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Title: The Faith Healer - A Play in Three Acts
Author: Moody, William Vaughn, 1869-1910
Language: English
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THE FAITH HEALER
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO
ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO
MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED
LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA
MELBOURNE
THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.
TORONTO
THE FAITH HEALER
A Play in Three Acts
By
WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY
AUTHOR OF "THE GREAT DIVIDE," ETC.
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1910
_All rights reserved_
COPYRIGHT, 1909, 1910,
BY WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY.
Set up and electrotyped. Published March, 1910.
Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
PERSONS OF THE PLAY
ULRICH MICHAELIS
MATTHEW BEELER
MARY BEELER, _his wife_
MARTHA BEELER, _his sister_
ANNIE BEELER, _his daughter_
RHODA WILLIAMS, _Mrs. Beeler's niece_
DR. GEORGE LITTLEFIELD
REV. JOHN CULPEPPER
UNCLE ABE, _an old negro_
AN INDIAN BOY
A YOUNG MOTHER WITH HER BABY
VARIOUS SICK PEOPLE AND OTHERS ATTENDANT UPON THEM
ACT I
_A large old-fashioned room in Matthew Beeler's farm-house, near a
small town in the Middle West. The room is used for dining and for
general living purposes. It suggests, in architecture and furnishings,
a past of considerable prosperity, which has now given place to more
humble living. The house is, in fact, the ancestral home of Mr.
Beeler's wife, Mary, born Beardsley, a family of the local farming
aristocracy, now decayed. At the rear is a large double window, set in
a broad alcove. To the right of the window is the entrance door, which
opens upon the side yard, showing bushes, trees, and farm buildings._
_In the right wall of the room a door and covered stairway lead to the
upper story. Farther forward is a wall cupboard, and a door leading
into the kitchen. Opposite this cupboard, in the left-hand wall of the
room, is a mantelpiece and grate; farther back a double door, leading
to a hall. Off the hall open two bedrooms (not seen), one belonging to
Mr. and Mrs. Beeler, the other to Rhoda Williams, a niece of Mrs.
Beeler, child of her dead sister._
_The room contains, among other articles of furniture, a dining table
(with detachable leaves to reduce its bulk when not in use for eating
purposes), an invalid's wheel-chair, a low sofa of generous size, and a
book-shelf, upon which are arranged the scientific books which Mr.
Beeler takes a somewhat untutored but genuine delight in. Tacked upon
the wall near by are portraits of scientific men, Darwin and Spencer
conspicuous among them, cut from periodicals._ _Other pictures,
including family daguerreotypes and photographs, are variously
distributed about the walls. Over the mantel shelf hangs a large map of
the United States and Mexico, faded and fly-specked._
_As the curtain rises, the room is dark, except for a dull fire in the
grate. The ticking of the clock is heard; it strikes six. Martha
Beeler, a woman of forty-five, enters from the kitchen, carrying a
lighted lamp. She wears a shawl over her shoulders, a print dress, and
a kitchen apron. She places the lamp on the table, which is set for
breakfast, and puts coal on the grate, which soon flames more
brightly._
_She goes into the hall and is heard knocking and calling._
MARTHA.
Rhody! Rhody!
_Matthew Beeler, a man of fifty, enters. He is not quite dressed,
but finishes as he comes in. Martha follows him._
Where's that niece of yours got to now?
BEELER.
She's helping Mary dress.
MARTHA.
What in time's Mary gettin' up for? She's only in the way till the
work's done.
BEELER.
She's restless.
MARTHA.
_Significantly._
I shouldn't wonder. _Pause._ I hope you know _why_ Mary didn't sleep.
BEELER.
_Evasively._
She's always been a light sleeper, since she got her stroke.
MARTHA.
Look here, Mat Beeler! I'm your born sister. Don't try to fool me! You
know why your wife didn't sleep last night.
BEELER.
Maybe I do, Sis.
_Points to the ceiling._
Is he up yet?
MARTHA.
Up! I don't believe he's been abed.
_They listen, as to the tread of some one on the floor above._
Back and forth, like a tiger in a cage!
BEELER.
_Shrugs._
Queer customer.
MARTHA.
Yes.
_Imitates him._
"Queer customer," that's you. But come to doin' anything about it!
BEELER.
Give me time, Sis, give me time!
MARTHA.
How much time do you want? He's been in this house since Wednesday
night, and this is Saturday morning.
BEELER.
Well, he's payin' his board, ain't he?
_At window, rolls up curtain._
Goin' to have just such another day as yesterday. Never seen such a
fog.
MARTHA.
Never seen such a fog, eh?
_Comes nearer and speaks mysteriously._
Did you happen to notice how long that fog has been hangin' over this
house?
BEELER.
How long? Why, since Thursday.
MARTHA.
No, sir, since Wednesday night.
BEELER.
_Looking at her, astonished._
Martha Beeler! You don't mean to say--he _brought_ the fog?
_She flounces out without answering. He lights lantern, with
dubious head-shaking, and holds it up before the print portraits._
Mornin', Mr. Darwin. Same to you, Mr. Spencer. Still keepin' things
straight?
_Grunts as he turns down his lantern, which is smoking._
I guess not very.
_The hall door again opens, and Rhoda Williams, a girl of twenty,
enters, with Annie Beeler, a child of ten. Rhoda is running, with
Annie in laughing pursuit._
RHODA.
_Taking refuge behind the table._
King's X!
ANNIE.
_Catching her._
You didn't have your fingers crossed.
RHODA.
_Turning Annie about, and beginning to button the child's long
slip._
And you didn't have your dress buttoned.
ANNIE.
That doesn't count.
RHODA.
Yes, it does, before breakfast!
BEELER.
_At the outer door._
How does your aunt strike you this morning?
RHODA.
_Sobered._
She seems wonderfully better.
BEELER.
Better!
RHODA.
I don't mean her poor body. She's got past caring for that.
BEELER.
_With sarcasm._
You mean in her mind, eh?
RHODA.
Yes, I mean better in her mind.
BEELER.
Because of what this fellow has been sayin' to her, I suppose.
RHODA.
Yes, because of that.
BEELER.
_As he puts on an old fur cap._
An out-and-out fakir!
RHODA.
You don't know him.
BEELER.
I suppose you do, after forty-eight hours. What in the name of nonsense
is he, anyway? And this deaf and dumb Indian boy he drags around with
him. What's his part in the show?
RHODA.
I know very little about either of them. But I know Mr. Michaelis is
not--what you say.
BEELER.
Well, he's a crank at the best of it. He's worked your aunt up now so's
she can't sleep. You brought him here, and you've got to get rid of
him.
_Exit by outer door, with inarticulate grumblings, among which can
be distinguished._
Hump! Ulrich Michaelis! There's a name for you.
ANNIE.
What's a fakir?
_Rhoda does not answer._
Cousin Rho, what's a fakir?
RHODA.
_Humoring her._
A man, way off on the other side of the world, in India, who does
strange things.
ANNIE.
What kind of things?
RHODA.
Well, for instance, he throws a rope up in the air, right up in the
empty air, with nothing for it to catch on, and then--he--climbs--
up--the--rope!
ANNIE.
Don't he fall?
_Rhoda shakes her head in portentous negation._
_Steps are heard descending the stairs. The child fidgets
nervously._
ANNIE.
Listen! He's coming down!
RHODA.
Yes, he's coming down, right out of the blue sky.
ANNIE.
_In a panic._
Let me go.
_She breaks away and retreats to the hall door, watching the stair
door open, and Ulrich Michaelis enter. Thereupon, with a glance of
frightened curiosity, she flees. Michaelis is a man of twenty-eight
or thirty, and his dark, emaciated face, wrinkled by sun and wind,
looks older. His abundant hair is worn longer than common. His
frame, though slight, is powerful, and his way of handling himself
has the freedom and largeness which come from much open-air life.
There is nevertheless something nervous and restless in his
movements. He has a trick of handling things, putting them down
only to take them up again immediately, before renouncing them for
good. His face shows the effect of sleeplessness, and his gray
flannel shirt and dark, coarse clothing are rumpled and neglected._
RHODA.
_As he enters._
Good morning.
MICHAELIS.
_Watching Annie's retreat._
Is--is that child afraid of me?
RHODA.
_As she adds the finishing touches to the breakfast table._
Oh, Annie's a queer little body. She has her mother's nerves. And then
she sees no one, living here on the back road. If this dreadful fog
ever lifts, you'll see that, though we're quite near town, it's almost
as if we were in the wilderness.
_The stair door opens, and an Indian boy, about sixteen years old,
enters. He is dressed in ordinary clothes; his dark skin, longish
hair, and the noiseless tread of his moccasined feet, are the only
suggestions of his race. He bows to Rhoda, who returns his
salutation; then, with a glance at Michaelis, he goes out doors._
_Rhoda nods toward the closing door._
It's really him Annie's afraid of. He's like a creature from another
world, to her.
MICHAELIS.
_Looks at her in an odd, startled way._
Another world?
RHODA.
Oh, you're used to his people. Your father was a missionary to the
Indians, you told me.
MICHAELIS.
Yes.
RHODA.
Where?
MICHAELIS.
At Acoma.
RHODA.
Where is that?
MICHAELIS.
_Standing near the wall map, touches it._
In New Mexico, by the map.
RHODA.
_Comes nearer._
What is it like?
MICHAELIS.
It's--as you say--another world.
RHODA.
Describe it to me.
MICHAELIS.
I couldn't make you see it. It's--centuries and centuries from our
time.--And since I came here, since I entered this house, it has seemed
centuries away from my own life.
RHODA.
My life has seemed far off, too--my old life--
MICHAELIS.
What do you mean by your old life?
RHODA.
_She breaks out impulsively._
I mean--I mean--. Three days ago I was like one dead! I walked and ate
and did my daily tasks, but--I wondered sometimes why people didn't see
that I was dead, and scream at me.
MICHAELIS.
It was three days ago that I first saw you.
RHODA.
Yes.
MICHAELIS.
Three nights ago, out there in the moonlit country.
RHODA.
Yes.
MICHAELIS.
You were unhappy, then?
RHODA.
The dead are not unhappy, and I was as one dead.
MICHAELIS.
Why was that?
RHODA.
I think we die more than once when things are too hard and too bitter.
MICHAELIS.
Have things here been hard and bitter?
RHODA.
No. All that was before I came here! But it had left me feeling--. The
other night, as I walked through the streets of the town, the people
seemed like ghosts to me, and I myself like a ghost.
MICHAELIS.
I cannot think of you as anything but glad and free.
RHODA.
When you met me on the road, and walked home with me, and said those
few words, it was as if, all of a sudden, the dead dream was shattered,
and I began once more to live.
_Bell rings._
That is Aunt Mary's bell.
_Rhoda goes out by the hall door, wheeling the invalid chair.
Martha enters from the kitchen, carrying a steaming coffee-pot and
a platter of smoking meat, which she places on the table. Michaelis
bows to her._
MARTHA.
_Snappishly._
Hope you slept well!
_She goes to the outer door, rings the breakfast bell loudly, and
exit to kitchen. Rhoda enters, wheeling Mrs. Beeler in an invalid
chair. Mrs. Beeler is a woman of forty, slight of body, with hair
just beginning to silver. Her face has the curious refinement which
physical suffering sometimes brings. Annie lingers at the door,
looking timidly at Michaelis, as he approaches Mrs. Beeler and
takes her hand from the arm of the chair._
MICHAELIS.
You are better?
MRS. BEELER.
_Speaks with low intensity._
Much, much better.
_He puts her hand gently back on the chair arm. Martha enters with
other dishes. She pours out coffee, putting a cup at each plate.
Mr. Beeler has entered from the kitchen, and the boy from outside.
Beeler, with a glance of annoyance at his wife and Michaelis, sits
down at the head of the table. Rhoda pushes Mrs. Beeler's chair to
the foot of the table and stands feeding her, eating her own
breakfast meanwhile._
_Michaelis sits at Mrs. Beeler's right, Martha opposite. At Mr.
Beeler's right is the Indian boy, at his left Annie's vacant chair.
Martha beckons to Annie to come to the table, but the child, eyeing
the strangers, refuses, taking a chair behind her mother by the
mantelpiece. Mrs. Beeler speaks after the meal has progressed for
some time in silence._
MRS. BEELER.
Mat, you haven't said good morning to our guest.
BEELER.
_Gruffly._
How are you?
_He helps himself to meat and passes it to the others; the plate
goes round the table. There is a constrained silence. Annie tugs at
Rhoda's skirt, and asks in dumb show to have her breakfast given
her. Rhoda fills the child's plate, with which she retreats to her
place by the mantel._
MRS. BEELER.
Why doesn't Annie come to the table?
_She tries to look around. Rhoda whispers to Mrs. Beeler, who looks
at her, puzzled._
_Why_ doesn't Annie come?
RHODA.
She's afraid.
MRS. BEELER.
Afraid! What is she afraid of?
RHODA.
You know how shy she is, before strangers.
MRS. BEELER.
Annie, please come here! Annie!
_The child refuses, pouting, and gazing at Michaelis._
RHODA.
I wouldn't urge her. She doesn't want to come.
MARTHA.
_Trenchantly._
Don't blame her!
MRS. BEELER.
_Gently reproving._
Martha!
MICHAELIS.
_Holding out his hand to Annie._
Won't you come here, my child?
_Annie approaches slowly, as if hypnotized._
You're not afraid of me, are you?
ANNIE.
_Shyly._
Not if you won't climb up the rope.
MICHAELIS.
_Puzzled._
Climb up what rope?
RHODA.
It's a story I was foolish enough to tell her.--Do eat something,
Auntie.
MRS. BEELER.
I'll drink a little more tea.
_Rhoda raises the cup to Mrs. Beeler's lips._
BEELER.
You can't live on tea, Mary.
MARTHA.
I guess she can live on tea better than on some things!
_With a resentful glance at Michaelis._
Some things that some folks seem to live on, and expect other folks to
live on.
_Michaelis looks up from Annie, who has been whispering in his ear.
Beeler nods at Martha in covert approval, as she takes up dishes
and goes into the kitchen._
MRS. BEELER.
_Leans forward across the table to Michaelis._
Don't mind my sister-in-law, Mr. Michaelis. It's her way. She means
nothing by it.
BEELER.
_Between gulps of coffee, as he finishes his meal._
Don't know as you've got any call to speak for Martha. She generally
means what she says, and I guess she means it now. And what's more, I
guess I do, too!
MRS. BEELER.
_Beseechingly._
Mat!
BEELER.
_Throws down his napkin and rises._
Very well. It's none of my business, I reckon, as long as it keeps
within reason.
_He puts on his cap and goes out through the kitchen._
ANNIE.
_To Michaelis, continuing the whispered conversation._
And if you do climb up the rope, do you promise to come down.
MICHAELIS.
Yes, I promise to come down.
MRS. BEELER.
_Leans over her plate. The others bow their heads._
Bless this food to our use, and this day to our strength and our
salvation.
RHODA.
_As they lift their heads._
Perhaps it will be light enough now without the lamp.
_Michaelis, holding Annie's hand, rises, goes to the window, and
rolls up the shades, while Rhoda extinguishes the lamp. The fog is
still thick, and the light which enters is dull. Rhoda unpins the
napkin from her aunt's breast, and wheels her back from the table.
The boy crouches down by the grate, Indian fashion. Annie looks at
him with shy, half-frightened interest._
MRS. BEELER.
_Gazing out, from where she sits reclining._
The blessed sun! I never thought to see it rise again so beautiful.
RHODA.
_Looks at her aunt, puzzled and alarmed._
But, Auntie, there isn't any sun! It's--
_She breaks off, seeing Michaelis place his finger on his lips as a
signal for her to be silent. Mrs. Beeler turns to Rhoda, puzzled._
MRS. BEELER.
There isn't any sun? Why--
_Rhoda pretends not to hear. Mrs. Beeler turns to Michaelis._
What does she mean by saying there is no sun?
MICHAELIS.
She means she doesn't see it.
MRS. BEELER.
_Still puzzled._
But--you see it, don't you?
MICHAELIS.
I see the same sun that you see.
MRS. BEELER.
_Looks again at Rhoda, then dismisses her wonderment, and looks out
at the window dreamily._
Another day--and to-morrow the best of all the days of the year.
ANNIE.
What day is to-morrow?
_She leaves Michaelis and comes to her mother's side._
What day is to-morrow?
MRS. BEELER.
_With exultation in her voice._
My child, to-morrow is the most wonderful and the most beautiful day of
all the year. The day when--all over the whole world--there is singing
in the air, and everything rises into new life and happiness.
ANNIE.
_Fretfully._
Mamma, I don't understand! What day is to-morrow?
MRS. BEELER.
To-morrow is Easter.
ANNIE.
_With sudden interest._
Easter! Can I have some eggs to color?
MRS. BEELER.
Ask Aunt Martha.
ANNIE.
_Singsong, as she skips out._
Eggs to color! Eggs to color!
_Rhoda has meanwhile fetched a large tray from the cupboard and has
been piling the dishes noiselessly upon it._
RHODA.
Shall I wheel you in, Aunt Mary?
MRS. BEELER.
Yes, please.
_Rhoda wheels the chair toward the hall door, which Michaelis
opens. Mrs. Beeler gazes at him as she passes._
Will you come in soon, and sit with me? There is so much that I want to
hear.
MICHAELIS.
Whenever you are ready.
MRS. BEELER.
I will ring my bell.
_As they go out, Martha bustles in, gathers up the dish tray and is
about to depart, with a vindictive look. At the door she turns, and
jerks her head toward the boy._
MARTHA.
Is it against the law to work where he comes from?
MICHAELIS.
_Abstractedly._
What?--No.
MARTHA.
Then he might as well do me some chores. Not but right, payin' only
half board.
MICHAELIS.
_To the boy._
Do whatever she tells you.
_The boy follows Martha out. Michaelis stands by the window in
thought. As Rhoda reënters, he looks up. He speaks significantly,
with suppressed excitement._
She saw the sun!
RHODA.
Poor dear Auntie!
MICHAELIS.
You pity her?
RHODA.
_After an instant's silence, during which she ponders her reply._
I think I envy her.
_She removes the cloth from the table, and begins deftly to put the
room in order. Michaelis watches her with a kind of vague
intentness._
MICHAELIS.
How long did you say she had been sick?
RHODA.
More than four years--nearly five.
MICHAELIS.
She has never walked in that time?
RHODA.
_Shakes her head._
Nor used her right hand, either.
MICHAELIS.
_With intensity._
Are you certain?
RHODA.
_Surprised at his tone._
Yes--I haven't lived here long, but I am certain.
MICHAELIS.
She has tried medicine, doctors?
RHODA.
Uncle has spent everything he could earn on them. She has been three
times to the mineral baths, once as far as Virginia.
MICHAELIS.
But never as far as Bethesda.
RHODA.
Bethesda? Where is that?
MICHAELIS.
The pool, which is called Bethesda, having five porches.
RHODA.
Oh, yes. The pool in the Bible, where once a year an angel troubled the
waters, and the sick and the lame and the blind gathered, hoping to be
healed.
MICHAELIS.
And whoever first, after the troubling of the waters, stepped in, he
was made whole of whatsoever disease he had.
RHODA.
If anybody could find the way there again, it would be Aunt Mary.
_Pause._
And if anybody could show her the way it would be--you.
_She goes on in a different tone, as if to escape from the
embarrassment of her last speech._
Her saying just now she saw the sun. She often says things like that.
Have you noticed?
MICHAELIS.
Yes.
RHODA.
_With hesitation._
Her brother Seth--the one who died--has she told you about him?
MICHAELIS.
Yes.
RHODA.
What she thinks happens--since--he died?
_Michaelis nods assent._
And yet in most other ways her mind is perfectly clear.
MICHAELIS.
Perhaps in this way it is clearer still.
RHODA.
_Startled._
You mean--that maybe she really does--_see_ her brother?
MICHAELIS.
It may be.
RHODA.
It would make the world a very different--a very strange place, if that
_were_ true.
MICHAELIS.
The world _is_ a very strange place.
_Pause._
RHODA.
Tell me a little about your life. That seems to have been very strange.
MICHAELIS.
_Vaguely, as he seats himself by the table._
I don't know. I can hardly remember what my life was.
RHODA.
Why is that?
MICHAELIS.
_Gazing at her._
Because, since I came into this house, I have seen the vision of
another life.
RHODA.
_With hesitation._
What--other life?
MICHAELIS.
Since my boyhood I have been--
_He hesitates._
I have been a wanderer, almost a fugitive--. And I never knew it, till
now--I never knew it till--I looked into your face!
RHODA.
_Avoiding his gaze._
How should that make you know?
MICHAELIS.
_Leans nearer._
All my life long I have walked in the light of something to come, some
labor, some mission, I have scarcely known what--but I have risen with
it and lain down with it, and nothing else has existed for me.--Nothing,
until--I lifted my eyes and you stood there. The stars looked down from
their places, the earth wheeled on among the stars. Everything was as
it had been, and nothing was as it had been; nor ever, ever can it be
the same again.
RHODA.
_In a low and agitated voice._
You must not say these things to me. You are--I am not--. You must not
think of me so.
MICHAELIS.
I must think of you as I must.
_Pause. Rhoda speaks in a lighter tone, as if to relieve the
tension of their last words._
RHODA.
Tell me a little of your boyhood.--What was it like--that place where
you lived?
MICHAELIS.
_Becomes absorbed in his own mental pictures as he speaks._
A great table of stone, rising five hundred feet out of the endless
waste of sand. A little adobe house, halfway up the mesa, with the
desert far below and the Indian village far above. A few peach trees,
and a spring--a sacred spring, which the Indians worshipped in secret.
A little chapel, which my father had built with his own hands. He often
spent the night there, praying. And there, one night, he died. I found
him in the morning, lying as if in quiet prayer before the altar.
RHODA.
_After a moment's hush._
What did you do after your father died?
MICHAELIS.
I went away south, into the mountains, and got work on a sheep range. I
was a shepherd for five years.
RHODA.
And since then?
MICHAELIS.
_Hesitates._
Since then I have--wandered about, working here and there to earn
enough to live on.
RHODA.
I understand well why men take up that life. I should love it myself.
MICHAELIS.
I didn't do it because I loved it.
RHODA.
Why, then?
MICHAELIS.
I was waiting my time.
RHODA.
_In a low tone._
Your time--for what?
MICHAELIS.
To fulfil my life--my real life.
RHODA.
Your--real life?
_He sits absorbed in thought without answering. Rhoda continues,
after a long pause._
There in the mountains, when you were a shepherd--that was not your
real life?
MICHAELIS.
It was the beginning of it.
RHODA.
_With hesitation._
Won't you tell me a little about that time?
MICHAELIS.
In the fall I would drive the sheep south, through the great basin
which sloped down into Mexico, and in the spring back again to the
mountains.
RHODA.
Were you all alone?
MICHAELIS.
There were a few men on the ranges, but they were no more to me than
the sheep--not so much.
RHODA.
Weren't you dreadfully lonely?
MICHAELIS.
No.
RHODA.
You hadn't even any books to read?
MICHAELIS.
_Takes a took from his coat pocket._
I had this pocket Bible, that had been my father's. I read that
sometimes. But always in a dream, without understanding, without
remembering.
_His excitement increases._
Yet there came a time when whole chapters started up in my mind, as
plain as if the printed page were before me, and I understood it all,
both the outer meaning and the inner.
RHODA.
And you didn't know what made the difference?
MICHAELIS.
Yes.
RHODA.
What was it?
MICHAELIS.
I can't tell you that.
RHODA.
Oh, yes!
MICHAELIS.
There are no words to tell of it.
RHODA.
Yet tell me. I need to know. Believe me, I need to know!
MICHAELIS.
_Slowly, groping for his words._
It was one morning in the fourth spring. We were back in the mountains
again. It was lambing time, and I had been up all night. Just before
sunrise, I sat down on a rock to rest. Then--it came.
RHODA.
What came?
_He does not answer._
You saw something?
_He nods for yes._
What was it?
MICHAELIS.
_Rises, lifting his arms, a prey to uncontrollable excitement._
The living Christ!--Standing before me on the mountain, amid the
grazing sheep.--With these eyes and in this flesh, I saw Him.
_Long pause._
RHODA.
_In a low tone._
You had fallen asleep. It was a dream.
MICHAELIS.
_Shakes his head in negation._
That wasn't all.
_He turns away. She follows him, and speaks after a silence._
RHODA.
Tell me the rest. What happened to you, after--after what you saw--that
morning in the mountains?
MICHAELIS.
_Begins to talk slowly and reluctantly._
I lived straight ahead, with the sheep for two years.
RHODA.
_Hesitating._
Did you ever _see_ anything again?
MICHAELIS.
No.--But twice--I heard a voice.
RHODA.
What kind of a voice?
MICHAELIS.
The first time it came at night. I was walking on the top of the
mountain, in a stony place. It--it was like a wind among the stones.
RHODA.
What did it say?
MICHAELIS.
It said, "Prepare! Prepare!"
RHODA.
And the second time?
MICHAELIS.
In the same place, at dawn. The voice said, "Go forth, it is finished!"
I looked round me and saw nothing. Then it came again, like a wind
among the stones, "Go forth, it is begun!"
RHODA.
And you obeyed?
MICHAELIS.
I found a man to take my place, and started north. Three days after, I
climbed the mesa toward my old home. Above, in the pueblo, I heard the
sound of tom-toms and wailing squaws. They told me that the young son
of the chief lay dead in my father's chapel. I sat beside him all day
and all night. Just before daylight--
_He breaks off abruptly._
RHODA.
Go on!
MICHAELIS.
Just before daylight, when the other watchers were asleep, the power of
the spirit came strong upon me. I bowed myself upon the boy's body, and
prayed. My heart burned within me, for I felt his heart begin to beat!
His eyes opened. I told him to arise, and he arose. He that was dead
arose and was alive again!
_Pause. Mrs. Beeler's bell rings. Michaelis starts, looks about him
as if awakened from a dream, then slowly goes toward the hall door.
Rhoda follows and detains him._
RHODA.
_In a low tone._
How long had he lain--for dead?
MICHAELIS.
Three days.
RHODA.
_With hesitation._
I have heard that people have lain as long as that in a trance,
breathing so lightly that it could not be told, except by holding a
glass before the face.
MICHAELIS.
_Startled._
Is that true?
RHODA.
I have read so.
MICHAELIS.
I wonder--I wonder.
_He stands in deep thought._
But I have had other signs.
RHODA.
What other signs?
MICHAELIS.
Many, many. Up and down the land!
_Pause._
I wonder.--I--I almost wish it were so!
_With bent head he goes out. Rhoda stands looking after him until
the inner door closes, then sits before the fire in revery. Beeler
comes in from the barn. He wears his old fur cap, and holds in one
hand a bulky Sunday newspaper, in the other some battered harness,
an awl, twine, and wax, which he deposits on the window seat. He
lays the paper on the table, and unfolds from it a large colored
print, which he holds up and looks at with relish._
BEELER.
These Sunday papers do get up fine supplements. I wouldn't take money
for that picture.
RHODA.
_Looks at it absently._
What does it mean?
BEELER.
_Reads._
"Pan and the Pilgrim." Guess you never heard of Pan, did you?
RHODA.
Yes. One of the old heathen gods.
BEELER.
Call him heathen if you like! The folks that worshipped him thought he
was orthodox, I guess.
_He pins up the print, which represents a palmer of crusading times
surprised in the midst of a forest by the god Pan._
RHODA.
What does the picture mean?
BEELER.
Well, Pan there, he was a kind of a nature god. The old Romans thought
him out, to stand for a lot of things.
RHODA.
What kind of things?
BEELER.
Natural things, with plenty of sap and mischief in 'em. Growin' plants,
and frisky animals, and young folks in love.
_He points to the figure of Pan, then to the Pilgrim, as he talks._
There he sits playin' Jenny-come-kiss-me on his dod-gasted mouth-organ,
when along comes one of them fellows out of a monastery, with religion
on the brain. Pikin' for Jerusalem, to get a saint's toe-nail and a
splinter of the true cross.
_Martha enters from the kitchen and potters about the room "redding
up."_
Look at him! Do you think he'll ever get to Jerusalem? Not this trip!
He hears the pipes o' Pan. He hears women callin' and fiddles squeakin'
love-tunes in the woods. It'll take more than a monk's robe on his back
and a shaved head on his shoulders to keep him straight, I reckon.
He'll call to mind that young fellows had blood in their veins when
Adam was a farmer, and whoop-la! he'll be off to the county fair, to
dance ring-around-a-rosy with Matildy Jane!
_Pause, as he takes off his cap and light his pipe._
Like to see our friend Michaelis meet up with Mr. Pan. Don't believe
Michaelis ever looked cross-eyed at a girl.
_He examines Rhoda quizzically._
You wouldn't make up bad as Matildy Jane yourself, Rho, but sufferin'
Job, he can't tell the difference between crow's feet and dimples!
MARTHA.
Don't you be so sure!
BEELER.
Hello! Dan'el come to judgment! Never seen an old maid yet that
couldn't squeeze a love story out of a flat-iron.
MARTHA.
I may be an old maid, and you may be an old wind-bag, but I've got eyes
in my head.
_To Rhoda._
Where did you meet up with him, anyway?
_Rhoda, plunged in thought, does not answer._
BEELER.
Wake up, Rhody! Marthy asked you where you met up with our new boarder.
RHODA.
On the road, coming home from the village.
BEELER.
What made you bring him here?
RHODA.
He wanted a quiet place to stay, and this was the best I knew.
MARTHA.
Guess it was!--A snap for him.
_She goes out by the hall door._
RHODA.
_Rises, takes the lamp off the mantel, and during the following
cleans and refills it._
BEELER.
_As he takes off his coat, and hangs it up._
Rhody, ain't this religious business rather a new thing with you? Up
there in St. Louis, didn't go in for it much up there, did you?
RHODA.
_Looks at him quickly._
Why do you ask that?
BEELER.
Oh, I gathered, from things I heard, that you cared more about dancin'
than about prayin', up there.
_She turns away._
That young fellow that was so sweet on you in St. Louis year before
last, he wa'n't much in the psalm-singin' line, was he?
RHODA.
_Startled and pale._
Who told you about him?
BEELER.
Oh, Mary's friends, the Higginses, used to write us about your affairs.
We thought it would be a hitch-up, sure as shootin'. Studyin' to be a
doctor, wasn't he?
RHODA.
Uncle, please never speak to me about him again!
BEELER.
All right, all right, my girl. I've been young myself, and I know youth
is touchy as a gumboil when it comes to love affairs. So it's all off,
is it?
RHODA.
Yes.
BEELER.
_Sits down to mend the harness._
If you're partial to the pill trade, we've got a brand new doctor in
town now. Took old Doctor Martin's place. He'll be up here to see Mary
in a day or two, and you can look him over.
RHODA.
What is his name?
BEELER.
_Tries in vain to recall it._
Blamed if I can remember. Only seen him once. But I tell you, he's
smart as tacks. Chuck full of Jamaica ginger. The very kind I'd have
swore you'd take to, a while back, before you lost your fun and your
spirit. When I first saw you on your father's farm out in Kansas, you
was as wild a little gypsy as I ever set eyes on. I said then to your
dad, "There's a filly that'll need a good breakin'." I never thought
I'd see you takin' up with these Gospel pedlers.
_Martha comes in from the hall and fusses about, dusting, etc. She
points in the direction of Mrs. Beeler's room._
MARTHA.
They're prayer-meetin' it again. And Mary lyin' there as if she saw the
pearly gates openin' before her eyes.
BEELER.
_Half to himself as he works._
Poor Mary!--Mary's a strange woman.
MARTHA.
_To Rhoda._
Your mother was the same way, Rhody. The whole Beardsley tribe, for
that matter. But Mary was the worst. It begun with Mary as soon as her
brother Seth got drowned.
BEELER.
_Looks up, angry._
None of that, Sis!
MARTHA.
I guess my tongue's my own.
BEELER.
No, it ain't. I won't have any more of that talk around me, do you
hear? I put my foot down a year ago.
MARTHA.
_Points to his foot derisively._
It's big enough and ugly enough, Heaven knows, but you can put it down
as hard as you like, it won't keep a man's sperrit in his grave--not
when he's a mind to come out!
BEELER.
_Astonished._
Martha Beeler!
MARTHA.
That's my name.
_She flounces out into the kitchen, covering her retreat with her
last speech._
BEELER.
_Looking after her._
My kingdom! Martha! I thought she had some horse sense left.
RHODA.
_Slowly, as the finishes with the lamp._
Uncle, it's hard to live side by side with Aunt Mary and not--
BEELER.
_In angry challenge._
And not what?
RHODA.
And not believe there's something more in these matters than "horse
sense" will account for.
BEELER.
_Hotly, as if a sort point has been touched upon._
There's nothing more than science will account for.
_He points to a shelf of books._
You can read it up any day you like. Read that book yonder, chapter
called Hallucinations. Pathological, that's what it is, pathological.
RHODA.
What does that mean?
_Beeler taps his forehead significantly._
Uncle, you know that's not true!
BEELER.
_Growls to himself._
Pathological, up and down.
_Rhoda replaces the lamp on the mantel._
_Martha opens the kitchen door and calls in._
MARTHA.
Here's Uncle Abe!
BEELER.
Uncle Abe? Thought he was a goner.
_Uncle Abe enters. He is an old negro, with gray hair and thin,
gray beard. He is somewhat bowed, and carries a stick, but he is
not decrepit. His clothes are spattered with mud. Martha enters
with him; she is stirring something in a bowl, and during the
following continues to do so, though more and more interruptedly
and absent-mindedly._
BEELER.
Hello, Uncle Abe.
UNCLE ABE.
Good-mawnin', Mista Beeler.
BEELER.
Where've you been all winter? Thought you'd gone up Salt River.
UNCLE ABE.
_Shakes his head reassuringly._
Ain' nevah goin' up no Salt River, yo' Uncle Abe ain't.
BEELER.
_Indicating Rhoda._
Make you acquainted with my wife's niece, Miss Williams.
_Uncle Abe bows._
RHODA.
_Pushing forward a chair._
Sit down, Uncle. I don't see how you found your way in this dreadful
fog.
UNCLE ABE.
Fawg don' matta' nothin' to me, honey. Don' mean nothin' 'tall.
_He speaks with exaltation and restrained excitement._
Yo' ol' Uncle keeps on tellin' 'em, dis hyah fawg an' darkness don'
mean nothin' 'tall!
_Rhoda and Martha look at him puzzled._
_Beeler, busy over his harness, has not been struck by the old
negro's words._
BEELER.
How's the ginseng crop this year?
UNCLE ABE.
They ain' no mo' gimsing!
BEELER.
No more ginseng? What do you mean?
UNCLE ABE.
De good Lawd, he ain' goin' fool roun' no mo' wif no gimsing!
BEELER.
_Amused._
Why, I thought your ginseng bitters was His main holt.
UNCLE ABE.
_With a touch of regret._
Use to be, Mars' Beeler. It shore use to be.--Yes, sah. Bless de Lawd!
_Shakes his head in reminiscence._
He sartinly did set sto' by them thah bitters.
BEELER.
_With lazy amusement._
So the Lord's gone back on ginseng now, has He?
UNCLE ABE.
Yes, sah.
BEELER.
What makes you think so?
UNCLE ABE.
_Solemnly._
Roots all kill by de fros'!
_His manner grows more and more mysterious; he half closes his
eyes, as he goes on in a strange, mounting singsong._
Knowed it more'n a monf ago, fo' dis hyah blin' worl' lef' de plough in
de ploughshare an' de ungroun' wheat betwixen de millstones, and went
a-follerin' aftah dis hyah new star outen de Eas', like a bride
follerin' aftah de bridegroom!
_Martha taps her forehead significantly, and goes back to her
batter._
BEELER.
New star, Uncle? Tell us about it. Sounds interesting.
UNCLE ABE.
_Stares at each of them in turn._
Ain' you-all heerd?
BEELER.
You've got the advantage of us.
UNCLE ABE.
Ain' you-all heerd 'bout de Healer?
BEELER.
Healer? What kind of a healer?
UNCLE ABE.
_With mounting indignation at Beeler's tone._
De Bible kin', dat's what kin'! De kin' what makes de lame fer to walk,
and de blin' fer to see, an' de daid fer to riz up outen their daid
col' graves. That's what kin'! Mean to say you-all ain' heerd nothin'
'bout him, you po' chillun o' dawkness?
_Martha and Beeler look at each other in amazement. Rhoda sits
looking at the old negro, white and tense with excitement._
BEELER.
Nope.
_Recollecting._
Hold on!
MARTHA.
_To Beeler._
Don't you remember, in the papers, two or three weeks ago? Where was
it? Somewheres out West.
BEELER.
Believe I did read some such goin's-on. Don't pay much attention to
such nonsense.
UNCLE ABE.
_Solemn and threatening._
Tek keer, Mistah Beeler! Tek keer what you say 'fore dese here cloudy
witnesses. Don' you go cuttin' yo'self off from de Kingdom. Nor you,
Mis' Martha, nor you, honey. Don' ye do it! It's a-comin'. Yo' ol'
Uncle Abe he's seen and heerd.
RHODA.
Tell us quickly what you mean!
UNCLE ABE.
Mean jes' what I says, honey. Night fo' last, de Healer, he come,
like's if he jes' plum' drop from de sky.
_More mysteriously._
An' whar's he gone to? You listen to yo' ol' Uncle Abe a-tellin' you.
He ain' gone no-whars! He's jes' meechin' roun' in de fawg, a-waitin'
fer de Lawd to call folks. En He's a-callin' 'em! He's a-callin' 'em by
tens an' by hundreds. Town's full a'ready, honey. Main Street look jes'
lak a fiel' hospital, down Souf durin' de wah!
MARTHA.
_Meeting Beeler's astonished look._
What did I tell you? Maybe you'll listen to _me_ next time.
RHODA.
_To Uncle Abe, in a low, agitated voice._
This man you call the Healer--is he alone?
UNCLE ABE.
No, honey; folks says he don' nevah go no-wheres by hisse'f. Always got
that thah young man wif 'im what he raise from de daid.
BEELER.
_Rises, with a shrug._
Good evening!
_He crosses to the portraits of Darwin and Spencer._
You made quite a stir in your time, didn't you? Well, it's all up with
you!
MARTHA.
_In a voice strident with nervousness._
Raised from the dead?
UNCLE ABE.
That's what they says, Mis' Martha. Folks calls 'im Laz'rus in ref'ence
to de Bible chil' what riz up jes' same way lak', outen de daid col'
tomb.
_The Indian boy enters from the kitchen, his shoes and trousers
spattered with mud. Uncle Abe looks at him, then at the others, and
whispers to Rhoda. Martha bustles forward, hiding her agitation in
scolding speech._
MARTHA.
Well, did you get my coffee and my sal-soda?
_Lazarus points, without speaking, to the kitchen._
BEELER.
_To Martha._
Did you send him to the store?
MARTHA.
Yes, I did send him to the store. If I had my way, I'd send
him--further.
_The boy hesitates, then goes stolidly out by the stair door. Uncle
Abe lifts his arm ecstatically._
UNCLE ABE.
That's him! I tell ye that's the chil' what's said "Howdy" to the daid
folks down yonder. I'se seen 'im in my dreams, an' now I'se seen 'im
wif dese hyah two eyes.--O Lawd, bless dis hyah house o' grace!
BEELER.
I guess it's about time that fellow come out and exploded some of this
tomfoolery.
_He starts towards his wife's room._
RHODA.
_Stopping him._
Please don't.
BEELER.
_Peevishly._
There's got to be an end to this hoodoo business in my house.
_Annie enters from the kitchen, dabbled with dye. She holds two
colored eggs in her hands._
ANNIE.
Look! I've colored two.
MARTHA.
Good gracious, child. What a mess!
ANNIE.
Pa! Play crack with me! Just once, to see how it goes.
BEELER.
Go in and ask your mother if she'll let you.
_Annie, her eggs in her apron, opens the hall door. About to pass
out, she stops, drops the eggs with a scream, and runs back, gazing
towards the hall as she takes refuge behind Rhoda's skirts._
ANNIE.
Pa! Auntie! Ma's walking!
_Mrs. Beeler enters, walking uncertainly, her face full of intense
exaltation. Michaelis comes just behind her, transfigured by
spiritual excitement._
BEELER AND MARTHA.
_Starting forward._
Mary!
RHODA.
Aunt Mary!
_Mrs. Beeler advances into the room, reaching out her hand to
Annie, who takes it in speechless fright. She bends over and kisses
the child's head, then stretches out her other hand to her
husband._
MRS. BEELER.
Mat, I'm cured! The Lord has heard our prayers, for His saint's sake.
BEELER.
Why, Mary, I can't believe this--it's too--it's not possible!
MRS. BEELER.
_Looking at Michaelis._
It is written that he who has faith, even as a grain of mustard seed--.
I have had faith.
MARTHA.
Law, you've had faith enough any time these five years, Mary. There was
something else wanting, 'pears to me.
MRS. BEELER.
There was wanting the word of true belief, saying, "Suffer no more!
Stoop and drink of the waters of mercy and healing."
_Outside, the shrill soprano of a woman is heard, taking up a hymn.
At the sound Michaelis goes to the window. He stands rigid,
listening to the hymn to the end of the verse, when other voices
join in the chorus. The fog has partially cleared._
MICHAELIS.
_Turning slowly to Rhoda._
Who are they?
RHODA.
Sick people.
MICHAELIS.
How did they find out I was here?
RHODA.
It was known you were somewhere near.--They have been gathering for
days.--They saw the boy, just now, in the village.
MRS. BEELER.
_Comes a step or two nearer Michaelis._
Your great hour is at hand!
_He looks distractedly about. The light has faded from his face,
giving place to strong nervous agitation, resembling fear. He
speaks as if to himself._
MICHAELIS.
My hour!--My hour!--And I--and I--!
_He puts his hand over his eyes, as if to shut out some vision of
dread._
MRS. BEELER.
You will not fail them? You cannot fail them, now.
_Michaelis looks at Mrs. Beeler, then for a long time at Rhoda. He
gathers himself together, and gazes steadfastly before him, as at
some unseen presence._
No.--I have waited so long. I have had such deep assurances.--I must
not fail. I must not fail.
CURTAIN
ACT II
_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.
Mediæval! Absolutely mediæval!
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
ACT III
_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 epizoötic.
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._
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