This play was first produced in Croton-on-Hudson, N. Y., by the Mt.
Airy Players, in 1920, with the following cast:
Harold ...................... Eugene Boissevain
Isabel ...................... Doris Stevens
Mrs. Murphy .................. B. Marie Gage
Mrs. Falcington .............. Crystal Eastman
_A room in Washington Square South. By the light of a candle, a young
man in tousled hair and dressing gown is writing furiously at a little
table. A clock within strikes seven.
A door at the back opens, and a young woman looks in, sleepily. She
frowns. The young man looks up guiltily_.
SHE. What are you doing?
HE. (_innocently_) Writing.
SHE. So I see. (_She comes in, and sits down. It may be remarked that
a woman's morning appearance, in dishabille, is a severe test of both
looks and character; she passes that test triumphantly. She looks at
the young man, and asks_)--Poetry?
HE. (_hesitatingly_) No....
SHE. (_continues to look inquiry_).
HE. (_finally_) A letter....
SHE. (_inflexibly_)--To whom?
HE. (_defiantly_) To my wife!
SHE. Oh! That's all right. I thought perhaps you were writing to your
father.
HE. (_bitterly_) My father! Why should I write to my father? Isn't
it enough that I have broken his heart and brought disgrace upon him in
his old age--
SHE. Disgrace? Nonsense! Anybody might be named as a co-respondent in a
divorce case.
HE. Not in Evanston, Illinois. Not when you are the local feature of a
notorious Chicago scandal. Not when your letters to the lady are
published in the newspapers.--Oh, those letters!
SHE. Were they such incriminating letters, Harold?
HAROLD. Incriminating? How can you ask that, Isabel? They were
perfectly innocent letters, such as any gentleman poet might write to
any lady poetess. How was I to know that a rather plain-featured woman
I sat next to at a Poetry Dinner in Chicago was conducting a dozen
love-affairs? How was I to know that my expressions of literary regard
would look like love-letters to her long-suffering husband? That's the
irony of it: I'm perfectly blameless. God knows I couldn't have been
anything else, with her. But I've always _been_ blameless--in all
the seven years of my marriage, I never even kissed another woman. And
then to have this happen! Scandal, disgrace, the talk of all Evanston!
Disowned by my father, repudiated by my wife, ostracized by my friends,
cast forth into outer darkness, and dropped naked and penniless into
Greenwich Village!
ISABEL. (_laughing_) Oh, not exactly naked, Harold!
HAROLD. One suit! And that--(_he throws off his dressing gown_)
evening clothes! I might as well be naked--I can't go anywhere in the
daytime. I tell you I'm not used to this. One week ago I had a house, a
motor car, a wife, a position in my father's law-office, a place in
society--
ISABEL. That's just it--that's why I was afraid you were writing to
your father. He'd send you money, of course. But if you ask him for it,
I'll never speak to you again. And as for clothes, you know there's a
suit of clothes in there,--a perfectly good suit, too, and I think
you're an idiot not to put it on.
HAROLD. Yes. One of Jim's old suits.
ISABEL. Well, what if it is? It would fit you perfectly.
HAROLD. Oh, Isabel! Can't you _see_?
ISABEL. No, I can't see. If Jim is generous enough to give you a suit
of clothes--
HAROLD. Yes. That's just it. Jim's girl--Jim's clothes--! Well--
(_sullenly_)--I think Jim's generosity has gone far enough. I'll
be damned if I'll take his clothes.
ISABEL. You're perfectly disgusting. If you weren't a silly poet and
didn't know any better--Yes, Harold Falcington, for a nice boy as you
are in most ways, you have the most antiquated and offensive ideas
about women! _Jim_ knows better than to have ever considered me
his property....
HAROLD. (_taken aback by her fierceness_) Good heavens, Isabel, I
didn't mean _that_!
ISABEL. Yes, you did, Harold; but I'm glad you're sorry. It's a good
thing you were thrown out of Evanston, Illinois. It's a good thing you
came to Greenwich Village. And it's a good thing that I've a strong
maternal instinct. If you'll just get the idea out of your head that
you're a ruined man and a lost soul because you've been talked about
and have lost your job in your father's office, and if you'll just stop
thinking that poor dear innocent Greenwich Village is a sink of
iniquity and that I'm a wicked woman--
HAROLD. Isabel! I never said you were a wicked woman! I never thought
such a thing!
ISABEL. But you think you're a wicked man; and so it comes to the same
thing. Look! it's broad daylight. (_She goes to the window, and opens
the curtains_.) Put out that candle, and read me the letter you've
written to your wife.
_She comes back, blows out the candle herself, and sits down
comfortably opposite him_.
HAROLD. No, I can't.
ISABEL. Why not? You've read me all the others. Is this just like them?
(_Teasingly_)--"Dear Gertrude: I know you will not believe me when
I say that I have been the victim of a monstrous injustice, but
nevertheless it is true. It has all been a hideous mistake." That's the
preamble. Then a regular lawyer's brief, arguing the case--ten pages.
Then a wild, passionate appeal for her to forget and forgive. I know
how it goes. You've written one every night. This is the seventh.
HAROLD. This one is different.
ISABEL. Good. What does it say?
HAROLD. It says that I am in love with you.
ISABEL. Don't prevaricate, Harold! It says you are now hopelessly in
the clutches of a vampire--doesn't it?
HAROLD. (_desperately_) No!
ISABEL. (_warningly_) Harold! The truth!