girl would want to leave a home like this, where you have everything.
You don't know how lucky you are--or maybe you have realized it. Look
about you and see what other girls have. Is it like this? Trees,
flowers, and a lake view that's the best in the county. Why, one can
breathe here and even taste the air. Every time I come back from a
business trip it makes a new man of me. Ask your mother. Eh, Emily? When
I sit out there on the porch in the cool evenings it makes me feel at
ease with the world to know that the place is _mine_ and that I've
raised a family and can take care of them all. Ben had to go, I
suppose--it's the way with sons; but I thought you, at least, would stay
here, daughter, in this old house where you were born, where I was born,
where all your early associations----
MARY. [_Shuddering._] I hate associations.
OLLIVANT. [_Eying her._] Well, I'd like to know where you get _that_
from. Not from your mother and me. _We_ like them, don't we, Emily? Why,
your mother's hardly ever even left here--but you had to up and get out.
MARY. Yes. That's right, father; I _had_ to.
OLLIVANT. [_He stops smoking and looks at her sharply._] Had to? Who
made you?
MARY. [_Reluctantly._] It was something inside me.
OLLIVANT. [_In spite of himself._] Tush--that foolishness.
MARY. [_Quickly._] Don't make it hard for us again.
OLLIVANT. I made it hard, Mary? Because I objected to your leaving your
mother here alone?
MARY. I remember; you said I was a foolish, "stage-struck" girl.
OLLIVANT. Well, you're over _that_, aren't you?
MARY. That's just where you are mistaken, father. [_Slowly._] That's why
I asked you if you hadn't misunderstood my coming back.
OLLIVANT. [_Suspiciously._] Then why did you come at all?
MARY. I'm human; I wanted to see you and mother, so I came when you
generously wrote me. I'm not going to stay and spray the roses.
OLLIVANT. [_He eyes her tensely and controls himself with an effort._]
So you are not going to stay with your mother and me?
MARY. [_Affectionately._] I'll come see you as often as I can and----
OLLIVANT.--and make a hotel of your home? [MARY _is silent_.] Don't you
see your mother is getting older and needs somebody to be here?
EMILY. [_With a quiet assurance._] I have never been so well and
contented.
OLLIVANT. [_Tenderly._] I know better, Emily; can't I see you're getting
thinner and older? [_Stopping her protests._] Now, let me manage this,
dear. It's a girl's place to stay at home. You know my feelings about
that. Suppose anything should happen to your mother, what would _I_ do?
MARY. So it's not mother alone you are thinking of?
OLLIVANT. [_Tersely._] I'm thinking of your place at home--doing a
woman's work. I'm not proud of having my daughter off earning her own
living as though I couldn't support her.
EMILY. George!
MARY. I thought it was only because I was on the stage.
OLLIVANT. Well, it's not the most heavenly place, is it? A lot of
narrow-minded fools here in town thought I was crazy to _let_ you go; I
knew how they felt; I grinned and bore it. You were my daughter and I
loved you, and I didn't want them to think any less of you by their
finding out you were leaving against my wish.
MARY. [_Slowly, with comprehension._] That's what hurt you.
OLLIVANT. Well, I blamed myself a bit for taking you to plays and liking
them myself.
MARY. People here will soon forget about me and merely be sorry for you.
OLLIVANT. [_Persuasively._] Why, Mary. I've made it easy for you to
stay. I told every one you were coming home for good. They'll think me a
fool if----
MARY. [_Tenderly._] You meant what was dear and good, father; but you
had no right to say that. I'm sorry.
OLLIVANT. I did it because I thought you had come to your senses.
MARY. [_Firmly._] I never saw so clearly as I do now.
OLLIVANT. [_Bluntly._] Then you're stubborn--plain stubborn--not to
admit failure.
MARY. [_Startled._] Failure?
OLLIVANT. I know what the newspapers said; Ben sent them to me.
MARY. Which ones?
OLLIVANT. Why, all of them, I guess.
MARY. Did he send you the good ones?
OLLIVANT. Were there any?
MARY. Oh, I see. So Ben carefully picked out only those which would
please you.
OLLIVANT. [_Sarcastically._] Please me?
MARY. Yes; because you and he didn't want me to succeed; because you
thought failure would bring me home. But don't you think I'll let some
cub reporter settle things for me. I'll never come home through
failure--never.
OLLIVANT. [_Kindly._] Ben and I only want to protect you, Mary.
MARY. Why do men always want to protect women?
OLLIVANT. Because we know the world.
MARY. Yes; but you don't know _me_. Father, you still think I'm only a
foolish, stage-struck girl, and want flowers and men and my name in big
letters. It isn't that.
OLLIVANT. Well, what is it, then?
MARY. Oh--I want to be an artist. I don't suppose you can understand it;
I didn't, myself, at first. I was born with it, but didn't know what it
was till that first time you took me to the theatre.
OLLIVANT. So it was all my fault?
MARY. It isn't anybody's fault; it's just a fact. I knew from that day
what I wanted to do. I wanted to act--to create. I don't care whether I
play a leading lady or a scrub-woman, if I can do it with truth and
beauty.
OLLIVANT. Well, you haven't done much of either, have you? What have you
got to show for our unhappiness? What have you got ahead of you?
MARY. Nothing--definite.
OLLIVANT. [_Incredulously._] Yet, you're going to keep at it?
MARY. Yes.
OLLIVANT. What do you think of that, Emily?
MARY. I am going to the city Monday.
OLLIVANT. [_Persistently._] But what will you do when you get there?
MARY. What I've done before: hunt a job, tramp the streets, call at the
offices, be snubbed and insulted by office-boys--keep at it till I get
something to do.
OLLIVANT. Come, come, Mary; don't make me lose patience. Put your pride
in your pocket. You've had your fling. You've tried and failed. Give it
all up and stay home here where you can be comfortable.
MARY. [_With intense feeling._] Father, I can't give it up. It doesn't
make any difference how they treat me, how many times I get my "notice"
and don't even make good according to their standards. I can't give it
up. I simply can't. It keeps gnawing inside me and driving me on. It's
there--always there, and I know if I keep at work I will succeed. I know
it; I know it.
[MARY _throws herself into the chair, much stirred_. EMILY'S _eyes
have eagerly followed her throughout this as though responding
sympathetically, but_ OLLIVANT _has stood in silence, watching her
apparently without comprehension_.]
OLLIVANT. [_Not without kindness._] Something inside. Huh! Have you any
clear idea what she's talking about, Emily?
[MARY _gives a short, hurt cry and goes quickly to the window,
looking out and controlling herself with an effort_.]
EMILY. [_Softly, as she looks at_ MARY.] I think I understand.
OLLIVANT. I don't. Something inside. I never had anything like that
bothering me. What's it all mean?
EMILY. [_Quietly._] So many people use the same words, but cannot
understand each other.
OLLIVANT. Well, you seem to think it's mighty important Mary, whatever
it is; but it's too much for me. If you had something to show for it I
wouldn't mind. But you're just where you started and you might as well
give up.
EMILY. George!
OLLIVANT. Now I don't know much about the stage, Emily, but Ben does. He
says you're not made for an actress, Mary; you haven't got a chance.
MARY. [_Turning._] Father!
OLLIVANT. Can't you see your failure isn't your own fault? If you were a
beauty like Helen Safford or some of those other "stars"--but you're
not pretty, why, you're not even good-looking and----
MARY. [_With bitter vehemence_.] Oh, don't go any further. I know all
that. But I don't care how I look off the stage if only I can grow
beautiful on it. I'll create with so much inner power and beauty that
people will forget how I look and only see what I think and feel. I can
do it; I have done it; I've made audiences feel and even got my "notice"
because the stage-manager said I was "too natural." Helen
Safford--what's she? A professional beauty with everything outside and
nothing in. You think of her eyes, her mouth, and her profile; but does
she touch you so you remember? I know her work. Wait till I get a chance
to play a scene with her--which they may give me because I'm not
good-looking--I'll make them forget she's on the stage the first ten
minutes--yes, and you and Ben, too, if you'll come. Helen Safford? Huh!
Why, people will remember me when she's only a lithograph.
OLLIVANT. Well, then, why haven't you had your chance?
MARY. [_Quickly._] Because most managers feel the way you and Ben do.
And not having a lovely profile and a fashion-plate figure stands
between me and a chance even to read a part, let alone play it. That's
what eats the heart out of me, mother; and makes me hate my face every
time I sit down to put on the grease paint.
OLLIVANT. Well, don't blame me for that.
MARY. [_Going to her mother, who takes her hand._] You can laugh at me,
father; you don't understand. It's foolish to talk. But, oh, mother, why
is such beauty given to women like Helen Safford who have no inner need
of it, and here am I, with a real creative gift, wrapped up in a
nondescript package which stands between me and everything I want to do?
[_With determination._] But I will--ultimately I will make good, in
spite of my looks; others have. And what I've suffered will make me a
greater artist.
OLLIVANT. [_In a matter-of-fact tone._] Are you sure all this isn't
overconfidence and vanity?
MARY. I don't care what you call it. It's what keeps me working.
OLLIVANT. [_Quickly._] Working? But how can you work without an
engagement?
MARY. That _is_ the hard part of our life; waiting, waiting for a chance
to work. But don't think I stand still when I haven't an engagement. I
don't dare. That's why I keep at my voice work and dancing and----
OLLIVANT. [_Suddenly interrupting._] Dancing and voice work when you
have no engagements. Would you mind telling me who is paying the bills?
MARY. [_Indignantly._] Father!
OLLIVANT. I think I have the right to ask that.
MARY. Have you?
OLLIVANT. I am your father.
MARY. [_With quiet dignity._] You thought you'd force me here at home to
do as you wished because you paid for my food and clothes; when you took
that from me you _ceased_ to have that right. Don't forget since I left
you've not helped me with my work or given me a penny.
OLLIVANT. [_Suspiciously._] Mary.... No, that's not why you went away
from home?
MARY. No.
OLLIVANT. Or you met some man _there_ and....
MARY. No.
OLLIVANT. There is some man.
MARY. Why a _man_?
OLLIVANT. Damn them; I know them. [_Breaking._] Good God, Mary, dear,
you haven't...? Answer me, daughter.
MARY. [_Calmly._] No, there's been no need of that.
[_He has been violently shaken at the thought, looks at her
intently, believes her, and then continues in a subdued manner._
OLLIVANT. Then who helped you? Ben?
MARY. How could he help me? Are men the only ones who help women?
EMILY. [_Quietly._] Tell him, Mary; it's best now.
OLLIVANT. [_Turning slowly to her in surprise._] You knew and have kept
it from me?
EMILY. [_Calmly, as she puts down the hat she has been trimming._] I
found I hadn't lost my old skill, though it's been a good many years
since I held a brush--since before we were married, George. I had an
idea I thought would sell: paper dolls with little hand-painted dresses
on separate sheets; they were so much softer than the printed kind, and
children like anything soft. I wrote to Mr. Aylwin--you remember--he was
so kind to me years before. He had called here once before when you were
away and asked after my work. He used to think I had such promise. He
found an opportunity to use the dolls as a specialty, and when I
explained he induced some other firms to use all I can paint, too. They
pay me very well. I made enough each month to help Mary when she went
behind.
OLLIVANT. [_Incredulously._] You! After you heard me say when she left I
wouldn't give her a cent?
EMILY. [_Looking fondly at_ MARY.] You were keeping Ben, weren't you?
OLLIVANT. But--that's--that's different.
EMILY. I didn't see why we shouldn't help _both_ our children.
OLLIVANT. [_Perplexed by this he turns to_ MARY.] And you took it?
MARY. Yes.
OLLIVANT. You knew how she got the money?
MARY. Yes.
OLLIVANT. Your mother working herself sick for you, and you took it?
EMILY. I told you I've never been so happy.
MARY. [_Simply._] I couldn't bargain with what I felt. I had to study.
I'd have taken anything, gotten it anywhere. I had to live. You didn't
help me. Ben and I both went against your will, but you helped him
because he was your son. I was only your daughter.
[OLLIVANT _eyes her and seems to be struggling with himself. He is
silent a long while as they both watch him. Finally, after several
efforts he speaks with emotion._]
OLLIVANT. Mary, I--I didn't realize how much you meant to me till--till
I thought of what might have happened to you without my help.
Would--would you have stayed on in the city if--if your mother hadn't
helped you?
MARY. [_Firmly._] Yes, father; I would have stayed on.
OLLIVANT. [_After a pause._] Then I guess what you _feel_ is stronger
than all your mother and I tried to teach you.... Are you too proud to
take help from me--now?
MARY. [_Simply._] No, father; till I succeed. Then I'll pay you back
like Ben promised.
OLLIVANT. [_Hurt._] You don't think it was the money, daughter? It would
have cost to keep you here. It wasn't that.
MARY. No; it was your father speaking and his father and his father.
[_Looking away wistfully._] And perhaps I was speaking for those before
me who were silent or couldn't be heard.
OLLIVANT. [_With sincerity._] I don't exactly understand _that_ any more
than the feeling you spoke of driving you from home. But I do see what
you mean about brothers and sisters. You seem to think boys and girls
are the same. But they're not. Men and women are different. You may not
know it, but your mother had foolish ideas like you have when I first
knew her. She was poor and didn't have a mother to support her, and she
had to work for a living. She'd about given up when I met her--trying to
work at night to feed herself in the day while studying. But she was
sensible; when a good man came along who could support her she married
him and settled down. Look how happy she's been here with a home of her
own that is a home--with associations and children. Where would she be,
struggling to-day trying to paint pictures for a living? Why, there's
lots of men who can paint pictures, and too few good wives for
hard-working, decent men who want a family--which is God's law. You'll
find that out one of these days and you'll give yourself as she did.
Some day a man will come and you'll want to marry him. How could you if
you keep on with your work, going about the country?
MARY. [_Quietly._] You leave mother at times, don't you?
OLLIVANT. I've got to.
MARY. So may I.
OLLIVANT. And the children?
MARY. They'd have a share of my life.
OLLIVANT. A mighty big share if you're human, I tell you. Ask your
mother if you think they're easy coming and bringing up.
MARY. And now they've left her. Dear mother, what has she to do?
OLLIVANT. Well, if you ever get a husband with those ideas of yours
you'll see what a wife has to do. [_He goes to her._] Mary, it isn't
easy, all this you've been saying. But your mother and I are left alone,
and perhaps we _have_ got different views than you. But if ever you do
see it our way, and give up or fail--- well, come back to us,
understand?
MARY. [_Going to him and kissing him._] I understand how hard it was for
you to say that. And remember I may come back a success.
OLLIVANT. Yes. I suppose they all think that; it's what keeps them
going. But some day, when you're in love and marry, you'll see it all
differently.
MARY. Father, what if the man does not come--or the children?
OLLIVANT. Why--[_He halts as though unable to answer her._] Nonsense.
He'll come, never fear; they always do.
MARY. I wonder.
OLLIVANT. [_He goes affectionately to_ EMILY_, who has been staring
before her during this_.] Emily, dear. No wonder the flowers have been
neglected. Well, you'll have time to spray those roses yourself. I'll
get the spray mixture to-morrow. [_Kisses her tenderly._] Painting paper
dolls with a change of clothes! When I might have been sending her the
money without ever feeling it. No more of that, dear; you don't have to
now. I shan't let you get tired and sick. That's one thing I draw the
line at. [_He pats her again, looks at his watch, and then goes slowly
over to the window-doors._] Well, it's getting late. I'll lock up.
[_Looking up at sky._] Paper says it will rain to-morrow.
EMILY. [_Very quietly so only_ MARY _can hear_.] At the art school they
said I had a lovely sense of color. Your father is so kind; but he
doesn't know how much I enjoyed painting again--even those paper dolls.
MARY. [_Comprehending in surprise._] Mother! You, _too_?
EMILY. [_Fearing lest_ OLLIVANT _should hear_.] Sh!
[OLLIVANT _closes the doors and eyes the women thoughtfully_.]
OLLIVANT. Better fasten the other windows when you come. Good-night.
[_He goes out slowly as mother and daughter sit there together._]
THE CURTAIN FALLS
THE EXCHANGE
BY
ALTHEA THURSTON
_The Exchange_ is reprinted by permission of Althea Thurston. This play
is one of the farces written in the Course in Dramatic Composition
(English 109) in the University of Utah. For permission to perform,
address B. Roland Lewis, Department of English, University of Utah, Salt
Lake City, Utah.
ALTHEA THURSTON
Althea Cooms-Thurston, one of the promising writers of the younger set
of American dramatists, was born in Iowa, but soon moved with her
parents to Colorado, where she spent her girlhood. She was educated in
the public schools of Colorado Springs and Denver. Her collegiate
training was received in the University of Utah, Salt Lake City. In 1902
she married Walter R. Thurston, a well-known engineer. At present she
resides in Dallas, Texas.
Mrs. Thurston has travelled widely and has resided for periods of time
in Mexico City and Havana, Cuba. She is an able linguist and has made a
special study of her native English tongue and of Spanish and French,
all of which she uses fluently.
From childhood she has shown dramatic ability. Her dramatic composition
has been more or less directly associated with the courses in
playwriting and the history of the drama which she completed in the
University of Utah. Among her one-act plays are _When a Man's Hungry_,
_And the Devil Laughs_, and _The Exchange_.
Mrs. Thurston has an aptitude for delicate and satirical farce. _The
Exchange_ is an excellent example of farce-comedy in the contemporary
one-act play.
CHARACTERS
JUDGE, _the exchanger of miseries_
IMP, _office boy to the_ JUDGE
A POOR MAN
A VAIN WOMAN
A RICH CITIZEN
THE EXCHANGE[C]
SCENE I
_The curtain rises upon an office scene. Seemingly there is nothing
unusual about this office: it has tables, chairs, a filing cabinet,
and a hat-rack. A portion of the office is railed off at the right.
Within this enclosed space is a commodious desk and swivel-chair;
and the filing cabinet stands against the wall. This railed-off
portion of the office belongs, exclusively, to the_ JUDGE. _Here he
is wont to spend many hours--sometimes to read or write, and again,
perhaps, he will just sit and ponder upon the vagaries of mankind.
The_ JUDGE _is a tall, spare man with rather long gray hair, which
shows beneath the skull-cap that he always wears. When we first see
him, he is reading a letter, and evidently he is not pleased, for
he is tapping with impatient fingers upon his desk._
_At the left of the stage is a heavily curtained door which leads
to an inner room. At centre rear is another door which evidently
leads to the street, as it is through this door that the_ POOR MAN,
_the_ VAIN WOMAN, _and the_ RICH CITIZEN _will presently enter,
each upon his special quest. The hat-rack stands near the street
door, and we glimpse a soft black hat and a long black overcoat
hanging upon it._
_Down stage to the left is a flat-topped desk, littered with papers
and letters. This desk has two large drawers, wherein a number of
miscellaneous articles might be kept. It is at this desk that we
catch our first glimpse of_ IMP. _He is busily writing in a huge
ledger, and he seems to be enjoying his work, for he chuckles the
while._ IMP _is a little rogue; he looks it and acts it, and we
feel that he has a Mephistophelian spirit. He wears a dark-green
tight-fitting uniform, trimmed with red braid. His saucy little
round cap is always cocked over one eye. He is ever chuckling
impishly, and we feel that he is slyly gleeful over the weaknesses
of mankind and the difficulties that beset them._
IMP. [_Throws down his pen, chuckles, and half standing on the rungs of
his chair and balancing himself against his desk, surveys the ledger._]
Your honor, I've all the miseries listed to date and a fine lot there is
to choose from. Everything from bunions to old wives for exchange.
JUDGE. [_Scowls and impatiently taps the letter he is reading._] Here is
another one. A woman suspects her husband of a misalliance. Wants to
catch him, but is so crippled with rheumatism she can't get about. Wants
us to exchange her rheumatism for something that won't interfere with
either her walking or her eyesight.
IMP. [_Referring to the ledger and running his finger along the lines._]
We have a defective heart or a lazy liver that we could give her.
JUDGE. [_Irritably tossing the letter over to_ IMP.] She would not be
satisfied. People never are. They always want to change their miseries,
but never their vices. Each thinks his own cross heavier than others
have to bear, but he is very willing to make light of his own weaknesses
and shortcomings. He thinks they are not half so bad as his neighbor's.
I have tried for years to aid distressed humanity, but I can't satisfy
them. I am growing tired of it all, Imp. People need a lesson and
they're going to get it, too. I am going to----
[_Knock is heard at the street door._ JUDGE _sighs, turns to his
desk and begins to write_. IMP _sweeps the litter of papers on his
desk into a drawer, closes ledger, and goes to answer knock_.
IMP. Here comes another misery.
[IMP _opens the door to admit the_ POOR MAN, _who is very shabbily
dressed. He hesitates, looks around the room as if he were in the
wrong place, and then addresses_ IMP _in a loud whisper_.
POOR MAN. [_Indicating the_ JUDGE _with a motion of his head_.] Is that
him?
IMP. [_Whispering loudly his reply._] Yes, that is his honor.
POOR MAN. [_Still whispering and showing signs of nervousness._] Do I
dare speak to him?
IMP. [_Enjoying the situation and still whispering._] Yes, but be
careful what you say.
POOR MAN. [_Takes off his hat, approaches slowly to the railing, and
speaks humbly._] Your honor. I--[_Swallows hard, clears throat._] Your
honor, I've a little favor--to ask of you.
JUDGE. [_Looking coldly at the_ POOR MAN.] Well?
POOR MAN. You see, your honor, I've been poor all my life. I've never
had much fun. I don't ask for a lot of money, but--I would like enough
so that I could have some swell clothes, and--so that I could eat,
drink, and be merry with the boys. You know, I just want to have a good
time. Do you think you could fix it for me, Judge?
JUDGE. [_Gazes at him sternly for a moment._] So you just want to have a
good time? Want me to take away your poverty? I suppose you have no
moral weakness you want to change, no defects in your character that you
want to better?
POOR MAN. [_Stammering and twirling his hat._] Why, w-hy, Judge, I--I am
not a bad man. Of--of course, I have my faults, but then--I've never
committed any crimes. I guess I stack up pretty fair as men go. I'm just
awful tired of being poor and never having any fun. Couldn't you help me
out on that point, Judge?
JUDGE. [_Sighs wearily and turns to_ IMP.] Bring me the ledger.
[IMP _gives him the ledger in which he has been writing_. JUDGE
_opens it, and then speaks sharply to the_ POOR MAN.
JUDGE. You understand, do you, my good man, that if I take away your
poverty and give you enough money for your good time, you will have to
accept another misery?
POOR MAN. [_Eagerly._] Yes, your honor, that's all right. I'm willing.
JUDGE. [_Scanning ledger._] Very well. Let us see. Here is paralysis.
POOR MAN. [_Hesitatingly._] Well. I--I couldn't have a--very good time,
if--if I was paralyzed.
JUDGE. [_Shortly._] No. I suppose not. How about a glass eye?
POOR MAN. [_Anxiously._] Please, your honor, if I'm going to have a good
time I need two good eyes. I don't want to miss anything.
JUDGE. [_Wearily turning over the leaves of the ledger._] A man left his
wife here for exchange, perhaps you would like her.