Contemporary One-act Plays

This collection of one-act plays appears because of an increasingly large demand for such a volume. The plays have been selected and the Introduction prepared to meet the need of the student or teacher who desires to acquaint himself with the one-act play as a specific dramatic form.

The plays included have been selected with this need in mind. Accordingly, emphasis has been placed upon the wholesome and uplifting rather than upon the sordid and the ultra-realistic. The unduly sentimental, the strikingly melodramatic, and the play of questionable moral problems, has been consciously avoided. Comedies, tragedies, farces, and melodramas have been included; but the chief concern has been that each play should be good, dramatic art.

The Dramatic Analysis and Construction of the One-Act Play, which appears in the Introduction, also has been prepared for the student or teacher. This outline-analysis and the plays in this volume are sufficient material, if carefully studied, for an understanding and appreciation of the one-act play.

B. ROLAND LEWIS.

CONTENTS
		PAGE
Introduction		3
LIST OF PLAYS
The Twelve-Pound Look	Sir James M. Barrie	17
Tradition	George Middleton	43
The Exchange	Althea Thurston	61
Sam Average	Percy Mackaye	85
Hyacinth Halvey	Lady Augusta Gregory	103
The Gazing Globe	Eugene Pillot	139
The Boor	Anton Tchekov	155
The Last Straw	Bosworth Crocker	175
Manikin and Minikin	Alfred Kreymborg	197
White Dresses	Paul Greene	215
Moonshine	Arthur Hopkins	239
Modesty	Paul Hervieu	255
The Deacon's Hat	Jeannette Marks	273
Where but in America	Oscar M. Wolff	301
A Dollar	David Pinski	321
The Diabolical Circle	Beulah Bornstead	343
The Far-Away Princess	Hermann Sudermann	365
The Stronger	August Strindberg	393

BIBLIOGRAPHIES
	PAGE
Collections of One-Act Plays	405
Lists of One-Act Plays	406
Bibliography of Reference on the One-Act Play	408
Bibliography on How to Produce Plays	409

The one-act play is with us and is asking for consideration. It is challenging our attention whether we will or no. In both Europe and America it is one of the conspicuous factors in present-day dramatic activity. Theatre managers, stage designers, actors, playwrights, and professors in universities recognize its presence as a vital force. Professional theatre folk and amateurs especially are devoting zestful energy both to the writing and to the producing of this shorter form of drama.

The one-act play is claiming recognition as a specific dramatic type. It may be said that, as an art form, it has achieved that distinction. The short story, as every one knows, was once an embryo and an experiment; but few nowadays would care to hold that it has not developed into a specific and worthy literary form. This shorter form of prose fiction was once apologetic, and that not so many years ago; but it has come into its own and now is recognized as a distinct type of prose narrative. The one-act play, like the short story, also has come into its own. No longer is it wholly an experiment. Indeed, it is succeeding in high places. The one-act play is taking its place among the significant types of dramatic and literary expression.

Artistically and technically considered, the one-act play is quite as much a distinctive dramatic problem as the longer play. In writing either, the playwright aims so to handle his material that he will get his central intent to his audience and will provoke their interest and emotional response thereto. Both aim at a singleness of impression and dramatic effect; both aim to be a high order of art. Yet since the one is shorter and more condensed, it follows that the dramaturgy of the one is somewhat different from that of the other, just as the technic of the cameo is different from the technic of the full-sized statue. The one-act play must, as it were, be presented at a "single setting": it must start quickly at the beginning with certain definite dramatic elements and pass rapidly and effectively to a crucial movement without halt or digression. A careful analysis of any one of the plays in this volume, like Anton Tchekov's The Boor, or like Oscar M. Wolff's Where But in America, will reveal this fact. The shorter form of drama, like the short story, has a technical method characteristically its own.

It is a truth that the one-act play is well made or it is nothing at all. A careful analysis of Sir James M. Barrie's The Twelve-Pound Look, Paul Hervieu's Modesty, Althea Thurston's The Exchange, will reveal that these representative one-act plays are well made and are real bits of dramatic art. A good one-act play is not a mere cheap mechanical tour de force; mechanics and artistry it has, of course, but it is also a high order of art product. A delicately finished cameo is quite as much a work of art as is the larger statue; both have mechanics and design in their structure, but those of the cameo are more deft and more highly specialized than those of the statue, because the work of the former is done under far more restricted conditions. The one-act play at its best is cunningly wrought.

Naturally, the material of the one-act play is a bit episodical. It deals with but a single situation. A study of the plays in this volume will reveal that no whole life's story can be treated adequately in the short play, and that no complexity of plot can be employed. Unlike the longer play, the shorter form of drama shows not the whole man—except by passing hint—but a significant moment or experience, a significant character-trait. However vividly this chosen moment may be interpreted—and the one-act play must be vivid—much will still be left to the imagination. It is the aim of the one-act form to trace the causal relations of but one circumstance so that the circumstance may be intensified. The writer of the one-act play deliberately isolates so that he may throw the strong flashlight more searchingly on some one significant event, on some fundamental element of character, on some moving emotion. He presents in a vigorous, compressed, and suggestive way a simplification and idealization of a particular part or aspect of life. Often he opens but a momentary little vista of life, but it is so clear-cut and so significant that a whole life is often revealed thereby.

The student must not think that because the one-act play deals with but one crisis or but one simplified situation, it is therefore weak and inconsequential. On the contrary, since only one event or situation can be emphasized, it follows that the writer is obliged to choose the one determining crisis which makes or mars the supreme struggle of a soul, the one great change or turning-point or end of a life history. Often such moments are the really vital material for drama; nothing affords so much opportunity for striking analysis, for emotional stress, for the suggestion of a whole character sketched in the act of meeting its test.

The one-act play is a vital literary product. To segregate a bit of significant experience and to present a finished picture of its aspects and effects; to dissect a motive so searchingly and skilfully that its very roots are laid bare; to detach a single figure from a dramatic sequence and portray the essence of its character; to bring a series of actions into the clear light of day in a sudden and brief human crisis; to tell a significant story briefly and with suggestion; to portray the humor of a person or an incident, or in a trice to reveal the touch of tragedy resting like the finger of fate on an experience or on a character—these are some of the possibilities of the one-act play when bandied by a master dramatist.

To read a one-act play merely to get its story is not in itself an exercise of any extraordinary value. This sort of approach to any form of literature does not require much appreciation of literary art nor much intelligence. Almost any normal-minded person can read a play for its story with but little expenditure of mental effort. Proper appreciation of a one-act play requires more than a casual reading whose chief aim is no more than getting the plot.

If the shorter form of drama is to be appreciated properly as a real literary form, it must be approached from the point of view of its artistry and technic. This means that the student should understand its organic construction and technic, just as he should understand the organic construction and technic of a short story, a ballad, or a perfect sonnet, if he is to appreciate them properly.

The student should know what the dramatist intends to get across the footlights to his audience, and should be able to detect how he accomplishes the desired result.

It must not be thought that the author urges a study of construction at the expense of the human values in a play. On the contrary, such a study is but the means whereby the human values are made the more manifest. Surely no one would argue that the less one knows about the technic of music the better able is one to appreciate music. Indeed, it is not too much to say that, within reasonable limits, no one can really appreciate a one-act play if one does not know at least the fundamentals of its dramatic organization.

In fact, students of the one-act play recognize in its constructive regularity not a hindrance to its beauty but a genuine power. This but lends to it the charm of perfection. The sonnet and the cameo are admirable, if for no other reason than their superior workmanship. The one-act play does not lose by any reason of its technical requirements; indeed, this is one of its greatest assets. And the student who will take the pains to familiarize himself with the organic construction of a typical one-act play will have gone a long way in arriving at a proper appreciation of this shorter form of drama.

The one-act play, like the short story, is a work of literary art, and must be approached as such. Just like a painting or a poem or a fine public building, the one-act play aims at making a singleness of effect upon the reader or observer. One does not judge a statue, or a poem, or any other work of art, by the appearance of any isolated part of it, but by the sum-total effect of the whole. The fundamental aim of a one-act play is that it shall so present a singleness of effect to the reader or to the assembled group who have gathered to witness a performance of it, that the reader or observer will be provoked to emotional response thereto.

Thus, when a student reads a play like George Middleton's Tradition, he is made to see and feel that the life of a daughter has been handicapped and the longings of a mother smothered because of the conventional narrowness of an otherwise loving father. This is the singleness of effect of the play; this is its theme. This is precisely what the author of the play wished his reader or observer to see and feel. When one reads Bosworth Crocker's The Last Straw, one feels that a reasonably good and worthy man, because of his sensitiveness to criticism, has been driven to despair and to a tragic end by the malicious gossip of neighbors. One's sense of pity at his misfortune is aroused. This is what the author intended to do. This idea and effect is the theme of the play. And when the student reads Paul Hervieu's Modesty, he feels that a woman, even though she may lead herself into thinking she prefers brutal frankness, instinctively likes affection and even flattery. This is the effect produced by the play; this is its intent; this is its theme.

In approaching a one-act play, then, the very first consideration should be to determine what the purpose and intent of the play is—to determine its theme. This demands that the play be read through complete at one sitting and that no premature conclusions be drawn. Once the play is read, it is well to subject the play to certain leading questions. What has the author intended that his reader or hearer shall understand, think, or feel? What is the play about? What is its object and purpose? Is it a precept or an observation found in life, or is it a bit of fancy? Is it artificially didactic and moralizing? With what fundamental element in human nature does it have to do: Love? Patriotism? Fear? Egotism and self-centredness? Sacrifice? Faithfulness? Or what?

A word of warning should be given. The student should not get the idea that by theme is meant the moral of the play. A good play may be thoroughly moral without its descending to commonplace moralizing. Good plays concern themselves with the presentation of the fundamentals of life rather than a creed of morals, theories, and propagandas. Art concerns itself with larger things than didactic and argumentative moralizing.

Once the student satisfies himself as to the singleness of effect or theme of the play, he will do well to set himself to the task of seeing just how the dramatist has achieved this effect. He should keep in mind that the playwright is a skilled workman; that he has predetermined for himself just what he wishes his audience to think, feel, or understand, and has marshalled all his materials to that end. The way by which he accomplishes that end is his technic. Technic is but the practical method by which an artist can most effectively convey his message to his public. In a play the materials that the dramatist uses to this end are character, plot, dialogue, and stage direction. If he is skilled he will use these elements in such a way that the result will be an artistic whole, a singleness of effect, an organized unit that will exemplify and express his theme.

A. The Characters in the One-Act Play.—Generally speaking, drama grows out of character. Farce, melodrama, and extravaganza usually consist of situation rather than of character. In any event, the student should avail himself of every means to understand the characters in the play under discussion. His real appreciation of the play will be in direct ratio almost to his understanding of the persons in the drama. Any attention given to this end will be energy well spent. The student should get into the very heart of the characters, as it were.

Thus, Adonijah, in Beulah Bornstead's The Diabolical Circle, is a narrow, self-centred, Puritan egotist who has little about his personality to appeal to the romantic and vivacious Betty. Lady Sims, in Sir James M. Barrie's The Twelve-Pound Look, is a woman who really is pathetic in her longing for some human independence in the presence of her self-centred husband, "Sir" Harry Sims. And Manikin and Minikin, in Alfred Kreymborg's Manikin and Minikin, are conventionalized puppets representing the light yet half-serious bickerings, jealousies, and quarrellings of human nature.

The student will do well to characterize the dramatis personæ deliberately and specifically. He should not now value himself for working fast; for things done in a hurry usually lack depth. He must not be content with vague and thin generalities. In analyzing a character it might be well to apply some specific questions similar to the following: Just what is the elemental human quality in the character? Loving? Trusting? Egotistic? Superstitious? Revengeful? Treacherous? Selfish? Discontented? Optimistic? Romantic? Or what? How does the dramatist characterize them: By action? By dialogue? By spirit of likes and dislikes? By racial trait? By religion? By peculiarity of manner, speech, appearance? Are the characters really dramatic: are they impelled to strong emotional reaction upon each other and upon situation? Do they provoke one's dramatic sympathy? Do they make one feel their own point of view and their own motives for conduct?

B. The Plot of the One-Act Play.—Plot and character are integrally interlinked. Plot is not merely story taken from every-day life, where seldom do events occur in a series of closely following minor crucial moments leading to a climax. The dramatist so constructs his material that there is a sequential and causal interplay of dramatic forces, ending in some major crisis or crucial moment. Plot may be said to be the framework and constructed story by which a dramatist exemplifies his theme. It does not exist for its own end, but is one of the fundamental means whereby the playwright gets his singleness of effect, or theme, to his reader or hearer. From the story material at his disposal the playwright constructs his plot to this very end.

Careful attention should be given to the plot. The student should question it carefully. Do the plot materials seem to have been taken from actual life? Or do they seem to be invented? Is the plot well suited to exemplifying the theme? Reconstruct the story out of which the plot may have been built. Since the plot of a one-act play is highly simplified, determine whether there are any complexities, any irrelevancies, any digressions. Does the plot have a well-defined beginning, middle, and end?

1. The Beginning of the One-Act Play.—Having but a relatively short time at its disposal, usually about thirty minutes and seldom more than forty-five minutes, the beginning of a one-act play is very short. It is characterized by condensation, compactness, and brevity. Seldom is the beginning more than a half-page in length; often the play is got under way in two or three speeches. The student will do well to practise to the end that he will recognize instantly when the dramatic background of a one-act play has been laid.

Whatever else may characterize the beginning, it must be dramatically effective. Instantly it must catch the powers of perception by making them aware of the initial situation out of which the subsequent dramatic action will develop. A good beginning makes one feel that suddenly he has come face to face with a situation which cannot be solved without an interplay of dramatic forces to a given final result.

Thus, when one reads Althea Thurston's The Exchange, one is made suddenly to feel that human beings are discontent with their shortcomings and possessed qualities, and that they always feel that they would be happier if they possessed something other than what they have. The Judge, who handles the cases as they come in for exchange, is disgusted with the vanities of humankind, and is ready to clear his hands of the whole matter. Here is a situation; it is the beginning of the play. In the beginning of Lady Gregory's Hyacinth Halvey one is brought suddenly to the realization that Hyacinth Halvey instinctively rebels against the highly colored and artificially created good name that has been unwittingly superimposed upon him. This situation, suddenly presented, is the beginning of the play. Out of this initial situation the subsequent dramatic action evolves.

Is the beginning too short? Too long? Does it make the initial dramatic situation clear? How has the playwright made it clear and effective? Just where is the end of the beginning? Although the beginning and the subsequent plot development are well blended together, so that there is no halting where the beginning ends, usually one can detect where the one ends and the other begins. It is a good idea, for the purpose of developing a sense of the organic structure of the one-act play, to draw a line across the page of the play, just where the one ends and the other begins.

The setting of the play is a part of the beginning. Is the setting realistic? Romantic? Fantastic or bizarre? Are the details of stage design, properties, and especially the atmosphere and color scheme in harmony with the tone of the play itself? Is the setting really an organic part of the play or is it something apart from it? Note that the setting is usually written in the third person, present tense, and in italics.

2. The Middle of the One-Act Play.—The middle of a one-act play is concerned primarily with the main crucial moment or climax and the dramatic movement that from the beginning leads up to it. A good play consists of a series of minor crises leading up to a major crisis or crucial moment. It is for this crucial moment that the play exists; it is for this big scene precisely that the play has been written. Indeed, the play succeeds or fails as the crucial moment is strongly dramatic or flabbily weak. This is the part of the play that is strongest in dramatic tension, strongest in emotional functioning.

A study of Sir James M. Barrie's The Twelve-Pound Look shows that the crucial moment comes at the point where "Sir" Harry Sims in his self-centred egotism discovers that his wife's, Lady Sims's, heart-longing could easily be satisfied if she were permitted no other freedom than merely operating a typewriter. In Althea Thurston's The Exchange the crucial moment comes when the several characters, who unwittingly had exchanged one ill for a worse one, find that they can never re-exchange, and that they must endure the torments and displeasure of the newly acquired ill throughout life.

Just where is the crucial moment or climax in the play under consideration? Determine the several minor crises that lead up to the crucial moment. Is the crucial moment delayed too long for good dramatic effect? Or is it reached too soon, so that the play is too short and too sudden in reaching the climax? Does it make one feel that some vital result has been attained in the plot movement? Is it characterized by strong situation and by strong emotional reactions of character on character or of character on situation?

For purposes of impressing a sense the organic structure of a one-act play, it is a good plan to draw a horizontal line across the page at the close of the crucial moment. Keep in mind, however, that the crucial moment is not the end of the play as it appears on the printed page or as it is acted on the stage.

3. The End of the One-Act Play.—The end of the one-act play is an important consideration. Too often it is entirely lost sight of. It is the part that frequently makes or mars a play. When the crucial moment or climax has been reached, the plot action of the play is completed, but the play is not yet completed. The play needs yet to be rounded out into an artistic and dramatic whole. In life the actual crisis in human affairs is not often our chiefest interest, but the reaction of characters immediately after the crisis has occurred. Thus, in a play, the emotional reaction of the characters on the crucial moment and the more or less sudden readjustment between characters after the crucial moment must be presented. For this very purpose the end of the one-act play is constructed. The end is of need very short—usually even shorter than the beginning. Usually the end consists of but a speech or two, or sometimes only of pantomime that more effectively expresses the emotional reactions of the characters on the crucial moment than dialogue.

Thus, in Sir James M. Barrie's The Twelve-Pound Look, the end consists of but pantomime, in which "Sir" Harry expresses his emotional reaction upon his wife's longing for the human liberty that even the operating of a typewriter would provide her. The end of Bosworth Crocker's The Last Straw comes immediately after the pistol-shot is heard in the adjoining room and Mrs. Bauer's voice is heard: "Fritz! Fritz! Speak to me! Look at me, Fritz! You didn't do it, Fritz! I know you didn't do it!" etc.

Is the end of the play under consideration in terms of dialogue? In pantomime? Or both? Is it too long? Too short? Is it dramatic? Is it conclusive and satisfying?

C. Dialogue of the One-Act Play.—Dialogue, like plot and characterization, is another means whereby the theme of the play is got to the reader or audience. Good dramatic dialogue is constructed to this very end. It is not the commonplace, rambling, uncertain, and realistic question and answer of every-day life. Usually good dramatic dialogue is crisp, direct, condensed. It is the substance but not the form of ordinary conversation. Its chiefest characteristic is spontaneity.

The highest type of dramatic dialogue is that which expresses the ideas and emotions of characters at the points of highest emotional functioning. It will readily be seen, then, that not all dialogue in a play is necessarily dramatic. In truth, the best dramatic dialogue occurs in conjunction with the series of minor crises and the crucial moment that go to make up the dramatic movement of the play. Often there is much dialogue in a play that essentially is not dramatic at all.

In analyzing dramatic dialogue it is well to inquire whether in the play it serves (1) to express the ideas and emotions of characters at points of highest emotional functioning, (2) to advance the plot, (3) to reveal character, or (4) what. Is it brief, clear, direct, spontaneous? Or is it careless, loose, insipid? Wit, repartee? Didactic, moralizing? Satirical, cynical?

D. Stage-Business and Stage-Direction in the One-Act Play.—The stage-business and stage-direction, usually printed in italics, of a play are an essential part of a drama. They must not be ignored in either reading or staging a play. The novel or short story generally uses narration and description to achieve its desired result; a play, on the contrary, uses dialogue and concrete objective pantomime that may be seen readily with the eye. A play is not a story narrated in chronological order of events, but it is a story so handled and so constructed that it can be acted on a stage by actors before an audience. It is a series of minor crises leading to a major crisis, presented to a reader or to an audience by characters, dialogue, and stage-business and pantomime. For purposes of indicating the pantomimic action of the play, the dramatist resorts to stage-business and stage-direction.

Does the stage-direction aid in making (1) the dialogue, (2) the plot, (3) the dramatic action, or (4) the character more clear? Does it shorten the play? Does it express idea, emotion, or situations more effectively than could dialogue, if it were used?

And, finally, do not judge any play until all the evidence is in, until you have thoroughly mastered every detail and have fully conceived the author's idea and purpose. It is not a question whether you would have selected such a theme or whether you would have handled it in the same way in which the author did; but the point is does the author in his way make his theme clear to you. The author has conceived a dramatic problem in his own mind and has set it forth in his own way. The question is, does he make you see his result and his method?

Do you like the play? Or do you not like it? State your reason in either case. Is it because of the author? Is it because of the theme? Is it because of the technic—the way he gets his intent to his reader or audience? Is it because of your own likes or dislikes; preconceived notions or prejudices? Is it because of the acting? Of the staging or setting? Does it uplift or depress? Does it provoke you to emotional functioning?

"Though old the thought and oft expressed,

'Tis his at last who says it best."

SIR JAMES M. BARRIE

Sir James M. Barrie is rated as the foremost English dramatist of the day; and his plays, taken together, make the most significant contribution to English drama since Sheridan. Practically his entire life has been given to the writing of novels and plays, many of the latter having their heroines conceived especially for Maude Adams, one of America's greatest actresses. He was born in Kirriemuir, Scotland, in 1860. He received his education at Dumfries and Edinburgh University. His first work in journalism and letters was done at Nottingham, but soon he took up his work in London, where he now resides.

Sir James M. Barrie's literary labors have been very fruitful. His The Professor's Love Story, The Little Minister, Quality Street, The Admirable Crichton, Peter Pan, What Every Woman Knows, and Alice Sit-by-the-Fire are well known to every one.

In 1914 there appeared a volume of one-act plays, Half Hours, the most important of which is The Twelve-Pound Look. And in 1918 appeared a volume, Echoes of the War, the most important one-act play therein being The Old Lady Shows Her Medals.

Barrie is a great playwright because he is so thoroughly human. All the little whimsicalities, sentiments, little loves, and heart-longings of human beings are ever present in his plays. He is no reformer, no propagandist. He appeals to the emotions rather than to the intellect. He continues the romantic tradition in English drama and gives us plays that are wholesome, tender, and human. And with all this, he has the added saving grace of a most absorbing humor.

While Barrie is not a devotee of the well-made play, his The Twelve-Pound Look is one of the most nearly perfect one-act plays of contemporary drama. His interest in human personalities is not more manifest in any of his plays than in Lady Sims and "Sir" Harry Sims in this play.

CHARACTERS

"Sir" Harry Sims

Lady Sims

Kate

Tombes

---

If quite convenient (as they say about checks) you are to conceive that the scene is laid in your own house, and that Harry Sims is you. Perhaps the ornamentation of the house is a trifle ostentatious, but if you cavil at that we are willing to redecorate: you don't get out of being Harry Sims on a mere matter of plush and dados. It pleases us to make him a city man, but (rather than lose you) he can be turned with a scrape of the pen into a K.C., fashionable doctor, Secretary of State, or what you will. We conceive him of a pleasant rotundity with a thick red neck, but we shall waive that point if you know him to be thin.

It is that day in your career when everything went wrong just when everything seemed to be superlatively right.

In Harry's case it was a woman who did the mischief. She came to him in his great hour and told him she did not admire him. Of course he turned her out of the house and was soon himself again, but it spoiled the morning for him. This is the subject of the play, and quite enough too.

Harry is to receive the honor of knighthood in a few days, and we discover him in the sumptuous "snuggery" of his home in Kensington (or is it Westminster?), rehearsing the ceremony with his wife. They have been at it all the morning, a pleasing occupation. Mrs. Sims (as we may call her for the last time, as it were, and strictly as a good-natured joke) is wearing her presentation gown, and personates the august one who is about to dub her Harry knight. She is seated regally. Her jewelled shoulders proclaim aloud her husband's generosity. She must be an extraordinarily proud and happy woman, yet she has a drawn face and shrinking ways, as if there were some one near her of whom she is afraid. She claps her hands, as the signal to Harry. He enters bowing, and with a graceful swerve of the leg. He is only partly in costume, the sword and the real stockings not having arrived yet. With a gliding motion that is only delayed while one leg makes up on the other, he reaches his wife, and, going on one knee, raises her hand superbly to his lips. She taps him on the shoulder with a paper-knife and says huskily: "Rise, Sir Harry." He rises, bows, and glides about the room, going on his knees to various articles of furniture, and rises from each a knight. It is a radiant domestic scene, and Harry is as dignified as if he knew that royalty was rehearsing it at the other end.

SIR HARRY. [Complacently.] Did that seem all right, eh?

LADY SIMS. [Much relieved.] I think perfect.

SIR HARRY. But was it dignified?

LADY SIMS. Oh, very. And it will be still more so when you have the sword.

SIR HARRY. The sword will lend it an air. There are really the five moments—[suiting the action to the word]—the glide—the dip—the kiss—the tap—and you back out a knight. It's short, but it's a very beautiful ceremony. [Kindly.] Anything you can suggest?

LADY SIMS. No—oh, no. [Nervously, seeing him pause to kiss the tassel of a cushion.] You don't think you have practised till you know what to do almost too well?

SIR HARRY. I do not. Don't talk nonsense. Wait till your opinion is asked for.

LADY SIMS. [Abashed.] I'm sorry, Harry. [A perfect butler appears and presents a card.] "The Flora Typewriting Agency."

SIR HARRY. Ah, yes. I telephoned them to send some one. A woman, I suppose, Tombes?

TOMBES. Yes, Sir Harry.

SIR HARRY. Show her in here. [He has very lately become a stickler for etiquette.] And, Tombes, strictly speaking, you know, I am not Sir Harry till Thursday.

TOMBES. Beg pardon, sir, but it is such a satisfaction to us.

SIR HARRY. [Good-naturedly.] Ah, they like it down-stairs, do they?

TOMBES. [Unbending.] Especially the females, Sir Harry.

SIR HARRY. Exactly. You can show her in, Tombes. [The butler departs on his mighty task.] You can tell the woman what she is wanted for, Emmy, while I change. [He is too modest to boast about himself, and prefers to keep a wife in the house for that purpose.] You can tell her the sort of things about me that will come better from you. [Smiling happily.] You heard what Tombes said: "Especially the females." And he is right. Success! The women like it even better than the men. And rightly. For they share. You share, Lady Sims. Not a woman will see that gown without being sick with envy of it. I know them. Have all our lady friends in to see it. It will make them ill for a week.

KATE. [Respectfully, but she should have waited to be spoken to.] Good morning, madam.

LADY SIMS. [In her nervous way, and scarcely noticing that the typist is a little too ready with her tongue.] Good morning. [As a first impression she rather likes the woman, and the woman, though it is scarcely worth mentioning, rather likes her. Lady Sims has a maid for buttoning and unbuttoning her, and probably another for waiting on the maid, and she gazes with a little envy perhaps at a woman who does things for herself.] Is that the typewriting machine?

KATE. [Who is getting it ready for use.] Yes. [Not "Yes, madam" as it ought to be.] I suppose if I am to work here I may take this off. I get on better without it. [She is referring to her hat.

LADY SIMS. Certainly. [But the hat is already off.] I ought to apologize for my gown. I am to be presented this week, and I was trying it on.

KATE. It is beautiful, if I may presume to say so.

LADY SIMS. [With a flush of pride in the gown.] Yes, it is very beautiful. [The beauty of it gives her courage.] Sit down, please.

KATE. [The sort of woman who would have sat down in any case.] I suppose it is some copying you want done? I got no particulars. I was told to come to this address, but that was all.

LADY SIMS. [Almost with the humility of a servant.] Oh, it is not work for me, it is for my husband, and what he needs is not exactly copying. [Swelling, for she is proud of Harry.] He wants a number of letters answered—hundreds of them—letters and telegrams of congratulation.

KATE. [As if it were all in the day's work.] Yes?

LADY SIMS. [Remembering that Harry expects every wife to do her duty.] My husband is a remarkable man. He is about to be knighted. [Pause, but Kate does not fall to the floor.] He is to be knighted for his services to—[on reflection]—for his services. [She is conscious that she is not doing Harry justice.] He can explain it so much better than I can.

KATE. [In her businesslike way.] And I am to answer the congratulations?

LADY SIMS. [Afraid that it will be a hard task.] Yes.

KATE. [Blithely] It is work I have had some experience of.

[She proceeds to type.

LADY SIMS. But you can't begin till you know what he wants to say.

KATE. Only a specimen letter. Won't it be the usual thing?

LADY SIMS. [To whom this is a new idea.] Is there a usual thing?

KATE. Oh, yes.

LADY SIMS. How quickly you do it! It must be delightful to be able to do something, and to do it well.

KATE. [Thankfully.] Yes, it is delightful.

LADY SIMS [Again remembering the source of all her greatness.] But, excuse me, I don't think that will be any use. My husband wants me to explain to you that his is an exceptional case. He did not try to get this honor in any way. It was a complete surprise to him——

KATE. [Who is a practical Kate and no dealer in sarcasm.] That is what I have written.

LADY SIMS. [In whom sarcasm would meet a dead wall.] But how could you know?

KATE. I only guessed.

LADY SIMS. Is that the usual thing?

KATE. Oh, yes.

LADY SIMS. They don't try to get it?

KATE. I don't know. That is what we are told to say in the letters.

LADY SIMS. [Returning to surer ground.] I should explain that my husband is not a man who cares for honors. So long as he does his duty——

KATE. Yes, I have been putting that in.

LADY SIMS. Have you? But he particularly wants it to be known that he would have declined a title were it not——

KATE. I have got it here.

LADY SIMS. What have you got?

KATE. [Reading.] "Indeed, I would have asked to be allowed to decline had it not been that I want to please my wife."

LADY SIMS. [Heavily.] But how could you know it was that?

KATE. Is it?

LADY SIMS. [Who, after all, is the one with the right to ask questions.] Do they all accept it for that reason?

KATE. That is what we are told to say in the letters.

LADY SIMS. [Thoughtlessly.] It is quite as if you knew my husband.

KATE. I assure you, I don't even know his name.

LADY SIMS. [Suddenly showing that she knows him.] Oh, he wouldn't like that!

LADY SIMS. This is the lady, Harry.

SIR HARRY. [Shooting his cuffs.] Yes, yes. Good morning, my dear.

LADY SIMS. [Who has seen nothing.] I have been trying to explain to her——

SIR HARRY. Eh—what? [He controls himself.] Leave it to me, Emmy; I'll attend to her.

SIR HARRY. [With concentrated scorn.] You!

KATE. [As if agreeing with him.] Yes, it's funny.

SIR HARRY. The shamelessness of your daring to come here.

KATE. Believe me, it is not less a surprise to me than it is to you. I was sent here in the ordinary way of business. I was given only the number of the house. I was not told the name.

SIR HARRY. [Withering her.] The ordinary way of business! This is what you have fallen to—a typist!

KATE. [Unwithered.] Think of it!

SIR HARRY. After going through worse straits, I'll be bound.

KATE. [With some grim memories.] Much worse straits.

SIR HARRY. [Alas, laughing coarsely.] My congratulations!

KATE. Thank you, Harry.

SIR HARRY. [Who is annoyed, as any man would be, not to find her abject.] Eh? What was that you called me, madam?

KATE. Isn't it Harry? On my soul, I almost forget.

SIR HARRY. It isn't Harry to you. My name is Sims, if you please.

KATE. Yes, I had not forgotten that. It was my name, too, you see.

SIR HARRY. [In his best manner.] It was your name till you forfeited the right to bear it.

KATE. Exactly.

SIR HARRY. [Gloating.] I was furious to find you here, but on second thoughts it pleases me. [From the depths of his moral nature.] There is a grim justice in this.

KATE. [Sympathetically.] Tell me?

SIR HARRY. Do you know what you were brought here to do?

KATE. I have just been learning. You have been made a knight, and I was summoned to answer the messages of congratulation.

SIR HARRY. That's it, that's it. You come on this day as my servant!

KATE. I, who might have been Lady Sims.

SIR HARRY. And you are her typist instead. And she has four men-servants. Oh, I am glad you saw her in her presentation gown.

KATE. I wonder if she would let me do her washing, Sir Harry?

[Her want of taste disgusts him.

SIR HARRY. [With dignity.] You can go. The mere thought that only a few flights of stairs separates such as you from my innocent children——

KATE. [Slowly.] You have children?

SIR HARRY. [Inflated.] Two. [He wonders why she is so long in answering.

KATE. [Resorting to impertinence.] Such a nice number.

SIR HARRY. [With an extra turn of the screw.] Both boys.

KATE. Successful in everything. Are they like you, Sir Harry?

SIR HARRY. [Expanding.] They are very like me.

KATE. That's nice. [Even on such a subject as this she can be ribald.

SIR HARRY. Will you please to go.

KATE. Heigho! What shall I say to my employer?

SIR HARRY. That is no affair of mine.

KATE. What will you say to Lady Sims?

SIR HARRY. I flatter myself that whatever I say, Lady Sims will accept without comment.

KATE. Still the same Harry.

SIR HARRY. What do you mean?

KATE. Only that you have the old confidence in your profound knowledge of the sex.

SIR HARRY. [Beginning to think as little of her intellect as of her morals.] I suppose I know my wife.

KATE. [Hopelessly dense.] I suppose so. I was only remembering that you used to think you knew her in the days when I was the lady. [He is merely wasting his time on her, and he indicates the door. She is not sufficiently the lady to retire worsted.] Well, good-by, Sir Harry. Won't you ring, and the four men-servants will show me out?

[But he hesitates.

SIR HARRY. [In spite of himself.] As you are here, there is something I want to get out of you. [Wishing he could ask it less eagerly.] Tell me, who was the man?

KATE. You never found out?

SIR HARRY. I could never be sure.

KATE. [Reflectively.] I thought that would worry you.

SIR HARRY. [Sneering.] It's plain that he soon left you.

KATE. Very soon.

SIR HARRY. As I could have told you. [But still she surveys him with the smile of Mona Lisa. The badgered man has to entreat.] Who was he? It was fourteen years ago, and cannot matter to any of us now. Kate, tell me who he was?

KATE. [Shaking a motherly head.] Better not ask.

SIR HARRY. I do ask. Tell me.

KATE. It is kinder not to tell you.

SIR HARRY. [Violently.] Then, by James, it was one of my own pals. Was it Bernard Roche? [She shakes her head.] It may have been some one who comes to my house still.

KATE. I think not. [Reflecting.] Fourteen years! You found my letter that night when you went home?

SIR HARRY. [Impatient.] Yes.

KATE. I propped it against the decanters. I thought you would be sure to see it there. It was a room not unlike this, and the furniture was arranged in the same attractive way. How it all comes back to me. Don't you see me, Harry, in hat and cloak, putting the letter there, taking a last look round, and then stealing out into the night to meet——

SIR HARRY. Whom?

KATE. Him. Hours pass, no sound in the room but the tick-tack of the clock, and then about midnight you return alone. You take——

SIR HARRY. [Gruffly.] I wasn't alone.

KATE. [The picture spoiled.] No? Oh. [Plaintively.] Here have I all these years been conceiving it wrongly. [She studies his face.] I believe something interesting happened.

SIR HARRY. [Growling.] Something confoundedly annoying.

KATE. [Coaxing.] Do tell me.

SIR HARRY. We won't go into that. Who was the man? Surely a husband has a right to know with whom his wife bolted.

KATE. [Who is detestably ready with her tongue.] Surely the wife has a right to know how he took it. [The woman's love of bargaining comes to her aid.] A fair exchange. You tell me what happened, and I will tell you who he was.

SIR HARRY. You will? Very well.

KATE. [Tastelessly.] Quite like old times. [He moves away from her indignantly.] Go on, Harry.

SIR HARRY. [Who has a manful shrinking from saying anything that is to his disadvantage.] Well, as you know, I was dining at the club that night.

KATE. Yes.

SIR HARRY. Jack Lamb drove me home. Mabbett Green was with us, and I asked them to come in for a few minutes.

KATE. Jack Lamb, Mabbett Green? I think I remember them. Jack was in Parliament.

SIR HARRY. No, that was Mabbett. They came into the house with me and—[with sudden horror]—was it him?

KATE. [Bewildered.] Who?

SIR HARRY. Mabbett?

KATE. What?

SIR HARRY. The man?

KATE. What man? [Understanding.] Oh, no. I thought you said he came into the house with you.

SIR HARRY. It might have been a blind.

KATE. Well, it wasn't. Go on.

SIR HARRY. They came in to finish a talk we had been having at the club.

KATE. An interesting talk, evidently.

SIR HARRY. The papers had been full that evening of the elopement of some countess woman with a fiddler. What was her name?

KATE. Does it matter?

SIR HARRY. No. [Thus ends the countess.] We had been discussing the thing and—[he pulls a wry face]—and I had been rather warm——

KATE. [With horrid relish.] I begin to see. You had been saying it served the husband right, that the man who could not look after his wife deserved to lose her. It was one of your favorite subjects. Oh, Harry, say it was that!

SIR HARRY. [Sourly.] It may have been something like that.

KATE. And all the time the letter was there, waiting; and none of you knew except the clock. Harry, it is sweet of you to tell me. [His face is not sweet. The illiterate woman has used the wrong adjective.] I forget what I said precisely in the letter.

SIR HARRY. [Pulverizing her.] So do I. But I have it still.

KATE. [Not pulverized.] Do let me see it again.

SIR HARRY. You are welcome to it as a gift.

KATE. [Taking it.] Yes, this is it. Harry, how you did crumple it! [She reads, not without curiosity.] "Dear husband—I call you that for the last time—I am off. I am what you call making a bolt of it. I won't try to excuse myself nor to explain, for you would not accept the excuses nor understand the explanation. It will be a little shock to you, but only to your pride; what will astound you is that any woman could be such a fool as to leave such a man as you. I am taking nothing with me that belongs to you. May you be very happy.—Your ungrateful Kate. P.S.—You need not try to find out who he is. You will try, but you won't succeed." [She folds the nasty little thing up.] I may really have it for my very own?

SIR HARRY. You really may.

KATE. [Impudently.] If you would care for a typed copy——?

SIR HARRY. [In a voice with which he used to frighten his grandmother.] None of your sauce! [Wincing.] I had to let them see it in the end.

KATE. I can picture Jack Lamb eating it.

SIR HARRY. A penniless parson's daughter.

KATE. That is all I was.

SIR HARRY. We searched for the two of you high and low.

KATE. Private detectives?

SIR HARRY. They couldn't get on the track of you.

KATE. [Smiling.] No?

SIR HARRY. But at last the courts let me serve the papers by advertisement on a man unknown, and I got my freedom.

KATE. So I saw. It was the last I heard of you.

SIR HARRY. [Each word a blow for her.] And I married again just as soon as ever I could.

KATE. They say that is always a compliment to the first wife.

SIR HARRY. [Violently.] I showed them.

KATE. You soon let them see that if one woman was a fool, you still had the pick of the basket to choose from.

SIR HARRY. By James, I did.

KATE. [Bringing him to earth again.] But still, you wondered who he was.

SIR HARRY. I suspected everybody—even my pals. I felt like jumping at their throats and crying: "It's you!"

KATE. You had been so admirable to me, an instinct told you that I was sure to choose another of the same.

SIR HARRY. I thought, it can't be money, so it must be looks. Some dolly face. [He stares at her in perplexity.] He must have had something wonderful about him to make you willing to give up all that you had with me.

KATE. [As if he was the stupid one.] Poor Harry.

SIR HARRY. And it couldn't have been going on for long, for I would have noticed the change in you.

KATE. Would you?

SIR HARRY. I knew you so well.

KATE. You amazing man.

SIR HARRY. So who was he? Out with it.

KATE. You are determined to know?

SIR HARRY. Your promise. You gave your word.

KATE. If I must—[She is the villain of the piece, but it must be conceded that in this matter she is reluctant to pain him.] I am sorry I promised. [Looking at him steadily.] There was no one, Harry; no one at all.

SIR HARRY.. [Rising.] If you think you can play with me——

KATE. I told you that you wouldn't like it.

SIR HARRY. [Rasping.] It is unbelievable.

KATE. I suppose it is; but it is true.

SIR HARRY. Your letter itself gives you the lie.

KATE. That was intentional. I saw that if the truth were known you might have a difficulty in getting your freedom; and as I was getting mine it seemed fair that you should have yours also. So I wrote my good-by in words that would be taken to mean what you thought they meant, and I knew the law would back you in your opinion. For the law, like you, Harry, has a profound understanding of women.

SIR HARRY. [Trying to straighten, himself.] I don't believe you yet.

KATE. [Looking not unkindly into the soul of this man.] Perhaps that is the best way to take it. It is less unflattering than the truth. But you were the only one. [Summing up her life.] You sufficed.

SIR HARRY. Then what mad impulse——

KATE. It was no impulse, Harry. I had thought it out for a year.

SIR HARRY. A year? [Dazed.] One would think to hear you that I hadn't been a good husband to you.

KATE. [With a sad smile.] You were a good husband according to your lights.

SIR HARRY. [Stoutly.] I think so.

KATE. And a moral man, and chatty, and quite the philanthropist.

SIR HARRY. [On sure ground.] All women envied you.

KATE. How you loved me to be envied.

SIR HARRY. I swaddled you in luxury.

KATE. [Making her great revelation.] That was it.

SIR HARRY. [Blankly.] What?

KATE. [Who can be serene because it is all over.] How you beamed at me when I sat at the head of your fat dinners in my fat jewelry, surrounded by our fat friends.

SIR HARRY. [Aggrieved.] They weren't so fat.

KATE. [A side issue.] All except those who were so thin. Have you ever noticed, Harry, that many jewels make women either incredibly fat or incredibly thin?

SIR HARRY. [Shouting.] I have not. [Is it worth while to argue with her any longer?] We had all the most interesting society of the day. It wasn't only business men. There were politicians, painters, writers——

KATE. Only the glorious, dazzling successes. Oh, the fat talk while we ate too much—about who had made a hit and who was slipping back, and what the noo house cost and the noo motor and the gold soup-plates, and who was to be the noo knight.

SIR HARRY. [Who it will be observed is unanswerable from first to last.] Was anybody getting on better than me, and consequently you?

KATE. Consequently me! Oh, Harry, you and your sublime religion.

SIR HARRY. [Honest heart.] My religion? I never was one to talk about religion, but——

KATE. Pooh, Harry, you don't even know what your religion was and is and will be till the day of your expensive funeral. [And here is the lesson that life has taught her.] One's religion is whatever he is most interested in, and yours is Success.

SIR HARRY. [Quoting from his morning paper.] Ambition—it is the last infirmity of noble minds.

KATE. Noble minds!

SIR HARRY. [At last grasping what she is talking about.] You are not saying that you left me because of my success?

KATE. Yes, that was it. [And now she stands revealed to him.] I couldn't endure it. If a failure had come now and then—but your success was suffocating me. [She is rigid with emotion.] The passionate craving I had to be done with it, to find myself among people who had not got on.

SIR HARRY. [With proper spirit.] There are plenty of them.

KATE. There were none in our set. When they began to go down-hill they rolled out of our sight.

SIR HARRY. [Clenching it.] I tell you I am worth a quarter of a million.

KATE [Unabashed.] That is what you are worth to yourself. I'll tell you what you are worth to me: exactly twelve pounds. For I made up my mind that I could launch myself on the world alone if I first proved my mettle by earning twelve pounds; and as soon as I had earned it I left you.

SIR HARRY. [In the scales.] Twelve pounds!

KATE. That is your value to a woman. If she can't make it she has to stick to you.

SIR HARRY. [Remembering perhaps a rectory garden.] You valued me at more than that when you married me.

KATE. [Seeing it also.] Ah, I didn't know you then. If only you had been a man, Harry.

SIR HARRY. A man? What do you mean by a man?

KATE. [Leaving the garden.] Haven't you heard of them? They are something fine; and every woman is loath to admit to herself that her husband is not one. When she marries, even though she has been a very trivial person, there is in her some vague stirring toward a worthy life, as well as a fear of her capacity for evil. She knows her chance lies in him. If there is something good in him, what is good in her finds it, and they join forces against the baser parts. So I didn't give you up willingly, Harry. I invented all sorts of theories to explain you. Your hardness—I said it was a fine want of mawkishness. Your coarseness—I said it goes with strength. Your contempt for the weak—I called it virility. Your want of ideals was clear-sightedness. Your ignoble views of women—I tried to think them funny. Oh, I clung to you to save myself. But I had to let go; you had only the one quality, Harry, success; you had it so strong that it swallowed all the others.

SIR HARRY. [Not to be diverted from the main issue.] How did you earn that twelve pounds?

KATE. It took me nearly six months; but I earned it fairly. [She presses her hand on the typewriter as lovingly as many a woman has pressed a rose.] I learned this. I hired it and taught myself. I got some work through a friend, and with my first twelve pounds I paid for my machine. Then I considered that I was free to go, and I went.

SIR HARRY. All this going on in my house while you were living in the lap of luxury! [She nods.] By God, you were determined.

KATE. [Briefly.] By God, I was.

SIR HARRY. [Staring.] How you must have hated me.

KATE. [Smiling at the childish word.] Not a bit—after I saw that there was a way out. From that hour you amused me, Harry; I was even sorry for you, for I saw that you couldn't help yourself. Success is just a fatal gift.

SIR HARRY. Oh, thank you.

KATE. [Thinking, dear friends in front, of you and me perhaps.] Yes, and some of your most successful friends knew it. One or two of them used to look very sad at times, as if they thought they might have come to something if they hadn't got on.

SIR HARRY. [Who has a horror of sacrilege.] The battered crew you live among now—what are they but folk who have tried to succeed and failed?

KATE. That's it; they try, but they fail.

SIR HARRY. And always will fail.

KATE. Always. Poor souls—I say of them. Poor soul—they say of me. It keeps us human. That is why I never tire of them.

SIR HARRY. [Comprehensively.] Bah! Kate, I tell you I'll be worth half a million yet.

KATE. I'm sure you will. You're getting stout, Harry.

SIR HARRY. No, I'm not.

KATE. What was the name of that fat old fellow who used to fall asleep at our dinner-parties?

SIR HARRY. If you mean Sir William Crackley——

KATE. That was the man. Sir William was to me a perfect picture of the grand success. He had got on so well that he was very, very stout, and when he sat on a chair it was thus [her hands meeting in front of her]—as if he were holding his success together. That is what you are working for, Harry. You will have that and the half million about the same time.

SIR HARRY. [Who has surely been very patient.] Will you please to leave my house?

KATE. [Putting on her gloves, soiled things.] But don't let us part in anger. How do you think I am looking, Harry, compared to the dull, inert thing that used to roll round in your padded carriages?

SIR HARRY. [In masterly fashion.] I forget what you were like. I'm very sure you never could have held a candle to the present Lady Sims.

KATE. That is a picture of her, is it not?

SIR HARRY. [Seizing his chance again.] In her wedding-gown. Painted by an R.A.

KATE. [Wickedly.] A knight?

SIR HARRY. [Deceived.] Yes.

KATE. [Who likes Lady Sims—a piece of presumption on her part.] It is a very pretty face.

SIR HARRY. [With the pride of possession.] Acknowledged to be a beauty everywhere.

KATE. There is a merry look in the eyes, and character in the chin.

SIR HARRY. [Like an auctioneer.] Noted for her wit.

KATE. All her life before her when that was painted. It is a spirituelle face too. [Suddenly she turns on him with anger, for the first and only time in the play.] Oh, Harry, you brute!

SIR HARRY. [Staggered.] Eh? What?

KATE. That dear creature, capable of becoming a noble wife and mother—she is the spiritless woman of no account that I saw here a few minutes ago. I forgive you for myself, for I escaped, but that poor lost soul, oh, Harry, Harry.

SIR HARRY. [Waving her to the door.] I'll thank you—If ever there was a woman proud of her husband and happy in her married life, that woman is Lady Sims.

KATE. I wonder.

SIR HARRY. Then you needn't wonder.

KATE. [Slowly.] If I was a husband—it is my advice to all of them—I would often watch my wife quietly to see whether the twelve-pound look was not coming into her eyes. Two boys, did you say, and both like you?

SIR HARRY. What is that to you?

KATE. [With glistening eyes.] I was only thinking that somewhere there are two little girls who, when they grow up—the dear, pretty girls who are all meant for the men that don't get on! Well, good-by, Sir Harry.

SIR HARRY. [Showing a little human weakness, it is to be feared.] Say first that you're sorry.

KATE. For what?

SIR HARRY. That you left me. Say you regret it bitterly. You know you do. [She smiles and shakes her head. He is pettish. He makes a terrible announcement.] You have spoiled the day for me.

KATE. [To hearten him.] I am sorry for that; but it is only a pin-prick, Harry. I suppose it is a little jarring in the moment of your triumph to find that there is—one old friend—who does not think you a success; but you will soon forget it. Who cares what a typist thinks?

SIR HARRY. [Heartened.] Nobody. A typist at eighteen shillings a week!

KATE. [Proudly.] Not a bit of it, Harry. I double that.

SIR HARRY. [Neatly.] Magnificent!

LADY SIMS. May I come in?

SIR HARRY. [Rather appealingly.] It is Lady Sims.

KATE. I won't tell. She is afraid to come into her husband's room without knocking!

SIR HARRY. She is not. [Uxoriously.] Come in, dearest.

LADY SIMS. [Thinking she has brought her welcome with her.] Harry, the sword has come.

SIR HARRY. [Who will dote on it presently.] Oh, all right.

LADY SIMS. But I thought you were so eager to practise with it.

SIR HARRY. [Sharply.] Put it down.

KATE. [With her confounded courtesy.] It is a beautiful sword, if I may say so.

LADY SIMS. [Helped.] Yes.

SIR HARRY. [With one eye on Kate.] Emmy, the one thing your neck needs is more jewels.

LADY SIMS. [Faltering.] More!

SIR HARRY. Some ropes of pearls. I'll see to it. It's a bagatelle to me. [Kate conceals her chagrin, so she had better be shown the door. He rings.] I won't detain you any longer, miss.

KATE. Thank you.

LADY SIMS. Going already? You have been very quick.

SIR HARRY. The person doesn't suit, Emmy.

LADY SIMS. I'm sorry.

KATE. So am I, madam, but it can't be helped. Good-by, your ladyship—good-by, Sir Harry.

LADY SIMS. [Whose tendency is to say the wrong thing.] She seemed such a capable woman.

SIR HARRY. [On his hearth.] I don't like her style at all.

LADY SIMS. [Meekly.] Of course you know best.

[This is the right kind of woman.

SIR HARRY. [Rather anxious for corroboration.] Lord, how she winced when I said I was to give you those ropes of pearls.

LADY SIMS. Did she? I didn't notice. I suppose so.

SIR HARRY. [Frowning.] Suppose? Surely I know enough about women to know that.

LADY SIMS. Yes, oh yes.

SIR HARRY. [Odd that so confident a man should ask this.] Emmy, I know you well, don't I? I can read you like a book, eh?

LADY SIMS. [Nervously.] Yes, Harry.

SIR HARRY. [Jovially, but with an inquiring eye.] What a different existence yours is from that poor lonely wretch's.

LADY SIMS. Yes, but she has a very contented face.

SIR HARRY. [With a stamp of his foot.] All put on. What?

LADY SIMS. [Timidly.] I didn't say anything.

SIR HARRY. [Snapping.] One would think you envied her.

LADY SIMS. Envied? Oh, no—but I thought she looked so alive. It was while she was working the machine.

SIR HARRY. Alive! That's no life. It is you that are alive. [Curtly.] I'm busy, Emmy.

[He sits at his writing-table.

LADY SIMS. [Dutifully.] I'm sorry; I'll go, Harry. [Inconsequentially.] Are they very expensive?

SIR HARRY. What?

LADY SIMS. Those machines?

---

GEORGE MIDDLETON

George Middleton, one of the first to write and publish a volume of one-act plays in America, was born in Paterson, New Jersey, 1880. He was graduated from Columbia University in 1902. Since 1921 he has been literary editor of La Follette's Weekly, and, in addition, has been a frequent contributor to magazines and reviews on dramatic and literary subjects. During the last few years he has spent much of his time abroad.

George Middleton's chiefest interest has been in the one-act play. He has been an ardent champion of the shorter form of drama. Among his three volumes of one-act plays are Embers (including The Failures, The Gargoyle, In His House, Madonna, and The Man Masterful), Tradition (including On Bail, Their Wife, Waiting, The Cheat of Pity, and Mothers), and Possession (including The Grove, A Good Woman, The Black Tie, Circles, and The Unborn). Other one-act plays are Criminals and The Reason. His longer plays are Nowadays and The Road Together. Mr. Middleton has lectured widely on the one-act play before colleges, in Little Theatres, and clubs. Perhaps his most notable article is The Neglected One-Act Play, which appeared in The New York Dramatic Mirror in 1912.

Tradition is one of Mr. Middleton's best and most popular one-act plays; and it most nearly conforms to the organic technic of the one-act play.

FIRST PERFORMANCE AT THE BERKELEY THEATRE, NEW YORK CITY, JANUARY 24, 1913.
(Produced under the personal direction of Mr. Frank Reicher.)

THE PEOPLE
George Ollivant	Mr. George W. Wilson
Emily, his wife	Miss Alice Leigh
Mary, his daughter, an actress	Miss Fola La Follette

SCENE: The sitting-room at the Ollivants' in a small town up-State. It is an evening late in the spring.

A simple room is disclosed, bearing the traces of another generation. Old-fashioned window-doors at the right, overlooking the garden, open on a porch; another door in back opening on the hall-way. A large fire-place at the left, now concealed by an embroidered screen; the horsehair furniture, several terra-cotta statuettes, and a woodcut or two on the walls create the subtle atmosphere of the past. There is a lamp on the table, and another on a bracket by the door in back. Moonlight filters through the window-doors.

The Ollivants are discovered together. Mary, a rather plain woman of about twenty-five, with a suggestion of quick sensibilities, is standing, lost in thought, looking out into the garden. Her mother, Emily, nearing fifty, quiet and subdued in manner, is seated at the table trimming a hat. Occasionally she looks at Mary, stops her work, glances at her husband, closes her eyes as though tired, and then resumes. The silence continues for some time, broken only by the rattle of the town paper which George Ollivant is reading. He is well on in middle life, with a strong, determined face not entirely without elements of kindness and deep feeling. When he finishes, he folds the paper, puts it on the table, knocks the ashes carefully from his pipe into his hand, and throws them behind the screen; takes off his spectacles and wipes them as he, too, looks over toward his daughter, still gazing absently into the garden. Finally, after a slight hesitation, he goes to her and puts his arm about her; she is startled but smiles sweetly.

OLLIVANT. [Affectionately.] Glad to be home again, Mary?

MARY. [Evasively.] The garden is so pretty.

OLLIVANT. Hasn't changed much, eh?

MARY. It seems different; perhaps it's the night.

OLLIVANT. I guess it isn't up to its usual standard. Haven't seen your mother there so often this spring.

EMILY. [Quietly.] This dry spell is not good for flowers.

OLLIVANT. It's only the cultivated flowers that need care; can't help thinking that when I see the wild ones so hardy in my fields on the hill. [Turning to Emily and patting her.] Is there any of that spray mixture left, Emily, dear?

EMILY. I haven't looked lately.

OLLIVANT. I'll order some to-morrow. [Taking up his pipe again and looking for the tobacco.] Think it would be a good idea, daughter, if you'd spray those rosebushes every couple of weeks. The bugs are a pest this spring. Where's my tobacco?

EMILY. On the mantel.

OLLIVANT. Wish you would always leave it on the table; you know how I hate to have things changed.

MARY. How's Ben been doing these two years, father?

OLLIVANT. Hasn't your brother written you?

MARY. Only once—when I left home; he disapproved, too.

OLLIVANT. Had an older brother's feeling of wanting to take care of you, Mary.

MARY. Yes; I know. How's he doing?

OLLIVANT. He's commencing to get on his feet. Takes time and money for any one to get started these days.

MARY. But he's still in partnership with Bert Taylor, isn't he?

OLLIVANT. Yes. He'd have been somewhere if he'd worked in with me as I did with my father. Things should be handed down. Offered him the chance, tried to make him take it, as your mother knows; but that college chum—nice enough fellow, I've heard—turned his head another way. [Lighting his pipe and puffing slowly.] It's best to humor a young fellow's ideas if he sticks them out, but I'd like to have had us all here together now. The place is big enough even if he should want to marry. Your mother and I came here, you know, when your grandfather was still alive.

MARY. Then Ben isn't making any money?

OLLIVANT. [Reluctantly.] Not yet—to speak of.

EMILY. [Quietly.] But he's promised to pay his father back, Mary.

MARY. I see. [Thoughtfully.] College and then more help to get started, because he's a man.

OLLIVANT. [Complacently.] He'll have to support a family some day; I've had to keep that in mind.

MARY. I'd like to have a real talk with him.

OLLIVANT. When did his letter say he'd be coming for a visit, Emily?

EMILY. The fifteenth.

MARY. Not till then? That's too bad.

OLLIVANT. Eh?

MARY. [After exchanging a quick glance with her mother and gaining courage.] Father, I hope you didn't misunderstand my coming back?

OLLIVANT. Not at all. We all make mistakes—especially when we're young. Perhaps I was a bit hasty when you left home, but I knew you'd soon see I was right. I didn't think it would take you two years—but perhaps if I'd written you before you'd have come sooner. I told your mother I'd like to make it easy for you to come home.

MARY. Mother suggested that you write me?

OLLIVANT. Well, I suppose you might put it that way. I always felt she thought I was a bit hard on you, but I'm not one to back down easily.

MARY. Don't blame me then, father, if I showed I was your daughter.

OLLIVANT. Let's forget my feeling; but naturally I was set back.

MARY. Because you didn't take my going seriously until I was actually leaving.

OLLIVANT. I couldn't get it into my head then, and I can't now, how any girl would want to leave a home like this, where you have everything. You don't know how lucky you are—or maybe you have realized it. Look about you and see what other girls have. Is it like this? Trees, flowers, and a lake view that's the best in the county. Why, one can breathe here and even taste the air. Every time I come back from a business trip it makes a new man of me. Ask your mother. Eh, Emily? When I sit out there on the porch in the cool evenings it makes me feel at ease with the world to know that the place is mine and that I've raised a family and can take care of them all. Ben had to go, I suppose—it's the way with sons; but I thought you, at least, would stay here, daughter, in this old house where you were born, where I was born, where all your early associations——

MARY. [Shuddering.] I hate associations.

OLLIVANT. [Eying her.] Well, I'd like to know where you get that from. Not from your mother and me. We like them, don't we, Emily? Why, your mother's hardly ever even left here—but you had to up and get out.

MARY. Yes. That's right, father; I had to.

OLLIVANT. [He stops smoking and looks at her sharply.] Had to? Who made you?

MARY. [Reluctantly.] It was something inside me.

OLLIVANT. [In spite of himself.] Tush—that foolishness.

MARY. [Quickly.] Don't make it hard for us again.

OLLIVANT. I made it hard, Mary? Because I objected to your leaving your mother here alone?

MARY. I remember; you said I was a foolish, "stage-struck" girl.

OLLIVANT. Well, you're over that, aren't you?

MARY. That's just where you are mistaken, father. [Slowly.] That's why I asked you if you hadn't misunderstood my coming back.

OLLIVANT. [Suspiciously.] Then why did you come at all?

MARY. I'm human; I wanted to see you and mother, so I came when you generously wrote me. I'm not going to stay and spray the roses.

OLLIVANT. [He eyes her tensely and controls himself with an effort.] So you are not going to stay with your mother and me?

MARY. [Affectionately.] I'll come see you as often as I can and——

OLLIVANT.—and make a hotel of your home? [Mary is silent.] Don't you see your mother is getting older and needs somebody to be here?

EMILY. [With a quiet assurance.] I have never been so well and contented.

OLLIVANT. [Tenderly.] I know better, Emily; can't I see you're getting thinner and older? [Stopping her protests.] Now, let me manage this, dear. It's a girl's place to stay at home. You know my feelings about that. Suppose anything should happen to your mother, what would I do?

MARY. So it's not mother alone you are thinking of?

OLLIVANT. [Tersely.] I'm thinking of your place at home—doing a woman's work. I'm not proud of having my daughter off earning her own living as though I couldn't support her.

EMILY. George!

MARY. I thought it was only because I was on the stage.

OLLIVANT. Well, it's not the most heavenly place, is it? A lot of narrow-minded fools here in town thought I was crazy to let you go; I knew how they felt; I grinned and bore it. You were my daughter and I loved you, and I didn't want them to think any less of you by their finding out you were leaving against my wish.

MARY. [Slowly, with comprehension.] That's what hurt you.

OLLIVANT. Well, I blamed myself a bit for taking you to plays and liking them myself.

MARY. People here will soon forget about me and merely be sorry for you.

OLLIVANT. [Persuasively.] Why, Mary. I've made it easy for you to stay. I told every one you were coming home for good. They'll think me a fool if——

MARY. [Tenderly.] You meant what was dear and good, father; but you had no right to say that. I'm sorry.

OLLIVANT. I did it because I thought you had come to your senses.

MARY. [Firmly.] I never saw so clearly as I do now.

OLLIVANT. [Bluntly.] Then you're stubborn—plain stubborn—not to admit failure.

MARY. [Startled.] Failure?

OLLIVANT. I know what the newspapers said; Ben sent them to me.

MARY. Which ones?

OLLIVANT. Why, all of them, I guess.

MARY. Did he send you the good ones?

OLLIVANT. Were there any?

MARY. Oh, I see. So Ben carefully picked out only those which would please you.

OLLIVANT. [Sarcastically.] Please me?

MARY. Yes; because you and he didn't want me to succeed; because you thought failure would bring me home. But don't you think I'll let some cub reporter settle things for me. I'll never come home through failure—never.

OLLIVANT. [Kindly.] Ben and I only want to protect you, Mary.

MARY. Why do men always want to protect women?

OLLIVANT. Because we know the world.

MARY. Yes; but you don't know me. Father, you still think I'm only a foolish, stage-struck girl, and want flowers and men and my name in big letters. It isn't that.

OLLIVANT. Well, what is it, then?

MARY. Oh—I want to be an artist. I don't suppose you can understand it; I didn't, myself, at first. I was born with it, but didn't know what it was till that first time you took me to the theatre.

OLLIVANT. So it was all my fault?

MARY. It isn't anybody's fault; it's just a fact. I knew from that day what I wanted to do. I wanted to act—to create. I don't care whether I play a leading lady or a scrub-woman, if I can do it with truth and beauty.

OLLIVANT. Well, you haven't done much of either, have you? What have you got to show for our unhappiness? What have you got ahead of you?

MARY. Nothing—definite.

OLLIVANT. [Incredulously.] Yet, you're going to keep at it?

MARY. Yes.

OLLIVANT. What do you think of that, Emily?

MARY. I am going to the city Monday.

OLLIVANT. [Persistently.] But what will you do when you get there?

MARY. What I've done before: hunt a job, tramp the streets, call at the offices, be snubbed and insulted by office-boys—keep at it till I get something to do.

OLLIVANT. Come, come, Mary; don't make me lose patience. Put your pride in your pocket. You've had your fling. You've tried and failed. Give it all up and stay home here where you can be comfortable.

MARY. [With intense feeling.] Father, I can't give it up. It doesn't make any difference how they treat me, how many times I get my "notice" and don't even make good according to their standards. I can't give it up. I simply can't. It keeps gnawing inside me and driving me on. It's there—always there, and I know if I keep at work I will succeed. I know it; I know it.

OLLIVANT. [Not without kindness.] Something inside. Huh! Have you any clear idea what she's talking about, Emily?

EMILY. [Softly, as she looks at Mary.] I think I understand.

OLLIVANT. I don't. Something inside. I never had anything like that bothering me. What's it all mean?

EMILY. [Quietly.] So many people use the same words, but cannot understand each other.

OLLIVANT. Well, you seem to think it's mighty important Mary, whatever it is; but it's too much for me. If you had something to show for it I wouldn't mind. But you're just where you started and you might as well give up.

EMILY. George!

OLLIVANT. Now I don't know much about the stage, Emily, but Ben does. He says you're not made for an actress, Mary; you haven't got a chance.

MARY. [Turning.] Father!

OLLIVANT. Can't you see your failure isn't your own fault? If you were a beauty like Helen Safford or some of those other "stars"—but you're not pretty, why, you're not even good-looking and——

MARY. [With bitter vehemence.] Oh, don't go any further. I know all that. But I don't care how I look off the stage if only I can grow beautiful on it. I'll create with so much inner power and beauty that people will forget how I look and only see what I think and feel. I can do it; I have done it; I've made audiences feel and even got my "notice" because the stage-manager said I was "too natural." Helen Safford—what's she? A professional beauty with everything outside and nothing in. You think of her eyes, her mouth, and her profile; but does she touch you so you remember? I know her work. Wait till I get a chance to play a scene with her—which they may give me because I'm not good-looking—I'll make them forget she's on the stage the first ten minutes—yes, and you and Ben, too, if you'll come. Helen Safford? Huh! Why, people will remember me when she's only a lithograph.

OLLIVANT. Well, then, why haven't you had your chance?

MARY. [Quickly.] Because most managers feel the way you and Ben do. And not having a lovely profile and a fashion-plate figure stands between me and a chance even to read a part, let alone play it. That's what eats the heart out of me, mother; and makes me hate my face every time I sit down to put on the grease paint.

OLLIVANT. Well, don't blame me for that.

MARY. [Going to her mother, who takes her hand.] You can laugh at me, father; you don't understand. It's foolish to talk. But, oh, mother, why is such beauty given to women like Helen Safford who have no inner need of it, and here am I, with a real creative gift, wrapped up in a nondescript package which stands between me and everything I want to do? [With determination.] But I will—ultimately I will make good, in spite of my looks; others have. And what I've suffered will make me a greater artist.

OLLIVANT. [In a matter-of-fact tone.] Are you sure all this isn't overconfidence and vanity?

MARY. I don't care what you call it. It's what keeps me working.

OLLIVANT. [Quickly.] Working? But how can you work without an engagement?

MARY. That is the hard part of our life; waiting, waiting for a chance to work. But don't think I stand still when I haven't an engagement. I don't dare. That's why I keep at my voice work and dancing and——

OLLIVANT. [Suddenly interrupting.] Dancing and voice work when you have no engagements. Would you mind telling me who is paying the bills?

MARY. [Indignantly.] Father!

OLLIVANT. I think I have the right to ask that.

MARY. Have you?

OLLIVANT. I am your father.

MARY. [With quiet dignity.] You thought you'd force me here at home to do as you wished because you paid for my food and clothes; when you took that from me you ceased to have that right. Don't forget since I left you've not helped me with my work or given me a penny.

OLLIVANT. [Suspiciously.] Mary.... No, that's not why you went away from home?

MARY. No.

OLLIVANT. Or you met some man there and....

MARY. No.

OLLIVANT. There is some man.

MARY. Why a man?

OLLIVANT. Damn them; I know them. [Breaking.] Good God, Mary, dear, you haven't ...? Answer me, daughter.

MARY. [Calmly.] No, there's been no need of that.

OLLIVANT. Then who helped you? Ben?

MARY. How could he help me? Are men the only ones who help women?

EMILY. [Quietly.] Tell him, Mary; it's best now.

OLLIVANT. [Turning slowly to her in surprise.] You knew and have kept it from me?

EMILY. [Calmly, as she puts down the hat she has been trimming.] I found I hadn't lost my old skill, though it's been a good many years since I held a brush—since before we were married, George. I had an idea I thought would sell: paper dolls with little hand-painted dresses on separate sheets; they were so much softer than the printed kind, and children like anything soft. I wrote to Mr. Aylwin—you remember—he was so kind to me years before. He had called here once before when you were away and asked after my work. He used to think I had such promise. He found an opportunity to use the dolls as a specialty, and when I explained he induced some other firms to use all I can paint, too. They pay me very well. I made enough each month to help Mary when she went behind.

OLLIVANT. [Incredulously.] You! After you heard me say when she left I wouldn't give her a cent?

EMILY. [Looking fondly at Mary.] You were keeping Ben, weren't you?

OLLIVANT. But—that's—that's different.

EMILY. I didn't see why we shouldn't help both our children.

OLLIVANT. [Perplexed by this he turns to Mary.] And you took it?

MARY. Yes.

OLLIVANT. You knew how she got the money?

MARY. Yes.

OLLIVANT. Your mother working herself sick for you, and you took it?

EMILY. I told you I've never been so happy.

MARY. [Simply.] I couldn't bargain with what I felt. I had to study. I'd have taken anything, gotten it anywhere. I had to live. You didn't help me. Ben and I both went against your will, but you helped him because he was your son. I was only your daughter.

OLLIVANT. Mary, I—I didn't realize how much you meant to me till—till I thought of what might have happened to you without my help. Would—would you have stayed on in the city if—if your mother hadn't helped you?

MARY. [Firmly.] Yes, father; I would have stayed on.

OLLIVANT. [After a pause.] Then I guess what you feel is stronger than all your mother and I tried to teach you.... Are you too proud to take help from me—now?

MARY. [Simply.] No, father; till I succeed. Then I'll pay you back like Ben promised.

OLLIVANT. [Hurt.] You don't think it was the money, daughter? It would have cost to keep you here. It wasn't that.

MARY. No; it was your father speaking and his father and his father. [Looking away wistfully.] And perhaps I was speaking for those before me who were silent or couldn't be heard.

OLLIVANT. [With sincerity.] I don't exactly understand that any more than the feeling you spoke of driving you from home. But I do see what you mean about brothers and sisters. You seem to think boys and girls are the same. But they're not. Men and women are different. You may not know it, but your mother had foolish ideas like you have when I first knew her. She was poor and didn't have a mother to support her, and she had to work for a living. She'd about given up when I met her—trying to work at night to feed herself in the day while studying. But she was sensible; when a good man came along who could support her she married him and settled down. Look how happy she's been here with a home of her own that is a home—with associations and children. Where would she be, struggling to-day trying to paint pictures for a living? Why, there's lots of men who can paint pictures, and too few good wives for hard-working, decent men who want a family—which is God's law. You'll find that out one of these days and you'll give yourself as she did. Some day a man will come and you'll want to marry him. How could you if you keep on with your work, going about the country?

MARY. [Quietly.] You leave mother at times, don't you?

OLLIVANT. I've got to.

MARY. So may I.

OLLIVANT. And the children?

MARY. They'd have a share of my life.

OLLIVANT. A mighty big share if you're human, I tell you. Ask your mother if you think they're easy coming and bringing up.

MARY. And now they've left her. Dear mother, what has she to do?

OLLIVANT. Well, if you ever get a husband with those ideas of yours you'll see what a wife has to do. [He goes to her.] Mary, it isn't easy, all this you've been saying. But your mother and I are left alone, and perhaps we have got different views than you. But if ever you do see it our way, and give up or fail—- well, come back to us, understand?

MARY. [Going to him and kissing him.] I understand how hard it was for you to say that. And remember I may come back a success.

OLLIVANT. Yes. I suppose they all think that; it's what keeps them going. But some day, when you're in love and marry, you'll see it all differently.

MARY. Father, what if the man does not come—or the children?

OLLIVANT. Why—[He halts as though unable to answer her.] Nonsense. He'll come, never fear; they always do.

MARY. I wonder.

OLLIVANT. [He goes affectionately to Emily, who has been staring before her during this.] Emily, dear. No wonder the flowers have been neglected. Well, you'll have time to spray those roses yourself. I'll get the spray mixture to-morrow. [Kisses her tenderly.] Painting paper dolls with a change of clothes! When I might have been sending her the money without ever feeling it. No more of that, dear; you don't have to now. I shan't let you get tired and sick. That's one thing I draw the line at. [He pats her again, looks at his watch, and then goes slowly over to the window-doors.] Well, it's getting late. I'll lock up. [Looking up at sky.] Paper says it will rain to-morrow.

EMILY. [Very quietly so only Mary can hear.] At the art school they said I had a lovely sense of color. Your father is so kind; but he doesn't know how much I enjoyed painting again—even those paper dolls.

MARY. [Comprehending in surprise.] Mother! You, too?

EMILY. [Fearing lest Ollivant should hear.] Sh!

OLLIVANT. Better fasten the other windows when you come. Good-night.

THE CURTAIN FALLS

---

ALTHEA THURSTON

Althea Cooms-Thurston, one of the promising writers of the younger set of American dramatists, was born in Iowa, but soon moved with her parents to Colorado, where she spent her girlhood. She was educated in the public schools of Colorado Springs and Denver. Her collegiate training was received in the University of Utah, Salt Lake City. In 1902 she married Walter R. Thurston, a well-known engineer. At present she resides in Dallas, Texas.

Mrs. Thurston has travelled widely and has resided for periods of time in Mexico City and Havana, Cuba. She is an able linguist and has made a special study of her native English tongue and of Spanish and French, all of which she uses fluently.

From childhood she has shown dramatic ability. Her dramatic composition has been more or less directly associated with the courses in playwriting and the history of the drama which she completed in the University of Utah. Among her one-act plays are When a Man's Hungry, And the Devil Laughs, and The Exchange.

Mrs. Thurston has an aptitude for delicate and satirical farce. The Exchange is an excellent example of farce-comedy in the contemporary one-act play.

CHARACTERS

Judge, the exchanger of miseries

Imp, office boy to the Judge

A Poor Man

A Vain Woman

A Rich Citizen

The curtain rises upon an office scene. Seemingly there is nothing unusual about this office: it has tables, chairs, a filing cabinet, and a hat-rack. A portion of the office is railed off at the right. Within this enclosed space is a commodious desk and swivel-chair; and the filing cabinet stands against the wall. This railed-off portion of the office belongs, exclusively, to the Judge. Here he is wont to spend many hours—sometimes to read or write, and again, perhaps, he will just sit and ponder upon the vagaries of mankind. The Judge is a tall, spare man with rather long gray hair, which shows beneath the skull-cap that he always wears. When we first see him, he is reading a letter, and evidently he is not pleased, for he is tapping with impatient fingers upon his desk.

At the left of the stage is a heavily curtained door which leads to an inner room. At centre rear is another door which evidently leads to the street, as it is through this door that the Poor Man, the Vain Woman, and the Rich Citizen will presently enter, each upon his special quest. The hat-rack stands near the street door, and we glimpse a soft black hat and a long black overcoat hanging upon it.

Down stage to the left is a flat-topped desk, littered with papers and letters. This desk has two large drawers, wherein a number of miscellaneous articles might be kept. It is at this desk that we catch our first glimpse of Imp. He is busily writing in a huge ledger, and he seems to be enjoying his work, for he chuckles the while. Imp is a little rogue; he looks it and acts it, and we feel that he has a Mephistophelian spirit. He wears a dark-green tight-fitting uniform, trimmed with red braid. His saucy little round cap is always cocked over one eye. He is ever chuckling impishly, and we feel that he is slyly gleeful over the weaknesses of mankind and the difficulties that beset them.

IMP. [Throws down his pen, chuckles, and half standing on the rungs of his chair and balancing himself against his desk, surveys the ledger.] Your honor, I've all the miseries listed to date and a fine lot there is to choose from. Everything from bunions to old wives for exchange.

JUDGE. [Scowls and impatiently taps the letter he is reading.] Here is another one. A woman suspects her husband of a misalliance. Wants to catch him, but is so crippled with rheumatism she can't get about. Wants us to exchange her rheumatism for something that won't interfere with either her walking or her eyesight.

IMP. [Referring to the ledger and running his finger along the lines.] We have a defective heart or a lazy liver that we could give her.

JUDGE. [Irritably tossing the letter over to Imp.] She would not be satisfied. People never are. They always want to change their miseries, but never their vices. Each thinks his own cross heavier than others have to bear, but he is very willing to make light of his own weaknesses and shortcomings. He thinks they are not half so bad as his neighbor's. I have tried for years to aid distressed humanity, but I can't satisfy them. I am growing tired of it all, Imp. People need a lesson and they're going to get it, too. I am going to——

IMP. Here comes another misery.

POOR MAN. [Indicating the Judge with a motion of his head.] Is that him?

IMP. [Whispering loudly his reply.] Yes, that is his honor.

POOR MAN. [Still whispering and showing signs of nervousness.] Do I dare speak to him?

IMP. [Enjoying the situation and still whispering.] Yes, but be careful what you say.

POOR MAN. [Takes off his hat, approaches slowly to the railing, and speaks humbly.] Your honor. I—[Swallows hard, clears throat.] Your honor, I've a little favor—to ask of you.

JUDGE. [Looking coldly at the Poor Man.] Well?

POOR MAN. You see, your honor, I've been poor all my life. I've never had much fun. I don't ask for a lot of money, but—I would like enough so that I could have some swell clothes, and—so that I could eat, drink, and be merry with the boys. You know, I just want to have a good time. Do you think you could fix it for me, Judge?

JUDGE. [Gazes at him sternly for a moment.] So you just want to have a good time? Want me to take away your poverty? I suppose you have no moral weakness you want to change, no defects in your character that you want to better?

POOR MAN. [Stammering and twirling his hat.] Why, w-hy, Judge, I—I am not a bad man. Of—of course, I have my faults, but then—I've never committed any crimes. I guess I stack up pretty fair as men go. I'm just awful tired of being poor and never having any fun. Couldn't you help me out on that point, Judge?

JUDGE. [Sighs wearily and turns to Imp.] Bring me the ledger.

JUDGE. You understand, do you, my good man, that if I take away your poverty and give you enough money for your good time, you will have to accept another misery?

POOR MAN. [Eagerly.] Yes, your honor, that's all right. I'm willing.

JUDGE. [Scanning ledger.] Very well. Let us see. Here is paralysis.

POOR MAN. [Hesitatingly.] Well. I—I couldn't have a—very good time, if—if I was paralyzed.

JUDGE. [Shortly.] No. I suppose not. How about a glass eye?

POOR MAN. [Anxiously.] Please, your honor, if I'm going to have a good time I need two good eyes. I don't want to miss anything.

JUDGE. [Wearily turning over the leaves of the ledger.] A man left his wife here for exchange, perhaps you would like her.

POOR MAN. [Shifting from one foot to the other and nervously twirling his hat.] Oh, Judge, oh, no, please, no. I don't want anybody's old cast-off wife.

JUDGE. [Becoming exasperated.] Well, choose something, and be quick about it. Here is lumbago, gout, fatness, old age, and——

IMP. [Interrupting, and walking quickly over to the railing.] Excuse me, Judge, but maybe the gentleman would like the indigestion that Mr. Potter left when he took old Mrs. Pratt's fallen arches.

POOR MAN. [Eagerly.] Indigestion? Sure! That will be fine! I won't mind a little thing like indigestion if I can get rid of my poverty.

JUDGE. [Sternly.] Very well. Raise your right hand. Repeat after me: "I swear to accept indigestion for better or for worse as my portion of the world's miseries, so help me God."

POOR MAN. [Solemnly.] "I swear to accept indigestion for better or for worse as my portion of the world's miseries, so help me God."

JUDGE. [To Imp.] Show this gentleman to the changing-room.

IMP. Won't you have a grand time, though. I'll get you a menu card, so that you can be picking out your dinner.

POOR MAN. [Joyfully slapping Imp on the back.] Good idea, and I'll pick out a regular banquet.

JUDGE. [Speaks disgustedly to Imp.] There you are! He's perfectly satisfied with his morals. Has no defects in his character. Just wants to have a good time.

VAIN WOMAN. Judge, I have heard that you are very kind, and I have been told that you help people out of their troubles, so I have a little favor to ask of you.

JUDGE. [Coldly.] Yes, I supposed so; go on.

VAIN WOMAN. [Archly.] Well, you know that I am a famous beauty; in fact, both my face and my form are considered very lovely. [She turns around slowly that he may see for himself.] Great and celebrated men have worshipped at my feet. I simply cannot live without admiration. It is my very life. But, Judge [plaintively], horrid wrinkles are beginning to show in my face. [Intensely.] Oh, I would give anything, do anything, to have a smooth, youthful face once more. Please, oh, please, won't you take away these wrinkles [touching her face with her fingers] and give me something in their stead.

JUDGE. [Looking directly at her and speaking coldly.] Are you satisfied with yourself in other ways? Is your character as beautiful as your face? Have you no faults or weaknesses that you want exchanged?

VAIN WOMAN. [Uncertainly.] Why, I—don't know what you mean. I am just as good as any other woman and lots better than some I know. I go to church, and I subscribe to the charities, and I belong to the best clubs. [Anxiously.] Oh, please, Judge, it's these wrinkles that make me so unhappy. Won't you exchange them? You don't want me to be unhappy, do you? Please take them away.

JUDGE. [Wearily looking over the ledger.] Oh, very well, I'll see what I can do for you. [To Imp.] Fetch a chair for this lady.

JUDGE. I have a goitre that I could exchange for your wrinkles.

VAIN WOMAN. [Protestingly, clasping her hands to her throat.] Oh, heavens, no! That would ruin my beautiful throat. See. [Throwing back her fur and exposing her neck in a low-cut gown.] I have a lovely neck. [Imp makes an exaggerated attempt to see.

JUDGE. [Glances coldly at her and then scans ledger again.] Well, how about hay-fever?

VAIN WOMAN. [Reproachfully.] Oh, Judge, how can you suggest such a thing! Watery eyes and a red nose, the worst enemy of beauty there is. I simply couldn't think of it. I want something that won't show.

JUDGE. [Disgustedly turns to filing cabinet and looks through a series of cards, withdraws one, and turns back to Vain Woman.] Perhaps this will suit you. [Refers to card.] A woman has grown very tired of her husband and wants to exchange him for some other burden.

VAIN WOMAN. [Indignantly.] What! I accept a man that some other woman doesn't want! Certainly not! I prefer one that some other woman does want.

JUDGE. [Irritated, puts the card back in its place, and turns upon the Vain Woman crossly.] I fear that I cannot please you and I do not have time to——

IMP. [Interrupts and runs over to the railing, speaking soothingly to the Judge.] Excuse me, Judge, but maybe the lady would like deafness in exchange for her wrinkles. Deafness wouldn't show, so it couldn't spoil her face or her elegant figure.

JUDGE. [Wearily.] No, it won't show. Deafness ought to be a good thing for you.

VAIN WOMAN. [Consideringly.] Why—yes—that might do. But—well, it wouldn't show. I've a notion to take it. [Pause—she seems to consider and meditate. The Judge stares at her coldly. Imp grins impudently. She rises leisurely, sighs.] All right. I'll accept it.

JUDGE. [Sharply.] Hold up your right hand. [She raises hand.] Do you swear to accept deafness for better or for worse, as your portion of the world's miseries, so help you God?

VAIN WOMAN. [Sweetly.] Oh, yes. I do, Judge.

JUDGE. [To Imp.] Show the lady to the changing-room.

IMP. [Escorts her to the curtained door with rather mock deference.] No, deafness won't show at all, and you'll have 'em all crazy about you. [Draws aside curtains for her to pass.] Take second booth to your right.

JUDGE. [Sarcastically.] Do her faults or shortcomings trouble her? Not at all! Perfectly satisfied with herself, except for a few wrinkles in her face. Vain women! Bah!

IMP. Yes, sir; women have queer notions.

RICH CITIZEN. [Lighting a cigarette.] I am addressing the Judge, am I not?

JUDGE. [Shortly.] You are.

RICH CITIZEN. [Languidly, between puffs of his cigarette.] Well, Judge, life has become rather boresome, so I thought I would drop in and ask you to do me a small favor.

JUDGE. [Wearily.] Yes? We—What is your grievance?

RICH CITIZEN. [Nonchalantly.] Oh, I wouldn't say grievance exactly. You see, my dear Judge, it is this way. I am a very rich and influential citizen, a prominent member of society, and I am very much sought after.

JUDGE. [Frigidly.] Oh, indeed!

RICH CITIZEN. [In a very bored manner.] Yes. Women run after me day and night. Ambitious mothers throw their marriageable daughters at my head. Men seek my advice on all matters. I am compelled to head this and that committee.

[Smokes languidly.

JUDGE. [Sharply.] Well, go on.

RICH CITIZEN. Really, Judge, my prestige has become a burden. I want to get away from it all. I would like to become a plain, ordinary man with an humble vocation, the humbler the better, so that people will cease bothering me.

JUDGE. [Sarcastically.] Is your prestige all that troubles you? Don't worry about your morals, I suppose. Satisfied with your habits and character?

RICH CITIZEN. [Coldly.] What have my habits or morals got to do with my request? [Scornfully.] Certainly I am not one of your saintly men. I live as a man of my station should live, and I think I measure up very well with the best of them. I am simply bored and I would like a change. I would like to be a plain man with an humble calling.

JUDGE. [Ironically.] I'll see what we have in humble callings. [He looks at the ledger, turning the leaves over slowly.] We have several bartenders' vocations.

RICH CITIZEN. [Wearily smoking.] No. Too many people about all the time, and too much noise.

JUDGE. Well, here's a janitor's job open to you.

RICH CITIZEN. [Impatiently throwing away his cigarette.] No. I don't like that, either. Too confining. Too many people bickering at you all the time. I want to get out in the open, away from crowds.

JUDGE. [Sighing, and turning over the leaves of the ledger, then hopefully.] Here's the very thing for you, then—postman in a rural district.

RICH CITIZEN. [Showing vexation.] No, no, no. Too many old women that want to gossip. I tell you, I want to get away from women. Haven't you something peaceful and quiet; something that would take me out in the quiet of the early morning, when the birds are singing?

JUDGE. [Closing ledger with a bang, and rising.] Well, you're too particular, and I have not time to bother with you. I bid you good after——

IMP. [Slides from his desk, runs to railing, and speaks suavely.] Excuse me, Judge, but maybe the gentleman would like the vocation of milkman. That is early-morning work. And, you remember, a milkman left his job here when he took that old, worn-out senator's position.

JUDGE. [Sharply, to Rich Citizen.] Well, how about it? Does a milkman's vocation suit you? It's early-morning hours, fresh air, and no people about.

RICH CITIZEN. [Musingly.] Well, the very simplicity and quietness of it is its charm. It rather appeals to me. [He ponders a moment.] Yes, by Jove, I'll take it.

JUDGE. [Sternly.] Hold up your right hand. "Do you solemnly swear to accept, for better or for worse, the vocation of milkman as your lot in life, so help you God?"

RICH CITIZEN. I do.

JUDGE. [To Imp.] Show this gentleman to the changing-room.

IMP. [While escorting him to the curtained door.] Yes, sir, you will lead the simple life. Fresh air, fresh milk, no people, just cows—and they can't talk. [Holding aside the curtains.] Third booth, sir.

RICH CITIZEN. [Musingly.] The simple life—peace and quietness.

JUDGE. [In disgust.] It's no use, Imp. They all cling to their vices, but they are very keen to change some little cross or condition that vexes them—or think vexes them.

IMP. It's strange that people always want something different from what they have.

JUDGE. Don't let any more in, Imp. I can't stand another one to-day. I am going to write a letter and then go home.

IMP. All right, sir.

JUDGE. I am feeling very tired; what I really need is a vacation. A sea-trip would put me right. By the way, Imp, where is that transatlantic folder that I told you to get?

IMP. Here's a menu from the Gargoyle. Say, you sure do look swell!

[Looking him over admiringly.

FORMER POOR MAN. [Grinning happily.] Some class to me now, eh! [Looking at menu.] And you watch me pick out a real dinner. [Sits down at left front.] First, I'll have a cocktail, then—let's see—I'll have—another cocktail. Next, oysters, and [he frowns and presses his hand to the pit of his stomach, keeping up a massaging motion]—green-turtle soup, sand dabs—chicken breasts—

VAIN WOMAN. [Smiling.] Oh, I am so happy again. Am I not beautiful?

JUDGE. [Pityingly.] You are a vain, foolish woman.

VAIN WOMAN. Ah, Judge, you too are susceptible to my charms.

FORMER POOR MAN. Excuse me, lady, but I've had a big piece of luck to-day, and I want to celebrate, so I am having a big dinner. Won't you join me and help me have a good time?

VAIN WOMAN. [Looking at him blankly, and trying to fathom what he has said.] Oh—why, what did you say?

FORMER POOR MAN. [Hesitating, and a bit surprised.] Why—er—I said that I had a big piece of luck to-day, and I am going to celebrate. I am having a fine dinner, and I just asked if—if—you wouldn't have dinner with me.

VAIN WOMAN. [Still looking blank and a little confused, then smiling archly and acting as though she had been hearing compliments, she speaks affectedly.] Really, do you think so? [Looking down and smoothing her dress.] But, then, every one tells me that I am.

FORMER POOR MAN. [Puzzled, turns to Imp for help.] Just what is her trouble, Nut?

IMP. [Secretly gleeful.] She is stone-deaf. You had better write it.

FORMER POOR MAN. Never! No deaf ones for me.

FORMER RICH CITIZEN. Give me a light.

FORMER POOR MAN. [Trying to live up to his fine clothes and wallet full of money, looks the Former Rich Citizen over snubbingly.] Say, who do you think you are? You light out, see?

FORMER RICH CITIZEN. [Very much surprised, stands nonplussed a moment.] Well, upon my word, I—I——

IMP. I'll sell you these for two bits.

FORMER POOR MAN. What is that?

IMP. [Grinning.] Indigestion tablets.

FORMER POOR MAN. [Puts his hand to his stomach and laughs a little lamely.] Keep 'em; I don't need 'em.

IMP. You might need this; I'll sell it for a dollar.

FORMER RICH CITIZEN. [Fumbling at his pocket, as if to find a watch.] Boy, what time is it? I haven't my watch.

IMP. [Grinning mischievously.] Time to milk the cows.

A fortnight has passed. The curtain rises upon the same stage-setting. The Judge is not about, but we see Imp asleep in a chair. All seems quiet and serene. But suddenly the street-door opens noisily, and the Former Poor Man bursts into the room. He is panting, as though he had been running. He is haggard and seems in great pain, for occasionally he moans. He looks wildly about the room, and seeing Imp asleep in the chair, he rushes to him and shakes him roughly. Imp wakes slowly, yawning and rubbing his eyes.

FORMER POOR MAN. [Frantically.] The Judge, where is he? I must see him at once.

IMP. [Yawning.] You're too early. He isn't down yet.

[Settles himself to go to sleep again.

FORMER POOR MAN. [Walking the floor, and holding his hands to his stomach.] Don't go to sleep again. I'm nearly crazy. What time does the Judge get here? Where does he live? Can't we send for him?

IMP. [Indifferently.] Oh, he is liable to come any minute—and then he may not come for an hour or two.

FORMER POOR MAN. [Pacing the floor, moaning and rubbing his stomach.] Oh, I can't stand it much longer. It's driving me wild, I tell you. I do wish the Judge would come.

IMP. [Getting up from his chair and keeping step with the Former Poor Man.] What's the matter? I thought all you wanted was to eat, drink, and be merry.

FORMER POOR MAN. [Frantically waving his arms.] Eat, drink, and be merry be——! Everything I eat gives me indigestion something awful; everything I drink gives it to me worse. How can I be merry when I am in this torment all the time? I tell you this pain is driving me mad. I want to get rid of it quick. Oh, why doesn't the Judge come?

IMP. What's the Judge got to do with it?

FORMER POOR MAN. [Pathetically.] I am going to beg him to take back this indigestion and give me back my poverty. It was not so bad, after all; not nearly so bad as this pain in my stomach.

VAIN WOMAN. [Tearfully.] I must see the Judge right away, please.

IMP. [Languidly.] He isn't down yet. You're too earl——

VAIN WOMAN. [Interrupting.] Tell him that it is very important, that I am in great distress and that he must see me at once.

IMP. [Loudly.] I said that he was not down yet.

VAIN WOMAN. [After reading.] Oh, when will he be here? Can't you get him to come right away? Oh, I am so unhappy.

[She walks the floor in agitation.

VAIN WOMAN. I cannot hear a word that is said to me. No one seems to want me around, and I am not invited out any more. I have the feeling that people are making fun of me instead of praising my beauty. Oh, it is dreadful to be deaf. [Getting hysterical.] I want the Judge to take away this deafness. I would rather have my wrinkles.

VAIN WOMAN. Has the Judge given away my wrinkles? I want them back. I want my very own wrinkles, too. Wrinkles are distinguished-looking. [Beginning to sob.] I don't want to be deaf any longer.

IMP. [Running over to the Former Poor Man.] Say, this lady feels very bad. Can't you cheer her up a little?

FORMER POOR MAN. [Who is still rocking back and forth with his own misery, looks up at Imp in disgust.] Cheer—her—up! Me? What's the joke?

FORMER RICH CITIZEN. I wish to see the Judge at once. It is most urgent.

IMP. [With an ill-concealed smile.] You can't see the Judge at once.

FORMER RICH CITIZEN. [Impatiently.] Why not? I told you it was most urgent.

IMP. [Grinning openly.] Because he isn't here. He hasn't come in yet. What's your trouble?

FORMER RICH CITIZEN. [Vehemently.] Trouble! Everything's the trouble! I have been abused, insulted, overworked—even the cows have kicked me. [Looking down at his bandaged foot.] I can't stand it. I won't stand it. I want back my proper place in the world, where I am respected, and where I can rest and sleep and mingle with my kind.

[He hobbles to a chair and sits down wearily.

FORMER POOR MAN. [Getting up from his chair, walks over to the Former Rich Citizen, waggles his finger in his face and speaks fretfully.] What cause have you to squeal so? If you had indigestion like I have all the time, you might be entitled to raise a holler. Why, I can't eat a thing without having the most awful pain right here [puts his hand to the pit of his stomach], and when I take a drink, oh, heavens, it——

FORMER RICH CITIZEN. [Interrupting contemptuously.] You big baby, howling about the stomachache. If you had a man-sized trouble, there might be some excuse for you. Now I, who have been used to wealth and respect, have been subjected to the most gruelling ordeals; why, in that dairy there were a million cows, and they kicked me, and horned me, and I——

VAIN WOMAN. [Walks over to them, interrupting their talk, and speaks in a voice punctuated with sniffing sobs.] Have—[sniff] either of you gentlemen [sniff] ever been deaf? [Sniff, sniff.] It is a terrible thing [sniff] for a beautiful woman like I am [sniff] to have such an affliction.

[Sniff, sniff, sniff.

FORMER POOR MAN. [Stalks over to the railing, where he leans limply.] Lord deliver me from a sniffling woman.

IMP. [Importantly.] Letter for me from the Judge.

FORMER POOR MAN. A letter! Why doesn't he come himself?

FORMER RICH CITIZEN. Send for him, boy.

IMP. [Grins at Former Rich Citizen in an insolent manner.] Well, well, I wonder what the Judge is writing to me for. It's queer he would send me a letter.

FORMER POOR MAN. [Extremely irritated.] For goodness' sake, open it and read it.

FORMER RICH CITIZEN. Yes, yes, and don't be so long about it.

IMP. Well, what do you think of that!

FORMER POOR MAN. [Excitedly.] What is it—why don't you tell us?

FORMER RICH CITIZEN. [Pounding with his crutch on the floor.] Come, come, don't keep me waiting like this.

IMP. [Reads letter again, silently, chuckling.] All right. Here it is. [Reads.]

"My dear Imp:

"I have tried faithfully for years to aid distressed humanity, but they are an ungrateful lot of fools, and I wash my hands of them. When this letter reaches you I will be on the high seas, and I am never coming back. So write 'Finis' in the big old ledger of miseries, and shut up shop, for the Exchange is closed—forever.

Yours in disgust, THE JUDGE."

FORMER POOR MAN. [In a perfect frenzy.] My God! Indigestion all the rest of my days.

VAIN WOMAN. [After reading letter collapses in a chair, hysterically sobbing out.] Deaf, always deaf! Oh, what shall I do!

FORMER RICH CITIZEN. [Leaning heavily on his crutch and shaking his free hand, clenched in anger.] This is an outrage. I am rich and have influence, and I shall take steps to—to——

CURTAIN FALLS

---

PERCY MACKAYE

Percy Mackaye, who was born in New York City in 1875, is one of the few Americans whose interest has been almost wholly in the theatre. As a lecturer, writer, and champion of real art in drama, he has had few if any equals. He inherited his interest in drama from his father, Steele Mackaye, author of Hazel Kirke. He was educated at Harvard, where he studied under Professor George Pierce Baker, and at Leipzig. He has travelled extensively in Europe and at various times has resided in Rome, Switzerland, and London. In 1914 Dartmouth conferred upon him the honorary Master of Arts degree. At present he holds a fellowship in dramatic literature in Miami University, Oxford, Ohio.

Mr. Mackaye's efforts in the dramatic field have been varied. Masques, pageants, operas, and plays are to his credit. The Canterbury Pilgrims, The Scarecrow, Jeanne D'Arc, Mater, Anti-Matrimony, Sanctuary, Saint Louis Masque, and Caliban are among his better-known works.

In 1912 appeared his Yankee Fantasies, of which Sam Average and Gettysburg are the more noteworthy.

In all of Mr. Mackaye's work he possesses what many dramatists lack—a definite ideal. He aims at an artistic and literary effect. His Sam Average is a real contribution to American patriotic drama.

CHARACTERS

Andrew

Joel

Ellen

Sam Average

An intrenchment in Canada, near Niagara Falls, in the year 1814. Night, shortly before dawn.

On the right, the dull glow of a smouldering wood fire ruddies the earthen embankment, the low-stretched outline of which forms, with darkness, the scenic background.

Near the centre, left, against the dark, a flag with stars floats from its standard.

Beside the fire, Andrew, reclined, gazes at a small frame in his hand; near him is a knapsack, with contents emptied beside it.

On the embankment, Joel, with a gun, paces back and forth, a blanket thrown about his shoulders.

JOEL. [With a singing call.] Four o'clock!—All's well!

ANDREW. By God, Joel, it's bitter.

JOEL. [Rubbing his hands over the coals.] A mite sharpish.

ANDREW. [Looks up eagerly.] What?

JOEL. Cuts sharp, for Thanksgivin'.

ANDREW. [Sinks back, gloomily.] Oh! [A pause.] I wondered you should agree with me. You meant the weather. I meant—

[A pause again.

JOEL. Well, Andy, what'd you mean?

ANDREW. Life.

JOEL. Shucks!

ANDREW. [To himself.] Living!

JOEL. [Sauntering over left, listens.] Hear a rooster crow?

ANDREW. No. What are you doing?

JOEL. Tiltin' the flag over crooked in the dirt. That's our signal.

ANDREW. Nothing could be more appropriate, unless we buried it—buried it in the dirt!

JOEL. She's to find us where the flag's turned down. I fixed that with the sergeant all right. The rooster crowin' 's her watchword for us.

ANDREW. An eagle screaming, Joel: that would have been better. [Rising.] Ah!

[He laughs painfully.

JOEL. Hush up, Andy! The nearest men ain't two rods away. You'll wake 'em. Pitch it low.

ANDREW. Don't be alarmed. I'm coward enough.

JOEL. 'Course, though, there ain't much danger. I'm sentinel this end, and the sergeant has the tip at t'other. Besides, you may call it the reg'lar thing. There's been two thousand deserters already in this tuppenny-ha'penny war, and none on 'em the worse off. When a man don't get his pay for nine months—well, he ups and takes his vacation. Why not? When Nell joins us, we'll hike up the Niagara, cross over to Tonawanda, and take our breakfast in Buffalo. By that time the boys here will be marchin' away toward Lundy's Lane.

ANDREW. [Walks back and forth, shivering.] I'm afraid.

JOEL. 'Fraid? Bosh!

ANDREW. I'm afraid to face——

JOEL. Face what? We won't get caught.

ANDREW. Your sister—my wife.

JOEL. Nell! Why, ain't she comin' here just a-purpose to get you? Ain't there reason enough, Lord knows? Ain't you made up your mind to light out home anyhow?

ANDREW. Yes. That's just what she'll never forgive me for. In her heart she'll never think of me the same. For she knows as well as I what pledge I'll be breaking—what sacred pledge.

JOEL. What you mean?

ANDREW. No matter, no matter; this is gush.

JOEL. One of her curls?

ANDREW. [Looking at a lock of hair in the firelight.] No; the baby's, little Andy's. Some day they'll tell him how his father——

[He winces, and puts the lock away.

JOEL. [Going toward the embankment.] Listen!

ANDREW. [Ties up the package, muttering.] Son of a traitor!

JOEL. [Tiptoeing back.] It's crowed—that's her.

ANDREW. My Nell!

ELLEN. Nearly a year——

ANDREW. Now, at last!

ELLEN. Hold me close, Andy.

ANDREW. You're better?

ELLEN. Let's forget—just for now.

ANDREW. Is he grown much?

ELLEN. Grown? You should see him! But so ill! What could I do? You see——

ANDREW. I know, I know.

ELLEN. The money was all gone. They turned me out at the old place, and then——

ANDREW. I know, dear.

ELLEN. I got sewing, but when the smallpox——

ANDREW. I have all your letters, Nell. Come, help me to pack.

ELLEN. What! You're really decided——

JOEL. [Approaching.] Hello, Sis!

ELLEN. [Absently.] Ah, Joel; that you? [Eagerly, following Andrew to the knapsack.] But, my dear——

ANDREW. Just these few things, and we're off.

ELLEN. [Agitated.] Wait, wait! You don't know yet why I've come—instead of writing.

ANDREW. I can guess.

ELLEN. But you can't; that's—what's so hard! I have to tell you something, and then—— [Slowly.] I must know from your own eyes, from yourself, that you wish to do this, Andrew; that you think it is right.

ANDREW. [Gently.] I guessed that.

ELLEN. This is what I must tell you. It's not just the sickness, it's not only the baby, not the money gone—and all that; it's—it's——

ANDREW. [Murmurs.] My God!

ELLEN. It's what all that brings—the helplessness. I've been insulted. Andy—[Her voice breaks.] I want a protector.

ANDREW. [Taking her in his arms, where she sobs.] There, dear!

ELLEN. [With a low moan.] You know.

ANDREW. I know. Come, now; we'll go.

ELLEN. [Her face lighting up.] Oh! and you dare! It's right?

ANDREW. [Moving from her, with a hoarse laugh.] Dare? Dare I be damned by God and all his angels? Ha! Come, we're slow.

JOEL. Time enough.

ELLEN. [Sinking upon Joel's knapsack as a seat, leans her head on her hands, and looks strangely at Andrew.] I'd better have written, I'm afraid.

ANDREW. [Controlling his emotion.] Now, don't take it that way. I've considered it all.

ELLEN. [With deep quiet.] Blasphemously?

ANDREW. Reasonably, my brave wife. When I enlisted, I did so in a dream. I dreamed I was called to love and serve our country. But that dream is shattered. This sordid war, this political murder, has not one single principle of humanity to excuse its bloody sacrilege. It doesn't deserve my loyalty—our loyalty.

ELLEN. Are you saying this—for my sake? What of "God and his angels"?

ANDREW. [Not looking at her.] If we had a just cause—a cause of liberty like that in Seventy-six; if to serve one's country meant to serve God and his angels—then, yes; a man might put away wife and child. He might say: "I will not be a husband, a father; I will be a patriot." But now—like this—tangled in a web of spiders—caught in a grab-net of politicians—and you, you and our baby-boy, like this—hell let in on our home—no, Country be cursed!

ELLEN. [Slowly.] So, then, when little Andy grows up——

ANDREW. [Groaning.] I say that the only thing——

ELLEN. I am to tell him——

ANDREW. [Defiantly.] Tell him his father deserted his country, and thanked God for the chance. [Looking about him passionately.] Here! [He tears a part of the flag from its standard, and reaches it toward her.] You're cold; put this round you.

ELLEN. [Gazing at Andrew.] What's the matter?

ANDREW. [Listening.] Who are they? Where is it?

JOEL. [Starts, alertly.] He hears something.

ANDREW. Why should they play before daybreak?

ELLEN. Andy——

JOEL. [Whispers.] Ssh! Look out! We're spied on!

THE FIGURE. [Straightening the flag-standard, and leaning on it.] Desartin'?

ANDREW. [Puts Ellen behind him.] Who's there? The watchword!

THE FIGURE. God save the smart folks!

JOEL. [To Andrew.] He's on to us. Pickle him quiet, or it's court martial! [Showing a long knife.] Shall I give him this?

ANDREW. [Taking it from him.] No. I will.

ELLEN. [Seizing his arm.] Andrew!

ANDREW. Let go.

ANDREW. You're a spy!

THE FIGURE. Steady, boys; I'm one of ye. The sergeant told me to drop round.

JOEL. Oh, the sergeant! That's all right, then.

ANDREW. [Dropping the knife.] Who are you?

THE FIGURE. Who be I? My name, ye mean? My name's Average—Sam Average. Univarsal Sam, some o' my prophetic friends calls me.

ANDREW. What are you doing here—now?

THE FIGURE. Oh, tendin' to business.

JOEL. Tendin' to other folks' business, eh?

THE FIGURE. [With a touch of weariness.] Ye-es; reckon that is my business. Some other folks is me.

JOEL. [Grimacing to Ellen.] Cracked!

THE FIGURE. [To Andrew.] You're a mite back'ard in wages, ain't ye?

ANDREW. Nine months. What of that?

THE FIGURE. That's what I dropped round for. Seems like when a man's endoored and fit, like you have, for his country, and calc'lates he'll quit, he ought to be takin' a little suthin' hom' for Thanksgivin'. So I fetched round your pay.

ANDREW. My pay! You?

THE FIGURE. Yes; I'm the paymaster.

ELLEN. [Coming forward, eagerly.] Andy! The money, is it?

THE FIGURE. [Bows with a grave, old-fashioned stateliness.] Your sarvent, ma'am!

ANDREW. [Speaking low.] Keep back, Nell. [To The Figure.] You—you were saying——

THE FIGURE. I were about to say how gold bein' scarce down to the Treasury, I fetched ye some s'curities instead; some national I.O.U.'s, as ye might say. [He takes out an old powder-horn, and rattles it quietly.] That's them. [Pouring from the horn into his palm some glistening, golden grains.] Here they be.

ELLEN. [Peering, with Joel.] Gold, Andy!

JOEL. [With a snigger.] Gold—nothin'! That's corn—just Injun corn. Ha!

THE FIGURE. [Bowing gravely.] It's the quality, ma'am, what counts, as ye might say.

JOEL. [Behind his hand.] His top-loft leaks!

THE FIGURE. These here karnels, now, were give' me down Plymouth way, in Massachusetts, the fust Thanksgivin' seems like I can remember. 'Twa'n't long after the famine we had thar. Me bein' some hungry, the red-folks fetched a hull-lot o' this round, with the compliments of their capting—what were his name now?—Massasoit. This here's the last handful on't left. Thought ye might like some, bein' Thanksgivin'.

JOEL. [In a low voice, to Ellen.] His screws are droppin' out. Come and pack. We've got to mark time and skip.

THE FIGURE. [Without looking at Joel.] Eight or ten minutes still to spare, boys. The sergeant said—wait till ye hear his jew's-harp playin' of that new war tune, The Star-Spangled Banner. Then ye'll know the coast's clear.

JOEL. Gad, that's right, I remember now.

ANDREW. I think—I'd like some.

THE FIGURE. Some o' what?

ANDREW. Those—my pay.

THE FIGURE. [Cheerfully.] So. Would ye? [Handing him the horn.] Reckon that's enough?

ANDREW. [Not taking it.] That's what I want to make sure of—first.

THE FIGURE. Oh! So ye're hesitatin'!

ANDREW. Yes; but I want you to help me decide. Pardon me, sir. You're a stranger, yet somehow I feel I may ask your help. You've come just in time.

THE FIGURE. Queer I should a-dropped round jest now, wa'n't it? S'posin' we take a turn.

ELLEN. [To herself.] My picture!

JOEL. There's more stuff over here.

[He goes off, right; Ellen follows him.

ANDREW. [To The Figure.] I should like the judgment of your experience, sir. I can't quite see your face, yet you appear to be one who has had a great deal of experience.

THE FIGURE. Why, consid'able some.

ANDREW. Did you—happen to fight in the late war for independence?

THE FIGURE. Happen to? [Laughing quietly.] N-no, not fight; ye see—I was paymaster.

ANDREW. But you went through the war?

THE FIGURE. Ye-es, oh, yes; I went through it. I took out my fust reg'lar papers down to Philadelphie, in '76, seems like 'twas the fourth day o' July. But I was paymaster afore that.

ANDREW. Tell me: I've heard it said there were deserters even in those days, even from the roll-call of Washington. Is it true?

THE FIGURE. True, boy? Have ye ever watched a prairie-fire rollin' toward ye, billowin' with flame and smoke, and seed all the midget cowerin' prairie-dogs scootin' for their holes? Wall, that's the way I watched Howe's army sweepin' crosst the Jarsey marshes, and seed the desartin' little patriots, with their chins over their shoulders, skedaddlin' home'ards.

ANDREW. What—the Americans!

THE FIGURE. All but a handful on 'em—them as weren't canines, ye might say, but men. They set a back-fire goin' at Valley Forge. Most on 'em burnt their toes and fingers off, lightin' on't thar in the white frost, but they stuck it through and saved—wall, the prairie-dogs.

ANDREW. But they—those others. What reason did they give to God and their own souls for deserting?

THE FIGURE. To who?

ANDREW. To their consciences. What was their reason? It must have been a noble one in '76. Their reason then; don't you see, I must have it. I must know what reason real heroes gave for their acts. You were there. You can tell me.

THE FIGURE. Real heroes, eh? Look around ye, then. To-day's the heroic age, and the true brand o' hero is al'ays in the market. Look around ye!

ANDREW. What, here—in this war of jobsters, this petty campaign of monstrous boodle?

THE FIGURE. Thar we be!

ANDREW. Why, here are only a lot of cowardly half-men, like me—lovers of their own folks—their wives and babies at home. They'll make sacrifices for them. But real men like our fathers in '76: they looked in the beautiful face of Liberty, and sacrificed to her!

THE FIGURE. Our fathers, my boy, was jest as fond o' poetry as you be. They talked about the beautiful face o' Liberty same's you; but when the hom'made eyes and cheeks of their sweethearts and young uns took to cryin', they desarted their beautiful goddess and skun out hom'.

ANDREW. But there were some——

THE FIGURE. Thar was some as didn't—yes; and thar's some as don't to-day. Those be the folks on my pay-roll. Why, look a-here: I calc'late I wouldn't fetch much on the beauty counter. My talk ain't rhyme stuff, nor the Muse o' Grammar wa'n't my schoolma'am. Th' ain't painter nor clay-sculptor would pictur' me jest like I stand. For the axe has hewed me, and the plough has furrered; and the arnin' of gold by my own elbow-grease has give' me the shrewd eye at a bargain. I manure my crops this side o' Jordan, and as for t'other shore, I'd ruther swap jokes with the Lord than listen to his sarmons. And yet for the likes o' me, jest for to arn my wages—ha, the many, many boys and gals that's gone to their grave-beds, and when I a-closed their eyes, the love-light was shinin' thar.

ANDREW. [Who has listened with awe.] What are you? What are you?

THE FIGURE. Me? I'm the paymaster.

ANDREW. I want to serve you—like those others.

THE FIGURE. Slow, slow, boy! Nobody sarves me.

ANDREW. But they died for you—the others.

THE FIGURE. No, 'twa'n't for me; 'twas for him as pays the wages; the one as works through me—the one higher up. I'm only the paymaster; kind of a needful makeshift—his obedient sarvant.

ANDREW. [With increasing curiosity, seeks to peer in The Figure's face.] But the one up higher—who is he?

THE FIGURE. [Turning his head away.] Would ye sarve him, think, if ye heerd his voice?

ANDREW. [Ardently, drawing closer.] And saw his face!

THE FIGURE. Hark a-yonder!

ANDREW. [Listening.] Is it thunder?

THE FIGURE. Have ye forgot?

ANDREW. The voice! I remember now—Niagara!

THE VOICE. I am the Voice that was heard of your fathers, and your fathers' fathers. Mightier—mightier, I shall be heard of your sons. I am the Million in whom the one is lost, and I am the One in whom the millions are saved. Their ears shall be shut to my thunders, their eyes to my blinding stars. In shallow streams they shall tap my life-blood for gold. With dregs of coal and of copper they shall pollute me. In the mystery of my mountains they shall assail me; in the majesty of my forests, strike me down; with engine and derrick and millstone, bind me their slave. Some for a lust, some for a love, shall desert me. One and one, for his own, shall fall away. Yet one and one and one shall return to me for life; the deserter and the destroyer shall re-create me. Primeval, their life-blood is mine. My pouring waters are passion, my lightnings are laughter of man. I am the One in whom the millions are saved, and I am the Million in whom the one is lost.

ANDREW. [Yearningly, to The Figure.] Your face!

ANDREW. Your face!

JOEL. Well, Colonel Average, time's up.

ELLEN. [Seeing Andrew's prostrate form, hastens to him.] Andy! What's happened?

ANDREW. [Rising slowly.] Come here. I'll whisper it.

JOEL. Yonder's the sergeant's jew's-harp. That's our signal, Nell. So long, colonel.

THE FIGURE. [Nodding.] So long, sonny.

ANDREW. [Holding Ellen's hands, passionately.] You understand? You do?

ELLEN. [Looking in his eyes.] I understand, dear.

JOEL. [Calls low.] Come, you married turtles. The road's clear. Follow me now. Sneak.

ANDREW. [Faintly.] God bless you!

ELLEN. [As they part hands.] Good-by!

THE FIGURE. Come, little gal.

THE FIGURE. By the by, Andy, here's that s'curity. Them here's my initials; they're all what's needful. Jest file this in the right pigeonhole, and you'll draw your pay. Keep your upper lip, boy. I'll meet ye later, mebbe, at Lundy's Lane.

ANDREW. [Wistfully.] You'll take her home?

THE FIGURE. Yes; reckon she'll housekeep for your uncle till you get back; won't ye, Nellie? Come, don't cry, little gal. We'll soon git 'quainted. 'Tain't the fust time sweethearts has called me Uncle.

---

LADY AUGUSTA GREGORY

Lady Augusta Gregory, one of the foremost figures in the Irish dramatic movement, was born at Roxborough, County Galway, Ireland, in 1859. "She was then a young woman," says one who has described her in her early married life, "very earnest, who divided her hair in the middle and wore it smooth on either side of a broad and handsome brow. Her eyes were always full of questions.... In her drawing-room were to be met men of assured reputation in literature and politics, and there was always the best reading of the times upon her tables." Lady Gregory has devoted her entire life to the cause of Irish literature. In 1911 she visited the United States and at a dinner given to her by The Outlook in New York City she said:

"I will not cease from mental strife

Or let the sword fall from my hand

Till we have built Jerusalem

In—Ireland's—fair and lovely land."

Lady Gregory, with William Butler Yeats and John Millington Synge, has been the very life of the Irish drama. The literary association of these three has been highly fruitful. She helped to found the Irish National Theatre Society, and for a number of years has been the managing force of the celebrated Abbey Theatre in Dublin.

Lady Gregory's chief interest has been in peasant comedies and folk-plays. Her Spreading the News, Hyacinth Halvey, The Rising of the Moon, The Workhouse Ward, and The Travelling Man are well-known contributions to contemporary drama.

It is a noteworthy fact that most of the plays of the Irish dramatic movement are one-act plays. Much of Irish life lends itself admirably to one-act treatment. Hyacinth Halvey is one of Lady Gregory's best productions. This play contains a universal idea: reputation is in great measure a matter of "a password or an emotion." Hyacinth, having a good reputation thrust upon him, may do as he likes—his good name clings to him notwithstanding.

PERSONS

Hyacinth Halvey

James Quirke, a butcher

Fardy Farrel, a telegraph boy

Sergeant Carden

Mrs. Delane, postmistress at Cloon

Miss Joyce, the priest's housekeeper

SCENE: Outside the post-office at the little town of Cloon. Mrs. Delane at post-office door. Mr. Quirke sitting on a chair at butcher's door. A dead sheep hanging beside it, and a thrush in a cage above. Fardy Farrell playing on a mouth-organ. Train-whistle heard.

MRS. DELANE. There is the four-o'clock train, Mr. Quirke.

MR. QUIRKE. Is it now, Mrs. Delane, and I not long after rising? It makes a man drowsy to be doing the half of his work in the night-time. Going about the country, looking for little stags of sheep, striving to knock a few shillings together. That contract for the soldiers gives me a great deal to attend to.

MRS. DELANE. I suppose so. It's hard enough on myself to be down ready for the mail-car in the morning, sorting letters in the half-dark. It's often I haven't time to look who are the letters from—or the cards.

MR. QUIRKE. It would be a pity you not to know any little news might be knocking about. If you did not have information of what is going on, who should have it? Was it you, ma'am, was telling me that the new sub-sanitary inspector would be arriving to-day?

MRS. DELANE. To-day it is he is coming, and it's likely he was in that train. There was a card about him to Sergeant Carden this morning.

MR. QUIRKE. A young chap from Carrow they were saying he was.

MRS. DELANE. So he is, one Hyacinth Halvey; and indeed if all that is said of him is true, or if a quarter of it is true, he will be a credit to this town.

MR. QUIRKE. Is that so?

MRS. DELANE. Testimonials he has by the score. To Father Gregan they were sent. Registered they were coming and going. Would you believe me telling you that they weighed up to three pounds?

MR. QUIRKE. There must be great bulk in them indeed.

MRS. DELANE. It is no wonder he to get the job. He must have a great character, so many persons to write for him as what there did.

FARDY. It would be a great thing to have a character like that.

MRS. DELANE. Indeed, I am thinking it will be long before you will get the like of it, Fardy Farrell.

FARDY. If I had the like of that of a character it is not here carrying messages I would be. It's in Noonan's Hotel I would be, driving cars.

MR. QUIRKE. Here is the priest's housekeeper coming.

MRS. DELANE. So she is; and there is the sergeant a little while after her.

MRS. DELANE. Good evening to you, Miss Joyce. What way is his reverence to-day? Did he get any ease from the cough?

MISS JOYCE. He did not, indeed, Mrs. Delane. He has it sticking to him yet. Smothering he is in the night-time. The most thing he comes short in is the voice.

MRS. DELANE. I am sorry, now, to hear that. He should mind himself well.

MISS JOYCE. It's easy to say let him mind himself. What do you say to him going to the meeting to-night?

MISS JOYCE. It's for his reverence's "Freeman" I am come, Mrs. Delane.

MRS. DELANE. Here it is ready. I was just throwing an eye on it to see was there any news. Good evening, Sergeant.

SERGEANT. [Holding up a placard.] I brought this notice, Mrs. Delane, the announcement of the meeting to be held to-night in the court-house. You might put it up here convenient to the window. I hope you are coming to it yourself?

MRS. DELANE. I will come, and welcome. I would do more than that for you, Sergeant.

SERGEANT. And you, Mr. Quirke.

MR. QUIRKE. I'll come, to be sure. I forget what's this the meeting is about.

SERGEANT. The Department of Agriculture is sending round a lecturer in furtherance of the moral development of the rural classes. [Reads.] "A lecture will be given this evening in Cloon Court-House, illustrated by magic-lantern slides—" Those will not be in it; I am informed they were all broken in the first journey, the railway company taking them to be eggs. The subject of the lecture is "The Building of Character."

MRS. DELANE. Very nice, indeed, I knew a girl lost her character, and she washed her feet in a blessed well after, and it dried up on the minute.

SERGEANT. The arrangements have all been left to me, the archdeacon being away. He knows I have a good intellect for things of the sort. But the loss of those slides puts a man out. The thing people will not see it is not likely it is the thing they will believe. I saw what they call tableaux—standing pictures, you know—one time in Dundrum——

MRS. DELANE. Miss Joyce was saying Father Gregan is supporting you.

SERGEANT. I am accepting his assistance. No bigotry about me when there is a question of the welfare of any fellow creatures. Orange and green will stand together to-night, I, myself, and the station-master on the one side, your parish priest in the chair.

MISS JOYCE. If his reverence would mind me he would not quit the house to-night. He is no more fit to go speak at a meeting than [pointing to the one hanging outside Quirke's door] that sheep.

SERGEANT. I am willing to take the responsibility. He will have no speaking to do at all, unless it might be to bid them give the lecturer a hearing. The loss of those slides now is a great annoyance to me—and no time for anything. The lecturer will be coming by the next train.

MISS JOYCE. Who is this coming up the street, Mrs. Delane?

MRS. DELANE. I wouldn't doubt it to be the new sub-sanitary inspector. Was I telling you of the weight of the testimonials he got, Miss Joyce?

MISS JOYCE. Sure, I heard the curate reading them to his reverence. He must be a wonder for principles.

MRS. DELANE. Indeed, it is what I was saying to myself, he must be a very saintly young man.

HYACINTH. Good evening to you. I was bid to come to the post-office——

SERGEANT. I suppose you are Hyacinth Halvey? I had a letter about you from the resident magistrate.

HYACINTH. I heard he was writing. It was my mother got a friend he deals with to ask him.

SERGEANT. He gives you a very high character.

HYACINTH. It is very kind of him, indeed, and he not knowing me at all. But, indeed, all the neighbors were very friendly. Anything any one could do to help me they did it.

MRS. DELANE. I'll engage it is the testimonials you have in your parcel? I know the wrapping-paper, but they grew in bulk since I handled them.

HYACINTH. Indeed, I was getting them to the last. There was not one refused me. It is what my mother was saying, a good character is no burden.

FARDY. I would believe that, indeed.

SERGEANT. Let us have a look at the testimonials.

SERGEANT. [Opening and reading one by one.] "He possesses the fire of the Gael, the strength of the Norman, the vigor of the Dane, the stolidity of the Saxon——"

HYACINTH. It was the chairman of the Poor Law Guardians wrote that.

SERGEANT. "A magnificent example to old and young——"

HYACINTH. That was the secretary of the De Wet Hurling Club——

SERGEANT. "A shining example of the value conferred by an eminently careful and high-class education——"

HYACINTH. That was the national schoolmaster.

SERGEANT. "Devoted to the highest ideals of his motherland to such an extent as is compatible with a hitherto non-parliamentary career——"

HYACINTH. That was the member for Carrow.

SERGEANT. "A splendid exponent of the purity of the race——"

HYACINTH. The editor of the "Carrow Champion."

SERGEANT. "Admirably adapted for the efficient discharge of all possible duties that may in future be laid upon him——"

HYACINTH. The new station-master.

SERGEANT. "A champion of every cause that can legitimately benefit his fellow creatures—" Why, look here, my man, you are the very one to come to our assistance to-night.

HYACINTH. I would be glad to do that. What way can I do it?

SERGEANT. You are a newcomer—your example would carry weight—you must stand up as a living proof of the beneficial effect of a high character, moral fibre, temperance—there is something about it here I am sure—(Looks.) I am sure I saw "unparalleled temperance" in some place——

HYACINTH. It was my mother's cousin wrote that—I am no drinker, but I haven't the pledge taken——

SERGEANT. You might take it for the purpose.

MR. QUIRKE. [Eagerly.] Here is an antitreating button. I was made a present of it by one of my customers—I'll give it to you [sticks it in Hyacinth's coat] and welcome.

SERGEANT. That is it. You can wear the button on the platform—or a bit of blue ribbon—hundreds will follow your example—I know the boys from the Workhouse will——

HYACINTH. I am in no way wishful to be an example——

SERGEANT. I will read extracts from the testimonials. "There he is," I will say, "an example of one in early life who by his own unaided efforts and his high character has obtained a profitable situation." [Slaps his side.] I know what I'll do. I'll engage a few corner-boys from Noonan's bar, just as they are, greasy and sodden, to stand in a group—there will be the contrast—the sight will deter others from a similar fate—that's the way to do a tableau—I knew I could turn out a success.

HYACINTH. I wouldn't like to be a contrast——

SERGEANT. [Puts testimonials in his pocket.] I will go now and engage those lads—sixpence each, and well worth it—nothing like an example for the rural classes.

MRS. DELANE. A very nice man, indeed. A little high up in himself, maybe. I'm not one that blames the police. Sure they have their own bread to earn like every other one. And indeed it is often they will let a thing pass.

MR. QUIRKE. [Gloomily.] Sometimes they will, and more times they will not.

MISS JOYCE. And where will you be finding a lodging, Mr. Halvey?

HYACINTH. I was going to ask that myself, ma'am. I don't know the town.

MISS JOYCE. I know of a good lodging, but it is only a very good man would be taken into it.

MRS. DELANE. Sure there could be no objection there to Mr. Halvey. There is no appearance on him but what is good, and the sergeant after taking him up the way he is doing.

MISS JOYCE. You will be near to the sergeant in the lodging I speak of. The house is convenient to the barracks.

HYACINTH. [Doubtfully.] To the barracks?

MISS JOYCE. Alongside of it, and the barrack-yard behind. And that's not all. It is opposite to the priest's house.

HYACINTH. Opposite, is it?

MISS JOYCE. A very respectable place, indeed, and a very clean room you will get. I know it well. The curate can see into it from his window.

HYACINTH. Can he now?

FARDY. There was a good many, I am thinking, went into that lodging and left it after.

MISS JOYCE. [Sharply.] It is a lodging you will never be let into or let stop in, Fardy. If they did go they were a good riddance.

FARDY. John Hart, the plumber, left it——

MISS JOYCE. If he did it was because he dared not pass the police coming in, as he used, with a rabbit he was after snaring in his hand.

FARDY. The schoolmaster himself left it.

MISS JOYCE. He needn't have left it if he hadn't taken to card-playing. What way could you say your prayers, and shadows shuffling and dealing before you on the blind?

HYACINTH. I think maybe I'd best look around a bit before I'll settle in a lodging——

MISS JOYCE. Not at all. You won't be wanting to pull down the blind.

MRS. DELANE. It is not likely you will be snaring rabbits.

MISS JOYCE. Or bringing in a bottle and taking an odd glass the way James Kelly did.

MRS. DELANE. Or writing threatening notices, and the police taking a view of you from the rear.

MISS JOYCE. Or going to roadside dances, or running after good-for-nothing young girls——

HYACINTH. I give you my word I'm not so harmless as you think.

MRS. DELANE. Would you be putting a lie on these, Mr. Halvey? [Touching testimonials.] I know well the way you will be spending the evenings, writing letters to your relations——

MISS JOYCE. Learning O'Growney's exercises——

MRS. DELANE. Sticking post-cards in an album for the convent bazaar.

MISS JOYCE. Reading the "Catholic Young Man"——

MRS. DELANE. Playing the melodies on a melodeon——

MISS JOYCE. Looking at the pictures in the "Lives of the Saints." I'll hurry on and engage the room for you.

HYACINTH. Wait. Wait a minute——

MISS JOYCE. No trouble at all. I told you it was just opposite.

[Goes.

MR. QUIRKE. I suppose I must go up-stairs and ready myself for the meeting. If it wasn't for the contract I have for the soldiers' barracks and the sergeant's good word, I wouldn't go anear it.

[Goes into shop.

MRS. DELANE. I should be making myself ready, too. I must be in good time to see you being made an example of, Mr. Halvey. It is I, myself, was the first to say it; you will be a credit to the town.

[Goes.

HYACINTH. [In a tone of agony.] I wish I had never seen Cloon.

FARDY. What is on you?

HYACINTH. I wish I had never left Carrow. I wish I had been drowned the first day I thought of it, and I'd be better off.

FARDY. What is it ails you?

HYACINTH. I wouldn't for the best pound ever I had be in this place to-day.

FARDY. I don't know what you are talking about.

HYACINTH. To have left Carrow, if it was a poor place, where I had my comrades, and an odd spree, and a game of cards—and a coursing-match coming on, and I promised a new greyhound from the city of Cork. I'll die in this place, the way I am, I'll be too much closed in.

FARDY. Sure it mightn't be as bad as what you think.

HYACINTH. Will you tell me, I ask you, what way can I undo it?

FARDY. What is it you are wanting to undo?

HYACINTH. Will you tell me what way can I get rid of my character?

FARDY. To get rid of it, is it?

HYACINTH. That is what I said. Aren't you after hearing the great character they are after putting on me?

FARDY. That is a good thing to have.

HYACINTH. It is not. It's the worst in the world. If I hadn't it, I wouldn't be like a prize marigold at a show, with every person praising me.

FARDY. If I had it, I wouldn't be like a head in a barrel, with every person making hits at me.

HYACINTH. If I hadn't it, I wouldn't be shoved into a room with all the clergy watching me and the police in the back yard.

FARDY. If I had it, I wouldn't be but a message-carrier now, and a clapper scaring birds in the summer-time.

HYACINTH. If I hadn't it, I wouldn't be wearing this button and brought up for an example at the meeting.

FARDY. [Whistles.] Maybe you're not so, what those papers make you out to be?

HYACINTH. How would I be what they make me out to be? Was there ever any person of that sort since the world was a world, unless it might be Saint Antony of Padua looking down from the chapel wall? If it is like that I was, isn't it in Mount Melleray I would be, or with the friars at Esker? Why would I be living in the world at all, or doing the world's work?

FARDY. [Taking up parcel.] Who would think, now, there would be so much lies in a small place like Carrow?

HYACINTH. It was my mother's cousin did it. He said I was not reared for laboring—he gave me a new suit and bid me never to come back again. I daren't go back to face him—the neighbors knew my mother had a long family—bad luck to them the day they gave me these. [Tears letters and scatters them.] I'm done with testimonials. They won't be here to bear witness against me.

FARDY. The sergeant thought them to be great. Sure he has the samples of them in his pocket. There's not one in the town but will know before morning that you are the next thing to an earthly saint.

HYACINTH. [Stamping.] I'll stop their mouths. I'll show them I can be a terror for badness. I'll do some injury. I'll commit some crime. The first thing I'll do I'll go and get drunk. If I never did it before I'll do it now. I'll get drunk—then I'll make an assault—I tell you I'd think as little of taking a life as of blowing out a candle.

FARDY. If you get drunk you are done for. Sure that will be held up after as an excuse for any breaking of the law.

HYACINTH. I will break the law. Drunk or sober, I'll break it. I'll do something that will have no excuse. What would you say is the worst crime that any man can do?

FARDY. I don't know. I heard the sergeant saying one time it was to obstruct the police in the discharge of their duty——

HYACINTH. That won't do. It's a patriot I would be then, worse than before, with my picture in the weeklies. It's a red crime I must commit that will make all respectable people quit minding me. What can I do? Search your mind now.

FARDY. It's what I heard the old people saying there could be no worse crime than to steal a sheep——

HYACINTH. I'll steal a sheep—or a cow—or a horse—if that will leave me the way I was before.

FARDY. It's maybe in jail it will leave you.

HYACINTH. I don't care—I'll confess—I'll tell why I did it—I give you my word I would as soon be picking oakum or breaking stones as to be perched in the daylight the same as that bird, and all the town chirruping to me or bidding me chirrup——

FARDY. There is reason in that, now.

HYACINTH. Help me, will you?

FARDY. Well, if it is to steal a sheep you want, you haven't far to go.

HYACINTH. [Looking around wildly.] Where is it? I see no sheep.

FARDY. Look around you.

HYACINTH. I see no living thing but that thrush——

FARDY. Did I say it was living? What is that hanging on Quirke's rack?

HYACINTH. It's [fingers it] a sheep, sure enough——

FARDY. Well, what ails you that you can't bring it away?

HYACINTH. It's a dead one——

FARDY. What matter if it is?

HYACINTH. If it was living I could drive it before me——

FARDY. You could. Is it to your own lodging you would drive it? Sure every one would take it to be a pet you brought from Carrow.

HYACINTH. I suppose they might.

FARDY. Miss Joyce sending in for news of it and it bleating behind the bed.

HYACINTH. [Distracted.] Stop! stop!

MRS. DELANE. [From upper window.] Fardy! Are you there, Fardy Farrell?

FARDY. I am, ma'am.

MRS. DELANE. [From window.] Look and tell me is that the telegraph I hear ticking?

FARDY. [Looking in at door.] It is, ma'am.

MRS. DELANE. Then botheration to it, and I not dressed or undressed. Wouldn't you say, now, it's to annoy me it is calling me down. I'm coming! I'm coming!

[Disappears.

FARDY. Hurry on, now! Hurry! She'll be coming out on you. If you are going to do it, do it, and if you are not, let it alone.

HYACINTH. I'll do it! I'll do it!

FARDY. [Lifting the sheep on his back.] I'll give you a hand with it.

HYACINTH. [Goes a step or two and turns round.] You told me no place where I could hide it.

FARDY. You needn't go far. There is the church beyond at the side of the square. Go round to the ditch behind the wall—there's nettles in it.

HYACINTH. That'll do.

FARDY. She's coming out—run! run!

HYACINTH. [Runs a step or two.] It's slipping!

FARDY. Hoist it up. I'll give it a hoist!

[Halvey runs out.

MRS. DELANE. [Calling out.] What are you doing, Fardy Farrell? Is it idling you are?

FARDY. Waiting I am, ma'am, for the message——

MRS. DELANE. Never mind the message yet. Who said it was ready? [Going to door.] Go ask for the loan of—no, but ask news of—Here, now go bring that bag of Mr. Halvey's to the lodging Miss Joyce has taken——

FARDY. I will, ma'am. [Takes bag and goes out.

MRS. DELANE. [Coming out with a telegram in her hand.] Nobody here? [Looks round and calls cautiously.] Mr. Quirke! Mr. Quirke! James Quirke!

MR. QUIRKE. [Looking out of his upper window, with soap-suddy face.] What is it, Mrs. Delane?

MRS. DELANE. [Beckoning.] Come down here till I tell you.

MR. QUIRKE. I cannot do that. I'm not fully shaved.

MRS. DELANE. You'd come if you knew the news I have.

MR. QUIRKE. Tell it to me now. I'm not so supple as I was.

MRS. DELANE. Whisper now, have you an enemy in any place?

MR. QUIRKE. It's likely I may have. A man in business——

MRS. DELANE. I was thinking you had one.

MR. QUIRKE. Why would you think that at this time more than any other time?

MRS. DELANE. If you could know what is in this envelope you would know that, James Quirke.

MR. QUIRKE. Is that so? And what, now, is there in it?

MRS. DELANE. Who do you think now is it addressed to?

MR. QUIRKE. How would I know that, and I not seeing it?

MRS. DELANE. That is true. Well, it is a message from Dublin Castle to the sergeant of police!

MR. QUIRKE. To Sergeant Carden, is it?

MRS. DELANE. It is. And it concerns yourself.

MR. QUIRKE. Myself, is it? What accusation can they be bringing against me? I'm a peaceable man.

MRS. DELANE. Wait till you hear.

MR. QUIRKE. Maybe they think I was in that moonlighting case——

MRS. DELANE. That is not it——

MR. QUIRKE. I was not in it—I was but in the neighboring field—cutting up a dead cow, that those never had a hand in——

MRS. DELANE. You're out of it——

MR. QUIRKE. They had their faces blackened. There is no man can say I recognized them.

MRS. DELANE. That's not what they're saying——

MR. QUIRKE. I'll swear I did not hear their voices or know them if I did hear them.

MRS. DELANE. I tell you it has nothing to do with that. It might be better for you if it had.

MR. QUIRKE. What is it, so?

MRS. DELANE. It is an order to the sergeant, bidding him immediately to seize all suspicious meat in your house. There is an officer coming down. There are complaints from the Shannon Fort Barracks.

MR. QUIRKE. I'll engage it was that pork.

MRS. DELANE. What ailed it for them to find fault?

MR. QUIRKE. People are so hard to please nowadays, and I recommended them to salt it.

MRS. DELANE. They had a right to have minded your advice.

MR. QUIRKE. There was nothing on that pig at all but that it went mad on poor O'Grady that owned it.

MRS. DELANE. So I heard, and went killing all before it.

MR. QUIRKE. Sure it's only in the brain madness can be. I heard the doctor saying that.

MRS. DELANE. He should know.

MR. QUIRKE. I give you my word I cut the head off it. I went to the loss of it, throwing it to the eels in the river. If they had salted the meat, as I advised them, what harm would it have done to any person on earth?

MRS. DELANE. I hope no harm will come on poor Mrs. Quirke and the family.

MR. QUIRKE. Maybe it wasn't that but some other thing——

MRS. DELANE. Here is Fardy. I must send the message to the sergeant. Well, Mr. Quirke, I'm glad I had the time to give you a warning.

MR. QUIRKE. I'm obliged to you, indeed. You were always very neighborly, Mrs. Delane. Don't be too quick now sending the message. There is just one article I would like to put away out of the house before the sergeant will come.

MRS. DELANE. Here now, Fardy—that's not the way you're going to the barracks. Any one would think you were scaring birds yet. Put on your uniform.

MRS. DELANE. You have this message to bring to the sergeant of police. Get your cap now; it's under the counter.

FARDY. I'll bring it to the station. It's there he was going.

MRS. DELANE. You will not, but to the barracks. It can wait for him there.

MR. QUIRKE. It was indeed a very neighborly act, Mrs. Delane, and I'm obliged to you. There is just one article to put out of the way. The sergeant may look about him then and welcome. It's well I cleared the premises on yesterday. A consignment to Birmingham I sent. The Lord be praised, isn't England a terrible country, with all it consumes?

MRS. DELANE. Indeed, you always treat the neighbors very decent, Mr. Quirke, not asking them to buy from you.

MR. QUIRKE. Just one article. [Turns to rack.] That sheep I brought in last night. It was for a charity, indeed, I bought it from the widow woman at Kiltartan Cross. Where would the poor make a profit out of their dead meat without me? Where now is it? Well, now, I could have swore that that sheep was hanging there on the rack when I went in——

MRS. DELANE. You must have put it in some other place.

MR. QUIRKE. [Going in and searching and coming out.] I did not; there is no other place for me to put it. Is it gone blind I am, or is it not in it, it is?

MRS. DELANE. It's not there now, anyway.

MR. QUIRKE. Didn't you take notice of it there, yourself, this morning?

MRS. DELANE. I have it in my mind that I did; but it's not there now.

MR. QUIRKE. There was no one here could bring it away?

MRS. DELANE. Is it me, myself, you suspect of taking it, James Quirke?

MR. QUIRKE. Where is it at all? It is certain it was not of itself it walked away. It was dead, and very dead, the time I bought it.

MRS. DELANE. I have a pleasant neighbor, indeed, that accuses me that I took his sheep. I wonder, indeed, you to say a thing like that! I to steal your sheep or your rack or anything that belongs to you or to your trade! Thank you, James Quirke. I am much obliged to you, indeed.

MR. QUIRKE. Ah, be quiet, woman; be quiet——

MRS. DELANE. And let me tell you, James Quirke, that I would sooner starve and see every one belonging to me starve than to eat the size of a thimble of any joint that ever was on your rack or that ever will be on it, whatever the soldiers may eat that have no other thing to get, or the English, that devour all sorts, or the poor ravenous people that's down by the sea!

[She turns to go into shop.

MR. QUIRKE. [Stopping her.] Don't be talking foolishness, woman. Who said you took my meat? Give heed to me now. There must some other message have come. The sergeant must have got some other message.

MRS. DELANE. [Sulkily.] If there is any way for a message to come that is quicker than to come by the wires, tell me what it is, and I'll be obliged to you.

MR. QUIRKE. The sergeant was up here, making an excuse he was sticking up that notice. What was he doing here, I ask you?

MRS. DELANE. How would I know what brought him?

MR. QUIRKE. It is what he did; he made as if to go away—he turned back again and I shaving—he brought away the sheep—he will have it for evidence against me——

MRS. DELANE. [Interested.] That might be so.

MR. QUIRKE. I would sooner it to have been any other beast nearly ever I had upon the rack.

MRS. DELANE. Is that so?

MR. QUIRKE. I bade the Widow Early to kill it a fortnight ago—but she would not, she was that covetous!

MRS. DELANE. What was on it?

MR. QUIRKE. How would I know what was on it? Whatever was on it, it was the will of God put it upon it—wasted it was, and shivering and refusing its share.

MRS. DELANE. The poor thing.

MR. QUIRKE. Gone all to nothing—wore away like a flock of thread. It did not weigh as much as a lamb of two months.

MRS. DELANE. It is likely the inspector will bring it to Dublin?

MR. QUIRKE. The ribs of it streaky with the dint of patent medicines——

MRS. DELANE. I wonder is it to the Petty Sessions you'll be brought or is it to the Assizes?

MR. QUIRKE. I'll speak up to them. I'll make my defense. What can the army expect at fippence a pound?

MRS. DELANE. It is likely there will be no bail allowed?

MR. QUIRKE. Would they be wanting me to give them good quality meat out of my own pocket? Is it to encourage them to fight the poor Indians and Africans they would have me? It's the Anti-Enlisting Societies should pay the fine for me.

MRS. DELANE. It's not a fine will be put on you, I'm afraid. It's five years in jail you will be apt to be getting. Well, I'll try and be a good neighbor to poor Mrs. Quirke.

MR. QUIRKE. Hadn't I heart-scalding enough before, striving to rear five weak children?

MRS. DELANE. I suppose they will be sent to the Industrial Schools?

MR. QUIRKE. My poor wife——

MRS. DELANE. I'm afraid the workhouse——

MR. QUIRKE. And she out in an ass-car at this minute, helping me to follow my trade.

MRS. DELANE. I hope they will not arrest her along with you.

MR. QUIRKE. I'll give myself up to justice. I'll plead guilty! I'll be recommended to mercy!

MRS. DELANE. It might be best for you.

MR. QUIRKE. Who would think so great a misfortune could come upon a family through the bringing away of one sheep!

HYACINTH. [Coming forward.] Let you make yourself easy.

MR. QUIRKE. Easy! It's easy to say let you make yourself easy.

HYACINTH. I can tell you where it is.

MR. QUIRKE. Where what is?

HYACINTH. The sheep you are fretting after.

MR. QUIRKE. What do you know about it?

HYACINTH. I know everything about it.

MR. QUIRKE. I suppose the sergeant told you?

HYACINTH. He told me nothing.

MR. QUIRKE. I suppose the whole town knows it, so?

HYACINTH. No one knows it, as yet.

MR. QUIRKE. And the sergeant didn't see it?

HYACINTH. No one saw it or brought it away but myself.

MR. QUIRKE. Where did you put it at all?

HYACINTH. In the ditch behind the church wall. In among the nettles it is. Look at the way they have me stung.

[Holds out hands.

MR. QUIRKE. In the ditch! The best hiding-place in the town.

HYACINTH. I never thought it would bring such great trouble upon you. You can't say, anyway, I did not tell you.

MR. QUIRKE. You, yourself, that brought it away and that hid it! I suppose it was coming in the train you got information about the message to the police.

HYACINTH. What now do you say to me?

MR. QUIRKE. Say! I say I am as glad to hear what you said as if it was the Lord telling me I'd be in heaven this minute.

HYACINTH. What are you going to do to me?

MR. QUIRKE. Do, is it? [Grasps his hand.] Any earthly thing you would wish me to do, I will do it.

HYACINTH. I suppose you will tell——

MR. QUIRKE. Tell! It's I that will tell when all is quiet. It is I will give you the good name through the town!

HYACINTH. I don't well understand.

MR. QUIRKE. [Embracing him.] The man that preserved me!

HYACINTH. That preserved you?

MR. QUIRKE. That kept me from ruin!

HYACINTH. From ruin?

MR. QUIRKE. That saved me from disgrace!

HYACINTH. [To Mrs. Delane.] What is he saying at all?

MR. QUIRKE. From the inspector!

HYACINTH. What is he talking about?

MR. QUIRKE. From the magistrates!

HYACINTH. He is making some mistake.

MR. QUIRKE. From the Winter Assizes!

HYACINTH. Is he out of his wits?

MR. QUIRKE. Five years in jail!

HYACINTH. Hasn't he the queer talk?

MR. QUIRKE. The loss of the contract!

HYACINTH. Are my own wits gone astray?

MR. QUIRKE. What way can I repay you?

HYACINTH. [Shouting.] I tell you I took the sheep——

MR. QUIRKE. You did, God reward you!

HYACINTH. I stole away with it——

MR. QUIRKE. The blessing of the poor on you!

HYACINTH. I put it out of sight——

MR. QUIRKE. The blessing of my five children——

HYACINTH. I may as well say nothing——

MRS. DELANE. Let you be quiet now, Quirke. Here's the sergeant coming to search the shop——

SERGEANT. The department to blazes!

MRS. DELANE. What is it is putting you out?

SERGEANT. To go to the train to meet the lecturer, and there to get a message through the guard that he was unavoidably detained in the South, holding an inquest on the remains of a drake.

MRS. DELANE. The lecturer, is it?

SERGEANT. To be sure. What else would I be talking of? The lecturer has failed me, and where am I to go looking for a person that I would think fitting to take his place?

MRS. DELANE. And that's all? And you didn't get any message but the one?

SERGEANT. Is that all? I am surprised at you, Mrs. Delane. Isn't it enough to upset a man, within three-quarters of an hour of the time of the meeting? Where, I would ask you, am I to find a man that has education enough and wit enough and character enough to put up speaking on the platform on the minute?

MR. QUIRKE. [Jumps up.] It is I, myself, will tell you that.

SERGEANT. You!

MR. QUIRKE. [Slapping Halvey on the back.] Look at here, Sergeant. There is not one word was said in all those papers about this young man before you but it is true. And there could be no good thing said of him that would be too good for him.

SERGEANT. It might not be a bad idea.

MR. QUIRKE. Whatever the paper said about him, Sergeant, I can say more again. It has come to my knowledge—by chance—that since he came to this town that young man has saved a whole family from destruction.

SERGEANT. That is much to his credit—helping the rural classes——

MR. QUIRKE. A family and a long family, big and little, like sods of turf—and they depending on a—on one that might be on his way to dark trouble at this minute if it was not for his assistance. Believe me, he is the most sensible man, and the wittiest, and the kindest, and the best helper of the poor that ever stood before you in this square. Is not that so, Mrs. Delane?

MRS. DELANE. It is true, indeed. Where he gets his wisdom and his wit and his information from I don't know, unless it might be that he is gifted from above.

SERGEANT.. Well, Mrs. Delane, I think we have settled that question. Mr. Halvey, you will be the speaker at the meeting. The lecturer sent these notes—you can lengthen them into a speech. You can call to the people of Cloon to stand out, to begin the building of their character. I saw a lecturer do it one time at Dundrum. "Come up here," he said; "Dare to be a Daniel," he said——

HYACINTH. I can't—I won't——

SERGEANT. [Looking at papers and thrusting them into his hand.] You will find it quite easy. I will conduct you to the platform—these papers before you and a glass of water—that's settled. [Turns to go.] Follow me on to the court-house in half an hour—I must go to the barracks first—I heard there was a telegram—[Calls back as he goes.] Don't be late, Mrs. Delane. Mind, Quirke, you promised to come.

MRS. DELANE. Well, it's time for me to make an end of settling myself—and, indeed, Mr. Quirke, you'd best do the same.

MR. QUIRKE. [Rubbing his cheek.] I suppose so. I had best keep on good terms with him for the present. [Turns.] Well, now, I had a great escape this day.

HYACINTH. [Sitting down.] I don't know in the world what has come upon the world that the half of the people of it should be cracked!

FARDY. Weren't you found out yet?

HYACINTH. Found out, is it? I don't know what you mean by being found out.

FARDY. Didn't he miss the sheep?

HYACINTH. He did, and I told him it was I took it—and what happened I declare to goodness I don't know—Will you look at these?

[Holds out notes.

FARDY. Papers! Are they more testimonials?

HYACINTH. They are what is worse. [Gives a hoarse laugh.] Will you come and see me on the platform—these in my hand—and I speaking—giving out advice. [Fardy whistles.] Why didn't you tell me, the time you advised me to steal a sheep, that in this town it would qualify a man to go preaching, and the priest in the chair looking on?

FARDY. The time I took a few apples that had fallen off a stall, they did not ask me to hold a meeting. They welted me well.

HYACINTH. [Looking round.] I would take apples if I could see them. I wish I had broke my neck before I left Carrow, and I'd be better off! I wish I had got six months the time I was caught setting snares—I wish I had robbed a church.

FARDY. Would a Protestant church do?

HYACINTH. I suppose it wouldn't be so great a sin.

FARDY. It's likely the sergeant would think worse of it. Anyway, if you want to rob one, it's the Protestant church is the handiest.

HYACINTH. [Getting up.] Show me what way to do it?

FARDY. [Pointing.] I was going around it a few minutes ago, to see might there be e'er a dog scenting the sheep, and I noticed the window being out.

HYACINTH. Out, out and out?

FARDY. It was, where they are putting colored glass in it for the distiller——

HYACINTH. What good does that do me?

FARDY. Every good. You could go in by that window if you had some person to give you a hoist. Whatever riches there is to get in it then, you'll get them.

HYACINTH. I don't want riches. I'll give you all I will find if you will come and hoist me.

FARDY. Here is Miss Joyce coming to bring you to your lodging. Sure I brought your bag to it, the time you were away with the sheep——

HYACINTH. Run! Run!

MISS JOYCE. Are you here, Mrs. Delane? Where, can you tell me, is Mr. Halvey?

MRS. DELANE. [Coming out dressed.] It's likely he is gone on to the court-house. Did you hear he is to be in the chair and to make an address to the meeting?

MISS JOYCE. He is getting on fast. His reverence says he will be a good help in the parish. Who would think, now, there would be such a godly young man in a little place like Carrow!

SERGEANT. What time did this telegram arrive, Mrs. Delane?

MRS. DELANE. I couldn't be rightly sure, Sergeant. But sure it's marked on it, unless the clock I have is gone wrong.

SERGEANT. It is marked on it. And I have the time I got it marked on my own watch.

MRS. DELANE. Well, now, I wonder none of the police would have followed you with it from the barracks—and they with so little to do——

SERGEANT. [Looking in at Quirke's shop.] Well, I am sorry to do what I have to do, but duty is duty.

MR. QUIRKE. What is that going on inside? [No answer.] Is there any one inside, I ask? [No answer.] It must be that dog of Tannian's—wait till I get at him.

MRS. DELANE. It is Sergeant Carden, Mr. Quirke. He would seem to be looking for something——

MR. QUIRKE. I'm greatly afraid I am just out of meat, Sergeant—and I'm sorry now to disoblige you, and you not being in the habit of dealing with me——

SERGEANT. I should think not, indeed.

MR. QUIRKE. Looking for a tender little bit of lamb, I suppose you are, for Mrs. Carden and the youngsters?

SERGEANT. I am not.

MR. QUIRKE. If I had it now, I'd be proud to offer it to you, and make no charge. I'll be killing a good kid to-morrow. Mrs Carden might fancy a bit of it——

SERGEANT. I have had orders to search your establishment for unwholesome meat, and I am come here to do it.

MR. QUIRKE. [Sitting down with a smile.] Is that so? Well, isn't it a wonder the schemers does be in the world.

SERGEANT. It is not the first time there have been complaints.

MR. QUIRKE. I suppose not. Well, it is on their own head it will fall at the last!

SERGEANT. I have found nothing so far.

MR. QUIRKE. I suppose not, indeed. What is there you could find, and it not in it?

SERGEANT. Have you no meat at all upon the premises?

MR. QUIRKE. I have, indeed, a nice barrel of bacon.

SERGEANT. What way did it die?

MR. QUIRKE. It would be hard for me to say that. American it is. How would I know what way they do be killing the pigs out there? Machinery, I suppose, they have—steam-hammers——

SERGEANT. Is there nothing else here at all?

MR. QUIRKE. I give you my word, there is no meat, living or dead, in this place, but yourself and myself and that bird above in the cage.

SERGEANT. Well, I must tell the inspector I could find nothing. But mind yourself for the future.

MR. QUIRKE. Thank you, Sergeant. I will do that.

SERGEANT. It was you delayed that message to me, I suppose? You'd best mend your ways or I'll have something to say to you.

[Seizes and shakes him.

FARDY. That's the way every one does be faulting me.

[Whimpers.

MISS JOYCE. [Picking it up.] A half-a-crown! Where, now, did you get that much, Fardy?

FARDY. Where did I get it, is it?

MISS JOYCE. I'll engage it was in no honest way you got it.

FARDY. I picked it up in the street——

MISS JOYCE. If you did, why didn't you bring it to the sergeant or to his reverence?

MRS. DELANE. And some poor person, maybe, being at the loss of it.

MISS JOYCE. I'd best bring it to his reverence. Come with me, Fardy, till he will question you about it.

FARDY. It was not altogether in the street I found it——

MISS JOYCE. There, now! I knew you got it in no good way! Tell me, now.

FARDY. It was playing pitch and toss I won it——

MISS JOYCE. And who would play for half-crowns with the like of you, Fardy Farrell? Who was it, now?

FARDY. It was—a stranger——

MISS JOYCE. Do you hear that? A stranger! Did you see e'er a stranger in this town, Mrs. Delane, or Sergeant Carden, or Mr. Quirke?

MR. QUIRKE. Not a one.

SERGEANT. There was no stranger here.

MRS. DELANE. There could not be one here without me knowing it.

FARDY. I tell you there was.

MISS JOYCE. Come on, then, and tell who was he to his reverence.

SERGEANT. [Taking other arm.] Or to the bench.

FARDY. I did get it, I tell you, from a stranger.

SERGEANT. Where is he, so?

FARDY. He's in some place—not far away.

SERGEANT. Bring me to him.

FARDY. He'll be coming here.

SERGEANT. Tell me the truth and it will be better for you.

FARDY. [Weeping.] Let me go and I will.

SERGEANT. [Letting go.] Now—who did you get it from?

FARDY. From that young chap came to-day, Mr. Halvey.

ALL. Mr. Halvey!

MR. QUIRKE. [Indignantly.] What are you saying, you young ruffian, you? Hyacinth Halvey to be playing pitch and toss with the like of you!

FARDY. I didn't say that.

MISS JOYCE. You did say it. You said it now.

MR. QUIRKE. Hyacinth Halvey! The best man that ever came into this town!

MISS JOYCE. Well, what lies he has!

MR. QUIRKE. It's my belief the half-crown is a bad one. Maybe it's to pass it off it was given to him. There were tinkers in the town at the time of the fair. Give it here to me. [Bites it.] No, indeed, it's sound enough. Here, Sergeant, it's best for you take it. [Gives it to Sergeant, who examines it.

SERGEANT. Can it be? Can it be what I think it to be?

MR. QUIRKE. What is it? What do you take it to be?

SERGEANT. It is, it is. I know it, I know this half-crown——

MR. QUIRKE. That is a queer thing, now.

SERGEANT. I know it well. I have been handling it in the church for the last twelvemonth——

MR. QUIRKE. Is that so?

SERGEANT. It is the nest-egg half-crown we hand round in the collection-plate every Sunday morning. I know it by the dint on the Queen's temples and the crooked scratch under her nose.

MR. QUIRKE. [Examining it.] So there is, too.

SERGEANT. This is a bad business. It has been stolen from the church.

ALL. Oh! Oh! Oh!

SERGEANT. [Seizing Fardy.] You have robbed the church!

FARDY. [Terrified.] I tell you I never did!

SERGEANT. I have the proof of it.

FARDY. Say what you like! I never put a foot in it!

SERGEANT. How did you get this, so?

MISS JOYCE. I suppose from the stranger?

MRS. DELANE. I suppose it was Hyacinth Halvey gave it to you, now?

FARDY. It was so.

SERGEANT. I suppose it was he robbed the church?

FARDY. [Sobs.] You will not believe me if I say it.

MR. QUIRKE. Oh! the young vagabond! Let me get at him!

MRS. DELANE. Here he is himself now!

[Hyacinth comes in. Fardy releases himself and creeps behind him.

MRS. DELANE. It is time you to come, Mr. Halvey, and shut the mouth of this young schemer.

MISS JOYCE. I would like you to hear what he says of you, Mr. Halvey. Pitch and toss, he says.

MR. QUIRKE. Robbery, he says.

MRS. DELANE. Robbery of a church.

SERGEANT. He has had a bad name long enough. Let him go to a reformatory now.

FARDY. [Clinging to Hyacinth.] Save me, save me! I'm a poor boy trying to knock out a way of living; I'll be destroyed if I go to a reformatory. [Kneels and clings to Hyacinth's knees.

HYACINTH. I'll save you easy enough.

FARDY. Don't let me be jailed!

HYACINTH. I am going to tell them.

FARDY. I'm a poor orphan——

HYACINTH. Will you let me speak?

FARDY. I'll get no more chance in the world——

HYACINTH. Sure I'm trying to free you——

FARDY. It will be tasked to me always.

HYACINTH. Be quiet, can't you?

FARDY. Don't you desert me!

HYACINTH. Will you be silent?

FARDY. Take it on yourself.

HYACINTH. I will if you'll let me.

FARDY. Tell them you did it.

HYACINTH. I am going to do that.

FARDY. Tell them it was you got in at the window.

HYACINTH. I will! I will!

FARDY. Say it was you robbed the box.

HYACINTH. I'll say it! I'll say it!

FARDY. It being open!

HYACINTH. Let me tell, let me tell.

FARDY. Of all that was in it.

HYACINTH. I'll tell them that.

FARDY. And gave it to me.

HYACINTH. [Putting hand on his mouth and dragging him up.] Will you stop and let me speak?

SERGEANT. We can't be wasting time. Give him here to me.

HYACINTH. I can't do that. He must be let alone.

SERGEANT. [Seizing him.] He'll be let alone in the lock-up.

HYACINTH. He must not be brought there.

SERGEANT. I'll let no man get him off.

HYACINTH. I will get him off.

SERGEANT. You will not!

HYACINTH. I will.

SERGEANT. Do you think to buy him off?

HYACINTH. I will buy him off with my own confession.

SERGEANT. And what will that be?

HYACINTH. It was I robbed the church.

SERGEANT. That is likely indeed!

HYACINTH. Let him go, and take me. I tell you I did it.

SERGEANT. It would take witnesses to prove that.

HYACINTH. [Pointing to Fardy.] He will be witness.

FARDY. Oh, Mr. Halvey, I would not wish to do that. Get me off and I will say nothing.

HYACINTH. Sure you must. You will be put on oath in the court.

FARDY. I will not! I will not! All the world knows I don't understand the nature of an oath!

MR. QUIRKE. [Coming forward.] Is it blind ye all are?

MRS. DELANE. What are you talking about?

MR. QUIRKE. Is it fools ye all are?

MISS JOYCE. Speak for yourself.

MR. QUIRKE. Is it idiots ye all are?

SERGEANT. Mind who you're talking to.

MR. QUIRKE. [Seizing Hyacinth's hands.] Can't you see? Can't you hear? Where are your wits? Was ever such a thing seen in this town?

MRS. DELANE. Say out what you have to say.

MR. QUIRKE. A walking saint he is!

MRS. DELANE. Maybe so.

MR. QUIRKE. The preserver of the poor! Talk of the holy martyrs! They are nothing at all to what he is! Will you look at him! To save that poor boy he is going! To take the blame on himself he is going! To say he, himself, did the robbery he is going! Before the magistrate he is going! To jail he is going! Taking the blame on his own head! Putting the sin on his own shoulders! Letting on to have done a robbery! Telling a lie—that it may be forgiven him—to his own injury! Doing all that, I tell you, to save the character of a miserable slack lad, that rose in poverty.

MR. QUIRKE. Now, what do you say?

SERGEANT. [Pressing his hand.] Mr. Halvey, you have given us all a lesson. To please you, I will make no information against the boy, [Shakes him and helps him up.] I will put back the half-crown in the poor-box next Sunday. [To Fardy.] What have you to say to your benefactor?

FARDY. I'm obliged to you, Mr. Halvey. You behaved very decent to me, very decent indeed. I'll never let a word be said against you if I live to be a hundred years.

SERGEANT. [Wiping eyes with a blue handkerchief.] I will tell it at the meeting. It will be a great encouragement to them to build up their character. I'll tell it to the priest and he taking the chair——

HYACINTH. Oh, stop, will you——

MR. QUIRKE. The chair. It's in the chair he, himself, should be. It's in a chair we will put him now. It's to chair him through the streets we will. Sure he'll be an example and a blessing to the whole of the town. [Seizes Halvey and seats him in chair.] Now, Sergeant, give a hand. Here. Fardy.

MR. QUIRKE. Come along now to the court-house. Three cheers for Hyacinth Halvey! Hip! hip! hoora!

---

EUGENE PILLOT

Eugene Pillot, one of the well-known contemporary writers of one-act plays, was born in Houston, Texas. He was educated in the New York School of Fine and Applied Arts, at the University of Texas, at Cornell University, and at Harvard University. While at Harvard, he participated in the activities of The 47 Workshop.

Mr. Pillot's one-act plays are always characterized by excellent and well-sustained technic. Among his best-known one-act plays are The Gazing Globe, Two Crooks and a Lady, Telephone Number One (a prize play), Hunger, and My Lady Dreams. Mr. Pillot's plays have been produced frequently in schools and Little Theatres of America.

The Gazing Globe originally appeared in The Stratford Journal, and was first produced by the Boston Community Players, February 26, 1920, with the following cast: Zama, Rosalie Manning; Ohano, Beulah Auerbach; and Nijo, Eugene Pillot. The Gazing Globe has unusually sustained tone and dramatic suspense.

CHARACTERS

Zama

Ohano

Nijo

SCENE: A soft cream-colored room, bare walled and unfurnished except for dull-blue grass mats on the floor and brilliant cushions. In the centre of rear wall is a great circular window with a dais before it, so that it may be used as a doorway. A gathered shade of soft blue silk covers the opening of the window.

PLACE: An island in a southern sea.

TIME: Not so long ago.

ZAMA. Ohano—Ohano! Where do you be, child?

ZAMA. [In a chiding, motherly way.] Ohano, my child, you must not be so much at that evil ball! How many times be I not telling you it is an enchanted ball?

OHANO. Yes, Zama, I hope it is enchanted. I've tried every other means to gain the way to my heart's desire—and they've all failed me. The story these islanders have woven round this gazing globe may be but a myth—but if it shows me the way to my freedom, I shall not have looked at it in vain.

ZAMA. Be you forgetting, child, 'tis said that evil ball shows only the way to destruction!

OHANO. Yes, these island people will create any myth, go any length, to keep one thinking, living in their narrow way. You are destined for evil if you try to follow the urge of your own heart—oh, yes, I know.

ZAMA. But your heart, child, should only be wanting the love of Nijo.

OHANO. Nijo—I am hoping that he will be big enough to help me—but my lover has been away so long——

ZAMA. But to-day he be coming back—I came to tell you I think I saw his boat——

OHANO. Nijo's boat? Where?

ZAMA. It be near the edge of the island just where——

OHANO. Why didn't you tell me before?

ZAMA. I came to—but I be forgetting when I see you at that evil ball again.

OHANO. [All eagerness.] Perhaps we can see him land—from here on the rocks—come, Zama, I hear the sound of voices down near the sea—come! [They climb to the highest rock.] Look, Zama, the boat is there! Already there in the green water against the shore!

ZAMA. It do seem to be so.

[Peers toward right.

OHANO. And there—is Nijo!

ZAMA. Where, where, child?

OHANO. There—see, he's just coming ashore—oh, Nijo! And look, Zama, look what the people crowding round him have done—look!

ZAMA. What? My poor eyes be yet uncertain. What do they be doing to your lover?

OHANO. They have put upon him the Robe of Flame—to greet him with the highest honor of the island.

ZAMA. So they be. The robe they say the gods themselves did wear when time did first begin. Nijo must come back a great warrior now—a great warrior!

OHANO. Oh, how wonderful to return from the wars like that! Zama, I want to—I must go out into the world and do great things too, like Nijo.

ZAMA. Nijo be coming back, child. That do be enough. Look, what is it that glitters so in the sun?

OHANO. Why, they are giving something to my red god—something that's long as a serpent moon—see, he holds it out in admiration, before him. Just what can it be?

ZAMA. In faith I do believe they have given your hero—a sword!

OHANO. A marvellous sword—look, its jewels flash with the shifting lights, warm as the colored rifts of sunset!

ZAMA. Such gems do be a tribute to his greatness, Ohano, they do.

OHANO. How gladly would I have the way I seek without such tribute—how willingly!

ZAMA. And now the crowd do be parting—he leaves the boat and he looks this way, Ohano—he looks!

OHANO. Nijo, my red wonder of the world!

ZAMA. See, he mounts his steed—he waves to you!

OHANO. Nijo! Nijo!

ZAMA. And now he rides off to come to you here. It is better we be waiting inside for him—when he brings back his love to his promised bride.

OHANO. [As they enter room.] Ah, Zama, he must bring me more than love this time—much more. Yes, your little Ohano must have more in her life to-day than just love—and Nijo must show her the way to that realm where she may stretch her soul and live!

ZAMA. The love of so great a man do be enough for any woman, child.

OHANO. Oh, no—oh, no——

ZAMA. But it do be; and evil will fall, I know, if you do be asking more than love!

OHANO. But I tell you, Nijo's love is not enough. I must have a bigger, greater thing!

ZAMA. The gods do know of none that be more than love.

OHANO. But there must be, else why would I feel the rush of its pulse within my veins? Why would my whole being cry out for action and the glory of doing big things in the lands across the sea? Why, tell me why, I would feel those things if they were not so?

ZAMA. It be not for me to say, child; but I do be thinking you moon at that evil ball too much. It do make your sight grow red! It be not wise to know an enchanted thing so well.

OHANO. If that gazing globe in the garden would only show me the way to my heart's desire, how gladly would I be the victim of its enchantment!

ZAMA. Nijo's kiss do be your enchantment, child. One touch of his lips and you do be forgetting all else.

OHANO. If Nijo's kiss can make me forget this fever within me, I want his kiss as I shall never want anything else in all of this life. I want it!!

ZAMA. Listen—the horse! Ohano, your lover do be coming!

OHANO. [Running to the window.] Already? He must have taken the short way through the cliffs.

ZAMA. Ah, child, do you not be excited as a bird in a storm-wind's blow?

OHANO. [Superbly, as she leans against window.] Yes, I await my hero!

ZAMA. He's stopped, child! He do be here! At last he comes back to my little Ohano!

OHANO. My hope comes! [With outstretched arms to right.] My Nijo!! Oh——!

ZAMA. What do be wrong—what?

OHANO. He's so different—so changed—oh, here he is—ssh!

OHANO. Nijo!

NIJO. [Unimpassioned.] Ohano.

OHANO. [Eagerly.] You have come back!

NIJO. Yes—and the season of the heat has been gracious to your health, I hope?

OHANO. Yes—and yours, Nijo?

NIJO. The same.

OHANO. Oh, I am glad—glad as tree-blossoms for the kiss of spring. And Zama here shares my welcome, don't you?

NIJO. [Recognizing Zama.] Ah, Zama.

ZAMA. [Bowing before him.] The gods do be kind to bring back a hero to us.

NIJO. Thank you.

ZAMA. Now I do be going for refreshments for your weariness; great it must be after so long a voyage.

[Exits right.

OHANO. Shall we not sit here?

NIJO. As you will.

OHANO. They—they gave you a sword at the boat.

NIJO. [Wearily.] Oh, yes.

OHANO. Even from up here we could see its jewels flash.

NIJO. [Without interest.] Yes, it is cunningly conceived.

OHANO. How wonderful it must be. Perhaps—I may see it?

NIJO. [Still wearily.] If you so desire.

OHANO. Magnificent! Rubies and emeralds and sapphires! And here are moonstones and diamonds. How you must prize it.

NIJO. [Wearily.] Of course, one must.

OHANO. And the very people who tried to stop you from going across the sea to win your glory have given it to you.

NIJO. That is the way of the world.

OHANO. Show me the way to glory, Nijo.

NIJO. And why?

OHANO. I would travel it too.

NIJO. You—a simple island maiden?

OHANO. I'm not simple. I've grown beyond the people here.

NIJO. But there is glory in the work women must do at home.

OHANO. And I have done my share of it. I want bigger work now—out in the world.

NIJO. But the simple tasks must be done.

OHANO. I am sick unto death of doing them!

NIJO. But you can't go into the battles of the world. You are an island woman.

OHANO. This last war has made all women free. If the other island women cling to the everlasting tradition that woman should not go beyond her native hearth, let them cling. I shall reach the summit of things and know the glory of doing big things in the world!

NIJO. But you—sheltered, protected all your life—how can you do it?

OHANO. That's what troubles me. But you were fettered by this island life and you broke through the bars of convention. How did you do it?

NIJO. [Sadly.] Ohano, I would not spoil your life by telling you.

OHANO. Spoil it? What do you think is happening to it now? Oh, Nijo, can't you understand I'm stagnating—dying in this commonplace island life.

NIJO. I thought that about myself, too, when I started my climb to glory; but scarcely a moon had passed before I realized the loneliness of great heights.

OHANO. [Tigerishly.] Are you trying to turn me from my wish—to have all the island's glory for yourself?

NIJO. No, but only the valley people enjoy the sublimity of a mountain.

OHANO. [Scornfully.] Ha!

NIJO. Those who reach the top have lost their perspective. All they see are the lonely tops of other mountains.

OHANO. [Sublimely.] But they've had the joy of the climb!

NIJO. And worth what—no more than the mist of the sea.

OHANO. Do you think that satisfies me? I want to find out for myself! I only want you to tell me the way to use this spirit that boils within my blood, thirsts for action!

NIJO. That I never will.

OHANO. Oh, what shall I do? I've even implored the sun and the moon! [Looks toward sea.] Now I must listen to my dreams—my dreams that cry and cry: "Look in the gazing globe! Look in the gazing globe! It will show you the way!" And if it ever does, I'll take that path no matter where it leads.

NIJO. My journey only made me want to come back to the haven of your love, Ohano. The amber cup of glory left me athirst to be wrapped in the mantle of your boundless love and warmed with the glow of your heart.

OHANO. [Surprised.] Your journey has really led you back to me?

NIJO. [Sadly.] You're my only hope. I've been as mad for you as the sea for the moonlight.

OHANO. [Disturbed.] But you had fire and impulse when you went away; and now—well, you do still yearn for me?

NIJO. [Quietly, without passion.] The hope for your love has been the light of my brain, changing from life to dream, from earth to star.

OHANO. My thirst for glory has been that way; but Zama tells me it is as nothing in the kiss of love. If love has that power, I am willing to forget all else. Kiss me, Nijo!

NIJO. At last my lips will press yours, as the sun flames to an immortal moment when it meets the sky.

OHANO. [Rising and turning toward the sea, weeping.] Oh, oh, oh!

ZAMA. [Rushing in from right.] What is it? What is it, Ohano?

OHANO. [Still weeping.] Oh—ooh.

ZAMA. What do it be, my little Ohano?

OHANO. [Turning.] His kiss—Nijo's kiss!

ZAMA. Yes?

OHANO. Cold as white marble—cold!

ZAMA. Cold as white marble?

OHANO. Oh, Nijo, why do you kiss me like a thing of stone?

NIJO. [As he looks up, pitifully.] Into that kiss I tried to put all the love I've thought these many years.

OHANO. The love you've thought?

NIJO. [Despondently.] Yes, I've only thought it—thought it!

OHANO. But your heart——?

NIJO. [Rising.] My heart feels no more! Only my head thinks.

ZAMA. You love no more?

NIJO. Only with my head, it seems. I see things, know things, understand things; but I no longer feel anything. And my thirst for glory has done it all—killed my love of life and turned my very kiss to stone. Oh, glory, why do men give the essence of their lives to you—you who last no longer than the glow of gold above the place of sunset!

OHANO. [Superbly.] Because glory gives you the world—everything!

NIJO. It takes everything away—strips you—and leaves you nothing to believe. Oh, I could have become a common soldier here, marching shoulder to shoulder with the island men going out to war—but no—I must be a great warrior, a hero in position. Had I known then what I know now, how gladly would I have gone as one of the thousands who are known as—just soldiers. They are the ones who know the throb of life and love!

OHANO. You bring back such a message to me? You who have climbed and climbed to heights till I have believed you to be as constant in your quest as the light that shines upon the gazing globe?

NIJO. I—a light?

OHANO. Why not? I've always likened your feet unto the disks of two luminaries, lighting the way for all the world to follow. [Looks at gazing globe, which is now a ball of gold against the black sea and sky.] And now you tell me I was wrong. Perhaps the light upon the gazing globe itself is the only one to follow.

NIJO. I—a light? Why, Ohano, if I'm anything, I'm a gazing globe!

OHANO. What do you mean—you a gazing globe?

NIJO. That without I'm all fair, all wonderful—but within I'm empty as a gazing globe.

OHANO. [Scornfully.] But a gazing globe shows men the way to their heart's desire.

NIJO. It reflects to men what they see into it. So does glory.

OHANO. I can't believe that—now.

NIJO. Behold what it has done to me! Already as a child I gazed at that globe, longing to grasp the glory of which it was a symbol. It filled me with a red madness, surged with an unbearable music, giving me a riotous pain! Oh, it made me drunk for the wine of glory!

OHANO. I know! I know! Now you talk as the man I thought you were.

NIJO. I'm not a man. I'm dead.

OHANO. But you have known the glory of life. Shall I never know the way to it? [Appealingly, to the globe.] The way—the way is what I seek!

ZAMA. Look not so upon the evil ball, child. It do be enchanted for one thousand years! [Ohano moves nearer the globe.] Go not so near, child! Evil will fall—and you will be enslaved!

OHANO. What care I, if it shows me the way?

[Hands outstretched to the globe.

ZAMA. [Appealingly to Nijo.] Sir, I pray you do be stopping her. She do be always gazing at that golden ball; and slowly it do be drawing her within its enchanted grasp. And it do be an enchanted ball!

NIJO. Perhaps there's more to its enchantment than I thought. It claimed me for a victim—and now it's freezing her life's warmth to the falseness of Orient pearl.

OHANO. [Murmuring to the globe.] The way—the way! I must have the way!

NIJO. [Swiftly drawing his sword.] I will not show you—but I'll save you!

[Starts toward the gazing globe.

ZAMA. [Barring his path.] Nijo, sir, what do you be doing?

NIJO. [With a flourish of his sword.] I kill the thing that freezes another heart!

ZAMA. That do mean ruin! It be an enchanted ball!

NIJO. [Brushing past Zama.] It will enchant no longer!!

OHANO. No! No, Nijo!

NIJO. [Running up pedestal steps.] Yes!!

OHANO. [Triumphantly.] The moon—The way! At last the way! From the gazing globe—the golden path to the moon of glory. Now I am free!

ZAMA. Stop her!

NIJO. No, it is better to let her go.

ZAMA. But the path do lead into the sea. It is death! Stop her!!

[Starts forward.

NIJO. [Restraining Zama.] No! In death her soul has found the only way!

CURTAIN

---

ANTON TCHEKOV

Anton Tchekov, considered the foremost of contemporary Russian dramatists, was born in 1860 at Taganrog, Russia. In 1880 he was graduated from the Medical School of the University of Moscow. Ill health soon compelled him to abandon his practice of medicine, and in 1887 he sought the south. In 1904, the year of the successful appearance of his Cherry Orchard, he died in a village of the Black Forest in Germany.

As a dramatist, Tchekov has with deliberate intent cast off much of the conventionalities of dramatic technic. In his longer plays especially, like The Sea Gull, Uncle Vanya, and Cherry Orchard, he somewhat avoids obvious struggles, time-worn commonplaces, well-prepared climaxes, and seeks rather to spread out a panoramic canvas for our contemplation. His chief aim is to show us humanity as he sees it. It is his interest in humanity that gives him so high rank as a dramatist.

His one-act plays, a form of drama unusually apt for certain intimate aspects of Russian peasant life, are more regular in their technic than his longer plays. Among the five or six shorter plays that Tchekov wrote, The Boor and A Marriage Proposal are his best. In these plays he shows the lighter side of Russian country life, infusing some of the spirit of the great Gogol into his broad and somewhat farcical character portrayals. With rare good grace, in these plays he appears to be asking us to throw aside our restraint and laugh with him at the stupidity and naïveté, as well as good-heartedness, of the Russian people he knew so well.

The Boor is a remarkably well-constructed one-act play, and is probably the finest one-act play of the Russian school of drama.

PERSONS IN THE PLAY

Helena Ivanovna Popov, a young widow, mistress of a country estate

Grigori Stepanovitch Smirnov, proprietor of a country estate

Luka, servant of Mrs. Popov

A gardener. A coachman. Several workmen.

TIME: The present.

SCENE: A well-furnished reception-room in Mrs. Popov's home. Mrs. Popov is discovered in deep mourning, sitting upon a sofa, gazing steadfastly at a photograph. Luka is also present.

LUKA. It isn't right, ma'am. You're wearing yourself out! The maid and the cook have gone looking for berries; everything that breathes is enjoying life; even the cat knows how to be happy—slips about the courtyard and catches birds—but you hide yourself here in the house as though you were in a cloister. Yes, truly, by actual reckoning you haven't left this house for a whole year.

MRS. POPOV. And I shall never leave it—why should I? My life is over. He lies in his grave, and I have buried myself within these four walls. We are both dead.

LUKA. There you are again! It's too awful to listen to, so it is! Nikolai Michailovitch is dead; it was the will of the Lord, and the Lord has given him eternal peace. You have grieved over it and that ought to be enough. Now it's time to stop. One can't weep and wear mourning forever! My wife died a few years ago. I grieved for her. I wept a whole month—and then it was over. Must one be forever singing lamentations? That would be more than your husband was worth! [He sighs.] You have forgotten all your neighbors. You don't go out and you receive no one. We live—you'll pardon me—like the spiders, and the good light of day we never see. All the livery is eaten by the mice—as though there weren't any more nice people in the world! But the whole neighborhood is full of gentlefolk. The regiment is stationed in Riblov—officers—simply beautiful! One can't see enough of them! Every Friday a ball, and military music every day. Oh, my dear, dear ma'am, young and pretty as you are, if you'd only let your spirits live—! Beauty can't last forever. When ten short years are over, you'll be glad enough to go out a bit and meet the officers—and then it'll be too late.

MRS. POPOV. [Resolutely.] Please don't speak of these things again. You know very well that since the death of Nikolai Michailovitch my life is absolutely nothing to me. You think I live, but it only seems so. Do you understand? Oh, that his departed soul may see how I love him! I know, it's no secret to you; he was often unjust toward me, cruel, and—he wasn't faithful, but I shall be faithful to the grave and prove to him how I can love. There, in the Beyond, he'll find me the same as I was until his death.

LUKA. What is the use of all these words, when you'd so much rather go walking in the garden or order Tobby or Welikan harnessed to the trap, and visit the neighbors?

MRS. POPOV. [Weeping.] Oh!

LUKA. Madam, dear madam, what is it? In Heaven's name!

MRS. POPOV. He loved Tobby so! He always drove him to the Kortschagins or the Vlassovs. What a wonderful horse-man he was! How fine he looked when he pulled at the reins with all his might! Tobby, Tobby—give him an extra measure of oats to-day!

LUKA. Yes, ma'am.

MRS. POPOV. [Shudders.] What's that? I am at home to no one.

LUKA. Yes, ma'am. [He goes out, centre.

MRS. POPOV. [Gazing at the photograph.] You shall see, Nikolai, how I can love and forgive! My love will die only with me—when my poor heart stops beating. [She smiles through her tears.] And aren't you ashamed? I have been a good, true wife; I have imprisoned myself and I shall remain true until death, and you—you—you're not ashamed of yourself, my dear monster! You quarrelled with me, left me alone for weeks——

LUKA. Oh, ma'am, some one is asking for you, insists on seeing you——

MRS. POPOV. You told him that since my husband's death I receive no one?

LUKA. I said so, but he won't listen; he says it is a pressing matter.

MRS. POPOV. I receive no one!

LUKA. I told him that, but he's a wild man; he swore and pushed himself into the room; he's in the dining-room now.

MRS. POPOV. [Excitedly.] Good. Show him in. The impudent——!

MRS. POPOV. What a bore people are! What can they want with me? Why do they disturb my peace? [She sighs.] Yes, it is clear I must enter a convent. [Meditatively.] Yes, a convent.

SMIRNOV. [To Luka.] Fool, you make too much noise! You're an ass! [Discovering Mrs. Popov—politely.] Madam, I have the honor to introduce myself: Lieutenant in the Artillery, retired, country gentleman, Grigori Stepanovitch Smirnov! I'm compelled to bother you about an exceedingly important matter.

MRS. POPOV. [Without offering her hand.] What is it you wish?

SMIRNOV. Your deceased husband, with whom I had the honor to be acquainted, left me two notes amounting to about twelve hundred roubles. Inasmuch as I have to pay the interest to-morrow on a loan from the Agrarian Bank, I should like to request, madam, that you pay me the money to-day.

MRS. POPOV. Twelve hundred—and for what was my husband indebted to you?

SMIRNOV. He bought oats from me.

MRS. POPOV. [With a sigh, to Luka.] Don't forget to give Tobby an extra measure of oats.

MRS. POPOV. [To Smirnov.] If Nikolai Michailovitch is indebted to you, I shall, of course, pay you, but I am sorry, I haven't the money to-day. To-morrow my manager will return from the city and I shall notify him to pay you what is due you, but until then I cannot satisfy your request. Furthermore, to-day it is just seven months since the death of my husband, and I am not in a mood to discuss money matters.

SMIRNOV. And I am in the mood to fly up the chimney with my feet in the air if I can't lay hands on that interest to-morrow. They'll seize my estate!

MRS. POPOV. Day after to-morrow you will receive the money.

SMIRNOV. I don't need the money day after to-morrow; I need it to-day.

MRS. POPOV. I'm sorry I can't pay you to-day.

SMIRNOV. And I can't wait until day after to-morrow.

MRS. POPOV. But what can I do if I haven't it?

SMIRNOV. So you can't pay?

MRS. POPOV. I cannot.

SMIRNOV. Hm! Is that your last word?

MRS. POPOV. My last.

SMIRNOV. Absolutely?

MRS. POPOV. Absolutely.

SMIRNOV. Thank you. [He shrugs his shoulders.] And they expect me to stand for all that. The toll-gatherer just now met me in the road and asked me why I was always worrying. Why, in Heaven's name, shouldn't I worry? I need money, I feel the knife at my throat. Yesterday morning I left my house in the early dawn and called on all my debtors. If even one of them had paid his debt! I worked the skin off my fingers! The devil knows in what sort of Jew-inn I slept; in a room with a barrel of brandy! And now at last I come here, seventy versts from home, hope for a little money, and all you give me is moods! Why shouldn't I worry?

MRS. POPOV. I thought I made it plain to you that my manager will return from town, and then you will get your money.

SMIRNOV. I did not come to see the manager; I came to see you. What the devil—pardon the language—do I care for your manager?

MRS. POPOV. Really, sir, I am not used to such language or such manners. I shan't listen to you any further.

[She goes out, left.

SMIRNOV. What can one say to that? Moods! Seven months since her husband died! Do I have to pay the interest or not? I repeat the question, have I to pay the interest or not? The husband is dead and all that; the manager is—the devil with him!—travelling somewhere. Now, tell me, what am I to do? Shall I run away from my creditors in a balloon? Or knock my head against a stone wall? If I call on Grusdev he chooses to be "not at home," Iroschevitch has simply hidden himself, I have quarrelled with Kurzin and came near throwing him out of the window, Masutov is ill and this woman has—moods! Not one of them will pay up! And all because I've spoiled them, because I'm an old whiner, dish-rag! I'm too tender-hearted with them. But wait! I allow nobody to play tricks with me, the devil with 'em all! I'll stay here and not budge until she pays! Brr! How angry I am, how terribly angry I am! Every tendon is trembling with anger, and I can hardly breathe! I'm even growing ill! [He calls out.] Servant!

LUKA. What is it you wish?

SMIRNOV. Bring me Kvas or water! [Luka goes out.] Well, what can we do? She hasn't it on hand? What sort of logic is that? A fellow stands with the knife at his throat, he needs money, he is on the point of hanging himself, and she won't pay because she isn't in the mood to discuss money matters. Woman's logic! That's why I never liked to talk to women, and why I dislike doing it now. I would rather sit on a powder barrel than talk with a woman. Brr!—I'm getting cold as ice; this affair has made me so angry. I need only to see such a romantic creature from a distance to get so angry that I have cramps in the calves! It's enough to make one yell for help!

LUKA. [Hands him water.] Madam is ill and is not receiving.

SMIRNOV. March! [Luka goes out.] Ill and isn't receiving! All right, it isn't necessary. I won't receive, either! I'll sit here and stay until you bring that money. If you're ill a week, I'll sit here a week. If you're ill a year, I'll sit here a year. As Heaven is my witness, I'll get the money. You don't disturb me with your mourning—or with your dimples. We know these dimples! [He calls out the window.] Simon, unharness! We aren't going to leave right away. I am going to stay here. Tell them in the stable to give the horses some oats. The left horse has twisted the bridle again. [Imitating him.] Stop! I'll show you how. Stop! [Leaves window.] It's awful. Unbearable heat, no money, didn't sleep last night and now—mourning-dresses with moods. My head aches; perhaps I ought to have a drink. Ye-s, I must have a drink. [Calling.] Servant!

LUKA. What do you wish?

SMIRNOV. Something to drink! [Luka goes out. Smirnov sits down and looks at his clothes.] Ugh, a fine figure! No use denying that. Dust, dirty boots, unwashed, uncombed, straw on my vest—the lady probably took me for a highwayman. [He yawns.] It was a little impolite to come into a reception-room with such clothes. Oh, well, no harm done. I'm not here as a guest. I'm a creditor. And there is no special costume for creditors.

LUKA. [Entering with glass.] You take great liberty, sir.

SMIRNOV. [Angrily.] What?

LUKA. I—I—I just——

SMIRNOV. Whom are you talking to? Keep quiet.

LUKA. [Angrily.] Nice mess! This fellow won't leave!

[He goes out.

SMIRNOV. Lord, how angry I am! Angry enough to throw mud at the whole world! I even feel ill! Servant!

MRS. POPOV. Sir, in my solitude I have become unaccustomed to the human voice and I cannot stand the sound of loud talking. I beg you, please to cease disturbing my rest.

SMIRNOV. Pay me my money and I'll leave.

MRS. POPOV. I told you once, plainly, in your native tongue, that I haven't the money at hand; wait until day after to-morrow.

SMIRNOV. And I also had the honor of informing you in your native tongue that I need the money, not day after to-morrow, but to-day. If you don't pay me to-day I shall have to hang myself to-morrow.

MRS. POPOV. But what can I do if I haven't the money?

SMIRNOV. So you are not going to pay immediately? You're not?

MRS. POPOV. I cannot.

SMIRNOV. Then I'll sit here until I get the money. [He sits down.] You will pay day after to-morrow? Excellent! Here I stay until day after to-morrow. [Jumps up.] I ask you, do I have to pay that interest to-morrow or not? Or do you think I'm joking?

MRS. POPOV. Sir, I beg of you, don't scream! This is not a stable.

SMIRNOV. I'm not talking about stables, I'm asking you whether I have to pay that interest to-morrow or not?

MRS. POPOV. You have no idea how to treat a lady.

SMIRNOV. Oh, yes, I have.

MRS. POPOV. No, you have not. You are an ill-bred, vulgar person! Respectable people don't speak so to ladies.

SMIRNOV. How remarkable! How do you want one to speak to you? In French, perhaps! Madame, je vous prie! Pardon me for having disturbed you. What beautiful weather we are having to-day! And how this mourning becomes you!

[He makes a low bow with mock ceremony.

MRS. POPOV. Not at all funny! I think it vulgar!

SMIRNOV. [Imitating her.] Not at all funny—vulgar! I don't understand how to behave in the company of ladies. Madam, in the course of my life I have seen more women than you have sparrows. Three times have I fought duels for women, twelve I jilted and nine jilted me. There was a time when I played the fool, used honeyed language, bowed and scraped. I loved, suffered, sighed to the moon, melted in love's torments. I loved passionately, I loved to madness, loved in every key, chattered like a magpie on emancipation, sacrificed half my fortune in the tender passion, until now the devil knows I've had enough of it. Your obedient servant will let you lead him around by the nose no more. Enough! Black eyes, passionate eyes, coral lips, dimples in cheeks, moonlight whispers, soft, modest sighs—for all that, madam, I wouldn't pay a kopeck! I am not speaking of present company, but of women in general; from the tiniest to the greatest, they are conceited, hypocritical, chattering, odious, deceitful from top to toe; vain, petty, cruel with a maddening logic and [he strikes his forehead] in this respect, please excuse my frankness, but one sparrow is worth ten of the aforementioned petticoat-philosophers. When one sees one of the romantic creatures before him he imagines he is looking at some holy being, so wonderful that its one breath could dissolve him in a sea of a thousand charms and delights; but if one looks into the soul—it's nothing but a common crocodile. [He seizes the arm-chair and breaks it in two.] But the worst of all is that this crocodile imagines it is a masterpiece of creation, and that it has a monopoly on all the tender passions. May the devil hang me upside down if there is anything to love about a woman! When she is in love, all she knows is how to complain and shed tears. If the man suffers and makes sacrifices she swings her train about and tries to lead him by the nose. You have the misfortune to be a woman, and naturally you know woman's nature; tell me on your honor, have you ever in your life seen a woman who was really true and faithful? Never! Only the old and the deformed are true and faithful. It's easier to find a cat with horns or a white woodcock, than a faithful woman.

MRS. POPOV. But allow me to ask, who is true and faithful in love? The man, perhaps?

SMIRNOV. Yes, indeed! The man!

MRS. POPOV. The man! [She laughs sarcastically.] The man true and faithful in love! Well, that is something new! [Bitterly.] How can you make such a statement? Men true and faithful! So long as we have gone thus far, I may as well say that of all the men I have known, my husband was the best; I loved him passionately with all my soul, as only a young, sensible woman may love; I gave him my youth, my happiness, my fortune, my life. I worshipped him like a heathen. And what happened? This best of men betrayed me in every possible way. After his death I found his desk filled with love-letters. While he was alive he left me alone for months—it is horrible even to think about it—he made love to other women in my very presence, he wasted my money and made fun of my feelings—and in spite of everything I trusted him and was true to him. And more than that: he is dead and I am still true to him. I have buried myself within these four walls and I shall wear this mourning to my grave.

SMIRNOV. [Laughing disrespectfully.] Mourning! What on earth do you take me for? As if I didn't know why you wore this black domino and why you buried yourself within these four walls. Such a secret! So romantic! Some knight will pass the castle, gaze up at the windows, and think to himself: "Here dwells the mysterious Tamara who, for love of her husband, has buried herself within four walls." Oh, I understand the art!

MRS. POPOV. [Springing up.] What? What do you mean by saying such things to me?

SMIRNOV. You have buried yourself alive, but meanwhile you have not forgotten to powder your nose!

MRS. POPOV. How dare you speak so?

SMIRNOV. Don't scream at me, please; I'm not the manager. Allow me to call things by their right names. I am not a woman, and I am accustomed to speak out what I think. So please don't scream.

MRS. POPOV. I'm not screaming. It is you who are screaming. Please leave me, I beg of you.

SMIRNOV. Pay me my money and I'll leave.

MRS. POPOV. I won't give you the money.

SMIRNOV. You won't? You won't give me my money?

MRS. POPOV. I don't care what you do. You won't get a kopeck! Leave me!

SMIRNOV. As I haven't the pleasure of being either your husband or your fiancé, please don't make a scene. [He sits down.] I can't stand it.

MRS. POPOV. [Breathing hard.] You are going to sit down?

SMIRNOV. I already have.

MRS. POPOV. Kindly leave the house!

SMIRNOV. Give me the money.

MRS. POPOV. I don't care to speak with impudent men. Leave! [Pause.] You aren't going?

SMIRNOV. No.

MRS. POPOV. No?

SMIRNOV. No.

MRS. POPOV. Very well.

[She rings the bell.

MRS. POPOV. Luka, show the gentleman out.

LUKA. [Going to Smirnov.] Sir, why don't you leave when you are ordered? What do you want?

SMIRNOV. [Jumping up.] Whom do you think you are talking to? I'll grind you to powder.

LUKA. [Puts his hand to his heart.] Good Lord! [He drops into a chair.] Oh, I'm ill; I can't breathe!

MRS. POPOV. Where is Dascha? [Calling.] Dascha! Pelageja! Dascha!

[She rings.

LUKA. They're all gone! I'm ill! Water!

MRS. POPOV. [To Smirnov.] Leave! Get out!

SMIRNOV. Kindly be a little more polite!

MRS. POPOV. [Striking her fists and stamping her feet.] You are vulgar! You're a boor! A monster!

SMIRNOV. What did you say?

MRS. POPOV. I said you were a boor, a monster!

SMIRNOV. [Steps toward her quickly.] Permit me to ask what right you have to insult me?

MRS. POPOV. What of it? Do you think I am afraid of you?

SMIRNOV. And you think that because you are a romantic creature you can insult me without being punished? I challenge you!

LUKA. Merciful Heaven! Water!

SMIRNOV. We'll have a duel.

MRS. POPOV. Do you think because you have big fists and a steer's neck I am afraid of you?

SMIRNOV. I allow no one to insult me, and I make no exception because you are a woman, one of the "weaker sex"!

MRS. POPOV. [Trying to cry him down.] Boor, boor, boor!

SMIRNOV. It is high time to do away with the old superstition that it is only the man who is forced to give satisfaction. If there is equity at all let there be equity in all things. There's a limit!

MRS. POPOV. You wish to fight a duel? Very well.

SMIRNOV. Immediately.

MRS. POPOV. Immediately. My husband had pistols. I'll bring them. [She hurries away, then turns.] Oh, what a pleasure it will be to put a bullet in your impudent head. The devil take you!

[She goes out.

SMIRNOV. I'll shoot her down! I'm no fledgling, no sentimental young puppy. For me there is no weaker sex!

LUKA. Oh, sir. [Falls to his knees.] Have mercy on me, an old man, and go away. You have frightened me to death already, and now you want to fight a duel.

SMIRNOV. [Paying no attention.] A duel. That's equity, emancipation. That way the sexes are made equal. I'll shoot her down as a matter of principle. What can a person say to such a woman? [Imitating her.] "The devil take you. I'll put a bullet in your impudent head." What can one say to that? She was angry, her eyes blazed, she accepted the challenge. On my honor, it's the first time in my life that I ever saw such a woman.

LUKA. Oh, sir. Go away. Go away!

SMIRNOV. That is a woman. I can understand her. A real woman. No shilly-shallying, but fire, powder, and noise! It would be a pity to shoot a woman like that.

LUKA. [Weeping.] Oh, sir, go away.

MRS. POPOV. Here are the pistols. But before we have our duel, please show me how to shoot. I have never had a pistol in my hand before!

LUKA. God be merciful and have pity upon us! I'll go and get the gardener and the coachman. Why has this horror come to us?

[He goes out.

SMIRNOV. [Looking at the pistols.] You see, there are different kinds. There are special duelling pistols, with cap and ball. But these are revolvers, Smith & Wesson, with ejectors; fine pistols! A pair like that cost at least ninety roubles. This is the way to hold a revolver. [Aside.] Those eyes, those eyes! A real woman!

MRS. POPOV. Like this?

SMIRNOV. Yes, that way. Then you pull the hammer back—so—then you aim—put your head back a little. Just stretch your arm out, please. So—then press your finger on the thing like that, and that is all. The chief thing is this: don't get excited, don't hurry your aim, and take care that your hand doesn't tremble.

MRS. POPOV. It isn't well to shoot inside; let's go into the garden.

SMIRNOV. Yes. I'll tell you now, I am going to shoot into the air.

MRS. POPOV. That is too much! Why?

SMIRNOV. Because—because. That's my business.

MRS. POPOV. You are afraid. Yes. A-h-h-h, No, no, my dear sir, no flinching! Please follow me. I won't rest until I've made a hole in that head I hate so much. Are you afraid?

SMIRNOV. Yes, I'm afraid.

MRS. POPOV. You are lying. Why won't you fight?

SMIRNOV. Because—because—I—like you.

MRS. POPOV. [With an angry laugh.] You like me! He dares to say he likes me! [She points to the door.] Go.

SMIRNOV. [Laying the revolver silently on the table, takes his hat and starts. At the door he stops a moment, gazing at her silently, then he approaches her, hesitating.] Listen! Are you still angry? I was mad as the devil, but please understand me—how can I express myself? The thing is like this—such things are—[He raises his voice.] Now, is it my fault that you owe me money? [Grasps the back of the chair, which breaks.] The devil knows what breakable furniture you have! I like you! Do you understand? I—I'm almost in love!

MRS. POPOV. Leave! I hate you.

SMIRNOV. Lord! What a woman! I never in my life met one like her. I'm lost, ruined! I've been caught like a mouse in a trap.

MRS. POPOV. Go, or I'll shoot.

SMIRNOV. Shoot! You have no idea what happiness it would be to die in sight of those beautiful eyes, to die from the revolver in this little velvet hand! I'm mad! Consider it and decide immediately, for if I go now, we shall never see each other again. Decide—speak—- I am a noble, a respectable man, have an income of ten thousand, can shoot a coin thrown into the air. I own some fine horses. Will you be my wife?

MRS. POPOV. [Swings the revolver angrily.] I'll shoot!

SMIRNOV. My mind is not clear—I can't understand. Servant—water! I have fallen in love like any young man. [He takes her hand and she cries with pain.] I love you! [He kneels.] I love you as I have never loved before. Twelve women I jilted, nine jilted me, but not one of them all have I loved as I love you. I am conquered, lost; I lie at your feet like a fool and beg for your hand. Shame and disgrace! For five years I haven't been in love; I thanked the Lord for it, and now I am caught, like a carriage tongue in another carriage. I beg for your hand! Yes or no? Will you?—Good!

[He gets up and goes quickly to the door.

MRS. POPOV. Wait a moment!

SMIRNOV. [Stopping.] Well?

MRS. POPOV. Nothing. You may go. But—wait a moment. No, go on, go on. I hate you. Or—no; don't go. Oh, if you knew how angry I was, how angry! [She throws the revolver on to the chair.] My finger is swollen from this thing. [She angrily tears her handkerchief.] What are you standing there for? Get out!

SMIRNOV. Farewell!

MRS. POPOV. Yes, go. [Cries out.] Why are you going? Wait—no, go!! Oh, how angry I am! Don't come too near, don't come too near—er—come—no nearer.

SMIRNOV. [Approaching her.] How angry I am with myself! Fall in love like a schoolboy, throw myself on my knees. I've got a chill! [Strongly.] I love you. This is fine—all I needed was to fall in love. To-morrow I have to pay my interest, the hay harvest has begun, and then you appear! [He takes her in his arms.] I can never forgive myself.

MRS. POPOV. Go away! Take your hands off me! I hate you—you—this is—

[A long kiss.

LUKA. [Staring at the pair.] Merciful heavens!

MRS. POPOV. [Dropping her eyes.] Tell them in the stable that Tobby isn't to have any oats.

CURTAIN

---

BOSWORTH CROCKER

Bosworth Crocker was born March 2, 1882, in Surrey, England. While still a child he was brought to the United States. He lives in New York City and may be reached in care of the Society of American Dramatists and Composers, 148 West 45th Street.

In addition to Pawns of War and Stone Walls, he has written a number of one-act plays, The Dog, The First Time, The Cost of a Hat, The Hour Before, The Baby Carriage, and The Last Straw.

The Last Straw, produced by the Washington Square Players in New York City, is an excellent one-act tragedy, based upon the psychological law of suggestion.

CAST

Friedrich Bauer, janitor of the Bryn Mawr

Miene, his wife

Karl, elder son, aged ten

Fritzi, younger son, aged seven

Jim Lane, a grocer boy

TIME: The present day.

SCENE: The basement of a large apartment-house in New York City.

SCENE: The kitchen of the Bauer flat in the basement of the Bryn Mawr. A window at the side gives on an area and shows the walk above and the houses across the street. Opposite the windows is a door to an inner room. Through the outer door, in the centre of the back wall, a dumb-waiter and whistles to tenants can be seen. A broken milk-bottle lies in a puddle of milk on the cement floor in front of the dumb-waiter. To the right of the outer door, a telephone; gas-range on which there are flat-irons heating and vegetables cooking. To the left of the outer door is an old sideboard; over it hangs a picture of Schiller. Near the centre of the room, a little to the right, stands a kitchen table with four chairs around it. Ironing-board is placed between the kitchen table and the sink, a basket of dampened clothes under it. A large calendar on the wall. An alarm-clock on the window-sill. Time: a little before noon. The telephone rings; Mrs. Bauer leaves her ironing and goes to answer it.

MRS. BAUER. No, Mr. Bauer's out yet. [She listens through the transmitter.] Thank you, Mrs. Mohler. [Another pause.] I'll tell him just so soon he comes in—yes, ma'am.

LANE. Say—where's the boss?

MRS. BAUER. He'll be home soon, I—hope—Jim. What you want?

LANE. Nothin'. Got a rag 'round here? Dumb-waiter's all wet.... Lot of groceries for Sawyers.

MRS. BAUER. [Without lifting her eyes, mechanically hands him a mop which hangs beside the door.] Here.

LANE. What's the matter?

MRS. BAUER. [Dully.] Huh?

LANE. [Significantly.] Oh, I know.

MRS. BAUER. What you know?

LANE. About the boss. [Mrs. Bauer looks distressed.] Heard your friends across the street talkin'.

MRS. BAUER. [Bitterly.] Friends!

LANE. Rotten trick to play on the boss, all right, puttin' that old maid up to get him pinched.

MRS. BAUER. [Absently.] Was she an old maid?

LANE. The cruelty-to-animals woman over there [waves his hand]—regular old crank. Nies[H] put her up to it all right.

MRS. BAUER. I guess it was his old woman. Nies ain't so bad. She's the one. Because my two boys dress up a little on Sunday, she don't like it.

LANE. Yes, she's sore because the boys told her the boss kicks their dog.

MRS. BAUER. He don't do nothin' of the sort—jus' drives it 'way from the garbage-pails—that's all. We coulda had that dog took up long ago—they ain't got no license. But Fritz—he's so easy—he jus' takes it out chasin' the dog and hollerin'.

LANE. That ain't no way. He ought to make the dog holler—good and hard—once; then it'd keep out of here.

MRS. BAUER. Don't you go to talkin' like that 'round my man. Look at all this trouble we're in on account of a stray cat.

LANE. I better get busy. They'll be callin' up the store in a minute. That woman's the limit.... Send up the groceries in that slop, she'd send them down again. High-toned people like her ought to keep maids.

MRS. BAUER. [Taking the mop away from him.] I'll clean that up. I forgot—in all this trouble.

LANE. Whose milk?

MRS. BAUER. The Mohlers'. That's how it all happened. Somebody upset their milk on the dumb-waiter and the cat was on the shelf lickin' it up; my man, not noticin', starts the waiter up and the cat tries to jump out; the bottle rolls off and breaks. The cat was hurt awful—caught in the shaft. I don't see how it coulda run after that, but it did—right into the street, right into that woman—Fritz after it. Then it fell over. "You did that?" she says to Fritz. "Yes," he says, "I did that." He didn't say no more, jus' went off, and then after a while they came for him and—— [She begins to cry softly.

LANE. Brace up; they ain't goin' to do anything to him.... [Comes into kitchen. Hesitatingly.] Say!... He didn't kick the cat—did he?

MRS. BAUER. Who said so?

LANE. Mrs. Nies—says she saw him from her window.

MRS. BAUER. [As though to herself.] I dunno. [Excitedly.] Of course he didn't kick that cat. [Again, as though to herself.] Fritz is so quick-tempered he mighta kicked it 'fore he knew what he was about. No one'd ever know how good Fritz is unless they lived with him. He never hurt no one and nothing except himself.

LANE. Oh, I'm on to the boss. I never mind his hollerin'.

MRS. BAUER. If you get a chance, bring me some butter for dinner—a pound.

LANE. All right. I'll run over with it in ten or fifteen minutes, soon as I get rid of these orders out here in the wagon.

MRS. BAUER. That'll do.

CHORUS OF BOY'S VOICES. Who killed the cat! Who killed the cat!

LANE. [Letting the rope go and making a dive for the boys.] I'll show you, you——

MRS. BAUER. Those are Nies's boys.

LANE. Regular toughs! Call the cop and have 'em pinched if they don't stop it.

MRS. BAUER. If my man hears them—you know—there'll be more trouble.

LANE. The boss ought to make it hot for them.

MRS. BAUER. Such trouble!

LANE. [Starts to go.] Well—luck to the boss.

MRS. BAUER. There ain't no such thing as luck for us.

LANE. Aw, come on....

MRS. BAUER. Everything's against us. First Fritz's mother dies. We named the baby after her—Trude.... Then we lost Trude. That finished Fritz. After that he began this hollerin' business. And now this here trouble—just when things was goin' half-ways decent for the first time. [She pushes past him and goes to her ironing.

LANE. [Shakes his head sympathetically and takes up his basket.] A pound, you said?

MRS. BAUER. Yes.

LANE. All right. [He starts off and then rushes back.] Here's the boss comin', Mrs. Bauer.

[Rushes off again.

LANE'S VOICE. [Cheerfully.] Hello, there!

BAUER'S VOICE. [Dull and strained.] Hello!

MRS. BAUER. [Closing the door after him.] They let you off?

BAUER. [With a hard little laugh.] Yes, they let me off—they let me off with a fine all right.

MRS. BAUER. [Aghast.] They think you did it then.

BAUER. [Harshly.] The judge fined me, I tell you.

MRS. BAUER. [Unable to express her poignant sympathy.] Fined you!... Oh, Fritz!

[She lays her hand on his shoulder.

BAUER. [Roughly, to keep himself from, going to pieces.] That slop out there ain't cleaned up yet.

MRS. BAUER. I've been so worried.

BAUER. [With sudden desperation.] I can't stand it, I tell you.

MRS. BAUER. Well, it's all over now, Fritz.

BAUER. Yes, it's all over.... it's all up with me.

MRS. BAUER. Fritz!

BAUER. That's one sure thing.

MRS. BAUER. You oughtn't to give up like this.

BAUER. [Pounding on the table.] I tell you I can't hold up my head again.

MRS. BAUER. Why, Fritz?

BAUER. They've made me out guilty. The judge fined me. Fined me, Miene! How is that? Can a man stand for that? The woman said I told her myself—right out—that I did it.

MRS. BAUER. The woman that had you—[he winces as she hesitates] took?

BAUER. Damned——

MRS. BAUER. [Putting her hand over his mouth.] Hush, Fritz.

BAUER. Why will I hush, Miene? She said I was proud of the job. [Passionately raising his voice.] The damned interferin'——

MRS. BAUER. Don't holler, Fritz. It's your hollerin' that's made all this trouble.

BAUER. [Penetrated by her words more and more.] My hollerin'!....

[The telephone rings; she answers it.

MRS. BAUER. Yes, Mrs. Mohler, he's come in now.—Yes.—Won't after dinner do?—All right.—Thank you, Mrs. Mohler. [She hangs up the receiver.] Mrs. Mohler wants you to fix her sink right after dinner.

BAUER. I'm not goin' to do any more fixin' around here.

MRS. BAUER. You hold on to yourself, Fritz; that's no way to talk; Mrs. Mohler's a nice woman.

BAUER. I don't want to see no more nice women. [After a pause.] Hollerin'!—that's what's the matter with me—hollerin', eh? Well, I've took it all out in hollerin'.

MRS. BAUER. They hear you and they think you've got no feelings.

BAUER. [In utter amazement at the irony of the situation.] And I was goin' after the damned cat to take care of it.

MRS. BAUER. Why didn't you tell the judge all about it?

BAUER. They got me rattled among them. The lady was so soft and pleasant—"He must be made to understand, your honor," she said to the judge, "that dumb animals has feelin's, too, just as well as human beings"—Me, Miene—made to understand that! I couldn't say nothin'. My voice just stuck in my throat.

MRS. BAUER. What's the matter with you! You oughta spoke up and told the judge just how it all happened.

BAUER. I said to myself; I'll go home and put a bullet through my head—that's the best thing for me now.

MRS. BAUER. [With impatient unbelief.] Ach, Fritz, Fritz!

CHORUS OF VOICES. [At the outer door.] Who killed the cat! Who killed the cat!

BAUER. You see?... Even the kids ... I'm disgraced all over the place.

MRS. BAUER. So long as you didn't hurt the cat——

BAUER. What's the difference? Everybody believes it.

MRS. BAUER. No, they don't, Fritz.

BAUER. You can't fool me, Miene. I see it in their eyes. They looked away from me when I was comin' 'round the corner. Some of them kinder smiled like—[passes his hand over his head]. Even the cop says to me on the way over, yesterday: "Don't you put your foot in it any more'n you have to." You see? He thought I did it all right. Everybody believes it.

MRS. BAUER. [Putting towels away.] Well, then let them believe it.... The agent don't believe it.

BAUER. I dunno. He'da paid my fine anyhow.

MRS. BAUER. He gave you a good name.

BAUER. [With indignant derision.] He gave me a good name!... Haven't I always kept this place all right since we been here? Afterward he said to me: "I'm surprised at this business, Bauer, very much surprised." That shows what he thinks. I told him it ain't true, I didn't mean to hurt it. I saw by his eyes he didn't believe me.

MRS. BAUER. Well, don't you worry any more now.

BAUER. [To himself.] Hollerin'!

MRS. BAUER. [Shuts the door.] Well, now, holler a little if it does you good.

BAUER. Nothin's goin' to do me good.

MRS. BAUER. You just put it out of your mind. [The telephone rings. She answers it.] Yes, but he can't come now, Mrs. McAllister. He'll be up this afternoon.

[She hangs up the receiver.

BAUER. And I ain't goin' this afternoon—nowhere.

MRS. BAUER. It's Mrs. McAllister. Somethin's wrong with her refrigerator—the water won't run off, she says.

BAUER. They can clean out their own drain-pipes.

MRS. BAUER. You go to work and get your mind off this here business.

BAUER. [Staring straight ahead of him.] I ain't goin' 'round among the people in this house ... to have them lookin' at me ... disgraced like this.

MRS. BAUER. You want to hold up your head and act as if nothin's happened.

BAUER. Nobody spoke to me at the dumb-waiter when I took off the garbage and paper this morning. Mrs. Mohler always says something pleasant.

MRS. BAUER. You just think that because you're all upset. [The telephone rings; she goes to it and listens.] Yes, ma'am, I'll see. Fritz, have you any fine wire? Mrs. McAllister thinks she might try and fix the drain with it—till you come up.

BAUER. I got no wire.

MRS. BAUER. Mr. Bauer'll fix it—right after dinner, Mrs. McAllister. [Impatiently.] He can't find the wire this minute—soon's he eats his dinner.

BAUER. [Doggedly.] You'll see....

MRS. BAUER. [Soothingly.] Come now, Fritz, give me your hat.

[She takes his hat from him.

VOICES IN THE STREET. [Receding from the front area.] Who killed the cat! Who killed the cat!

BAUER. [Shouting at the top of his voice.] Verdammte loafers! Schweine!

MRS. BAUER. [Goes up to him.] Fritz! Fritz!

BAUER. [Collapses and drops into chair.] You hear 'em.

MRS. BAUER. Don't pay no attention, then they'll get tired.

BAUER. Miene, we must go away. I can't stand it here no longer.

MRS. BAUER. But there's not such another good place, Fritz—and the movin'....

BAUER. I say I can't stand it.

MRS. BAUER. [Desperately.] It ... it would be just the same any other place.

BAUER. Just the same?

MRS. BAUER. Yes, something'd go wrong anyhow.

BAUER. You think I'm a regular Jonah.

MRS. BAUER. Folks don't get to know you. They hear you hollerin' 'round and they think you beat the children and kick the dogs and cats.

BAUER. Do I ever lick the children when they don't need it?

MRS. BAUER. Not Fritzi.

BAUER. You want to spoil Karl. I just touch him with the strap once, a little—like this [illustrates with a gesture] to scare him, and he howls like hell.

MRS. BAUER. Yes, and then he don't mind you no more because he knows you don't mean it.

BAUER. [To himself.] That's the way it goes ... a man's own wife and children ...

MRS. BAUER. [Attending to the dinner. Irritably.] Fritz, if you would clean that up out there—and Mrs. Carroll wants her waste-basket. You musta forgot to send it up again.

BAUER. All right.

MRS. BAUER. [Pushing the clothes-basket out of the way.] This ain't cleanin' day, Fritz.

BAUER. [Dully, putting the polish back into the drawer.] That's so.

MRS. BAUER. [Comforting him.] You've got to eat a good dinner and then go up-stairs and fix that sink for Mrs. Mohler and the drain for Mrs. McAllister.

BAUER. [In a tense voice.] I tell you I can't stand it.... I tell you, Miene....

MRS. BAUER. What now, Fritz?

BAUER. People laugh in my face. [Nods in the direction of the street.] Frazer's boy standin' on the stoop calls his dog away when it runs up to me like it always does.

MRS. BAUER. Dogs know better'n men who's good to them.

BAUER. He acted like he thought I'd kick it.

MRS. BAUER. You've got all kinds of foolishness in your head now.... You sent up Carroll's basket?

BAUER. No.

MRS. BAUER. Well——

[She checks herself.

BAUER. All right.

[He gets up.

MRS. BAUER. It's settin' right beside the other dumb-waiter, [He goes out.] Oh, Gott!—Oh, Gott!—Oh, Gott!

MRS. BAUER. [Running to them.] What's the matter?

[She hushes them and carefully closes the door.

KARL. The boys make fun of us; they mock us.

FRITZI. They mock us—"Miau! Miau!" they cry, and then they go like this——

MRS. BAUER. Hush, Fritzi, you mustn't let your father hear.

FRITZI. He'd make them shut up.

KARL. I don't want to go to school this afternoon.

[He doubles his fists.

MRS. BAUER. [Turning on him fiercely.] Why not? [In an undertone.] You talk that way before your little brother.—Have you no sense?

FRITZI. [Beginning to whimper.] I d-d-d-on't want to go to school this afternoon.

MRS. BAUER. You just go 'long to school and mind your own business.

KARL and Fritzi. [Together.] But the boys....

MRS. BAUER. They ain't a-goin' to keep it up forever. Don't you answer them. Just go 'long together and pay no attention.

KARL. Then they get fresher and fresher.

FRITZI. [Echoing Karl.] Yes, then they get fresher and fresher.

MRS. BAUER. Go on now, hang up your caps and get ready for your dinners.

FRITZI. I'm going to tell my papa.

[Goes to inner door.

MRS. BAUER. For God's sake, Fritzi, shut up. You mustn't tell no one. Papa'd be disgraced all over.

KARL. [Coming up to her.] Disgraced?

MRS. BAUER. Hush!

KARL. Why disgraced?

MRS. BAUER. Because there's liars, low-down, snoopin' liars in the world.

KARL. Who's lied, mama?

MRS. BAUER. The janitress across the street.

KARL. Mrs. Nies?

FRITZI. [Calling out.] Henny Nies is a tough.

MRS. BAUER. [Looking toward the outer door anxiously and shaking her head threateningly at Fritzi.] I give you somethin' if you don't stop hollerin' out like that.

KARL. Who'd she lie to?

MRS. BAUER. Never mind. Go 'long now. It's time you begin to eat.

KARL. What'd she lie about?

MRS. BAUER. [Warningly.] S-s-sh! Papa'll be comin' in now in a minute.

KARL. It was Henny Nies set the gang on to us. I coulda licked them all if I hadn't had to take care of Fritzi.

MRS. BAUER. You'll get a lickin' all right if you don't keep away from Henny Nies.

KARL. Well—if they call me names—and say my father's been to the station-house for killing a cat ...?

FRITZI. Miau! Miau! Miau!

MRS. BAUER. Hold your mouth.

FRITZI. [Swaggering.] My father never was in jail—was he, mama?

KARL. Course not.

MRS. BAUER. [To Fritzi.] Go, wash your hands, Fritzi.

MRS. BAUER. [Distressed.] Karl ...

KARL. [Turning to his mother.] Was he, mama?

MRS. BAUER. Papa don't act like he used to. Sometimes I wonder what's come over him. Of course it's enough to ruin any man's temper, all the trouble we've had.

CHORUS OF VOICES. [From the area by the window.] Who killed the cat! Who killed the cat!

FRITZI. I shoot them, mama.

MRS. BAUER. [Grabbing the revolver.] Mein Gott! Fritzi! Papa's pistol! [She examines it carefully.] You ever touch that again and I'll ...

[She menaces him.

FRITZI. [Sulkily.] I'll save up my money and buy me one.

MRS. BAUER. [Smiling a little to herself.] I see you buyin' one.

[Carries revolver into inner room.

FRITZI. [In a loud, voice and as though shooting at Karl.] Bang! Bang! Bang!

KARL. [To his mother as she re-enters.] Trouble with Fritzi is he don't mind me any more.

MRS. BAUER. You wash your dirty hands and face this minute—d'you hear me, Fritzi!

FRITZI. [Looking at his hands.] That's ink-stains. I got the highest mark in spelling to-day. Capital H-e-n-n-y, capital N-i-e-s—Henny Nies, a bum.

KARL. [Sitting down beside the table.] Do we have to go to school this afternoon?

MRS. BAUER. You have to do what you always do.

KARL. Can't we stay home?...

MRS. BAUER. [Fiercely.] Why? Why?

KARL. [Sheepishly.] I ain't feelin' well.

MRS. BAUER. Karlchen!... schäm dich!

KARL. Till the boys forget....

MRS. BAUER. Papa'd know somethin' was wrong right away. That'd be the end. You mustn't act as if anything was different from always.

KARL. [Indignantly.] Sayin' my father's been to jail!

MRS. BAUER. Karl....

KARL. Papa'd make them stop.

MRS. BAUER. [Panic-stricken.] Karl, don't you tell papa nothing.

KARL. Not tell papa?

MRS. BAUER. No.

KARL. Why not tell papa?

MRS. BAUER. Because——

KARL. Yes, mama?

MRS. BAUER. Because he was arrested yesterday.

KARL. [Shocked.] What for, mama? Why was he——

MRS. BAUER. For nothing.... It was all a lie.

KARL. Well—what was it, mama?

MRS. BAUER. The cat got hurt in the dumb-waiter—papa didn't mean to—then they saw papa chasin' it—then it died.

KARL. Why did papa chase it?

MRS. BAUER. To see how it hurt itself.

KARL. Whose cat?

MRS. BAUER. The stray cat.

KARL. The little black cat? Is Blacky dead?

MRS. BAUER. Yes, he died on the sidewalk.

KARL. Where was we?

MRS. BAUER. You was at school.

KARL. Papa didn't want us to keep Blacky.

MRS. BAUER. So many cats and dogs around....

FRITZI. [Wailing at the door.] Blacky was my cat.

MRS. BAUER. S-s-h! What do you know about Blacky?

FRITZI. I was listening. Why did papa kill Blacky?

MRS. BAUER. Hush!

FRITZI. Why was papa took to jail?

MRS. BAUER. Fritzi! If papa was to hear....

[Mrs. Bauer goes out.

FRITZI. [Sidling up to Karl.] Miau! Miau!

KARL. You shut up that. Didn't mama tell you?

FRITZI. When I'm a man I'm going to get arrested. I'll shoot Henny Nies.

KARL. [Contemptuously.] Yes, you'll do a lot of shooting.

KARL. [Striking at Fritzi.] You're as big a tough as Henny Nies.

FRITZI. [Proud of this alleged likeness.] I'm going to be a man just like my father; I'll holler and make them stand around.

KARL. [With conviction.] What you need is a good licking.

KARL. No, ma'am, we're just going to eat now.

FRITZI. [Sits down beside the table.] Blacky was a nice cat; she purred just like a steam-engine.

KARL. Mama told you not to bring her in.

FRITZI. Papa said I could.

MRS. BAUER. [Putting the dinner on the table.] Come, children. [To Bauer.] Sit down, Fritz.

MRS. BAUER. [To Bauer, who sits looking at his food.] Eat somethin', Friedrich.

[She sits down.

BAUER. I can't eat nothin'. I'm full up to here.

MRS. BAUER. If you haven't done nothin' wrong, why do you let it worry you so?

FRITZI. [Suddenly.] Gee, didn't Blacky like liver!

MRS. BAUER. [Fiercely.] You eat your dinner.

BAUER. [Affectionately, laying his hand on Fritzi's arm.] Fritzi.

FRITZI. [Points toward the inner room.] I'm going to have a gun, too, when I'm a man.

MRS. BAUER. [To Bauer.] Now drink your coffee.

BAUER. Don't you see, Miene, don't you see?... Nothing makes it right now; no one believes me—no one believes—no one.

MRS. BAUER. What do you care, if you didn't do it?

BAUER. I care like hell.

MRS. BAUER. [With a searching took at her husband.] Fritzi, when you go on like this, people won't believe you didn't do it. You ought to act like you don't care.... [She fixes him with a beseeching glance.] If you didn't do it.

BAUER. [As though to himself.] A man can't stand that. I've gone hungry ... I've been in the hospital ... I've worked when I couldn't stand up hardly....

MRS. BAUER. [Coaxingly.] Drink your coffee, drink it now, Fritz, while it's hot.

BAUER. I've never asked favors of no man.

MRS. BAUER. Well, an' if you did ...

BAUER. I've always kept my good name ...

MRS. BAUER. If a man hasn't done nothin' wrong it don't matter. Just go ahead like always—if——

BAUER. [Muttering.] If—if——

MRS. BAUER. [To the boys.] Get your caps now, it's time to go to school.

FRITZI. [Keeping his seat.] Do we have to go to school?

BAUER. [Suddenly alert.] Why, what's the matter?

FRITZI. The boys——

MRS. BAUER. [Breaking in.] Fritzi!

MRS. BAUER. [Looking at him strangely.] Fritzi—if you didn't——

BAUER. I can't prove nothing—and no one believes me. [A pause. She is silent under his gaze.] No one! [He waits for her to speak. She sits with averted face. He sinks into a dull misery. The expression in his eyes changes from beseeching to despair as her silence continues, and he cries out hoarsely.] No one! Even if you kill a cat—what's a cat against a man's life!

MRS. BAUER. [Tensely, her eyes fastened on his.] But you didn't kill it?

MRS. BAUER. [In a low, appealing voice.] Did you? Fritz? Did you?

KARL'S VOICE. Mama, Fritzi's fooling with papa's gun.

KARL. You oughta lock it up.

MRS. BAUER. [To Fritzi.] Bad boy! [To Karl.] Fritzi wants to kill himself—that's what. Go on to school.

VOICES. Who killed the cat! Who killed the cat!

MRS. BAUER. [In a worried tone, as the pushes the children out.] Go on to school.

MRS. BAUER'S VOICE. Fritz! Fritz! Speak to me! Look at me, Fritz! You didn't do it, Fritz! I know you didn't do it!

---

ALFRED KREYMBORG

Alfred Kreymborg, one of the foremost advocates of free-verse rhythmical drama, was born in New York City, 1883. He founded and edited The Globe while it was in existence; and under its auspices issued the first anthology of imagist verse (Ezra Pound's Collection, 1914). In July, 1915, he founded Others, a Magazine of the New Verse, and The Other Players in March, 1918, an organization devoted exclusively to American plays in poetic form. At present Mr. Kreymborg is in Italy, launching a new international magazine, The Broom.

Mr. Kreymborg has been active in both poetry and drama. He has edited several anthologies of free verse, and has published his own free verse as Mushrooms and The Blood of Things. His volume of plays, all in free rhythmical verse, is Plays for Poem—Mimes. The most popular plays in this volume are Lima Beans, and Manikin and Minikin.

Manikin and Minikin aptly exemplifies Mr. Kreymborg's idea of rhythmical, pantomimic drama. It is a semi-puppet play in which there are dancing automatons to an accompaniment of rhythmic lines in place of music. Mr. Kreymborg is a skilled musician and he composes his lines with musical rhythm in mind. His lines should be read accordingly.

Seen through an oval frame, one of the walls of a parlor. The wall-paper is a conventionalized pattern. Only the shelf of the mantelpiece shows. At each end, seated on pedestals turned slightly away from one another, two aristocratic bisque figures, a boy in delicate cerise and a girl in cornflower blue. Their shadows join in a grotesque silhouette. In the centre, an ancient clock whose tick acts as the metronome for the sound of their high voices. Presently the mouths of the figures open and shut, after the mode of ordinary conversation.

She. Manikin!

He. Minikin?

She. That fool of a servant has done it again.

He. I should say, she's more than a fool.

She. A meddlesome busybody——

He. A brittle-fingered noddy!

She. Which way are you looking? What do you see?

He. The everlasting armchair,
the everlasting tiger-skin,
the everlasting yellow, green, and purple books,
the everlasting portrait of milord——

She. Oh, these Yankees!—And I see
the everlasting rattan rocker,
the everlasting samovar,
the everlasting noisy piano,
the everlasting portrait of milady——

He. Simpering spectacle!

She. What does she want, always dusting?

He. I should say—that is, I'd consider the thought——

She. You'd consider a lie—oh, Manikin—you're trying to defend her!

He. I'm not defending her——

She. You're trying to——

He. I'm not trying to——

She. Then, what are you trying to——

He. Well, I'd venture to say, if she'd only stay away some morning——

She. That's what I say in my dreams!

He. She and her broom——

She. Her everlasting broom——

He. She wouldn't be sweeping——

She. Every corner, every cranny, every crevice——

He. And the dust wouldn't move——

She. Wouldn't crawl, wouldn't rise, wouldn't fly——

He. And cover us all over——

She. Like a spider-web—ugh!

He. Everlasting dust has been most of our life——

She. Everlasting years and years of dust!

He. You on your lovely blue gown——

She. And you on your manly pink cloak.

He. If she didn't sweep, we wouldn't need dusting——

She. Nor need taking down, I should say——

He. With her stupid, clumsy hands——

She. Her crooked, monkey paws——

He. And we wouldn't need putting back——

She. I with my back to you——

He. I with my back to you.

She. It's been hours, days, weeks——
by the sound of that everlasting clock——
and the coming of day and the going of day——
since I saw you last!

He. What's the use of the sun
with its butterfly wings of light—
what's the use of a sun made to see by—
if I can't see you!

She. Manikin!

He. Minikin?

She. Say that again!

He. Why should I say it again—don't you know?

She. I know, but sometimes I doubt——

He. Why do you, what do you doubt?

She. Please say it again!

He. What's the use of a sun——

She. What's the use of a sun?

He. That was made to see by——

She. That was made to see by?

He. If I can't see you!

She. Oh, Manikin!

He. Minikin?

She. If you hadn't said that again, my doubt would have filled a balloon.

He. Your doubt—which doubt, what doubt?

She. And although I can't move, although I can't move unless somebody shoves me, one of these days when the sun isn't here, I would have slipped over the edge of this everlasting shelf——

He. Minikin!

She. And fallen to that everlasting floor into so many fragments, they'd never paste Minikin together again!

He. Minikin, Minikin!

She. They'd have to set another here—some Minikin, I'm assured!

He. Why do you chatter so, prattle so?

She. Because of my doubt—because I'm as positive as I am that I sit here with my knees in a knot—that that human creature—loves you.

He. Loves me?

She. And you her!

He. Minikin!

She. When she takes us down she holds you much longer.

He. Minikin!

She. I'm sufficiently feminine—and certainly old enough—I and my hundred and seventy years—I can see, I can feel by her manner of touching me and her flicking me with her mop—the creature hates me—she'd like to drop me, that's what she would!

He. Minikin!

She. Don't you venture defending her! Booby—you don't know live women! When I'm in the right position I can note how she fondles you, pets you like a parrot with her finger-tip, blows a pinch of dust from your eye with her softest breath, holds you off at arm's length and fixes you with her spider look, actually holds you against her cheek—her rose-tinted cheek—before she releases you! If she didn't turn us apart so often, I wouldn't charge her with insinuation; but now I know she loves you—she's as jealous as I am—and poor dead me in her live power! Manikin?

He. Minikin?

She. If you could see me—the way you see her——

He. But I see you—see you always—see only you!

She. If you could see me the way you see her, you'd still love me, you'd love me the way you do her! Who made me what I am? Who dreamed me in motionless clay?

He. Minikin?

She. Manikin?

He. Will you listen to me?

She. No!

He. Will you listen to me?

She. No.

He. Will you listen to me?

She. Yes.

He. I love you——

She. No!

He. I've always loved you——

She. No.

He. You doubt that?

She. Yes!

He. You doubt that?

She. Yes.

He. You doubt that?

She. No. You've always loved me—yes—but you don't love me now—no—not since that rose-face encountered your glance—no.

He. Minikin!

She. If I could move about the way she can—
if I had feet—
dainty white feet which could twinkle and twirl—
I'd dance you so prettily
you'd think me a sun butterfly—
if I could let down my hair
and prove you it's longer than larch hair—
if I could raise my black brows
or shrug my narrow shoulders,
like a queen or a countess—
if I could turn my head, tilt my head,
this way and that, like a swan—
ogle my eyes, like a peacock,
till you'd marvel,
they're green, nay, violet, nay, yellow, nay, gold—
if I could move, only move
just the moment of an inch—
you would see what I could be!
It's a change, it's a change,
you men ask of women!

He. A change?

She. You're eye-sick, heart-sick
of seeing the same foolish porcelain thing,
a hundred years old,
a hundred and fifty,
and sixty, and seventy—
I don't know how old I am!

He. Not an exhalation older than I—not an inhalation younger! Minikin?

She. Manikin?

He. Will you listen to me?

She. No!

He. Will you listen to me?

She. No!

He. Will you listen to me?

She. Yes.

He. I don't love that creature——

She. You do.

He. I can't love that creature——

She. You can.

He. Will you listen to me?

She. Yes—
if you'll tell me—
if you'll prove me—
so my last particle of dust—
the tiniest speck of a molecule—
the merest electron——

He. Are you listening?

She. Yes!

He. To begin with—
I dislike, suspect, deplore—
I had best say, feel compassion
for what is called humanity—
or the animate, as opposed to the inanimate——

She. You say that so wisely—
you're such a philosopher—
say it again!

He. That which is able to move
can never be steadfast, you understand?
Let us consider the creature at hand
to whom you have referred
with an undue excess of admiration
adulterated with an undue excess of envy——

She. Say that again!

He. To begin with—
I can only see part of her at once.
She moves into my vision;
she moves out of my vision;
she is doomed to be wayward.

She. Yes, but that which you see of her——

He. Is ugly, commonplace, unsightly.
Her face a rose-face?
It's veined with blood and the skin of it wrinkles—
her eyes are ever so near to a hen's—
her movements,
if one would pay such a gait with regard—
her gait is unspeakably ungainly—
her hair——

She. Her hair?

He. Luckily I've never seen it down—
I dare say it comes down in the dark,
when it looks, most assuredly, like tangled weeds.

She. Again, Manikin, that dulcet phrase!

He. Even were she beautiful,
she were never so beautiful as thou!

She. Now you're a poet, Manikin!

He. Even were she so beautiful as thou—lending her your eyes, and the exquisite head which holds them—like a cup two last beads of wine, like a stone two last drops of rain, green, nay, violet, nay, yellow, nay, gold——

She. Faster, Manikin!

He. I can't, Minikin!
Words were never given to man
to phrase such a one as you are—
inanimate symbols
can never embrace, embody, hold
the animate dream that you are—
I must cease.

She. Manikin!

He. And even were she so beautiful as thou,
she couldn't stay beautiful.

She. Stay beautiful?

He. Humans change with each going moment.
That is a gray-haired platitude.
Just as I can see that creature
only when she touches my vision,
so I could only see her once, were she beautiful—
at best, twice or thrice—
you're more precious than when you came!

She. And you!

He. Human pathos penetrates still deeper
when one determines their inner life,
as we've pondered their outer.
Their inner changes far more desperately.

She. How so, wise Manikin?

He. They have what philosophy terms moods,
and moods are more pervious to modulation
than pools to idle breezes.
These people may say, to begin with—
I love you.
This may be true, I'm assured—
as true as when we say, I love you.
But they can only say,
I love you,
so long as the mood breathes,
so long as the breezes blow,
so long as water remains wet.
They are honest—
they mean what they say—
passionately, tenaciously, tragically—
but when the mood languishes,
they have to say,
if it be they are honest—
I do not love you.
Or they have to say,
I love you,
to somebody else.

She. To somebody else?

He. Now, you and I—
we've said that to each other—
we've had to say it
for a hundred and seventy years—
and we'll have to say it always.

She. Say always again!

He. The life of an animate—

She. Say always again!

He. Always!
The life of an animate
is a procession of deaths
with but a secret sorrowing candle,
guttering lower and lower,
on the path to the grave—
the life of an inanimate
is as serenely enduring—
as all still things are.

She. Still things?

He. Recall our childhood in the English museum—
ere we were moved,
from place to place,
to this dreadful Yankee salon—
do you remember
that little old Greek tanagra
of the girl with a head like a bud—
that little old Roman medallion
of the girl with a head like a——

She. Manikin, Manikin—
were they so beautiful as I—
did you love them, too—
why do you bring them back?

He. They were not so beautiful as thou—
I spoke of them—
recalled, designated them—
well, because they were ages old—
and—and——

She. And—and?

He. And we might live as long as they—
as they did and do!
I hinted their existence
because they're not so beautiful as thou,
so that by contrast and deduction——

She. And deduction?

He. You know what I'd say——

She. But say it again!

He. I love you.

She. Manikin?

He. Minikin?

She. Then even though that creature has turned us

can you see me?

He. I can see you.

She. Even though you haven't seen me
for hours, days, weeks—
with your dear blue eyes—
you can see me—
with your hidden ones?

He. I can see you.

She. Even though you are still,
and calm, and smooth,
and lovely outside—
you aren't still and calm
and smooth and lovely inside?

He. Lovely, yes—but not still and calm and smooth!

She. Which way are you looking? What do you see?

He. I look at you. I see you.

She. And if that fool of a servant—oh, Manikin—suppose she should break the future—our great, happy centuries ahead—by dropping me, throwing me down?

He. I should take an immediate step off this everlasting shelf—

She. But you cannot move!

He. The good wind would give me a blow!

She. Now you're a punster! And what would your fragments do?

He. They would do what Manikin did.

She. Say that again!

He. They'd do what Manikin did....

She. Manikin?

He. Minikin?

She. Shall I tell you something?

He. Tell me something.

She. Are you listening?

He. With my inner ears.

She. I wasn't jealous of that woman——

He. You weren't jealous?

She. I wanted to hear you talk——

He. You wanted to hear me talk?

She. You talk so wonderfully!

He. Do I, indeed? What a booby I am!

She. And I wanted to hear you say——

He. You cheat, you idler, you——

She. Woman——

He. Dissembler!

She. Manikin?

He. Minikin?

She. Everlastingly?

He. Everlastingly.

She. Say it again!

He. I refuse——

She. You refuse?

He. Well——

She. Well?

He. You have ears outside your head—I'll say that for you—but they'll never hear—what your other ears hear!

She. Say it—down one of the ears—outside my head?

He. I refuse.

She. You refuse?

He. Leave me alone.

She. Manikin?

He. I can't say it!

She. Manikin!

CURTAIN

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