNCLE ABE.
Want to hang it up in my ole cabin.
_His tone rises to one of eager pleading._
Mars Beelah, you give it to me! For Gawd's sake, say Ole Uncle Abe kin
have it, to hang up in his ole cabin.
BEELER.
Well, if you feel as strong as that about it, Abe, take it along.
UNCLE ABE.
_As he unpins it with feverish eagerness._
Thank ye, Mistah Beelah, thank ye. I'll wo'k fur ye and I'll slave fur
ye, long as the worl' stan's. Maybe it ain't goin' to stan' much longer
aftah all. Maybe de chariot's comin' down in de fiery clouds fo' great
while. An' what'll yo' ole Uncle Abe be doin'? He'll be on his knees
'fore a big roarin' fire, singing hallelujah, an' a-jammin' red-hot
needles right plum' frough dis heah black devil's breas' bone! I'se got
him now! I'll fix'm.
_Shakes his fist at the print, as he goes toward the kitchen._
Put yo' black spell on the Lawd's chosen, would ye? I'se got ye. I'll
make ye sing, "Jesus, my ransom," right out'n yo' ugly black mouf!
_Exit._
BEELER.
There's a purty exhibition for this present year o' grace! Thinks our
friend Pan there has bewitched the healer.
MARTHA.
Maybe he has!
BEELER.
Thought you said Rhody done it.
MARTHA.
Same thing, I reckon, by all that you tell about that Panjandrum and
his goin's on!
BEELER.
Nonsense!
MARTHA.
If you're so wise, why do _you_ think Michaelis petered out?
BEELER.
Couldn't stand the strain. Bit off more'n he could chaw, in the healin'
line.--Never looked at Rhody.
MARTHA.
Looked at her till he couldn't see nothin' else, in heaven or earth or
the other place.
BEELER.
You're dead wrong. I tell you he never looked cross-eyed at Rhody, nor
Rhody at him. Doctor's more in her line.--By the way, did you give the
Doctor a snack to stay his stomach?
MARTHA.
Done nothin' but feed him all night long. Seems to be mighty exhaustin'
work to tend a sick baby.
BEELER.
Does he think it'll live?
MARTHA.
Not likely. But he thinks he will, if fed reg'lar.--What do you call
that trance the baby's in?
BEELER.
Doctor calls it comy. Spelled it out for me: c-o-m-a, comy.
_Beeler goes out on the porch and disappears. Martha continues her
task of tidying up the room. Michaelis enters from the stair,
carrying his hat and a foot-traveller's knapsack. Martha regards
him with curiosity, tempered now by feminine sympathy with the
defeated._
MARTHA.
Good morning, sir.
MICHAELIS.
_Tonelessly._
Good morning.
MARTHA.
_Pointing at his hat and knapsack._
Hope you ain't off. Don't mind sayin' the way you acted was human
decent, sendin' for Doctor when you found the baby wa'n't dead, an' you
wa'n't no healer any more.
MICHAELIS.
Is it any better?
_Martha makes a disconsolate gesture, implying that there is little
or no hope. Michaelis turns away with bent head. Annie enters from
the kitchen. Michaelis holds out his hand to her, and she takes it
with shy hesitation._
MARTHA.
Guess you'd like to know where Rhody is, wouldn't you? She's where
she's been all night,--out yonder with the sick folks.
MICHAELIS.
What is she doing there?
MARTHA.
Feedin' 'em, first off, an' then heart'nin' of 'em up. That's a purty
hard job, I reckon; but it's the way o' women when they feel like she
does.
_Michaelis sinks in a chair, drawing Annie to him. Mrs. Beeler's
bell rings; Martha goes out by the hall door. Annie watches his
bent head in silence for a moment._
ANNIE.
Are you ever going up again, on the rope?
MICHAELIS.
_Not remembering._
On the rope?
ANNIE.
You know ... the magic rope.--Ain't you ever going to climb up in the
sky again?
MICHAELIS.
_Recollecting._
Never again, Annie. Never again.
ANNIE.
Have you got the rope still?
MICHAELIS.
No, I have lost it.
ANNIE.
Won't you ever find it?
MICHAELIS.
It can only be found by some one who will know how to use it better
than I did.
ANNIE.
How better?
MICHAELIS.
By some one who can climb up, toward the sun and the stars, and yet
never leave the earth, the cities, and the people.
ANNIE.
Then he'll have to take them up with him.
_Michaelis nods for yes._
Gracious!
_She runs to the porch door to meet Rhoda, who appears outside._
Cousin Rhoda! What do you think he says about the magic rope?
RHODA.
What, Annie?
ANNIE.
He says that first thing you know, everything will be going up in the
air, towns and people and everything.
RHODA.
Does he?
ANNIE.
_Runs out into the hall, balancing her arms above her head and
gazing up laughingly._
Dear me! That will be very _tippy_!
_Rhoda enters._
MICHAELIS.
You are here! The fear came over me, just now--
RHODA.
I could not go until I had told you the truth--about myself--about us.
MICHAELIS.
You will tell me the whole truth, and I will tell you the same. But
that will be for later. Come! Come away with me, into the new life.
RHODA.
A life rooted in the failure of all that life has meant to you from the
beginning!
MICHAELIS.
Until yesterday I did not know what my life was.
RHODA.
You do not know that, even yet. You know it now less than ever--what
your life is, what it means to you, what it means to the world.
MICHAELIS.
To the world it can mean nothing. That is ended. But to us it can mean
happiness. Let us make haste to gather it. Come!
RHODA.
Where do you want me to go?
MICHAELIS.
Anywhere--to that place I told you of--high in the great mountains.
RHODA.
I was there last night.
MICHAELIS.
In your thoughts?
RHODA.
I was there, and saw all the beauty of it, all the peace. But one thing
was not there, and for lack of it, in a little while the beauty faded
and the peace was gone.
MICHAELIS.
What was not there?
RHODA.
The work you have to do.
MICHAELIS.
That was a dream I could not realize. I have striven, and I have
failed.
RHODA.
Do you know why you have failed?
MICHAELIS.
Yes.
RHODA.
Tell me why.
MICHAELIS.
Because I have loved you more than the visions that came to me in
desert places, more than the powers that fell upon me at the bedside of
the sick, more than the spirit hands and spirit voices that have guided
me on my way.
RHODA.
What of the sick and suffering out yonder, who are waiting and hoping
against hope? What of them?
MICHAELIS.
I cannot help them.
RHODA.
Once you dreamed you could.
MICHAELIS.
Yes. But that is over.
RHODA.
And who is to blame that that great dream is over?
MICHAELIS.
No one is to blame. It has happened so.
RHODA.
Doesn't it seem strange that the love of a woman entering into your
heart should take away such a dream as that?
MICHAELIS.
I do not question. It is so.
RHODA.
But if your love had fallen, by some sad chance, upon a woman who was
not worthy of love?
MICHAELIS.
What are you saying?
RHODA.
You know less than nothing of me. You have not asked me a single
question about my life.
MICHAELIS.
There was no need.
RHODA.
There was need! There was need!
MICHAELIS.
Be careful what you say. Go on!
RHODA.
In the first hour of our meeting, and all the hours of the next day,
you swept me along and lifted me above myself, like a strong mind. I
didn't know what you were. I didn't know why I was happy and exalted.
It was so long since I had been happy, and I had never been as happy as
that, or anything like it. Then, yesterday morning, came the revelation
of what you were, like a blinding light out of the sky! And while I
stood dazed, trembling, I saw something descend upon you like a shadow.
You loved me, and that love was dreadful to you. You thought it was so
because I was a woman and stole your spirit's strength away. But it was
not that. It was because I was a _wicked_ woman.
MICHAELIS.
Why do you call yourself a wicked woman?
RHODA.
Because I am so.
MICHAELIS.
I cannot believe it.
RHODA.
It is true.
MICHAELIS.
Is that why you wanted to go away?
RHODA.
Yes, I tried to go away. You wouldn't let me go. Then I tried to tell
you the truth. I knew why I took your strength away, and I had nerved
myself to tell you why. But you began to speak--those wild words. I
could not resist you. You took me in your arms; and all the power of
your soul went from you, and your life went crashing down in darkness.
_Long pause._
MICHAELIS.
Wicked? A wicked woman?
RHODA.
I was young then, wild-hearted, pitifully ignorant. I thought that love
had come to me. Girls are so eager for love. They snatch at the shadow
of it.--That is what I did.--I am not trying to plead for myself.--Some
things are not to be forgiven.--Somewhere in my nature there was a
taint--a plague-spot.--If life is given me, I shall find it and root it
out. I only ask for time to do that. But meanwhile I have done what I
could. I have told you the truth. I have set you free. I have given you
back your mission.
_Dr. Littlefield enters, carrying his hat and medicine case. He
looks sharply at Rhoda, then turns to Michaelis. His manner towards
him is politely contemptuous, toward Rhoda it is full of covert
passion, modified by his habitual cynicism and satire._
LITTLEFIELD.
_To Rhoda._
Good morning.
_To Michaelis._
Good morning, my friend. I understood that you sent for me, last night.
MICHAELIS.
I did.
LITTLEFIELD.
Glad to accommodate a fellow practitioner, even if he is in a side
line. Some folks think your way of business is a little shady, but
Lord, if they knew the secrets of _our_ charnel-house!
MICHAELIS.
How did you leave the child?
LITTLEFIELD.
Done for. I said I was worth a million of you in a case like this, but
I didn't realize how far things had gone. The next time, call me in a
little sooner.
_He writes on his note pad, tears out a leaf, and lays it on the
table._
Mrs. Beeler will continue the old prescription, alternating with this.
_He puts the note pad in his pocket, and turns to Rhoda. He speaks
in a tone which implies command, under the veil of request._
Will you walk a ways with me, Miss Williams?
RHODA.
_Pale and trembling._
No.
LITTLEFIELD.
Pardon! I must have a short talk. It is important.
RHODA.
I cannot go with you.
LITTLEFIELD.
I think you had better reconsider.
MICHAELIS.
_Astonished at his tone._
You have heard that she does not wish to go.
LITTLEFIELD.
_Ignoring Michaelis._
I have no time to waste, and I shall not stop to mince my words. You
are coming with me, and you are coming now.
MICHAELIS.
_To Rhoda._
Who is this man?
LITTLEFIELD.
_Wheeling upon him angrily._
'Pon my honor! "Who is this man?" "Remove the worm!" Decidedly tart,
from a miracle-monger in a state of bankruptcy.
MICHAELIS.
_To Rhoda._
Is this the man you told me of?
RHODA.
_Steadily._
Yes.
LITTLEFIELD.
_To Rhoda, as he eyes Michaelis with dislike._
So you have called in a father confessor, eh?
_To Michaelis._
Well, since the lady can't keep her secrets to herself, this _is_ the
man. Very painful, no doubt, but these little things will happen.
_To Rhoda._
I should have chosen a more secluded nook to say this in, but you're
skittish, as I have learned to my cost, and likely to bolt. What I want
to say is, _don't_ bolt. It won't do you any good.--I've found you
once, and I'll find you again, no matter what rabbit's hole you dodge
into.
_To Michaelis._
This ain't George Littlefield, M.D., talking now. It's the caveman of
Borneo. He's got arms as long as rakes, and teeth that are a
caution.--Look out for him!
MICHAELIS.
_Holding himself in stern restraint._
Your arms and teeth are long enough, and eager enough to do damage, but
they will not avail you here. This girl is in other keeping, and I dare
to say, better.
LITTLEFIELD.
In other keeping, eh? Yours, I suppose.
MICHAELIS.
Yes, mine.
LITTLEFIELD.
Bless my soul!
_He turns to Rhoda, pointedly ignoring Michaelis._
Look here, Rho, be sensible. I'm tired of this hole of a town already.
We'll go west and renew our youth. Country's big, and nobody to meddle.
You'll flourish like a green bay tree.
_Rhoda turns distractedly, as to escape; he intercepts her._
Confound it, if you're so set on it, I'll marry you! Say yes, and let
John the Baptist here give us his blessing. Speak up. Is it a go?--Till
death us do part.
MICHAELIS.
Death has already parted you and her.
LITTLEFIELD.
So? I feel like a reasonably healthy corpse.
MICHAELIS.
There is no health in you. Every word you speak gives off corruption.
LITTLEFIELD.
Indeed! My advice to you is, make tracks for your starvation desert. A
parcel of locoed Indians are about right for a busted prophet.
MICHAELIS.
What I am is no matter. What this girl is, though you lived a thousand
years, you would never have the grace to imagine. She gave you her
young love, in childish blindness, not knowing what she did, and you
killed it idly, wantonly, as a beast tortures its frail victim, for
sport. You find her again, still weak and bleeding from her wounds, and
you fling her marriage, in words whose every syllable is an insult.
Marriage! When every fibre of her nature must cry out against you, if
she is woman. Take your words and your looks from her, and that
instantly, or you will curse the day you ever brought your evil
presence into her life.
_He advances upon him threateningly._
Instantly, I say, or by the wrath of God your wretched soul, if you
have one, shall go this hour to its account!
LITTLEFIELD.
_Backing toward the door, scared, but keeping his brazen tone._
All right.--I'm off.--Caveman for caveman, you've got the reach!
_To Rhoda._
But remember, my lady, we're not quits by a jug-full. You'll hear from
me yet.
MICHAELIS.
She shall never hear from you, nor of you.
LITTLEFIELD.
_In the door._
Last call, old girl!--Women!
_He goes out, slamming the door behind him. Long pause._
MICHAELIS.
Poor child! Poor child!
RHODA.
I am sorry that you have had to suffer this.
MICHAELIS.
It is you who have suffered.
_Martha enters from the hall, wheeling Mrs. Beeler in the invalid
chair. She lies lower than in the first act, her manner is weaker
and more dejected. Rhoda, whose back is turned, goes on as the two
women enter._
RHODA.
I deserve to suffer, but it will always be sweet to me that in my need
you defended me, and gave me back my courage.
_Michaelis goes to Mrs. Beeler; she gives him her left hand as at
first._
MRS. BEELER.
My poor friend!
_Martha, resigning the chair to Rhoda, goes out. Mrs. Beeler looks
up at Rhoda anxiously._
What were you saying when I came in?
_As Rhoda does not answer, she turns to Michaelis_.
Something about your defending her.--Against what?
MICHAELIS.
Nothing. Her nature is its own defence.
MRS. BEELER.
_Caressing her._
Ah, no! She needs help. She cannot bear it that this disaster has come,
through her. It has made her morbid. She says things about herself,
that make me tremble. Has she spoken to you--about herself?
MICHAELIS.
She has laid her heart bare to me.
MRS. BEELER.
That is good. Young people, when they are generous, always lay disaster
at their own door.
_She kisses Rhoda. The girl goes into the porch, where she lingers
a moment, then disappears. Mrs. Beeler sinks back in her chair
again, overtaken by despondency._
Isn't it strange that I should be lying here again, and all those poor
people waking up into a new day that is no new day at all, but the old
weary day they have known so long? Isn't it strange, and sad?
MICHAELIS.
I ask you not to lose hope.
MRS. BEELER.
_Rousing from her dejection into vague excitement._
You ask me that?--Is there--any hope? Oh, don't deceive me--now! I
couldn't bear it now!--Is there any hope?
MICHAELIS.
A half-hour ago I thought there was none. But now I say, have hope.
MRS. BEELER.
_Eagerly._
Do you? Do you? Oh, I wonder--I wonder if that could be the meaning--?
MICHAELIS.
The meaning--?
MRS. BEELER.
Of something I felt, just now, as I sat there in my room by the open
window.
MICHAELIS.
What was it?
MRS. BEELER.
I--I don't know how to describe it.--It was like a new sweetness in the
air.
_She looks out at the open window, where the spring breeze lightly
wafts the curtains._
MICHAELIS.
The lilacs have opened during the night.
MRS. BEELER.
It was not the lilacs.--I get it now again, in this room.
_She looks toward the lilies and shakes her head._
No, it is not the lilies either. If it were anyone else, I should be
ashamed to say what I think.
_She draws him down and speaks mysteriously._
It is not real flowers at all!
_Song rises outside--faint and distant._
MICHAELIS.
What is it to you?
MRS. BEELER.
It is like--it is like some kindness in the air, some new-born
happiness--or a new hope rising. Now you will think I am--not quite
right in my mind, as Mat does, and Martha!
MICHAELIS.
Mrs. Beeler, there is such a perfume about us this beautiful Easter
morning. You perceive it, with senses which suffering and a pure soul
have made fine beyond the measure of woman. There is a kindness in the
air, new-born happiness, and new-risen hope.
MRS. BEELER.
From whose heart does it rise?
MICHAELIS.
From mine, from Rhoda's heart, though she knows it not, from yours, and
soon, by God's mercy, from the heart of this waiting multitude.
_The song, though still distant, grows louder. Mrs. Beeler turns to
Michaelis and gazes intently into his face._
MRS. BEELER.
The light has come into your face again! You are--you are--Oh, my
brother, what has come to you?
MICHAELIS.
I have shaken off my burden. Do you shake off yours. What is pain but a
kind of selfishness? What is disease but a kind of sin? Lay your
suffering and your sickness from you as an out-worn garment. Rise up!
It is Easter morning. One comes, needing you. Rise up and welcome her!
_Mrs. Beeler rises and goes to meet Rhoda, entering from the
porch._
RHODA.
Aunt Mary! You are walking again!
MRS. BEELER.
He told me to arise, and once more my dead limbs heard.
RHODA.
God in His mercy be thanked!
MRS. BEELER.
I rose without knowing what I did. It was as if a wind lifted me.
RHODA.
Yes, yes. For good, this time!
MRS. BEELER.
So different from yesterday. I was still weak then, and my limbs were
heavy. Now I feel as if wings were on my shoulders.
_She looks toward the outer door, and listens to the singing, now
risen to a more joyful strain._
I must go out to them.
_She turns to Michaelis._
Say that I may go out, and give them the good tidings of great joy.
MICHAELIS.
May the Lord be with you as you go!
_To Rhoda, who starts to help her aunt._
Alone!
MRS. BEELER.
Yes, alone. I want to go alone.
_She takes a lily from the vase, and lifting it above her head,
goes out through the porch, which is now flooded with sunshine. As
she goes out she says:_
The Easter sun has risen, with healing in its wings!
_She crosses the porch and disappears._
RHODA.
I felt something dragging me back. It was Aunt Mary's spirit.
MICHAELIS.
No, it was mine.
RHODA.
Yours?
MICHAELIS.
My spirit, crying to you that I was delivered.
RHODA.
I delivered you. That is enough happiness for one life.
MICHAELIS.
You delivered me, yes. But not as you dream. Yesterday when the
multitude began to gather, the thing I had been waiting for all my life
was there, and I--because of you--I was not ready. In that blind hour
my life sank in ruin.--I had thought love denied to such as had my work
to do, and in the darkness of that thought disaster overwhelmed me.--I
have come to know that God does not deny love to any of his children,
but gives it as a beautiful and simple gift to them all.--Upon each
head be the use that is made of it!
RHODA.
It is not I--who--harm you?
MICHAELIS.
It is you who bless me, and give me back the strength that I had lost.
RHODA.
I?
MICHAELIS.
A little while ago you told me your life's bitter story. I tasted your
struggle, went down with you into the depths of your anguish, and in
those depths,--the miracle! Behold, once more the stars looked down
upon me from their places, and I stood wondering as a child wonders.
Out of those depths arose new-born happiness and new-risen hope. For in
those star-lit depths of pain and grief, I had found at last true love.
You needed me. You needed all the powers I had thrown away for your
sake. You needed what the whole world needs--healing, healing, and as I
rose to meet that need, the power that I had lost poured back into my
soul.
RHODA.
Oh, if I thought that could be!
MICHAELIS.
By the mystery that is man, and the mercy that is God, I say it is
so.--
_Puts his hand on her head, and gazes into her face._
I looked into your eyes once, and they were terrible as an army with
banners. I look again now, and I see they are only a girl's eyes, very
weak, very pitiful. I told you of a place, high in the great mountains.
I tell you now of another place higher yet, in more mysterious
mountains. Let us go there together, step by step, from faith to faith,
and from strength to strength, for I see depths of life open and
heights of love come out, which I never dreamed of till now!
_A song rises outside, nearer and louder than before._
RHODA.
Against your own words they trust you still.
MICHAELIS.
It was you who held them to their trust!
RHODA.
You will go out to them now.
MICHAELIS.
_As he kisses her._
Until the victory!
_The song rises to a great hymn, of martial and joyous rhythm. They
go together to the threshold. They look at each other in silence.
Rhoda speaks, with suppressed meaning._
RHODA.
Shall it be--on earth?
MICHAELIS.
On the good human earth, which I never possessed till now!
RHODA.
But now--these waiting souls, prisoned in their pain--
MICHAELIS.
By faith all prisoned souls shall be delivered.
RHODA.
By faith.
MICHAELIS.
By faith which makes all things possible, which brings all things to
pass.
_He disappears. Rhoda stands looking after him. The young mother
hurries in._
THE YOUNG MOTHER.
_Ecstatic, breathless._
Come here--My baby! I believe--I do believe--
_She disappears._
RHODA.
_Following her._
I believe. I do believe!
_The music rises into a vast chorus of many mingled strains._
CURTAIN
WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY'S
The Great Divide _Cloth, 12mo, $1.25 net_
"This play stands as a noteworthy achievement in the history of
American dramatic literature, not alone as a drama of absorbing
interest and significance, but as a distinct achievement from a
literary point of view. It is a pleasure to read the crisp, admirable
English, a prose at once vigorous, clear, and balanced. In the cold
black and white of print and paper, without the accessories of the
stage or the personality of actors to help illusion or enforce the
story told, the real strength of the drama is most impressive. Mr.
Moody has long been known as a poet of unusual gifts; he has now proven
himself a dramatist of marked ability."--_Brooklyn Daily Eagle._
* * * * *
"It is a privilege to read at leisure and to examine in detail a play
which, when presented upon the boards, sweeps the auditor along in a
whirlwind of emotion.... The triumph of nature, with its impulse, its
health, its essential sanity and rightness, over the cryptic formulas
of convention and Puritanism, marks the meaning of the play.... Yet
because it is a great drama, it may mean that to one and quite another
thing to another, but meaning this, or meaning that, it must make,
inevitably, an indelible impression upon any one interested in the
vitality and evolution of the American drama."--_Chicago Tribune._
* * * * *
"This play is in a class by itself because it has high literary merit
aside from great dramatic force. The poet flashes out frequently in the
terse lines of the early part of the play, and later reaches high-water
mark in the scenes at Stephen Ghent's home on the mountain top. The
play is worth many readings."--_San Francisco Chronicle._
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY
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A LIST OF PLAYS
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The Title-Mart _75 cents net_
A comedy of American Society, wherein love and the young folks go
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By CLYDE FITCH
The Climbers _75 cents net_
The Girl with the Green Eyes _75 cents net_
Her Own Way _75 cents net_
The Stubbornness of Geraldine _75 cents net_
The Truth _75 cents net_
Ingenious satires on modern society, unhackneyed in incident,
piquant in humor, showing minute observation happily used. Each
is bound in cloth, with white paper label.
By THOMAS HARDY
The Dynasts: a Drama of the Napoleonic Wars
_In Three Parts_ _Each $1.50 net_
By LAURENCE HOUSMAN
Bethlehem: A Musical Nativity Play _$1.25 net_
By HENRY ARTHUR JONES
Mrs. Dane's Defence _75 cents net_
Michael and His Lost Angel _75 cents net_
Rebellious Susan _75 cents net_
Saints and Sinners _75 cents net_
The Crusaders _75 cents net_
The Infidel _75 cents net_
The Tempter _75 cents net_
The Whitewashing of Julia _75 cents net_
Each of these well-known plays is bound in cloth, with white
paper label.
By JACK LONDON
Scorn of Women _Cloth, $1.25 net_
The scenes are laid in the far north, Mr. London's special
province.
By PERCY MACKAYE
The Canterbury Pilgrims _$1.25 net_
Fenris the Wolf. A Tragedy _$1.25 net_
Jeanne d'Arc _$1.25 net_
The Scarecrow _$1.25 net_
Mater _$1.25 net_
Sappho and Phaon _$1.25 net_
By STEPHEN PHILLIPS
Nero _$1.25 net_
Ulysses _$1.25 net_
The Sin of David _$1.25 net_
Poignant dramas which, according to the best critics, mark their
author as the greatest writer of dramatic verse in England since
Elizabethan times.
By STEPHEN PHILLIPS and J. COMYNS CARR
Faust _$1.25 net_
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The City (a drama) and Other Poems _$1.25 net_
By SARAH KING WILEY
Alcestis (a play) and Other Poems _75 cents net_
The Coming of Philibert _$1.25 net_
Mr. WILLIAM WINTER'S _Version of_ Mary of Magdala _$1.25 net_
An adaptation from the original of Paul Heyse; used by Mrs. Fiske.
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Where there is Nothing _Cloth, $1.25 net_
_Limited large paper edition, $5.00 net_
The Hour Glass and Other Plays _$1.25 net_
In the Seven Woods _$1.00 net_
NOTE.--Volume II. of the Collected Edition of Mr. Yeats'
Poetical Works includes five of his dramas in verse: "The
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King's Threshold," "On Baile's Strand," and "The Shadowy
Waters." _Cloth, $1.75 net_
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Attractively bound in decorated cloth.
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Author of "Children of the Ghetto," etc.
The Melting-Pot _Cloth, 12mo, $1.25 net_
* * * * *
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End of Project Gutenberg's The Faith Healer, by William Vaughn Moody