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Title: Masks: One act plays of contemporary life
Author: Middleton, George
Language: English
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TIDES, AMONG THE LIONS, THE REASON, THE HOUSE ***
MRS. PARTRIDGE PRESENTS
Comedy in 3 acts. By Mary Kennedy and Ruth Hawthorne. 6 males, 6
females. Modern costumes. 2 interiors. Plays 2½ hours.
The characters, scenes and situations are thoroughly
up-to-date in this altogether delightful American comedy.
The heroine is a woman of tremendous energy, who manages a
business--as she manages everything--with great success, and
at home presides over the destinies of a growing son and
daughter. Her struggle to give the children the opportunities
she herself had missed, and the children’s ultimate revolt
against her well-meant management--that is the basis of
the plot. The son who is cast for the part of artist and
the daughter who is to go on the stage offer numerous
opportunities for the development of the comic possibilities
in the theme.
The play is one of the most delightful, yet thought-provoking
American comedies of recent years, and is warmly recommended
to all amateur groups, (Royalty on application.)
Price, 75 Cents.
IN THE NEXT ROOM
Melodrama in 3 acts. By Eleanor Robson and Harriet Ford. 8 males, 3
females. 2 interiors. Modern costumes. Plays 2¼ hours.
“Philip Vantine has bought a rare copy of an original Boule
cabinet and ordered it shipped to his New York home from
Paris. When it arrives it is found to be the original itself,
the possession of which is desired by many strange people.
Before the mystery concerned with the cabinet’s shipment can
be cleared up, two persons meet mysterious death fooling
with it and the happiness of many otherwise happy actors
is threatened” (Burns Mantle). A first-rate mystery play,
comprising all the elements of suspense, curiosity, comedy
and drama. “In the Next Room” is quite easy to stage. It can
be unreservedly recommended to high schools and colleges.
(Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)
Price, 75 Cents.
SAMUEL FRENCH, 25 West 45th Street, New York City
New and Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed Free on Request
MASKS
With
JIM’S BEAST, TIDES, AMONG THE LIONS,
THE REASON, THE HOUSE
_One-Act Plays of Contemporary Life_
BY
GEORGE MIDDLETON
“_We all wear many masks_”
COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY GEORGE MIDDLETON
_ALL RIGHTS RESERVED_
CAUTION.--Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that
“Masks,” “Jim’s Beast,” “Tides,” “Among the Lions,” “The
Reason,” and “The House,” being fully protected under the
copyright laws of the United States of America, the British
Empire, including the Dominion of Canada, and the other
countries of the Copyright Union, is subject to a royalty, and
anyone presenting the play without the consent of the owner
or his authorized agents will be liable to the penalties of the
law provided. Applications for the professional and amateur acting
rights must be made to Samuel French, 25 West 45th Street, New
York, N. Y.
NEW YORK | LONDON
SAMUEL FRENCH | SAMUEL FRENCH, LTD.
PUBLISHER | 26 SOUTHAMPTON STREET
25 WEST 45TH STREET | STRAND
=MASKS=
with
=Jim’s Beast, Tides, Among the Lions, The Reason, The House=
_One-Act Plays of Contemporary Life_
=ALL RIGHTS RESERVED=
+------------------------------------------------------------------+
| |
| |
| Especial notice should be taken that the possession of this book |
| without a valid contract for production first having been |
| obtained from the publisher, confers no right or license to |
| professionals or amateurs to produce the play publicly or in |
| private for gain or charity. |
| |
| In their present form these plays are dedicated to the reading |
| public only, and no performance, representation, production, |
| recitation, or public reading, or radio broadcasting may be |
| given except by special arrangement with Samuel French, 25 West |
| 45th Street, New York. |
| |
| These plays may be presented by amateurs upon payment of a |
| royalty of Ten Dollars per performance, payable to Samuel |
| French, 25 West 45th Street, New York, one week before the date |
| when the play is given. |
| |
| Professional royalty quoted on application to Samuel French, 25 |
| West 45th Street, New York, N. Y. |
| |
| Whenever the play is produced the following notice must appear |
| on all programs, printing and advertising for the play: |
| “Produced by special arrangement with Samuel French of New |
| York.” |
| |
| Attention is called to the penalty provided by law for any |
| infringement of the author’s rights, as follows: |
| |
| “SECTION 4966:--Any person publicly performing or representing |
| any dramatic or musical composition for which copyright has |
| been obtained, without the consent of the proprietor of said |
| dramatic or musical composition, or his heirs and assigns, |
| shall be liable for damages thereof, such damages, in all |
| cases to be assessed at such sum, not less than one hundred |
| dollars for the first and fifty dollars for every subsequent |
| performance, as to the court shall appear to be just. If |
| the unlawful performance and representation be wilful and |
| for profit, such person or persons shall be guilty of a |
| misdemeanor, and upon conviction shall be imprisoned for a |
| period not exceeding one year.”--U. S. Revised Statutes: Title |
| 60, Chap. 3. |
| |
+------------------------------------------------------------------+
=To=
GARDNER and MARICE
SOUVENIR OF HAPPY DAYS IN THE FOREST
WHERE MUCH OF THIS WAS WRITTEN
In the prefaces to my five previous volumes I have sufficiently
explained my reason for play publication--not as a substitute
for production but as an alternative sometimes compelled by the
exigencies of a highly commercialized theater. Further, I have
stated in other places why I have so frequently turned to the
one-act form.
The present volume is dedicated to no thesis, though perhaps the
title may offer some hint of the underlying motive which has
prompted this series.
G. M.
_December 23, 1919._
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE v
MASKS 3
JIM’S BEAST 67
TIDES 113
AMONG THE LIONS 149
THE REASON 181
THE HOUSE 211
MASKS
THE PEOPLE
GRANT WILLIAMS, _a dramatist_.
JERRY, _his wife_.
{_Characters_
{_in his_
TOM ROBINSON, _a great painter_. {_unproduced_
MARIE CASE, _formerly Tom’s wife_. {_drama “The_
{_Lonely Way.”_
SCENE
_In the_ WILLIAMS’ _flat, New York City, after the second
performance of_ GRANT WILLIAMS’ _first great success_, THE SAND
BAR, _produced at the National Theater_.
MASKS[A]
_The doorway from the public stairs opens immediately upon the
living-room without the intervening privacy of a small hallway. The
room was, no doubt, more formally pretentious in the early days
of the_ WILLIAMS’ _marriage; but the relics of that time--some
rigid mahogany chairs and stray pieces of staid furniture--have
been ruthlessly pushed against the walls, so that one perceives
a “parlor” transformed into a miscellaneous room upon which the
flat’s overflow has gradually crept. And with this has come_
GRANT WILLIAMS’ _plain wooden work-table, bearing now a writer’s
accessories, a desk lamp, and a mass of manuscripts; one of
which is his unproduced drama_, THE LONELY WAY, _bound in the
conventional blue linen cover. His well-worn typewriter is perched
on the end of the table, in easy reach of his work-chair with its
sofa cushions crushed and shaped to his form. Another chair is near
by, so that it also may catch the flood of light which comes from
the conventional electric bunch-light above. There is a small black
kerosene heater to be used in those emergencies of temperature
which landlords create. Not far from it, a child’s collapsible
go-cart is propped. On the walls, above some over-flowing
bookshelves, are several tastefully selected etchings. A window
in back, which hides an airshaft, is partly concealed by heavy
curtains that hang tired and limp. There is another doorway,
directly opposite the entrance, which leads to the other rooms of a
characteristically compressed city flat._
_Yet the room is not forbidding: it merely suggests forced
economies that have not quite fringed poverty: continual
adaptation, as it were, to the financial contingencies of a
marriage that has just managed to make both ends meet._
_When the curtain rises_ JERRY WILLIAMS _is seated in the cozy
chair reading a number of newspaper clippings_.
JERRY _is an attractive woman in her thirties. Externally, there
is nothing particularly striking about her: if there be such a
thing as an average wife_ JERRY _personifies it. She has loved her
husband and kept house for him without a spoken protest; for she
has had no advanced ideas or theories. Yet she has had her fears
and little concealments and dreams--like any married woman. She has
been sustained through the ten years of hard sledding by the belief
in her husband’s ultimate financial success. And as she reads the
criticisms of his play_, THE SAND BAR, _produced the night before,
she realizes it has come at last. She is now completely happy and
calm in the thought of her rewards._
_She looks at the cheap watch lying on the desk and indicates it
is late. She closes the window, walks over to the doorway and
looks in, apparently to see if the child is still asleep. Then
she closes the door and stands there, with just a suspicion of
impatience._
_Several minutes pass. Then she gives a little cry of joy as she
hears the key turn in the lock and she sees the hall door open
slowly--admitting her husband._
GRANT WILLIAMS _is a more striking personality than his wife; about
forty, with a tinge of iron gray on his temples, he has a strong
virile face not without traces of idealism. His whole appearance
is normal and devoid of any conscious affectation of dress. But a
very close inspection might reveal that his suit, though carefully
pressed, is well worn--as is the overcoat which covers it._ GRANT
_happens to be a man of cultivation and breeding, with a spark of
genius, who has strayed into strange pastures. At present there
lurks an unexpected depression back of his mood; perhaps it is only
the normal reaction which comes to every artist when success is won
and the critical sense within mocks the achievement so beneath the
dream. Perhaps with_ GRANT WILLIAMS _it is something else_.
JERRY
Oh, Grant, I thought you’d never come home.
GRANT
Best, the house manager, detained me.
JERRY
(_Detecting his mood_)
There’s nothing the matter with the play?
GRANT
Nothing; except it’s an enormous success. (_She smiles again, and
he wants to keep her smiling._) We were sold out to-night. The
second night! Think of that! I had to stand myself.
JERRY
Well, I don’t see why you should be blue about it. There were
always plenty of empty seats at your other plays. I knew THE SAND
BAR couldn’t fail.
GRANT
(_Throwing coat carelessly over chair_)
You felt the same about the others.
JERRY
(_Trying to cheer him_)
They didn’t fail--artistically.
GRANT
You mean nobody came to see them--except on passes. But THE SAND
BAR! That’s different! (_With a tinge of sarcasm throughout._) You
ought to have seen the way the mob at the National ate it up.
JERRY
I wanted to go but I couldn’t ask Mrs. Hale to take care of the
baby again. Besides, I was anxious to read all the notices over
quietly by myself and....
GRANT
(_Picking them up and glancing through them_)
Great, aren’t they? Not a “roast” among them.
JERRY
Not one. I couldn’t find Arthur Black’s review: he was always so
kind to your other plays, too.
GRANT
(_Evasively_)
I forgot to bring in the _Gazette_. Best says he never saw such
“money” notices. (_Glances at one._) Doran outdid himself.
(_Reading the critic’s notice with a touch of theatrical
exaggeration._) “The perception of human nature evinced by Grant
Williams in his profoundly moving drama THE SAND BAR places him in
the front rank of American dramatists!”
JERRY
Just where you belong.
GRANT
(_Skipping_)
“His hero, Tom Robinson, the artist, who deliberately deserts his
highest ideals because his wife’s happiness is of more value than
his own egoistic self-expression, is a new angle on the much abused
artistic temperament.” (_With a wise smile._) That “twist” seems to
have got them. (_Reading_) “Marie, his wife, who is willing to risk
her honor to test his love and thus awaken him to a sense of his
human responsibility, is a character which will appeal to every
married woman.”
JERRY
(_She nods in approval, without his seeing her_)
But read the last paragraph, dear.
GRANT
“In fact, all the characters are true to themselves, never
once being bent by the playwright for dramatic effect out of
the inevitable and resistless momentum of their individual
psychologies.” And Doran used to report prizefights!
JERRY
I hope he doesn’t go back to it. He writes beautifully.
GRANT
By the way, I haven’t told you the crowning achievement of my ten
years of writing. Trebaro--the great Trebaro who would never even
read my plays before--asked me in the lobby to-night to write him a
curtain raiser!
JERRY
(_Happily_)
That’s splendid!
GRANT
I’ve promised to get it done in ten days. His new play is going to
run short. He’s got to have something to lengthen the evening.
JERRY
Have you an idea?
GRANT
No; not yet. But he doesn’t like anything with ideas in it.
JERRY
(_As she sees him go to his typewriter to remove cover_)
But, dear, you’re not going to begin it to-night! (_Significantly
stopping him._) To-night belongs to me--not to your work.
(_Nestling close beside him._) Dearest....
GRANT
All right, Jerry. I’ve only got a few paragraphs of personal stuff
to bang off. Then I’ll be with you. _The Times_ wants it for a
Sunday story--with my photo. (_As her face brightens again._) You
see, Mrs. Grant Williams, your husband is now in the limelight.
JERRY
I’m so glad success has come to you at last.
GRANT
Better at last than at first. I’m told it’s bad for your character
to be too successful when you’re young. So providence nearly
starved us a bit, eh?
JERRY
You thought it was going to be so easy when we were first married.
It’s been hard for you, dear. I know. Writing and writing and
seeing other fellows make money. But now you’ve won out. You ought
to be very happy, as I am.
GRANT
You are happy, aren’t you? (_He takes her hands affectionately,
then looks at them, turning them over._) The only hard thing,
Jerry, was to see these hands of yours grow red and rough with the
work here.
JERRY
Maybe that’s the only way they could help you.
GRANT
(_Enigmatically_)
It’s because of them and only because of them that I’ve done it.
JERRY
Done what?
GRANT
Oh, nothing. (_He puts paper in the machine._) How about a glass of
milk?
JERRY
I’ll get it while the great man reveals himself to an anxious
public.
GRANT
And some crackers. (_Sitting at machine._) They want something
on: “How I Make My Characters Live.” (_She laughs suddenly: he
starts._) Oh; it’s you?
JERRY
Yes. I was thinking how funny it was to celebrate a success in milk.
GRANT
Yes. But the greatest joke of all is that THE SAND BAR _is_ a
success--a real financial success.
JERRY
It’s a very good joke.
(_She goes out happily. Then a cynical look creeps into his
face. He reads as he types._)
GRANT
“How I Made My Characters in THE SAND BAR Live.”
(_He pauses a second, smiling cynically. Then, as he
apparently hears something, he rises and goes over to
the hall door which he opens quickly. He looks out and
apparently sees a neighbor entering the apartment opposite.
A bibulous “good night” is heard. He closes the door, turns
the key, tests the door and sees it is locked. As he stands
there puzzled_, JERRY _enters, with a bottle of milk, some
crackers, and an apple on a small tray_.)
You’ll have to get over this habit of waiting on me now.
JERRY
Don’t ask the impossible.
GRANT
But we shall have servants now; plenty of them.
JERRY
Plenty of them? Why how much money are you going to make out of THE
SAND BAR?
GRANT
Nearly a thousand dollars a week.
JERRY
(_Almost inaudibly as she nearly drops the tray_)
My God!
GRANT
(_As he puts tray on table_)
It will run forty weeks at the National. Then three road companies
next year: “stock” and the “movies” after that. I’m going to
make as much money in two weeks now as I ever made before in one
year--turning out hack stuff and book reviews. And all I’ve got to
do is to sit back and let it work for me!
JERRY
It doesn’t seem honest.
GRANT
Maybe it isn’t, Jerry. (_As he eats._) But when the public is
pleased it pays to be pleased.
JERRY
(_Venturing_)
The first thing I want is some new clothes.
GRANT
(_Grandiloquently_)
My first week’s royalty is yours.
JERRY
Really?
GRANT
Throw away everything that’s darned and patched. I’m sick of seeing
them.
JERRY
I was always so ashamed, too. Just think what people would have
said if I’d been run over or killed in an accident.
GRANT
Now you’ll do the running over--in our new car.
JERRY
(_Hardly believing her ears_)
A car!
GRANT
Every successful playwright has a car.
JERRY
(_Joyfully_)
Then we’ll have to move from here to live up to the car?
GRANT
We’ve got to move. It’s more important to look like a success than
to be one. (_Glancing about flat._) And the Lord knows this doesn’t
look like success.
JERRY
I’m so glad. I’ve grown to hate these five stuffy rooms without
sunlight.
GRANT
Nothing to light them up these ten years but the glow of my genius,
eh? Now I’ll have a big house to shine in.
JERRY
I’ve always dreamed of you having a room off by yourself.
GRANT
Where you could really dream without the sound of my typewriter
waking you and the baby?
JERRY
But it will be splendid for you, too. I don’t see how you ever
wrote here with me always fussing in and out.
GRANT
Washing the eternal dish and cooking the eternal chop.
JERRY
I don’t ever want to look another gas stove in the face.
GRANT
You’ve cooked your last chop.
JERRY
Oh, Grant; my dreams have come true.
GRANT
(_Enigmatically again_)
Yes. Success or failure: it’s all a matter of how you dream. (_She
looks up puzzled: he is silent a moment and then goes to machine
again._) But I’ll never get this done.
JERRY
I’ll put on my old wrapper, for the last time, and wait up for you.
I’m going to get a real négligée to-morrow. Your favorite color.
GRANT
I won’t be long. This is an awful bore and I’m tired.
(_He begins to pound out something on his machine._ JERRY
_goes over to hang up his coat, and as she does so, a
newspaper clipping falls out of his pocket, on the floor.
She picks it up unnoticed by_ GRANT. _She glances at it;
starts angrily to speak to_ GRANT _about it; but seeing he
is absorbed, hesitates and then conceals it. She hangs up
the coat, comes around back of him as though to speak--but
changes her mind. She kisses him. As she passes the table,
she knocks off the manuscript of a play. She picks it up._)
GRANT
What’s that?
JERRY
The manuscript of THE LONELY WAY. (_He looks over at it, with a
cynical smile._) You’ve learned a lot about playwrighting since you
wrote that, haven’t you, dear?
GRANT
Yes--a lot.
JERRY
(_Tentatively_)
You used to say it was the best thing you ever did.
GRANT
How did you happen to come across it?
JERRY
I found it behind the chest when I was cleaning.
GRANT
Oh, yes; I remember. I threw it there the day of my great decision:
The day I made up my mind to rewrite it and call it THE SAND BAR.
JERRY
(_As she glances over the pages_)
Grant. I’m not going to lose you now that you’re a success?
GRANT
What ever put such a foolish idea in your head?
JERRY
You remember the Tom Robinson you drew in this play? All you made
him think of was his art; he even threw away his wife to make a
success of it.
GRANT
That was because his wife didn’t understand. Besides, dear, you
know how much I altered my original conception of their characters
and completely changed the plot. Look how different it all is in
THE SAND BAR.
JERRY
And you think your changes made the play truer to life? In real
life a Tom Robinson wouldn’t have got rid of her?
GRANT
I don’t think anything’s ever going to come between us, if that’s
what you mean.
JERRY
Of course not. (_Putting the manuscript on table, relieved, as she
sees him resume his typing._) But I felt so sure of you when we
were poor. Perhaps it was because you couldn’t afford to be wild.
(_She turns off the switch and goes out. The room is lighted
only by the desk lamp, casting its shadows into the corners
of the room. He takes a cigarette from the box on the table,
and as he smokes he reads half to himself what he has
written._)
GRANT
“An author’s characters grow into life out of his observation and
experience. Once they are conceived by these two parents their
first heart beats are the taps of the author’s typewriter.” Good.
“Gradually they grow into living men and women. They live with him,
yet with a life of their own. In writing THE SAND BAR I ... I....”
(_This makes him hesitate to continue. He glances toward the
manuscript of_ THE LONELY WAY. _He rises slowly and picks
it up cynically. Then, as though fascinated, he gradually
settles in the cozy chair by his table. He begins to become
absorbed as he reads his earlier play. He puts his hand over
his eyes, he lowers the manuscript, gives a sigh as though
lost in the thoughts it calls up. The door, which he has
locked, opens noiselessly, and closes as_ GRANT _looks up in
surprise and sees a man enter_.
GRANT _immediately discovers there is something extraordinary
about his unexpected visitor. As he directs the light upon
him_, GRANT _perceives the man’s power which lies both in his
frame and impressive personality. His eyes have a relentless
coldness when they narrow. His mouth is firm but cruel, with
a sarcastic droop pulling down the corners. In spite of
an occasional uncouth manner of spasmodically blurting out
his words_, GRANT _soon realizes how keen is the intruder’s
penetration when it is sharpened to the one point which
vitally concerns him--his art. For this man of fifty-five
winters, is a great artist._ GRANT _is too amazed and puzzled
to recognize it is one of his own creations_: TOM ROBINSON.
_The latter comes over to the dramatist and places a hand on
his shoulder._)
TOM
You and I have some scores to settle.
GRANT
(_Moving away_)
Who are you?
TOM
So you don’t recognize me?
GRANT
Your manners are familiar.
TOM
So Whistler once said. Look at me closely.
GRANT
Is this a dare?
TOM
(_Shaking his head slowly_)
An author’s brain is indeed a store-house of mixed impressions: a
strange asylum for me to have escaped from.
GRANT
(_Starting toward door_)
Possibly the police may be able to lead you safely home.
TOM
I am at home with you.
GRANT
Don’t get excited. Keep perfectly cool.
TOM
I am cool because my intention is. (GRANT _gives him a look as_
TOM _goes over to the machine and glances at the heading of the
article_.) “How I Make My Characters Live!” You certainly do--some
of us.
(GRANT _suddenly crosses to the door, tries it and realizes
it is still locked. He turns, bewildered, to_ TOM.)
GRANT
How did you get in here?
TOM
Why shouldn’t I? As your fellow-craftsman once remarked: “I am a
trifle light as air.”
GRANT
I can’t say you look it.
TOM
(_Eyeing him as he lights one of_ GRANT’S _cigarettes_)
Since you don’t recognize me perhaps you didn’t do what you did to
me--deliberately.
GRANT
But I’ve never done a thing to you.
TOM
Are we so soon forgot? (_Puffing_) Yet how reminiscent the odor of
this cigarette. I notice you still smoke the same cheap brand.
GRANT
I must say I admire your nerve.
TOM
You ought to admire it. You gave it to me.
GRANT
I never gave you anything.
TOM
(_Bluntly_)
Liar! You gave me life!
GRANT
Gave you life?
TOM
Yes; I am your child.
GRANT
My child? (_He laughs._)
TOM
Many a man before you has tried to deny paternity with a laugh.
GRANT
But you’re old enough to _be_ my father. Are you accusing me of
improving on Nature?
TOM
All artists do. (_Picking up manuscript of_ THE LONELY WAY.) Here’s
how you described me. (_Reading_) “... his eyes have a relentless
coldness when they narrow ... mouth firm but cruel.... Not
attractive but impressive.” There I am. Read it for yourself.
GRANT
Then you are--?
TOM
(_Sarcastically_)
Your child. Your once dearly beloved brain baby.
GRANT
(_Awed_)
Tom Robinson!
TOM
As you originally conceived him here in THE LONELY WAY.
GRANT
Well, I’m damned.
TOM
I suspect you are. _That’s_ what I’m here to see. (_Ominously_)
And then if.... (_Suddenly casual_) But sit down and we’ll talk it
over calmly first. (GRANT _sits down astonished_. TOM _sits also_.)
Thanks.
GRANT
Go on.
TOM
Look at me. Here I am, as you drew me. Tom Robinson. Your greatest
creation!
GRANT
I recognize the egotism.
TOM
(_Blurting_)
I am what my egotism made me. Your egotism also made you dare to
conceive me, here at this very desk, out of your brain, in the
puffs of your cheap cigarettes. The taps on your typewriter were my
first heart beats. Your birth pains were my own cries of life.
GRANT
You certainly gave me a lot of trouble.
TOM
But you never suffered in having me as I did last night when I went
with you to THE SAND BAR and saw what you’d done to Tom Robinson!
GRANT
(_More and more amused at what seems to be the childish petulance
of an admittedly great man_)
You must have had quite a shock.
TOM
Shock? I was disgusted! Why, the actor who’s interpreting me isn’t
even bad looking.
GRANT
No. He couldn’t be. He’s a star.
TOM
But _I_ was your original conception. Why did you alter me into a
good-looking fashion plate with charm? There never was anything
charming about me; _never_.
GRANT
(_Glancing towards his wife’s door_)
Please not so loud. I made you unpleasant, I know; but don’t pile
it on, Tom.
TOM
(_With dignity_)
Robinson to you.
GRANT
(_Smiling_)
I beg your pardon.
TOM
Why you authors feel you can take liberties with your characters is
beyond me. I, for one, shall be treated with respect. (_His eyes
narrow_.) Unless you have lost your capacity to respect a work of
art like me.
GRANT
Come, come. I’m afraid it’s you who have lost your sense of humor.
TOM
(_Sarcastically_)
Perhaps you didn’t give me as much humor as you thought.
GRANT
But can’t we talk over the object of your visit in a friendly
spirit? (_With a smile_.) Say, as father to son?
TOM
You’ll take me seriously before I’m through. I’ll remind you that
_I_ was a force in THE LONELY WAY though in THE SAND BAR Tom
Robinson is merely a figure. One suit a year was good enough for
me. You make him change his every act.
GRANT
(_More at ease_)
I’m afraid you don’t understand the demands of the modern theater.
TOM
What have I--a great character--to do with the modern theater?
GRANT
Nothing. That’s why I revised you.
TOM
(_Bitterly_)
Then why did you give me life at all?
GRANT
Because then I was fool enough to think the modern theater was a
place for great creations. I recognize the conditions better now.
TOM
But in THE LONELY WAY you didn’t consider me a fool when _I_
continued to paint great pictures--in spite of conditions.
GRANT
You were a great artist in that play.
TOM
And when you drew me you were a great dramatist. (_Sadly_) Now I
see you are only a playwright.
GRANT
And at the National Tom Robinson has become only a painter of
pot-boilers. (_Mockingly_) You’ve certainly come down in the world.
TOM
I don’t need your pity; but I want you to realize that what you did
to me you also did to yourself. When you made me fall, I brought
you down with me. (_He shakes the manuscript before him._) Look! I
had life there in a powerful play.
GRANT
I won’t dispute that. It was fine: beautifully articulated in its
subtlety.
TOM
That just describes it. It was nearly as fine as my Sumatra
Sunlight or even my Russian Nocturne.
GRANT
Which you never sold.
TOM
But what is painted lives for the future.
GRANT
Don’t be sensitive: my LONELY WAY is still here. Nobody would
produce it.
TOM
Yet you cared for nobody when you made me live in it--perfect
as the frame that held me. The strength you gave me in my own
relentlessness was also yours. You glowed when you wrote it; as you
made me glow when I painted. You felt the joy which only a creator
knows when beauty and perfection slowly struggle out of his inner
vision.
GRANT
But, my dear fellow....
TOM
Wait. Contrast this play with THE SAND BAR! With your skill as a
builder you turned what was a lonely palace on a peak--aflame with
my art--into a scrambly suburban residence where miserable ordinary
people function. You produced a miserable makeshift of a play and
made Tom Robinson a miserable makeshift of a man. (_Accusing him._)
But when you played tricks on me you played tricks on yourself.
That’s what you did when you took from Tom Robinson his genius
and made him paint pot-boilers at the National. Pot-boilers!
Pot-boilers! Me!! Good God, man, did you know what you were doing
when you rewrote this play?
GRANT
(_Slowly_)
I knew exactly what I was doing. I was turning it into a popular
success.
TOM
(_Outraged_)
You had not even the excuse of self-deception?
GRANT
No.
TOM
(_Eyeing him strangely_)
Then you are worse off than we thought!
GRANT
_We?_
TOM
I wonder how far you have fallen! I shall be patient till we see
the depths of your artistic degradation.
GRANT
You said “we”?
A WOMAN’S VOICE
(_Outside_)
Yes. We.
(GRANT _gives a start towards the door, thinking the voice
has come from his wife’s room_.)
TOM
Oh, that isn’t your wife.
GRANT
Then if you’ve some friend concealed about your person, hadn’t you
better produce her?
TOM
That isn’t my friend; that’s my wife.
GRANT
Your humor isn’t inspiring. I’ve heard that brilliant retort before.
TOM
Certainly. You wrote it yourself; but you stole it from Molière. If
I had your memory I’d be witty, too.
GRANT
(_Looking about_)
I don’t seem to see Mrs. Robinson very clearly.
TOM
She says you never did. Come to think of it, she’s no longer Mrs.
Robinson.
GRANT
Oh, I forgot. In THE LONELY WAY you divorced her.
TOM
Marie and I haven’t been on speaking terms since; but _after_ she
saw THE SAND BAR she simply insisted on coming here.
GRANT
Well, I’ll be happy to hear her grievance, too.
TOM
(_Ominously_)
You won’t think us so amusing when we are through with you.
GRANT
As a dramatist, I admire your talent for suspense. (_Calling_) Come
in, Mrs. Robinson.
TOM
(_Correcting him_)
Case. Mrs. Pendleton Case. You’ve also forgotten that in THE LONELY
WAY you made her marry him.
GRANT
To be sure. But in THE SAND BAR I made her stay with you.
TOM
Yes. That’s one of her grievances.
GRANT
Come in, Mrs. Case.
(GRANT _watches_ MARIE _come slowly from behind the curtains,
into the light. Then he sees a handsome woman of thirty-five,
bien soignée to the last degree. Yet somehow to_ GRANT _her
manner is an assumption she has acquired and not inherited.
Beneath her vivid personality, her unrestrained moods glitter
with force if not heat. But now she eyes him steadily with
the greatest contempt. She wears a magnificent opera cloak,
clutched close to her. She carries a small hand bag._
_Though_ MARIE _and_ TOM _are aware of each other’s presence,
they never address each other; they speak to each other
through_ GRANT _as though they existed only in him_.)
GRANT
Do sit down.
TOM
Oh, Marie will sit down. Don’t worry.
(_Before she sits she carelessly throws her cloak over the
same chair that_ GRANT _had previously thrown his coat. She
stands revealed in a beautiful evening gown. It seems to
proclaim to_ GRANT _her daring and contempt for conventions_.)
MARIE
After what I’ve just heard I don’t know whether it’s worth while to
waste words on a creature like you.
GRANT
(_Very politely throughout_)
Your husband seems to have succeeded in doing it.
TOM
Her husband? Don’t try to saddle her off on me. Once was enough.
MARIE
It’s only our contempt for you, Mr. Williams, that finds us two
together.
GRANT
To be sure. I keep forgetting.
(MARIE _takes a cigarette out of the hand bag_; GRANT _offers
her a light_.)
Permit me.
(_She glares at him and refuses it. As she searches her hand
bag for a match, a small pistol accidentally falls to the
floor._ GRANT _quickly picks it up and hands it to her. She
replaces it. He offers her another light, which she sullenly
accepts._)
MARIE
I wouldn’t accept anything from you, only, in my haste, I forgot
my matches. (_She crosses one knee over the other and puffs._)
Brr--it’s cold here.
TOM
(_Bluntly_)
She wants a drink.
GRANT
Will she accept it from me?
TOM
She’ll take it from anybody.
GRANT
Oh, yes, I remember. I beg your pardon.
MARIE
(_Seeing him lift up the milk bottle_)
Milk!
GRANT
(_Apologetically_)
When I gave you your fondness for alcohol in THE LONELY WAY, we
didn’t have prohibition.
MARIE
Was that the reason you took it away from Marie when you changed
her in THE SAND BAR?
GRANT
Not exactly. You see no leading lady can ever have a real thirst.
I’m sorry if you’re cold.
TOM
Oh, Mrs. Case will warm up when she remembers what you’ve done to
her. She had a wonderful temper when she lived with me.
MARIE
I had to have. And you also took that away from me.
GRANT
I’m very sorry, Mrs. Case; the leading lady didn’t like your temper
either.
MARIE
But _I_ liked it. It was part of my character, as you originally
conceived me.
GRANT
Yes; a character touch. It was the only comedy relief in my play.
TOM
It may have been comedy to you but it was no relief to me.
MARIE
(_Emotionally_)
My temper was my defense and my attack. It aroused fear and
respect. Through it I got what I wanted out of life. It was mine!
Mine! And you took it away from me! Oh!
(_She rushes angrily towards the milk bottle and lifts it
above her as though to smash it; but_ GRANT _stops her_.)
TOM
(_As he lights another cigarette_)
There you see. Every time she thinks of what a temper she has she
loses it.
GRANT
(_Still holding the bottle with her_)
I concede your temper. I always had a hard time to control it.
(_Taking it from her courteously._) It was one of your most
unpleasant traits.
MARIE
(_Sullenly_)
Then why did you change me?
GRANT
It’s a professional secret, Mrs. Case. The leading lady hasn’t
the capacity to reach the heights your wonderful temper demanded.
Besides, her specialty is cute ingénue stuff. She’s a great
popular favorite, you know, and is consequently afraid to lose her
following by playing any part which lacks charm.
TOM
(_Bitterly_)
Charm! Charm! There it is again, Williams. You hadn’t a bit of
respect for Mrs. Case’s _true_ character so you made her charming.
MARIE
But you gave me a charm all my own before I married Tom.
TOM
She kept it to herself; I never suspected it after we were married.
MARIE
But, Mr. Williams, you knew no one could live with Tom Robinson
and not lose her charm. All he really wanted of me was to cook his
chops and wash his dishes.
TOM
She seems to forget she was my wife and that I was a genius. She
wanted me to get my precious fingers red and rough in a dish pan.
MARIE
(_Flaring_)
No. I wanted him to be a human being, not an artist.
GRANT
(_Who has been trying to speak throughout_)
Please. Please. Remember you two are no longer married.
TOM
You see: she’s warming up.
MARIE
(_Bitterly_)
How like old times.
GRANT
By Jove. I remember now. (_Opening manuscript._) I remember
everything about you.
MARIE
Don’t be humorous. There’s lots about your own characters you
authors never know.
TOM
That’s what critics are for.
MARIE
So don’t try to make my temper seem trivial, Mr. Williams. I valued
it. It gave me a chance to assert myself. It kept me alive as an
individual. In THE LONELY WAY, while I was his wife, you made my
whole fight to keep from being swamped by his personality.
TOM
As a married man yourself, Williams, you know damn well that women
have got to capitulate in marriage. We husbands have got to close
the door on them when they don’t understand us.
MARIE
(_Contemptuously_)
And in THE SAND BAR, Marie didn’t have the courage to take the
things of life that lay outside the door! She didn’t dare, like me,
because you’d changed _her_ into a sweet simpering woman who loved
her husband.
TOM
But the Tom Robinson she loved there isn’t the Tom Robinson you see
here.
MARIE
No. The other is a hero! He’s a halo on legs.
GRANT
Your ignorance of theatrical conditions is appalling. THE SAND BAR
_had_ to have a happy ending. If I hadn’t made you both charming
the public wouldn’t have believed in your ultimate happiness
together.
TOM
(_Bringing his hand down on the table_)
Now we’re getting at it. Why the devil did you bring us together?
GRANT
(_Trying to explain elementally_)
Because I’d turned you into the hero and you into the heroine. They
must always come together for the final curtain.
MARIE
But I wasn’t a heroine.
TOM
No. She’s right there.
MARIE
(_Emotionally_)
I was a bitter, disillusionized woman. I saw how Tom Robinson
succeeded in getting out of life what he wanted by being
relentless. I, too, became relentless and married Pendleton Case
because he could give me what _I_ most wanted.
GRANT
(_Beginning from now on to lose his patience_)
Yes; but that was too unsympathetic a motive to use in a popular
play. So I _had_ to make Pendleton Case a villain who took
advantage of your trust in him.
MARIE
But Penny was only a poor gullible fool consumed by my egotism. Why
were you so unfair to him? Why did you make him a villain?
TOM
Yes. I want to know why you gave him all my vices?
GRANT
If Case hadn’t had all your vices, Marie wouldn’t have had all the
sympathy.
MARIE
I didn’t want sympathy; I wanted clothes!
GRANT
(_Confused_)
But the leading lady has to, have sympathy even without clothes. I
mean----
TOM
(_Quickly_)
Do you mean that the reason you made me sacrifice my art in THE
SAND BAR and rescue her from Case was because she had to have
sympathy?
GRANT
Exactly. And, besides, how was an audience going to know you were a
hero unless you sacrificed something?
TOM
But I’m not a hero: I’m an artist. You know the real reason I got
rid of her was because she stood in the way of my art; because I
wouldn’t let a single human responsibility weaken the vision within
me.
MARIE
Wasn’t that reason enough why I should leave him?
GRANT
But that was too abstract an idea for the audience to get.
MARIE
So you turned an abstraction into a villain!
GRANT
Can’t you see your husband couldn’t rescue you from an abstraction?
MARIE
But I didn’t want to be rescued. I wanted to marry Penny!
TOM
And I was tickled to death to get rid of her.
MARIE
Yes. It meant release for us both to be ourselves.
GRANT
But, Robinson, you _had_ to rescue her. She was the leading lady.
The manager pays her five hundred dollars a week to marry the star.
MARIE
Well, she earns it.
GRANT
She earns it because she draws.
TOM
(_Surprised_)
Does she paint, too?
GRANT
She draws that much money into the box office.
TOM
Money, money! How that runs through your talk.
MARIE
(_Referring to_ TOM)
I wish to heaven it had run through his.
TOM
(_Lifting his voice angrily_)
I was above such things. I am an artist. Money! Money! I see red
when I hear that word. Money! Money! The curse of true art.
GRANT
(_Pointing to his wife’s door_)
Please, please; not so loud. You’ll wake the baby.
MARIE
(_With a poignant cry_)
Oh!
GRANT
What’s the matter with you?
MARIE
I forgot all about that. You also took my baby away from me in THE
SAND BAR.
TOM
So far as I was concerned that was the only decent thing you did. I
had to make money for the child.
MARIE
Have you forgotten that was the other reason I left him? He didn’t
love our child: it was in his way.
TOM
Love a mewling, puking child? Not much.
GRANT
(_Trying to calm her as she walks up and down_)
Sh! Control yourself.
MARIE
My love for the child was the only decent thing about me.
GRANT
But I gave you other virtues. I made you love your husband.
MARIE
If I _had_ to love my husband in your revised version couldn’t I at
least have kept my child?
GRANT
Don’t be unreasonable. No leading lady wants a child.
MARIE
So you took it away to please the leading lady!
GRANT
Can’t you understand if I’d given her a child it would have
complicated matters?
TOM
You’re right. It certainly complicated matters for me.
GRANT
(_Trying to explain_)
I wanted the struggle to be a simple one between two men and a
woman. A child would have been a side-issue.
MARIE
You call my child a side-issue! (_Looking at_ TOM.) Hasn’t his
father anything to say to that?
TOM
(_To_ GRANT)
She can’t get me excited about that brat. It stood in my way. I’d
have killed it myself if necessary.
MARIE
(_To_ GRANT)
But _you_ killed it instead.
GRANT
(_Losing patience_)
Yes. I killed it for the same reason he would have: because it
would have stood in the way of the play’s success. Are you a couple
of fools? Can’t you both get into your heads I was writing a play
to make money?
TOM
Money! Money again!
MARIE
(_Astonished as she comes to_ GRANT)
So you killed it for money?
GRANT
Yes. Just as I changed you both for money.
TOM
If you’d killed it for art I would have understood. But to kill a
creature for money! You are a murderer!
MARIE
(_Sneering_)
And how much blood money will you get for what you have done?
GRANT
A thousand dollars a week!
MARIE
(_Overcome_)
My God!
TOM
(_Awed_)
How much did you say?
GRANT
A thousand a week.
MARIE
You’re going to get that much for putting me into a popular success?
GRANT
Yes.
TOM
She isn’t worth it.
GRANT
(_Determined to have it out with them_)
It was worth it to me. Think of the exquisite joy I had in revising
my problem drama. Think of how I turned two hectic, distorted,
twisted, selfish, miserable, little-souled characters into two
self-sacrificing, sugar-coated, lovable beings!
TOM
You are not only a murderer but a hypocrite: you distorted life to
win sympathy for us.
GRANT
The theater no longer has anything to do with life. It’s a palace
of personality.
TOM
Well, what’s the matter with _my_ personality?
MARIE
Leaving him aside, what about me?
GRANT
You wouldn’t draw a cent. There wasn’t a dollar in either of you.
MARIE
Is that _my_ fault? You made us what we are.
GRANT
Yes; before I learned that the public pays to be pleased. Do you
think there’s anything pleasing about either of you? Why, you
couldn’t even be happy together.
TOM
This is getting damned personal.
MARIE
What right has the public got to be so proud of itself? There’s
many a woman in the audience worse than I am.
GRANT
But they want to be flattered into believing they are as much like
heroes and heroines as you are not. The successful playwright, like
the fashionable portrait painter, flatters and never reveals.
TOM
While true artists like me starve?
GRANT
And dramatists who write “Lonely Ways” also starve. What are you
two kicking so about? Because I’ve made you respectable, wealthy
and happy? Do you think the general public cares a whoop in Hades
what _I_ think of life, of my peculiar slant on the motives that
mess up the characters that happen to interest _me_? No: all they
want is what they want life to be.
TOM
How little you know of human nature. If we’d had a chance to be our
true selves we would have been appreciated.
GRANT
By whom, pray? A few professional soul lovers. And they’d get into
the theater on passes. No. You are caviar; most of the world lives
on mush. So I mixed you in mush, sentimental glue, anything you
want to call it.
TOM
You disgust me.
MARIE
But _I_ see hope for you. At heart you despise the crowd, as I did
its smug conventions.
GRANT
(_Bitterly_)
I hate what it has made me suffer.
TOM
Every great artist has despised them. I despise them.
GRANT
(_More seriously_)
Only I think the public has its rights. They have the right to
laugh, to watch virtue triumph, to behold success, to feel love
win out, to see what they think is happiness. They have that right
because their own lives are so full of the other things. And maybe
they like to dream a little, too.
MARIE
Who’s mushy now?
GRANT
Don’t sneer at a popular success. It’s sometimes more difficult to
perform a trick than climb a mountain peak.
TOM
Have _we_ artists no rights?
GRANT
(_Wearily_)
Only the right to dream and starve.
MARIE
But I’m not an artist: I’m one of your creations. Have _I_ no
rights? Must I be turned into a trained poodle and do tricks for
money?
GRANT
You are only a phantom, a projection, a figment.
MARIE
(_With great indignation_)
You call me a figment?
TOM
(_Rising ominously_)
I’m tired of hearing you insult your own flesh and blood.
GRANT
I disowned you both when I rewrote you. I was thinking then of only
one thing: the public.
TOM
Liar! You _did_ deceive yourself! You were thinking of your wife
and child.
MARIE
(_Seeing_ GRANT _is startled_)
That gets you. You did this to us for them.
GRANT
(_Himself serious now throughout_)
Yes. I was thinking of them most of all.
MARIE
Yet when you created Tom Robinson in THE LONELY WAY you did not let
him think of _his_ wife and child.
TOM
That’s where I was bigger than you, Grant Williams!
GRANT
You mean more brutal.
TOM
Mush. Mush. You can’t hide behind that. (_Impressively._) I am you!
I could never have lived had I not been a wish hidden in yourself.
I am what you would have been if you had dared!
GRANT
How dare you say a thing like that? I made you. I knew you inside
and out.
TOM
But you didn’t know yourself. _I_ knew when you wrote me that you
wanted to be as relentless as you made me.
GRANT
I hated you. I hated every bone beneath your miserable hide!
TOM
(_With a triumphant smile_)
That only proves it! You were afraid to be yourself; so you created
me!
GRANT
(_Shrinking back_)
No.... No....
TOM
You forget people have made gods and devils out of their own dreams
to worship and hate. Look at me, through the mask you gave me, and
see yourself! I was the worst of what was human in you--the devil
side of you: I was the best of what was the artist in you--the God
within you!
GRANT
(_As though stunned by the thought_)
God and devil. No.... No....
MARIE
(_Seriously_)
Now I see how _I_ came into being. I was your wife, as part of you
saw her! (_He protests._) She was in your way, as I was in his way.
You made Tom close the door on me because, deep in your soul, you
wished to close it on her. She never understood.
GRANT
Stop. You shan’t go any further. She stood by me through all these
years of poverty. She loves me and understands.
MARIE
(_Relentlessly_)
But you thought her a fool for loving you. You really thought she
ought to go. You wanted her to go, I tell you. You wanted her to
see that your art meant more to you than her love. But you didn’t
have the courage to do to her what you made him do to me!
GRANT
(_To_ TOM)
Take her away! I won’t let her say these things. I did what I did
to you for Jerry’s sake. I wanted to make money so _she_ would be
happy. I couldn’t stand it to see her hands grow rough....
TOM
(_Contemptuously_)
Bosh! Art denies all human responsibility. You made me face that
truth with my wife, and when I threw her out I was _your_ own inner
answer to that eternal question!
GRANT
I tell you my love for her is greater than for my art.
MARIE
Mush. Mush. It’s time to think of punishment.
GRANT
Punishment? (_Triumphantly_) I have a thousand a week. She will
have clothes and comfort. And you talk of punishment!
MARIE
(_Drawing a pistol and pointing it at him_)
What you did to us means your death.
TOM
(_Stopping her_)
No. You cannot be killed, Grant Williams. You are dead already.
MARIE
(_About to shoot_)
I think I’ll make sure.
TOM
(_As_ GRANT _stares at him spellbound_)
When you turned your soul into money you died. There is a greater
punishment. We’ll let what remains of you live, as we shall live to
haunt you in your dreams.
GRANT
(_Laughing hysterically_)
But you can’t live. I killed you. You’re dead, too. And the dead
cannot dream.
TOM
We are your dreams. We will outlast you.
MARIE
We live. We shall go on living. Yes. That is a greater revenge.
We’ll haunt you every time you are alone....
GRANT
You can’t. You can’t....
TOM
Whenever you smoke and think in your new house....
MARIE
Or walk by the sands, you will see only our hands beckon you from
the living waters of the sea....
GRANT
(_Frantically_)
I’ll drown you like rats. I’ll keep you under till you are dead.
You shan’t come back ... ever ... ever ... (_They both laugh._) Get
out. You phantoms.... I’ll kill you again....
TOM
Mush.... Mush....
GRANT
I’ll kill you forever now. (_He picks up the manuscript of_ THE
LONELY WAY _and savagely tears it up_.) Die. Die forever.... Die....
(_They laugh loudly and mockingly at him._)
TOM
You see we still live!
GRANT
Ah. I’ll kill you yet. I’ll kill you!
(_He rushes towards them and overturns the lamp. They laugh
mockingly farther off in the complete darkness._)
I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!
JERRY
(_As she enters_)
Grant!! What is the matter?
(_She turns on the switch by the door. The other lights flare
up. She is dressed in a kimono, with her hair in braids. He
rushes towards her._)
GRANT
I’ll kill you!
JERRY
Grant!
(_He holds her arms, suddenly realizing who she is and that
they are alone._)
GRANT
You are real, aren’t you? You are flesh and blood?
JERRY
Silly boy. What on earth is the matter with you? I go out of the
room for a moment and I come back to find you yelling and wanting
to kill me.
GRANT
(_Still dazed_)
No. It wasn’t true: I don’t want to get rid of you. I....
JERRY
(_In a matter-of-fact tone_)
I do wish you’d get over the habit of acting all your plays out.
The neighbors will think you and I aren’t happy. You’d better come
to bed and get some rest.
GRANT
I--I couldn’t sleep just now.
(_He goes over to the table and sees the manuscript of_ THE
LONELY WAY _untouched. He stands trying to collect himself._)
JERRY
It’s upset you, reading over THE LONELY WAY?
GRANT
(_Half to himself_)
That’s strange.
JERRY
Then what is the matter?
GRANT
(_Evasively as he sits down wearily_)
I--I was reading over the notices.
JERRY
I should have thought they’d soothe you, not get you so excited.
Though there is one that put me in a terrible temper. (_He looks at
her quickly._) Why did you conceal the _Gazette_ notice from me?
(_Smiling, she shows it to him: he takes it._) Did you think this
would worry me because Arthur Black said THE SAND BAR didn’t live
up to the promise of your other plays?
GRANT
(_Half to himself_)
And he was the only one who liked the others that failed.
JERRY
But it is outrageous of him to say you’d deserted your ideals. I
have half a mind to write to the Editor.
GRANT
(_With a thought_)
Would it mean so very much to you if it were true?
JERRY
Of course it would.
GRANT
(_Defensively_)
But, after all, Jerry, does it make any difference to anybody but
the artist whether he sells out or not?
JERRY
But, dear, _I_ think you’ve just begun to reach your ideals.
GRANT
Just begun?
JERRY
Yes. I never told you before because I didn’t want to discourage
you when we were so hard up. But, Grant dear, I never liked all
those other plays--especially THE LONELY WAY. They seemed unworthy
of you. THE SAND BAR is the first play that really seems true to
life.
GRANT
(_Staring at her_)
Really true to life?
JERRY
Yes. And I hope from now on you’ll go on writing the plays that
will make people feel happier and....
GRANT
(_Suddenly bursting out in an ironic laugh_)
I’ve got it. I’ve got it.
JERRY
What?
GRANT
The curtain raiser Trebaro wants. I’ll call it THE MASK. No. MASKS!
That’s the title. I’ll show _them_ whether I’m dead or not.
JERRY
What are you talking of?
GRANT
The theme of my play: that so long as an artist knows what he is
doing with his art he is alive: that the only thing which can kill
him is self-deception.
JERRY
Dear me, you’re going to write another play nobody will understand?
GRANT
(_Contemptuously_)
Why should I care whether _anybody_ will understand it?
JERRY
But Trebaro won’t produce it, dear.
GRANT
Oh yes, he will: he said he’d produce anything I wrote no matter
how good it was.
JERRY
(_Seeing him eagerly go to his typewriter_)
You’re going to begin it _now_?
GRANT
Yes. _Now._ I can write it off at a sitting.
JERRY
To-night--of all nights?
GRANT
Yes. As Tom said: while the “glow” is here. Now that I’m free. I’ll
show them whether I’m dead or not. I’ll use their very words. I’ll
make it bite.
JERRY
(_Completely lost_)
I don’t understand you or what you are talking about.
GRANT
(_Gives her a look_)
You don’t need to understand now, Jerry; THE SAND BAR has released
you.
JERRY
(_Hurt_)
I never heard you talk like this before. You’re unkind.
GRANT
(_Putting paper in machine_)
I don’t mean to be, dear; only my nerves are on edge.
JERRY
(_Begins to cry_)
I can see that. You’ve no regard for my feelings.
GRANT
I have my work....
JERRY
You seem so far off all of a sudden. To-night of all nights! Just
when you’ve made your first real success!
GRANT
(_More testily_)
Please. Please, Jerry. I won’t be able to write this if I have to
think of anything else.
(_He begins to write. He looks about the room showing he is
describing it._)
“The scene is the living-room in a flat. The doorway from the
public stairs opens immediately upon it without the intervening
privacy of a small hallway....”
(_He murmurs as he goes on, striking the keys very rapidly.
She stands looking at him--hurt and wondering what it means:
but he is absorbed. Then she slowly goes to the kerosene
heater and lights it. She looks at him a moment._)
JERRY
I guess I won’t wait up for you to-night. I’m cold.
(_She goes out, hardly controlling herself. He continues for
a moment. Then he gets up, still absorbed, and closes the
door after her. He resumes his work with the glow of intense
creation on his face._)
[CURTAIN]
[A] Copyright by George Middleton. See back of title page.
JIM’S BEAST
THE PEOPLE
BRONTOSAURUS, _a fossil_.
SARAH, _a scrubwoman_.
PROFESSOR POHL, _a curator_.
ROBERT HOOD, _a member of the Legislature_.
ELIZABETH LIVINGSTON, _a seeker of sensations_.
MRS. CORNELIUS VAN DYKE, _a social leader_.
MRS. JAMES MORROW, _a wealthy woman_.
ROBERT LIVINGSTON, _a good citizen_.
LARRY ANDERSON, _a doughboy_.
SCENE
_A corner in the Hall of Paleontology of a Public Museum; late one
afternoon._
JIM’S BEAST[B]
_Two arched passageways are in back, and between them, on the
wall, is a large dark plaster cast which may be a replica of the
famous Dinosaur footprints in Brownstone. Beneath this is a low
bench. At the extreme right, as one enters from back, there are two
cases, just visible, in which are fossil bones and casts. There
is a bench near them and an aisle between which leads off to the
windows beyond, suggested by the soft streams of sunlight which
shoot over the tops of the cases to the_ BRONTOSAURUS _opposite.
Only the dull-colored flat skull and a portion of the neck of this
venerable fossil are to be seen, projecting about a yard or two. It
stands seven feet above its low platform, which is surrounded by a
railing. On this is a slanted sign which describes it. Its size,
its grimness and the light which rests upon it make it dominate
everything. The remainder of the huge dinosaur is masked by a high
screen at its left, upon which hangs a map indicating by its varied
horizontal shades of color, the various geological strata and
periods._
_When the curtain slowly lifts_, SARAH, _a scrubwoman, is on her
knees, mopping the floor with long practised sweeps_.
_She is fifty, heavy, with a dull tired face lined by years of
physical toil. Though her hair is tightly drawn back and tied in a
knot, several long wisps fall across her eyes as she leans forward
over her work; and she continually pushes these back with her arm,
since her hands are wet and soapy._
_As she wrings her rag savagely she mumbles to herself in a rich
Irish brogue._
SARAH
Scrub. Mop. Scrub. (_She looks up at the_ BRONTOSAURUS.) Keepin’
watch on me, too, ye dirty heathen. Grinnin’ there every day at me
a-scrubbin’ and moppin’.
(_She raises the rag, in momentary revolt, as though she were
about to throw it at the skull. But she stops sullenly as she
mechanically resumes her work._)
Ye dirty heathen ... me a-scrubbin’....
(_As she finds a hairpin and sticks it in her hair_, PROF.
POHL _enters, carrying a small plaster cast in which is
embedded the outlines of a fossil_.
PROF. POHL, _the curator, is a short, round-shouldered man
nearing sixty. He is absorbed in his scientific interest,
devoid of conscious humor and fundamentally inclined to be
impatient with anything that has not been dead for at least
several million years._)
PROFESSOR
Good afternoon, Sarah.
SARAH
(_Mumbling half to herself resentfully, as he walks over where she
has just mopped_)
And I was just after a-moppin’ up that place.
PROFESSOR
You’re cleaning up earlier than usual.
SARAH
Wipe ’em up as they comes, says I: it’s easier in the end.
PROFESSOR
But I’m expecting over two hundred soldiers here this afternoon.
SARAH
(_Astonished_)
Here? What’s the matter with ’em?
PROFESSOR
They’re slightly wounded.
SARAH
Shure: that explains it.
PROFESSOR
All the theaters are entertaining them so I’ve invited them here.
I thought the soldiers might enjoy having me personally show them
through the paleontological section. Dr. Taylor has volunteered to
explain the mummies.
SARAH
What between these dead ’uns and them ould ladies the boys’ll be
havin’ a foine time, all roight.
PROFESSOR
I thought it might be edifying, too.
SARAH
(_As she resumes her mopping_)
They’ll be a-makin’ more work for me; but footprints is footprints
no matter who makes ’em.
PROFESSOR
(_Looking in case at the right_)
Now where’s that card?
(_He tries to get key out of pocket to open case but he is
afraid of breaking the cast._)
Sarah, will you assist me?
SARAH
Me! Touch one of them dead corpses?
PROFESSOR
No; no. That’s so; you’d get them wet.
(_She watches him as he goes to bench and lays the cast down
carefully on the handkerchief he has spread for it. Then he
goes over to case, opens it with a key, returns for cast and
puts it with care and affection in the case._)
SARAH
Ye’d be a-thinkin’ it was a baby ye was puttin’ to bed.
PROFESSOR
(_Admiring them_)
All these are my children, Sarah.
SARAH
(_Mumbling as she looks up at the_ BRONTOSAURUS)
I’d see a doctor about it if I was their mother.
PROFESSOR
There. (_He closes the case._) That’s a very rare Pterodactyl.
(_She is somehow not impressed._) I’ve reconstructed it from five
tiny bones found in Oregon.
SARAH
(_Wringing mop with a contemptuous look at him_)
Why go to all that trouble?
PROFESSOR
I’m afraid you wouldn’t understand. I study fossils, Sarah, because
it is my profession--just as scrubbing is yours.
SARAH
Do ye have to do it?
PROFESSOR
No; I chose it. I’m very happy in it.
SARAH
What I’d loike to know is why I’ve got to scrub and mop all the
day? _I_ don’t do it for pleasure.
PROFESSOR
(_Failing to see the human analogy_)
Somebody’s got to keep the Museum clean.
SARAH
(_Seeing him blow off some clay from bench_)
Yes. Some o’ us is born to wipe up other people’s dirt, and some’s
born to make it. (_Wiping it._) Why can’t everybody clean up his
own dirt, says I? Maybe they wouldn’t be makin’ so much.
PROFESSOR
I daresay you’re right. (_Over by the_ BRONTOSAURUS.) You’ve
forgotten to run your rag over this platform.
SARAH
(_Rebelliously_)
Ye don’t git me inside th’ rail with that dirty heathen.
PROFESSOR
The superintendent tells me he’s had to remind you every day.
SARAH
(_Her revolt rises_)
If I’ve got to go inside there alone ye can tell ’im I’m through.
There’s plenty of dirty places in the world what needs cleanin’
and if I’ve got to mop I’m going to do me own pickin’ of dirt an’
places.
PROFESSOR
(_Firmly_)
But you forget you’re paid for this.
SARAH
If ye’ll pardon my saying so I ain’t paid to go rubbin’ agin’
the slats of that dirty heathen loike you. I’m paid me two an’ a
quarter a day to wash up people’s tracks. Two an’ a quarter a day,
mind ye, by this place what owns jewels and things they wraps up
in satins and laces what honest people could git some comfort out
of--and the cost of livin’ mountin’ high as St. Peter himself.
PROFESSOR
(_Impatiently_)
If you won’t keep it clean, there are plenty of scrubwomen who will.
SARAH
Ye care more for the looks of that dirty heathen than ye do for my
feelin’s.
PROFESSOR
(_Outraged_)
Sarah! You forget there are only a few fossils like this in
existence! I don’t want to have to report you for lack of respect.
SARAH
Shure, it’s not ye I’m not respectin’--it’s that other inhuman
beast.
PROFESSOR
Now be a sensible girl and run your rag over it.
SARAH
(_Sullenly as her revolt subsides_)
Oh, all roight. It’s seein’ it in me sleep I am as it is.
(_She slowly picks up the mop and pail and goes under the
rail, cautiously rubbing the platform with wide stretched
arms._)
PROFESSOR
Around the feet, Sarah.
SARAH
They’re so big it’s glad I am they’ve put a brass rail around ’im
so he can’t be prowlin’ about at night trackin’ the place up. It’s
bad enough some of the people what come here to see him.
PROFESSOR
But you have less to clean up than some of the other girls.
(_Sighing._) So few people wander in this out of the way section.
SARAH
Ye don’t think anyone would be fool enough to look at these corpses
for pleasure, do ye?
PROFESSOR
I suppose not.
SARAH
Even though it means more work to my poor back, I’m goin’ to ask
to be put over where the cases of butterflies are. When I was
a-scrubbin’ around them I could be thinkin’ that I was out among
the daisies, instead of hangin’ ’round a morgue.
PROFESSOR
That’s much better, Sarah. (_Gazing in admiration at the fossil._)
Wonderful specimen--wonderful!
(ROBERT HOOD _enters. He is a well set-up, attractive young
man about thirty. As he glances impatiently at his watch,
it is evident he is ill at ease and under the stress of an
unusual emotion. Though he carries a Museum catalogue it is
soon apparent he has come for a rendezvous._
SARAH _soon disappears from view--scrubbing_.)
HOOD
I beg your pardon. Is this where the Brontosaurus lives?
PROFESSOR
Yes. (_Proudly_) This is the Brontosaurus.
HOOD
(_Indifferently_)
Oh, is it? Thanks.
PROFESSOR
Are you interested in fossils?
HOOD
Fossils?--Oh, yes; but only the living ones.
PROFESSOR
Oh, then you’ve come to see the Hoatzins?
HOOD
(_Impatiently_)
Not especially.
PROFESSOR
They’re in the ornithological section. Curious, isn’t it, when
people think fossils are so remote, that to-day in the thorn bushes
along the Berbice River there should be a small living bird who
swims, creeps, climbs, dives and can duplicate within a few minutes
the processes of evolution through the centuries. Mr. Beebe calls
them “living fossils”; so when you said....
HOOD
(_Again looking at his watch_)
It’s very interesting.
PROFESSOR
Their wing formation somewhat resembles the Archæopteryx. We have a
cast of the Solenhofen specimen, if you....
HOOD
I have a catalogue. I’d like to study them myself, quietly at
first, if you don’t mind.
(_He sits down on the bench at back and opens the catalogue.
The_ PROFESSOR _is offended, gives him a look and goes out.
The minute he has gone_, HOOD _arises, takes several steps
about as though looking for someone_. SARAH _has entered with
her pail and watches him. She stands there, a worn and abject
figure._ HOOD _takes out his watch again_.)
SARAH
I beg ye pardon?
HOOD
(_Startled a moment_)
Eh?
SARAH
Do ye be havin’ the toime about ye?
HOOD
My watch says four. But I think it must be fast.
SARAH
(_As she wearily crosses_)
Thank ye, sir.
HOOD
(_A bit anxiously_)
When does the Museum close?
SARAH
For ye or for me?
HOOD
Why, for me; of course.
SARAH
Ye’ll hear the bell in a half-hour; it’s not long after that I’ll
be a-pullin’ up these shades.
HOOD
Thanks.
SARAH
(_Pointedly as she begins to wash up his footsteps_)
If ye need more toime to _look_ at the animals ye may be doin’ it,
as the Professor is expectin’ a whole regiment of soldiers.
HOOD
(_Vexed_)
Coming _here_? I thought nobody ever came here?
SARAH
Ye mustn’t be surprised at anythin’ in a museum. All the strange
animals ain’t behind the railin’s.
(_She gives him a knowing look and finally goes out of sight,
mopping down the aisle. He takes a step impatiently and then
sits in back and opens catalogue aimlessly as he sees_ MRS.
CORNELIUS VAN DYKE _and_ MRS. JAMES MORROW _enter from back.
They do not notice him at first._
MRS. VAN DYKE _is a harmless middle-aged woman who throughout
life has comfortably relied on her blood instead of her
brains. She hides the absence of the latter by a calm and
superior imperturbability._
_Her companion_, MRS. JAMES MORROW, _is younger; obviously
nouveau riche, she has achieved a successful manner, most of
which is dexterously expressed in her lorgnette_.
_Both women are handsomely gowned and proclaim to the
observer flaunting wealth._)
MRS. VAN DYKE
I’m sure we’ve lost our way.
MRS. MORROW
The attendant said keep turning to the right.
MRS. VAN DYKE
I can’t say it’s my idea of ancient jewelry.
MRS. MORROW
No. But if we dressed up at Mrs. Bilton’s ball like some of these
animals, we’d certainly make a hit.
MRS. VAN DYKE
It might suit you, dear; but I think I’ll wear at least some
jewelry. I’m sure there must be wonderful old pieces in the museum
I can get Tiffany to copy in time. I must find something original.
MRS. MORROW
(_Looking absently at_ HOOD _through her lorgnette_)
Dear me, this is a terrible place--full of monsters.
MRS. VAN DYKE
I can’t say they’re very showy. (_Glancing at the_ BRONTOSAURUS.)
What an ugly animal! What is it?
MRS. MORROW
(_Reading sign_)
It’s a Bron--(_Not able to pronounce it and turning away_) I left
my reading-glasses at home. You try.
MRS. VAN DYKE
(_After studying it a moment_)
Oh, yes: I’ve heard of them. (_More closely._) Why, that looks like
your husband....
MRS. MORROW
(_Interrupting, as she turns quickly to the fossil_)
My husband? That?
MRS. VAN DYKE
(_Looking more closely_)
Yes. It _is_ your husband’s name. (_Reading_) “Donated by James
Morrow.”
MRS. MORROW
Why this must be Jim’s beast!
MRS. VAN DYKE
Jim’s beast?
(HOOD _covertly shows a bit of interest in spite of his more
pressing impatience over their presence_.)
MRS. MORROW
I knew there was something here Jim wanted me to see. He donated
$250,000 to the museum last year. He said they’d bought some old
animal with it.
MRS. VAN DYKE
I can’t say I admire his taste. I thought he went in for horses.
MRS. MORROW
Of course, it’s Jim’s own money; but it does seem a bit extravagant
to turn all that money into old bones.
MRS. VAN DYKE
Yes; when he might buy so many nicer things you could wear.
MRS. MORROW
Jim’s been awfully generous to me; though, of course, now that the
war’s over we’ve got to hold in a bit. He hasn’t any more army
contracts, you know. (_Sighing_) It certainly was wonderful while
it lasted.
MRS. VAN DYKE
I shouldn’t worry about it if I were you. Why, even this beast
would look like a piece of bric-a-brac in that new house he gave
you.
MRS. MORROW
(_The hand of_ SARAH _mopping in the aisle is seen_. MRS.
MORROW _is startled_.)
What’s that?
MRS. VAN DYKE
Oh, it’s only an old scrubwoman.
MRS. MORROW
They might wait till the museum closed before they splash about
spoiling our gowns.
MRS. VAN DYKE
Well, if we’re ever going to see that ancient jewelry before we’re
as old as it is, I suppose we’d better try and find it.
MRS. MORROW
But I’ll have to tell Jim I came especially to see his beast: he’ll
want to know what it looks like, the poor dear!
(ELIZABETH LIVINGSTON _enters. She is a woman of such an
indefinite age that she must be past her early thirties.
Handsome, well-groomed and yet a bit hectic, her secret
is that she is a born intriguanté and likes to see men
feverish._
_She sees_ HOOD: _he sees her: the two women catch this
exchange of glances, though_ HOOD _instantly resumes reading
and_ BESS _goes quickly to the case opposite not to betray
she is there to meet_ HOOD.
_The two women exchange significant glances._ HOOD _looks up
and catches_ MRS. MORROW _eyeing him through her lorgnette.
He rises in question._)
MRS. MORROW
(_To cover it_)
I beg pardon. Do _you_ happen to know where they keep the ancient
jewelry?
HOOD
(_Politely_)
I think it’s to the right.
MRS. VAN DYKE
But that’s what the other man said.
HOOD
Have you tried the long hall?
MRS. MORROW
But _which_ hall?
HOOD
(_Obviously trying to get rid of them_)
The very _furthest_ hall.
MRS. MORROW
Oh.... (_She turns to_ MRS. VAN DYKE.) The very furthest hall, he
said. (_Aside to her as they turn_) I’m afraid we’re _de trop_. I’m
sure it’s....
MRS. VAN DYKE
I thought so, too; and with a different tame robin this time. (_As
she turns and looks at the_ BRONTOSAURUS.) I’m glad I won’t look
like Jim’s beast when I’m dead.
MRS. MORROW
Well, dear, we’ll never be found in a museum at any rate.
MRS. VAN DYKE
(_As they go up_)
I don’t know. I’m most dead already.
(MRS. MORROW _gives a look at_ BESS _through her lorgnette.
They go out obviously gossiping about her._
HOOD _takes a step to see they have gone. Then he turns
tensely._)
HOOD
Bess!
BESS
Oh, Bob!
HOOD
Dearest!
BESS
Be careful. Somebody may see us. I’m sure those women....
HOOD
(_With extravagant expression_)
I’d like the whole world to see us. I can’t stand this much longer.
Bess, I want you.
BESS
I know. Sh!
(SARAH _comes from out of aisle, goes out of sight, obviously
to clean another aisle. But she has seen them and gives a
knowing smile as though such rendezvous were not unusual._)
HOOD
It can’t go on like this.
BESS
Aren’t you satisfied with what we’ve already had?
HOOD
(_Unconsciously playing up to the situation_)
I want all or nothing--the _you_ all the world has, too. I....
BESS
Yes? Say it. I like to hear you say it.
HOOD
I want you to be my wife. (_Intensely_) Bess! Bess! Will you?
BESS
Give me time to think.
HOOD
But it can’t go on like this ... having me meet you in strange
places ... always being afraid. Bess, you love me, don’t you?
BESS
Oh, Bob!
HOOD
You’ve never loved anybody before as you love me?
BESS
Oh, no; you’re so fine and strong and....
HOOD
Then why are you afraid?
BESS
The world ... my world ... your world....
HOOD
But you wouldn’t be the first who....
BESS
Don’t drive me to the wall!
HOOD
You must decide.
BESS
I’m thinking of you. I’m older than you. In time, perhaps, you....
HOOD
Never.
BESS
How you say it!
HOOD
I love you. I’ve never loved any woman before. I’ll never love any
woman again.
BESS
My dear boy! I must go now. I just wanted to see you, to hear you
say you love me.
HOOD
And I came because I wanted a definite answer.
BESS
Wait. In time. Don’t drive me to the wall.
HOOD
(_Heroically_)
I tell you I’ll kill myself if....
BESS
Bob! Do you care as much as that?
HOOD
Yes. Nothing else matters.
BESS
But your career--your position?
HOOD
You are more than all that. What will you give up for me?
BESS
Sh! Somebody’s coming. (_In a different tone, mistress of
herself._) It must have taken a good many years to collect these
specimens.
(RAY LIVINGSTON _has come in on this, walking slowly down
with eyes that glitter for a moment on seeing them_.
_He is about sixty. The tightly drawn skin on his face
clearly reveals the bones beneath. He is an aristocratic,
calm, collected man: the essence of deliberate politeness.
When he comes to them he acts as though he were surprised._)
LIVINGSTON
Bess. This is a surprise.
BESS
Ray?
LIVINGSTON
Do you come here often?
BESS
I was just strolling through to look at some ancient jewelry when I
happened to meet Mr. Hood.--This is my husband. Mr. Hood.
(_As_ LIVINGSTON _crosses slowly and shakes his hand with
cold studied courtesy_, HOOD _gives him a sickly smile, ill
at ease in an unaccustomed situation_.)
LIVINGSTON
I’m charmed to meet you. I’ve heard Mrs. Livingston speak of you.
Let me see, where was it?
BESS
(_Casually, mistress of herself_)
Perhaps it was after I first met him at Judge Wilton’s. Mr. Hood is
in the Legislature, you know.
LIVINGSTON
To be sure. I remember your photograph in all the newspapers.
(_Half playfully_) But you’re rather a young man for such a
conspicuous and responsible office.
HOOD
(_Trying to be at ease_)
One soon grows older up there.
LIVINGSTON
(_Pleasantly_)
I hope that means wiser; for wisdom, I’m told, is only a matter of
perspective, and its secret is finding the relative importance of
things. (_With a smile._) But, of course, _every_thing must seem
vitally important at the beginning. Just as each moment of life was
_once_ the most important thing to these animals. (_Before_ HOOD
_can answer_.) Are you interested in fossils?
HOOD
(_Eyes him_)
I’m trying to understand their meaning and significance.
LIVINGSTON
Do you find it difficult? I see you have a catalogue. Do you come
here to study them?
BESS
(_Trying with her skill to relieve the situation_)
Mr. Hood was just telling me he was planning to introduce a bill in
the Legislature to--to extend the wings.
LIVINGSTON
To extend the wings? What of?
BESS
Of the Museum, of course.
LIVINGSTON
Indeed?
HOOD
(_Lying in spite of himself_)
Yes.
BESS
(_With a reassuring smile_)
He thinks it’s a bit cramped here.
LIVINGSTON
I quite approve. Space is what is needed. But you’ll find it
difficult to get money from the Legislature for such purposes. I’ve
tried myself.
HOOD
Oh, are you interested in museums?
LIVINGSTON
Didn’t you tell him, Bess, about the museum I had planned?
BESS
(_Beginning to detect his intention_)
No; it slipped my mind.
LIVINGSTON
(_Playfully reproving her_)
And I had such a personal interest in it, too.
HOOD
Was it a museum for fossils?
LIVINGSTON
It was to prevent people from becoming fossils before their time.
It was a museum of safety appliances.
HOOD
Industrial?
LIVINGSTON
No: domestic. From a very long life, I’d observed that in the
world and in the home, most everybody, through lack of a little
precaution, makes a fool of himself or herself once or twice in a
life.
BESS
(_Suavely_)
I thought the average was higher; didn’t you, Mr. Hood?
LIVINGSTON
Perhaps the nasty messy mangling is. I’m not sure of the
mortalities. You see, Mr. Hood--if you are interested?
HOOD
(_With a start_)
Very.
LIVINGSTON
What I mean is that people cut off a useful hand or
limb--metaphorically, of course--because they go a little too near
the machinery: the machinery of what we call the hard facts of life.
HOOD
And what was your exhibit intended for?
LIVINGSTON
(_Pointedly_)
To have them read the danger signs _first_. It was my plan to
indicate how signs should be put up over terrain places, like
stores and homes and....
BESS
(_Calmly_)
How interesting. What sort of signs were they to be, dear?
HOOD
“Don’t Handle,” “Watch Your Step.” You know the sort. You see,
I have a theory that if these signs were placed about in enough
places people would soon grow accustomed to carrying them in their
mind’s eye, as it were. (_Pointedly_) Do you get my meaning?
BESS
But, dear; there are so many signs now. Look at these about here
for instance. I’m sure people would never get anything out of these
by carrying them about in their heads.
LIVINGSTON
It’s merely a matter of how much intelligence and imagination you
bring to signs--otherwise they are only words.
(_As_ LIVINGSTON _crosses to read sign under the_ BRONTOSAURUS,
HOOD _makes a movement as though to speak, but_ BESS, _who has
sat on the bench, stops him with an imploring gesture_.)
Um--highly suggestive, this. (_Reading_) “Great Amphibious Dinosaur
Brontosaurus ... Jurassic Period ... Donated by James Morrow....
The Brontosaurus lived several million years ago....” You see
(_To them_) James Morrow and the animal have clasped hands over
the centuries. Um. From this sign, can’t you picture the love and
devotion to science that prompted such a gift?
HOOD
(_Now smiling for the first time_)
As it happens he didn’t even know what his money was for. While I
was waiting here I heard Mrs. Morrow say.... (_He stops short as_
LIVINGSTON _gives him a sharp look_.)
BESS
(_Quickly_)
You see, dear, you were mistaken in that sign.
LIVINGSTON
(_Casually_)
Perhaps. Curious though how much information a man picks up while
he _waits_ about. (_He crosses over to the case opposite._) I
wonder what this one will reveal.
(HOOD _sees he has been caught in a slip. It spurs him into a
mood of retaliation. He overcomes a momentary hesitation and
then shows he resolves to tell_ LIVINGSTON _everything_.)
HOOD
(_With hoarse nervous intensity_)
Mr. Livingston!
BESS
(_Under her breath to him_)
Bob!
LIVINGSTON
(_Not turning_)
Yes?
(_For a second_ HOOD _is about to speak, but he is halted by_
BESS’S _look and voices, as the_ PROFESSOR, _followed by_
LARRY ANDERSON, _enters_.
LARRY _is a fine strapping doughboy in his uniform, on which
are two gold service stripes and several decorations for
bravery. His hand is bandaged. They come down._
_As_ LIVINGSTON _gives no indication of leaving_, BESS _still
sits there while_ HOOD _keeps his eyes on her husband’s back.
His silence holds them there._)
PROFESSOR
But I was expecting at least two hundred.
LARRY
They got lost on the way.
PROFESSOR
Lost?
LARRY
Yes. I left them at the Follies. But I’d heard my uncle speak of
this place.
PROFESSOR
(_Brightens_)
Is your uncle interested in fossils?
LARRY
Yes. He’s a queer bug. He told me to be sure and not miss the
Chamber of Horrors. You know, where all the Kings and Queens and
statesmen are embalmed in wax?
PROFESSOR
But, my dear friend, they tore down the Eden Musée several years
ago.
LARRY
They did? Why didn’t they wait till I got back? Haven’t you any
Chamber of Horrors here?
PROFESSOR
No; this is the Paleontological section.
LARRY
(_Looking about_)
Well, now that I’m here maybe this will do as well.
(LIVINGSTON _now turns, leaning against the case, much
interested in the two men. As he shows no intention of
moving_, BESS _sits there, twisting her handkerchief
nervously in her hand_. HOOD _is embarrassed and undecided_.)
Trot ’em out, so I can tell uncle I’ve seen ’em.
PROFESSOR
(_Pointing to_ BRONTOSAURUS)
This is a major Dinosaur.
LARRY
Major what?
PROFESSOR
The more popular name is the Brontosaurus.
LARRY
Is that so? (_Looking at it._) Some bird!
PROFESSOR
It’s a reptile: its name means Thunder Lizard because its mighty
tread shook the earth.
LARRY
Where did it grow?
PROFESSOR
From other bones we have found I should say it roamed all over the
world. This specimen was dug up in Wyoming.
LARRY
What was it doing in Wyoming?
PROFESSOR
(_On his dignity_)
It was possibly overtaken there by an earthquake.
LARRY
Must have been some earthquake.
PROFESSOR
Since it was thus buried in silica away from the decomposing air
and moisture, it was preserved for centuries--till we happened to
discover it with a pick.
LARRY
You don’t say so! (_He looks at it a bit awed._) When we were
digging trenches in No Man’s Land we used to find....
PROFESSOR
What?
LARRY
Not that sort of bones.
PROFESSOR
This was in an excellent state of preservation. It is sixty feet
long and must have weighed when alive forty tons. It took seven
years to dig it out and mount it. We had to be very careful not to
break its marvelous tail. If you’ll walk to the other end you’ll
get an idea of its length. We found ninety-seven perfect vertebræ.
LARRY
Ninety-seven? You don’t say so?
PROFESSOR
You can count them and see.
LARRY
Ninety-seven what you call ’ems! Think of that. (_As he goes up._)
And you say it came from Wyoming?
PROFESSOR
Yes.
LARRY
(_Proudly_)
That’s my state, too.
(LARRY _wanders off out of sight looking at the fossil. As
the_ PROFESSOR _starts to follow_, LIVINGSTON, _who has been
watching his wife and_ HOOD, _stops him_.)
LIVINGSTON
I beg your pardon. I hope you won’t mind our being interested
in what you were saying; but we were wondering about the animal
ourselves.
(HOOD _looks at_ BESS _quickly not knowing what_ LIVINGSTON
_is driving at_.)
PROFESSOR
(_Brightening_)
Indeed? I’m afraid our young friend is a bit irreverent.
LIVINGSTON
May I ask what is known of its domestic habits?
PROFESSOR
It was hardly a domestic animal. Its family life probably extended
only during the infancy of its young.
LIVINGSTON
Was this a female, by chance?
PROFESSOR
Yes: the large pelvic development....
LIVINGSTON
This one undoubtedly had young, too?
PROFESSOR
Of course. But we have never found any of its eggs. It was a
reptile, you know.
LIVINGSTON
But while they were dependent it undoubtedly fought to protect its
young--like other animals?
PROFESSOR
With very few exceptions all the female animals at least do that;
even those of low intelligence.
LIVINGSTON
This one couldn’t by any chance have been wooed away from that
obligation by romantic notions?
PROFESSOR
(_Suspiciously_)
This--romantic?
LIVINGSTON
But you said it roamed in search of adventure?
PROFESSOR
(_A bit on his dignity_)
Romance lies in the field of the emotions: I am a scientist.
LIVINGSTON
What I mean is: was she faithful to one or promiscuous?
PROFESSOR
(_Embarrassed_)
Undoubtedly promiscuous.
LIVINGSTON
Of course.--You see, Bess, the lady existed before man made his
conventions.
PROFESSOR
Yes. She could follow all her natural instincts.
LIVINGSTON
Which were?
PROFESSOR
Food and fighting. You will observe her large maw and small brain.
Her main weapon of defense was her long powerfully muscled tail.
From the teeth, we deduce she was mainly herbivorous.
LIVINGSTON
What did she feed on?
PROFESSOR
Everything she could pick up.
LIVINGSTON
(_Significantly_)
Think of that, Hood--“everything she could pick up.”
PROFESSOR
Young weeds, tender grass and the like.
LIVINGSTON
Young weeds--ah, yes, of course. Yet in spite of her diet, there is
something quite impressive about dead things, isn’t there?
PROFESSOR
(_Eyeing it_)
They have a dynamic power.
LIVINGSTON
Exactly. You see, Mr. Hood, a dead tree, that has in its time given
shelter and substance, fights to be left standing. It resists the
alien ax. Its roots go as deep as when they flowed with sap. They
also fight to prevent themselves from being torn up. They don’t
like to be disturbed--any more than this animal did in its cold
clayey comfort. (_To_ PROFESSOR) You say it took seven years?
PROFESSOR
(_Not understanding_)
Yes. We were afraid of hurting it if we were careless.
LIVINGSTON
You were right to be careful: one shouldn’t hurt the dead. What is
its scientific significance?
PROFESSOR
Nothing but a further proof of the slow processes of evolution.
LIVINGSTON
(_With a smile_)
I am a utilitarian. I see another significance. Possibly she was
dug up, a thousand centuries after she died, just to give _you_ an
occupation.
PROFESSOR
I can’t accept that as a working hypothesis.
LIVINGSTON
Just think, Hood. Several million years dead! There it stands for
man to look upon! Possibly that was _why_ it existed, after all:
for us _three_ to look upon. (_He glances pointedly at them._)
Mr. Hood is thinking of introducing a bill in the Legislature to
increase the wings of the Museum.
PROFESSOR
That’s very kind of him. We have many boxes still unpacked in the
cellar for lack of room. But, unfortunately, this museum is under
the control of the city, not the state.
LIVINGSTON
(_Smiling at_ HOOD)
Indeed?
BESS
(_Rising impatiently_)
It’s getting late.
LARRY
(_Re-entering_)
I only counted sixty-three.
PROFESSOR
(_Emphatically_)
But there are ninety-seven.
LARRY
All right. I won’t argue it.
PROFESSOR
If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you the Tyrannosaurus. They were
carnivorous and the greatest fighters of them all.
LARRY
Say, this is a fine place to be showing a fellow who’s just back
from France.
BESS
(_Sweetly_)
Young man, I’d like to shake your hand. I see you have all sorts of
lovely decorations. May I ask how you got them?
LARRY
(_Embarrassed_)
Oh, I was careless and they pinned a rose on me by mistake.
BESS
You must be very proud of them?
LARRY
Sure I am. (_Looking at the_ BRONTOSAURUS.) But that lizard kinder
takes the pride out of a fellow.
BESS
But _I_ admire bravery--whenever I see it. I’d like to hear about
how you really got those decorations.
LARRY
Would you?
(_The gong in the distance rings._)
PROFESSOR
(_In back_)
If you want to see the Tyrannosaurus before we close....
LARRY
Oh, all right. (_To others_) Gee, I’ll be glad to get out among the
live ones.
BESS
(_Smiling at him_)
So will I.
LIVINGSTON
(_Coldly_)
You should have gone to the Follies, young man.
LARRY
Oh, I might have sprained an ankle going to my seat.
(_He goes out after the_ PROFESSOR _as_ BESS _looks after
him_. SARAH _comes in back and then goes off. The rear of
room darkens, indicating she has pulled the curtain up._
LIVINGSTON _glances at_ HOOD _who is gazing at_ BESS _with a
strange enlightenment_.)
LIVINGSTON
I think you’re right, Bess: we’d better be going. We might stop and
take the children for a spin before it’s dark.
BESS
Yes.
LIVINGSTON
(_To_ HOOD)
Are you going _our_ way?
HOOD
No.
BESS
You’re sure we can’t drop you somewhere?
HOOD
No. Thank you.
LIVINGSTON
I’m delighted to have met you, Mr. Hood. (_Shaking hands._) I shall
follow your work in the Legislature with great interest.
HOOD
Perhaps I may be able to help you with _your_ museum.
LIVINGSTON
Just talking to you has encouraged me greatly. Good-bye. There is
a big political future waiting a young man these days--if he keeps
his head.
BESS
(_Shaking his hand_)
I’m sure my husband is right.
HOOD
(_Looking at her_)
So am I. Quite sure.
(_She turns away, as she sees what his tone of finality
implies, and looks up at the_ BRONTOSAURUS _with a start_.)
LIVINGSTON
What is it, dear?
BESS
Nothing. Only it seems to be smiling at us.
LIVINGSTON
All skulls grin: it’s the eternal laughter of the dead.
BESS
Come. (_As she starts._) Dear, don’t you think it might be a good
idea to rescue that fine strong good-looking young soldier? He must
be so lonely and we might take him for a drive.
LIVINGSTON
(_A bit wearily at what he sees ahead_)
Oh, yes; if you wish. But I’m sure he should have gone to the
Follies.
(_He offers her his arm--she takes it._ HOOD _watches them as
they walk out without turning back. He stands there a moment,
with a cynical smile creeping over his lips. He throws the
catalogue on the seat. Then he goes to the sign before the_
BRONTOSAURUS.)
HOOD
(_Reading and thinking_)
“Mainly Herbivorous.” “Anything she can pick up.” “Several million
years”....
(_As he gazes there_, SARAH _enters and goes out to pull
up the other curtain. She apparently does so for some red
rays slowly gather about the fossil. The room is darker. She
re-enters and stands there looking at him._ HOOD _gives a
sigh of relief, and determination: he puts on his hat, and,
with hands in his pockets, goes off whistling_.
SARAH _stands there as the room darkens. Then she goes over
near the seat and begins to mop._)
SARAH
Moppin’ and scrubbin’ ... moppin’....
(_She pauses and gives a glance at the_ BRONTOSAURUS _on
whose skull are now centered the rays of the setting sun_.)
Holy Mother of Saints! What are you grinnin’ at, ye dirty heathen?
(_She lifts her arm again in revolt as though to throw the
mop at it. Then she puts it down with a sense of futility.
She picks up her things and goes off slowly._
_The place is now dark save for the faint light on the skull;
and even that fades after a little while._)
[CURTAIN]
[B] Copyright by George Middleton. See back of title page.
TIDES
THE PEOPLE
WILLIAM WHITE, _a famous Internationalist_.
HILDA, _his wife_.
WALLACE, _their son_.
SCENE
_At the Whites; spring, 1917._
TIDES[C]
_A simply furnished study. The walls are lined with bookshelves,
indicating, by their improvised quality, that they have been
increased as occasion demanded. On these are stacked, in addition
to the books themselves, many files of papers, magazines and
“reports.” The large work-table, upon which rests a double student
lamp and a telephone, is conspicuous. A leather couch with pillows
is opposite, pointing towards a doorway which leads into the
living-room. There is also a doorway in back, which apparently
opens on the hallway beyond. The room is comfortable in spite of
its general disorder: it is essentially the work-shop of a busy man
of public affairs. The strong sunlight of a spring day comes in
through the window, flooding the table._
WILLIAM WHITE _is standing by the window, smoking a pipe. He is
about fifty, of striking appearance: the visual incarnation of
the popular conception of a leader of men. There is authority
and strength in the lines of his face; his whole personality is
commanding; his voice has all the modulations of a well-trained
orator; his gestures are sweeping--for, even in private
conversation, he is habitually conscious of an audience.
Otherwise, he is simple and engaging, with some indication of his
humble origin._
_On the sofa opposite, with a letter in her hand_, HILDA WHITE,
_his wife, is seated. She is somewhat younger in fact, though in
appearance she is as one who has been worn a bit by the struggle
of many years. Her manner contrasts with her husband’s: her
inheritance of delicate refinement is ever present in her soft
voice and gentle gesture. Yet she, too, suggests strength--the sort
which will endure all for a fixed intention._
_It is obvious throughout that she and her husband have been happy
comrades in their life together and that a deep fundamental bond
has united them in spite of the different social spheres from which
each has sprung._
WHITE
(_Seeing she has paused_)
Go on, dear; go on. Let’s hear all of it.
HILDA
Oh, what’s the use, Will? You know how differently he feels about
the war.
WHITE
(_With quiet sarcasm_)
But it’s been so many years since your respectable brother has
honored me even with the slightest allusion....
HILDA
If you care for what he says--(_Continuing to read the
letter_)--“Remember, Hilda, you are an American. I don’t suppose
your husband considers that an honor; but I do.”
WHITE
(_Interrupting_)
And what kind of an American has he been in times of peace? He’s
wrung forty per cent profit out of his factory and fought every
effort of the workers to organize. Ah, these smug hypocrites!
HILDA
(_Reading_)
“His violent opposition to America going in has been disgrace
enough----”
WHITE
But his war profits were all right. Oh, yes.
HILDA
Let me finish, dear, since you want it. (_Reading_) “--been
disgrace enough. But now that we’re in, I’m writing in the faint
hope, if you are not too much under his influence, that you will
persuade him to keep his mouth shut. This country will tolerate no
difference of opinion now. You radicals had better get on board the
band wagon. It’s prison or acceptance.” (_She stops reading._) He’s
right, dear. There will be nothing more intolerant than a so-called
democracy at war.
WHITE
By God! It’s superb! Silence for twenty years and now he writes his
poor misguided sister for fear she will be further disgraced by her
radical husband.
HILDA
We mustn’t descend to his bitterness.
WHITE
No: I suppose I should resuscitate the forgotten doctrine of
forgiving my enemies.
HILDA
He’s not your enemy; he merely looks at it all differently.
WHITE
I was thinking of his calm contempt for me these twenty years--ever
since you married me--“out of your class,” as he called it.
HILDA
Oh, hush, Will. I’ve been so happy with you I can bear him no ill
will. Besides, doesn’t his attitude seem natural? You mustn’t
forget that no man in this country has fought his class more than
you. That hurts--especially coming from an _acquired_ relative.
WHITE
Yes; that aggravates the offense. And I’ll tell you something you
may not know: (_Bitterly_) Whenever I’ve spoken against privilege
and wealth it’s been his pudgy, comfortable face I’ve shaken my
fist at. He’s been so damned comfortable all his life.
HILDA
(_She looks at him in surprise_)
Why, Will, you surely don’t envy him his comfort, do you? I can’t
make you out. What’s come over you these last weeks? You’ve always
been above such personal bitterness; even when you were most
condemned and ridiculed. If it were anybody but you I’d think you
had done something you were ashamed of.
WHITE
What do you mean?
HILDA
Haven’t you sometimes noticed that is what bitterness to another
means: a failure within oneself? (_He goes over to chair and
sits without answering._) I can think of you beaten by outside
things--that sort of failure we all meet; but somehow I can
never think of you failing yourself. You’ve been so brave and
self-reliant: you’ve fought so hard for the truth.
WHITE
(_Tapping letter_)
But he thinks _he_ knows the truth, too.
HILDA
He’s also an intense nature.
WHITE
(_Thoughtfully after a pause_)
Yet there is _some_ truth in what he says.
HILDA
(_Smiling_)
But you didn’t like it--coming from him?
WHITE
It will be different with you and me now that America’s gone in.
HILDA
Yes. It will be harder for us here; for hate is always furthest
from the trenches. But you and I are not the sort who would
compromise to escape the persecution which is the resource of the
non-combatant.
(_The phone rings: he looks at his watch._)
WHITE
That’s for me.
HILDA
Let me. (_She goes._) It may be Wallace. (_At phone._) Yes: this
is 116 Chelsea. Long Distance? (_He starts as she says to him_) It
must be our boy. (_At phone._) Who? Oh--_Mr._ William White? Yes:
he’ll be here. (_She hangs up receiver._) She’ll ring when she gets
the connection through.
WHITE
(_Turning away_)
It takes so long these days.
HILDA
Funny he didn’t ask for me.
WHITE
What made you think it was Wallace?
HILDA
I took it for granted. He must be having a hard time at college
with all the boys full of war fever.
WHITE
And a father with my record.
HILDA
He should be proud of the example. He has more than other boys to
cling to these days when everybody is losing his head as the band
plays and the flag is waved. He won’t be carried away by it. He’ll
remember all we taught him. Ah, Will, when I think we now have
conscription--as they have in Germany--I thank God every night our
boy is too young for the draft.
WHITE
But when his time comes what will he do?
HILDA
(_Calmly_)
He will do it with courage.
WHITE
(_Referring to her brother’s letter_)
Either prison or acceptance!
HILDA
I would rather have my son in prison than have him do what he felt
was wrong. Wouldn’t you?
WHITE
(_Evasively_)
We won’t have to face that problem for two years.
HILDA
And when it comes--if he falters--I’ll give him these notes of that
wonderful speech you made at the International Conference in 1910.
(_Picking it up._) I was looking through it only this morning.
WHITE
(_Troubled_)
Oh, that speech.
HILDA
(_Glancing through it with enthusiasm_)
“All wars are imperialistic in origin. Do away with overseas
investments, trade routes, private control of ammunition factories,
secret diplomacy....”
WHITE
Don’t you see that’s all dead wood?
HILDA
(_Not heeding him_)
This part gave me new strength when I thought of Wallace.
(_Reading with eloquence._) “War will stop when young men put
Internationalism above Nationality, the law of God above the
dictates of statesmen, the law of love above the law of hate, the
law of self-sacrifice above the law of profit. There must be no
boundaries in man’s thought. Let the young men of the world once
throw down their arms, let them once refuse to point their guns at
human hearts, and all the boundaries of the world will melt away
and peace will find a resting-place in the hearts of men!”
WHITE
(_Taking it from her_)
And I made you believe it! What silly prophets we radicals were.
(_He tears it up._) Mere scraps of paper, dear; scraps of paper,
now.
HILDA
But it was the truth; it still _is_ the truth.
WHITE
Hilda, there’s something I want to talk over very very seriously
with you. I’ve been putting it off.
HILDA
Yes, dear? (_The outer door is heard to bang._) Listen: wasn’t that
the front door?
WHITE
Perhaps it’s the maid?
HILDA
(_A bit nervously_)
No: she’s upstairs. No one rang. Please see.
WHITE
(_Smiling_)
Now don’t worry! It can’t possibly be the Secret Service.
HILDA
One never knows in war times what to expect. I sometimes feel I am
in a foreign country.
(WHITE _goes slowly to the door in back and opens it_.
WALLACE, _their son, with valise in hand, is standing there,
as though he had hesitated to enter_.
_He is a fine clean-cut young fellow, with his father’s
physical endowment and his mother’s spiritual intensity. The
essential note he strikes is that of honesty. It is apparent
he is under the pressure of a momentous decision which has
brought him unexpectedly home from college._)
WHITE
Wallace!
WALLACE
(_Shaking hands_)
Hello! Dad.
HILDA
Wallace! My boy!
(WALLACE _drops valise and goes to his mother’s arms_.)
WALLACE
(_With deep feeling_)
Mother!
WHITE
(_After a pause_)
Well, boy; this is unexpected. We were just talking of you.
WALLACE
Were you?
HILDA
I’m so glad to see you, so glad.
WALLACE
Yes ... yes ... but....
WHITE
There’s nothing the matter?
HILDA
You’ve had trouble at college?
WALLACE
Not exactly. But I couldn’t stand it there. I’ve left--for good.
WHITE
I was sure that would happen.
HILDA
Tell us. You know we’ll understand.
WALLACE
Dad, if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk it over with mother first.
WHITE
Of course, old fellow, that’s right. She’ll stand by you just as
she’s always stood by me--all these years. (_He kisses her._) I ...
I....
(_He smooths her hair gently, looking into her eyes as she
smiles up at him._)
We mustn’t let this war hurt all we’ve had together--you and I----
HILDA
(_Smiling and turning towards her son_)
And Wallace.
WHITE
And Wallace. Yes. (WALLACE _looks away guiltily_.) Let me know when
the phone comes.
(_He goes out hastily. She closes the door after him and
then comes to_ WALLACE, _who has sat down, indicating he is
troubled_.)
HILDA
They made it hard for you at college?
WALLACE
I don’t know how to tell you.
HILDA
I understand. The flag waving, the patriotic speeches, the
billboards advertising the glory of war, the call of adventure
offered to youth, the pressure of your friends--all made it hard
for you to be called a slacker.
WALLACE
No, mother. I wasn’t afraid of what they could call me. That was
easy.
HILDA
(_Proudly_)
You are your father’s son!
WALLACE
Mother, I can’t stand the thought of killing, you know that. And I
couldn’t forget all you’ve told me. That’s why I’ve had to think
this out all these months alone; why I’ve hesitated longer than
most fellows. The only thing I was really afraid of was being
wrong. But now I know I’m right and I’m going clean through to the
limit.
HILDA
As your father said I’ll stand by you--whatever it is--if only you
feel it’s right.
WALLACE
Will you? Will you, mother? No matter what happens? (_She nods._)
I knew you would. (_Taking her hand._) Then mother, listen. I’ve
volunteered.
HILDA
(_Shocked_)
Volunteered!
WALLACE
Yes. I leave for training-camp to-night.
HILDA
To-night?
WALLACE
Yes, mother. Once I made up my mind I couldn’t wait to be drafted.
I wanted to offer myself. I didn’t want to be made to go.
HILDA
(_Hardly grasping it_)
But you are too young.
WALLACE
I lied about my age. You and father can stop me if you tell the
truth. That’s why I’ve come back. I want you to promise you won’t
tell.
HILDA
_You_ ask me to aid you in what I don’t believe?
WALLACE
But you said you’d stick by me if _I_ thought it was right.
HILDA
But....
WALLACE
(_With fervor_)
And I tell you, mother, I do feel it was right for America to go
in. I see now we ought to have declared war when they crushed
Belgium. Yes; we ought to have gone in when the Lusitania was sunk.
But we’ve been patient. The President tried to keep us out of it
until we _had_ to go in to save our self-respect. We had to go in
to show we were men of honor, not pussy cats. We had to go in to
show the world the Stars and Stripes wasn’t a dishrag on which the
Germans could dry their bloody hands!
HILDA
(_Gazing at him incredulously_)
You hate them as much as that?
WALLACE
Hate? No, mother, no. (_As though questioning himself._) I really
haven’t any hate for the German _people_. People are just people
everywhere, I suppose, and they’re tricked and fooled by their
rotten government, as the President says.
HILDA
Then why fight them?
WALLACE
Because they’re standing back of their government, doing what it
says. And they’ve got to be licked to show them what kind of a
government they have.
HILDA
At least you have no hate in your heart--that’s something.
WALLACE
Oh, yes, I have, mother. But it isn’t for the poor devils I’ve got
to shoot. It’s for the stay-at-home fellow here in America who sits
in a comfortable armchair, who applauds patriotic sentiment, cheers
the flag and does nothing for his country but hate and hate--while
we fight for him. That’s the fellow I’ll hate all right when I sit
in the trenches. And that’s why I couldn’t look myself in the face
if I stayed out a day longer; why, I’ve got to go in; why, I’m
going to die if I must, because _everybody_ ought to be willing to
die for what he believes.
HILDA
You are my son, _too_! For I would willingly have died if it could
have kept us out of this war.
WALLACE
Yes. I am your son, too. And that’s why you wouldn’t respect me if
I didn’t go through.
HILDA
No. I wouldn’t have respected you. But ... but.... (_She breaks
a bit, then controls herself._) You are quite sure you’re doing
what’s right?
WALLACE
(_Tenderly_)
Would I have been willing to hurt you like this?
HILDA
(_Holding him close to her_)
My boy; my boy!
WALLACE
It’ll be all right, mother.
HILDA
Ah, yes. It will be all right. Nothing matters in time: it’s only
the moments that hurt.
WALLACE
(_After a pause_)
Then you won’t tell my real age, or interfere?
HILDA
I respect your right to decide your own life.
WALLACE
(_Joyed_)
Mother!
HILDA
I respect your dedication; your willingness to sacrifice for your
beliefs. Why, Wallace, it would be a crime for me to stand in your
way--even with my mother’s love. (_He kisses her._) Do it all as
cleanly as you can. I’ll hope and pray that you’ll come back to
me. (_Half breaking down and taking him in her arms._) Oh, my boy;
my boy. Let me hold you. You’ll never know how hard it is for a
mother.
WALLACE
(_Gently_)
But other mothers send their boys.
HILDA
Most of them believe in what their sons are fighting for. Mothers
have _got_ to believe in it; or else how could they stand the
thought of bayonets stuck into the bodies they brought forth in
their own blood? (_There is a pause till she controls herself._)
I’ll help you get your things together.
WALLACE
And father?
HILDA
He will be angry.
WALLACE
But you will make him understand?
HILDA
I’ll try. Yet you must be patient with him if he doesn’t
understand. Don’t ever forget his long fight against all kinds of
Prussianism when you hear him reviled by those who have always
hated his radicalism and who, now, under the guise of patriotism,
are trying to render him useless for further attacks on them after
the war. He’s been persecuted so by them--even back in the days
when our press was praising Germany and our distinguished citizens
were dining at the Emperor’s table. Don’t forget all this, my boy.
These days are hard for him--and me--harder perhaps than for you
who go out to die in glory and praise. There are no flags for us,
no music that stirs, no applause; but we too suffer in silence for
what we believe. And it is only the strongest who can survive.--Now
call your father.
WALLACE
(_Goes to door_)
Dad! (_He leaves door open and turns to his mother._) I’ll be
getting my things together. (_There is a pause._ WHITE _enters_.)
Dad, mother has something to ask you. (_He looks from father to
mother._) Thanks, little mother.
(_He kisses her and goes out taking the valise. His father
and mother stand facing each other._)
HILDA
Wallace has volunteered. (_He looks at her keenly._) He has lied
about his age. He wants us to let him go.
WHITE
Volunteered?
HILDA
Yes; he leaves to-night.
WHITE
(_After a pause_)
And what have _you_ told him?
HILDA
That he must go.
WHITE
You can say that?
HILDA
It is the way he sees it.
WHITE
(_Going to her sympathetically_)
Hilda.
HILDA
(_Looking up at him tenderly_)
Oh, Will, do you remember when he was born? (_He soothes her._) And
all we nursed him through afterwards; and all we taught him; all
we tried to show him about war. (_With a shrug of her shoulders._)
None of it has mattered.
WHITE
War is stronger than all that.
HILDA
So we mustn’t blame him. You won’t blame him?
WHITE
He fears I will?
HILDA
He has always feared you a little though he loves you deeply. You
mustn’t oppose him, dear. You won’t?
WHITE
(_Wearily_)
Is there any use opposing anybody or anything these days?
HILDA
We must wait till the storm passes.
WHITE
That’s never been my way.
HILDA
No. You’ve fought all your life. But now we must sit silent
together and wait; wait for our boy to come back. Will, think of
it; we are going to have a boy “over there,” too.
WHITE
Hilda, hasn’t it ever struck you that we may have been all wrong?
(_She looks at him, as she holds his hand._) What could these frail
hands do? How could we poor little King Canutes halt this tide that
has swept over the world? Isn’t it better, after all, that men
should fight themselves out; bring such desolation upon themselves
that they will be forced to see the futility of war? May it not
become so terrible that men--the workers, I mean--will throw down
their worn-out weapons of their own accord? Won’t permanent peace
come through bitter experience rather than talk--talk--talk?
HILDA
(_Touching the torn pages of his speech and smiling_)
Here is your answer to your own question.
WHITE
Oh, that was all theory. We’re in now. You say yourself we can’t
oppose it. Isn’t it better if we try to direct the current to our
own ends rather than sink by trying to swim against it?
HILDA
Oh, yes; it would be easier for one who _could_ compromise.
WHITE
But haven’t we radicals been too intolerant of compromise?
HILDA
That has been _your_ strength. And it is your strength I’m relying
on now that Wallace.... Shall I call him?
WHITE
(_Significantly_)
No; wait.
HILDA
(_Apprehensive at his turn_)
Oh, yes. Before he came you said there was something...? (_The
phone rings. They both look at it._) That’s for you.
WHITE
(_Not moving_)
Yes.
HILDA
(_Hardly believing his attitude_)
Is--is it private?
WHITE
No. Perhaps it will be easier this way. (_He hesitates, then goes
to phone as she stands expectant._) Yes. Yes. Long Distance?
Washington? (_Her lips repeat the word._) Yes. This is William
White. Hello. Yes. Is this the Secretary speaking? Oh, I appreciate
the honor of having you confirm it personally. Senator Bough is
chairman? At _his_ request? Ah, yes; war makes strange bedfellows.
Yes. The passport and credentials? Oh, I’ll be ready. Yes. Good-bye.
(_He hangs up the receiver and looks at her._)
HILDA
You, too!
WHITE
I’ve been trying to tell you these last weeks; but I couldn’t
somehow.
HILDA
You were ashamed?
WHITE
No, dear; only I knew it would hurt you.
HILDA
I’m not thinking of myself but of you. You are going to be part of
this war?
WHITE
I’m going to do what I can to help finish it.
HILDA
By compromising with the beliefs of a lifetime?
WHITE
No, dear; not that. I’ve accepted the appointment on this
commission because I’m going to accept facts.
HILDA
Have the facts of war changed or is it you?
WHITE
Neither has changed; but I’m going to act differently. I’m going to
be part of it. Yes. I’m going to help direct the current.
HILDA
I can’t believe what I am hearing. Is it you, William White,
speaking? You who, for twenty years, have stood against _all_ war!
WHITE
Yes.
HILDA
And now when the test comes you are going to lend yourself to it!
You of all men!
WHITE
Hilda, dear; I didn’t expect you to accept it easily; but I think I
can make you see if you will let me.
HILDA
(_Poignantly_)
If I will _let_ you! Why, Will, I must understand; I must.
WHITE
Perhaps it will be difficult at first--with your standards.
HILDA
But my standards were yours, Will. You gave them to me. You taught
me. You took a young girl who loved you. You showed her the truth,
and she followed you and has followed you gladly through hard years
of struggle and poverty because of those ideals. And now you talk
of _my_ standards! Will, don’t you see, I _must_ understand?
WHITE
Dear, standards are relative things; they differ with circumstance.
HILDA
Have your ideals only been old clothes you change to suit the
weather?
WHITE
It’s the end we must keep in mind. _I_ haven’t changed or
compromised one bit in that. I’m working in changed conditions,
that’s all; working with all my heart to do away with all war.
HILDA
By fighting one?
WHITE
(_With eloquence_)
Yes. Because it is necessary. I’ve come to see we can’t argue war
out of the world with words. We’ve got to beat it out of the world.
It can’t be done with our hands lifted up in prayer; it can only
be done with iron hands crushing it down. War is the mood of the
world. Well, I’m going to fight in my fashion. And when it is over
I’m going to keep on fighting; for the next war will be greater
than this. It will be economic revolution. It will be the war of
capital and labor. And I mean to be ready.
HILDA
(_Listening incredulously_)
And to get ready you are willing to link arms now with Senator
Bough--a man you once called the lackey of Wall Street--a man who
has always opposed every democratic principle....
WHITE
Yes. Don’t you see the Government is beginning to realize
they can’t do without us? Don’t you see my appointment is an
acknowledgment of the rising tide of radicalism in the world?
Don’t you see, with the prestige that will come to me from this
appointment, I will have greater power after the war; power
to bring about the realization of all our dreams; power to
demand--even at the Peace table itself, perhaps--that all wars must
end?
HILDA
Do you actually believe you will have any power with your _own_
people when you have compromised them for a temporary expediency?
WHITE
(_With a gesture_)
The leader must be wiser than the people who follow.
HILDA
So, contempt for your people is the first thing your new power has
brought you! (_He makes a gesture of denial._) You feel you are
above them--not of them. Do you believe for a moment that Senator
Bough has anything but contempt for you, too?
WHITE
(_Confidently_)
He needs me.
HILDA
Needs you? Don’t you understand why he had you appointed on that
committee? He wanted to get you out of the way.
WHITE
Isn’t that an acknowledgment of my power?
HILDA
Yes. You’re a great asset _now_. You’re a “reformed” radical. Why,
Will, he’ll use you in the capitals of Europe to advertise his
liberalism; just as the prohibitionist exhibits a reformed drunkard.
WHITE
And I tell you, Hilda, after the war I shall be stronger than he
is, stronger than any of them.
HILDA
No man is strong unless he does what he feels is right. No, no,
Will; you’ve convicted yourself with your own eloquence. You’ve
wanted to do this for some reason. But it isn’t the one you’ve told
me. No; no.
WHITE
(_Angrily_)
You doubt my sincerity?
HILDA
No; only the way you have read yourself.
WHITE
Well, if you think I’ve tried to make it easy for myself you are
mistaken. Is it easy to pull out of the rut and habit of years?
Easy to know my friends will jeer and say I’ve sold out? Easy to
have _you_ misunderstand? (_Goes to her._) Hilda, I’m doing this
for their good. I’m doing it--just as Wallace is--because I feel
it’s right.
HILDA
No; you shouldn’t say that. You are not doing this for the same
reason Wallace is. He believes in this war. He has accepted it
all simply without a question. If you had seen the look in his
eyes, you would have known he was a dedicated spirit; there was
no shadow, no doubt; it was pure flame. But you! You believe
differently! You can’t hush the mind that for twenty years has
thought no war ever could henceforth be justified. You can’t give
yourself to this war without tricking yourself with phrases. You
see power in it and profit for yourself. (_He protests._) That’s
your own confession. You are only doing what is expedient--not what
is right. Oh, Will, don’t compare your motives with those of our
son. I sent him forth, without a word of protest, because he wishes
to die for his own ideals: you are killing your own ideals for the
ideals of others! (_She turns away._) Oh, Will, that’s what hurts.
If you were only like him, I--I could stand it.
WHITE
(_Quietly, after a pause_)
I can’t be angry at you--even when you say such things. You’ve
been too much a part of my life, and work, and I love you, Hilda.
You know that, don’t you, dear? (_He sits beside her and takes her
hand._) I knew it would be difficult to make you understand. Only
once have I lacked courage and that was when I felt myself being
drawn into this and they offered me the appointment. For then I
saw I must tell you. You know I never have wanted to cause you
pain. But when you asked me to let Wallace go, I thought you would
understand my going, too.--Oh, perhaps our motives are different;
he is young: war has caught his imagination; but, I, too, see a
duty, a way to accomplish my ideals.
HILDA
Let’s leave ideals out of this now. It’s like bitter enemies
praying to the same God as they kill each other.
WHITE
Yes. War is full of ironies. I see that: Wallace can’t. It’s so
full of mixed motives, good and bad. Yes. I’ll grant all that. Only
America has gone in. The whole tide was against us, dear. It is
sweeping over the world: a brown tide of khaki sweeping everything
before it. All my life I’ve fought against the current. (_Wearily_)
And now that I’ve gone in, too, my arms seem less tired. Yes; and
except for the pain I’ve caused you, I’ve never in all my life felt
so--so happy.
(_Then she understands. She slowly turns to him, with
tenderness in her eyes._)
HILDA
Oh, now, Will, I do understand. Now I see the real reason for what
you’ve done.
WHITE
(_Defensively_)
I’ve given the real reason.
HILDA
(_Her heart going out to him_)
You poor tired man. My dear one. Forgive me, if I made it difficult
for you; if I said cruel words. I ought to have guessed; ought
to have seen what life has done to you. (_He looks up, not
understanding her words._) Those hands of yours first dug a living
out of the ground. Then they built houses and grew strong because
you were a workman--a man of the people. You saw injustice and all
your life you fought against those who had the power to inflict
it: the press; the comfortable respectables, like my brother; and
even those of your own group who opposed you--you fought them all.
And they look at you as an outsider, an alien in your own country.
Oh, Will, I know how hard it has been for you to be always on the
defensive, against the majority. It is hard to live alone away from
the herd. It does tire one to the bone and make one envious of the
comfort and security they find by being together.
WHITE
Yes ... but....
HILDA
Now the war comes and with it a chance to get back; to be part
of the majority; to be welcomed with open arms by those who have
fought you; to go back with honor and praise. And, yes, to have
the warmth and comfort of the crowd. That’s the real reason you’re
going in. You’re tired and worn out with the fight. I know. I
understand now.
WHITE
(_Earnestly_)
If I thought it was that, I’d kill myself.
HILDA
There’s been enough killing already. I have to understand it
somehow to accept it at all.
(_He stares at her, wondering at her words. She smiles.
He goes to a chair and sits down, gazing before him. The
music of “Over There” is now heard outside in the street,
approaching nearer and nearer. It is a military band._
WALLACE _excitedly rushes in dressed in khaki_.)
WALLACE
Mother, mother. The boys are coming down the street. (_Sees
father._) Dad! Mother has told you?
HILDA
(_Calmly_)
Yes; I’ve told him.
WALLACE
And you’re going to let me go, Dad?
HILDA
Yes.
WALLACE
Oh, thanks, Dad. (_Grasping his hand._) I knew mother would make
you see. (_Music nearer._) Listen! Isn’t that a great tune? Lifts
you up on your feet and carries you over there. Gee, it just gets
into a fellow and makes him want to run for his gun and charge
over the top. (_He goes to balcony._) Look! They’re nearing here;
all ready to sail with the morning tide. They’ve got their helmets
on. You can’t see the end of them coming down the avenue. Oh,
thank God, I’m going to be one of them soon. Thank God! I’m going
to fight for Uncle Sam and the Stars and Stripes. (_Calls off._)
Hurrah! (_To them._) Oh, I wish I had a flag. Why haven’t we got a
flag here--Hurrah!!
(_As he goes out on the balcony the music plays louder._
HILDA _has gone to_ WHITE _during this, and stands behind
him, with her arms down his arms, as he sits there, gazing
before him_.)
HILDA
(_Fervently_)
Oh, Will, if I could only feel it as he does!!
(_The music begins to trail off as_ WHITE _tenderly takes
hold of her hands_.)
[CURTAIN]
[C] Copyright by George Middleton. See back of title page.
AMONG THE LIONS
THE PEOPLE
PATRICIA TENNER, _a popular “star.”_
MRS. EMILY FROWDE, “_a lion-hunter_.”
MISS EVA STANNARD, _about whom there has been talk_.
THE BROWN ONE, }
THE BLUE ONE, } _as they appear to Patricia_.
THE GREEN ONE, }
M. MAVOSKY, _an artist “who’s all the rage.”_
GEORGE SILVERTON, _a musician; an old friend of Patricia_.
OTHER GUESTS.
SCENE
_Drawing-room at Mrs. Frowde’s during a small reception given to
Patricia Tenner. A late afternoon._
AMONG THE LIONS[D]
_An elaborate drawing-room is disclosed, with bare high-paneled
walls, relieved only by attractive candle-clusters and a stretch
of tapestry. At back is an alcove effect in which a piano is seen,
with the usual decorations of a music-room suggested beyond.
There are two openings which lead to the hallways and street
doors without. Opposite these is a stone-built fireplace with a
smoldering log blaze and attractive “British Soldier” andirons. By
this rests a deep chair which tones with the other furnishings. A
tea-table, resplendent with silver, stands obliquely in the center,
with lighted candles. Appropriate ferns and flowers rest in likely
places._
GEORGE SILVERTON _is playing a Chopin étude in the music-room;
about the opening are grouped_ PATRICIA TENNER, MRS. FROWDE, THE
BROWN ONE, THE GREEN ONE, THE BLUE ONE _and others. They are
listening, duly impressed by the touch of an expert._
MAVOSKY, _the artist, is standing off alone by the tea-table
complacently munching a macaroon and eyeing_ PATRICIA.
MAVOSKY _is about forty, tall, with large eyes and a pointed beard.
There is a slight Russian accent in his speech and his manners have
the studied spontaneity of a professional foreigner exploiting
a new field. As he continues to watch_ PATRICIA _with a cynical
smile, she leaves the group unobserved by the others and moves
towards the low, deep chair near the fireplace_.
PATRICIA _has the large features of a stage-beauty, which enhance
her appearance before the footlights. Her hair is parted and coiled
low on her neck. She is elegantly gowned, and carries a long,
elaborate scarf which is hung across her back and held by each arm.
She uses this continually to increase her instinctive plasticity.
As she turns there is a serious expression upon her face, as
though, for once she had been her true self._
PATRICIA
(_Almost inaudibly_)
George Silverton. Poor George!
(_She seems to feel_ MAVOSKY’S _eyes; but again mistress
of herself, turns, and smiles invitingly. Then she drapes
herself artistically in the chair._ MAVOSKY _comes with
the plate of macaroons, which she declines with a pretty
gesture. He replaces them on the table, and, seeing no one
is watching, returns to her, speaking softly as the music
continues._)
MAVOSKY
_Quel charme!_
PATRICIA
The gown or the pose?
MAVOSKY
Mademoiselle Tenner, in _your_ profession they are inseparable.
PATRICIA
We actresses belong only to each moment we act. It is _your_
profession which fastens us as we should be in the memory of others.
MAVOSKY
Perhaps that is why my portraits please.
PATRICIA
(_Bantering charmingly_)
And you only take celebrities, Monsieur Mavosky.
MAVOSKY
I wish to go to posterity on the hem of their garments.
PATRICIA
(_Smiling_)
Some day I may wear a gown that pleases you, eh?
(_He starts to answer, but the music stops and the others
applaud in perfect taste. He offers his hand in parting, as
she seems to invite it._)
MAVOSKY
_Au revoir._
PATRICIA
(_With a fascinating smile_)
_Déjà?_
(_He bows far over her hand and their eyes meet with
interest. As he turns away, while the others come into the
room_, PATRICIA _gives a secret smile of satisfaction,
as though she had obtained her intention. Then she sighs
wearily, bored, as she glances at the others._
MRS. FROWDE, _the hostess is about fifty, looking forty;
rather large and as self-contained as possible in her
loose black tea-gown. She is a nervous woman with an
apparent seriousness in her social undertakings. Her eyes
are continually criticizing and her hands correcting. She
has a gracious voice, and towards_ PATRICIA, _at least, a
possessive protectiveness_.
THE BROWN ONE _has a good profile from her chin up, but
otherwise, in spite of lacing, is stout. Her tan gown makes
up in elegance what it lacks in outline._
_The clinging gown of_ THE BLUE ONE _accentuates the languid
manner she affects. There is a satisfied, set smile upon her
aquiline face and her voice maintains a gentle, persistent
tremolo._
THE GREEN ONE _is younger than the others and in general
indefiniteness of bearing and appearance merely suggests
money. Her olive-trimmed gown is very simple, but is caught
by a conspicuous jade belt._
_These, with the other guests who gradually depart, suggest
the atmosphere of a conventional tea._)
OMNES
(_Enthusiastically to Silverton_)
How delightful! How wonderful!
(GEORGE SILVERTON _is medium-sized, in the late thirties,
with a fine, sensitive face and short-cropped hair. He is
retiring in manner and seems ill at ease in the present
company. Towards_ PATRICIA, _however, this disappears and it
is evident he has known her well_.)
THE BROWN ONE
(_Shrugging her shoulders, and splashing each sentence with jerky
gestures throughout._)
He has such a _je-ne-sais-quoi_. Don’t you think?
THE BLUE ONE
(_In a shocked tone_)
I’d hardly put it that way.
SILVERTON
(_To_ THE BROWN ONE)
You compliment me.
MRS. FROWDE
Didn’t Pachmann play that at the Philharmonic Friday?
THE GREEN ONE
How should I know?
MRS. FROWDE
I wish they’d announce what they play as an encore so I can
recognize it.
THE BROWN ONE
We need a Chopin in this country. Do you compose, Mr. Silverton?
THE BLUE ONE
(_Who has come down to_ PATRICIA)
It must be splendid to be a real artist, Miss Tenner, instead of
just having money. _We_ have to be so careful.
(PATRICIA _smiles and nods understandingly throughout_.
SILVERTON, _apparently ill at ease, comes beside_ PATRICIA
_as_ MAVOSKY _is speaking to_ MRS. FROWDE _and the others at
the table_.)
Oh, Mr. Silverton, your playing made me so--so--(_at a loss for
words_) don’t you know?
SILVERTON
(_Stiffly_)
Music is the only mental adventure in good and evil which some of
us ever have.
THE BLUE ONE
How clever of you! I wonder if that’s why I adore Tristan? You will
come to my next Thursday and play for me? _I_ need adventure. (_She
laughs, tremulously_) I’ll have some people there if I may tell
them _you_ are coming.
SILVERTON
(_Hiding his displeasure_)
Charmed.
THE BLUE ONE
(_To_ PATRICIA)
You have a beastly rehearsal then, haven’t you? So sorry.
(PATRICIA _smiles as though regretful, and the three continue
talking_.)
MRS. FROWDE
(_By the table, shaking_ MAVOSKY’S _hand_)
Must you go?
MAVOSKY
Only till luncheon Tuesday.
MRS. FROWDE
(_Aside to him_)
It was good of you to meet her.
MAVOSKY
(_Looking across to_ PATRICIA)
Miss Tenner is a poem in pose.
THE BROWN ONE
(_Who has been manœuvering to be in his line of departure,
as_ MRS. FROWDE _turns to give_ THE GREEN ONE _a cup of tea_.)
M. Mavosky, I’ve heard if you wait at Port Said you’ll sooner or
later meet everyone you know. Here, at Mrs. Frowde’s, one only
meets those one wishes, _n’est-ce pas_?
MAVOSKY
(_Gallantly_)
You American women!
THE BROWN ONE
I’ll bring my husband to see your portraits. May I?
MAVOSKY
(_Bowing_)
_You_ speak for his taste.
THE BROWN ONE
(_Pleased_)
He actually threatens to have one of me, and wishes the very best
that can possibly be painted.
(_They exchange pleasantries, and as_ MAVOSKY _passes out he
glances towards_ PATRICIA, _who has been watching him, while_
SILVERTON _has engaged_ THE BLUE ONE, _who by now has joined_
THE GREEN ONE _and_ THE BROWN ONE _and_ MRS. FROWDE _at the
table. They laugh as_ SILVERTON _and_ PATRICIA _find a chance
to snatch a few words unheard_.)
SILVERTON
(_Referring to_ THE BLUE ONE)
Who is she that I must pay for my tea by playing for her Thursday?
PATRICIA
(_Flippantly_)
Her name begins with T. Her husband owns _The Star_. It’s been good
to me. I call her The Blue One; I no longer remember names. People
are color to me. See the stout one--like an overfed question mark?
She seems brown all through. Have you heard her talk? With her
(_imitating and shrugging shoulders_) “je-ne-sais-quois”? No one
who is fat should speak French. And The Green One--ugh!--with the
jade life-belt!
SILVERTON
(_Seriously_)
Pat, why do you still come to these stupid affairs?
PATRICIA
There are still things _I_ may want, too.
SILVERTON
Mavosky?
PATRICIA
A portrait by him in my new rôle. Yes. Mrs. Frowde knew him.
_Voilà._
SILVERTON
I see: that’s how you still get things.
PATRICIA
Mrs. Frowde is the greatest “lion-hunter” in captivity. She is
happy to-day; she’s caught three of us: a star, a painter, and a
promising musician. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? (_He nods._)
You’ve finally decided to follow the advice I gave you when we
first came East----
SILVERTON
Yes: how different it was then----
PATRICIA
(_Reminiscently_)
Yes--how different!
MRS. FROWDE
(_Gently restraining_ THE BROWN ONE, _who has started
towards_ PATRICIA _and_ SILVERTON)
I’ve heard they had quite a romance once.
THE BROWN ONE
How romantic! I wish my husband played a piano. (_They talk._)
PATRICIA
(_Quietly to_ SILVERTON)
Funny, George, while you were playing I was thinking of when
I hadn’t a job and you were copying for a living. Your music
actually made me want to throw off all my insincerities here just
for once and see what would happen.
SILVERTON
They’d be shocked----
PATRICIA
And I’d be chilly.
SILVERTON
But _I_ couldn’t be of any use to you--_then_.
PATRICIA
No; my “art” wasn’t big enough to succeed by itself alone. I had to
play the game--get influence--(_He protests._) Oh, I know myself,
George; I was cruel to you and all the others. Some day, just to
square myself in my own eyes, I’ll tell people like these here
about my life and how I have always used them to get what I wanted.
SILVERTON
(_Surprised_)
What is the matter, Pat? You’re not yourself.
PATRICIA
(_Smiling_)
I’m having a rush of sincerity to my lips.
SILVERTON
(_Looking over toward the others_)
I wonder what _they_ would say if it slipped out?
PATRICIA
Perhaps they’d say it was “temperament.” I’ve affected it so much I
actually believe I’ve got it.
MRS. FROWDE
(_Laughing with others_)
Mavosky is _so_ clever; he said in America passion was only
sentiment waving a red flag!
THE GREEN ONE
He told me art had no morals and I understood him. He’s so subtle.
SILVERTON
(_To_ PATRICIA)
If I could but make phrases.
PATRICIA
(_Rising, wearily_)
I don’t have to; I smile them.
MRS. FROWDE
(_Coming down anxiously_)
Surely, you’re not going yet, Patricia?
THE GREEN ONE
(_To_ THE BROWN ONE)
She calls her Patricia!
MRS. FROWDE
(_Offering_ PATRICIA _a cup_)
I’ve fixed it the way you like it--no lemon.
PATRICIA
(_Declining_)
You are so thoughtful, dear Emily.
THE GREEN ONE
(_To_ THE BROWN ONE)
Emily!
THE BLUE ONE
(_Coming to_ PATRICIA)
I’m just dying to see your Rosalind.
PATRICIA
(_Beautifully covering with an air of sincerity her mockery which_
SILVERTON _alone detects_)
You may before you do.
THE GREEN ONE
(_In surprise_)
But the papers say----
PATRICIA
You mustn’t believe all you see _there_. My press agent has
imagination.
THE BLUE ONE
(_Cozily to the others_)
Isn’t it splendid to be taken into her confidence.
(PATRICIA _darts a humorous glance at_ SILVERTON.)
THE BROWN ONE
I should think you’d be tired going out so much.
PATRICIA
Mrs. Frowde’s friends are always interesting and proper--a rare
combination. (_Smiling._) Her idea of a tragedy would be a social
mishap--that way.
MRS. FROWDE
(_Protectively_)
I warn her against overtaxing herself--and with that trying part to
play every night.
PATRICIA
Whenever it gets trying to me I think of the audience.
MRS. FROWDE
(_As the others laugh_)
I always said one must have a sense of humor off the stage to play
the parts you do.
PATRICIA
I get my inspiration from my friends; a cup of tea, and brilliant
conversation before the horrid time to go and “make up.”
THE GREEN ONE
Doesn’t all the make-up hurt the complexion?
PATRICIA
(_Sweetly_)
I always use cold cream first--don’t you?
(_An abrupt halt in the laughter comes as_ MISS EVA STANNARD
_enters and pauses momentarily in the doorway_.
MISS STANNARD _is about twenty-nine, tall, vibrant and almost
imperious in bearing. Her forehead is high, her eyes keen and
her mouth thin and tense. She is gowned in gray._
PATRICIA _is immediately interested in her and in the
constrained attitude of the others_.
MISS STANNARD _slowly comes to_ MRS. FROWDE, _bowing
graciously, as she passes, to the others, who return it
with sickly smiles, exchanging secret looks of surprise and
indignation_. MRS. FROWDE _in her obvious embarrassment,
instead of offering her hand, proffers the tea-cup, which_
MISS STANNARD _smilingly declines_. THE BLUE ONE, _with rare
presence of mind, coughs, and the others all laugh nervously,
as though to cover the silence which has ensued_.
PATRICIA _slowly sits again, with_ SILVERTON _standing by her
chair, intensely interested and curious_.)
MISS STANNARD
(_Sweetly_)
I had no idea, Mrs. Frowde, you were receiving formally to-day.
MRS. FROWDE
(_Constrained throughout_)
I only sent out a few special cards to meet Miss Tenner. But now
that you’ve come, let me present you to her. Miss Stannard.
PATRICIA
(_More cordial than ever_)
Miss _Eva_ Stannard? (_Miss Stannard nods._) Oh; I’m indeed glad to
meet you.
MISS STANNARD
(_Formally and a bit puzzled_)
Thanks.
MRS. FROWDE
You know the others?
MISS STANNARD
(_Cordially_)
Oh, yes----
(_The others laugh a little nervously, nod mechanically, with
ill-concealed rudeness._)
MRS. FROWDE
(_Nervously_)
_Do_ have another cup of tea. (_Pause._) What lovely weather we are
having! (_They all agree._) I almost hate to go to Florida this
winter; but it saves fuel.
(MISS STANNARD _declines again and_ SILVERTON _takes the cup
from_ MRS. FROWDE _to the table, returning to_ PATRICIA.
_There is another embarrassing silence in which they all look
at one another. Finally_ THE BROWN ONE _comes to say good-bye
to_ MRS. FROWDE, _whose discomfort increases throughout_.)
Must you really go so soon?
THE BROWN ONE
(_Pointedly_)
Yes; I--I had expected to stay longer, but I’ve just remembered a
most important engagement.
THE BLUE ONE
Can’t I drop you on the way? My car’s waiting.
MRS. FROWDE
(_Distressed_)
Must you, too? But Mr. Silverton has promised to play again.
SILVERTON
(_Significantly_)
An improvisation--prompted by the occasion.
THE BLUE ONE
I’m to hear it Thursday--remember.
(_As_ THE BLUE ONE _and_ THE BROWN ONE _say good-bye to_ MISS
STANNARD, THE GREEN ONE _goes to_ MRS. FROWDE. MISS STANNARD
_being left alone, shows her struggle at self-control and
sits in a chair unasked_. THE BROWN ONE _and_ THE BLUE ONE
_with heads together go out the upper opening_.)
THE GREEN ONE
It’s getting late. I’ve had such a pleasant afternoon. You won’t
forget bridge next Monday?
(MRS. FROWDE _responds limply and as_ THE GREEN ONE _turns_,
MISS STANNARD _rises and halts her with a look_.)
MISS STANNARD
Good afternoon.
MRS. FROWDE
Must you?
THE GREEN ONE
Yes, I’m going to Cartier’s for the prizes. (_To_ PATRICIA) Good
afternoon. (_After a moment’s hesitation._) Good afternoon, Miss
Stannard.
(THE GREEN ONE _goes out as_ MISS STANNARD _eyes_ MRS. FROWDE
_in silence while_ PATRICIA _and_ SILVERTON _speak unheard_.)
PATRICIA
Leave me here alone, George: _this_ is real. I’ve heard about her.
SILVERTON
What are you going to do?
PATRICIA
The cats! There’s something inside me wants to speak. Run along.
I’m feeling that rush of sincerity I spoke of.
SILVERTON
Mrs. Frowde, I leave only because--(_as_ MISS STANNARD _catches
his eye_) Miss Stannard, I’m sorry they did not wait for that
improvisation. But I’m afraid they wouldn’t have understood the
_motif_.
(SILVERTON _goes out_. PATRICIA _leans forward watching the
two, as_ MRS. FROWDE _faces_ MISS STANNARD. _There is an
embarrassing pause._)
MRS. FROWDE
Really, I don’t know what to say. I hardly thought you would
come--under the circumstances.
MISS STANNARD
(_Fencing carefully throughout_)
I’m dreadfully sorry. I did not know it was a select affair. I
thought you were always at home to your friends.
MRS. FROWDE
(_Pointedly_)
Friends--yes.
MISS STANNARD
(_Sweetly_)
Then _I’m_ forgiven?
MRS. FROWDE
I think you must have seen my friends did not remain after you
arrived.
MISS STANNARD
I’m very sorry; but it is they you should criticize for being so
frightfully inconsiderate of you. (_With a sudden firmness_) And
now Mrs. Frowde, don’t you think you owe me an explanation?
MRS. FROWDE
(_Controlling herself with difficulty_)
I feel a strong desire to give it, only I hardly think you would
like me to speak before----
MISS STANNARD
(_Sarcastically_)
Strangers? The resentment was shown before Miss Tenner, why not the
explanation?
PATRICIA
(_Appealing with the usual success to their intimacy._)
Emily, dear, you forget you have already spoken to me of Miss
Stannard. (MISS STANNARD _stiffens_.)
MRS. FROWDE
Wouldn’t it be better if I simply asked you not to call again?
MISS STANNARD
(_With a note of challenge_)
I must insist that you tell me frankly the reason.
MRS. FROWDE
You insist?
MISS STANNARD
Yes.
MRS. FROWDE
(_Bluntly_)
There has been too much talk about you. Surely you must have
realized your name is on every tongue. You know the world: women
can’t do what you have done. You must have been mad--and with a
married man at that!
(PATRICIA _eyes her keenly_. MISS STANNARD _tosses her
head defiantly; but as_ MRS. FROWDE _eyes her piercingly
she seems to lose all her control, begins to tremble,
totters, clutching the back of a chair and finally sinks
with an hysterical sob upon the sofa, burying her face in
her hands. Her vanity-case rattles to the floor._ PATRICIA
_rises instinctively to go to her but sits again as_ MRS.
FROWDE _motions her back and approaches_ MISS STANNARD _less
harshly_.)
I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you like this. Only one must
protect one’s self--one’s friends. I couldn’t have you come here.
(_Slowly_) Oh, well, I’m sure you will see one must draw the line
somewhere.
PATRICIA
(_Impressively_)
Yes, Emily, one must draw the line somewhere. Why didn’t you begin
with me?
(MRS. FROWDE _sits in astonishment as_ PATRICIA _leans
forward. There is a long pause till_ MISS STANNARD _looks up
slowly in wonder and curiosity_.)
I really don’t see why you discriminate.
MRS. FROWDE
But----
PATRICIA
If you and your friends are so shocked by Miss Stannard’s presence,
why should you tolerate me? No one gives us stage people the right
to privacy. Everybody makes it their business to retail our lives.
We’re public property; so surely you and your friends have heard my
story, too. Now, really, haven’t you?
MRS. FROWDE
(_Confused_)
Yes, but--my dear....
PATRICIA
And what have you heard about me? Let’s see if it is correct. My
name? It isn’t my own. My real one wouldn’t look well on the
advertising. Besides, my father hadn’t given me any reason to be
proud of it. My mother may have been a good soul if I had ever
really known her. I’ve always thought I was an unwanted child: I
hate children so myself. But mother couldn’t have been the sort
who’d drink with ease out of your frail tea-cups, and I’ll warrant
no amount of coaching would have kept the veneer from peeling when
she spoke. I grew up somehow among “beer and skittles,” as Trilby
would say; didn’t know what pictures and teas and things were till
I came East. And do you know _how_ I came? _He_ seemed so handsome,
too, in those days.
MRS. FROWDE
(_Moving uneasily as she sees a grim smile come to_ MISS
STANNARD)
But, dear, you were young and----
PATRICIA
Oh, I knew better; but I was bored--bored out there and I wanted
a chance to live. We didn’t get along very well--he and I; partly
my fault. He couldn’t be happy with a woman who also had a spark
of creation tucked away in her soul. Then, besides, I had made up
my mind I’d do something because I had to keep alive. I turned
to the stage--most of us poor fools do. But I happened to have a
way with me and a pair of shoulders that were proud of my face.
(_Sarcastically_.) The critics called it personality. (_Quickly_)
I wonder if you also know I lived in a five-dollar-a-week
boarding-house with circus acrobats on the floor above, a sad
soprano in a closet next to mine and a smell of cooking all over
so I wouldn’t be lonely? (_Almost unconsciously her voice at times
betrays an unexpected commonness._) How I hated it! How I wanted
these feathers and gilt! And every time I made up my face in that
two-by-four part I had, I determined to succeed somehow--_anyhow_.
I deserve every bit of success I’ve got, for I worked hard getting
the burrs out of my speech and some grammar into it. (MRS. FROWDE
_moves uncomfortably again_.) That’s the truth. People suspected
I had a brain and I had; but I wasn’t wasting it on books--I was
studying the hearts and souls of the sort of people I needed to get
along. (_With increasing relish at the effect of her revelations._)
And I saw to succeed in my life I had to grow hard inside and soft
out. So I affected my husky voice and my sad smile; sadness gave
me a touch of mystery and encouraged curiosity. I knew I’d have
to keep my face smooth, too; so I stopped feeling for others and
thought only of myself. Suffering isn’t good for the complexion.
But I helped everybody in convenient ways, because I knew I could
make them help me in greater. And as I began to get along I went
out more to teas and the like so I could meet the people I could
use.
MRS. FROWDE
But, my dear....
PATRICIA
Oh, I’m not ungrateful for their kindness, but I owe them
nothing, for I repaid them, by letting them do things for me.
Yes, it flattered them to have me about and to say they knew me
“intimately.” I was a good asset to their affairs because I was a
success. Then I picked up a lot of cant phrases about art and the
like, so I could prattle; and I even signed articles which somebody
else wrote lamenting the decline of the stage, when I knew in my
heart I was glad things were as they were because I could make more
money with a dramatized novel or a tailor-made part than in my much
advertised and never intended appearance in Shakespeare. (_Acting
as with apparent conviction._) And back of this, life was calling
me. So I did other things to get along. My eyes were open and so
it seems were those of the world. It envied me my freedom because
I was a success. All of us don’t do it, but I did and it wasn’t
always for love. (MISS STANNARD’S _quick breath halts her for a
moment; then she adds dramatically_) Yes, Mrs. Frowde, if you’re
going to draw the line somewhere at your teas, why don’t you begin
with me?
MRS. FROWDE
(_Floundering_)
But--but you forget, dear, you--you are a great creative artist.
PATRICIA
No, I don’t. Everybody’s tolerance of my whims, my moods, my
morals would never let me forget it. But what has that to do with
the right and wrong of it? That’s what you are wondering, Miss
Stannard. (MISS STANNARD _gazes at her_.) I don’t ask any less
charity for myself because my “temperament” has made me live my
life my own way; though I don’t need charity now I’m on top.
(_Surging along effectively._) But why shouldn’t you and your
friends extend that same charity to the rest of the sinners?
(PATRICIA _does not detect_ MISS STANNARD’S _change of manner so
intent is she in her own words_.) You give it to me because I am a
creative artist. Everybody has a bit of the artist in them. Some
of us use it to make bread; others use it to make trouble. All the
nice sinners of the world have the creative spirit, too. Sin is the
creating of the actual out of the imagined. It’s falling over the
fence in a desire to see what is on the other side. (_Consciously
shaping her words and manner to a climax._) But the more so are the
sins one does for love. Love is the most creative of all impulses.
If you forgive me because I’m an artist, as you say; if you can ask
_me_ to sit beside your lily-faced daughters and stubby-chinned
sons; if you can kiss my lips--I, who have openly violated all your
standards--why do you turn against this woman, who has done what
she has for the noblest of motives--love--the love of a man?
MISS STANNARD
(_She has risen tensely and speaks with a biting bitterness_)
I suppose you meant very well, Miss Tenner; you said it just as
though it were a scene in some play--with the proper emphasis and
pause and nice phrases. But believe me, Mrs. Frowde is right:
we can’t judge people by the same standards. (_Contemptuously_)
There _is_ a difference between you and me. _I_ feel it myself.
When I need forgiveness I shall only want it of my own class.
(_Scornfully_) The tolerance of yours means nothing to me. (_Very
quietly_) I am sorry, Mrs. Frowde. I’ll not call again till he and
I are married. Then, of course, it will be all right. Good-bye.
(MISS STANNARD _goes out quickly leaving_ PATRICIA _dumb at
her mis-reading of the situation_.
MRS. FROWDE, _who has been too confused throughout to speak,
now vents her anger on_ MISS STANNARD.)
MRS. FROWDE
The brazen hussy! You see what she is--to insult you so after your
splendid defense of her!
PATRICIA
(_Slowly_)
She was right.
MRS. FROWDE
Not at all. She doesn’t understand the difference with a lady of
temperament.
PATRICIA
Temperament--oh, yes. (_She smiles sarcastically and then looks
surprised at_ MRS. FROWDE.) And you are not angry with me?
MRS. FROWDE
(_Affectionately_)
At _you_, my dear friend? Indeed not. I know you didn’t mean _me_.
And besides I would have understood you if you had.
PATRICIA
(_Eyeing her with undetected cynicism_)
Yes, yes. You would have understood.
MRS. FROWDE
(_Impulsively_)
Won’t you stay and have a bite to eat with me--all alone? I can
drive you to the theater.
PATRICIA
I have an interview.
MRS. FROWDE
(_As they walk to the door_)
Too bad they misquote so.
PATRICIA
Yes, isn’t it? I’ve had such a dear afternoon.
MRS. FROWDE
(_Embracing her affectionately_)
And you’ll come to lunch Tuesday?
PATRICIA
(_As though wishing to escape_)
No ... I....
MRS. FROWDE
(_Solicitously_)
But Mavosky will be here and he’s taken quite fancy to you. Thinks
you’d make a splendid study.
PATRICIA
(_Recalling_)
Mavosky! Oh, yes. I thought you said Wednesday; that’s matinée day.
Tuesday is all right.
MRS. FROWDE
Say at two?
PATRICIA
I may be a moment late.
MRS. FROWDE
We’ll wait for you. (_As they are walking out_) I hope you’ll
forget what _she_ said.
PATRICIA
Oh, Miss Stannard hasn’t any temperament. And it does make a
difference, doesn’t it?
(_They go out leaving the room empty, with the candles on the
table winking in their sockets._)
[CURTAIN]
[D] Copyright by George Middleton. See back of title page.
THE REASON
THE PEOPLE
LOCKSLEY RANDOLPH, _a retired merchant_.
PAULA, _his daughter_.
TOM SABINE, _his secretary_.
MARY SABINE, _his secretary’s wife_.
SCENE
_Sitting-room at the Randolph home in a suburb of the city; an
early winter night._
THE REASON[E]
_A handsomely furnished sitting-room, the general entrance of which
from the floor below is at the right. Beyond this a broad window is
seen as the moonlight faintly filters through the trees outside.
Directly opposite, some smoldering logs betray a fireplace, near
which is another door opening into_ PAULA’S _apartments. Large
double doors in the center open into a hallway leading to library.
A telephone is on a large writing-table, upon which a light, with
a luxurious shade suspended above, casts a strong yellow glow. The
furnishings show signs of tasteless wealth and are devoid of any
feminine touch._
SABINE _and_ RANDOLPH _are bending over some documents_.
SABINE _is about thirty-three, clean-shaven with shrewd eyes and a
conspicuously insinuating smile. The manner with which he feels for
his words and his studied coolness suggest a deep and significant
interest in the developments._
RANDOLPH _is fifty, well-preserved and possessing the assurance of
permanent prosperity: he is apparently without illusions as the
lines about his slightly protruding eyes and thick lips indicate a
dissipated life_.
_Though the two men are obviously considerate, there is concealed
an instinctive mistrust. They are silent a long while until_
RANDOLPH _looks up from the papers_.
SABINE
Anything else?
RANDOLPH
How long will those compilations take?
SABINE
Same as the others.
RANDOLPH
A month each, eh? You’ve done ... let’s see....
SABINE
I’ve been your secretary for three months.
RANDOLPH
And you’ve been at these every evening--ever since I took you in.
SABINE
I wouldn’t put it that way.
RANDOLPH
You are sure you can still find all you need in my own library here?
SABINE
All I need--behind the closed doors.
RANDOLPH
(_Casually_)
I shall see that my orders not to disturb you are continued.
SABINE
I’ve noticed you never even come yourself.
RANDOLPH
I like to think of young genius being left alone.
SABINE
(_Mock seriously_)
And out of harm’s way?
RANDOLPH
Exactly--at night. (_Half to himself._) Another month will about
finish it.
SABINE
(_Significantly_)
Mr. Randolph, you are paying rather high for----
RANDOLPH
(_Eyeing him quickly_)
For what?
SABINE
(_Turning the pages casually_)
Unremunerative work.
RANDOLPH
One never pays too high for what one wants.
SABINE
Not at the time.
(_They look at each other_: SABINE _slowly gathers the papers
together and glances towards_ RANDOLPH _who is coolly staring
before him. There is a quiet pause. Then_ SABINE _opens the
library door and casually steps back_.)
Your daughter. (_Calmly to_ PAULA) Your father is here, Miss
Randolph.
(PAULA _enters with a book in hand. She is twenty-three
and charming, with a sweet innocent air which suggests a
hedged-in life. She is dressed in a simple tea-gown and her
manner throughout is calm and unsophisticated._)
PAULA
Good evening, Mr. Sabine.
RANDOLPH
Where have you been, Paula?
PAULA
Getting a book.
RANDOLPH
You mustn’t read so much.
SABINE
Anything further, Mr. Randolph, before you go out?
RANDOLPH
No. But--but I don’t remember mentioning that I was going out.
SABINE
I thought you did. Good evening.
PAULA
(_Good-naturedly_)
Is Mrs. Sabine well?
SABINE
Not exactly.
RANDOLPH
Indeed?
SABINE
(_Smiling_)
My wife seems upset about something.
RANDOLPH
(_Casually_)
Why, she seemed well when she was here last, didn’t she, Paula?
PAULA
Yes, and so happy.
RANDOLPH
What’s the trouble?
SABINE
I’m not quite sure--_yet_.
RANDOLPH
Perhaps she needs a change.
SABINE
I’ll tell her you asked after her, Mr. Randolph.
RANDOLPH
Certainly. Do. But it was _Miss_ Randolph who inquired.
SABINE
I thought it was you. (_He smiles._) The air in the library has
affected me. (_He smiles._) Good evening.
(_He leaves the room, slowly closing the door. There is a
pause as_ PAULA _looks curiously before her, while_ RANDOLPH,
_somewhat puzzled, goes up to door and sees that_ SABINE _has
gone into the library beyond_.)
PAULA
I hope it’s nothing serious.
RANDOLPH
What?
PAULA
Mrs. Sabine.
RANDOLPH
Nothing, of course.
PAULA
Hasn’t she told _you_?
RANDOLPH
Me?
PAULA
You’re such good friends.
RANDOLPH
My dear, women with attractive husbands never confide in outsiders.
PAULA
(_Innocently_)
Don’t they?
RANDOLPH
(_Laughing_)
You know so little of life. (PAULA _sighs in agreement_.) And I
wish you to keep your sweetness until you are married.
PAULA
Doesn’t one need it then?
RANDOLPH
You’ll understand when the time comes, child.
PAULA
(_Enigmatically_)
And one mustn’t before!
RANDOLPH
Children don’t realize how they unconsciously hold parents to
higher things: it’s because of you, for instance, more than
anything else since your dear mother died, that I’ve tried to keep
_my_ life an example.
PAULA
I’ve always had it before me, father. (_Coming closer._) I’m deeply
grateful for showing me what I, too, should be.
RANDOLPH
Yes, yes. (_Patting her._) Now, dear, run along to bed: your eyes
are tired.
PAULA
(_Glancing at book_)
I’m fond of reading.
RANDOLPH
(_Humoring her throughout_)
What do you like best?
PAULA
(_Cheerfully_)
Adventure.
RANDOLPH
With real heroes?
PAULA
(_Referring to book_)
I love those who keep cool in times of danger.
RANDOLPH
You’re only a child, after all, eh? (_He pats her tenderly as she
notices him glancing at his watch._)
PAULA
(_Casually_)
You _are_ going out?
RANDOLPH
Yes: some business.
PAULA
Will you be late?
RANDOLPH
Do I disturb you?
PAULA
I can generally hear the machine from my room, before you turn up
the path.
RANDOLPH
It’s easy nowadays to go fast in the dark.
PAULA
You will always toot the horn? (_Reprovingly_) Think of the danger
to others.
RANDOLPH
Foolish girl! There’s no danger about here.
PAULA
No; of course not. (_Goes to him._) Good night.
RANDOLPH
Dear, dear girl. (_Looking at her._) It’s good to have such a
daughter.
PAULA
And such a father. (_They kiss; the telephone rings._) Oh, let
me. (_She goes to phone._) Good evening, Mrs. Sabine. (RANDOLPH
_starts a bit, unnoticed_.) I thought you were ill. Mr. Sabine was
telling father. I believe he’s in the library. Father will take the
message: he’s here. Do take care of yourself: just think what Mr.
Sabine would do if you were ill. Good night.
(_She hands receiver to father, who half pauses, thinking she
will leave the room; but she lingers over her book._)
RANDOLPH
Good evening. (_Half pointedly_) Yes, my daughter is here. Anything
I can do? Do you want my advice? Oh, whatever is wisest. Of course
I’ll tell Mr. Sabine. I hope it’s nothing serious. (_He hangs up
receiver, concealing from_ PAULA _his displeasure_.)
PAULA
She seemed excited.
RANDOLPH
Woman’s nerves.
PAULA
Funny I never have them.
RANDOLPH
You’re not married.
PAULA
You’re going to see her?
RANDOLPH
She’s on her way here.
PAULA
Here? Then you will tell Mr. Sabine she’s coming?
RANDOLPH
Yes. But you’re tired, dear.
PAULA
I’ll feel better with my things off. Good night. (_She pauses at
her door._) Father; she and Mr. Sabine are happily married, aren’t
they?
RANDOLPH
Of course, of course.
PAULA
I’m glad to hear so.
RANDOLPH
Why?
PAULA
(_Glancing at him_)
Then it couldn’t be about _that_.
(_She closes the door softly._ RANDOLPH _looks after her
puzzled, then walks up and down alone very much irritated.
He takes out his check book, glancing through the stubs
cynically. Then he throws it back into the table drawer.
Finally he picks up the phone, obviously switching it._)
RANDOLPH
Is that you, Sabine? You’ve found what you want? You won’t need
me any more? Well, stick close to it. I just wished to see. Good
night. (_He switches it off again and impatiently waits._) Is
that you, Brooks? Tell Toder to have the car ready. I may need it
later. No, the closed car--it’s chilly. Oh, by the way, (_trying
to be casual_), in case _I_ should be out, Mr. Sabine is expecting
Mrs. Sabine. Let her come right up to the library. What’s that?
Better see who it is. (_Showing displeasure._) I’ll tell Mr. Sabine
myself. Yes; if you’re sure it’s Mrs. Sabine, better let her come
up here. That’ll be all for to-night.
(_He hangs up the receiver, walks up and down again and
finally opens the hall door. There is quite a pause as he
stands, smoking a cigarette, awaiting her. Finally_, MRS.
SABINE _enters, leaving the door open_.
_She is in her late twenties, of rather restless beauty,
which under her shifting expression becomes hard and cynical.
She apparently has little resistance and suggests a love
of excitement and sensation. Her manner is flighty though
worldly. She is handsomely dressed, with beautiful furs upon
her sensuous shoulders._)
RANDOLPH
(_Abruptly_)
What the devil does this mean?
MRS. SABINE
We’re alone?
RANDOLPH
Naturally.
MRS. SABINE
(_Half flippantly_)
I had to see you.
RANDOLPH
Why here?
MRS. SABINE
I couldn’t wait till you came to me.
RANDOLPH
(_With strained jocularity_)
Feather brain; what’s the trouble?
MRS. SABINE
Nothing--only my husband _knows_.
RANDOLPH
(_Quickly_)
About us?
MRS. SABINE
He’s known for some time.
RANDOLPH
And he only spoke----?
MRS. SABINE
To-day.
RANDOLPH
The devil! (_Slowly_) What’s the reason?
MRS. SABINE
Why he kept silent? (_Shrugging shoulders_) You men always have
reasons.
RANDOLPH
What did he say?
MRS. SABINE
(_Laughing cynically_)
He smiled. It was so funny and so unexpected.
RANDOLPH
(_Incredulously_)
He didn’t make a scene?
MRS. SABINE
No. And I’d been rehearsing for weeks what I should say.
RANDOLPH
But didn’t he----?
MRS. SABINE
(_Bitterly_)
I tell you he didn’t even insult me!
RANDOLPH
Sh!
(_He looks towards his daughter’s room and then crosses and
closes the door through which_ MRS. SABINE _has entered_.)
MRS. SABINE
(_After she has watched him_)
Hasn’t he spoken to you?
RANDOLPH
Not yet.
MRS. SABINE
That’s like him. He said he’d wait till I broke the news to you.
RANDOLPH
And then?
MRS. SABINE
Then he said you would want to see him and (_ominously_) he’d do
some talking.
RANDOLPH
(_Recalling_)
So that’s why he smiled just now.--Didn’t he say _anything_?
MRS. SABINE
He merely put his hands on your furs. I thought he’d believe I’d
saved enough to buy them myself. He stroked them once or twice
slowly--and smiled. But he _said_ nothing. Then he led me to the
window and pointed to your car--the extra one you forced upon
_us_--when you began. He smiled; but he said nothing. He picked
up a book: the work in the library was interesting; it kept him
_safe_ in the long winter evenings. I tell you he said it all in
his smiles and never a word. (_Violently_) He disappointed me so!
I’d be sorry for him a little if he’d only struck me. God! I hate
men who only smile when they are angry. (RANDOLPH _trying to quiet
her_.) Oh, I hate him with his penny a year. I hate him for asking
me to marry him, and then not even striking me when he found out
what I was!
RANDOLPH
But didn’t you even try to deny it?
MRS. SABINE
(_Defiantly_)
Why should I deny it?
RANDOLPH
(_Cynically_)
Of course not. Sooner or later, a woman always confesses to someone.
MRS. SABINE
(_Quickly_)
What did you want me to do? Think of you? I was sick of him. When I
saw he wasn’t going to make a fuss, I didn’t think your well-known
reputation would suffer; so I didn’t care about protecting myself.
What’s the difference, anyhow? He can’t give me what I want:
you can. If we can only keep it quiet, nobody need know--and it
wouldn’t even reach your daughter’s ears.
RANDOLPH
(_Angrily_)
We’ll not discuss her.
MRS. SABINE
No. She’s a good woman--with her lily hands and her thin eyebrows.
What does she know of life: the sordid soapy hours ending with
the snore of a husband you hate. Ugh! (_He walks up and down,
irritated._) Well, then, what are we going to do to keep it from
her?
RANDOLPH
That will depend on your husband and whether he’ll be sensible.
(_He goes to phone, switching it._)
MRS. SABINE
(_Looking before her_)
You did it beautifully, Randolph; with such knowledge of me and my
kind. But don’t take too much credit. I’d have done it with _any_
man who offered me what you did--if he’d come at the right time, as
you did, and found me at the end of a trolley line like this.
RANDOLPH
(_At phone_)
Step here a moment, Sabine. Yes: your wife is here. (_Cynically_)
She said you’d be expecting her. (_He hangs up the receiver._) You
could almost hear him smile.
MRS. SABINE
(_Without self-delusion_)
He couldn’t hold me: he was too poor.
RANDOLPH
No: you’re the sort that needs a diamond-studded clasp to keep her
morals fastened on.
MRS. SABINE
And they’re your specialty.
RANDOLPH
I think Sabine and I can make some arrangement.
MRS. SABINE
Let’s be comfortable, that’s all I say. I’m so tired of making my
lies fit. I’m willing to keep on with it. Why not? It’s all so easy
with a woman once she’s slipped. Lots of us would be what I am if
they could find a man to go through the marriage ceremony with them
_first_.
(_A knock is heard at the door--it seems almost sarcastic, as
it waits for a reply._)
RANDOLPH
Come in.
(_The door opens softly and_ SABINE _enters slowly and comes
down to them with the same smile. There is a pause._ MRS.
SABINE _remains tense and seated_.)
Have a cigarette?
SABINE
(_They eye each other as they light up_)
Thanks.
RANDOLPH
(_Coming to the point_)
You know.
SABINE
(_Puffing throughout_)
Yes.
RANDOLPH
Well?
SABINE
I repeat the word--well?
RANDOLPH
You will come to an understanding?
SABINE
Which means?
RANDOLPH
You are--shall I say agreeable?
SABINE
You love my wife?
RANDOLPH
(_Courteously_)
Naturally.
SABINE
And you, Mary?
MRS. SABINE
Would a woman do what I’ve done without love?
SABINE
Never.
RANDOLPH
Well, say something.
SABINE
(_Calmly_)
It seems very simple.
RANDOLPH
Which means?
SABINE
That I’d still like to complete the compilations in your library.
MRS. SABINE
(_Rising, astonished_)
You’re even willing to stay _here_?
RANDOLPH
(_Quickly_)
And live ostensibly at home--with your wife?
SABINE
(_Calmly_)
Why not? I have no place else to go and she merely wishes to be
comfortable.
RANDOLPH
(_Relieved_)
You will not make a fuss?
SABINE
I’m sorry to disappoint my wife.
RANDOLPH
You will not let my daughter discover?
SABINE
No. I consider your position embarrassing enough.
RANDOLPH
(_Eyeing him_)
So your wife is worth nothing to you?
SABINE
(_Quickly_)
You’re mistaken there.
MRS. SABINE
Thanks. But how?
SABINE
Protection.
MRS. SABINE
Against what?
SABINE
Against Mr. Randolph.
RANDOLPH
Me?
SABINE
Exactly.
RANDOLPH
What the devil are you driving at?
SABINE
Perhaps if I take it kindly now, you will not blame _me_--in the
future.
MRS. SABINE
Oh, I know we’ll get tired of each other if that’s what you’re
suggesting.
SABINE
(_Detecting an agreeing look in_ RANDOLPH’S _face_)
That _may_ be what I mean. (_Eyeing_ RANDOLPH _keenly as he sees
her bite her lips_.) If that’s all, I’ll return to the library.
RANDOLPH
Have you no suggestions?
SABINE
(_Coldly_)
Be careful not to make a fool of me--in public.
MRS. SABINE
There speaks the man.
RANDOLPH
Then you’ll be silent?
SABINE
Until----
RANDOLPH
Until?
SABINE
Until you get your deserts.
RANDOLPH
A threat?
SABINE
(_Smiling_)
No. Only I know my wife.
MRS. SABINE
And that’s the sort of man I married. (_To_ SABINE) Do you blame me
for throwing you over?
SABINE
Have I?
MRS. SABINE
(_Indignantly_)
How dared you open me to this?
RANDOLPH
Don’t blame him, Mary.
MRS. SABINE
(_Indignantly_)
You knew, and you let him steal your wife.
SABINE
Some men like their women that way.
MRS. SABINE
Isn’t it funny! It’s losing its romance--being handed over like
some food at supper. Isn’t it funny--and disappointing.
RANDOLPH
I can’t say I admire you, Sabine.
SABINE
No, you can’t. But you will when you know my wife better.
MRS. SABINE
(_Losing control_)
I’m more ashamed of you than I am of myself. Why didn’t you stop
me if you knew? What’s the reason? Why didn’t you strike me? Why
didn’t you, so I could feel you and I were quits? Why didn’t
you--like that and that. (_She strikes him furiously with her
gloves once or twice, but he continues smiling._)
RANDOLPH
Mary, don’t let’s have a scene. Sh!
MRS. SABINE
I wanted a scene! And to think I wasn’t even worth insulting!
(_She goes out quickly, leaving the hall door open. She
has dropped her glove and as_ RANDOLPH, _with a resigned,
half-bored air, starts to follow her_, SABINE _stoops, picks
up the glove and, smiling, halts_ RANDOLPH.)
SABINE
My wife dropped her glove. Will you take it to her? I have my work,
and, as you remarked, another month will about finish it.
RANDOLPH
(_Smiling in spite of himself_)
Life would be so much simpler if all husbands were so considerate.
SABINE
The spice would be gone.
RANDOLPH
I suppose she is waiting----
SABINE
--For the glove. (_Offering it to him._)
RANDOLPH
(_Taking it_)
Yes: for her glove.
SABINE
I’m glad you will drive in the closed car.
RANDOLPH
(_At the door_)
Our reputations must be protected.
SABINE
No man likes to be made a fool of.
RANDOLPH
(_Slowly_)
After all, she’s only a woman and they’re all alike, eh?
SABINE
(_Slowly_)
_All_ alike. Yes.
RANDOLPH
(_Casually_)
You’ll find the cigarettes on the table.
SABINE
Thanks.
(RANDOLPH _goes out, closing the door. Sabine stands a
moment, then turns to the window and looks off till he sees
the car has driven away. He turns down the light and then
crossing eagerly, he knocks on_ PAULA’S _door. He repeats
this._)
Paula! Paula!!
(_He stands waiting._)
[CURTAIN]
[E] Copyright by George Middleton. See back of title page.
THE HOUSE
THE PEOPLE
CHARLES RAY, a _professor of philosophy_.
ELIZABETH, _his wife_.
SCENE
_A room in an apartment hotel suite. One evening._
THE HOUSE[F]
_PROFESSOR and MRS. RAY are at the little table finishing their
coffee. In the center there is a white-robed birthday cake with
three golden candles sending a gentle light on them. A myriad of
faint wrinkles on the_ PROFESSOR’S _kindly face might betray his
age, though his thin body, in spite of its slight stoop, belies
his seventy years. As he sits there precisely dressed in his
evening clothes, he is the personification of fine breeding, the
incarnation of all that blood and culture can produce. And through
it all, there glows an alluring whimsy which one has no right to
expect in a professor of philosophy._
MRS. RAY, _gowned also for the ceremony they are celebrating, is
ten years younger; soft and gentle, too, yet sadder somehow, as
though, in spite of her effort to live in his enthusiasms, it has
become a bit difficult to sustain his mood of happiness._
_But as they sip their coffee alone in the hotel suite with its
conventional furnishings of a stereotyped comfort, graced only
by a large bunch of white roses, one senses the deep and abiding
affection which has warmed their long life together._
PROFESSOR
(_With a sigh of contentment_)
Ah!
(_He sees she is thoughtful: he reaches over and takes from
behind the table the quart bottle of champagne. He pours a
little in her glass._)
MRS. RAY
Oh, dear; I’m afraid I’ve had enough.
PROFESSOR
Nonsense.
MRS. RAY
But I’m beginning to feel it.
PROFESSOR
That’s the intention. (_Filling his glass._) There. Now a toast.
(_Standing with the greatest gallantry._) Here’s to my comrade of
forty years: may we have as many more together.
MRS. RAY
Oh, Charles, I’m afraid that’s asking too much of Providence.
PROFESSOR
We should ask much and be satisfied with less.
MRS. RAY
(_Raising her glass_)
To my friend and husband.
PROFESSOR
You make a distinction?
MRS. RAY
The world does.
PROFESSOR
What is the world doing here on our wedding anniversary?
(_Seriously_) Let’s drink to each other--and the children.
MRS. RAY
(_Wistfully looking at the candles_)
And the children.
(_They sip: he shows he enjoys it; she sits thoughtfully
while he takes out his cigarette case. He starts to take one,
and then, with a twinkle in his eyes, offers her the case._)
PROFESSOR
Cigarette, dear?
MRS. RAY
(_Smiling_)
No: thank you. I shan’t begin at my time of life.
PROFESSOR
Cato learned Greek at eighty. The minute people cease to
learn--even a vice--they have begun to grow old. So beware.
MRS. RAY
(_Striking a match_)
Let me light it for you.
PROFESSOR
(_Slyly_)
Which illustrates a woman’s part in life: encouraging vice in men,
eh? (_He lights it and puffs in enjoyment._) I must say I like my
idea about the cake and the candles.
MRS. RAY
It’s lovely, dear. Who but you would have thought of having a
birthday cake on our wedding anniversary.
PROFESSOR
I started to put forty candles: one for each year; but there was no
room left for the cake.
MRS. RAY
I like the idea of three--just three.
PROFESSOR
Yes; three birthdays that meant so much in our time together:
Teddy, Mary and Paul.
MRS. RAY
Forty years!
PROFESSOR
It’s a long while to be married, dear. Speaks well for our
patience, eh?
MRS. RAY
And not a word to-night from our three children.
PROFESSOR
(_Waving it aside_)
After all, our marriage didn’t concern them--at the time.
MRS. RAY
And we never forget their anniversaries.
PROFESSOR
But think how important those have always been from the beginning:
each one the start of a great adventure for us.
MRS. RAY
And more responsibility.
PROFESSOR
Certainly. Isn’t that the way we have broadened our lives? Think,
dear, of how many times we have been young--once with our own youth
and three times with our candles.
MRS. RAY
(_She rises and goes to the roses which she inhales_)
And our hair is white.
PROFESSOR
(_Gallantly rising also_)
That can’t be blamed on the children. White hair doesn’t indicate
marriage--always. It’s a matter of pigment, I’m told, and affects
bachelors equally.
MRS. RAY
You’re right, of course, dear. We have kept young through having
our children; only----
PROFESSOR
(_Coming to her_)
Only what? Surely there isn’t a regret as you look back?
MRS. RAY
Oh, no, not regret; only so many of our dreams have never been
realized.
PROFESSOR
(_As he breaks off a rose and gives it to her_)
But we have dreamed; that’s the important thing, isn’t it?
MRS. RAY
(_Looking at rose_)
I suppose so.
PROFESSOR
Of course it is, dear. And we have dreamed more than most because
we have been young four times.
MRS. RAY
(_As she crosses to the sofa_)
But it’s always been through others--for others.
PROFESSOR
But _now_ it is for ourselves.
MRS. RAY
(_Smiling_)
You mean our house?
PROFESSOR
Yes. Now that they’ve retired me with a pension and our children no
longer need our help, we can build our house.
MRS. RAY
(_Wearily, as she sits_)
We have built so many houses.
PROFESSOR
Yes. Life’s an experiment. Remember the first little cottage where
Teddy was born? It didn’t leave us much margin even though it was
small. Come to think of it, dear, we’ve built three houses, haven’t
we?
MRS. RAY
It’s the fourth we’ve really thought of most--and that hasn’t been
built _yet_.
PROFESSOR
That’s to be ours--all ours; with room for the children if they
want to come back.
MRS. RAY
Oh, that’s it: they won’t come back now. Our house won’t suit them.
PROFESSOR
(_Taking a chair over near her_)
How can we expect them to come into a house that isn’t even built?
You know our modern children are very peculiar. They get that from
you.
MRS. RAY
Nonsense. It’s you who are peculiar. Just look at the kind of house
you want.
PROFESSOR
(_Doubtfully_)
It _is_ different from yours, I’ll admit.
MRS. RAY
I don’t object to the architecture. It’s the surroundings you
insist on.
PROFESSOR
You want the city and I want the forest.
MRS. RAY
(_Shaking her head_)
We’ll never agree.
PROFESSOR
(_As though with an inspiration_)
I have a solution. I’ll live in your city house, if you’ll have my
forest around it.
MRS. RAY
I’m afraid, dear, that is a bit impractical at present prices.
PROFESSOR
(_With a whimsical smile_)
But we certainly can’t have the city you love around my house in
the woods! I’m afraid of the streets.
MRS. RAY
Any friendly policeman would help you across them.
PROFESSOR
Think of me walking arm in arm with a policeman! I must consider
my reputation, even though I am seventy. No. (_With a twinkle._) I
can’t seem to visualize the house, can you, dear?
MRS. RAY
It isn’t like your dream or mine.
PROFESSOR
No. I’d have a hard time finding my birch trees in the moonlight.
Have you ever noticed how lovely they are when the leaves have all
gone?
MRS. RAY
Somehow they are no more lovely than the sense of life in the tall
ugly buildings man has built with his own hands.
PROFESSOR
But trees are eternal.
MRS. RAY
That’s where we differ. I live in to-day: you live in all time.
PROFESSOR
That’s my profession. You lose count of time when you are a
philosopher.
MRS. RAY
And I am a woman of the world.
PROFESSOR
(_As he goes to light another cigarette from the candles_)
I’d hardly describe you that way, my dear; that sounds so naughty.
MRS. RAY
I mean I love every minute that passes and everything the moment
brings. I love the people who are of that moment.
PROFESSOR
You still dream of having a _salon_ of celebrities?
MRS. RAY
(_Smiling_)
It’s no worse than the museum of antiquities on your book shelves.
But I keep forgetting you want your house in the forest so you can
write about the dead.
PROFESSOR
And you want your house in the city for the living.
MRS. RAY
I wish we could compromise somehow.
PROFESSOR
If we only had more money I could do away with the wilderness and
content myself with a few wooded acres, I suppose. Only it must be
roomy where the winds can speak. And I must have some wild things
about. Though perhaps I could compromise on a pet squirrel, if
necessary. (_He smiles._) And if I met you that far do you think
you would be willing to live an hour or so from the city?
MRS. RAY
Why, of course. But haven’t we been looking for that sort of place
for years; even when we weren’t free to live where we wished?
PROFESSOR
I can’t see why money is always getting in the way of our dreams. I
often wonder what scoundrel it was who first invented money.
MRS. RAY
And yet we might now be able to have what we wished if----
PROFESSOR
If? The eternal if?
MRS. RAY
(_She has gone to the table, placing rose there_)
I was thinking of all we gave up for our children.
PROFESSOR
Wasn’t it jolly?
MRS. RAY
While we still dreamed of the house we two would build for
ourselves.
PROFESSOR
With rooms for them, don’t forget that.
MRS. RAY
And now where are our children?
PROFESSOR
Living--maybe dreaming a bit of our dreams and not knowing it is
ours. That’s the lovely thing about dreams: I like to think they
are never lost.
MRS. RAY
Yet here we sit alone on our anniversary and they have forgotten.
PROFESSOR
The young have so many things to remember.
MRS. RAY
And we can _never_ build our house now.
PROFESSOR
Nonsense. We can go on building it just as though it were really
possible. Come, little mother, let’s be young together to the
end. I’ll have to throw another log on this make-believe open
fire in _my_ house. (_He pulls the sofa around so it faces the
radiator which he eyes dubiously._) Hm! That won’t stimulate the
imagination. Wait! I know.
(_He goes over to the table and smiling quaintly he lifts up
the cake with its three burning candles and carefully places
it on the low radiator. Then he presses a switch on wall
nearby and the lights overhead go out, leaving only the
candles, a desk lamp and the moonlight through the window to
give the shadows life. He laughs and warms his hands before
the candles as he would before a fire._)
Come, dear, before my fire! By the way, is there a log fire in your
dream-house, dear?
MRS. RAY
(_Smiling and fitting in with his fancy_)
If you are to be with me, of course.
PROFESSOR
Well then we have a blazing fire in both our houses, eh? (_He sits
beside her on sofa and they gaze at candles._) And how economical
fuel is when you dream about it. I’ve got a whole forest waiting to
be cut by me, to-morrow, after I’ve worked all morning on my new
book.
MRS. RAY
And I’ve been to the musicale at the Biltmore.
PROFESSOR
What did you do this afternoon, dear?
MRS. RAY
(_Tapping his arm_)
Oh, I had a brilliant reception.
PROFESSOR
Receptions are always brilliant.
MRS. RAY
But this one really was. I had André Gidet and Arsène Tailleur
there. They are those clever new writers all Paris is talking about.
PROFESSOR
You didn’t enjoy their witticisms more than I did a pesky little
bluejay that made fun of me as I fished in my emerald lake.
MRS. RAY
But surely even you would have envied me my dinner when the
celebrated Mary Mevin explained her new symphony.
PROFESSOR
Nonsense, dear. Think of grilled trout caught by my own hand! And
then the long lazy silent hours afterwards with Aristotle. Nice
chap, Aristotle: knew a heap about men and things, though he lived
in an age when there wasn’t so much to remember as there is now.
Then afterwards I confess I yawned with the comfort of it all;
good, deep-reaching yawns, as Nature intended. I went out to see
my friends the stars. Best friends a man ever had: a bit cold and
distant, perhaps; but always there behind the clouds. (_She has
risen and gone to the candles. There is a pause. Then she snuffs
them out._) And I suppose at the same time you were trying in vain
to find them out your city window? (_Sees she is sobbing very
quietly: the candles are out._) Why, dear! What’s the trouble?
MRS. RAY
Oh, I can’t pretend any more. Our log fire isn’t real. Here we are
all alone in a hotel apartment--before an old steam radiator and
electric light. (_Presses the switch again._)
PROFESSOR
(_Tenderly and seriously_)
I know. You left all that which might have been yours ... if ... if
you hadn’t married me.
MRS. RAY
And you--without me and the children--you might have had your dream
now.
PROFESSOR
(_Very seriously_)
No, dear. One never can realize them: that’s why they are called
dreams.
MRS. RAY
(_Goes to him looking up into his face_)
You know, I wouldn’t have given up one hour of my life with you.
PROFESSOR
(_Stroking her hair tenderly_)
We have been very happy.
MRS. RAY
Yet why is there something we both feel we have missed?
PROFESSOR
Because even the happy must be incomplete or else they would cease
to be happy. Isn’t happiness hope as much as realization? We have
realized--not ourselves completely--yet through each other. We have
been what the other sought. But only the very wise know that there
is an inner life no one can be part of: a lonely place where even
the dearest can not enter, because it is a lonely place.
MRS. RAY
Yes. I think that is the way it is with me, dear.
PROFESSOR
And the way it is with our house we shall never build. We can’t
enter it _together_.
MRS. RAY
(_Looking before her_)
Yet I can still see my house.
PROFESSOR
As clearly as I do mine. (_Looking whimsically over at the smoking
candles._) Even though our own log fire is burned out.
MRS. RAY
(_Smiling_)
It’s changed somewhat these forty years.
PROFESSOR
Yes. That’s the way dream-houses have. (_Taking her hand._) And,
dear one, when we each think of our houses we can never build,
let’s--let’s always go on holding each other’s hand, eh?
MRS. RAY
Dearest....
PROFESSOR
So many people lose each other when they dream.
(_He kisses her tenderly._)
[CURTAIN]
[F] Copyright by George Middleton. See back of title page.
ON THE HIRING LINE
Comedy in 3 acts, by Harvey O’Higgins and Harriet Ford. 5 males, 4
females. Interior throughout. Costumes, modern. Plays 2½ hours.
Sherman Fessenden, unable to induce servants to remain for
any reasonable length of time at his home, hits upon the
novel expedient of engaging detectives to serve as domestics.
His second wife, an actress, weary of the country and longing
for Broadway, has succeeded in discouraging every other cook
and butler against remaining long at the house, believing
that by so doing she will win her husband to her theory that
country life is dead. So she is deeply disappointed when she
finds she cannot discourage the new servants.
The sleuths, believing they had been called to report on
the actions of those living with the Fessendens, proceeded
to warn Mr. Fessenden that his wife has been receiving
love-notes from Steve Mark, an actor friend, and that his
daughter has been planning to elope with a thief.
One sleuth causes an uproar in the house, making a mess of
the situations he has witnessed. Mr. Fessenden, however, has
learned a lesson and is quite willing to leave the servant
problem to his wife thereafter. (Royalty, twenty-five
dollars.)
Price, 75 Cents.
A FULL HOUSE
A farcical comedy in 3 acts. By Fred Jackson. 7 males, 7 females.
One interior scene. Modern costumes. Time, 2½ hours.
Imagine a reckless and wealthy youth who writes ardent
love letters to a designing chorus girl, an attorney
brother-in-law who steals the letters and then gets his
hand-bag mixed up with the grip of a burglar who has just
stolen a valuable necklace from the mother of the indiscreet
youth, and the efforts of the crook to recover his plunder,
as incidents in the story of a play in which the swiftness
of the action never halts for an instant. Not only are the
situations screamingly funny but the lines themselves hold
a fund of humor at all times. This newest and cleverest
of all farces was written by Fred Jackson, the well-known
short-story writer, and if backed up by the prestige of an
impressive New York success and the promise of unlimited fun
presented in the most attractive form. A cleaner, cleverer
farce has not been seen for many a long day. “A Full House”
is a house full of laughs. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)
Price, 75 Cents.
NOT SO LONG AGO
Comedy in a Prologue, 3 acts, and Epilogue. By Arthur Richman. 5
males, 7 females. 2 interiors, 1 exterior. Costumes, 1876. Plays a
full evening.
Arthur Richman has constructed his play around the Cinderella
legend. The playwright has shown great wisdom in his choice
of material, for he has cleverly crossed the Cinderella theme
with a strain of Romeo and Juliet. Mr. Richman places his
young lovers in the picturesque New York of forty years ago.
This time Cinderella is a seamstress in the home of a social
climber, who may have been the first of her kind, though we
doubt it. She is interested sentimentally in the son of this
house. Her father, learning of her infatuation for the young
man without learning also that it is imaginary on the young
girl’s part, starts out to discover his intentions. He is a
poor inventor. The mother of the youth, ambitious chiefly for
her children, shudders at the thought of marriage for her
son with a sewing-girl. But the Prince contrives to put the
slipper on the right foot, and the end is happiness. The play
is quaint and agreeable and the three acts are rich in the
charm of love and youth. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)
Price, 75 Cents.
THE LOTTERY MAN
Comedy in 3 acts, by Rida Johnson Young. 4 males, 5 females. 3 easy
interiors. Costumes, modern. Plays 2¼ hours.
In “The Lottery Man” Rida Johnson Young has seized upon a
custom of some newspapers to increase their circulation by
clever schemes. Mrs. Young has made the central figure in her
famous comedy a newspaper reporter, Jack Wright. Wright owes
his employer money, and he agrees to turn in one of the most
sensational scoops the paper has ever known. His idea is to
conduct a lottery, with _himself_ as the prize. The lottery
is announced. Thousands of old maids buy coupons. Meantime
Wright falls in love with a charming girl. Naturally he
fears that he may be won by someone else and starts to get
as many tickets as his limited means will permit. Finally
the last day is announced. The winning number is 1323, and
is held by Lizzie, an old maid, in the household of the
newspaper owner. Lizzie refuses to give up. It is discovered,
however, that she has stolen the ticket. With this clue, the
reporter threatens her with arrest. Of course the coupon is
surrendered and Wright gets the girl of his choice. Produced
at the Bijou Theater, New York, with great success. (Royalty,
twenty-five dollars.)
Price, 75 Cents.
POLLYANNA
“The glad play,” in 3 acts. By Catherine Chisholm Cushing. Based on
the novel by Eleanor H. Porter. 5 males, 6 females. 2 interiors.
Costumes, modern. Plays 2¼ hours.
The story has to do with the experiences of an orphan girl
who is thrust, unwelcome, into the home of a maiden aunt. In
spite of the tribulations that beset her life she manages
to find something to be glad about, and brings light into
sunless lives. Finally, Pollyanna straightens out the love
affairs of her elders, and last, but not least, finds
happiness for herself in the heart of Jimmy. “Pollyanna”
is a glad play and one which is bound to give one a better
appreciation of people and the world. It reflects the humor,
tenderness and humanity that gave the story such wonderful
popularity among young and old.
Produced at the Hudson Theatre, New York, and for two seasons
on tour, by George C. Tyler, with Helen Hayes in the part of
“Pollyanna.” (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)
Price, 75 Cents.
THE CHARM SCHOOL
A comedy in 3 acts. By Alice Duer Miller and Robert Milton. 6
males, 10 females (may be played by 5 males and 8 females). Any
number of school girls may be used in the ensembles. Scenes, 2
interiors. Modern costumes. Plays 2½ hours.
The story of “The Charm School” is familiar to Mrs. Miller’s
readers. It relates the adventures of a handsome young
automobile salesman, scarcely out of his ’teens, who, upon
inheriting a girls’ boarding-school from a maiden aunt,
insists on running it himself, according to his own ideas,
chief of which is, by the way, that the dominant feature in
the education of the young girls of to-day should be CHARM.
The situations that arise are teeming with humor--clean,
wholesome humor. In the end the young man gives up the
school, and promises to wait until the most precocious of his
pupils reaches a marriageable age. The play has the freshness
of youth, the inspiration of an extravagant but novel idea,
the charm of originality, and the promise of wholesome,
sanely amusing, pleasant entertainment. We strongly recommend
it for high school production. It was first produced at
the Bijou Theatre, New York, then toured the country.
Two companies are now playing it in England. (Royalty,
twenty-five dollars.)
Price, 75 Cents.
KICK IN
Play in 4 acts. By Willard Mack. 7 males, 5 females. 2 interiors.
Modern costumes. Plays 2½ hours.
“Kick In” is the latest of the very few available mystery
plays. Like “Within the Law,” “Seven Keys to Baldpate,” “The
Thirteenth Chair,” and “In the Next Room,” it is one of those
thrillers which are accurately described as “not having a
dull moment in it from beginning to end.” It is a play with
all the ingredients of popularity, not at all difficult to
set or to act; the plot carries it along, and the situations
are built with that skill and knowledge of the theatre for
which Willard Mack is known. An ideal mystery melodrama, for
high schools and colleges. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)
Price, 75 Cents.
TILLY OF BLOOMSBURY
(“Happy-Go-Lucky.”) A comedy in 3 acts. By Ian Hay. 9 males, 7
females. 2 interior scenes. Modern dress. Plays a full evening.
Into an aristocratic family comes Tilly, lovable and
youthful, with ideas and manners which greatly upset the
circle. Tilly is so frankly honest that she makes no secret
of her tremendous affection for the young son of the family;
this brings her into many difficulties. But her troubles have
a joyous end in charmingly blended scenes of sentiment and
humor. This comedy presents an opportunity for fine acting,
handsome stage settings, and beautiful costuming. (Royalty,
twenty-five dollars.)
Price, 75 cents.
BILLY
Farce-comedy in 3 acts. By George Cameron. 10 males, 5 females. (A
few minor male parts can be doubled, making the cast 7 males, 5
females.) 1 exterior. Costumes, modern. Plays 2¼ hours.
The action of the play takes place on the S. S. “Florida,”
bound for Havana. The story has to do with the disappearance
of a set of false teeth, which creates endless complications
among passengers and crew, and furnishes two and a quarter
hours of the heartiest laughter. One of the funniest comedies
produced in the last dozen years on the American stage is
“Billy” (sometimes called “Billy’s Tombstones”), in which the
late Sidney Drew achieved a hit in New York and later toured
the country several times. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)
Price, 75 Cents.
TWEEDLES
Comedy in 3 acts, by Booth Tarkington and Harry Leon Wilson. 5
males, 4 females. 1 interior. Costumes, modern. Plays 2½ hours.
Julian, scion of the blue-blooded Castleburys, falls in love
with Winsora Tweedle, daughter of the oldest family in a
Maine village. The Tweedles esteem the name because it has
been rooted in the community for 200 years, and they look
down on “summer people” with the vigor that only “summer
boarder” communities know.
The Castleburys are aghast at the possibility of a match, and
call on the Tweedles to urge how impossible such an alliance
would be. Mr. Castlebury laboriously explains the barrier
of social caste, and the elder Tweedle takes it that these
unimportant summer folk are terrified at the social eminence
of the Tweedles.
Tweedle generously agrees to co-operate with the Castleburys
to prevent the match. But Winsora brings her father to
realize that in reality the Castleburys look upon them
as inferiors. The old man is infuriated, and threatens
vengeance, but is checkmated when Julian unearths a number
of family skeletons and argues that father isn’t a Tweedle,
since the blood has been so diluted that little remains.
Also, Winsora takes the matter into her own hands and
outfaces the old man. So the youngsters go forth triumphant.
“Tweedles” is Booth Tarkington at his best. (Royalty,
twenty-five dollars.)
Price, 75 Cents.
JUST SUPPOSE
A whimsical comedy in 3 acts, by A. E. Thomas, author of “Her
Husband’s Wife,” “Come Out of the Kitchen,” etc. 6 males, 2
females. 1 interior, 1 exterior. Costumes, modern. Plays 2¼ hours.
It was rumored that during his last visit the Prince of Wales
appeared for a brief spell under an assumed name somewhere
in Virginia. It is on this story that A. E. Thomas based
“Just Suppose.” The theme is handled in an original manner.
Linda Lee Stafford meets one George Shipley (in reality is
the Prince of Wales). It is a case of love at first sight,
but, alas, princes cannot select their mates and thereby
hangs a tale which Mr. Thomas has woven with infinite charm.
The atmosphere of the South with its chivalry dominates the
story, touching in its sentiment and lightened here and there
with delightful comedy. “Just Suppose” scored a big hit at
the Henry Miller Theatre, New York, with Patricia Collinge.
(Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)
Price, 75 Cents.
ARE YOU A MASON?
Farce in 3 acts. By Leo Ditrichstein. 7 males, 7 females. Modern
costumes. Plays 2¼ hours. 1 interior.
“Are You a Mason?” is one of those delightful farces like
“Charley’s Aunt” that are always fresh. “A mother and a
daughter,” says the critic of the New York _Herald_, “had
husbands who account for absences from the joint household
on frequent evenings, falsely pretending to be Masons. The
men do not know each other’s duplicity, and each tells his
wife of having advanced to leadership in his lodge. The
older woman was so well pleased with her husband’s supposed
distinction in the order that she made him promise to put
up the name of a visiting friend for membership. Further
perplexity over the principal liar arose when a suitor for
his second daughter’s hand proved to be a real Mason....
To tell the story of the play would require volumes, its
complications are so numerous. It is a house of cards. One
card wrongly placed and the whole thing would collapse. But
it stands, an example of remarkable ingenuity. You wonder at
the end of the first act how the fun can be kept up on such
a slender foundation. But it continues and grows to the last
curtain.” One of the most hilariously amusing farces ever
written, especially suited to schools and Masonic Lodges.
(Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)
Price, 75 Cents.
KEMPY
A delightful comedy in 3 acts. By J. C. Nugent and Elliott Nugent.
4 males, 4 females. 1 interior throughout. Costumes, modern. Plays
2½ hours.
No wonder “Kempy” has been such a tremendous hit in New York,
Chicago--wherever it has played. It snaps with wit and humor
of the most delightful kind. It’s electric. It’s small-town
folk perfectly pictured. Full of types of varied sorts, each
one done to a turn and served with zestful sauce. An ideal
entertainment for amusement purposes. The story is about a
high-falutin’ daughter who in a fit of pique marries the
young plumber-architect, who comes to fix the water pipes,
just because he “understands” her, having read her book and
having sworn to marry the authoress. But in that story lies
all the humor that kept the audience laughing every second of
every act. Of course there are lots of ramifications, each
of which bears its own brand of laughter-making potentials.
But the plot and the story are not the main things. There is,
for instance, the work of the company. The fun growing out of
this family mixup is lively and clean. (Royalty, twenty-five
dollars.)
Price, 75 Cents.
SAMUEL FRENCH, 25 West 45th Street, New York City
New and Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed Free on Request
+--------------------------------------------------------------+
| FRENCH’S |
| Standard Library Edition |
| |
| Includes Plays by |
| |
| Clyde Fitch Booth Tarkington |
| William Gillette J. Hartley Manners |
| Augustus Thomas James Forbes |
| George Broadhurst James Montgomery |
| Edward E. Kidder Wm. C. de Mille |
| Percy MacKaye Roi Cooper Megrue |
| Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Edward E. Rose |
| Louis N. Parker Israel Zangwill |
| R. C. Carton Henry Bernstein |
| Alfred Sutro Harold Brighouse |
| Richard Harding Davis Channing Pollock |
| Sir Arthur W. Pinero Harry Durant |
| Anthony Hope Winchell Smith |
| Oscar Wilde Margaret Mayo |
| Haddon Chambers Edward Peple |
| Jerome K. Jerome A. E. W. Mason |
| Cosmo Gordon Lennox Charles Klein |
| H. V. Esmond Henry Arthur Jones |
| Mark Swan A. E. Thomas |
| Grace L. Furniss Fred. Ballard |
| Marguerite Merrington Cyril Harcourt |
| Hermann Sudermann Carlisle Moore |
| Rida Johnson Young Ernest Denny |
| Arthur Law Laurence Housman |
| Rachel Crothers Harry James Smith |
| Martha Morton Edgar Selwyn |
| H. A. Du Souchet Augustin McHugh |
| W. W. Jacobs Robert Housum |
| Madeleine Lucette Ryley Charles Kenyon |
| C. M. S. McLellan |
| |
| French’s International Copyrighted Edition contains plays, |
| comedies and farces of international reputation; also recent |
| professional successes by famous American and English |
| Authors. |
| |
| Send a four-cent stamp for our new catalogue |
| describing thousands of plays. |
| |
| SAMUEL FRENCH |
| Oldest Play Publisher in the World |
| 25 West 45th Street, NEW YORK CITY |
+--------------------------------------------------------------+
=TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE=
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
Bold text is denoted by =equal signs=.
Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within
the text and consultation of external sources.
Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the
text, and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.
Some hyphens in words have been silently removed, some added, when
a predominant preference was found in the original book.
Pg 206: ‘--for the glove’ replaced by ‘--For the glove’.
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Masks: One act plays of contemporary life" ***
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