Читать бесплатно онлайн книгу автора Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays
Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays
Selected and Edited
BY
FRANK SHAY
AND
PIERRE LOVING
CINCINNATI
STEWART & KIDD COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1920, by
STEWART & KIDD COMPANY
All rights reserved
Copyright in England
INTRODUCTION
Tradition in the sphere of books is relentlessly imperious and will not be denied. The present anthology of one-act plays, in defiance of a keen reluctance on the part of the editors, is condemned at birth to the heritage of a title; for this practice, as is well known, has been the unchallenged punctilio of book-making and book-editing from time immemorial. And yet if the truth be told, the editors have found precisely this to be by far the most embarrassing of the various tasks that have arisen in connection with the project. In the selection of a title, the immediate problem was of course to avoid, so far as possible, the slightest pretense or assumption of categorical standards of choice or even the merest intimation that there existed somewhere, attainable or unattainable, an ideal norm according to which one-act plays could be faultlessly assessed and pigeon-holed.
In point of fact, so many tolerably good one-act plays are being written and acted nowadays, that the editors early concluded that the business of editing a volume of fifty one-act pieces implies, so to speak, inviting the devil or the spirit that denies to the feast. Thus all manner of obstinate ribaldries and mischief began to infest our path of progress.
If it were only a naïve question of adjudging a golden apple to one of three lovely women, earthly or divine, the matter would have proved comparatively simple; but the question was more complex: it offered the public a meager book which could never hope to compress within itself the core and quiddity of about a thousand plays, or more, which the editors were privileged to examine from the first moment when they launched upon their task eight months ago, to this. Moreover it frequently happened that when the editors had flattered themselves on having picked a sure winner, the sure winner forthwith got out of hand and no persuasive cajolings availed to allure it back. In other words, not a few plays which the editors sought to include in the book were found unavailable by reason of previous copyrights. In several cases the copyright had passed entirely out of the control of the author or his accredited representative.
On the whole, however, both authors and those commissioned to act for them have responded most sympathetically to the project and have rendered valuable assistance and support, without which, let me hasten to add, the present collection would not have been possible.
The reader will observe that plays by American authors predominate over those of any other single country, and the reason for this is fairly obvious. American plays, besides being most readily available to the anthologist, are beginning to reflect the renascence that is gradually taking place in the American theater. There is growing up in this country a younger generation of dramatists, which is achieving its most notable work outside the beaten path of popular recognition, in small dramatic juntos and in the little theaters. In the main, the form they employ as being most suitable to their needs, is that offered by the concise scaffold of the one-act play. These efforts, we hold, deserve a wider audience.
On the other hand, a mere scrutiny of the table of contents will reveal that the editors have included a number of foreign plays heretofore not accessible to English-speaking readers. This aspect of the task, the effort of pioneer exploration, has indeed been by far the most pleasant, and most pleasant, too, has proved the discovery of several new American writers who have produced original work. Of the foreign writers, such men as Wied and Speenhof, for example, are practically if not totally unknown to American readers, and they, as well as a handful of others, are in the opinion of the editors worthy of an American following.
As concerns the procedure or technic of choice, it goes without saying, surely, that if a congruous method exists at all, it merely embodies a certain permissible viewpoint. This viewpoint will probably find unqualified favor with but a handful of readers; others it will frankly outrage to the extent of their casting it out, lock, stock and barrel. But this is to be looked for in an undertaking of this caliber in which individual bias, after all, plays so leading a part. And titling the volume came to be an arduous process only in virtue of the afore-mentioned viewpoint, cherished but shadowily defined, or to be exact, in virtue of the despair which succeeded upon each persistent attempt to capture what remained perennially elusive. Unfortunately it still remains elusive. If then a rationalization is demanded by the reader—a privilege none will question his right to exercise—he will, I am afraid, have to content himself with something as vague and fantastic as the following:
Imagine a playhouse, perfectly equipped, plastic and infinitely adaptable. Invite Arthur Hopkins, John Williams, Winthrop Ames, Sam Hume and George Cram Cook to manage it; let them run riot on the stage. Clear the wings and the front of the house of all routineers. Fill the seats at each performance with the usual gallery-haunters of the New York theaters. Do not overlook the hosts of experimental playhouse directors—unleash them in the backyard area with a kammerspielhaus to toy with at pleasure. Let the personnel of the play-reading committee consist of such men as Ludwig Lewisohn, Barrett H. Clark, George Jean Nathan and Francis Hackett. The result will take care of itself. This, in brief, is the theatrical ménage for which, in the main, the plays included in this volume were written.
Is this a hair-brained or a frivolous notion? It may be. But, please note, it expresses, no matter how limpingly, some approach to a viewpoint. At all events it is the only touchstone applied by the editors in their choice of fifty contemporary one-act plays.
Pierre Loving.
New York City, Sept., 1920.
CONTENTS
AUSTRIA:
PAGE von Hofmannsthal (Hugo) Madonna Dianora1
Schnitzler (Arthur) Literature13
BELGIUM:
Maeterlinck (Maurice) The Intruder27
BOLIVIA:
More (Federico) Interlude39
FRANCE:
Ancey (George) Monsieur Lamblin45
de Porto-Riche (Georges) Françoise' Luck53
GERMANY:
Ettlinger (Karl) Altruism67
Wedekind (Frank) The Tenor77
GREAT BRITAIN:
Bennett (Arnold) A Good Woman89
Calderon (George) The Little Stone House99
Cannan (Gilbert) Mary's Wedding111
Crocker (Bosworth) The Baby Carriage119
Dowson (Ernest) The Pierrot of the Minute133
Ellis (Mrs. Havelock) The Subjection of Kezia145
Hankin (St. John) The Constant Lover155
INDIA:
Mukerji (Dhan Gopal) The Judgment of Indra165
IRELAND:
Gregory (Lady) The Workhouse Ward173
HOLLAND:
Speenhoff (J. H.) Louise181
HUNGARY:
Biro (Lajos) The Grandmother191
ITALY:
Giacosa (Giuseppe) The Rights of the Soul201
RUSSIA:
Andreyev (Leonid) Love of One's Neighbor213
Tchekoff (Anton) The Boor227
SPAIN:
Benevente (Jacinto) His Widow's Husband237
Quinteros (The) A Sunny Morning253
SWEDEN:
Strindberg (August) The Creditor261
Wied (Gustav) Autumn Fires289
UNITED STATES:
Beach (Lewis) Brothers303
Cowan (Sada) In the Morgue313
Cronyn (George W.) A Death in Fever Flat319
Davies (Mary Carolyn) The Slave with Two Faces329
Day (Frederic L.) The Slump337
Flanner (Hildegarde) Mansions349
Glaspell (Susan) Trifles361
Gerstenberg (Alice) The Pot Boiler371
Helburn (Theresa) Enter the Hero383
Hudson (Holland) The Shepherd in the Distance395
Kemp (Harry) Boccaccio's Untold Tale407
Langner (Lawrence) Another Way Out419
Millay (Edna St. Vincent) Aria Da Capo431
Moeller (Philip) Helena's Husband443
MacMillan (Mary) The Shadowed Star455
O'Neill (Eugene G.) Ile465
Stevens (Thomas Wood) The Nursery Maid of Heaven477
Stevens (Wallace) Three Travelers Watch a Sunrise493
Tompkins (Frank G.) Sham501
Walker (Stuart) The Medicine Show511
Wellman (Rita) For All Time517
Wilde (Percival) The Finger of God529
YIDDISH:
Asch (Sholom) Night537
Pinski (David) Forgotten Souls545
BIBLIOGRAPHY553
MADONNA DIANORA
A Play in Verse
By Hugo Von Hofmannsthal
Translated from the German by Harriet Betty Boas.
Copyright, 1916, by Richard S. Badger.
Toronto: The Copp Clark Co., Limited.
Copyright, 1920, The Four Seas Co., Boston.
MADONNA DIANORA
A Play in Verse
By Hugo von Hofmannsthal
La Demente: "Conosci la storia di Madonna Dianor?"
Il Medico: "Vagamente. Non ricordo piu."...
Sogno d'un mattino di primavera.
[Scene: The garden of a somber Lombardian Palace. To the right the wall of a house, which is at an angle with the moderately high garden wall that encloses it. The lower portion of the house is built of rough granite, above which rests a strip of plain marble forming a sill, which, under each window, is adorned with a lion's head in repose. Two windows are visible, each one having a small angular balcony with a stone railing, spaced sufficiently to show the feet of those standing there. Both windows are curtained to the floor. The garden is a mere lawn with a few scattered fruit trees. The corner of the garden between the wall and the house is crowded with high box wood bushes. A leafy grapevine, trained over stunted chestnut trees, forms an arbor which completely fills the left side of the stage; only this entrance is visible. The arbor slants irregularly to the left rear. Behind the rear wall there may be seen (by the gallery spectator) a narrow path beyond which is the neighbor's garden wall—no house is visible. In the neighbor's garden and as far as the eye can reach, the tops of the trees are illuminated by the evening glow of a brilliant sunset.]
Dianora [at the window].
A harvester I see, and not the last,
No, not the last, descending from the hill.
There are three more, and there, and there!
Have you no end, you never-ending day?
How have I dragged the hours away from you,
Torn them to shreds and cast them in the flood,
As I do now with these poor tattered blooms!
How have I coaxed each minute of this day.
Each bracelet, and each earring was clasped on,
Ta'en off again, then once more tried, until
'Twas thrown aside, exchanged, and others brought—
I slowly dripped the fountain, drop on drop
All through my tresses, dried them languidly;
With quiet, measured step, out in the sun
I walked me to and fro—oh! to and fro!
But 'twas still damp—the path is narrow there.
I looked among the bushes, for the birds,—
Less than a zephyr's breath I bent them back,
Those swaying branches, sat 'neath rustling trees,
And felt on cheeks and hands in waiting woe
The little flickerings of warm sunshine.
I closed my eyes, and almost thought soft lips
Gently caressing, strayed my clammy brow.
Sometimes hours come when this duplicity,
All this concealment, seems so fruitless, and
I cannot bear it. I can only gaze
With eyes of steel far up into the sky
Where flocks of wild geese float, or bend me low
O'er some mad, rushing plunging waterfall
That tears my weakling shadow with its flow,—
I will be patient—why, I must, I am!—
Madonna—I will climb the steepest mount
And on my knees will count me every stone
With this, my rosary, if only now,
Oh, soon,—this day will sink into the night.
It is so long! I have its measured tread
With these same beads been scanning o'er and o'er.
And now I talk so fev'rishly, instead
Of counting all the leaves upon that tree.
Oh! I have finished much too soon again.
See! See the yeoman, calling to his dog.
The shadows do upon his garden fall,
For him the night has come, but brings no joy;
He fears it, locks his door and is alone.—
See where the maidens wander to the well.
I know the manner in which each of them
Will fill her bucket—that one's prettiest.
Why does the stranger at the cross roads stay?
Distant's his goal, I warrant. He unwinds
And folds again the cloth about his feet.
What an existence! Draw the thorns, yes, draw
Them quickly out. You must speed. We all
Must hurry on, the restless day must down
And with it take this bright and scarlet glow
That's lingering in radiance on my cheeks.
All that is troubling us cast far away,
Fling wide the thorn into the field
Where waters flow and sheaves of brilliant flow'rs
Are bending, glowing, yearning towards the night.—
I draw my rings from off my fingers, and
They're happy as the naked children are
Who scamper quickly to the brook to bathe.—
Now all the girls have gone—
Only one maiden's left. Oh, what lovely hair!
I wonder if she knows its beauty's power?
Perhaps she's vain—but vanity, thou art
A plaything only for the empty years.
When once she has arrived where I am now,
She'll love her hair, she'll let it clasp her close,
Enwrap her round and whisper to her low,
Like echoing harpstrings throbbing with the touch
Of fev'rish fingers straying in the dark.
[She loosens her hair and lets it fall to the left and to the right in front of her.]
What, would you close to me? Down, down with you.—
I bid you greet him. When the dusk has come,
And when his hands hold fast the ladder there
A-sudden he will feel, instead the leaves,
The cool, firm leaves, a gently spraying rain,
A rain that falls at eve from golden clouds.
[She lets her hair fall over the balustrade.]
You are so long, and yet you barely reach
A third the distance; hardly are your ends
Touching the cold, white marble lion's nose.
[She laughs and rises.]
Ah! there's a spider! No, I will not fling
You off; I lay my hand once more
Upon this spot, so you may find again
The road you wish to speed so quickly on.
How I have changed! I am bewitched indeed!
In former days, I could not touch the fruit
Within a basket, if upon its edge
A spider had been seen. Now in my hand
It runs.—Intoxication makes me glad!
Why, I could walk along the very edge
Of narrow walls, and would not totter—no!—
Could I but fall into the waters deep!
In their cool velvet arms I would be well,
Sliding in grottoes of bright sapphire hues
Playing with wondrous beings of the deep
All golden finned, with eyes benignly sad.
Yes, if I were immured in the chestnut woods
Within some ruined walls, my soul were free.
For there the forest's animals would come
And tiny birds. The little weasels would
Brush up against and touch my naked toes
With their soft snouts and lashes of bright eyes
While in the moss I lay and ate wild fruit.—
What's rustling? 'Tis the little porcupine
Of that first night. What, are you there again,
Stepped from the dark? Art going on the hunt?
Oh! If my hunter would but come to me!
[Looking up.]
Now have the shadows vanished! Gone are all
Those of the pines and those of the dolls,
The ones that played about the little huts,
The large ones from the vineyards and the one
Upon the figtree at the crossroads—gone
As though the quiet earth had sucked them in!
The night has really come! The lamp
Is placed upon the table, closely press
The sheep together—close within the fold.
Within the darkest corners of the eaves
Where the dustvine-leaves meet, goblins do crouch,
And on the heights from out the clearing step
The blessed saints to gaze where churches stand
Well pleased at seeing chapels manifold.
Now, sweetest plaything, you may also come,
Finer than spider's web, stronger than steel.
[She fastens one end of the silk ladder to an iron hook on the floor in the balcony.]
Let me now play that it were highest time
And dip you deep down, down into my well,
To bring this parched one a sparkling draught.
[She pulls the ladder up again.]
Night, night has come! And yet how long might be,
Endlessly long, the time until he comes.
[She wrings her hands.]
Might be!
[With shining eyes.]
But must not—yet, it might—
[She puts up her hair. During this time the nurse has stepped to the front window and waters the red flowers there.]
Dianora [much frightened]. Who's there, who's there! Oh, nurse, nurse, is it you? I've ne'er before seen you in here so late. Has ought occurred?—
Nurse. Why nothing, gracious one. Do you not see, I quite forgot my flowers—they've not been watered. On my way from church I suddenly remembered, quickly came.
Dianora. Yes, give the flowers water. But how strange you look, your cheeks are feverish, your eyes are shining—
Nurse [does not answer].
Dianora. Who preached? Tell me, was it that monk, the one—
Nurse [curtly]. Yes, gracious one.
Dianora. The one from Spain, is it not?
Nurse [does not answer—pause].
Dianora [following her own train of thoughts]. Can you recall the kind of child I was?
Nurse. Proud, gracious one, a proud child, very proud.
Dianora [very softly]. How singular! Humanity's so sweet!—What?—
Nurse. I said no word, my gracious Lady, none—
Dianora. Yes, yes, whom does the Spanish monk resemble?
Nurse. He is different from the others.
Dianora. No—his appearance! Does he resemble my husband?
Nurse. No, gracious one.
Dianora. My brother-in-law?
Nurse. No.
Dianora. Ser Antonio Melzi?
Nurse. No.
Dianora. Messer Galeazza Swardi?
Nurse. No.
Dianora. Messer Palla degli Albizzi?
Nurse. His voice is a little like Messer Palla's—yes—I said to my son yesterday, that his voice reminded me a little of Messer Palla's voice.
Dianora. The voice—
Nurse. But his eyes are like Messer Guido Schio, the nephew of our gracious lord.
Dianora [is silent].
Nurse. I met him on the stairs yesterday—he stopped—
Dianora [suddenly flaring up]. Messer Palla?
Nurse. No! Our gracious lord. He ordered me to make some ointment. His wound is not yet entirely healed.
Dianora. Oh, yes! The horse's bite—did he show it to you?
Nurse. Yes—the back of the hand is quite healed, but on the palm there's a small dark spot, a curious spot, such as I've never seen in a wound—
Dianora. What horse did it, I wonder?
Nurse. The big roan, gracious Lady.
Dianora. Yes, yes, I remember. It was on the day of Francesco Chieregati's wedding. [She laughs loudly.]
Nurse [looks at her].
Dianora. I was thinking of something else. He told about it at table—he wore his arm in a sling. How was it, do you remember?
Nurse. What, gracious one?
Dianora. With the horse—
Nurse. Don't you remember, gracious one?
Dianora. He spoke about it at table. But I could not hear it. Messer Palla degli Albizzi sat next to me, and was so merry, and everybody laughed, so I could not hear just what my husband said.
Nurse. When our gracious lord came to the stall, the roan put back his ears, foamed with rage and suddenly snapped at the master's hand.
Dianora. And then?
Nurse. Then the master hit the roan behind the ears with his fist so that the big, strong horse staggered back as though it were a dog—
Dianora [is silent, looks dreamily down].
Nurse. Oh, our gracious lord is strong! He is the strongest gentleman of all the nobility the country 'round, and the cleverest.
Dianora. Yes, indeed. [Attentively now.] Who?
Nurse. Our master.
Dianora. Ah! our master. [Smiles.]—and his voice is so beautiful, and that is why everybody loves to listen to him in the large, dark church.
Nurse. Listen to whom, gracious one?
Dianora. To the Spanish monk, to whom else?
Nurse. No, my Lady, it isn't because of his voice that people listen to him.
Dianora [is again not listening].
Nurse. Gracious one—my Lady—is it true—what people say about the envoy?
Dianora. What envoy?
Nurse. The envoy whom the people of Como sent to our master.
Dianora. What are people saying?
Nurse. They say a shepherd saw it.
Dianora. What did he see?
Nurse. Our gracious lord was angry at the envoy—would not accept the letter that the people of Como had written him. Then he took it anyhow—the letter—read part of it, tore it into bits and held the pieces before the envoy's mouth and demanded that he swallow them. But the envoy went backwards, like a crab, and made stary eyes just like a crab, and everybody laughed, especially Signor Silvio, the master's brother. Then the master sent for the envoy's mule and had it brought to the gates. When the envoy was too slow in mounting, the master whistled for the dogs. The envoy left with his two yeomen. Our master went hunting with seven men and all the dogs. Towards evening, however, they say that our gracious lord, and the envoy met at the bridge over the Adda, there where Verese begins—our master and the envoy met. And the shepherd was passing and drove his sheep next to the bridge into a wheat-field—so that the horses would not kill them. And the shepherd heard our master cry, "There's the one who wouldn't eat, perhaps he'd like to drink." So four of our men seized the two yeomen, two others took the envoy, each one took hold of a leg, lifted him from the saddle—threw him screaming like a madman and struggling fiercely, over the parapet—he tore out a piece of the sleeve of one, together with the flesh. The Adda has very steep banks at that place—the river was dark and swollen from all the snow on the mountains. The envoy did not appear again, said the shepherd.
[Nurse stops, looks questioningly at Dianora.]
Dianora [anxiously]. I do not know.
[She shakes off the worried expression, her face assumes the dreamy, inwardly happy expression.]
Dianora. Tell me something about his preaching—the Spaniard's preaching.
Nurse. I don't know how to express it, gracious one.
Dianora. Just say a little. Does he preach of so many things?
Nurse. No, almost always about one thing.
Dianora. What?
Nurse. Of resignation to the Lord's will.
Dianora [looks at her and nods].
Nurse. Gracious one, you must understand, that is all.
Dianora. What do you mean by—all——
Nurse [while speaking, she is occupied with the flowers]. He says that all of life is in that—there's nothing else. He says everything is inevitable and that's the greatest joy—to realize that everything is inevitable—that is good, and there is no other good. The sun must glow, and stone must be on the dumb earth and every living creature must give utterance to its voice—whether he will or no—we must——
Dianora [is thinking—like a child].
Nurse [goes from window—pause].
Dianora.
As though 'twere mirrored in a placid pool
Self-prisoned lies the world asleep, adream—
The ivy's tendrils clamber through the dusk
Closely embracing thousandfold the wall.
An arbor vitae towers. At its feet
The quiet waters mirror what they see.
And from this window, on this balustrade
Of cool and heavy stones, I bend me o'er
Stretching my arms so they may touch the ground.
I feel as though I were a dual being
Gazing within me at my other self.
[Pause.]
Methinks such thoughts crowd in upon the soul
When grim, inexorable death is near.
[She shudders and crosses herself.]
Nurse [has returned several times to the window; in one hand she carries scissors with which she clips the dry branches from the plants].
Dianora [startled]. What? Good night, nurse, farewell. I'm dizzy, faint.
Nurse [goes off].
Dianora [with a great effort]. Nurse! Nurse!
Nurse [comes back].
Dianora. If the Spanish monk preaches to-morrow, I'll go with you.
Nurse. Yes, to-morrow, my Lady, if the Lord spare us.
Dianora [laughs]. Certainly,—if the Lord spare us. Good night.
[A long pause.]
Dianora.
His voice is all he has, the strange monk,
Yet people flock, hang on his words like bees
Upon the dark sweet blossoms, and they say
"This man is not like others—he
Does shake our souls, his voice melts into space,
Floats down to us, and penetrates our being—
We are all like children when we hear his voice."—
Oh, if a judge could have his lofty brow,
Who would not kneel upon the steps to read
Each sentence from his clear and shining brow.
How sweet to kneel upon the honest step
And know one's fate were safe within that hand,
Within those kingly, good and noble hands.
And oh, his merriment! How exquisite!
To see such people merry is a joy,
—He took me by the hand and drew me on.
My blood ran magic, backward stretched my hand.
The laughing throng upon it closely hung
A sinuous chain, we flew along arbored walks
Down through a deep and steep and narrow path
Cool as a well, and bordered very close
With cypresses that lived a century—
Then down the brightest slope.
Up to my knees the wild, warm flowers kissed
Where we were running like a breeze in May.
Then he released me, and along he leapt
Upon the marble stairs between cascades;
Astride he sat upon the dolphin's back
And held himself up on the arms of fauns,
Upon the dripping Triton's shoulders stood
Mounting always; high, higher still he clomb,
The wildest, handsomest of all the gods!—
Beneath his feet the waters bubbled forth,
They sparkled, foamed, and showered the air with spray,
Falling on me. The waves' tumultuous din
Drowned out, engulfed the entire world,
Beneath his feet the waters bubbled forth,
They sparkled, foamed and showered their spray on me.
[Pause—footsteps are heard in the distance.]
Dianora. Sh! Footsteps! No, it is so much too soon—And yet—and yet—[long waiting] they come.
[Pause.]
They do not come—
Oh, no, they do not come—They're shuffling steps,
They shuffle down the vineyard—now they reel—
There are the steps! A drunkard, verily!
Stay in the street, intoxicated one.
What would you do within our garden gates?—
No moon shines here to-night—were there a moon
I were not here—no, no, I were not here.
The little stars are flick'ring restlessly,
They cannot light the way for a drunken one,
But one not drunken from a musty wine.
His footsteps are as light as wind on grass
And surer than the tread of the young lion.
[Pause.]
These hours are martyrdom! No, no, no, no,
They're not—no, they are beautiful and good,
And lovely and so sweet! He comes, he comes;
A long, long way already he has walked—
The last tall tree down there has seen him come—-
It could—if that dark strip of woodland boughs
Did not obscure the road—and 'twere not dark—
[Pause.]
He comes—as certainly as I do now
Upon this hook bend this frail ladder—comes.
As surely as I now do let it down
In rustling murmur in the leaves enmeshed,
As certainly as it now swaying hangs,
Quivering softly as I bend me low,
Myself aquiver with a greater thrill—
[She remains for a long time bent over the balustrade. Suddenly she seems to hear the curtain between her balcony and the room thrown back. She turns her head and her features are distorted in deathly fear and terror. Messer Braccio stands silently in the door. He wears a simple, dark green robe, carries no weapons—his shoes are low. He is very tall and strong. His face resembles the portraits of aristocrats and captains of mercenaries. He has an extremely large forehead and small dark eyes, closely cropped, curly black hair and a small beard that covers his cheeks and chin.]
Dianora [wants to speak, but is unable to utter a sound].
Messer Braccio [beckons to her to pull up the ladder].
Dianora [does so like an automaton and drops the bundle, as in a trance, at her feet].
Braccio [looks at her quietly, reaches with his right hand to his left hip, also with his left hand; notices that he has no dagger. He moves his lips impatiently, glances toward the garden, then over his shoulders. He lifts his right hand for a moment and examines his palm, then walks firmly and quickly back into the room].
Dianora [looks after him incessantly; she cannot take her eyes away from him. As the curtain closes behind his retreating form, she passes her fingers excitedly over her face and through her hair, then folds her hands and murmurs a prayer, her lips wildly convulsed. Then she throws her arms backwards and folds them above the stone pillar, in a gesture that indicates a desperate resolve and a triumphant expectancy].
Braccio [steps into the doorway again, carrying an armchair, which he places in the opening of the door. He seats himself on it, facing his wife. His face does not change. From time to time he raises his right hand mechanically and examines the little wound upon his palm].
Braccio [his tone is cold, rather disdainful. He points with his foot and eyes to the ladder]. Who?
Dianora [raises her shoulders, and drops them slowly].
Braccio. I know!
Dianora [raises her shoulders and drops them slowly. Her teeth are clenched].
Braccio [moves his hand, barely glances at his wife, and looks again into the garden]. Palla degli Albizzi!
Dianora [between her teeth]. How ugly the most beautiful name becomes when uttered by unseemly tongue.
Braccio [looks at her as though he were about to speak, but remains silent. Pause].
Braccio. How old are you?
Dianora [does not answer].
Braccio. Fifteen and five. You are twenty years old.
Dianora [does not answer. Pause].
Dianora [almost screaming]. My father's name was Bartholomeno Colleone—you can let me say the Lord's Prayer and the Hail Mary, and then kill me, but not let me stand here like a fettered beast.
Braccio [looks at her as though surprised; does not answer—glances at his hand].
Dianora [strokes back her hair slowly, folds her elbows over her breast, stares at him, then drops her arms, seems to divine his plan. Her voice is completely changed and is like a string that is stretched to the breaking-point].
One of my women I desire, who will—
[She stops; her voice seems to give out.]
First braid my hair—'tis tangled, disarranged.
Braccio. You often help yourself without a maid.
Dianora [presses her lips together, says nothing, smoothes her hair at the temples, folds her hands].
I have no children. My mother I saw once—
I saw her once, just before she died.
My father led me and my sister to
A vaulted, high, severe and gloomy room.
The suff'rer I saw not; her hand alone
Hung like a greeting to me—that I kissed.
About my father I remember this.
He wore an armor of green burnished gold
With darker clasps—two always helped him mount
Upon his horse, for he was very old—
I hardly knew Medea. Not much joy,
Had she, my sister. Thin of hair,
Her forehead and her temples older seemed,
Much older, than her mouth and her hands to me—
She always held a flower in her hand.—
O Lord, have mercy unto these sweet souls
As unto mine, and bid them welcome me,
Greeting me kindly when I come to Thee.
I cannot kneel—there is no space to kneel.
Braccio [rises, pushes the chair into the room to make space for her. She does not notice him].
Dianora.
There's more—I must remember—Bergamo,
Where I was born—the house in Feltre where
The uncles and the cousins were....
Then they put me upon a gallant steed
Caparisoned most splendidly—they rode,
Cousins and many others by my side.
And so I came here, from whence I now go....
[She has leaned back and looked up at the glittering stars upon the black sky—she shudders].
I wanted something else—
[She searches her memory.]
In Bergamo where I was taught to walk
Upon the path that brought me here, I was
Often—most frequently through pride,—and now
I am contrite and would go to confession
For all those errors, and some graver ones;—
When I [She ponders.]—three days after Saint Magdalen
Was riding homeward from the chase with him.
This man, here, who's my husband—others too—
Upon the bridge an old lame beggar lay.
I knew that he was old and ill and sore
And there was something in his tired eyes
Reminded me of my dead father—but
Nevertheless—only because the one
Riding beside me touched my horse's bridle,
I did not pull aside, but let the dust
My horse kicked up, blind, choke that poor old man.
Yes, so close I rode that with his hands
He had to lift aside his injured leg.
This I remember, this I now regret.
Braccio. The one beside you held your horse's bridle? [He looks at her.]
Dianora [answers his look, understands him, says trenchantly]:
Yes! Then as often since—as often since—
And yet how rarely after all!
How meager is all joy—a shallow stream
In which you're forced to kneel, that it may reach
Up to your shoulders—
Braccio.
Of my servants who,—of all your women,
Who knew of these things?
Dianora [is silent].
Braccio [makes a disdainful gesture].
Dianora.
Falsely, quite falsely, you interpret now
My silence. How can I tell you who might know?—
But if you think that I am one of those
Who hides behind her hireling's her joy,
You know me ill. Now note—note and take heed.
Once may a woman be—yes, once she may
Be as I was for twelve weeks—once she may be
If she had found no need of veil before,
All veiled, protected by her own great pride
As by a shield—she once may rend that veil,
Feel her cheeks crimson, burning in the sun.
Horrible she, who twice could such a thing!
I'm not of these—that surely you must know.
Who knew?—Who guessed? I never hid my thoughts?
Your brother must have known—just as you knew,
Your brother just as you. Ask him, ask him!
[Her voice is strange, almost childlike, yet exalted.]
That day—'twas in July, Saint Magdalen
Francesco Chieregati's wedding day—
That nasty thing upon your hand came then,
Came on that day. Well, I remember too
We dined out in the arbor—near the lake,
And he sat next to me, while opposite
Your brother sat. Then passing me the fruit,
Palla did hold the heavy gold dish
Of luscious peaches so that I might take.
My eyes were fastened on his hands—I longed
To humbly kiss his hands, there,—before all.
Your brother—he's malicious and no fool—
Caught this my glance, and must have guessed my thought.
He paled with anger.—Sudden came a dog,
A tall dark greyhound brushed his slender head
Against my hand—the left one by my side,—
Your stupid brother kicked in furious rage
With all his might, the dog—only because
He could not with a shining dagger pierce
Me and my lover. I but looked at him.
Caressed and stroked the dog, and had to laugh
[She laughs immoderately and shrilly in a way that threatens to be a scream, or to break into tears at any moment.]
Braccio [seems to listen].
Dianora [also listens. Her face expresses horrible tension. Soon she cannot bear it, begins to speak again almost deliriously].
Why whosoever saw me walk would know!
Walked I not differently? Did not I ride
Ecstatically? I could look at you
And at your brother and this gloomy house
And feel as light as air, floating in space.
The myriad trees seemed all to come to me
Filled with the sunlight dancing toward me,
All paths were open in the azure air—
Those sunlit paths were all the roads to him.
To start with fright was sweet—he might appear
From any corner, any bush or tree—
[Her language becomes incoherent from terror, because she sees that Braccio has drawn the curtains behind him close. Her eyes are unnaturally wide open—her lips drawn more constantly.]
Braccio [in a tone that the actor must find for himself, not loud, not low, not strong, nor yet weak, but penetrating].
If I, your husband, had not at this hour
Come to your chamber to fetch me a salve,
An ointment for my wounded hand—
What would—
What had you done, intended, meant to do?
Dianora [looks at him, as though distraught, does not understand his latest question. Her right hand presses her forehead—with the left she shakes the ladder before his face, lets it fall at his feet, one end remains tied, shrieks].
What had I done? What had I done, you ask?
Why, waited thus—I would have waited—
[She sways her open arms before him like one intoxicated, throws herself around, with the upper part of her body over the balustrade, stretches her arms towards the ground—her hair falls over them.]
Braccio [with a hurried gesture tears off a piece of his sleeve and winds it around his right hand. With the sureness of a wild animal on the hunt, he grasps the ladder that is lying there, like a thin, dark rope, with both hands, makes a loop, throws it over his wife's head and pulls her body towards him.]
[During this time the curtain falls.]
LITERATURE
A Comedy
By Arthur Schnitzler
Translated by Pierre Loving.
Copyright, 1917, by Stewart & Kidd Company.
All rights reserved.
PERSONS
Margaret. Clement. Gilbert.Literature is reprinted from "Comedies of Words" by Arthur Schnitzler, by
permission of Messrs. Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Ohio.
LITERATURE
A Comedy
By Arthur Schnitzler
[Scene: Moderately well, but quite inexpensively furnished apartments occupied by Margaret. A small fireplace, a table, a small escritoire, a settee, a wardrobe cabinet, two windows in the back, entrances left and right.
As the curtain rises, Clement, dressed in a modish, tarnished-gray sack suit, is discovered reclining in a fauteuil near the fireplace. He is smoking a cigarette and perusing a newspaper. Margaret is standing at the window. She walks back and forth, finally goes up directly behind Clement, and playfully musses his hair. Evidently she has something troublesome on her mind.]
Clem. [reading, seizes her hand and kisses it]. Horner's certain about his pick and doubly certain about mine; Waterloo five to one; Barometer twenty-one to one; Busserl seven to one; Attila sixteen to one.
Marg. Sixteen to one!
Clem. Lord Byron one and one-half to one—that's us, my dear.
Marg. I know.
Clem. Besides, it's sixteen weeks yet to the Handicap.
Marg. Evidently he looks upon it as a clean "runaway."
Clem. Not quite—but where did you pick up your turf-lingo, Brava?
Marg. Oh, I used this kind of talk before I knew you. Is it settled that you are to ride Lord Byron yourself?
Clem. How absurd to ask! You forget, it's the Damenpreis Handicap. Whom else could I get to ride him? And if Horner thought for a moment that I wasn't going to ride him, he'd never put up one and a half to one. You may stake all you've got on that.
Marg. I'm well aware of that. You are so handsome when you mount a horse—honest and truly, too sweet for anything! I shall never forget that day in Munich, when I first made your acquaintance—
Clem. Please do not remind me of it. I had rotten luck that day. But you can believe me, Windy would never have won if it weren't for the ten lengths he gained at the start. But this time—never! You know, of course, it is decided; we leave town the same day.
Marg. Same evening, you mean.
Clem. If you will—but why?
Marg. Because it's been arranged we're to be married in the morning, hasn't it?
Clem. Quite so.
Marg. I am so happy. [Embraces him.] Now, where shall we spend our honeymoon?
Clem. I take it we're agreed. Aren't we? On the estate.
Marg. Oh, of course, later. Aren't we going to take in the Riviera, as a preliminary tidbit?
Clem. AS for that, it all depends on the Handicap. If we win—
Marg. Surest thing!
Clem. And besides, in April the Riviera's not at all good ton.
Marg. Is that your reason?
Clem. Of course it is, my love. In your former way of life, there were so few opportunities for your getting a clear idea of fashion—Pardon me, but whatever there was, you must admit, really had its origin in the comic journals.
Marg. Clem, please!
Clem. Well, well. We'll see. [Continues reading.] Badegast fifteen to one—
Marg. Badegast? There isn't a ghost of a show for him!
Clem. Where did you get that information?
Marg. Szigrati himself gave me a tip.
Clem. Where—and when?
Marg. Oh, this morning in the Fredenau, while you were talking with Milner.
Clem. Now, look here; Szigrati isn't fit company for you.
Marg. Jealous?
Clem. Not at all. Moreover, let it be understood that from now on I shall introduce you everywhere as my fiancée. [Margaret kisses him.]
Clem. Now, what did Szigrati say?
Marg. That he's not going to enter Badegast in the Handicap at all.
Clem. Well, don't you believe everything Szigrati is likely to say. He's circulating the rumor that Badegast will not be entered so that the odds may be bigger.
Marg. Nonsense! That's too much like an investment.
Clem. So you don't believe there is such a thing as investment in this game? For a great many it's all a commercial enterprise. Do you think that a fellow of Szigrati's ilk cares a fig for sport? He might just as well speculate on the market, and wouldn't realize the difference. Anyway, as far as Badegast is concerned, one hundred to one wouldn't be too much to put up against him.
Marg. Really? I found him in first-rate fettle this morning.
Clem. Then you saw Badegast, too?
Marg. Certainly. Didn't Butters put him through his paces, right behind Busserl?
Clem. But Butters isn't riding for Szigrati. He was only a stableboy. Badegast can be in as fine fettle as he chooses—it's all the same to me. He's nothing but a blind. Some day, Margaret, with the aid of your exceptional talent, you will be able to distinguish the veritable somebodies from the shams. Really, it's remarkable with what proficiency you have, so to speak, insinuated yourself into all these things. You go beyond my expectations.
Marg. [chagrined]. Pray, why do I go beyond your expectations? All this, as you know, is not so new to me. At our house we entertained very good people—Count Libowski and people of that sort—and at my husband's—
Clem. Quite so. No question about that. As a matter of principle, you realize, I've no grudge against the cotton industry.
Marg. Even if my husband happened to be the owner of a cotton mill, that didn't have to effect my personal outlook on life, did it? I always sought culture in my own way. Now, don't let's talk of that period of my life. It's dead and buried, thank heaven!
Clem. Yes. But there's another period which lies nearer.
Marg. I know. But why mention it?
Clem. Well, I simply mean that you couldn't possibly have heard much about sportsmanship from your friends in Munich—at least, as far as I am able to judge.
Marg. I do hope you will stop tormenting me about those friends in whose company you first made my acquaintance.
Clem. Tormenting you? Nonsense! Only it's incomprehensible to me how you ever got amongst those people.
Marg. You speak of them as if they were a gang of criminals.
Clem. Dearest, I'd stake my honor on it, some of them looked the very picture of pickpockets. Tell me, how did you manage to do it? I can't understand how you, with your refined taste—let alone your purity and the scent you used—could have tolerated their society. How could you have sat at the same table with them?
Marg. [laughing]. Didn't you do the same?
Clem. Next to them—not with them. And for your sake—merely for your sake, as you know. To do them justice, however, I will admit that many bettered upon closer acquaintance. There were some interesting people among them. You mustn't for a moment believe, dearest, that I hold myself superior to those who happen to be shabbily dressed. That's nothing against them. But there was something in their conduct, in their manners, which was positively revolting.
Marg. It wasn't quite so bad.
Clem. Don't take offense, dear. I said there were some interesting people among them. But that a lady should feel at ease in their company, for any length of time, I cannot and do not pretend to understand.
Marg. You forget, dear Clem, that in a sense I'm one of them—or was at one time.
Clem. Now, please! For my sake!
Marg. They were artists.
Clem. Thank goodness, we've returned to the old theme.
Marg. Yes, because it hurts me to think you always lose sight of that fact.
Clem. Lose sight of that fact! Nonsense! You know what pained me in your writings—things entirely personal.
Marg. Let me tell you, Clem, there are women who, in my situation, would have done worse than write poetry.
Clem. But what sort of poetry! What sort of poetry! [Takes a slender volume from the mantel-shelf.] That's what repels me. I assure you, every time I see this book lying here; every time I think of it, I blush with shame that it was you who wrote it.
Marg. That's why you fail to understand— Now, don't take offense. If you did understand, you'd be quite perfect, and that, obviously, is impossible. Why does it repel you? You know I didn't live through all the experiences I write about.
Clem. I hope not.
Marg. The poems are only visions.
Clem. That's just it. That's what makes me ask: How can a lady indulge in visions of that character? [Reads.] "Abandoned on thy breast and suckled by thy lips" [shaking his head]. How can a lady write such stuff—how can a lady have such stuff printed? That's what I simply cannot make out. Everybody who reads will inevitably conjure up the person of the authoress, and the particular breast mentioned, and the particular abandonment hinted at.
Marg. But, I'm telling you, no such breast ever existed.
Clem. I can't bring myself to imagine that it did. That's lucky for both of us, Margaret. But where did these visions originate? These glowing passion-poems could not have been inspired by your first husband. Besides, he could never appreciate you, as you yourself always say.
Marg. Certainly not. That's why I brought suit for divorce. You know the story. I just couldn't bear living with a man who had no other interest in life than eating and drinking and cotton.
Clem. I dare say. But that was three years ago. These poems were written later.
Marg. Quite so. But consider the position in which I found myself—
Clem. What do you mean? You didn't have to endure any privation? In this respect you must admit your husband acted very decently toward you. You were not under the necessity of earning your own living. And suppose the publishers did pay you one hundred gulden for a poem—surely they don't pay more than that—still, you were not bound to write a book of this sort.
Marg. I did not refer to position in a material sense. It was the state of my soul. Have you a notion how—when you came to know me—things were considerably improved. I had in many ways found myself again. But in the beginning! I was so friendless, so crushed! I tried my hand at everything; I painted, I gave English lessons in the pension where I lived. Just think of it! A divorcee, having nobody—
Clem. Why didn't you stay in Vienna?
Marg. Because I couldn't get along with my family. No one appreciated me. Oh, what people! Did any one of them realize that a woman of my type asks more of life than a husband, pretty dresses and social position? My God! If I had had a child, probably everything would have ended differently—and maybe not. I'm not quite lacking in accomplishments, you know. Are you still prepared to complain? Was it not for the best that I went to Munich? Would I have made your acquaintance else?
Clem. You didn't go there with that object in view.
Marg. I wanted to be free spiritually, I mean. I wanted to prove to myself whether I could succeed through my own efforts. And, admit, didn't it look as if I was jolly well going to? I had made some headway on the road to fame.
Clem. H'm!
Marg. But you were dearer to me than fame.
Clem [good-naturedly]. And surer.
Marg. I didn't give it a thought. I suppose it's because I loved you from the very start. For in my dreams, I always conjured up a man of your likeness. I always seemed to realize that it could only be a man like you who would make me happy. Blood—is no empty thing. Nothing whatever can weigh in the balance with that. You see, that's why I can't resist the belief—
Clem. What?
Marg. Oh, sometimes I think I must have blue blood in my veins, too.
Clem. How so?
Marg. It's not improbable?
Clem. I'm afraid I don't understand.
Marg. But I told you that members of the nobility were entertained at our house—
Clem. Well, and if they were?
Marg. Who knows—
Clem. Margaret, you're positively shocking. How can you hint at such a thing!
Marg. I can never say what I think in your presence! That's your only shortcoming—otherwise you would be quite perfect. [She smiles up to him.] You've won my heart completely. That very first evening, when you walked into the café with Wangenheim, I had an immediate presentiment: this is he! You came among that group, like a soul from another world.
Clem. I hope so. And I thank heaven that somehow you didn't seem to be altogether one of them, either. No. Whenever I call to mind that junto—the Russian girl, for instance, who because of her close-cropped hair gave the appearance of a student—except that she did not wear a cap—
Marg. Baranzewitsch is a very gifted painter.
Clem. No doubt. You pointed her out to me one day in the picture gallery. She was standing on a ladder at the time, copying. And then the fellow with the Polish name—
Marg. [beginning]. Zrkd—
Clem. Spare yourself the pains. You don't have to use it now any more. He read something at the café while I was there, without putting himself out the least bit.
Marg. He's a man of extraordinary talent. I'll vouch for it.
Clem. Oh, no doubt. Everybody is talented at the café. And then that yokel, that insufferable—
Marg. Who?
Clem. You know whom I mean. That fellow who persisted in making tactless observations about the aristocracy.
Marg. Gilbert. You must mean Gilbert.
Clem. Yes. Of course. I don't feel called upon to make a brief for my class. Profligates crop up everywhere, even among writers, I understand. But, don't you know it was very bad taste on his part while one of us was present?
Marg. That's just like him.
Clem. I had to hold myself in check not to knock him down.
Marg. In spite of that, he was quite interesting. And, then, you mustn't forget he was raving jealous of you.
Clem. I thought I noticed that, too. [Pause.]
Marg. Good heavens, they were all jealous of you. Naturally enough—you were so unlike them. They all paid court to me because I wouldn't discriminate in favor of any one of them. You certainly must have noticed that, eh? Why are you laughing?
Clem. Comical—is no word for it! If some one had prophesied to me that I was going to marry a regular frequenter of the Café Maxmillian—I fancied the two young painters most. They'd have made an incomparable vaudeville team. Do you know, they resembled each other so much and owned everything they possessed in common—and, if I'm not mistaken, the Russian on the ladder along with the rest.
Marg. I didn't bother myself with such things.
Clem. And, then, both must have been Jews?
Marg. Why so?
Clem. Oh, simply because they always jested in such a way. And their enunciation.
Marg. You may spare your anti-Semitic remarks.
Clem. Now, sweetheart, don't be touchy. I know that your blood is not untainted, and I have nothing whatever against the Jews. I once had a tutor in Greek who was a Jew. Upon my word! He was a capital fellow. One meets all sorts and conditions of people. I don't in the least regret having made the acquaintance of your associates in Munich. It's all the weave of our life experience. But I can't help thinking that I must have appeared to you like a hero come to rescue you in the nick of time.
Marg. Yes, so you did. My Clem! Clem! [Embraces him.]
Clem. What are you laughing at?
Marg. Something's just occurred to me.
Clem. What?
Marg. "Abandoned on thy breast and—"
Clem. [vexed]. Please! Must you always shatter my illusions?
Marg. Tell me truly, Clem, wouldn't you be proud if your fiancée, your wife, were to become a great, a famous writer?
Clem. I have already told you. I am rooted in my decision. And I promise you that if you begin scribbling or publishing poems in which you paint your passion for me, and sing to the world the progress of our love—it's all up with our wedding, and off I go.
Marg. You threaten—you, who have had a dozen well-known affairs.
Clem. My dear, well-known or not, I didn't tell anybody. I didn't bring out a book whenever a woman abandoned herself on my breast, so that any Tom, Dick or Harry could buy it for a gulden and a half. There's the rub. I know there are people who thrive by it, but, as for me, I find it extremely coarse. It's more degrading to me than if you were to pose as a Greek goddess in flesh-colored tights at Ronacher's. A Greek statue like that doesn't say "Mew." But a writer who makes copy of everything goes beyond the merely humorous.
Marg. [nervously]. Dearest, you forget that the poet does not always tell the truth.
Clem. And suppose he only vaporizes. Does that make it any better?
Marg. It isn't called vaporizing; it's "distillation."
Clem. What sort of an expression is that?
Marg. We disclose things we never experience, things we dreamed—plainly invented.
Clem. Don't say "we" any more, Margaret. Thank goodness, that is past.
Marg. Who knows?
Clem. What?
Marg. [tenderly]. Clement, I must tell you all.
Clem. What is it?
Marg. It is not past; I haven't given up my writing.
Clem. Why?
Marg. I'm still going on with my writing, or, rather, I've finished writing another book. Yes, the impulse is stronger than most people realize. I really believe I should have gone to pieces if it hadn't been for my writing.
Clem. What have you written now?
Marg. A novel. The weight was too heavy to be borne. It might have dragged me down—down. Until to-day, I tried to hide it from you, but it had to come out at last. Künigel is immensely taken with it.
Clem. Who's Künigel?
Marg. My publisher.
Clem. Then it's been read already.
Marg. Yes, and lots more will read it. Clement, you will have cause to be proud, believe me.
Clem. You're mistaken, my dear. I think—but, tell me, what's it about?
Marg. I can't tell you right off. The novel contains the greatest part, so to speak, and all that can be said of the greatest part.
Clem. My compliments!
Marg. That's why I'm going to promise you never to pick up a pen any more. I don't need to.
Clem. Margaret, do you love me?
Marg. What a question! You and you only. Though I have seen a great deal, though I have gadded about a great deal, I have experienced comparatively little. I have waited all my life for your coming.
Clem. Well, let me have the book.
Marg. Why—why? What do you mean?
Clem. I grant you, there was some excuse in your having written it; but it doesn't follow that it's got to be read. Let me have it, and we'll throw it into the fire.
Marg. Clem!
Clem. I make that request. I have a right to make it.
Marg. Impossible! It simply—
Clem. Why? If I wish it; if I tell you our whole future depends on it. Do you understand? Is it still impossible?
Marg. But, Clement, the novel has already been printed.
Clem. What! Printed?
Marg. Yes. In a few days it will be on sale on all the book-stalls.
Clem. Margaret, you did all that without a word to me—?
Marg. I couldn't do otherwise. When once you see it, you will forgive me. More than that, you will be proud.
Clem. My dear, this has progressed beyond a joke.
Marg. Clement!
Clem. Adieu, Margaret.
Marg. Clement, what does this mean? You are leaving?
Clem. As you see.
Marg. When are you coming back again?
Clem. I can't say just now. Adieu.
Marg. Clement! [Tries to hold him back.]
Clem. Please. [Goes out.]
Marg. [alone]. Clement! What does this mean? He's left me for good. What shall I do? Clement! Is everything between us at an end? No. It can't be. Clement! I'll go after him. [She looks for her hat. The doorbell rings.] Ah, he's coming back. He only wanted to frighten me. Oh, my Clement! [Goes to the door. Gilbert enters.]
Gil. [to the maid]. I told you so. Madame's at home. How do you do, Margaret?
Marg. [astonished]. You?
Gil. It's I—I. Amandus Gilbert.
Marg. I'm so surprised.
Gil. So I see. There's no cause for it. I merely thought I'd stop over. I'm on my way to Italy. I came to offer you my latest book for auld lang syne. [Hands her the book. As she does not take it, he places it on the table.]
Marg. It's very good of you. Thanks!
Gil. You have a certain proprietorship in that book. So you are living here?
Marg. Yes, but—
Gil. Opposite the stadium, I see. As far as furnished rooms go, it's passable enough. But these family portraits on the walls would drive me crazy.
Marg. My housekeeper's the widow of a general.
Gil. Oh, you needn't apologize.
Marg. Apologize! Really, the idea never occurred to me.
Gil. It's wonderful to hark back to it now.
Marg. To what?
Gil. Why shouldn't I say it? To the small room in Steinsdorf street, with its balcony abutting over the Isar. Do you remember, Margaret?
Marg. Suppose we drop the familiar.
Gil. As you please—as you please. [Pause, then suddenly.] You acted shamefully, Margaret.
Marg. What do you mean?
Gil. Would you much rather that I beat around the bush? I can find no other word, to my regret. And it was so uncalled for, too. Straightforwardness would have done just as nicely. It was quite unnecessary to run away from Munich under cover of a foggy night.
Marg. It wasn't night and it wasn't foggy. I left in the morning on the eight-thirty train, in open daylight.
Gil. At all events, you might have said good-by to me before leaving, eh? [Sits.]
Marg. I expect the Baron back any minute.
Gil. What difference does that make? Of course, you didn't tell him that you lay in my arms once and worshiped me. I'm just an old acquaintance from Munich. And there's no harm in an old acquaintance calling to see you?
Marg. Anybody but you.
Gil. Why? Why do you persist in misunderstanding me? I assure you, I come only as an old acquaintance. Everything else is dead and buried, long dead and buried. Here. See for yourself. [Indicates the book.]
Marg. What's that?
Gil. My latest novel.
Marg. Have you taken to writing novels?
Gil. Certainly.
Marg. Since when have you learned the trick?
Gil. What do you mean?
Marg. Heavens, can't I remember? Thumb-nail sketches were your specialty, observation of daily events.
Gil. [excitedly]. My specialty? My specialty is life itself. I write what suits me. I do not allow myself to be circumscribed. I don't see who's to prevent my writing a novel.
Marg. But the opinion of an authority was—
Gil. Pray, who's an authority?
Marg. I call to mind, for instance, an article by Neumann in the "Algemeine"—
Gil. [angrily]. Neumann's a blamed idiot! I boxed his ears for him once.
Marg. You—
Gil. In effigy— But you were quite as much wrought up about the business as I at that time. We were perfectly agreed that Neumann was a blamed idiot. "How can such a numbskull dare"—these were your very words—"to set bounds to your genius? How can he dare to stifle your next work still, so to speak, in the womb?" You said that! And to-day you quote that literary hawker.
Marg. Please do not shout. My housekeeper—
Gil. I don't propose to bother myself about the widows of defunct generals when every nerve in my body is a-tingle.
Marg. What did I say? I can't account for your touchiness.
Gil. Touchiness! You call me touchy? You! Who used to be seized with a violent fit of trembling every time some insignificant booby or some trumpery sheet happened to utter an unfavorable word of criticism.
Marg. I don't remember one word of unfavorable criticism against me.
Gil. H'm! I dare say you may be right. Critics are always chivalrous toward beautiful women.
Marg. Chivalrous? Do you think my poems were praised out of chivalry? What about your own estimate—
Gil. Mine? I'm not going to retract so much as one little word. I simply want to remind you that you composed your sheaf of lovely poems while we were living together.
Marg. And you actually consider yourself worthy of them?
Gil. Would you have written them if it weren't for me? They are addressed to me.
Marg. Never!
Gil. What! Do you mean to deny that they are addressed to me? This is monstrous!
Marg. No. They are not addressed to you.
Gil. I am dumbfounded. I shall remind you of the situations in which some of your loveliest verses had birth?
Marg. They were inscribed to an Ideal—[Gilbert points to himself]—whose representative on earth you happened to be.
Gil. Ha! This is precious. Where did you get that? Do you know what the French would say in a case like that? "C'est de la littérature!"
Marg. [mimicking him]. Ce n'est pas de la littérature! Now, that's the truth, the honest truth! Or do you really fancy that by the "slim boy" I meant you? Or that the curls I hymned belonged to you? At that time you were fat and your hair was never curly. [Runs her fingers through his hair. Gilbert seizes the opportunity to capture her hand and kiss it.] What an idea!
Gil. At that time you pictured it so; or, at all events, that is what you called it. To be sure, a poet is forced to take every sort of license for the sake of the rhythm. Didn't I once apostrophise you in a sonnet as "my canny lass"? In point of fact, you were neither—no, I don't want to be unfair—you were canny, shamefully canny, perversely canny. And it suited you perfectly. Well, I suppose I really oughtn't to wonder at you. You were at all times a snob. And, by Jove! you've attained your end. You have decoyed your blue-blooded boy with his well-manicured hands and his unmanicured brain, your matchless horseman, fencer, marksman, tennis player, heart-trifler—Marlitt could not have invented him more revolting than he actually is. Yes, what more can you wish? Whether he will satisfy you—who are acquainted with something nobler—is, of course, another question. I can only say that, in my view, you are degenerate in love.
Marg. That must have struck you on the train.
Gil. Not at all. It struck me this very moment.
Marg. Make a note of it then; it's an apt phrase.
Gil. I've another quite as apt. Formerly you were a woman; now you're a "sweet thing." Yes, that's it. What attracted you to a man of that type? Passion—frank and filthy passion—
Marg. Stop! You have a motive—
Gil. My dear, I still lay claim to the possession of a soul.
Marg. Except now and then.
Gil. Please don't try to disparage our former relations. It's no use. They are the noblest experiences you've ever had.
Marg. Heavens, when I think that I endured this twaddle for one whole year I—
Gil. Endure? You were intoxicated with joy. Don't try to be ungrateful. I'm not. Admitting that you behaved never so execrably at the end, yet I can't bring myself to look upon it with bitterness. It had to come just that way.
Marg. Indeed!
Gil. I owe you an explanation. This: at the moment when you were beginning to drift away from me, when homesickness for the stables gripped you—la nostalgie de l'écurie—at that moment I was done with you.
Marg. Impossible.
Gil. You failed to notice the least sign in your characteristic way. I was done with you. To be plain, I didn't need you any longer. What you had to give you gave me. Your uses were fulfilled. In the depths of your soul you knew, unconsciously you knew—
Marg. Please don't get so hot.
Gil. [unruffled]. That our day was over. Our relations had served their purpose. I don't regret having loved you.
Marg. I do!
Gil. Capital! This measly outburst must reveal to a person of any insight just one thing: the essential line of difference between the artist and the dilettante. To you, Margaret, our liaison means nothing more than the memory of a few abandoned nights, a few heart-to-heart talks in the winding ways of the English gardens. But I have made it over into a work of art.
Marg. So have I!
Gil. Eh? What do you mean?
Marg. I have done what you have done. I, too, have written a novel in which our relations are depicted. I, too, have embalmed our love—or what we thought was our love—for all time.
Gil. If I were you, I wouldn't talk of "for all time" before the appearance of the second edition.
Marg. Your writing a novel and my writing a novel are two different things.
Gil. Maybe.
Marg. You are a free man. You don't have to steal your hours devoted to artistic labor. And your future doesn't depend on the throw.
Gil. And you?
Marg. That's what I've done. Only a half hour ago Clement left me because I confessed to him that I had written a novel.
Gil. Left you—for good?
Marg. I don't know. But it isn't unlikely. He went away in a fit of anger. What he'll decide to do I can't say.
Gil. So he objects to your writing, does he? He can't bear to see his mistress put her intelligence to some use. Capital! And he represents the blood of the country! H'm! And you, you're not ashamed to give yourself up to the arms of an idiot of this sort, whom you once—
Marg. Don't you speak of him like that. You don't know him.
Gil. Ah!
Marg. You don't know why he objects to my writing. Purely out of love. He feels that if I go on I will be living in a world entirely apart from him. He blushes at the thought that I should make copy of the most sacred feelings of my soul for unknown people to read. It is his wish that I belong to him only, and that is why he dashed out—no, not dashed out—for Clement doesn't belong to the class that dashes out.
Gil. Your observation is well taken. In any case, he went away. We will not undertake to discuss the tempo of his going forth. And he went away because he could not bear to see you surrender yourself to the creative impulse.
Marg. Ah, if he could only understand that! But, of course, that can never be! I could be the best, the faithfulest, the noblest woman in the world if the right man only existed.
Gil. At all events, you admit he is not the right man.
Marg. I never said that!
Gil. But you ought to realize that he's fettering you, undoing you utterly, seeking through egotism, to destroy your inalienable self. Look back for a moment at the Margaret you were; at the freedom that was yours while you loved me. Think of the younger set who gathered about me and who belonged no whit less to you? Do you never long for those days? Do you never call to mind the small room with its balcony—Beneath us plunged the Isar—[He seizes her hand and presses her near.]
Marg. Ah!
Gil. All's not beyond recall. It need not be the Isar, need it? I have something to propose to you, Margaret. Tell him, when he returns, that you still have some important matters to arrange at Munich, and spend the time with me. Margaret, you are so lovely! We shall be happy again as then. Do you remember [very near her] "Abandoned on thy breast and—"
Marg. [retreating brusquely from him]. Go, go away. No, no. Please go away. I don't love you any more.
Gil. Oh, h'm—indeed! Oh, in that case I beg your pardon. [Pause.] Adieu, Margaret.
Marg. Adieu.
Gil. Won't you present me with a copy of your novel as a parting gift, as I have done?
Marg. It hasn't come out yet. It won't be on sale before next week.
Gil. Pardon my inquisitiveness, what kind of a story is it?
Marg. The story of my life. So veiled, to be sure, that I am in no danger of being recognized.
Gil. I see. How did you manage to do it?
Marg. Very simple. For one thing, the heroine is not a writer but a painter.
Gil. Very clever.
Marg. Her first husband is not a cotton manufacturer, but a big financier, and, of course, it wouldn't do to deceive him with a tenor—
Gil. Ha! Ha!
Marg. What strikes you so funny?
Gil. So you deceived him with a tenor? I didn't know that.
Marg. Whoever said so?
Gil. Why, you yourself, just now.
Marg. How so? I say the heroine of the book deceives her husband with a baritone.
Gil. Bass would have been more sublime, mezzo-soprano more piquant.
Marg. Then she doesn't go to Munich, but to Dresden; and there, has an affair with a sculptor.
Gil. That's me—veiled.
Marg. Very much veiled, I rather fear. The sculptor, as it happens, is young, handsome and a genius. In spite of that she leaves him.
Gil. For—
Marg. Guess?
Gil. A jockey, I fancy.
Marg. Wretch!
Gil. A count, a prince of the empire?
Marg. Wrong. An archduke.
Gil. I must say you have spared no costs.
Marg. Yes, an archduke, who gave up the court for her sake, married her and emigrated with her to the Canary Islands.
Gil. The Canary Islands! Splendid! And then—
Marg. With the disembarkation—
Gil. In Canaryland.
Marg. The story ends.
Gil. Good. I'm very much interested, especially in the veiling.
Marg. You yourself wouldn't recognize me were it not for—
Gil. What?
Marg. The third chapter from the end, where our correspondence is published entire.
Gil. What?
Marg. Yes, all the letters you sent me and those I sent you are included in the novel.
Gil. I see, but may I ask where you got those you sent me? I thought I had them.
Marg. I know. But, you see, I had the habit of always making a rough draft.
Gil. A rough draft?
Marg. Yes.
Gil. A rough draft? Those letters which seemed to have been dashed off in such tremendous haste. "Just one word, dearest, before I go to bed. My eyelids are heavy—" and when your eyelids were closed you wrote the whole thing over again.
Marg. Are you piqued about it?
Gil. I might have expected as much. I ought to be glad, however, that they weren't bought from a professional love-letter writer. Oh, how everything begins to crumble! The whole past is nothing but a heap of ruins. She made a rough draft of her letters!
Marg. Be content. Maybe my letters will be all that will remain immortal of your memory.
Gil. And along with them will remain the fatal story.
Marg. Why?
Gil. [indicating his book]. Because they also appear in my book.
Marg. In where?
Gil. In my novel.
Marg. What?
Gil. Our letters—yours and mine.
Marg. Where did you get your own? I've got them in my possession. Ah, so you, too, made a rough draft?
Gil. Nothing of the kind! I only copied them before mailing. I didn't want to lose them. There are some in my book which you didn't even get. They were, in my opinion, too beautiful for you. You wouldn't have understood them at all.
Marg. Merciful heavens! If this is so—[turning the leaves of Gilbert's book]. Yes, yes, it is so. Why, it's just like telling the world that we two—Merciful heavens! [Feverishly turning the leaves.] Is the letter you sent me the morning after the first night also—
Gil. Surely. That was brilliant.
Marg. This is horrible. Why, this is going to create a European sensation. And Clement—My God; I'm beginning to hope that he will not come back. I am ruined! And you along with me. Wherever you are, he'll be sure to find you and blow your brains out like a mad dog.
Gil. [pocketing his book]. Insipid comparison!
Marg. How did you hit upon such an insane idea? To publish the correspondence of a woman whom, in all sincerity, you professed to have loved! Oh, you're no gentleman.
Gil. Quite charming. Haven't you done the same?
Marg. I'm a woman.
Gil. Do you take refuge in that now?
Marg. Oh, it's true. I have nothing to reproach you with. We were made for one another. Yes, Clement was right. We're worse than those women who appear in flesh-colored tights. Our most sacred feelings, our pangs—everything—we make copy of everything. Pfui! Pfui! It's sickening. We two belong to one another. Clement would only be doing what is right if he drove me away. [Suddenly.] Come, Amandus.
Gil. What is it?
Marg. I accept your proposal.
Gil. What proposal?
Marg. I'm going to cut it with you. [Looks for her hat and cloak.]
Gil. Eh? What do you mean?
Marg. [very much excited; puts her hat on tightly]. Everything can be as it was. You've said it. It needn't be the Isar—well, I'm ready.
Gil. Sheer madness! Cut it—what's the meaning of this? Didn't you yourself say a minute ago that he'd find me anywhere. If you're with me, he'll have no difficulty in finding you, too. Wouldn't it be better if each—
Marg. Wretch! Now you want to leave me in a lurch! Why, only a few minutes ago you were on your knees before me. Have you no conscience?
Gil. What's the use? I am a sick, nervous man, suffering from hypochondria. [Margaret at the window utters a cry.]
Gil. What's up? What will the general's widow think?
Marg. It's he. He's coming back.
Gil. Well, then—
Marg. What? You intend to go?
Gil. I didn't come here to pay the baron a visit.
Marg. He'll encounter you on the stairs. That would be worse. Stay. I refuse to be sacrificed alone.
Gil. Now, don't lose your senses. Why do you tremble like that? It's quite absurd to believe that he's already gone through both novels. Calm yourself. Remove your hat. Off with your cloak. [Assists her.] If he catches you in this frame of mind he can't help but suspect.
Marg. It's all the same to me. Better now than later. I can't bear waiting and waiting for the horrible event. I'm going to tell him everything right away.
Gil. Everything?
Marg. Yes. And while you are still here. If I make a clean breast of everything now maybe he'll forgive me.
Gil. And me—what about me? I have a higher mission in the world, I think, than to suffer myself to be shot down like a mad dog by a jealous baron. [The bell rings.]
Marg. It's he! It's he.
Gil. Understand, you're not to breathe a word.
Marg. I've made up my mind.
Gil. Indeed, have a care. For, if you do, I shall sell my hide at a good price. I shall hurl such naked truths at him that he'll swear no baron heard the like of them.
Clem. [entering, somewhat surprised, but quite cool and courteous]. Oh, Mr. Gilbert! Am I right?
Gil. The very same, Baron. I'm traveling south, and I couldn't repress the desire to pay my respects to madame.
Clem. Ah, indeed. [Pause.] Pardon me, it seems I've interrupted your conversation. Pray, don't let me disturb you.
Gil. What were we talking about just now?
Clem. Perhaps I can assist your memory. In Munich, if I recall correctly, you always talked about your books.
Gil. Quite so. As a matter of fact, I was speaking about my new novel.
Clem. Pray, continue. Nowadays, I find that I, too, can talk literature. Eh, Margaret? Is it naturalistic? Symbolic? Autobiographical? Or—let me see—is it distilled?
Gil. Oh, in a certain sense we all write about our life-experiences.
Clem. H'm. That's good to know.
Gil. Yes, if you're painting the character of Nero, in my opinion it's absolutely necessary that you should have set fire to Rome—
Clem. Naturally.
Gil. From what source should a writer derive his inspiration if not from himself? Where should he go for his models if not to the life which is nearest to him? [Margaret becomes more and more uneasy.]
Clem. Isn't it a pity, though, that the models are so rarely consulted? But I must say, if I were a woman, I'd think twice before I'd let such people know anything—[Sharply.] In decent society, sir, that's the same as compromising a woman!
Gil. I don't know whether I belong to decent society or not, but, in my humble opinion, it's the same as ennobling a woman.
Clem. Indeed.
Gil. The essential thing is, does it really hit the mark! In a higher sense, what does it matter if the public does know that a woman was happy in this bed or that?
Clem. Mr. Gilbert, allow me to remind you that you are speaking in the presence of a lady.
Gil. I'm speaking in the presence of a comrade, Baron, who, perhaps, shares my views in these matters.
Clem. Oh!
Marg. Clement! [Throws herself at his feet.] Clement.
Clem. [staggered]. But—Margaret.
Marg. Your forgiveness, Clement!
Clem. But, Margaret. [To Gilbert.] It's very painful to me, Mr. Gilbert. Now, get up, Margaret. Get up, everything's all right; everything's arranged. Yes, yes. You have but to call up Künigel. I have already arranged everything with him. We are going to put it out for sale. Is that suitable to you?
Gil. What are you going to put out for sale, if I may be so bold as to ask? The novel madame has written?
Clem. Ah, so you know already. At all events, Mr. Gilbert, it seems that your camaraderie is not required any further.
Gil. Yes. There's really nothing left for me but to beg to be excused. I'm sorry.
Clem. I very much regret, Mr. Gilbert, that you had to witness a scene which might almost be called domestic.
Gil. Oh, I do not wish to intrude any further.
Gil. Madame—Baron, may I offer you a copy of my book as a token that all ill-feeling between us has vanished? As a feeble sign of my sympathy, Baron?
Clem. You're very good, Mr. Gilbert. I must, however, tell you that this is going to be the last, or the one before the last, that I ever intend to read.
Gil. The one before the last?
Clem. Yes.
Marg. And what's the last going to be?
Clem. Yours, my love. [Draws an advanced copy from his pocket.] I wheedled an advance copy from Künigel to bring to you, or, rather, to both of us. [Margaret and Gilbert exchange scared glances.]
Marg. How good of you! [Taking the book.] Yes, it's mine.
Clem. We will read it together.
Marg. No, Clement, no. I cannot accept so much kindness. [She throws the book into the fireplace.] I don't want to hear of this sort of thing any more.
Gil. [very joyful]. But, dear madame—
Clem. [going toward the fireplace]. Margaret, what have you done?
Marg. [in front of the fireplace, throwing her arms about Clement]. Now, do you believe that I love you!
Gil. [most gleeful]. It appears that I'm entirely de trop here. Dear Madame—Baron—[To himself.] Pity, though, I can't stay for the last chapter. [Goes out.]
[Curtain.]
THE INTRUDER
A Play
By Maurice Maeterlinck
CHARACTERS
The Grandfather[
blind].
The Father. The Three Daughters. The Uncle. The Servant.The present translation of The Intruder is the anonymous version published by Mr. Heinemann in 1892, the editor having, however, made some slight alterations in order to bring it into conformity with the current French text. The particular edition used for this purpose was the 1911 (twenty-third) reprint of Vol. I of M. Maeterlinck's "Théâtre."
A. L. G.
Reprinted from "A Miracle of St. Antony and Five Other Plays" in the Modern
Library, by permission of Messrs. Boni & Liveright, Inc.
THE INTRUDER
A Play
By Maurice Maeterlinck
[A sombre room in an old Château. A door on the right, a door on the left, and a small concealed door in a corner. At the back, stained-glass windows, in which green is the dominant color, and a glass door giving on to a terrace. A big Dutch clock in one corner. A lighted lamp.]
The Three Daughters. Come here, grandfather. Sit down under the lamp.
The Grandfather. There does not seem to me to be much light here.
The Father. Shall we go out on the terrace, or stay in this room?
The Uncle. Would it not be better to stay here? It has rained the whole week, and the nights are damp and cold.
The Eldest Daughter. But the stars are shining.
The Uncle. Oh the stars—that's nothing.
The Grandfather. We had better stay here. One never knows what may happen.
The Father. There is no longer any cause for anxiety. The danger is over, and she is saved....
The Grandfather. I believe she is not doing so well....
The Father. Why do you say that?
The Grandfather. I have heard her voice.
The Father. But since the doctors assure us we may be easy....
The Uncle. You know quite well that your father-in-law likes to alarm us needlessly.
The Grandfather. I don't see things as you do.
The Uncle. You ought to rely on us, then, who can see. She looked very well this afternoon. She is sleeping quietly now; and we are not going to mar, needlessly, the first pleasant evening that chance has put in our way.... It seems to me we have a perfect right to peace, and even to laugh a little, this evening, without fear.
The Father. That's true; this is the first time I have felt at home with my family since this terrible confinement.
The Uncle. When once illness has come into a house, it is as though a stranger had forced himself into the family circle.
The Father. And then you understand, too, that you can count on no one outside the family.
The Uncle. You are quite right.
The Grandfather. Why couldn't I see my poor daughter to-day?
The Uncle. You know quite well—the doctor forbade it.
The Grandfather. I do not know what to think....
The Uncle. It is useless to worry.
The Grandfather [pointing to the door on the left]. She cannot hear us?
The Father. We will not talk too loud; besides, the door is very thick, and the Sister of Mercy is with her, and she is sure to warn us if we are making too much noise.
The Grandfather [pointing to the door on the right]. He cannot hear us?
The Father. No, no.
The Grandfather. He is asleep?
The Father. I suppose so.
The Grandfather. Some one had better go and see.
The Uncle. The little one would cause me more anxiety than your wife. It is now several weeks since he was born, and he has scarcely stirred. He has not cried once all the time! He is like a wax doll.
The Grandfather. I think he will be deaf—dumb too, perhaps—the usual result of a marriage between cousins.... [A reproving silence.]
The Father. I could almost wish him ill for the suffering he has caused his mother.
The Uncle. Do be reasonable; it is not the poor little thing's fault. He is quite alone in the room?
The Father. Yes; the doctor does not wish him to stay in his mother's room any longer.
The Uncle. But the nurse is with him?
The Father. No; she has gone to rest a little; she has well deserved it these last few days. Ursula, just go and see if he is asleep.
The Eldest Daughter. Yes, father. [The Three Sisters get up, and go into the room on the right, hand in hand.]
The Father. When will your sister come?
The Uncle. I think she will come about nine.
The Father. It is past nine. I hope she will come this evening, my wife is so anxious to see her.
The Uncle. She is sure to come. This will be the first time she has been here?
The Father. She has never been in the house.
The Uncle. It is very difficult for her to leave her convent.
The Father. Will she be alone?
The Uncle. I expect one of the nuns will come with her. They are not allowed to go out alone.
The Father. But she is the Superior.
The Uncle. The rule is the same for all.
The Grandfather. Do you not feel anxious?
The Uncle. Why should we feel anxious? What's the good of harping on that? There is nothing more to fear.
The Grandfather. Your sister is older than you?
The Uncle. She is the eldest.
The Grandfather. I do not know what ails me; I feel uneasy. I wish your sister were here.
The Uncle. She will come; she promised to.
The Grandfather. Ah, if this evening were only over!
[The three daughters come in again.]
The Father. He is asleep?
The Eldest Daughter. Yes, father; he is sleeping soundly.
The Uncle. What shall we do while we are waiting?
The Grandfather. Waiting for what?
The Uncle. Waiting for our sister.
The Father. You see nothing coming, Ursula?
The Eldest Daughter [at the window]. Nothing, father.
The Father. Not in the avenue? Can you see the avenue?
The Daughter. Yes, father; it is moonlight, and I can see the avenue as far as the cypress wood.
The Grandfather. And you do not see any one?
The Daughter. No one, grandfather.
The Uncle. What sort of a night is it?
The Daughter. Very fine. Do you hear the nightingales?
The Uncle. Yes, yes.
The Daughter. A little wind is rising in the avenue.
The Grandfather. A little wind in the avenue?
The Daughter. Yes; the trees are trembling a little.
The Uncle. I am surprised that my sister is not here yet.
The Grandfather. I cannot hear the nightingales any longer.
The Daughter. I think some one has come into the garden, grandfather.
The Grandfather. Who is it?
The Daughter. I do not know; I can see no one.
The Uncle. Because there is no one there.
The Daughter. There must be some one in the garden; the nightingales have suddenly ceased singing.
The Grandfather. But I do not hear any one coming.
The Daughter. Some one must be passing by the pond, because the swans are ruffled.
Another Daughter. All the fishes in the pond are diving suddenly.
The Father. You cannot see any one.
The Daughter. No one, father.
The Father. But the pond lies in the moonlight....
The Daughter. Yes; I can see that the swans are ruffled.
The Uncle. I am sure it is my sister who is scaring them. She must have come in by the little gate.
The Father. I cannot understand why the dogs do not bark.
The Daughter. I can see the watchdog right at the back of his kennel. The swans are crossing to the other bank!...
The Uncle. They are afraid of my sister. I will go and see. [He calls.] Sister! sister! Is that you?... There is no one there.
The Daughter. I am sure that some one has come into the garden. You will see.
The Uncle. But she would answer me!
The Grandfather. Are not the nightingales beginning to sing again, Ursula?
The Daughter. I cannot hear one anywhere.
The Grandfather. But there is no noise.
The Father. There is a silence of the grave.
The Grandfather. It must be a stranger that is frightening them, for if it were one of the family they would not be silent.
The Uncle. How much longer are you going to discuss these nightingales?
The Grandfather. Are all the windows open, Ursula?
The Daughter. The glass door is open, grandfather.
The Grandfather. It seems to me that the cold is penetrating into the room.
The Daughter. There is a little wind in the garden, grandfather, and the rose-leaves are falling.
The Father. Well, shut the door. It is late.
The Daughter. Yes, father.... I cannot shut the door.
The Two Other Daughters. We cannot shut the door.
The Grandfather. Why, what is the matter with the door, my children?
The Uncle. You need not say that in such an extraordinary voice. I will go and help them.
The Eldest Daughter. We cannot manage to shut it quite.
The Uncle. It is because of the damp. Let us all push together. There must be something in the way.
The Father. The carpenter will set it right to-morrow.
The Grandfather. Is the carpenter coming to-morrow.
The Daughter. Yes, grandfather; he is coming to do some work in the cellar.
The Grandfather. He will make a noise in the house.
The Daughter. I will tell him to work quietly.
[Suddenly the sound of a scythe being sharpened is heard outside.]
The Grandfather [with a shudder]. Oh!
The Uncle. What is that?
The Daughter. I don't quite know; I think it is the gardener. I cannot quite see; he is in the shadow of the house.
The Father. It is the gardener going to mow.
The Uncle. He mows by night?
The Father. Is not to-morrow Sunday?—Yes.—I noticed that the grass was very long round the house.
The Grandfather. It seems to me that his scythe makes as much noise....
The Daughter. He is mowing near the house.
The Grandfather. Can you see him, Ursula?
The Daughter. No, grandfather. He is standing in the dark.
The Grandfather. I am afraid he will wake my daughter.
The Uncle. We can scarcely hear him.
The Grandfather.
It
sounds as if he were mowing inside the house.The Uncle. The invalid will not hear it; there is no danger.
The Father. It seems to me that the lamp is not burning well this evening.
The Uncle. It wants filling.
The Father. I saw it filled this morning. It has burnt badly since the window was shut.
The Uncle. I fancy the chimney is dirty.
The Father. It will burn better presently.
The Daughter. Grandfather is asleep. He has not slept for three nights.
The Father. He has been so much worried.
The Uncle. He always worries too much. At times he will not listen to reason.
The Father. It is quite excusable at his age.
The Uncle. God knows what we shall be like at his age!
The Father. He is nearly eighty.
The Uncle. Then he has a right to be strange.
The Father. He is like all blind people.
The Uncle. They think too much.
The Father. They have too much time to spare.
The Uncle. They have nothing else to do.
The Father. And, besides, they have no distractions.
The Uncle. That must be terrible.
The Father. Apparently one gets used to it.
The Uncle. I cannot imagine it.
The Father. They are certainly to be pitied.
The Uncle. Not to know where one is, not to know where one has come from, not to know whither one is going, not to be able to distinguish midday from midnight, or summer from winter—and always darkness, darkness! I would rather not live. Is it absolutely incurable?
The Father. Apparently so.
The Uncle. But he is not absolutely blind?
The Father. He can perceive a strong light.
The Uncle. Let us take care of our poor eyes.
The Father. He often has strange ideas.
The Uncle. At times he is not at all amusing.
The Father. He says absolutely everything he thinks.
The Uncle. But he was not always like this?
The Father. No; once he was as rational as we are; he never said anything extraordinary. I am afraid Ursula encourages him a little too much; she answers all his questions....
The Uncle. It would be better not to answer them. It's a mistaken kindness to him.
[Ten o'clock strikes.]
The Grandfather [waking up]. Am I facing the glass door?
The Daughter. You have had a nice sleep, grandfather?
The Grandfather. Am I facing the glass door?
The Daughter. Yes, grandfather.
The Grandfather. There is nobody at the glass door?
The Daughter. No, grandfather; I do not see any one.
The Grandfather. I thought some one was waiting. No one has come?
The Daughter. No one, grandfather.
The Grandfather [to the Uncle and Father]. And your sister has not come?
The Uncle. It is too late; she will not come now. It is not nice of her.
The Father. I'm beginning to be anxious about her. [A noise, as of some one coming into the house.]
The Uncle. She is here! Did you hear?
The Father. Yes; some one has come in at the basement.
The Uncle. It must be our sister. I recognized her step.
The Grandfather. I heard slow footsteps.
The Father. She came in very quietly.
The Uncle. She knows there is an invalid.
The Grandfather. I hear nothing now.
The Uncle. She will come up directly; they will tell her we are here.
The Father. I am glad she has come.
The Uncle. I was sure she would come this evening.
The Grandfather. She is a very long time coming up.
The Uncle. It must be she.
The Father. We are not expecting any other visitors.
The Grandfather. I cannot hear any noise in the basement.
The Father. I will call the servant. We shall know how things stand. [He pulls a bell-rope.]
The Grandfather. I can hear a noise on the stairs already.
The Father. It is the servant coming up.
The Grandfather. To me it sounds as if she were not alone.
The Father. She is coming up slowly....
The Grandfather. I hear your sister's step!
The Father. I can only hear the servant.
The Grandfather. It is your sister! It is your sister! [There is a knock at the little door.]
The Uncle. She is knocking at the door of the back stairs.
The Father. I will go and open it myself. [He opens the little door partly; the Servant remains outside in the opening.] Where are you?
The Servant. Here, sir.
The Grandfather. Your sister is at the door?
The Uncle. I can only see the servant.
The Father. It is only the servant. [To the Servant.] Who was that, that came into the house?
The Servant. Came into the house?
The Father. Yes; some one came in just now?
The Servant. No one came in, sir.
The Grandfather. Who is it sighing like that?
The Uncle. It is the servant; she is out of breath.
The Grandfather. Is she crying?
The Uncle. No; why should she be crying?
The Father [to the Servant]. No one came in just now?
The Servant. No, sir.
The Father. But we heard some one open the door!
The Servant. It was I shutting the door.
The Father. It was open?
The Servant. Yes, sir.
The Father. Why was it open at this time of night?
The Servant. I do not know, sir. I had shut it myself.
The Father. Then who was it that opened it?
The Servant. I do not know, sir. Some one must have gone out after me, sir....
The Father. You must be careful.—Don't push the door; you know what a noise it makes!
The Servant. But, sir, I am not touching the door.
The Father. But you are. You are pushing as if you were trying to get into the room.
The Servant. But, sir, I am three yards away from the door.
The Father. Don't talk so loud....
The Grandfather. Are they putting out the light?
The Eldest Daughter. No, grandfather.
The Grandfather. It seems to me it has grown pitch dark all at once.
The Father [to the Servant]. You can go down again now; but do not make so much noise on the stairs.
The Servant. I did not make any noise on the stairs.
The Father. I tell you that you did make a noise. Go down quietly; you will wake your mistress. And if any one comes now, say that we are not at home.
The Uncle. Yes; say that we are not at home.
The Grandfather [shuddering]. You must not say that!
The Father. ... Except to my sister and the doctor.
The Uncle. When will the doctor come?
The Father. He will not be able to come before midnight. [He shuts the door. A clock is heard striking eleven.]
The Grandfather. She has come in?
The Father. Who?
The Grandfather. The servant.
The Father. No, she has gone downstairs.
The Grandfather. I thought that she was sitting at the table.
The Uncle. The servant?
The Grandfather. Yes.
The Uncle. That would complete one's happiness!
The Grandfather. No one has come into the room?
The Father. No; no one has come in.
The Grandfather. And your sister is not here?
The Uncle. Our sister has not come.
The Grandfather. You want to deceive me.
The Uncle. Deceive you?
The Grandfather. Ursula, tell me the truth, for the love of God!
The Eldest Daughter. Grandfather! Grandfather! what is the matter with you?
The Grandfather. Something has happened! I am sure my daughter is worse!...
The Uncle. Are you dreaming?
The Grandfather. You do not want to tell me!... I can see quite well there is something....
The Uncle. In that case you can see better than we can.
The Grandfather. Ursula, tell me the truth!
The Daughter. But we have told you the truth, grandfather!
The Grandfather. You do not speak in your ordinary voice.
The Father. That is because you frighten her.
The Grandfather. Your voice is changed, too.
The Father. You are going mad! [He and the Uncle make signs to each other to signify the Grandfather has lost his reason.]
The Grandfather. I can hear quite well that you are afraid.
The Father. But what should we be afraid of?
The Grandfather. Why do you want to deceive me?
The Uncle. Who is thinking of deceiving you?
The Grandfather. Why have you put out the light?
The Uncle. But the light has not been put out; there is as much light as there was before.
The Daughter. It seems to me that the lamp has gone down.
The Father. I see as well now as ever.
The Grandfather. I have millstones on my eyes! Tell me, girls, what is going on here! Tell me, for the love of God, you who can see! I am here, all alone, in darkness without end! I do not know who seats himself beside me! I do not know what is happening a yard from me!... Why were you talking under your breath just now?
The Father. No one was talking under his breath.
The Grandfather. You did talk in a low voice at the door.
The Father. You heard all I said.
The Grandfather. You brought some one into the room!...
The Father. But I tell you no one has come in!
The Grandfather. Is it your sister or a priest?—You should not try to deceive me.—Ursula, who was it that came in?
The Daughter. No one, grandfather.
The Grandfather. You must not try to deceive me; I know what I know.—How many of us are there here?
The Daughter. There are six of us round the table, grandfather.
The Grandfather. You are all round the table?
The Daughter. Yes, grandfather.
The Grandfather. You are there, Paul?
The Father. Yes.
The Grandfather. You are there, Oliver?
The Uncle. Yes, of course I am here, in my usual place. That's not alarming, is it?
The Grandfather. You are there, Geneviève?
One of the Daughters. Yes, grandfather.
The Grandfather. You are there, Gertrude?
Another Daughter. Yes, grandfather.
The Grandfather. You are here, Ursula?
The Eldest Daughter. Yes, grandfather; next to you.
The Grandfather. And who is that sitting there?
The Daughter. Where do you mean, grandfather?—There is no one.
The Grandfather. There, there—in the midst of us!
The Daughter. But there is no one, grandfather!
The Father. We tell you there is no one!
The Grandfather. But you cannot see—any of you!
The Uncle. Pshaw! You are joking.
The Grandfather. I do not feel inclined for joking, I can assure you.
The Uncle. Then believe those who can see.
The Grandfather [undecidedly]. I thought there was some one.... I believe I shall not live long....
The Uncle. Why should we deceive you? What use would there be in that?
The Father. It would be our duty to tell you the truth....
The Uncle. What would be the good of deceiving each other?
The Father. You could not live in error long.
The Grandfather [trying to rise]. I should like to pierce this darkness!...
The Father. Where do you want to go?
The Grandfather. Over there....
The Father. Don't be so anxious.
The Uncle. You are strange this evening.
The Grandfather. It is all of you who seem to me to be strange!
The Father. Do you want anything?
The Grandfather. I do not know what ails me.
The Eldest Daughter. Grandfather! grandfather! What do you want, grandfather?
The Grandfather. Give me your little hands, my children.
The Three Daughters. Yes, grandfather.
The Grandfather. Why are you all three trembling, girls?
The Eldest Daughter. We are scarcely trembling at all, grandfather.
The Grandfather. I fancy you are all three pale.
The Eldest Daughter. It is late, grandfather, and we are tired.
The Father. You must go to bed, and grandfather himself would do well to take a little rest.
The Grandfather. I could not sleep to-night!
The Uncle. We will wait for the doctor.
The Grandfather. Prepare for the truth.
The Uncle. But there is no truth!
The Grandfather. Then I do not know what there is!
The Uncle. I tell you there is nothing at all!
The Grandfather. I wish I could see my poor daughter!
The Father. But you know quite well it is impossible; she must not be awakened unnecessarily.
The Uncle. You will see her to-morrow.
The Grandfather. There is no sound in her room.
The Uncle. I should be uneasy if I heard any sound.
The Grandfather. It is a very long time since I saw my daughter!... I took her hands yesterday evening, but I could not see her!... I do not know what has become of her.... I do not know how she is.... I do not know what her face is like now.... She must have changed these weeks!... I felt the little bones of her cheeks under my hands.... There is nothing but the darkness between her and me, and the rest of you!... I cannot go on living like this ... this is not living.... You sit there, all of you, looking with open eyes at my dead eyes, and not one of you has pity on me!... I do not know what ails me.... No one tells me what ought to be told me.... And everything is terrifying when one's dreams dwell upon it.... But why are you not speaking?
The Uncle. What should
we
say, since you will not believe us?The Grandfather. You are afraid of betraying yourselves!
The Father. Come now, be rational!
The Grandfather. You have been hiding something from me for a long time!... Something has happened in the house.... But I am beginning to understand now.... You have been deceiving me too long!—You fancy that I shall never know anything?—There are moments when I am less blind than you, you know!... Do you think I have not heard you whispering—for days and days—as if you were in the house of some one who had been hanged—I dare not say what I know this evening.... But I shall know the truth!... I shall wait for you to tell me the truth; but I have known it for a long time, in spite of you!—And now, I feel that you are all paler than the dead!
The Three Daughters. Grandfather! grandfather! What is the matter, grandfather?
The Grandfather. It is not you that I am speaking of, girls. No; it is not you that I am speaking of.... I know quite well you would tell me the truth—if they were not by!... And besides, I feel sure that they are deceiving you as well.... You will see, children—you will see!... Do not I hear you all sobbing?
The Father. Is my wife really so ill?
The Grandfather. It is no good trying to deceive me any longer; it is too late now, and I know the truth better than you!...
The Uncle. But we are not blind; we are not.
The Father. Would you like to go into your daughter's room? This misunderstanding must be put an end to.—Would you?
The Grandfather [becoming suddenly undecided]. No, no, not now—not yet.
The Uncle. You see, you are not reasonable.
The Grandfather. One never knows how much a man has been unable to express in his life!... Who made that noise?
The Eldest Daughter. It is the lamp flickering, grandfather.
The Grandfather. It seems to me to be very unsteady—very!
The Daughter. It is the cold wind troubling it....
The Uncle. There is no cold wind, the windows are shut.
The Daughter. I think it is going out.
The Father. There is no more oil.
The Daughter. It has gone right out.
The Father. We cannot stay like this in the dark.
The Uncle. Why not?—I am quite accustomed to it.
The Father. There is a light in my wife's room.
The Uncle. We will take it from there presently, when the doctor has been.
The Father. Well, we can see enough here; there is the light from outside.
The Grandfather. Is it light outside?
The Father. Lighter than here.
The Uncle. For my part, I would as soon talk in the dark.
The Father. So would I. [Silence.]
The Grandfather. It seems to me the clock makes a great deal of noise....
The Eldest Daughter. That is because we are not talking any more, grandfather.
The Grandfather. But why are you all silent?
The Uncle. What do you want us to talk about?—You are really very peculiar to-night.
The Grandfather. Is it very dark in this room?
The Uncle. There is not much light. [Silence.]
The Grandfather. I do not feel well, Ursula; open the window a little.
The Father. Yes, child; open the window a little. I begin to feel the want of air myself. [The girl opens the window.]
The Uncle. I really believe we have stayed shut up too long.
The Grandfather. Is the window open?
The Daughter. Yes, grandfather; it is wide open.
The Grandfather. One would not have thought it was open; there was not a sound outside.
The Daughter. No, grandfather; there is not the slightest sound.
The Father. The silence is extraordinary!
The Daughter. One could hear an angel tread!
The Uncle. That is why I do not like the country.
The Grandfather. I wish I could hear some sound. What o'clock is it, Ursula?
The Daughter. It will soon be midnight, grandfather. [Here the Uncle begins to pace up and down the room.]
The Grandfather. Who is that walking round us like that?
The Uncle. Only I! only I! Do not be frightened! I want to walk about a little. [Silence.]—But I am going to sit down again;—I cannot see where I am going. [Silence.]
The Grandfather. I wish I were out of this place.
The Daughter. Where would you like to go, grandfather?
The Grandfather. I do not know where—into another room, no matter where! no matter where!
The Father. Where could we go?
The Uncle. It is too late to go anywhere else. [Silence. They are sitting, motionless, round the table.]
The Grandfather. What is that I hear, Ursula?
The Daughter. Nothing, grandfather; it is the leaves falling.—Yes, it is the leaves falling on the terrace.
The Grandfather. Go and shut the window, Ursula.
The Daughter. Yes, grandfather. [She shuts the window, comes back, and sits down.]
The Grandfather. I am cold. [Silence. The Three Sisters kiss each other.] What is that I hear now?
The Father. It is the three sisters kissing each other.
The Uncle. It seems to me they are very pale this evening. [Silence.]
The Grandfather. What is that I hear now, Ursula?
The Daughter. Nothing, grandfather; it is the clasping of my hands. [Silence.]
The Grandfather. And that?...
The Daughter. I do not know, grandfather ... perhaps my sisters are trembling a little?...
The Grandfather. I am afraid, too, my children. [Here a ray of moonlight penetrates through a corner of the stained glass, and throws strange gleams here and there in the room. A clock strikes midnight; at the last stroke there is a very vague sound, as of some one rising in haste.]
The Grandfather [shuddering with peculiar horror]. Who is that who got up?
The Uncle. No one got up!
The Father. I did not get up!
The Three Daughters. Nor I!—Nor I!—Nor I!
The Grandfather. Some one got up from the table!
The Uncle. Light the lamp!... [Cries of terror are suddenly heard from the child's room, on the right; these cries continue, with gradations of horror, until the end of the scene.]
The Father. Listen to the child!
The Uncle. He has never cried before!
The Father. Let us go and see him!
The Uncle. The light! The light! [At this moment, quick and heavy steps are heard in the room on the left.—Then a deathly silence.—They listen in mute terror, until the door of the room opens slowly; the light from it is cast into the room where they are sitting, and the Sister of Mercy appears on the threshold, in her black garments, and bows as she makes the sign of the cross, to announce the death of the wife. They understand, and, after a moment of hesitation and fright, silently enter the chamber of death, while the Uncle politely steps aside on the threshold to let the three girls pass. The blind man, left alone, gets up, agitated, and feels his way round the table in the darkness.]
The Grandfather. Where are you going?—Where are you going?—The girls have left me all alone!
[Curtain.]
INTERLUDE
By Federico More
Translated from the Spanish by Audrey Alden.
Copyright, 1920, by Stewart & Kidd Company. All rights reserved.
PERSONS
The Marquise. The Poet.Application for permission to produce Interlude must be addressed to Pierre Loving,
in care of Messrs. Stewart & Kidd Co., Cincinnati, Ohio.
INTERLUDE
By Federico More
Scene: A Salon.
Marquise [entering].
It is chic yet full of peril to be a marquise, betrothed
And on the brim of nineteen, with two whole years'
Devotion at the convent behind her. Well may the man
I am to marry place his faith in me.
And yet, I am obsessed with the sweet indecision
Of having met a poet who will shrive me in verse,
Drape my life with the vigor of his youth
Yet never kiss me.
Poet [entering].
I was looking for you, madame.
Marquise.
Well, here I am.
Poet.
Does the dance tire you or the music displease?
Marquise.
It has never before displeased me, and yet—now—
Poet.
In a life
Happy as yours, joy is reborn,
Your moods are versatile, and charming, marquise....
Bad humor de luxe ... perhaps mere caprice....
Marquise.
Perhaps mere caprice ... perhaps; but I am prey
To something more profound, something warmer....
Poet.
Have I not told you
That in happy lives such as your high-placed life
There is nothing of ennui, nothing to lead astray,
Nothing to spur you on, nothing to unfold,
Nor any dim wraith stalking by your side?
Marquise.
Ah, you have uttered my thought. I feel as though a ghost walked with me.
Poet.
And I could almost swear
You do not feel your grief molded as the phantom wills.
Marquise.
I do feel it. There is a spell,
An echo from afar.
Poet.
Nerves ... the dance ... fatigue!
Too many perfumes ... too many mirrors....
Marquise.
And the lack of a voice I love.
Poet.
Oh do not be romantic. Don't distort life.
Romance has always proved an evil scourge.
Marquise.
But you, a poet ... are not you romantic?
Poet.
I? Never.
Marquise.
Then how do you write your verse?
Poet.
I make poems
The way your seamstresses make your dresses.
Marquise.
With a pattern and a measure?
Poet.
With a pattern and a measure.
Marquise.
Impossible! Poets give tongue to truth sublime.
Poet.
Pardon, marquise, but it is folly
To think that poems are something more than needles
On which to thread the truth.
Marquise.
Truly, are they no more than that?
Poet.
Ephemeral and vain, in this age
Poetry is woven of agile thought.
Marquise.
What of the sort that weeps and yearns most woe-begone?
Poignancy that is the ending of a poem?
Poet.
All that
Is reached with the noble aid of a consonant
As great love is reached with a kiss.
Marquise.
And what of the void in which my soul is lost
Since no one, poet ... no one cries his need for me....
Poet.
Do not say that, marquise. I can assure you....
Marquise.
That I am a motif for a handful of consonants?
Poet.
Nonsense! I swear it by your clear eyes....
Marquise.
Comparable, I suppose, in verse to two clear diamonds....
Poet.
You scoff, but love is very serious....
Marquise.
Love serious, poet? A betrothal, it may be, is serious,
Arranged by grave-faced parents with stately rites;
Yawns are serious and so is repletion.
Poet.
But tell me, whence comes this deep cynicism?
Marquise.
Oh, do not take it ill. I say it but in jest,
Merely because I like to laugh at the abyss,
What do you think, poet?
Poet.
Well, marquise, I must confess
That I am capable of feeling various loves.
Marquise.
Then you were born for various women.
Poet.
No, I was born for various sorrows.
Marquise.
Or, by the same token, for various pleasures.
Poet.
Sheer vanity! Women always presume
That their mere earthly presence gives men pleasure.
Marquise.
You are clear-witted
And a pattern of such good common-sense. Who would believe
That a poet, dabbler in every sort of folly,
May turn discreet when mysterious love beckons?
Poet.
Mysterious love? Marquise, that is not so.... Love has abandons
Irrestrainable.
Marquise.
And shame restrains them.
Poet.
But what has shame to do with poetry?
It has no worth, it is a social value,
Value of a marquise, par excellence.
Marquise.
None the less, shame is a resigned and subtle justice,
The justice of women, poet.
Poet.
Which is no justice at all.
Marquise.
Poet, the stones you throw
In your defeat, will fall upon your head.
Poet.
That is my destiny. Your rising sun
Can never know the splendor of my sun that sets.
Marquise.
The fault is nowise mine....
Poet.
True.... I am insane
And a madman is insane, marquise, although he reason.
Marquise.
Oh, reason, poet. I would convince you
That even a marquise may be sincere.
Poet.
And I, my lady, I would fain believe it.
Marquise.
Believe it then, I beg of you.
Poet.
But there is this:
A marquise might also lose her head.
Marquise.
True she might lose her head ... but for a rhyme?
Poet.
Which, no matter how true, will always be a lie.
[Pause.]
Marquise.
But why did you protest against my skepticism?
Poet.
I riddled your words, but protested for myself.
Marquise.
So vain a reason, and so selfish?
Poet.
A prideful reason.... I stand aghast before the abyss.
Marquise.
I see that all your love has been in verse.
Poet.
No, marquise, but life
Cradles crude truths which the poet disdains.
Marquise.
And amiable truths which passion passes by.
Poet.
But about which the dreamer's world revolves.
Marquise.
I do not dream, I wish....
Poet.
I know well what I wish....
Marquise.
Well then, we wish that it should not be merely a consonant.
Poet.
No, rather that it should be poetry.
Marquise.
Suppose that it were so, would it content you?
Poet.
It is enough for me, and yet I fear
That this pale poetry, untried, unlived,
Can have no driving urge.
Marquise.
Why then should we refuse to live it?
Poet.
I shall tell you. It is not in high-born taste
To trifle with a heart.
The love of a marquise is the problematic
Love of elegance and froth,
And like other love a sort of mathematic
Love of addition, subtraction and division.
It is not rude passion, fierce, emphatic,
Song and orchestral counterpoint of life.
It is what the world would name platonic,
Love without fire, without virility,
With nothing of creation, nothing tonic,
One-step love, love of society.
And I will have none of this love sardonic,
None of its desperate futility.
Marquise.
I do not fear you though you are a poet,
And I say things to you, no other ears would endure.
You were not born, poor anchorite,
To say to a woman: "Be mine."
And such is your secret vanity,
You are a servile vassal of your own Utopia.
You pretend to transform women
Into laurel branches meaningless,
And with your cynic's blare
You thread upon the needle of your pride
Dregs from the utter depths of the abyss.
Poet.
Marquise, a poet's love has led you astray.
Marquise.
Oh, don't be vain and fanciful. I swear
That in my placid life, happiness brings no joy.
What I longed for was a love, profound and mature,
The profound love of a poet come to being,
And not the incongruities of adolescence in verse....
The radiant synthesis of a pungent existence
And not the disloyalties of a dispersed dream.
What woman has not dreamed of loving a poet
Who would be conqueror and conquered all in one?
What woman has not wished to be humble and forgiving
With the man who sings the great passions he has known?
We need you poets.... We are tormented by the desire
Of a harmonious life, filled with deep sound,
With the vigor and strength of wine poured out
Into bowls of truths, deep with the depth of death.
We crave no water, lymphatic, pure,
In glasses of wind, frail as life.
Better the vintage of the rich
Served in vile glasses of gold. And if the mind be coarse,
Perchance the hands will glitter with many stones.
And if I may not have a fragrant and well-ordered nest
Filled with clear rhythm and little blond heads,
Then let me have my palace where luxurious pleasure
Lends to love of earth, grief and deep dismay.
Why do you not love living, poets? Why is it,
The dullard who nor loves nor lives poaches your kisses?
Poet.
I do not comprehend, marquise. Why love living,
If that is to live loving? We know that life and love
Are wings forever fledging out
In a bird neither swan nor hawk.
I am resigned to my unequal destiny, for I know
That my two eyes cannot perceive the same color.
For even when there is calm, anxiety arises
And then, I am not master, not even of my pain.
I would be your friend, but there are obstacles,
Captious dynamics, that put a check upon my words.
I yield to the dumb pride of my huge torment,
The song without words, the sonorous silence,
And I do not desire any one to penetrate
The garden wherein flowers the mystery I adore.
Marquise.
Conserve your mysteries, poet; they will have no heirs.
Poet.
Death is the heir of everything impenetrable.
Marquise.
But only during life do the words of the sphinx
Possess a meaning for our ears.
Poet.
I am terror-stricken by the sphinx.
Marquise.
Coward! The sun blinds him who cannot hearken to the sphinx.
[Sounds of music in the distance.]
Poet.
Does not the music tempt you?
Marquise.
It does, and I feel sure
My lover must be waiting. Will you come with me?
Poet.
No, thanks. I shall remain and think of what has died.
Marquise.
May you have the protection of my defunct illusion.
[She goes out.]
[Curtain.]
MONSIEUR LAMBLIN
A Comedy
By George Ancey
Translated from the French by Barrett H. Clark.
CHARACTERS
Lamblin. Marthe. Madame Bail. Madame Cogé. Servant.First published in the Stratford Journal, March, 1917. Reprinted by permission of
Mr. Barrett H. Clark.
MONSIEUR LAMBLIN
A Comedy
By George Ancey
Translated from the French by Barrett H. Clark.
[A stylish drawing-room. There are doors at the back, and on each side. Down-stage to the right is a window; near it, but protected by a screen, is a large arm-chair near a sewing-table. Down-stage opposite is a fire-place, on each side of which, facing it, are a sofa and another large arm-chair; next the sofa is a small table, and next to it, in turn, a stool and two chairs. This part of the stage should be so arranged as to make a little cozy-corner. The set is completed by various and sundry lamps, vases with flowers, and the like.
As the curtain rises, the servant enters to Lamblin, Marthe and Madame Bail, bringing coffee and cigarettes, which he lays on the small table.]
Lamblin [settling comfortably into his chair]. Ah, how comfortable it is! Mm—! [To Marthe.] Serve us our coffee, my child, serve us our coffee.
Marthe [sadly]. Yes, yes.
Lamblin [aside]. Always something going round and round in that little head of hers! Needn't worry about it—nothing serious.—Well, Mother-in-law, what do you say to the laces, eh?
Madame Bail. Delicious! It must have cost a small fortune! You have twenty yards there!
Lamblin. Five thousand francs! Five thousand francs! [To Marthe.] Yes, madame, your husband was particularly generous. He insists upon making his wife the most beautiful of women and giving her everything her heart desires. Has he succeeded?
Marthe. Thank you. I've really never seen such lovely malines. Madame Pertuis ordered some lately and they're not nearly so beautiful as these.
Lamblin. I'm glad to hear it. Well, aren't you going to kiss your husband—for his trouble? [She kisses him.] Good! There, now.
Madame Bail [to Lamblin]. You spoil her!
Lamblin [to Marthe]. Do I spoil you?
Marthe. Yes, yes, of course.
Lamblin. That's right. Everybody happy? That's all we can ask, isn't that so, Mamma Bail? Take care, I warn you! If you continue to look at me that way I'm likely to become dangerous!
Madame Bail. Silly man.
Lamblin. Ha!
Madame Bail [to Marthe]. Laugh, why don't you?
Marthe. I do.
Lamblin [bringing his wife to him and putting her upon his knee]. No, no, but you don't laugh enough, little one. Now, to punish you, I'm going to give you another kiss. [He kisses her.]
Marthe. Oh! Your beard pricks so! Now, take your coffee, or it'll get cold, and then you'll scold Julie again. [A pause.]
Lamblin. It looks like pleasant weather to-morrow!
Madame Bail. What made you think of that?
Lamblin. The particles of sugar have all collected at the bottom of my cup. [He drinks his coffee.]
Madame Bail. As a matter of fact, I hope the weather will be nice.
Lamblin. Do you have to go out?
Madame Bail. I must go to Argentuil.
Lamblin. Now, my dear mother-in-law, what are you going to do at Argentuil? I have an idea that there must be some old general there—?
MADAME BAIL [ironically]. Exactly! How would you like it if—?
Lamblin. Don't joke about such things!
Madame Bail. You needn't worry! Catch me marrying again!
Lamblin [timidly]. There is a great deal to be said for the happiness of married life.
Madame Bail. For the men!
Lamblin. For every one. Is not the hearth a refuge, a sacred spot, where both man and woman find sweet rest after a day's work? Deny it, Mother. Here we are, the three of us, each doing what he likes to do, in our comfortable little home, talking together happily. The mind is at rest, and the heart quiet. Six years of family life have brought us security in our affection, and rendered us kind and indulgent toward one another. It is ineffably sweet, and brings tears to the eyes. [He starts to take a sip of cognac.]
Marthe [preventing him]. Especially when one is a little—lit up!
Madame Bail. Marthe, that's not at all nice of you!
Lamblin [to Madame Bail]. Ah, you're the only one who understands me, Mother! Now, little one, you're going to give me a cigar, one of those on the table.
Marthe [giving him a cigar]. Lazy! He can't even stretch his arm out!
Lamblin. You see, I prefer to have my little wife serve me and be nice to me.
Madame Bail [looking at them both]. Shall I go?
Lamblin. Why should you?
Madame Bail. Well—because—
Lamblin [understanding]. Oh! No, no, stay with us and tell us stories. The little one is moody and severe, I don't dare risk putting my arm around her. Her religion forbids her—expanding!
Madame Bail. Then you don't think I'll be in the way?
Lamblin. You, Mother! I tell you, the day I took it into my head to bring you here to live with us, I was an extremely clever man. It's most convenient to have you here. Men of business like me haven't the time to spend all their leisure moments with their wives. Very often, after a day's work at the office, I'm not at liberty to spend the evening at home: I must return to the office, you know.
Marthe. As you did yesterday!
Lamblin. As I did yesterday. And when I take it into my head to stroll along the boulevard—
Madame Bail. Or elsewhere!
Lamblin. You insist on your little joke, Mother. If, I say, I take it into my head to go out, there's the little one all alone. You came here to live with us, and now my conscious is easy: I leave my little wife in good hands. I need not worry. There were a thousand liberties I never indulged in before you came. Now I take them without the slightest scruple.
Madame Bail. How kind of you!
Lamblin. Don't you think so, little one?
Marthe. I believe that Mamma did exactly the right thing.
Lamblin. You see, I want people to be happy. It is not enough that I should be: every one must be who is about me. I can't abide selfish people.
Madame Bail. You're right!
Lamblin. And it's so easy not to be! [A pause.] There is only one thing worrying me now: I brought a whole package of papers with me from the office, which I must sign.
Marthe. How is business now?
Lamblin. Not very good.
Marthe. Did M. Pacot reimburse you?
Madame Bail. Yes, did he?
Lamblin. It's been pretty hard these past three days, but I am reimbursed, and that's all I ask. Now I'm going to sign my papers. It won't take me more than a quarter of an hour. I'll find you here when I come back, shan't I? [To Marthe.] And the little one will leave me my cognac, eh? See you soon.
Madame Bail. Yes, see you soon.
Lamblin [to Marthe]. You'll let me have my cognac?
Marthe. No! It's ridiculous! It'll make you ill. [Lamblin goes out.]
Madame Bail. There's a good boy!
Marthe. You always stand up for him. The world is full of "good boys" of his sort. "Good boys"! They're all selfish!
Madame Bail. Don't get so excited!
Marthe. I'm not in the least excited. I'm as calm now as I was excited a year ago when I learned of Alfred's affair.
Madame Bail. I understand.
Marthe. No, you don't understand.
Madame Bail. You didn't behave at all reasonably, as you ought to have done long since. You still have absurd romantic ideas. You're not at all reasonable.
Marthe [very much put out]. Well, if I still have those absurd ideas, if I rebel at times, if, as you say, I'm unreasonable, whom does it harm but me alone? What do you expect? The bare idea of sharing him is repulsive to me. Think of it a moment—how perfectly abominable it all is! Why, we are practically accomplices! I thought we were going to discuss it with him just now! It will happen, I know!
Madame Bail. What do you intend to do about it? You keep on saying the same thing. I'm an experienced woman. Why don't you take my word, and be a philosopher, the way all women are, the way I've had to be more than once? If you think for one moment that your own father—! Well, we won't say anything about him.
Marthe. Philosopher, philosopher! A nice way to put it! In what way is that Mathilde Cogé, who is his mistress, better than I? I'd like to know that!
Madame Bail. In any event, he might have done much worse. She is a widow, a woman of the world, and she isn't ruining him. I know her slightly; I've seen her at Madame Parent's. She just seems a little mad, and not in the least spiteful!
Marthe [raging]. Ah!
Madame Bail. But what are you going to do about it?
Marthe. It would be best to separate.
Madame Bail. Why didn't you think of that sooner? You know very well you'd be sorry the moment you'd done it.
Marthe. Don't you think that would be best for us all? What am I doing here? What hopes have I for the future? Merely to complete the happiness of Monsieur, who deigns to see in me an agreeable nurse, who occasionally likes to rest by my side after his escapades elsewhere! Thank you so much! I might just as well go!
Madame Bail. That would be madness. You wouldn't be so foolish as to do it.
Marthe. Yes—I know—society would blame me!
Madame Bail. That's the first point. We should submit to everything rather than do as some others do and fly in the face of convention. We belong to society.
Marthe. In that case I should at least have peace.
Madame Bail. Peace! Nothing of the sort, my dear. You know very well, you would have regrets.
Marthe [ironically]. What regrets?
Madame Bail. God knows! Perhaps, though you don't know it, you still love him, in some hidden corner of your heart. You may pity him. You can go a long way with that feeling. Perhaps you have same vague hope—[Marthe is about to speak.] Well, we won't say any more about that. And then you are religious, you have a big forgiving soul. Aren't these sufficient reasons for waiting? You may regret it. Believe me, my dear child. [Marthe stands silent, and Madame Bail changes her attitude and tone of voice.] Now, you must admit, you haven't so much to complain of. Your husband is far from the worst; indeed, he's one of the best. What would you do if you were in Madame Ponceau's position? Her husband spends all their money and stays away for two and three months at a time. He goes away, is not seen anywhere, and when he returns, he has the most terrible scenes with poor Marie, and even beats her! Now, Alfred is very good to you, pays you all sorts of attentions, he comes home three evenings a week, gives you all sorts of presents. And these laces! He never bothers you or abuses you. See how nice he was just a few minutes ago, simple and natural! He was lovely, and said the pleasantest imaginable things.
Marthe [bitterly]. He flattered you!
Madame Bail. That isn't the reason!
Marthe. That you say nice things about him? Nonsense! He pleases and amuses you. You don't want me to apply for a separation because you want him near you, and because you are afraid of what people will say. Be frank and admit it.
Madame Bail. Marthe, that's not at all nice of you.
Marthe. It's the truth.
Madame Bail. No, no, nothing of the sort.
Marthe. Another thing that grates on me in this life we are leading is to see the way my mother takes her son-in-law's part against me. You find excuses for him on every occasion; and your one fear seems to be that he should hear some random word that will wound him; and the proof is that he never interrupts one of our conversations—which are always on the same subject—but that you don't fail to make desperate signs to me to keep still!
Madame Bail. What an idea! [Marthe is about to reply, when Madame Bail perceives Lamblin reëntering, and signs to Martha to say nothing more.] It's he! [Marthe shrugs her shoulders.]
[Enter Lamblin.]
Lamblin [joyfully]. There, that's done. One hundred and two signatures. Kiss me, little one. In less than an hour I've earned a thousand francs for us. Isn't that splendid?
[Enter a servant.]
Servant. Monsieur?
Lamblin. What is it?
Servant [embarrassed]. Some one—from the office—who wishes to speak with Monsieur.
Lamblin. From the office? At this time?
Servant. Yes, Monsieur.
Lamblin. Say that I am with my family, and that I am not receiving any one.
Servant. That is what I said, but the—person—insists.
Lamblin. How annoying!
Madame Bail. See him, dear, Marthe and I will go out and you may see him here. No one will disturb you.
Marthe. Yes, it's best to see him! [They make ready to go out; pick up their work, and so on.]
Lamblin [to the servant]. Tell him to come in. [The servant goes out.]
Marthe [to Madame Bail, as she points after the servant]. Did you notice? Adolphe was very embarrassed!
Madame Bail. Now what are you going to worry about?
Marthe. I tell you, I saw it! [The women go out.]
Lamblin. This is too much! Not a moment of peace!
[Enter Madame Cogé.]
You?
Madame Cogé. What do you think of my trick?
Lamblin. Detestable as well as dangerous.
Madame Cogé. Come, come. I wanted to go to the Bouffes, and I wanted you to go with me. It's nine o'clock, but we'll be in time for the principal play.
Lamblin. No, no, no, impossible. And what do you mean by falling upon me this way without warning! My dear Mathilde, what were you thinking about?
Madame Cogé. I decided this morning. You were so nice yesterday!
Lamblin. You must go at once! What if some one found you here?
Madame Cogé. Your wife? Quick, then, we must be going. Take your hat, say good-by. I'll wait for you downstairs. I have a cab. [A pause.]
Lamblin. I tell you, it's out of the question. Go alone. I have a headache—I've smoked too much.
Madame Cogé. You refuse? And I was looking forward so—!
Lamblin. Now, listen to me, my dear: I have told you once for all, I'm not a rounder. I like everything well regulated. I have my own little habits, and I don't like something to come along and upset everything. I'm very much of a family man, I've often impressed that fact upon you, and I'm astonished, perfectly astonished, that you don't take that into account.
Madame Cogé [in a high voice]. You make me tired. So there.
Lamblin. Don't scream so! I tell you, I wouldn't go out to-night for anything under the sun. Yesterday, Heaven knows, I was only too happy to be with you: we enjoyed ourselves; it was most pleasant. As for this evening—no: to-morrow. We decided on Mondays, Wednesday, Fridays, and a Sunday from time to time. I have no wish to alter that schedule. I'm regulated like a cuckoo clock. You don't seem to believe that. I strike when I'm intended to strike.
Madame Cogé. That is as much as to say that you like me three days a week, and the rest of the time I mean as little to you as the Grand Turk! That's a queer kind of love!
Lamblin. Not at all. I think of you very often, and if you were to disappear, I should miss you a great deal. Only it's a long way between that and disturbing my equilibrium.
Madame Cogé. And I suppose you love your wife?
Lamblin. Are you jealous?
Madame Cogé. I am, and I have reason to be be....
Lamblin. How childish of you! You know very well that you are the only woman, only—
Madame Cogé. Ah, there is an "only"!
Lamblin. Yes,—only, just because I love you is no reason why I should feel no affection for her, and that you should treat her as you do! She is so devoted!
Madame Cogé. What is there so extraordinary about her?
Lamblin [becoming excited]. She does for me what others would not do—you for instance! She has a steady affection for me; I keep it for my bad moments; her action doesn't turn in every wind. You should see her, so resigned, so anxious to do everything for my comfort and convenience! She's worried when I have a headache, she runs for my slippers when I come home in wet weather—from your house! [Deeply moved.] You see that cognac there? That was the second glass I poured out for myself this evening; the moment I started to drink it her little hand stretched forth and took it from me, because she said I would make myself ill! [He starts to weep.] You know, I poured it out just in order that she should prevent my drinking it. These things stir the heart! [A pause.] Now you must go.
Madame Cogé. No, no. I love you, and I—
Lamblin. You are selfish. And you know I can't stand selfish people. You want to deprive me of a quiet evening in the bosom of my family.
Madame Cogé. I want you to love me, and me alone. I want you to leave your home if need be.
Lamblin. Yes, and if I were to fall sick—which might happen, though I have a strong constitution, thank God!—I know you. You're the best woman in the world, but that doesn't prevent your being a little superficial!
Madame Cogé. Superficial!
Lamblin. Yes, you are, and you can't deny it! Your dropping in on me, like a bolt from the blue, proves it conclusively. And when you once begin chattering about yourself, about your dresses, oh, my! You never stop. You can't be serious, your conversation is not the sort that pleases a man, flatters and amuses him.
Madame Cogé. Oh!
Lamblin. You never talk about him! One night I remember, I was a little sick and you sent me home. There they made tea for me. The cook was already in bed, and Marthe didn't hesitate an instant to go to the kitchen and soil her hands!
Madame Cogé. When was that? When was that?
Lamblin. For God's sake, don't scream so! Not more than two weeks ago.
Madame Cogé. You didn't say what was the matter with you, that's all.
Lamblin. I complained enough, Heaven knows. [A pause.]
Madame Cogé. Then you won't come?
Lamblin. No.
Madame Cogé [resolutely]. Very well, then, farewell.
Lamblin. Now, you mustn't get angry. [He puts his arm round her waist]. You know I can't do without you. You are always my dear little Mathilde, my darling little girl. Aren't you? Do you remember yesterday, eh? You know I love you—deeply?
Madame Cogé. On Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and from time to time on Sundays. Thanks! [She starts to go.]
Lamblin. Mathilde!
Madame Cogé. Good evening. [Returning to him.] Do you want me to tell you something? Though I may be superficial, you are a selfish egotist, and you find your happiness in the tears and suffering of those who love you! Good-by! [She starts to go again.]
Lamblin. Mathilde, Mathilde, dear! To-morrow?
Madame Cogé [returning]. Do you want me to tell you something else? When a man is married and wants to have a mistress, he would do much better and act more uprightly to leave his wife!
Lamblin [simply]. Why?
Madame Cogé. Why?—Good evening! [She goes out.]
Lamblin. Mathilde, Mathilde! Did I make her angry? Oh, she'll forget it all in a quarter of an hour. My, what a headache! [Catching sight of Marthe, who enters from the right.] Marthe! She looks furious! She saw Mathilde go out! What luck!
Marthe [furiously]. Who was that who just left?
Lamblin. Why—
Marthe. Who was that who just left? Answer me!
Lamblin. It was—
Marthe. Madame Cogé, wasn't it? Don't lie, I saw her! What can you be thinking of? To bring your mistress here! I don't know what's prevented my going away before, and leaving you to your debauchery! This is the end—understand? I've had enough. You're going to live alone from now on. [He starts to speak.] Alone. Good-by, monsieur!
Lamblin [moved]. Marthe! [She dashes out. Lamblin goes to the door through which Marthe has gone.] Marthe, Marthe, little one! Tell me that you forgive me. [Coming down-stage.] It's all up! Good Lord!
[Enter Madame Bail.]
Lamblin [goes to her, nearly in tears]. Oh, Mother, all is lost!
Madame Bail. No, no, you great child! I know everything, and I promise it will be all right.
Lamblin. No, no, I tell you. Marthe told me she wanted to leave me.
Madame Bail. Now, don't carry on that way. I don't want to see you cry.
Lamblin. But how can I be calm when my whole future is ruined?
Madame Bail. Nothing of the sort. Don't you think I know my own daughter? She is too well educated, she has too much common sense, to leave you.
Lamblin [a little consoled]. You think so? Oh, if that were only true!
Madame Bail. But it is true! She's crying now; her tears will ease her, and make her change her mind.
Lamblin. Yes, yes, let her cry, let her cry all she wants to!
Madame Bail. I tell you she is yours; she loves you.
Lamblin [brightening]. Is that true? [Madame Bail nods.] How happy I am! [A pause. His attitude changes.] But there's one thing that troubles me.
Madame Bail. What?
Lamblin [embarrassed]. No, nothing.
Madame Bail. Confide in me. Tell me. [A pause.]
Lamblin. Well, that lady who came here this evening—I'm afraid I was a little short with her. I think I offended her. I practically showed her the door.
Madame Bail. Don't worry about that. Perhaps you weren't so rude as you thought you were.
Lamblin. No, I'm sure. I know very well that—
Madame Bail. You mustn't worry and get all excited—
Lamblin. Do you know anything about it?
Madame Bail. No, nothing, only—as I rather suspected what was going on in here—and was afraid—of a quarrel—I met her as she was going out, and I—spoke to her.
Lamblin [taking her hands—joyfully]. I thank you! [They are both embarrassed for a moment, then sit down.] Ah, good. Well, and Marthe?
Madame Bail [pointing to Marthe who enters]. There she is. What did I tell you? [Marthe enters without saying a word. She brings her work, Madame Bail takes up hers, and sits next her. A pause. Madame Bail speaks to Marthe.] What a pretty design! Where did you find the pattern?
Marthe. I just picked it up at the store.
Madame Bail. It's charming. I must get one like it.
Lamblin [ill at ease]. May I see it, little one? [Marthe unrolls the embroidery for him and shows it.] Oh, it's perfectly lovely! We men would be hard put to it to make anything half as beautiful! [He laughs awkwardly, and pours out some cognac, in full sight of Marthe.]
Marthe [quickly]. That's ridiculous, Alfred. [Then she says slowly, as she lowers her eyes.] You'll make yourself ill!
Lamblin [in perfect contentment]. How charming she is!
[Curtain.]
FRANÇOISE' LUCK
A Comedy
By Georges de Porto-Riche
(La Chance de Françoise.)
Translated by Barrett H. Clark.
Copyright, 1917, by Stewart & Kidd Company.
All rights reserved.
PERSONS REPRESENTED
Marcel Desroches. Guérin. Jean. Françoise. Madeleine. Scene:
Auteuil.
Time:
Present.
Presented for the first time December 10,1888, in Paris, at the Théâtre Libre.
Françoise' Luck is reprinted from "Four Plays of the Free Theatre," translated by
Barrett H. Clark by permission of Messrs. Stewart & Kidd
Company, Cincinnati, Ohio.
FRANÇOISE' LUCK
A Comedy
By Georges de Porto-Riche
[A studio. At the back is a door opening upon a garden; doors to the right and left; likewise a small inconspicuous door to the left. There are a few pictures on easels. The table is littered with papers, books, weapons, bric-a-brac. Chairs and sofas. It is eleven o'clock in the morning.]
Françoise [a small, frail woman, with a melancholy look, at times rather mocking. As the curtain rises she is alone. She raises and lowers the window-blind from time to time]. A little more! There! Oh, the sunlight! How blinding! [Glancing at the studio with satisfaction.] How neat everything is! [In attempting to take something from the table, she knocks some papers to the floor.] Well! [Seeing a letter, among the papers she is picking up.] A letter! From Monsieur Guérin—[Reading.] "My dear friend, why do you persist in keeping silence? You say very little of the imprudent woman who has dared to become the companion of the handsome Marcel! Do you recompense her for her confidence in you, for her courage? You are not at all like other men: your frivolity, if you will permit the term, your—" [Interrupting herself.] He writes the word! [Continuing.] "Your cynicism makes me tremble for you. Absent for a year! How much friendship gone to waste! Why were we thrust apart the moment you were married? Why did my wife's health make sunlight an absolute necessity for her? We are now leaving Rome; in a month I'll drop in on you at Auteuil—" [Interrupting herself again.] Very soon!
[Marcel appears at the back.]
"I am very impatient to see you, and Very anxious to see Madame Desroches. I wonder whether she will take to me? I hope she will. Take care, you villain, I shall cross-question her carefully, and if I find the slightest shadow upon her happiness, her friend-to-be will be an angry man." [She stops reading and says to herself, sadly.] A friend—I should like that!
Marcel [carelessly dressed. He is of the type that appeals to women]. Ah, inquisitive, you read my letters?
Françoise. Oh, it's an old one—
Marcel [chaffing her]. From Guérin?
Françoise. I found it there, when I was putting the studio in order.
Marcel [tenderly]. The little romantic child is looking for a friend?
Françoise. I have so much to tell, so much about my recent happiness!
Marcel. Am I not that friend?
Françoise. You are the man I love. Should I consult with you, where your happiness is concerned?
Marcel. Too deep for me! [Yawning.] Oh, I'm tired!
Françoise. Did you come in late last night?
Marcel. Three o'clock.
Françoise. You were very quiet, you naughty man!
Marcel. Were you jealous?
Françoise. The idea! I am morally certain that you love no one except your wife.
Marcel [sadly]. It's true, I love no one except my wife.
Françoise [chaffing him in turn]. Poor Marcel!
Marcel. I was bored to death at that supper; I can't imagine why.—They all tell me I'm getting stout.
Françoise. That's no reason why you shouldn't please.
Marcel. God is very unjust.
Françoise. So they say!
Marcel [stretching out on a sofa]. Excuse my appearance, won't you, Françoise? [Making himself comfortable.] I can't keep my eyes open any longer nowadays. The days of my youth—Why, I was—[He stops.]
Françoise. You were just the right age for marriage.
Marcel [as if to banish the idea]. Oh! [A pause.] I'm sure you will get along well with Guérin. Yours are kindred spirits—you're alike—not in looks, however.
Françoise. Morally, you mean?
Marcel. Yes, The comparison flatters him.
Françoise. He's like this, then; sentimental, a good friend, and a man of honor. Yes, I think I shall get along nicely with him.
Marcel. What a sympathetic nature you have! You've never seen him, and you know him already.
Françoise. How long has he been married?
Marcel. He was born married!
Françoise. Tell me.
Marcel. Ten years, I think.
Françoise. He's happy.
Marcel. Very.
Françoise. What sort of woman is she?
Marcel. Lively.
Françoise. Though virtuous?
Marcel. So they say.
Françoise. Then Madame Guérin and the handsome Martel—eh?
Marcel. A friend's wife?
Françoise. It's very tempting—[Marcel seems to take this with ill-humor; he is about to put on his hat.] Are you going out?
Marcel. I lunch at the club.
Françoise. Very well.
Marcel. I'm—a little nervous; I need a breath of air.
Françoise. Paris air!
Marcel. Precisely.
Françoise. And your work?
Marcel. I'm not in the mood.
Françoise. It's only ten days before the Salon: you'll never be ready.
Marcel. What chance have I, with my talent?
Françoise. You have a great deal of talent—it's recognized everywhere.
Marcel. I did have.
[A pause.]
Françoise. Will you be home for dinner?
Marcel [tenderly]. Of course! And don't allow any black suspicion to get the better of you: I'm not lunching with anybody!
Françoise. I suspect you!
Marcel [gratefully]. 'Til later, then! [A pause. Frankly.] Of course, I don't always go where I tell you I'm going. Why should I worry you? But if you think I—do what I ought not to do, you are mistaken. I'm no longer a bachelor, you know.
Françoise. Just a trifle, aren't you?
Marcel. No jealousy, dear! The day of adventures is dead and buried. Thirty-five mortal years, a scarcity of hair, a noticeable rotundity—and married! Opportunities are fewer now!
Françoise [playfully]. Don't lose courage, your luck may return. A minute would suffice.
Marcel [mournfully]. I don't dare hope.
Françoise. Married! It was never your destiny to be a proprietor, you are doomed to be a tenant.
Marcel [as he is about to leave, sees a letter on the table]. Oh, a letter, and you said nothing to me about it!
Françoise. I didn't see it. Jean must have brought it while you were asleep.
Marcel. From Passy! I know that hand! [Aside, with surprise.] Madame Guérin—Madeleine! Well! [Reading.] "My dear friend I lunch to-day with my aunt Madame de Monglat, at La Muette—as I used to. Come and see me before noon, I have serious things to discuss with you." [He stops reading; aside, much pleased.] A rendezvous! And after three years! Poor Guérin! No! It wouldn't be decent now! No!
Françoise [aside]. He seems to be waking up!
Marcel [aside]. They must have returned! Françoise was right—a minute would suffice! The dear girl!
Françoise. No bad news?
Marcel [in spite of himself]. On the contrary!
Françoise. Oh!
Marcel [embarrassed]. It's from that American woman who saw my picture the other day—at Goupil's, you remember? She insists that I give it to her for ten thousand francs. I really think I'll let her have it. Nowadays you never can tell—
Françoise. I think you would be very wise to sell.
Marcel [handing her the letter]. Don't you believe me?
Françoise. Absolutely.
[Marcel puts the letter in his pocket. A pause.]
Marcel [hesitating before he leaves; aside]. She's a darling; a perfect little darling.
Françoise. Then you're not going out?
Marcel [surprised]. Do you want to send me away?
Françoise. If you're going out to lunch, you had better hurry—the train leaves in a few minutes.
Marcel [suddenly affectionate]. How can I hurry when you are so charming? You're adorable this morning!
Françoise. D'you think so?
[A pause.]
Marcel [aside]. Curious, but every time I have a rendezvous, she is like that!
Françoise. Good-by, then; I've had enough of you! If you stay you'll upset all my plans. I'd quite made up my mind to be melancholy and lonely. It's impossible to be either gay or sad with you! Run along!
Marcel [taking off his hat, which he had put on some moments before]. I tell you this is my house, and this my studio. Your house is there by the garden.
Françoise. Yes, it's only there that you are my husband.
Marcel. Oh! [Reproachfully, and with tenderness.] Tell me, Françoise, why don't you ever want to go out with me?
Françoise. You know I don't like society.
Marcel. I'm seen so much alone!
Françoise. So much the better for you; you will be taken for a bachelor!
Marcel. One might think the way you talk, that husband and wife ought never to live together.
Françoise. Perhaps I'd see you oftener if we weren't married!
Marcel. Isn't it a pleasure to you, Madame, to be in the arms of your husband?
Françoise. Isn't it likewise a pleasure to be able to say, "He is free, I am not his wife, he is not my husband; I am not his duty, a millstone around his neck; I am his avocation, his love? If he leaves me, I know he is tired of me, but if he comes back, then I know he loves me"?
Marcel. Françoise, you are an extremist!
Françoise. You think so?
Marcel. You are.
Françoise. Well?
Marcel. I know your philosophy is nothing but love. [A pause.] You cry sometimes, don't you? When I'm not here?
Françoise. Just a little.
Marcel. I make you very unhappy! When you are sad, don't conceal it from me, Françoise; one of your tears would make me do anything in the world for you.
Françoise. One, yes! But, many?
Marcel. Don't make fun of me: I am serious. If I told you that my affection for you is as great as yours, I—
Françoise. You would be lying.
Marcel. Perhaps! But I think I adore you! Every time I leave you, I feel so lonely; I wander about like a lost soul! I think something must be happening to you. And when I come home at midnight, and open the door, I feel an exquisite sensation—Is that love? You ought to know—you are an adept!
Françoise. Perhaps.
Marcel [unthinkingly]. You know, Françoise, one can never be sure of one's self.
Françoise. Of course!
Marcel. No one can say, "I love to-day, and I shall love to-morrow." You or any one else.
Françoise [offended]. I?
Marcel. How can you tell, whether in fifteen years—?
Françoise. Oh, I'm a little child—I'm different from the others: I shall always love the same man all his life. But go on, you were saying?
Marcel. Nothing. I want you to be happy, in spite of everything, no matter what may happen—no matter what I may do.
Françoise. Even if you should deceive me?
Marcel [tenderly]. Deceive you? Never! I care nothing about other women! You are my happiness—not a mere pastime.
Françoise. Alas!
Marcel. Why alas?
Françoise. Because it is easier to do without happiness than pleasure.
Marcel [tenderly]. Oh, you are all that is highest and best in my life. I prefer you to everything else! Let a woman come between us, and she shall have me to deal with! Call it selfishness, if you will, or egotism—but your peace of mind is an absolute necessity to me!
Françoise. You need not prepare me for the future, you bad boy: I resigned myself to "possibilities" some time ago. I'm inexperienced and young in years, but I'm older than you.
Marcel. Shall I tell you something? I never deserved you!
Françoise. That's true.
Marcel. When I think how happy you might have made some good and worthy man, and that—
Françoise. Who then would have made me happy?
Marcel. You are not happy now.
Françoise. I didn't marry for happiness; I married in order to have you.
Marcel. I'm a fool! It would be nice, wouldn't it, if I were an unfaithful husband!
Françoise. I'm sure you will never be that.
Marcel. Do you really think so?
Françoise. I am positive. What would be the use in deceiving me? I should be so unhappy, and you wouldn't be a bit happier.
Marcel. You are right.
Françoise. No, you will not deceive me. To begin with, I have great luck.
Marcel [gayly]. Of course, you have; you don't know how much!
Françoise [coquettishly]. Tell me!
Marcel. What a child you are!
Marcel. I should think so! Sometimes I imagine that my happiness does not lie altogether in those sparkling eyes of yours and I try to fall in love with another woman; I fall in deeper and deeper for a week or two, and think I am terribly infatuated. But just as I am about to take the fatal leap, I fail: Françoise' luck, you see! At bottom, I'm a commencer; I can't imagine what it is that saves me—and you. Sometimes she has done something to displease me, sometimes a divine word from your lips—and a mere nothing, something quite insignificant! For instance, Wednesday, I missed the train, and came back and had dinner with you. You see, Françoise' luck!
Françoise. Then you're not going out to-day, are you?
Marcel. Nor to-morrow; the whole day is yours. We'll close the door.
Françoise. Aren't you happy?
Marcel [kissing her behind the ear]. Hurry up, you lazy child!
Françoise. I'm not pretty, but I have my good points.
Marcel. Not pretty?
Françoise. No, but I deserve to be.
[Madeleine appears at the back.]
Madeleine. I beg your pardon!
[Françoise gives an exclamation of surprise and escapes through the door to the right without looking again at the visitor.]
Marcel [surprised]. Madeleine!
[A pause.]
Madeleine [stylishly dressed. With an air of bravura]. So this is the way you deceive me!
Marcel [gayly]. My dear, if you think that during these three years—
Madeleine. I beg your pardon for interrupting your little tête-à-tête, Marcel, but your door was open, and there was no servant to announce me.
Marcel. You know you are always welcome here.
Madeleine. Your wife is very attractive.
Marcel. Isn't she? Shall I introduce you?
Madeleine. Later—I've come to see you.
Marcel. I must confess your visit is a little surprising.
Madeleine. Especially after my sending that note this morning. I thought I should prefer not to trouble you.
Marcel [uncertain]. Ah!
Madeleine. Yes.
Marcel. Well?
Madeleine. Well, no!
Marcel. I'm sorry. [Kissing her hand.] Glad to see you, at any rate.
Madeleine. Same studio as always, eh?
Marcel. You are still as charming as ever.
Madeleine. You are as handsome as ever.
Marcel. I can say no less for you.
Madeleine. I'm only twenty-eight.
Marcel. But your husband is fifty: that keeps you young. How long have you been back?
Madeleine. A week.
Marcel. And I haven't seen Guérin yet!
Madeleine. There's no hurry.
Marcel. What's the matter?
Madeleine. He's a bit worried: you know how jealous he is! Well, yesterday, when I was out, he went through all my private papers—
Marcel. Naturally he came across some letters.
Madeleine. The letters, my dear!
Marcel. Mine?
Madeleine. Yes. [Gesture from Marcel.] Old letters.
Marcel. You kept them?
Madeleine. From a celebrity? Of course!
Marcel. The devil!
Madeleine. Ungrateful!
Marcel. I beg your pardon.
Madeleine. You can imagine my explanation following the discovery. My dear Marcel, there's going to be a divorce.
Marcel. A—! A divorce?
Madeleine. Don't feel too sorry for me. After all, I shall be free and almost happy.
Marcel. What resignation!
Madeleine. Only—
Marcel. Only what?
Madeleine. He is going to send you his seconds.
Marcel [gayly]. A duel? To-day? You're not serious?
Madeleine. I think he wants to kill you.
Marcel. But that affair was three years ago! Why, to begin with, he hasn't the right!
Madeleine. Because it was so long ago?
Marcel. Three years is three years.
Madeleine. You're right: now you are not in love with his wife: you love your own. Time has changed everything. Now your own happiness is all-sufficient. I can easily understand your indignation against my husband.
Marcel. Oh, I—
Madeleine. My husband is slow, but he's sure, isn't he?
Marcel. You're cruel, Madeleine.
Madeleine. If it's ancient history for you, it's only too recent for him!
Marcel. Let's not speak about him!
Madeleine. But he ought to be a very interesting topic of conversation just now!
Marcel. I hadn't foreseen his feeling so keenly.
Madeleine. You must tell him how sorry you are when you see him.
Marcel. At the duel?
Madeleine. Elsewhere!
Marcel. Where? Here, in my house?
Madeleine. My dear, he may want to tell you how he feels.
[A pause.]
Marcel [aside, troubled]. The devil! And Françoise? [Another pause.] Oh, a duel! Well, I ought to risk my life for you; you have done the same thing for me many times.
Madeleine. Oh, I was not so careful as you were then.
Marcel. You are not telling me everything, Madeleine. What put it into your husband's head to look through your papers?
Madeleine. Ah!
Marcel. Well, evidently I couldn't have excited his jealousy. For a long time he has had no reason to suspect me! Were they my letters he was looking for?
Madeleine. That is my affair!
Marcel. Then I am expiating for some one else?
Madeleine. I'm afraid so.
Marcel. Perfect!
Madeleine. Forgive me!
Marcel [reproachfully]. So you are deceiving him?
Madeleine. You are a perfect friend to-day!
Marcel. Then you really have a lover?
Madeleine. A second lover! That would be disgraceful, wouldn't it?
Marcel. The first step always brings the worst consequences.
Madeleine. What are you smiling at?
Marcel. Oh, the happiness of others! Well, let's have no bitterness.
Madeleine. No, you might feel remorse!
Marcel. Oh, Madeleine, why am I not the guilty one this time? You are always so beautiful!
Madeleine. Your fault! You should have kept what you had!
Marcel. I thought you were tired of me.
Madeleine. You will never know what I suffered; I cried like an abandoned shopgirl!
Marcel. Not for long, though?
Madeleine. Three months. When I think I once loved you so much, and here I am before you so calm and indifferent! You look like anybody else now. How funny, how disgusting life is! You meet some one, do no end of foolish and wicked and mean things in order to belong to him, and the day comes when you don't know one another. Each takes his turn! I think it would have been better—[Gesture from Marcel.] Yes—I ought to try to forget everything.
Marcel. That's all buried in the past! Wasn't it worth the trouble, and the suffering we have to undergo now?
Madeleine. You, too! You have to recall—!
Marcel. I'm sorry, but I didn't begin this conversation.
Madeleine. Never mind! It's all over, let's say no more about it!
Marcel. No, please! Let's—curse me, Madeleine say anything you like about me: I deserve it all!
Madeleine. Stop! Behave yourself, married man! What if your wife heard you!
Marcel. She? Dear child! She is much too afraid of what I might say to listen.
Madeleine. Dear child! You cynic! I'll wager you have not been a model husband since your marriage!
Marcel. You are mistaken this time, my dear.
Madeleine. You are lying!
Marcel. Seriously; and I'm more surprised than you at the fact—but it's true.
Madeleine. Poor Marcel!
Marcel. I do suffer!
Madeleine. Then you are a faithful husband?
Marcel. I am frivolous and—compromising—that is all.
Madeleine. It's rather funny: you seem somehow to be ready to belong to some one!
Marcel. Madeleine, you are the first who has come near tempting me.
Madeleine. Is it possible?
Marcel. I feel myself weakening.
Madeleine. Thank you so much for thinking of me, dear; I appreciate it, but for the time being, I'll—consider.
Marcel. Have you made up your mind?
Madeleine. We shall see later; I'll think it over—perhaps! Yet, I rather doubt if—. You haven't been nice to me to-day, your open honest face hasn't pleased me at all. You're so carelessly dressed! I don't think you're interesting any more. No, I hardly think so!
Marcel. But, Madeleine—
Madeleine. Don't call
me
Madeleine.Marcel. Madame Guérin! Madame Guérin! if I told you how much your note meant to me! How excited I was! I trembled when I read it!
Madeleine. I'll warrant you read it before your wife?
Marcel. It was so charming of you!
Madeleine. How depraved you are!
Marcel. How well you know me!
Madeleine. Fool!
Marcel. I adore you!
Madeleine. That's merely a notion of yours! You imagine, since you haven't seen me for so long—I've just come back from a long trip!
Marcel. Don't shake my faith in you!
Madeleine. Think of your duties, my dear; don't forget—
Marcel. My children? I have none.
Madeleine. Your wife.
Marcel [in desperation]. You always speak of her!
Madeleine. Love her, my friend, and if my husband doesn't kill you to-morrow, continue to love her in peace and quiet. You are made for a virtuous life now—any one can see that. I flatter you when I consider you a libertine. You've been spoiled by too much happiness, that's the trouble with you!
Marcel [trying to kiss her]. Madeleine, if you only—!
Madeleine [evading him]. Are you out of your wits?
Marcel. Forgive me: I haven't quite forgotten! Well, if I am killed it will be for a good reason.
Madeleine. Poor dear!
Marcel. It will! This duel is going to compromise you fearfully. Come now, every one will accuse you to-morrow; what difference does it make to you?
Madeleine. I'm not in the mood!
Marcel. Now you are lying!
Madeleine. I don't love you.
Marcel. Nonsense! You're sulking!
Madeleine. How childish! Don't touch me! You want me to be unfaithful to everybody! Never! [Changing.] Yet—! No; it would be too foolish! Good-by.
Marcel [kissing her as she tries to pass him]. Not before—
Madeleine. Oh, you've mussed my hat; how awkward of you! [Trying to escape from Marcel's embrace.] Let me go!
Marcel [jokingly]. Let you go? In a few days!
Madeleine. Good-by. My husband may come any moment.
Marcel. Are you afraid?
Madeleine. Yes, I'm afraid he might forgive me!
Marcel. One minute more!
Madeleine. No! I have just time. I'm going away this evening—
Marcel. Going away?
Madeleine. To London.
Marcel. With—him, the other?
Madeleine. I hope so.
Marcel. Who knows? He may be waiting for you this moment at Madame de Montglat's, your aunt's—
Madeleine. They are playing cards together.
Marcel. The way we are! What a family!
Madeleine. Impudent!
Marcel. That's why you came.
Madeleine [about to leave]. Shall I go out through the models' door, as I used to?
Marcel. If I were still a bachelor you wouldn't leave me this way! You would miss your train this evening, I'll tell you that!
Madeleine. You may very well look at that long sofa! No, no, my dear: not to-day, thanks!
Marcel. In an hour, then, at Madame de Montglat's!
Madeleine. Take care, or I'll make you meet your successor!
Marcel. Then I can see whether you are still a woman of taste.
Madeleine. Ah, men are very—I'll say the word after I leave. [She goes out through the little door.]
Marcel [alone]. "Men are very—!" If we were, the women would have a very stupid time of it!
[He is about to follow Madeleine.]
[Enter Françoise.]
Françoise. Who was that stylish looking woman who just left, Marcel?
Marcel [embarrassed]. Madame Jackson, my American friend.
Françoise. Well?
Marcel. My picture? Sold!
Françoise. Ten thousand? Splendid! Don't you think so? You don't seem very happy!
Marcel. The idea!
[He picks up his hat.]
Françoise [jealously]. Are you going to leave me?
Marcel. I am just going to Goupil's and tell him.
Françoise. Then I'll have to lunch all by myself! [Marcel stops an instant before the mirror.] You look lovely.
Marcel [turning round]. I—
Françoise. Oh, you'll succeed!
[A pause.]
Marcel [enchanted, in spite of himself]. What can you be thinking of! [Aside.] What if she were after all my happiness? [Reproachfully.] Now, Françoise—
Françoise. I was only joking.
Marcel [ready to leave]. No moping, remember? I can't have that!
Françoise. I know!
Marcel [tenderly. He stands at the threshold. Aside]. Poor child! Well I may fail!
[He goes out, left.]
Françoise [sadly]. Where is he going? Probably to a rendezvous. Oh, if he is! Will my luck fail me to-day? Soon he'll come back again, so well satisfied with himself! I talk to him so much about my resignation, I wonder whether he believes in it? Why must I be tormented this way forever?
[Enter Jean, with a visiting-card.]
Jean. Is Monsieur here?
Françoise. Let me see!
[She takes the card.]
Jean. The gentleman is waiting, Madame.
Françoise. Ask him to come in. Quick, now!
[Jean goes out.]
[Enter Guérin, at the back. As he sees Françoise he hesitates before coming to her.]
Françoise [cordially]. Come in, Monsieur. I have never seen you, but I already know you very well.
Guérin [a large, strong man, with grayish hair]. Thank you, Madame. I thought I should find Monsieur Desroches at home. If you will excuse me—
Françoise. I beg you!
Guérin. I fear I am intruding: it's so early.
Françoise. You intruding in Marcel's home?
Guérin. Madame—
Françoise. My husband will return soon, Monsieur.
Guérin [brightening]. Good!
Françoise. Will you wait for him here in the studio?
Guérin [advancing]. Really, Madame, it would be most ungrateful of me to refuse your kindness.
Françoise. Here are magazines and newspapers—I shall ask to be excused. [As she is about to leave.] It was rather difficult to make you stay!
Guérin. Forgive me, Madame. [Aside ironically.] Too bad! She's decidedly charming!
[Having gone up-stage, Françoise suddenly returns.]
Françoise. It seems a little strange to you, Monsieur—doesn't it?—to see a woman in this bachelor studio—quite at home?
Guérin. Why, Madame—
Françoise. Before leaving you—which I shall do in a moment—you must know that there is one woman who is very glad to know you have returned to Paris!
Guérin. We just arrived this week.
Françoise. Good!
Guérin [ironically]. It's so long since I've seen Marcel.
Françoise. Three years.
Guérin. So many things have happened since!
Françoise. You find him a married man, for one thing—
Guérin. Happily married!
Françoise. Yes, happily!
Guérin. Dear old Marcel! I'll be so glad to see him!
Françoise. I see you haven't forgotten my husband, Monsieur. Thank you!
Guérin. How can I help admiring so stout and loyal a heart as his!
Françoise. You'll have to like me, too!
Guérin. I already do.
Françoise. Really? Then you believe everything you write?
Guérin. Yes, Madame.
Françoise. Take care! This morning I was re-reading one of your letters, in which you promised me your heartiest support. [Offering him her hand.] Then we're friends, are we not?
Guérin [after hesitating, takes her hand]. Good friends, Madame!
Françoise. Word of honor?
Guérin. Word of honor!
Françoise [sitting]. Then I'll stay. Sit down, and let's talk. [Guérin is uncertain.] We have so much to say to each other! Let's talk about you first.
Guérin [forced to sit down]. About me? But I—
Françoise. Yes, about you.
Guérin [quickly]. No, about your happiness, your welfare.
Françoise. About my great happiness!
Guérin [ironically]. Let us speak about your—existence—with which you are so content. I must know all the happiness of this house!
Françoise. Happy people never have anything to say.
Guérin. You never have troubles, I presume?
Françoise. None, so far.
Guérin. But what might happen? To-day you are living peacefully with Marcel, a man whose marriage was, it seems, strongly opposed. Life owes you no more than it has already given you.
Françoise. My happiness is complete. I had never imagined that a man's goodness could make a woman so happy!
Guérin. Goodness?
Françoise. Of course!
Guérin. Love, you mean Madame!
Françoise. Oh, Marcel's love for me—!
Guérin. Something lacking?
Françoise. No!
Guérin [interested]. Tell me. Am I not your friend?
Françoise. Seriously, Monsieur, you know him very well: how could he be in love with me? Is it even possible? He allows one to love him, and I ask nothing more.
Guérin. Nothing?
Françoise. Only to be allowed to continue. [Gesture from Guérin.] I am not like other women. I don't ask for rights; but I do demand tenderness, and consideration. He is free, I am not—I'll admit that. But I don't mind, I only hope that we may continue as we are!
Guérin. Have you some presentiment, Madame?
Françoise. I am afraid, Monsieur. My happiness is not of the proud, demonstrative variety, it is a kind of happiness that is continually trembling for its safety. If I told you—
Guérin. Do tell me!
Françoise. Later! How I pity any one who loves and has to suffer for it!
Guérin [surprised]. You—!
Françoise. I am not on the side of the jealous, of the betrayed—
Guérin [aside, sympathetically]. Poor little woman! [With great sincerity.] Then you are not sure of him?
Françoise [more and more excited]. He is Marcel! Admit for a moment that he loves me to-day—I want so to believe it! To-morrow will he love me? Does he himself know whether he will love me then? Isn't he at the mercy of a whim, a passing fancy—of the weather, or the appearance of the first woman he happens to meet? I am only twenty, and I am not always as careful as I might be. Happiness is so difficult!
Guérin. Yes, it is. [To himself.] It is! [To Françoise.] Perhaps you are conscientious, too sincere?
Françoise. I feel that; yes, I think I am, but every time I try to hide my affection from him, he becomes indifferent, almost mean—as if he were glad to be relieved of a duty—of being good!
Guérin. So it's come to that!
Françoise. You see, Marcel can't get used to the idea that his other life is over, dead and buried, that he's married for good—that he must do as others do. I do my best and tell him, but my very presence only reminds him of his duties as a husband. For instance [interrupting herself]. Here I am telling you all this—
Guérin. Oh!—Please.
Françoise [bitterly]. He likes to go out alone at night, without me. He knows me well enough to understand that his being away makes me very unhappy, and as a matter of form, of common courtesy, he asks me to go with him. I try to reason and convince myself that he doesn't mean what he says, but I can't help feeling sincerely happy when once in a while I do accept his invitation. But the moment we leave the house I realize my mistake. Then he pretends to be in high spirits, but I know all the time he is acting a part; and when we come home again he lets drop without fail some hint about having lost his liberty; he says he took me out in a moment of weakness, that he really wanted to be alone.
Guérin [interrupting]. And when he does go out alone?
Françoise. Then I am most unhappy; I'm in torment for hours and hours. I wonder where he can be, and then I'm afraid he won't come back at all. When the door opens, when I hear him come in, I'm so happy I pay no attention to what he tells me. But I made a solemn vow never to show the least sign of jealousy. My face is always tranquil, and what I say to him never betrays what I feel. I never knowingly betray myself, but his taking way, his tenderness, soon make me confess every fear; then he turns round and, using my own confession as a weapon, shows me how wrong I am to be afraid and suspicious. And when sometimes I say nothing to him, even when he tries to make me confess, he punishes me most severely by telling me stories of his affairs, narrow escapes, and all his temptations. He once told me about an old mistress of his, whom he had just seen, a very clever woman, who was never jealous! Or else he comes in so late that I must be glad, for if he came in later, it would have been all night! He tells me he had some splendid opportunity, and had to give it up! A thousand things like that! He seems to delight in making me suspect and doubt him!
Guérin. Poor little woman!
Françoise. That's my life; as for my happiness, it exists from day to day. [With determination.] If I only had the right to be unhappy! But I must always smile, I must be happy, not only in his presence, but to the very depths of my soul! So that he may deceive me without the least remorse! It is his pleasure!
[She bursts into tears.]
Guérin [rising]. The selfish brute!
Françoise. Isn't my suffering a reproach to him?
Guérin. I pity you, Madame, and I think I understand you better than any one else. I have trouble not unlike your own; perhaps greater, troubles for which there is no consolation.
Françoise. If you understand me, Monsieur, advise me! I need you!
Guérin [startled back into reality]. Me, help you? I? [Aside.] No!
Françoise. You spoke of your friendship. The time has come, prove that it is genuine!
Guérin. Madame, why did I ever see you? Why did I listen to you?
Françoise. What have you to regret?
Guérin. Nothing, Madame, nothing.
Françoise. Explain yourself, Monsieur. You—you make me afraid!
Guérin [trying to calm her suspicions]. Don't cry like that! There is no reason why you should behave that way! Your husband doesn't love you as he ought, but he does love you. You are jealous, that's what's troubling you. But for that matter, why should he deceive you? That would be too unjust.
Françoise [excited]. Too unjust! You are right, Monsieur! No matter how cynical, how blasé a man may be, isn't it his duty, his sacred duty, to say to himself, "I have found a good and true woman in this world of deceptions; she is a woman who adores me, who is only too ready to invent any excuse for me! She bears my name and honors it; no matter what I do, she is always true, of that I am positive. I am always foremost in her thoughts, and I shall be her only love." When a man can say all that, Monsieur, isn't that real, true happiness?
Guérin [sobbing]. Yes—that is happiness!
Françoise. You are crying! [A pause.]
Guérin. My wife—deceived me!
Françoise. Oh! [A pause.] Marcel—
Guérin. Your happiness is in no danger! Yesterday I found some old letters, in a desk—old letters—that was all! You weren't his wife at the time. It's ancient history.
Françoise [aside]. Who knows?
Guérin. Forgive me, Madame; your troubles remind me of my own. When you told of the happiness you still have to give, I couldn't help thinking of what I had lost!
Françoise. So you have come to fight a duel with my husband?
Guérin. Madame—
Françoise. You are going to fight him? Answer me.
Guérin. My life is a wreck now—I must—
Françoise. I don't ask you to forget; Monsieur—
Guérin. Don't you think I have a right?
Françoise. Stop!
Guérin. I shall not try to kill him. You love him too much! I couldn't do it now. In striking him I should be injuring you, and you don't deserve to suffer; you have betrayed no one. The happiness you have just taught me to know is as sacred and inviolable as my honor, my unhappiness. I shall not seek revenge.
Françoise [gratefully]. Oh, Monsieur.
Guérin. I am willing he should live, because he is so dear, so necessary to you. Keep him. If he wants to spoil your happiness, his be the blame! I shall not do it. It would be sacrilege. Good-by, Madame, good-by.
[Guérin goes out, back, Françoise falls into a chair, sobbing.]
[Enter Marcel by the little door.]
Marcel [aside, with a melancholy air]. Refused to see me!
Françoise [distinctly]. Oh, it's you!
Marcel [good-humoredly]. Yes, it's I. [A pause. He goes toward her.] You have been crying! Have you seen Guérin? He's been here!
Françoise. Marcel!
Marcel. Did he dare tell you!
Françoise. You won't see any more of him.
Marcel [astounded]. He's not going to fight?
Françoise. He refuses.
Marcel. Thank you!
Françoise. I took good care of your dignity, you may be sure of that. Here we were together; I told him the story of my life during the last year—how I loved you—and then he broke down. When I learned the truth, he said he would go away for my happiness' sake.
Marcel. I was a coward to deceive that man! Is this a final sentence that you pass on me?
Françoise. Marcel!
Marcel. Both of you are big! You have big hearts. I admire you both more than I can say.
Françoise [incredulously]. Where are you going? To get him to fight with you?
Marcel [returning to her; angrily]. How can I, now? After what you have done, it would be absurd. Why the devil did you have to mix yourself up in something that doesn't concern you? I was only looking for a chance to fight that duel!
Françoise. Looking for a chance?
Marcel. Oh, I—
Françoise. Why?
Marcel [between his teeth]. That's my affair! Everybody has his enemies—his insults to avenge. It was a very good thing that gentleman didn't happen across my path!
Françoise. How dare you recall what he has been generous enough to forget?
Marcel. How do you know that I haven't a special reason for fighting this duel? A legitimate reason, that must be concealed from you?
Françoise. You are mistaken, dear: I guess that reason perfectly.
Marcel. Really?
Françoise. I know it.
Marcel [bursting forth]. Oh! Good! You haven't always been so frightfully profound.
Françoise. Yes, I have, and your irony only proves that I have not been so much mistaken in what I felt by intuition.
Marcel. Ah, marriage.
Françoise. Ah, duty!
Marcel. I love Madame Guérin, don't I?
Françoise. I don't say that.
Marcel. You think it.
Françoise. And if I do? Would it be a crime to think it? You once loved her—perhaps you have seen her again, recently? Do I know where you go? You never tell me.
Marcel. I tell you too much!
Françoise. I think you do.
Marcel. You're jealous!
Françoise. Common, if you like. Come, you must admit, Marcel, Madame Guérin is in some way responsible for your excitement now?
Marcel. Very well then, I love her, I adore her! Are you satisfied?
Françoise. You should have told me that first, my dear; I should never have tried to keep you away from her.
[She breaks into tears.]
Marcel. She's crying! Good, there's liberty for you!
Françoise [bitterly]. Liberty? I did not suffer when I promised you your liberty.
Marcel. That was your "resignation."
Françoise. You knew life, I did not. You ought never to have accepted it!
Marcel. You're like all the rest!
Françoise [more excited]. Doesn't unhappiness level us all?
Marcel. I see it does!
Françoise. What can you ask for, then? So long as you have no great happiness like mine you are ready enough to make any sacrifice, but when once you have it, you never resign yourself to losing it.
Marcel. That's just the difficulty.
Françoise. Be a little patient, dear: I have not yet reached that state of cynicism and subtlety which you seem to want in your wife—I thought I came near to your ideal once! Perhaps there's some hope for me yet: I have promised myself to do my best to satisfy your ideal.
Marcel [moved]. I don't ask that.
Françoise. You are right, I am very foolish to try to struggle. What is the good? It will suffice when I have lost the dearest creature on earth—through my foolishness, my blunders!
Marcel. The dearest creature?
Françoise. I can't help it if he seems so to me!
Marcel [disarmed]. You—you're trying to appeal to my vanity!
Françoise. I am hardly in the mood for joking.
Marcel [tenderly, as he kneels at her feet]. But you make me say things like that—I don't
know
what! I am not bad—really bad! No, I have not deceived you! I love you, and only you! You! You know that, Françoise! Ask—ask any woman! All women![A pause.]
Françoise [smiling through her tears]. Best of husbands! You're not going out then? You'll stay?
Marcel [in Françoise's arms]. Can I go now, now that I'm here? You are so pretty that I—
Françoise. Not when I'm in trouble.
Marcel. Don't cry!
Françoise. I forgive you!
Marcel. Wait, I haven't confessed everything.
Françoise. Not another word!
Marcel. I want to be sincere.
Françoise. I prefer you to lie to me!
Marcel. First, read this note—the one I received this morning.
Françoise [surprised]. From Madame Guérin?
Marcel. You saw her not long ago. Yes, she calmly told me—
Françoise. That her husband had found some letters!
Marcel. And that she was about to leave for England with her lover.
Françoise. Then she is quite consoled?
Marcel. Perfectly.
Françoise. Poor Marcel! And you
went
to see her and try to prevent her going away with him?Marcel. My foolishness was well punished. She wouldn't receive me.
Françoise. Then I am the only one left who loves you? How happy I am!
Marcel. I'll kill that love some day with my ridiculous philandering!
Françoise [gravely]. I defy you!
Marcel [playfully]. Then I no longer have the right to provoke Monsieur Guérin? Now?
Françoise [gayly]. You are growing old, Lovelace, his wife has deceived you!
Marcel [lovingly]. Françoise' luck! [Sadly.] Married!
[Curtain.]
ALTRUISM
A Satire
By Karl Ettlinger
Translated by Benjamin F. Glazer.
Copyright, 1920, by Benjamin F. Glazer.
All rights reserved.
The first performance of Altruism was given by The Stage Society of Philadelphia at the Little Theatre, Philadelphia, on January 28, 1916, with the following cast:
A BeggarHenry C. Sheppard
A WaiterE. Ryland Carter
A Young ManWilliam H. McClure
A CocotteSylvia Loeb.
A ParisianEdward B. Latimer
His WifeFlorence Bernstein
Their ChildJean Massey
An ArtistTheron J. Bamberger
An AmericanWilliam J. Holt
A GentlemanCaspar W. Briggs
Another GentlemanNorris W. Corey
A PickpocketWalter E. Endy
A GendarmeWilliam H. Russell
Another GendarmeFrederick Cowperthwaite
A WorkingmanWalter D. Dalsimer
A Flower GirlKatherine Kennedy
A Passing LadyC. Warren Briggs
A BystanderCharles E. Sommer
An Old LadyPaulyne Brinkman
A GrisetteFlorence M. Lyman
[Time: The present. PLACE: A Parisian Café by the Seine.]
Produced under the direction of Benjamin F. Glazer. Scene designed by H. Devitt
Welsh. Costumes designed by Martha G. Speiser.
CHARACTERS
A Beggar A Townsman A Townswoman Their Seven-year-old Son An Artist An American A Cocotte A Waiter A Workingman A Young Man Two Officers The Crowd Place:
Paris.
Time:
Present.
On the banks of the Seine.The play was later produced by the Washington Square Players, at the Comedy Theatre, New York City. The professional and amateur stage rights are reserved by the translator, Mr. Benjamin F. Glazer, Editorial Department, The Press, Philadelphia, Pa., to whom all requests for permission to produce the play should be made.
ALTRUISM
A Satire
By Karl Ettlinger
[In the background the end of a pier. On a post hangs a rope and a life buoy. Close by the Beggar is sitting on the floor. At right a street café; two tables stand under the open sky on the street. At one of the tables sits the Waiter, reading a newspaper. At the other sits the Cocotte and the blond Young Man. At left on a public bench sits the Artist. He has a sketch book and pencil with which he is drawing the Cocotte, who has noticed it and is flirting with him.]
[Lady xes from Left to Right.]
[Man xes from Right to Left.]
Beggar [sings]:
Kind sir, have pity while you can,
Remember the old beggar man
The poor beggar man.
Waiter [sitting at table, R. C., looks up from his newspaper]. Shut up!
Beggar. Don't get fresh! I was once a head waiter!
Waiter. That must have been a fine place.
Beggar. It was too. I traveled all around the world as a waiter. I saw better days before I became a beggar.
Young Man [at table Left, fondly to the Cocotte]. Indeed if I were a millionaire—my word of honor I would buy you an automobile. Nothing would be too dear for you.
Cocotte [at table Left]. My darling Kangaroo. How liberal you are. I am sure I am your first love.
Young Man. Yes—you are—that is if I don't count the cook who has been at our house for five years—yes, on my word of honor.
[He finishes in pantomime.]
Beggar [to Waiter]: Yes, yes, one goes down. Life is a tight rope dance—before you look around you've lost your balance, and are lying in the dirt.
Waiter [laying aside the paper]. You ought to go to work. That would do you more good than talking.
Beggar. I've tried working too. But work for our kind is the surest way to remain poor. And, do you know, begging is no pleasure either. To get the money centime by centime and no rest from the police—well, well, if I'm born into this world again I will become a government official.
[A man passes. Enter lady from Left. Stops lady Center. Sings and holds out his hat.]
The rich man in his banquet hall,
Has everything I long for!
The poor man gets the scraps that fall;
That's what I sing this song for.
Kind sir, have pity while you can—
[Man exit Left.]
Do you see? he doesn't give me anything! (Social enlightenment ends with the lower classes. That is where need is greatest and the police are thickest.)
Young Man [to the Cocotte]. I would buy you a flying machine too, but you shouldn't fly alone in it—Ah, to soar with you a thousand meters above the earth—and far and wide nothing—only you and our love—
Cocotte. What a wonderful boy you are.
[She flirts with the Artist.]
Beggar. How often have I wanted to commit suicide. But why should I gratify my fellow man by doing that?—suicide is the one sin I can see nothing funny in. I always say to myself, so long as there's a jail one can never starve.
Waiter. You have no dignity.
Beggar. No. My dignity was taken away from me ten years ago by the law. But I'm not so sure I want it back.
Waiter [in disgust]. I ought to call the cops and have them drive you away from here.
Beggar [confidentially]. You wouldn't do that. Only yesterday I paid my colleagues 20 francs for this place. [Searches in his pockets.] Here is a receipt. I won't go away from here unless the police carry me away in their arms. The police seem to be the only people who make a fuss over me these days. [Laughs.]
Waiter. Disgusting old beggar. Why on earth such people—[The rest is lost in his teeth.]
[The Townsman, the Townswoman, and their child enter. The Townsman carries the child on his shoulder and is perspiring from the exertion.]
[Waiter X to Right of Table. Beggar goes up stage Center.]
Townswoman [center Left with boy; sighs]. That is all I have to say, just let me come to that. Just let me come to it. On the spot I'll get a divorce.
Townsman [following her]. Give me your word of honor on it.
Townsman. Now I know what they mean when they say that all men were polygamists.
Townsman. Calm yourself, old woman. It's all theoretical that married women are good cooks and married men are polygamists.
Beggar.
The rich man in his banquet hall
Has everything I long for!
The poor....
Townsman. Let him banquet in peace.
[They sit at the table from which the Waiter has just risen.]
Child. I want to give the poor man something. Papa! Money! Papa! Money!
Townsman [kisses child]. A heart of gold has my little Phillip. A disposition like butter. He gets that from me.
Townsman. What? Asking for money or the oleo margerine disposition?
Child. When I give the poor man something he makes a funny face and I have to laugh. Papa, money!
Townsman. Since I've been married I make all kinds of faces, but no one gives me anything. [Searches in his pocket book.] Too bad, I've nothing smaller than a centime piece.
Townsman. Of course, you'd rather bring up our Phillip to have a heart of stone. Children should be taught to love people. They must be brought up in that way—to have regard and respect for the most unfortunate fellow beings—How that woman is perfumed. Women like that shouldn't be permitted in the city.
Young Man [to the Cocotte]. I would buy you two beautiful air ships, a half moon for week days and a star for Sundays. All my millions I would lay at your feet. [Raising his hand.] Waiter—another glass of water, please.
Cocotte. I'd like to kiss you, my little wild horse.
[Waiter dusts table, Right Center. Flirts with the Artist.]
[Child, Man and Wife sit at table Right Center.]
Waiter [to the Townsman]. What can I bring you?
Townsman. For the child, a glass of milk, but be sure it's well cooked. [To the Child.] A little glass of good ninni for my darling, a glass of ninni from the big moo cow.
Townsman [mocking her]. And for me a glass of red wine—a little glass of good red wine for the big moo-ox.
Townswoman [angry]. That's just like you. Begrudge a glass of milk to your own child—naturally—so long as you have your cigar and your wine—
Townsman. My dear, I hereby give little Phillip permission to drink three cows dry. And of my next week's wages, you may buy him a whole herd of cows.
Child. I want chocolate! Chocolate, mama!
Townsman. You shall have it. As much as you want. Wouldn't you perhaps like to have a glass of champagne, little Phillip, and a Henry Clay cigar and a salad made of a big moo-chicken?
Young Man [getting up, x to Center. Jumps up and runs to the Artist]. Sir! Sir! This is unheard of. You've been drawing this lady all the time. She is a respectable lady, do you understand? For all you know she may be my wife.
Artist [phlegmatically]. More than that—for all I know she may be your mother.
Young Man [stammering]. My dear sir—I must call you to account—what do you mean by—
Artist. Why are you so excited? Isn't it a good likeness?
Young Man [confused]. Of course, it's a good likeness, that is—I ask you, sir, how dare you to draw a picture of my bride?
Townsman. These young people are quarreling. You always bring me to places like this. We can never go out together but there's a scandal.
Cocotte [who has drawn near and is examining the drawing]. I like that. I'd like to own the drawing.
Artist. My dear lady, if it would give you any pleasure....
Cocotte. I couldn't think of taking it. [To the boy.] Buy me the picture. Sweetheart, will you buy it for me?
Young Man. I don't think much of it. You are far, far prettier.
Cocotte. You won't refuse me this one little request. How much do you ask for the picture?
Artist. I hadn't thought of selling it—but because it is such a good likeness of you, ten francs. But you must promise that in return you will sit for me again—[With emphasis.] perhaps at my studio. To-morrow at noon?
Cocotte. Gladly! Very gladly! [The young man pays for the sketch.] Would you care to sit down and have something with us?
Artist. If your fiancé doesn't object?
Young Man [coldly]. Charmed! [The three sit.]
The Child. The chocolate is no good. I want some moo milk.
Townsman. In a minute, I'll take my moo stick and tan your moo hide.
American. [Enters leading a dog on a leash.] [From Left x Center.]
Beggar [sings].
The rich man his banquet hall
Has everything I long for,
The poor man gets the crumbs that fall,
That's what I sing this song for.
Kind sir, have pity while you can,
Remember the old beggar man,
The poor beggar man.
American. [Has listened to the entire song impassively.] Are you through? Waiter, put a muzzle on this man. [x to Table Right.]
Townswoman. That is what I call an elegant man. I have always wanted you to have a suit made like that. Ask him where he got it and what it cost.
Townsman. I couldn't ask an utter stranger what his clothes cost.
Townswoman. Of course not, but if it was a woman you would have been over there long ago.
Child. Mama, the bow-wow dog is biting me.
Townsman. My dear sir, your dog is biting my son.
American. You're mistaken, madame. My dog has been carefully trained to eat none other than boiled meat.
Artist [to the Young Man]. Pardon me for asking—but is the lady your wife or your fiancé?
American [sits, puts his legs on the two extra chairs]. Waiter! Garçon! Bring me a quart of Cliquot, and bring my dog a menu card.
[At the word "Cliquot" the Cocotte looks up and begins to flirt with the American.]
Child. The bow-wow dog is making faces at me.
Townsman. Look here, sir, your dog is certainly about to bite my child.
American [lights his pipe]. How much does your child cost?
Townsman. Cost! My child! Did you ever hear of such a thing? I want you to understand that my child p—
American. Waiter! Tell this woman not to shout so!—How much does your child cost?
Townsman. My child costs—nothing! Do you understand?
American. Well, your child costs nothing—my dog costs eight dollars. Think that over—is your son a thoroughbred? My dog is of the purest breed—think that over—if your son hurts my dog I'll hold you responsible. Think that over. [Fills his glass.]
Cocotte. What do you think that man to be, little mouse?
Young Man. A full blooded American.
Artist. I should say he's a German who has spent two weeks in New York.
Townsman. Aristide, are you going to sit there and permit your defenseless wife to be insulted like that?
Townsman. As long as you have your tongue, my dear, you are not defenseless.
Townswoman. It is your business to talk to him. [Kisses the Child.] My poor little Phillip! Your father is no man.
Townsman. I was before I got married. [Crosses to the American.] Sir, my name is Aristide Beaurepard.
American. Is that my fault?
Townsman. I am the father of a family.
American. I am very sorry for you, indeed.
Townsman. I have a wife and children—
American. You have only yourself to blame.
Townsman. Your dog—
American. I have no desire to discuss dogs with you. I don't believe you know anything about thoroughbred dogs. Waiter, sit this man down in his place.
Townsman. This is I must say, this is—
Waiter. Monsieur, you must not make a racket around you. This is a first class establishment. A real prince once dined here, I would have you understand. Come on now, if you please. [Leads Townsman back to his seat.]
Townsman [sits unwillingly]. Not a centime tip will that fellow get from me. Not a centime.
American. Waiter, Waiter, bring my dog a portion of liver, and not too fat. And a roast potato.
Beggar. [Coming down C.] [Jumps up, cries out
wildly
.] I can't stand any more. For eight days I have not had a warm morsel of food in my stomach. I am not a human being any more. I'll kill myself. [Runs to the edge of the dock and jumps overboard.] [The splash of the water is heard. The Townswoman and the Waiter call "help, help!" Whereupon, from every side a crowd collects so that the entire background is filled with people staring into the water.]Townswoman. For God's sake he has thrown himself into the Seine. Oh, God! Oh, God!
Omnes. He's in the river!
American. [At table Right.] What a noisy place this is.
[Townsman at center throws off his coat and is unbuttoning his vest when his wife seizes him.]
Townswoman. [Center.] [Whimpering.] Aristide, remember you have a wife and children.
Townsman. That is why I want to do it.
Townswoman. Aristide, I'll jump in after you—as true as I live I'll jump in after you.
Townsman. [Slowly puts his coat on again.] Then I won't do it. [Goes with her into the crowd.]
A Voice. Get the life buoy. [Willing hands try to unloosen the life buoy, but it sticks.]
Another Voice. Let that life buoy alone. Don't you see the sign "Do not touch"?
A Man. The buoy is no good. It will not work.
Another Man. Of course not. It's city property.
Cocotte [shuddering]. I can't look at it. [Comes back to her table.]
A Woman. Look! He's come up! Over there!
Child. I can't see.
Townswoman. My little heart of gold [to her husband]. Why don't you lift him up? Don't you hear that the child can't see? [Townsman takes the child on his shoulder.]
Young Man [coming back to table]. These people are utterly heartless. It is revolting.
American [loudly]. I'll bet twenty dollars he drowns. Who'll take the bet? Twenty dollars.
Young Man. Are you a man or a beast?
American. Young man, better shut your mouth. [Fills his glass.]
Young Man. Does no one hear know the meaning of Altruism?
Artist. Altruism! Ha, ha! [Laughs scornfully.] Love of one's neighbor. God preserve mankind from Altruism!
Cocotte. What do you mean? You are not in earnest?
Artist. In dead earnest. [Some one in the crowd brings a boat hook and reaches down into the river.]
American. I'll bet twenty-five dollars that he doesn't drown—thirty dollars! [Disgustedly, seeing that no one takes him up.] Tightwads!
Artist. Life is like that. One man's success is another man's failure. He who sacrifices himself for an idea is a hero. He who sacrifices himself for a fellow man is a fool.
Young Man [theatrically]. No, it is the highest, the noblest of instincts. That is why my heart bleeds when I see all these people stand indifferently by while a fellow man is drowning. No one jumps in after him—
American. Jump in yourself, young man, jump in yourself.
Young Man [center]. It is different with me, I am with a lady—it wouldn't be right.
American. Nobody will bet. This is a hell of a bunch. They ought to see one of our nigger lynchings. [Strokes the dog.] Poor Molly! She is so nervous. Things like this get her all excited.
[Two Policemen enter.]
First Policeman. Look at the mob. Something is liable to happen there.
Second Policeman. Isn't it forbidden for such a mob to gather on the dock?
First Policeman. Sure, it's against the law. Why shouldn't it be?
Second Policeman [shaking their heads]. This is no place for us. [Exit Left.]
Artist [to the Young Man]. Does it begin to dawn on you that true love of one's neighbor would not only be monotonous but unbearable as well.
Young Man. Out there a man is drowning—and you stand there moralizing.
Artist. Why not? We read a dozen suicides every day. [x to Chair Left.] Yet we go home and eat our dinner with undiminished relish. Why then sentimentalize over a drowning beggar? I wouldn't rescue a man who had fallen into the water much less one who had jumped in.
Young Man [passionately]. Sir—I despise you! [Goes into the crowd.]
[A man has succeeded in prying up the life buoy, now he throws it into the water with the warning cry "Look out."]
Artist. Love of one's neighbor is a mask. A mask that people wear to hide from themselves their real faces.
American [x to Artist Left]. No, I don't agree with you. I am strong for love of one's neighbor. Indeed, the Bible tells us to love our neighbor as ourselves. Oh, I am very strong for it. I go to Church on Sundays in the U. S. A. I never touch a drop—in the U. S. A.
Voice. The life buoy is sinking.
Another Voice. That's why they call it a life buoy. [Laughter.]
Cocotte [sympathetically]. How interestingly you talk. I love Americans.
American. We have two kinds of neighborly love back home. Neighborly love that makes for entertaining and dancing, and neighborly love that you read about next day in the newspapers.
Omnes [Workingman who has just entered.] [Right.] What's the matter here? [Elbows his way through the crowd.] Make way there! Let me through! [Throws off coat, tightens his belt, spits in his hand and jumps into the water.] [Great excitement.]
Young Man [center]. [Ecstatically.] A hero! A hero!
American [loudly but indifferently]. I'll bet sixty dollars that both of them drown!—Seventy! Seventy-five! [Contemptuously.] I can't get a bet around here. I'm going back to America.
[The Artist goes into the crowd.]
Cocotte [at table Left, alone with American]. Going back so soon?
American. As soon as I have seen Paris. Wouldn't you like to show me the town? I'll meet you to-morrow at four in front of the Opera House.
Cocotte. I'll be there. I like Americans.
The Mob [cheering]. He's got him! Hurrah! [The pole is outstretched.]
American. I'd like to know how much longer that waiter means to keep my dog waiting for her order of liver. [x to table Right.]
Young Man [comes down to table, joyfully]. He is saved; thank God he is saved. Weren't you sorry at all when that poor wretch jumped into the river?
American. Young man, is it my river?
The Mob [cheering again]. Hurrah! [Great excitement.]
[The Workingman and the Beggar are dragged dripping out of the water. They help the Beggar to a chair.]
Workingman [center]. [Shaking himself.] That was no easy job.
A Woman [left, center]. Take care what you are doing. You are wetting my whole dress.
Beggar. [Left.] [Whimpering.] Oh!—Oh!—Oh!—
Young Man [left]. [Shaking the Workingman's hand.] You are a noble fellow. I saw how brave you were.
Workingman [business like]. Did you? Then give me your name and address.
Young Man [gives him a card]. Jules Leboeof, Rue d'Hauteville.
Workingman. Who else saw it?
Beggar. Oh! Oh! Oh!
Workingman. Shut your mouth. Your turn comes next. Who else saw me save him?
Townsman. [R. C.] Aristide Beaurepard, Rue de Lagny, a14.
Townsman. Must you mix in everything? This is nothing to you. Do you want to get in trouble? You didn't see a thing. Why you just want to get in trouble? You didn't see a thing. Why you just this moment came. What do you want the address for, eh?
Workingman. Do you think I am taking cold baths for my health? I want to get a medal for life saving.
A Man. You have a chance to get an award from the Carnegie fund for life saving.
Workingman. Don't I know it. I read all about it in "Humanitie" yesterday. Do you think I'd have jumped in the water otherwise?
[A crowd has collected around the Beggar.]
Beggar. O God! O God! I'm soaking wet.
American [cold bloodedly.] Isn't that surprising?
Beggar. I am freezing. I am freezing to death.
Cocotte. Waiter, bring him a glass of brandy and charge it to me. [Waiter exit Right.]
Child [whimpering]. I am freezing too, Mama, I'm cold.
Townswoman. My poor little Phillip. [To her husband.] You never think of bringing a coat for the child. There, my darling, you shall have a cup of hot coffee right away.
Child. Coffee is pfui. I want brandy!
Townsman [sternly]. Brandy is not for children. You'll drink coffee.
Townswoman. Who says brandy is not for children? You get the most foolish ideas in your head. Hush, hush, my baby, you shall have some brandy.
American. They ought to offer a medal for the murder of certain kinds of wives.
Beggar. Oh! [Whimpering.] Oh, what a life I lead! What a life!
A Man [feeding sugar to the dog].
Beggar. I wish I were dead. Why did they pull me out? I want to die. What does life mean to me? What joy is there in life for me?
Artist. There will be less joy for you in death. [Laughter.]
Beggar. If I were only young. If I only had my two strong arms again. I never dreamed I would come to this. I never would have believed it—Forty years ago I was a workingman, yes, forty years until an accident—
Workingman. Were you a Union man, brother?
Beggar. Certainly—certainly. [Guardedly.] That is, I wasn't exactly a Union man but—
Workingman. What! Not a Union man. [Rushes at him.]
Townsman. What do you want to do to that poor man?
Workingman. Throw him back in the river. [He is held back.]
Beggar. Forty years I worked at the machine—and now I have nothing to show for it but diseased lungs.
Townswoman [decisively]. Aristide, we are going home. Tuberculosis is contagious.
Workingman. That's capital for you. The capitalist sucks the workingman dry and then turns him out on the streets to starve. But we, the people, shall have our day. When first the uprising of the masses—
American. Oh, don't make a speech.
Beggar [whining]. And my military medal is gone. I must have lost it in the water. You can still see the saber wound on my arm.
Young Man. Thus the Fatherland repays its valiant sons.
Beggar. Nobody knows what I suffered for France. Twenty years I served in the foreign legion.
American. This fellow ought to be celebrating his two hundredth birthday soon.
Beggar. O God—my poor wife—my poor children—the youngest is just four months old—
Cocotte. Poor soul, here are two francs for you. [Other people take out their purses.]
Beggar. God bless you mademoiselle. [Holds out his hat for the other alms.]
[During the excitement the Beggar passes through the crowd begging and singing.]
Beggar.
The rich man in his banquet hall,
Has everything I long for.
The poor man gets the crumbs that fall,
That's what I sing this song for.
Help a poor man, sir.
American [cries out in sudden alarm.] My dog! My Molly! She has jumped into the river! [The crowd is still and listening to him.] She will drown! [Runs to the edge of the dock.] There she is—swimming. Oh, my Molly! She cost me eighty dollars. [Desperately.] A hundred dollars to the man that saves my dog. A hundred dollars.
A Man. Do you mean that?
American [deaf to everything but his anxiety]. A hundred dollars. Here, I'll put it up with the Waiter—a hundred dollars for my poor dog.
Voices in the Crowd. A hundred dollars! Five hundred francs!
[The Crowd moves, pushing and gesticulating to the water's edge. One by one they jump into the Seine with a great splashing. Only the American, the Young Man, the Cocotte and the Beggar remain.]
American. My poor Molly! She loved me like a son! Where is that pole? [Gets pole and thrusts with it in the water.]
A Voice. Hey! Oh! My head!
American [beside himself]. There—over there—the poor dog never had a swimming lesson. [Sees the Young Man.] What are you standing there for? You with your precious neighborly love! A hundred and fifty dollars for my dog! Jump in! Here is a deposit. [Pushes money in his hand.]
Young Man [makes ready to jump, but stops at the edge and turns around]. No! For a dog? Never!
American. It was a thoroughbred dog. Jump! I'll give you two hundred—I'll take you back to the U. S. A. with me—I'll pay for your musical education—anything—if you save my dog.
Young Man. Will you really pay for my musical education if I save your dog?
American [on knees by wall]. Every instrument there is—piano, piccolo, cornet, bass drum—only jump!—jump!
Young Man [upon wall throws a farewell kiss to the Cocotte, takes a heroic posture]. With God! [Makes a perfect dive into the river.]
American [at the end of the dock, brokenly]. Poor Molly! [Dries his eyes with handkerchief.] I'll endow a home for poor Parisians if she is brought back to me alive. [To the Cocotte.] Oh, dear lady, I don't know whether I shall be able to meet you to-morrow at the Avenue de l'Opera. I have had a bereavement. [Comes down to the pavement.] I must telephone to the lifeguard station. [Exits into the café.] Poor Molly! All the insurance I carried on her is three thousand dollars. [Exit with Artist into café, Right.] [There is a brief pause.]
Beggar [angrily]. Damn his heart; the dog tender! I hope he drowns himself. Just as I was doing the best business in weeks that damn dog had to spoil everything. The scabby beast.
Cocotte. How often have I asked you not to use those vulgar expressions.
Beggar. What! Is that how a daughter should speak to her father? You shameless wench! I'll teach you. I'll be lame again hereafter. For when I am lame I carry a stick and a stick is a good thing to have in your hand to teach a daughter respect. Ten francs; you know for the picture. [While he speaks he is taking off his coat and vest, showing a cork life belt beneath.] That suicide trick is getting played out anyhow—hardly 50 francs—and I had to pay 20 for the place. Come my daughter, we will go home. [Calls.] Waiter—Waiter!
Cocotte. He doesn't hear you, papa—Waiter if you don't come at once we shall go without paying. [The Waiter enters with hat wet.]
Beggar [slips him a gold piece]. Waiter, call a taxicab.
[The Waiter takes the coin with a respectful bow, blows his taxi whistle. As the answering whistle of the taxicab and the honk of the horn are heard the Beggar and Cocotte exit ceremoniously and the curtain falls.
[Curtain.]
THE TENOR
A Comedy
By Frank Wedekind
Translated by André Tridon.
Copyright, 1913, by André Tridon.
All rights reserved.
CHARACTERS
Gerardo [Wagnerian tenor, thirty-six years old].
Helen Marova [a beautiful dark-haired woman of twenty-five].
Professor Duhring [sixty, the typical "misunderstood genius"].
Miss Isabel Cœhurne [a blonde English girl of sixteen].
Muller [hotel manager].
A Valet.
A Bell Boy.
An Unknown Woman.
Time: The present.
Place: A city in Austria.
The Tenor was first produced in America by the Washington Square Players. Applications for permission to perform The Tenor must be addressed to André Tridon, 121 Madison Avenue, New York.
THE TENOR
A Comedy
By Frank Wedekind
[Scene: A large hotel room. There are doors at the right and in the center, and at the left a window with heavy portières. Behind a grand piano at the right stands a Japanese screen which conceals the fireplace. There are several large trunks, open; bunches of flowers are all over the room; many bouquets are piled up on the piano.]
Valet [entering from the adjoining room carrying an armful of clothes which he proceeds to pack in one of the trunks. There is a knock at the door]. Come in.
Bell Boy. There is a lady who wants to know if the Maestro is in.
Valet. He isn't in. [Exit Bell Boy. The Valet goes into the adjoining room and returns with another armful of clothes. There is another knock at the door. He puts the clothes on a chair and goes to the door.] What's this again? [He opens the door and some one hands him several large bunches of flowers, which he places carefully on the piano; then he goes back to his packing. There is another knock. He opens the door and takes a handful of letters. He glances at the addresses and reads aloud: "Mister Gerardo. Monsieur Gerardo. Gerardo Esquire. Signor Gerardo." [He drops the letters on a tray and resumes his packing.]
[Enter Gerardo.]
Gerardo. Haven't you finished packing yet? How much longer will it take you?
Valet. I'll be through in a minute, sir.
Gerardo. Hurry! I still have things to do. Let me see. [He reaches for something in a trunk.] God Almighty! Don't you know how to fold a pair of trousers? [Taking the trousers out.] This is what you call packing! Look here! You still have something to learn from me, after all. You take the trousers like this.... You lock this up here.... Then you take hold of these buttons. Watch these buttons here, that's the important thing. Then—you pull them straight.... There.... There.... Then you fold them here.... See.... Now these trousers would keep their shape for a hundred years.
Valet [respectfully, with downcast eyes]. You must have been a tailor once, sir.
Gerardo. What! Well, not exactly.... [He gives the trousers to the Valet.] Pack those up, but be quick about it. Now about that train. You are sure this is the last one we can take?
Valet. It is the only one that gets you there in time, sir. The next train does not reach Brussels until ten o'clock.
Gerardo. Well, then, we must catch this one. I will just have time to go over the second act. Unless I go over that.... Now don't let anybody.... I am out to everybody.
Valet. All right, sir. There are some letters for you, sir.
Gerardo. I have seen them.
Valet. And flowers!
Gerardo. Yes. all right. [He takes the letters from the tray and throws them on a chair before the piano. Then he opens the letters, glances over them with beaming eyes, crumples them up and throws them under the chair.] Remember! I am out to everybody.
Valet. I know, sir. [He locks the trunks.]
Gerardo. To everybody.
Valet. You needn't worry, sir. [Giving him the trunk keys.] Here are the keys, sir.
Gerardo [pocketing the keys]. To everybody!
Valet. The trunks will be taken down at once. [He goes out.]
Gerardo [looking at his watch]. Forty minutes. [He pulls the score of "Tristan" from underneath the flowers on the piano and walks up and down humming.] "Isolde! Geliebte! Bist du mein? Hab' ich dich wieder? Darf ich dich fassen?" [He clears his throat, strikes a chord on the piano and starts again.] "Isolde! Geliebte! Bist du mein? Hab' ich dich wieder?..." [He clears his throat.] The air is dead here. [He sings.] "Isolde! Geliebte...." It's oppressive here. Let's have a little fresh air. [He goes to the window at the left and fumbles for the curtain cord.] Where is the thing? On the other side! Here! [He pulls the cord and throws his head back with an annoyed expression when he sees Miss Cœurne.]
Miss Cœurne [in three-quarter length skirt, her blonde hair down her back, holding a bunch of red roses; she speaks with an English accent and looks straight at Gerardo]. Oh, please don't send me away.
Gerardo. What else can I do? God knows, I haven't asked you to come here. Do not take it badly, dear young lady, but I have to sing to-morrow night in Brussels. I must confess, I hoped I would have this half-hour to myself. I had just given positive orders not to let any one, whoever it might be, come up to my rooms.
Miss Cœurne [coming down stage]. Don't send me away. I heard you yesterday in "Tannhäuser," and I was just bringing you these roses, and—
Gerardo. And—and what?
Miss Cœurne. And myself.... I don't know whether you understand me.
Gerardo [holding the back of a chair; he hesitates, then shakes his head.] Who are you?
Miss Cœurne. My name is Miss Cœurne.
Gerardo. Yes.... Well?
Miss Cœurne. I am very silly.
Gerardo. I know. Come here, my dear girl. [He sits down in an armchair and she stands before him.] Let's have a good earnest talk, such as you have never had in your life—and seem to need. An artist like myself—don't misunderstand me; you are—how old are you?
Miss Cœurne. Twenty-two.
Gerardo. You are sixteen or perhaps seventeen. You make yourself a little older so as to appear more—tempting. Well? Yes, you are very silly. It is really none of my business, as an artist, to cure you of your silliness.... Don't take this badly.... Now then! Why are you staring away like this?
Miss Cœurne. I said I was very silly, because I thought you Germans liked that in a young girl.
Gerardo. I am not a German, but just the same....
Miss Cœurne. What! I am not as silly as all that.
Gerardo. Now look here, my dear girl—you have your tennis court, your skating club; you have your riding class, your dances; you have all a young girl can wish for. What on earth made you come to me?
Miss Cœurne. Because all those things are awful, and they bore me to death.
Gerardo. I will not dispute that. Personally, I must tell you, I know life from an entirely different side. But, my child, I am a man; I am thirty-six. The time will come when you, too, will claim a fuller existence. Wait another two years and there will be some one for you, and then you won't need to—hide yourself behind curtains, in my room, in the room of a man who—never asked you, and whom you don't know any better than—the whole continent of Europe knows him—in order to look at life from his—wonderful point of view. [Miss Cœurne sighs deeply.] Now then ... Many thanks from the bottom of my heart for your roses. [He presses her hand.] Will this do for to-day?
Miss Cœurne. I had never in all my life thought of a man, until I saw you on the stage last night in "Tannhäuser." And I promise you—
Gerardo. Oh, don't promise me anything, my child. What good could your promise do me? The burden of it would all fall upon you. You see, I am talking to you as lovingly as the most loving father could. Be thankful to God that with your recklessness you haven't fallen into the hands of another artist. [He presses her hand again.] Let this be a lesson to you and never try it again.
Miss Cœurne [holding her handkerchief to her face but shedding no tears]. Am I so homely?
Gerardo. Homely! Not homely, but young and indiscreet. [He rises nervously, goes to the right, comes back, puts his arm around her waist and takes her hand.] Listen to me, child. You are not homely because I have to be a singer, because I have to be an artist. Don't misunderstand me, but I can't see why I should simply, because I am an artist, have to assure you that I appreciate your youthful freshness and beauty. It is a question of time. Two hundred, maybe three hundred, nice, lovely girls of your age saw me last night in the rôle of Tannhäuser. Now if every one of those girls made the same demands upon me which you are making—what would become of my singing? What would become of my voice? What would become of my art?
[Miss Cœurne sinks into a seat, covers her face and weeps.]
Gerardo [leaning over the back of her chair, in a friendly tone]. It is a crime for you, child, to weep over the fact that you are still so young. Your whole life is ahead of you. Is it my fault if you fell in love with me? They all do. That is what I am for. Now won't you be a good girl and let me, for the few minutes I have left, prepare myself for to-morrow's appearance?
Miss Cœurne [rising and drying her tears]. I can't believe that any other girl would have acted the way I have.
Gerardo [leading her to the door]. No, dear child.
Miss Cœurne [with sobs in her voice]. At least, not if—
Gerardo. If my valet had stood before the door.
Miss Cœurne. If—
Gerardo. If the girl had been as beautiful and youthfully fresh as you.
Miss Cœurne. If—
Gerardo. If she had heard me only once in "Tannhäuser."
Miss Cœurne [indignant]. If she were as respectable as I am!
Gerardo [pointing to the piano]. Before saying good-by to me, child, have a look at all those flowers. May this be a warning to you in case you feel tempted again to fall in love with a singer. See how fresh they all are. And I have to let them wither, dry up, or I give them to the porter. And look at those letters. [He takes a handful of them from a tray.] I don't know any of those women. Don't worry; I leave them all to their fate. What else could I do? But I'll wager with you that every one of your lovely young friends sent in her little note.
Miss Cœurne. Well, I promise not to do it again, not to hide myself behind your curtains. But don't send me away.
Gerardo. My time, my time, dear child. If I were not on the point of taking a train! I have already told you, I am very sorry for you. But my train leaves in twenty-five minutes. What do you expect?
Miss Cœurne. A kiss.
Gerardo [stiffening up]. From me?
Miss Cœurne. Yes.
Gerardo [holding her around the waist and looking very serious]. You rob Art of its dignity, my child. I do not wish to appear an unfeeling brute, and I am going to give you my picture. Give me your word that after that you will leave me.
Miss Cœurne. Yes.
Gerardo. Good. [He sits at the table and autographs one of his pictures.] You should try to become interested in the operas themselves instead of the men who sing them. You would probably derive much greater enjoyment.
Miss Cœurne [to herself]. I am too young yet.
Gerardo. Sacrifice yourself to music. [He comes down stage and gives her the picture.] Don't see in me a famous tenor but a mere tool in the hands of a noble master. Look at all the married women among your acquaintances. All Wagnerians. Study Wagner's works; learn to understand his leit motifs. That will save you from further foolishness.
Miss Cœurne. I thank you.
[Gerardo leads her out and rings the bell. He takes up his piano score again. There is a knock at the door.]
Valet [coming in out of breath]. Yes, sir.
Gerardo. Are you standing at the door?
Valet. Not just now, sir.
Gerardo. Of course not! Be sure not to let anybody come up here.
Valet. There were three ladies who asked for you, sir.
Gerardo. Don't you dare to let any one of them come up, whatever she may tell you.
Valet. And then here are some more letters.
Gerardo. Oh, all right. [The Valet places the letters on a tray.] And don't you dare to let any one come up.
Valet [at the door]. No, sir.
Gerardo. Even if she offers to settle a fortune upon you.
Valet. No, sir. [He goes out.]
Gerardo [singing]. "Isolde! Geliebte! Bist du...." Well, if women don't get tired of me—Only the world is so full of them; and I am only one man. Every one has his burden to carry. [He strikes a chord on the piano.]
[Prof. Duhring, dressed all in black, with a long white beard, a red hooked nose, gold spectacles, Prince Albert coat and silk hat, an opera score under his arm, enters without knocking.]
Gerardo. What do you want?
Duhring. Maestro—I—I—have—an opera.
Gerardo. How did you get in?
Duhring. I have been watching for two hours for a chance to run up the stairs unnoticed.
Gerardo. But, my dear good man, I have no time.
Duhring. Oh, I will not play the whole opera for you.
Gerardo. I haven't the time. My train leaves in forty minutes.
Duhring. You haven't the time! What should I say? You are thirty and successful. You have your whole life to live yet. Just listen to your part in my opera. You promised to listen to it when you came to this city.
Gerardo. What is the use? I am not a free agent—
Duhring. Please! Please! Please! Maestro! I stand before you an old man, ready to fall on my knees before you; an old man who has never cared for anything in the world but his art. For fifty years I have been a willing victim to the tyranny of art—
Gerardo [interrupting him]. Yes, I understand; I understand, but—
Duhring [excitedly]. No, you don't understand. You could not understand. How could you, the favorite of fortune, you understand what fifty years of bootless work means? But I will try to make you understand it. You see, I am too old to take my own life. People who do that do it at twenty-five, and I let the time pass by. I must now drag along to the end of my days. Please, sir, please don't let these moments pass in vain for me, even if you have to lose a day thereby, a week even. This is in your own interest. A week ago, when you first came for your special appearances, you promised to let me play my opera for you. I have come here every day since; either you had a rehearsal or a woman caller. And now you are on the point of going away. You have only to say one word: I will sing the part of Hermann—and they will produce my opera. You will then thank God for my insistance.... Of course you sing Siegfried, you sing Florestan—but you have no rôle like Hermann in your repertoire, no rôle better suited to your middle register.
[Gerardo leans against the mantelpiece; while drumming on the top with his right hand, he discovers something behind the screen; he suddenly stretches out his arm and pulls out a woman in a gray gown, whom he leads out of the room through the middle door; after closing the door, he turns to Duhring.]
Gerardo. Oh, are you still there?
Duhring [undisturbed]. This opera is good; it is dramatic; it is a financial success. I can show you letters from Liszt, from Wagner, from Rubinstein, in which they consider me as a superior man. And why hasn't any opera ever been produced? Because I am not crying wares on the market-place. And then you know our directors: they will revive ten dead men before they give a live man a chance. Their walls are well guarded. At thirty you are in. At sixty I am still out. One word from you and I shall be in, too. This is why I have come, and [raising his voice] if you are not an unfeeling brute, if success has not killed in you the last spark of artistic sympathy, you will not refuse to hear my work.
Gerardo. I will give you an answer in a week. I will go over your opera. Let me have it.
Duhring. No, I am too old, Maestro. In a week, in what you call a week, I shall be dead and buried. In a week—that is what they all say; and then they keep it for years.
Gerardo. I am very sorry but—
Duhring. To-morrow perhaps you will be on your knees before me; you will boast of knowing me ... and to-day, in your sordid lust for gold, you cannot even spare the half-hour which would mean the breaking of my fetters.
Gerardo. No, really, I have only thirty-five minutes left, and unless I go over a few passages.... You know I sing Tristan in Brussels to-morrow night. [He pulls out his watch.] I haven't even half an hour....
Duhring. Half an hour.... Oh, then, let me play to you your big aria at the end of the first act. [He attempts to sit down on the piano bench. Gerardo restrains him.]
Gerardo. Now, frankly, my dear sir ... I am a singer; I am not a critic. If you wish to have your opera produced, address yourself to those gentlemen who are paid to know what is good and what is not. People scorn and ignore my opinions in such matters as completely as they appreciate and admire my singing.
Duhring. My dear Maestro, you may take it from me that I myself attach no importance whatever to your judgment. What do I care about your opinions? I know you tenors; I would like to play my score for you so that you could say: "I would like to sing the rôle of Hermann."
Gerardo. If you only knew how many things I would like to do and which I have to renounce, and how many things I must do for which I do not care in the least! Half a million a year does not repay me for the many joys of life which I must sacrifice for the sake of my profession. I am not a free man. But you were a free man all your life. Why didn't you go to the market-place and cry your wares?
Duhring. Oh, the vulgarity of it.... I have tried it a hundred times. I am a composer, Maestro, and nothing more.
Gerardo. By which you mean that you have exhausted all your strength in the writing of your operas and kept none of it to secure their production.
Duhring. That is true.
Gerardo. The composers I know reverse the process. They get their operas written somehow and then spend all their strength in an effort to get them produced.
Duhring. That is the type of artist I despise.
Gerardo. Well, I despise the type of man that wastes his life in useless endeavor. What have you done in those fifty years of struggle, for yourself or for the world? Fifty years of useless struggle! That should convince the worst blockhead of the impracticability of his dreams. What have you done with your life? You have wasted it shamefully. If I had wasted my life as you have wasted yours—of course I am only speaking for myself—I don't think I should have the courage to look any one in the face.
Duhring. I am not doing it for myself; I am doing it for my art.
Gerardo [scornfully]. Art, my dear man! Let me tell you that art is quite different from what the papers tell us it is.
Duhring. To me it is the highest thing in the world.
Gerardo. You may believe that, but nobody else does. We artists are merely a luxury for the use of the bourgeoisie. When I stand there on the stage I feel absolutely certain that not one solitary human being in the audience takes the slightest interest in what we, the artists, are doing. If they did, how could they listen to "Die Walküre," for instance? Why, it is an indecent story which could not be mentioned anywhere in polite society. And yet, when I sing Siegmund, the most puritanical mothers bring their fourteen-year-old daughters to hear me. This, you see, is the meaning of whatever you call art. This is what you have sacrificed fifty years of your life to. Find out how many people came to hear me sing and how many came to gape at me as they would at the Emperor of China if he should turn up here to-morrow. Do you know what the artistic wants of the public consist in? To applaud, to send flowers, to have a subject for conversation, to see and be seen. They pay me half a million, but then I make business for hundreds of cabbies, writers, dressmakers, restaurant keepers. It keeps money circulating; it keeps blood running. It gets girls engaged, spinsters married, wives tempted, old cronies supplied with gossip; a woman loses her pocketbook in the crowd, a fellow becomes insane during the performance. Doctors, lawyers made.... [He coughs.] And with this I must sing Tristan in Brussels to-morrow night! I tell you all this, not out of vanity, but to cure you of your delusions. The measure of a man's worth is the world's opinion of him, not the inner belief which one finally adopts after brooding over it for years. Don't imagine that you are a misunderstood genius. There are no misunderstood geniuses.
Duhring.. Let me just play to you the first scene of th second act. A park landscape as in the painting, "Embarkation for the Isle of Cythera."
Gerardo. I repeat to you I have no time. And furthermore, since Wagner's death the need for new operas has never been felt by any one. If you come with new music, you set against yourself all the music schools, the artists, the public. If you want to succeed just steal enough out of Wagner's works to make up a whole opera. Why should I cudgel my brains with your new music when I have cudgeled them cruelly with the old?
Duhring [holding out his trembling hand]. I am afraid I am too old to learn how to steal. Unless one begins very young, one can never learn it.
Gerardo. Don't feel hurt. My dear sir—if I could.... The thought of how you have to struggle.... I happen to have received some five hundred marks more than my fee....
Duhring [turning to the door]. Don't! Please don't! Do not say that. I did not try to show you my opera in order to work a touch. No, I think too much of this child of my brain.... No, Maestro.
[He goes out through the center door.]
Gerardo [following him to the door]. I beg your pardon.... Pleased to have met you.
[He closes the door and sinks into an armchair. A voice is heard outside: "I will not let that man step in my way." Helen rushes into the room followed by the Valet. She is an unusually beautiful young woman in street dress.]
Helen. That man stood there to prevent me from seeing you!
Gerardo. Helen!
Helen. You knew that I would come to see you.
Valet [rubbing his cheek]. I did all I could, sir, but this lady actually—
Helen. Yes, I slapped his face.
Gerardo. Helen!
Helen. Should I have let him insult me?
Gerardo [to the Valet]. Please leave us.
[The Valet goes out.]
Helen [placing her muff on a chair]. I can no longer live without you. Either you take me with you or I will kill myself.
Gerardo. Helen!
Helen. Yes, kill myself. A day like yesterday, without even seeing you—no, I could not live through that again. I am not strong enough. I beseech you, Oscar, take me with you.
Gerardo. I couldn't.
Helen. You could if you wanted to. You can't leave me without killing me. These are not mere words. This isn't a threat. It is a fact: I will die if I can no longer have you. You must take me with you—it is your duty—if only for a short time.
Gerardo. I give you my word of honor, Helen, I can't—I give you my word.
Helen. You must, Oscar. Whether you can or not, you must bear the consequences of your acts. I love life, but to me life and you are one and the same thing. Take me with you, Oscar, if you don't want to have my blood on your hands.
Gerardo. Do you remember what I said to you the first day we were together here?
Helen. I remember, but what good does that do me?
Gerardo. I said that there couldn't be any question of love between us.
Helen. I can't help that. I didn't know you then. I never knew what a man could be to me until I met you. You know very well that it would come to this, otherwise you wouldn't have obliged me to promise not to make you a parting scene.
Gerardo. I simply cannot take you with me.
Helen. Oh, God! I knew you would say that! I knew it when I came here. That's what you say to every woman. And I am just one of a hundred. I know it. But, Oscar, I am lovesick; I am dying of love. This is your work, and you can save me without any sacrifice on your part, without assuming any burden. Why can't you do it?
Gerardo [very slowly]. Because my contract forbids me to marry or to travel in the company of a woman.
Helen [disturbed]. What can prevent you?
Gerardo. My contract.
Helen. You cannot....
Gerardo. I cannot marry until my contract expires.
Helen. And you cannot....
Gerardo. I cannot travel in the company of a woman.
Helen. That is incredible. And whom in the world should it concern?
Gerardo. My manager.
Helen. Your manager! What business is it of his?
Gerardo. It is precisely his business.
Helen. Is it perhaps because it might—affect your voice?
Gerardo. Yes.
Helen. That is preposterous. Does it affect your voice?
[Gerardo chuckles.]
Helen. Does your manager believe that nonsense?
Gerardo. No, he doesn't.
Helen. This is beyond me. I can't understand how a decent man could sign such a contract.
Gerardo. I am an artist first and a man next.
Helen. Yes, that's what you are—a great artist—an eminent artist. Can't you understand how much I must love you? You are the first man whose superiority I have felt and whom I desired to please, and you despise me for it. I have bitten my lips many a time not to let you suspect how much you meant to me; I was so afraid I might bore you. Yesterday, however, put me in a state of mind which no woman can endure. If I didn't love you so insanely, Oscar, you would think more of me. That is the terrible thing about you—that you must scorn a woman who thinks the world of you.
Gerardo. Helen!
Helen. Your contract! Don't use your contract as a weapon to murder me with. Let me go with you, Oscar. You will see if your manager ever mentions a breach of contract. He would not do such a thing. I know men. And if he says a word, it will be time then for me to die.
Gerardo. We have no right to do that, Helen. You are just as little free to follow me, as I am to shoulder such a responsibility. I don't belong to myself; I belong to my art.
Helen. Oh, leave your art alone. What do I care about your art? Has God created a man like you to make a puppet of himself every night? You should be ashamed of it instead of boasting of it. You see, I overlooked the fact that you were merely an artist. What wouldn't I overlook for a god like you? Even if you were a convict, Oscar, my feelings would be the same. I would lie in the dust at your feet and beg for your pity. I would face death as I am facing it now.
Gerardo [laughing]. Facing death, Helen! Women who are endowed with your gifts for enjoying life don't make away with themselves. You know even better than I do the value of life.
Helen [dreamily]. Oscar, I didn't say that I would shoot myself. When did I say that? Where would I find the courage to do that? I only said that I will die, if you don't take me with you. I will die as I would of an illness, for I only live when I am with you. I can live without my home, without my children, but not without you, Oscar. I cannot live without you.
Gerardo. Helen, if you don't calm yourself.... You put me in an awful position.... I have only ten minutes left.... I can't explain in court that your excitement made me break my contract.... I can only give you ten minutes.... If you don't calm yourself in that time.... I can't leave you alone in this condition. Think all you have at stake!
Helen. As though I had anything else at stake!
Gerardo. You can lose your position in society.
Helen. I can lose you!
Gerardo. And your family?
Helen. I care for no one but you.
Gerardo. But I cannot be yours.
Helen. Then I have nothing to lose but my life.
Gerardo. Your children!
Helen. Who has taken me from them, Oscar? Who has taken me from my children?
Gerardo. Did I make any advances to you?
Helen [passionately]. No, no. I have thrown myself at you, and would throw myself at you again. Neither my husband nor my children could keep me back. When I die, at least I will have lived; thanks to you, Oscar! I thank you, Oscar, for revealing me to myself. I thank you for that.
Gerardo. Helen, calm yourself and listen to me.
Helen. Yes, yes, for ten minutes.
Gerardo. Listen to me. [Both sit down on the divan.]
Helen [staring at him]. Yes, I thank you for it.
Gerardo. Helen!
Helen. I don't even ask you to love me. Let me only breathe the air you breathe.
Gerardo[trying to be calm]. Helen—a man of my type cannot be swayed by any of the bourgeois ideas. I have known society women in every country of the world. Some made parting scenes to me, but at least they all knew what they owed to their position. This is the first time in my life that I have witnessed such an outburst of passion.... Helen, the temptation comes to me daily to step with some woman into an idyllic Arcadia. But every human being has his duties; you have your duties as I have mine, and the call of duty is the highest thing in the world....
Helen. I know better than you do what the highest duty is.
Gerardo. What, then? Your love for me? That's what they all say. Whatever a woman has set her heart on winning is to her good; whatever crosses her plans is evil. It is the fault of our playwrights. To draw full houses they set the world upside down, and when a woman abandons her children and her family to follow her instincts they call that—oh, broad-mindedness. I personally wouldn't mind living the way turtle doves live. But since I am a part of this world I must obey my duty first. Then whenever the opportunity arises I quaff of the cup of joy. Whoever refuses to do his duty has no right to make any demands upon another fellow being.
Helen [staring absent-mindedly]. That does not bring the dead back to life.
Gerardo [nervously]. Helen, I will give you back your life. I will give you back what you have sacrificed for me. For God's sake take it. What does it come to, after all? Helen, how can a woman lower herself to that point? Where is your pride? What am I in the eyes of the world? A man who makes a puppet of himself every night! Helen, are you going to kill yourself for a man whom hundreds of women loved before you, whom hundreds of women will love after you without letting their feelings disturb their life one second? Will you, by shedding your warm red blood, make yourself ridiculous before God and the world?
Helen [looking away from him]. I know I am asking a good deal, but—what else can I do?
Gerardo. Helen, you said I should bear the consequences of my acts. Will you reproach for not refusing to receive you when you first came here, ostensibly to ask me to try your voice? What can a man do in such a case? You are the beauty of this town. Either I would be known as the bear among artists who denies himself to all women callers, or I might have received you and pretended that I didn't understand what you meant and then pass for a fool. Or the very first day I might have talked to you as frankly as I am talking now. Dangerous business. You would have called me a conceited idiot. Tell me, Helen—what else could I do?
Helen [staring at him with, imploring eyes, shuddering and making an effort to speak]. O God! O God! Oscar, what would you say if to-morrow I should go and be as happy with another man as I have been with you? Oscar—what would you say?
Gerardo [after a silence]. Nothing. [He looks at his watch.] Helen—
Helen. Oscar! [She kneels before him.] For the last time, I implore you.... You don't know what you are doing.... It isn't your fault—but don't let me die.... Save me—save me!
Gerardo [raising her up]. Helen, I am not such a wonderful man. How many men have you known? The more men you come to know, the lower all men will fall in your estimation. When you know men better you will not take your life for any one of them. You will not think any more of them than I do of women.
Helen. I am not like you in that respect.
Gerardo. I speak earnestly, Helen. We don't fall in love with one person or another; we fall in love with our type, which we find everywhere in the world if we only look sharply enough.
Helen. And when we meet our type, are we sure then of being loved again?
Gerardo [angrily]. You have no right to complain of your husband. Was any girl ever compelled to marry against her will? That is all rot. It is only the women who have sold themselves for certain material advantages and then try to dodge their obligations who try to make us believe that nonsense.
Helen [smiling]. They break their contracts.
Gerardo [pounding his chest]. When I sell myself, at least I am honest about it.
Helen. Isn't love honest?
Gerardo. No! Love is a beastly bourgeois virtue. Love is the last refuge of the mollycoddle, of the coward. In my world every man has his actual value, and when two human beings make up a pact they know exactly what to expect from each other. Love has nothing to do with it, either.
Helen. Won't you lead me into your world, then?
Gerardo. Helen, will you compromise the happiness of your life and the happiness of your dear ones for just a few days' pleasure?
Helen. No.
Gerardo [much relieved]. Will you promise me to go home quietly now?
Helen. Yes.
Gerardo. And will you promise me that you will not die....
Helen. Yes.
Gerardo. You promise me that?
Helen. Yes.
Gerardo. And you promise me to fulfill your duties as mother and—as wife?
Helen. Yes.
Gerardo. Helen!
Helen. Yes. What else do you want? I will promise anything.
Gerardo. And now may I go away in peace?
Helen [rising]. Yes.
Gerardo. A last kiss?
Helen. Yes, yes, yes. [They kiss passionately.]
Gerardo. In a year I am booked again to sing here, Helen.
Helen. In a year! Oh, I am glad!
Gerardo [tenderly]. Helen!
[Helen presses his hand, takes a revolver out of her muff, shoots herself and falls.]
Gerardo. Helen! [He totters and collapses in an armchair.]
Bell Boy [rushing in]. My God! Mr. Gerardo! [Gerardo remains motionless; the Bell Boy rushes toward Helen.]
Gerardo [jumping up, running to the door and colliding with the manager of the hotel]. Send for the police! I must be arrested! If I went away now I should be a brute, and if I stay I break my contract. I still have [looking at his watch] one minute and ten seconds.
Manager. Fred, run and get a policeman.
Bell Boy. All right, sir.
Manager. Be quick about it. [To Gerardo.] Don't take it too hard, sir. Those things happen once in a while.
Gerardo [kneeling before Helen's body and taking her hand]. Helen!... She still lives—she still lives! If I am arrested I am not wilfully breaking my contract.... And my trunks? Is the carriage at the door?
Manager. It has been waiting twenty minutes, Mr. Gerardo. [He opens the door for the porter, who takes down one of the trunks.]
Gerardo [bending over her]. Helen! [To himself.] Well, after all.... [To Muller.] Have you called a doctor?
Manager. Yes, we had the doctor called at once. He will be here at any minute.
Gerardo [holding her under the arms]. Helen! Don't you know me any more? Helen! The doctor will be here right away, Helen. This is your Oscar.
Bell Boy [appearing in the door at the center]. Can't find any policeman, sir.
Gerardo [letting Helen's body drop back]. Well, if I can't get arrested, that settles it. I must catch that train and sing in Brussels to-morrow night. [He takes up his score and runs out through the center door, bumping against several chairs.]
[Curtain.]
A GOOD WOMAN
A Farce
By Arnold Bennett
CHARACTERS
James Brett [a Clerk in the War Office, 33].
Gerald O'Mara [a Civil Engineer, 24].
Rosamund Fife [a Spinster and a Lecturer on Cookery, 28].
Reprinted from "Polite Farces," published by George H. Doran Company, by special arrangement with Mr. Arnold Bennett.
A GOOD WOMAN
A Farce
By Arnold Bennett
[Scene: Rosamund's Flat; the drawing-room. The apartment is plainly furnished. There is a screen in the corner of the room furthest from the door. It is 9 A. M. Rosamund is seated alone at a table. She wears a neat travelling-dress, with a plain straw hat. Her gloves lie on a chair. A small portable desk full of papers is open before her. She gazes straight in front of her, smiling vaguely. With a start she recovers from her daydreams, and rushing to the looking-glass, inspects her features therein. Then she looks at her watch.]
Rosamund. Three hours yet! I'm a fool [with decision. She sits down again, and idly picks up a paper out of the desk. The door opens, unceremoniously but quietly, and James enters. The two stare at each other, James wearing a conciliatory smile].
Rosamund. You appalling creature!
James. I couldn't help it, I simply couldn't help it.
Rosamund. Do you know this is the very height and summit of indelicacy?
James. I was obliged to come.
Rosamund. If I had any relations—
James. Which you haven't.
Rosamund. I say if I had any relations—
James. I say which you haven't.
Rosamund. Never mind, it is a safe rule for unattached women always to behave as if they had relations, especially female relations whether they have any or not. My remark is, that if I had any relations they would be absolutely scandalized by this atrocious conduct of yours.
James. What have I done?
Rosamund. Can you ask? Here are you, and here am I. We are to be married to-day at twelve o'clock. The ceremony has not taken place, and yet you are found on my premises. You must surely be aware that on the day of the wedding the parties—yes, the "parties," that is the word—should on no account see each other till they see each other in church.
James. But since we are to be married at a registry office, does the rule apply?
Rosamund. Undoubtedly.
James. Then I must apologize. My excuse is that I am not up in these minute details of circumspection; you see I have been married so seldom.
Rosamund. Evidently. [A pause, during which James at last ventures to approach the middle of the room.] Now you must go back home, and we'll pretend we haven't seen each other.
James. Never, Rosamund! That would be acting a lie. And I couldn't dream of getting married with a lie on my lips. It would be so unusual. No; we have sinned, or rather I have sinned, on this occasion. I will continue to sin—openly, brazenly. Come here, my dove. A bird in the hand is worth two under a bushel. [He assumes an attitude of entreaty, and, leaving her chair, Rosamund goes towards him. They exchange an ardent kiss.]
Rosamund [quietly submissive]. I'm awfully busy, you know, Jim.
James. I will assist you in your little duties, dearest, and then I will accompany you to the sacred ed—to the registry office. Now, what were you doing? [She sits down, and he puts a chair for himself close beside her.]
Rosamund. You are singularly unlike yourself this morning, dearest.
James. Nervous tension, my angel. I should have deemed it impossible that an employé of the War Office could experience the marvelous and exquisite sensations now agitating my heart. But tell me, what are you doing with these papers?
Rosamund. Well, I was just going to look through them and see if they contained anything of a remarkable or valuable nature. You see, I hadn't anything to occupy myself with.
James. Was 'oo bored, waiting for the timey-pimey to come?
Rosamund [hands caressing]. 'Iss, little pet was bored, she was. Was Mr. Pet lonely this morning? Couldn't he keep away from his little cooky-lecturer? He should see his little cooky-lecturer.
James. And that reminds me, hadn't we better lunch in the train instead of at Willis's? That will give us more time?
Rosamund. Horrid greedy piggywiggy! Perhaps he will be satisfied if Mrs. Pet agrees to lunch both at Willis's and in the train?
James. Yes. Only piggywiggy doesn't want to trespass on Mrs. Pet's good nature. Let piggywiggy look at the papers. [He takes up a paper from the desk.]
Rosamund [a little seriously]. No, Jimmy. I don't think we'll go through them. Perhaps it wouldn't be wise. Just let's destroy them. [Takes papers from his hand and drops them in desk.]
James [sternly]. When you have been the wife of a War Office clerk for a week you will know that papers ought never to be destroyed. Now I come to think, it is not only my right but my duty to examine this secret dossier. Who knows—[Takes up at random another document, which proves to be a postcard. Reads.] "Shall come to-morrow night. Thine, Gerald."
Rosamund [after a startled shriek of consternation]. There! There! You've done it, first time! [She begins to think, with knitted brows.]
James. Does this highly suspicious postcard point to some—some episode in your past of which you have deemed it advisable to keep me in ignorance? If so, I seek not to inquire. I forgive you—I take you, Rosamund, as you are!
Rosamund [reflective, not heeding his remark]. I had absolutely forgotten the whole affair, absolutely. [Smiles a little. Aside.] Suppose he should come! [To James.] Jim, I think I had better tell you all about Gerald. It will interest you. Besides, there is no knowing what may happen.
James. As I have said, I seek not to inquire. [Stiffly.] Nor do I imagine that this matter, probably some childish entanglement, would interest me.
Rosamund. Oh, wouldn't it! Jim, don't be absurd. You know perfectly well you are dying to hear.
James. Very well, save my life, then, at the least expense of words. To begin with, who is this Gerald—"thine," thine own Gerald?
Rosamund. Don't you remember Gerald O'Mara? You met him at the Stokes's, I feel sure. You know—the young engineer.
James. Oh! That ass!
Rosamund. He isn't an ass. He's a very clever boy.
James. For the sake of argument and dispatch, agreed! Went out to Cyprus or somewhere, didn't he, to build a bridge, or make a dock, or dig a well, or something of that kind?
Rosamund [nodding]. Now, listen, I'll tell you all about it. [Settles herself for a long narration.] Four years ago poor, dear Gerald was madly in love with me. He was twenty and I was twenty-four. Keep calm—I felt like his aunt. Don't forget I was awfully pretty in those days. Well, he was so tremendously in love that in order to keep him from destroying himself—of course, I knew he was going out to Cyprus—I sort of pretended to be sympathetic. I simply had to; Irishmen are so passionate. And he was very nice. And I barely knew you then. Well, the time approached for him to leave for Cyprus, and two days before the ship sailed he sent me that very postcard that by pure chance you picked up.
James. He should have written a letter.
Rosamund. Oh! I expect he couldn't wait. He was so impulsive. Well, on the night before he left England he came here and proposed to me. I remember I was awfully tired and queer. I had been giving a lecture in the afternoon on "How to Pickle Pork," and the practical demonstration had been rather smelly. However, the proposal braced me up. It was the first I had had—that year. Well, I was so sorry for him that I couldn't say "No" outright. It would have been too brutal. He might have killed himself on the spot, and spoilt this carpet, which, by the way, was new then. So I said, "Look here, Gerald—"
James. You called him "Gerald"?
Rosamund. Rather! "Look here, Gerald," I said; "you are going to Cyprus for four years. If your feeling towards me is what you think it is, come back to me at the end of those four years, and I will then give you an answer." Of course I felt absolutely sure that in the intervening period he would fall in and out of love half a dozen times at least.
James. Of course, half a dozen times at least; probably seven. What did he say in reply?
Rosamund. He agreed with all the seriousness in the world. "On this day four years hence," he said, standing just there [pointing], "I will return for your answer. And in the meantime I will live only for you." That was what he said—his very words.
James. And a most touching speech, too! And then?
Rosamund. We shook hands, and he tore himself away, stifling a sob. Don't forget, he was a boy.
James. Have the four years expired?
Rosamund. What is the date of that postcard? Let me see it. [Snatches it, and smiles at the handwriting pensively.] July 4th—four years ago.
James. Then it's over. He's not coming. To-day is July 5th.
Rosamund. But yesterday was Sunday. He wouldn't come on Sunday. He was always very particular and nice.
James. Do you mean to imply that you think he will come to-day and demand from you an affirmative? A moment ago you gave me to understand that in your opinion he would have—er—other affairs to attend to.
Rosamund. Yes. I did think so at the time. But now—now I have a kind of idea that he may come, that after all he may have remained faithful. You know I was maddeningly pretty then, and he had my photograph.
James. Tell me, have you corresponded?
Rosamund. No, I expressly forbade it.
James. Ah!
Rosamund. But still, I have a premonition he may come.
James [assuming a pugnacious pose]. If he does, I will attend to him.
Rosamund. Gerald was a terrible fighter. [A resounding knock is heard at the door. Both start violently, and look at each other in silence. Rosamund goes to the door and opens it.]
Rosamund [with an unsteady laugh of relief]. Only the postman with a letter. [She returns to her seat.] No, I don't expect he will come, really. [Puts letter idly on table. Another knock still louder. Renewed start.]
Rosamund. Now that is he, I'm positive. He always knocked like that. Just fancy. After four years! Jim, just take the chair behind that screen for a bit. I must hide you.
James. No, thanks! The screen dodge is a trifle too frayed at the edges.
Rosamund. Only for a minute. It would be such fun.
James. No, thanks. [Another knock.]
Rosamund [with forced sweetness]. Oh, very well, then....
James. Oh, well, of course, if you take it in that way—[He proceeds to a chair behind screen, which does not, however, hide him from the audience.]
Rosamund [smiles his reward]. I'll explain it all right. [Loudly.] Come in! [Enter Gerald O'Mara.]
Gerald. So you are in! [Hastens across room to shake hands.]
Rosamund. Oh, yes, I am in. Gerald, how are you? I must say you look tolerably well. [They sit down.]
Gerald. Oh, I'm pretty fit, thanks. Had the most amazing time in spite of the climate. And you? Rosie, you haven't changed a little bit. How's the cookery trade getting along? Are you still showing people how to concoct French dinners out of old bones and a sardine tin?
Rosamund. Certainly. Only I can do it without the bones now. You see, the science has progressed while you've been stagnating in Cyprus.
Gerald. Stagnating is the word. You wouldn't believe that climate!
Rosamund. What! Not had nice weather? What a shame! I thought it was tremendously sunshiny in Cyprus.
Gerald. Yes, that's just what it is, 97° in the shade when it doesn't happen to be pouring with malarial rain. We started a little golf club at Nicosia, and laid out a nine-hole course. But the balls used to melt. So we had to alter the rules, keep the balls in an ice-box, and take a fresh one at every hole. Think of that!
Rosamund. My poor boy! But I suppose there were compensations? You referred to "an amazing time."
Gerald. Yes, there were compensations. And that reminds me, I want you to come out and lunch with me at the Savoy. I've got something awfully important to ask you. In fact, that's what I've come for.
Rosamund. Sorry I can't, Gerald. The fact is, I've got something awfully important myself just about lunch time.
Gerald. Oh, yours can wait. Look here, I've ordered the lunch. I made sure you'd come. [Rosamund shakes her head.] Why can't you? It's not cooking, is it?
Rosamund. Only a goose.
Gerald. What goose?
Rosamund. Well—my own, and somebody else's. Listen, Gerald. Had you not better ask me this awfully important question now? No time like the present.
Gerald. I can always talk easier, especially on delicate topics, with a pint of something handy. But if you positively won't come, I'll get it off my chest now. The fact is, Rosie, I'm in love.
Rosamund. With whom?
Gerald. Ah! That's just what I want you to tell me.
Rosamund [suddenly starting]. Gerald! what is that dreadful thing sticking out of your pocket, and pointing right at me?
Gerald. That? That's my revolver. Always carry them in Cyprus, you know. Plenty of sport there.
Rosamund [breathing again]. Kindly take it out of your pocket and put it on the table. Then if it does go off it will go off into something less valuable than a cookery-lecturer.
Gerald [laughingly obeying her]. There. If anything happens it will happen to the screen. Now, Rosie, I'm in love, and I desire that you should tell me whom I'm in love with. There's a magnificent girl in Cyprus, daughter of the Superintendent of Police—
Rosamund. Name?
Gerald. Evelyn. Age nineteen. I tell you I was absolutely gone on her.
Rosamund. Symptoms?
Gerald. Well—er—whenever her name was mentioned I blushed terrifically. Of course, that was only one symptom.... Then I met a girl on the home steamer—no father or mother. An orphan, you know, awfully interesting.
Rosamund. Name?
Gerald. Madge. Nice name, isn't it? [Rosamund nods.] I don't mind telling you, I was considerably struck by her—still am, in fact.
Rosamund. Symptoms?
Gerald. Oh!... Let me see, I never think of her without turning absolutely pale. I suppose it's what they call "pale with passion." Notice it?
Rosamund [somewhat coldly]. It seems to me the situation amounts to this. There are two girls. One is named Evelyn, and the thought of her makes you blush. The other is named Madge, and the thought of her makes you turn pale. You fancy yourself in love, and you wish me to decide for you whether it is Madge or Evelyn who agitates your breast the more deeply.
Gerald. That's not exactly the way to put it, Rosie. You take a fellow up too soon. Of course I must tell you lots more yet. You should hear Evelyn play the "Moonlight Sonata." It's the most marvelous thing.... And then Madge's eyes! The way that girl can look at a fellow.... I'm telling you all these things, you know, Rosie, because I've always looked up to you as an elder sister.
Rosamund [after a pause, during which she gazes into his face]. I suppose it was in my character of your elder sister, that you put a certain question to me four years ago last night?
Gerald [staggered; pulls himself together for a great resolve; after a long pause]. Rosie! I never thought afterwards you'd take it seriously. I forgot it all. I was only a boy then. [Speaking quicker and quicker.] But I see clearly now. I never could withstand you. It's all rot about Evelyn and Madge. It's you I'm in love with; and I never guessed it! Rosie!... [Rushes to her and impetuously flings his arms around her neck.]
James [who, during the foregoing scene, has been full of uneasy gestures; leaping with incredible swiftness from the shelter of the screen]. Sir!
Rosamund [pushing Gerald quickly away]. Gerald!
James. May I inquire, sir, what is the precise significance of this attitudinising? [Gerald has scarcely yet abandoned his amorous pose, but now does so quickly]. Are we in the middle of a scene from "Romeo and Juliet," or is this 9:30 A. M. in the nineteenth century? If Miss Fife had played the "Moonlight Sonata" to you, or looked at you as Madge does, there might perhaps have been some shadow of an excuse for your extraordinary and infamous conduct. But since she has performed neither of these feats of skill, I fail to grasp—I say I fail to grasp—er—
Gerald [slowly recovering from an amazement which has rendered him mute]. Rosie, a man concealed in your apartment! But perhaps it is the piano-tuner. I am willing to believe the best.
Rosamund. Let me introduce Mr. James Brett, my future husband. Jim, this is Gerald.
James. I have gathered as much. [The men bow stiffly.]
Rosamund [dreamily]. Poor, poor Gerald! [Her tone is full of feeling. James is evidently deeply affected by it. He walks calmly and steadily to the table and picks up the revolver.]
Gerald. Sir, that tool is mine.
James. Sir, the fact remains that it is an engine of destruction, and that I intend to use it. Rosamund, the tone in which you uttered those three words, "Poor, poor Gerald!" convinces me, a keen observer of symptoms, that I no longer possess your love. Without your love, life to me is meaningless. I object to anything meaningless—even a word. I shall therefore venture to deprive myself of life. Good-by! [To Gerald.] Sir, I may see you later. [Raises the revolver to his temples.]
Rosamund [appealing to Gerald to interfere]. Gerald.
Gerald. Mr. Brett, I repeat that that revolver is mine. It would be a serious breach of good manners if you used it without my consent, a social solecism of which I believe you, as a friend of Miss Fife's, to be absolutely incapable. Still, as the instrument happens to be in your hand, you may use it—but not on yourself. Have the goodness, sir, to aim at me. I could not permit myself to stand in the way of another's happiness, as I should do if I continued to exist. At the same time I have conscientious objections to suicide. You will therefore do me a service by aiming straight. Above all things, don't hit Miss Fife. I merely mention it because I perceive that you are unaccustomed to the use of firearms. [Folds his arms.]
James. Rosamund, do you love me?
Rosamund. My Jim!
James [deeply moved]. The possessive pronoun convinces me that you do. [Smiling blandly.] Sir, I will grant your most reasonable demand. [Aims at Gerald.]
Rosamund [half shrieking]. I don't love you if you shoot Gerald.
James. But, my dear, this is irrational. He has asked me to shoot him, and I have as good as promised to do so.
Rosamund [entreating]. James, in two hours we are to be married.... Think of the complications.
Gerald. Married! To-day! Then I withdraw my request.
James. Yes; perhaps it will be as well. [Lowers revolver.]
Gerald. I have never yet knowingly asked a friend, even an acquaintance, to shoot me on his wedding-day, and I will not begin now. Moreover, now I come to think of it, the revolver wasn't loaded. Mr. Brett, I inadvertently put you in a ridiculous position. I apologize.
James. I accept the apology. [The general tension slackens. Both the men begin to whistle gently, in the effort after unconcern.]
Rosamund. Jim, will you oblige me by putting that revolver down somewhere. I know it isn't loaded; but so many people have been killed by guns that weren't loaded that I should feel safer.... [He puts it down on the table.] Thank you!
James [picking up letter]. By the way, here's that letter that came just now. Aren't you going to open it? The writing seems to me to be something like Lottie Dickinson's.
Rosamund [taking the letter]. It isn't Lottie's; it's her sister's. [Stares at envelope.] I know what it is. I know what it is. Lottie is ill, or dead, or something, and can't come and be a witness at the wedding. I'm sure it's that. Now, if she's dead we can't be married to-day; it wouldn't be decent. And it's frightfully unlucky to have a wedding postponed. Oh, but there isn't a black border on the envelope, so she can't be dead. And yet perhaps it was so sudden they hadn't time to buy mourning stationery! This is the result of your coming here this morning. I felt sure something would happen. Didn't I tell you so?
James. No, you didn't, my dear. But why don't you open the letter?
Rosamund. I am opening it as fast as I can. [Reads it hurriedly.] There! I said so! Lottie fell off her bicycle last night, and broke her ankle—won't be able to stir for a fortnight—in great pain—hopes it won't inconvenience us!
James. Inconvenience! I must say I regard it as very thoughtless of Lottie to go bicycling the very night before our wedding. Where did she fall off?
Rosamund. Sloane Street.
James. That makes it positively criminal. She always falls off in Sloane Street. She makes a regular practice of it. I have noticed it before.
Rosamund. Perhaps she did it on purpose.
James. Not a doubt of it!
Rosamund. She doesn't want us to get married!
James. I have sometimes suspected that she had a certain tenderness for me. [Endeavoring to look meek.]
Rosamund. The cat!
James. By no means. Cats are never sympathetic. She is. Let us be just before we are jealous.
Rosamund. Jealous! My dear James! Have you noticed how her skirts hang?
James. Hang her skirts!
Rosamund. You wish to defend her?
James. On the contrary; it was I who first accused her. [Gerald, to avoid the approaching storm, seeks the shelter of the screen, sits down, and taking some paper from his pocket begins thoughtfully to write.]
Rosamund. My dear James, let me advise you to keep quite, quite calm. You are a little bit upset.
James. I am a perfect cucumber. But I can hear you breathing.
Rosamund. If you are a cucumber, you are a very indelicate cucumber. I'm not breathing more than is necessary to sustain life.
James. Yes, you are; and what's more you'll cry in a minute if you don't take care. You're getting worked up.
Rosamund. No, I shan't. [Sits down and cries.]
James. What did I tell you? Now perhaps you will inform me what we are quarreling about, because I haven't the least idea.
Rosamund [through her sobs]. I do think it's
horrid
of Lottie. We can't be married with one witness. And I didn't want to be married at a registry office at all.James. My pet, we can easily get another witness. As for the registry office, it was yourself who proposed it, as a way out of a difficulty. I'm High and you're Low—
Rosamund. I'm not Low; I'm Broad, or else Evangelical.
James [beginning calmly again]. I'm High and you're Broad, and there was a serious question about candles and a genuflexion, and so we decided on the registry office, which, after all, is much cheaper.
Rosamund [drying her tears, and putting on a saintly expression]. Well, anyhow, James, we will consider our engagement at an end.
James. This extraordinary tiff has lasted long enough, Rosie. Come and be kissed.
Rosamund [with increased saintliness]. You mistake me, James. I am not quarreling. I am not angry.
James. Then you have ceased to love me?
Rosamund. I adore you passionately. But we can never marry. Do you not perceive the warnings against such a course? First of all you come here—drawn by some mysterious, sinister impulse—in breach of all etiquette. That was a Sign.
James. A sign of what?
Rosamund. Evil. Then you find that postcard, to remind me of a forgotten episode.
James. Damn the postcard! I wish I'd never picked it up.
Rosamund. Hush! Then comes this letter about Lottie.
James. Damn that, too!
Rosamund [sighs]. Then Gerald arrives.
James. Damn him, too! By the way, where is he?
Gerald [coming out from behind the screen]. Sir, if you want to influence my future state by means of a blasphemous expletive, let me beg you to do it when ladies are not present. There are certain prayers which should only be uttered in the smoking-room. [The two men stab each other with their eyes.]
James. I respectfully maintain, Mr. O'Mara, that you had no business to call on my future wife within three hours of her wedding, and throw her into such a condition of alarm and unrest that she doesn't know whether she is going to get married or not.
Gerald. Sir! How in the name of Heaven was I to guess—
Rosamund [rising, with an imperative gesture]. Stop! Sit down, both. James [who hesitates], this is the last request I shall ever make of you. [He sits]. Let me speak. Long ago, from a mistaken motive of kindness, I gave this poor boy [pointing to Gerald] to understand that I loved him; that any rate I should love him in time. Supported by that assurance, he existed for four years through the climatic terrors of a distant isle. I, pampered with all the superfluities of civilization, forgot this noble youth in his exile. I fell selfishly in love. I promised to marry ... while he, with nothing to assuage the rigors—
James. Pardon me, there was Evelyn's "Moonlight Sonata," not to mention Madge's eyes.
Rosamund. You jest, James, but the jest is untimely. Has he not himself said that these doubtless excellent young women were in fact nothing to him, that it was my image which he kept steadfastly in his heart?
Gerald. Ye—es, of course, Rosie.
Rosamund [chiefly to James]. The sight of this poor youth fills me with sorrow and compunction and shame. For it reminds me that four years ago I lied to him.
Gerald. It was awfully good of you, you know.
Rosamund. That is beside the point. At an earlier period of this unhappy morning, James, you asseverated that you could not dream of getting married with a lie on your lips. Neither can I. James, I love you to madness. [Takes his inert hand, shakes it, and drops it again.] Good-by, James! Henceforth we shall be strangers. My duty is towards Gerald.
Gerald. But if you love him?
Rosamund. With a good woman, conscience comes first, love second. In time I shall learn to love you. I was always quick at lessons. Gerald, take me. It is the only way by which I can purge my lips of the lie uttered four years ago. [Puts her hands on Gerald's shoulders.]
James. In about three-quarters of an hour you will regret this, Rosamund Fife.
Rosamund. One never regrets a good action.
Gerald. Oh! well! I say.... [inarticulate with embarrassment].
Rosamund [after a pause]. James, we are waiting.
James. What for?
Rosamund. For you to go.
James. Don't mind me. You forget that I am in the War Office, and accustomed to surprising situations.
Gerald. Look here, Rosie. It's awfully good of you, and you're doing me a frightfully kind turn; but I can't accept it, you know. It wouldn't do. Kindness spoils my character.
James. Yes, and think of the shock to the noble youth.
Gerald. I couldn't permit such a sacrifice.
Rosamund. To a good woman life should be one long sacrifice.
Gerald. Yes, that's all very well, and I tell you, Rosie, I'm awfully obliged to you. Of course I'm desperately in love with you. That goes without saying. But I also must sacrifice myself. The fact is ... there's Madge....
Rosamund. Well?
Gerald. Well, you know what a place a steamer is, especially in calm, warm weather. I'm afraid I've rather led her to expect.... The fact is, while you and Mr. Brett were having your little discussion just now, I employed the time in scribbling out a bit of a letter to her, and I rather fancy that I've struck one or two deuced good ideas in the proposal line. How's this for a novelty: "My dear Miss Madge, you cannot fail to have noticed from my behavior in your presence that I admire you tremendously?" Rather a neat beginning, eh?
Rosamund. But you said you loved me.
Gerald. Oh, well, so I do. You see I only state that I "admire" her. All the same I feel I'm sort of bound to her, ... you see how I'm fixed. I should much prefer, of course....
James. To a good man life should be one long sacrifice.
Gerald. Exactly, sir.
Rosamund [steadying herself and approaching James]. Jim, my sacrifice is over. It was a terrible ordeal, and nothing but a strict sense of duty could have supported me through such a trying crisis. I am yours. Lead me to the altar. I trust Gerald may be happy with this person named Madge.
James. The flame of your love has not faltered?
Rosamund. Ah, no!
James. Well, if my own particular flame hadn't been fairly robust, the recent draughts might have knocked it about a bit. You have no more sacrifices in immediate view?... [She looks at him in a certain marvelous way, and he suddenly swoops down and kisses her.] To the altar! March! Dash; we shall want another witness.
Gerald. Couldn't I serve?
Rosamund. You're sure it wouldn't be too much for your feelings?
Gerald. I should enjoy it.... I mean I shan't mind very much. Let us therefore start. If we're too soon you can watch the process at work on others, and learn how to comport yourselves. By the way, honeymoon?
James. Paris. Charing Cross 1:30. Dine at Dover.
Gerald. Then you shall eat that lunch I have ordered at the Savoy.
Rosamund. Er—talking of lunch, as I'm hostess here, perhaps I should ask you men if you'd like a drink.
James and Gerald [looking hopefully at each other]. Well, yes.
Rosamund. I have some beautiful lemonade.
James AND Gerald [still looking at each other, but with a different expression]. Oh, that will be delightful! [Lemonade and glasses produced.]
Gerald. I drink to the happy pair.
Rosamund [a little sinister]. And I—to Madge.
James. And I—to a good woman—Mrs. Pet [looking at her fixedly]. All men like a good woman, but she shouldn't be too good—it's a strain on the system. [General consumption of lemonade, the men bravely swallowing it down, Rosamund rests her head on James's shoulder.]
Rosamund. It occurs to me, Gerald, you only ordered lunch for two at the Savoy.
Gerald. Well, that's right. By that time you and James, if I may call him so, will be one, and me makes two.
[Curtain.]
THE LITTLE STONE HOUSE
A Play
By George Calderon
Copyright, 1913, by Sidgwick & Jackson, Ltd.
All rights reserved.
The Little Stone House is founded on a story by the same author, published anonymously some years ago in Temple Bar.
The agents for amateur rights in this play are Messrs. Samuel French, 28 West 38th Street, New York, and Joseph Williams, Ltd., 32 Great Portland Street, London, from whom a license to play it in public must be obtained.
It was first performed for the Stage Society at the Aldwych Theatre, London, January 29, 1911, with the following cast:
Praskóvya,
a lodging-house keeperMrs. Saba Raleigh
Varvára,
her servantMiss Eily Malyon
Astéryi,
a lodgerMr. Franklin Dyall
Fomá,
a lodgerMr. Stephen T. Ewart
Spiridón,
a stonemasonMr. Leon M. Lion
A StrangerMr. O. P. Heggie
A CorporalMr. E. Cresfan
Produced by Mr. Kenelm Foss.
Scene: Small provincial town in Russia.
Reprinted by permission of, and special arrangement with, Messrs. Sidgwick and
Jackson, Ltd., publishers of the English edition.
THE LITTLE STONE HOUSE
A Play
By George Calderon
[Praskóvya's sitting-room. Street door in porch and a curtainless window at the back. It is night; the light of an oil-lamp in the street dimly shows snow-covered houses and falling snow. The room is plainly furnished: a bed, a curtain on a cord, some books, eikons on a shelf in the corner with a wick in a red glass bowl burning before them, paper flowers, and Easter eggs on strings. A photograph of a man of twenty hangs by the eikons. There are doors to kitchen and to the lodgers' rooms.
Varvára is discovered sitting by a lamp darning stockings.
There is an atmosphere of silence, solitude, and Russian monotony. The clock ticks. A man is seen passing in the street; his feet make no sound on the snowy ground. There is the sound of a concertina and a man who laughs in the distance out of doors. Then silence again.
Enter Astéryi, stout and lazy; gray hair thrown untidily back, a rough beard. He is in slippers and dirty dressing-gown, with a big case full of Russian cigarettes in his pocket.]
Ast. Is Praskóvya Petróvna not at home?
Var. [rising]. She is not at home, Astéryi Ivanovitch. She has gone to Vespers at St. Pantaléimon's in the Marsh. It is the festival of the translation of St. Pantaléimon's relics. [Varvára sits again. Astéryi walks to and fro smoking a cigarette.] Will you not have your game of patience as usual?
Ast. Without Praskóvya Petróvna?
Var. She would be sorry if you missed your game because she was late. You can play again when she returns; she likes to watch you.
Ast. Very well.
[Varvára gets a pack of cards. Astéryi sits at a table at one side and plays.]
Var. Shall I prepare the samovar?
Ast. Not yet; I will wait. How greasy these cards are [laying out a patience].
Var. No wonder, Astéryi Ivanovitch. It is two years since you bought this pack.
A Voice [without]. Varvára! Varvára! There is no water in my jug.
Ast. There is one of the lodgers calling you.
Var. It is the schoolmaster.
Ast. Better not keep him waiting; he is an angry man.
Var. I will go. Excuse me, please.
[Exit Varvára. The clock ticks again. Astéryi pauses and meditates, then murmurs, "Oh, Hóspodi!" as if in surprise at being so terribly bored. The concertina plays a few notes. A knock at the street door.]
Ast. Who's there? Come in, come in!
[Enter Spiridón, a man with a cringing, crafty manner, in a sheepskin coat with snow on it. He stands by the door, facing the eikon, crossing himself with large gestures and bowing very low towards it.]
Spir. [looking round]. Good-day, sir, good-day. [Crossing himself again.] May the holy saints preserve all in this house.
Ast. Ah! it's you, Spiridón?
Spir. Yes, sir. It is Spiridón the stonemason.
Ast. What brings you here, Spiridón?
Spir. Is Praskóvya Petróvna not at home?
Ast. No, she has gone to Vespers at St. Pantaléimon's in the Marsh.
Spir. The service is late to-night.
Ast. Yes.... You are a hard man, Spiridón.
Spir. Me, sir!
Ast. And you lose money by your hardness. Praskóvya Petróvna is a poor woman. For years she has been saving up money to build a stone house over the grave of her son in the Tróitski Cemetery. You say that you will build it for 500 roubles, but you ask too much. By starving herself and pinching in every way she has saved up 400 roubles at last, and if you were a wise man you would accept it. For see, she is old; if she starve herself to save up another 100 roubles she will be dead before she has got it; her money will be sent back to her village or it will go into the pocket of some official, and you will not have the tomb-house to build at all.
Spir. I have thought of all these things, Astéryi Ivanovitch, since you last spoke to me about it. And I said to myself: Astéryi Ivanovitch is perhaps right; it is not only Praskóvya Petróvna who is old; I myself am old also, and may die before she has saved up money enough. But it is very hard to work and be underpaid. Good Valdai stone is expensive and hard to cut, and workmen nowadays ask for unholy wages. Still, I said to myself, a tomb-house for her son—it is a God-fearing work: and I have resolved to make the sacrifice. I have come to tell her I will consent to build it for 400 roubles.
Ast. You have done rightly. You are an honest man, and God and St. Nicholas will perhaps save your soul.
[Enter Fomá in cap and great-coat from the door to the lodgers' rooms.]
Fomá. Good-evening, Astéryi Ivanovitch. Is Praskóvya not at home?
Ast. No, she is at Vespers.
Fomá. I come in and find my stove smoking. [Taking of his coat.] I wished to ask her permission to sit here awhile to escape a headache. Who is this? Ah, Spiridón. And by what miracle does Astéryi Ivanovitch hope that God and St. Nicholas will save your soul?
Ast. He has consented to build Praskóvya Petróvna the tomb-house over Sasha's grave for 400 roubles instead of 500.
Fomá. That is good! She will be glad to hear the news, and shake hands on the bargain, and christen the earnest-money with vodka.
Spir. The earnest-money? Ah no, sir, there can be no earnest-money. The whole sum of money must be paid at once. I am a poor man. I must pay the quarryman for the stone; my workmen cannot live on air.
Ast. If she has the money she will pay you.
Fomá. Well, if there is to be no earnest-money, at least we will have the vodka. Vodka is always good.
Ast. [to Spiridón]. Sit down and wait till she returns. She will not be long.
Spir. No, no; I will come again in an hour. I have to go to my brother-in-law two streets away. [Crossing himself before the eikons.] I will come again as I return.
[The tap of drums in the street.]
Ast. Why are they beating drums?
Fomá. It is a patrol passing.
Spir. The soldiers are very watchful to-day.
Fomá. It is because the Empress comes this way to-morrow on her journey to Smolensk.
Spir. They have arrested many suspicious people. All those who have no passports are being sent away to Siberia.
Fomá. Ah! poor creatures! [A patrol of soldiers passes the window quietly].
Spir. Why should you say "poor creatures"? If they were honest men they would not be without passports. Good-evening.
Fomá. Wait till they have gone.
Spir. We honest men have nothing to fear from them. Good-evening. I will return again in an hour. [Exit Spiridón.]
Fomá. How glad Praskóvya will be.
Ast. Say nothing of this to any one. We will keep it as a surprise.
[Enter Varvára.]
Fomá. Varvára, my pretty child, fetch the bottle of vodka from my room.
Var. Vodka in here? Praskóvya Petróvna will be angry.
Fomá. No, she will not be angry; she will be glad. [Exit Varvára.] Do you play patience here every night?
Ast. Every night for more than twenty years.
Fomá. What is it called?
Ast. It is called the Wolf!
Fomá. Does it ever come out?
Ast. It has come out twice. The first time I found a purse in the street which somebody had lost. The second time the man above me at the office died, and I got his place.
Fomá. It brings good luck then?
Ast. To me at least.
Fomá. How glad Praskóvya Petróvna will be!
[Enter Varvára with vodka bottle, which she sets on a table; no one drinks from it yet.]
Var. Do you not want to drink tea?
Fomá. Very much, you rogue.
Var. Then I will set the samovar for both of you in here. [She gets out tumblers, lemon and sugar.]
Ast. I did wrong in moving the seven.
Fomá. Put it back then.
Ast. It is too late. Once it has been moved, it must not be put back.
[Enter Praskóvya from the street hurriedly with a lantern.]
Pras. [crossing herself]. Hóspodi Bózhe moy!
Var. [running to her, frightened]. Have you seen him again?
Pras. [agitated]. I do not know. There seemed to be men standing everywhere in the shadows.... Good-evening, Fomá Ilyitch, good-evening, Astéryi Ivanovitch.
[Varvára goes out, and brings in the samovar.]
Fomá. I have been making myself at home; my stove smoked.
Pras. Sit down, sit down! What ceremony! Why should you not be here? And vodka too? What is the vodka for?
Ast. I will tell you when I have finished my patience. [They all drink tea.]
Pras. So you are playing already.
Ast. If it comes out, the good luck that it brings shall be for you!
Pras. For me? [They all watch Astéryi playing.] The knave goes on the queen. [A pause.]
Fomá. That is unfortunate.
Var. You should not have moved the ten. [A pause.]
Ast. That will be better. [A pause.]
Pras. How brightly the eikon lamp burns before the portrait of my boy.
Var. It does indeed.
Pras. It is the new fire from the Candlemas taper.
Fomá. It is the new oil that makes it burn brightly.
Pras. [crossing herself]. Nonsense! it is the new fire.
Fomá. Did ever one hear such stuff? She put out the lamp at Candlemas, and lighted it anew from the taper which she brought home from the midnight service, from the new fire struck by the priest with flint and steel; and now she thinks that is the reason why it burns so brightly.
Var. Is that not so then, Astéryi Ivanovitch?
Ast. Oh, Fomá Ilyitch is a chemist; he can tell you what fire is made of.
Fomá. So you have been all the way to St. Pantaléimon's in the Marsh? Oh, piety, thy name is Praskóvya Petróvna! Not a person can hold the most miserably little service in the remotest corner of the town but you smell it out and go to it.
Var. It is a Christian deed, Fomá Ilyitch.
Ast. Now I can get at the ace.
Var. [to Praskóvya]. I must get your supper. [She gets a plate of meat from a cupboard.]
Fomá. And on All Souls' Day she brought home holy water in a bottle and sprinkled the rooms of all the lodgers. The schoolmaster was very angry. You spotted the cover of his Greek Lexicon. He says it is a pagan custom, come down to us from the ancient Scythians.
Pras. I do not like to hear jokes about sacred things. One may provoke Heaven to anger.
Ast. Now I get all this row off.
Fomá. You are always afraid of offending Heaven.
Pras. Of course I am. Think what I have at stake. For you it is only a little thing. You have a life of your own on earth; I have none. I have been as good as dead for twenty years, and the only thing that I desire is to get safely to heaven to join my son who is there.
Fomá. We all wish to get to heaven.
Pras. Not so much as I do. If I were in hell it is not the brimstone that would matter; it would be to know that I should not see my son. [Fomá nods].
Ast. I believe it is coming out.
[They all concentrate their attention eagerly on the patience.]
Var. The six and the seven go. Saints preserve us! and the eight. [She takes up a card to move it.]
Ast. No, not that one; leave that.
Var. Where did it come from?
Ast. From here.
Pras. No, from there.
Var. It was from here.
Ast. It is all the same.
Fomá. It will go.
Pras. And the knave from off this row.
Var. The Wolf is going out!
Pras. It is seven years since it went out.
Fomá. Seven years?
Ast. It is out!
Pras. It is done!
Var. [clapping her hands]. Hooray!
Ast. [elated]. Some great good fortune is going to happen.
Var. What can it be? [A pause.]
Pras. And what is the vodka for?
Ast. The vodka?
Pras. You promised to tell me when the patience was done.
Ast. How much money have you saved up for the house on Sasha's tomb?
Pras. Four hundred and six roubles and a few kopecks.
Ast. And Spiridón asks for 500 roubles?
Pras. Five hundred roubles.
Ast. What if he should lower his price?
Pras. He will not lower his price.
Ast. What if he should say that he would take 450 roubles?
Pras. Why, if I went without food for a year.... [Laughing at herself.] If one could but live without food!
Ast. What if he should say that he would take 420 roubles?
Pras. Astéryi Ivanovitch, you know the proverb—the elbow is near, but you cannot bite it. I am old and feeble. I want it now, now, now. Shall I outlive the bitter winter? A shelter to sit in and talk to my son. A monument worthy of such a saint.
Ast. Spiridón has been here.
Pras. Spiridón has been here? What did he say? Tell me!
Ast. He will build it for 400 roubles.
Var. For 400 roubles!
Ast. He will return soon to strike a bargain.
Pras. Is it true?
Ast. As true as that I wear the cross.
Pras. Oh, all the holy saints be praised! Sláva Tebyé Hóspodi! [Kneeling before the eikons.] Oh, my darling Sasha, we will meet in a fine house, you and I, face to face. [She prostrates herself three times before the eikons.]
Var. Then this is the good luck.
Ast. No, this cannot be what the cards told us; for this had happened already before the Wolf came out.
Var. Then there is something else to follow?
Ast. Evidently.
Var. What can it be?
Ast. To-morrow perhaps we shall know.
Pras. [rising]. And in a month I shall have my tomb-house finished, for which I have been waiting twenty years! A little stone house safe against the rain. [Smiling and eager.] There will be a tile stove which I can light: in the middle a stone table and two chairs—one for me and one for my boy when he comes and sits with me, and....
Var. [at the window, shrieking]. Ah! Heaven defend us!
Pras. What is it?
Var. The face! the face!
Pras. The face again?
Fomá. What face?
Var. The face looked in at the window!
Ast. Whose face?
Var. It is the man that we have seen watching us in the cemetery.
Pras. [crossing herself]. Oh, Heaven preserve me from this man!
Fomá. [opening the street door]. There is nobody there.
Ast. This is a false alarm.
Fomá. People who tire their eyes by staring at window-panes at night often see faces looking in through them.
Pras. Oh, Hóspodi!
Ast. Spiridón will be returning soon. Have you the money ready?
Pras. The money? Yes, yes! I will get it ready. It is not here. Come, Varvára. [They put on coats and shawls.]
Ast. If it is in the bank we must wait till the daytime.
Pras. My money in the bank? I am not so foolish. [She lights the lantern.] Get the spade, Varvára. [Varvára goes out and fetches a spade.] It is buried in the field, in a place that no one knows but myself.
Ast. Are you not afraid to go out?
Pras. Afraid? No, I am not afraid.
Fomá. But your supper—you have not eaten your supper.
Pras. How can I think of supper at such a moment?
Fomá. No supper? Oh, what a wonderful thing is a mother's love!
Pras. [to Astéryi and Fomá]. Stay here till we return.
Var. [drawing back]. I am afraid, Praskóvya Petróvna.
Pras. Nonsense, there is nothing to fear.
Fomá. [throwing his coat over his back]. I will go with you to the corner of the street.
Ast. [shuffling the cards]. I must try one for myself.
Fomá. [mockingly]. What's the use? It will never come out.
Ast. [cheerfully]. Oh, it never does to be discouraged.
[Exeunt Praskóvya, Varvára, and Fomá. Astéryi plays patience. Everything is silent and monotonous again. The clock ticks.]
Fomá. [reënters, dancing and singing roguishly to the tune of the Russian folksong, "Vo sadú li v vogoróde"]:
In the shade there walked a maid
As fair as any flower,
Picking posies all of roses
For to deck her bower.
Ast. Don't make such a noise.
Fomá. I can't help it. I'm gay. I have a sympathetic soul. I rejoice with Praskóvya Petróvna. I think she is mad, but I rejoice with her.
Ast. So do I; but I don't disturb others on that account.
Fomá. Come, old grumbler, have a mouthful of vodka. [Melodramatically.] A glass of wine with Cæsar Borgia! [Singing.]
As she went adown the bent
She met a merry fellow,
He was drest in all his best
In red and blue and yellow.
So he was a saint, was he, that son of hers? Well, well, of what advantage is that? Saints are not so easy to love as sinners. You and I are not saints, are we, Astéryi Ivanovitch?
Ast. I do not care to parade my halo in public.
Fomá. Oh, as for me, I keep mine in a box under the bed; it only frightens people. Do you think he would have remained a saint all this time if he had lived?
Ast. Who can say?
Fomá. Nonsense! He would have become like the rest of us. Then why make all this fuss about him? Why go on for twenty years sacrificing her own life to a fantastic image?
Ast. Why not, if it please her to do so?
Fomá. Say what you please, but all the same she is mad; yes, Praskóvya is mad.
Ast. We call every one mad who is faithful to their ideas. If people think only of food and money and clothing we call them sane, but if they have ideas beyond those things we call them mad. I envy Praskóvya. Praskóvya has preserved in her old age what I myself have lost. I, too, had ideas once, but I have been unfaithful to them; they have evaporated and vanished.
Fomá. What ideas were these?
Ast. Liberty! Political regeneration!
Fomá. Ah, yes; you were a sad revolutionary once, I have been told.
Ast. I worshiped Liberty, as Praskóvya worships her Sasha. But I have lived my ideals down in the dull routine of my foolish, aimless life as an office hack, a clerk in the District Council, making copies that no one will ever see of documents that no one ever wants to read.... Suddenly there comes the Revolution; there is fighting in the streets; men raise the red flag; blood flows. I might go forth and strike a blow for that Liberty which I loved twenty years ago. But no, I have become indifferent. I do not care who wins, the Government or the Revolutionaries; it is all the same to me.
Fomá. You are afraid. One gets timid as one gets older.
Ast. Afraid? No. What have I to be afraid of? Death is surely not so much worse than life? No, it is because my idea is dead and cannot be made to live again, while Praskóvya, whose routine as a lodging-house keeper is a hundred times duller than mine, is still faithful to her old idea. Let us not call her mad; let us rather worship her as something holy, for her fidelity to an idea in this wretched little town where ideas are as rare as white ravens.
Fomá. She has no friends to love?
Ast. She has never had any friends; she needed none.
Fomá. She has relatives, I suppose?
Ast. None.
Fomá. What mystery explains this solitude?
Ast. If there is a mystery it is easily guessed. It is an everyday story; the story of a peasant woman betrayed and deserted by a nobleman. She came with her child to this town; and instead of sinking, set herself bravely to work, to win a living for the two of them. She was young and strong then; her work prospered with her.
Fomá. And her son was worthy of her love?
Ast. He was a fine boy—handsome and intelligent. By dint of the fiercest economy she got him a nobleman's education; sent him to the Gymnase, and thence, when he was eighteen, to the University of Moscow. Praskóvya herself cannot read or write, but her boy ... the books on that shelf are the prizes which he won. She thought him a pattern of all the virtues.
Fomá. Aha! now we're coming to it! So he was a sinner after all?
Ast. We are none of us perfect. His friends were ill-chosen. The hard-earned money that Praskóvya thought was spent on University expenses went on many other things—on drink, on women, and on gambling. But he did one good thing—he hid it all safely from his mother. I helped him in that. Together we kept her idea safe through a difficult period. And before he was twenty it was all over—he was dead.
Fomá. Yes, he was murdered by some foreigner, I know.
Ast. By Adámek, a Pole.
Fomá. And what was the motive of the crime?
Ast. It was for money. By inquiries which I made after the trial I ascertained that this Adámek was a bad character and an adventurer, who used to entice students to his rooms to drink and gamble with him. Sasha had become an intimate friend of his; and it was even said that they were partners in cheating the rest. Anyhow, there is no doubt that at one time or another they had won considerable sums at cards, and disputed as to the ownership of them. The last thing that was heard of them, they bought a sledge with two horses and set out saying they were going to Tula. On the road Adámek murdered the unfortunate boy. The facts were all clear and indisputable. There was no need to search into the motives. The murderer fell straight into the hands of the police. The District Inspector, coming silently along the road in his sledge, suddenly saw before him the boy lying dead by the roadside, and the murderer standing over him with the knife in his hand. He arrested him at once; there was no possibility of denying it.
Fomá. And it was quite clear that his victim was Sasha?
Ast. Quite clear. Adámek gave intimate details about him, such as only a friend of his could have known, which put his identity beyond a doubt. When the trial was over the body was sent in a coffin to Praskóvya Petróvna, who buried it here in the Tróitski Cemetery.
Fomá. And the Pole?
Ast. He was sent to penal servitude for life to the silver mines of Siberia.
Fomá. So Praskóvya is even madder than I thought. Her religion is founded on a myth. Her life is an absurd deception.
Ast. No; she has created something out of nothing; that is all.
Fomá. In your place I should have told her the truth.
Ast. No.
Fomá. Anything is better than a lie.
Ast. There is no lie in it. Praskóvya's idea and Sasha's life are two independent things. A statement of fact may be true or false; but an idea need only be clear and definite. That is all that matters. [There is a tapping at the door; the latch is lifted, and the Stranger peeps in.] Come in, come in!
[Enter the Stranger, ragged and degraded. He looks about the room, dazed by the light, and fixes his attention on Astéryi.]
Who are you? What do you want?
Stranger. I came to speak to you.
Ast. To speak to me?
Fomá. Take off your cap. Do you not see the eikons?
Ast. What do you want with me?
Stranger. Only a word, Astéryi Ivanovitch.
Ast. How have you learnt my name?
Fomá. Do you know the man?
Ast. No.
Stranger. You do not know me?
Ast. No.
Stranger. Have you forgotten me, Astéryi Ivanovitch?
Ast. [almost speechless]. Sasha!
Fomá. What is it? You look as if you had seen a ghost.
Ast. A ghost? There are no such things as ghosts. Would that it were a ghost. It is Sasha.
Fomá. Sasha?
Ast. It is Praskóvya's son alive.
Fomá. Praskóvya's son?
Sasha. You remember me now, Astéryi Ivanovitch.
Ast. How have you risen from the dead? How have you come back from the grave—you who were dead and buried these twenty years and more?
Sasha. I have not risen from the dead. I have not come back from the grave; but I have come a long, long journey.
Ast. From where?
Sasha. From Siberia.
Fomá. From Siberia?
Sasha. From Siberia.
Ast. What were you doing in Siberia?
Sasha. Do you not understand, Astéryi Ivanovitch? I am a criminal.
Ast. Ah!
Sasha. A convict, a felon. I have escaped and come home.
Ast. Of what crime have you been guilty?
Sasha. Do not ask me so many questions, but give me something to eat.
Ast. But tell me this....
Sasha. There is food here. I smelt it as I came in. [He eats the meat with his fingers ravenously, like a wild beast.]
Fomá. It is your mother's supper.
Sasha. I do not care whose supper it is. I am ravenous. I have had nothing to eat all day.
Fomá. Can this wild beast be Praskóvya's son?
Sasha. We are all wild beasts if we are kept from food. Ha! and vodka, too! [helping himself].
Ast. Are you a convict, a felon, Sasha? You who were dead? Then we have been deceived for many years.
Sasha. Have you?
Ast. Some other man was murdered twenty years ago. The murderer said that it was you.
Sasha. Ah, he said that it was me, did he?
Ast. Why did Adámek say that it was you?
Sasha. Can you not guess? Adámek murdered no one.
Ast. He murdered no one? But he was condemned.
Sasha. He was never condemned.
Ast. Never condemned? Then what became of him?
Sasha. He died.... Do you not understand? It was I who killed Adámek.
Ast. You!
Sasha. We had quarreled. We were alone in a solitary place. I killed him and stood looking down at him with the knife in my hand dripping scarlet in the snow, frightened at the sudden silence and what I had done. And while I thought I was alone, I turned and saw the police-officer with his revolver leveled at my head. Then amid the confusion and black horror that seized on me, a bright thought shot across my mind. Adámek had no relatives, no friends; he was an outcast. Stained with his flowing blood, I exchanged names with him; that's the old heroic custom of blood-brotherhood, you know. I named myself Adámek; I named my victim Sasha. Ingenious, wasn't it? I had romantic ideas in those days. Adámek has been cursed for a murderer, and my memory has been honored. Alexander Petróvitch has been a hero; my mother has wept for me. I have seen her in the graveyard lamenting on my tomb; I have read my name on the cross. I hardly know whether to laugh or to cry. Evidently she loves me still.
Ast. And you?
Sasha. Do I love her? No. There is no question of that. She is part of a life that was ended too long ago. I have only myself to think of now. What should I gain by loving her? Understand, I am an outlaw, an escaped convict; a word can send me back to the mines. I must hide myself, the patrols are everywhere.... Even here I am not safe. [Locks the street door.]
Ast. Why have you returned? Why have you spoilt what you began so well? Having resolved twenty years ago to vanish like a dead man....
Sasha. Ah! if they had killed me then I would have died willingly. But after twenty years remorse goes, pity goes, everything goes; entombed in the mines, but still alive.... I was worn out. I could bear it no longer. Others were escaping, I escaped with them.
Ast. This will break her heart. She has made an angel of you. The lamp is always burning....
Sasha [going to the eikon corner with a glass of vodka in his hand]. Aha! Alexander Nevski, my patron saint. I drink to you, my friend: but I cannot congratulate you on your work. As a guardian angel you have been something of a failure. And what is this? [taking a photograph]. Myself! Who would have known this for my portrait? Look at the angel child, with the soft cheeks and the pretty curly hair. How innocent and good I looked! [bringing it down]. And even then I was deceiving my mother. She never understood that a young man must live, he must live. We are animals first; we have instincts that need something warmer, something livelier, than the tame dull round of home. [He throws down the photograph; Fomá replaces it.] And even now I have no intention of dying. Yet how am I to live? I cannot work; the mines have sucked out all my strength. Has my mother any money?
Ast. [to Fomá]. What can we do with him?
Sasha. Has my mother any money?
Ast. Money? Of course not. Would she let lodgings if she had? Listen. I am a poor man myself, but I will give you ten roubles and your railway fare to go to St. Petersburg.
Sasha. St. Petersburg? And what shall I do there when I have spent the ten roubles?
Ast. [shrugging his shoulders]. How do I know? Live there, die there, only stay away from here.
Fomá. What right have you to send him away? Why do you suppose that she will not be glad to see him? Let her see her saint bedraggled, and love him still—that is what true love means. You have regaled her with lies all these years; but now it is no longer possible. [A knocking at the door.] She is at the door.
Ast. [to Sasha]. Come with me. [To Fomá.] He must go out by the other way.
Fomá [stopping them]. No, I forbid it. It is the hand of God that has led him here. Go and unlock the door. [Astéryi shrugs his shoulders, and goes to unlock the door.] [To Sasha, hiding him.] Stand here a moment till I have prepared your mother.
[Enter Praskóvya and Varvára, carrying a box.]
Pras. Why is the door locked? Were you afraid without old Praskóvya to protect you? Here is the money. Now let me count it. Have you two been quarreling? There are fifty roubles in this bag, all in little pieces of silver; it took me two years.
Fomá. How you must have denied yourself, Praskóvya, and all to build a hut in a churchyard!
Pras. On what better thing could money be spent?
Fomá. You are so much in love with your tomb-house, I believe that you would be sorry if it turned out that your son was not dead, but alive.
Pras. Why do you say such things? You know that I should be glad. Ah! if I could but see him once again as he was then, and hold him in my arms!
Fomá. But he would not be the same now.
Pras. If he were different, he would not be my son.
Fomá. What if all these years he had been an outcast, living in degradation?
Pras. Who has been eating here? Who has been drinking here? Something has happened! Tell me what it is.
Ast. Your son is not dead.
Pras. Not dead? Why do you say it so sadly? No, it is not true. I do not believe it. How can I be joyful at the news if you tell it so sadly? If he is alive, where is he? Let me see him.
Ast. He is here.
[Sasha comes forward.]
Pras. No, no! Tell me that that is not him ... my son whom I have loved all these years, my son that lies in the churchyard. [To Sasha.] Don't be cruel to me. Say that you are not my son; you cannot be my son.
Sasha. You know that I am your son.
Pras. My son is dead; he was murdered. I buried his body in the Tróitski Cemetery.
Sasha. But you see that I was not murdered. Touch me; feel me. I am alive. I and Adámek fought; it was not Adámek that slew me, it was....
Pras. No, no! I want to hear no more. You have come to torment me. Only say what you want of me, anything, and I will do it, if you will leave me in peace.
Sasha. I want food and clothing; I want shelter; I must have money.
Pras. You will go if I give you money? Yes? Say that you will go, far, far away, and never come back to tell lies.... But I have no money to give; I am a poor woman.
Sasha. Come, what's all this?
Pras. No, no! I need it; I can't spare it. What I have I have starved myself to get. Two roubles, five roubles, even ten roubles I will give you, if you will go far, far away....
Fomá. Before he can travel we must bribe some peasant to lend him his passport.
Pras. Has he no passport then?
Fomá. No.
[A knock. Enter Spiridón.]
Spir. Peace be on this house. May the saints watch over all of you! Astéryi Ivanovitch will have told you of my proposal.
Pras. Yes, I have heard of it, Spiridón.
Fomá. Good-by, Spiridón; there is no work for you here. That is all over.
Pras. Why do you say that that is all over?
Fomá. There will be no tomb-house to build.
Pras. No tomb-house? How dare you say so? He is laughing at us, Spiridón. The tomb-house that we have planned together, with the table in the middle, and the two chairs.... Do not listen to him, Spiridón. At last I have money enough; let us count it together.
Sasha. Give me my share, mother!
Pras. I have no money for you.
Sasha [advancing]. I must have money.
Pras. You shall not touch it.
Sasha. I will not go unless you give me money.
Pras. It is not mine. I have promised it all to Spiridón. Help me, Astéryi Ivanovitch; he will drive me mad! Oh, what must I do? What must I do? Is there no way, Varvára? [Tap of drums without.] [To Sasha.] Go! go! go quickly, or worse will befall you.
Sasha. I will not go and starve while you have all this money.
Pras. Ah! Since you will have it so.... It is you, not I! [Running out at the door and calling.] Patrol! Patrol!
Fomá. Stop her.
Var. Oh, Hóspodi!
Pras. Help! Help! Come here!
Fomá. What have you done? What have you done?
[Enter Corporal and Soldiers.]
Pras. This man is a thief and a murderer. He is a convict escaped from Siberia. He has no passport.
Corp. Is that true? Where is your passport?
Sasha. I have none.
Corp. We are looking for such men as you. Come!
Sasha. This woman is my mother.
Corp. That's her affair. You have no passport; that is enough for me. You'll soon be back on the road to the North with the rest of them.
Sasha. Woman! woman! Have pity on your son.
Corp. Come along, lad, and leave the old woman in peace.
[Exit Sasha in custody.]
Pras. The Lord help me!
[Praskóvya stumbles towards the eikons and sinks
blindly
before them.]Fomá [looking after Sasha]. Poor devil!
Astéryi. What's a man compared to an idea?
[Praskóvya rolls over, dead.]
[Curtain.]
MARY'S WEDDING
A Play
By Gilbert Cannan
Copyright, 1913, by Sidgwick and Jackson.
All rights reserved.
Mary's Wedding was first produced at the Coronet Theatre, in May, 1912, with the following cast:
MaryMiss Irene Rooke
TomMr. Herbert Lomas
AnnMiss Mary Goulden
Mrs. AireyMiss Muriel Pratt
Bill AireyMr. Charles Bibby
Two Maids.
Villagers and Others.
Scene: The Davis's Cottage.
Note: There is no attempt made in the play to reproduce exactly the Westmoreland dialect, which would be unintelligible to ears coming new to it, but only to catch the rough music of it and the slow inflection of northern voices.
Reprinted from "Four Plays," by permission of Mr. Gilbert Cannan.
MARY'S WEDDING
A Play
By Gilbert Cannan
[The scene is the living-room in the Davis's cottage in the hill country. An old room low in the ceiling. Ann Davis is at the table in the center of the room untying a parcel. The door opens to admit Tom Davis, a sturdy quarryman dressed in his best and wearing a large nosegay.]
Ann. Well, 'ast seed un?
Tom. Ay, a seed un. 'Im and 'is ugly face—
Ann [untying her parcel].'Tis 'er dress come just in time an' no more from the maker-up—
Tom. Ef she wouldna do it....
Ann. But 'tis such long years she's been a-waitin'.... 'Tis long years since she bought t' dress.
Tom. An' 'tis long years she'll be a livin' wi' what she's been waitin' for; 'tis long years she'll live to think ower it and watch the thing she's taken for her man, an' long years that she'll find 'un feedin' on 'er, an' a dreary round she'll 'ave of et....
Ann. Three times she 'ave come to a month of weddin' an' three times 'e 'ave broke loose and gone down to the Mortal Man an' the woman that keeps 'arf our men in drink.... 'Tis she is the wicked one, giving 'em score an' score again 'till they owe more than they can ever pay with a year's money.
Tom. 'Tis a fearful thing to drink....
Ann. So I telled 'er in the beginnin' of it all, knowin' what like of man 'e was. An' so I telled 'er last night only.
Tom. She be set on it?
Ann. An', an' 'ere's t' pretty dress for 'er to be wedded in....
Tom. What did she say?
Ann. Twice she 'ave broke wi' 'im, and twice she 'ave said that ef 'e never touched the drink fur six months she would go to be churched wi' 'im. She never 'ave looked at another man.
Tom. Ay, she be one o' they quiet ones that goes about their work an' never 'as no romantical notions but love only the more for et. There've been men come for 'er that are twice the man that Bill is, but she never looks up from 'er work at 'em.
Ann. I think she must 'a' growed up lovin' Bill. 'Tis a set thing surely.
Tom. An' when that woman 'ad 'im again an' 'ad 'im roaring drunk fur a week, she never said owt but turned to 'er work agin an' set aside the things she was makin' agin the weddin'....
Ann. What did 'e say to 'er?
Tom. Nowt. 'E be 'most as chary o' words as she. 'E've got the 'ouse an' everything snug, and while 'e works 'e makes good money.
Ann. 'Twill not end, surely.
Tom. There was 'is father and two brothers all broken men by it.
[She hears Mary on the stairs, and they are silent.]
Ann. 'Ere's yer pretty dress, Mary.
Mary. Ay.... Thankye, Tom.
Tom. 'Twill be lovely for ye, my dear, an' grand. 'Tis a fine day fur yer weddin', my dear....
Mary. I'll be sorry to go, Tom.
Tom. An' sorry we'll be to lose ye....
Mary. I'll put the dress on.
[She throws the frock over her arm and goes out with it.]
Ann. Another girl would 'a' wedded him years ago in the first foolishness of it. But Mary, for all she says so little, 'as long, long thoughts that never comes to the likes o' you and me.... Another girl, when the day 'ad come at last, would 'a' been wild wi' the joy an' the fear o' it.... But Mary, she's sat on the fells under the stars, an' windin' among the sheep. D' ye mind the nights she's been out like an old shepherd wi' t' sheep? D' ye mind the nights when she was but a lile 'un an' we found 'er out in the dawn sleepin' snug again the side o' a fat ewe?
Tom. 'Tis not like a weddin' day for 'er.... If she'd 'ad a new dress, now—
Ann. I said to 'er would she like a new dress; but she would have only the old 'un cut an' shaped to be in the fashion.... Et 'as been a strange coortin', an' 'twill be a strange life for 'em both, I'm thinkin', for there seems no gladness in 'er, nor never was, for she never was foolish an' she never was young; but she was always like there was a great weight on 'er, so as she must be about the world alone, but always she 'ave turned to the little things an' the weak, an' always she 'ad some poor sick beast for tendin' or another woman's babe to 'old to 'er breast, an' I think sometimes that 'tis only because Bill is a poor sick beast wi' a poor sick soul that she be so set on 'im.
Tom. 'E be a sodden beast wi' never a soul to be saved or damned—
Ann. 'Cept for the drink, 'e've been a good son to 'is old mother when the others 'ud 'a' left 'er to rot i' the ditch, an' 'e was the on'y one as 'ud raise a finger again his father when the owd man, God rest him, was on to 'er like a madman. Drunk or sober 'e always was on 'is mother's side.
Tom. 'Twas a fearful 'ouse that.
Ann. 'Twas wonderful that for all they did to 'er, that wild old man wi' 'is wild young sons, she outlived 'em all, but never a one could she save from the curse that was on them, an', sober, they was the likeliest men 'n Troutbeck....
Tom. 'Tis when the rain comes and t' clouds come low an' black on the fells and the cold damp eats into a man's bones that the fearful thoughts come to 'im that must be drowned or 'im go mad—an' only the foreigners like me or them as 'as foreign blood new in 'em can 'old out again it; 'tis the curse o' livin' too long between two lines o' 'ills.
Ann. An' what that owd woman could never do, d'ye think our Mary'll do it? 'Im a Troutbeck man an' she a Troutbeck girl?
Tom. She've 'eld to 'er bargain an' brought 'im to it.
Ann. There's things that a maid can do that a wife cannot an' that's truth, an' shame it is to the men. [Comes a knock at the door.] 'Tisn't time for t' weddin' folk.
[Tom goes to the window.]
Tom. Gorm. 'Tis Mrs. Airey.
Ann. T' owd woman. She that 'as not been further than 'er garden-gate these ten years?
[She goes to the door, opens it to admit Mrs. Airey, an old gaunt woman just beginning to be bent with age.]
Mrs. A. Good day to you, Tom Davis.
Tom. Good day to you, Mrs. Airey.
Mrs. A. Good day to you, Ann Davis.
Ann. Good day to you, Mrs. Airey. Will ye sit down?
[She dusts a chair and Mrs. Airey sits by the fireside. She sits silent for a long while. Tom and Ann look uneasily at her and at each other.]
Mrs. A. So 'tis all ready for Bill's wedding.
Tom. Ay. 'Tis a fine day, an' the folks bid, and the sharry-bang got for to drive to Coniston, all the party of us. Will ye be coming, Mrs. Airey?
Mrs. A. I'll not. [Mrs. Airey sits silent again for long.] Is Mary in the 'ouse?
Ann. She be upstairs puttin' on 'er weddin' dress.
Mrs. A. 'Tis the sad day of 'er life.... They're a rotten lot an' who should know et better than me? Bill's the best of 'em, but Bill's rotten.... Six months is not enough, nor six years nor sixty, not while 'er stays in Troutbeck rememberin' all that 'as been an' all the trouble that was in the 'ouse along o' it, and so I've come for to say it.
Ann. She growed up lovin' Bill, and 'tis a set thing. She've waited long years. 'Tis done now, an' what they make for theirselves they make, an' 'tis not for us to go speirin' for the trouble they may make for theirselves, but only to pray that it may pass them by....
Mrs. A. But 'tis certain.... Six months is not enough, nor six years, nor sixty—
Ann. And are ye come for to tell Mary this...?
Mrs. A. This and much more....
Tom. And what 'ave ye said to Bill?
Mrs. A. Nowt. There never was a son would give 'eed to 'is mother.... 'Tisn't for 'im I'm thinkin', but for t' children that she's bear 'im. I 'oped, and went on 'opin' till there was no 'ope left in me, and I lived to curse the day that each one of my sons was born. John and Peter are dead an' left no child behind, and it were better for Bill also to leave no child behind. There's a day and 'alf a day o' peace and content for a woman with such a man, and there's long, long years of thinkin' on the peace and content that's gone. There's long, long years of watching the child that you've borne and suckled turn rotten, an' I say that t' birth-pangs are nowt to t' pangs that ye 'ave from the childer of such a man as Bill or Bill's father.... She's a strong girl an' a good girl; but there's this that is stronger than 'er.
[Mary comes again, very pretty in her blue dress. She is at once sensible of the strangeness in Tom and Ann. She stands looking from one to the other. Mrs. Airey sits gazing into the fire.]
Mary. Why, mother ... 'tis kind of you to come on this morning.
Mrs. A. Ay, 'tis kind of me. [Ann steals away upstairs and Tom, taking the lead from her, goes out into the road.] Come 'ere, my pretty.
[Mary goes and stands by her.]
Mary. The sun is shining and the bees all out and busy to gather in the honey.
Mrs. A. 'Tis the bees as is t' wise people to work away in t' dark when t' sun is hidden, and to work away in t' sun when 'tis bright and light. 'Tis the bees as is t' wise people that takes their men an' kills 'em for the 'arm that they may do, and it's us that's the foolish ones to make soft the way of our men an' let them strut before us and lie; and 'tis us that's the foolish ones ever to give a thought to their needs that give never a one to ours.
Mary. 'Tis us that's t' glorious ones to 'elp them that is so weak, and 'tis us that's the brave and the kind ones to let them 'ave the 'ole world to play with when they will give never a thought to us that gives it t' 'em.
Mrs. A. My pretty, my pretty, there's never a one of us can 'elp a man that thinks 'isself a man an' strong, poor fool, an' there's never a one of us can 'elp a man that's got a curse on 'im and is rotten through to t' bone, an' not one day can you be a 'elp to such a man as this....
Mary. There's not one day that I will not try, and not one day that I will not fight to win 'im back....
Mrs. A. The life of a woman is a sorrowful thing....
Mary. For all its sorrow, 'tis a greater thing than t' life of a man ... an' so I'll live it....
Mrs. A. Now you're strong and you're young.—'Ope's with ye still and life all before ye—and so I thought when my day came, and so I did. There was a day and 'alf a day of peace and content, and there was long, long years of thinking on the peace and content that are gone.... Four men all gone the same road, and me left looking down the way that they are gone and seeing it all black as the pit.... I be a poor old woman now with never a creature to come near me in kindness, an' I was such a poor old woman before ever the 'alf of life was gone, an' so you'll be if you take my son for your man. He's the best of my sons, but I curse the day that ever he was born....
Mary. There was never a man the like of Bill. If ye see 'un striding the 'ill, ye know 'tis a man by 'is strong, long stride; and if ye see 'un leapin' an' screein' down th' 'ill, ye know 'tis a man; and if we see 'un in t' quarry, ye know 'tis a strong man....
Mrs. A. An' if ye see 'un lyin' drunk i' the ditch, not roarin' drunk, but rotten drunk, wi' 'is face fouled an' 'is clothes mucked, ye know 'tis the lowest creature of the world.
[Mary stands staring straight in front of her.]
Mary. Is it for this that ye come to me to-day?
Mrs. A. Ay, for this: that ye may send 'un back to 'is rottenness, for back to it 'e'll surely go when 'tis too late, an' you a poor old woman like me, with never a creature to come near ye in kindness, before ever the bloom 'as gone from your bonny cheeks, an' maybe childer that'll grow up bonny an' then be blighted for all the tenderness ye give to them; an' those days will be the worst of all—far worse than the day when ye turn for good an' all into yourself from t' man that will give ye nowt.... 'Tis truly the bees as is the wise people....
Mary. It's a weary waitin' that I've had, and better the day and 'alf a day of peace and content with all the long years of thinking on it than all the long, long years of my life to go on waitin' and waitin' for what has passed me by, for if he be the rottenest, meanest man in t' world that ever was made, there is no other that I can see or ever will. It is no wild foolishness that I am doing: I never was like that; but it's a thing that's growed wi' me an' is a part o' me—an' though every day o' my life were set before me now so I could see to the very end, an' every day sadder and blacker than the last, I'd not turn back. I gave 'im the bargain, years back now, and three times e' 'as failed me; but 'e sets store by me enough to do this for me a fourth time—'Twas kind of ye to come....
Mrs. A. You're strong an' you're young, but there's this that's stronger than yourself—
Mary. Maybe, but 'twill not be for want o' fightin' wi' 't.
Mrs. A. 'Twill steal on ye when you're weakest, an' come on ye in your greatest need....
Mary. It 'as come to this day an' there is no goin' back. D' ye think I've not seed t' soft, gentle things that are given to other women, an' not envied them? D' ye think I've not seed 'em walkin' shut-eyed into all sorts o' foolishness an' never askin' for the trewth o' it, an' not envied 'em for doin' that? D' ye think I've not seed the girls I growed wi' matin' lightly an' lightly weddin', an' not envied 'em for that, they wi' a 'ouse an' babes an' me drudgin' away in t' farm, me wi' my man to 'and an' only this agin 'im? D' ye think I've not been tore in two wi' wantin' to close my eyes an' walk like others into it an' never think what is to come? There's many an' many a night that I've sat there under t' stars wi' t' three counties afore me an' t' sea, an' t' sheep croppin', an' my own thoughts for all the comp'ny that I 'ad, an' fightin' this way an' that for to take 'up an' let 'un be so rotten, as ever 'e might be; an' there's many an' many a night when the thoughts come so fast that they hurt me an' I lay pressed close to t' ground wi' me 'ands clawin' at it an' me teeth bitin' into t' ground for to get closer an' 'ide from myself; an' many a night when I sat there seein' the man as t' brave lad 'e was when I seed 'un first leapin' down the 'ill, an' knowin' that nothin' in the world, nothin' that I could do to 'un or that 'e could do 'isself, would ever take that fro' me.... In all my time o' my weary waitin' there 'as never been a soul that I told so much to, an' God knows there never 'as been an' never will be a time when I can tell as much to 'im....
Mrs. A. My pretty, my pretty, 'tis a waste an' a wicked, wicked waste....
Mary. 'Tis a day an' alf a day agin never a moment....
Mrs. A. 'Tis that, and so 'tis wi' all o' us ... an' so 'twill be.... God bless ye, my dear....
[Ann comes down. Mary is looking out of the window.]
Ann. Ye forgot the ribbon for yer 'air, that I fetched 'specially fro' t' town.
Mary. Why, yes. Will ye tie it, Ann?
[Ann ties the ribbon in her hair.]
Mrs. A. Pretty, my dear, oh! pretty—
Mary. I'm to walk to t' church o' Tom's arm...?
Ann. An' I to Tom's left; wi' the bridesmaids be'ind, an' the rest a followin'....
[Tom returns, followed by two girls bringing armfuls of flowers. With these they deck the room, and keep the choicest blooms for Mary. Ann and the three girls are busied with making Mary reach her most beautiful. Mrs. Airey goes. At intervals one villager and another comes to give greeting or to bring some small offering of food or some small article of clothing. Mary thanks them all with rare natural grace. They call her fine, and ejaculate remarks of admiration: "The purty bride...." "She's beautiful...." "'Tis a lucky lad, Bill Airey...." The church bell begins to ring.... All is prepared and all are ready.... Mary is given her gloves, which she draws on—when the door is thrown open and Bill Airey lunges against the lintel of the door and stands leering. He is just sober enough to know what he is at. He is near tears, poor wretch. He is not horribly drunk. He stands surveying the group and they him.]
Bill. I come—I come—I—c-come for to—to—to—show—to show myself....
[He turns in utter misery and goes. Mary plucks the flowers from her bosom and lets them fall to the ground; draws her gloves off her hands and lets them fall. The bell continues to ring.]
[Curtain.]
THE BABY CARRIAGE
A Play
By Bosworth Crocker
Copyright, 1920, by Bosworth Crocker.
All rights reserved.
The Baby Carriage was originally produced by the Provincetown Players, New York, February 14, 1919, with the following cast:
Mrs. Lezinsky
Dorothy Miller.
Mrs. RooneyAlice Dostetter.
Mr. RosenbloomW. Clay Hill.
Solomon LezinskyO. K. Liveright.
Place: The Lezinsky Tailor Shop.
Time: To-day.
Application for the right of performing The Baby Carriage must be made to Mr. Bosworth Crocker, in care of the Society of American Dramatists and Composers, 148 West 45th Street, New York, or The Authors' League, Union Square, New York.
THE BABY CARRIAGE
A Play
By Bosworth Crocker
[The Scene is an ordinary tailor shop two steps down from the sidewalk. Mirror on one side. Equipment third rate. Mrs. Solomon Lezinsky, alone in the shop, is examining a torn pair of trousers as Mrs. Rooney comes in.]
Mrs. Lezinsky [27 years old, medium height and weight, dark, attractive. In a pleased voice with a slight Yiddish
accent
]. Mrs. Rooney!Mrs. Rooney [30 years old. A plump and pretty Irish woman]. I only ran in for a minute to bring you these. [Holds up a pair of roller skates and a picture book.] Eileen's out there in the carriage. [Both women look out at the baby-carriage in front of the window.]
Mrs. Lezinsky. Bring her in, Mrs. Rooney. Such a beautiful child—your Eileen!
Mrs. Rooney. Can't stop—where's the kids?
Mrs. Lezinsky. The janitress takes them to the moving pictures with her Izzy.
Mrs. Rooney. You wouldn't believe the things I've run across this day, packing. [Puts down the skates.] I'm thinking these skates'll fit one of your lads. My Mickey—God rest his soul!—used to tear around great on them.
Mrs. Lezinsky. Fine, Mrs. Rooney! [Examines the skates. But couldn't you save them for Eileen?
Mrs. Rooney. Sure, she'd be long growing up to them and they be laying by gathering the rust.
Mrs. Lezinsky. My David and Julius and Benny could die for joy with these fine skates, I tell you, Mrs. Rooney.
Mrs. Rooney. Here's an old book [hands Mrs. Lezinsky the book], but too good to throw away entirely.
Mrs. Lezinsky [opens the book]. Fine, Mrs. Rooney! Such a book with pictures in it! My Benny's wild for picture books. Julius reads, reads—always learning. Something wonderful, I tell you. Just like the papa—my Solly ruins himself with his nose always stuck in the Torah.
Mrs. Rooney. The Toro? 'Tis a book I never heard tell of.
Mrs. Lezinsky. The law and the prophets—my Solly was meant to be a rabbi once.
Mrs. Rooney. A rabbi?
Mrs. Lezinsky. You know what a rabbi is by us, Mrs. Rooney?
Mrs. Rooney. Indeed, I know what a rabbi is, Mrs. Lezinsky—a rabbi is a Jewish priest.
Mrs. Lezinsky. You don't hate the Jewish religion, Mrs. Rooney?
Mrs. Rooney. Every one has a right to their own religion. Some of us are born Jewish—like you, Mrs. Lezinsky, and some are born Catholics, like me.
Mrs. Lezinsky. Catholics like you are fine, Mrs. Rooney. Such a good neighbor! A good customer, too! Why should you move away now, Mrs. Rooney?
Mrs. Rooney. The air in the Bronx will be fine for Eileen. 'Tis a great pity you couldn't be moving there, yourself. With the fresh air and the cheap rent, 'twould be great for yourself and the boys—not to mention the baby that's coming to you.
Mrs. Lezinsky. Thank God, that don't happen for a little while yet. But in the hottest weather—maybe—some Septembers—even so late yet—ain't it, Mrs. Rooney? Always trouble by us. Such expense, too. The agent takes the rent to-day. With Solly's eyes so bad it's a blessing when we can pay the rent even. And the gas bills! So much pants pressing! See? They send us this already. [Shows a paper.] A notice to pay right away or they shut it off. Only ten days overdue. Would you believe it, Mrs. Rooney? Maybe we catch up a little next month. It don't pay no longer, this business. And soon now another mouth to feed, and still my Solly sticks by his learning.
Mrs. Rooney. But he can't be a rabbi now, can he?
Mrs. Lezinsky. He can't be a rabbi now, no more, Mrs. Rooney, but such a pious man—my Solly. He must be a poor tailor, but he never gives up his learning—not for anything he gives that up. Learning's good for my David and Julius and Benny soon, but it's bad for my Solly. It leaves him no eyes for the business, Mrs. Rooney.
Mrs. Rooney. And are the poor eyes as bad as ever?
Mrs. Lezinsky. How should his eyes get better when he gives them no chance? Always he should have an operation and the operation—it don't help—maybe. [Mrs. Rooney turns to the door.] Must you go so quick, Mrs. Rooney? Now you move away, I never see you any more.
Mrs. Rooney. The subway runs in front of the house.
Mrs. Lezinsky. I tell you something, Mrs. Rooney: Solly couldn't keep the shop open without me. Sometimes his eyes go back on him altogether. And he should get an operation. But that costs something, I tell you, Mrs. Rooney. The doctors get rich from that. It costs something, that operation. And then, sometimes, may be it don't help.
Mrs. Rooney. 'Tis too bad, altogether. [Looks at the baby-carriage.] Wait a minute, Mrs. Lezinsky. [Starts out.]
Mrs. Lezinsky [as Mrs. Rooney goes]. What is it, Mrs. Rooney?
Mrs. Rooney [just outside the door, calls out]. Something else—I forgot. 'Tis out here in the carriage.
[Mrs. Lezinsky threads a needle and begins to sew buttons on a lady's coat. Mrs. Rooney comes back carrying a small square package wrapped in newspaper.]
Mrs. Rooney. Here's something. You'll like this, Mrs. Lezinsky. It belongs to Eileen.
Mrs. Lezinsky [looking out at the child in the carriage]. Was her collar stitched all right, Mrs. Rooney?
Mrs. Rooney. It was that. Fits her coat perfect. See the new cap on her? 'Twas for her birthday I bought it. Three years old now. Getting that big I can feel the weight of her.
Mrs. Lezinsky. Such a beautiful little girl, Mrs. Rooney! And such stylish clothes you buy for her. My David should have a new suit from his papa's right away now. Then we fix the old one over for Julius. Maybe my Benny gets a little good out of that suit too, sometime. We couldn't afford to buy new clothes. We should first get all the wear out of the old ones. Yes, Mrs. Rooney. Anyhow, boys! It don't so much matter. But girls! Girls is different. And such a beautiful little girl like Eileen!
Mrs. Rooney. She'll be spoilt on me entirely—every one giving her her own way. [In a gush of mother-pride.] 'Tis the darling she is—anyhow.
Mrs. Lezinsky. O, Mrs. Rooney, I could wish to have one just like her, I tell you, such a beautiful little girl just like her.
Mrs. Rooney. Maybe you will, Mrs. Lezinsky, maybe you will.
Mrs. Lezinsky. She sleeps nice in that baby-carriage.
Mrs. Rooney. 'Tis the last time she sleeps in it.
Mrs. Lezinsky. The last time, what?
Mrs. Rooney. Her pa'll be after buying me a go-cart for her now we're moving. 'Tis destroying me—the hauling that up and down stairs.
Mrs. Lezinsky. Such a gorgeous baby-carriage—all fresh painted—white—
Mrs. Rooney. It's fine for them that likes it. As for me—I'm that tired of dragging it, I'd rather be leaving it behind.
Mrs. Lezinsky [her face aglow]. What happens to that carriage, Mrs. Rooney?
Mrs. Rooney. I'll be selling it.
Mrs. Lezinsky. Who buys that carriage, Mrs. Rooney?
Mrs. Rooney. More than one has their eye on it, but I'll get my price. Mrs. Cohen has spoke for it.
Mrs. Lezinsky. How much you ask for that carriage, Mrs. Rooney?
Mrs. Rooney. Sure, and I'd let it go for a $5 bill, Mrs. Lezinsky.
Mrs. Lezinsky [her face falls]. Maybe you get that $5 ... Mrs. Rooney. Those Cohens make money by that stationery business.
Mrs. Rooney. And sure, the secondhand man would pay me as much.
Mrs. Lezinsky [longingly]. My David and Julius and Benny—they never had such a baby-carriage—in all their lives they never rode in a baby-carriage. My babies was pretty babies, too. And smart, Mrs. Rooney! You wouldn't believe it. My Benny was the smartest of the lot. When he was 18 months old, he puts two words together already.
Mrs. Rooney. He's a keener—that one. [Unwraps the package.] I'm clean forgetting the basket. [Holds it out to Mrs. Lezinsky's delighted gaze.] Now there you are—as good as new—Mrs. Lezinsky—and when you do be sticking the safety pins into the cushion [she points out the cushion] you can mind my Eileen. Some of the pinholes is rusty like, but the pins'll cover it—that it was herself gave your baby its first present.
Mrs. Lezinsky. O, Mrs. Rooney, such a beautiful basket! Such a beautiful, stylish basket!
Mrs. Rooney. And here's a box for the powder. [Opens a celluloid box and takes out a powder puff.] And here's an old puff. Sure the puff will do if you're not too particular.
Mrs. Lezinsky [handling the things]. Why should I be so particular? In all their lives my David and Julius and Benny never had such a box and puff, I tell you, Mrs. Rooney.
Mrs. Rooney [points]. Them little pockets is to stick things in.
Mrs. Lezinsky. Should you give away such a basket, Mrs. Rooney?
Mrs. Rooney. What good is it but to clutter up the closet, knocking about in my way.
Mrs. Lezinsky. My David and Julius and Benny, they never had such a basket, but my cousin, Morris Schapiro's wife,—she had such a basket—for her baby. All lined with pink it was.
Mrs. Rooney. Pink is for boys. I wanted a girl, having Mickey then.
Mrs. Lezinsky. Me, too, Mrs. Rooney. Three boys! Now it's time it should be a little girl. Yes, Mrs. Rooney. A little girl like Eileen.
Mrs. Rooney. Sure, then, if you're going by the basket 'tis a little girl you have coming to you. Blue's for girls.... A comb and a brush for it—you can buy.
Mrs. Lezinsky. Combs and brushes! What should I do with combs and brushes? My David and Julius and Benny are all born bald.
Mrs. Rooney. Sure, Eileen had the finest head of curls was ever seen on a baby—little soft yellow curls—like the down on a bird.
Mrs. Lezinsky. If I should have a little girl—like your Eileen—my David and Julius and Benny—they die for joy over their little sister, I tell you, Mrs. Rooney. Yes, it should be a girl and I name her Eileen. Such pretty names for girls: Eileen and Hazel and Gladys and Goldie. Goldie's a pretty name, too. I like that name so much I call myself Goldie when I go to school. Gietel's my Jewish name. Ugly? Yes, Mrs. Rooney? Goldie's better—much better. But Eileen's the best of all. Eileen's a gorgeous name. I name her Eileen, I do assure you. She should have another name, too, for Solly. Zipporah, maybe—for her dead grandmother.
Mrs. Rooney. Sure, Eileen has a second name: Bridget. 'Tis for my mother in the old country. A saint's name. Her father chose it for her. Bridget's a grand name—that—too.
Mrs. Lezinsky. Zipporah—that was Solly's mother.... But I call her Eileen.
Mrs. Rooney. That's a grand compliment, Mrs. Lezinsky, and 'tis myself would stand godmother for her should you be wanting me to.
Mrs. Lezinsky. I'm sorry, Mrs. Rooney, by our religion we don't have such god-mothers.
Mrs. Rooney. I'll be running on now not to keep you from your work and so much of it with your poor man and the drops in his sick eyes. Here! [She puts half a dollar into Mrs. Lezinsky's hand.]
Mrs. Lezinsky. For what?
Mrs. Rooney. For Mr. Lezinsky stitching the collar on Eileen's coat.
Mrs. Lezinsky [trying to make Mrs. Rooney take it back]. Mrs. Rooney—if you wouldn't insult me—please—when you bring all these lovely things.... [Mrs. Rooney pushes the money away.] And so you sell that fine baby-carriage.... That carriage holds my Benny, too, maybe?
Mrs. Rooney. Sure. Easy.
Mrs. Lezinsky. My David and Julius—they could wheel that carriage. The little sister sleeps in it. And my Benny—he rides at the foot. $5 is cheap for that elegant carriage when you should happen to have so much money. I ask my Solly. Do me the favor, Mrs. Rooney—you should speak to me first before you give it to Mrs. Cohen—yes?
Mrs. Rooney. Sure I will. I'll be leaving the carriage outside and carry the child up. You and Mr. Lezinsky can be making up your minds. [Mrs. Rooney looks through the window at a man turning in from the street.] Is it himself coming home?
Mrs. Lezinsky. Any time now, Mrs. Rooney, he comes from the doctor.
Mrs. Rooney. 'Tis not himself. 'Tis some customer.
Mrs. Lezinsky [as the door opens]. It's Mr. Rosenbloom.
Mrs. Rooney. See you later. [Rushes out. Through the window Mrs. Lezinsky watches her take the child out of the carriage.]
Mrs. Lezinsky [sighs, turns to her customer]. O, Mr. Rosenbloom! Glad to see you, Mr. Rosenbloom. You well now, Mr. Rosenbloom?
Mr. Rosenbloom. Able to get around once more, Mrs. Lezinsky.
Mrs. Lezinsky. I hope you keep that way. You got thinner with your sickness. You lose your face, Mr. Rosenbloom. [He hands her a coat and a pair of trousers.] Why should you bother to bring them in? I could send my David or Julius for them.
Mr. Rosenbloom. Right on my way to the barber-shop. The coat's a little loose now. [Slips off his coat and puts on the other.] Across the back. See?
Mrs. Lezinsky. He should take it in a little on the shoulders, Mr. Rosenbloom?
Mr. Rosenbloom [considers]. It wouldn't pay—so much alterations for this particular suit.
Mrs. Lezinsky. It's a good suit, Mr. Rosenbloom.
Mr. Rosenbloom. He should just shorten the sleeves. Those sleeves were from the first a little too long.
[He slips the coat off. Mrs. Lezinsky measures coat sleeve against his bent arm.]
Mrs. Lezinsky. About how much, Mr. Rosenbloom? Say—an inch?
Mr. Rosenbloom. An inch or an inch and a half—maybe.
Mrs. Lezinsky [measures again]. I think that makes them too short, Mr. Rosenbloom. One inch is plenty.
Mr. Rosenbloom. All right—one inch, then.
Mrs. Lezinsky. One inch.... All right, Mr. Rosenbloom—one inch.
Mr. Rosenbloom. How soon will they be ready?
Mrs. Lezinsky. Maybe to-morrow. He lets all this other work go—maybe—and sets to work on them right away when he gets back home.
Mr. Rosenbloom. All right.
Mrs. Lezinsky. I send my David or Julius with them, Mr. Rosenbloom?
Mr. Rosenbloom. I'll stop in the evening and try the coat on.
Mrs. Lezinsky. Maybe it wouldn't be ready to try on so soon—All right, Mr. Rosenbloom, this evening you come in. [She calls after him as he goes out.] O, Mr. Rosenbloom! The pants? What should he do to the pants?
Mr. Rosenbloom [from the doorway]. Press them. [He turns back.] Press the—whole thing—suit.
Mrs. Lezinsky. Press them. Sure. Press the suit. A fine suit. Certainly a fine piece of goods, Mr. Rosenbloom. Did my husband make it up for you?
Mr. Rosenbloom. Yes.
Mrs. Lezinsky. I thought so. Wears like iron, too, this goods. Yes, Mr. Rosenbloom? With one eye my husband picks the best pieces of goods I tell you, Mr. Rosenbloom.... He should shorten the sleeves one inch.... All right, he fixes it to your satisfaction, Mr. Rosenbloom—
Mr. Rosenbloom. Yes, yes. [Impatiently edges toward the door.]
Mrs. Lezinsky. This evening you come for them?
[He nods and hurries out.]
Mrs. Lezinsky. Five dollars! [Drops everything and stands looking dreamily through the shop window at the baby-carriage. She takes a roll of money from her bosom and counts it. Shakes her head dispiritedly and sighs. She makes an estimate of the money coming in from the work on hand. Pointing to Mr. Rosenbloom's suit.] Two dollars for that—[Turns from the suit to a pair of torn trousers.] Half a dollar, anyhow—[Points to the lady's coat on which she has been sewing buttons.] A dollar—maybe—[Hears some one coming, thrusts the roll of money back into her bosom.]
Lezinsky [comes in. Spare. Medium height. Pronounced Semitic type. He wears glasses with very thick lenses.] Where are the children?
Mrs. Lezinsky. Mrs. Klein takes them to the moving pictures with her Izzy.
Lezinsky. Always to the moving pictures! The children go blind, too, pretty soon.
Mrs. Lezinsky. The doctor didn't make your eyes no better, Solly?
Lezinsky. How should he make them better when he says all the time: "Don't use them." And all the time a man must keep right on working to put bread in the mouths of his children. And soon, now, another one comes—nebbich!
Mrs. Lezinsky. Maybe your eyes get much better now when our little Eileen comes.
Lezinsky. Better a boy, Goldie: that helps more in the business.
Mrs. Lezinsky. It's time our David and Julius and Benny should have a little sister now. They like that. Such another little girl like Mrs. Rooney's Eileen. When it is, maybe, a girl, we call her Eileen—like Mrs. Rooney's Eileen. Such a gorgeous name—that Eileen! Yes, Solly?
Lezinsky. Eileen! A Goy name! She should be Rebecca for your mother or Zipporah for mine.
Mrs. Lezinsky. Sure. Zipporah, too, Solly—Eileen Zipporah! When there should be sometime—another boy, Solly, then you name him what you like. When it a little girl—Eileen. I dress her up stylish. Such beautiful things they have in Gumpertz's window. And—Mrs. Rooney sells her baby-carriage. [Both look out at the carriage.] She gives it away.
Lezinsky. She gives you a baby-carriage?
Mrs. Lezinsky. For five dollars she gives me that lovely carriage good as new—all fresh painted white—and the little Eileen Zipporah sleeps at the head and Benny rides at the foot by his little sister. So elegant—Solly!
Lezinsky. I put my eyes out to earn the bread and this woman—she should buy a baby-carriage. Oi! Oi!
Mrs. Lezinsky [points to carriage]. Such a baby-carriage what Mrs. Rooney has—it only happens to us once, Solly. Only five one-dollars—all fresh painted white—just like new—and such a cover to keep out the sun. She gets a little new go-cart for Eileen. Otherwise she don't give up such an elegant carriage what cost her more money than we could even see at one time except for rents and gas-bills. Five dollars is cheap for that carriage. Five dollars is nothing for that carriage I tell you, Solly. Nothing at all. She sells it now before she moves to the Bronx this afternoon. Such a bargain we shouldn't lose, Solly—even if we don't pay all the money right away down. Yes, Solly? And Mrs. Rooney—she gives our David and Julius and Benny skates and a picture book—and their little sister this fine basket. [Shows him the basket.] Yes, Solly. Shouldn't we make sure to buy this baby-carriage? Only five dollars, Solly, this baby-carriage—
Lezinsky. Baby-carriage! Baby-carriage! If I had so much money for baby-carriages I hire me a cutter here. This way I go blind.
Mrs. Lezinsky. No, but by reading the Torah! And that way you lose good custom, too. [Wheedling him again.] Maybe you get good business and hire you a cutter when the little Eileen comes. Five dollars! Does that pay wages to a cutter? Yes, Solly? But it buys once a beautiful baby-carriage, and David and Julius go wild to ride their little sister in it—and Benny at the foot.
Lezinsky [waving his arms]. I should have a cutter not to lose my customers—and this woman—she would have a baby-carriage. I lose my eyes, but she would have a baby-carriage.
Mrs. Lezinsky. But it costs only five dollars. What costs a cutter?
Lezinsky. At Union wages! I might as well ask for the moon, Goldie. Oi! Oi! Soon we all starve together.
Mrs. Lezinsky. You hire you a cheap hand here, Solly. He does pressing and all the dirty work. He works and you boss him around. That looks good to the customers. Yes, Solly? And I save up that five dollars soon and give it back to you. Yes, Solly? Business goes better now already when people come back from the country and everything picks up a little. I help now and we spare that five dollars. Mr. Rosenbloom brings us a little work. See? [She points to the coat.] You should make the sleeves shorter—one inch. Mr. Rosenbloom gets thinner by his sickness. His clothes hang a little loose on him.
Lezinsky [looks at the trousers]. And the pants?
Mrs. Lezinsky. Mr. Rosenbloom didn't lose his stomach by his sickness. He only loses his face.
Lezinsky. Such a chutzpah!
Mrs. Lezinsky. Yes, nothing makes Mr. Rosenbloom to lose his cheek, ain't it, Solly? And plenty roast goose has he to fill up his stomach. By us is no more roast goose nowadays.
Lezinsky. We make up what we didn't get here maybe in the world to come, Goldie leben.
Mrs. Lezinsky. Roast goose in the world to come! Such a business! Angels shouldn't eat, Solly. I take my roast goose now—then I sure get it.... How much you charge Mr. Rosenbloom for this [points to the suit], Solly?
Lezinsky. One dollar and a half—maybe.
Mrs. Lezinsky. For such a job my cousin Morris Schapiro gets three dollars and not too dear then. Everything goes 'way up and you stay 'way behind. You should raise your prices. No wonder we shall all starve together. It's not baby-carriages what ruin us. Did our David or Julius or Benny ever have such a baby-carriage? No. But it is that you let the customers steal your work.
Lezinsky. All right—I charge two dollars.
Mrs. Lezinsky. What good should half a dollar do? Three dollars, Solly.
Lezinsky. Two dollars. Three dollars swindles him.
Mrs. Lezinsky. All right—then two dollars. Fifty cents is fifty cents anyhow. [She goes up to him and presses her face against his.] Solly, leben, shouldn't our David and Julius and Benny have a baby-carriage for their little sister?
Lezinsky. Baby-carriage—Oi! Peace, Goldie, my head aches.
Mrs. Lezinsky [picking up the trousers]. How much for these, Solly?
Lezinsky. One dollar.
Mrs. Lezinsky [derisively]. One dollar you say! And for the lady's coat?
Lezinsky. A couple of dollars, anyway.
Mrs. Lezinsky. A couple of dollars anyway! And he thinks he does good business when he charges a couple of dollars anyway. And for that, my cousin, Morris Schapiro charges three dollars each. A couple of dollars! Your children will be left without bread. [He mutters phrases from the Torah.] You hear me, Solly? [He goes on with his prayers.] Prayers are what he answers me. Soon you pray in the streets.
Lezinsky. Woe is me! Woe is me!
Mrs. Lezinsky. Could he even answer me? Yes, if it was roast goose I was asking for or black satin for a decent Shabbos dress. But no! [Satirically.] Maybe you even get roast goose from your learning.... Yes—on account of your praying we all have to go a begging yet.
Lezinsky. To-morrow is Rosch Hoschana, Gietel.
Mrs. Lezinsky. Does Rosch Hoschana mean a roast goose by us? Does it even mean a baby-carriage what costs five dollars?
Lezinsky. Roast goose and baby-carriage! You have no pious thoughts.... Go away.... My head swims.
Mrs. Lezinsky. That comes by fasting. Don't you fast enough every day?
Lezinsky. She comes now to roast goose again.
Mrs. Lezinsky. What should I care for roast goose? Rosch Hoschana comes next year again. But the baby-carriage—it never comes again.
Lezinsky. Baby-carriage! Baby-carriage! When you should fast and pray....
Mrs. Lezinsky. What! Should I fast and give our David and Julius and Benny a shadow—maybe—for a little sister?... But—yes—I fast, too ... that—even—for such a baby carriage. O, Solly—that much we all do—for our little Eileen.
Lezinsky [wearily, putting his hands to his eyes]. All right. How much money have you got there—Gietel?
Mrs. Lezinsky [sweetly]. Now call me Goldie, Solly, so I know you ain't mad.
Lezinsky. Yes, yes.
Mrs. Lezinsky. Goldie—say it—Solly leben—Go on—count it—Goldie. [She takes the money out and they count it together.]
Mr. and Mrs. Lezinsky [together]. One.... [Counting out another dollar bill]—Two.... [Counting out a third dollar bill]—Three.... [Counting out a two-dollar bill]—Five dollars.... [Another two-dollar bill]—Seven dollars.... [A ten-dollar bill]—Seventeen.... [Another ten-dollar bill]—Twenty-seven.... [The last ten-dollar bill]—Thirty-seven.
Lezinsky. Thirty-seven dollars in all—the rent and the gas!
Mrs. Lezinsky. And a little over, Solly, to pay on the baby carriage.
Lezinsky. And to-morrow Rosch Hoschana. Shall we starve the children on Rosch Hoschana?
Mrs. Lezinsky. They could go a little hungry once for their little sister, Eileen.
Lezinsky. Don't be too sure, Goldie, maybe another boy comes.
Mrs. Lezinsky. Well, even if—it needs the fresh air, too.
Lezinsky [firmly after a moment's thought]. No, Goldie, it couldn't be done. In the spring we buy a baby-carriage.
Mrs. Lezinsky. You think she waits till spring to sell that baby-carriage? She sells it now before she moves away—now, this afternoon, I tell you.
Lezinsky. Well, we buy another carriage, then.
Mrs. Lezinsky. You don't find such a bargain again anytime. She gives it away.
Lezinsky. My eyes get much better soon—now—by the operation.
Mrs. Lezinsky. Operation! Operation! Always operations! And the baby comes. No carriage for our David and Julius to wheel her in—with our Benny at the foot—in the fresh air—and she dies on us in the heat next summer—maybe—and David and Julius and Benny—they lose their little sister.
Lezinsky. Didn't David and Julius and Benny live without a baby-carriage?
Mrs. Lezinsky. Yes, a mile to the park, maybe, and I carry them to the fresh air. And a baby-carriage for her costs five dollars. What time shall I have for that with all the extra work and my back broken? In such a baby-carriage the little sister sleeps from morning to night—on the sidewalk by the stoop; she gets fat and healthy from that baby-carriage.
Lezinsky. When I could pay for the operation, maybe—then—
Mrs. Lezinsky [despairingly]. Operations again—always operations!
Lezinsky. Go away, Goldie, I must work.
Mrs. Lezinsky. I advise you not to have that operation now. He steals your money and don't help your eyes. Get another doctor. But baby-carriages like this ain't so plenty.
Lezinsky. God of Israel, shall I go blind because you would have a baby-carriage for our unborn son?
Mrs. Lezinsky. No, but by reading the Torah—and that way you lose good customers, too—and she shall die in the heat because David and Julius cannot push her in that baby-carriage.
Lezinsky. Go away, Gietel, I have work to do. Maybe you could rip out the sleeves from Mr. Rosenbloom's coat?
Mrs. Lezinsky. I do anything—anything you like, Solly, for that baby-carriage.... Yes, I rip out the sleeves when I finish sewing on the buttons.... I do anything—anything—so we get this baby carriage. We never get another such carriage.
Lezinsky. God of Israel, will she never hear me when I say: No!
Mrs. Lezinsky. Then—Mrs. Cohen—she gets that baby carriage—and every day of my life I see it go past my window—and the little sister—she goes without. [She picks up Mr. Rosenbloom's coat, looks it over and finds a small wallet in the breast pocket. Tucks the wallet into her bosom. Fiercely, half-aloud, but to herself.] No! No! Mrs. Cohen shouldn't get that baby-carriage—whatever happens—she shouldn't get it. [She crosses to the mirror, pulls the wallet from her bosom, hurriedly counts the money in it, glances at her husband, then takes out a five-dollar bill. She hears a noise outside and makes a move as though to restore the money to the wallet, but at the sound of steps on the stoop, she thrusts the loose bill into her bosom. As Mr. Rosenbloom comes in she has only time to stick the wallet back into the coat. Picks up the lady's coat and sews on buttons vigorously.]
Mr. Rosenbloom. I left my wallet in that coat.
Lezinsky [with a motion of his head toward the coat]. Goldie.
Mrs. Lezinsky [sewing the buttons onto the lady's coat]. In which pocket, Mr. Rosenbloom?
Mr. Rosenbloom [crosses to coat]. You don't begin work on it, yet?
Mrs. Lezinsky [slowly puts her work aside]. I rip the sleeves out so soon I sew these buttons on, Mr. Rosenbloom.
Mr. Rosenbloom [looks in breast pocket, draws back in astonishment to find the wallet gone.]
Mrs. Lezinsky. In which pocket, Mr. Rosenbloom?
Mr. Rosenbloom. I keep it always in that breast pocket.
Mrs. Lezinsky [taking the wallet from an outside pocket]. Why—here it is, Mr. Rosenbloom.
Mr. Rosenbloom [suspiciously]. From which pocket does it come?
Mrs. Lezinsky [points]. Right here, Mr. Rosenbloom.
Mr. Rosenbloom [shakes his head]. I don't see how it got in that pocket.
Mrs. Lezinsky. We didn't touch that coat, Mr. Rosenbloom—except Solly looks when I told him what he should do to it—ain't it, Solly? Otherwise we didn't touch it.
Mr. Rosenbloom [opens the wallet]. Funny! It couldn't walk out of one pocket into another all by itself.
Mrs. Lezinsky. We didn't touch it, Mr. Rosenbloom.
Mr. Rosenbloom [begins to count the bills]. Maybe some customer—
Mrs. Lezinsky. That may be—all kinds of customers, Mr. Rosenbloom—
Lezinsky [as Mr. Rosenbloom goes over the money for the second time.] But it hangs here always in our sight. Who has been here, Goldie?
Mr. Rosenbloom. There's a bill missing here.
Mrs. Lezinsky [pretending great astonishment]. Mr. Rosenbloom!
Lezinsky [with an accusing note in his tone, meant for her only]. Gietel?
Mrs. Lezinsky. How should I know? [To Mr. Rosenbloom.] Maybe you didn't count it right. [He counts it again.]
Mr. Rosenbloom. No—it's short—$5.
Lezinsky [under his breath, looking strangely at his wife.] Mr. Rosenbloom, however that happens—I make up that $5. Such a thing shouldn't happen in my business. I make it up right away. Gietel!—Gietel—give me the money.
Mrs. Lezinsky [in a trembling voice]. I didn't—
Lezinsky [checks her]. I pay you from my own money, Mr. Rosenbloom.... Gietel! [He puts out his hand for the money.]
Mrs. Lezinsky. All right, Solly.... [Turns her back to Mr. Rosenbloom and pulls the roll of money from her bosom, thrusting the loose bill back. Solomon, standing over her, sees this bill and puts out his hand for it.]
Lezinsky [in a tense undertone]. All—Gietel—all!
[Reluctantly she draws the $5 bill from her bosom and, seizing a moment when Mr. Rosenbloom is recounting his money, she thrusts it quickly into her husband's hand.]
Lezinsky [he crosses to Mr. Rosenbloom and counts out the five dollars from the bills in the roll.] One dollar—two dollars—three dollars—and two is five dollars. [Hands it to Mr. Rosenbloom.]
Mr. Rosenbloom [hesitates]. You shouldn't be out that $5, Mr. Lezinsky. Anyhow—pay me the difference when you charge for the suit.
Lezinsky. No, Mr. Rosenbloom—if you take the money now, please.... I couldn't rest—otherwise. In all my life—this—never—happened—before.
Mr. Rosenbloom [takes the money]. Well, if you want it that way, Mr. Lezinsky.... You have the suit ready this evening anyhow?
Lezinsky. You get the suit this evening, Mr. Rosenbloom. I stop everything else.... And I don't charge you anything for this work, Mr. Rosenbloom.
Mr. Rosenbloom. Of course, you charge. "Don't charge"! What kind of business is that?
Lezinsky. I make you a present, Mr. Rosenbloom—for your trouble.
Mr. Rosenbloom. I pay you for these alterations, all right. [He goes out.]
Lezinsky [searches his wife's face, with ominous calm]. Gietel! Gietel!
Mrs. Lezinsky. You make presents, eh, Solly? Are you a rabbi or a poor blind tailor—yes?
Lezinsky [bursts out]. She makes a mock at me—this shameless one!
Mrs. Lezinsky. No, no, Solly—
Lezinsky [scathingly]. Gietel!... [His eyes never leave her face.]
Mrs. Lezinsky [in a hushed voice]. Why do you look at me like that, Solly?
Lezinsky. Blind as I am, I see too much, Gietel.
Mrs. Lezinsky. Listen, Solly—I tell you now—
Lezinsky [silences her with a wave of his hand.] What I get I give—[He takes the five-dollar bill from his pocket, smooths it out and adds it to the roll.] I give my money. I give my eyes ... and this woman—she sells me for a baby-carriage.
Mrs. Lezinsky. No, no, Solly, you shouldn't say such things before you know—
Lezinsky. Silence, woman! How should I not know? It is here in my hand—the five-dollar bill—here in my hand. I have counted the money. Thirty-seven dollars we had. I have given him back his five and thirty-seven dollars remain. How is that, Gietel? What is the answer to that?... She cheats the customer and she cheats me.... Rather should I take my children by the hand and beg my bread from door to door.
Mrs. Lezinsky. Solly—Solly—I tell you—the baby-carriage—
Lezinsky. Out of my sight, woman; I forbid you to come into this shop again.
Mrs. Lezinsky. O, Solly leben, that couldn't be—
Lezinsky. The mother of my children—she sins—for a baby-carriage.
Mrs. Lezinsky. Listen, Solly—I didn't mean to keep that money. As there's a God of Israel I didn't mean to keep it. I should use it—just this afternoon—to buy the baby-carriage—and when the customers pay us—put the money back before he misses it.
Lezinsky. Meshugge! So much money isn't coming to us. And why should you use Mr. Rosenbloom's money? Why shouldn't you take it from the money you had?
Mrs. Lezinsky. How could I use that money? Don't you pay the rent this afternoon to the agent? And they shut off the gas when we don't settle: by five o'clock they shut it off. And Mrs. Rooney moves away—[Breaks into sobbing.] and so—I thought I lose the baby-carriage.
Lezinsky. Gietel—Gietel—you are a——. I can't speak the word, Gietel—It sticks in my throat.
Mrs. Lezinsky. No, no, Solly, you shouldn't speak that word. If I took it to keep it maybe. But—no. I couldn't do such a thing. Not for a million baby-carriages could I do such a thing. Not for anything could I keep what is not my own—I tell you, Solly.... [Pleadingly.] But just to keep it for a few hours, maybe? Why should a man with so much money miss a little for a few hours? Then Mr. Rosenbloom—he comes back in. I change my mind, but the door opens and it is too late already. Solly leben, did I keep it back—the five dollars? I ask you, Solly? Didn't I give it all into your hand? I ask you that, Solly?
Lezinsky. Woe is me!—The mother of my children—and she takes what is not her own!
Mrs. Lezinsky. So much money and not one dollar to pay Mrs. Rooney for the baby-carriage! You see, Solly—always fine-dressed people around—the mamas and the little children all dressed fine—with white socks and white shoes. And our David—and our Julius—and our Benny, even—what must they wear? Old clothes! Yes. And to save the money they should wear black stockings—and old shoes. Never no pretty things! And it's all the time work—work—work and we never have nothing—no new clothes—no pretty things—[She breaks down completely.]
Lezinsky. So our children grow up with the fear of God in their hearts—
Mrs. Lezinsky. What should little children know of all this pious business when they must play alone on the stoop with Izzi Klein together. For why? The Cohen children shouldn't play with our David and Julius and Benny. They make a snout at them. The Cohens dress them up stylish and they should play with Gentile children. They push my Benny in the stomach when he eats an ice-cream cone, and they say—regular—to my David and Julius: "Sheeny"—the same as if they wasn't Jewish, too.... Just for once I wanted something lovely and stylish—like other people have.... Then she asks—only five dollars for the baby-carriage—and—[Choking back a sob.] Mrs. Cohen—now, Mrs. Cohen—she gets it. She gets it and I must want—and want. First David—then Julius—then comes Benny—and now the little sister—and never once a baby-carriage! [Sobs.]
Lezinsky. We should raise our children to be pious.
[There is the sound of trundling wheels. Mrs. Lezinsky looks out. The carriage is gone from the window.]
Mrs. Lezinsky [as the door opens and Mrs. Rooney appears wheeling the carriage in, low voices]. Mrs. Rooney, Solly; she comes now to say good-by. [Mops her eyes, trys to put on a casual look.]
Mrs. Rooney. Now there you are, Mrs. Lezinsky, blanket and all.
[Lezinsky works feverishly without lifting his eyes.]
Mrs. Lezinsky [low appealing voice]. You should look at it once, Solly. [Lezinsky stops for a moment and lets his eyes rest on the baby-carriage.] Ain't it a beautiful, stylish baby-carriage, Solly?
Mrs. Rooney. There it is now and I'll be running on for Mrs. Klein's Anna's keeping Eileen and I have her to dress before her pa comes home. He's getting off earlier for the moving.
Mrs. Lezinsky. The little Eileen! Why didn't you bring her along with you, Mrs. Rooney?
Mrs. Rooney. She went to sleep on me or I would that.
Mrs. Lezinsky [her eyes on her husband's face in mute appeal]. O, Mrs. Rooney—so little business and so much expense—and my Solly has an operation for his sick eyes soon—it breaks my heart—but—Mrs. Cohen [Shaking voice.] she gets this lovely baby carriage.
Mrs. Rooney [taking in the situation]. Mrs. Cohen—she gets it! Does she now? Not if my name's Rooney does Mrs. Cohen get it and she only after offering to raise me a dollar to make sure of the baby-carriage, knowing your sore need of the same. Am I a lady or not, Mr. Lezinsky? 'Tis that I want to know. "I'll give you six dollars for it," says she to me. Says I to her: "Mrs. Cohen—when I spoke to you of that baby-carriage," says I, "it clean slipped me mind that I promised the same to Mrs. Lezinsky. I promised it to Mrs. Lezinsky long ago," says I—and so I did, though I forget to make mention of it to you at the time, Mrs. Lezinsky. So here it is and here it stays or my name's not Rooney.
Mrs. Lezinsky. But so much money we haven't got now—not even for the operation, Mrs. Rooney.... [Soft pleading undertone to her husband.] Only five dollars, Solly!... [Sinking her voice still lower.] Anyhow—I don't deserve no baby-carriage—maybe—[Lezinsky makes no sign.]
Mrs. Lezinsky. If we could possibly pay for that baby-carriage we keep it, Mrs. Rooney—[Turns back to her husband, voice shakes.] for our Benny and the little sister—yes, Solly? [She waits and watches him with mute appeal, then, forcing herself to speak casually.] But it couldn't be done, Mrs. Rooney—[Bravely.] Solly should have every dollar for that operation.
Mrs. Rooney. There now—no more about it! 'Tis your own from this day out.... You can take your own time to be paying for it.... I'll be wanting some work done anyhow—when the cold weather sets in.
Mrs. Lezinsky [between tears and laughter]. Solly!... Ain't it wonderful? Mrs. Rooney—she trusts us—for this beautiful baby-carriage!... O, Mrs. Rooney!
Mrs. Rooney. 'Tis little enough to be doing for my godchild that could be was she born a Catholic now.
Mrs. Lezinsky. O, Mrs. Rooney, dear Mrs. Rooney! Solly, Solly, we should have a baby-carriage at last! At last we should have a baby-carriage. O, Solly, Solly, what a mitzvah! Yes, Solly? [As Mrs. Rooney starts to leave.] But your blanket—Mrs. Rooney—
Mrs. Rooney. I'll be throwing that in—for good luck.
Mrs. Lezinsky. It breaks my heart you move away, Mrs. Rooney.
Mrs. Rooney. See you soon. [Opens the door; looks up the street as she stands in the doorway.] Here's the kids coming.
Mrs. Lezinsky. My David and Julius and Benny, they could die for joy to wheel their little sister in this baby-carriage.
Mrs. Rooney. Well, good luck—the both of you—and good-by! [With a sense of pride in the greater prosperity which the new address means to her.] Three thousand and thirty-seven Jerome Avenue—don't forget!
Mrs. Lezinsky [bending over the baby-carriage]. Good-by, Mrs. Rooney—next time you come, maybe you see her in the baby-carriage. [Soothing the blanket]—the little Eileen! [Turns to her husband as the door closes.] Yes, Solly?
[They look at each other in silence for a moment.—She puts out her hands imploringly. His face softens; he lays his hand on her shoulder as the three little boys, David, Julius and Benny pass by the window. As they come into the shop
the Curtain Falls.]