Date: 1915-12-31T22:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Stageplays; American drama
Description: ..
Publisher: MobileRead
Rights: Public domain in countries where the copyright term is “Life+70” or less.

The Collected Plays

OF
SUSAN GLASPELL

CONTENTS:

One-Act Plays

Trifles
Suppressed Desires
The People
Close the Book
The Outside
Woman’s Honor
Tickless Time

Full-Length Plays

Bernice
Inheritors
The Verge
Alison’s House

About This eBook

ONE-ACT PLAYS

Trifles

A PLAY IN ONE ACT

First Performed by the Provincetown Players
at the Wharf Theatre, Provincetown, Mass.,
8 August, 1916.

CHARACTERS

HENRY PETERS,  Sheriff

GEORGE HENDERSON,  Country Attorney

LEWIS HALE,  a neighboring farmer

MRS. PETERS

MRS. HALE

SCENE:  The kitchen in the now abandoned farmhouse of John Wright, a gloomy kitchen, and left without having been put in order—unwashed pans under the sink, a loaf of bread outside the breadbox, a dish towel on the table—other signs of uncompleted work.

At the rear the outer door opens, and the Sheriff comes in, followed by the County Attorney and Hale. The Sheriff and Hale are men in middle life, the county Attorney is a young man; all are much bundled up and go at once to the stove. They are followed by the two women—the Sheriff’s wife first; she is a slight wiry woman, a thin nervous face. Mrs. Hale is larger and would ordinarily be called more comfortable looking, but she is disturbed now and looks fearfully about as she enters. The women have come in slowly and stand close together near the door.

COUNTY ATTORNEY

(Rubbing his hands.) This feels good. Come up to the fire, ladies.

MRS. PETERS
(After taking a step forward.) I’m not—cold.
SHERIFF

(Unbuttoning his overcoat and stepping away from the stove as if to the beginning of official business.) Now, Mr. Hale, before we move things about, you explain to Mr. Henderson just what you saw when you came here yesterday morning.

COUNTY ATTORNEY

By the way, has anything been moved? Are things just as you left them yesterday?

SHERIFF

(Looking about.) It’s just the same. When it dropped below zero last night, I thought I’d better send Frank out this morning to make a fire for us—no use getting pneumonia with a big case on; but I told him not to touch anything except the stove—and you know Frank.

COUNTY ATTORNEY

Somebody should have been left here yesterday.

SHERIFF

Oh—yesterday. When I had to send Frank to Morris Center for that man who went crazy—I want you to know I had my hands full yesterday. I knew you could get back from Omaha by today, and as long as I went over everything here myself—

COUNTY ATTORNEY

Well, Mr. Hale, tell just what happened when you came here yesterday morning.

HALE

Harry and I had started to town with a load of potatoes. We came along the road from my place; and as I got here, I said, “I’m going to see if I can’t get John Wright to go in with me on a party telephone.” I spoke to Wright about it once before, and he put me off, saying folks talked too much anyway, and all he asked was peace and quiet—I guess you know about how much he talked himself; but I thought maybe if I went to the house and talked about it before his wife, though I said to Harry that I didn’t know as what his wife wanted made much difference to John—

COUNTY ATTORNEY

Let’s talk about that later, Mr. Hale. I do want to talk about that, but tell now just what happened when you got to the house.

HALE

I didn’t hear or see anything; I knocked at the door, and still it was all quiet inside. I knew they must be up, it was past eight o’clock. So I knocked again, and I thought I heard somebody say, “Come in.” I wasn’t sure, I’m not sure yet, but I opened the door—this door (Indicating the door by which the two women are still standing.) and there in that rocker— (pointing to it) sat Mrs. Wright.

[They all look at the rocker.

COUNTY ATTORNEY
What—was she doing?
HALE

She was rockin’ back and forth. She had her apron in her hand and was kind of—pleating it.

COUNTY ATTORNEY
And how did she—look?
HALE
Well, she looked queer.
COUNTY ATTORNEY
How do you mean—queer?
HALE

Well, as if she didn’t know what she was going to do next. And kind of done up.

COUNTY ATTORNEY
How did she seem to feel about your coming?
HALE

Why, I don’t think she minded—one way or other. She didn’t pay much attention. I said, “How do, Mrs. Wright, it’s cold, ain’t it?” And she said, “Is it?”—and went on kind of pleating at her apron. Well, I was surprised; she didn’t ask me to come up to the stove, or to set down, but just sat there, not even looking at me, so I said, “I want to see John.” And then she—laughed. I guess you would call it a laugh. I thought of Harry and the team outside, so I said a little sharp: “Can’t I see John?” “No,” she says, kind o’ dull like. “Ain’t he home?” says I. “Yes,” says she, “he’s home.” “Then why can’t I see him?” I asked her, out of patience. “’Cause he’s dead,” says she. “Dead?” says I. She just nodded her head, not getting a bit excited, but rockin’ back and forth. “Why—where is he?” says I, not knowing what to say. She just pointed upstairs—like that (Himself pointing to the room above.) I got up, with the idea of going up there. I talked from there to here—then I says, “Why, what did he die of?” “He died of a rope around his neck,” says she, and just went on pleatin’ at her apron. Well, I went out and called Harry. I thought I might—need help. We went upstairs, and there he was lyin’—

COUNTY ATTORNEY

I think I’d rather have you go into that upstairs, where you can point in all out. Just go on now with the rest of the story.

HALE

Well, my first thought was to get that rope off. It looked … (Stops, his face twitches.) … but Harry, he went up to him, and he said, “No, he’s dead all right, and we’d better not touch anything.” So we went back downstairs. She was still sitting that same way. “Has anybody been notified?” I asked. “No,” says she, unconcerned. “Who did this, Mrs. Wright?” said Harry. He said it business-like—and she stopped pleatin’ of her apron. “I don’t know,” she says. “You don’t know?” says Harry. “No,” says she, “Weren’t you sleepin’ in the bed with him?” says Harry. “Yes,” says she, “but I was on the inside.” “Somebody slipped a rope round his neck and strangled him, and you didn’t wake up?” says Harry. “I didn’t wake up,” she said after him. We must ’a looked as if we didn’t see how that could be, for after a minute she said, “I sleep sound.” Harry was going to ask her more questions, but I said maybe we ought to let her tell her story first to the coroner, or the sheriff, so Harry went fast as he could to Rivers’ place, where there’s a telephone.

COUNTY ATTORNEY

And what did Mrs. Wright do when she knew that you had gone for the coroner?

HALE

She moved from that chair to this over here (Pointing to a small chair in the corner) and just sat there with her hand held together and looking down. I got a feeling that I ought to make some conversation, so I said I had come in to see if John wanted to put in a telephone, and at that she started to laugh, and then she stopped and looked at me—scared. (The County Attorney, who has had his notebook out, makes a note.) I dunno, maybe it wasn’t scared. I wouldn’t like to say it was. Soon Harry got back, and then Dr. Lloyd came, and you, Mr. Peters, and so I guess that’s all I know that you don’t.

COUNTY ATTORNEY

(Looking around.) I guess we’ll go upstairs first—and then out to the barn and around there. (To the Sheriff) You’re convinced that there was nothing important here—nothing that would point to any motive?

SHERIFF

Nothing here but kitchen things.

[The County Attorney, after again looking around the kitchen, opens the door of a cupboard closet. He gets up on a chair and looks on a shelf. Pulls his hand away, sticky.

COUNTY ATTORNEY

Here’s a nice mess.

[The women draw nearer.

MRS. PETERS

(To the other woman) Oh, her fruit; it did freeze. (To the County Attorney) She worried about that when it turned so cold. She said the fire’d go out and her jars would break.

SHERIFF

Well, can you beat the women! Held for murder and worryin’ about her preserves.

COUNTY ATTORNEY

I guess before we’re through, she may have something more serious than preserves to worry about.

HALE

Well, women are used to worrying over trifles.

[The two women move a little closer together.

COUNTY ATTORNEY

(With the gallantry of a young politician.) And yet, for all their worries, what would we do without the ladies? (The women do not unbend. He goes to the sink, takes dipperful of water from the pail and, pouring it into a basin, washes his hands. Starts to wipe them on the roller towel, turns it for a cleaner place.) Dirty towels! (Kicks his foot against the pans under the sink.) Not much of a housekeeper, would you say, ladies?

MRS. HALE

(Stiffly.) There’s a great deal of work to be done on a farm.

COUNTY ATTORNEY

To be sure. And yet (With a little bow to her) I know there are some Dickson county farmhouses which do not have such roller towels. (He gives it a pull to expose its full length again.)

MRS. HALE

Those towels get dirty awful quick. Men’s hands aren’t always as clean as they might be.

COUNTY ATTORNEY

Ah, loyal to your sex, I see. But you and Mrs. Wright were neighbors. I suppose you were friends, too.

MRS. HALE

(Shaking her head.) I’ve not seen much of her of late years. I’ve not been in this house—it’s more than a year.

COUNTY ATTORNEY
And why was that? You didn’t like her?
MRS. HALE

I liked her all well enough. Farmers’ wives have their hands full, Mr. Henderson. And then—

COUNTY ATTORNEY
Yes—?
MRS. HALE

(Looking about.) It never seemed a very cheerful place.

COUNTY ATTORNEY

No—it’s not cheerful. I shouldn’t say she had the homemaking instinct.

MRS. HALE
Well, I don’t know as Wright had, either.
COUNTY ATTORNEY
You mean that they didn’t get on very well?
MRS. HALE

No, I don’t mean anything. But I don’t think a place’d be any cheerfuller for John Wright’s being in it.

COUNTY ATTORNEY

I’d like to talk more of that a little later. I want to get the lay of things upstairs now.

[He goes to the left, where three steps lead to a stair door.

SHERIFF

I suppose anything Mrs. Peters does’ll be all right. She was to take in some clothes for her, you know, and a few little things. We left in such a hurry yesterday.

COUNTY ATTORNEY

Yes, but I would like to see what you take, Mrs. Peters, and keep an eye out for anything that might be of use to us.

MRS. PETERS

Yes, Mr. Henderson.

[The women listen to the men’s steps on the stairs, then look about the kitchen.

MRS. HALE

I’d hate to have men coming into my kitchen, snooping around and criticizing. (She arranges the pans under sink which the County Attorney had shoved out of place.)

MRS. PETERS
Of course it’s no more than their duty.
MRS. HALE

Duty’s all right, but I guess that deputy sheriff that came out to make the fire might have got a little of this on. (Gives the roller towel a pull.) Wish I’d thought of that sooner. Seems mean to talk about her for not having things slicked up when she had to come away in such a hurry.

MRS. PETERS

(Who has gone to a small table in the left rear corner of the room, and lifted on end of a towel that covers a pan.) She had bread set. (Stands still.)

MRS. HALE

(Eyes fixed on a loaf of bread beside the breadbox, which is on a low shelf at the other side of the room. Moves slowly toward it) She was going to put this in there. (Picks up loaf, then abruptly drops it. In a manner of returning to familiar things) It’s a shame about her fruit. I wonder if it’s all gone. (Gets up on the chair and looks.) I think there’s some here that’s all right, Mrs. Peters. Yes—here; (Holding it toward the window.) This is cherries, too. (Looking again.) I declare I believe that’s the only one. (Gets down, bottle in her hand. Goes to the sink and wipes it off on the outside.) She’ll feel awful bad after all her hard work in the hot weather. I remember the afternoon I put up my cherries last summer.

[She puts the bottle on the big kitchen table, center of the room. With a sigh, is about to sit down in the rocking chair. Before she is seated realizes what chair it is; with a slow look at it, steps back. The chair, which she has touched, rocks back and forth.

MRS. PETERS.

Well, I must get those things from the front room closet. (She goes to the door at the right, but after looking into the other room, steps back.) You coming with me, Mrs. Hale? You could help me carry them.

[They go into the other room; reappear, Mrs. Peters carrying a dress and skirt, Mrs. Hale following with a pair of shoes.

MRS. PETERS

My, it’s cold in there. (She puts the clothes on the big table, and hurries to the stove.)

MRS. HALE

(Examining the skirt.) Wright was close. I think maybe that’s why she kept so much to herself. She didn’t even belong to the Ladies Aid. I suppose she felt she couldn’t do her part, and then you don’t enjoy things when you feel shabby. She used to wear pretty clothes and be lively, when she was Minnie Foster, one of the town girls singing in the choir. But that—oh, that was thirty years ago. This all you was to take in?

MRS. PETERS

She said she wanted an apron. Funny thing to want, for there isn’t much to get you dirty in jail, goodness knows. But I suppose just to make her feel more natural. She said they was in the top drawer in this cupboard. Yes, here. And then her little shawl that always hung behind the door. (Opens stair door and looks.) Yes, here it is. (Quickly shuts door leading upstairs.)

MRS. HALE
(Abruptly moving toward her.) Mrs. Peters?
MRS. PETERS
Yes, Mrs. Hale?
MRS. HALE
Do you think she did it?
MRS. PETERS
(In a frightened voice.) Oh, I don’t know.
MRS. HALE

Well, I don’t think she did. Asking for an apron and her little shawl. Worrying about her fruit.

MRS. PETERS

(Starts to speak, glances up, where footsteps are heard in the room above. In a low voice.) Mr. Peters says it looks bad for her. Mr. Henderson is awful sarcastic in speech, and he’ll make fun of her sayin’ she didn’t wake up.

MRS. HALE

Well, I guess John Wright didn’t wake when they was slipping that rope under his neck.

MRS. PETERS

No, it’s strange. It must have been done awful crafty and still. They say it was such a—funny way to kill a man, rigging it all up like that.

MRS. HALE

That’s just what Mr. Hale said. There was a gun in the house. He says that’s what he can’t understand.

MRS. PETERS

Mr. Henderson said coming out that what was needed for the case was a motive; something to show anger or—sudden feeling.

MRS. HALE

(who is standing by the table.) Well, I don’t see any signs of anger around here. (She puts her hand on the dish towel which lies on the table, stands looking down at the table, one half of which is clean, the other half messy.) It’s wiped here. (Makes a move as if to finish work, then turns and looks at loaf of bread outside the breadbox. Drops towel. In that voice of coming back to familiar things) Wonder how they are finding things upstairs? I hope she had it a little more red-up up there. You know, it seems kind of sneaking. Locking her up in town and then coming out here and trying to get her own house to turn against her!

MRS. PETERS
But, Mrs. Hale, the law is the law.
MRS. HALE

I s’pose ’tis. (Unbuttoning her coat.) Better loosen up your things, Mrs. Peters. You won’t feel them when you go out.

[Mrs. Peters takes off her fur tippet, goes to hang it on hook at the back of room, stands looking at the under part of the small corner table.

MRS. PETERS

She was piecing a quilt.

[She brings the large sewing basket, and they look at the bright pieces.

MRS. HALE

It’s log cabin pattern. Pretty, isn’t it? I wonder if she was goin’ to quilt or just knot it?

[Footsteps have been heard coming down the stairs. The Sheriff enters, followed by Hale and the County Attorney.

SHERIFF

They wonder if she was going to quilt it or just knot it.

[The men laugh; the women look abashed.

COUNTY ATTORNEY

(Rubbing his hands over the stove.) Frank’s fire didn’t do much up there, did it? Well, let’s go out to the barn and get that cleared up.

[The men go outside.

MRS. HALE

(Resentfully.) I don’t know as there’s anything so strange, our takin’ up our time with little things while we’re waiting for them to get the evidence. (She sits down at the big table, smoothing out a block with decision.) I don’t see as it’s anything to laugh about.

MRS. PETERS

(Apologetically.) Of course they’ve got awful important things on their minds. (Pulls up a chair and joins Mrs. Hale at the table.)

MRS. HALE

(Examining another block.) Mrs. Peters, look at this one. Here, this is the one she was working on, and look at the sewing! All the rest of it has been so nice and even. And look at this! It’s all over the place! Why, it looks as if she didn’t know what she was about!

[After she has said this, they look at each other, then start to glance back at the door. After an instant Mrs. Hale has pulled at a knot and ripped the sewing.

MRS. PETERS
Oh, what are you doing, Mrs. Hale?
MRS. HALE

(Mildly.) Just pulling out a stitch or two that’s not sewed very good. (Threading a needle.) Bad sewing always made me fidgety.

MRS. PETERS

(Nervously.) I don’t think we ought to touch things.

MRS. HALE

I’ll just finish up this end. (Suddenly stopping and leaning forward.) Mrs. Peters?

MRS. PETERS
Yes, Mrs. Hale?
MRS. HALE
What do you suppose she was so nervous about?
MRS. PETERS

Oh—I don’t know. I don’t know as she was nervous. I sometimes sew awful queer when I’m just tired. (Mrs. Hale starts to say something looks at Mrs. Peters, then goes on sewing.) Well, I must get these things wrapped up. They may be through sooner than we think. (Putting apron and other things together.) I wonder where I can find a piece of paper, and string.

MRS. HALE
In that cupboard, maybe.
MRS. PETER

(Looking in cupboard.) Why, here’s a birdcage. (Holds it up.) Did she have a bird, Mrs. Hale?

MRS. HALE

Why, I don’t know whether she did or not—I’ve not been here for so long. There was a man around last year selling canaries cheap, but I don’t know as she took one; maybe she did. She used to sing real pretty herself.

MRS. PETERS

(Glancing around.) Seems funny to think of a bird here. But she must have had one, or why should she have a cage? I wonder what happened to it?

MRS. HALE
I s’pose maybe the cat got it.
MRS. PETERS

No, she didn’t have a cat. She’s got that feeling some people have about cats—being afraid of them. My cat got in her room, and she was real upset and asked me to take it out.

MRS. HALE

My sister Bessie was like that. Queer, ain’t it?

MRS. PETERS

(Examining the cage.) Why, look at this door. It’s broke. One hinge is pulled apart.

MRS. HALE

(Looking, too.) Looks as if someone must have been rough with it.

MRS. PETERS

Why, yes. (She brings the cage forward and puts it on the table.)

MRS. HALE

I wish if they’re going to find any evidence they’d be about it. I don’t like this place.

MRS. PETERS

But I’m awful glad you came with me, Mrs. Hale. It would be lonesome for me sitting here alone.

MRS. HALE

It would, wouldn’t it? (Dropping her sewing.) But I tell you what I do wish, Mrs. Peters. I wish I had come over sometimes when she was here. I— (Looking around the room.) —wish I had.

MRS. PETERS

But of course you were awful busy, Mrs. Hale—your house and your children.

MRS. HALE

I could’ve come. I stayed away because it weren’t cheerful—and that’s why I ought to have come. I—I’ve never liked this place. Maybe because it’s down in a hollow, and you don’t see the road. I dunno what it is, but it’s a lonesome place and always was. I wish I had come over to see Minnie Foster sometimes. I can see now— (Shakes her head.)

MRS. PETERS

Well, you mustn’t reproach yourself, Mrs. Hale. Somehow we just don’t see how it is with other folks until—something comes up.

MRS. HALE

Not having children makes less work—but it makes a quiet house, and Wright out to work all day, and no company when he did come in. Did you know John Wright, Mrs. Peters?

MRS. PETERS

Not to know him; I’ve seen him in town. They say he was a good man.

MRS. HALE

Yes—good; he didn’t drink, and kept his word as well as most, I guess, and paid his debts. But he was a hard man, Mrs. Peters. Just to pass the time of day with him— (Shivers.) Like a raw wind that gets to the bone. (Pauses, her eye falling on the cage.) I should think she would ’a wanted a bird. But what do you suppose went with it?

MRS. PETERS

I don’t know, unless it got sick and died.

[She reaches over and swings the broken door, swings it again; both women watch it.

MRS. HALE

You weren’t raised round here, were you? (Mrs. Peters shakes her head.) You didn’t know—her?

MRS. PETERS
Not till they brought her yesterday.
MRS. HALE

She—come to think of it, she was kind of like a bird herself—real sweet and pretty, but kind of timid and—fluttery. How—she—did—change. (Silence; then as if struck by a happy thought and relieved to get back to everyday things.) Tell you what, Mrs. Peters, why don’t you take the quilt in with you? It might take up her mind.

MRS. PETERS

Why, I think that’s a real nice idea, Mrs. Hale. There couldn’t possible be any objection to it, could there? Now, just what would I take? I wonder if her patches are in here—and her things. (They look in the sewing basket.)

MRS. HALE

Here’s some red. I expect this has got sewing things in it (Brings out a fancy box.) What a pretty box. Looks like something somebody would give you. Maybe her scissors are in here. (Opens box. Suddenly puts her hand to her nose.) Why— (Mrs. Peters bends nearer, then turns her face away.) There’s something wrapped up in this piece of silk.

MRS. PETERS
Why, this isn’t her scissors.
MRS. HALE
(Lifting the silk.) Oh, Mrs. Peters—it’s—

[Mrs. Peters bends closer.

MRS. PETERS
It’s the bird.
MRS. HALE

(Jumping up.) But, Mrs. Peters—look at it. Its neck! Look at its neck! It’s all—other side to.

MRS. PETERS

Somebody—wrung—its neck.

[Their eyes meet. A look of growing comprehension, of horror. Steps are heard outside. Mrs. Hale slips box under quilt pieces, and sinks into her chair. Enter Sheriff and County Attorney. Mrs. Peters rises.

COUNTY ATTORNEY

(As one turning from serious thing to little pleasantries.) Well, ladies, have you decided whether she was going to quilt it or knot it?

MRS. PETERS
We think she was going to—knot it.
COUNTY ATTORNEY

Well, that’s interesting, I’m sure. (Seeing the birdcage.) Has the bird flown?

MRS. HALE

(Putting more quilt pieces over the box.) We think the—cat got it.

COUNTY ATTORNEY

(Preoccupied.) Is there a cat?

[Mrs. Hale glances in a quick covert way at Mrs. Peters

MRS. PETERS

Well, not now. They’re superstitious, you know. They leave.

COUNTY ATTORNEY

(To Sheriff Peters, continuing an interrupted conversation.) No sign at all of anyone having come from the outside. Their own rope. Now let’s go up again and go over it piece by piece. (They start upstairs.) It would have to have been someone who knew just the—

[Mrs. Peters sits down. The two women sit there not looking at one another, but as if peering into something and at the same time holding back. When they talk now, it is the manner of feeling their way over strange ground, as if afraid of what they are saying, but as if they cannot help saying it.

MRS. HALE

She liked the bird. She was going to bury it in that pretty box.

MRS. PETERS

(In a whisper.) When I was a girl—my kitten—there was a boy took a hatchet, and before my eyes—and before I could get there— (Covers her face for an instant.) If they hadn’t held me back, I would have— (Catches herself, looks upstairs, where steps are heard, falters weakly.) —hurt him.

MRS. HALE

(With a slow look around her.) I wonder how it would seem never to have had any children around. (Pause.) No, Wright wouldn’t like the bird—a thing that sang. She used to sing. He killed that, too.

MRS. PETERS

(Moving uneasily.) We don’t know who killed the bird.

MRS. HALE
I knew John Wright.
MRS. PETERS

It was an awful thing was done in this house that night, Mrs. Hale. Killing a man while he slept, slipping a rope around his neck that choked the life out of him.

MRS. HALE

His neck. Choked the life out of him. (Her hand goes out and rests on the birdcage.)

MRS. PETERS

(With a rising voice.) We don’t know who killed him. We don’t know.

MRS. HALE

(Her own feeling not interrupted.) If there’d been years and years of nothing, then a bird to sing to you, it would be awful—still, after the bird was still.

MRS. PETERS

(Something within her speaking.) I know what stillness is. When we homesteaded in Dakota, and my first baby died—after he was two years old, and me with no other then—

MRS. HALE

(Moving.) How soon do you suppose they’ll be through, looking for evidence?

MRS. PETERS

I know what stillness is. (Pulling herself back.) The law has got to punish crime, Mrs. Hale.

MRS. HALE

(Not as if answering that.) I wish you’d seen Minnie Foster when she wore a white dress with blue ribbons and stood up there in the choir and sang. (A look around the room.) Oh, I wish I’d come over here once in a while! That was a crime! That was a crime! Who’s going to punish that?

MRS. PETERS
(Looking upstairs.) We mustn’t—take on.
MRS. HALE

I might have known she needed help! I know how things can be—for women. I tell you, it’s queer, Mrs. Peters. We live close together and we live far apart. We all go through the same things—it’s all just a different kind of the same thing. (Brushes her eyes, then noticing the bottle of fruit, reaches out for it.) If I was you, I wouldn’t tell her fruit was gone. Tell her it ain’t. Tell her it’s all right. Take this in to prove it to her. She—she may never know whether it was broke or not.

MRS. PETERS

(Takes the bottle, looks about for something to wrap it in; takes petticoat from the clothes brought from the other room, very nervously begins winding this around the bottle. In a false voice) My, it’s a good thing the men couldn’t hear us. Wouldn’t they just laugh! Getting all stirred up over a little thing like a—dead canary. As if that could have anything to do with—with—wouldn’t they laugh!

[The men are heard coming downstairs.

MRS. HALE

(Under her breath.) Maybe they would—maybe they wouldn’t.

COUNTY ATTORNEY

No, Peters, it’s all perfectly clear except a reason for doing it. But you know juries when it comes to women. If there was some definite thing. Something to show—something to make a story about—a thing that would connect up with this strange way of doing it—

[The women’s eyes meet for an instant. Enter Hale from outer door.

HALE

Well, I’ve got the team around. Pretty cold out there.

COUNTY ATTORNEY

I’m going to stay here awhile by myself (To the Sheriff) You can send Frank out for me, can’t you? I want to go over everything. I’m not satisfied that we can’t do better.

SHERIFF

Do you want to see what Mrs. Peters is going to take in?

[The County Attorney goes to the table, picks up the apron, laughs.

COUNTY ATTORNEY

Oh, I guess they’re not very dangerous things the ladies have picked up. (Moves a few things about, disturbing the quilt pieces which cover the box. Steps back.) No, Mrs. Peters doesn’t need supervising. For that matter, a sheriff’s wife is married to the law. Ever think of it that way, Mrs. Peters?

MRS. PETERS
Not—just that way.
SHERIFF

(Chuckling.) Married to the law. (Moves toward the other room.) I just want you to come in here a minute, George. We ought to take a look at these windows.

COUNTY ATTORNEY

(Scoffingly.) Oh, windows!

SHERIFF

We’ll be right out, Mr. Hale.

[Hale goes outside. The Sheriff follows the County Attorney into the other room. Then Mrs. Hale rises, hands tight together, looking intensely at Mrs. Peters, whose eyes take a slow turn, finally meeting Mrs. Hale’s. A moment Mrs. Hale holds her, then her own eyes point the way to where the box is concealed. Suddenly Mrs. Peters throws back quilt pieces and tries to put the box in the handbag she is wearing. It is too big. She opens box, starts to take the bird out, cannot touch it, goes to pieces, stands there helpless. Sound of a knob turning in the other room. Mrs. Hale snatches the box and puts it in the pocket of her big coat.
Enter County Attorney and Sheriff.

COUNTY ATTORNEY

(Facetiously.) Well, Henry, at least we found out that she was not going to quilt it. She was going to—what is it you call it, ladies?

MRS. HALE

(Her hand against her pocket) We call it—knot it, Mr. Henderson.

CURTAIN

Suppressed Desires

A COMEDY IN TWO SCENES

Written in Collaboration with
George Cram Cook (1873–1924)

First performed by the Provincetown Players,
at the Wharf Theatre, Provincetown, Mass.,
August, 1914.

CHARACTERS

HENRIETTA BREWSTER

STEPHEN BREWSTER

MABEL

PLACE—A New York Apartment

TIME—Today

SCENE I

A studio apartment in an upper story, Washington Square South. Through an immense north window in the back wall appear tree tops and the upper part of the Washington Arch. Beyond it you look up Fifth Avenue. Near the window is a big table, loaded at one end with serious-looking books and austere scientific periodicals. At the other end are architect’s drawings, blue prints, dividing compasses, square, ruler, etc. At the left is a door leading to the rest of the apartment; at the right the outer door.

A breakfast table is set for three, but only two are seated at it—Henrietta and Stephen Brewster. As the curtain is drawn, Steve pushes back his coffee cup and sits dejected.

HENRIETTA

It isn’t the coffee, Steve dear. There’s nothing the matter with the coffee. There’s something the matter with you.

STEVE

(Doggedly.) There may be something the matter with my stomach.

HENRIETTA

(Scornfully.) Your stomach! The trouble is not with your stomach but in your subconscious mind.

STEVE

Subconscious piffle! (Takes morning paper and tries to read.)

HENRIETTA

Steve, you never used to be so disagreeable. You certainly have got some sort of a complex. You’re all inhibited. You’re no longer open to new ideas. You won’t listen to a word about psychoanalysis.

STEVE
A word! I’ve listened to volumes!
HENRIETTA

You’ve ceased to be creative in architecture—your work isn’t going well. You’re not sleeping well—

STEVE

How can I sleep, Henrietta, when you’re always waking me up to find out what I’m dreaming?

HENRIETTA

But dreams are so important, Steve. If you’d tell yours to Dr. Russell he’d find out exactly what’s wrong with you.

STEVE
There’s nothing wrong with me.
HENRIETTA
You don’t even talk as well as you used to.
STEVE

Talk? I can’t say a thing without you looking at me in that dark fashion you have when you’re on the trail of a complex.

HENRIETTA

This very irritability indicates that you’re suffering from some suppressed desire.

STEVE

I’m suffering from a suppressed desire for a little peace.

HENRIETTA

Dr. Russell is doing simply wonderful things with nervous cases. Won’t you go to him, Steve?

STEVE

(Slamming down his newspaper.) No, Henrietta, I won’t!

HENRIETTA
But, Stephen—!
STEVE

Tst! I hear Mabel coming. Let’s not be at each other’s throats the first day of her visit. (He takes out cigarettes.)

[Mabel comes in from door left, the side opposite Steve, so that he is facing her. She is wearing a rather fussy negligee, in contrast to Henrietta who wears “radical” clothes. Mabel is what is called plump.

MABEL

Good morning.

HENRIETTA

Oh, here you are, little sister.

STEVE

Good morning, Mabel.

[Mabel nods to him and turns, her face lighting up, to Henrietta.

HENRIETTA

(Giving Mabel a hug as she leans against her.) It’s so good to have you here. I was going to let you sleep, thinking you’d be tired after the long trip. Sit down. There’ll be fresh toast in a few minutes and (rising) will you have—

MABEL

Oh, I ought to have told you, Henrietta. Don’t get anything for me. I’m not eating breakfast.

HENRIETTA

(At first in mere surprise.) Not eating breakfast? (She sits down, then leans toward Mabel and scrutinizes her.)

STEVE
(Half to himself.) The psychoanalytical look!
HENRIETTA
Mabel, why are you not eating any breakfast?
MABEL

(A little startled.) Why, no particular reason. I just don’t care much for breakfast, and they say it keeps down— (A hand on her hip—the gesture of one who is “reducing.”) that is, it’s a good thing to go without it.

HENRIETTA

Don’t you sleep well? Did you sleep well last night?

MABEL

Oh, yes, I slept all right. Yes, I slept fine last night, only (laughing) I did have the funniest dream!

STEVE
S—h! S—h!
HENRIETTA

(Moving closer.) And what did you dream, Mabel?

STEVE

Look-a-here, Mabel, I feel it’s my duty to put you on. Don’t tell Henrietta your dreams. If you do she’ll find out that you have an underground desire to kill your father and marry your mother.

HENRIETTA

Don’t be absurd, Stephen Brewster. (Sweetly to Mabel.) What was your dream, dear?

MABEL
(Laughing.) Well, I dreamed I was a hen.
HENRIETTA
A hen?
MABEL

Yes; and I was pushing along through a crowd as fast as I could, but being a hen I couldn’t walk very fast—it was like having a tight skirt, you know; and there was some sort of creature in a blue cap—you know how mixed up dreams are—and it kept shouting after me and saying, “Step, Hen! Step, Hen!” until I got all excited and just couldn’t move at all.

HENRIETTA

(Resting chin in palm and peering.) You say you became much excited?

MABEL

(Laughing) Oh, yes; I was in a terrible state.

HENRIETTA
(Leaning back, murmurs) This is significant.
STEVE

She dreams she’s a hen. She is told to step lively. She becomes violently agitated. What can it mean?

HENRIETTA

(Turning impatiently from him.) Mabel, do you know anything about psychoanalysis?

MABEL

(Feebly.) Oh—not much. No—I— (Brightening.) It’s something about the war, isn’t it?

STEVE
Not that kind of war.
MABEL

(Abashed.) I thought it might be the name of a new explosive.

STEVE
It is.
MABEL

(Apologetically to Henrietta, who is frowning.) You see, Henrietta, I—we do not live in touch with intellectual things, as you do. Bob being a dentist—somehow our friends—

STEVE

(Softly.) Oh, to be a dentist! (Goes to window and stands looking out.)

HENRIETTA

Don’t you ever see anything more of that editorial writer—what was his name?

MABEL
Lyman Eggleston?
HENRIETTA

Yes, Eggleston. He was in touch with things. Don’t you see him?

MABEL

Yes, I see him once in a while. Bob doesn’t like him very well.

HENRIETTA

Your husband does not like Lyman Eggleston? (Mysteriously.) Mabel, are you perfectly happy with your husband?

STEVE

(Sharply.) Oh, come now, Henrietta—that’s going a little strong!

HENRIETTA

Are you perfectly happy with him, Mabel?

[Steve goes to work-table.

MABEL
Why—yes—I guess so. Why—of course I am!
HENRIETTA

Are you happy? Or do you only think you are? Or do you only think you ought to be?

MABEL
Why, Henrietta, I don’t know what you mean!
STEVE

(Seizes stack of books and magazines and dumps them on the breakfast table.) This is what she means, Mabel. Psychoanalysis. My work-table groans with it. Books by Freud, the new Messiah; books by Jung, the new St. Paul; the Psychoanalytical Review—back numbers two-fifty per.

MABEL
But what is it all about?
STEVE

All about your sub-un-non-conscious mind and desires you know not of. They may be doing you a great deal of harm. You may go crazy with them. Oh, yes! People are doing it right and left. Your dreaming you’re a hen— (Shakes his head darkly.)

HENRIETTA
Any fool can ridicule anything.
MABEL

(Hastily, to avert a quarrel.) But what do you say it is, Henrietta?

STEVE

(Looking at his watch.) Oh, if Henrietta’s going to start that! (During Henrietta’s next speech settles himself at work-table and sharpens a lead pencil.)

HENRIETTA

It’s like this, Mabel. You want something. You think you can’t have it. You think it’s wrong. So you try to think you don’t want it. Your mind protects you—avoids pain—by refusing to think the forbidden thing. But it’s there just the same. It stays there shut up in your unconscious mind, and it festers.

STEVE
Sort of an ingrowing mental toenail.
HENRIETTA

Precisely. The forbidden impulse is there full of energy which has simply got to do something. It breaks into your consciousness in disguise, masks itself in dreams, makes all sorts of trouble. In extreme cases it drives you insane.

MABEL
(With a gesture of horror.) Oh!
HENRIETTA

(Reassuring.) But psychoanalysis has found out how to save us from that. It removes the obstruction, brings into consciousness the suppressed desire that was making all the trouble. Psychoanalysis is simply the latest scientific method of preventing and curing insanity.

STEVE

(From his table.) It is also the latest scientific method of separating families.

HENRIETTA

(Mildly.) Families that ought to be separated.

STEVE

The Dwights, for instance. You must have met them, Mabel, when you were here before. Helen was living, apparently, in peace and happiness with good old Joe. Well—she went to this psychoanalyzer—she was “psyched,” and biff!—bang!—Home she comes with an unsuppressed desire to leave her husband. (He starts work, drawing lines on a drawing board with a T-square.)

MABEL

How terrible! Yes, I remember Helen Dwight. But—but did she have such a desire?

STEVE
First she’d known of it.
MABEL
And she left him?
HENRIETTA
(Coolly.) Yes, she did.
MABEL
Wasn’t he good to her?
HENRIETTA
Why, yes, good enough.
MABEL
Wasn’t he kind to her?
HENRIETTA
Oh, yes—kind to her.
MABEL
And she left her good kind husband—!
HENRIETTA

Oh, Mabel! “Left her good, kind husband!” How naive—forgive me, dear, but how bourgeoise you are! She came to know herself. And she had the courage!

MABEL

I may be very naive and—bourgeoise—but I don’t see the good of a new science that breaks up homes.

[Steve applauds.

STEVE

In enlightening Mabel, we mustn’t neglect to mention the case of Art Holden’s private secretary, Mary Snow, who has just been informed of her suppressed desire for her employer.

MABEL

Why, I think it is terrible, Henrietta! It would be better if we didn’t know such things about ourselves.

HENRIETTA
No, Mabel, that is the old way.
MABEL
But—but her employer? Is he married?
STEVE
(Grunts.) Wife and four children.
MABEL

Well, then, what good does it do the girl to be told she has a desire for him? There’s nothing that can be done about it.

HENRIETTA

Old institutions will have to be reshaped so that something can be done in such cases. It happens, Mabel, that this suppressed desire was on the point of landing Mary Snow in the insane asylum. Are you so tight-minded that you’d rather have her in the insane asylum than break the conventions?

MABEL

But—but have people always had these awful suppressed desires?

HENRIETTA
Always.
STEVE
But they’ve just been discovered.
HENRIETTA

The harm they do has just been discovered. And free, sane people must face the fact that they have to be dealt with.

MABEL

(Stoutly.) I don’t believe they have them in Chicago.

HENRIETTA

(Business of giving Mabel up.) People “have them” wherever the living Libido—the center of the soul’s energy—is in conflict with petrified moral codes. That means everywhere in civilization. Psychoanalysis—

STEVE
Good God! I’ve got the roof in the cellar!
HENRIETTA
The roof in the cellar!
STEVE

(Holds plan at arm’s length.) That’s what psychoanalysis does!

HENRIETTA

That’s what psychoanalysis could un-do. Is it any wonder I’m concerned about Steve? He dreamed the other night that the walls of his room melted away and he found himself alone in a forest. Don’t you see how significant it is for an architect to have walls slip away from him like that? It symbolizes his loss of grip in his work. There’s some suppressed desire—

STEVE

(Hurling his ruined plan viciously to the floor.) Suppressed hell!

HENRIETTA

You speak more truly than you know. It is through suppressions that hells are formed in us.

MABEL

(Looking at Steve, who is tearing his hair.) Don’t you think it would be a good thing, Henrietta, if we went somewhere else? (They rise and begin to pick up the dishes. Mabel drops a plate which breaks. Henrietta draws up short and looks at her—the psychoanalytic look.) I’m sorry, Henrietta. One of the Spode plates, too. (Surprised and resentful as Henrietta continues to peer at her.) Don’t take it so to heart, Henrietta.

HENRIETTA
I can’t help taking it to heart.
MABEL

I’ll get you another. (Pause. More sharply as Henrietta does not answer.) I said I’ll get you another plate, Henrietta.

HENRIETTA
It’s not the plate.
MABEL
For heaven’s sake, what is it then?
HENRIETTA

It’s the significant little false movement that made you drop it.

MABEL

Well, I suppose everyone makes a false movement once in a while.

HENRIETTA

Yes, Mabel, but these false movements all mean something.

MABEL

(About to cry.) I don’t think that’s very nice! It was just because I happened to think of Mabel Snow you were talking about—

HENRIETTA
Mabel Snow!
MABEL
Snow—Snow—well, what was her name, then?
HENRIETTA

Her name is Mary. You substituted your own name for hers.

MABEL

Well, Mary Snow, then; Mary Snow. I never heard her name but once. I don’t see anything to make such a fuss about.

HENRIETTA

(Gently.) Mabel dear—mistakes like that in names—

MABEL

(Desperately.) They don’t mean something, too, do they?

HENRIETTA
(Gently.) I am sorry, dear, but they do.
MABEL
But I am always doing that!
HENRIETTA

(After a start of horror.) My poor little sister, tell me all about it.

MABEL
About what?
HENRIETTA

About your not being happy. About your yearnings for another sort of life.

MABEL
But I don’t.
HENRIETTA

Ah, I understand these things, dear. You feel Bob is limiting you to a life which you do not feel free—

MABEL
Henrietta! When did I ever say such a thing?
HENRIETTA

You said you are not in touch with things intellectual. You showed your feelings that it is Bob’s profession that has engendered a resentment which has colored your whole life with him.

MABEL
Why—Henrietta!
HENRIETTA

Don’t be afraid of me, little sister. There’s nothing can shock me or turn me from you. I am not like that. I wanted you to come for this visit because I had a feeling that you needed more from life than you were getting. No one of these things I have seen would excite my suspicion. It’s the combination. You don’t eat breakfast (Enumerating on her fingers); you make false moves; you substitute your own name for the name of another whose love is misdirected. You’re nervous; you look queer; in your eyes there’s a frightened look that is most unlike you. And this dream. A hen. Come with me this afternoon to Dr. Russell! Your whole life may be at stake, Mabel.

MABEL

(Gasping.) Henrietta, I—you—you always were the smartest in the family, and all that, but—this is terrible! I don’t think we ought to think such things, and— (Brightening.) Why, I’ll tell you why I dreamed I was a hen. It was because last night, telling about that time in Chicago, you said I was as mad as a wet hen.

HENRIETTA
(Superior.) Did you dream you were a wet hen?
MABEL
(Forced to admit it.) No.
HENRIETTA

No. You dreamed you were a dry hen. And why, being a hen, were you urged to step?

MABEL

Maybe it’s because when I am getting on a streetcar, it always irritates me to have them call “Step lively.”

HENRIETTA

No, Mabel, that is only a child’s view of it—if you will forgive me. You see merely the elements used in the dream. You do not see into the dream; you do not see its meaning. This dream of the hen—!

STEVE

Hen—hen—wet hen—dry hen—mad hen! (Jumps up in a rage.) Let me out of this!

HENRIETTA

(Hastily picking up dishes, speaks soothingly.) Just a minute, dear, and we’ll have things so you can work in quiet. Mabel and I are going to sit in my room. (She goes out left, with both hands full of dishes.)

STEVE

(Seizing hat and coat from an alcove near the outside door.) I’m going to be psychoanalyzed. I’m going now! I’m going straight to that infallible doctor of hers—that priest of this new religion. If he’s got honesty enough to tell Henrietta there’s nothing the matter with my unconscious mind, perhaps I can be let alone about it, and then I will be all right. (From the door in a low voice.) Don’t tell Henrietta I’m going. It might take weeks, and I couldn’t stand all the talk. (He hurries out.)

HENRIETTA

(Returning.) Where’s Steve? Gone? (With a hopeless gesture.) You see how impatient he is!—how unlike himself! I tell you, Mabel, I am nearly distracted about Steve.

MABEL
I think he’s a little distracted, too.
HENRIETTA

Well, if he’s gone—you might as well stay in this room. I have a committee meeting at the bookshop, and will have to leave you to yourself for an hour or two. (As she puts her hat on, taking it from the alcove where Steve found his, her eye, lighting up almost carnivorously, falls on an enormous volume on the floor beside the work table. The book has been half hidden by the wastebasket. She picks it up and carries it around the table toward Mabel.) Here, dear, this is one of the simplest statements of psychoanalysis. You read it and then we can talk more intelligently. (Mabel takes volume and staggers back under its weight to chair rear center, Henrietta goes to outer door, stops and asks abruptly) How old is Lyman Eggleston?

MABEL

(Promptly.) He isn’t forty yet. Why, what made you ask that, Henrietta? (As she turns her head to look at Henrietta her hands move toward the upper corners of the book balanced on her knees.)

HENRIETTA

Oh, nothing. Au revoir. (She goes out.)

[Mabel stares at the ceiling. The book slides to the floor. She starts; looks at the book, then at the broken plate on the table.

MABEL

The plate! The book! (She lifts her eyes, leans forward elbow on knee, chin on knuckles and plaintively queries) Am I unhappy?

(CURTAIN)

SCENE II

Two weeks later. The stage is as in Scene I, except that the breakfast table has been removed. During the first few minutes the dusk of a winter afternoon deepens. Out of the darkness spring rows of double streetlights almost meeting in the distance. Henrietta is at the psychoanalytical end of Steve’s work-table, surrounded by open books and periodicals, writing. Steve enters briskly.

STEVE
What are you doing, my dear?
HENRIETTA
My paper for the Liberal Club.
STEVE
Your paper on—?
HENRIETTA

On a subject which does not have your sympathy.

STEVE

Oh, I’m not sure I’m wholly out of sympathy with psychoanalysis, Henrietta. You worked it so hard. I couldn’t even take a bath without it’s meaning something.

HENRIETTA

(Loftily.) I talked it because I knew you needed it.

STEVE

You haven’t said much about it these last two weeks. Uh—your faith in it hasn’t weakened any?

HENRIETTA

Weakened? It’s grown stronger with each new thing I’ve come to know. And Mabel. She is with Dr. Russell now. Dr. Russell is wonderful! From what Mabel tells me I believe his analysis is going to prove that I was right. Today I discovered a remarkable confirmation of my theory in the hen-dream.

STEVE
What is your theory?
HENRIETTA

Well, you know about Lyman Eggleston. I’ve wondered about him. I’ve never seen him, but I know he’s less bourgeois than Mabel’s other friends—more intellectual—and (Significantly) she doesn’t see much of him because Bob doesn’t like him.

STEVE
But what’s the confirmation?
HENRIETTA

Today I noticed the first syllable of his name.

STEVE
Ly?
HENRIETTA
No—egg.
STEVE
Egg?
HENRIETTA

(Patiently.) Mabel dreamed she was a hen. (Steve laughs.) You wouldn’t laugh if you knew how important names are in interpreting dreams. Freud is full of just such cases in which a whole hidden complex is revealed by a single significant syllable—like this egg.

STEVE

Doesn’t the traditional relation of hen and egg suggest rather a maternal feeling?

HENRIETTA

There is something maternal in Mabel’s love, of course, but that’s only one element.

STEVE

Well, suppose Mabel hasn’t a suppressed desire to be this gentleman’s mother, but his beloved. What’s to be done about it? What about Bob? Don’t you think it’s going to be a little rough on him?

HENRIETTA

That can’t be helped. Bob, like everyone else, must face the facts of life. If Dr. Russell should arrive independently at this same interpretation, I shall not hesitate to advise Mabel to leave her present husband.

STEVE

Um—hum! (The lights go up on Fifth Avenue. Steve goes to the window and looks out.) How long is it we’ve lived here, Henrietta?

HENRIETTA
Why, this is the third year, Steve.
STEVE

I—we—one would miss this view if one went away, wouldn’t one?

HENRIETTA

How strangely you speak! Oh, Stephen, I wish you’d go to Dr. Russell. Don’t think my fears have abated because I’ve been able to restrain myself. I had to on account of Mabel. But now, dear—won’t you go?

STEVE

I— (He breaks off, turns on the light, then comes and sits beside Henrietta.) How long have we been married, Henrietta?

HENRIETTA

Stephen, I don’t understand you! You must go to Dr. Russell.

STEVE
I have gone.
HENRIETTA
You—what?
STEVE

(Jauntily.) Yes, Henrietta, I’ve been psyched.

HENRIETTA
You went to Dr. Russell?
STEVE
The same.
HENRIETTA
And what did he say?
STEVE

He said—I—I was a little surprised by what he said, Henrietta.

HENRIETTA

(Breathlessly.) Of course—one can so seldom anticipate. But tell me—your dream, Stephen? It means—?

STEVE

It means—I was considerably surprised by what it means.

HENRIETTA
Don’t be so exasperating!
STEVE
It means—you really want to know, Henrietta?
HENRIETTA
Stephen, you’ll drive me mad!
STEVE

He said—of course he may be wrong in what he said.

HENRIETTA
He isn’t wrong. Tell me!
STEVE

He said my dream of the walls receding and leaving me alone in a forest indicates a suppressed desire—

HENRIETTA
Yes—yes!
STEVE
To be freed from—
HENRIETTA
Yes—freed from—?
STEVE
Marriage.
HENRIETTA
(Crumples. Stares.) Marriage!
STEVE
He—he may be mistaken, you know.
HENRIETTA
May be mistaken?
STEVE

I—well, of course, I hadn’t taken any stock in it myself. It was only your great confidence—

HENRIETTA

Stephen, are you telling me that Dr. Russell—Dr. A. E. Russell—told you this? (Steve nods.) Told you you have a suppressed desire to separate from me?

STEVE
That’s what he said.
HENRIETTA
Did he know who you were?
STEVE
Yes.
HENRIETTA
That you were married to me?
STEVE
Yes, he knew that.
HENRIETTA
And he told you to leave me?
STEVE
It seems he must be wrong, Henrietta.
HENRIETTA

(Rising.) And I’ve sent him more patients! (Catches herself and resumes coldly.) What reason did he give for this analysis?

STEVE

He says the confining walls are a symbol of my feeling about marriage and that their fading away is a wish-fulfillment.

HENRIETTA

(Gulping.) Well, is it? Do you want our marriage to end?

STEVE

It was a great surprise to me that I did. You see, I hadn’t known what was in my unconscious mind.

HENRIETTA

(Flaming.) What did you tell Dr. Russell about me to make him think you weren’t happy?

STEVE

I never told him a thing, Henrietta. He got it all from his confounded clever inferences. I I tried to refute them, but he said that was only part of my self-protective lying.

HENRIETTA

And that’s why you were so happy when you came in just now?

STEVE

Why, Henrietta, how can you say such a thing? I was sad. Didn’t I speak sadly of of the view? Didn’t I ask how long we had been married?

HENRIETTA

(Rising.) Stephen Brewster, have you no sense of the seriousness of this? Dr. Russell doesn’t know what our marriage has been. You do. You should have laughed him down. Confined—in life with me? Did you tell him that I believe in freedom?

STEVE

I very emphatically told him that his results were a great surprise to me.

HENRIETTA
But you accepted them.
STEVE

Oh, not at all. I merely couldn’t refute his arguments. I’m not a psychologist. I came home to talk it over with you. You being a disciple of psychoanalysis—

HENRIETTA

If you are going, I wish you would go tonight!

STEVE

Oh, my dear! I—surely I couldn’t do that! Think of my feelings. And my laundry hasn’t come home.

HENRIETTA

I ask you to go tonight. Some women would falter at this, Steve, but I am not such a woman. I leave you free. I do not repudiate psychoanalysis; I say again that it has done great things. It has also made mistakes, of course. But since you accept this analysis (She sits down and pretends to begin work.) I have to finish this paper. I wish you would leave me.

STEVE

(Scratches his head, goes to the inner door.) I’m sorry, Henrietta, about my unconscious mind.

[Alone, Henrietta’s face betrays her outraged state of mind—disconcerted, resentful, trying to pull herself together. She attains an air of bravely bearing an outrageous thing.—The outer door opens and Mabel enters in great excitement.

MABEL

(Breathless.) Henrietta, I’m so glad you’re here. And alone? (Looks toward the inner door.) Are you alone, Henrietta?

HENRIETTA
(With reproving dignity.) Very much so.
MABEL
(Rushing to her.) Henrietta, he’s found it!
HENRIETTA
(Aloof.) Who has found what?
MABEL

Who has found what? Dr. Russell has found my suppressed desire.

HENRIETTA
That is interesting.
MABEL

He finished with me today. He got hold of my complex—in the most amazing way! But, oh, Henrietta—it is so terrible!

HENRIETTA

Do calm yourself, Mabel. Surely there’s no occasion for all this agitation.

MABEL

But there is! And when you think of the lives that are affected—the readjustments that must be made in order to bring the suppressed hell out of me and save me from the insane asylum—

HENRIETTA
The insane asylum!
MABEL

You said that’s where these complexes brought people!

HENRIETTA
What did the doctor tell you, Mabel?
MABEL

Oh, I don’t know how I can tell you—it is so awful—so unbelievable.

HENRIETTA

I rather have my hand in at hearing the unbelievable.

MABEL

Henrietta, who would ever have thought it? How can it be true? But the doctor is perfectly certain that I have a suppressed desire for— (Looks at Henrietta, is unable to continue.)

HENRIETTA

Oh, go on, Mabel. I’m not unprepared for what you have to say.

MABEL

Not unprepared? You mean you have suspected it?

HENRIETTA

From the first. It’s been my theory all along.

MABEL

But, Henrietta, I didn’t know myself that I had this secret desire for Stephen.

HENRIETTA
(Jumps up.) Stephen!
MABEL
My brother-in-law! My own sister’s husband!
HENRIETTA
You have a suppressed desire for Stephen!
MABEL

Oh, Henrietta, aren’t these unconscious selves terrible? They seem so unlike us!

HENRIETTA
What insane thing are you driving at?
MABEL

(Blubbering.) Henrietta, don’t you use that word to me. I don’t want to go to the insane asylum.

HENRIETTA
What did Dr. Russell say?
MABEL

Well, you see—oh, it’s the strangest thing! But you know the voice in my dream that called “Step, Hen!” Dr. Russell found out today that when I was a little girl I had a storybook in words of one syllable and I read the name Stephen wrong. I used to read it S-t-e-p, step, h-e-n, hen. (Dramatically.) Step Hen is Stephen. (Enter Stephen, his head bent over a time-table.) Stephen is Step Hen!

STEVE
I? Step Hen?
MABEL

(Triumphantly.) S-t-e-p, step, H-e-n, hen, Stephen!

HENRIETTA

(Exploding.) Well, what if Stephen is Step Hen? (Scornfully.) Step Hen! Step Hen! For that ridiculous coincidence—

MABEL

Coincidence! But it’s childish to look at the mere elements of a dream. You have to look into it—you have to see what it means!

HENRIETTA

On account of that trivial, meaningless play on syllables—on that flimsy basis—you are ready— (Wails.) O—h!

STEVE

What on earth’s the matter? What has happened? Suppose I am Step Hen? What about it? What does it mean?

MABEL

(Crying.) It means—that I—have a suppressed desire for you!

STEVE

For me! The deuce you have? (Feebly.) What—er—makes you think so?

MABEL
Dr. Russell has worked it out scientifically.
HENRIETTA

Yes. Through the amazing discovery that Step Hen equals Stephen!

MABEL

(Tearfully.) Oh, that isn’t all—that isn’t near all. Henrietta won’t give me a chance to tell it. She’d rather I’d go to the insane asylum than be unconventional.

HENRIETTA

We’ll all go there if you can’t control yourself. We are still waiting for some rational report.

MABEL

(Drying her eyes.) Oh, there’s such a lot about names. (With some pride.) I don’t see how I ever did it. It all works in together. I dreamed I was a hen because that’s the first syllable of Henrietta’s name; and when I dreamed I was a hen, I was putting myself in Henrietta’s place.

HENRIETTA
With Stephen?
MABEL
With Stephen.
HENRIETTA

(Outraged.) Oh! (Turns in rage upon Stephen, who is fanning himself with the time-table.) What are you doing with that time-table?

STEVE

Why—I thought—you were so keen to have me go tonight—I thought I’d just take a run up to Canada, and join Billy—a little shooting—but—

MABEL
But there’s more about the names.
HENRIETTA

Mabel, have you thought of Bob—dear old Bob—your good, kind husband?

MABEL
Oh, Henrietta, “my good, kind husband!”
HENRIETTA

Think of him, Mabel, out there alone in Chicago, working his head off, fixing people’s teeth—for you!

MABEL

Yes, but think of the living Libido—in conflict with petrified moral codes! And think of the perfectly wonderful way the names all prove it. Dr. Russell said he’s never seen anything more convincing. Just look at Stephen’s last name—Brewster. I dream I’m a hen, the name Brewster—you have to say its first letter by itself—and then the hen, that’s me, she says to him : “Stephen, Be Rooster!”

[Henrietta and Stephen collapse into the nearest chairs.

MABEL

I think it’s perfectly wonderful! Why, if it wasn’t for psychoanalysis you’d never find out how wonderful your own mind is!

STEVE

(Begins to chuckle.) Be Rooster, Stephen, Be Rooster!

HENRIETTA
You think it’s funny, do you?
STEVE

Well, what’s to be done about it? Does Mabel have to go away with me?

HENRIETTA
Do you want Mabel to go away with you?
STEVE

Well, but Mabel herself—her complex—her suppressed desire—!

HENRIETTA

(Going to her.) Mabel, are you going to insist on going away with Stephen?

MABEL

I’d rather go with Stephen than go to the insane asylum!

HENRIETTA

For heaven’s sake, Mabel, drop that insane asylum! If you did have a suppressed desire for Stephen hidden away in you—God knows it isn’t hidden now. Dr. Russell has brought it into your consciousness—with a vengeance. That’s all that’s necessary to break up a complex. Psychoanalysis doesn’t say you have to gratify every suppressed desire.

STEVE
(Softly.) Unless it’s for Lyman Eggleston.
HENRIETTA

(Turning on him.) Well, if it comes to that, Stephen Brewster, I’d like to know why that interpretation of mine isn’t as good as this one? Step, Hen!

STEVE

But Be Rooster! (He pauses, chuckling to himself.) Step-Hen B-rooster. And Henrietta. Pshaw, my dear, Doc Russell’s got you beat a mile! (He turns away and chuckles.) Be rooster!

MABEL
What has Lyman Eggleston got to do with it?
STEVE

According to Henrietta, you, the hen, have a suppressed desire for Eggleston, the egg.

MABEL

Henrietta, I think that’s indecent of you! He is bald as an egg and little and fat—the idea of you thinking such a thing of me!

HENRIETTA

Well, Bob isn’t little and bald and fat! Why don’t you stick to your own husband? (To Stephen) What if Dr. Russell’s interpretation has got mine “beat a mile?” (Resentful look at him.) It would only mean that Mabel doesn’t want Eggleston and does want you. Does that mean she has to have you?

MABEL
But you said Mabel Snow—
HENRIETTA

Mary Snow! You’re not as much like her as you think—substituting your name for hers! The cases are entirely different. Oh, I wouldn’t have believed this of you, Mabel. (Beginning to cry.) I brought you here for a pleasant visit—thought you needed brightening up—wanted to be nice to you—and now you—my husband—you insist— (In fumbling her way to her chair she brushes to the floor some sheets from the psychoanalytical table.)

STEVE

(With solicitude.) Careful, dear. Your paper on psychoanalysis! (Gathers up sheets and offers them to her.)

HENRIETTA

I don’t want my paper on psychoanalysis! I’m sick of psychoanalysis!

STEVE
(Eagerly.) Do you mean that, Henrietta?
HENRIETTA

Why, shouldn’t I mean it? Look at all I’ve done for psychoanalysis—and— (Raising a tear-stained face.) what has psychoanalysis done for me?

STEVE

Do you mean, Henrietta, that you’re going to stop talking psychoanalysis?

HENRIETTA

Why shouldn’t I stop talking it? Haven’t I seen what it does to people? Mabel has gone crazy about psychoanalysis!

[At the word “crazy,” with a moan, Mabel sinks to chair and buries her face in her hands.

STEVE

(Solemnly.) Do you swear never to wake me up in the night to find out what I’m dreaming?

HENRIETTA

Dream what you please—I don’t care what you’re dreaming.

STEVE

Will you clear off my work-table so the Journal of Morbid Psychology doesn’t stare me in the face when I’m trying to plan a house?

HENRIETTA

(Pushing a stack of periodicals off the table.) I’ll burn the Journal of Morbid Psychology!

STEVE

My dear Henrietta, if you’re going to separate from psychoanalysis, there’s no reason why I should separate from you.

[They embrace ardently. Mabel lifts her head and looks at them woefully.

MABEL

(Jumping up and going toward them.) But what about me? What am I to do with my suppressed desire?

STEVE

(With one arm still around Henrietta, gives Mabel a brotherly hug.) Mabel, you just keep right on suppressing it!

CURTAIN

The People

A PLAY IN ONE ACT

First performed by the Provincetown Players
New York, 9 March, 1917.

CHARACTERS

EDWARD WILLS,  Editor of “The People”

OSCAR TRIPP,  Associate Editor

THE ARTIST

SARA

TOM HOWE,  printer

THE WOMAN from Idaho

THE BOY from Georgia

THE MAN from the Cape

THE EARNEST APPROACH

THE LIGHT TOUCH

THE FIREBRAND

THE PHILOSOPHER

SCENE:  The office of “The People,” a morning in March, 1917. There is little furniture—a long table strewn with manuscripts and papers, a desk. On the walls are revolutionary posters; wads of paper are thrown about on the floor—the office of a publication which is radical and poor. This is an inner office; at the rear is the door into the outer one.

Oscar is seated at the table writing. Tom, a printer who loves the cause—or the crowd—almost enough to print for it, comes from the other room, a galley-proof in his hand.

TOM
Why are you writing?
OSCAR
(Jauntily.) Because I am a writer.
TOM

But I thought you said there wasn’t going to be another issue of The People.

OSCAR

(With dignity.) I am writing.

TOM

There’s a woman here with a suitcase.

OSCAR

What’s in it?

TOM

She wants to see the Editor.

OSCAR

(After writing.) All right.

[Tom goes out and a moment later the woman appears. She is middle aged, wears plain clothes not in fashion. Her manner is a little shrinking and yet as she stands in the doorway looking about the bare room, her face is the face of one who has come a long way and reached a wonderful place.

THE WOMAN
This is the office of The People?
OSCAR
Um—hum.
THE WOMAN

(In a bated way.) I came to see the author of those wonderful words.

OSCAR
(Rising.) Which wonderful words?
THE WOMAN
About moving toward the beautiful distances.
OSCAR

Oh. Those are Mr. Wills’ wonderful words. (Begins to write as one who has lost interest.)

THE WOMAN
Could I see him?
OSCAR

He isn’t here yet. He’s just back from California. Won’t be at the office till a little later.

THE WOMAN

(With excitement.) He has been to California? He has just ridden across this country?

OSCAR

Yes. Long trip. He was very cross over the phone.

THE WOMAN
Oh—no. I think you’re mistaken.
OSCAR
Anything you care to see me about?
THE WOMAN

(After considering.) I could see him a little later, couldn’t I?

OSCAR

Yes, if its important. Of course he’ll be very busy.

THE WOMAN

It is important. At least—yes, it is important.

OSCAR
Very well then—later in the morning.
THE WOMAN

(Thinking aloud.) I will stand down on the street and watch the people go by.

OSCAR
What?
THE WOMAN

The people. It’s so wonderful to see them—so many of them. Don’t you often just stand and watch them?

OSCAR

No, madam, not often. I am too busy editing a magazine about them.

THE WOMAN

Of course you are busy. You help edit this magazine? (Looks about at the posters.)

OSCAR
I am associate editor of The People.
THE WOMAN

That’s a great thing for you—and you so young. Does Mr. Wills write in this room?

OSCAR
That is his desk.
THE WOMAN

(Looking at the desk.) It must be a wonderful thing for you to write in the same room with him.

OSCAR

Well, I don’t know; perhaps it is a wonderful thing for him to—I am Oscar Tripp, the poet.

THE WOMAN

(Wistfully.) It would be beautiful to be a poet. (Pause.) I will come back later. (Picks up suitcase.)

OSCAR

Just leave that if you aren’t going to be using it in the meantime.

THE WOMAN

(Putting it down near the door.) Oh, thank you. I see you are a kind young man.

OSCAR
That is not the general opinion.
THE WOMAN

I wonder why it is that the general opinion is so often wrong? (Stands considering it for a moment, then goes out.)

OSCAR

I don’t quite understand that woman.

[Tom comes back.

TOM

If this paper can’t go on, I ought to know it. I could get a job on the Evening World. (Oscar continues writing.) Can it go on?

OSCAR

I don’t see how it can, but many a time I haven’t seen how it could—and it did. Doubtless it will go on, and will see days so much worse than these that we will say, “Ah, the good old days of March, 1917.”

TOM
But can it pay salaries?
OSCAR

(Shocked.) Oh, no, I think not; but we must work because we love our work.

TOM
We must eat because we love our food.
OSCAR

You’ll know soon. There’s to be a meeting here this morning.

[Enter Sara. Tom goes into the other room. Sara has the appearance of a young business woman and the simple direct manner of a woman who is ready to work for a thing she believes in.

SARA
Ed not here yet?
OSCAR
No.
SARA
Did he get any money?
OSCAR

Doesn’t look like it. He was snappish over the phone. Guess he’s for giving it up this time.

SARA

I don’t want to give it up. (She takes a seat at the table where Oscar is writing and unfolds a manuscript she has brought with her.)

OSCAR

Well, it’s not what we want, it’s what people want, and there aren’t enough of them who want us.

SARA
The fault must lie with us.
OSCAR

I don’t think so. The fault lies with the failure to—

[The Artist has entered.

ARTIST

I’ll tell you where the fault lies. We should give more space to pictures and less to stupid reading matter.

OSCAR

We have given too much expensive white paper to pictures and too little to reading matter—especially to poetry. That’s where the fault lies.

[Enter Edward Wills, editor.

ED

I’ll tell you where the fault lies. (Points first to The Artist, then to Oscar.) Here! Just this! Everybody plugging for his own thing. Nobody caring enough about the thing as a whole.

OSCAR

(Rising.) I’ll tell you where the fault lies. (Points to Ed) Here! This. The Editor-in-chief returning from a long trip and the first golden words that fall from his lips—words of censure for his faithful subordinates.

SARA
How are you, Ed?
ED

Rotten. I hate sleeping cars. I always catch cold.

SARA

Any luck?

ED

(His hand around his ear.) What’s the word?

[Enter The Earnest Approach.

EARNEST APPROACH

I have heard that you may have to discontinue.

ED

(Sitting down at his desk, beginning to look through his mail.) It seems we might as well.

EARNEST APPROACH

Now just let me tell you what the trouble has been and how you can remedy it. The People has been afraid of being serious. But you deal with ideas, and you must do it soberly. There is a place for a good earnest journal of protest, but all this levity—this fooling—

[Enter The Light Touch.

LIGHT TOUCH

Came in to see you, Ed, to say I hope the news I’m hearing isn’t true.

ED
If it’s bad, it’s true.
LIGHT TOUCH

Well, it’s an awful pity, but you’ve been too damn serious. A lighter touch—that’s what The People needs. You’re as heavy as mud. Try it awhile longer along frivolous lines. I was in the building and just ran in to let you have my idea of what’s the matter with you.

OSCAR

If we had as many subscribers as we have people to tell us what’s the matter with us—

[Enter Philosopher and Firebrand, Tom follows them in, a page of manuscript in his hand.

ED

Now the Philosopher and the Firebrand will tell us what’s the matter with us.

FIREBRAND

Too damn bourgeois! You should print on the cover of every issue—“To hell with the bourgeoisie!” Pigs!

PHILOSOPHER

The trouble with this paper is efficiency.

[This is too much for all of them. The Printer falls back against the wall, then staggers from the room.

ED

Dear God! There are things, it seems to me, I can not bear.

PHILOSOPHER

It should be more carelessly done, and then it would be more perfectly done. You should be less definite, and you would have more definiteness. You should not know what it is you want, and then you would find what you are after.

OSCAR

You talk as if we had not been a success. But just last night I heard of a woman in Bronxville who keeps The People under her bed so her husband won’t know she’s reading it.

FIREBRAND

If you had been a success you would have fired that woman with so great a courage that she would proudly prop The People on the pillow!

ARTIST

(Who is sketching The Firebrand.) It was my pictures got us under the bed.

OSCAR

(Haughtily.) I was definitely told it was my last “Talk with God” put us under the bed.

FIREBRAND

Can you not see that she puts you under the bed because you yourselves have made concessions to the bourgeoisie? Cows! Geese!

ARTIST

It must be more frivolous!

OSCAR

It must print more poetry.

[They glare at one another.

EARNEST APPROACH

It should be more serious.

LIGHT TOUCH

It must be more frivolous!

[Enter The Boy from Georgia—dressed like a freshman with a good allowance.

THE BOY
Is this the office of The People?
OSCAR
No, this is a lunatic asylum.
THE BOY

(After a bewildered moment.) Oh, you’re joking. You know (Confidentially), I wondered about that—whether you would joke here. I thought you would. (Stepping forward.) I came to see the Editor—I want to tell him—

ED

So many people are telling me so many things, could you tell yours a little later?

THE BOY

Oh, yes. Of course there must be many important things people have to tell you.

ED

Well—many.

[The Boy goes out—reluctantly.

ARTIST

(Who has all the time been glaring at Oscar.) Speaking for the artists, I want to say right now—

OSCAR

Speaking for the writers, I wish to say before we go further—

EARNEST APPROACH
A more serious approach—
LIGHT TOUCH
A lighter touch—
FIREBRAND
Speaking for myself—
PHILOSOPHER
Speaking for the truth—

[Phone rings, Oscar answers. Enter The Man from the Cape—slow, heavy.

ED

You have come to tell us something about this paper?

THE MAN
Yes.
ED

There are a number ahead of you. Will you wait your turn? (A look of disappointment.) I’ll be glad to see you as soon as I can. There in the outside office?

[A moment The Man stands there, a mute ponderous figure, then very slowly goes out.

OSCAR

(Hanging up receiver.) Moritz Paper Company. Bill got to be paid today. And here— (Takes from his drawer a huge packet of bills.)

EARNEST APPROACH

You could pay your bills if you were not afraid to be serious!

LIGHT TOUCH

You could pay your bills if you were not afraid to be gay!

EARNEST APPROACH

(From the door, solemnly.) A more earnest approach would save The People.

LIGHT TOUCH

A lighter touch would turn the trick! (With that, they leave.)

FIREBRAND

(Going over and pounding on The Editor’s desk.) To hell with the bourgeoisie! Apes!

PHILOSOPHER
Efficiency has put out the spark.
ED

Well, as long as the spark appears to be good and out, may I, in the name of efficiency, ask you who do not belong here to retire, that we may go ahead with our work?

PHILOSOPHER

There would be greater efficiency in our remaining. There would be form. You have lacked form.

FIREBRAND
You have lacked courage! Donkeys!
ED

It would be illuminating, Leo, to hear you run through the animal kingdom—toads, crocodiles, a number of things you haven’t mentioned yet, but the animal kingdom is large—and we have work to do.

PHILOSOPHER

You lack form in your work. By form I do not mean what you think I mean. I mean that particular significance of the insignificant which is the fundamental—

ED
We couldn’t understand it. Why tell us?
PHILOSOPHER

No. You couldn’t understand it. (He leaves them to their fate.)

FIREBRAND

Rest in peace. (Gesture of benediction. Then hissingly.) Centipedes! (He goes—leaving a laugh behind him.)

ED
What’s the matter with us is our friends.
SARA

(Quietly.) Well, to be or not to be. I guess it’s up to you, Ed.

ED

Just what would we be going on for? To make a few more people like the dear ones who have just left us? Seems to me we could best serve society by not doing that. Precisely what do we do?—aside from getting under the bed in Bronxville. Now and then something particularly rotten is put over and we have a story that gets a rise out of a few people, but—we don’t change anything.

SARA

We had another hope. We were going to express ourselves so simply and so truly that we would be expressing the people.

ED

(Wearily.) The People. I looked at them all the way across this continent. Oh, I got so tired looking at them—on farms, in towns, in cities. They’re like toys that you wind up and they’ll run awhile. They don’t want to be expressed. It would topple them over. The longer I looked, the more ridiculous it seemed to me that we should be giving our lives to— (Picks up the magazine and reads.) The People—“A Journal of the Social Revolution.” Certainly we’d better cut the subtitle. The social revolution is dead.

OSCAR

You don’t think you are bringing back any news, do you, Ed?

ARTIST

(Taking up magazine.) Instead of a subtitle we could have a design. Much better. (Glares at Oscar, then begins to draw.)

SARA

This is a long way from what you felt a year ago, Ed. You had, vision then.

ED

You can’t keep vision in this office. It’s easy enough to have a beautiful feeling about the human race when none of it is around. The trouble about doing anything for your fellow—man is that you have to do it with a few of them. Oh, of course that isn’t fair. We care. I’ll say that for us. Even Oscar cares, or he wouldn’t work the way he has. But what does our caring come to? It doesn’t connect up with anything, and God knows it doesn’t seem to be making anything very beautiful of us. There’s something rather pathetic about us.

OSCAR
Or is it merely ridiculous?
SARA

Let me read you something, Ed. (She takes The People and reads very simply.) “We are living now. We shall not be living long. No one can tell us we shall live again. This is our little while. This is our chance. And we take it like a child who comes from a dark room to which he must return—comes for one sunny afternoon to a lovely hillside, and finding a hole, crawls in there till after the sun is set. I want that child to know the sun is shining upon flowers in the grass. I want him to know it before he has to go back to the room that is dark. I wish I had pipes to call him to the hilltop of beautiful distances. I myself could see farther if he were seeing at all. Perhaps I can tell you: you who have dreamed and dreaming know, and knowing care. Move! Move from the things that hold you. If you move, others will move. Come! Now. Before the sun goes down.” (Very quietly.) You wrote that, Ed.

ED

Yes, I wrote it; and do you want to know why I wrote it? I wrote it because I was sore at Oscar and wanted to write something to make him feel ashamed of himself.

[While Sara is reading, The Woman has appeared at the door, has moved a few steps into the room as if drawn by the words she is hearing. Behind her are seen The Boy from Georgia, The Man from the Cape.

THE WOMAN.

(Moving forward.) I don’t believe that’s true! I don’t believe that’s true! Maybe you think that’s why you wrote it, but it’s not the reason. You wrote it because it’s the living truth, and it moved in you and you had to say it.

ED
(Rising.) Who are you?
THE WOMAN

I am one of the people. I have lived a long way off. I heard that call and—I had to come.

THE BOY

(Blithely.) I’ve come too. I’m from Georgia. I read it, and I didn’t want to stay at school any longer. I said, “I want something different and bigger—something more like this.” I heard about your not being able to sell your paper on the newsstands just because lots of people don’t want anything different and bigger, and I said to myself, “I’ll sell the paper! I’ll go and sell it on the streets!” And I got so excited about it that I didn’t even wait for the dance. There was a dance that night, and I had my girl too.

THE WOMAN
He didn’t even wait for the dance.
OSCAR

The idealists are calling upon the intellectuals, and “calling” them.

ED

(To The Man.) And what did you leave, my friend?

THE MAN

(Heavily.) My oyster bed. I’m from the Cape. I had a chance to go in on an oyster bed. I read what you wrote—a woman who had stopped in an automobile left it, and I said to myself, “I’m nothing but an oyster myself. Guess I’ll come to life.”

ED
But—what did you come here for?
THE MAN
Well—for the rest of it.
ED
The rest of what?
THE MAN
The rest of what you’ve got.
THE BOY

Yes—that’s it; we’ve come for the rest of what you’ve got.

OSCAR
This is awkward for Ed.
THE WOMAN
Give it to us.
ED
What?
THE WOMAN
The rest of it.
ED

(An instant’s pause.) I haven’t got anything more to give.

THE BOY

But you made us think you had. You led us to believe you had.

THE WOMAN

And you have. If you hadn’t more to give, you couldn’t have given that.

OSCAR
Very awkward.
THE WOMAN

You said—“I call to you. You who have dreamed, and dreaming know, and knowing, care.” Well, three of us are here. From the South and the East and the West we’ve come because you made us want something we didn’t have, made us want it so much we had to move the way we thought was toward it—before the sun goes down.

THE BOY

We thought people here had life—something different and bigger.

OSCAR
Perhaps we’d better go. Poor Ed.
ED
I wish you’d shut up, Oscar.
THE WOMAN
I know you will give it to us.
ED
Give what to you?
THE WOMAN

What you have for the people. (Oscar coughs.) What you made us know we need.

OSCAR

You shouldn’t have called personally. You should have sent in your needs by mail.

ED
Oscar, try and act as if you had a soul.
THE WOMAN

I think he really has. (A look at Oscar—then, warmly) At least he has a heart. It’s only that he feels he must be witty. But you—you’re not going to let us just go away again, are you? He gave up his oyster bed, and this boy didn’t even wait for the dance, and me—I gave up my tombstone.

ED
Your—?
THE WOMAN

Yes—tombstone. It had always been a saying in our family—“He won’t even have a stone to mark his grave.” They said it so much that I thought it meant something. I sew—plain sewing, but I’ve often said to myself—“Well, at least I’ll have a stone to mark my grave.” And then, there was a man who had been making speeches to the miners—I live in a town in Idaho—and he had your magazine, and he left it in the store, and the storekeeper said to me, when I went there for thread—“Here, you like to read. Don’t you want this? I wish you’d take it away, because if some folks in this town see it, they’ll think I’m not all I should be.” He meant the cover.

ARTIST
(Brightening.) That was my cover.
THE WOMAN

(After a smile at The Artist.) So I took it home, and when my work was done that night, I read your wonderful words. They’re like a spring—if you’ve lived in a dry country, you’ll know what I mean. And they made me know that my tombstone was as dead as—well, (With a little laugh.) as dead as a tombstone. So I had to have something to take its place.

SARA

(Rising and going to The Woman.) Talk to him. Tell him about it. Come, Oscar!

THE BOY

As long as there seems to be so much uncertainty about this, perhaps I’d better telegraph father. You see, the folks don’t know where I am. I just came.

THE WOMAN
He didn’t even stay for the dance.
THE BOY

I’ll be glad to sell the papers. (Seeing a pile of them on the table.) Here, shall I take these?—and I’ll stop people on the street and tell why I’m selling them.

OSCAR
No, you can’t do that. You’d be arrested.
THE WOMAN

Let him sell them. What’s the difference about the law, if you have the right idea?

OSCAR

The right idea has given us trouble enough already.

THE MAN
There’s something sure about an oyster bed.
OSCAR

You come with me and have a drink. Something sure about that too.

THE WOMAN
He could have had a drink at home.
SARA

(To Artist.) Coming, Joe? (To The Boy.) It was corking of you to want to help us. We must talk about—

[All go out except The Woman and The Editor. A Pause.

THE WOMAN
I am sorry for you.
ED
Why?
THE WOMAN

(Feeling her way and sadly.) Because you have the brain to say those things, and not the spirit to believe them. I couldn’t say them, and yet I’ve got something you haven’t got. (With more sureness.) Because I know the thing you said was true.

ED
Will you sit down?
THE WOMAN

No—I’ll go. (Stands there uncertainly.) I don’t know why I should be disappointed. I suppose it’s not fair to ask you to be as big as the truth you saw. Why should I expect you would be?

ED

I’m sorry. I suppose now you’ll regret your tombstone.

THE WOMAN

No—it was wonderful to ride across this country and see all the people. The train moving along seemed to make something move in me. I had thoughts not like any thoughts I’d ever had before—your words like a spring breaking through the dry country of my mind. I thought of how you call your paper “A Journal of The Social Revolution,” and I said to myself—This is the Social Revolution! Knowing that your tombstone doesn’t matter! Seeing—that’s the Social Revolution.

ED
Seeing—?
THE WOMAN

(As if it is passing before her.) A plain, dark trees off at the edge, against the trees a little house and a big barn. A flat piece of land fenced in. Stubble, furrows. Horses waiting to get in at the barn; cows standing around a pump. A tile yard, a water tank, one straight street of a little town. The country so still it seems dead. The trees like—hopes that have been given up. The grave yards—on hills—they come so fast. I noticed them first because of my tombstone, but I got to thinking about the people—the people who spent their whole lives right near the places where they are now. There’s something in the thought of them—like the cows standing around the pump. So still, so patient, it—kind of hurts. And their pleasures:—a flat field fenced in. Your great words carried me to other great words. I thought of Lincoln, and what he said of a few of the dead. I said it over and over. I said things and didn’t know the meaning of them ’till after I had said them. I said—“The truth—the truth—the truth that opens from our lives as water opens from the rocks.” Then I knew what that truth was. (Pause, with an intensity peculiarly simple.) “Let us here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain.” I mean—all of them. (A gesture, wide, loving.) Let life become what it may become!—so beautiful that everything that is back of us is worth everything it cost.

[Enter Tom.

TOM

I’ve got— (Feeling something unusual.) Sorry to butt in, but I can still get that job on The Evening World. If this paper is going to stop, I’ve got to know it.

ED
Stop! This paper can’t stop!
TOM

Can’t stop! Last I heard, it couldn’t do anything else.

ED
That was—long ago.
TOM
Oh—you’ve got something to go on with?
ED
Yes, something to go on with.
TOM

I see. (Looks at woman, as if he doesn’t see, glances at her suitcase.) I’m glad. But—I’ve got to be sure. This—is the truth?

ED

The truth. The truth that opens from our lives as water opens from the rocks.

[Tom backs up.

THE WOMAN

(Turning a shining face to The Printer) Nobody really needs a tombstone!

CURTAIN

Close the Book

A COMEDY IN ONE ACT

First performed by the Provincetown Players,
New York, 2 November, 1917.

CHARACTERS

JHANSI,  Peyton’s fiancée, a self-proclaimed free spirit

PEYTON ROOT,  an instructor in the University

MRS. ROOT,  Peyton’s mother

MRS. PEYTON,  his grandmother

BESSIE ROOT,  his sister

UNCLE GEORGE PEYTON,  President of the Board of Regents

STATE SENATOR BYRD

MRS. STATE SENATOR BYRD

PLACE—A University Town

TIME—Today

SCENE:  The library in the Root home, the library of middle-western people who are an important family in their community, a university town, and who think of themselves as people of culture. It is a room which shows pride of family: on the rear wall are two large family portraits—one a Revolutionary soldier, the other a man of a later period. On the low bookcases, to both sides of door rear, and on the mantel, right, are miniatures and other old pictures. There is old furniture—mahogany recently done over: an easy chair near the fireplace, a divan left. A Winged Victory presides over one of the bookcases, a Burne-Jones is hung. It is a warmly lighted, cheerful room—books and flowers about. At the rear is a door opening on the hall, at the left a door into another room. There is a corner window at the right.

Jhansi and Peyton are seated on the divan. Mrs. Root is just going into the hall. She seems perturbed. Jhansi is dressed as a nonconformist, giving the effect of being a gypsy, but attractively. Peyton is a rather helpless young man, with a sense of humor that is itself rather helpless, dry, a little awkward, yet whimsical.

MRS. ROOT

I’ll see, Peyton, if your grandmother isn’t ready to come down. (She leaves them.)

JHANSI

(Springing up.) It’s absurd that I should be here!

PEYTON

I know, Jhansi, but just this once—as long as it means so much to mother, and doesn’t really hurt us.

JHANSI

But it does hurt me, Peyton. These walls stifle me. You come of people who have been walled in all their lives. It doesn’t cage you. But me—I am a gypsy! Sometimes I feel them right behind me—all those wanderers, people who were never caught; feel them behind me pushing me away from all this!

PEYTON

But not pushing you away from me, dear. You love me, Jhansi, in spite of my family?

JHANSI

If I didn’t love you, do you think I could endure to come to this dreadful place? (A look about the comfortable room.) —and meet these dreadful people? Forgive me for alluding to your home and family, Peyton, but I must not lose my honesty, you know.

PEYTON

No, dear; I don’t think you are losing it. And perhaps I’d better not lose mine either. There’s one thing I haven’t mentioned yet. (Hesitates.) Mr. Peyton is coming to dinner tonight.

JHANSI
Mr. Peyton. What Peyton?
PEYTON
Yes—that one.
JHANSI

And you ask me—standing for the things I do in this university—to sit down to dinner with the president of the board of regents!

PEYTON
Mother’d asked him before I knew it.
JHANSI
(With scorn.) Your uncle!
PEYTON

He’s not my uncle—he’s mother’s. And you see it’s partly on account of grandmother just getting back from California. He’s grandmother’s brother-in-law, you know. I suppose she doesn’t realize what it means to have to sit down to dinner with him—she’s done it so much. And then mother thought it would be nice for you to meet him.

JHANSI
Nice!
PEYTON
He’s pleasant at dinner.
JHANSI
Pleasant!
PEYTON

Mother’s a little worried about my position in the university.

JHANSI

It would be wonderful for you to lose your position in the university.

PEYTON
Yes—wonderful.
JHANSI
And then you and I could walk forth free!
PEYTON
Free—but broke.
JHANSI

Peyton, you disappoint me. Just the fact that that man is coming to dinner changes you.

PEYTON

Oh, no. But you are fortunately situated, Jhansi, having no people. It’s easier to be free when there’s nobody who minds.

JHANSI
I am going!
PEYTON

Oh, come now, dearest, you can’t go when you’re expected for dinner. Nobody’s that free.

JHANSI

Dinner! A dinner to celebrate our engagement! It’s humiliating, Peyton. I should take you by the hand and you and I should walk together down the open road.

PEYTON
We will, Jhansi; we will—in time.
JHANSI
We should go now.
PEYTON
Think so? Mother’s going to have turkey.
JHANSI
Better a dinner of berries and nuts—!
PEYTON

We’ll have berries—cranberries, and nuts, too.

JHANSI
Where is my coat?
PEYTON

(Seizing her and kissing her.) Someday, serene and unhampered, we’ll take to the open road—a road with berries and nuts.

[Grandmother Peyton and Mrs. Root are at the door.

MRS. ROOT

Mother, this is Peyton’s friend Miss Mason. One of our important students.

GRANDMOTHER

(In her brittle way.) Yes? I never was a very important student myself. I didn’t like to study. Because my family were professors, I suppose.

MRS. ROOT

Peyton’s grandmother is a descendant of Gustave Phelps—one of the famous teachers of pioneer days.

JHANSI

(Her head going up.) I am a descendant of people who never taught anybody anything!

PEYTON

Jhansi and I were just going to finish an article on Free Speech which must get to the Torch this evening.

GRANDMOTHER

(Moving toward the big chair near the fire.) Free Speech? How amusing.

PEYTON

You may be less amused someday, grandmother.

[Jhansi and Peyton go into the other room.

GRANDMOTHER

That may be a free speech. I wouldn’t call it a pleasant one.

MRS. ROOT

(Sinking to the divan.) Oh, he was speaking of the open road again—berries and nuts—!

GRANDMOTHER

(Beginning to knit.) Berries and nuts? Well, it sounds quite innocuous to me. Some of our young people are less simple in their tastes.

MRS. ROOT

(In great distress.) Mother, how would you like to see your grandson become a gypsy?

GRANDMOTHER
Peyton a gypsy? You mean in a carnival?
MRS. ROOT
No, not in a carnival! In life.
GRANDMOTHER
But he isn’t dark enough.
MRS. ROOT

And is that the only thing against it! I had thought you would be a help to me, mother.

GRANDMOTHER

Well, my dear Clara, I have no doubt I will be a help to you—in time. This idea of Peyton becoming a gypsy is too startling for me to be a help instantly. In the first place, could he be? You can’t be anything you take it into your head to be—even if it is undesirable. And then, why should he be? Doesn’t he still teach English right here in the university?

MRS. ROOT

I don’t know how much longer he’ll teach it. He said the other day that American literature was a toddy with the stick left out. Saying that of the very thing he’s paid to teach! It got in the papers and was denounced in an editorial on “Untrue Americans.” Peyton—a descendant of John Peyton of Valley Forge! (Indicates the Revolutionary portrait.) —denounced in an article on Untrue Americans! And in one of those awful columns—those silly columns—they said maybe the stick hadn’t been left out of his toddy. But it isn’t that. Peyton doesn’t drink—to speak of. It’s this girl. She’s the stick. And I tell you people don’t like it, mother. It’s not what we pay our professors for. Peyton used to be perfectly satisfied with civilization. But now he talks about society. Makes light remarks.

GRANDMOTHER

I should say that was going out of his way to be disagreeable. What business has a professor of English to say anything about society? It’s not in his department.

MRS. ROOT
I told Peyton he should be more systematic.
GRANDMOTHER
How did this gypsy get here?
MRS. ROOT

She was brought up by a family named Mason. But it seems she was a gypsy child, who got lost or something, and those Masons took her in. I’m sure it was very good of them, and it’s too bad they weren’t able to make her more of a Christian. She is coming to have a following in the university! There are people who seem to think that because you’re outside society you have some superior information about it.

GRANDMOTHER

Well, don’t you think you’re needlessly disturbed? In my day, a young man would be likely enough to fall in love with a good—looking gypsy, not very likely to marry her.

MRS. ROOT

Times have changed, mother. They marry them now. (Both sigh.) Of course, it’s very commendable of them.

GRANDMOTHER
(Grimly.) Oh, quite—commendable.
MRS. ROOT

I was brought up in university circles. I’m interested in ideas. But sometimes I think there are too many ideas.

GRANDMOTHER

An embarrassment of riches. So you have set out to civilize the young woman?

MRS. ROOT

I’d rather have her sit at my table than have my son leave some morning in a covered wagon!

GRANDMOTHER

I wonder how it is about gypsies. About the children. I wonder if it’s as it is with the negroes.

MRS. ROOT
Mother!
GRANDMOTHER

It would be startling, wouldn’t it?—if one of them should turn out to be a real gypsy and take to this open road.

MRS. ROOT
(Covering her face.) Oh!
GRANDMOTHER
Quite likely they’d do it by motor.
MRS. ROOT

(Rising.) Mother!—how can you say such dreadful things—and just when I have this trying dinner. Oh, I wish Bessie would come! (Goes to the window.) She is a comfort to me.

GRANDMOTHER
Where is Bessie?
MRS. ROOT

She’s away in the motor. (Again shudders.) Bessie feels dreadfully about her brother. She is trying to do something. She said it would be a surprise—a happy surprise. (Someone heard in the hall.) Perhaps this is Bessie. (Enter Mr. Peyton.) Oh, it’s Uncle George.

UNCLE GEORGE

Early I know. Came to have a little visit with Elizabeth. (Goes to Grandmother and shakes hands.) How are you, young woman?

GRANDMOTHER

My nerves seem to be stronger than the nerves I see around me. And how are you, George?

UNCLE GEORGE
Oh, I’m well.
GRANDMOTHER
But—?
UNCLE GEORGE
Responsibilities.
GRANDMOTHER
The bank?
UNCLE GEORGE

I’d rather run ten banks than a tenth of a university. You can control money.

MRS. ROOT

I’m sorry, Uncle George, that Peyton should be adding to your worries.

UNCLE GEORGE
What’s the matter with Peyton?
GRANDMOTHER
Wild oats.
UNCLE GEORGE

Well, I wish he’d sow them in less intellectual fields.

MRS. ROOT

I am prepared to speak freely with you, Uncle George. The matter with Peyton is this girl. Well, they’re going to be married. Yes (Answering his gesture of protest.) and I think it’s a good thing. She won’t be in a position to say so much about freedom after she is married.

UNCLE GEORGE
But they say she’s a gypsy.
MRS. ROOT

She won’t be a gypsy after she’s Peyton’s wife. She’ll be a married woman.

UNCLE GEORGE

Yes, but in the meantime we will have swallowed a gypsy.

GRANDMOTHER

And I was just wondering how it would be about the children.

MRS. ROOT

Mother, please don’t be indelicate again.

[Pause.

GRANDMOTHER

Well, if there’s nothing else we may speak of, let’s talk about free speech. They’re writing a paper on it in there.

UNCLE GEORGE

I don’t know what this university is coming to! An institution of learning! It isn’t that I don’t believe in free speech. Every true American believes in free speech, but—

[Slight Pause.

GRANDMOTHER
(With Emphasis.) Certainly.
UNCLE GEORGE

Ask them to come out here with their paper on free speech. I’ll be glad to give them the benefit of my experience.

MRS. ROOT

Yes, it will be delightful to all be together. (She goes to get Peyton and Jhansi.)

GRANDMOTHER

This girl doesn’t look to me like one who is thirsting for the benefit of another person’s experience.

UNCLE GEORGE

She’s a bad influence. She’s leading our young people to criticize the society their fathers have builded up.

GRANDMOTHER

There’s a great deal of ingratitude in the world.

[Mrs. Root returns, followed by the two young people.

MRS. ROOT

I told Uncle George you were eager to bring him and Jhansi together. Jhansi, this is Mr. Peyton, who looks after the affairs of the university for you students. Of course you’ve heard about Miss Mason, Uncle George, one of our—cleverest students.

UNCLE GEORGE

Yes, we were speaking of Miss Mason’s cleverness just the other day—in board meeting.

JHANSI

And just the other day—at the student assembly—we were speaking of how you look after the affairs of the university for us.

GRANDMOTHER
I hope you both spoke affectionately.
UNCLE GEORGE

Well, Peyton; very busy I take it. You’re adding to your duties, aren’t you?

PEYTON
Not that I know of.
UNCLE GEORGE

Your grandmother said something about a high falutin paper on free speech.

PEYTON

I suppose that’s an inherited tendency. You know one of my ancestors signed a paper on free speech. It had a high falutin name: “The Declaration of Independence”!

MRS. ROOT
I wish Bessie would come!
UNCLE GEORGE

Do you think much about your ancestors, Peyton?

PEYTON
Not a great deal.
UNCLE GEORGE

Peyton has some rather interesting ancestors, Miss Mason. There’s Captain John Peyton. That’s his picture. He helped win one of the battles which made this country possible—the country in which you are living. And a descendant of John Peyton—Richard Peyton (Points out the picture.) gave the money which founded this university—the university in which you are now acquiring your education.

JHANSI

(Lightly.) Perhaps it would be quite as well if this university—and this country—never had existed.

MRS. ROOT
I don’t see why Bessie doesn’t come!
JHANSI

Of course I look at it as an outsider. I am not a part of your society.

UNCLE GEORGE

Peyton is.

MRS. ROOT

There’s Bessie!

[Bessie rushes in.

BESSIE

Grandmother! (Swiftly kissing her.) How wonderful to have you with us again! Dear Uncle George!

UNCLE GEORGE

Glad you got here, Bessie. Your mother has been looking for you.

BESSIE

(A movement of greeting to Jhansi.) Isn’t it beautiful to all be together? A real family party! And now—we have a moment or two before dinner, mother?

MRS. ROOT

The man who brought the turkey in from the country had a runaway, so it was a little late in arriving.

BESSIE

How fortunate! Oh, it does seem that all things work together for the best. Mother, I have had a completely successful day!

GRANDMOTHER
Where’ve you been, Bessie?
BESSIE

I’ve been fifty miles to the north—in Baxter County. Does that mean anything to you, Jhansi?

JHANSI
Not a thing.
BESSIE

(Still breathlessly.) Dear uncle, I hope you will understand what I am about to do. It might seem unrestrained—not in the best of taste, but it’s just because you stand for so much in Peyton’s life that I want you to hear our good news as soon as we hear it ourselves. You knew that these two children were in love and going to be married. (A bow from Uncle George.) You know—Jhansi dear, I may speak very freely, may I not?

JHANSI
I believe in free speech.
BESSIE

Yes—how dear of you. Jhansi has endured in proud silence a great grief. And now, dear child, because of the touching dignity with which you have stood outside and alone, it is a moment of special joyfulness to me when I can say—Welcome Within!

PEYTON
What are you talking about, Bessie?
BESSIE

You must not stand outside society! You belong within the gates. You are one of us!

JHANSI
I’m not.
BESSIE
Dear child, you are as respectable as we are.
JHANSI
(Rising.) I am not.
BESSIE

Of course, you can’t grasp it in an instant. But I have looked it all up, dear. I have the proofs.

PEYTON
Well, it wasn’t your affair, Bessie.
BESSIE

I made it my affair because I love my brother. Jhansi dear, (As one who tells tremendous good news) your father was Henry Harrison, a milkman in the town of Sunny Center—an honorable and respected man. Your parents were married in the Baptist Church!

JHANSI
I deny it! I deny this charge!
BESSIE

(Stepping to the hall.) Dear Senator and Mrs. Byrd, will you come now?

[Enter State Senator Byrd and Mrs. State Senator Byrd, Mrs. Byrd carrying a large book.

BESSIE

Jhansi dear, you are about to enter upon the happiest moment of your life, for State Senator Byrd, one of our law-making body, is a cousin of your dear dead mother.

SENATOR BYRD

Aggie’s little girl! (He goes to Jhansi with outstretched hands. But Aggie’s little girl stands like a rock.)

BESSIE

And here, Jhansi, is your cousin Mrs. Byrd, who has come all this way to assure you you have a family.

MRS. BYRD

Indeed you have! There’s Ella Andrews, one of our teachers—a lovely girl. She’s your first cousin. We are second cousins. You may have some little family pride in knowing that I was last spring elected President of the Federated Clubs of Baxter County. Just last week I entertained the officers of all the clubs at our home—our new home, erected last year after your cousin Ephraim completed his first term in the upper house of the State Legislature. Your cousin Ephraim has been re-elected. He is on the Ways and Means Committee.

UNCLE GEORGE

(Approaching Senator Byrd.) I have heard of Senator Ephraim Byrd of the Ways and Means Committee. That was good work you fellows— (They talk of this.)

MRS. ROOT

And to think, Jhansi, that your cousin Mrs. Byrd is a prominent club-woman!

GRANDMOTHER

(After a look at Jhansi.) Her cup runneth over.

MRS. ROOT

Isn’t Bessie wonderful, mother? How did you find it all out, Bessie?

BESSIE

From clue to clue I worked my way to Sunny Center. I would say to myself—Do this for Peyton; do this for Jhansi. And so, I heard of an old minister who had been there years and years. I went to him and—he had married Jhansi’s father and mother! Dearest child, your mother taught in his Sunday-School!

SENATOR BYRD

Oh, yes, Aggie loved the Baptist Sunday-School!

JHANSI

It’s very strange that my mother—I am referring to Mrs. Mason—never told me of this!

BESSIE

But she never told you you were a gypsy, either, did she? No; she just wanted you to think you were their own child. And then I suppose you heard some foolish tale at school.

MRS. BYRD

You see Jhansi’s mother and father—her real ones—died of typhoid fever before she was two years old. They got it from the cows. Well, the Harrisons were friends of the Mason’s—they all worked together in the church—and so they took Jhansi, and soon after that they moved away and we lost track of them. You know what a busy world it is—particularly for people who have duties in their community.

JHANSI

I haven’t accepted this story! You can’t prove it!

[Mrs. Byrd impressively hands her husband the book.

SENATOR BYRD
“Iowa descendants of New England families.”
MRS. ROOT

Oh, yes; that is one of the books in which our family is written up! (To Peyton.) My dearest boy, from my heart I congratulate you!

SENATOR BYRD

Pages fifty-seven to sixty-one—inclusive, are devoted, Jhansi, to our family.

MRS. BYRD

My own family appears on page 113.

[Senator Byrd holds the book out to Jhansi, who once more stands like a rock. Uncle George steps forward to look at the book.

UNCLE GEORGE
Oh, you are a descendant of Peter Byrd.
SENATOR BYRD

One of those daredevils whose leg was shot under him at Bull Run.

BESSIE
You heard that, Jhansi?
MRS. ROOT

A descendant of Peter Byrd!—whose leg was shot under him—

JHANSI

So this is what I was brought here for, is it? To have my character torn down—to ruin my reputation and threaten my integrity by seeking to muzzle me with a leg at Bull Run and set me down in the Baptist Sunday-School in a milk-wagon! I see the purpose of it all. I understand the hostile motive behind all this—but I tell you it’s a lie. Something here (Hand on heart) tells me I am not respectable!

UNCLE GEORGE
Reaction.
JHANSI

I am Jhansi—Jhansi—a child of the gypsies! I am a wanderer! I am an outlaw!

MRS. BYRD

Yes, you are Jhansi. And did you ever stop to think how you came by that outlandish name?

JHANSI
It has always assured me of my birthright.
MRS. BYRD

Well, you’d better look in your geography. You were named after a town in India where your mother’s missionary circle was helping to support a missionary.

SENATOR BYRD
Aggie was crazy about the missionaries.
JHANSI

(Falling back, breaking.) Peyton, I release you from our engagement.

PEYTON

No. N—o; don’t do that. (Stoutly.) I love you for yourself alone—in spite of anything that may be true. But I must say, Bessie—!

JHANSI

(Beginning to sob.) I can’t bear it. I can’t bear it! And to think that Peyton’s mother was an illegitimate child.

MRS. ROOT
(Dazed.) What’s that?
GRANDMOTHER
(Rising.) Yes; what is that?
MRS. ROOT
Am I to understand—?
GRANDMOTHER

Am I to be told—at my age—that I gave birth to an illegitimate child? This is a surprise to me—and not a pleasant one!

PEYTON

(To Jhansi.) It would have been better not to have mentioned that.

UNCLE GEORGE

This is reaction. I think perhaps we need a physician.

JHANSI

I don’t need a physician. Peyton certainly told me that his mother was an illegitimate child. Of course, Peyton, if you were just boasting about your family—say so.

UNCLE GEORGE
What have you to say, Peyton?
GRANDMOTHER

Before he says anything, Bessie, you bring me that portfolio from the lower right-hand corner of my desk. Key in the upper left hand pigeon hole.

[Bessie goes.

MRS. ROOT
Peyton!
PEYTON

Why, I didn’t mean any harm, mother. I certainly didn’t mean anything against you, or grandmother. Quite the contrary. I was just anxious that Jhansi should have a little respect for our family. It didn’t seem to have a leg to stand on.

JHANSI
So you made it up—out of whole cloth?
PEYTON
No, not out of whole cloth.
GRANDMOTHER

Out of what cloth, then? Kindly tell me, out of what cloth?

MRS. ROOT
Peyton is not himself.
PEYTON

Well, it just came into my head that it was possible. You see, grandmother, your having moved—I do wish you could see that I meant nothing against your character. Absolutely the contrary. But your having moved—

GRANDMOTHER
My having moved where?
PEYTON

Your having moved from New York State to Ohio at just that time—

GRANDMOTHER

I always did like to travel. Is that anything against a person’s character?

PEYTON
I was claiming that you had character.
GRANDMOTHER

I’ll stick to my own, thank you. I’ve had it quite a while and am used to it. But I’d like to know right now what there is so immoral in moving from one state to another—even if you are going to have a baby?

JHANSI

(Raising her head.) There is nothing immoral in anything.

GRANDMOTHER

Fiddlestioks. (Bessie hands her the folio.) You found it, Bessie? The key? Here, Peyton; come here. (Opens portfolio, takes out a rolled paper.) Happily preserved for this defense of my character in my old age, is my wedding certificate.

MRS. BYRD

This is painful. (With ostentatious tact she turns and looks at a print on the rear wall; motions Senator Byrd to join her.)

GRANDMOTHER

I want you to look at the date—right there beside that pink cupid—cherub, perhaps it is—anyway, read aloud the figures you see.

PEYTON
(Sullenly.) 1869.
GRANDMOTHER

And here, in this other document, very fortunately at hand to meet the attacks of my only grandson upon my integrity, what do you read there?

PEYTON

Clara—aged six weeks.

GRANDMOTHER

And the date?

[Mrs. Root, Bessie, Uncle George, all listen a little anxiously.

PEYTON

December, I871.

[A sigh of relief.

GRANDMOTHER

I trust now, Peyton, you will admit that a woman may move from one state to another without being dissolute.

[At this word Mrs. Root is unable to bear more and hides her face in her handkerchief.

UNCLE GEORGE

(As one saving the situation.) Genealogy is interesting. One is democratic, of course, but when there is behind one what there is behind us, Senator, it enhances one’s powers—responsibility—obligation. (He has taken up the book and been running through the pages.) “Descendants of John Peyton.” Here, Peyton, are some things about your ancestors. Read them. Perhaps then instead of tearing down you will have an impulse to build up. I commend this book to you young people for study. It will do you no harm to think a little of those worthy men from whom you come. (Marks the place with a card and gives the book to Peyton.)

JHANSI

(Springing up.) I shall waste no time thinking of the worthy men from whom I come! If I am related to a law-maker—I owe it to my soul to become a law-breaker!

MRS. ROOT
You see, Bessie, what you have done.
JHANSI

When I thought there was in me no taint of civilization, I could put up with your silly conventions, but if in a material sense I am part of your society, then I have a spiritual obligation to fulfill in leaving it! Peyton, respectability threatens to wall us in and stifle us. Are you ready to walk from this house with me tonight, entering upon a free union that says that— (A snap of the finger) for law?

PEYTON
Why—certainly.
MRS. BYRD

Well, if it comes to a matter of not caring to claim relationship, we certainly hesitated some time. Those Harrisons were not all they should be.

JHANSI
(A note of hope in her voice.) No?
MRS. BYRD

I said to Senator Byrd, now that the girl is marrying into one of the best families in the state—not that that influenced us especially, but I said, it she is trying to make something of herself, we must stand by her, and we will mention only pleasant things. We will not allude to what her grandfather did!

JHANSI
What did he do?
SENATOR BYRD

He burned down his neighbor’s house because that neighbor chased home his pigs.

JHANSI
Really? Yes!—my grandfather would do that!
PEYTON

Were any of the family found in the charred remains?

SENATOR BYRD
The family, I believe, escaped.
MRS. BYRD
But no thanks to old man Harrison.
JHANSI

No!—I’m sure grandfather meant them to burn. (Seizing book.) I wonder if grandfather’s protest is recorded in this book!

MRS. BYRD

That book does not emphasize unfortunate occurrences.

MRS. ROOT

And how right it is! One should think only of the good in human nature.

PEYTON

(Looking with Jhansi.) What is this fine print at the bottom of the page?

MRS. BYRD
(Hastily.) That is not important.
SENATOR BYRD

It is in fine print because it is not important.

PEYTON

One of the descendants of Peter Byrd. (To Jhansi.) The leg at Bull Run, you know. He—

MRS. ROOT

Peyton, remember that you are in your own house.

PEYTON

“Unfaithful to the high office of treasurer of the Baxter County Cemetery Association.”

JHANSI

(Gasping, then beaming.) Why—why!—a grave robber! Was he a near relative?

MRS. BYRD

I must say, Miss Root, that we did not come here to have our family inquired into as far back as ancient history!

MRS. ROOT

No, Mrs. Byrd, I quite agree with you that it is not necessary to go too far back in any family.

GRANDMOTHER
Neither necessary nor desirable.
BESSIE
Those early days must have been very trying.
PEYTON

Jhansi! The fine print of your family is thrilling. Here is a man—

MRS. ROOT

Peyton, stop reading from that tiresome and obsolete book. It is not hospitable.

MRS. BYRD

Turn to your own family history and read a little fine print in it!

[The other members of the Peyton—Root family give each other startled, nervous glances.

PEYTON

Why, what a lovely idea. Uncle has marked it for us. (After looking.) Fine print in our family?

MRS. BYRD
It’s there.
BESSIE

Genealogy is so confusing. I never could understand it.

MRS. ROOT

And I don’t see why one should try to understand it. Live well in the present—that is sufficient.

GRANDMOTHER

It looks to me as if that book was not thoughtfully edited. I’m surprised it has sold.

PEYTON

(Snatching book from Jhansi.) Jhansi, I don’t want to boast! I hope I shall not become a snob. You too have a family—and they had their impulsive moments—but what was the most largely low-down thing a man of early days could do? (Peytons and Roots draw together anxiously; the Byrds wait complacently.) As uncle has pointed out, Jhansi, I am a descendant of Captain John Peyton. But when you have a remote ancestor, you also have his less remote descendants—a fact sometimes overlooked. Well, Stuart Peyton—

BESSIE

Mother, I wonder if the turkey isn’t ready now?

MRS. ROOT

It’s time for it to be ready. (She hurries out.)

PEYTON

Stuart Peyton—“convicted of selling whiskey and firearms to the Indians.” (Assumes an overbearing attitude.)

MR5. BYRD

I guess the early days were trying, in more than one family.

PEYTON

(Peering into the book.) And what is this? What is this? Stuart Peyton was the father of Richard Peyton—

JHANSI
Who founded this university!
PEYTON

(In the voice of Uncle George.) The university in which you are now acquiring your education.

MRS. BYRD

Oh, I have no doubt that inducing the Indians to massacre the whites was profitable.

PEYTON
A good sound basis for the family fortune.
UNCLE GEORGE
Young man, you go too far!
PEYTON

(Holding book out to Uncle George.) In thinking of these worthy men from whom I come? (Turns to the wall on which hang portraits of John and Richard Peyton.) We don’t seem to have Stuart’s picture. Jhansi, I don’t know that we need to leave society. There seems little—crevices in these walls of respectability.

JHANSI

And whenever we feel a bit stifled we can always find air through our family trees!

MRS. BYRD

I think, Senator, that we will not remain longer.

[Mrs. Root returns.

MRS. ROOT
Mary was just coming. Now we’ll have dinner!
BESSIE

Yes, a little family party to celebrate the happy—

PEYTON

(Again bent over his family history.) Grandmother! Here’s something about your ancestor, Gustave Phelps.

GRANDMOTHER

(Rising. With weight.) Peyton—close that book.

CURTAIN

The Outside

A PLAY IN ONE ACT

First performed by the Provincetown Players
at the Playwrights’ Theatre,
28 December, 1917.

CHARACTERS

CAPTAIN  of “The Bars” Life-Saving Station

BRADFORD,  a Life-Saver

TONY,  a Portuguese Life-Saver

MRS. PATRICK,  who lives in the abandoned Station

ALLIE MAYO,  who works for her

SCENE:  A room in a house which was once a life-saving station. Since ceasing to be that it has taken on no other character, except that of a place which no one cares either to preserve or change. It is painted the life-saving gray, but has not the life-saving freshness. This is one end of what was the big boat room, and at the ceiling is seen a part of the framework from which the boat once swung. About two thirds of the back wall is open, because of the big sliding door, of the type of barn door, and through this open door are seen the sand dunes, and beyond them the woods. At one point the line where woods and dunes meet stands out clearly and there are indicated the rude things, vines, bushes, which form the outer uneven rim of the woods—the only things that grow in the sand. At another point a sand-hill is menacing the woods. This old life-saving station is at a point where the sea curves, so through the open door the sea also is seen. (The station is located on the outside shore of Cape Cod, at the point, near the tip of the Cape, where it makes that final curve which forms the Provincetown Harbor.) The dunes are hills and strange forms of sand on which, in places, grows the stiff beach grass—struggle; dogged growing against odds. At right of the big sliding door is a drift of sand and the top of buried beach grass is seen on this. There is a door left, and at right of big sliding door is a slanting wall.

Door in this is ajar at rise of curtain, and through this door Bradford and Tony, life-savers, are seen bending over a man’s body, attempting to restore respiration. The captain of the life-savers comes into view outside the big open door, at left; he appears to have been hurrying, peers in, sees the men, goes quickly to them.

CAPTAIN
I’ll take this now, boys.
BRADFORD

No need for anybody to take it, Capt’n. He was dead when we picked him up.

CAPTAIN

Dannie Sears was dead when we picked him up. But we brought him back. I’ll go on awhile.

[The two men who have been bending over the body rise, stretch to relax, and come into the room.

BRADFORD

(Pushing back his arms and putting his hands on his chest) Work,—tryin to put life in the dead.

CAPTAIN
Where’d you find him, Joe?
BRADFORD
In front of this house. Not forty feet out.
CAPTAIN

What’d you bring him up here for? (He speaks in an abstracted way, as if the working part of his mind is on something else, and in the muffled voice of one bending over.)

BRADFORD

(With a sheepish little laugh.) Force of habit, I guess. We brought so many of ’em back up here. (Looks around the room.) And then it was kind of unfriendly down where he was—the wind spittin’ the sea onto you till he’d have no way of knowin’ he was ashore.

TONY

Lucky I was not sooner or later as I walk by from my watch.

BRADFORD

You have accommodating ways, Tony. No sooner or later. I wouldn’t say it of many Portagees. But the sea (Calling it in to the Captain) is friendly as a kitten alongside the women that live here. Allie Mayo—they’re both crazy—had that door open (Moving his head toward the big sliding door) sweepin’ out, and when we come along she backs off and stands lookin’ at us, lookin’—Lord, I just wanted to get him somewhere else. So I kicked this door open with my foot (Jerking his hand toward the room where the Captain is seen bending over the man.) and got him away. (Under his voice.) If he did have any notion of comin’ back to life, he wouldn’t a come if he’d seen her. (More genially.) I wouldn’t.

CAPTAIN
You know who he is, Joe?
BRADFORD
I never saw him before.
CAPTAIN

Mitchell telephoned from High Head that a dory came ashore there.

BRADFORD

Last night wasn’t the best night for a dory. (To Tony, boastfully.) Not that I couldn’t ’a’ stayed in one. Some men can stay in a dory and some can’t. (Going to the inner door.) That boy’s dead, Capt’n.

CAPTAIN
Then I’m not doing him any harm.
BRADFORD

(Going over and shaking the frame where the boat once swung.) This the first time you ever been in this place, ain’t it, Tony?

TONY
I never was here before.
BRADFORD

Well, I was here before. (A laugh.) And the old man— (Nodding toward the Captain) he lived here for twenty-seven years. Lord, the things that happened here. There’ve been dead ones carried through that door. (Pointing to the outside door.) Lord—the ones I’ve carried. I carried in Bill Collins, and Lou Harvey and—huh! ’sall over now. You ain’t seen no wrecks. Don’t ever think you have. I was here the night the Jennie Snow was out there. (Pointing to the sea.) There was a wreck. We got the boat that stood here (Again shaking the frame.) down that bank. (Goes to the door and looks out.) Lord, how’d we ever do it? The sand has put his place on the blink all right. And then when it gets too God-forsaken for a life-savin’ station, a lady takes it for a summer residence—and then spends the winter. She’s a cheerful one.

TONY

A woman—she makes things pretty. This not like a place where a woman live. On the floor there is nothing—on the wall there is nothing. Things— (Trying to express it with his hands.) do not hang on other things.

BRADFORD

(Imitating Tony’s gesture.) No—things do not hang on other things. In my opinion the woman’s crazy—sittin’ over there on the sand— (A gesture towards the dunes) what’s she lookin’ at? There ain’t nothin’ to see. And I know the woman that works for her’s crazy—Allie Mayo. She’s a Provincetown girl. She was all right once, but—

[Mrs. Patrick comes in from the hall at the right. She is a “city woman”, a sophisticated person who has been caught into something as unlike the old life as the dunes are unlike a meadow. At the moment she is excited and angry.

MRS. PATRICK

You have no right here. This isn’t the life-saving station any more. Just because it used to be—I don’t see why you should think—This is my house! And—I want my house to myself!

CAPTAIN

(Putting his head through the door. One arm of the man he is working with is raised, and the hand reaches through the doorway.) Well I must say, lady, I would think that any house could be a life-saving station when the sea had sent a man to it.

MRS. PATRICK

(Who has turned away so she cannot see the hand.) I don’t want him here! I— (Defiant, yet choking) I must have my house to myself!

CAPTAIN

You’ll get your house to yourself when I’ve made up my mind there’s no more life in this man. A good many lives have been saved in this house, Mrs. Patrick—I believe that’s your name—and if there’s any chance of bringing one more back from the dead, the fact that you own the house ain’t goin’ to make a damn bit of difference to me!

MRS. PATRICK

(In a thin wild way.) I must have my house to myself.

CAPTAIN

Hell with such a woman!

[Moves the man he is working with and slams the door shut. As the Captain says, “And if there’s any chance of bringing one more back from the dead”, Allie Mayo has appeared outside the wide door which gives on to the dunes, a bleak woman, who at first seems little more than a part of the sand before which she stands. But as she listens to this conflict one suspects in her that peculiar intensity of twisted things which grow in unfavoring places.

MRS. PATRICK

I—I don’t want them here! I must— (But suddenly she retreats, and is gone.)

BRADFORD

Well, I couldn’t say, Allie Mayo, that you work for any too kind-hearted a lady. What’s the matter with the woman? Does she want folks to die? Appears to break her all up to see somebody trying to save a life. What d’you work for such a fish for? A crazy fish—that’s what I call the woman. I’ve seen her—day after day—settin’ over there where the dunes meet the woods, just sittin’ there, lookin’. (Suddenly thinking of it.) I believe she likes to see the sand slippin’ down on the woods. Pleases her to see somethin’ gettin’ buried, I guess.

[Allie Mayo, who has stepped inside the door and moved half across the room, toward the corridor at the right, is arrested by this last—stands a moment as if seeing through something, then slowly on, and out.

BRADFORD

Some coffee’d taste good. But coffee, in this house? Oh, no. It might make somebody feel better. (Opening the door that was slammed shut.) Want me now, Capt’n?

CAPTAIN
No.
BRADFORD
Oh, that boy’s dead, Capt’n.
CAPTAIN

(Snarling.) Dannie Sears was dead, too. Shut that door. I don’t want to hear that woman’s voice again, ever.

[Closing the door and sitting on a bench built into that corner between the big sliding door and the room where the Captain is.

BRADFORD

They’re a cheerful pair of women—livin’ in this cheerful place—a place that life savers had to turn over to the sand—huh! This Patrick woman used to be all right. She and her husband was summer folks over in town. They used to picnic over here on the outside. It was Joe Dyer—he’s always talkin’ to summer folks—told ’em the government was goin’ to build the new station and sell this one by sealed bids. I heard them talkin’ about it. They was sittin’ right down there on the beach, eatin’ their supper. They was goin’ to put in a fireplace and they was goin’ to paint it bright colors, and have parties over here—summer folk notions. Their bid won it—who’d want it?—a buried house you couldn’t move.

TONY
I see no bright colors.
BRADFORD

Don’t you? How astonishin’! You must be color blind. And I guess we’re the first party. (Laughs.) I was in Bill Joseph’s grocery store, one day last November, when in she comes—Mrs. Patrick, from New York. “I’ve come to take the old life-saving station”, says she. “I’m going to sleep over there tonight!” Huh! Bill is used to queer ways—he deals with summer folks, but that got him. November—an empty house, a buried house, you might say, off here on the outside shore—way across the sand from man or beast. He got it out of her, not by what she said, but by the way she looked at what he said, that her husband had died, and she was runnin’ off to hide herself, I guess. A person’d feel sorry for her if she weren’t so standoffish, and so doggone mean. But mean folks have got minds of their own. She slept here that night. Bill had men hauling things till after dark—bed, stove, coal. And then she wanted somebody to work for her. “Somebody”, says she, “that doesn’t say an unnecessary word!” Well, then Bill come to the back of the store, I said, “Looks to me as if Allie Mayo was the party she’s lookin’ for.” Allie Mayo has got a prejudice against words. Or maybe she likes ’em so well she’s savin’ of ’em. She’s not spoke an unnecessary word for twenty years. She’s got her reasons. Women whose men go to sea ain’t always talkative.

[The Captain comes out. He closes door behind him and stands there beside it. He looks tired and disappointed. Both look at him. Pause.

CAPTAIN
Wonder who he was.
BRADFORD
Young. Guess he’s not been much at sea.
CAPTAIN

I hate to leave even the dead in this house. But we can get right back for him. (A look around.) The old place used to be more friendly. (Moves to outer door, hesitates, hating to leave like this.) Well, Joe, we brought a good many of them back here.

BRADFORD

Dannie Sears is tendin’ bar in Boston now.

[The three men go; as they are going around the drift of sand Allie Mayo comes in carrying a pot of coffee; sees them leaving, puts down the coffee pot, looks at the door the Captain has closed, moves toward it, as if drawn. Mrs. Patrick follows her in.

MRS. PATRICK

They’ve gone?

[Mrs. Mayo nods, facing the closed door.

MRS. PATRICK

And they’re leaving—him? (Again the other woman nods.) Then he’s—? (Mrs. Mayo just stands there.) They have no right—just because it used to be their place—! I want my house to myself!

[Snatches her coat and scarf from a hook and starts through the big door toward the dunes.

ALLIE MAYO

Wait.

[When she has said it she sinks into that corner seat—as if overwhelmed by what she has done. The other woman is held.

ALLIE MAYO

(To herself.) If I could say that, I can say more. (Looking at woman she has arrested, but speaking more to herself.) That boy in there—his face—uncovered something— (Her open hand on her chest. But she waits, as if she cannot go on; when she speaks it is in labored way—slow, monotonous, as if snowed in by silent years.) For twenty years, I did what you are doing. And I can tell you—it’s not the way. (Her voice has fallen to a whisper; she stops, looking ahead at something remote and veiled.) We had been married—two years. (A start, as of sudden pain. Says it again, as if to make herself say it.) Married—two years. He had a chance to go north on a whaler. Times hard. He had to go. A year and a half—it was to be. A year and a half. Two years we’d been married.

[She sits silent, moving a little back and forth.

The day he went away. (Not spoken, but breathed from pain.) The days after he was gone.

I heard at first. Last letter said farther north—not another chance to write till on the way home. (A wait.)

Six months. Another, I did not hear. (Long wait.) Nobody ever heard. (After it seems she is held there, and will not go on.) I used to talk as much as any girl in Provincetown. Jim used to tease me about my talking. But they’d come in to talk to me. They’d say—“You may hear yet.” They’d talk about what must have happened. And one day a woman who’d been my friend all my life said—“Suppose he was to walk in!” I got up and drove her from my kitchen—and from that time till this I’ve not said a word I didn’t have to say. (She has become almost wild in telling this. That passes. In a whisper.) The ice that caught Jim—caught me. (A moment as if held in ice. Comes from it. To Mrs. Patrick simply.) It’s not the way. (A sudden change.) You’re not the only woman in the world whose husband is dead!

MRS. PATRICK

(With a cry of the hurt.) Dead? My husband’s not dead.

ALLIE MAYO

He’s not? (Slowly understands.) Oh.

[The woman in the door is crying. Suddenly picks up her coat which has fallen to the floor and steps outside.

ALLIE MAYO
(Almost failing to say it.) Wait.
MRS. PATRICK

Wait? Don’t you think you’ve said enough? They told me you didn’t say an unnecessary word!

ALLIE MAYO
I don’t.
MRS. PATRICK

And you can see, I should think, that you’ve bungled into things you know nothing about! (As she speaks, and crying under her breath, she pushes the sand by the door down on the half buried grass—though not as if knowing what she is doing.)

ALLIE MAYO

(Slowly) When you keep still for twenty years you know—things you didn’t know you knew. I know why you’re doing that. (She looks up at her, startled.) Don’t bury the only thing that will grow. Let it grow.

[The woman outside still crying under her breath turns abruptly and starts toward the line where dunes and woods meet.

ALLIE MAYO

I know where you’re going! (Mrs. Patrick turns but not as if she wants to.) What you’ll try to do. Over there. (Pointing to the line of woods.) Bury it. The life in you. Bury it—watching the sand bury the woods. But I’ll tell you something! They fight too. The woods! They fight for life the way that Captain fought for life in there! (Pointing to the closed door.)

MRS. PATRICK

(With a strange exultation.) And lose the way he lost in there!

ALLIE MAYO
(Sure, somber) They don’t lose.
MRS. PATRICK

Don’t lose? (Triumphant.) I have walked on the tops of buried trees!

ALLIE MAYO

(Slow, somber, yet large.) And vines will grow over the sand that covers the trees, and hold it. And other trees will grow over the buried trees.

MRS. PATRICK

I’ve watched the sand slip down on the vines that reach out farthest.

ALLIE MAYO

Another vine will reach that spot. (Under her breath, tenderly.) Strange little things that reach out farthest!

MRS. PATRICK
And will be buried soonest!
ALLIE MAYO

And hold the sand for things behind them. They save a wood that guards a town.

MRS. PATRICK

I care nothing about a wood to guard a town. This is the outside—these dunes where only beach grass grows, this outer shore where men can’t live. The Outside. You who were born here and who die here have named it that.

ALLIE MAYO

Yes, we named it that, and we had reason. He died here (Reaches her hand toward the closed door) and many a one before him. But many another reached the harbor! (Slowly raises her arm, bends it to make the form of the Cape. Touches the outside of her bent arm.) The Outside. But an arm that bends to make a harbor—where men are safe.

MRS. PATRICK

I’m outside the harbor—on the dunes, land not life.

ALLIE MAYO

Dunes meet woods and woods hold dunes from a town that’s shore to a harbor.

MRS. PATRICK

This is the Outside. Sand (Picking some of it up in her hand and letting it fall on the beach grass.) Sand that covers—hills of sand that move and cover.

ALLIE MAYO

Woods. Woods to hold the moving hills from Provincetown. Provincetown—where they turn when boats can’t live at sea. Did you ever see the sails come round here when the sky is dark? A line of them—swift to the harbor—where their children live. Go back! (Pointing.) Back to your edge of the woods that’s the edge of the dunes.

MRS. PATRICK

The edge of life. Where life trails off to dwarfed things not worth a name. (Suddenly sits down in the doorway.)

ALLIE MAYO

Not worth a name. And—meeting the Outside! (Big with the sense of the wonder of life.)

MRS. PATRICK

(Lifting sand and letting it drift through her hand.) They’re what the sand will let them be. They take strange shapes like shapes of blown sand.

ALLIE MAYO

Meeting the Outside. (Moving nearer; speaking more personally.) I know why you came here. To this house that had been given up; on this shore where only savers of life try to live. I know what holds you on these dunes, and draws you over there. But other things are true beside the things you want to see.

MRS. PATRICK

How do you know they are? Where have you been for twenty years?

ALLIE MAYO

Outside. Twenty years. That’s why I know how brave they are (Indicating the edge of the woods. Suddenly different.) You’ll not find peace there again! Go back and watch them fight!

MRS. PATRICK

(Swiftly rising.) You’re a cruel woman—a hard, insolent woman! I knew what I was doing! What do you know about it? About me? I didn’t go to the Outside. I was left there. I’m only—trying to get along. Everything that can hurt me I want buried—buried deep. Spring is here. This morning I knew it. Spring—coming through the storm—to take me—take me to hurt me. That’s why I couldn’t bear— (She looks at the closed door.) things that made me know I feel. You haven’t felt for so long you don’t know what it means! But I tell you, Spring is here! And now you’d take that from me— (Looking now toward the edge of the woods) the thing that made me know they would be buried in my heart—those things I can’t live and know I feel. You’re more cruel than the sea! “But other things are true beside the things you want to see!” Outside. Springs will come when I will not know that it is spring. (As if resentful of not more deeply believing what she says.) What would there be for me but the Outside? What was there for you? What did you ever find after you lost the thing you wanted?

ALLIE MAYO

I found—what I find now I know. The edge of life—to hold life behind me— (A slight gesture toward Mrs. Patrick.)

MRS. PATRICK

(Stepping back.) You call what you are life? (Laughs.) Bleak as those ugly things that grow in the sand!

ALLIE MAYO

(Under her breath, as one who speaks tenderly of beauty.) Ugly!

MRS. PATRICK

(Passionately.) I have known life. I have known life. You’re like this Cape. A line of land way out to sea—land not life.

ALLIE MAYO

A harbor far at sea. (Raises her arm, curves it in as if around something she loves.) Land that encloses and gives shelter from storm.

MRS. PATRICK

(Facing the sea, as if affirming what will hold all else out.) Outside sea. Outer shore. Dunes—land not life.

ALLIE MAYO

Outside sea—outer shore, dark with the wood that once was ships—dunes, strange land not life—woods, town and harbor. The line! Stunted straggly line that meets the Outside face to face—and fights for what itself can never be. Lonely line. Brave growing.

MRS. PATRICK
It loses.
ALLIE MAYO
It wins.
MRS. PATRICK
The farthest life is buried.
ALLIE MAYO

And life grows over buried life! (Lifted into that; then, as one who states a simple truth with feeling.) It will. And Springs will come when you will want to know that it is Spring.

[The Captain and Bradford appear behind the drift of sand. They have a stretcher. To get away from them Mrs. Patrick steps farther into the room; Allie Mayo shrinks into her corner. The men come in, open the closed door and go in the room where they left the dead man. A moment later they are seen outside the big open door, bearing the man away. Mrs. Patrick watches them from sight.

MRS. PATRICK

(Bitter, exultant.) Savers of life! (To Allie Mayo.) You savers of life! “Meeting the Outside!” Meeting— (But she cannot say it mockingly again; in saying it, something of what it means has broken through, rises. Herself lost, feeling her way into the wonder of life.) Meeting the Outside!

[It grows in her as CURTAIN lowers slowly.

Woman’s Honor

A COMEDY IN ONE ACT

First performed by the Provincetown Players,
26 April, 1918.

CHARACTERS

Mr. Foster, The LAWYER

Gordon Wallace, The PRISONER

BOY

The Women:

The SHIELDED ONE

The MOTHERLY ONE

The SCORNFUL ONE

The SILLY ONE

The MERCENARY ONE

The CHEATED ONE

SCENE:  A room in the sheriff’s house which is used for conferences. At the rear is a door into the hall, at the left a door leads to an adjoining room. There is also a door at the right, going to the corridor which connects this house with the jail.

Lawyer and Prisoner are found in heated conversation. The Prisoner, an attractive young man, is seated, and has just turned away from the Lawyer, irritated.

LAWYER

Do you know that murder is no laughing matter?

PRISONER
Well, was I laughing?
LAWYER

(Shoots it at him.) Where were you on the night of October 25? (Prisoner sits like one who never means to speak again.) Your silence shields a woman’s honor. Do you know what’s going to be said of you? You’re going to be called old-fashioned! (A worried look flits over the prisoner’s face.) A man will not tell where he is because it involves a woman’s honor! How quaint! (In a different voice.) Say, do you think she’s worth it? (Prisoner rises angrily.) Yes, get red in the face, I should think you would. Blush. Blush for shame. Shame of having loved a woman who’d let a man face death to shield her own honor!

PRISONER
You don’t know what you’re talking about.
LAWYER

It’s just like a woman, the cowards. That’s what I most despise in women. Afraid they won’t be looked upon as the pure noble sensitive souls they spend their lives trying to make us believe they are. Sickening!

PRISONER
There are things you don’t understand.
LAWYER

Oh, yes, I do. I suppose she’s got a husband. I suppose he’d divorce her. Then she wouldn’t be asked out to tea quite so often. Good Lord—die for something real!

PRISONER

You and I have different ideals, Mr. Foster. There are things we don’t discuss.

LAWYER

There are things we have to discuss. If you insist upon this romantic course, then at least we will have to get something out of that.

PRISONER
What do you mean?
LAWYER

Simply that public feeling has got to swing toward you or the jury will say you murdered Erwalt. If we can’t have an alibi, let us by all means have a hero!

PRISONER

(Outraged.) Have you given out a story to the newspapers?

LAWYER

(Drawing paper from his pocket.) Very delicately done. “A life for a life.” Isn’t that moving? “While Gordon Wallace languishes in his cell, some woman is safe in a shielded home. Charged with the murder of John Erwalt, young Wallace fails to cut his chain of circumstantial evidence with an alibi. Where was Gordon Wallace on the night of October 25? He maintains a dogged silence. Behind that silence rests a woman’s honor”—and so on, at some length.

PRISONER

You had no right to give out a story without my consent .

LAWYER

Oh, yes, I have. If I can’t get your consent for saving your life, then, my young friend, I shall save it without your consent. Pardon my rudeness.

PRISONER
How will this save it?
LAWYER

How little romantic young men know the romantic sex. Wives—including, I hope, jurors’ wives—will cry, “Don’t let that chivalrous young man die!” Women just love to have their honor shielded. It is very touching to them.

PRISONER

Mr. Foster, I tell you again, I dislike your attitude toward women! Laugh at me if you will, but I have respect and reverence for women. I believe it is perfectly true that men must guard them. Call me a romantic young fool if it pleases you, but I have had a mother—a sister—sweetheart. Yes, I am ready to die to shield a woman’s honor!

[As he says this the door slowly opens and a woman steps in.

SHIELDED ONE

No! You shall not!

[Quite taken aback, the men stand looking at her. She has breeding, poise—obviously she has stepped out of a world where women are shielded. She maintains a front of her usual composure, but there is an intensity—an excitement—which indicates she is feeling some big new thing. Lawyer looks from her to the Prisoner, who is staring at the Woman.

LAWYER
(To Woman.) Oh—you’ve come?
SHIELDED ONE
(Firmly, but with emotion.) I have come.
PRISONER
I don’t understand.
LAWYER
You were not willing to let him die?
SHIELDED ONE
No.
LAWYER

Good. This young man— (He pauses, embarrassed, for it does not seem a thing to say to this lady.) was with you on the night of October 25?

SHIELDED ONE
Yes.
PRISONER
Why, no I wasn’t.
LAWYER

There is no use, Gordon, in trying to keep the lady from doing what she has apparently determined to do.

SHIELDED ONE

No. You cannot keep me from doing what I have determined to do.

LAWYER

For my part, I respect you for it. Then you are prepared to testify that on the night of October 25, Gordon Wallace was with you from twelve o’clock midnight till eight next morning?

SHIELDED ONE
(A little falteringly, yet fervent.) Yes.
LAWYER
Was with you—continuously?
SHIELDED ONE
Yes.
LAWYER
Your name is—? (He takes out his notebook.)
PRISONER

(In distress.) Don’t give him your name! He’ll use it! I tell you this is all a mistake. I don’t know this lady. I never saw her before. (To the Woman.) You mustn’t do this!

SHIELDED ONE
(Proudly, and with relief.) I have done it!
LAWYER

And as I said, madam, I greatly respect you for doing it. You are, if I may say so, unlike most of your sex. Now—your name?

SHIELDED ONE

(This is not easy for her.) Mrs. Oscar Duncan.

LAWYER

And Mrs. Duncan, you live at—? (A noise in the hall.) I fear someone is coming in. Will you just step in here?

[He shows her into the room at the left. They hear the corridor door open and turn. A woman is coming in—rather plump, middle-aged—a pleasant, motherly looking woman. She looks from the Lawyer to the Prisoner, moves to get a better look at the young man, who becomes nervous under this scrutiny; then she seems to have it straight in her mind, nods pleasantly.

MOTHERLY ONE
(Cheerily.) Good morning.
LAWYER
Good morning.
MOTHERLY ONE
(To Prisoner.) Good morning.
PRISONER
(Not cheerily.) Good morning.
MOTHERLY ONE

There was no one out there, so I just walked right in. (Lawyer nods.) I thought you might be glad to see me.

LAWYER
Oh—we are. (To Gordon.) Aren’t we?
MOTHERLY ONE
I suppose I am in the right place.
LAWYER
Well, it is the right place for some things.
MOTHERLY ONE

Is it the place to tell the truth about Gordon Wallace?

LAWYER
It seems to be.
MOTHERLY ONE

(Very cheerfully.) Well, then, on the night of October 25 that young man— (Steps for a better look at the Prisoner) this young man—was with me.

LAWYER

From twelve o’clock midnight until eight next morning?

MOTHERLY ONE

(Placidly.) From twelve o’clock midnight till eight next morning. (She takes a muffler from her bag and sits down and begins to knit.)

LAWYER
Was with you—continuously?
MOTHERLY ONE

Oh, certainly—continuously. (She knits serenely on.)

LAWYER
Well—Gordon.
MOTHERLY ONE

(Pleasantly.) It seems that mufflers get longer and longer. (Looking up at Lawyer.) Doesn’t it?

LAWYER

Why—perhaps they do. But—you are willing to leave your name and address?

MOTHERLY ONE

Certainly, I’m willing to leave my name and address. What else would I be here for? Oh—but could I use the telephone first. (Rises.) It will be better to let them know that I’ll probably be late getting home for lunch.

LAWYER

(Is about to open door of the room in which the Shielded One is waiting.) No—there’s someone in there. Here (Going to the door at the other side of the room.) , I’ll show you how to get through to the jail phone.

MOTHERLY ONE

The jail! But we’ll soon have you out of jail.

[She goes, giving the young man an encouraging smile. The Lawyer steps out with her. The young man hears the rear door opening—this door into the hall has a slight squeak—starts nervously, looks around to see a young woman come in. In a keen, cool amused way she is staring at him. He turns away, petulantly hitching his chair. She moves where she can see him better, takes from her bag a newspaper picture, looks from it to him. He turns, sees what she is doing; she smiles at him. He looks like one at bay. Enter Lawyer. Sees what is going on, smiles.

LAWYER
On the night of October 25—?
SCORNFUL ONE

(To Lawyer.) I understand that down here a man about to die for a woman’s honor.

LAWYER
He had some such thing in mind.
SCORNFUL ONE

(To Lawyer.) Now you can’t get away with that. Sorry to upset your plans, but the death seems uncalled for. On the night of October 25—Gordon Wallace was with me.

LAWYER

From twelve o’clock midnight till eight next morning?

SCORNFUL ONE

From twelve o’clock midnight until eight next morning.

LAWYER
(Rather feebly.) Con—tinuously?
SCORNFUL ONE
(In an offhand voice.) Continuously.
LAWYER

Well—well, Gordon, I begin to understand why you hesitated to tell the truth about that momentous night. Rise and thank the lady, Gordon; it would seem the least you could do would be to rise and—

[As he is saying this to Gordon, in rushes a fussily dressed hysterical woman and throws her arms around the Lawyer’s neck.

SILLY ONE
Darling! I cannot let you die for me!
LAWYER

(Trying to free himself.) Pardon me, madam, but—

SILLY ONE

Gordon! You call me madam after that night together. Oh my beloved, when I think of those hours I lay in your arms—

LAWYER
Pardon me, but you never lay in—
SILLY ONE

I know. Ah—I understand. You pretend not to know me. You would die to shield me—but you shall not! You cannot escape me!

LAWYER

(Still unsuccessful in freeing himself.) Apparently not. But permit me to tell you, you are making a mistake.

SILLY ONE

No! I am not making a mistake! You shall not die for me.

LAWYER
I really don’t intend to—if I can help it.
SILLY ONE

Love is so beautiful. So ennobling! (Overcome with emotion, loosens her hold.) When I think of that night—October 25— (Sinks into a chair.)

LAWYER

(After settling his collar.) Well, Gordon, have you a choice? (Pause.) You see you didn’t understand women as well as you thought.

PRISONER

(Fiercely.) Neither did you!

[The Sheriff’s Boy comes in.

BOY
While I was over at the bank, women came.
LAWYER
Yes, I know.
BOY

(Looking at the two women in the room.) But more women. (Prisoner starts in terror.) Six women are out there.

PRISONER
Don’t let them in!
LAWYER

Tell the ladies we shall not need them. Thank them for coming. (Boy goes out. To Prisoner.) Well, come now. What shall we do with this embarrassment of—generosity? You see dying for a woman’s honor isn’t as easy as you might think. It even looks as though there were a sort of conspiracy against it.

PRISONER
I’m not going to be made a fool of.
LAWYER

Are you sure you can help it? (The Boy comes back, looking worried.)

BOY

Some of those women won’t go away. I don’t know what to do with them.

LAWYER

No, it’s not a matter the young can cope with. (He goes out with the Boy.)

[The amused young Woman sits looking the Prisoner over, to his embarrassment and final irritation.

SCORNFUL ONE

So you were thinking of dying for a woman’s honor. (He says nothing.) Now do you think that’s a very nice way to treat the lady? (He turns away petulantly.) Seems to me you should think of her feelings. Have you a right to ruin her life?

PRISONER
(Startled into speech.) Ruin her life?
SCORNFUL ONE

Why, certainly. A life that somebody has died for is practically a ruined life. For how are you going to think of it as anything but—a life that somebody has died for? (She pulls her chair to a more confidential angle.) Did it ever strike you as funny that woman’s honor is only about one thing, and that man’s honor is about everything but that thing? (After waiting for the answer which does not come.) Now woman’s honor means woman’s virtue. But this lady for whom you propose to die has no virtue.

PRISONER

(Springing up.) Please be careful what you say.

SCORNFUL ONE

I’m being very careful. I’m thinking it out just as carefully as I can. The night of October 25, or at some time previous to that, she lost her virtue, and you propose to die to keep us from knowing about this loss. Now, it has happened, hasn’t it? On the night of October 25, from twelve o’clock midnight till eight next morning continuously she lost her virtue. You aren’t dying to keep her virtuous. I fancy few lives have been laid upon that altar. But you’re dying to keep us from knowing she is what she is. Dear me, it seems rather sad.

SILLY ONE

(Controlling her tears.) It is noble beyond words.

SCORNFUL ONE

There’s where you’re going to get your approbation.

[The Motherly One now returns from her telephoning. She looks at the Silly Woman, then at the Scornful One—these two stand looking one another up and down.

SCORNFUL ONE

(In her amused manner.) Can it be that we are two souls with but a single thought?

MOTHERLY ONE

(In her mothering voice.) Perhaps we are two hearts that beat as one.

[They stand there a moment not knowing what to do; then, still uncertainly, they sit down, stealing glances at one another. Finally the Scornful One smiles.

SCORNFUL ONE
We might draw lots.
SILLY ONE
Love conquereth all things.
SCORNFUL ONE
Even the female brain.
MOTHERLY ONE
I wonder why you others came.
SCORNFUL ONE
Why did you come?
MOTHERLY ONE

Oh, I have children of my own. I thought, he’s just a nice boy, and probably she’s just some nice girl afraid of her mother. And I thought—well, now what an awful pity to let him die, or even spend a lot of time in prison. I said to myself, it would be just like a lot of men to fuss around about a woman’s honor and really let it hurt somebody. So I decided—well, I’ll go. What harm can it do me? (Resumes her knitting.) You see, I’m in the habit of trying to save lives. I do nursing—practical nursing—and I didn’t happen to be on a case just now, so I thought—well, I’ll just take this case. Some of the folks I nurse for may be shocked—but good sensible nurses aren’t so easy to get. Of course my children may be upset about it—but they’re awful nice children, and when they’re a little older probably they’ll be pleased to think their mother didn’t want a nice boy to die. (Drops her knitting.) I wonder if she will come. (Looks at the other two with new interest.)

SCORNFUL ONE
I wonder.
SILLY ONE
“She” is here.
SCORNFUL ONE

Oh, it’s not you. You thought it was the lawyer you were with. Anyway, people who do things don’t make so much fuss about them.

MOTHERLY ONE

(Whose interest has not been diverted.) I think she will have to come.

[The door of the room into which the Shielded One was shown opens quietly and without the others being aware of it the Shielded One is standing in the doorway, bringing with her that sense of the ordered protected life out of which she has stepped.

SCORNFUL ONE

I’m sure I don’t see how she could ever think of staying away. I hate a coward.

MOTHERLY ONE

Some women think a great deal about their honor. I think usually it’s women who aren’t very well—or who haven’t much else to take up their time.

[Impulsively the Shielded One steps forward as if to speak. Hearing her, they turn, and in their interest, rise and stand looking at her.

MOTHERLY ONE

Oh—you’ve come?

[The Prisoner who to get away from the women gives the impression of being crowded into a corner, also turns and rises.

PRISONER

(To Shielded One, rather crossly.) Please go away!

SCORNFUL ONE
O—h.
PRISONER

Can’t you see there is no need for your staying?

SHIELDED ONE

(Quietly.) There is need of it. (She sits down, the other women still surveying her.)

MOTHERLY ONE

It’s true we aren’t all needed. Who will be best—? (To Scornful One.) Tell me, why are you here?

SCORNFUL ONE

Well, you see for myself I haven’t any honor to worry about, and haven’t had for some time. So I thought, if the sacrifice of a woman’s honor is going to save a man’s life, let me, who have none, nobly sacrifice mine.

MOTHERLY ONE

What do you mean, you haven’t had any honor for some time?

SCORNFUL ONE

Oh, I haven’t had my honor around with me since I was seventeen.

MOTHERLY ONE
(Kindly.) Do you miss it?
SCORNFUL ONE

Well—yes; sometimes when I’m tired I might like to slump back into it. You see, honor camouflages so many things—stupidity, selfishness—greed, lust, avarice, gluttony. So without it you’re almost forced to be a decent sort—and that’s sometimes wearing. (In another voice.) But I’ll tell you why I’m really here! When men begin to sob around about woman’s honor they get my goat. That lawyer—he thought he was going to get away with it. Why, woman’s honor would have died out long ago if it hadn’t been for men’s talk about it.

MOTHERLY ONE

I suppose it really has to be kept up, as long as it gives men such noble feelings.

SCORNFUL ONE

That man—the one when I was seventeen—he’s that sort. He would be of course. Why, this instant his eyes would become “pools of feeling” if anyone were to talk about saving a woman’s honor. (Under her breath.) Gee!

MOTHERLY ONE

(With a diffident glance at the Shielded One.) If she is here, she must be feeling quite upset. If she cares enough about her honor to have held back this long—it can’t be easy to let it go.

SCORNFUL ONE
She’ll be better off without it.
MOTHERLY ONE

I don’t know. You see, she’s had it quite a while. She’s used to it. I was thinking—

[The door opens and a brisk young woman dressed in cheap, up-to-the-minute clothes darts in. All turn and look at her, continue to stare. Something in this scrutiny becomes disconcerting.

MERCENARY ONE

While he was busy with the other women—I just slipped by. Is this—? (Sees the young man, now huddled in terror.)

SCORNFUL ONE

Sit down and wait your turn.

MERCENARY ONE

Are all of you ahead of me?

SCORNFUL ONE

Your number seems to be five.

[Number five sits down; a pause in which they continue to look at her in this unusual way—she finally rather indignantly settles her coat, her hat, assuring herself nothing is the matter with her.

MOTHERLY ONE
You look young for this.
MERCENARY ONE

Well, if you’ll excuse my saying so, the same objection might be made to some of you.

SCORNFUL ONE
What are you here for?
MERCENARY ONE

Oh, I guess I’m here for about the same reason all of you are here.

MOTHERLY ONE
But we are here for different reasons.
MERCENARY ONE

Say, what are you tryin’ to put over on me? Suppose I think you’re here for your health? Or out of kindness? Or to show your great beauty? Hard-ly. Anybody not feeble-minded could dope out why you’re sitting here like owls.

SCORNFUL ONE

Well—why?

MERCENARY ONE

Oh, not for money, of course.

[She has horrified them all.

MOTHERLY ONE
I’m sorry you said that.
SILLY ONE
How sordid! How desecrating!
MERCENARY ONE

Say—I don’t like the atmosphere of this place.

SCORNFUL ONE
We don’t like it as well as we did.
MERCENARY ONE

A business proposition is a business proposition. What a man needs and can pay for—

SILLY ONE

(Rising and wringing her hands.) I really must ask you—Love is so beautiful!

MERCENARY ONE

Well, suppose it is? What’s that got to do with it?

MOTHERLY ONE
You seem hard for one so young.
MERCENARY ONE
I may be hard, but I’m not a nut.
SCORNFUL ONE

Woman’s honor doesn’t play much part in your young life, does it? Or woman’s self-respect, either.

MERCENARY ONE

(Rising.) Say, you think you can sit there and insult me? I don’t know what you are, but I’ll have you know I’m an honest working girl! I heard they were going to take on another stenographer down here, but I don’t like the atmosphere of this place. (She leaves.)

SILLY ONE

(Settling herself with relief.) It was a misunderstanding. Ah, life is paved with misunderstanding.

MOTHERLY ONE
It will be said we did this for money.
SCORNFUL ONE

Oh, a great deal will be said. If you care about what’s said you’d better follow the honest working girl out that door.

MOTHERLY ONE

What’s said makes an awful difference in some people’s lives. (Her eyes turn toward the Shielded One.)

SCORNFUL ONE

They don’t know how much difference until they’ve heard it said. (She too looks at the Shielded One.)

MOTHERLY ONE

You get made into one thing and then it’s not easy to be another. And as the honest working girl hinted, some of us aren’t as young as—we’d like to be.

SCORNFUL ONE

Age shouldn’t discourage one. It’s never too late to mend.

[The door swings, the women look expectantly around; the unfortunate young man, whose face has been buried in his hands, looks round in terror. They wait a moment but no one comes in.

MOTHERLY ONE

If “she” is here, and really minds losing her honor—well, she could just go home. (Silly One rises, simpers, sits down again.) We can’t all lose our honor. It might do the young man more harm than good. It’s different with you— (To Scornful One) you had an early start. And then you’ve got character. You don’t need honor to lean on.

SHIELDED ONE

(Breaking her silence with simple intensity.) What is woman’s honor?

SCORNFUL ONE
A thing men talk about.
MOTHERLY ONE
A safe corner.
SILLY ONE
A star to guide them!
SHIELDED ONE
(Very earnestly.) Guide them where?
SCORNFUL ONE

Yes, where? Many a woman who’s guided hasn’t guided anywhere.

SHIELDED ONE

(Passionately.) Aren’t we something more than things to be noble about?

SCORNFUL ONE

Of course what we’ve really been is kind. We have not deprived them of the pleasures of being noble. If we do it now, it will leave them in a bleak world.

SHIELDED ONE

(Troubled but determined.) Can’t we put something in its place, so they won’t be too desolate and yet we won’t be so—

SCORNFUL ONE
Bored.
MOTHERLY ONE

If we could only get them noble about something else. I should really hate to take it from them entirely. It’s like giving up smoking or drinking. You have to do it gradually, and there should be something to put in its place.

SCORNFUL ONE

If we could only think up a new vice for them.

MOTHERLY ONE
They have all those.
SHIELDED ONE

Oh, I hope you women can work out some way to free us from men’s noble feelings about it! I speak for all the women of my— (Hesitates.) under-world, all those others smothered under men’s lofty sentiments toward them! I wish I could paint for you the horrors of the shielded life. (Says “shielded” as if it were “shameful.”) I know you would feel something must be done to save us. After all (Growing a little wild.) are we not your sisters? Our honor has been saved so many times. We are tired. And so when I read in the paper this morning that woman’s honor was being saved again—

SCORNFUL ONE

(Excitedly going to her.) Read in the paper? Then you’re not—the one?

SHIELDED ONE

Not that one, but—

[Slowly the door opens and a woman comes in—comes with a strange quiet. She droops, she has a queer passivity—she is unaccountably forceful. Gives a sense of one who has been cheated and is going to be cheated no more. She is scarcely aware of the other women. Her eyes, dead, or rather dogged with life, go to the unfortunate young man. He has turned to look at her; he is not able to look away.

SCORNFUL ONE
(Nervously.) Are you a stenographer?
CHEATED ONE

(Not interested in this.) No. (In her dogged way she advances upon the Prisoner. He is afraid. She sits down close to him, as if to cut off escape.)

MOTHERLY ONE
(Low.) I wonder if she is here.
SCORNFUL ONE
I wonder.
SHIELDED ONE

(With an effort bringing herself and the others back to her.) But don’t turn against me because I’m not this particular woman. What a detail that is. I am—those victims of men’s dreadful— (Turns away her face.) need for nobility. I’d rather die than go back to it! Help me to lead another life!

SCORNFUL ONE
(Fervently.) We must lift her up.
MOTHERLY ONE

We will find a place for her in the great good world outside the shielded life.

SHIELDED ONE

Then you others go, and I will stay.

[Motherly One and Scornful One rise and move to the door.

SILLY ONE
I will give my life for yours, my sister!
SCORNFUL ONE

No you won’t. I’ll have nothing to do with saving you. You deserve nothing better than woman’s honor. Come with us.

[But at the door these three stand looking back at the Cheated One.

SCORNFUL ONE

(Moving down to her.) Aren’t you coming with us?

CHEATED ONE
(Without raising her eyes.) No.
SCORNFUL ONE
Why not?
CHEATED ONE
I shall stay.
MOTHERLY ONE

Perhaps she is here. And if “she” is here—then we have not the right to leave her. (Indicating the Shielded One.)

SCORNFUL ONE

(To Cheated One.) Tell us: are you the woman Gordon Wallace was with on the night of October 25?

CHEATED ONE
Yes.
MOTHERLY ONE
Of course we’ve all said that.
SCORNFUL ONE
But she says it in a different way.
MOTHERLY ONE

(To Shielded One.) I am afraid that you will have to leave with us. It seems she has the right.

[These four move to the door.

SHIELDED ONE

(Thinking of it just in time.) But do you think she has the right just because she is the one?

[To consider this, they go back and sit down.

SILLY ONE
Leave me!
SCORNFUL ONE

(Wickedly inspired.) Suppose we do! You know, I like the idea. Why—the more I think about it—the better I like it. (To the other women.) Yes, come! (To the young man.) This is the lady you were going to die for!

SHIELDED ONE

(Distressed.) But, no! What can it do for her? And how, through her, can we reach my poor sisters smothered under woman’s honor? I insist upon it! I am the one!

CHEATED ONE

(Suddenly turning upon her.) You are not the one!

MOTHERLY ONE

Now I think, to avoid feeling between you two, I had better stay. I’m a nurse, and a mother, and I keep coming back to the idea these things are needed.

SCORNFUL ONE

No, you have too many other things to do. I am the one to remain. I am—peculiarly fitted for it.

SHIELDED ONE

You are not fitted for it at all. There is no one less fitted for it than you.

SCORNFUL ONE
How do you make that out?
SHIELDED ONE

You don’t need it. Woman’s honor never hurt you.

SCORNFUL ONE

(Reluctantly accepting this. To Prisoner.) Are you acquainted with this woman? (Indicates Cheated One.)

PRISONER
No.
SCORNFUL ONE
Then why are you so afraid of her?
PRISONER

I’m not— (But he is forced to meet the smoldering eye of the Cheated One; he cannot look away.)

SHIELDED ONE

(Almost in tears.) But you were going to help me lead a better life. And now you stand here quibbling over a petty question of fact, when the whole great question of escape from woman’s honor is at stake! Oh, is it true that women will not help one another? That they are hard and self-seeking? (She breaks down; Motherly One goes to comfort her.)

SILLY ONE
My heart is full—
SCORNFUL ONE
Your heart is full of a simpering parrot!

[The Lawyer returns.

LAWYER

Ladies—ladies—quarreling? I’m sorry to find you in this mood. I had hoped while you were here together you might—arrive at some understanding.

SCORNFUL ONE

(To Silly One.) I wish you’d go home. We might arrive at something if we didn’t have you on our backs.

LAWYER
Now why must women always dislike each other?
MOTHERLY ONE

(In her motherly way.) It I were you I’d try not to talk much.

LAWYER
Why not?
SCORNFUL ONE
She has a kind heart. Now I—I’d let you talk.
LAWYER

Sometimes it seems quite as well not to try to follow women.

SCORNFUL ONE
Sometimes even better.
LAWYER

Well now, Ladies, let us drop personal dissentions for the moment. This unfortunate young man, Mr. Wallace, is much moved by your generosity. He had made up his mind to die for woman’s honor. Now it seems he is not to do so—a change of plan to which he has not yet adjusted himself. His perturbation makes him unequal to selecting the lady who was with him on the night of October 25. (Door swings, Prisoner looks around nervously.) So—I would like to get your feeling. Since it seems unnecessary for all of you to have been with the young man on the night of October 25—

[Again door swings.

PRISONER

(In a rasped voice.) Could that door be closed? It makes me—nervous.

[Motherly Woman closes the door.

LAWYER

Now, doubtless you will agree with me that we should always eliminate waste. If a woman’s honor is to be sacrificed, may I without indelicacy inquire who would sacrifice least?

SHIELDED ONE
(Firmly.) I would.
LAWYER
(Weakly.) You would?
CHEATED ONE

(In a voice dull as destiny.) The rest of you can talk as long as you like. I shall stay. (She rises and takes firm hold of the unfortunate young man’s chair.)

LAWYER
Well, there seems something final about that.
MOTHERLY ONE
Tell us, are you the one?
CHEATED ONE
I am the one to stay.
SCORNFUL ONE
Now, don’t cheat. Tell us, are you—
CHEATED ONE

(Passion flaming through sullenness.) Cheat? Cheat? You say to me, don’t cheat? I don’t cheat. I’ve been cheated. Cheated out of my chance to have a man I wanted by a man who would have what he wanted. Then he saved my woman’s honor. Married me and cheated me out of my life. I’m just something to be cheated. That’s the way I think of myself. Until this morning. Until I read about Gordon Wallace. Then I saw a way to get away from myself. It’s the first thing I ever wanted to do that I’ve done. You’ll not cheat me out of this. Don’t you try!

SHIELDED ONE

But she is thinking of it in just a personal way.

CHEATED ONE
That’s why I stay.
SHIELDED ONE

But think of my poor sisters! All those unfortunate women—

CHEATED ONE

The only unfortunate woman I’ll think about is myself.

SHIELDED ONE

(Wildly.) You hear her? The only unfortunate woman she’ll think about—

MOTHERLY ONE

(Approaching Cheated One.) Now we really must ask you—

SILLY ONE
Love is so beautiful!
SCORNFUL ONE

You can’t cheat just because you’ve been cheated.

CHEATED ONE

(Inflamed—incoherent.) You say cheat to me again? You say cheat to—

LAWYER

(Stepping in to pacify.) Ladies—ladies. Surely there must be a way out of the difficulty. Perhaps we can work out some way to—

SCORNFUL ONE

To save both of them through Gordon Wallace!

[All women except Cheated One draw together excitedly. The Prisoner, who has rapidly been approaching the breaking point makes a move as if he must try to escape. The Cheated One is watching the other women.

SCORNFUL ONE

Here! Yes! On the night of October 25—

[Their heads together in low-voiced conference with Lawyer. Suddenly the Prisoner slips around the Cheated One—trying now not to be cheated of what is being said—and makes for the door. It opens in his face, and the doorway is blocked by a large and determined woman. Prisoner staggers back to Lawyer’s arms.

PRISONER

Oh, hell. I’ll plead guilty.

CURTAIN

Tickless Time

A COMEDY IN ONE ACT

Written in Collaboration with
George Cram Cook (1873–1924)

First performed by the Provincetown Players,
New York, 20 December, 1918.

CHARACTERS

IAN JOYCE,  Who Has Made a Sun-dial

ELOISE JOYCE,  Wedded to the Sun-dial

MRS. STUBBS,  a Native

EDDY KNIGHT,  a Standardized Mind

ALICE KNIGHT,  a Standardized Wife

ANNIE,  Who Cooks by the Joyces’ Clock

SCENE:  A garden in Provincetown. On the spectator’s right a two-story house runs back from the proscenium—a door towards the front, a second-story window towards the back. Across the back runs a thick-set row of sunflowers nearly concealing a fence or wall. Back of this are trees and sky. There is a gate at the left rear corner of the garden. People entering it come straight toward the front, down the left side and, to reach the house door, pass across the front of the stage. A fence with sunflowers like that at the back closes off the left wing of the stage—a tree behind this left fence.

The sun-dial stands on a broad step or pedestal which partly masks the digging which takes place behind it. The position of the sun-dial is to the left of the center of the stage midway between front and back.

From behind the tree on the left the late afternoon sun throws a well-defined beam of light upon the horizontal plate of the sun-dial and upon the shaft which supports it. On this shaft is the accompanying diagram: two feet high and clearly visible.

On the plate of the sun-dial stands the alarm-clock. A huge shovel leans against the wall of the house-corner at the back.

Ian is at the sun-dial. He sights over the style to some distant stake left rear, marking the north. He then sights over the east and west line toward the six o’clock sun. Looks at shadow. Looks at alarm clock. Is intensely pleased.

IAN

(Turning toward house and calling excitedly.) Eloise! Oh, Eloise!

ELOISE
(Inside house.) Hello!
IAN
Come quick! You’ll miss it.
ELOISE

(Poking her head out of the second-story window; she cranes her neck to look straight up in the air.) What is it?

IAN
Come down here quick or you’ll miss it.
ELOISE

(Disappears from window. A moment later comes running out, one braid of hair up and one braid down. Again looks wildly up in the air.) Where is it?

IAN
(Absorbed in the sun-dial.) Where’s what?
ELOISE
The airplane.
IAN

Airplane? It’s the sun-dial. It’s right. Just look at this six o’clock shadow. (She goes around to the other side of it.) It’s absolutely, mathematically—you’re in the way of the sun, Eloise. (She steps aside.) Look! the style is set square on the true north—this is the fifteenth of June—the clock is checked to the second by telegraph with the observatory at Washington and see! the clock is exactly nineteen minutes and twenty seconds behind the shadow—the precise difference between Provincetown local time and standard Eastern time.

ELOISE

Then the sun-dial’s really finished—and working right! After all these weeks! Oh, Ian! (Embraces him.)

IAN

It’s good to get it right after all those mistakes. (With vision.) Why, Eloise, getting this right has been a symbol of man’s whole search for truth—the discovery and correction of error—the mind compelled to conform step by step to astronomical fact—to truth.

ELOISE

(Going to it again.) And to think that it’s the sun-dial which is true and the clock—all the clocks—are wrong! I’m glad it is true. Alice Knight has been here talking to me for an hour. I want to think that something’s true.

IAN

That’s just it, Eloise. The sun-dial is more than sun-dial. It’s a first-hand relation with truth. A personal relation. When you take your time from a clock you are mechanically getting information from a machine. You’re nothing but a clock yourself.

ELOISE
Like Alice Knight.
IAN

But the sun-dial—this shadow is an original document—a scholar’s source.

ELOISE

To tell time by the shadow of the sun—so large and simple.

IAN

I wouldn’t call it simple. Here on this diagram I have worked out—

ELOISE

Dearest, you know I can’t understand diagrams. But I get the feeling of it, Ian—the sun, the North star. I love to think that this (Placing her hands on the style.) is set by the North star. (Her right hand remains on the style, her left prolongs its line heavenward.) Why, if I could go on long enough I’d get to the North star!

IAN

(Impressively.) The line that passes along the edge of this style joins the two poles of the heavens. (Eloise pulls away her hand as one who fears an electric shock.) Look at this slow shadow and what you see is the spin of the earth on its axis. It is not so much the measure of time as time itself made visible.

ELOISE

(Knitting her brows to get this: escaping to an impetuous generality.) Ian, which do you think is the more wonderful—space or time?

IAN

(Again sighting over his east and west lines. Good-humoredly.) Both are a little large for our approbation.

ELOISE

(Sitting on the steps and putting up the other braid.) Do you know, Ian, that’s the one thing about them I)don’t quite like. You can’t get very intimate with them, can you? They make you so humble. That’s one nice thing about a clock. A clock is sometimes wrong.

IAN

Don’t you want to live in a first-hand relation to truth?

ELOISE
Yes; yes, I do—generally.
IAN

I have a feeling as of having touched vast forces. To work directly with worlds—it lifts me out of that little routine of our lives which is itself a clock.

ELOISE

(Catching his exultation.) Let us be like this! Let us have done with clocks!

IAN

Eloise, how wonderful! Can the clocks and live by the sun-dial? Live by the non-automatic sun-dial—as a pledge that we ourselves refuse to be automatons!

ELOISE

Like Alice Knight. (She takes clock from dial and puts it face downward on the ground.) I shall never again have anything to do with a clock!

IAN

Eloise! How corking of you! I didn’t think you had it in you. (Raising his right hand.) Do you solemnly swear to live by the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?

ELOISE
(Her hand upon the sun-dial.) I swear.
IAN
Bring them!
ELOISE
Bring—?
IAN

The clocks! Bring them! (Seizes the spade over by the house; begins to dig a grave behind the sun-dial.) Bring every one! We will bury the clocks before the sun-dial—an offering, a living sacrifice. I tell you this is great, Eloise. What is a clock? Something agreed upon and arbitrarily imposed upon us. Standard time. Not true time. Symbolizing the whole standardization of our lives. Clocks! Why, it is clockiness that makes America mechanical and mean! Clock-minded! A clock is a little machine that shuts us out from the wonder of time. (A large gesture with the shovel.) Who thinks of spinning worlds when looking at a clock? How dare clocks do this to us? But the sun-dial—because there was creation, because there are worlds outside our world, because space is rhythm and time is flow, that shadow falls precisely there and not elsewhere! Bring them, Eloise! I am digging the graves of the clocks!

[Eloise, swept up by this ecstasy, yet frightened at what it is bringing her to, hesitates, then runs to house. Ian digs with rhythmic vigor. A moment later Eloise is seen peering down at him from window, in her arms a cuckoo clock. It begins to cuckoo, startling Eloise.

IAN

That damned cuckoo!

[A moment later Eloise comes out, bearing cuckoo clock and an old-fashioned clock. Ian’s back is to her; she has to pass the alarm clock, lying where she left it, prone on the ground. She hesitates, then carefully holding the other two clocks in one arm, she stealthily goes rear and puts the alarm clock behind the sunflowers. Then advances with the other two.

IAN

(While digging.) Into these graves go all that is clock-like in our own minds. All that a clock world has made of us lies buried here!

[Eloise stands rather appalled at the idea of so much of herself going into a grave. Puts the old-fashioned clock carefully on the ground. Gingerly fits the cuckoo clock into the completed grave. With an exclamation of horror lifts it out of the grave. Listens to its tick. Puts her ear to the sun-dial; listens vainly.

ELOISE
The sun-dial doesn’t tick, does it, Ian?
IAN
Why should it tick?
ELOISE

Do you know, Ian, I— (Timidly) I like to hear the ticking of a clock. (No reply. Eloise holds up the cuckoo clock.) This was a wedding present.

IAN

No wonder marriage fails. (He moves to take it from her.)

ELOISE

I wonder if we hadn’t better leave the cuckoo until tomorrow.

IAN
Flaming worlds! A cuckoo!
ELOISE

Eddy and Alice gave us the cuckoo. You know they’re coming back. I asked them for dinner. They might not understand our burying their clock.

IAN

Their failure to understand need not limit our lives. (Puts the cuckoo clock in its grave and begins to cover it.)

ELOISE

(As the earth goes on.) I liked the cuckoo! I liked to see him popping out!

IAN

(Kindly.) You will grow, Eloise. You will go out to large things now that you have done with small ones.

ELOISE

I hope so. It will be hard on me if I don’t (Ian reaches for the other clock.)

ELOISE

(Snatching it.) Oh, Ian, I don’t think I ought to bury this one. It’s the clock my grandmother started housekeeping with!

IAN

(Firmly taking clock.) And see what it did to her. Meticulous old woman! (Puts it in its grave.)

ELOISE

You were glad enough to get her pies and buckwheat cakes.

IAN

She had all the small virtues. But a standardized mind. (Trampling down the grave.) She lacked scope. And now—a little grave for little clocks. (Takes out his watch, puts it in the grave.) Your watch, Eloise.

ELOISE

(Holding to her wristwatch.) I thought I’d keep my watch, Ian. (Hastily.) For an ornament, you know.

IAN

We are going to let truth be your ornament, Eloise.

ELOISE

Nobody sees truth. (With a fresh outburst.) This watch was my graduation present!

IAN

Symbolizing all the standardized arbitrary things you were taught! Commemorating the clock—like way your mind was made to run. Free yourself of that watch, Eloise. (Eloise reluctantly frees herself. Ian briskly covers the watches. Moves to the unfilled grave.) Is there nothing for this grave? (Eloise shakes her head.) Sure—the alarm clock!

ELOISE

(Running to the sunflowers and spreading out her skirts before them.) Oh, Ian, not the alarm clock! How would we ever go to Boston? The train doesn’t run by the sun.

IAN
Then the train is wrong.
ELOISE

But, Ian, if the train is wrong we have to be wrong to catch the train.

IAN

That’s civilization. (Stands resolutely by the grave.) The alarm clock, Eloise. The grave awaits it.

ELOISE

(Taking it up, her arms folded around it.) I Wanted to go to Boston and buy a hat!

IAN

The sun will fall upon your dear head and give you life.

ELOISE

(About to cry.) But no style! It ticks so loud and sure!

IAN
All false things are loud and sure.
ELOISE

I need a tick! I am afraid of tickless time! (Holding the clock in both hands she places it against her left ear.)

IAN

(Spade still in his right hand, he places his left arm around her reassuringly.) You will grow, Eloise. You are growing. (He takes the clock as he is saying this. She turns her head backward following the departing clock with surprised and helpless eyes. Disconsolately watches him bury it.)

ELOISE

(An inspiration.) Ian! Couldn’t you fix the sun-dial to be set and go off?

IAN

(Pained.) “Set and go off?” (Pause; regards the sun.) Sine sole silio.

ELOISE
What did you say, Ian?
IAN
I said: Sine sole silio.
ELOISE

Well, I don’t know what you say when you say that.

IAN

It’s a Latin motto I’ve just thought of for the sun-dial. It means, “Without sun, I am silent.” Silence is a great virtue. (Having finished the grave, he looks around, making sure there are no more clocks. Joyously.) Now we are freed! Eloise, think what life is going to be! Done with approximations. Done with machine thinking. In a world content with false time, we are true.

ELOISE

(Sitting on the steps.) Yes, it’s beautiful. I want to be true. It’s just that it’s a little hard to be true in a false world. For instance, tomorrow I have an appointment with the dentist. If I come on sun-time I suppose I’ll be twenty minutes—

IAN

(Eagerly Going to the sun-dial and pointing.) If you will just let me explain this table— (Eloise shrinks back. Ian gives it up.) Oh, well, tel! him you are living by the truth.

ELOISE

I’m afraid he’ll charge me for it. And when we ask people for dinner at seven, they’ll get here at twenty minutes of seven. Or will it be twenty minutes after seven?

IAN

(Smoothing down graves.) It will be a part of eternal time.

ELOISE

Yes,—that’s true. Only the roast isn’t so eternal. Why do they have clocks wrong?

IAN

Oh, Eloise, I’ve explained it so many times. You—living in Provincetown, three hundred miles to the eastward, are living by the mean solar time of Philadelphia. (Venomously.) Do you want to live by the mean solar time of Philadelphia?

ELOISE

Certainly not. (An idea.) Then has Philadelphia got the right time?

IAN

It’s right six miles this side of Philadelphia.

ELOISE

We might move to Philadelphia.

[Enter through gate, Mrs. Stubbs, a Provincetown “native.”

MRS. STUBBS
Now, Mr. Joyce, this sun clock—is it running?
IAN

It doesn’t “run,” Mrs. Stubbs. It is acted upon.

MRS. STUBBS
Oh. Well, is it being acted upon?
IAN
As surely as the sun shines.
MRS. STUBBS

(Looking at the sun.) And it is shining today, isn’t it? Well, will you tell me the time? My clock has stopped and I want to set it.

IAN

(Happily.) You hear, Eloise? Her clock has stopped.

MRS. STUBBS
Yes, I forgot to wind it.
ELOISE

(Grieved to think of anyone living in such a world.) Wind it!

IAN

Do you not see, Mrs. Stubbs, where the shadow falls? (She comes up the steps.) From its millions of spinn—You’re in the way of the sun, Mrs. Stubbs. (She steps aside.) Its millions of spinning miles the sun casts that shadow—and here we know that it is eight minutes past six.

MRS. STUBBS

Now, ain’t that wonderful? Dear, dear, I wish Mr. Stubbs could make a sun clock. But he’s not handy around the house. Past six. Well, I must hurry back. They work tonight at the cold storage but Mr. Stubbs gets home for his supper at half past six. (Starts away, reaching the gate.)

ELOISE

(Running to her.) Oh, Mrs. Stubbs! Don’t get his supper by sun time. It wouldn’t be ready. It— (With a hesitant look at Ian) might get cold. (Mrs. Stubbs stares.) You see, Mr. Stubbs is coming home by the mean solar time of Philadelphia.

MRS. STUBBS
(Loyal to Mr. Stubbs.) Who said he was?
ELOISE

(In distress.) Oh, it’s all so false! And arbitrary! (To Ian.) But I think Mrs. Stubbs had better be false and arbitrary too. Mr. Stubbs might rather have his supper than the truth.

MRS. STUBBS

(Advancing a little.) What is this about my being false? And—arbitrary?

ELOISE

You see, you have to be, Mrs. Stubbs. We don’t blame you. How can you live by the truth if Mr. Stubbs doesn’t work by it?

MRS. STUBBS

This is the first word I ever heard said against Johnnie Stubbs’ way of freezin’ fish.

ELOISE

Oh, Mrs. Stubbs, if it were merely his way of freezing fish!

IAN

Since you are not trying to establish a direct relation with truth, set your clock at five minutes of six. The clocks, as would be clear to you if you would establish a first-hand relation with this diagram, Eloise, are slow.

MRS. STUBBS
You mean your sun clock’s wrong.
IAN
All other clocks are wrong.
ELOISE

You live by the mean solar time of Philadelphia.

MRS. STUBBS
I do no such thing!
ELOISE

Yes, you do, Mrs. Stubbs. You see the sun can’t be both here and in Philadelphia at the same time. Now could it? So we have to pretend to be where it is in Philadelphia.

MRS. STUBBS
Who said we did?
ELOISE
Well, (After a look at Ian) the Government.
MRS. STUBBS
Them congressmen!
ELOISE

But Mr. Joyce and I—You’re standing on a grave, Mrs. Stubbs. (Mrs. Stubbs jumps.) The grave of my grandmother’s clock. (In reply to Mrs. Stubbs look of amazement.) Oh, yes! That clock has done harm enough. Mrs. Stubbs, think what time is—and then consider my grandmother’s clock! Tick, tick! Tick, tick! Messing up eternity like that!

MRS. STUBBS

(After failing to think of anything adequate.) I must get Mr. Stubbs his supper! (Frightened exit.)

IAN

(Standing near house door.) Eloise, how I love you when feeling lifts you out of routine! Do you know, dearest, you are very sensitive in the way you feel feeling? Sometimes I think that to feel feeling is greater than to feel. You’re like the dial. Your sensitiveness is the style—the gnomon—to cast the shadow of the feeling all around you and mark what has been felt.

[They embrace. Eddy and Alice open the gate.

EDDY

Ahem! (He comes down.) Ahem! We seem to have come ahead of time.

ELOISE

Oh, Eddy! Alice! (Moving toward Eddy but not passing the dial.) We are living by sun time now. You haven’t arrived for twenty minutes.

EDDY

We haven’t arrived for twenty minutes? (Feeling of himself.) Why do I seem to be here?

ALICE

(Approaching dial.) So this is the famous sun-dial? How very interesting it is!

ELOISE
It’s more than that.
ALICE
Yes, it’s really beautiful, isn’t it?
ELOISE
It’s more than that.
EDDY
Is it?
ELOISE

It’s a symbol. It means that Ian and I are done with approximations arbitrarily and falsely imposed upon us.

EDDY

Well, I should think you would be. Who’s been doing that to you?

ELOISE
Don’t step on the graves, please, Alice.
ALICE
(Starting back in horror.) Graves?
ELOISE

(Pointing down.) The lies we inherited lie buried there.

EDDY

Well, I should think that might make quite a graveyard. So the sun-dial is built on lies.

ELOISE
Indeed it is not!
ALICE
Does it keep time?
IAN
It doesn’t “keep” time. It gives it.
EDDY

(Comparing with his watch.) Well, it gives it wrong. It’s twenty minutes fast. (Ian and Eloise smile at one another in a superior way.)

ALICE

You couldn’t expect a home-made clock to be perfectly accurate. I think it’s doing very well to come within twenty minutes of the true time.

IAN
It is true time.
ELOISE

You think it’s twenty minutes fast because your puny, meticulous little watch is twenty minutes slow.

ALICE

Why, is it, Eddy? (Comparing watches across the sun-dial.) No, Eddy’s watch is right by mine.

IAN
And neither of you is right by the truth.
ELOISE

(Pityingly.) Don’t you know that you are running by the mean solar time of Philadelphia?

EDDY
Well, isn’t everybody else running that way?
ELOISE
Does that make it right?
EDDY

I get you. You are going to cast off standard time and live by solar time.

ELOISE
Lies for truth.
EDDY

But how are you going to connect up with other people?

IAN
We can allow for their mistakes.
ELOISE

We will connect with other people in so far as other people are capable of connecting with the truth!

EDDY

I’m afraid you’ll be awful lonesome sometimes.

ALICE

But, Eloise, do you mean to say that you are going to insist on being right when other people are wrong?

ELOISE
I insist upon it.
ALICE
What a life!
EDDY

Come now, what difference does it make if we’re wrong if we’re all wrong together?

IAN

That idea has made a clock of the human mind.

[Enter Annie.

ANNIE

Mrs. Joyce, can’t I have my clock back now? I don’t know when to start dinner.

IAN

(Consulting dial.) By true time, Annie, it is twenty minutes past six.

ELOISE
(Confidentially.) By false time, it is six.
ANNIE

I have to have my kitchen clock back. (She looks around for it.)

IAN
We are done with clocks, Annie.
ANNIE
You mean I’m not to have it back?
ELOISE
It lies buried there.
ANNIE
Buried? My clock buried? It’s not dead!
IAN
It’s dead to us, Annie.
ANNIE

(After looking at the grave.) Do I get a new clock?

ELOISE

We are going to establish a first-hand relation with truth.

ANNIE
You can’t cook without a clock.
IAN

A superstition. And anyway—have you not the sun?

ANNIE

(After regarding the sun.) I’d rather have a clock than the sun. (Returns to her clockless kitchen.)

IAN

That’s what clocks have made of the human mind.

EDDY

(Coming to Ian.) Of course, this is all a joke.

IAN

The attempt to reach truth has always been thought a joke.

EDDY

But this isn’t any new truth! Why re-reach it?

IAN

I’m reaching it myself. I’m getting the impact—as of a fresh truth.

ALICE
But hasn’t it all been worked out for us?
IAN

And we take it never knowing—never feeling—what it is we take.

ELOISE

And that has made us the mechanical things we are!

ANNIE

(Frantically rushes in, peeling an onion.) Starting the sauce for the spaghetti. Fry onions in butter three minutes. (Wildly regards sun-dial—traces curved line of diagram with knife. Looks despairingly at the sun. Tears back into house.)

IAN

You get no sense of wonder in looking at a clock.

ALICE

Yes, do you know, I do. I’ve always thought that clocks were perfectly wonderful. I never could understand how they could run like that.

ELOISE
I suppose you know they run wrong?
EDDY
What do you mean “run wrong?”
ELOISE

Why, you are running by the mean solar time of Philadelphia! And yet here you are in Provincetown where the sun is a very different matter. You have no direct relation with the sun.

EDDY
That doesn’t seem to worry me much.
IAN

No, it wouldn’t worry you, Eddy. You’re too perfect a product of a standardized world. (Eddy bows acknowledgment.)

ANNIE

(Rushing out to look at dial.) Add meat, brown seven minutes. (Measures seven minutes between thumb and finger, holds up this fragment of time made visible and carries it carefully into the house.)

EDDY
That girl’ll get heart disease.
IAN

Let her establish a first-hand relation to heat. If she’d take a look at the food instead of the clock—!

EDDY

Trouble is we have to establish a first-hand relation with the spaghetti. (Eddy now comes down and regards the sun-dial. Moralizes.) If other people have got the wrong dope, you’ve got to have the wrong dope or be an off ox.

IAN
Perfect product of a standardized nation!
EDDY

(Pointing with his stick.) What’s this standardized snake?

IAN
That’s my diagram correcting the sun.
EDDY
Does one correct the sun?
ELOISE

(From behind the dial.) Ian! Correcting the sun!

IAN

You see there are only four days in the year when the apparent time is the same as the average time.

ELOISE

(In growing alarm.) Do you mean to tell me the sun is not right with itself?

IAN

I’ve tried to explain it to you, Eloise, but you said you could get the feeling of it without understanding it. This curve (Pointing) marks the variation. Here today, you see, the shadow is “right” as you call it—that is, average. It will be right again here in September and again on December twenty-first.

ALICE
My birthday!
ELOISE

Ian, you mean to say the sun only tells the right sun-time four days in the year?

IAN

It always tells the “right” sun-time, but here the said right sun-time is fifteen minutes behind its own average, and here it is sixteen minutes ahead. This scale here across the bottom shows you the number of minutes to add or subtract.

ELOISE

(With bitterness.) Add! Subtract! Then you and your sun are false!

IAN

No, Eloise, not false. Merely intricate. Merely not regular. Machines are regular.

ELOISE

You got me to bury the clocks and live by the sun—and now you tell me you have to fix up the sun.

IAN
It was you who said bury the clocks.
ELOISE

I suppose you have to do something to the North star too!

IAN

Yes, the North star is not true north. (He starts to point out its error, sighting over the style of the dial.)

ELOISE
What is true? What is true?
IAN
(With vision.) The mind of man.
ELOISE

I think I’d better have a clock. (A new gust.) You told me I was to live by the sun and now—after the clocks are in their graves—what I am to live by is that snake. (She points at diagram.)

IAN

You are a victim of misplaced confidence, Eloise. Sometimes when one feels things without understanding them, one feels the wrong thing. But there’s nothing to worry about. The sun and I can take care of the sun’s irregularities.

EDDY
Take heart, Eloise. It’s a standardized sun.
IAN
It’s not a blindly accepted sun!
ANNIE

(Who comes as one not to be put aside.) What’ll I do when it rains?

IAN
You’ll use your mind.
ANNIE

To tell time by? (Looking to Eloise.) I think I’d better find another place.

ALICE

(Coming forward, regarding this as a really serious matter.) No, don’t do that, Annie.

ELOISE

(Tearfully.) You don’t know the wonders of your own mind!

ANNIE

No, ma’am. (After a look at the sun, becomes terrified.) It’s going down!

EDDY
Yes, it goes down.
ANNIE
How’ll we tell time when it’s dark?
IAN
Sine sole silio.
ANNIE

Is that saying how we’ll know when it’s time to go to bed?

IAN
The doves know when to go to bed.
ANNIE
The doves don’t go to the pictures.
ELOISE
(Hysterically.) You’ll grow, Annie!
ANNIE
I’d rather have a clock! (Exits.)
IAN
She’d rather have a clock than grow.
ALICE
Now why can’t one do both?
IAN

One doesn’t—that’s the answer. One merely has the clock. I’d rather be a fool than a machine.

EDDY
I never definitely elected to be either.
IAN
One can be both without electing either.
ELOISE
I want to hear the ticking of a clock!
EDDY

It’s a nice thing to hear. The ticking of a clock means the minds of many men. As long as the mind of man has to—fix up the facts of nature in order to create ideal time I feel it’s a little more substantial to have the minds of many men.

ALICE

As I’ve told you before, Eloise, you can’t do better than accept the things that have been all worked out for you.

IAN

You hear them, Eloise? You see where this defense of clocks is leading?

ELOISE

Ian, I’m terribly worried—and a little hurt—about the sun. (As one beginning a dirge.) The sun has failed me. The North star is false.

IAN
(Going to her.) I am here, dearest.
ELOISE

Sometimes you seem so much like space. I am running by the sun—that wobbly sun (Looking at it.) and everyone else is running by Philadelphia. I want a little clock to tick to me!

IAN
You will grow, dearest.
ELOISE

There’s no use growing. The things you grow to are wrong. (Pressing her hands to her head.) I need a tick in time!

IAN

(Striding savagely from her.) Very well, then; dig up the clocks.

EDDY

Now you’re talking!

[Eloise springs up.

IAN

Dig up the clocks! And we spend our lives nineteen minutes and twenty seconds apart!

[Eloise is arrested, appalled.
Dreadful pause.

ELOISE
You mean we’d never get together?
IAN

Time would lie between us. I refuse to be re-caught into a clock world. It was you, Eloise, who proposed we give up the clocks and live in this first-hand relation to truth.

ELOISE

I didn’t know I was proposing a first-hand relation with that snake!

IAN

It’s not a snake! It’s a little piece of the long winding road to truth. It’s the discarding of error, the adjustment of fact. And I did it myself. And it puts me on that road. Oh, I know (To Eddy and Alice) how you can laugh if you yourself feel no need to feel truth. And you, Eloise, if you don’t want to feel time—return to your mean little clock. What is a clock? A clock is the soulless—

[The alarm clock enters a protest. Smothered sound of the alarm going off underground. Eloise screams.

ELOISE
The alarm clock! It’s going off!
ALICE
Buried alive!
ELOISE

Oh, no—oh, no! How terrible! Ian, how terrible! (She runs to him. Alarm clock, being intermittent, goes off again.)

IAN

Eloise, if you listen to the voice of that clock—!

EDDY

How bravely it tries to function in its grave!

ALICE

The death struggle—the last gasp!

[With another scream Eloise snatches spade, begins to dig; alarm clock gives another little gasp; spade is too slow for her: in her desperation goes to it with her hands. Gets it and, as she holds it aloft, the alarm clock rings its triumph.

ELOISE

(Holding it to her ear.) It’s ticking! It ticks! It ticks! Oh,—it’s good to hear the ticking of a clock!

[As he hears this, Ian, after a moment of terrible silence, goes and unscrews the plate of the sun-dial. All watch him, afraid to speak. He takes it off, holds it above the grave from which the alarm clock has been rescued.

ELOISE

Ian! What are you doing? (He does not answer, but puts the sun-dial in the alarm clock’s grave.) Ian! No! No! Not that! Not your beautiful sun-dial! Oh, no! Not that!

[Ian, having finished the burial of the sun-dial, sees the alarm clock and puts it on the pedestal from which the sun-dial has been taken.

IAN

We bow down, as of old, to the mechanical. We will have no other god but it. (He then sits on the step, sunk in gloom.)

[Annie appears, in her hand a panful of water.

ANNIE

This liver has to soak five minutes. I’ll soak it here. (Sees the alarm clock; with a cry of joy.) My clock! My clock! (Overcome with emotion.) Oh! My clock! My clock! Can I take it in the house to finish dinner?

ELOISE

(In a hopeless voice.) Yes, take it away.

[Beaming, Annie bears it to her kitchen. Eloise now kneels behind the grave of the sun-dial.

EDDY

Let us leave them alone with their dead.

[Leads Alice to the corner of the house; they look off down the road. Eloise and Ian sit there on either side of the grave, swaying as little back and forth, as those who mourn.

ELOISE

(Looking at grave.) I had thought life was going to be so beautiful.

IAN
It might have been.
ELOISE

(Looking at empty pedestal.) I suppose it will never be beautiful again.

IAN

It cannot be beautiful again.

[Suddenly, with a cry, Eloise gets up and darts to the house: comes racing back with the alarm clock, snatches spade, desperately begins to dig a grave.

ELOISE

Ian! Ian! Don’t you see what I’m doing? I’m willing to have a first-hand relation with the sun even though it’s not regular.

[But Ian is as one who has lost hope. Eddy and Alice turn to watch the re-burial of the alarm clock. Annie strides in.

ANNIE

(In no mood for feeling.) Where’s my alarm clock?

ELOISE
I am burying it.
ANNIE

Again? (Looks at sun-dial.) And even the sun-clock’s gone?

EDDY

All is buried. Truth. Error. We have returned to the nothing from which we came.

ANNIE

This settles it. Now I go. I leave. (Firm with purpose, re-enters the house.)

ALICE
(Excitedly.) Eloise! She means it!
ELOISE

(Dully.) I suppose she does. (Continues her grave digging.)

ALICE

But you can’t get anybody else! You can’t get anybody now. Oh, this is madness. What does any of the rest of it matter if you have lost your cook? (To Ian.) Eloise can’t do the work! Peel potatoes—scrub. What’s the difference what’s true if you have to clean out your own sink? (Despairing of him she turns to Eloise.) Eloise, stop fussing about the moon and stars! You’re losing your cook!

[Annie comes from the house with suitcase, shawl-strap and handbag on long strings. Marches straight to left of stage, makes a face at the sign marches to gate left rear and off.

ALICE

Eddy, go after her! Heavens! Has no one a mind? Go after her!

EDDY

What’s the good of going after her without a clock?

ALICE

Well, get ea clock! For heaven’s sake, get a clock! Eloise, get off the grave of the alarm clock! (Eloise stands like a monument. To Eddy.) Well, there are graves all around you. Dig something else up. No! You call her back. I’ll— (Snatches spade, which is resting against the sun-dial pedestal, begins to dig.)

[Eddy stands at back, calling.

EDDY
Annie! Oh, Annie! Wait, Annie!
ALICE

(While frantically digging.) Say something to interest her, imbecile!

EDDY

(Stick in one hand, straw hat in the other, making wild signals with both.) Come home, Annie! Clock! Clock! (Giving up that job and throwing off his coat.) You interest her and I’ll dig. (They change places.)

ALICE

She’s almost to the bend! Eddy, don’t you know how to dig?

[Eddy, who has been digging with speed and skill, produces the clock with which Eloise’s grandmother started housekeeping. Starts to dash off with it.

ELOISE

(Dully.) That clock doesn’t keep time. Annie hates it.

IAN

(As if irritated by all this inefficiency.) What she wants is the alarm clock. Get off the grave, Eloise.

[He disinters alarm clock and with it runs after Annie. Alice draws a long breath and rubs her back. Eddy brings the clock he dug up and set it on the pedestal. Then he looks down at the disturbed graves.

EDDY

Here’s a watch! (Lifts it from the grave; holds it out to Eloise; she does not take it. He puts it on the pedestal beside the clock.) Here’s another watch. (Holds up Ian’s watch.) Quite a valuable piece of ground.

[Now is heard the smothered voice of a cuckoo.

ALICE
(Jumping.) What’s that?
ELOISE
The cuckoo. I suppose it’s lonesome.
ALICE

(Outraged.) Cuckoo! (Pointing.) In that grave? The cuckoo we gave you? (Eloise nods.) You buried our wedding present? (Eloise again nods. Eddy and Alice draw together in indignation.) Well, I must say, the people who try to lead the right kind of lives always do the wrong thing. (Stiffly.) I am not accustomed to having my wedding presents put in graves. Will you please dig it up, Eddy? It will do very well on the mantel in our library. And my back nearly broken digging for your cook! (She holds her back.)

[While Eddy is digging up the cuckoo, Annie and Ian appear and march across from gate to house, Annie triumphantly bearing her alarm clock, Ian—a captive at her chariot wheels—following with suitcase, shawl strap and long strings of bag around his wrist. A moment later Ian comes out of the house, looks at each dug-up thing, stands by the grave of the sun-dial. Enter Mrs. Stubbs.

MRS. STUBBS

Oh, Mr. Joyce, I’ve come to see your sun-clock again. Mr. Stubbs says he’ll not be run from Philadelphia. He says if you have got the time straight from the sun— (Sees that the sun-dial is gone.) Oh, do you take it in at night?

IAN
The sun-dial lies buried there.
MRS. STUBBS

You’ve buried the sun-clock? And dug up all the wrong clocks? (With a withering glance at Eloise.) That’s how a smart man’s appreciated! What did you bury it for, Mr. Joyce?

[Eddy gives the cuckoo clock to Alice.

IAN

It cannot live in this world where no one wants truth or feeling about truth. This is a world for clocks.

MRS. STUBBS

Well, I want truth! And so does Johnnie Stubbs! If you’ll excuse my saying so, Mr. Joyce, after you’ve made a thing that’s right you oughtn’t to bury it, even if there is nobody to want it. And now that I want it— (Mrs. Stubbs takes the spade and begins to dig up the sun-dial. Ian cannot resist this and helps her. He lifts the sun-dial, she brushes it of and he fits it to its place on the pedestal.) Now there it is, Mr. Joyce, and as good as if it had never seen the grave. (She looks at the setting sun.) And there’s time for it to make its shadow before this sun has gone.

IAN
The simple mind has beauty.
ELOISE
(Coming to him.) I want to be simpler.
MRS. STUBBS

Now what time would you say it was, Mr. Joyce?

IAN

I would say it was twenty minutes of seven, Mrs. Stubbs.

MRS. STUBBS

(Looking at Eddy and Alice and the cuckoo clock.) And they would say it was twenty minutes past six! Well, I say: let them that want sun time have sun time and them that want tick time have tick time.

[Annie appears at the door.

ANNIE

(In a flat voice.) It’s dinner time!

CURTAIN

FULL-LENGTH PLAYS

Bernice

A PLAY IN THREE ACTS

First performed by the Provincetown Players,
New York, 21 March, 1919.

CHARACTERS

MR. ALLEN,  Bernice’s Father

ABBIE,  the housekeeper

CRAIG NORRIS,  Bernice’s Husband

LAURA (Mrs. Kirby),  Craig’s Sister

MARGARET PIERCE,  Bernice’s Friend

ACT ONE

SCENE:  The living-room of Bernice’s house in the country. You feel yourself in the house of a woman you would like to know, a woman of sure and beautiful instincts, who lives simply. At the spectator’s right, stairs go up from the living room; back of this—right, rear, a door; to the front of the stairs is a narrowed passage as of a hall leading to the kitchen. On the other side of the room, is a tea-table before the fireplace, and before it is a low rounded chair, as if awaiting the one who will come to serve tea. Toward the rear of this left wall is a door. This door is closed. From the back of the room French windows lead directly out of doors. On each side of this door is a window thus opening almost the entire wall to the October woods. There are comfortable seats under the windows, books about. It is late afternoon and the sun glows through the flaming leaves.

As the curtain is drawn, the Father is seen sitting at a long table at the side of the stairway, playing solitaire. At the back of the cards, open books are propped against the wall, and papers on which he has been writing. Abbie, a middle-aged servant, is attending to the open fire.

FATHER

(Holding up a card he is about to place.) Ten minutes since the train whistled. They’ll be here in five minutes now.

ABBIE
Yes, sir.
FATHER

It will be hard for Craig to come in this house, Abbie.

ABBIE
Oh, yes.
FATHER

Bernice made this house. (Looking around.) Everything is Bernice. (A pause.) Change something, Abbie! (With growing excitement.) Put something in a different place. (He takes a pillow from the seat under the window, holds it irresolutely a moment, puts it on the floor at the side of the fireplace. On the other side he moves a high vase from the window. Then helplessly) Well, I don’t know. You can’t get Bernice out of this room. The tea-table! Come, Abbie, quick! We will take this out of the room. (Together, Abbie reluctant, they move it to the passageway leading out from the living—room. The Father comes back and sees the chair, now without its table. He goes as if to move it, but cannot do this; looks old and broken as he faces the closed door.) I wish they’d left Bernice upstairs, Abbie, in her own room. Now there—so near the living-room—right off the living-room. (Hastily goes back to his cards, but in an instant he brushes them together and pulls the open book toward him, and papers; but he only rests his hand on the book.) There’ll be only Craig and his sister on this train, Abbie.

ABBIE
That’s all I know of.
FATHER

But Margaret Pierce will be here soon. As soon as she can get here, Margaret will come. Within an hour, probably.

ABBIE
(Apprehensive.) You think so, sir?
FATHER

I think so. That train from the West got to the Junction at three. I have a feeling Margaret won’t wait for the five o’clock train to get here. She’ll get a car. (Abbie goes to the door and looks out.) It would save a little time, and—she doesn’t know that Bernice—Yes, Margaret will get here the quickest way. She always came to Bernice when Bernice needed her.

ABBIE
She doesn’t need anyone now.
FATHER

No. But yes—in a way, she does. She needs someone to be here to do what she can’t go on doing. Margaret will see that—when she knows. Margaret sees everything.

ABBIE
(Frightened now.) You think so, sir?
FATHER

Oh, yes, she does. Bernice knew that. “Margaret sees things,” I’ve heard Bernice say. (Abbie turns from him.) Now Mrs. Kirby, Craig’s sister Laura, she’s a sensible woman, she’ll be a help to you, Abbie, in—arranging things. But see things? No. How different people are. They’re all different, Abbie. I don’t think Bernice cared much for Laura—though she didn’t mind her. She’d just laugh about Laura—about her being so sure of everything. It was nice, Abbie, the way Bernice would just laugh about things. She had no malice.

ABBIE

(Strangely intense.) No. She didn’t have, did she?

FATHER

Oh, no, Abbie. Malice wasn’t in her. It was just that a good many things—well, the things that are important to most people weren’t so important to Bernice. It was another set of things were important. People called her detached. But—I don’t know. Maybe they’re detached, Abbie. Maybe it’s Laura Kirby, the sensible woman, who’s detached—Bernice would have laughed at that—the practical person who’s detached, and Bernice…. You know what I mean, Abbie?

ABBIE
I think I do—knowing her.
FATHER
To you—did she seem detached?
ABBIE

(Tenderly thinking it out.) She was loving, and thoughtful, and gay. But always a little of what she is now— (Faces the closed door.) off by herself. (With that intensity the present moment does not account for.) You can’t expect to understand a person who is “off by herself.” Now can you?

FATHER

I understood Bernice. Except, there were things—outside what I understood.

ABBIE

(Eagerly.) That’s it. And we should take whatwe had, shouldn’t we, and not try to reach into—to where we didn’t go.

FATHER

I suppose that’s true, Abbie. (Buries his face.) I wish my little girl hadn’t died. What am I going to do, Abbie? How can I stay here? And how can I go away? We should die in our proper order; I should have gone before my daughter. Anything else makes confusion. There’s not going to be anybody to laugh at me now, Abbie. I’ll miss the way Bernice laughed at me, a laugh that took me in and—yes, took me in. She laughed at my spending the whole time of the war studying Sanskrit. Well, why shouldn’t I? What can the old do about war? I had my vision of life. If that had been followed, there’d have been no war. But in a world that won’t have visions—why not study Sanskrit while such a world is being made over—into another such world. (Listening.) You hear someone, Abbie?

ABBIE
(After listening.) It didn’t turn in.
FATHER

And you, Abbie. (With wonder.) Why, you were with us when Bernice was born.

ABBIE

Yes, I was—in the room the night she was born. The night she died I thought of the night she was born.

FATHER
That was—how long ago, Abbie?
ABBIE
Thirty-five years ago.
FATHER

Was Bernice thirty-five years old? She was, Abbie—my little girl? Well, life moves by—and we hardly know it’s moving. Why, Abbie, your whole life has been lived around Bernice. (Abbie nods.) It will be now as if things had—fallen apart. And it was the main thing in your life—doing things for her.

ABBIE

(With excitement.) Yes, it was the main thing in my life—doing what she wanted. I couldn’t do anything else now, could I?

FATHER

(A little surprised at her agitation, but not thinking about it.) Why, no. Now someone is coming, Abbie. You hear them coming?

ABBIE

I think so. (She goes to the door.) Yes.

[Abbie opens the door and Laura and Craig come in. Craig holds back as if to enter this house is something he can scarcely make himself do; he does not look around the room.

LAURA

(To the Father, taking his hand.) This is so hard for you, Mr. Allen. I cannot tell you— (Turning to Abbie) Abbie.

FATHER

(Going to Craig, who is still at the door.) Well, Craig. (The Father holds out his hand, Craig takes it.) Well, I don’t know what we’re going to do without her.

LAURA

(Coming to the rescue with the practical.) And where are you going to put us, Abbie?

ABBIE
I have the rooms ready upstairs.
CRAIG
(As if he cannot do this.) Upstairs?
ABBIE

(In a low voice.) She is down here, sir. (She indicates the closed door. Then takes Laura’s bag and they start upstairs. Craig does not move.)

LAURA

(On the stairway.) Aren’t you coming up, Craig, to get clean and rest a little?

CRAIG

In a minute or two. (He sits down—an the edge of a chair near the door. The Father and husband sit there silent.) Bernice—hadn’t been sick long, had she?

FATHER

No, it was very sudden. You know she had had trouble occasionally in the past year; Dr. Willis had said she might have to go to the hospital. At first this seemed like that—so Abbie and I weren’t really alarmed. Of course we sent for Willis, but he was in Boston. Young Stuart had the grippe. So there was no doctor here—till afterwards.

CRAIG

And—how long was Bernice sick? (He speaks with difficulty.)

FATHER

She spoke of feeling badly on Tuesday. She was lying down most of that day. Wednesday—she didn’t get up at all Wednesday. And she died late Wednesday night. (Emotion breaking through.) Abbie and I were here all alone!

CRAIG

Did she say—Did she leave—Well, we can talk of that later.

FATHER

(Changing to something not so hard to speak of.) You landed last week?

CRAIG

Yes, I was held in New York by things to do. (A glance at the Father.) Of course, if I had had any idea—

FATHER
Of course.
CRAIG
But Bernice wrote me she was fine.
FATHER

She seemed so. She was well and—seemed very happy here this fall. You know how she loves to tramp the woods in the fall. She was counting on your coming home. She had done over your room upstairs. And hers too. They both look so nice and fresh. And she was just starting to do some things to Margaret’s room. Margaret was coming next month for a rest. She’s been working very hard.

CRAIG
Are you expecting Margaret now?
FATHER

Yes. Wednesday evening Bernice seemed to want Margaret to come. She thought maybe Margaret could get away now, and that it would do her good too. She had been worrying about her—thinking she was working too hard. Margaret’s been in Chicago, you know, working on some labor things—I never know just what it is she is doing. Bernice seemed to want to see her. I wonder if Bernice herself felt it was more than we knew. Anyway, she wanted us to send for Margaret.

CRAIG

But you didn’t send for me until—until it was over.

FATHER

No. You see we didn’t know—Abbie and I didn’t have any idea—I spoke of sending for you when we sent the telegram for Margaret, but Bernice said you’d be here soon anyway, and she didn’t want to hurry you away from New York. (As if not understanding it himself, and trying to find an explanation.) I suppose you were doing something that she knew about, and didn’t want to interrupt.

[Craig half looks at him.

CRAIG
And Margaret answered that she was coming?
FATHER

Yes, we heard from her Thursday morning that she had started. She could get here today. We didn’t know where to reach her telling her it was too late now for—for the visit with Bernice. (Breaking.) I just can’t believe it! Think of what you and I are talking about! Bernice out of life. She was so—of it. Didn’t you feel that, Craig—about Bernice?

CRAIG

Yes. She seemed so—secured. It never seemed anything could—destroy Bernice.

FATHER

When I think she won’t come down those stairs again!

CRAIG
I can’t—think of things that way now.
FATHER

No. No, of course not. (He does not know what to say, so gathers together his cards, then books.) I’ll just—I was just going in my room. (Pause.) I’ve been getting on fine with my Sanskrit, Craig.

CRAIG
That’s good.
FATHER

And now the war is over, and some of the people who fussed around about it influenced it as little as I, and I—have my Sanskrit. You know, Bernice used to laugh at me, Craig. She—the way she used to laugh at us—lovingly. Seems to me I’ll miss that most of all.

[He goes into his room through the door to the rear of the stairway. Alone in the room, Craig tries to look around. He cannot. He has taken a step toward the closed door when he hears Abbie’s step on the stairs.

CRAIG

(Impetuously going to her, his hands out.) Abbie, you were good to her. (Takes her hands, holds them tight. Then changing.) Why didn’t you telegraph me when she was taken sick? (Violently.) Do you think there was anything in New York I wouldn’t have left? Bernice knew that if she needed me—She never seemed to need me. I never felt she—couldn’t get along without me. (Taking a few stumbling steps toward the room where Bernice is.) Oh, I wish I could have a talk with her.

ABBIE

Mr. Norris! (Her tone halts him.) There’s something I must tell you.

CRAIG
A—message she left?
ABBIE

Message? No. Yes—perhaps. Before you go in there I must tell you—

[They are arrested by the sound of a stopping car; neither moves; in a moment Margaret Pierce hurries in.

MARGARET

(After looking at them.) She’s worse? (Growing more and more alarmed by them.) Where is she? (Starts towards the stairs.)

ABBIE
No—there. (Pointing.)
CRAIG

(Stepping between Margaret and the closed door.) She’s dead, Margaret.

MARGARET

Dead? Oh—no. Not Bernice. (Waits imploringly.) But that couldn’t be.

CRAIG

I know. I know what you mean, Margaret.

[It seems Margaret is about to fall. Craig brings a chair; without taking a step she sinks to it, facing the closed door. Abbie turns and goes out, toward the kitchen.

MARGARET

(A slight quick turn of her head to him.) I don’t believe it!

CRAIG
It’s true, Margaret.
MARGARET

(Like blood from her heart.) But Bernice—she was life.

CRAIG
I know—what you mean.
MARGARET

(After much has gone on in her.) And I wasn’t here!

CRAIG
No. Nor I.
MARGARET

(A moment later, just having taken this in.) Why weren’t you here?

CRAIG
I didn’t know she was sick.
MARGARET
Your boat got in a week ago.
CRAIG
Yes. I was detained in New York.
MARGARET
Detained by May Fredericks?
CRAIG

Margaret! Bernice wouldn’t want you to talk that way to me—now.

MARGARET
No.
CRAIG

Why, she knew it. Bernice knew I was staying out on Long Island with them while I was attending to some things about my work. I had a beautiful letter from Bernice. She was perfectly all right—about everything. And I was anxious now to get home to her. I was getting ready to start the very day I got the telegram that—that it was like this. You mean—you think I didn’t make Bernice happy, Margaret?

MARGARET

Oh, I don’t think you had the power to make her very unhappy.

CRAIG

That’s a cruel thing to say, Margaret. Bernice wouldn’t say that to me.

MARGARET

(Who is all the while looking straight ahead at the closed door.) No.

CRAIG
She understood me.
MARGARET
And was indulgent.
CRAIG

(After a pause.) Margaret, did you ever feel you didn’t really get to Bernice?

MARGARET

Get to her? So far as I had power. She never held me back. Life broke through her—a life deeper than anything that could happen to her.

CRAIG

Yes, that’s it. Something you couldn’t destroy. A life in her deeper than anything that could be done to her. That—that makes a difference, Margaret. I never had Bernice.

MARGARET

Oh, wasn’t it wonderful to you that beneath what you “had” was a life too full, too rich to be had? I should think that would flow over your life and give it beauty.

CRAIG

I suppose a man’s feeling is different. He has to feel that he moves—completely moves—yes, could destroy—not that he would, but has the power to reshape the—

MARGARET

Craig! “Reshape” Bernice! (In anguish.) Oh, I came to see her. Not to sit here talking to you.

CRAIG

I loved her, Margaret. I valued her—even though her life wasn’t made by my life. And she loved me. You think she didn’t?

MARGARET

No, Craig, I don’t think she didn’t. I know she did. I was thinking of those things in her—even greater than loving. Those things in her even loving never—caught.

CRAIG
Yes. I know, Margaret.
MARGARET

I want to see Bernice! (Crying, she goes blindly toward the closed door, and to Bernice.)

[A second time left alone in the room, Craig now looks at those various things with which he and Bernice have lived. When he can no longer do this he goes to the passageway at the front of the staircase.

CRAIG

Abbie! (After a moment’s wait Abbie comes slowly in.) When Miss Margaret came, you were about to tell me something. My wife—left a message for me?

ABBIE

Yes. No—I don’t know. (Wildly.) She killed herself!

CRAIG
(Falling back.) What—are—you—saying?
ABBIE

She—did it herself. Took her life. Now I’ve told you! You know now!

CRAIG

(Roughly taking hold of her.) What’s this you’re saying? What’s this lie you’re trying to— (Letting go of her—in horror, imploringly.) Abbie! Tell me it isn’t true.

ABBIE

It’s true. I’m telling you. It’s true. She—didn’t want to live any longer—so she took something—ended her life. That’s all. That’s all I can tell you. Nobody knows. Not her father—nobody. I thought I ought to tell you. Now I’ve told You! Let me go. I’ve told you—I—

[She breaks from him and rushes out. Craig does not move. Margaret comes from Bernice, without looking at Craig, opens the door to go outside.

CRAIG
(Scarcely able to call to her.) Margaret.
MARGARET
(Not turning.) I’ll be back soon.
CRAIG

(Wildly.) You can’t go away leaving me alone with this! I tell you I can’t stand it. You’re going to the woods to think of Bernice! Well I’ll tell you one thing. You never knew Bernice. You thought she didn’t love me. You think I didn’t matter. But Bernice killed herself because she loved me so!

MARGARET
What—are—you—saying?
CRAIG

Abbie just told me. No one knows. Not her father—only Abbie.

MARGARET
It is not true.
CRAIG

Yes. Abbie was with her. Oh, Margaret, she loved me like that.

MARGARET
And you killed her!
CRAIG
No—Oh, don’t say that! I didn’t know.
MARGARET

(After trying to take it in.) I knew Bernice. She was life. She came from the whole of life. You are asking me to believe that because of—some little thing in her own life—

CRAIG

But it wasn’t a little thing. That’s what we didn’t know. I was everything to Bernice. More than all that life we felt— (Someone is heard above.) I think Laura’s coming down. Laura mustn’t know. I had to have you know. Nobody else. Not Laura.

LAURA
(On the stairs.) Oh, Margaret, you have come?
MARGARET

I was just going out. (As Laura comes nearer.) I’m going to take a walk! (She goes out.)

LAURA

(Looking after her.) Take a walk. She always does some strange thing. (Craig has sunk to a chair, his back to Laura.) Why should she rush away like this, as if it were so much harder for her to stay in this house than for anyone else? (Craig, bowed, covers his face with his hands.) Has she been trying to make you feel badly, Craig? (She goes up to him and puts a hand on his bent shoulder.) Don’t let her do that. It isn’t true. It isn’t as if Bernice were like most women. There was something—aloof in Bernice. You saw it in her eyes; even in her smile. Oh, I thought she was wonderful, too. Only, it isn’t as if Bernice—

CRAIG

If you think she didn’t love me, you’re wrong!

LAURA

Oh—Craig! Love you, of course. Only—things that might have hurt another woman—

CRAIG

How do we know who’s hurt? Who isn’t? Who loves—who doesn’t love? Don’t talk, Laura.

[She stands there beside him; the Father, coming in, at first sees only Laura.

FATHER

I must have dropped the ten of diamonds. (Seeing Craig.) Of course. Of course. I try not to think of it. My little girl. She loved life so. Always. From the time she was a baby she did rejoice so in the world.

[He stands looking at the closed door. Abbie comes in; looks at Craig, hesitates, then slowly crosses the room and takes the traveling-bag he brought in when he came; another look at his bowed head, then, herself bowed, starts up the stairs.

(CURTAIN)

ACT TWO

SCENE:  As in Act One, save that it is evening now; the reading lamp is lighted, and candles. Laura is sitting before the /ire knitting. Abbie is standing at the foot of the stairs, as if Laura had called to her as she came down.

LAURA
But he took the tray, did he, Abbie?
ABBIE
He let me leave it.
LAURA
And how did he seem?
ABBIE

I didn’t see his face. And he didn’t say anything.

LAURA

He wasn’t like that until Margaret Pierce came. How long was Mrs. Norris sick, Abbie? (As she asks this the outer door opens and Margaret comes in.) Been out looking at the stars, Margaret? Aren’t they bright up here in the hills?

MARGARET

I—I didn’t see them. (She looks at Abbie, who is looking at her. Abbie turns away from Margaret’s look.)

LAURA

I was asking you—how long was Mrs. Norris sick, Abbie?

ABBIE
Two days.
LAURA

And just what did the doctor say was the matter?

ABBIE

The doctor wasn’t here. (She steals a glance at Margaret, who is all the while looking at her.)

LAURA
I know. But afterwards—what was his opinion?
ABBIE

Attacks like she had had before—only worse. Ulcers in the stomach, he thought it was.

LAURA

It’s a great pity you couldn’t get a doctor. That’s the worst of living way up here by one’s self. Mrs. Norris had seemed well, hadn’t she?

ABBIE

Yes, except once in a while; the doctor had said that she ought to go to the hospital to find out.

MARGARET
(To Laura.) Too bad Craig wasn’t here.
LAURA
Yes. He was detained in New York.
MARGARET
Yes. I know.
LAURA

Abbie, I wish you would go up and ask Mr. Norris if he would like some more coffee and—see how he seems. (To Margaret, resentfully.) I don’t understand why Craig should be quite like this. (Abbie does not move until Laura looks at her in surprise, then she turns to go.) No; I’ll go myself, Abbie. I want to see how he is. (She goes up, and Abbie comes back. Without looking at Margaret she is turning toward the kitchen.)

MARGARET

Abbie! (Reluctantly Abbie comes back, at first not looking up. Then she raises her eyes.) Yes, he told me. (Abbie does not speak or move.) Had she seemed unhappy, Abbie?

ABBIE
No. No, I hadn’t noticed anything.
MARGARET

Abbie! Don’t shut me out like this! She wouldn’t shut me out. Bernice loved me.

ABBIE

I know. I know she did. But there’s nothing for me to tell you, Miss Margaret, and it’s hard for me to talk about. I loved her too. I lived with her her whole life long. First the baby I took care of and played with—then all the changing with the different years—then this— (A move of her hands towards the closed door.)

MARGARET

Yes—then this. (Gently.) That’s it, Abbie. “This”—takes away from all that. Abbie, do you understand it? If you do, won’t you help me?

ABBIE
I don’t understand it.
MARGARET

It’s something so—outside all the rest. That’s why I can’t accept it. Something in me just won’t take it in—because it isn’t right. I knew her. I know I knew her! And this—Why then I didn’t know her. Can’t you help me?

ABBIE
I don’t see how, Miss Margaret.
MARGARET

But if you would tell me things you know—little things—even though they meant nothing to you they might mean something to me. Abbie! Because you loved her don’t you want what she was to go on living in our hearts?

ABBIE

Oh, I do! I do! But she’ll go on living in my heart without my understanding what she did.

MARGARET

But differently. I’ll tell you what I mean. Everything about her has always been—herself. That was one of the rare things about her. And herself—oh, it’s something you don’t want to lose! It’s been the beauty in my life. In my busy practical life, Bernice—what she was—like a breath that blew over my life and—made it something.

ABBIE
I know—just what you mean, Miss Margaret.
MARGARET

It’s inconceivable that she should—cut off her own life. In her lived all the life that was behind her. You felt that in her—so wonderfully. She felt it in herself—or her eyes couldn’t have been like that. Could they? Could they, Abbie?

ABBIE
It—wouldn’t seem so.
MARGARET

She wouldn’t destroy so much. Why, she never destroyed anything—a flower—a caterpillar. Don’t you see what I mean, Abbie? This denies so much. And then is it true that all this time she wasn’t happy? Why, she seemed happy—as trees grow. Did Mr. Norris make her unhappy? Oh, don’t think you shouldn’t talk about it. Don’t act as if I shouldn’t ask. It’s too big for those little scruples. Abbie! I can’t let Bernice’s life go out in darkness. So tell me—just what happened—each little thing. (Margaret has taken hold of Abbie; Abbie has turned away.) When did you first know she had—taken something? just what did she say to you about it? I want to know each little thing! I have a right to know.

[A step is heard above.

ABBIE
(As if saved.) Mrs. Kirby’s coming down now.
MARGARET

I want to talk to you, Abbie, after the others have gone to bed.

[Laura comes down, Abbie passes her at the foot of the stairs, and goes through to the kitchen.

LAURA

Margaret, what is to be gained in making people feel worse than they need? Craig upstairs—he’s so broken—strange. And even Abbie as she passed me now. You seem to do this to them. And why?

MARGARET

I don’t do it to them. I’m not very happy myself.

LAURA

Of course not. None of us can be that. But I believe we should try to bear things with courage.

MARGARET

That comes easily from the person who’s bearing little!

LAURA

You think it means nothing to me that my brother has lost his wife?

MARGARET

Your brother has lost his wife! That’s all you see in it!

LAURA

I don’t see why you seem so wild—so resentful, Margaret. Death should soften us. (She takes her old place before the fire.)

MARGARET
Well, I can tell you this doesn’t soften me!
LAURA

I see that you feel hard toward Craig. But Bernice didn’t. You think he should have come right home. But you must be just enough to admit he didn’t have any idea Bernice was going to be taken suddenly sick. He had been out of the country for three months, naturally there were things connected with his writing to see about.

MARGARET

Connected with his writing! Laura! Don’t lie about life with death in the next room. If you want to talk at a time like this, have the decency to be honest! Try to see the truth about living. Craig stayed in New York with May Fredericks—and he doesn’t pretend anything else. Stayed there with May Fredericks, continuing an affair that has been going on for the past year. And before it was May Fredericks it was this one and that one. Well, all right. That may be all right. I’m not condemning Craig for his affairs. I’m condemning you for the front you’re trying to put up!

LAURA

I certainly am not trying to put up any front. It’s merely that there seems nothing to be gained in speaking of certain things. If Craig was—really unfaithful, I do condemn him for that. I haven’t your liberal ideas. (Slight pause, she takes up her knitting.) It’s unfortunate Bernice hadn’t the power to hold Craig.

MARGARET
Hadn’t the power to hold Craig!
LAURA

She didn’t want to—I suppose your scoffing means. Well, she should have wanted to. It’s what a wife should want to do.

MARGARET

Oh, Laura, Bernice will never say one more word for herself! In there. Alone. Still. She will not do one new thing to—to throw a light back on other things. That’s death. A leaving of one’s life. Leaving it—with us. I cannot talk to you about what Bernice “should have been.” What she was came true and deep from— (Throwing out her hands as if giving up saying it. Taking it up again.) It’s true there was something in her Craig did not control. Something he couldn’t mess up. There was something in her he might have drawn from and become bigger than he was. But he’s vain. He has to be bowling someone over all the time—to show that he has power.

LAURA

I don’t agree with you that Craig is especially vain. He’s a man. He does want to affect—yes, dominate the woman he loves. And if Bernice didn’t give him that feeling of—

MARGARET
Supremacy.
LAURA

There’s no use trying to talk with you of personal things. Certainly I don’t want to quarrel tonight. That would not be the thing. (In a new tone.) How is your work going? I don’t quite know what you are doing now, but trying to get someone out of prison, I suppose?

MARGARET

Yes; I am trying to get out of prison all those people who are imprisoned for ideas.

LAURA
I see.
MARGARET
I doubt if you see, Laura.
LAURA
Well, I don’t say I sympathize. But I see.
MARGARET

No; for if you did see, you would have to sympathize. If you did see, you would be ashamed; you would have to—hang your head for this thing of locking any man up because of what his mind sees. If thinking is not to become—whatever thinking may become!—then why are we here at all? (She stops and thinks of it.) Why does Bernice—her death—make that so simple tonight? Because she was herself. She had the gift for being herself. And she wanted each one to have the chance to be himself. Anything else hurt her—as it hurt her to see a dog tied, or a child at a narrow window.

LAURA

I don’t think Bernice was a very good wife for a writer.

MARGARET

She would have been a wonderful wife for a real writer.

LAURA

Oh, I know she didn’t value Craig’s work. And that’s another thing. And I suppose you don’t value it either. (She looks at Margaret, who does not speak.) Fortunately there are many thousands of people in this country who do value it. And I suppose you think what I do of little value too. I suppose you scoff at those things we do to put cripples back in life.

MARGARET

No, Laura, I don’t scoff at anything that can be done for cripples. Since men have been crippled, cripples must be helped. I only say—Don’t cripple minds—strong free minds that might go—we know not where! Might go into places where the light of a mind has never been. (Rising.) Think of it! Think of that chance of making life even greater than death. (With passion.) If you have any respect for life—any reverence—you have to leave the mind free. I do not scoff at you, but you are not a serious person. You have no faith—no hope—no self-respect!

LAURA

(Rising.) You tell me I have no self-respect! You who have not cared what people thought of you—who have not had the sense of fitness—the taste—to hold the place you were born to—you tell me, against whom no word was ever spoken, that I have no self-respect?

MARGARET

You have a blameless reputation, Laura. You have no self-respect. If you had any respect for your own mind you could not be willing to limit the mind of any other. If you had any respect for your own spiritual life you could not be willing to push your self into the spiritual life of another. (Roughly.) No! You could not. (As one seeing far.) I see it as I never saw it. Oh, I wish I could talk to Bernice! Something is down. I could see things as I never saw them.

LAURA

(Gathering up the things she had been working with.) I will go before I am insulted further.

MARGARET

There’s nothing insulting in trying to find the truth. (Impulsively reaching out her hands to Laura, as she is indignantly going.) Oh, Laura, we die so soon! We live so in the dark. We never become what we might be. I should think we could help each other more.

LAURA

(After being a moment held.) It would have to be done more sympathetically.

MARGARET

I didn’t mean to be unsympathetic. (Watching Laura go up the stairs.) I suppose that’s the trouble with me. (She stands a moment thinking of this. Then there is something she wants to say. She knows then that she is alone—and in this room. Slowly she turns and faces the closed door. Stands so, quite still, realizing. Suddenly turns to the stairway, goes up a few steps.) Craig! (Listens, then goes up another step and calls a little louder.) Craig!

LAURA

(From above.) Please don’t disturb Craig, Margaret.

[Margaret hesitates, turns to go down. A door opens above.

CRAIG
Did someone call me?
MARGARET
I did, Craig. I’m down here alone—lonely.
CRAIG

(As if glad to do so.) I’ll come down. (After coming.) I wanted to come down. I thought Laura was down here. I can’t pretend—not tonight.

MARGARET

No. I can’t. I wanted so to talk to Bernice, and when I couldn’t I—called to you.

CRAIG

I was glad to hear my name. It’s too much alone. (He and Margaret stand there hesitatingly, as if they are not able to do it—settle down in this room and talk. Craig takes out his cigarette case. In the subdued voice of one whose feeling is somewhere else.) You want a cigarette, Margaret?

MARGARET
No. I don’t believe so.
CRAIG

Oh, I remember, you don’t like these. Bernice must have some of the— (He opens a chest on the mantel, takes from it a beautiful little box.)

MARGARET

(As she sees the box.) Oh— (Turning away.) Thank you, Craig, but—

CRAIG

Of course. (Holds the box for a moment, then slowly replaces it. He looks around the room. Then, helplessly.) I don’t know what I’m going to do.

[He sits down before the fire. Margaret also sits. The door at the other side of the room opens and the Father comes in from his room.

FATHER

I was going to bed now. I thought I’d go in here first.

[Slowly goes in where Bernice is. A little while Craig and Margaret sit there silent.

CRAIG

And I don’t know what he’s going to do. Poor old man. Bernice was certainly good to him—keeping him happy in that life he made for himself away from life. It’s queer about him, Margaret. Somehow he just didn’t go on, did he? Made a fight in his youth, and stopped there. He’s one of the wrecks of the Darwinian theory. Spent himself fighting for it, and—let it go at that. (Running his hand through his hair.) Oh, well, I suppose we’re all wrecks of something. (With a nervous laugh.) What are you a wreck of, Margaret? You’re a wreck of free speech. (Impatiently.) I’m talking like a fool. I’m nervous. I’ll be glad when he goes to bed. (Looking upstairs.) I guess Laura’s gone to bed. (After looking into the fire.) Well, Bernice isn’t leaving any children to—be without her. I suppose now it’s just as well we lost our boy before we ever had him. But she would have made a wonderful mother, wouldn’t she, Margaret?

MARGARET
Oh, yes!
CRAIG
You ever wish you had children, Margaret?
MARGARET
Yes.
CRAIG
(Roughly.) Well, why don’t you have?
MARGARET

(Slowly.) Why, I don’t just know, Craig. Life—seems to get filled up so quickly. .

CRAIG

Yes. And before we know it, its all over—or as good as over. Funny—how your mind jumps around just then I thought of my mother. How she used to say: “Now eat your bread, Craig.”

[His voice breaks, he buries his face in his hands. Margaret reaches over and puts a hand on his shoulder. The door opens and the Father comes out. He stands looking at them.

FATHER

(Gently.) Yes. Of course. I’m glad you’re here Margaret. But my little girl looks very peaceful, Craig. (Pause.) She had a happy life.

[Craig moves, turning a little away. Margaret makes a move as if to shield him, but does not do this.

FATHER

Yes; she had a happy life. Didn’t she, Margaret?

MARGARET
I always thought so.
FATHER

Oh, yes. She did. In her own way. A calm way, but very full of her own kind of happiness. (After reflection.) Bernice was good to me. I suppose she might have liked me to have done more things, but—she wanted me to do what—came naturally to me. I suppose that’s why we always felt so—comfortable with her. She was never trying to make us some—outside thing. Well—you know, Margaret, I can see her now as a baby. She was such a nice baby. She used to—reach out her hands. (Doing this himself.) Well, I suppose they all do. I’m going to bed. (After starting.) I’m glad you’re here with Craig, Margaret. Bernice would like this. You two who know all about her—well, no, nobody knew all about Bernice—but you two who were closest to her, here now as—close as you can be. I’m going to bed. Good night.

MARGARET
(Crying.) Good night.
CRAIG

(After the father has closed his door. With violence.) “Reached out her hands!” And what did she get? (Roughly grasping Margaret’s wrists.) I killed Bernice. There’s no use in your saying I didn’t. I did. Only— (Letting go of her.) don’t flay me tonight, Margaret. I couldn’t stand it tonight. (With another abrupt change.) Am I a fool? Why did I never know Bernice loved me like this? (In anguish.) Why wouldn’t I know it? (Pause.) We don’t know anything about each other. Do we, Margaret? Nothing. We never—get anywhere. (Shivering.) I’m cold. I wonder if there’s anything to drink in the house. There must be something. (He goes out into the kitchen; after a moment there is the sound of running water; he comes in with a bottle of whiskey, a pitcher of water.) I don’t see the glasses. Things seem to have been moved. (Looks at Margaret as if expecting she will go and get them; she does not; he goes out again. Front the kitchen.) Margaret, have you any idea where the glasses are?

MARGARET

No, Craig. I don’t know. (After hearing him moving things around.) Isn’t Abbie somewhere there?

CRAIG

No; she isn’t here. She seems to have gone outdoors. She’s left the door open too. No wonder it was cold. (Calling at an outer door.) Abbie! (Sound of the door closing. Again the sound of dishes being mot/ed.) Well, I don’t know where they can have put—

MARGARET

(Covering her face.) Don’t look for things. (More quietly.) Bring anything, Craig, there must be something there.

CRAIG

(Coming in with cups.) Things have been moved around. I stumbled over things that didn’t used to be there. You’ll have a little, Margaret? It—we need something.

MARGARET

I don’t—oh, I don’t care.

[He pours the drinks and drinks his.

CRAIG

(Abruptly shoving his cup away.) Margaret, I loved Bernice. I suppose you don’t believe that! And I thought Bernice knew I loved her, in spite of—other things. What do you think it is is the matter with me, Margaret, that I— (Saying it as if raw.) miss things. You can tell me. I’d be glad to feel someone knew. Only—don’t leave me alone while you’re telling me!

MARGARET

I’m afraid I have nothing to tell you, Craig. I thought I knew Bernice. And now—I did know Bernice! (Gropingly.) I feel something we don’t get to.

CRAIG
And Bernice can’t help us.
MARGARET

I think she would expect us to—find our way. She could always find her way. She had not meant to leave us here. Bernice was so kind.

CRAIG
She was kind.
MARGARET

Such a sensitive kindness. The kindness that divined feeling and was there ahead—to meet it. This is the very thing she would not do.

CRAIG

(Slowly, as if feeling his way.) Margaret, I wish I could tell you about me and Bernice. I loved her. She loved me. But there was something in her that had almost nothing to do with our love.

MARGARET
Yes.
CRAIG

Well, that isn’t right, Margaret. You want to feel that you have the woman you love. Yes—completely. Yes, every bit of her!

MARGARET
So you turned to women whom you could have.
CRAIG
Yes.
MARGARET

But you “had” all of them simply because there was less to have. You want no baffling sense of something beyond you. (He looks at her reproachfully.) You wanted me to help you find the truth. I don’t believe you can stand truth, Craig.

CRAIG
It’s hard tonight.
MARGARET

(Intensely.) But perhaps it is tonight or not at all. It’s a strange thing this has done. A light trying to find its way through a fog. (In her mind the light tries to do this.) Craig, why do you write the things you do?

CRAIG

Oh, Margaret, is this any time to talk of work?

MARGARET

It seems to be. Tonight it’s all part of the same thing. Laura and I were talking of work—quarreling about it: you were talking of Bernice’s father. The light—just goes there. That poor sad old man—why didn’t he go on? You said he was a wreck of the Darwinian theory. Then me—a wreck of free speech.

CRAIG
Oh, I didn’t mean you were, Margaret.
MARGARET

But I might be. I can see that. We give ourselves in fighting for a thing that seems important and in that fight we get out of the flow of life. We had meant it to deepen the flow—but we get caught. I know people like that. People who get at home in their fight—and stay there—and are left there when the fight’s over—like this old man. How many nights Bernice and I have sat in this room and talked of things! And I had thought— (With sudden angry passion.) If you had been good to her, she would be in this room now. (After a look at him.) I’m sorry. But can I help feeling it?

CRAIG
I didn’t know.
MARGARET

No; you didn’t know. We don’t know. When you think what a writer might do for life—for we don’t know. You write so well, Craig, but—what of it? What is it is the matter with you—with all you American writers—’most all of you. A well-put-up light—but it doesn’t penetrate anything. It never makes the fog part. Just shows itself off—a well-put-up light. (Growing angry.) It would be better if we didn’t have you at all! Can’t you see that it would? Lights which—only light themselves keep us from having light—from knowing what the darkness is. (After thinking.) Craig, as you write these things, are there never times when you sit there dumb and know that you are glib and empty?

CRAIG
Did you ever try to write, Margaret?
MARGARET
No.
CRAIG

I suppose you think it’s very simple to be real. I suppose you think we could do it—if we just wanted to do it. Try it. You try.

MARGARET

So you do this just to cover the fact that you can’t do anything? Your skill—a mask for your lack of power?

CRAIG

I should think you’d want to be good to me tonight, Margaret.

MARGARET

Be good to you! Keep you from seeing. That’s the way we’re good to each other. There’s only one thing I could do for you tonight, Craig. You don’t want that. So— (Moves as if to rise.)

CRAIG

No, don’t go away. My brain won’t keep still either. What I think is just as bad as what you say. Well, why do you think it is I—miss things—never get anywhere?

MARGARET

I don’t know. And it’s true of all of us. Of me too. I do things that to me seem important, and yet I just do them—I don’t get to the thing I’m doing them for—to life itself. I don’t simply and profoundly get to life. Bernice did.

CRAIG
Yes. Bernice did.
MARGARET

And yet you had to—shy away from Bernice. Into a smaller world that could be all your world. No, Craig, you haven’t power. It’s true. And for one hour in our lives let’s try to—Those love affairs of yours—they’re like your false writing—to keep yourself from knowing you haven’t power. Did you ever see a child try to do a thing—fail—then turn to something he could do and make a great show of doing that? That’s what most of our lives are like.

CRAIG

(Rudely.) Well, why haven’t I power? If you are going to be any good to me—tell me that.

MARGARET

(Shaking her head.) I can’t tell you that. I haven’t any light that—goes there. But isn’t it true? Isn’t your life this long attempt to appear effective—to persuade yourself that you are something? What a way to spend the little time there is for living.

CRAIG
I fancy it’s the way most lives are spent.
MARGARET
That only makes it infinitely sadder.
CRAIG

(As if he can stay in this no longer.) As to writing, Margaret, the things that interest you wouldn’t interest most people.

MARGARET

“Wouldn’t interest most people!” Oh, Craig, don’t slide away from that one honest moment. Say you haven’t got it. Don’t say they wouldn’t want it. Why, if now—in this our day—our troubled day of many shadows—came a light—a light to reach those never-lighted places—wouldn’t want it? I wish someone could try them! No, Craig, they all have their times of suspecting their lives are going by in a fog. They’re pitifully anxious for a little light. Why—they continue to look to writers. You know, Craig, what living makes of us—it’s a rim—a bounded circle—and yet we know—have our times of suspecting—that if we could break through that. (Seeing.) O—h. It’s like living in the mountains—those high vast places of Colorado—in a little house with shaded windows. You’d suspect what was there! A little sunshine through the cracks—mountain smells—and at times the house would shake—and you’d wonder—and be fretted in your little room. And if someday you could put up the shade and—see where you were. Life would never be so small a thing again. Bernice could do that. Her own life did not bound her.

CRAIG
No. That was what—
MARGARET
Hurt your vanity?
CRAIG

I don’t know. I’m trying to be honest. I honestly don’t know.

MARGARET

No. We don’t know. That’s why—oh, Craig, it would be so wonderful to be a writer—something that gets a little farther than others can get—gets at least the edge of the shadow. (After her own moment on the edge of the shadow.) If you ever felt the shock of reality, and got that back in you—you wouldn’t be thinking of whom it would “interest”! But, Craig—this. (A movement toward the closed room.) Doesn’t this give you that shock of reality?

CRAIG

What of you? Doesn’t it give it to you? You’re speaking as if this hadn’t happened! You leave it out—what Bernice did because of me, You’re talking of my having no power. What of this? Had I no power? (After her look at him.) Oh, yes—I know I used it terribly—plenty of years for my heart to break over that. But can you say I didn’t have it?

MARGARET

I do leave it out. It isn’t right there should be anything in Bernice not Bernice. And she had a great rightness—rightness without effort—that rare, rare thing.

CRAIG

You say it isn’t right—and so you leave it out? And then you talk about the shock of reality.

MARGARET

I don’t say it isn’t fact. I say it isn’t—in the rightness.

CRAIG

“In the rightness!” Is that for you to say? Is rightness what you think? What you can see? No. You didn’t know Bernice. You didn’t know she loved me—that way. And I didn’t know. But she did! How could I have had that—and not known? But I did have it! I did have it! You say life broke through her—the whole of life. But Bernice didn’t want—the whole of life. She wanted me. (He goes to the door, bows against it, all sorrow and need.) I want to talk to her—not you. I want her now—knowing.

[He opens that door and goes in to Bernice. Margaret stands motionless, searching, and as if something is coming to her from the rightness. When she speaks it is a denial from that inner affirmation.

MARGARET

No! I say—No! (Feeling someone behind her, swiftly turning she sees Abbie outside, looking through the not quite drawn curtains of the door. She goes to the door and draws Abbie in.) Yes, I am here—and I say no. (She has hold of her, drawing her in as she says it.) You understand—I say no. I don’t believe it. What you told me—I don’t believe it.

ABBIE

(At first it is horror—then strange relief, as if nothing could be so bad as this has been.) Well, I’m glad you know.

MARGARET

(Very slowly, knowing now it is fact she has come to.) Glad I know what?

ABBIE
That it isn’t true. That she didn’t do it.
MARGARET
Didn’t do it? Did not take her own life?
ABBIE
No. Of course she didn’t.
MARGARET

(Still very slowly, as if much more is coming than she can take in.) Then why—did you say she did?

ABBIE

Because she said I must. Oh—look at me! Look at me! But you knew her. You know the strength of her. If she’d told you the way she told me—you’d have done it too. You would!

MARGARET

(Saying each word by itself.) I can not understand one word you’re saying. Something is wrong with you. (Changing, and roughly taking hold of Abbie.) Tell me. Quick, the truth.

ABBIE

Wednesday night, about eight o’clock, about an hour after she told me to telegraph you, she said, “Why, Abbie, I believe I’m going to die.” I said no, but she said, “I think so.” I said we’d send for Mr. Norris. She said no, and not to frighten her father. I—I didn’t think she was going to die. All the time I was trying to get the doctor. There were two hours when she was—quiet. Quiet—not like any quiet I ever knew. Thinking. You could see thinking in her eyes—stronger than sickness. Then, after ten, she called me to her. She took my hands. She said, “Abbie, you’ve lived with me all my life.” “Yes,” I said. “You love me.” “Oh, yes,” I said. “Will you do something for me?” “You know I will,” I told her. “Abbie,” she said, looking right at me, all of her looking right at me, “if I die, I want you to tell my husband I killed myself.” (Margaret falls back.) Yes, I did that too. Then I thought it was her mind. But I looked at her, and oh, her mind was there! It was terrible—how it was all there. She said—and then she (The sobs she has been holding back almost keep Abbie from saying this.) —held out her hands to me—“Oh, Abbie, do this last thing for me! After all there has been, I have a right to do it. If my life is going—let me have this much from it!” And as still I couldn’t—couldn’t—the tears ran down her face and she said, “I want to rest before pain comes again. Promise me so I can rest.” And I promised. And you would have too!

MARGARET

You don’t know what you’re telling me! You don’t know what you’re doing. You do this now—after she can do nothing? (Holding out her hands.) Abbie! Tell me it isn’t true!

ABBIE
It’s true.
MARGARET

You are telling me her life was hate? (Stops, half turns to the room where Craig is with Bernice.) You are telling me she covered hate with—with the beauty that was like nothing else? Abbie! You are telling me that as Bernice left life she held out her hands and asked you to take this back for her?

ABBIE

There are things we can’t understand. There’s no use trying. (She turns to go.)

MARGARET
You can’t leave me like this!
ABBIE

(More gently.) You shouldn’t have tried to know. But—if you have got to know things—you have got to take them.

[Craig comes out; Abbie goes.

CRAIG

Go in there, Margaret. There’s something wonderful there.

MARGARET

(Turned from him, her face buried in her hands.) Oh no—no—no. I can never go in there. I—I never was—in there.

[Her other words are lost in wild sobbing. He stands regarding her in wonder, but not losing what he himself has found.

(CURTAIN)

ACT THREE

SCENE:  The same as in Acts One and Two; it is early afternoon of the next day; the door leading outdoors is a little open; when the curtain is drawn Craig is seen outside, just passing the window, as one who is walking back and forth in thinking. In the room are Laura and the Father—the Father sitting at the table by the stairs—Laura, standing, watches Craig pass the door; she has in her hand a paper on which are some memoranda. After watching Craig she sighs, looks at her notes, sits down.

LAURA

I’m sorry to be troubling you, Mr. Allen. Certainly you should not be asked to discuss these matters about—arrangements. But really, you and I seem the only people who are capable of going on with things. I must say, I don’t know what to make of everyone else. They all seem to be trying to—keep away from one. I think that’s a little unnecessary. Of course I know what grief does, and I’m sure I have every consideration for that, but really—I’m sorry Craig keeps his own sister out. When I’m here to help him. And Abbie—why she seems to have lost her head. Just when it’s so important that she look after things. And as to Margaret Pierce—she certainly is worse than useless. I don’t see what she came for if she didn’t want to be helpful.

FATHER

Margaret and Bernice were very dear friends, Laura.

LAURA

Is that any reason for not being helpful in Bernice’s household at a time like this? Really I do like control. (After looking at her notes.) Then the minister will come here at three, Mr. Allen. Why, that will be little more than an hour! Think of things having been neglected like this! (As Craig, having turned in his walk, is again passing the door.) Craig! (He steps to the door.) The minister, Mr. Howe, will come here, Craig, at three.

CRAIG
What for?
LAURA
Craig! What for?
CRAIG

I don’t see why he comes here. Why, Bernice scarcely knew him. (To her father.) Did Bernice know him?

FATHER
Well, I don’t know whether she knew him, but—
LAURA
It is not a personal matter, Craig.
CRAIG
I think it is. Very personal.
LAURA

You mean to say you are not going to have any service?

CRAIG

I haven’t thought anything about it. Oh, Laura! How can I think of such things now?

LAURA
Well, I will think of them for you, dear.
CRAIG

Don’t bring him here. He can go— (Stops.) there if he wants to. Where—we have to go. Not here In her own house. The very last thing.

FATHER
I’m afraid it will seem strange, Craig.
CRAIG

Strange? Do I care if it seems strange? Bernice seemed strange too. But she wasn’t strange. She was wonderful. (Putting out his hand impatiently.) Oh, no, Laura. There’s so much else to think of—now. (He steps out of the door and stands there, his back to the room.)

FATHER

(In a low voice.) I wonder—could we go somewhere else? Into my room, perhaps I’m afraid we are keeping Craig out of here. And I think he wants to be here—near Bernice. We will be undisturbed in my room.

[He gets up and goes to the door of his room, Laura turns to follow. Outside Craig passes from sight.

LAURA

I think it’s too bad things have to be made so—complicated.

FATHER

(After opening the door.) Oh, Margaret is in here.

MARGARET

(From the other room.) I was just going out. I just came in here to— (Enters.) I just went in there.—I didn’t think about it being your room.

FATHER

Why, that was quite all right, Margaret. I’m only sorry to disturb you.

MARGARET

No. That doesn’t matter. I—wasn’t doing anything.

LAURA

There is a great deal to do.

[She follows the Father into his room. Margaret walks across the room, walks back, stands still, head bent, hands pressing her temples. Abbie comes part way down the stairs, sees Margaret, stands still as if not to be heard, turns to go back upstairs.

MARGARET

(Hearing her, looking up.) Abbie! (Abbie comes slowly down.) Where is he, Mr. Norris? Where is he?

ABBIE

I don’t know. He was here a little while ago. Perhaps he went out. (Indicating the open door.)

MARGARET
I have to tell him!
ABBIE

(After an incredulous moment.) Tell him what you made me tell you?

MARGARET

Of course I have to tell him! You think I can leave that on him? And the things I said to him—they were not just.

ABBIE

And you’d rather be “just” than leave it as she wanted it?

MARGARET

Oh, but Abbie—what she wanted— (Holds up her hand as if to shut something from her eyes.) No. You can’t put that on anyone. I couldn’t live—feeling I had left on him what shouldn’t be there.

ABBIE
But you wouldn’t tell him now?
MARGARET

I must tell him now. Or I won’t tell him. And I must go away. I can’t stay. I can’t stay here.

ABBIE

But what will they think—your leaving? You mean—before we’ve taken her away?

MARGARET

Oh, I don’t know. How can I—plan it out? I’m going as soon as I can tell him. All night—all day—I’ve been trying to tell him—and when I get near him—I run away. Why did you tell me?

ABBIE

(Harshly.) Why did you know—what you weren’t to know? But if you have some way of knowing what you aren’t told—you think you have the right to do your thing with that? Undo what she did? What I did? Do you know what it took out of me to do this? There’s nothing left of me.

MARGARET

(With a laugh. Right on the verge of being not herself.) No. You’re a wreck. Another wreck. It’s your Darwinian theory. Your free speech.

ABBIE

Oh, I was afraid of you. I didn’t want you to come. I knew you’d—get to things. (Abbie goes to the door and looks out.)

MARGARET
He is out there?
ABBIE

Yes. (Margaret tries to go; moves just a little.) And you’d go to him and—what for?

MARGARET

Because I can’t live—leaving that on him—having him think—when I know he didn’t. I can’t leave that on him one more hour.

ABBIE

(Standing in the door to block her going.) And when you take that from him—what do you give to him? (They stare at one another; Margaret falls back.)

MARGARET

Don’t ask me to see so many things, Abbie. I can only see this thing. I’ve grown afraid of seeing.

ABBIE

(After looking at her, seeing something of her suffering.) Miss Margaret, why did you do what you did last night? How did you know?

MARGARET
I don’t know.
ABBIE
But you knew.
MARGARET

No. I didn’t know. I didn’t know. It didn’t come from me. It came—from the rightness. (A laugh.)

ABBIE

If you could get that without being told—why don’t you get more without being told? (Margaret gives her a startled look.) For you will never be told.

MARGARET
You know more?
ABBIE

No. My knowing stops with what you got from me last night. But I knew her. I thought maybe, as you have some way of knowing what you aren’t told, you could—see into this. See.

MARGARET

I’ve lost my seeing. It was through her I saw. It was through Bernice I could see. And now it’s dark. (Slowly turning toward the closed room.) Oh, how still death is.

[The two women are as if caught into this stillness.

ABBIE

(Looking from the door.) He turned this way. (Swiftly turning back to Margaret.) But you couldn’t tell him.

MARGARET

No, I can’t. Yes, I must! I tell you there’s something in me can’t stand it to see anyone go down under a thing he shouldn’t have to bear. Why, that feeling has made my life! Do you think I’ve wanted to do the kind of work I do? Don’t you think I’d like to be doing—happier things? But there’s something in my blood drives me to—what’s right.

ABBIE

And something in my blood drives me to what’s right! And I went against it—went against my whole life—so she could rest. I did it because I loved her. But you didn’t love her.

MARGARET
Oh—Abbie!
ABBIE

Not as you love—what’s right. If you loved her, don’t you want to protect her—now that she lies dead in there? (Her voice breaking.) Oh, Miss Margaret, it was right at the very end of her life. Maybe when we’re going to die things we’ve borne all our lives are things we can’t bear any longer. Just—don’t count that last hour.

MARGARET

(After a moment of being swayed by this.) Yet you counted it, Abbie. You did what she said—because of the strength of her. You told me last night—her mind was there. Terrible the way it was right there. She hadn’t left her life.

ABBIE

Well, and if she hadn’t left her life! If all those years with him there was something she hid, and if she seemed to feel—what she didn’t feel. She did it well, didn’t she?—and almost to the last. Shan’t we hide it now? For her? You and me, who loved her—isn’t she safe—with us? (Going nearer Margaret.) Perhaps if you would go in there now—

MARGARET
Oh no—no.
ABBIE

(In a last deeply emotional appeal.) Miss Margaret, didn’t she do a good deal for you?

MARGARET
Do a good deal for me? Yes. Yes!
ABBIE

Yes. She did for me. I—I’m something more on account of her. Aren’t you?

MARGARET
Yes.
ABBIE

Yes, I think you are too. I can see myself as I’d have been if my life hadn’t been lived round her. (Thinks, shakes her head.) It would be left you—what feels and knows it feels. And you said it was through Bernice you could see. Well, lets forget what we don’t want to know! On account of what we are that we wouldn’t have been—lets put it out of our minds! One ugly thing in a whole beautiful life! Let it go! And let all the rest live! (They can see Craig outside.) Oh—do this for her. Make yourself do it. Let that be what’s dead—and let all the rest live! You were her friend, not his.

[Craig turns to the house, but when about to come in, turns away, covering his face.

MARGARET

(Taking hold of Abbie) You see? He thinks she loved him and he killed her. He might do what he thinks she did!

ABBIE

(Falling back.) O—h.

[Craig comes in, stands by the door; Margaret has drawn Abbie over near the stairway. He sees them, but gives no heed to them, immersed in what he is living through. While he stands there Margaret does not move. He turns toward the room where Bernice is; when he moves Margaret goes a little toward him—his back is to her; Abbie moves to step between Craig and Margaret; Margaret puts her aside. But when Craig comes to the closed door, and stands there an instant before it, not opening it, Margaret too stops, as if she cannot come nearer him. It is only after he has opened the door and closed it behind him that she goes to it. She puts out her hands, but she does not even touch the door and when she cannot do this she covers her face and, head bent, stands there before the closed door. Laura and the Father come out from the room where they have been. As they enter Abbie slowly goes out, toward the kitchen.

LAURA

(After looking at Margaret, who has not moved.) We are going in an hour, Margaret.

MARGARET

Going?

LAURA

Taking Bernice to the cemetery.

MARGARET

Oh. Are we?

[After a look which shows her disapproval, Laura goes out, following Abbie.

FATHER
(Sitting.) I can’t believe that, Margaret.
MARGARET

No. (Margaret sits in the window seat, by which she has been standing. As if she is just realizing what they have said.) You say—we are taking Bernice away from here—in an hour?

FATHER

Yes. Think of it, Margaret. I just can’t—take it in.

MARGARET
No.
FATHER

There is something I want to tell you, Margaret. (Margaret gives him a quick look, then turns away, as if afraid.) I’ve been wanting to tell you—but it’s hard to talk of such things. But before we—take Bernice away, before you—see her the last time—I want you to know. That night—the night Bernice died—at the very last, Abbie was afraid then—and had called to me. Abbie and I were in there and—Abbie went out, about the telephone call we had in for the doctor. I was all alone in there a few minutes—right at the last. Bernice said one last word, Margaret. Your name.

MARGARET
She called to me?
FATHER

No, I wouldn’t say she called to you. Just said your name. The way we say things to ourselves—say them without knowing we were going to say them. She didn’t really say it. She breathed it. It seemed to come from her whole life.

MARGARET

O—h. Then it wasn’t as if she had left me? It wasn’t as if anything was in between—

FATHER

Why, no, Margaret. What an idea. Why, I don’t think you ever were as close to Bernice as when she said your name and died.

[Margaret’s head goes down; she is crying. Craig comes out, carefully closing the door behind him. Partly crosses the room, looks uncertainly at the outer door as if to go outside again.

FATHER

Sit down, Craig. (Craig does this.) Let’s not try to keep away from each other now. We’re all going through the same thing—in our—our different ways. (A pause. Margaret raises her head; she is turned a little away from the other two.) I was so glad when you came, Margaret. I don’t want Bernice to slip away from us. In an hour we—take her away from here—out of this house she loved. I don’t want her to slip away from us. She loved you so, Margaret. Didn’t she, Craig?

CRAIG
Yes. She did love Margaret.
FATHER

Oh, yes. “Margaret sees things,” she’d say. (Wistfully.) She had great beauty—didn’t she, Margaret?

MARGARET
I always thought so.
FATHER

Oh, yes. I was thinking last night—malice was not in Bernice. I never knew her to do a—really unfriendly thing to anyone. (Again in that wistful way.) You know, Margaret, I had thought you would say things like this—and better than I can say them, to—to keep my little girl for us all. I suppose I’m a foolish old man but I seem to want them said. (Pause. Margaret seems to try to speak, but does not.) I think it was gentle of Bernice to be amused by things she—perhaps couldn’t admire in us she loved. Me. I suppose she might have liked a father who amounted to more—but she always seemed to take pleasure in me. Affectionate amusement. Didn’t you feel that in Bernice, Craig?

CRAIG

Yes—that was one thing. A surface for other things. (He speaks out of pain, but out of pain which wants, if it can, to speak.) But only a surface. (With passion.) All of Bernice went into her love for me. Those big impersonal things—they were not apart. All of Bernice—loved me. (His voice breaks, he goes to the door, starts out. Suddenly steps back—with a quick rough turn to her.) Isn’t that so, Margaret?

MARGARET
I can see—what you mean, Craig.
FATHER

Why, of course Bernice loved you. I know that. (Craig goes outside. Looking after him,) I hope I didn’t send Craig away. You and he would rather not talk. Perhaps that is better. I seem to want to—gather up things that will keep Bernice. It’s so easy for the dead to slip from us. But I mustn’t bother you.

MARGARET

Oh, you aren’t! I—I’m sorry I’m not—doing more. I’m pulled down.

FATHER

I know, Margaret. I can see that. Another time you and I will talk of Bernice. I didn’t mean she didn’t love Craig. Of course not. Only (Hesitatingly.) I did feel that much as went into her loving—there was more than went into her loving.

MARGARET
Yes.
FATHER

I think it wasn’t that she—wanted it that way. You know, Margaret, I felt something—very wistful in Bernice. (Margaret looks at him, nods.) In this calm now—I feel the wistfulness there was in her other calm.

MARGARET
Yes.
FATHER

As if she wanted to give us more. Oh—she gave more than anyone else could have given. But not all she was. And she would like to have given us—all she was. She wanted to give—what couldn’t be given. (Pause.) You know what I mean, Margaret?

MARGARET
Yes, I do know.
FATHER

And so—wistfulness. I see it now. (After thinking.) I think Bernice feared she was not a very good wife for Craig. (Margaret gives him a startled look.) Little things she’d say. I don’t know—perhaps I’m wrong. (After a move of Margaret’s.) You were going to say something, Margaret.

MARGARET
No. I was just thinking of what you said.
FATHER

Craig didn’t dominate Bernice. I don’t know whose fault it was. I don’t know that it was anyone’s fault. Just the way things were. He—I say it in all kindness, he just didn’t—have it in him. (Slowly.) As I haven’t had certain things in me.

[Abbie comes in.

ABBIE

People are coming. The Aldrichs—other neighbors.

FATHER

Oh—they are coming? (With pain.) Already? Oh. They are to wait in the south room—till a little later. I’ll speak to them.

[They go out; Margaret has a moment alone. Then Craig comes in from outside.

CRAIG

People are beginning to come. I suppose they’ll come in here soon. I—I don’t want them to. (Laura enters with boxes of flowers.) Oh—Laura, please. Bernice loved flowers.

LAURA
Well—Craig.
CRAIG

Would you take them around the other way? Or keep them till later—or something. I don’t want them here!

[Laura goes out.

CRAIG

I don’t want things to be different. Not now—in the last hour. It’s still Bernice’s house. (After watching her a moment.) Margaret, I’m afraid I shouldn’t have told you. It’s doing too much to you. Surely—no matter what you feel about me—this—what I told you—isn’t going to keep you away from Bernice?

MARGARET

No, Craig. What you told me—isn’t going to do that.

CRAIG

I shouldn’t have told you. But there are things—too much to be alone with. And yet—we are alone with them. (He is seated, looking out toward the woods. Very slowly—with deep feeling.) It is a different world. Life will never be—that old thing again.

MARGARET

(Rising.) Craig! (He looks at her.) Craig, I must tell you— (She does not go on.)

CRAIG

(After waiting an instant, looks away.) I know. We can’t say things. When we get right to life—we can’t say things.

MARGARET

But I must say them. I have to tell you—life need not be a different thing.

CRAIG

Need not? You think I want that old thing back? Pretending. Fumbling. Always trying to seem something—to feel myself something. No. That’s a strange thing for you to say, Margaret—that I can go back to my make-believe, now that I’ve got to life. This— (As if he cannot speak of it.) this—even more than it makes me want to die it makes me want to—Oh, Margaret, if I could have Bernice now—knowing. And yet—I never had her until now. This—has given Bernice to me.

MARGARET

(As if his words are a light she is almost afraid to use.) This—has given Bernice to you?

CRAIG

I was thinking—walking out there I was thinking, if I knew only—what I knew when I came here—that Bernice was dead—I wonder if I could have got past that failure.

MARGARET
Failure, Craig?
CRAIG

Of never having had her. That she had lived, and loved me—loved me, you see—lived and loved me and died without my ever having had her. What would there have been to go on living for? Why should such a person go on living? Now—of course it is another world. This comes crashing through my make-believe—and Bernice’s world get to me. Don’t you see, Margaret?

MARGARET

Perhaps—I do. (She looks at the closed door; looks back to him. Waits.) O—h. (Waits again, and it grows in her.) Perhaps I do.

[Turns and very slowly goes to the closed door, opens it, goes in. At the other side of the room Abbie comes in with a floral piece.

CRAIG

No, Abbie. I just told my sister—I don’t want this room to be different. (Looking around.) It is different. What have you done to it? (He sees the pillow crowded in at the side of the fireplace. Restores it to its place in the window.)

ABBIE

And this was here. (She returns the vase to its place.)

CRAIG

Of course it was. But it isn’t right yet. (After considering.) Why—the tea-table! (Abbie turns toward the kitchen.) What did you put it out there for? I remember now—I stumbled against it last night. (They bring it in.) Why, yes, Abbie, the tea-table was always here—before the fire.

ABBIE

And— (She hesitates, but Craig follows her eyes to the chair.)

CRAIG

Yes. (He too hesitates; then gives the chair its old place before the table, as if awaiting the one who will come and pour tea. A moment they stand looking at it. Then Craig looks around the room.) And what is it is still wrong, Abbie? A

ABBIE

In the fall there were always branches in that vase. (Indicating the one she has returned to its place.) The red and yellow branches from outside.

CRAIG

Yes.

[He goes out. With feeling which she cannot quite control Abbie does a few little things at the tea-table, relating one thing to another until it is as it used to be. Margaret comes out from the room where she has been with Bernice, leaving the door wide open behind her. With the quiet of profound wonder; in a feeling that creates the great stillness, she goes to Abbie.

MARGARET

Oh—Abbie. Yes—I know now. I want you to know. Only—there are things not for words. Feeling—not for words. As a throbbing thing that flies and sings—not for the hand. (She starts to close her hand, uncloses it.) But, Abbie—there is nothing to hide. There is no shameful thing. What you saw in her eyes as she brooded over life in leaving it—what made you afraid—was her seeing—her seeing into the shadowed places of the life she was leaving. And then—a gift to the spirit. A gift sent back through the dark. Preposterous. Profound. Oh—love her Abbie! She’s worth more love than we have power to give! (Craig has come back with some branches from the trees; he stands outside the door a moment, taking out a few he does not want. Margaret hears him and turns. Then turns back.) Power. Oh, how strange.

[Craig comes in, and Margaret and Abbie watch him as he puts the bright leaves in the vase. The Father comes in.

FATHER

The man who is in charge says we will have to be ready now to— (Seeing what has been done to the room.) Oh, you have given the room back to Bernice!

MARGARET

Given everything back to Bernice. Bernice. Insight. The tenderness of insight. And the courage. (To the Father, and suddenly with tears in her voice.) She was wistful. And held out her hands (Doing this) with gifts she was not afraid to send back. (Very simply.) She loved you, Craig.

CRAIG
I know that, Margaret. I know now how much.
MARGARET

(Low) And more than that. (Her voice electric.) Oh, in all the world—since first life moved—has there been any beauty like the beauty of perceiving love?… No. Not for words. (She closes her hand, uncloses it in a slight gesture of freeing what she would not harm.)

CURTAIN

Inheritors

A PLAY IN THREE ACTS

First performed at the Provincetown Playhouse
27 April, 1921.

CHARACTERS

SMITH,  a young businessman

GRANDMOTHER,  Silas Morton’s mother

SILAS MORTON,  a pioneer farmer

FELIX FEJEVARY, the First;  an exiled Hungarian nobleman

FELIX Fejevary, the Second,  son of Felix Fejevary I; a banker

HORACE Fejevary,  son of Felix Fejevary II; a Harvard student

SENATOR LEWIS,  a State Senator

DORIS,  a student at Morton College

FUSSIE,  another college girl

MADELINE Fejevary Morton,  daughter of Ira Morton, and granddaughter of Silas Morton; a student at Morton College

ISABEL Fejevary,  wife of Felix Fejevary II, and Madeline’s aunt

HARRY,  a student clerk

HOLDEN,  professor at Morton College

IRA MORTON,  son of Silas Morton, and Madeline’s father

EMIL JOHNSON,  an Americanized Swede

ACT ONE

SCENE:  Sitting-room of the Mortons’ farmhouse in the Middle West—on the rolling prairie just back from the Mississippi. A room that has been long and comfortably lived in, and showing that first-hand contact with materials which was pioneer life. The hospitable table was made on the place—well and strongly made; there are braided rugs, and the wooden chairs have patchwork cushions. There is a corner closet—left rear. A picture of Abraham Lincoln. On the floor a home-made toy boat.

At rise of curtain there are on the stage an old woman and a young man. Grandmother Morton is in her rocking-chair near the open door, facing left. On both sides of door are windows, looking out on a generous land. She has a sewing basket and is patching a boy’s pants. She is very old. Her hands tremble. Her spirit remembers the days of her strength.

Smith has just come in and, hat in hand, is standing by the table. This was lived in the year 1879, afternoon of Fourth of July.

SMITH
But the celebration was over two hours ago.
GRANDMOTHER

Oh, celebration, that’s just the beginning of it. Might as well set down. When them boys that fought together all get in one square—they have to swap stories all over again. That’s the worst of a war—you have to go on hearing about it so long. Here it is—1879—and we haven’t taken Gettysburg yet. Well, it was the same way with the war of 1832.

SMITH

(Who is now seated at the table.) The war of 1832?

GRANDMOTHER

News to you that we had a war with the Indians?

SMITH

That’s right—the Blackhawk war. I’ve heard of it.

GRANDMOTHER
Heard of it!
SMITH
Were your men in that war?
GRANDMOTHER

I was in that war. I threw an Indian in the cellar and stood on the door. I was heavier then.

SMITH
Those were stirring times.
GRANDMOTHER

More stirring than you’ll ever see. This war—Lincoln’s war—it’s all a cut and dried business now. We used to fight with anything we could lay hands on—dish water—whatever was handy.

SMITH

I guess you believe the saying that the only good Indian is a dead Indian.

GRANDMOTHER

I dunno. We roiled them up considerable. They was mostly friendly when let be. Didn’t want to give up their land—but I’ve noticed something of the same nature in white folks.

SMITH

Your son has—something of that nature, hasn’t he?

GRANDMOTHER

He’s not keen to sell. Why should he? It’ll never be worth less.

SMITH

But since he has more land than any man can use, and if he gets his price—

GRANDMOTHER
That what you’ve come to talk to him about?
SMITH
I—yes.
GRANDMOTHER

Well, you’re not the first. Many a man older than you has come to argue it.

SMITH

(Smiling.) They thought they’d try a young one.

GRANDMOTHER

Someone that knew him thought that up. Silas’d help a young one if he could. What is it you’re set on buying?

SMITH

Oh, I don’t know that we’re set on buying anything. If we could have the hill (Looking off to the right.) at a fair price—

GRANDMOTHER

The hill above the town? Silas’d rather sell me and the cat.

SMITH
But what’s he going to do with it?
GRANDMOTHER
Maybe he’s going to climb it once a week.
SMITH

But if the development of the town demands its use—

GRANDMOTHER
(Smiling.) You the development of the town?
SMITH

I represent it. This town has been growing so fast—

GRANDMOTHER
This town began to grow the day I got here.
SMITH
You—you began it?
GRANDMOTHER
My husband and I began it—and our baby Silas.
SMITH
When was that?
GRANDMOTHER
1820, that was.
SMITH
And—you mean you were here all alone?
GRANDMOTHER

No, we weren’t alone. We had the Owens ten miles down the river.

SMITH
But how did you get here?
GRANDMOTHER

Got here in a wagon, how do you s’pose? (Gaily.) Think we flew?

SMITH
But wasn’t it unsafe?
GRANDMOTHER
Them set on safety stayed back in Ohio.
SMITH

But one family! I should think the Indians would have wiped you out.

GRANDMOTHER

The way they wiped us out was to bring fish and corn. We’d have starved to death that first winter hadn’t been for the Indians.

SMITH

But they were such good neighbors—why did you throw dish water at them?

GRANDMOTHER

That was after other white folks had roiled them up—white folks that didn’t know how to treat ’em. This very land—land you want to buy—was the land they loved—Blackhawk and his Indians. They came here for their games. This was where their fathers—as they called ’em—were buried. I’ve seen my husband and Blackhawk climb that hill together. (A backward point right.) He used to love that hill—Blackhawk. He talked how the red man and the white man could live together. But poor old Blackhawk—what he didn’t know was how many white man there was. After the war—when he was beaten but not conquered in his heart—they took him east—Washington, Philadelphia, New York—and when he saw the white man’s cities—it was a different Indian came back. He just let his heart break without ever turning a hand.

SMITH

But we paid them for their lands. (She looks at him.) Paid them something.

GRANDMOTHER

Something. For fifteen million acres of this Mississippi Valley land—best on this globe, we paid two thousand two hundred and thirty-four dollars and fifty cents, and promised to deliver annually goods to the value of one thousand dollars. Not a fancy price—even for them days. (Children’s voices are heard outside. She leans forward and looks through the door, left.) Ira! Let that cat be!

SMITH

(Looking from the window.) These, I suppose, are your grandchildren?

GRANDMOTHER

The boy’s my grandson. The little girl is Madeline Fejevary—Mr. Fejevary’s youngest child.

SMITH

The Fejevary place adjoins on this side? (Pointing right, down.)

GRANDMOTHER

Yes. We’ve been neighbors ever since the Fejevarys came here from Hungary after 1848. He was a count at home—and he’s a man of learning. But he was a refugee because he fought for freedom in his country. Nothing Silas could do for him was too good. Silas sets great store by learning—and freedom.

SMITH

(Thinking of his own project, looking off toward the hill—the hill is not seen from the front.) I suppose then Mr. Fejevary has great influence with your son?

GRANDMOTHER

More ’an anybody. Silas thinks ’twas a great thing for our family to have a family like theirs next place to. Well—so ’twas, for we’ve had no time for the things their family was brought up on. Old Mrs. Fejevary (with her shrewd smile) —she weren’t stuck up—but she did have an awful ladylike way of feeding the chickens. Silas thinks—oh, my son has all kinds of notions—though a harder worker never found his bed at night.

SMITH
And Mr. Fejevary—is he a veteran too?
GRANDMOTHER

(Dryly.) You don’t seem to know these parts well—for one that’s all stirred up about the development of the town. Yes—Felix Fejevary and Silas Morton went off together, down that road (motioning with her hand, right) —when them of their age was wanted. Fejevary came back with one arm less than he went with. Silas brought home everything he took—and something he didn’t. Rheumatiz. So now they set more store by each other ’an ever. Seems nothing draws men together like killing other men. (A boy’s voice teasingly imitating a cat.) Madeline, make Ira let that cat be. (A whoop from the girl—a boy’s whoop.) (Looking.) There they go, off for the creek. If they set in it— (Seems about to call after them, gives this up.) Well, they’re not the first. (Rather dreams over this.)

SMITH

You must feel as if you pretty near owned this country.

GRANDMOTHER

We worked. A country don’t make itself. When the sun was up we were up, and when the sun went down we didn’t. (As if this renews the self of those days.) Here—let me set out something for you to eat. (Gets up with difficulty.)

SMITH

Oh, no, please—never mind. I had something in town before I came out.

GRANDMOTHER

Dunno as that’s any reason you shouldn’t have something here.

[She goes off, right; he stands at the door, looking toward the hill until she returns with a glass of milk, a plate of cookies.

SMITH
Well, this looks good.
GRANDMOTHER

I’ve fed a lot of folks—take it by and large. I didn’t care how many I had to feed in the daytime—what’s ten or fifteen more when you’re up and around. But to get up—after sixteen hours on your feet—I was willin’, but my bones complained some.

SMITH
But did you—keep a tavern?
GRANDMOTHER

Keep a tavern? I guess we did. Every house is a tavern when houses are sparse. You think the way to settle a country is to go on ahead and build hotels? That’s all you folks know. Why, I never went to bed without leaving something on the stove for the new ones that might be coming. And we never went away from home without seein’ there was a-plenty for them that might stop.

SMITH
They’d come right in and take your food?
GRANDMOTHER

What else could they do? There was a woman I always wanted to know. She made a kind of bread I never had before—and left a-plenty for our supper when we got back with the ducks and berries. And she left the kitchen handier than it had ever been. I often wondered about her—where she came from, and where she went. (As she dreams over this there is laughing and talking at the side of the house.) There come the boys.

[Mr. Fejevary comes in, followed by Silas Morton. They are men not far from sixty, wearing their army uniforms, carrying the muskets they used in the parade. Fejevary has a lean, distinguished face, his dark eyes are penetrating and rather wistful. The left sleeve of his old uniform is empty. Silas Morton is a strong man who has borne the burden of the land, and not for himself alone—the pioneer. Seeing the stranger, he sets his musket against the wall and holds out his hand to him, as Mr. Fejevary goes up to Grandmother Morton.

SILAS
How do, stranger?
FEJEVARY
And how are you today, Mrs. Morton?
GRANDMOTHER
I’m not abed—and don’t expect to be.
SILAS

(Letting go of the balloons he has bought.) Where’s Ira? and Madeline?

GRANDMOTHER

Mr. Fejevary’s Delia brought them home with her. They’ve gone down to dam the creek, I guess. This young man’s been waiting to see you, Silas.

SMITH
Yes, I wanted to have a little talk with you.
SILAS

Well, why not? (He is tying the gay balloons to his gun, then as he talks, hangs his hat in the corner closet.) We’ve been having a little talk ourselves. Mother, Nat Rice was there. I’ve not seen Nat Rice since the day we had to leave him on the road with his torn leg—him cursing like a pirate. I wanted to bring him home, but he had to go back to Chicago. His wife’s dead, mother.

GRANDMOTHER
Well, I guess she’s not sorry.
SILAS
Why, mother.
GRANDMOTHER

“Why, mother.” Nat Rice is a mean, stingy, complaining man—his leg notwithstanding. Where’d you leave the folks?

SILAS

Oh—scattered around. Everybody visitin’ with anybody that’ll visit with them. Wish you could have gone.

GRANDMOTHER

I’ve heard it all. (To Fejevary.) Your folks well?

FEJEVARY

All well, Mrs. Morton. And my boy Felix is home. He’ll stop in here to see you by and by.

SILAS

Oh, he’s a fine-looking boy, mother. And think of what he knows! (Cordially including the young man.) Mr. Fejevary’s son has been to Harvard College.

SMITH

Well, well—quite a trip. Well, Mr. Morton, I hope this is not a bad time for me to—present a little matter to you?

SILAS

(Genially.) That depends, of course, on what you’re going to present. (Attracted by a sound outside.) Mind if I present a little matter to your horse? Like to uncheck him so’s he can get a a bite o’ grass.

SMITH
Why—yes. I suppose he would like that.
SILAS

(Going out.) You bet he’d like it. Wouldn’t you, old boy?

SMITH
Your son is fond of animals.
GRANDMOTHER

Lots of people’s fond of ’em—and good to ’em. Silas—I dunno, it’s as if he was that animal.

FEJEVARY
He has imagination.
GRANDMOTHER
(With surprise.) Think so?
SILAS

(Returning and sitting down at the table by the young man.) Now, what’s in your mind, my boy?

SMITH
This town is growing very fast, Mr. Morton.
SILAS
Yes. (Slyly—with humor.) I know that.
SMITH

I presume you, as one of the early settlers—as in fact a son of the earliest settler, feel a certain responsibility about the welfare of—

SILAS

I haven’t got in mind to do the town a bit of harm. So—what’s your point?

SMITH

More people—more homes. And homes must be in the healthiest places—the—the most beautiful places. Isn’t it true, Mr. Fejevary, that it means a great deal to people to have a beautiful outlook from their homes? A—well, an expanse.

SILAS

What is it they want to buy—these fellows that are figuring on making something out of—expanse? (A gesture for expanse, then a reassuring gesture.) It’s all right, but—just what is it?

SMITH

I am prepared to make you an offer—a gilt-edged offer for that (Pointing toward it.) hill above the town.

SILAS

(Shaking his head—with the smile of the strong man who is a dreamer.) The hill is not for sale.

SMITH

But wouldn’t you consider a—particularly good offer, Mr. Morton?

[Silas, who has turned so he can look out at the hill, slowly shakes his head.

SMITH

Do you feel you have the right—the moral right to hold it?

SILAS
It’s not for myself I’m holding it.
SMITH
Oh,—for the children?
SILAS
Yes, the children.
SMITH

But—if you’ll excuse me—there are other investments might do the children even more good.

SILAS
This seems to me—the best investment.
SMITH

But after all there are other people’s children to consider.

SILAS
Yes, I know. That’s it.
SMITH
I wonder if I understand you, Mr. Morton?
SILAS

(Kindly.) I don’t believe you do. I don’t see how you could. And I can’t explain myself just now. So—the hill is not for sale. I’m not making anybody homeless. There’s land enough for all—all sides round. But the hill—

SMITH
(Rising.) Is yours.
SILAS
You’ll see.
SMITH
I am prepared to offer you—
SILAS

You’re not prepared to offer me anything I’d consider alongside what I am considering. So—I wish you good luck in your business undertakings.

SMITH
Sorry—you won’t let us try to help the town.
SILAS

Don’t sit up nights worrying about my chokin’ the town.

SMITH

We could make you a rich man, Mr. Morton. Do you think what you have in mind will make you so much richer?

SILAS
Much richer.
SMITH

Well, goodbye. Good day, sir. Good day, ma’am.

SILAS

(Following him to the door.) Nice horse you’ve got.

SMITH

Yes, seems all right.

[Silas stands in the doorway and looks off at the hill.

GRANDMOTHER

What are you going to do with the hill, Silas?

SILAS

After I get a little glass of wine—to celebrate Felix and me being here instead of farther south—I’d like to tell you what I want for the hill. (To Fejevary, rather bashfully.) I’ve been wanting to tell you.

FEJEVARY
I want to know.
SILAS

(Getting the wine from the closet.) Just a little something to show our gratitude with. (Goes off right for glasses.)

GRANDMOTHER

I dunno. Maybe it’d be better to sell the hill—while they’re anxious.

FEJEVARY
He seems to have another plan for it.
GRANDMOTHER

Yes. Well, I hope the other plan does bring him something. Silas has worked—all the days of his life.

FEJEVARY
I know.
GRANDMOTHER

You don’t know the hull of it. But I know. (Rather to herself.) Know too well to think about it.

GRANDMOTHER
(As Silas returns.) I’ll get more cookies.
SILAS
I’ll get them, mother.
GRANDMOTHER

Get ’em myself. Pity if a woman can’t get out her own cookies.

SILAS

(Seeing how hard it is for her.) I wish mother would let us do things for her.

FEJEVARY

That strength is a flame frailness can’t put out. It’s a great thing for us to have her—this touch with the life behind us.

SILAS

Yes. And it’s a great thing for us to have you—who can see those things and say them. What a lot I’d ’a’ missed if I hadn’t had what you’ve seen.

FEJEVARY

Oh, you only think that because you’ve got to be generous.

SILAS

I’m not generous. I’m seeing something now. Something about you. I’ve been thinking of it a good deal lately—it’s got something to do with—with the hill. I’ve been thinkin’ what it’s meant all these years to have a family like yours next place to. They did something pretty nice for the corn belt when they drove you out of Hungary. Funny—how things don’t end the way they begin. I mean, what begins don’t end. It’s another thing ends. Set out to do something for your own country—and maybe you don’t quite do the thing you set out to do—

FEJEVARY
No.
SILAS

But do something for a country a long way off.

FEJEVARY

I’m afraid I’ve not done much for any country.

SILAS

(Brusquely.) Where’s your left arm—may I be so bold as to inquire? Though your left arm’s nothing alongside—what can’t be measured.

FEJEVARY

When I think of what I dreamed as a young man—it seems to me my life has failed.

SILAS

(Raising his glass.) Well, if your life’s failed—I like failure.

[Grandmother Morton returns with her cookies.

GRANDMOTHER

There’s two kinds—Mr. Fejevary. These have seeds in ’em.

FEJEVARY
Thank you. I’ll try a seed cookie first.
SILAS
Mother, you’ll have a glass of wine?
GRANDMOTHER
I don’t need wine.
SILAS
Well, I don’t know as we need it.
GRANDMOTHER

No, I don’t know as you do. But I didn’t go to war.

FEJEVARY
Then have a little wine to celebrate that.
GRANDMOTHER

Well, just a mite to warm me up. Not that it’s cold. (Fejevary brings it to her, and the cookies.) The Indians used to like cookies. I was talking to that young whippersnapper about the Indians. One time I saw an Indian watching me from a bush. (Points.) Right out there. I was never afraid of Indians when you could see the whole of ’em—but when you could see nothin’ but their bright eyes—movin’ through leaves—I declare they made me nervous. After he’d been there an hour I couldn’t seem to put my mind on my work. So I thought, Red or White, a man’s a man—I’ll take him some cookies.

FEJEVARY
It succeeded?
GRANDMOTHER

So well that those leaves had eyes next day. But he brought me a fish to trade. He was a nice boy.

SILAS
Probably we killed him.
GRANDMOTHER

I dunno. Maybe he killed us. Will Owens’ family was massacred just after this. Like as not my cookie Indian helped out there. Something kind of uncertain about the Indians.

SILAS

I guess they found something kind of uncertain about us.

GRANDMOTHER

Six o’ one and half a dozen of another. Usually is.

SILAS

(To Fejevary.) I wonder if I’m wrong. You see, I never went to school—

GRANDMOTHER

I don’t know why you say that, Silas. There was two winters you went to school.

SILAS

Yes, mother, and I’m glad I did, for I learned to read there, and liked the geography globe. It made the earth so nice to think about. And one day the teacher told us all about the stars, and I had that to think of when I was driving at night. The other boys didn’t believe it was so. But I knew it was so! But I mean school—the way Mr. Fejevary went to school. He went to universities. In his own countries—in other countries. All the things men have found out, the wisest and finest things men have thought since first they began to think—all that was put before them.

FEJEVARY

(With a gentle smile.) I fear I left a good deal of it untouched.

SILAS

You took a plenty. Tell in your eyes you’ve thought lots about what’s been thought. And that’s what I was setting out to say. It makes something of men—learning. A house that’s full of books makes a different kind of people. Oh, of course, if the books aren’t there just to show off.

GRANDMOTHER
Like in Mary Baldwin’s new house.
SILAS

(Trying hard to see it.) It’s not the learning itself—it’s the life that grows up from learning. Learning’s like soil. Like—like fertilizer. Get richer. See more. Feel more. You believe that?

FEJEVARY
Culture should do it.
SILAS

Does in your house. You somehow know how it is for the other fellow more’n we do.

GRANDMOTHER

Well, Silas Morton, when you’ve your wood to chop an’ your water to carry, when you kill your own cattle and hogs, tend your own horses and hens, make your butter, soap, and cook for whoever the Lord sends—there’s none too many hours of the day left to be polite in.

SILAS

You’re right, mother. It had to be that way. But now that we buy our soap—we don’t want to say what soap-making made us.

GRANDMOTHER
We’re honest.
SILAS

Yes. In a way. But there’s another kind o’ honesty, seems to me, goes with that more seein’ kind of kindness. Our honesty with the Indians was little to brag on.

GRANDMOTHER

You fret more about the Indians than anybody else does.

SILAS

To look out at that hill sometimes makes me ashamed.

GRANDMOTHER

Land sakes, you didn’t do it. It was the government. And what a government does is nothing for a person to be ashamed of.

SILAS

I don’t know about that. Why is he here? Why is Felix Fejevary not rich and grand in Hungary today? ’Cause he was ashamed of what his government was.

GRANDMOTHER
Well, that was a foreign government.
SILAS

A seeing how ’tis for the other person—a bein’ that other person, kind of honesty. Joke of it, ’twould do something for you. ’Twould ’a’ done something for us to have been Indians a little more. My father used to talk about Blackhawk—they was friends. I saw Blackhawk once—when I was a boy. (To Fejevary.) Guess I told you. You know what he looked like? He looked like the great of the earth. Noble. Noble like the forests—and the Mississippi—and the stars. His face was long and thin and you could see the bones, and the bones were beautiful. Looked like something that’s never been caught. He was something many nights in his canoe had made him. Sometimes I feel that the land itself has got a mind that the land would rather have had the Indians.

GRANDMOTHER

Well, don’t let folks hear you say it. They’d think you was plum crazy.

SILAS

I s’pose they would. (Turning to Fejevary.) But after you’ve walked a long time over the earth—and you all alone, didn’t you ever feel something coming up from it that’s like thought?

FEJEVARY
I’m afraid I never did. But—I wish I had.
SILAS

I love land—this land. I suppose that’s why I never have the feeling that I own it.

GRANDMOTHER

If you don’t own it—I want to know! What do you think we come here for—your father and me? What do you think we left our folks for—left the world of white folks—schools and stores and doctors, and set out in a covered wagon for we didn’t know what? We lost a horse. Lost our way—weeks longer than we thought ’twould be. You were born in that covered wagon. You know that. But what you don’t know is what that’s like—without your own roof—or fire—without— (She turns her face away.)

SILAS

No. No, mother, of course not. Now—now isn’t this too bad? I don’t say things right. It’s because I never went to school.

GRANDMOTHER

(Her face shielded.) You went to school two winters.

SILAS

Yes. Yes, mother. So I did. And I’m glad I did.

GRANDMOTHER

(With the determination of one who will not have her own pain looked at.) Mrs. Fejevary’s pansy bed doing well this summer?

FEJEVARY

It’s beautiful this summer. She was so pleased with the new purple kind you gave her. I do wish you could get over to see them.

GRANDMOTHER

Yes. Well, I’ve seen lots of pansies. Suppose it was pretty fine-sounding speeches they had in town?

FEJEVARY
Too fine-sounding to seem much like the war.
SILAS

I’d like to go to a war celebration where they never mentioned war. There’d be a way to celebrate victory. (Hearing a step, looking out.) Mother, here’s Felix.

[Felix, a well-dressed young man, comes in.

GRANDMOTHER

How do, Felix?

FELIX

And how do you do, Grandmother Morton?

GRANDMOTHER

Well, I’m still here.

FELIX

Of course you are. It wouldn’t be coming home if you weren’t.

GRANDMOTHER

I’ve got some cookies for you, Felix. I set ’em out, so you wouldn’t have to steal them. John and Felix was hard on the cookie jar.

FELIX
Where is John?
SILAS

(Who is pouring a glass of wine for Felix.) You’ve not seen John yet? He was in town for the exercises. I bet those young devils ran off to the race-track. I heard whisperin’ goin’ round. But everybody’ll be home sometime. Mary and the girls—don’t ask me where they are. They’ll drive old Bess all over the country before they drive her to the barn. Your father and I come on home ’cause I wanted to have a talk with him.

FELIX

Getting into the old uniforms makes you want to talk it all over again?

SILAS

The war? Well, we did do that. But all that makes me want to talk about what’s to come, about—what ’twas all for. Great things are to come, Felix. And before you are through.

FELIX

I’ve been thinking about them myself—walking around the town today. It’s grown so much this year, and in a way that means more growing—that big glucose plant going up down the river, the new lumber mill—all that means many more people.

FEJEVARY

And they’ve even bought ground for a steel works.

SILAS

Yes, a city will rise from these cornfields—a big rich place—that’s bound to be. It’s written in the lay o’ the land and the way the river flows. But first tell us about Harvard College, Felix. Ain’t it a fine thing for us all to have Felix coming home from that wonderful place!

FELIX
You make it seem wonderful.
SILAS

Ah, you know it’s wonderful—know it so well you don’t have to say it. It’s something you’ve got. But to me it’s wonderful the way the stars are wonderful—this place where all that the world has learned is to be drawn from me—like a spring.

FELIX

You almost say what Matthew Arnold says—a distinguished new English writer who speaks of: “The best that has been thought and said in the world”.

SILAS

“The best that has been thought and said in the world!” (Slowly rising, and as if the dream of years is bringing him to his feet.) That’s what that hill is for! (Pointing.) Don’t you see it? End of our trail, we climb a hill and plant a college. Plant a college, so’s after we are gone that college says for us, says in people learning has made more: “That is why we took this land.”

GRANDMOTHER

(Incredulous.) You mean, Silas, you’re going to give the hill away?

SILAS

The hill at the end of our trail—how could we keep that?

GRANDMOTHER

Well, I want to know why not! Hill or level—land’s land and not a thing you give away.

SILAS

Well, don’t scold me. I’m not giving it away. It’s giving itself away, get down to it.

GRANDMOTHER
Don’t talk to me as if I was feeble-minded.
SILAS

I’m talking with all the mind I’ve got. If there’s not mind in what I say, it’s because I’ve got no mind. But I have got a mind. (To Fejevary, humorously.) Haven’t I? You ought to know. Seeing as you gave it to me.

FEJEVARY
Ah, no—I didn’t give it to you.
SILAS

Well, you made me know ’twas there. You said things that woke things in me and I thought about them as I plowed. And that made me know there had to be a college there—wake things in minds—so plowing’s more than plowing. What do you say, Felix?

FELIX

It—it’s a big idea, Uncle Silas. I love the way you put it. It’s only that I’m wondering—

SILAS

Wondering how it can ever be a Harvard College? Well, it can’t. And it needn’t be (Stubbornly.) It’s a college in the cornfields—where the Indian maize once grew. And it’s for the boys of the cornfields—and the girls. There’s few can go to Harvard College—but more can climb that hill. (Turn of the head from the hill to Felix.) Harvard on a hill? (As Felix smiles no, Silas turns back to the hill.) A college should be on a hill. They can see it then from far around. See it as they go out to the barn in the morning; see it when they’re shutting up at night. ’Twill make a difference—even to them that never go.

GRANDMOTHER
Now, Silas—don’t be hasty.
SILAS

Hasty? It’s been company to me for years. Came to me one night—must ’a’ been ten years ago—middle of a starry night as I was comin’ home from your place (To Fejevary.) I’d gone over to lend a hand with a sick horse an’—

FEJEVARY

(With a grateful smile.) That was nothing new.

SILAS

Well, say, I’d sit up with a sick horse that belonged to the meanest man unhung. But—there were stars that night had never been there before. Leastways I’d not seen ’em. And the hill—Felix, in all your travels east, did you ever see anything more beautiful than that hill?

FELIX
It’s like sculpture.
SILAS

Hm. (The wistfulness with which he speaks of that outside his knowledge.) I s’pose ’tis. It’s the way it rises—somehow—as if it knew it rose from wide and fertile lands. I climbed the hill that night. (To Fejevary.) You’d been talkin’. As we waited between medicines you told me about your life as a young man. All you’d lived through seemed to—open up to you that night—way things do at times. Guess it was ’cause you thought you was goin’ to lose your horse. See, that was Colonel, the sorrel, wasn’t it?

FEJEVARY
Yes. Good old Colonel.
SILAS

You’d had a long run o’ off luck. Hadn’t got things back in shape since the war. But say, you didn’t lose him, did you?

FEJEVARY
Thanks to you.
SILAS

Thanks to the medicine I keep in the back kitchen.

FEJEVARY
You encouraged him.
GRANDMOTHER
Silas has a way with all the beasts.
SILAS

We’ve got the same kind of minds—the beasts and me.

GRANDMOTHER

Silas, I wish you wouldn’t talk like that—and with Felix just home from Harvard College.

SILAS

Same kind of minds—except that mine goes on a little farther.

GRANDMOTHER
Well, I’m glad to hear you say that.
SILAS

Well, there we sat—you an’ me—middle of a starry night, out beside your barn. And I guess it came over you kind of funny you should be there with me—way off the Mississippi, tryin’ to save a sick horse. Seemed to—bring your life to life again. You told me what you studied in that fine old university you loved—the Vienna,—and why you became a revolutionist. The old dreams took hold o’ you and you talked—way you used to, I suppose. The years, o’ course, had rubbed some of it off. Your face as you went on about the vision—you called it, vision of what life could be. I knew that night there was things I never got wind of. When I went away—knew I ought to go home to bed—hayin’ at daybreak. “Go to bed?” I said to myself. “Strike this dead when you’ve never had it before, may never have it again?” I climbed the hill. Blackhawk was there.

GRANDMOTHER
Why, he was dead.
SILAS

He was there—on his own old hill, with me and the stars. And I said to him—

GRANDMOTHER
Silas!
SILAS

Says I to him, “Yes—that’s true; it’s more yours than mine, you had it first and loved it best. But it’s neither yours nor mine,—though both yours and mine. Not my hill, not your hill, but—hill of vision”, said I to him. “Here shall come visions of a better world than was ever seen by you or me, old Indian chief.” Oh, I was drunk, plumb drunk.

GRANDMOTHER

I should think you was. And what about the next day’s hay?

SILAS

A day in the hayfield is a day’s hayin’—but a night on the hill—

FELIX
We don’t have them often, do we, Uncle Silas?
SILAS

I wouldn’t ’a’ had that one but for your father, Felix. Thank God they drove you out o’ Hungary! And it’s all so dog-gone queer. Ain’t it queer how things blow from mind to mind—like seeds. Lord A’mighty—you don’t know where they’ll take hold.

[Children’s voices offstage.

GRANDMOTHER

There come those children up from the creek—soppin’ wet, I warrant. Well, I don’t know how children ever get raised. But we raise more of ’em than we used to. I buried three—first ten years I was here. Needn’t ’a’ happened—if we’d known what we know now, and if we hadn’t been alone. (With all her strength.) I don’t know what you mean—the hill’s not yours!

SILAS

It’s the future’s, mother—so’s we can know more than we know now.

GRANDMOTHER

We know it now. ’Twas then we didn’t know it. I worked for that hill! And I tell you to leave it to your own children.

SILAS

There’s other land for my own children. This is for all the children.

GRANDMOTHER
What’s all the children to you?
SILAS

(Derisively.) Oh, mother—what a thing for you to say! You who were never too tired to give up your own bed so the stranger could have a better bed.

GRANDMOTHER

That was different. They was folks on their way.

FEJEVARY

So are we.

[Silas turns to him with quick appreciation.

GRANDMOTHER

That’s just talk. We’re settled now. Children of other old settlers are getting rich. I should think you’d want yours to.

SILAS

I want other things more. I want to pay my debts ’fore I’m too old to know they’re debts.

GRANDMOTHER

(Momentarily startled.) Debts? Huh! More talk. You don’t owe any man.

SILAS

I owe him (Nodding to Fejevary.). And the red boys here before me.

GRANDMOTHER
Fiddlesticks.
FELIX

You haven’t read Darwin, have you, Uncle Silas?

SILAS
Who?
FELIX

Darwin, the great new man—and his theory of the survival of the fittest?

SILAS
No. No, I don’t know things like that, Felix.
FELIX

I think he might make you feel better about the Indians. In the struggle for existence many must go down. The fittest survive. This—had to be.

SILAS

Us and the Indians? Guess I don’t know what you mean—fittest.

FELIX

He calls it that. Best fitted to the place in which one finds one’s self, having the qualities that can best cope with conditions—do things. From the beginning of life it’s been like that. He shows the growth of life from forms that were hardly alive, the lowest animal forms—jellyfish—up to man.

SILAS

Oh, yes, that’s the thing the churches are so upset about—that we come from monkeys.

FELIX

Yes. One family of ape is the direct ancestor of man.

GRANDMOTHER
You’d better read your Bible, Felix.
SILAS
Do people believe this?
FELIX

The whole intellectual world is at war about it. The best scientists accept it. Teachers are losing their positions for believing it. Of course, ministers can’t believe it.

GRANDMOTHER

I should think not. Anyway, what’s the use believing a thing that’s so discouraging?

FEJEVARY

(Gently.) But is it that? It almost seems to me we have to accept it because it is so encouraging. (Holding out his hand.) Why have we hands?

GRANDMOTHER
Cause God gave them to us, I s’pose.
FEJEVARY

But that’s rather general, and there isn’t much in it to give us self-confidence. But when you think we have hands because ages back—before life had taken form as man, there was an impulse to do what had never been done—when you think that we have hands today because from the first of life there have been adventurers—those of best brain and courage who wanted to be more than life had been, and that from aspiration has come doing, and doing has shaped the thing with which to do—it gives our hand a history which should make us want to use it well.

SILAS

(Breathed from deep.) Well, by God! And you’ve known this all this while! Dog-gone you—why didn’t you tell me?

FEJEVARY

I’ve been thinking about it. I haven’t known what to believe. This hurts—beliefs of earlier years.

FELIX
The things it hurts will have to go.
FEJEVARY

I don’t know about that, Felix. Perhaps in time we’ll find truth in them.

FELIX
Oh, if you feel that way, father.
FEJEVARY

Don’t be kind to me, my boy, I’m not that old.

SILAS

But think what it is you’ve said! If it’s true that we made ourselves—made ourselves out of the wanting to be more—created ourselves you might say, by our own courage—our—what is it?—aspiration. Why, I can’t take it in. I haven’t got the mind to take it in. And what mind I have got says no. It’s too—

FEJEVARY
It fights with what’s there.
SILAS

(Nodding.) But it’s like I got this (very slowly) other way around. From underneath. As if I’d known it all along—but have just found out I know it! Yes. The earth told me. The beasts told me.

GRANDMOTHER
Fine place to learn things from.
SILAS

Anyhow, haven’t I seen it? (To Fejevary.) In your face haven’t I seen thinking make a finer face? How long has this taken, Felix, to—well, you might say, bring us where we are now?

FELIX

Oh, we don’t know how many millions of years since earth first stirred.

SILAS

Then we are what we are because through all that time there’ve been them that wanted to be more than life had been.

FELIX
That’s it, Uncle Silas.
SILAS
But—why, then we aren’t finished yet!
FEJEVARY
No. We take it on from here.
SILAS

(Slowly.) Then if we don’t be—the most we can be, if we don’t be more than life has been, we go back on all that life behind us; go back on—the— (Unable to formulate it, he looks to Fejevary.)

FEJEVARY

Go back on the dreaming and the daring of a million years.

[After a moment’s pause Silas gets up, opens the closet door.

GRANDMOTHER
Silas, what you doing?
SILAS

(Who has taken out a box.) I’m lookin’ for the deed to the hill.

GRANDMOTHER
What you going to do with it?
SILAS
I’m going to get it out of my hands.
GRANDMOTHER

Get it out of your hands? (He has it now.) Deed your father got from the government the very year the government got it from the Indians? (Rising.) Give me that! (She turns to Fejevary.) Tell him he’s crazy. We got the best land ’cause we was first here. We got a right to keep it.

FEJEVARY

(Going soothingly to her.) It’s true, Silas, it is a serious thing to give away one’s land.

SILAS

You ought to know. You did it. Are you sorry you did it?

FEJEVARY
No. But wasn’t that different?
SILAS

How was it different? Yours was a fight to make life more, wasn’t it? Well, let this be our way.

GRANDMOTHER

What’s all that got to do with giving up the land that should provide for our own children?

SILAS

Isn’t it providing for them to give them a better world to live in? Felix—you’re young, I ask you, ain’t it providing for them to give them a chance to be more than we are?

FELIX

I think you’re entirely right, Uncle Silas. But it’s the practical question that—

SILAS

If you’re right, the practical question is just a thing to fix up.

FEJEVARY

I fear you don’t realize the immense amount of money required to finance a college. The land would be a start. You would have to interest rich men; you’d have to have a community in sympathy with the thing you wanted to do.

GRANDMOTHER

Can’t you see, Silas, that we’re all against you?

SILAS

All against me? (To Fejevary.) But how can you be? Look at the land we walked in and took! Was there ever such a chance to make life more? Why, the buffalo here before us was more than we if we do nothing but prosper! God damn us if we sit here rich and fat and forget man’s in the makin’. (Affirming against this.) There will one day be a college in these cornfields by the Mississippi because long ago a great dream was fought for in Hungary. And I say to that old dream, Wake up, old dream! Wake up and fight! You say rich men. (Holding it out, but it is not taken.) I give you this deed to take to rich men to show them one man believes enough in this to give the best land he’s got. That ought to make rich men stop and think.

GRANDMOTHER
Stop and think he’s a fool.
SILAS

(To Fejevary.) It’s you can make them know he’s not a fool. When you tell this way you can tell it, they’ll feel in you what’s more than them. They’ll listen.

GRANDMOTHER
I tell you, Silas, folks are too busy.
SILAS

Too busy! Too busy bein’ nothin’? If it’s true that we created ourselves out of the thoughts that came, then thought is not something outside the business of life. Thought— (With his gift for wonder.) why, thought’s our chance. I know now why I can’t forget the Indians. We killed their joy before we killed them. We made them less. (To Fejevary, and as if sure he is now making it clear.) I got to give it back—their hill. I give it back to joy—a better joy—joy o’ aspiration.

FEJEVARY

(Moved but unconvinced.) But, my friend, there are men who have no aspiration. That’s why, to me, this is as a light shining from too far.

GRANDMOTHER

(Old things waked in her.) Light shining from far. We used to do that. We never pulled the curtain. I used to want to—you like to be to yourself when night conies—but we always left a lighted window for the traveler who’d lost his way.

FELIX

I should think that would have exposed you to the Indians.

GRANDMOTHER

Yes. (Impatiently.) Well, you can’t put out a light just because it may light the wrong person.

FEJEVARY

No. (And this is as a light to him. He turns to the hill.) No.

SILAS

(With gentleness, and profoundly.) That’s it. Look again. Maybe your eyes are stronger now. Don’t you see it? I see that college rising as from the soil itself, as if it was what come at the last of that thinking that breathes from the earth. I see it—but I want to know it’s real before I stop knowing. Then maybe I can lie under the same sod with the red boys and not be ashamed. We’re not old! Let’s fight! Wake in other men what you woke in me!

FEJEVARY

And so could I pay my debt to America. (His hand goes out.)

SILAS

(Giving him the deed.) And to the dreams of a million years!

[Standing near the open door, their hands are gripped in compact.

(CURTAIN)

ACT TWO

SCENE I

SCENE:  A corridor in the library of Morton College, October of the year 1920, upon the occasion of the fortieth anniversary of its founding. This is an open place in the stacks of books, which are seen at both sides. There is a reading-table before the big rear window. This window opens out, but does not extend to the floor; only a part of its height is seen, indicating a very high window. Outside is seen the top of a tree.

This outer wall of the building is on a slant, so that the entrance right is near, and the left is front. Right front is a section of a huge square column. On the rear of this, facing the window, is hung a picture of Silas Morton. Two men are standing before this portrait.

Senator Lewis is the Midwestern state senator. He is not of the city from which Morton College rises, but of a more country community farther in-state. Felix Fejevary II, now nearing the age of his father in the first act, is an American of the more sophisticated type—prosperous, having the poise of success in affairs and place in society.

SENATOR

And this was the boy who founded the place, eh? It was his idea?

FELIX

Yes, and his hill. I was there the afternoon he told my father there must be a college here. I wasn’t any older then than my boy is now. (As if himself surprised by this.)

SENATOR

Well, he enlisted a good man when he let you in on it. I’ve been told the college wouldn’t be what it is today but for you, Mr. Fejevary.

FELIX

I have a sentiment about it, and where our sentiment is, there our work goes also.

SENATOR

Yes. Well, it was those mainsprings of sentiment that won the war. (He is pleased with this.)

FELIX

(Nodding.) Morton College did her part in winning the war.

SENATOR
I know. A fine showing.
FELIX

And we’re holding up our end right along. You’ll see the boys drill this afternoon. It’s a great place for them, here on the hill—shows up from so far around. They’re a fine lot of fellows. You know, I presume, that they went in as strike-breakers during the trouble down here at the steel works. The plant would have had to close but for Morton College. That’s one reason I venture to propose this thing of a state appropriation for enlargement. Why don’t we sit down a moment? There’s no conflict with the state university—they have their territory, we have ours. Ours is an important one—industrially speaking. The state will lose nothing in having a good strong college here—a one-hundred-per-cent-American college.

SENATOR
I admit I am very favorably impressed.
FELIX

I hope you’ll tell your committee so—and let me have a chance to talk to them.

SENATOR

Let’s see, haven’t you a pretty radical man here?

FELIX
I wonder if you mean Holden?
SENATOR

Holden’s the man. I’ve read things that make me question his Americanism.

FELIX

Oh— (Gesture of deprecation.) I don’t think he is so much a radical as a particularly human human-being.

SENATOR
But we don’t want radical human beings.
FELIX

He has a genuine sympathy with youth. That’s invaluable in a teacher, you know. And then—he’s a scholar. (He betrays here his feeling of superiority to his companion, but too subtly for his companion to get it.)

SENATOR

Oh—scholar. We can get scholars enough. What we want is Americans.

FELIX
Americans who are scholars.
SENATOR

You can pick ’em off every bush—pay them a little more than they’re paid in some other cheap John College. Excuse me—I don’t mean this is a cheap John College.

FELIX

Of course not. One couldn’t think that of Morton College. But that—pay them a little more, interests me. That’s another reason I want to talk to your committee on appropriations. We claim to value education and then we let highly trained, gifted men fall behind the plumber.

SENATOR

Well, that’s the plumber’s fault. Let the teachers talk to the plumber.

FELIX

(With a smile.) No. Better not let them talk to the plumber. He might tell them what to do about it. In fact, is telling them.

SENATOR

That’s ridiculous. They can’t serve both God and mammon.

FELIX

Then let God give them mammon. I mean, let the state appropriate.

SENATOR

Of course this state, Mr. Fejevary, appropriates no money for radicals. Excuse me, but why do you keep this man Holden?

FELIX

In the scholar’s world we’re known because of him. And really, Holden’s not a radical—in the worst sense. What he doesn’t see is—expediency. Not enough the man of affairs to realize that we can’t always have literally what we have theoretically. He’s an idealist. Something of the—man of vision.

SENATOR

If he had the right vision he’d see that we don’t every minute have literally what we have theoretically because we’re fighting to keep the thing we have. Oh, I sometimes think the man of affairs has the only vision. Take you, Mr. Fejevary—a banker. These teachers—books—books! (Pushing all books back.) Why, if they had to take for one day the responsibility that falls on your shoulders—big decisions to make—man among men—and all the time worries, irritations, particularly now with labor riding the high horse like a fool! I know something about these things. I went to the State House because my community persuaded me it was my duty. But I’m the man of affairs myself.

FELIX

Oh, yes, I know. Your company did much to develop that whole northern part of the state.

SENATOR

I think I may say we did. Well, that’s why, after three sessions, I’m chairman of the appropriations committee. I know how to use money to promote the state. So—teacher? That would be a perpetual vacation to me. Now, if you want my advice, Mr. Fejevary,—I think your case before the state would be stronger if you let this fellow Holden go.

FELIX

I’m going to have a talk with Professor Holden.

SENATOR

Tell him it’s for his own good. The idea of a college professor standing up for conscientious objectors!

FELIX

That doesn’t quite state the case. Fred Jordan was one of Holden’s students—a student he valued. He felt Jordan was perfectly sincere in his objection.

SENATOR

Sincere in his objections! The nerve of him thinking it was his business to be sincere!

FELIX

He was expelled from college—you may remember; that was how we felt about it.

SENATOR
I should hope so.
FELIX

Holden fought that, but within the college. What brought him into the papers was his protest against the way the boy has been treated in prison.

SENATOR

What’s the difference how he’s treated? You know how I’d treat him? (A movement as though pulling a trigger.) If I didn’t know you for the American you are, I wouldn’t understand your speaking so calmly.

FELIX
I’m simply trying to see it all sides around.
SENATOR
Makes me see red.
FELIX

(With a smile.) But we mustn’t meet red with red.

SENATOR

What’s Holden fussing about—that they don’t give him caviar on toast?

FELIX

That they didn’t give him books. Holden felt it was his business to fuss about that.

SENATOR

Well, when your own boy ’stead of whining around about his conscience, stood up and offered his life!

FELIX
Yes. And my nephew gave his life.
SENATOR
That so?
FELIX

Silas Morton’s grandson died in France. My sister Madeline married Ira Morton, son of Silas Morton.

SENATOR

I knew there was a family connection between you and the Mortons.

FELIX

(Speaking with reserve.) They played together as children and married as soon as they were grown up.

SENATOR

So this was your sister’s boy? (Fejevary nods.) One of the mothers to give her son!

FELIX

(Speaking of her with effort.) My sister died—long ago. (Pulled to an old feeling; with an effort releasing himself.) But Ira is still out at the old place—place the Mortons took up when they reached the end of their trail—as Uncle Silas used to put it. Why, it’s a hundred years ago that Grandmother Morton began—making cookies here. She was the first white woman in this country.

SENATOR

Proud woman! To have begun the life of this state! Oh, our pioneers! If they could only see us now, and know what they did! (Fejevary is silent; he does not look quite happy.) I suppose Silas Morton’s son is active in the college management.

FELIX

No, Ira is not a social being. Fred’s death about finished him. He had been—strange for years, ever since my sister died—when the children were little. It was— (again pulled back to that old feeling) under pretty terrible circumstances.

SENATOR

I can see that you thought a great deal of your sister, Mr. Fejevary.

FELIX

Oh, she was beautiful and— (bitterly) it shouldn’t have gone like that.

SENATOR

Seems to me I’ve heard something about Silas Morton’s son—though perhaps it wasn’t this one.

FELIX

Ira is the only one living here now; the others have gone farther west.

SENATOR
Isn’t there something about corn?
FELIX

Yes. His corn has several years taken the prize—best in the state. He’s experimented with it—created a new kind. They’ve given it his name—Morton corn. It seems corn is rather fascinating to work with—very mutable stuff. It’s a good thing Ira has it, for it’s about the only thing he does care for now. Oh, Madeline, of course. He has a daughter here in the college—Madeline Morton, senior this year—one of our best students. I’d like to have you meet Madeline—she’s a great girl, though—peculiar.

SENATOR

Well, that makes a girl interesting, if she isn’t peculiar the wrong way. Sounds as if her home life might make her a little peculiar.

FELIX

Madeline stays here in town with us a good part of the time. Mrs. Fejevary is devoted to her—we all are. (A boy starts to come through from right.) Hello, see who’s here. This is my boy. Horace, this is Senator Lewis, who is interested in the college.

HORACE

(Shaking hands.) How do you do, Senator Lewis?

SENATOR
Pleased to see you, my boy.
HORACE
Am I butting in?
FELIX

Not seriously; but what are you doing in the library? I thought this was a day off.

HORACE
I’m looking for a book.
FELIX

(Affectionately bantering.) You are, Horace? Now how does that happen?

HORACE
I want the speeches of Abraham Lincoln.
SENATOR
You couldn’t do better.
HORACE

I’ll show those dirty dagoes where they get off!

FELIX

You couldn’t show them a little more elegantly?

HORACE
I’m going to sick the Legion on ’em.
FELIX
Are you talking about the Hindus?
HORACE
Yes, the dirty dagoes.
FELIX
Hindus aren’t dagoes you know, Horace.
HORACE

Well, what’s the difference? This foreign element gets my goat.

SENATOR

My boy, you talk like an American. But what do you mean—Hindus?

FELIX

There are two young Hindus here as students. And they’re good students.

HORACE
Sissies.
FELIX

But they must preach the gospel of free India—non-British India.

SENATOR
Oh, that won’t do.
HORACE

They’re nothing but Reds, I’ll say. Well, one of ’em’s going back to get his. (Grins.)

FELIX

There were three of them last year. One of them is wanted back home.

SENATOR
I remember now. He’s to be deported.
HORACE

And when they get him— (Movement as of pulling a rope.) They hang there.

FELIX

The other two protest against our not fighting the deportation of their comrade. They insist it means death to him. (Brushing off a thing that is inclined to worry him.) But we can’t handle India’s affairs.

SENATOR
I should think not!
HORACE

Why, England’s our ally! That’s what I told them. But you can’t argue with people like that. Just wait till I find the speeches of Abraham Lincoln! (Passes through to left.)

SENATOR
Fine boy you have, Mr. Fejevary.
FELIX

He’s a live one. You should see him in a football game. Wouldn’t hurt my feelings in the least to have him a little more of a student, but—

SENATOR

Oh, well, you want him to be a regular fellow, don’t you, and grow into a man among men?

FELIX

He’ll do that, I think. It was he who organized our boys for the steel strike—went right in himself and took a striker’s job. He came home with a black eye one night, presented to him by a picket who started something by calling him a scab. But Horace wasn’t thinking about his eye. According to him, it was not in the class with the striker’s upper lip. “Father,” he said, “I gave him more red than he could swallow. The blood just—” Well, I’ll spare you—but Horace’s muscle is one hundred percent American. (Going to the window.) Let me show you something. You can see the old Morton place off on that first little hill. (Pointing left.) The first rise beyond the valley.

SENATOR
The long low house?
FELIX

That’s it. You see, the town for the most part swung around the other side of the hill, so the Morton place is still a farm.

SENATOR

But you’re growing all the while. The town’ll take the cornfield yet.

FELIX
Yes, our steel works is making us a city.
SENATOR

And this old boy (Turning to the portrait of Silas Morton.) can look out on his old home—and watch the valley grow.

FELIX

Yes—that was my idea. His picture really should be in Memorial Hall, but I thought Uncle Silas would like to be up here among the books, and facing the old place. (With a laugh.) I confess to being a little sentimental.

SENATOR

We Americans have lots of sentiment, Mr. Fejevary. It’s what makes us—what we are. (Fejevary does not speak; there are times when the senator seems to trouble him.) Well, this is a great site for a college. You can see it from the whole country round.

FELIX

Yes, that was Uncle Silas’ idea. He had a reverence for education. It grew, in part, out of his feeling for my father. He was a poet—really, Uncle Silas. (Looking at the picture.) He gave this hill for a college that we might become a deeper, more sensitive people—

[Two girls, convulsed with the giggles, come tumbling in.

DORIS

(Confused.) Oh—oh, excuse us.

FUSSIE

(Foolishly.) We didn’t know anybody was here.

[Mr. Fejevary looks at them sternly. The girls retreat.

SENATOR

(Laughing.) Oh, well girls will be girls. I’ve got three of my own.

[Horace comes back, carrying an open book.

HORACE
Say, this must be a misprint.
FELIX

(Glancing at the back of the book.) Oh, I think not.

HORACE

From his first inaugural address to Congress, March 4, 1861. (Reads.) “This country with its institutions belong to the people who inhabit it.” Well, that’s all right. “Whenever they shall grow weary of the existing government they can exercise their constitutional right of amending it”— (after a brief consideration) I suppose that that’s all right—but listen! “or their revolutionary right to dismember or overthrow it.”

FELIX

He was speaking in another age. An age of different values.

SENATOR

Terms change their significance from generation to generation.

HORACE

I suppose they do—but that puts me in bad with these lice. They quoted this and I said they were liars.

SENATOR

And what’s the idea? They’re weary of our existing government and are about to dismember or overthrow it?

HORACE
I guess that’s the dope.
FELIX

Look here, Horace—speak accurately. Was it in relation to America they quoted this?

HORACE

Well, maybe they were talking about India then. But they were standing up for being revolutionists. We were giving them an earful about it, and then they spring Lincoln on us. Got their nerve—I’ll say—quoting Lincoln to us.

SENATOR

The fact that they are quoting it shows it’s being misapplied.

HORACE

(Approvingly.) I’ll tell them that. But gee—Lincoln oughta been more careful what he said. Ignorant people don’t know how to take such things. (Goes back with book.)

FELIX

Want to take a look through the rest of the library? We haven’t been up this way yet— (Motioning left.) We need a better scientific library. (They are leaving now.) Oh, we simply must have more money. The whole thing is fairly bursting its shell.

DORIS

(Venturing in cautiously from the other side, looking back, beckoning.) They’ve gone.

FUSSIE
Sure?
DORIS

Well, are they here? And I saw them, I tell you—they went up to science.

FUSSIE

(Moving the Senator’s hat on the table.) But they’ll come back.

DORIS

What if they do? We’re only looking at a book. (Running her hand along the books.) Matthew Arnold.

[Takes a paper from Fussie, puts it in the book. They are bent with giggling as Horace returns.

HORACE

For the love o’ Pete, what’s the joke? (Taking the book from the helpless girl.) Matthew Arnold. My idea of nowhere to go for a laugh. When I wrote my theme on him last week he was so dry I had to go out and get a Morton Sundae. (The girls are freshly attacked, though all of this in a subdued way, mindful of others in the library.) Say, how’d you get that way?

DORIS
Now, Horace, don’t you tell.
HORACE

What’d I tell, except— (seeing the paper) Um hum—what’s this?

DORIS

(Trying to get it from him.) Horace, now don’t you (A tussle.) You great strong mean thing! Fussie! Make him stop. (She gets the paper by tearing it.)

HORACE

My dad’s around here—showing the college off to a politician. If you don’t come across with that sheet of mystery, I’ll back you both out there (Starts to do it.) and—

DORIS
Horace! You’re just horrid.
HORACE

Sure I’m horrid. That’s the way I want to be. (Takes the paper, reads.)

“To Eben
You are the idol of my dreams
I worship from afar.”

What is this?

FUSSIE

Now, listen, Horace, and don’t you tell. You know Eben Weeks. He’s the homeliest man in school. Wouldn’t you say so?

HORACE

Awful jay. Like to get some of the jays out of here.

DORIS

But listen. Of course, no girl would look at him. So we’ve thought up the most killing joke. (Stopped by giggles from herself and Fussie.) Now, he hasn’t handed in his Matthew Arnold dope. I heard old Mac hold him up for it—and what’d you think he said? That he’d been plowing. Said he was trying to run a farm and go to college at the same time! Isn’t it a scream?

HORACE

We oughta—make it more unpleasant for some of those jays. Gives the school a bad name.

FUSSIE

But, listen, Horace, honest—you’ll just die. He said he was going to get the book this afternoon. Now you know what he looks like, but he turns to— (Both girls are convulsed.)

DORIS

It’ll get him all fussed up! And for nothing at all!

HORACE

Too bad that class of people come here. I think I’ll go to Harvard next year. Haven’t broken it to my parents—but I’ve about made up my mind.

DORIS

Don’t you think Morton’s a good school, Horace?

HORACE

Morton’s all right. Fine for the— (kindly) people who would naturally come here. But one gets an acquaintance at Harvard. Where’d’y’ want these passionate lines?

[Fussie and Doris are off again convulsed.

HORACE

(Eye falling on the page where he opens the book.) Say, old Bones could spill the English—what? Listen to this flyer. “For when we say that culture is to know the best that has been thought and said in the world, we simply imply that for culture a system directly tending to that end is necessary in our reading.” (He reads it with mock solemnity, delighting Fussie and Doris.) “The best that has been thought and said in the world!”

[Madeline Morton comes in from right; she carries a tennis racket.

MADELINE

(Both critical and good-humored.) You haven’t made a large contribution to that, have you, Horace?

HORACE

Madeline, you don’t want to let this sarcastic habit grow on you.

MADELINE
Thanks for the tip.
FUSSIE

Oh—Madeline. (Holds out her hand to take the book from Horace and shows it to Madeline.) You know—

DORIS

S-h. Don’t be silly. (To cover this.) Who you playing with?

HORACE
Want me to play with you, Madeline?
MADELINE

(Genially.) I’d rather play with you than talk to you.

HORACE
Same here.
FUSSIE
Aren’t cousins affectionate?
MADELINE

(Moving through to the other part of the library.) But first I’m looking for a book.

HORACE

Well, I can tell you without your looking it up, he did say it. But that was an age of different values. Anyway, the fact that they’re quoting it shows it’s being misapplied.

MADELINE
(Smiling.) Father said so.
HORACE

(On his dignity.) Oh, of course—if you don’t want to be serious.

[Madeline laughs and passes on through.

DORIS
What are you two talking about?
HORACE

Madeline happened to overhear a little discussion down on the campus.

FUSSIE

Listen. You know something? Sometimes I think Madeline Morton is a highbrow in disguise.

HORACE

Say, you don’t want to start anything like that. Madeline’s all right. She and I treat each other rough—but that’s being in the family.

FUSSIE

Well, I’ll tell you something. I heard Professor Holden say Madeline Morton has a great deal more mind than she’d let herself know.

HORACE

Oh, well—Holden, he’s erratic. Look at how popular Madeline is.

DORIS

I should say. What’s the matter with you, Fussie?

FUSSIE
Oh, I didn’t mean it really hurt her.
HORACE

Guess it don’t hurt her much at a dance. Say, what’s this new jazz they were springing last night?

DORIS

I know! Now look here, Horace—L’me show you. (She shows him a step.)

HORACE

I get you. (He begins to dance with her; the book he holds slips to the floor. He kicks it under the table.)

FUSSIE

Be careful. They’ll be coming back here. (Glances off left.)

DORIS
Keep an eye out, Fussie.
FUSSIE

(From her post.) They’re coming! I tell you, they’re coming!

DORIS

Horace, come on.

[He teasingly keeps hold of her, continuing the dance. At sound of voices, they run off, right. Fussie considers rescuing the book, decides she has not time.

SENATOR

(At first speaking off.) Yes, it could be done. There is that surplus, and as long as Morton College is socially valuable—right here above the steel works, and making this feature of military training— (He has picked up his hat.) But your Americanism must be unimpeachable, Mr. Fejevary. This man Holden stands in the way.

FELIX

I’m going to have a talk with Professor Holden this afternoon. If he remains, he will— (It is not easy for him to say.) give no trouble. (Madeline returns.) Oh, here’s Madeline—Silas Morton’s granddaughter, Madeline Fejevary Morton. This is Senator Lewis, Madeline.

SENATOR

(Holding out his hand.) How do you do, Miss Morton. I suppose this is a great day for you.

MADELINE
Why—I don’t know.
SENATOR

The fortieth anniversary of the founding of your grandfather’s college? You must be very proud of your illustrious ancestor.

MADELINE
I get a bit bored with him.
SENATOR
Bored with him? My dear young lady!
MADELINE

I suppose because I’ve heard so many speeches about him—“The sainted pioneer”—“the grand old man of the prairies”—I’m sure I haven’t any idea what he really was like.

FELIX
I’ve tried to tell you, Madeline.
MADELINE
Yes.
SENATOR

I should think you would be proud to be the granddaughter of this man of vision.

MADELINE

(Her smile flashing.) Wouldn’t you hate to be the granddaughter of a phrase?

FELIX

(Trying to laugh it off.) Madeline! How absurd.

MADELINE

Well, I’m off for tennis. (Nods goodbye and passes on.)

FELIX

(Calling to her.) Oh, Madeline, if your Aunt Isabel is out there—will you tell her where we are?

MADELINE
(Calling back.) All right.
FELIX

(After a look at his companion.) Queer girl, Madeline. Rather—moody.

SENATOR
(Disapprovingly.) Well—yes.
FELIX

(Again trying to laugh it off.) She’s been hearing a great many speeches about her grandfather.

SENATOR
She should be proud to hear them.
FELIX

Of course she should. (Looking in the direction Madeline has gone.) I want you to meet my wife, Senator Lewis.

SENATOR

I should be pleased to meet Mrs. Fejevary. I have heard what she means to the college—socially.

FELIX

I think she has given it something it wouldn’t have had without her. Certainly a place in the town that is—good for it. And you haven’t met our president yet.

SENATOR
Guess I’ve met the real president.
FELIX

Oh—no. I’m merely president of the board of trustees.

SENATOR
“Merely!”
FELIX

I want you to know President Welling. He’s very much the cultivated gentleman.

SENATOR

Cultivated gentlemen are all right. I’d hate to see a world they ran.

FELIX

(With a laugh.) I’ll just take a look up here, then we can go down the shorter way.

[He goes out right. Senator Lewis turns and examines the books. Fussie slips in, looks at him, hesitates, and then stoops under the table for the Matthew Arnold (And her poem.) which Horace has kicked there. He turns.

FUSSIE

(Not out from under the table.) Oh, I was just looking for a book.

SENATOR
Quite a place to look for a book.
FUSSIE

(Crawling out.) Yes, it got there. I thought I’d put it back. Somebody—might want it.

SENATOR

I see, young lady, that you have a regard for books.

FUSSIE
Oh, yes, I do have a regard for them.
SENATOR

(Holding out his hand.) And what is your book?

FUSSIE

Oh—it’s—it’s nothing.

[As he continues to hold out his hand, she reluctantly gives the book.

SENATOR
(Solemnly.) Matthew Arnold? Nothing?
FUSSIE
Oh, I didn’t mean him.
SENATOR

A master of English! I am glad, young woman, that you value this book.

FUSSIE

Oh, yes, I’m—awfully fond of it.

[Growing more and more nervous as in turning the pages he nears the poem.

SENATOR

I am interested in you young people of Morton College.

FUSSIE
That’s so good of you.
SENATOR
What is your favorite study?
FUSSIE
Well— (An inspiration.) I like all of them.
SENATOR

Morton College is coming on very fast, I understand.

FUSSIE

Oh, yes, it’s getting more and more of the right people. It used to be a little jay, you know. Of course, the Fejevarys give it class. Mrs. Fejevary—isn’t she wonderful?

SENATOR

I haven’t seen her yet. Waiting here now to meet her.

FUSSIE

(Worried by this.) Oh, I must—must be going. Shall I put the book back? (Holding out her hand.)

SENATOR

No, I’ll just look it over a bit. (Sits down.)

FUSSIE

(Unable to think of any way of getting it.) This is where it belongs.

SENATOR

Thank you.

[Reluctantly she goes out. Senator Lewis pursues Matthew Arnold with the conscious air of a half-literate man reading a “great book”. The Fejevarys come in.

FELIX
I found my wife, Senator Lewis.
AUNT ISABEL

(She is a woman of social distinction and charm.) How do you do, Senator Lewis? (They shake hands.)

SENATOR

It’s a great pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Fejevary.

AUNT ISABEL

Why don’t we carry Senator Lewis home for lunch?

SENATOR
Why, you’re very kind.
AUNT ISABEL

I’m sure there’s a great deal to talk about, so why not talk comfortably, and really get acquainted? And we want to tell you the whole story of Morton College—the good old American spirit behind it.

SENATOR

I am glad to find you an American, Mrs. Fejevary.

AUNT ISABEL

Oh, we are that. Morton College is one hundred percent American. Our boys—

[Her boy Horace rushes in.

HORACE

(Wildly.) Father! Will you go after Madeline? The police have got her!

FELIX
What!
AUNT ISABEL

(As he is getting his breath.) What absurd thing are you saying, Horace?

HORACE

Awful row down on the campus. The Hindus. I told them to keep their mouths shut about Abraham Lincoln. I told them the fact they were quoting him—

FELIX
Never mind what you told them! What happened?
HORACE

We started—to rustle them along a bit. Why, they had handbills (Holding one up as if presenting incriminating evidence—the Senator takes it from him.) telling America what to do about deportation! Not on this campus—I say. So we were—we were putting a stop to it. They resisted—particularly the fat one. The cop at the corner saw the row—came up. He took hold of Bakhshish, and when the dirty anarchist didn’t move along fast enough, he took hold of him—well, a bit rough, you might say, when up rushes Madeline and calls to the cop, “Let that boy alone!” Gee—I don’t know just what did happen—awful mix-up. Next thing I knew Madeline hauled off and pasted the policeman a fierce one with her tennis racket!

SENATOR
She struck the officer?
HORACE
I should say she did. Twice. The second time—
AUNT ISABEL

Horace. (Looking at her husband.) I—I can’t believe it.

HORACE

I could have squared it, even then, but for Madeline herself. I told the policeman that she didn’t understand—that I was her cousin, and apologized for her. And she called over at me, “Better apologize for yourself!” As if there was any sense to that—that she—she looked like a tiger. Honest, everybody was afraid of her. I kept right on trying to square it, told the cop she was the granddaughter of the man that founded the college—that you were her uncle—he would have gone off with just the Hindu, fixed this up later, but Madeline balled it up again—didn’t care who was her uncle—Gee! (He throws open the window.) There! You can see them, at the foot of the hill. A nice thing—member of our family led off to the police station!

FELIX
(To the Senator.) Will you excuse me?
AUNT ISABEL

(Trying to return to the manner of pleasant social things.) Senator Lewis will go on home with me, and you— (He is hurrying out.) come when you can. (To the Senator.) Madeline is such a high-spirited girl.

SENATOR

If she had no regard for the living, she might—on this day of all others—have considered her grandfather’s memory. (Raises his eyes to the picture of Silas Morton.)

HORACE

Gee! Wouldn’t you say so?

(CURTAIN)

ACT TWO

SCENE II

SCENE:  The same as Scene I, three hours later. Professor Holden is seated at the table, books before him. He is a man in the fifties. At the moment his care-worn face is lighted by that lift of the spirit which sometimes rewards the scholar who has imaginative feeling. Harry, a student clerk, comes hurrying in. Looks back.

HARRY

Here’s Professor Holden, Mr. Fejevary.

HOLDEN

Mr. Fejevary is looking for me?

HARRY

Yes.

[He goes back, a moment later Mr. Fejevary enters. He has his hat, gloves, stick; seems tired and disturbed.

HOLDEN

Was I mistaken? I thought our appointment was for five.

FELIX

Quite right. But things have changed, so I wondered if I might have a little talk with you now.

HOLDEN
To be sure. (Rising.) Shall we go downstairs?
FELIX

I don’t know. Nice and quiet up here. (To Harry, who is now passing through.) Harry, the library is closed now, is it?

HARRY
Yes, it’s locked.
FELIX
And there’s no one in here?
HARRY
No, I’ve been all through.
FELIX

There’s a committee downstairs. Oh, this is a terrible day. (Putting his things on the table.) We’d better stay up here. Harry, when my niece—when Miss Morton arrives—I want you to come and let me know. Ask her not to leave the building without seeing me.

HARRY
Yes, sir. (He goes out.)
FELIX

Well, (wearily) it’s been a day. Not the day I was looking for.

HOLDEN
No.
FELIX
You’re very serene up here.
HOLDEN

Yes, I wanted to be—serene for a little while.

FELIX

(Looking at the books.) Emerson. Whitman. (With a smile.) Have they anything new to say on economics?

HOLDEN

Perhaps not; but I wanted to forget economics for a time. I came up here by myself to try and celebrate the fortieth anniversary of the founding of Morton College. (Answering the other man’s look.) Yes, I confess I’ve been disappointed in the anniversary. As I left Memorial Hall after the exercises this morning, Emerson’s words came into my mind—

“Give me truth,
For I am tired of surfaces
And die of inanition.”

Well, then I went home— (Stops, troubled.)

FELIX

How is Mrs. Holden?

HOLDEN

Better, thank you, but—not strong.

FELIX

She needs the very best of care for a time, doesn’t she?

HOLDEN

Yes. (Silent a moment.) Then, this is something more than the fortieth anniversary, you know. It’s the first of the month.

FELIX
And illness hasn’t reduced the bills?
HOLDEN

(Shaking his head.) I didn’t want this day to go like that; so I came up here to try and touch what used to be here.

FELIX

But you speak despondently of us. And there’s been such a fine note of optimism in the exercises. (Speaks with the heartiness of one who would keep himself assured.)

HOLDEN

I didn’t seem to want a fine note of optimism. (With roughness.) I wanted—a gleam from reality.

FELIX

To me this is reality—the robust spirit created by all these young people.

HOLDEN

Do you think it is robust? (Hand affectionately on the book before him.) I’ve been reading Whitman.

FELIX

This day has to be itself. Certain things go—others come; life is change.

HOLDEN

Perhaps it’s myself I’m discouraged with. Do you remember the tenth anniversary of the founding of Morton College.

FELIX

The tenth? Oh yes, that was when this library was opened.

HOLDEN

I shall never forget your father, Mr. Fejevary, as he stood out there and said the few words which gave these books to the students. Not many books, but he seemed to baptize them in the very spirit from which books are born.

FELIX
He died the following year.
HOLDEN

One felt death near. But that didn’t seem the important thing. A student who had fought for liberty for mind. Of course his face would be sensitive. You must be very proud of your heritage.

FELIX

Yes. (A little testily.) Well, I have certainly worked for the college. I’m doing my best now to keep it a part of these times.

HOLDEN

(As if this has not reached him.) It was later that same afternoon I talked with Silas Morton. We stood at this window and looked out over the valley to the lower hill that was his home. He told me how from that hill he had for years looked up to this one, and why there had to be a college here. I never felt America as that old farmer made me feel it.

FELIX

(Drawn by this, then shifting in irritation because he is drawn.) I’m sorry to break in with practical things, but alas, I am a practical man—forced to be. I too have made a fight—though the fight to finance never appears an idealistic one. But I’m deep in that now, and I must have a little help; at least, I must not have—stumbling-blocks.

HOLDEN
Am I a stumbling-block?
FELIX

Candidly (with a smile) you are a little hard to finance. Here’s the situation. The time for being a little college has passed. We must take our place as one of the important colleges—I make bold to say one of the important universities—of the Middle West. But we have to enlarge before we can grow. (Answering Holden’s smile.) Yes, it is ironic, but that’s the way of it. It was a nice thing to open the anniversary with fifty thousand from the steel works—but fifty thousand dollars—nowadays—to an institution? (Waves the fifty thousand aside.) They’ll do more later, I think, when they see us coming into our own. Meanwhile, as you know, there’s this chance for an appropriation from the state. I find that the legislature, the members who count, are very friendly to Morton College. They like the spirit we have here. Well, now I come to you, and you are one of the big reasons for my wanting to put this over. Your salary makes me blush. It’s all wrong that a man like you should have these petty worries, particularly with Mrs. Holden so in need of the things a little money can do. Now this man Lewis is a reactionary. So, naturally, he doesn’t approve of you.

HOLDEN
So naturally I am to go.
FELIX
Go? Not at all. What have I just been saying?
HOLDEN
Be silent, then.
FELIX

Not that either—not—not really. But—be a little more discreet. (Seeing him harden.) This is what I want to put up to you. Why not give things a chance to mature in your own mind? Candidly, I don’t feel you know just what you do think; is it so awfully important to express—confusion?

HOLDEN

The only man who knows just what he thinks at the present moment is the man who hasn’t done any new thinking in the past ten years.

FELIX

(With a soothing gesture.) You and I needn’t quarrel about it. I understand you, but I find it a little hard to interpret you to a man like Lewis.

HOLDEN

Then why not let a man like Lewis go to thunder?

FELIX

And let the college go to thunder? I’m not willing to do that. I’ve made a good many sacrifices for this college. Given more money than I could afford to give; given time and thought that I could have used for personal gain.

HOLDEN
That’s true, I know.
FELIX

I don’t know just why I’ve done it. Sentiment, I suppose. I had a very strong feeling about my father, Professor Holden. And this friend Silas Morton. This college is the child of that friendship. Those are noble words in our manifesto:

“Morton College was born because there came to this valley a man who held his vision for mankind above his own advantage; and because that man found in this valley a man who wanted beauty for his fellowmen as he wanted no other thing.”

HOLDEN

(Taking it up.)

“Born of the fight for freedom and the aspiration to richer living, we believe that Morton College—rising as from the soil itself—may strengthen all those here and everywhere who fight for the life there is in freedom, and may, to the measure it can, loosen for America the beauty that breathes from knowledge.”

(Moved by the words he has spoken.) Do you know, I would rather do that—really do that—than—grow big.

FELIX

Yes. But you see, or rather, what you don’t see is, you have to look at the world in which you find yourself. The only way to stay alive is to grow big. It’s been hard, but I have tried to—carry on.

HOLDEN

And so have I tried to carry on. But it is very hard—carrying on a dream.

FELIX
Well, I’m trying to make it easier.
HOLDEN
Make it easier by destroying the dream?
FELIX
Not at all. What I want is scope for dreams.
HOLDEN

Are you sure we’d have the dreams after we’ve paid this price for the scope?

FELIX

Now let’s not get rhetorical with one another.

HOLDEN

Mr. Fejevary, you have got to let me be as honest with you as you say you are being with me. You have got to let me say what I feel.

FELIX

Certainly. That’s why I wanted this talk with you.

HOLDEN

You say you have made sacrifices for Morton College. So have I.

FELIX
How well I know that.
HOLDEN

You don’t know all of it. I’m not sure you understand any of it.

FELIX
(Charmingly.) Oh, I think you’re hard on me.
HOLDEN

I spoke of the tenth anniversary. I was a young man then, just home from Athens. (Pulled back into an old feeling.) I don’t know why I felt I had to go to Greece. I knew then that I was going to teach something within sociology, and I didn’t want anything I felt about beauty to be left out of what I formulated about society. The Greeks—

FELIX

(As Holden has paused before what he sees.) I remember you told me the Greeks were the passion of your student days.

HOLDEN

Not so much because they created beauty, but because they were able to let beauty flow into their lives—to create themselves in beauty. So as a romantic young man, (smiles) it seemed if I could go where they had been—what I had felt might take form. Anyway, I had a wonderful time there. Oh, what wouldn’t I give to have again that feeling of life’s infinite possibilities!

FELIX
(Nodding.) A youthful feeling.
HOLDEN

(Softly.) I like youth. Well, I was just back, visiting my sister here, at the time of the tenth anniversary. I had a chance then to go to Harvard as instructor. A good chance, for I would have been under a man who liked me. But that afternoon I heard your father speak about books. I talked with Silas Morton. I found myself telling him about Greece. No one had ever felt it as he felt it. It seemed to become of the very bone of him.

FELIX
(Affectionately.) I know how he used to do.
HOLDEN

He put his hands on my shoulders. He said, “Young man, don’t go away. We need you here. Give us this great thing you’ve got!” And so I stayed, for I felt that here was soil in which I could grow, and that one’s whole life was not too much to give to a place with roots like that. (A little bitterly.) Forgive me if this seems rhetoric.

FELIX

(A gesture of protest. Silent a moment.) You make it—hard for me. (With exasperation.) Don’t you think I’d like to indulge myself in an exalted mood? And why don’t I? I can’t afford it—not now. Won’t you have a little patience? And faith—faith that the thing we want will be there for us after we’ve worked our way through the woods. We are in the woods now. It’s going to take our combined brains to get us out. I don’t mean just Morton College.

HOLDEN

No—America. As to getting out, I think you are all wrong.

FELIX

That’s one of your sweeping statements, Holden. Nobody’s all wrong. Even you aren’t.

HOLDEN

And in what ways am I wrong—from the standpoint of your Senator Lewis?

FELIX

He’s not my Senator Lewis, he’s the state’s, and we have to take him as he is. Why, he objects, of course, to your radical activities. He spoke of your defense of conscientious objectors.

HOLDEN

(Slowly.) I think a man who is willing to go to prison for what he believes has stuff in him no college needs turn its back on.

FELIX
Well, he doesn’t agree with you—nor do I.
HOLDEN

(Still quietly.) And I think a society which permits things to go on which I can prove go on in our federal prisons had better stop and take a fresh look at itself. To stand for that and then talk of democracy and idealism—oh, it shows no mentality, for one thing.

FELIX

(Easily.) I presume the prisons do need a cleaning up. As to Fred Jordan, you can’t expect me to share your admiration. Our own Fred—my nephew Fred Morton, went to France and gave his life. There’s some little courage, Holden, in doing that.

HOLDEN

I’m not trying to belittle it. But he had the whole spirit of his age with him—fortunate boy. The man who stands outside the idealism of this time—

FELIX
Takes a good deal upon himself, I should say.
HOLDEN

There isn’t any other such loneliness. You know in your heart it’s a noble courage.

FELIX

It lacks—humility. (Holden laughs scoffingly.) And I think you lack it. I’m asking you to cooperate with me for the good of Morton College.

HOLDEN

Why not do it the other way? You say enlarge that we may grow. That’s false. It isn’t of the nature of growth. Why not do it the way of Silas Morton and Walt Whitman—each man being his purest and intensest self. I was full of this fervor when you came in. I’m more and more disappointed in our students. They’re empty—flippant. No sensitive moment opens them to beauty. No exaltation makes them—what they hadn’t known they were. I concluded some of the fault must be mine. The only students I reach are the Hindus. Perhaps Madeline Morton—I don’t quite make her out. I too must have gone into a dead stratum. But I can get back. Here alone this afternoon— (softly) I was back.

FELIX
I think we’ll have to let the Hindus go.
HOLDEN
(Astonished.) Go? Our best students?
FELIX

This college is for Americans. I’m not going to have foreign revolutionists come here and block the things I’ve spent my life working for.

HOLDEN
I don’t seem to know what you mean at all.
FELIX

Why, that disgraceful performance this morning. I can settle Madeline all right. (Looking at his watch.) She should be here by now. But I’m convinced our case before the legislature will be stronger with the Hindus out of here.

HOLDEN

Well, I seem to have missed something—disgraceful performance—the Hindus, Madeline— (Stops, bewildered.)

FELIX

You mean to say you don’t know about the disturbance out here?

HOLDEN

I went right home after the address. Then came up here alone.

FELIX

Upon my word, you do lead a serene life. While you’ve been sitting here in contemplation I’ve been to the police court—trying to get my niece out of jail. That’s what comes of having radicals around.

HOLDEN
What happened?
FELIX

One of our beloved Hindus made himself obnoxious on the campus. Giving out handbills about freedom for India—howling over deportation. Our American boys wouldn’t stand for it. A policeman saw the fuss—came up and started to put the Hindu in his place. Then Madeline rushes in, and it ended in her pounding the policeman with her tennis racket.

HOLDEN
Madeline Morton did that!
FELIX
(Sharply.) You seem pleased.
HOLDEN
I am—interested.
FELIX

Well, I’m not interested. I’m disgusted. My niece mixing up in a free-for-all fight and getting taken to the police station! It’s the first disgrace we’ve ever had in our family.

HOLDEN

(As one who has been given courage.) Wasn’t there another disgrace?

FELIX
What do you mean?
HOLDEN

When your father fought his government and was banished from his country.

FELIX
That was not a disgrace!
HOLDEN
(As if in surprise.) Wasn’t it?
FELIX

See here, Holden, you can’t talk to me like that.

HOLDEN

I don’t admit you can talk to me as you please and that I can’t talk to you. I’m a professor—not a servant.

FELIX

Yes, and you’re a damned difficult professor. I certainly have tried to—

HOLDEN
(Smiling.) Handle me?
FELIX

I ask you this. Do you know any other institution where you could sit and talk with the executive head as you have here with me?

HOLDEN
I don’t know. Perhaps not.
FELIX

Then be reasonable. No one is entirely free. That’s naive. It’s rather egotistical to want to be. We’re held by our relations to others—by our obligations to the (vaguely) —the ultimate thing. Come now—you admit certain dissatisfactions with yourself, so—why not go with intensity into just the things you teach—and not touch quite so many other things?

HOLDEN

I couldn’t teach anything if I didn’t feel free to go wherever that thing took me. Thirty years ago I was asked to come to this college precisely because my science was not in isolation, because of my vivid feeling of us as a moment in a long sweep, because of my faith in the greater beauty our further living may unfold.

[Harry enters.

HARRY

Excuse me. Miss Morton is here now, Mr. Fejevary.

FELIX

(Frowns, hesitates.) Ask her to come up here in five minutes (After Harry has gone.) I think we’ve thrown a scare into Madeline. I thought as long as she’d been taken to jail it would be no worse for us to have her stay there awhile. She’s been held since one o’clock. That ought to teach her reason.

HOLDEN
Is there a case against her?
FELIX

No, I got it fixed up. Explained that it was just college girl foolishness—wouldn’t happen again. One reason I wanted this talk with you first, if I do have any trouble with Madeline, I want you to help me.

HOLDEN
Oh, I can’t do that.
FELIX

You aren’t running out and clubbing the police. Tell her she’ll have to think things over and express herself with a little more dignity.

HOLDEN

I ask to be excused from being present while you talk with her.

FELIX

But why not stay in the library—in case I should need you. Just take your books over to the east alcove and go on with what you were doing when I came in.

HOLDEN

(With a faint smile.) I fear I can hardly do that. As to Madeline—

FELIX

You don’t want to see the girl destroy herself, do you? I confess I’ve always worried about Madeline. If my sister had lived—But Madeline’s mother died, you know, when she was a baby. Her father—well, you and I talked that over just the other day—there’s no getting to him. Fred never worried me a bit—just the fine normal boy. But Madeline— (With an effort throwing it off.) Oh, it’ll be all right, I haven’t a doubt. And it’ll be all right between you and me, won’t it? Caution over a hard strip of the road, then—bigger things ahead.

HOLDEN

(Slowly, knowing what it may mean.) I shall continue to do all I can toward getting Fred Jordan out of prison. It’s a disgrace to America that two years after the war closes he should be kept there—much of the time in solitary confinement—because he couldn’t believe in war. It’s small—vengeful—it’s the Russia of the Czars. I shall do what is in my power to fight the deportation of Gurkul Singh. And certainly I shall leave no stone unturned if you persist in your amazing idea of dismissing the other Hindus from college. For what—I ask you? Dismissed—for what? Because they love liberty enough to give their lives to it! The day you dismiss them, burn our high-sounding manifesto, Mr. Fejevary, and admit that Morton College now sells her soul to the—committee on appropriations!

FELIX

Well, you force me to be as specific as you are. If you do these things, I can no longer fight for you.

HOLDEN
Very well then, I go.
FELIX
Go where?
HOLDEN
I don’t know—at the moment.
FELIX

I fear you’ll find it harder than you know. Meanwhile, what of your family?

HOLDEN
We will have to manage some way.
FELIX

It is not easy for a woman whose health—in fact, whose life—is a matter of the best of care to “manage some way”. (With real feeling.) What is an intellectual position alongside that reality? You’d like, of course, to be just what you want to be—but isn’t there something selfish in that satisfaction? I’m talking as a friend now—you must know that. You and I have a good many ties, Holden. I don’t believe you know how much Mrs. Fejevary thinks of Mrs. Holden.

HOLDEN
She has been very, very good to her.
FELIX

And will be. She cares for her. And our children have been growing up together—I love to watch it. Isn’t that the reality? Doing for them as best we can, making sacrifices of—of every kind. Don’t let some tenuous, remote thing destroy this flesh and blood thing.

HOLDEN

(As one fighting to keep his head above water.) Honesty is not a tenuous, remote thing.

FELIX

There’s a kind of honesty in selfishness. We can’t always have it. Oh, I used to—go through things. But I’ve struck a pace—one does—and goes ahead.

HOLDEN

Forgive me, but I don’t think you’ve had certain temptations to—selfishness.

FELIX

How do you know what I’ve had? You have no way of knowing what’s in me—what other thing I might have been? You know my heritage; you think that’s left nothing? But I find myself here in America. I love those dependent on me. My wife—who’s used to a certain manner of living; my children—who are to become part of the America of their time. I’ve never said this to another human being—I’ve never looked at myself—but it’s pretty arrogant to think you’re the only man who has made a sacrifice to fit himself into the age in which he lives. I hear Madeline. This hasn’t left me in very good form for talking with her. Please don’t go away. Just—

[Madeline comes in, right. She has her tennis racket. Nods to the two men. Holden goes out, left.

MADELINE

(Looking after Holden—feeling something going on. Then turning to her uncle, who is still looking after Holden.) You wanted to speak to me, Uncle Felix?

FELIX
Of course I want to speak to you.
MADELINE

I feel just awfully sorry about—banging up my racket like this. The second time it came down on his club. Why do they carry those things? Perfectly fantastic, I’ll say, going around with a club. But as long as you were asking me what I wanted for my birthday—

FELIX

Madeline, I am not here to discuss your birthday.

MADELINE
I’m sorry— (smiles) to hear that.
FELIX
You don’t seem much chastened.
MADELINE

Chastened? Was that the idea? Well, if you think that keeping a person where she doesn’t want to be chastens her! I never felt less “chastened” than when I walked out of that slimy spot and looked across the street at your nice bank. I should think you’d hate to— (With friendly concern.) Why, Uncle Felix, you look tired out.

FELIX

I am tired out, Madeline. I’ve had a nerve-racking day.

MADELINE

Isn’t that too bad? Those speeches were so boresome, and that old senator person—wasn’t he a stuff? But can’t you go home now and let auntie give you tea and—

FELIX

(Sharply.) Madeline, have you no intelligence? Hasn’t it occurred to you that your performance would worry me a little?

MADELINE

I suppose it was a nuisance. And on such a busy day. (Changing.) But if you’re going to worry, Horace is the one you should worry about. (Answering his look.) Why, he got it all up. He made me ashamed!

FELIX

And you’re not at all ashamed of what you have done?

MADELINE
Ashamed? Why—no.
FELIX

Then you’d better be! A girl who rushes in and assaults an officer!

MADELINE

(Earnestly explaining it.) But, Uncle Felix, I had to stop him. No one else did.

FELIX

Madeline, I don’t know whether you’re trying to be naive—

MADELINE

(Angrily.) Well, I’m not. I like that! I think I’ll go home.

FELIX

I think you will not! It’s stupid of you not to know this is serious. You could be dismissed from school for what you did.

MADELINE

Well, I’m good and ready to be dismissed from any school that would dismiss for that!

FELIX

(In a new manner—quietly, from feeling.) Madeline, have you no love for this place?

MADELINE

(Doggedly, after thinking.) Yes, I have. (She sits down.) And I don’t know why I have.

FELIX

Certainly it’s not strange. If ever a girl had a background, Morton College is Madeline Fejevary Morton’s background. (He too now seated by the table.) Do you remember your Grandfather Morton?

MADELINE

Not very well. (A quality which seems sullenness.) I couldn’t bear to look at him. He shook so.

FELIX
(Turning away, real pain.) Oh—how cruel!
MADELINE
(Surprised, gently.) Cruel? Me—cruel?
FELIX

Not just you. The way it passes— (To himself.) so fast it passes.

MADELINE

I’m sorry. (Troubled.) You see, he was too old then—

FELIX

(His hand up to stop her.) I wish I could bring him back for a moment, so you could see what he was before he (bitterly) shook so. He was a powerful man, who was as real as the earth. He was strangely of the earth, as if something went from it to him. (Looking at her intently.) Queer you should be the one to have no sentiment about him, for you and he—sometimes when I’m with you it’s as if—he were near. He had no personal ambition, Madeline. He was ambitious for the earth and its people. I wonder if you can realize what it meant to my father—in a strange land, where he might so easily have been misunderstood, pushed down, to find a friend like that? It wasn’t so much the material things—though Uncle Silas was always making them right—and as if—oh, hardly conscious what he was doing—so little it mattered. It was the way he got father, and by that very valuing kept alive what was there to value. Why, he literally laid this country at my father’s feet—as if that was what this country was for, as if it made up for the hard early things—for the wrong things.

MADELINE

He must really have been a pretty nice old party. No doubt I would have hit it off with him all right. I don’t seem to hit it off with the—speeches about him. Somehow I want to say, “Oh, give us a rest.”

FELIX

(Offended.) And that, I presume, is what you want to say to me.

MADELINE

No, no, I didn’t mean you, Uncle. Though (hesitatingly) I was wondering how you could think you were talking on your side.

FELIX
What do you mean—my side?
MADELINE

Oh, I don’t—exactly. That’s nice about him being—of the earth. Sometimes when I’m out for a tramp—way off by myself—yes, I know. And I wonder if that doesn’t explain his feeling about the Indians. Father told me how grandfather took it to heart about the Indians.

FELIX

He felt it as you’d feel it if it were your brother. So he must give his choicest land to the thing we might become. “Then maybe I can lie under the same sod with the red boys and not be ashamed.”

[Madeline nods, appreciatively.

MADELINE

Yes, that’s really—all right.

FELIX

(Irritated by what seems charily stated approval.) “All right!” Well, I am not willing to let this man’s name pass from our time. And it seems rather bitter that Silas Morton’s granddaughter should be the one to stand in my way.

MADELINE

Why, Uncle Felix, I’m not standing in your way. Of course I wouldn’t do that. I— (rather bashfully) I love the Hill. I was thinking about it in jail. I got fuddled on direction in there, so I asked the woman who hung around which way was College Hill. “Right through there”, she said. A blank wall. I sat and looked through that wall—long time. (She looks front, again looking through that blank wall.) It was all—kind of funny. Then later she came and told me you were out there, and I thought it was corking of you to come and tell them they couldn’t put that over on College Hill. And I know Bakhshish will appreciate it too. I wonder where he went?

FELIX

Went? I fancy he won’t go much of anywhere tonight.

MADELINE
What do you mean?
FELIX
Why, he’s held for this hearing, of course.
MADELINE

You mean—you came and got just me—and left him there?

FELIX
Certainly.
MADELINE
(Rising.) Then I’ll have to go and get him!
FELIX

Madeline, don’t be so absurd. You don’t get people out of jail by stopping in and calling for them.

MADELINE
But you got me.
FELIX

Because of years of influence. At that, it wasn’t simple. Things of this nature are pretty serious nowadays. It was only your ignorance got you out.

MADELINE

I do seem ignorant. While you were fixing it up for me, why didn’t you arrange for him too?

FELIX

Because I am not in the business of getting foreign revolutionists out of jail.

MADELINE
But he didn’t do as much as I did.
FELIX

It isn’t what he did. It’s what he is. We don’t want him here.

MADELINE
Well, I guess I’m not for that!
FELIX

May I ask why you have appointed yourself guardian of these strangers?

MADELINE
Perhaps because they are strangers.
FELIX
Well, they’re the wrong kind of strangers.
MADELINE

Is it true that the Hindu who was here last year is to be deported? Is America going to turn him over to the government he fought?

FELIX

I have an idea they will all be deported. I’m not so sorry this thing happened. It will get them into the courts—and I don’t think they have money to fight.

MADELINE

(Giving it clean and straight.) Gee, I think that’s rotten!

FELIX

Quite likely your inelegance will not affect it one way or the other.

MADELINE

(She has taken her seat again, is thinking it out.) I’m twenty-one next Tuesday. Isn’t it on my twenty-first birthday I get that money Grandfather Morton left me?

FELIX
What are you driving at?
MADELINE
(Simply.) They can have my money.
FELIX
Are you crazy? What are these people to you?
MADELINE

They’re people from the other side of the world who came here believing in us, drawn from the far side of the world by things we say about ourselves. Well, I’m going to pretend—just for fun—that the things we say about ourselves are true. So if you’ll—arrange so I can get it, Uncle Felix, as soon as it’s mine.

FELIX

And this is what you say to me at the close of my years of trusteeship! If you could know how I’ve nursed that little legacy along—until now it is— (Breaking off in anger.) I shall not permit you to destroy yourself!

MADELINE

(Quietly.) I don’t see how you can keep me from “destroying myself”.

FELIX

(Looking at her, seeing that this may be true. In genuine amazement, and hurt.) Why—but it’s incredible. Have I—has my house—been nothing to you all these years?

MADELINE

I’ve had my best times at your house. Things wouldn’t have been—very gay for me—without you all—though Horace gets my goat!

FELIX
And does your Aunt Isabel—“get your goat”?
MADELINE

I love auntie. (Rather resentfully.) You know that. What has that got to do with it?

FELIX

So you are going to use Silas Morton’s money to knife his college.

MADELINE
Oh, Uncle Felix, that’s silly.
FELIX

It’s a long way from silly. You know a little about what I’m trying to do—this appropriation that would assure our future. If Silas Morton’s granddaughter casts in her lot with revolutionists, Morton College will get no help from the state. Do you know enough about what you are doing to assume this responsibility?

MADELINE

I am not casting “in my lot with revolutionists”. If it’s true, as you say, that you have to have money in order to get justice—

FELIX
I didn’t say it!
MADELINE

Why, you did, Uncle Felix. You said so. And if it’s true that these strangers in our country are going to be abused because they’re poor,—what else could I do with my money and not feel like a skunk?

FELIX

(Trying a different tack, laughing.) Oh, you’re a romantic girl, Madeline—skunk and all. Rather nice, at that. But the thing is perfectly fantastic, from every standpoint. You speak as if you had millions. And if you did, it wouldn’t matter, not really. You are going against the spirit of this country; with or without money, that can’t be done. Take a man like Professor Holden. He’s radical in his sympathies—but does he run out and club the police?

MADELINE

(In a smoldering way.) I thought America was a democracy.

FELIX

We have just fought a great war for democracy.

MADELINE
Well, is that any reason for not having it?
FELIX

I should think you would have a little emotion about the war—about America—when you consider where your brother is.

MADELINE

Fred had—all kinds of reasons for going to France. He wanted a trip. (Answering his exclamation.) Why, he said so. Heavens, Fred didn’t make speeches about himself. Wanted to see Paris—poor kid, he never did see Paris. Wanted to be with a lot of fellows—knock the Kaiser’s block off—end war, get a French girl. It was all mixed up—the way things are. But Fred was a pretty decent sort. I’ll say so. He had such kind, honest eyes. (This has somehow said itself; her own eyes close and what her shut eyes see makes feeling hot.) One thing I do know! Fred never went over the top and out to back up the argument you’re making now!

FELIX

(Stiffly.) Very well, I will discontinue the argument I’m making now. I’ve been trying to save you from—pretty serious things. The regret of having stood in the way of Morton College— (His voice falling.) the horror of having driven your father insane.

MADELINE
What?
FELIX

One more thing would do it. Just the other day I was talking with Professor Holden about your father. His idea of him relates back to the pioneer life—another price paid for this country. The lives back of him were too hard. Your great-grandmother Morton—the first white woman in this region—she dared too much, was too lonely, feared and bore too much. They did it, for the task gave them a courage for the task. But it—left a scar.

MADELINE

And father is that— (can hardly say it) —scar. (Fighting the idea.) But Grandfather Morton was not like that.

FELIX

No; he had the vision of the future; he was robust with feeling for others. (Gently.) But Holden feels your father is the—dwarfed pioneer child. The way he concentrates on corn—excludes all else—as if unable to free himself from their old battle with the earth.

MADELINE

(Almost crying.) I think it’s pretty terrible to—wish all that on poor father.

FELIX

Well, my dear child, it’s life has “wished it on him”. It’s just one other way of paying the price for his country. We needn’t get it for nothing. I feel that all our chivalry should go to your father in his—heritage of loneliness.

MADELINE

Father couldn’t always have been—dwarfed. Mother wouldn’t have cared for him if he had always been—like that.

FELIX

No, if he could have had love to live in. But no endurance for losing it. Too much had been endured just before life got to him.

MADELINE

Do you know, Uncle Felix—I’m afraid that’s true? (He nods.) Sometimes when I’m with father I feel those things near—the—the too much—the too hard,—feel them as you’d feel the cold. And now that it’s different—easier—he can’t come into the world that’s been earned. Oh, I wish I could help him!

[As they sit there together, now for the first time really together, there is a shrill shout of derision from outside.

MADELINE

What’s that? (A whistled call.) Horace! That’s Horace’s call. That’s for his gang. Are they going to start something now that will get Atma in jail?

FELIX

More likely he’s trying to start something. (They are both listening intently.) I don’t think our boys will stand much more.

[A scoffing whoop. Madeline springs to the window; he reaches it first and holds it.

FELIX

This window stays closed.

[She starts to go away, he takes hold of her.

MADELINE
You think you can keep me in here?
FELIX

Listen, Madeline—plain, straight truth. If you go out there and get in trouble a second time, I can’t make it right for you.

MADELINE
You needn’t!
FELIX

You don’t know what it means. These things are not child’s play—not today. You could get twenty years in prison for things you’ll say if you rush out there now. (She laughs.) You laugh because you’re ignorant. Do you know that in America today there are women in our prisons for saying no more than you’ve said here to me!

MADELINE
Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself!
FELIX
I? Ashamed of myself?
MADELINE

Yes! Aren’t you an American? (A whistle.) Isn’t that a policeman’s whistle? Are they coming back? Are they hanging around here to— (Pulling away from her uncle as he turns to look, she jumps up in the deep sill and throws open the window. Calling down.) Here—Officer—You—Let that boy alone!

FELIX

(Going left, calling sharply.) Holden. Professor Holden—here—quick!

VOICE
(Coming up from below, outside.) Who says so?
MADELINE
I say so!
VOICE
And who are you talking for?
MADELINE
I am talking for Morton College!
FELIX

(Returning—followed, reluctantly, by Holden.) Indeed you are not. Close that window or you’ll be expelled from Morton College.

[Sounds of a growing crowd outside.

VOICE
Didn’t I see you at the station?
MADELINE

Sure you saw me at the station. And you’ll see me there again, if you come bullying around here. You’re not what this place is for! (Her uncle comes up behind, right, and tries to close the window—she holds it out.) My grandfather gave this hill to Morton College—a place where anybody—from any land—can come and say what he believes to be true! Why, you poor simp—this is America! Beat it from here! Atma! Don’t let him take hold of you like that! He has no right to—Oh, let me down there!

[Springs down, would go off right, her uncle spreads out his arms to block that passage. She turns to go the other way.

FELIX

Holden! Bring her to her senses. Stand there. (Holden has not moved from the place he entered, left, and so blocks the doorway.) Don’t let her pass.

[Shouts of derision outside.

MADELINE

You think you can keep me in here—with that going on out there?

[Moves nearer Holden, stands there before him, taut, looking him straight in the eye. After a moment, slowly, as one compelled, he steps aside for her to pass. Sound of her running footsteps. The two men’s eyes meet. A door slams.

(CURTAIN)

ACT THREE

SCENE:  At the Morton place, the same room in which Silas Morton told his friend Felix Fejevary of his plan for the hill. The room has not altogether changed since that day in 1879. The table around which they dreamed for the race is in its old place. One of the old chairs is there, the other two are modern chairs. In a corner is the rocker in which Grandmother Morton sat. This is early afternoon, a week after the events of Act II.

Madeline is sitting at the table, in her hand a torn, wrinkled piece of brown paper-peering at writing almost too fine to read. After a moment her hand goes out to a beautiful dish on the table—an old dish of colored Hungarian glass. She is about to take something from this, but instead lets her hand rest an instant on the dish itself Then turns and through the open door looks out at the hill, sitting where her Grandfather Morton sat when he looked out at the hill.

Her father, Ira Morton, appears outside, walking past the window, left. He enters, carrying a grain sack, partly filled. He seems hardly aware of Madeline, but taking a chair near the door, turned from her, opens the sack and takes out a couple of ears of corn. As he is bent over them, examining in a shrewd, greedy way, Madeline looks at that lean, tormented, rather desperate profile, the look of one confirming a thing she fears. Then takes up her piece of paper.

MADELINE

Do you remember Fred Jordan, father? Friend of our Fred—and of mine?

IRA

(Not wanting to take his mind from the corn.) No. I don’t remember him. (His voice has that timbre of one not related to others.)

MADELINE
He’s in prison now.
IRA

Well, I can’t help that. (After taking out another ear.) This is the best corn I ever had. (He says it gloatingly to himself.)

MADELINE

He got this letter out to me—written on this scrap of paper. They don’t give him paper. (Peering.) Written so fine I can hardly read it. He’s in what they call “the hold”, father—a punishment cell. (With difficulty reading it.) It’s two and a half feet at one end, three feet at the other, and six feet long. He’d been there ten days when he wrote this. He gets two slices of bread a day; he gets water; that’s all he gets. This because he bawled the deputy warden out for chaining another prisoner up by the wrists.

IRA

Well, he’d better a-minded his own business. And you better mind yours. I’ve got no money to spend in the courts. (With excitement.) I’ll not mortgage this farm! It’s been clear since the day my father’s father got it from the government—and it stays clear—till I’m gone. It grows the best corn in the state—best corn in the Mississippi Valley. Not for anything—you hear me?—would I mortgage this farm my father handed down to me.

MADELINE
(Hurt.) Well, father, I’m not asking you to.
IRA

Then go and see your Uncle Felix. Make it up with him. He’ll help you—if you say you’re sorry.

MADELINE
I’ll not go to Uncle Felix.
IRA

Who will you go to then? (Pause.) Who will help you then? (Again he waits.) You come before this United States Commissioner with no one behind you, he’ll hold you for the grand jury. Judge Watkins told Felix there’s not a doubt of it. You know what that means? It means you’re on your way to a cell. Nice thing for a Morton, people who’ve had their own land since we got it from the Indians. What’s the matter with your uncle? Ain’t he always been good to you? I’d like to know what things would ’a’ been for you without Felix and Isabel and all their friends. You want to think a little. You like good times too well to throw all that away.

MADELINE

I do like good times. So does Fred Jordan like good times. (Smooths the wrinkled paper.) I don’t know anybody—unless it is myself—loves to be out, as he does. (She tries to look out, but cannot; sits very still, seeing what it is pain to see. Rises, goes to that corner closet, the same one from which Silas Morton took the deed to the hill. She gets a yard stick, looks in a box and finds a piece of chalk. On the floor she marks off Fred Jordan’s cell. Slowly, at the end left unchalked, as for a door, she goes in. Her hand goes up as against a wall; looks at her other hand, sees it is out too far, brings it in, giving herself the width of the cell. Walks its length, halts, looks up.) And one window—too high up to see out.

[In the moment she stands there, she is in that cell; she is all the people who are in those cells. Emil Johnson appears from outside; he is the young man brought up on a farm, a crudely Americanized Swede.

MADELINE

(Stepping out of the cell door, and around it.) Hello, Emil.

EMIL

How are you, Madeline? How do, Mr. Morton. (Ira barely nods and does not turn. In an excited manner he begins gathering up the corn he has taken from the sack. Emil turns back to Madeline.) Well, I’m just from the courthouse. Looks like you and I might take a ride together, Madeline. You come before the Commissioner at four.

IRA
What have you got to do with it?
MADELINE

Oh, Emil has a courthouse job now, father. He’s part of the law.

IRA

Well, he’s not going to take you to the law! Anybody else—not Emil Johnson!

MADELINE

(Astonished—and gently, to make up for his rudeness.) Why—father, why not Emil? Since I’m going, I think it’s nice to go in with someone I know—with a neighbor like Emil.

IRA

If this is what he lived for! If this is why—

[He twists the ear of corn until some of the kernels drop off. Madeline and Emil look at one another in bewilderment.

EMIL

It’s too bad anybody has to take Madeline in. I should think your uncle could fix it up. (Low.) And with your father taking it like this— (To help Ira.) That’s fine corn, Mr. Morton. My corn’s getting better all the time, but I’d like to get some of this for seed.

IRA

(Rising and turning on him.) You get my corn? I raise this corn for you? (Not to them—his mind now going where it is shut off from any other mind.) If I could make the wind stand still! I want to turn the wind around.

MADELINE

(Going to him.) Why—father. I don’t understand at all.

IRA

Don’t understand. Nobody understands. (A curse with a sob in it.) God damn the wind! (Sits down, his back to them.)

EMIL

(After a silence.) Well, I’ll go. (But he continues to look at Ira, who is holding the sack of com shut, as if someone may take it.) Too bad— (Stopped by a sign from Madeline, not to speak of it.) Well, I was saying, I have go on to Beard’s Crossing. I’ll stop for you on my way back. (Confidentially.) Couldn’t you telephone your uncle? He could do something. You don’t know what you’re going up against. You heard what the Hindus got, I suppose.

MADELINE
No. I haven’t seen anyone today.
EMIL

They’re held for the grand jury. They’re locked up now. No bail for them. I’ve got the inside dope about them. They’re going to get what this country can hand ’em; then after we’ve given them a nice little taste of prison life in America, they’re going to be sent back home—to see what India can treat them to.

MADELINE
Why are you so pleased about this, Emil?
EMIL

Pleased? It’s nothin’ to me—I’m just telling you. Guess you don’t know much about the Espionage Act or you’d go and make a little friendly call on your uncle. When your case comes to trial—and Judge Lenon may be on the bench— (Whistles.) He’s one fiend for Americanism. But if your uncle was to tell the right parties that you’re just a girl, and didn’t realize what you were saying—

MADELINE

I did realize what I was saying, and every word you’ve just said makes me know I meant what I said. I said if this was what our country has come to, then I’m not for our country. I said that—and a-plenty more—and I’ll say it again!

EMIL
Well—gee, you don’t know what it means.
MADELINE

I do know what it means, but it means not being a coward.

EMIL

Oh, well—Lord, you can’t say everything you think. If everybody did that, things’d be worse off than they are now.

MADELINE

Once in a while you have to say what you think—or hate yourself.

EMIL
(With a grin.) Then hate yourself.
MADELINE

(Smiling too.) No thank you; it spoils my fun.

EMIL

Well, look-a-here, Madeline, aren’t you spoiling your fun now? You’re a girl who likes to be out. Ain’t I seen you from our place, with this one and that one, sometimes all by yourself, strikin’ out over the country as if you was crazy about it? How’d you like to be where you couldn’t even see out?

MADELINE

(A step nearer the cell.) There oughtn’t to be such places.

EMIL

Oh, well—Jesus, if you’re going to talk about that—! You can’t change the way things are.

MADELINE
(Quietly.) Why can’t I?
EMIL
Well, say, who do you think you are?
MADELINE

I think I’m an American. And for that reason I think I have something to say about America.

EMIL
Huh! America’ll lock you up for your pains.
MADELINE

All right. If it’s come to that, maybe I’d rather be a locked-up American than a free American.

EMIL

I don’t think you’d like the place, Madeline. There’s not much tennis played there. Jesus—what’s Hindus?

MADELINE

You aren’t really asking Jesus, are you, Emil? (Smiles.) You mightn’t like his answer.

EMIL

(From the door.) Take a tip. Telephone your uncle. (He goes.)

IRA

(Not looking at her.) There might be a fine, and they’d come down on me and take my land.

MADELINE

Oh, no, father, I think not. Anyway, I have a little money of my own. Grandfather Morton left me something. Have you forgotten that?

IRA

No. No, I know he left you something. (The words seem to bother him.) I know he left you something.

MADELINE

I get it today. (Wistfully.) This is my birthday, father. I’m twenty-one.

IRA

Your birthday? Twenty-one? (In pain.) Was that twenty-one years ago? (It is not to his daughter this has turned him.)

MADELINE

It’s the first birthday I can remember that I haven’t had a party.

IRA

It was your Aunt Isabel gave you your parties.

MADELINE
Yes.
IRA
Well, you see now.
MADELINE

(Stoutly.) Oh, well, I don’t need a party. I’m grown up now.

[She reaches out for the old Hungarian dish on the table; holding it, she looks to her father, whose back is still turned. Her face tender, she is about to speak when he speaks.

IRA

Grown up now—and going off and leaving me alone. You too—the last one. And—what for? (Turning, looking around the room as for those long gone.) There used to be so many in this house. My grandmother. She sat there. (Pointing to the place near the open door.) Fine days like this—in that chair (Points to the rocker.) she’d sit there—tell me stories of the Indians. Father. It wasn’t ever lonely where father was. Then Madeline Fejevary—my Madeline came to this house. Lived with me in this house. Then one day she—walked out of this house. Through that door—through the field—out of this house. (Bitter silence.) Then Fred—out of this house. Now you. With Emil Johnson! (Insanely, and almost with relief at leaving things more sane.) Don’t let him touch my corn. If he touches one kernel of this corn! (With the suspicion of the tormented mind.) I wonder where he went? How do I know he went where he said he was going? (Getting up.) I dunno as that south bin’s locked.

MADELINE

Oh—father!

IRA

I’ll find out. How do I know what he’s doing?

[He goes out, turning left. Madeline goes to the window and looks after him. A moment later, hearing someone at the door, she turns and finds her Aunt Isabel, who has appeared from right. Goes swiftly to her, hands out.

MADELINE

Oh, auntie—I’m glad you came! It’s my birthday, and I’m—lonely.

AUNT ISABEL

You dear little girl! (Again giving her a hug, which Madeline returns, lovingly.) Don’t I know it’s your birthday? Don’t think that day will ever get by while your Aunt Isabel’s around. Just see what’s here for your birthday. (Hands her the package she is carrying.)

MADELINE

(With a gasp—suspecting from its shape.) Oh! (Her face aglow.) Why—is it?

AUNT ISABEL

(Laughing affectionately.) Foolish child, open it and see.

[Madeline loosens the paper and pulls out a tennis racket.

MADELINE

(Excited, and moved.) Oh, aunt Isabel! that was dear of you. I shouldn’t have thought you’d—quite do that.

AUNT ISABEL

I couldn’t imagine Madeline without a racket. (Gathering up the paper, lightly reproachful.) But be a little careful of it, Madeline. It’s meant for tennis balls. (They laugh together.)

MADELINE

(Making a return with it.) It’s a peach. (Changing.) Wonder where I’ll play now.

AUNT ISABEL

Why, you’ll play on the courts at Morton College. Who has a better right?

MADELINE

Oh, I don’t know. It’s pretty much balled up, isn’t it?

AUNT ISABEL

Yes; we’ll have to get it straightened out. (Gently.) It was really dreadful of you, Madeline, to rush out a second time. It isn’t as if they were people who were anything to you.

MADELINE
But, auntie, they are something to me.
AUNT ISABEL
Oh, dear, that’s what Horace said.
MADELINE
What’s what Horace said?
AUNT ISABEL

That you must have a case {crush} on one of them.

MADELINE

That’s what Horace would say. That makes me sore!

AUNT ISABEL

I’m sorry I spoke of it. Horace is absurd in some ways.

MADELINE
He’s a—
AUNT ISABEL

(Stopping it with her hand.) No, he isn’t. He’s a headstrong boy, but a very loving one. He’s dear with me, Madeline.

MADELINE

Yes. You are good to each other. (Her eyes are drawn to the cell.)

AUNT ISABEL

Of course we are. We’d be a pretty poor sort if we weren’t. And these are days when we have to stand together—all of us who are the same kind of people must stand together because the thing that makes us the same kind of people is threatened.

MADELINE

Don’t you think we’re rather threatening it ourselves, auntie?

AUNT ISABEL
Why, no, we’re fighting for it.
MADELINE
Fighting for what?
AUNT ISABEL
For Americanism; for—democracy.
MADELINE
Horace is fighting for it?
AUNT ISABEL

Well, Horace does go at it as if it were a football game, but his heart’s in the right place.

MADELINE

Somehow, I don’t seem to see my heart in that place.

AUNT ISABEL
In what place?
MADELINE
Where Horace’s heart is.
AUNT ISABEL

It’s too bad you and Horace quarrel. But you and I don’t quarrel, Madeline.

MADELINE

(Again drawn to the cell.) No. You and I don’t quarrel. (She is troubled.)

AUNT ISABEL

Funny child! Do you want us to?

[Madeline turns, laughing a little, takes the dish from the table, holds it out to her aunt.

MADELINE
Have some fudge, auntie.
AUNT ISABEL

(Taking the dish.) Do you use them?—the old Hungarian dishes? (Laughingly.) I’m not allowed to—your uncle is so choice of the few pieces we have. And here are you with fudge in one of them.

MADELINE

I made the fudge because—oh, I don’t know, I had to do something to celebrate my birthday.

AUNT ISABEL
(Under her breath.) Dearie!
MADELINE

And then that didn’t seem to—make a birthday, so I happened to see this, way up on a top shelf, and I remembered that it was my mother’s. It was nice to get it down and use it—almost as if mother was giving me a birthday present.

AUNT ISABEL

And how she would love to give you a birthday present.

MADELINE

It was her mother’s, I suppose, and they brought it from Hungary.

AUNT ISABEL

Yes. They brought only a very few things with them, and left—oh, so many beautiful ones behind.

MADELINE

(Quietly.) Rather nice of them, wasn’t it? (Her aunt waits inquiringly.) To leave their own beautiful things—their own beautiful life behind—simply because they believed life should be more beautiful for more people.

AUNT ISABEL

(With constraint.) Yes. (Gayly turning it.) Well, now, as to the birthday. What do you suppose Sarah is doing this instant? Putting red frosting on white frosting. (Writing it with her finger.) Madeline. And what do you suppose Horace is doing? (This a little reproachfully.) Running around buying twenty-one red candles. Twenty-two—one to grow on. Big birthday cake. Party tonight.

MADELINE
But, auntie, I don’t see how I can be there.
AUNT ISABEL

Listen, dear. Now, we’ve got to use our wits and all pull together. Of course we’d do anything in the world rather than see you—left to outsiders. I’ve never seen your uncle as worried, and—truly, Madeline, as sad. Oh, my dear, it’s these human things that count! What would life be without the love we have for each other?

MADELINE
The love we have for each other?
AUNT ISABEL

Why, yes, dearest. Don’t turn away from me Madeline. Don’t—don’t be strange. I wonder if you realize how your uncle has worked to have life a happy thing for all of us? Be a little generous to him. He’s had this great burden of bringing something from another day on into this day. It is not as simple as it may seem. He’s done it as best he could. It will hurt him as nothing has ever hurt him if you now undo that work of his life. Truly, dear, do you feel you know enough about it to do that? Another thing: people are a little absurd out of their own places. We need to be held in our relationships—against our background—or we are—I don’t know—grotesque. Come now, Madeline, where’s your sense of humor? Isn’t it a little absurd for you to leave home over India’s form of government?

MADELINE

It’s not India. It’s America. A sense of humor is nothing to hide behind!

AUNT ISABEL

(With a laugh.) I knew I wouldn’t be a success at world affairs—better leave that to Professor Holden. (A quick keen look from Madeline.) They’ve driven on to the river—they’ll be back for me, and then he wants to stop in for a visit with you while I take Mrs. Holden for a further ride. I’m worried about her. She doesn’t gain strength at all since her operation. I’m going to try keeping her out in the air all I can.

MADELINE
It’s dreadful about families!
AUNT ISABEL

Dreadful? Professor Holden’s devotion to his wife is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.

MADELINE
And is that all you see it in?
AUNT ISABEL

You mean the—responsibility it brings? Oh, well—that’s what life is. Doing for one another. Sacrificing for one another.

MADELINE
I hope I never have a family.
AUNT ISABEL

Well, I hope you do. You’ll miss the best of life if you don’t. Anyway, you have a family. Where is your father?

MADELINE
I don’t know.
AUNT ISABEL
I’d like to see him.
MADELINE
There’s no use seeing him today.
AUNT ISABEL
He’s—?
MADELINE

Strange—shut in—afraid something’s going to be taken from him.

AUNT ISABEL

Poor Ira. So much has been taken from him. And now you. Don’t hurt him again, Madeline. He can’t bear it. You see what it does to him.

MADELINE
He has—the wrong idea about things.
AUNT ISABEL

“The wrong idea!” Oh, my child—that’s awfully young and hard. It’s so much deeper than that. Life has made him into something—something he can’t escape.

MADELINE

(With what seems sullenness.) Well, I don’t want to be made into that thing.

AUNT ISABEL

Of course not. But you want to help him, don’t you? Now, dear—about your birthday party—

MADELINE

The United States Commissioner is giving me my birthday party.

AUNT ISABEL

Well, he’ll have to put his party off. Your uncle has been thinking it all out. We’re to go to his office and you’ll have a talk with him and with Judge Watkins. He’s off the state supreme bench now—practicing again, and as a favor to your uncle he will be your lawyer. You don’t know how relieved we are at this, for Judge Watkins can do—anything he wants to do, practically. Then you and I will go on home and call up some of the crowd to come in and dance tonight. We have some beautiful new records. There’s a Hungarian waltz—

MADELINE
And what’s the price of all this, auntie?
AUNT ISABEL

The—Oh, you mean—Why, simply say you felt sorry for the Hindu students because they seemed rather alone; that you hadn’t realized—what they were, hadn’t thought out what you were saying—

MADELINE

And that I’m sorry and will never do it again.

AUNT ISABEL

I don’t know that you need say that. It would be gracious, I think, to indicate it.

MADELINE

I’m sorry you—had the cake made. I suppose you can eat it, anyway. I (turning away) —can’t eat it.

AUNT ISABEL

Why—Madeline.

[Seeing how she has hurt her, Madeline goes out to her aunt.

MADELINE

Auntie, dear! I’m sorry—if I hurt your feelings.

AUNT ISABEL

(Quick to hold out a loving hand, laughing a little.) They’ve been good birthday cakes, haven’t they, Madeline?

MADELINE

(She now trying not to cry.) I don’t know—what I’d have done without them. Don’t know—what I will do without them. I don’t—see it.

AUNT ISABEL

Don’t try to. Please don’t see it! Just let me go on helping you. That’s all I ask. (She draws Madeline to her.) Ah, dearie, I held you when you were a little baby without your mother. All those years count for something, Madeline. There’s just nothing to life if years of love don’t count for something. (Listening.) I think I hear them. And here are we, weeping like two idiots. (Madeline brushes away tears, Aunt Isabel arranges her veil, regaining her usual poise.) Professor Holden was hoping you’d take a tramp with him. Wouldn’t that do you good? Anyway, a talk with him will be nice. I know he admires you immensely, and really—perhaps I shouldn’t let you know this—sympathizes with your feeling. So I think his maturer way of looking at things will show you just the adjustment you need to become a really big and useful person. There’s so much to be done in the world, Madeline. Of course we ought to make it a better world. (In a manner of agreement with Madeline.) I feel very strongly about all that. Perhaps we can do some things together. I’d love that. Don’t think I’m hopeless! Way down deep we have the same feeling. Yes, here’s Professor Holden.

[Holden comes in. He seems older.

HOLDEN

And how are you, Madeline? (Holding out his hand.)

MADELINE
I’m—all right.
HOLDEN

Many happy returns of the day. (Embarrassed by her half laugh.) The birthday.

AUNT ISABEL
And did you have a nice look up the river?
HOLDEN

I never saw this country as lovely as it is today. Mary is just drinking it in.

AUNT ISABEL

You don’t think the further ride will be too much?

HOLDEN
Oh, no—not in that car.
AUNT ISABEL

Then we’ll go on—perhaps as far as Laughing Creek. If you two decide on a tramp—take that road and we’ll pick you up. (Smiling warmly, she goes out.)

HOLDEN
How good she is.
MADELINE
Yes. That’s just the trouble.
HOLDEN

(With difficulty getting past this.) How about a little tramp? There’ll never be another such day.

MADELINE

I used to tramp with Fred Jordan. This is where he is now. (Stepping inside the cell.) He doesn’t even see out.

HOLDEN

It’s all wrong that he should be where he is. But for you to stay indoors won’t help him, Madeline.

MADELINE
It won’t help him, but—today—I can’t go out.
HOLDEN

I’m sorry, my child. When this sense of wrongs done first comes down upon one, it does crush.

MADELINE
And later you get used to it and don’t care.
HOLDEN

You care. You try not to destroy yourself needlessly. (He turns from her look.)

MADELINE
Play safe.
HOLDEN

If it’s playing safe, it’s that one you love more than yourself be safe. It would be a luxury to—destroy one’s self.

MADELINE

That sounds like Uncle Felix. (Seeing she has hurt him, she goes over and sits across from him at the table.) I’m sorry. I say the wrong things today.

HOLDEN
I don’t know that you do.
MADELINE

But isn’t uncle funny? His left mind doesn’t know what his right mind is doing. He has to think of himself as a person of sentiment—idealism, and—quite a job, at times. Clever—how he gets away with it. The war must have been a godsend to people who were in danger of getting on to themselves. But I should think you could fool all of yourself all the time.

HOLDEN

You don’t. (He is rubbing his hand on the table.)

MADELINE

Grandfather Morton made this table. I suppose he and Grandfather Fejevary used to sit here and talk—they were great old pals. (Slowly Holden turns and looks out at the hill.) Yes. How beautiful the hill must have been—before there was a college there. (He looks away from the hill.) Did you know Grandfather Morton?

HOLDEN

Yes, I knew him. (Speaking of it against his will.) I had a wonderful talk with him once; about Greece—and the cornfields, and life.

MADELINE

I’d like to have been a pioneer! Some ways they had it fierce, but think of the fun they had! A whole big land to open up! A big new life to begin! (Her hands closing in from wideness to a smaller thing.) Why did so much get shut out? Just a little way back—anything might have been. What happened?

HOLDEN

(Speaking with difficulty.) It got—set too soon.

MADELINE

(All of her mind open, trying to know.) And why did it? Prosperous, I suppose. That seems to set things—set them in fear. Silas Morton wasn’t afraid of Felix Fejevary, the Hungarian revolutionist. He laid this country at that refugee’s feet! That’s what Uncle Felix says himself—with the left half of his mind. Now—the Hindu revolutionists—! (Pause.) I took a walk late yesterday afternoon. Night came, and for some reason I thought of how many nights have come—nights the earth has known long before we knew the earth. The moon came up and I thought of how moonlight made this country beautiful before any man knew that moonlight was beautiful. It gave me a feeling of coming from something a long way back. Moving toward—what will be here when I’m not here. Moving. We seem here, now, in America, to have forgotten we’re moving. Think it’s just us—just now. Of course, that would make us afraid, and—ridiculous.

[Her father comes in.

IRA

Your Aunt Isabel—did she go away—and leave you?

MADELINE
She’s coming back.
IRA
For you?
MADELINE

She—wants me to go with her. This is Professor Holden, father.

HOLDEN
How do you do, Mr. Morton?
IRA

(Nods, not noticing Holden’s offered hand.) How ’do. When is she coming back?

MADELINE
Soon.
IRA
And then you’re going with her?
MADELINE
I—don’t know.
IRA

I say you go with her. You want them all to come down on us? (To Holden.) What are you here for?

MADELINE
Aunt Isabel brought Professor Holden, father.
IRA

Oh. Then you—you tell her what to do. You make her do it. (He goes into the room at left.)

MADELINE

(Sadly, after a silence.) Father’s like something touched by an early frost.

HOLDEN

Yes. (Seeing his opening and forcing himself to take it.) But do you know, Madeline, there are other ways of that happening—“touched by an early frost”. I’ve seen it happen to people I know—people of fine and daring mind. They do a thing that puts them apart—it may be the big, brave thing—but the apartness does something to them. I’ve seen it many times—so many times—so many times, I fear for you. You do this thing and you’ll find yourself with people who in many ways you don’t care for at all; find yourself apart from people who in most ways are your own people. You’re many-sided, Madeline. (Moves her tennis racket.) I don’t know about it’s all going to one side. I hate to see you, so young, close a door on so much life. I’m being just as honest with you as I know how. I myself am making compromises to stay within. I don’t like it, but there are—reasons for doing it. I can’t see you leave that main body without telling you all it is you are leaving. It’s not a clean-cut case—the side of the world or the side of the angels. I hate to see you lose the—fullness of life.

MADELINE

(A slight start, as she realizes the pause. As one recalled from far.) I’m sorry. I was listening to what you were saying—but all the time—something else was happening. Grandfather Morton, big and—oh, terrible. He was here. And we went to that walled-up hole in the ground— (Rising and pointing down at the chalked cell.) —where they keep Fred Jordan on bread and water because he couldn’t be a part of nations of men killing each other—and Silas Morton—only he was all that is back of us, tore open that cell—it was his voice tore it open—his voice as he cried, “God damn you, this is America!” (Sitting down, as if rallying from a tremendous experience.) I’m sorry—it should have happened, while you were speaking. Won’t you—go on?

HOLDEN

That’s a pretty hard thing to go on against. (After a moment.) I can’t go on.

MADELINE

You were thinking of leaving the college, and then—decided to stay? (He nods.) And you feel there’s more—fullness of life for you inside the college than outside?

HOLDEN

No—not exactly. (Again a pause.) It’s very hard for me to talk to you.

MADELINE
(Gently.) Perhaps we needn’t do it.
HOLDEN

(Something in him forcing him to say it.) I’m staying for financial reasons.

MADELINE

(Kind, but not going to let the truth get away.) You don’t think that—having to stay within—or deciding to, rather, makes you think these things of the—blight of being without?

HOLDEN

I think there is danger to you in—so young, becoming alien to society.

MADELINE

As great as the danger of staying within—and becoming like the thing I’m within?

HOLDEN
You wouldn’t become like it.
MADELINE

Why wouldn’t I? That’s what it does to the rest of you. I don’t see it—this fullness of life business. I don’t see that Uncle Felix has got it—or even Aunt Isabel, and you—I think that in buying it you’re losing it.

HOLDEN

I don’t think you know what a cruel thing you are saying.

MADELINE

There must be something pretty rotten about Morton College if you have to sell your soul to stay in it!

HOLDEN

You don’t “sell your soul”. You persuade yourself to wait.

MADELINE

(Unable to look at him, as if feeling shame.) You have had a talk with Uncle Felix since that day in the library you stepped aside for me to pass.

HOLDEN

Yes; and with my wife’s physician. If you sell your soul—it’s to love you sell it.

MADELINE

(Low.) That’s strange. It’s love that—brings life along, and then it’s love—holds life back.

HOLDEN

(And all the time with this effort against hopelessness.) Leaving me out of it, I’d like to see you give yourself a little more chance for detachment. You need a better intellectual equipment if you’re going to fight the world you find yourself in. I think you will count for more if you wait, and when you strike, strike more maturely.

MADELINE

Detachment. (Pause.) This is one thing they do at this place. (She moves to the open door.) Chain them up to the bars—just like this. (In the doorway where her two grandfathers once pledged faith with the dreams of a million years, she raises clasped hands as high as they will go.) Eight hours a day—day after day. Just hold your arms up like this one hour then sit down and think about— (As if tortured by all who have been so tortured, her body begins to give with sobs, arms drop, the last word is a sob.) detachment.

[Holden is standing helplessly by when her father comes in.

IRA

(Wildly.) Don’t cry. No! Not in this house! I can’t—Your aunt and uncle will fix it up. The law won’t take you this time—and you won’t do it again.

MADELINE
Oh, what does that matter—what they do to me?
IRA
What are you crying about then?
MADELINE
It’s—the world. It’s—
IRA

The world? If that’s all you’ve got to cry about! (To Holden.) Tell her that’s nothing to cry about. What’s the matter with you. Mad’line? That’s crazy—cryin’ about the world! What good has ever come to this house through carin’ about the world? What good’s that college? Better we had that hill. Why is there no one in this house today but me and you? Where’s your mother? Where’s your brother? The world.

HOLDEN

I think your father would like to talk to you. I’ll go outside—walk a little, and come back for you with your aunt. You must let us see you through this, Madeline. You couldn’t bear the things it would bring you to. I see that now. (As he passes her in the doorway his hand rests an instant on her bent head.) You’re worth too much to break.

IRA

(Turning away.) I don’t want to talk to you. What good comes of talking? (In moving, he has stepped near the sack of corn. Takes hold of it.) But not with Emil Johnson! That’s not—what your mother died for.

MADELINE

Father, you must talk to me. What did my mother die for? No one has ever told me about her—except that she was beautiful—not like other people here. I got a feeling of—something from far away. Something from long ago. Rare. Why can’t Uncle Felix talk about her? Why can’t you? Wouldn’t she want me to know her? Tell me about her. It’s my birthday and I need my mother.

IRA

(As if afraid he is going to do it.) How can you touch—what you’ve not touched in nineteen years? Just once—in nineteen years—and that did no good.

MADELINE

Try. Even though it hurts. Didn’t you use to talk to her? Well, I’m her daughter. Talk to me. What has she to do with Emil Johnson?

IRA

(The pent-up thing loosed.) What has she to do with him? She died so he could live. He lives because she’s dead. (In anguish.) And what is he alongside her? Yes. Something from far away. Something from long ago. Rare. How’d you know that? Finding in me—what I didn’t know was there. Then she came—that ignorant Swede—Emil Johnson’s mother—running through the cornfield like a crazy woman—“Miss Morton! Miss Morton! Come help me! My children are choking!” Diphtheria they had—the whole of ’em—but out of this house she ran—my Madeline, leaving you—her own baby—running as fast as she could through the cornfield after that immigrant woman. She stumbled in the rough field—fell to her knees. That was the last I saw of her. She choked to death in that Swede’s house. They lived.

MADELINE

(Going to him.) Oh—father. (Voice rich.) But how lovely of her.

IRA

Lovely? Lovely to leave you without a mother—leave me without her after I’d had her? Wasn’t she worth more than them.

MADELINE

(Proudly.) Yes. She was worth so much that she never stopped to think how much she was worth.

IRA

Ah, if you’d known her you couldn’t take it like that. And now you cry about the world! That’s what the world is—all coming to nothing. My father used to sit there at the table and talk about the world—my father and her father. They thought ’twas all for something—that what you were went on into something more than you. That’s the talk I always heard in this house. But it’s just talk. The rare thing that came here was killed by the common thing that came here. Just happens—and happens cruel. Look at your brother! Gone— (Snaps his fingers.) like that. I told him not to go to war. He didn’t have to go—they’d been glad enough to have him stay here on the farm. But no,—he must—make the world safe for democracy! Well, you see how safe he made it, don’t you? Now I’m alone on the farm and he—buried on some Frenchman’s farm. That is, I hope they buried him—I hope they didn’t just— (Tormented.)

MADELINE
Oh, father—of course not. I know they did.
IRA

How do you know? What do you care—once they got him? He talked about the world—better world—end war. Now he’s in his grave—I hope he is—and look at the front page of the paper! No such thing—war to end war!

MADELINE

But he thought there was, father. Fred believed that—so what else could he do?

IRA
He could ’a’ minded his own business.
MADELINE

No—oh, no. It was fine of him to give his life to what he believed should be.

IRA

The light in his eyes as he talked of it, now—eyes gone—and the world he died for all hate and war. Waste. Waste. Nothin’ but waste—the life of this house. Why, folks today’d laugh to hear my father talk. He gave his best land for ideas to live. Thought was going to make us a better people. What was his word? (Waits.) Aspiration. (Says it as if it is a far-off thing.) Well, look at your friend, young Jordan. Kicked from the college to prison for ideas of a better world. (Laughs.) His “aspiration” puts him in a hole on bread and water! So—mind your own business, that’s all that’s so in this country. (Constantly tormented anew.) Oh, I told your brother all that—the night I tried to keep him. Told him about his mother—to show what come of running to other folks. And he said—standing right there— (Pointing.) eyes all bright, he said, “Golly, I think that’s great!” And then he—walked out of this house. (Fear takes him.) Madeline! (She stoops over him, her arm around him.) Don’t you leave me—all alone in this house—where so many was once. What’s Hindus—alongside your own father—and him needing you? It won’t be long. After a little I’ll be dead—or crazy—or something. But not here alone where so many was once.

MADELINE
Oh—father. I don’t know what to do.
IRA

Nothing stays at home. Not even the corn stays at home. If only the wind wouldn’t blow! Why can’t I have my field to myself? Why can’t I keep what’s mine? All these years I’ve worked to make it better. I wanted it to be—the most that it could be. My father used to talk about the Indians—how our land was their land, and how we must be more than them. He had his own ideas of bein’ more—well, what’s that come to? The Indians lived happier than we—wars, strikes, prisons. But I’ve made the corn more! This land that was once Indian maize now grows corn—I’d like to have the Indians see my corn! I’d like to see them side by side!—their Indian maize, my corn. And how’d I get it? Ah, by thinkin’—always tryin’, changin’, carin’. Plant this corn by that corn, and the pollen blows from corn to corn—the golden dust it blows, in the sunshine and of nights—blows from corn to corn like a— (The word hurts.) gift. No, you don’t understand it, but (Proudly.) corn don’t stay what it is! You can make it anything—according to what you do, ’cording to the corn it’s alongside. (Changing.) But that’s it. I want it to stay in my field. It goes away. The prevailin’ wind takes it on to the Johnsons—them Swedes that took my Madeline! I hear it! Oh, nights when I can’t help myself—and in the sunshine I can see it—pollen—soft golden dust to make new life—goin’ on to them,—and them too ignorant to know what’s makin’ their corn better! I want my field to myself. What’d I work all my life for? Work that’s had to take the place o’ what I lost—is that to go to Emil Johnson? No! The wind shall stand still! I’ll make it. I’ll find a way. Let me alone and I—I’ll think it out. Let me alone, I say.

[A mind burned to one idea, with greedy haste he shuts himself in the room at left. Madeline has been standing there as if mist is parting and letting her see. And as the vision grows power grows in her. She is thus flooded with richer life when her Aunt and Professor Holden come back. Feeling something new, for a moment they do not speak.

AUNT ISABEL
Ready, dear? It’s time for us to go now.
MADELINE

(With the quiet of plentitude.) I’m going in with Emil Johnson.

AUNT ISABEL

Why—Madeline. (Falteringly.) We thought you’d go with us.

MADELINE

No. I have to be—the most I can be. I want the wind to have something to carry.

AUNT ISABEL

(After a look at Professor Holden, who is looking intensely at Madeline.) I don’t understand.

MADELINE

The world is all a—moving field. (Her hands move, voice too is of a moving field.) Nothing is to itself. If America thinks so—America is like father. I don’t feel alone any more. The wind has come through—wind rich from lives now gone. Grandfather Fejevary, gift from a field far off. Silas Morton. No, not alone any more. And afraid? I’m not even afraid of being absurd!

AUNT ISABEL
But Madeline—you’re leaving your father?
MADELINE

(After thinking it out.) I’m not leaving—what’s greater in him than he knows.

AUNT ISABEL
You’re leaving Morton College?
MADELINE

That runt on a high hill? Yes, I’m leaving grandfather’s college—then maybe I can one day lie under the same sod with him, and not be ashamed. Though I must tell you (A little laugh.) under the sod is my idea of no place to be. I want to be a long time—where the wind blows.

AUNT ISABEL

(Who is trying not to cry.) I’m afraid it won’t blow in prison, dear.

MADELINE

I don’t know. Might be the only place it would blow. (Emil passes the window, hesitates at the door.) I’ll be ready in just a moment, Emil.

[He waits outside.

AUNT ISABEL

Madeline, I didn’t tell you—I hoped it wouldn’t be necessary, but your uncle said—if you refused to do it his way, he could do absolutely nothing for you, not even—bail.

MADELINE
Of course not. I wouldn’t expect him to.
AUNT ISABEL

He feels so deeply about these things—America—loyalty, he said if you didn’t come with us it would be final, Madeline. Even— (Breaks.) between you and me.

MADELINE

I’m sorry, auntie. You know how I love you. (And her voice tells it.) But father has been telling me about the corn. It gives itself away all the time—the best corn a gift to other corn. What you are—that doesn’t stay with you. Then— (Not with assurance, but feeling her way.) be the most you can be, so life will be more because you were. (Freed by the truth she has found.) Oh—do that! Why do we three go apart? Professor Holden, his beautiful trained mind; Aunt Isabel—her beautiful love, love that could save the world if only you’d—throw it to the winds. (Moving nearer Holden, hands out to him.) Why do— (Seeing it is not to be, she turns away. Low, with sorrow for that great beauty lost.) Oh, have we brought mind, have we brought heart, up to this place—only to turn them against mind and heart?

HOLDEN

(Unable to bear more.) I think we—must go. (Going to Madeline, holding out his hand and speaking from his sterile life to her fullness of life.) Goodbye, Madeline. Good luck.

MADELINE

Goodbye, Professor Holden. (Hesitates.) Luck to you.

[Shaking his head, stooped, he hurries out.

MADELINE

(After a moment when neither can speak.) Goodbye—auntie dearest. Thank you—for the birthday present—the cake—everything. Everything—all the years.

[There is something Aunt Isabel would say, but she can only hold tight to Madeline’s hands. At last, with a smile that speaks for love, a little nod, she goes. Emil comes in.

EMIL

You better go with them, Madeline. It’d make it better for you.

MADELINE

Oh no, it wouldn’t. I’ll be with you in an instant, Emil. I want to—say goodbye to my father.

[But she waits before that door, a door hard to go through. Alone, Emil looks around the room. Sees the bag of corn, takes a couple of ears and is looking at them as Madeline returns. She remains by the door, shaken with sobs, turns, as if pulled back to the pain she has left.

EMIL

Gee. This is great corn.

MADELINE

(Turning now to him.) It is, isn’t it, Emil?

EMIL

None like it.

MADELINE

And you say—your corn is getting better?

EMIL

Oh, yes—I raise better corn every year now.

MADELINE

(Low.) That’s nice. I’ll be right out, Emil.

[He puts the corn back, goes out. From the closet Madeline takes her hat and wrap. Putting them on, she sees the tennis racket on the table. She goes to it, takes it up, holds it a moment, then takes it to the closet, puts it carefully away, closes the door behind it. A moment she stands there in the room, as if listening to something. Then she leaves that house.

CURTAIN

The Verge

A PLAY IN THREE ACTS

First performed at the Provincetown Playhouse
14 November, 1921.

CHARACTERS

ANTHONY

CLAIRE

HARRY ARCHER,  Claire’s husband

HATTIE,  the maid

DICK (Richard) DEMMING

TOM EDGEWORTHY

ELIZABETH,  Claire’s daughter

ADELAIDE,  Claire’s sister

DR. EMMONS

ACT ONE

SCENE:  The Curtain lifts on a place that is dark, save for a shaft of light from below which comes up through an open trapdoor in the floor. This slants up and strikes the long leaves and the huge brilliant blossom of a strange plant whose twisted stem projects from right front. Nothing is seen except this plant and its shadow. A violent wind is heard. A moment later a buzzer. It buzzes once long and three short. Silence. Again the buzzer.

Then from below—his shadow blocking the light, comes Anthony, a rugged man past middle life;—he emerges from the stairway into the darkness of the room. Is dimly seen taking up a phone.

ANTHONY

Yes, Miss Claire?—I’ll see. (He brings a thermometer to the stairway for light, looks sharply, then returns to the phone.) It’s down to forty-nine. The plants are in danger— (With great relief and approval.) Oh, that’s fine! (Hangs up the receiver.) Fine!

[He goes back down the stairway, closing the trapdoor upon himself, and the curtain is drawn upon darkness and wind.

The curtain opens a moment later on the greenhouse in the sunshine of a snowy morning. The snow piled outside is at times blown through the air. The frost has made patterns on the glass as if—as Plato would have it—the patterns inherent in abstract nature and behind all life had to come out, not only in the creative heat within, but in the creative cold on the other side of the glass. And the wind makes patterns of sound around the glass house.

The back wall is low; the glass roof slopes sharply up. There is an outside door, a little toward the right. From outside two steps lead down to it. At left a glass partition and a door into the inner room. One sees a little way into this room. At right there is no dividing wall save large plants and vines, a narrow aisle between shelves of plants leads off.

This is not a greenhouse where plants are being displayed, nor the usual workshop for the growing of them, but a place for experiment with plants, a laboratory.

At the back grows a strange vine. It is arresting rather than beautiful. It creeps along the low wall, and one branch gets a little way up the glass. You might see the form of a cross in it, if you happened to think it that way. The leaves of this vine are not the form that leaves have been. They are at once repellent and significant.

Anthony is at work preparing soil—mixing, sifting. As the wind tries the door he goes anxiously to the thermometer, nods as if reassured and returns to his work. The buzzer sounds. He starts to answer the telephone, remembers something, halts and listens sharply. It does not buzz once long and three short. Then he returns to his work. The buzzer goes on and on in impatient jerks which mount in anger. Several times Anthony is almost compelled by this insistence, but the thing that holds him back is stronger. At last, after a particularly mad splutter, to which Anthony longs to make retort, the buzzer gives it up. Anthony goes on preparing soil.

A moment later the glass door swings violently in, snow blowing in, and also Mr. Harry Archer, wrapped in a rug.

ANTHONY
Oh, please close the door, sir.
HARRY

Do you think I’m not trying to? (He holds it open to say this.)

ANTHONY

But please do. This stormy air is not good for the plants.

HARRY

I suppose it’s just the thing for me! Now, what do you mean, Anthony, by not answering the phone when I buzz for you?

ANTHONY
Miss Claire—Mrs. Archer told me not to.
HARRY
Told you not to answer me?
ANTHONY
Not you especially—nobody but her.
HARRY
Well, I like her nerve—and yours.
ANTHONY

You see, she thought it took my mind from my work to be interrupted when I’m out here. And so it does. So she buzzes once long and—Well, she buzzes her way, and all other buzzing—

HARRY
May buzz.
ANTHONY

(Nodding gravely.) She thought it would be better for the flowers.

HARRY

I am not a flower—true, but I too need a little attention—and a little heat. Will you please tell me why the house is frigid?

ANTHONY

Miss Claire ordered all the heat turned out here. (Patiently explaining it to Miss Claire’s speechless husband.) You see, the roses need a great deal of heat.

HARRY

(Reading the thermometer.) The roses have seventy-three. I have forty-five.

ANTHONY
Yes, the roses need seventy-three.
HARRY
Anthony, this is an outrage!
ANTHONY

I think it is myself; when you consider what we paid for the heating plant—but as long as it is defective—Why, Miss Claire would never have done what she has if she hadn’t looked out for her plants in just such ways as this. Have you forgotten that Breath of Life is about to flower?

HARRY

And where’s my breakfast about to flower?—that’s what I want to know.

ANTHONY

Why, Miss Claire got up at five o’clock to order the heat turned off from the house.

HARRY
I see you admire her vigilance.
ANTHONY

Oh, I do. (Fervently) I do. Harm was near, and that woke her up.

HARRY

And what about the harm to— (Tapping his chest.) Do roses get pneumonia?

ANTHONY

Oh, yes—yes, indeed they do. Why, Mr. Archer, look at Miss Claire herself. Hasn’t she given her heat to the roses?

HARRY

(Pulling the rug around him, preparing for the blizzard.) She has the fire within.

ANTHONY

(Delighted.) Now isn’t that true! How well you said it. (With a glare for this appreciation, Harry opens the door. It blows away from him.) Please do close the door!

HARRY

(Furiously.) You think it is the aim of my life to hold it open?

ANTHONY

(Getting hold of it.) Growing things need an even temperature. (While saying this he gets the man out into the snow.)

[Anthony consults the thermometer, not as pleased this time as he was before. He then looks minutely at two of the plants—one is a rose, the other a flower without a name because it has not long enough been a flower. Peers into the hearts of them. Then from a drawer under a shelf, takes two paper bags, puts one over each of these flowers, closing them down at the bottom. Again the door blows wildly in, also Hattie, a maid with a basket.

ANTHONY

What do you mean—blowing in here like this? Mrs. Archer has ordered—

HATTIE

Mr. Archer has ordered breakfast served here. (She uncovers the basket and takes out an electric toaster.)

ANTHONY
Breakfast—here? Eat—here? Where plants grow?
HATTIE

The plants won’t poison him, will they? (At a loss to know what to do with things, she puts the toaster under the strange vine at the back, whose leaves lift up against the glass which has frost leaves on the outer side.)

ANTHONY

(Snatching it away.) You—you think you can cook eggs under the Edge Vine?

HATTIE

I guess Mr. Archer’s eggs are as important as a vine. I guess my work’s as important as yours.

ANTHONY

There’s a million people like you—and like Mr. Archer. In all the world there is only one Edge Vine.

HATTIE

Well, maybe one’s enough. It don’t look like nothin’, anyhow.

ANTHONY

And you’ve not got the wit to know that that’s why it’s the Edge Vine.

HATTIE

You want to look out, Anthony. You talk nutty. Everybody says so.

ANTHONY
Miss Claire don’t say so.
HATTIE
No, because she’s—
ANTHONY
You talk too much!

[Door opens, admitting Harry; after looking around for the best place to eat breakfast, moves a box of earth from the table.

HARRY

Just give me a hand, will you, Hattie?

[They bring it to the open space and he and Hattie arrange breakfast things, Hattie with triumphant glances at the distressed Anthony.

ANTHONY

(Deciding he must act.) Mr. Archer, this is not the place to eat breakfast!

HARRY

Dead wrong, old boy. The place that has heat is the place to eat breakfast. (To Hattie.) Tell the other gentlemen—I heard Mr. Demming up, and Mr. Edgeworthy, if he appears, that as long as it is such a pleasant morning, we’re having breakfast outside. To the conservatory for coffee. (Hattie giggles, is leaving.) And let’s see, have we got everything? (Takes the one shaker, shakes a little pepper on his hand. Looks in vain for the other shaker.) And tell Mr. Demming to bring the salt.

ANTHONY
But Miss Claire will be very angry.
HARRY

I am very angry. Did I choose to eat my breakfast at the other end of a blizzard?

ANTHONY

(An exclamation of horror at the thermometer.) The temperature is falling. I must report. (He punches the buzzer, takes up the phone.) Miss Claire? It is Anthony. A terrible thing has happened. Mr. Archer—what? Yes, a terrible thing.—Yes, it is about Mr. Archer.—No—no, not dead. But here. He is here. Yes, he is well, he seems well, but he is eating his breakfast. Yes, he is having breakfast served out here—for himself, and the other gentlemen are to come too.—Well, he seemed to be annoyed because the heat had been turned off from the house. But the door keeps opening—this stormy wind blowing right over the plants. The temperature has already fallen.—Yes, yes. I thought you would want to come.

[Anthony opens the trapdoor and goes below. Harry looks disapprovingly down into this openness at his feet, returns to his breakfast. Anthony comes up, bearing a box.

HARRY
(Turning his face away.) Phew! What a smell.
ANTHONY
Yes. Fertilizer has to smell.
HARRY

Well, it doesn’t have to smell up my breakfast!

ANTHONY

(With a patient sense of order.) The smell belongs here. (He and the smell go to the inner room.)

[The outer door opens just enough to admit Claire—is quickly closed. With Claire in a room another kind of aliveness is there.

CLAIRE
What are you doing here?
HARRY
Getting breakfast. (All the while doing so.)
CLAIRE
I’ll not have you in my place!
HARRY

If you take all the heat then you have to take me.

CLAIRE

I’ll show you how I have to take you. (With her hands begins scooping upon him the soil Anthony has prepared.)

HARRY

(Jumping up, laughing, pinning down her arms, putting his arms around her.) Claire—be decent. What harm do I do here?

CLAIRE
You pull down the temperature.
HARRY
Not after I’m in.
CLAIRE

And you told Tom and Dick to come and make it uneven.

HARRY

Tom and Dick are our guests. We can’t eat where it’s warm and leave them to eat where it’s cold.

CLAIRE
I don’t see why not.
HARRY
You only see what you want to see.
CLAIRE

That’s not true. I wish it were. No; no, I don’t either. (She is disturbed—that troubled thing which rises from within, from deep, and takes Claire. She turns to the Edge Vine, examines. Regretfully to Anthony, who has come in with a plant.) It’s turning back, isn’t it?

ANTHONY
Can you be sure yet, Miss Claire?
CLAIRE

Oh, yes—it’s had its chance. It doesn’t want to be—what hasn’t been.

HARRY

(Who has turned at this note in her voice. Speaks kindly.) Don’t take it so seriously, Claire.

[Claire laughs.

CLAIRE

No, I suppose not. But it does matter—and why should I pretend it doesn’t, just because I’ve failed with it?

HARRY

Well, I don’t want to see it get you—it’s not important enough for that.

CLAIRE

(In her brooding way.) Anything is important enough for that—if it’s important at all. (To the vine.) I thought you were out, but you’re—going back home.

ANTHONY

But you’re doing it this time, Miss Claire. When Breath of Life opens—and we see its heart—

[Claire looks toward the inner room. Because of intervening plants they do not see what is seen from the front—a plant like caught motion, and of a greater transparency than plants have had. Its leaves, like waves that curl, close around a heart that is not seen. This plant stands by itself in what, because of the arrangement of things about it, is a hidden place. But nothing is between it and the light.

CLAIRE

Yes, if the heart has (a little laugh) held its own, then Breath of Life is alive in its otherness. But Edge Vine is running back to what it broke out of.

HARRY

Come, have some coffee, Claire.

[Anthony returns to the inner room, the outer door opens. Dick is hurled in.

CLAIRE

(Going to the door, as he gasps for breath before closing it.) How dare you make my temperature uneven! (She shuts the door and leans against it.)

DICK

Is that what I do?

[A laugh, a look between them, which is held into significance.

HARRY
(Who is not facing them.) Where’s the salt?
DICK

Oh, I fell down in the snow. I must have left the salt where I fell. I’ll go back and look for it.

CLAIRE

And change the temperature? We don’t need salt.

HARRY
You don’t need salt, Claire. But we eat eggs.
CLAIRE

I must tell you I don’t like the idea of any food being eaten here, where things have their own way to go. Please eat as little as possible, and as quickly.

HARRY

A hostess calculated to put one at one’s ease.

CLAIRE

(With no ill-nature.) I care nothing about your ease. Or about Dick’s ease.

DICK

And no doubt that’s what makes you so fascinating a hostess.

CLAIRE

Was I a fascinating hostess last night, Dick? (Softly sings.) “Oh, night of love—” (From the Barcarole of “Tales of Hoffman”)

HARRY

We’ve got to have salt.

[He starts for the door. Claire slips in ahead of him, locks it, takes the key. He marches off, right.

CLAIRE

(Calling after him.) That end’s always locked.

DICK

Claire darling, I wish you wouldn’t say those startling things. You do get away with it, but I confess it gives me a shock—and really, it’s unwise.

CLAIRE

Haven’t you learned that the best place to hide is in the truth? (As Harry returns.) Why won’t you believe me, Harry, when I tell you the truth—about doors being locked?

HARRY

Claire, it’s selfish of you to keep us from eating salt just because you don’t eat salt.

CLAIRE

(With one of her swift changes.) Oh, Harry! Try your egg without salt. Please—please try it without salt! (An intensity which seems all out of proportion to the subject.)

HARRY
An egg demands salt.
CLAIRE

“An egg demands salt.” Do you know, Harry, why you are such an unseasoned person? “An egg demands salt.”

HARRY
Well, it doesn’t always get it.
CLAIRE

But your spirit gets no lift from the salt withheld.

HARRY

Not an inch of lift. (Going back to his breakfast.)

CLAIRE

And pleased—so pleased with itself, for getting no lift. Sure, it is just the right kind of spirit—because it gets no lift. (More brightly.) But, Dick, you must have tried your egg without salt.

DICK

I’ll try it now. (He goes to the breakfast table.)

CLAIRE

You must have tried and tried things. Isn’t that the way one leaves the normal and gets into the byways of perversion?

HARRY
Claire.
DICK

(Pushing back his egg.) If so, I prefer to wait for the salt.

HARRY
Claire, there is a limit.
CLAIRE

Precisely what I had in mind. To perversion too there is a limit. So—the fortifications are unassailable. If one ever does get out, I suppose it is—quite unexpectedly, and perhaps—a bit terribly.

HARRY
Get out where?
CLAIRE

(With a bright smile.) Where you, darling, will never go.

HARRY

And from which you, darling, had better beat it.

CLAIRE

I wish I could. (To herself.) No—no I don’t either

[Again this troubled thing turns her to the plant. She puts by themselves the two which Anthony covered with paper bags. Is about to remove these papers. Harry strikes a match.

CLAIRE

(Turning sharply.) You can’t smoke here. The plants are not used to it.

HARRY

Then I should think smoking would be just the thing for them.

CLAIRE
There is design.
HARRY

(To Dick.) Am I supposed to be answered? I never can be quite sure at what moment I am answered.

[They both watch Claire, who has uncovered the plants and is looking intently into the flowers. From a drawer she takes some tools. Very carefully gives the rose pollen to an unfamiliar flower—rather wistfully unfamiliar, which stands above on a small shelf near the door of the inner room.

DICK
What is this you’re doing, Claire?
CLAIRE
Pollenizing. Crossing for fragrance.
DICK
It’s all rather mysterious, isn’t it?
HARRY
And Claire doesn’t make it any less so.
CLAIRE
Can I make life any less mysterious?
HARRY

If you know what you are doing, why can’t you tell Dick?

DICK

Never mind. After all, why should I be told? (He turns away.)

[At that she wants to tell him. Helpless, as one who cannot get across a stream, starts uncertainly.

CLAIRE

I want to give fragrance to Breath of Life (Faces the room beyond the wall of glass.) —the flower I have created that is outside what flowers have been. What has gone out should bring fragrance from what it has left. But no definite fragrance, no limiting enclosing thing. I call the fragrance I am trying to create Reminiscence. (Her hand on the pot of the wistful little flower she has just given pollen.) Reminiscent of the rose, the violet, arbutus—but a new thing—itself. Breath of Life may be lonely out in what hasn’t been. Perhaps someday I can give it reminiscence.

DICK
I see, Claire.
CLAIRE
I wonder if you do.
HARRY

Now, Claire, you’re going to be gay today, aren’t you? These are Tom’s last couple of days with us.

CLAIRE
That doesn’t make me especially gay.
HARRY

Well, you want him to remember you as yourself, don’t you?

CLAIRE
I would like him to. Oh—I would like him to!
HARRY

Then be amusing. That’s really you, isn’t it, Dick?

DICK
Not quite all of her—I should say.
CLAIRE

(Gaily.) Careful, Dick. Aren’t you indiscreet? Harry will be suspecting that I am your latest strumpet.

HARRY

Claire! What language you use! A person knowing you only by certain moments could never be made to believe you are a refined woman.

CLAIRE
True, isn’t it, Dick?
HARRY

It would be a good deal of a lark to let them listen in at times—then tell them that here is the flower of New England!

CLAIRE

Well, if this is the flower of New England, then the half has never been told.

DICK
About New England?
CLAIRE

I thought I meant that. Perhaps I meant—about me.

HARRY

(Going on with his own entertainment.) Explain that this is what came of the men who made the laws that made New England, that here is the flower of those gentlemen of culture who—

DICK
Molded the American mind!
CLAIRE
Oh! (It is pain.)
HARRY
Now what’s the matter?
CLAIRE
I want to get away from them!
HARRY
Rest easy, little one—you do.
CLAIRE

I’m not so sure—that I do. But it can be done! We need not be held in forms molded for us. There is outness—and otherness.

HARRY

Now, Claire—I didn’t mean to start anything serious.

CLAIRE

No; you never mean to do that. I want to break it up! I tell you, I want to break it up! If it were all in pieces, we’d be (a little laugh) shocked to aliveness (To Dick) —wouldn’t we? There would be strange new comings together—mad new comings together, and we would know what it is to be born, and then we might know—that we are. Smash it. (Her hand is near an egg.) As you’d smash an egg. (She pushes the egg over the edge of the table and leans over and looks, as over a precipice.)

HARRY

(With a sigh.) Well, all you’ve smashed is the egg, and all that amounts to is that now Tom gets no egg. So that’s that.

CLAIRE

(With difficulty, drawing herself back from the fascination of the precipice.) You think I can’t smash anything? You think life can’t break up, and go outside what it was? Because you’ve gone dead in the form in which you found yourself, you think that’s all there is to the whole adventure? And that is called sanity. And made a virtue—to lock one in. You never worked with things that grow! Things that take a sporting chance—go mad—that sanity mayn’t lock them in—from life untouched—from life—that waits. (She turns toward the inner room.) Breath of Life. (She goes in there.)

HARRY

Oh, I wish Claire wouldn’t be strange like that. (Helplessly.) What is it? What’s the matter?

DICK

It’s merely the excess of a particularly rich temperament.

HARRY

But it’s growing on her. I sometimes wonder if all this (Indicating the place around him.) is a good thing. It would be all right if she’d just do what she did in the beginning—make the flowers as good as possible of their kind. That’s an awfully nice thing for a woman to do—raise flowers. But there’s something about this—changing things into other things—putting things together and making queer new things—this—

DICK
Creating?
HARRY

Give it any name you want it to have—it’s unsettling for a woman. They say Claire’s a shark at it, but what’s the good of it, if it gets her? What is the good of it, anyway? Suppose we can produce new things. Lord—look at the one ones we’ve got. (Looks outside; turns back.) Heavens, what a noise the wind does make around this place. (But now it is not all the wind, but Tom Edgeworthy, who is trying to let himself in at the locked door, their backs are to him.) I want my egg. You can’t eat an egg without salt. I must say I don’t get Claire lately. I’d like to have Charlie Emmons see her—he’s fixed up a lot of people shot to pieces in the war. Claire needs something to tone her nerves up. You think it would irritate her?

DICK

She’d probably get no little entertainment out of it.

HARRY

Yes, dog-gone her, she would. (Tom now takes more heroic measures to make himself heard at the door.) Funny—how the wind can fool you. Now by not looking around I could imagine—why, I could imagine anything. Funny, isn’t it, about imagination? And Claire says I haven’t got any!

DICK

It would make an amusing drawing—what the wind makes you think is there. (First makes forms with his hands, then leveling the soil prepared by Anthony, traces lines with his finger.) Yes, really—quite jolly.

[Tom, after a moment of peering in at them, smiles, goes away.

HARRY

You’re another one of the queer ducks, aren’t you? Come now—give me the dirt. Have you queer ones really got anything—or do you just put it over on us that you have?

DICK

(Smiles, draws on.) Not saying anything, eh? Well, I guess you’re wise there. If you keep mum—how are we going to prove there’s nothing there?

DICK
I don’t keep mum. I draw.
HARRY

Lines that don’t make anything—how can they tell you anything? Well, all I ask is, don’t make Claire queer. Claire’s a first water good sport—really, so don’t encourage her to be queer.

DICK

Trouble is, if you’re queer enough to be amusing, it might—open the door to queerness.

HARRY
Now don’t say things like that to Claire.
DICK
I don’t have to.
HARRY

Then you think she’s queer, do you? Queer as you are, you think she’s queer. I would like to have Dr. Emmons come out. (After a moment of silently watching Dick, who is having a good time with his drawing.) You know, frankly, I doubt if you’re a good influence for Claire. (Dick lifts his head ever so slightly.) Oh, I don’t worry a bit about—things a husband might worry about. I suppose an intellectual woman—and for all Claire’s hate of her ancestors, she’s got the bug herself. Why, she has times of boring into things until she doesn’t know you’re there. What do you think I caught her doing the other day? Reading Latin. Well—a woman that reads Latin needn’t worry a husband much.

DICK
They said a good deal in Latin.
HARRY

But I was saying, I suppose a woman who lives a good deal in her mind never does have much—well, what you might call passion. (Uses the word as if it shouldn’t be used. Brows knitted, is looking ahead, does not see Dick’s face. Turning to him with a laugh.) I suppose you know pretty much all there is to know about women?

DICK
Perhaps one or two details have escaped me.
HARRY

Well, for that matter, you might know all there is to know about women and not know much about Claire. But now about (Does not want to say passion again.) —oh, feeling—Claire has a certain—well, a certain—

DICK
Irony?
HARRY
Which is really more—more—
DICK
More fetching, perhaps.
HARRY

Yes! Than the thing itself. But of course—you wouldn’t have much of a thing that you have irony about.

DICK
Oh—wouldn’t you! I mean—a man might.
HARRY

I’d like to talk to Edgeworthy about Claire. But it’s not easy to talk to Tom about Claire—or to Claire about Tom.

DICK

(Alert.) They’re very old friends, aren’t they?

HARRY

Why—yes, they are. Though they’ve not been together much of late years, Edgeworthy always going to the ends of the earth to—meditate about something. I must say I don’t get it. If you have a place—that’s the place for you to be. And he did have a place—best kind of family connections, and it was a very good business his father left him. Publishing business—in good shape, too, when old Edgeworthy died. I wouldn’t call Tom a great success in life—but Claire does listen to what he says.

DICK
Yes, I’ve noticed that.
HARRY

So, I’d like to get him to tell her to quit this queer business of making things grow that never grew before.

DICK

But are you sure that’s what he would tell her? Isn’t he in the same business himself?

HARRY

Why, he doesn’t raise anything.

[Tom is again at the door.

DICK

Anyway, I think he might have some idea that we can’t very well reach each other.

HARRY

Damn nonsense. What have we got intelligence for?

DICK

To let each other alone, I suppose. Only we haven’t enough to do it.

[Tom is now knocking on the door with a revolver. Harry half turns, decides to be too intelligent to turn.

HARRY

Don’t tell me I’m getting nerves. But the way some of you people talk is enough to make even an aviator jumpy. Can’t reach each other! Then we’re fools. If I’m here and you’re there, why can’t we reach each other?

DICK
Because I am I and you are you.
HARRY

No wonder your drawing’s queer. A man who can’t reach another man— (Tom here reaches them by pointing the revolver in the air and firing it. Dick digs his hand into the dirt. Harry jumps to one side, fearfully looks around. Tom, with a pleased smile to see he at last has their attention, moves the handle to indicate he would be glad to come in.)

HARRY

Why—it’s Tom! What the—? (Going to the door.) He’s locked out. And Claire’s got the key. (Goes to the inner door, tries it.) And she’s locked in! (Trying to see her in there.) Claire! Claire! (Returning to the outer door.) Claire’s got the key—and I can’t get to Claire. (Makes a futile attempt at getting the door open without a key, goes back to inner door—peers, pounds.) Claire! Are you there? Didn’t you hear the revolver? Has she gone down the cellar? (Tries the trapdoor.) Bolted! Well, I love the way she keeps people locked out!

DICK
And in.
HARRY

(Getting angry, shouting at the trapdoor.) Didn’t you hear the revolver? (Going to Tom.) Awfully sorry, old man, but— (In astonishment to Dick.) He can’t hear me. (Tom, knocking with the revolver to get their attention, makes a gesture of inquiry with it.) No—no—no! Is he asking if he shall shoot himself? (Shaking his head violently.) Oh, no—no! Um—um!

DICK

Hardly seems a man would shoot himself because he can’t get to his breakfast.

HARRY

I’m coming to believe people would do anything! (Tom is making another inquiry with the revolver.) No! not here. Don’t shoot yourself. (Trying hard to get the word through.) Shoot yourself. I mean—don’t. (Petulantly to Dick.) It’s ridiculous that you can’t make a man understand you when he looks right at you like that. (Turning back to Tom.) Read my lips. Lips. I’m saying—Oh damn. Where is Claire? All right—I’ll explain it with motions. We wanted the salt…. (Going over it to himself.) and Claire wouldn’t let us go out for it on account of the temperature. Salt. Temperature. (Takes his egg-cup to the door, violent motion of shaking in salt.) But—no (Shakes his head.) No salt. (He then takes the thermometer, a flower pot, holds them up to Tom.) On account of the temperature. Tem-per-a— (Tom is not getting it.) Oh—well, what can you do when a man don’t get a thing? (Tom seems to be preparing the revolver for action. Harry pounds on the inner door.) Claire! Do you want Tom to shoot himself?

[As he looks in there, the trapdoor lifts, and Claire comes halfway up.

CLAIRE

Why, what is Tom doing out there, with a revolver?

HARRY

He is about to shoot himself because you’ve locked him out from his breakfast.

CLAIRE

He must know more interesting ways of destroying himself. (Bowing to Tom.) Good morning. (From his side of the glass Tom bows and smiles back.) Isn’t it strange—our being in here—and he being out there?

HARRY

Claire, have you no ideas of hospitality? Let him in!

CLAIRE
In? Perhaps that isn’t hospitality.
HARRY

Well, whatever hospitality is, what is out there is snow—and wind—and our guest—who was asked to come here for his breakfast. To think a man has to say such things.

CLAIRE

I’m going to let him in. Though I like his looks out there. (She takes the key from her pocket.)

HARRY

Thank heaven the door’s coming open. Somebody can go for salt, and we can have our eggs.

CLAIRE

And open the door again—to let the salt in? No. If you insist on salt, tell Tom now to go back and get it. It’s a stormy morning and there’ll be just one opening of the door.

HARRY

How can we tell him what we can’t make him hear? And why does he think we’re holding this conversation instead of letting him in?

CLAIRE

It would be interesting to know. I wonder if he’ll tell us?

HARRY
Claire! Is this any time to wonder anything?
CLAIRE

Give up the idea of salt for your egg and I’ll let him in. (Holds up the key to Tom to indicate that for her part she is quite ready to let him in.)

HARRY
I want my egg!
CLAIRE

Then ask him to bring the salt. It’s quite simple.

[Harry goes through another pantomime with the egg-cup and the missing shaker. Claire, still standing halfway down cellar, sneezes. Harry, growing all the while less amiable, explains with thermometer and flower-pot that there can only be one opening of the door. Tom looks interested, but unenlightened. But suddenly he smiles, nods, vanishes.

HARRY
Well, thank heaven (Exhausted.) that’s over.
CLAIRE

(Sitting on the top step.) It was all so queer. He locked out on his side of the door. You locked in on yours. Looking right at each other and—

HARRY

(In mockery.) And me trying to tell him to kindly fetch the salt!

CLAIRE
Yes.
HARRY

(To Dick.) Well, I didn’t do so bad a job, did I? Quite an idea, explaining our situation with the thermometer and the flower-pot. That was really an apology for keeping him out there. Heaven knows—some explanation was in order. (He is watching, and sees Tom coming.) Now there he is, Claire. And probably pretty well fed up with the weather.

[Claire goes to the door, stops before it. She and Tom look at each other through the glass. Then she lets him in.

TOM

And now I am in. For a time it seemed I was not to be in. But after I got the idea that you were keeping me out there to see if I could get the idea—it would be too humiliating for a wall of glass to keep one from understanding. (Taking it from his pocket.) So there’s the other thermometer. Where do you want it? (Claire takes it.)

CLAIRE
And where’s the pepper?
TOM

(Putting it on the table.) And here’s the pepper.

HARRY
Pepper?
TOM
When Claire sneezed I knew—
CLAIRE

Yes, I knew if I sneezed you would bring the pepper.

TOM

Funny how one always remembers the salt, but the pepper gets overlooked in preparations. And what is an egg without pepper?

HARRY

(Nastily.) There’s your egg, Edgeworthy. (Pointing to it on the floor.) Claire decided it would be a good idea to smash everything, so she began with your egg.

TOM

(Looking at his egg.) The idea of smashing everything is really more intriguing than an egg.

HARRY
Nice that you feel that way about it.
CLAIRE

(Giving Tom his coffee.) You want to hear something amusing? I married Harry because I thought he would smash something.

HARRY
Well, that was an error in judgment.
CLAIRE

I’m such a naive trusting person (Harry laughs—Claire gives him a surprised look, continues simply.). Such a guileless soul that I thought flying would do something to a man. But it didn’t take us out. We just took it in.

TOM
It’s only our own spirit can take us out.
HARRY
Whatever you mean by out.
CLAIRE

(After looking intently at Tom, and considering it.) But our own spirit is not something on the loose. Mine isn’t. It has something to do with what I do. To fly. To be free in air. To look from above on the world of all my days. Be where man has never been! Yes—wouldn’t you think the spirit could get the idea? The earth grows smaller. I am leaving. What are they—running around down there? Why do they run around down there? Houses? Houses are funny lines and down-going slants—houses are vanishing slants. I am alone. Can I breathe this rarer air? Shall I go higher? Shall I go too high? I am loose. I am out. But no; man flew, and returned to earth the man who left it.

HARRY

And jolly well likely not to have returned at all if he’d had those flighty notions while operating a machine.

CLAIRE

Oh, Harry! (Not lightly asked.) Can’t you see it would be better not to have returned than to return the man who left it?

HARRY
I have some regard for human life.
CLAIRE

Why, no—I am the one who has the regard for human life. (More lightly.) That was why I swiftly divorced my stick-in-the-mud artist and married—the man of flight. But I merely passed from a stick-in-the-mud artist to a—

DICK
Stick-in-the-air aviator?
HARRY

Speaking of your stick-in-the-mud artist, as you romantically call your first blunder, isn’t his daughter—and yours—due here today?

CLAIRE

I knew something was disturbing me. Elizabeth. A daughter is being delivered unto me this morning. I have a feeling it will be more painful than the original delivery. She has been, as they quaintly say, educated; prepared for her place in life.

HARRY

And fortunately Claire has a sister who is willing to give her young niece that place.

CLAIRE
The idea of giving anyone a place in life.
HARRY
Yes! The very idea!
CLAIRE

Yes! (As often, the mocking thing gives true expression to what lies somberly in her.) The war. There was another gorgeous chance.

HARRY

Chance for what? I call you, Claire. I ask you to say what you mean.

CLAIRE

I don’t know—precisely. If I did—there’d be no use saying it. (At Harry’s impatient exclamation she turns to Tom.)

TOM

(Nodding.) The only thing left worth saying is the thing we can’t say.

HARRY
Help!
CLAIRE

Yes. But the war didn’t help. Oh, it was a stunning chance! But fast as we could—scuttled right back to the trim little thing we’d been shocked out of.

HARRY
You bet we did—showing our good sense.
CLAIRE
Showing our incapacity—for madness.
HARRY

Oh, come now, Claire—snap out of it. You’re not really trying to say that capacity for madness is a good thing to have?

CLAIRE
(In simple surprise.) Why, yes, of course.
DICK

But I should say the war did leave enough madness to give you a gleam of hope.

CLAIRE

Not the madness that—breaks through. And it was—a stunning chance! Mankind massed to kill. We have failed. We are through. We will destroy. Break this up—it can’t go farther. In the air above—in the sea below—it is to kill! All we had thought we were—we aren’t. We were shut in with what wasn’t so. Is there one ounce of energy has not gone to this killing? Is there one love not torn in two? Throw it in! Now? Ready? Break up. Push. Harder. Break up. And then—and then—But we didn’t say—“And then—” The spirit didn’t take the tip.

HARRY

Claire! Come now (Looking to the others for help.) —let’s talk of something else.

CLAIRE

Plants do it. The big leap—it’s called. Explode their species—because something in them knows they’ve gone as far as they can go. Something in them knows they’re shut in to just that. So—go mad—that life may not be prisoned. Break themselves up into crazy things—into lesser things, and from the pieces—may come one sliver of life with vitality to find the future. How beautiful. How brave.

TOM

(As if he would call her from too far—or would let her know he has gone with her.) Claire!

CLAIRE

(Her eyes turning to him.) Why should we mind lying under the earth? We who have no such initiative—no proud madness? Why think it death to lie under life so flexible—so ruthless and ever-renewing?

ANTHONY

(From the door of the inner room.) Miss Claire?

CLAIRE

(After an instant.) Yes? (She goes with him, as they disappear his voice heard,“show me now … want those violets bedded”)

HARRY

Oh, this has got to stop. I’ve got to—put a stop to it some way. Why, Claire used to be the best sport a man ever played around with. I can’t stand it to see her getting hysterical.

TOM
That was not hysterical.
HARRY
What was it then—I want to know?
TOM
It was—a look.
HARRY

Oh, I might have known I’d get no help from either of you. Even you, Edgeworthy—much as she thinks of you—and fine sort as I’ve no doubt you are, you’re doing Claire no good—encouraging her in these queer ways.

TOM
I couldn’t change Claire if I would.
HARRY
And wouldn’t if you could.
TOM

No. But you don’t have to worry about me. I’m going away in a day or two. And I shall not be back.

HARRY

Trouble with you is, it makes little difference whether you’re here or away. Just the fact of your existence does encourage Claire in this—this way she’s going.

TOM

(With a smile.) But you wouldn’t ask me to go so far as to stop my existence? Though I would do that for Claire—if it were the way to help her.

HARRY
By Jove, you say that as if you meant it.
TOM

Do you think I would say anything about Claire I didn’t mean?

HARRY

You think a lot of her, don’t you? (Tom nods.) You don’t mean (A laugh letting him say it.) —that you’re—in love with Claire!

TOM

In love? Oh, that’s much too easy. Certainly I do love Claire.

HARRY
Well, you’re a cool one!
TOM

Let her be herself. Can’t you see she’s troubled?

HARRY

Well, what is there to trouble Claire? Now I ask you. It seems to me she has everything.

TOM

She’s left so—open. Too exposed. (As Harry moves impatiently.) Please don’t be annoyed with me. I’m doing my best at saying it. You see Claire isn’t hardened into one of those forms she talks about. She’s too—aware. Always pulled toward what could be—tormented by the lost adventure.

HARRY

Well, there’s danger in all that. Of course there’s danger.

TOM
But you can’t help that.
HARRY

Claire was the best fun a woman could be. Is yet—at times.

TOM

Let her be—at times. As much as she can and will. She does need that. Don’t keep her from it by making her feel you’re holding her in it. Above all, don’t try to stop what she’s doing here. If she can do it with plants, perhaps she won’t have to do it with herself.

HARRY
Do what?
TOM

(Low, after a pause.) Break up what exists. Open the door to destruction in the hope of—a door on the far side of destruction.

HARRY

Well, you give me the willies. (Moves around in irritation, troubled. To Anthony, who is passing through with a sprayer.) Anthony, have any arrangements been made about Miss Claire’s daughter?

ANTHONY
I haven’t heard of any arrangements.
HARRY

Well, she’ll have to have some heat in her room. We can’t all live out here.

ANTHONY

Indeed you cannot. It is not good for the plants.

HARRY
I’m going where I can smoke. (Goes out.)
DICK

(Lightly, but fascinated by the idea.) You think there is a door on the—hinter side of destruction?

TOM

How can one tell—where a door may be? One thing I want to say to you—for it is about you. (Regards Dick and not with his usual impersonal contemplation.) I don’t think Claire should have—any door closed to her. (Pause.) You know, I think, what I mean. And perhaps you can guess how it hurts to say it. Whether it’s—mere escape within,—rather shameful escape within, or the wild hope of that door through, it’s— (Suddenly all human.) Be good to her! (After a difficult moment, smiles.) Going away forever is like dying, so one can say things.

DICK
Why do you do it—go away forever?
TOM
I haven’t succeeded here.
DICK
But you’ve tried the going away before.
TOM

Never knowing I would not come back. So that wasn’t going away. My hope is that this will be like looking at life from outside life.

DICK
But then you’ll not be in it.
TOM

I haven’t been able to look at it while in it.

DICK

Isn’t it more important to be in it than to look at it?

TOM
Not what I mean by look.
DICK

It’s hard for me to conceive of—loving Claire and going away from her forever.

TOM

Perhaps it’s harder to do than to conceive of.

DICK
Then why do it?
TOM
It’s my only way of keeping her.
DICK

I’m afraid I’m like Harry now. I don’t get you.

TOM

I suppose not. Your way is different. (With calm, with sadness—not with malice.) But I shall have her longer. And from deeper.

DICK
I know that.
TOM

Though I miss much. Much. (The buzzer. Tom looks around to see if anyone is coming to answer it, then goes to the phone.) Yes?… I’ll see if I can get her. (To Dick.) Claire’s daughter has arrived. (Looking in the inner room—returns to phone.) I don’t see her. (Catching a glimpse of Anthony off right.) Oh, Anthony, where’s Miss Claire? Her daughter has arrived.

ANTHONY

She’s working at something very important in her experiments.

DICK

But isn’t her daughter one of her experiments?

ANTHONY

(After a baffled moment.) Her daughter is finished.

TOM

(At the phone.) Sorry—but I can’t get to Claire. She appears to have gone below. (Anthony closes the trapdoor.) I did speak to Anthony, but he says that Claire is working at one of her experiments and that her daughter is finished. I don’t know how to make her hear—I took the revolver back to the house. Anyway you will remember Claire doesn’t answer the revolver. I hate to reach Claire when she doesn’t want to be reached. Why, of course—a daughter is very important, but oh, that’s too bad. (Putting down the receiver.) He says the girl’s feelings are hurt. Isn’t that annoying? (Gingerly pounds on the trapdoor. Then with the other hand. Waits. Anthony has a gentle smile for the gentle tapping—nods approval as, Tom returns to the phone.) She doesn’t come up. Indeed I did—with both fists—Sorry.

ANTHONY

Please, you won’t try again to disturb Miss Claire, will you?

DICK

Her daughter is here, Anthony. She hasn’t seen her daughter for a year.

ANTHONY

Well, if she got along without a mother for a year— (Goes back to his work.)

DICK

(Smiling after Anthony.) Plants are queer. Perhaps it’s safer to do it with pencil (Regards Tom.) —or with pure thought. Things that grow in the earth—

TOM

(Nodding.) I suppose because we grew in the earth.

DICK

I’m always shocked to find myself in agreement with Harry, but I too am worried about Claire—and this. (Looking at the plants.)

TOM
It’s her best chance.
DICK

Don’t you hate to go away to India—forever—leaving Claire’s future uncertain?

TOM

You’re cruel now. And you knew that you were being cruel.

DICK

Yes, I like the lines of your face when you suffer.

TOM

The lines of yours when you’re causing suffering—I don’t like them.

DICK
Perhaps that’s your limitation.
TOM

I grant you it may be. (They are silent.) I had an odd feeling that you and I sat here once before, long ago, and that we were plants. And you were a beautiful plant, and I—I was a very ugly plant. I confess it surprised me—finding myself so ugly a plant.

[A young girl is seen outside. Harry gets the door open for her and brings Elizabeth in.

HARRY

There’s heat here. And two of your mother’s friends. Mr. Demming—Richard Demming—the artist—and I think you and Mr. Edgeworthy are old friends.

[Elizabeth comes forward. She is the creditable young American—well built, poised, “cultivated”, so sound an expression of the usual as to be able to meet the world with assurance—assurance which training has made rather graceful. She is about seventeen—and mature. You feel solid things behind her.

TOM

I knew you when you were a baby. You used to kick a great deal then.

ELIZABETH

(Laughing, with ease.) And scream, I haven’t a doubt. But I’ve stopped that. One does, doesn’t one? And it was you who gave me the idol.

TOM
Proselytizing, I’m afraid.
ELIZABETH

I beg—? Oh—yes (Laughing cordially.) I see. (She doesn’t.) I dressed the idol up in my doll’s clothes. They fitted perfectly—the idol was just the size of my doll Ailine. But mother didn’t like the idol that way, and tore the clothes getting them off. (To Harry, after looking around.) Is mother here?

HARRY

(Crossly.) Yes, she’s here. Of course she’s here. And she must know you’re here. (After looking in the inner room he goes to the trapdoor and makes a great noise.)

ELIZABETH

Oh—please. Really—it doesn’t make the least difference.

HARRY

Well, all I can say is, your manners are better than your mother’s.

ELIZABETH

But you see, I don’t do anything interesting, so I have to have good manners. (Lightly, but leaving the impression there is a certain superiority in not doing anything interesting. Turning cordially to Dick.) My father was an artist.

DICK
Yes, I know.
ELIZABETH

He was a portrait painter. Do you do portraits?

DICK
Well, not the kind people buy.
ELIZABETH
They bought father’s.
DICK
Yes, I know he did that kind.
HARRY

(Still irritated.) Why, you don’t do portraits.

DICK

I did one of you the other day. You thought it was a milk-can.

ELIZABETH

(Laughing delightedly.) No? Not really? Did you think—How could you think— (As Harry does not join the laugh.) Oh, I beg your pardon. I—Does mother grow beautiful roses now?

HARRY

No, she does not.

[The trapdoor begins to move. Claire’s head appears.

ELIZABETH

Mother! It’s been so long— (She tries to overcome the difficulties and embrace her mother.)

CLAIRE

(Protecting a box she has.) Careful, Elizabeth. We mustn’t upset the lice.

ELIZABETH

(Retreating.) Lice? (But quickly equal even to lice.) Oh—yes. You take it—them—off plants, don’t you?

CLAIRE
I’m putting them on certain plants.
ELIZABETH
(Weakly.) Oh, I thought you took them off.
CLAIRE

(Calling.) Anthony! (He comes.) The lice. (He takes them from her.) (Claire, who has not fully ascended, looks at Elizabeth, hesitates, then suddenly starts back down the stairs.)

HARRY

(Outraged.) Claire! (Slowly she re-ascends—sits on the top step. After a long pause in which he has waited for Claire to open a conversation with her daughter.) Well, and what have you been doing at school all this time?

ELIZABETH
Oh—studying.
CLAIRE
Studying what?
ELIZABETH
Why—the things one studies, mother.
CLAIRE

Oh! The things one studies. (Looks down cellar again.)

DICK

(After another wait.) And what have you been doing besides studying?

ELIZABETH

Oh—the things one does. Tennis and skating and dancing and—

CLAIRE
The things one does.
ELIZABETH

Yes. All the things. The—the things one does. Though I haven’t been in school these last few months, you know. Miss Lane took us to Europe.

TOM
And how did you like Europe?
ELIZABETH

(Capably.) Oh, I thought it was awfully amusing. All the girls were quite mad about Europe. Of course, I’m glad I’m an American.

CLAIRE
Why?
ELIZABETH

(Laughing.) Why—mother! Of course one is glad one is an American. All the girls—

CLAIRE

(Turning away.) O—h! (A moan under the breath.)

ELIZABETH
Why, mother—aren’t you well?
HARRY

Your mother has been working pretty hard at all this.

ELIZABETH

Oh, I do so want to know all about it? Perhaps I can help you! I think it’s just awfully amusing that you’re doing something. One does nowadays, doesn’t one?—if you know what I mean. It was the war, wasn’t it, made it the thing to do something?

DICK

(Slyly.) And you thought, Claire, that the war was lost.

ELIZABETH

The war? Lost! (Her capable laugh.) Fancy our losing a war! Miss Lane says we should give thanks. She says we should each do some expressive thing—you know what I mean? And that this is the keynote of the age. Of course, one’s own kind of thing. Like mother—growing flowers.

CLAIRE
You think that is one’s own kind of thing?
ELIZABETH

Why, of course I do, mother. And so does Miss Lane. All the girls—

CLAIRE

(Shaking her head as if to get something out.) Shoo.

ELIZABETH
What is it, mother?
CLAIRE
A fly shut up in my ear—“All the girls!”
ELIZABETH

(Laughing.) Mother was always so amusing. So different—if you know what I mean. Vacations I’ve lived mostly with Aunt Adelaide, you know.

CLAIRE
My sister who is fitted to rear children.
HARRY
Well, somebody has to do it.
ELIZABETH

And I do love Aunt Adelaide, but I think its going to be awfully amusing to be around with mother now—and help her with her work. Help do some useful beautiful thing.

CLAIRE
I am not doing any useful beautiful thing.
ELIZABETH

Oh, but you are, mother. Of course you are. Miss Lane says so. She says it is your splendid heritage gives you this impulse to do a beautiful thing for the race. She says you are doing in your way what the great teachers and preachers behind you did in theirs.

CLAIRE

(Who is good for little more.) Well, all I can say is, Miss Lane is stung.

ELIZABETH

Mother! What a thing to say of Miss Lane. (From this slipping into more of a little girl manner.) Oh, she gave me a spiel one day about living up to the men I come from.

[Claire turns and regards her daughter.

CLAIRE

You’ll do it, Elizabeth.

ELIZABETH

Well, I don’t know. Quite a job, I’ll say. Of course, I’d have to do it in my way. I’m not going to teach or preach or be a stuffy person. But now that— (She here becomes the product of a superior school.) values have shifted and such sensitive new things have been liberated in the world—

CLAIRE
(Low.) Don’t use those words.
ELIZABETH
Why—why not?
CLAIRE
Because you don’t know what they mean.
ELIZABETH
Why, of course I know what they mean!
CLAIRE

(Turning away.) You’re—stepping on the plants.

HARRY

(Hastily.) Your mother has been working awfully hard at all this.

ELIZABETH

Well, now that I’m here you’ll let me help you, won’t you, mother?

CLAIRE
(Trying for control.) You needn’t—bother.
ELIZABETH

But I want to. Help add to the wealth of the world.

CLAIRE

Will you please get it out of your head that I am adding to the wealth of the world!

ELIZABETH

But, mother—of course you are. To produce a new and better kind of plant—

CLAIRE

They may be new. I don’t give a damn whether they’re better.

ELIZABETH
But—but what are they then?
CLAIRE
(As if choked out of her.) They’re different.
ELIZABETH

(Thinks a minute, then laughs triumphantly.) But what’s the use of making them different if they aren’t better?

HARRY

A good square question, Claire. Why don’t you answer it?

CLAIRE
I don’t have to answer it.
HARRY

Why not give the girl a fair show? You never have, you know. Since she’s interested, why not tell her what it is you’re doing?

CLAIRE
She is not interested.
ELIZABETH

But I am, mother. Indeed I am. I do want awfully to understand what you are doing, and help you.

CLAIRE
You can’t help me, Elizabeth.
HARRY
Why not let her try?
CLAIRE

Why do you ask me to do that? This is my own thing. Why do you make me feel I should— (Goes to Elizabeth.) I will be good to you, Elizabeth. We’ll go around together. I haven’t done it, but—you’ll see. We’ll do gay things. I’ll have a lot of beaus around for you. Anything else. Not—this is—Not this.

ELIZABETH

As you like, mother, of course. I just would have been so glad to—to share the thing that interests you. (Hurt borne with good breeding and a smile.)

HARRY
Claire! (Which says, “How can you?”)
CLAIRE

(Who is looking at Elizabeth.) Yes, I will try.

TOM

I don’t think so. As Claire says—anything else.

ELIZABETH

Why, of course—I don’t at all want to intrude.

HARRY

It’ll do Claire good to take someone in. To get down to brass tacks and actually say what she’s driving at.

CLAIRE

Oh—Harry. But yes—I will try. (Does try, but no words come. Laughs.) When you come to say it it’s not—One would rather not nail it to a cross of words— (Laughs again.) with brass tacks.

HARRY

(Affectionately.) But I want to see you put things into words, Claire, and realize just where you are.

CLAIRE
(Oddly.) You think that’s a—good idea?
ELIZABETH

(In her manner of holding the world capably in her hands.) Now let’s talk of something else. I hadn’t the least idea of making mother feel badly.

CLAIRE

(Desperately.) No, we’ll go on. Though I don’t know—where we’ll end. I can’t answer for that. These plants— (Beginning flounderingly.) Perhaps they are less beautiful—less sound—than the plants from which they diverged. But they have found—otherness. (Laughs a little shrilly.) If you know—what I mean.

TOM
Claire—stop this! (To Harry.) This is wrong.
CLAIRE

(Excitedly.) No; I’m going on. They have been shocked out of what they were—into something they were not; they’ve broken from the forms in which they found themselves. They are alien. Outside. That’s it, outside; if you—know what I mean.

ELIZABETH

(Not shocked from what she is.) But of course, the object of it all is to make them better plants. Otherwise, what would be the sense of doing it?

CLAIRE

(Not reached by Elizabeth.) Out there— (Giving it with her hands.) lies all that’s not been touched—lies life that waits. Back here—the old pattern, done again, again and again. So long done it doesn’t even know itself for a pattern—in immensity. But this—has invaded. Crept a little way into—what wasn’t. Strange lines in life unused. And when you make a pattern new you know a pattern’s made with life. And then you know that anything may be—if only you know how to reach it. (This has taken form, not easily, but with great struggle between feeling and words.)

HARRY

(Cordially.) Now I begin to get you, Claire. I never knew before why you called it the Edge Vine.

CLAIRE

I should destroy the Edge Vine. It isn’t—over the edge. It’s running, back to—“all the girls”. It’s a little afraid of Miss Lane. (Looking somberly at it.) You are out, but you are not alive.

ELIZABETH
Why, it looks all right, mother.
CLAIRE

Didn’t carry life with it from the life it left. Dick—you know what I mean. At least you ought to. (Her ruthless way of not letting anyone’s feelings stand in the way of truth.) Then destroy it for me! It’s hard to do it—with the hands that made it.

DICK

But what’s the point in destroying it, Claire?

CLAIRE

(Impatiently.) I’ve told you. It cannot create.

DICK

But you say you can go on producing it, and it’s interesting in form.

CLAIRE

And you think I’ll stop with that? Be shut in—with different life—that can’t creep on? (After trying to put destroying hands upon it.) It’s hard to—get past what we’ve done. Our own dead things—block the way.

TOM

But you’re doing it this next time, Claire. (Nodding to the inner room.) In there!

CLAIRE
(Turning to that room.) I’m not sure.
TOM

But you told me Breath of Life has already produced itself. Doesn’t that show it has brought life from the life it left?

CLAIRE

But timidly, rather—wistfully. A little homesick. If it is less sure this time, then it is going back to—Miss Lane. But if the pattern’s clearer now, then it has made friends of life that waits. I’ll know tomorrow.

ELIZABETH
You know, something tells me this is wrong.
CLAIRE
The hymn-singing ancestors are tuning up.
ELIZABETH

I don’t know what you mean by that, mother but—

CLAIRE

But we will now sing, “Nearer, my God, to Thee: Nearer to—”

ELIZABETH

(Laughingly breaking in.) Well, I don’t care. Of course you can make fun at me, but something does tell me this is wrong. To do what—what—

DICK
What God did?
ELIZABETH

Well—yes. Unless you do it to make them better—to do it just to do it—that doesn’t seem right to me.

CLAIRE

(Roughly.) “Right to you!” And that’s all you know of adventure—and of anguish. Do you know it is you—world of which you’re so true a flower—makes me have to leave? You’re there to hold the door shut! Because you’re young and of a gayer world, you think I can’t see them—those old men? Do you know why you’re so sure of yourself? Because you can’t feel. Can’t feel—the limitless—out there—a sea just over the hill. I will not stay with you! (Buries her hands in the earth around the Edge Vine. But suddenly steps back from it as she had from Elizabeth.) And I will not stay with you!

[Grasps it as we grasp what we would kill, is trying to pull it up. They all step forward in horror. Anthony is drawn in by this harm to the plant.

ANTHONY
Miss Claire! Miss Claire! The work of years!
CLAIRE

May only make a prison! (Struggling with Harry, who is trying to stop her.) You think I too will die on the edge? (She has thrown him away, is now struggling with the vine.) Why did I make you? To get past you! (As she twists it.) Oh yes, I know you have thorns! The Edge Vine should have thorns. (With a long tremendous pull for deep roots, she has it up. As she holds the torn roots.) Oh, I have loved you so! You took me where I hadn’t been.

ELIZABETH

(Who has been looking on with a certain practical horror.) Well, I’d say it would be better not to go there!

CLAIRE

Now I know what you are for! (Flings her arm back to strike Elizabeth with the Edge Vine.)

HARRY
(Wresting it from her.) Claire! Are you mad?
CLAIRE

No, I’m not mad. I’m—too sane! (Pointing to Elizabeth—and the words come from mighty roots.) To think that object ever moved my belly and sucked my breast! (Elizabeth hides her face as if struck.)

HARRY

(Going to Elizabeth, turning to Claire.) This is atrocious! You’re cruel.

[He leads Elizabeth to the door and out. After an irresolute moment in which he looks from Claire to Tom, Dick follows. Anthony cannot bear to go. He stoops to take the Edge Vine from the floor. Claire’s gesture stops him. He goes into the inner room.

CLAIRE

(Kicking the Edge Vine out of her way, drawing deep breaths, smiling.) O-h. How good I feel! Light! (A movement as if she could fly.) Read me something, Tom dear. Or say something pleasant—about God. But be very careful what you say about him! I have a feeling—he’s not far off.

(CURTAIN)

ACT TWO

SCENE:  Late afternoon of the following day. Claire is alone in the tower—a tower which is thought to be round but does not complete the circle. The back is curved, then jagged lines break from that, and the front is a queer bulging window—in a curve that leans. The whole structure is as if given a twist by some terrific force—like something wrung. It is lighted by an old-fashioned watchman’s lantern hanging from the ceiling; the innumerable pricks and slits in the metal throw a marvelous pattern on the curved wall—like some masonry that hasn’t been.

There are no windows at back, and there is no door save an opening in the floor. The delicately distorted rail of a spiral staircase winds up from below. Claire is seen through the huge ominous window as if shut into the tower. She is lying on a seat at the back looking at a book of drawings. To do this she has left the door of her lantern a little open—and her own face is clearly seen.

A door is heard opening below; laughing voices, Claire listens, not pleased.

ADELAIDE

(Voice coming up.) Dear—dear, why do they make such twisting steps.

HARRY

Take your time, most up now. (HARRY’s head appears, he looks back.) Making it all right?

ADELAIDE

I can’t tell yet. (Laughingly.) No, I don’t think so.

HARRY

(Reaching back a hand for her.) The last lap—is the bad lap. (Adelaide is up, and occupied with getting her breath.)

HARRY

Since you wouldn’t come down, Claire, we thought we’d come up.

ADELAIDE

(As Claire does not greet her.) I’m sorry to intrude, but I have to see you, Claire. There are things to be arranged. (Claire volunteering nothing about arrangements, Adelaide surveys the tower. An unsympathetic eye goes from the curves to the lines which diverge. Then she looks from the window.) Well, at least you have a view.

HARRY
This is the first time you’ve been up here?
ADELAIDE

Yes, in the five years you’ve had the house I was never asked up here before.

CLAIRE

(Amiably enough.) You weren’t asked up here now.

ADELAIDE
Harry asked me.
CLAIRE

It isn’t Harry’s tower. But never mind—since you don’t like it—it’s all right.

ADELAIDE

(Her eyes again rebuking the irregularities of the tower.) No, I confess I do not care for it. A round tower should go on being round.

HARRY

Claire calls this the thwarted tower. She bought the house because of it. (Going over and sitting by her, his hand on her ankle.) Didn’t you, old girl? She says she’d like to have known the architect.

ADELAIDE

Probably a tiresome person too incompetent to make a perfect tower.

CLAIRE
Well, now he’s disposed of, what next?
ADELAIDE

(Sitting down in a manner of capably opening a conference.) Next, Elizabeth, and you, Claire. Just what is the matter with Elizabeth?

CLAIRE

(Whose voice is cool, even, as if her self is not really engaged by this.) Nothing is the matter with her. She is a tower that is a tower.

ADELAIDE
Well, is that anything against her?
CLAIRE

She’s just like one of her father’s portraits. They never interested me. Nor does she. (Looks at the drawings which do interest her.)

ADELAIDE

A mother cannot cast off her own child simply because she does not interest her!

CLAIRE

(An instant raising cool eyes to Adelaide.) Why can’t she?

ADELAIDE
Because it would be monstrous!
CLAIRE

And why can’t she be monstrous—if she has to be?

ADELAIDE

You don’t have to be. That’s where I’m out of patience with you Claire. You are really a particularly intelligent, competent person, and it’s time for you to call a halt to this nonsense and be the woman you were meant to be!

CLAIRE

(Holding the book up to see another way.) What inside dope have you on what I was meant to be?

ADELAIDE
I know what you came from.
CLAIRE

Well, isn’t it about time somebody got loose from that? What I came from made you, so—

ADELAIDE
(Stiffly.) I see.
CLAIRE

So—you being such a tower of strength, why need I too be imprisoned in what I came from?

ADELAIDE

It isn’t being imprisoned. Right there is where you make your mistake, Claire. Who’s in a tower—in an unsuccessful tower? Not I. I go about in the world—free, busy, happy. Among people, I have no time to think of myself.

CLAIRE
No.
ADELAIDE

No. My family. The things that interest them; from morning till night it’s—

CLAIRE

Yes, I know you have a large family, Adelaide; five and Elizabeth makes six.

ADELAIDE

We’ll speak of Elizabeth later. But if you would just get out of yourself and enter into other people’s lives—

CLAIRE

Then I would become just like you. And we should all be just alike in order to assure one another that we’re all just right. But since you and Harry and Elizabeth and ten million other people bolster each other up, why do you especially need me?

ADELAIDE

(Not unkindly.) We don’t need you as much as you need us.

CLAIRE
(A wry face.) I never liked what I needed.
HARRY

I am convinced I am the worst thing in the world for you, Claire.

CLAIRE

(With a smile for his tactics, but shaking her head.) I’m afraid you’re not. I don’t know—perhaps you are.

ADELAIDE
Well, what is it you want, Claire?
CLAIRE
(Simply.) You wouldn’t know if I told you.
ADELAIDE
That’s rather arrogant.
HARRY

Yes, take a chance, Claire. I have been known to get an idea—and Adelaide quite frequently gets one.

CLAIRE

(The first resentment she has shown.) You two feel very superior, don’t you?

ADELAIDE

I don’t think we are the ones who are feeling superior.

CLAIRE

Oh, yes, you are. Very superior to what you think is my feeling of superiority, comparing my—isolation with your “heart of humanity”. Soon we will speak of the beauty of common experiences, of the—Oh, I could say it all before we come to it.

HARRY
Adelaide came up here to help you, Claire.
CLAIRE

Adelaide came up here to lock me in. Well, she can’t do it.

ADELAIDE

(Gently.) But can’t you see that one may do that to one’s self?

CLAIRE

(Thinks of this, looks suddenly tired—then smiles.) Well, at least I’ve changed the keys.

HARRY

“Locked in.” Bunkum. Get that our of your head, Claire. Who’s locked in? Nobody that I know of, we’re all free Americans. Free as air.

ADELAIDE

I wish you’d come and hear one of Mr. Morley’s sermons, Claire. You’re very old-fashioned if you think sermons are what they used to be.

CLAIRE

(With interest.) And do they still sing “Nearer, my God, to Thee”?

ADELAIDE

They do, and a noble old hymn it is. It would do you no harm at all to sing it.

CLAIRE

(Eagerly.) Sing it to me, Adelaide. I’d like to hear you sing it.

ADELAIDE

It would be sacrilege to sing it to you in this mood.

CLAIRE

(Falling back.) Oh, I don’t know. I’m not so sure God would agree with you. That would be one on you, wouldn’t it?

ADELAIDE
It’s easy to feel one’s self set apart!
CLAIRE
No, it isn’t.
ADELAIDE

(Beginning anew.) It’s a new age, Claire. Spiritual values—

CLAIRE

Spiritual values! (In her brooding way.) So you have pulled that up. (With cunning.) Don’t think I don’t know what it is you do.

ADELAIDE

Well, what do I do? I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.

HARRY

(Affectionately, as Claire is looking with intentness at what he does not see.) What does she do, Claire?

CLAIRE

It’s rather clever, what she does. Snatching the phrase— (A movement as if pulling something up.) standing it up between her and—the life that’s there. And by saying it enough—“We have life! We have life! We have life!” Very good comeback at one who would really be—“Just so! We are that. Right this way, please—” That, I suppose is what we mean by needing each other. All join in the chorus, “This is it! This is it! This is it!” And anyone who won’t join is to be—visited by relatives. (Regarding Adelaide with curiosity.) Do you really think that anything is going on in you?

ADELAIDE

(Stiffly.) I am not one to hold myself up as a perfect example of what the human race may be.

CLAIRE
(Brightly.) Well, that’s good.
HARRY
Claire!
CLAIRE

Humility’s a real thing—not just a fine name for laziness.

HARRY

Well, Lord A’mighty, you can’t call Adelaide lazy.

CLAIRE

She stays in one place because she hasn’t the energy to go anywhere else.

ADELAIDE

(As if the last word in absurdity has been said.) I haven’t energy?

CLAIRE

(Mildly.) You haven’t any energy at all, Adelaide. That’s why you keep so busy.

ADELAIDE

Well—Claire’s nerves are in a worse state than I had realized.

CLAIRE

So perhaps we’d better look at Blake’s drawings. (Takes up the book.)

ADELAIDE

It would be all right for me to look at Blake’s drawings. You’d better look at the Sistine Madonna. (Affectionately, after she has watched Claire’s face a moment.) What is it, Claire? Why do you shut yourself out from us?

CLAIRE

I told you. Because I do not want to be shut in with you.

ADELAIDE
All of this is not very pleasant for Harry.
HARRY
I want Claire to be gay.
CLAIRE

Funny—you should want that. (Speaks unwillingly, a curious, wistful unwillingness.) Did you ever say a preposterous thing, then go trailing after the thing you’ve said and find it wasn’t so preposterous? Here is the circle we are in.(Describes a big circle.) Being gay. It shoots little darts through the circle, and a minute later—gaiety all gone, and you looking through that little hole the gaiety left.

ADELAIDE

(Going to her, as she is still looking through that little hole.) Claire, dear, I wish I could make you feel how much I care for you. (Simply, with real feeling.) You can call me all the names you like—dull, commonplace, lazy—that is a new idea, I confess, but the rest of our family’s gone now, and the love that used to be there between us all—the only place for it now is between you and me. You were so much loved, Claire. You oughtn’t to try and get away from a world in which you are so much loved. (To Harry.) Mother—father—all of us, always loved Claire best. We always loved Claire’s queer gaiety. Now you’ve got to hand it to us for that, as the children say.

CLAIRE

(Moved, but eyes shining with a queer bright loneliness.) But never one of you—once—looked with me through the little pricks the gaiety made—never one of you—once, looked with me at the queer light that came in through the pricks.

ADELAIDE

And can’t you see, dear, that it’s better for us we didn’t? And that it would be better for you now if you would just resolutely look somewhere else? You must see yourself that you haven’t the poise of people who are held—well, within the circle, if you choose to put it that way. There’s something about being in that main body, having one’s roots in the big common experiences, gives a calm which you have missed. That’s why I want you to take Elizabeth, forget yourself, and—

CLAIRE

I do want calm. But mine would have to be a calm I—worked my way to. A calm all prepared for me—would stink.

ADELAIDE

(Less sympathetically.) I know you have to be yourself, Claire. But I don’t admit you have a right to hurt other people.

HARRY

I think Claire and I had better take a nice long trip.

ADELAIDE
Now why don’t you?
CLAIRE
I am taking a trip.
ADELAIDE

Well, Harry isn’t, and he’d like to go and wants you to go with him. Go to Paris and get yourself some awfully good-looking clothes—and have one grand fling at the gay world. You really love that, Claire, and you’ve been awfully dull lately. I think that’s the whole trouble.

HARRY
I think so too.
ADELAIDE
This sober business of growing plants—
CLAIRE
Not sober—it’s mad.
ADELAIDE
All the more reason for quitting it.
CLAIRE

But madness that is the only chance for sanity.

ADELAIDE
Come, come, now—let’s not juggle words.
CLAIRE

(Springing up.) How dare you say that to me, Adelaide. You who are such a liar and thief and whore with words!

ADELAIDE
(Facing her, furious.) How dare you—
HARRY

Of course not, Claire. You have the most preposterous way of using words.

CLAIRE
I respect words.
ADELAIDE

Well, you’ll please respect me enough not to dare use certain words to me!

CLAIRE

Yes, I do dare. I’m tired of what you do—you and all of you. Life—experience—values—calm—sensitive words which raise their heads as indications. And you pull them up—to decorate your stagnant little minds—and think that makes you—And because you have pulled that word from the life that grew it you won’t let one who’s honest, and aware, and troubled, try to reach through to—to what she doesn’t know is there. (She is moved, excited, as if a cruel thing has been done.) Why did you come up here?

ADELAIDE

To try and help you. But I begin to fear I can’t do it. It’s pretty egotistical to claim that what so many people are, is wrong.

[Claire, after looking intently at Adelaide, slowly, smiling a little, describes a circle. With deftly used hands makes a quick vicious break in the circle which is there in the air.

HARRY

(Going to her, taking her hands.) It’s getting close to dinnertime. You were thinking of something else, Claire, when I told you Charlie Emmons was coming to dinner tonight. (Answering her look.) Sure—he is a neurologist, and I want him to see you. I’m perfectly honest with you—cards all on the table, you know that. I’m hoping if you like him—and he’s the best scout in the world, that he can help you. (Talking hurriedly against the stillness which follows her look from him to Adelaide, where she sees between them an “understanding” about her.) Sure you need help, Claire. Your nerves are a little on the blink—from all you’ve been doing. No use making a mystery of it—or a tragedy. Emmons is a cracker-jack, and naturally I want you to get a move on yourself and be happy again.

CLAIRE

(Who has gone over to the window.) And this neurologist can make me happy?

HARRY
Can make you well—and then you’ll be happy.
ADELAIDE

(In the voice of now fixing it all up.) And I had just an idea about Elizabeth. Instead of working with mere plants, why not think of Elizabeth as a plant and—

[Claire, who has been looking out of the window, now throws open one of the panes that swings out—or seems to, and calls down in great excitement.

CLAIRE
Tom! Tom! Quick! Up here! I’m in trouble!
HARRY

(Going to the window.) That’s a rotten thing to do, Claire! You’ve frightened him.

CLAIRE

Yes, how fast he can run. He was deep in thought and I stabbed right through.

HARRY

Well, he’ll be none too pleased when he gets up here and finds there was no reason for the stabbing!

[They wait for his footsteps, Harry annoyed, Adelaide offended, but stealing worried looks at Claire, who is looking fixedly at the place in the floor where Tom will appear.—Running footsteps.

TOM

(His voice getting there before he does.) Yes, Claire—yes—yes— (As his head appears.) What is it?

CLAIRE

(At once presenting him and answering his question.) My sister.

TOM

(Gasping.) Oh,—why—is that all? I mean—how do you do? Pardon, I (Panting.) came up—rather hurriedly.

HARRY

If you want to slap Claire, Tom, I for one have no objection.

CLAIRE

Adelaide has the most interesting idea, Tom. She proposes that I take Elizabeth and roll her in the gutter. Just let her lie there until she breaks up into—

ADELAIDE

Claire! I don’t see how—even in fun—pretty vulgar fun—you can speak in those terms of a pure young girl. I’m beginning to think I had better take Elizabeth.

CLAIRE
Oh, I’ve thought that all along.
ADELAIDE

And I’m also beginning to suspect that—oddity may be just a way of shifting responsibility.

CLAIRE

(Cordially interested in this possibility.) Now you know—that might be.

ADELAIDE

A mother who does not love her own child! You are an unnatural woman, Claire.

CLAIRE

Well, at least it saves me from being a natural one.

ADELAIDE

Oh—I know, you think you have a great deal! But let me tell you, you’ve missed a great deal! You’ve never known the faintest stirring of a mother’s love.

CLAIRE
That’s not true.
HARRY
No. Claire loved our boy.
CLAIRE
I’m glad he didn’t live.
HARRY
(Low.) Claire!
CLAIRE
I loved him. Why should I want him to live?
HARRY

Come, dear, I’m sorry I spoke of him—when you’re not feeling well.

CLAIRE

I’m feeling all right. Just because I’m seeing something, it doesn’t mean I’m sick.

HARRY

Well, let’s go down now. About dinnertime. I shouldn’t wonder if Emmons were here. (As Adelaide is starting downstairs.) Coming, Claire?

CLAIRE
No.
HARRY
But it’s time to go down for dinner.
CLAIRE
I’m not hungry.
HARRY

But we have a guest. Two guests—Adelaide’s staying too.

CLAIRE
Then you’re not alone.
HARRY
But I invited Dr. Emmons to meet you.
CLAIRE

(Her smile flashing.) Tell him I am violent tonight.

HARRY
Dearest—how can you joke about such things!
CLAIRE
So you do think they’re serious?
HARRY

(Irritated.) No, I do not! But I want you to come down for dinner!

ADELAIDE

Come, come, Claire; you know quite well this is not the sort of thing one does.

CLAIRE

Why go on saying one doesn’t, when you are seeing one does (To Tom.) Will you stay with me a while? I want to purify the tower.

[Adelaide begins to disappear.

HARRY

Fine time to choose for a tête-à-tête. (As he is leaving.) I’d think more of you, Edgeworthy, if you refused to humor Claire in her ill-breeding.

ADELAIDE

(Her severe voice coming from below.) It is not what she was taught.

CLAIRE

No, it’s not what I was taught. (Laughing rather timidly.) And perhaps you’d rather have your dinner?

TOM
No.
CLAIRE

We’ll get something later. I want to talk to you. (But she does not—laughs.) Absurd that I should feel bashful with you. Why am I so awkward with words when I go to talk to you?

TOM
The words know they’re not needed.
CLAIRE

No, they’re not needed. There’s something underneath—an open way—down below the way that words can go. (Rather desperately.) It is there, isn’t it?

TOM
Oh, yes, it is there.
CLAIRE
Then why do we never—go it?
TOM
If we went it, it would not be there.
CLAIRE
Is that true? How terrible, if that is true.
TOM

Not terrible, wonderful—that it should—of itself—be there.

CLAIRE

(With the simplicity that can say anything.) I want to go it, Tom, I’m lonely up on top here. Is it that I have more faith than you, or is it only that I’m greedier? You see, you don’t know (Her reckless laugh) what you’re missing. You don’t know how I could love you.

TOM

Don’t, Claire; that isn’t—how it is—between you and me.

CLAIRE

But why can’t it be—every way—between you and me?

TOM

Because we’d lose—the open way. (The quality of his denial shows how strong is his feeling for her.) With anyone else—not with you.

CLAIRE

But you are the only one I want. The only one—all of me wants.

TOM
I know; but that’s the way it is.
CLAIRE
You’re cruel.
TOM

Oh, Claire, I’m trying so hard to—save it for us. Isn’t it our beauty and our safeguard that underneath our separate lives, no matter where we may be, with what other, there is this open way between us? That’s so much more than anything we could bring to being.

CLAIRE

Perhaps. But—it’s different with me. I’m not—all spirit.

TOM
(His hand on her.) Dear!
CLAIRE

No, don’t touch me—since (Moving.) you’re going away tomorrow? (He nods.) For—always? (His head just nods assent.) India is just another country. But there are undiscovered countries.

TOM

Yes, but we are so feeble we have to reach our country through the actual country lying nearest. Don’t you do that yourself, Claire? Reach your country through the plants’ country?

CLAIRE
My country? You mean—outside?
TOM
No, I don’t think it that way.
CLAIRE
Oh, yes, you do.
TOM

Your country is the inside, Claire. The innermost. You are disturbed because you lie too close upon the heart of life.

CLAIRE

(Restlessly.) I don’t know; you can think it one way—or another. No way says it, and that’s good—at least it’s not shut up in saying. (She is looking at her enclosing hand, as if something is shut up there.)

TOM

But also, you know, things may be freed by expression. Come from the unrealized into the fabric of life.

CLAIRE

Yes, but why does the fabric of life have to—freeze into its pattern? It should (doing it with her hands) flow. (Then turning like an unsatisfied child to him.) But I wanted to talk to you.

TOM

You are talking to me. Tell me about your flower that never was before—your Breath of Life.

CLAIRE

I’ll know tomorrow. You’ll not go until I know?

TOM
I’ll try to stay.
CLAIRE

It seems to me, if it has—then I have, integrity in— (Smiles, it is as if the smile lets her say it.) otherness. I don’t want to die on the edge!

TOM
Not you!
CLAIRE

Many do. It’s what makes them too smug in allness—those dead things on the edge, died, distorted—trying to get through. Oh—don’t think I don’t see—The Edge Vine! (A pause, then swiftly.) Do you know what I mean? Or do you think I’m just a fool, or crazy?

TOM

I think I know what you mean, and you know I don’t think you are a fool, or crazy.

CLAIRE

Stabbed to awareness—no matter where it takes you, isn’t that more than a safe place to stay? (Telling him very simply despite the pattern of pain in her voice.) Anguish may be a thread—making patterns that haven’t been. A thread—blue and burning.

TOM

(To take her from what even he fears for her.) But you were telling me about the flower you breathed to life. What is your Breath of Life?

CLAIRE

(An instant playing.) It’s a secret. A secret?—it’s a trick. Distilled from the most fragile flowers there are. It’s only air—pausing—playing; except, far in, one stab of red, its quivering heart—that asks a question. But here’s the trick—I bred the air-form to strength. The strength shut up behind us I’ve sent—far out. (Troubled.) I’ll know tomorrow. And I have another gift for Breath of Life; someday—though days of work lie in between—someday I’ll give it reminiscence. Fragrance that is—no one thing in here but—reminiscent. (Silence, she raises wet eyes.) We need the haunting beauty from the life we’ve left. I need that. (He takes her hands and breathes her name.) Let me reach my country with you. I’m not a plant. After all, they don’t—accept me. Who does—accept me? Will you?

TOM

My dear—dear, dear, Claire—you move me so! You stand alone in a clearness that breaks my heart. (Her hands move up his arms. He takes them to hold them from where they would go—though he can hardly do it.) But you’ve asked what you yourself could answer best. We’d only stop in the country where everyone stops.

CLAIRE
We might come through—to radiance.
TOM
Radiance is an enclosing place.
CLAIRE

Perhaps radiance lighting forms undreamed. (Her reckless laugh.) I’d be willing to—take a chance, I’d rather lose than never know.

TOM

No, Claire. Knowing you from underneath, I know you couldn’t bear to lose.

CLAIRE
Wouldn’t men say you were a fool!
TOM
They would.
CLAIRE

And perhaps you are. (He smiles a little.) I feel so desperate, because if only I could—show you what I am, you might see I could have without losing. But I’m a stammering thing with you.

TOM
You do show me what you are.
CLAIRE

I’ve known a few moments that were life. Why don’t they help me now? One was in the air. I was up with Harry—flying—high. It was about four months before David was born—the doctor was furious—pregnant women are supposed to keep to earth. We were going fast—I was flying—I had left the earth. And then—within me, movement, for the first time—stirred to life far in air—movement within. The man unborn, he too, would fly. And so—I always loved him. He was movement—and wonder. In his short life were many flights. I never told anyone about the last one. His little bed was by the window—he wasn’t four years old. It was night, but him not asleep. He saw the morning star—you know—the morning star. Brighter—stranger—reminiscent—and a promise. He pointed—“Mother”, he asked me, “what is there—beyond the stars?” A baby, a sick baby—the morning star. Next night—the finger that pointed was— (Suddenly bites her own finger.) But, yes, I am glad. He would always have tried to move and too much would hold him. Wonder would die—and he’d laugh at soaring. (Looking down, sidewise.) Though I liked his voice. So I wish you’d stay near me—for I like your voice, too.

TOM
Claire! That’s (Choked.) almost too much.
CLAIRE

(One of her swift glances—canny, almost practical.) Well, I’m glad if it is. How can I make it more? (But what she sees brings its own change.) I know what it is you’re afraid of. It’s because I have so much—yes, why shouldn’t I say it?—passion. You feel that in me, don’t you? You think it would swamp everything. But that isn’t all there is to me.

TOM

Oh, I know it! My dearest—why, it’s because I know it! You think I am—a fool?

CLAIRE

It’s a thing that’s—sometimes more than I am. And yet I—I am more than it is.

TOM
I know. I know about you.
CLAIRE

I don’t know that you do. Perhaps if you really knew about me—you wouldn’t go away.

TOM
You’re making me suffer, Claire.
CLAIRE

I know I am. I want to. Why shouldn’t you suffer? (Now seeing it more clearly than she has ever seen it.) You know what I think about you? You’re afraid of suffering, and so you stop this side—in what you persuade yourself is suffering. (Waits, then sends it straight.) You know—how it is—with me and Dick? (As she sees him suffer.) Oh, no, I don’t want to hurt you! Let it be you! I’ll teach you—you needn’t scorn it. It’s rather wonderful.

TOM
Stop that, Claire! That isn’t you.
CLAIRE

Why are you so afraid—of letting me be low—if that is low? You see— (Cannily.) I believe in beauty. I have the faith that can be bad as well as good. And you know why I have the faith? Because sometimes—from my lowest moments—beauty has opened as the sea. From a cave I saw immensity.

My love, you’re going away—

Let me tell you how it is with me;

I want to touch you—somehow touch you once before I die—

Let me tell you how it is with me.
I do not want to work,
I want to be;
Do not want to make a rose or make a poem—
Want to lie upon the earth and know.

[Closes her eyes.

Stop doing that!—words going into patterns;

They do it sometimes when I let come what’s there.

Thoughts take pattern—then the pattern is the thing.

But let me tell you how it is with me.

[It flows again.

All that I do or say—it is to what it comes from,

A drop lifted from the sea.

I want to lie upon the earth and know.

But—scratch a little dirt and make a flower;

Scratch a bit of brain—something like a poem.

[Covering her face.

Stop doing that. Help me stop doing that!

TOM

(And from the place where she had carried him.)

Don’t talk at all. Lie still and know—

And know that I am knowing.

CLAIRE

Yes; but we are so weak we have to talk;

To talk—to touch.

Why can’t I rest in knowing I would give my life to reach you?

That has—all there is.

But I must—put my timid hands upon you,

Do something about infinity.

Oh, let what will flow into us,

And fill us full—and leave us still.

Wring me dry,

And let me fill again with life more pure.

To know—to feel,

And do nothing with what I feel and know—

That’s being good. That’s nearer God.

(Drenched in the feeling that has flowed through her—but surprised—helpless.) Why, I said your thing, didn’t I? Opened my life to bring you to me, and what came—is what sends you away.

TOM

No! What came is what holds us together. What came is what saves us from ever going apart. (Brokenly.) My beautiful one. You—you brave flower of all our knowing.

CLAIRE

I am not a flower. I am too torn. If you have anything—help me. Breathe, Breathe the healing oneness, and let me know in calm. (With a sob his head rests upon her.)

CLAIRE

(Her hands on his head, but looking far.) Beauty—you pure one thing. Breathe—Let me know in calm. Then—trouble me, trouble me, for other moments—in farther calm. (Slow, motionless, barely articulate.)

TOM

(As she does not move he lifts his head. And even as he looks at her, she does not move, nor look at him.) Claire— (His hand out to her, a little afraid.) You went away from me then. You are away from me now.

CLAIRE

Yes, and I could go on. But I will come back. (It is hard to do. She brings much with her.) That, too, I will give you—my by-myself-ness. That’s the uttermost I can give. I never thought—to try to give it. But let us do it—the great sacrilege! Yes! (Excited, she rises; she has his hands, and bring him up beside her.) Let us take the mad chance! Perhaps it’s the only way to save—what’s there. How do we know? How can we know? Risk. Risk everything. From all that flows into us, let it rise! All that we never thought to use to make a moment—let it flow into what could be! Bring all into life between us—or send all down to death! Oh, do you know what I am doing? Risk, risk everything, why are you so afraid to lose? What holds you from me? Test all. Let it live or let it die. It is our chance—our chance to bear—what’s there. My dear one—I will love you so. With all of me. I am not afraid now—of—all of me. Be generous. Be unafraid. Life is for life—though it cuts us from the farthest life. How can I make you know that’s true? All that we’re open to— (Hesitates, shudders.) But yes—I will, I will risk the life that waits. Perhaps only he who gives his loneliness—shall find. You never keep by holding. (Gesture of giving.) To the uttermost. And it is gone—or it is there. You do not know and—that makes the moment— (Music has begun—a phonograph downstairs; they do not heed it.) Just as I would cut my wrists— (Holding them out.) Yes, perhaps this lesser thing will tell it—would cut my wrists and let the blood flow out till all is gone if my last drop would make—would make— (Looking at them fascinated.) I want to see it doing that! Let me give my last chance for life to—

[He snatches her—they are on the brink of their moment; now that there are no words the phonograph from downstairs is louder. It is playing languorously the Barcarole; they become conscious of this—they do not want to be touched by the love song.

CLAIRE

Don’t listen. That’s nothing. This isn’t that. (Fearing.) I tell you—it isn’t that. Yes, I know—that’s amorous—enclosing. I know—a little place. This isn’t that. (Her arms going around him—all the lure of “that” while she pleads against it as it comes up to them.) We will come out—to radiance—in far places (Admitting, using.) Oh, then let it be that! Go with it. Give up—the otherness. I will! And in the giving up—perhaps a door—we’d never find by searching. And if it’s no more—than all have known, I only say it’s worth the allness! (Her arms wrapped round him.) My love—my love—let go your pride in loneliness and let me give you joy!

TOM

(Drenched in her passion, but fighting.) It’s you. (In anguish.) You rare thing untouched—not—not into this—not back into this—by me—lover of your apartness.

[She steps back. She sees he cannot. She stands there, before what she wanted more than life, and almost had, and lost. A long moment. Then she runs down the stairs.

CLAIRE

(Her voice coming up.) Harry! Choke that phonograph! If you want to be lewd—do it yourselves! You tawdry things—you cheap little lewd cowards. (A door heard opening below.) Harry! If you don’t stop that music, I’ll kill myself.

[Far down, steps on stairs.

HARRY
Claire, what is this?
CLAIRE
Stop that phonograph or I’ll—
HARRY

Why, of course I’ll stop it. What—what is there to get so excited about? Now—now just a minute, dear. It’ll take a minute.

[Claire comes back upstairs, dragging steps, face ghastly. The amorous song still comes up, and louder now that doors are open. She and Tom do not look at one another. Then, on a languorous swell the music comes to a grating stop. They do not speak or move. Quick footsteps—Harry comes up.

HARRY

What in the world were you saying, Claire? Certainly you could have asked me more quietly to turn off the Victrola. Though what harm was it doing you—way up here? (A sharp little sound from Claire; she checks it, her hand over her mouth. Harry looks from her to Tom.) Well, I think you two would better have had your dinner. Won’t you come down now and have some?

CLAIRE

(Only now taking her hand from her mouth.) Harry, tell him to come up here—that insanity man. I—want to ask him something.

HARRY

“Insanity man!” How absurd. He’s a nerve specialist. There’s a vast difference.

CLAIRE

Is there? Anyway, ask him to come up here. Want to—ask him something.

TOM

(Speaking with difficulty.) Wouldn’t it be better for us to go down there?

CLAIRE
No. So nice up here! Everybody—up here!
HARRY

(Worried.) You’ll—be yourself, will you, Claire? (She checks a laugh, nods.) I think he can help you.

CLAIRE
Want to ask him to—help me.
HARRY

(As he is starting down.) He’s here as a guest tonight, you know, Claire.

CLAIRE
I suppose a guest can—help one.
TOM

(When the silence rejects it.) Claire, you must know, it’s because it is so much, so—

CLAIRE
Be still. There isn’t anything to say.
TOM
(Torn—tortured.) If it only weren’t you!
CLAIRE

Yes,—so you said. If it weren’t I. I suppose I wouldn’t be so—interested! (Hears them starting up below—keeps looking at the place where they will appear.)

[Harry is heard to call, “Coming, Dick?” and Dick’s voice replies, “In a moment or two.” Adelaide comes first.

ADELAIDE

(As her head appears.) Well, these stairs should keep down weight. You missed an awfully good dinner, Claire. And kept Mr. Edgeworthy from a good dinner.

CLAIRE

Yes. We missed our dinner. (Her eyes do not leave the place where Dr. Emmons will come up.)

HARRY
(As he and Emmons appear.) Claire, this is—
CLAIRE
Yes, I know who he is. I want to ask you—
ADELAIDE

Let the poor man get his breath before you ask him anything. (He nods, smiles, looks at Claire with interest. Careful not to look too long at her, surveys the tower.)

EMMONS

Curious place.

ADELAIDE

Yes; it lacks form, doesn’t it?

CLAIRE

What do you mean? How dare you?

[It is impossible to ignore her agitation; she is backed against the curved wall, as far as possible from them. Harry looks at her in alarm, then in resentment at Tom, who takes a step nearer Claire.

HARRY

(Trying to be light.) Don’t take it so hard, Claire.

CLAIRE

(To Emmons.) It must be very interesting—helping people go insane.

ADELAIDE
Claire! How preposterous.
EMMONS

(Easily.) I hope that’s not precisely what we do.

ADELAIDE

(With the smile of one who is going to “cover it”.) Trust Claire to put it in the unique and—amusing way.

CLAIRE

Amusing? You are amused? But it doesn’t matter. (To the doctor.) I think it is very kind of you—helping people go insane. I suppose they have all sorts of reasons for having to do it—reasons why they can’t stay sane any longer. But tell me, how do they do it? It’s not so easy to—get out. How do so many manage it?

EMMONS

I’d like immensely to have a talk with you about all this someday.

ADELAIDE
Certainly this is not the time, Claire.
CLAIRE

The time? When you—can’t go any farther—isn’t that—

ADELAIDE

(Capably taking the whole thing into matter-of-factness.) What I think is, Claire has worked too long with plants. There’s something—not quite sound about making one thing into another thing. What we need is unity. (From Claire something like a moan.) Yes, dear, we do need it. (To the doctor.) I can’t say that I believe in making life over like this. I don’t think the new species are worth it. At least I don’t believe in it for Claire. If one is an intense, sensitive person—

CLAIRE

Isn’t there any way to stop her? Always—always smothering it with the word for it?

EMMONS

(Soothingly.) But she can’t smother it. Anything that’s really there—she can’t hurt with words.

CLAIRE

(Looking at him with eyes too bright.) Then you don’t see it either. (Angry.) Yes, she can hurt it! Piling it up—always piling it up—between us and—What there. Clogging the way—always. (To Emmons.) I want to cease to know! That’s all I ask. Darken it. Darken it. If you came to help me, strike me blind!

EMMONS

You’re really all tired out, aren’t you? Oh, we’ve got to get you rested.

CLAIRE

They—deny it saying they have it; and he— (Half looks at Tom—quickly looks away.) others, deny it—afraid of losing it. We’re in the way. Can’t you see the dead stuff piled in the path? (Pointing.)

DICK
(Voice coming up.) Me too?
CLAIRE

(Staring at the path, hearing his voice a moment after it has come.) Yes, Dick—you too. Why not—you too. (After he has come up.) What is there any more than you are?

DICK

(Embarrassed by the intensity, but laughing.) A question not at all displeasing to me. Who can answer it?

CLAIRE

(More and more excited.) Yes! Who can answer it? (Going to him, in terror.) Let me go with you—and be with you—and know nothing else!

ADELAIDE
(Gasping.) Why—!
HARRY
Claire! This is going a little too—
CLAIRE

Far? But you have to go far to— (Clinging to Dick.) Only a place to hide your head—what else is there to hope for? I can’t stay with them—piling it up! Always—piling it up! I can’t get through to—he won’t let me through to—what I don’t know is there! (Dick would help her regain herself.) Don’t push me away! Don’t—don’t stand me up, I will go back—to the worst we ever were! Go back—and remember—what we’ve tried to forget!

ADELAIDE

It’s time to stop this by force—if there’s no other way.

[The doctor shakes his head.

CLAIRE

All I ask is to die in the gutter with everyone spitting on me. (Changes to a curious weary smiling quiet.) Still, why should they bother to do that?

HARRY

(Brokenly.) You’re sick, Claire. There’s no denying it. (Looks at Emmons, who nods.)

ADELAIDE
Something to quiet her—to stop it.
CLAIRE

(Throwing her arms around Dick.) You, Dick. Not them. Not—any of them.

DICK
Claire, you are overwrought. You must—
HARRY

(To Dick, as if only now realizing that phase of it.) I’ll tell you one thing, you’ll answer to me for this!

[He starts for Dick—is restrained by Emmons, chiefly by his grave shake of the head. With Harry’s move to them, Dick has shielded Claire.

CLAIRE

Yes—hold me. Keep me. You have mercy! You will have mercy. Anything—everything—that will let me be nothing!

(CURTAIN)

ACT THREE

SCENE:  In the greenhouse, the same as Act I. Anthony is bedding small plants where the Edge Vine grew. In the inner room the plant like caught motion glows as from a light within. Hattie, the Maid, rushes in from outside.

ANTHONY

(Turning angrily.) You are not what this place—

HATTIE

Anthony, come in the house. I’m afraid. Mr. Archer, I never saw him like this. He’s talking to Mr. Demming—something about Mrs. Archer.

ANTHONY

(Who in spite of himself is disturbed by her agitation.) And if it is, it’s no business of yours.

HATTIE

You don’t know how he is. I went in the room and—

ANTHONY
Well, he won’t hurt you, will he?
HATTIE

How do I know who he’ll hurt—a person’s whose— (Seeing how to get him.) Maybe he’ll hurt Mrs. Archer.

ANTHONY

(Startled, then smiles.) No; he won’t hurt Miss Claire.

HATTIE

What do you know about it?—out here in the plant house?

ANTHONY

And I don’t want to know about it. This is a very important day for me. It’s Breath of Life I’m thinking of today—not you and Mr. Archer.

HATTIE

Well, suppose he does something to Mr. Demming?

ANTHONY

Mr. Demming will have to look out for himself, I am at work. (Resuming work.)

HATTIE

Don’t you think I ought to tell Mrs. Archer that—

ANTHONY

You let her alone! This is no day for her to be bothered by you. At eleven o’clock (Looks at watch.) she comes out here—to Breath of Life.

HATTIE

(With greed for gossip.) Did you see any of them when they came downstairs last night?

ANTHONY
I was attending to my own affairs.
HATTIE

They was all excited. Mr. Edgeworthy—he went away. He was gone all night, I guess. I saw him coming back just as the milkman woke me up. Now he’s packing his things. He wanted to get to Mrs. Archer too—just a little while ago. But she won’t open her door for none of them. I can’t even get in to do her room.

ANTHONY

Then do some other room—and leave me alone in this room.

HATTIE

(A little afraid of what she is asking.) Is she sick, Anthony—or what? (Vindicating herself, as he gives her a look.) The doctor, he stayed here late. But she’d locked herself in. I heard Mr. Archer—

ANTHONY

You heard too much! (He starts for the door, to make her leave, but Dick rushes in. Looks around wildly, goes to the trapdoor, finds it locked.)

ANTHONY
What are you doing here?
DICK

Trying not to be shot—if you must know. This is the only place I can think of—till he comes to his senses and I can get away. Open that, will you? Rather—ignominious—but better be absurd than be dead.

HATTIE
Has he got the revolver?
DICK

Gone for it. Thought I wouldn’t sit there till he got back. (To Anthony.) Look here—don’t you get the idea? Get me some place where he can’t come.

ANTHONY
It is not what this place is for.
DICK
Any place is for saving a man’s life.
HATTIE

Sure, Anthony. Mrs. Archer wouldn’t want Mr. Demming shot.

DICK

That’s right, Anthony. Miss Claire will be angry at you if you get me shot. (He makes for the door of the inner room.)

ANTHONY

You can’t go in there. It’s locked. (Harry rushes in from outside.)

HARRY

I thought so! (He has the revolver. Hattie screams.)

ANTHONY

Now, Mr. Archer, if you’ll just stop and think, you’ll know Miss Claire wouldn’t want Mr. Demming shot.

HARRY

You think that can stop me? You think you can stop me? (Raising the revolver.) A dog that—

ANTHONY

(Keeping squarely between Harry and Dick.) Well, you can’t shoot him in here. It is not good for the plants. (Harry is arrested by this reason.) And especially not today. Why, Mr. Archer, Breath of Life may flower today. It’s years Miss Claire’s been working for this day.

HARRY
I never thought to see this day!
ANTHONY

No, did you? Oh, it will be a wonderful day. And how she has worked for it. She has an eye that sees what isn’t right in what looks right. Many’s the time I’ve thought—Here the form is set—and then she’d say, “We’ll try this one”, and it had—what I hadn’t known was there. She’s like that.

HARRY

I’ve always been pleased, Anthony, at the way you’ve worked with Miss Claire. This is hardly the time to stand there eulogizing her. And she’s (Can hardly say it.) things you don’t know she is.

ANTHONY

(Proudly.) Oh, I know that! You think I could work with her and not know she’s more than I know she is?

HARRY

Well, if you love her, you’ve got to let me shoot the dirty dog that drags her down!

ANTHONY

Not in here. Not today. More than like you’d break the glass. And Breath of Life’s in there.

HARRY
Anthony, this is pretty clever of you—but—
ANTHONY

I’m not clever. But I know how easy it is to turn life back. No, I’m not clever at all (Claire has appeared and is looking in from outside.), but I do know—there are things you mustn’t hurt. (He sees her.) Yes, here’s Miss Claire.

[She comes in. She is looking immaculate.

CLAIRE

From the gutter I rise again, refreshed. One does, you know. Nothing is fixed—not even the gutter. (Smilingly to Harry and refusing to notice revolver or agitation.) How did you like the way I entertained the nerve specialist?

HARRY
Claire! You can joke about it?
CLAIRE

(Taking the revolver from the hand she has shocked to limpness.) Whom are you trying to make hear?

HARRY

I’m trying to make the world hear that (Pointing.) there stands a dirty dog who—

CLAIRE

Listen, Harry. (Turning to Hattie, who is over by the tall plants at right, not wanting to be shot but not wanting to miss the conversation.) You can do my room now, Hattie. (Hattie goes.) If you’re thinking of shooting Dick, you can’t shoot him while he’s backed up against that door.

ANTHONY

Just what I told them, Miss Claire. Just what I told them.

CLAIRE

And for that matter, it’s quite dull of you to have any idea of shooting him.

HARRY

I may be dull—I know you think I am—but I’ll show you that I’ve enough of the man in me to—

CLAIRE

To make yourself ridiculous? If I ran out and hid my head in the mud, would you think you had to shoot the mud?

DICK
(Stung out of fear.) That’s pretty cruel!
CLAIRE
Well, would you rather be shot?
HARRY
So you just said it to protect him!
CLAIRE

I change it to grass. (Nodding to Dick.) Grass. If I hid my face in the grass, would you have to burn the grass?

HARRY

Oh, Claire, how can you? When you know how I love you—and how I’m suffering?

CLAIRE

(With interest.) Are you suffering?

HARRY

Haven’t you eyes?

CLAIRE

I should think it would—do something to you.

HARRY

God! Have you no heart?

[The door opens. Tom comes in.

CLAIRE
(Scarcely saying it.) Yes, I have a heart.
TOM
(After a pause.) I came to say goodbye.
CLAIRE

God! Have you no heart? Can’t you at least wait till Dick is shot?

TOM

Claire! (Now sees the revolver in her hand that is turned from him. Going to her.) Claire!

CLAIRE

And even you think this is so important? (Carelessly raises the revolver, and with her left hand out flat, tells Tom not to touch her.) Harry thinks it important he shoot Dick, and Dick thinks it important not to be shot, and you think I mustn’t shoot anybody—even myself—and can’t any of you see that none of that is as important as—where revolvers can’t reach? (Putting revolver where there is no Edge Vine.) I shall never shoot myself. I’m too interested in destruction to cut it short by shooting. (After looking from one to the other, laughs. Pointing.) One—two—three. You-love-me. But why do you bring it out here?

ANTHONY

(Who has resumed work.) It is not what this place is for.

CLAIRE

No this place is for the destruction that can get through.

ANTHONY

Miss Claire, it is eleven. At eleven we are to go in and see—

CLAIRE

Whether it has gone through. But how can we go—with Dick against the door?

ANTHONY
He’ll have to move.
CLAIRE
And be shot?
HARRY

(Irritably.) Oh, he’ll not be shot. Claire can spoil anything.

[Dick steps away from the door; Claire takes a step nearer it.

CLAIRE

(Halting.) Have I spoiled everything? I don’t want to go in there.

ANTHONY

We’re going in together, Miss Claire. Don’t you remember? Oh— (Looking resentfully at the others.) don’t let any little thing spoil it for you—the work of all those days—the hope of so many days.

CLAIRE
Yes—that’s it.
ANTHONY
You’re afraid you haven’t done it?
CLAIRE
Yes, but—afraid I have.
HARRY

(Cross, but kindly.) That’s just nervousness, Claire. I’ve had the same feeling myself about making a record in flying.

CLAIRE
(Curiously grateful.) You have, Harry?
HARRY

(Glad enough to be back in a more usual world.) Sure. I’ve been afraid to know, and almost as afraid of having done it as of not having done it.

[Claire nods, steps nearer, then again pulls back.

CLAIRE

I can’t go in there. (She almost looks at Tom.) Not today.

ANTHONY

But, Miss Claire, there’ll be things to see today we can’t see tomorrow.

CLAIRE
You bring it in here!
ANTHONY

In—out from its own place? (She nods.) And—where they are? (Again she nods. Reluctantly he goes to the door.) I will not look into the heart. No one must know before you know.

[In the inner room, his head a little turned away, he is seen very carefully to lift the plant which glows from within. As he brings it in, no one looks at it. Harry takes a box of seedlings from a stand and puts them on the floor, that the newcomer may have a place.

ANTHONY

Breath of Life is here, Miss Claire.

[Claire half turns, then stops.

CLAIRE

Look—and see—what you see.

ANTHONY

No one should see what you’ve not seen.

CLAIRE

I can’t see—until I know.

[Anthony looks into the flower.

ANTHONY
(Agitated.) Miss Claire!
CLAIRE
It has come through?
ANTHONY
It has gone on.
CLAIRE
Stronger?
ANTHONY
Stronger, surer.
CLAIRE
And more fragile?
ANTHONY
And more fragile.
CLAIRE
Look deep. No—turning back?
ANTHONY

(After a searching look.) The form is set. (He steps back from it.)

CLAIRE

Then it is—out. (From where she stands she turns slowly to the plant.) You weren’t. You are.

ANTHONY
But come and see, Miss Claire.
CLAIRE
It’s so much more than—I’d see.
HARRY

Well, I’m going to see. (Looking into it.) I never saw anything like that before! There seems something alive—inside this outer shell.

DICK

(He too looking in and he has an artist’s manner of a hand up to make the light right.) It’s quite new in form. It—says something about form.

HARRY

(Cordially to Claire, who stands apart.) So you’ve really put it over. Well, well,—congratulations. It’s a good deal of novelty, I should say, and I’ve no doubt you’ll have a considerable success with it—people always like something new. I’m mighty glad—after all your work, and I hope it will—set you up.

CLAIRE

(Low—and like a machine.) Will you all—go away?

[Anthony goes into the other room.

HARRY

Why—why, yes. But—oh, Claire! Can’t you take some pleasure in your work? (As she stands there very still.) Emmons says you need a good long rest—and I think he’s right.

TOM

Can’t this help you, Claire? Let this be release. This—breath of the uncaptured.

CLAIRE

(And though speaking, she remains just as still.)

Breath of the uncaptured?

You are a novelty.

Out?

You have been brought in.

A thousand years from now, when you are but a form too long repeated,
perhaps the madness that gave you birth will burst again,

And from the prison that is you will leap pent queernesses

To make a form that hasn’t been—

To make a person new.

And this we call creation.

(Very low, her head not coming up.) Go away!

[Tom goes; Harry hesitates, looking in anxiety at Claire. He starts to go, stops, looks at Dick, from him to Claire. But goes. A moment later Dick moves near Claire; stands uncertainly, then puts a hand upon her. She starts, only then knowing he is there.

CLAIRE

(A slight shrinking away, but not really reached.) Um, um.

[He goes. Claire steps nearer her creation. She looks into what hasn’t been. With her breath, and by a gentle moving of her hands, she fans it to fuller openness.
As she does this Tom returns and from outside is looking in at her. Softly he opens the door and comes in. She does not know that he is there. In the way she looks at the flower he looks at her.

TOM

Claire. (She lifts her head.) As you stood there, looking into the womb you breathed to life, you were beautiful to me beyond any other beauty. You were life and its reach and its anguish. I can’t go away from you. I will never go away from you. It shall all be—as you wish. I can go with you where I could not go alone. If this is delusion, I want that delusion. It’s more than any reality I could attain. (As she does not move.) Speak to me, Claire. You—are glad?

CLAIRE

(From far.) Speak to you? (Pause.) Do I know who you are?

TOM
I think you do.
CLAIRE

Oh, yes. I love you. That’s who you are. (Waits again.) But why are you something—very far away?

TOM
Come nearer.
CLAIRE

Nearer? (Feeling it with her voice.) Nearer. But I think I am going—the other way.

TOM

No, Claire—come to me. Did you understand, dear? I am not going away.

CLAIRE
You’re not going away?
TOM

Not without you, Claire. And you and I will be together. Is that—what you wanted?

CLAIRE

Wanted? (As if wanting is something that harks far back. But the word calls to her passion.) Wanted! (A sob, hands out, she goes to him. But before his arms can take her, she steps back.) Are you trying to pull me down into what I wanted? Are you here to make me stop?

TOM

How can you ask that? I love you because it is not in you to stop.

CLAIRE

And loving me for that—would stop me? Oh, help me see it! It is so important that I see it.

TOM
It is important. It is our lives.
CLAIRE

And more than that. I cannot see it because it is so much more than that.

TOM

Don’t try to see all that it is. From peace you’ll see a little more.

CLAIRE

Peace? (Troubled as we are when looking at what we cannot see clearly.) What is peace? Peace is what the struggle knows in moments very far apart. Peace—that is not a place to rest. Are you resting? What are you? You who’d take me from what I am to something else?

TOM
I thought you knew, Claire.
CLAIRE

I know—what you pass for. But are you beauty? Beauty is that only living pattern—the trying to take pattern. Are you trying?

TOM

Within myself, Claire. I never thought you doubted that.

CLAIRE

Beauty is— (She turns to Breath of Life, as if to learn it there, but turns away with a sob.) If I cannot go to you now—I will always be alone.

[Tom takes her in his arms. She is shaken, then comes to rest.

TOM

Yes—rest. And then—come into joy. You have so much life for joy.

CLAIRE

(Raising her head, called by promised gladness.) We’ll run around together. (Lovingly he nods.) Up hills. All night on hills.

TOM
(Tenderly.) All night on hills.
CLAIRE
We’ll go on the sea in a little boat.
TOM
On the sea in a little boat.
CLAIRE

But—there are other boats on other seas. (Drawing back from him, troubled.) There are other boats on other seas.

TOM

(Drawing her back to him.) My dearest—not now, not now.

CLAIRE

(Her arms going round him.) Oh, I would love those hours with you. I want them. I want you! (They kiss—but deep in her is sobbing.) Reminiscence. (Her hand feeling his arm as we touch what we would remember.) Reminiscence. (With one of her swift changes steps back from him.) How dare you pass for what you’re not? We are tired, and so we think it’s you. Stop with you. Don’t get through—to what you’re in the way of. Beauty is not something you say about beauty.

TOM
I say little about beauty, Claire.
CLAIRE

Your life says it. By standing far off you pass for it. Smother it with a life that passes for it. But beauty— (Getting it from the flower.) Beauty is the humility breathed from the shame of succeeding.

TOM
But it may all be within one’s self, dear.
CLAIRE

(Drawn by this, but held, and desperate because she is held.) When I have wanted you with all my wanting—why must I distrust you now? When I love you—with all of me, why do I know that only you are worth my hate?

TOM

It’s the fear of easy satisfactions. I love you for it.

CLAIRE

(Over the flower.) Breath of Life—you here? Are you lonely—Breath of Life?

TOM

Claire—hear me! Don’t go where we can’t go. As there you made a shell for life within, make for yourself a life in which to live. It must be so.

CLAIRE

As you made for yourself a shell called beauty?

TOM

What is there for you, if you’ll have no touch with what we have?

CLAIRE

What is there? There are the dreams we haven’t dreamed. There is the long and flowing pattern. (She follows that, but suddenly and as if blindly goes to him.) I am tired. I am lonely. I’m afraid. (He holds her, soothing. But she steps back from him.) And because we are tired—lonely—and afraid, we stop with you. Don’t get through—to what you’re in the way of.

TOM
Then you don’t love me?
CLAIRE

I’m fighting for my chance. I don’t know—which chance.

[Is drawn to the other chance, to Breath of Life. Looks into it as if to look through to the uncaptured. And through this life just caught comes the truth she chants.

I’ve wallowed at a coarse man’s feet,

I’m sprayed with dreams we’ve not yet come to.

I’ve gone so low that words can’t get there,

I’ve never pulled the mantle of my fears around me

And called it loneliness—And called it God.

Only with life that waits have I kept faith.

[With effort raising her eyes to the man.

And only you have ever threatened me.

TOM

(Coming to her, and with strength now.) And I will threaten you. I’m here to hold you from where I know you cannot go. You’re trying what we can’t do.

CLAIRE
What else is there worth trying?
TOM

I love you, and I will keep you—from fartherness—from harm. You are mine, and you will stay with me! (Roughly.) You hear me? You will stay with me!

CLAIRE

(Her head on his breast, in ecstasy of rest. Drowsily.) You can keep me?

TOM

Darling! I can keep you. I will keep you—safe.

CLAIRE

(Troubled by the word, but barely able to raise her head.) Safe?

TOM

(Bringing her to rest again.) Trust me, Claire.

CLAIRE

(Not lifting her head, but turning it so she sees Breath of Life.) Now can I trust—what is? (Suddenly pushing him roughly away.) No! I will beat my life to pieces in the struggle to—

TOM
To what, Claire?
CLAIRE

Not to stop it by seeming to have it. (With fury.) I will keep my life low—low—that I may never stop myself—or anyone—with the thought it’s what I have. I’d rather be the steam rising from the manure than be a thing called beautiful! (With sight too clear.) Now I know who you are. It is you puts out the breath of life. Image of beauty—You fill the place—should be a gate. (In agony.) Oh, that it is you—fill the place—should be a gate! My darling! That it should be you who— (Her hands moving on him.) Let me tell you something. Never was loving strong as my loving of you! Do you know that? Oh, know that! Know it now! (Her arms go around his neck.) Hours with you—I’d give my life to have! That it should be you— (He would loosen her hands, for he cannot breathe. But when she knows she is choking him, that knowledge is fire burning its way into the last passion.) It is you. It is you.

TOM

(Words coming from a throat not free.) Claire! What are you doing?

[Then she knows what she is doing.

CLAIRE

(To his resistance.) No! You are too much! You are not enough. (Still wanting not to hurt her, he is slow in getting free. He keeps stepping backward trying, in growing earnest, to loosen her hands. But he does not loosen them before she has found the place in his throat that cuts off breath. As he gasps) Breath of Life—my gift—to you!

[She has pushed him against one of the plants at right as he sways, strength she never had before pushes him over backward, just as they have struggled from sight. Violent crash of glass is heard.

TOM
(Faint smothered voice.) No. I’m—hurt.
CLAIRE

(In the frenzy and agony of killing.) Oh, gift! Oh, gift! (There is no sound. Claire rises—steps back—is seen now; is looking down.) Gift.

[Like one who does not know where she is, she moves into the room—looks around. Takes a step toward Breath of Life; turns and goes quickly to the door. Stops, as if stopped. Sees the revolver where the Edge Vine was. Slowly goes to it. Holds it as if she cannot think what it is for. Then raises it high and fires above through the place in the glass left open for ventilation.

[Anthony comes from the inner room. His eyes go from her to the body beyond. Harry rushes in from outside.

HARRY

Who fired that?

CLAIRE

I did. Lonely.

[Seeing Anthony’s look, Harry’s eyes follow it.

HARRY

Oh! What? What? (Dick comes running in.) Who? Claire!

[Dick sees—goes to Tom.

CLAIRE

Yes. I did it. MY—Gift.

HARRY

Is he—? He isn’t—? He isn’t—?

[Tries to go in there. Cannot—there is the sound of broken glass, of a position being changed—then Dick reappears.

DICK

(His voice in jerks.) It’s—it’s no use, but I’ll go for a doctor.

HARRY

No—no. Oh, I suppose— (Falling down beside Claire—his face against her.) My darling! How can I save you now?

CLAIRE

(Speaking each word very carefully.) Saved—myself.

ANTHONY

I did it. Don’t you see? I didn’t want so many around. Not—what this place is for.

HARRY

(Snatching at this but lets it go.) She wouldn’t let— (Looking up at Claire—then quickly hiding his face.) And—don’t you see?

CLAIRE

Out. (A little like a child’s pleased surprise.) Out.

[Dick stands there, as if unable to get to the door—his face distorted, biting his hand.

ANTHONY

Miss Claire! You can do anything—won’t you try?

CLAIRE

Reminiscence? (Speaking the word as if she has left even that, but smiles a little.)

[Anthony takes Reminiscence, the flower she was breeding for fragrance for Breath of Life—holds it out to her. But she has taken a step forward, past them all.

CLAIRE

Out. (As if feeling her way.)
Nearer,

[Her voice now feeling the way to it.

Nearer—

[Voice almost upon it.

—my God,

[Falling upon it with surprise.

to Thee,

[Breathing it.

Nearer—to Thee,
E’en though it be—

[A slight turn of the head toward the dead man she loves—a mechanical turn just as far the other way.

a cross
That

[Her head going down.

raises me;

[Her head slowly coming up—singing it.

Still all my song shall be,
Nearer, my—

[Slowly the curtain begins to shut her out. The last word heard is the final Nearer—a faint breath from far.

CURTAIN

Alison’s House

A PLAY IN THREE ACTS

Produced by the Civic Repertory Theatre,
New York City, 1 December, 1930.

Awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Drama, 1931.

CHARACTERS

ANN LESLIE,  Mr. Stanhope’s secretary

JENNIE,  the housekeeper

RICHARD KNOWLES,  a young reporter

TED STANHOPE,  Mr. Stanhope’s youngest son, a college student

LOUISE,  Eben’s wife

MR. STANHOPE,  THE FATHER

EBEN,  Mr. Stanhope’s son

ELSA,  Mr. Stanhope’s daughter

MISS AGATHA,  Mr. Stanhope’s elderly sister

HODGES,  a prospective buyer of the house

MRS. HODGES

PERIOD—December 31, 1899

PLACE—

ACT I
The library of the old Stanhope homestead in Iowa, on the Mississippi.

ACT II
The same as Act I.

ACT III
Alison’s room.

ACT ONE

SCENE:  The library of the old Stanhope homestead in Iowa, on the Mississippi, where Miss Agatha Stanhope still lives. There is a river village nearby, and the small city where the other Stanhopes now live is about ten miles up the river.

It is the room of people who have lived in comfortable circumstances and signifies a family of traditions and cultivation.

Left, just rear of center, a door into the hall. In the rear corner, left, a stone fireplace. In the rear wall a bay-window, the windows coming down to a low seat, and curtained with old plum-colored velvet. Right of this are books, which are continued into an alcove. There is an easy chair near the bay-window, by it a foot-stool and a low table; front, right, a long table. At the left, front of door, a desk. The room is carpeted, a tone deeper than the curtains. On the walls are portraits of an older generation.

The time is eleven in the morning of the last day of the nineteenth century, December 31, 1899. But the furnishings of the library are of a period earlier than this.

As the curtain rises Ann is seated before her Oliver typewriter, near the alcove, behind the long table. She is fair, sensitive looking. She wears a shirtwaist and blue skirt, in the manner of 1900. She is about twenty-three, and has gentle manners. She reaches down and takes another old paper from a small horse-hair trunk beside her. Makes a typewritten note.

[Enter Jennie.

JENNIE

(Speaking to someone behind her.) You had better come in here. Everything is so upset—with the moving. Oh, here is Miss Ann. He says he’s a reporter, Miss. I don’t know anything about it.

[Enter Knowles, a young man. Jennie goes out.

ANN
You wished to see Mr. Stanhope?
KNOWLES

Well—yes, some of the family. But most of all, the house.

ANN
The house is being broken up.
KNOWLES

I want to see it before it’s broken up. Especially the room that was used by Miss Alison Stanhope.

ANN

I think no one goes in that room, except the family.

KNOWLES
You are not—of the family?
ANN
Oh, no. I am Mr. Stanhope’s secretary.
KNOWLES

(Going a little nearer.) Those papers you’re working with—are they by any chance the papers of Miss Alison Stanhope?

ANN
They are not.
KNOWLES

(with his very nice smile) And it’s none of my business what they are. I’m from the Chicago Record Herald. Down to get a little story about the house, because it is being broken up.

ANN

(with a smile) Isn’t there anything going on in Chicago?

KNOWLES
Perhaps not as much as went on in this house.
ANN

I’m surprised a metropolitan paper should be interested in the fact Miss Agatha Stanhope is moving up to town to live with her brother.

KNOWLES
It isn’t Miss Agatha. It’s Miss Alison.
ANN

But aren’t you a little late? Miss Alison has been dead eighteen years.

KNOWLES

She isn’t dead. Anything about her is alive. She belongs to the world. But the family doesn’t seem to know that.

ANN
They published her poems.
KNOWLES

But anything about where—how—they were written. The desk she sat at. The window she looked from. Is there a bird singing in that tree now? Well, no, probably not, the last day of December. But looking through the dead branches, to meadows sloping to the Mississippi, as she looked.

ANN
You cared for the poems.
KNOWLES

I’ll never forget the day I got them—at the bookshop on the Midway, and walked down through Jackson Park, and saw the lake—because she had seen the river. I write a little poetry myself.

ANN

I wish I could. But I can’t write it. That’s why I’m so grateful to Alison.

KNOWLES
I know. Do you read the Record Herald?
ANN
Usually.
KNOWLES
Did you see it last Wednesday?
ANN
I don’t remember.
KNOWLES

Do you remember a poem—no, verses—Michigan Avenue?

ANN
I’m afraid I didn’t see that.
KNOWLES
(grinning) Well, I did.
ANN
You get your poems printed?
KNOWLES
I’m no Alison, but—
ANN
I suppose you haven’t it with you?
KNOWLES

Well, since you mention it, I don’t seem to remember taking it out of my vest pocket.

ANN
I’d love to see it.
KNOWLES

You would? Oh, well, I don’t mind. (Taking a clipping from his pocket, he hands it to her.) Don’t expect anything.

ANN
(who is reading.) Oh, I think that’s nice.
KNOWLES

(Eagerly looking over her shoulder.) Which part?

ANN

The lake. “Through all the years you waited for your city—”

KNOWLES

Just a fancy. I like best—“Lights snuffed in fog as—”

[Ted comes in, whistling “A hot time in the old town tonight.”

ANN

Ted! Here is a poem about— (To Knowles.) Oh, here is a member of the family, Mr. Edward Stanhope. This gentleman—

KNOWLES
Knowles.
ANN

Mr. Knowles is a reporter. He’s from the Record Herald.

TED
Honest?
KNOWLES
(laughing) Honest.
ANN
He wants to see the house.
TED

Should have come sooner. Everything’s topsy-turvy. Anyway—why?

KNOWLES
Because Alison Stanhope lived and died here.
TED

I see. Well, they haven’t started on Alison’s room yet. Aunt Agatha won’t let them.

KNOWLES

Won’t you let me see it? It isn’t just the story. It’s—a feeling about it. (To Ann.) You know. And since it’s going to be broken up, and won’t be any more, why not someone who has a feeling about it to—to hold it in memory, you might say.

TED
(uncertainly) Well, I dunno.
ANN

I’ve been in there. Mr. Stanhope took me when I got here this morning. He said he wanted me to be there—before it ceased. It’s just the same. It’s as if she might come in the door.

KNOWLES

We understand. We three. Why trouble the older folks about it? This is the last day of the nineteenth century.

TED
Well, there’s no lie, but—
KNOWLES

I can’t tell you how I’d appreciate it. How much it would mean to me.

TED

(At the door, looking into the hall.) They’re all in the dining-room, counting dishes.

KNOWLES
Fine!
TED
But if Louise finds out.
KNOWLES
She won’t. We’ll see to it.
TED

(Attracted by the idea of stealing a march.) S—h.

[Goes out, softly, followed by Knowles. Ann returns to the poem she had not finished.

[Enter Louise.

LOUISE

(sharply) What is this story of Jennie’s—about a reporter?

ANN
There was a reporter.
LOUISE
Did you talk to him?
ANN
Not much.
LOUISE
Where is he?
ANN
He went out just now.
LOUISE
Where?
ANN
Why, just out.
LOUISE

You refuse to talk to me—about a family matter?

ANN

(Examining a paper from the trunk.) There is so much for me to do.

LOUISE

Well—really. We’ll see about this! (Goes to the door.) Father! Father Stanhope!

ANN

Oh—please! Surely that isn’t necessary, when he’s so busy—troubled.

LOUISE

So am I busy—troubled. Yes, Father. Just a moment, please.

[Enter Stanhope. He has the look of a man who has made a place for himself, who is acquainted with responsibilities. He is vigorous for a man of sixty-three, though troubled at the moment. One soon feels he has a feeling for others that makes him tolerant, though firm.

STANHOPE
(good humoredly) What’s the trouble now?
LOUISE

Father, I think you ought to know there’s a reporter in the house. Ann knows about it, and won’t tell.

STANHOPE

Yes? Well, when you’ve seen as many reporters as I have you’ll know they don’t usually shoot, or even bite. He probably came down about the Mahoney case.

LOUISE
(To Ann.) Where was he from?
ANN
Chicago.
LOUISE
Chicago! You see? “The Mahoney case”!
STANHOPE
What did he want, Ann?
ANN
To see the house.
LOUISE
Why? Why should he see the house?
ANN
Because Alison lived here.
LOUISE
I knew that!
STANHOPE

Well, and what of it? My dear, you can’t have a distinguished person in the family without running into a little public interest. (He takes one of the papers from the trunk.)

LOUISE

Father! Please let’s try to do this without—stirring things up. Just because we’re breaking up the house do we have to revive the stories about Alison?

STANHOPE
To what stories about my sister do you refer?
LOUISE

Now please don’t be vexed with me. You know as well as I do—the whole story they’ve harped on so long—that she was different—a rebel—goodness, I don’t know what they do mean.

STANHOPE

I think the worst they can say about my dear sister is that she was a great soul, and a poet. It isn’t going to hurt my feelings to have it said again.

LOUISE

But you know how they talk—it makes the whole family seem—different. And after Elsa— (At this change.) Oh, forgive me, but you must know how the town does talk about Elsa. You can’t run away with a married man—live with a man who has a wife and children and not be talked about.

ANN

In making the memoranda of these old contracts am I to—

[Stanhope moves to her.

LOUISE

And they do link it up with something queer about Alison.

STANHOPE

(Checking anger, and speaking easily.) That would be most unjust to Alison. She never lived with a man who had a wife and children.

LOUISE

(Knowing she shouldn’t say it.) She wanted to, didn’t she?

STANHOPE

(Again checking anger, speaking humorously.) Oh, we want to do lots of things we don’t do. I might want to ask my daughter-in-law to keep still. In fact, I think I shall.

LOUISE

(Rather angry, and made the more persistent by it.) Where did he go—this reporter?

ANN
Why, they went out—just a moment ago.
LOUISE
They? Who’s with him?
ANN
He’s with Ted.
LOUISE

Ted! He’s already told him enough to fill a page! Where did they go?

STANHOPE

(As Ann peers at a paper.) Well, where did they go, Ann—the roof—the cellar?

ANN
He wanted to see the Alison room.
LOUISE

And you dared—and Ted dared—Oh what management.

[She moves to the door, but Stanhope follows.

STANHOPE

No. Not up there. No disturbance in Alison’s room. It is to keep its—serenity, the one day it has left.

LOUISE
Serenity! With reporters prowling around?
ANN
He writes poetry himself.
LOUISE
How absurd!
ANN
No, it was quite good.
LOUISE

The trouble is, Father, the family has too many—on the outskirts, who like to snatch a little of the sensationalism. I’m amazed you can’t see my point. Just now, after Elsa—

STANHOPE

I have told you before I did not wish to discuss my daughter with you.

LOUISE

But you act as if I had nothing to do with it. Your daughter is my husband’s sister—I’m sorry to say. My children are Stanhopes. I don’t want them taunted.

STANHOPE

Have they been taunted? They’re rather young for that.

LOUISE
They will be.
STANHOPE

Well, sufficient unto the day is the taunting thereof.

LOUISE
But if we stir it all up again—
STANHOPE

The family china and silver seem more important at the moment than the family disgraces. I hadn’t thought you need come down here, Louise, but you were anxious to get your Aunt Agatha moved with the least friction. Now why not a little management in the dining-room? Poor Agatha’s all upset.

LOUISE

(Starting to go, but turning.) It isn’t good for Eben, either!

STANHOPE
(Occupied with a paper.) The dining-room?
LOUISE
Oh, Father, why won’t you be serious with me?
STANHOPE

Because you make me feel too serious, perhaps.

LOUISE
Eben isn’t any too well grounded.
STANHOPE
Oh, Eben has a very good hold on the law.
LOUISE
I mean the law of life.
STANHOPE
Oh. Law of life.
LOUISE

He has that same thing. He could just—shake everything loose. I’m sorry to talk before outsiders.

STANHOPE

I don’t regard Ann an outsider. It was you came where she was working, not Ann who intruded. Now Ann, take these notes, please.

LOUISE
I think a family should stand together.
STANHOPE
That’s right. Stand by your Aunt Agatha.
LOUISE
(Murmuring as she goes out) What can I do?
STANHOPE

(Sitting down by Ann, she with her pad for dictation.) Sometimes I wish I weren’t the head of a family. Sometimes I wish there weren’t any family, (Ann had begun to take this, tears off the page.) Quite so. Some things we never put down. Even Alison didn’t put it all down. (Listening to footsteps in the hall.) Ted! (Ted comes to the door.) Come in here. Both of you.

[Knowles follows Ted into the room.

TED
This is Mr. Knowles, Father.
STANHOPE
(curtly) How do you do?
KNOWLES
How do you do, sir.
STANHOPE
(To Ted.) What have you been doing?
TED
Just walking around.
STANHOPE
Where?
TED
Round the house.
STANHOPE
What room of the house?
KNOWLES

My fault, sir. I wanted to see Miss Alison’s room.

STANHOPE

You did, did you? A great many people have wanted to see it, and haven’t.

KNOWLES

(To Ted.) I want to thank you for letting me see it.

STANHOPE
He had no business to let you see it!
KNOWLES
Nevertheless I shall remember it always.
STANHOPE

(Momentarily touched by the sincerity of his tone.) And now you’re going to write a lurid story about it.

KNOWLES

Not lurid. (With a smile.) That wouldn’t be the way to handle this story. But that room belongs to the world, don’t you think so? Alison Stanhope’s room—holds something.

[ Agatha Stanhope has appeared in the doorway; she retains the manner of strength, though obviously feeble. She is carrying a china tea-pot, and a sugar bowl. She is arrested by Knowles’ last words.

AGATHA

What does it hold? (Fearful of dropping the tea-pot she holds it against her.) What does it hold?

STANHOPE

Never mind, Agatha.

[He tries to take the pieces she carries, but she does not give them to him.

AGATHA

What is he here for?

STANHOPE

It’s all right, Agatha.

[He guides her to the big chair, would help her seat herself.

AGATHA

What does he know about it?

STANHOPE

Nothing. Nothing at all.

[Enter Jennie, carrying a large basket filled with straw, on the top of which is another piece of the tea set.

JENNIE

I think this will be all right, Miss Agatha.

[She puts it down, goes out. Agatha still looking at the reporter. With Stanhope’s help she is seated, as if not knowing it has happened.

STANHOPE

(Pulling up the low table for the tea things.) You needn’t do these things yourself.

AGATHA

What does it hold? It holds nothing, I tell you—nothing. (Making as if to rise.) Did you take something?

KNOWLES
Oh, no. Indeed I did not.
AGATHA
(To Stanhope.) He’s looking for something.
STANHOPE

No, Agatha. Just someone here with Ted. (Low, to Ted.) You haven’t done so well, you see.

AGATHA

I won’t have people looking through Alison’s room. I’ve guarded it for eighteen years. (Changing, cunning.) All right, look. Look again. See what you find.

STANHOPE
We’ll say good day now, young man.
KNOWLES

One question, please. Sorry. I was told to ask it. Have all the poems of Alison Stanhope been published?

AGATHA

(who had begun taking out the straw for packing.) What’s that? What does he mean?

STANHOPE

(Soothing her.) Never mind. I will answer your question, though I’ve answered it many times before. All the poems of Alison Stanhope have been published.

AGATHA
Now. You see? He answered you, didn’t he?
KNOWLES

In going through the house—going through old papers—did you—

STANHOPE
It was one question you were to ask.
KNOWLES

Please, just this. It is a matter of public concern, you know. Did you find any papers—

AGATHA
What papers? What papers is he talking about?
STANHOPE

My sister is not equal to this. No, we found nothing that brings any new light to bear on the life of Alison Stanhope. Everything had been gone through long before.

AGATHA
Everything had been gone through long before.
KNOWLES

Thank you, sir. (To Agatha.) Sorry to have disturbed you.

AGATHA

(sharply) You didn’t disturb me.

KNOWLES

(To Ann, with a smile.) Goodbye.

ANN

(Holding it out to him.) I like the poem.

KNOWLES

Would you like to keep it?

ANN

Thank you.

[ Knowles goes out, followed by Ted.

AGATHA
Where did he come from? What does he want?
STANHOPE

It’s nothing—nothing at all. (To himself.) We’re lucky to get off this easy.

AGATHA

That’s why I didn’t want to move. Stirring it all up! I wish they’d let Alison alone.

STANHOPE
They will, dear—in time.
AGATHA
Why can’t they let her rest in peace?
STANHOPE

They will—soon. Though it wasn’t in peace Alison rested.

AGATHA

What do you mean? I knew her better than you did.

STANHOPE

No you didn’t, Agatha. But never mind. Now you don’t have to pack these things yourself.

AGATHA

Mother’s tea set? I’ll pack it myself, and take it with me myself.

ANN

Perhaps I could help you, Miss Agatha. (To Stanhope.) Have I time?

STANHOPE

(Nodding.) We don’t make much headway, anywhere. (He sits at the table, discouraged.) It’s harder than I thought.

AGATHA

I wouldn’t have believed it, John. I just wouldn’t have believed that you—our brother John—would break up the old place, turning me out of home.

STANHOPE

That’s because I want to turn you into my own home. You have to take care of me now, Agatha.

AGATHA
Elsa went away and left you.
STANHOPE

(Hurt, but again speaking brightly.) So you have to step into the breach, as usual.

AGATHA

I looked after Alison—so long. Then looked after what Alison left. Now you’re turning her out of home.

STANHOPE

Don’t say that. She wouldn’t say it. Alison was at home in the universe.

AGATHA

Elsa shouldn’t have gone away and left her father.

STANHOPE
No.
AGATHA
Alison wouldn’t have.
STANHOPE

No, Alison didn’t do it—that way. But we differ. We’re all different.

AGATHA

Alison stayed.

STANHOPE

Yes.

[Ann has been packing the tea set.

AGATHA

(Looking down at it.) No—no, those are too near together.

ANN

(Taking one out.) Then I’ll fix it—this way.

[Ted returns.

TED
Nice fellow.
STANHOPE

(At the table, looking through papers.) You exceeded your authority, young man.

TED
We can’t keep Alison in a prison.
AGATHA

Who kept Alison in a prison? What do you mean—a prison? She was where she wanted to be, wasn’t she?

TED

She doesn’t belong to just us. She belongs to the world.

STANHOPE

Oh, come Ted. We’ve heard that times enough, and acted on it.

AGATHA

I say she does not belong to the world! I say she belongs to us. And I’ll keep her from the world—I’ll keep the world from getting her—if it kills me—and kills you all!

TED

(At first standing there, astonished by the outburst.) Well, I hope it doesn’t. (Sits at the desk, taking paper and pen.)

STANHOPE

(Going over to Ted.) Now that is enough. One more word to agitate her, and you’ll answer to me. (Low.) I told you what the doctor said. (As Ann rises , after packing the tea set.) Well, that’s in good shape, isn’t it, Agatha? Now you finish up here, Ann, and Ted will help you list the books.

TED

Soon’s I finish this letter. He won’t give me the grade unless I tell him.

AGATHA
Who are you writing to?
TED
My English prof.
AGATHA
What about?
TED
Alison.
STANHOPE
Keep quiet or leave the room!
TED

Gee, Father, there’s no other room to go to. They’re all torn up.

AGATHA
What’s he telling him?
STANHOPE

Nothing. He’s just acting important. Now Agatha—Michael is here with the carriage. There’s no reason for your sitting in this confusion. I’m going to have him drive you to the village for the noon train. That will get you to town in twenty minutes. Louise can go with you; or Ann, if you prefer. There you’ll be comfortable, and can rest.

AGATHA

Me leave this house—while it is still this house? I shall be the last to step from the door.

STANHOPE

Oh, Agatha. You make it so hard for yourself, and for us all.

AGATHA

Leave things for everyone else to pry into—looking—prying.

TED

What kind of a pen did Alison use, and where is the pen?

STANHOPE
Be still!
TED

Well, gee, she’s my aunt, isn’t she, and you want me to be flunked in English?

AGATHA

(Low, gloatingly.) He doesn’t know what kind of a pen she used—and I won’t tell.

STANHOPE

No; why should you?

[He goes over to the books. Is looking at titles. For a moment Agatha watches Ted. She gets an idea, shrinks from it; it is terrible to her, but it grows, she faces it, and for a time she is aware of nothing else, does not move.

STANHOPE

(As Ann puts aside papers.) You are through there now?

ANN
I think so.
STANHOPE

Suppose we start on the books. We don’t have to do it very minutely, but must have something of a catalogue, as they go to different people, (Ann gets ready for this, Stanhope glances at his sister, but a little bent now, turned from him, he does not see her eyes, their horror, and purpose. Low.) Poetry. The Mermaid series, twelve volumes.

[Ted tears off his sheet of paper, crumples it, kicks the leg of the desk, rubs his head.

TED

(Muttering.) What’s anybody go to college for? Gee! (Takes another sheet, considers.) Gee, whiz!

STANHOPE

Chaucer. (Taking one out.) These are old. (Reads a little.) Alison read it aloud—beautifully. Her voice— (Stands as if listening. Abruptly breaks from this.) Two volumes. (Puts the book back, Agatha begins to unpack the tea set. Looks around to see that her brother is not watching her. Works carefully, to make no noise. Puts the pieces at the side of her chair, where the others will not see. Presses the straw back in the basket.) Spencer. The Faery Queen. (Waits for her to write.) Greene, Marlowe, Jonson.

ANN
All one volume?
STANHOPE
Yes.
TED
Oh—rats. (Rubs his head.)
STANHOPE

Shakespeare, five volumes. (Takes out the next book, examines it.) This is a nice old edition of Milton. See? (Showing it to Ann.) Alison was fond of this book.

ANN

Funny old pictures, aren’t they?

[Agatha gets her hands under the basket, which is on the low table. With difficulty rises, and takes it from the room.

STANHOPE

But we must get on with it. (Hearing his sister as she is leaving the room.) Agatha? (As she does not pause.) Well, her last day here. Now we come to Robert Burns—good Bobbie.

ANN
One volume?
STANHOPE

Yes. And Browning—Robert, four volumes; Mrs. Browning—

[Enter Louise.

LOUISE

This is the table to be sent to Cousin Marion, isn’t it? (Her hand on the low table from which Agatha has taken the basket.)

STANHOPE
Do we need to tear up this room just now?
LOUISE

The man is here—and if we are to finish by day after tomorrow.

TED
Did Alison sleep well?
STANHOPE

Really, Ted, sometimes I think you haven’t good sense.

TED

I’ve got sense enough to know how I can make this grade. You ought to hear him. He takes me out for dinner—fills me up on wine—

LOUISE
Who?
TED
Styles—English prof.
LOUISE

Your teachers at Harvard take you out and give you wine?

TED

Only Styles. Ever since he heard I was her nephew. Nearly dropped dead first time he asked me. But it always ends telling me I got no soul—insensitive family—unworthy. He’s crazy. Got to get this grade though.

LOUISE

Father, you surely won’t permit Ted to write a stranger—telling things—stirring it all up.

STANHOPE
Take the table out for Louise, Ted.
LOUISE

What is the tea set doing on the floor? Not a very safe place for valuable old china.

[She picks up the tea-pot and puts it on the big table, is getting the other pieces.

STANHOPE

(To Ann.) Why, I thought you packed that tea set.

ANN
I did.
STANHOPE
And she unpacked it?
LOUISE
And left it on the floor.
ANN
But she was so anxious about it.
STANHOPE
I’m afraid. Afraid for Agatha.
TED
Now about what Alison ate.
LOUISE
Seems to me it’s Ted whose mind is failing.
STANHOPE
We’re not in the mood for this nonsense.
TED

It’s no nonsense to me—after flunking history. What did she eat, Father? Did she like sweets?

LOUISE
Ted might as well be in town.
TED
Meat. How about meat?
STANHOPE

(Going back to the books.) No one is paying any attention to you. (Firmly.) Tennyson.

TED
Then how am I to get through college?
LOUISE

(who is dusting the small table.) I always said Ted should be sent to a western school. At least the professors don’t intoxicate the students.

TED

He never got me full but once. Then he was trying to find out about her love affair.

STANHOPE
(angrily.) Shelley. Four volumes.
LOUISE

You see? All this prying. Why it’s as if the family weren’t anything else. Why not tell him your grandfather was governor of the state and that your uncle is in Congress?

TED

He says the rest of the family is of interest only because it’s so vacuous. Vacuous, is that the word? But about the food, Father. I got to get this letter off before he reads what I handed in. Meat. Sweets. Fruit. (Writes.) Lots of fruit.

STANHOPE

And Keats.

[He stands looking through the Keats.

[A door closes outside.

EBEN~ (offstage)
How are you, Jennie?
STANHOPE
Why, that’s Eben.
EBEN~ (offstage)

Oh, but you’ll like it in town. Lots more going on. You can go to church.

JENNIE~ (offstage, in a dismal voice)

I’m out of the habit.

[Eben enters. He is self-assured in manner, though soon one feels the inner uncertainties, hesitations, and the inner beauty.

EBEN
How are you, Father? Working hard, Louise?
LOUISE
Certainly.
EBEN

Hello, Ann. (To Ted who stares moodily.) Well, I see you’re energetically on the job.

TED
(solemnly) I am doing my best.
EBEN
Who could do more?
TED
(gloomily) Who?
LOUISE

I thought you weren’t coming down till the office closed.

EBEN

I closed it. Nobody wants to do anything—last day of the year—last day of the century. Nobody’s busy but Cousin Marion. She telephoned three times. Thinks her club women might take the house for a museum.

STANHOPE

She’s thought that for two years. They haven’t the money.

EBEN

She says they could get a little, and pay gradually—give a kermiss or something.

STANHOPE

We’ll close with Hodges, who doesn’t have to give a kermiss.

EBEN
Her idea would hold the place together.
STANHOPE

Hold it together for the public. Agatha would never submit to it.

EBEN
How is she?
STANHOPE

Not well. Over-excited, which is just what the doctor warned against. I want to tell you, all of you—are you listening, Ted?—nothing must be said to agitate her. Everything possible must be kept from her. Dr. Lange told me last night her heart is more and more uncertain. And she’s getting—well, queer. Ann packed that tea set, and soon as we turned our backs she unpacked it.

LOUISE

(who is looking through articles in a small cabinet, left, rear.) Oh, I hope she doesn’t get too queer. We’ve had enough. I hate the idea of people thinking we’re different.

EBEN

Nothing very funny about an old lady, who’s lived alone too long, getting a bit childish. She’ll be all right, once she’s up at father’s.

STANHOPE

It’s important to keep telling her she must do it for me. Don’t let her think we feel she isn’t able to live down here alone. Tell her I’m alone.

EBEN

(sympathetically) Yes. (Looking around.) Hate like the dickens to see the place go, Father.

STANHOPE
Do you think I don’t?
EBEN

The fun we used to have down here as kids—Elsa and I. Especially when Alison was here. Remember how she was always making us presents?

STANHOPE
I remember.
EBEN

An apple—pebbles from the river—little cakes she’d baked. And always her jolly little verses with them. “Alison won’t tell,” she’d say, when Elsa and I had run off to the river. “Alison knows,” she’d say.

TED
(Repeating softly as he writes) Alison knows.
EBEN

It was all so darn real today, coming down here for the last time. And the century going—her century. When I got the first glimpse of the place through the trees I had a feeling of the whole century being piled on top of her, that she couldn’t get out from under.

LOUISE

How morbid. Don’t let your mind run on such things!

EBEN

Who am I—to tell my mind where to run? You know, Father, I’d like to hear her say once more—right now—here—Alison understands, because—I’ll be darned if I do.

TED
Was Alison a virgin?
LOUISE
Father!
STANHOPE
See here now!
EBEN
Getting fresh, aren’t you?
TED

It isn’t me. Why won’t you understand? He wants to know—and I got to make this grade.

STANHOPE
There is such a thing as taste, young man.
TED

Just what I told him—women of one’s family—and he almost slapped me. Well, was she a virgin?

STANHOPE
(violently) Yes!
TED

Oh, gee, I hoped she wasn’t. (Starting to write, turning.) How do you know?

STANHOPE
Leave the room!
TED

Where’ll I go? I don’t see how you can be sure—

EBEN

(Going to him, taking him by the collar, lifting him to his feet and shaking him back and forth.) You miserable little fool! And you’re the baby Alison used to say got through from heaven. The hell you did! Didn’t you get anything from her? (Shaking him.) Didn’t you?

TED

Say! Leave me alone, will you? I guess I was only two years old when she died! What do I know about her?

EBEN

Nothing. Absolutely nothing, and never will. Why that prof ought to kill you. If your soul wasn’t a shriveled peanut, something from her would have made you a human being!

STANHOPE
Come now, Eben. That’s enough.
EBEN

What’s the use of having had an Alison in the family? Sometimes I think I’ll run away from all this—and find her.

LOUISE
You haven’t been drinking, have you?
EBEN
No, but I will.
LOUISE

If you haven’t been drinking there’s even less excuse for this raving.

EBEN
You think it’s raving, Father?
STANHOPE
I think it is too uncontrolled.
EBEN

The last day we’ll ever be in her house—the last day it will be her house—how can we help but think of her—and feel her—and wonder what’s the matter with us—that something from her didn’t—oh Lord, make us something!

[Elsa, wearing coat, furs, hat, has stepped inside the door. She has beauty, a soft radiance.

ELSA

(in low thrilling voice) Yes, Eben. Yes!

EBEN

Elsa!

STANHOPE

Elsa!

ELSA

Father, may I—come in?

[One hand, palm up. Goes out toward him, timidly, but eloquent.

LOUISE

Certainly you may not—not while—

[But is afraid to go on, Stanhope is staring so strangely at his daughter.

TED
Hello, Elsa. How’d you get here?
ELSA

(gratefully) Hello, Ted. (To her father.) Perhaps I shouldn’t have come. But Eben wrote me the place was being broken up and—

LOUISE
You wrote to her?
EBEN
Yes, I write to my sister.
ELSA

I had to be here once more. I thought—perhaps it’s too much to ask—but I hoped you would let me stay here. Just tonight. It would—do me good.

LOUISE

(With a shrill laugh) Now that’s—funny. (Laughs again.)

ELSA

(Advancing a little to her father.) It doesn’t mean you forgive me, Father, if—if you don’t. If you can’t. But won’t you just do it—because Alison would do it? She’d take my hands. She’d say—Little Elsa. She’d say—Elsa has come home. (From upstairs a wild cry from Jennie.)

JENNIE~ (above)

Mr. Stanhope—everybody!—help!

[Eben hurries out.

JENNIE~ (offstage)

Everybody—quick—the house—burning!

TED

Fire! I smelled it!

[He runs out, Louise goes, and Ann. Stanhope does not pass his daughter without pausing a moment, looking at her.

[Outside a confusion of voices, a running about. Only Elsa remains as she was, as if she cannot move.

ELSA

Just as I stepped into the house. As if—as if— (Shaking this off.) Oh, no—no. (She looks around the room. Softly.) Don’t burn. Don’t.

[After another moment, having looked from one thing to another, she goes to the books, runs her hand over them. Stands there. But at a noise of something falling upstairs, she becomes frightened, suddenly takes an armful of books. Is starting out, but stopped by a confident shout from Eben.

EBEN~ (offstage)

It’s all right. We’re getting it! Two mere buckets, Ted!

[Elsa sits down where Ann had sat, still holding the books, bent over them, her back to the door.

[After a moment Agatha comes in. Elsa does not hear her, and Agatha, in a curious, fixed state has not seen Elsa. She sits where she sat before. She is white, rigid. Elsa, moving a little, drops one of the books.

AGATHA
(Not turning.) What’s that? Who’s here?
ELSA
Aunt Agatha!
AGATHA

(Still not turning, as if she can not.) Who’s that? Who’s here? (Elsa goes to her, and as still Agatha does not look up, sits on a stool beside her.) Elsa.

ELSA
Yes—Elsa.
AGATHA
Elsa went away.
ELSA
She came back. (Timidly.) Are you—glad?
AGATHA
Alison was so afraid of fire.
TED~ (offstage)
That fixes it!
ELSA
They are getting the fire out.
AGATHA
No. Burning. All burning. All at once.
ELSA

(Trying to take her hand.) No, Aunt Agatha. You see the boys are here. They are getting the fire out. There’s nothing to be afraid of.

AGATHA

I am not afraid—now.

STANHOPE~ (outside)

Agatha! Where is she?

[Elsa starts up, but Agatha takes her hand in a fierce grip, forcing her down.

STANHOPE~ (still offstage)
Jennie! Where’s Miss Agatha? Agatha!
ELSA

(Freeing herself, going to the door.) Here, Father. Aunt Agatha is in here with me.

[Stanhope comes in.

STANHOPE

(Gently, as he sees her there rigid, white.) It’s all right, Agatha. Just a little blaze. Nothing whatever to worry about. The boys have it out already. (After staring at him, Agatha leans back with a wail that goes into a whimper.) You understand, don’t you, Agatha? They have put the fire out.

AGATHA

(with horror.) They have put the fire out.

[Enter Eben, coat off, flushed, much excited.

EBEN
That fire was set, Father.
STANHOPE
What?
EBEN

We found the charred straw—in the closet that breaks through to Alison’s room—coal oil there—and in Alison’s room. Someone was trying to burn the house.

STANHOPE

But that’s—incredible. Why? Oh, no—you’re mistaken.

EBEN
It’s undeniable. The evidence is right there.
STANHOPE

(Going to the door.) Jennie! (Agatha leans away, as if avoiding something, Elsa holds her hands.) Jennie! (Turning.) I don’t believe a word of it! (Enter Jennie.) What do you know about this fire?

JENNIE

(Distraught, almost crying.) I don’t know anything about it. I smelled the smoke. I ran up. It was burning—in the closet.

[Enter Louise.

LOUISE

The fire was set. Someone tried to burn the house.

STANHOPE
(To Jennie.) Who’s been here?
JENNIE

Nobody. Nobody. Just the family—and me—and Michael.

STANHOPE
Who’s been upstairs?
LOUISE
That reporter was upstairs.
STANHOPE

Why, you’ve all lost your wits! What possible reason?

LOUISE

But no other stranger was upstairs.

[Stanhope looks at her a moment, incredulous, dazed. Starts for the door, Ann comes in.

STANHOPE
Ann, what do you know about this reporter?
ANN
Why, I don’t know anything about him.
LOUISE

Perhaps it isn’t a reporter. Perhaps it’s—some hostility to the family.

STANHOPE
(angrily) That is ridiculous.
LOUISE
Well, who did it? Why?
STANHOPE
How did the fellow seem to you?
ANN

He seemed all right. I thought he was—just what he said he was. I’m sure he’s all right. He showed me a poem he had written.

LOUISE

As if that proves anything! Had you known him before?

ANN

(indignant at the tone) I had never seen him before.

STANHOPE
(Going to the door. Sharply) Ted!
TED~ (from above)
Staying up here to make sure!
STANHOPE

Leave Michael on watch. Come down here at once!

EBEN

I can’t make head or tail of it. Who would want to burn the house?

ANN
(distressed) Mightn’t it have just—happened?
LOUISE

(scornfully) “Happened?” Straw—saturated with kerosene?

[Enter Ted.

STANHOPE
Now what about you and this reporter?
TED
Well, what about us?
STANHOPE
Answer my question!
TED
What question, Father? What about us?
STANHOPE

You were the only people in that part of the house—and a fire was set.

TED

For—Pete’s—sake! Talk about me being crazy! You think I set a fire to burn the house?

STANHOPE

(violently) No! I don’t think anything of the kind! But what did you do up there?

TED

We looked at Aunt Alison’s room. And he talked about her that crazy way people do talk about her. And that’s all.

STANHOPE
Did you have any straw up there?
TED

(tolerantly) Oh, Father, what would I be doing with straw?

STANHOPE

(furiously) I don’t know what you’d be doing with straw! You just might have had some idea of making yourself useful!

TED
Useful enough to burn the house.
STANHOPE

Be still! (Turning to Jennie who stands by the door, frightened.) Who had straw upstairs?

JENNIE
Nobody. Nobody’s I know of.
STANHOPE
Did you take coal oil upstairs?
JENNIE

(Beginning to cry.) I did not. I did not take coal oil upstairs.

STANHOPE

Very well, Jennie. I believe you. But who—

[In looking around, bewildered, his eye falls on the tea set. Slowly he moves over to it, then looks at his sister, who is still in that strange, fixed state. An idea comes to him that is a shock. Ponders, incredulous, but the idea is growing.

STANHOPE

(To Eben.) Straw, you say? (Moves nearer Agatha. Speaks gently.) Agatha, why did you unpack the tea set, after Ann had packed it for you?

JENNIE

Oh!

[All look at her. She goes from the room.

AGATHA
What? What’s that you say? Tea set?
STANHOPE

Yes. Why did you unpack it, after Ann had packed it for you?

AGATHA
I can pack my own mother’s tea set, can’t I?
STANHOPE

(gently) But you let her do it for you. (Silence, after which he speaks carefully.) Agatha, what did you do with the straw the dishes were packed in?

AGATHA

(as a wail) O-h! I wish you’d all go away—and leave me here alone! Why couldn’t you let it burn?

STANHOPE

(slowly) You love the house so much you would burn it—rather than—leave it?

AGATHA

(Not speaking to any of them now.) What could I do? I tried—and tried. Burn them? All by themselves? (In a whisper.) It was—too lonely. (She falls back.)

STANHOPE

Get brandy, quick. And the doctor.

[Louise goes out, and Ted.

AGATHA

(Resolutely sitting up.) I don’t want the doctor. (But she again falls back.)

ELSA
Are you all right, Aunt Agatha?
AGATHA

(Looking up at Elsa.) Couldn’t take them away—and couldn’t—couldn’t—

(CURTAIN)

ACT TWO

SCENE:  The scene is as Act I. It is the same day, three o’clock in the afternoon, Ann is at her typewriter, Stanhope at the table, on which is a box of papers. He crumples the one he was looking at, throws it to the floor, where there is a heap of discarded papers. He takes some of them to the fireplace, stands watching them burn.

STANHOPE

(Turning.) Well, we must get on with it. (Sitting down, examines another paper.) Receipt for a carriage, twenty-eight years old. People used to keep everything. (Crumples it, throws it to the floor.) I sometimes took your mother driving in that carriage.

ANN
You were so good to Mother.
STANHOPE

(Softly, with a sigh.) I hope so. (After a moment of dreaming.) Remember how she used to come toward you—her hands out?

ANN
(Her hands out.) I can see them.
STANHOPE

And sitting by the fire, in the blue velvet dress, in that chair she liked—

ANN
Chippendale.
STANHOPE

Leaning back a little, yet erect, her hands, so long and white, loosely clasped on an arm of it.

ANN
I can see her.
STANHOPE
You look like her, Ann.
ANN
Not so good-looking.
STANHOPE
(smiling) Not quite. But who could be?
ANN
It will be nine years in January.
STANHOPE

Nine years. (With an effort coming from this, handing her a package of old papers.) Just make the lists of what these deeds are, keep the latest one of each and put the others in an envelope marked Old Deeds.

[Eben enters carrying a large box.

EBEN

This finishes in the attic. Seems to be mostly old newspapers.

STANHOPE
(Taking one.) James G. Blaine.
EBEN

(who is looking at another.) Why, the old hotel was standing then. The one that burned when I was a kid. Remember going to the fire. (Turning a page, laughing.) Did you know the Baileys had sued the McMasters—about stealing a stallion for breeding?

STANHOPE
That stallion was in the courts a long time.
EBEN

And now the McMasters are worth—more than we’ll ever see. Shall we keep these?

STANHOPE
Where?
EBEN

I don’t know. I think they ought to stay right here. That everything should stay where it is.

STANHOPE

Don’t start that again. Don’t you think it’s harder for me than you? I was born here. Grew up here.

EBEN
That’s why. And Alison.
STANHOPE

And Agatha. She can’t be left here any longer. You can see that now. And she won’t go while we keep the place. Too bad we got that fire out.

EBEN

That was a funny thing. Aunt Agatha must be—pretty bad—trying that with us all right here.

STANHOPE

She kept talking about anything else being too lonely.

EBEN

I think she had something she wanted to burn, and couldn’t.

STANHOPE
Yes.
EBEN
What?
STANHOPE

I don’t know. Just some old thing she cherished, and didn’t want to take from the house.

EBEN
Something about Alison?
STANHOPE
Perhaps.
EBEN

Father, we did publish all the poems, didn’t we?

STANHOPE

We gave them all to Professor Burroughs. He took all except a few he thought weren’t so good. Those I have, as you know.

EBEN
Letters from Alison, perhaps.
STANHOPE

Each of us has his own. Agatha has the letters Alison wrote to her. They’re not many, for they were so seldom apart. Of course if she wants to burn her own letters, she has that right. Though I wish she wouldn’t. She should leave them to the children.

EBEN
Seems very strange to me.
STANHOPE

Yes. Well, it’s just because she has become strange. The Centennial Exposition—1876. Oh we can’t burn these papers. They’ve been kept too long. Save them for the children.

EBEN

We’re keeping more now than we know where to put.

STANHOPE

Louise can find a place for them. Tomorrow these will be the newspapers of a former century.

EBEN
You going up to the dance, Ann?
ANN
(Shaking her head.) No.
STANHOPE

(Putting down his paper.) Why, I never thought of the dance. Of course you must go, Ann.

ANN
There’s so much to do here. I’d rather help.
EBEN
Turned Walter down, didn’t you?
STANHOPE
What’s that? Have you quarreled with Walter?
ANN

No, I didn’t quarrel with him. I just got tired hearing how fast he could run.

STANHOPE

Ted’s going up with the Logans. You go with them, and go to the dance with Ted.

ANN
Ted’s taking May McMasters.
STANHOPE

Sometimes I think that boy hasn’t a grain of sense. But it’s New Year’s Eve. You must go to the dance.

ANN

(Smiling.) Please, Mr. Stanhope, if you don’t mind my staying here, to begin early in the morning—

EBEN

Shouldn’t have given Walter the sack till he was starting back to New Haven.

ANN

I didn’t give him the sack. We just decided to run in different directions.

STANHOPE

But aren’t you and Louise going to the dance, Eben?

EBEN

(Shaking his head.) I’m bored with their dances.

STANHOPE
I fear you’re bored with too much, son.
EBEN

Fear so. But anyway, with Elsa here—and the last night in the old place—

STANHOPE

It’s good of you.

EBEN

(brightly) Oh, no.

[Stanhope again begins looking through the box of papers on the table. Ted comes in, sits at the desk, takes his unfinished letter from the pigeon hole, glares at it.

TED
I’ll be flunked.
EBEN

(Not looking up from his newspaper.) Might try a little study, for a change.

TED
Tell me something to tell him, Father.
STANHOPE
Have you begun that again?
TED

About her conservatory. Keeping her flowers warm in winter. How did she keep them warm? (The others go on with what they are doing.) Well, how do you keep flowers warm? Do you wrap them in cotton? Straw, maybe. What do you suppose Aunt Agatha wanted to burn the house for?

STANHOPE
Because she is feeble, and very sad.
TED

But I thought she liked the house. (To Ann.) Make a good story for that reporter!

EBEN
Run out and find him. Tell him all the news!
TED

He’s still around. He’s down by the river, walking where Alison walked. He’s crazy. Nice, though. What flowers, Father? Geraniums? (Writes.) Loved geraniums.

STANHOPE

(so sharply Ted jumps) Edward! You have very little sense of family, or very little sense of anything. But perhaps you have sense enough to know what it would mean if your allowance stopped.

TED

Yes, Father. I have the kind of sense can understand that.

STANHOPE

Very well then! No stories about the family—about the fire—to this reporter—or your teacher—or anyone else.

TED

You don’t know my situation, Father. It’s dark. (Returns to his letter; turns, meekly.) It’s all right to write about flowers, isn’t it? (Turning back to the letter.) Violets.

[Begins to sing “Every morn I bring thee violets.” There are voices in the hall, Jennie enters.

JENNIE
Mr. and Mrs. Hodges are here.
STANHOPE

(low, with irritation) They weren’t to come again until we were out of the house.

EBEN
Send them away.
STANHOPE

(decisively, after hesitation) No. Perhaps we can close the deal. Very well, Jennie. Ask them to come in. (She goes.) But Agatha mustn’t know.

EBEN

She’s still lying down in her room.

STANHOPE

Who’s with her?

EBEN

Elsa.

TED

How do you spell mignonette?

EBEN

F-o-o-l.

TED

That spells E-b-e-n.

[Enter Mr. and Mrs. Hodges. He is a small, lean, shrewd-faced man. His wife is larger and has a big rather foolish face.

HODGES
Well! How’d do, everybody.
STANHOPE

How do you do, Mr. Hodges? How are you today, Mrs. Hodges?

MRS. HODGES

Oh, I keep going.

[Eben brings a chair for her.

HODGES
Well, guess you weren’t expecting us.
STANHOPE
No, not today.
HODGES

Like to decide between this place and another we got in mind. Other’s in better repair.

EBEN
Then you’d better take that one.
HODGES

Well, I dunno. My wife kind of turns to this one. Thinks she could fix it up pretty—woman’s notions.

MRS. HODGES

I think with piazzas down stairs and up it would be nice for my summer boarders.

STANHOPE
(rather faintly) Summer boarders?
HODGES

That’s how we calculate. Don’t think a poor man like me’d buy this ramshackle old place for just my old woman and those two young uns, do you? But we’d have to fix it all up. Paint her a bright yellow, maybe, with green edgin’—somethin’ you can see. Summer boarders wouldn’t take to a gray house edged with red you can’t tell for red.

MRS. HODGES

I could make that conservatory into a sun parlor where they could sit when it rained.

HODGES

But ’twould mean a big outlay, ’cause we’d have to cut it up in more rooms.

[The Stanhopes are silent.

MRS. HODGES

(feeling she must break the pause) Nobody could pay what’d be right to pay for rooms that big.

HODGES
Well, folks don’t need rooms so big now.
MRS. HODGES
Hard to take care of.
HODGES
But it’s in bad repair, Mr. Stanhope.
STANHOPE

(with effort) Oh, I don’t think so. The roof needs just a little mending, but the foundations are good.

MRS. HODGES

Looks a good deal run down, Mr. Stanhope. (Fearing she has been impolite.) Of course you haven’t been living here yourself. You have your nice place in town. But for summer boarders ’twould need a lot of paint and varnish, and that new wall-paper that’s more lively like.

HODGES
All those things cost. They cost.
STANHOPE

Certainly. But we feel our price is low. The house has—character.

HODGES

Character. (Rubbing his chin.) Well, maybe so. But what character? Not the character for summer boarders. That’s what I tell the old lady here. And how do I know there’d be any boarders?

EBEN
(cheerfully) There might not.
HODGES

Just what I say. Folks like to go up the river now-a-days, not down the river. And with the old Mississippi rising higher every year, seems like she’d wash this place away ’fore we could get dead and buried.

EBEN
Then you could have a house boat.
HODGES

How? (Laughs loudly.) Yes, that’s a joke. (To his wife.) Summer boarders on a house boat.

STANHOPE

(courteous, but cold) Just why did you come in today, Mr. Hodges?

HODGES

Want to take one more look at her, ’fore we give her up. Try to figure out where we could put in partitions—modernize. Outside, too—needs a lot. Too many trees makes a place gloomy.

EBEN
Those trees have been growing a long time.
HODGES

Well, then they’ve been growing long enough, haven’t they? (Laughing, waiting for Eben to join him, but Eben does not.) And that lilac hedge—shuts the place in too much. What’s the use putting your money in a place nobody can see? Take out some of that tangled old stuff and put in flower beds in fancy shapes—heart-shaped, maybe—you’d be surprised the difference it would make.

EBEN

(softly) No, I wouldn’t be surprised. (Speaking more brightly.) Now here’s an interesting thing, Mr. Hodges. You aren’t sure you want to buy, and we aren’t sure we want to sell.

HODGES

(To Stanhope, sharply) Not want to sell? But you made me a proposition, and I’ve gone to the expense of getting a carpenter to figure on it.

STANHOPE

I will stand by what I said. But you will have to make up your minds. We have other possibilities for the place.

HODGES

Now there you surprise me, Mr. Stanhope. You certainly do surprise me. And I’m very much afraid you’d be disappointed in those other parties. Don’t think anybody else’d be fool enough to buy it. Now that’s my opinion, if you want my opinion. Know darn well I wouldn’t buy it, ’cept my old woman’s got the idea, and when a woman gets an idea, you might as well give up.

STANHOPE
I think Mrs. Hodges’ idea is—practical.
MRS. HODGES

(Nodding and smiling.) They could go out in row boats. Take their lunch over to the Island, and that would get them out of the house, part of the time.

EBEN

I think you’d make more leaving the house as it is, and getting people who would—

STANHOPE
(low) Never mind, Eben.
HODGES

No. No, there you’re wrong, young man. Summer boarders want things modern, and cheerful. But I tell you what bothers me, Mr. Stanhope. The place ain’t healthy.

STANHOPE
I grew up here. I’m healthy.
HODGES

Seems like the river had something against this place. Right here on this bend’s where she washes in more and more.

EBEN

Yes, Mr. Hodges, I really think you would die of rheumatism, shortly before you were drowned.

HODGES

How? (Laughing.) He jokes, don’t he? Well, my brother Ed used to joke. Never could figure out what Ed was getting at.

STANHOPE

I can’t figure out just what you are getting at, Mr. Hodges. We are very busy here today. Do you want the place, or not?

HODGES
Well, now, that depends.
STANHOPE

You weren’t coming again until we had left the house.

HODGES

That’s right—so we weren’t. But the carpenter’s coming Friday—make an estimate. Like to look it over once more ourselves, get a few ideas of our own, for I know damn well—excuse me, Miss— (Bending over to nod to Ann, who has been going ahead with her work.) —what he’ll try to do.

EBEN

(softly) Yes. Carpenters are very expensive now.

HODGES

They are that. So we’ll just have a look at them upstairs rooms, Mr. Stanhope. See how we can portion ’em out.

MR. STANHOPE

I am sorry not to fall in with your plans, but my sister is up there, and she is ill.

MRS. HODGES

That so? Miss Stanhope ailing? Well, she’s—getting along, isn’t she?

STANHOPE
Yes. She is.
HODGES

Well, we all got to get old some time. That’s what I say. No use to fret.

MRS. HODGES

We wouldn’t ask to go in her room, Mr. Stanhope. And we’d keep quiet—just whisper. I have sick headaches, myself.

STANHOPE

(Giving up, after considering.) I suppose it can’t be helped. Will you go with them, Eben?

EBEN
Awfully busy here.
STANHOPE

Ted! No, Ann, please. And very quietly, that I ask you.

MRS. HODGES

(In a whisper, and tip-toeing.) We’ll go—like this.

[Exit the Hodges, with Ann.

EBEN

I don’t think we could possibly do worse.

STANHOPE

I don’t think we could do better.

EBEN

They’ll destroy it.

STANHOPE

I want it destroyed.

EBEN

(coldly) You do? I care for it.

STANHOPE

I care for it so much I don’t want—itself, to go to someone else.

EBEN

That sounds more like Aunt Agatha than you, Father.

STANHOPE

Very well. Agatha and I are the only two left. Listen now! Ted! Leave that foolishness! Try and do something with your own brains—not trading on your Aunt Alison! Are you listening?

TED
Yes, sir.
STANHOPE
And don’t ask me how to spell anything!
TED
No, sir.
STANHOPE

Someday, when I’m gone, you’ll talk about this again, and wonder why I sold it, and blame me. And perhaps you’ll be right, but I’m using the best judgment I’ve got. Agatha can not be left here. Her heart’s feeble, and her mind—not what it was. If the place remained, she’d come back here, and you know it as well as I do.

EBEN
She couldn’t be left here—with a nurse?
STANHOPE

That might be all right about her heart. Not her mind.

EBEN
She’s old to transplant.
STANHOPE

And we’re not doing it well. All the confusion. And now—Elsa.

EBEN

She loves Elsa. Elsa doesn’t harm anybody—except herself.

STANHOPE
She harmed all of us. She disgraced us.
EBEN
Maybe she couldn’t help it.
STANHOPE

“Couldn’t help it”! What a weak defense. Alison helped it—and so did I.

EBEN
What did you say, Father?
STANHOPE

Never mind what I said. The only person in this family who has any sense of family is Louise—and she’s another family.

EBEN
Oh, Louise takes it too hard.
STANHOPE

She goes at it wrong, but she’s the only one wants what I want.

TED

(Hopefully entering the conversation.) And what is that, Father?

STANHOPE
Hold a family together. Have some pride.
TED

I got a great idea. Redeem family fortune. Fellow at school’s worked out a new idea for putting on rubber tires. Like to go in with him, soon’s our sentence expires at Cambridge.

STANHOPE

You will go in your father’s office, which was his father’s before him, and you will try and show more interest in the business than your brother does.

TED

Sometimes I think I haven’t just the mind that makes a lawyer.

EBEN
Oh, I think you have.
STANHOPE

What do you mean? The law is a noble profession.

TED

Thought I might do better in some kind of a rubber wheel business.

EBEN

I tell you, Father, suppose I take a year off.

STANHOPE
Seems to me you’ve taken ten years off.
EBEN
Sometimes I feel I want something else.
STANHOPE
What?
EBEN
I don’t know.
STANHOPE
And what about your family?
EBEN
Oh, that’s why I’m going.
STANHOPE
You are not going!
EBEN
Probably not.
STANHOPE
Going where?
EBEN

I don’t know. Somewhere—where things are different.

STANHOPE
Things are not different anywhere.
EBEN

Sometimes I think if I didn’t have to do anything for a while—I could do something.

STANHOPE
What?
EBEN
Don’t know yet.
STANHOPE
You have your children.
EBEN
Louise’s.
STANHOPE

Well, you couldn’t very well have had them alone, could you? Come, Eben, don’t talk like a weakling. What if you aren’t perfectly happy with Louise? I wasn’t happy with your mother, either, but I didn’t run away, leaving my children to shift for themselves.

EBEN

It isn’t just Louise—or, I suppose not. It’s things I used to think about when I was with Alison. And still think about—when she’s with me.

STANHOPE
Alison didn’t desert her family.
EBEN
No, but I don’t write poetry.
STANHOPE
Oh, dear.
EBEN

Never mind, Father—guess I’m just talking foolishly, because the old place is being broken up.

STANHOPE

It’s a time to put your shoulder to the wheel.

EBEN
All right. Where’s the wheel?
STANHOPE

Here. (Pushing toward him the box of papers on the table.)

[Eben begins on these, his father too has taken out a handful of them.

TED

(After crumpling a sheet of his letter.) Tell you what, Eben, I got an idea.

EBEN
Doubt it.
TED

You do something for me, I’ll do something for you.

EBEN
What?
TED

Well, give you an interest in taking off rubber tires.

EBEN

Thanks. Got too many interests already. (Showing a paper to his father.) This any good?

TED
Well, I’ll run away with Louise.
EBEN
That’s better.
STANHOPE
Don’t talk such nonsense.
TED

Kidnap her. And you write me a theme—about Alison. I’m two behind. “Alison knows” you could call it.

EBEN
So I could.
TED

Just write the way you talk. Sounds funny in talk, but written it would look all right.

EBEN

(With a real interest, which makes his father look at him.) Do you think so?

TED

About the little presents, and—oh the things she used to say to you. How she looked—and moved around—and why she was different from other folks.

EBEN
I would like to do that.
TED
Fine! Dandy!
STANHOPE
Did you ever try to write, Eben?
EBEN

I used to write things—and show them to Alison.

STANHOPE
I never knew that.
EBEN
No. No one else knew—except Elsa.
STANHOPE
And did you keep it up?
EBEN
Not after I was married.
TED

It’s a bargain! You help me get through college, and I’ll put you on your feet—financially speaking, on your feet.

EBEN

(Thinking of something else.) Thanks, awfully.

TED

Don’t mention it.

[Enter Louise.

LOUISE

Elsa isn’t staying here, is she?

STANHOPE

Tonight.

LOUISE

Then I’m not staying.

EBEN

Family feeling.

LOUISE

Exactly. I’m sorry, Father Stanhope, but I can’t stay in the house with Elsa. She ran away with the husband of my best friend, leavings—

EBEN
Father knows just what she did, Louise.
LOUISE

How could I ever face Margaret again, if I’d stayed under the roof with Elsa?

EBEN

Monstrous idea—staying under the roof with Elsa.

LOUISE
I am sorry to say it is.
STANHOPE

And I am sorry, Louise, but in that case you will have to go up with the Logans and Ted.

LOUISE

I don’t think I should be the one to be turned out!

STANHOPE

I am not turning you out; but neither am I turning Elsa out—not tonight.

LOUISE

Was there any reason for her coming—other than to make trouble?

STANHOPE
She felt there was a reason, apparently.
TED
And I’m glad she came. Why shouldn’t she?
LOUISE

Yes—indeed—why shouldn’t she! Much you know about it—or care—what the town says. It will be known she’s here, and just stir it all up!

EBEN
This isn’t very pleasant for Father, Louise.
LOUISE
Did I create the situation?
EBEN
You seem to be creating this one.
LOUISE

I am sorry for Father—sorrier than anyone. But there is nothing to do about Elsa except condemn her.

EBEN

The Logans are coming at four, aren’t they, Ted?

LOUISE
You side with her—against me, your wife?
EBEN

You take too much pleasure in siding against her. She’s had enough, hasn’t she?

LOUISE
She brought it on herself.
EBEN

If you’re so thick with Margaret, might persuade her to be decent enough to get a divorce.

LOUISE

She does not believe in divorce. She is standing by her principles.

EBEN
She is standing by her thirst for revenge.
LOUISE

Oh, of course you think she’s the one in the wrong! You think—

STANHOPE

Don’t quarrel, children. Elsa did wrong—Louise is right there. But I am not turning her out—not tonight.

LOUISE
Then I go.
EBEN
(cheerfully) Goodbye.
LOUISE
A husband should be loyal to his wife!
EBEN
Who says so?
LOUISE

Now you’re talking foolishly again! As if you hadn’t good sense. Everyone says so—everyone.

EBEN
(After turning a paper.) No they don’t.
LOUISE

But they do. A husband should be loyal to his wife. Isn’t that so, Father Stanhope?

STANHOPE
Certainly.
EBEN

Why “certainly,” Father? If a wife steals—murders—

LOUISE

Steals? Murders? Do I steal—murder? (She waits for a reply which does not come.)

TED

Tell you what, Louise, let’s you and me take a little trip. ( Louise can only stare.) Take you to Cambridge with me. Quite a good deal going on. You’d probably like it.

LOUISE

(Slowly, to Stanhope.) I just don’t know what to make of this family. I do not know what to make of them.

EBEN

You can’t make anything of them, Louise. I think the idea of a little trip with Ted—

STANHOPE
(Bringing down his hand.) Stop that nonsense!
LOUISE

(Observing Hodges’ cap and muffler on the chair.) Who is here?

STANHOPE
The Hodges.
LOUISE
Where are they?
STANHOPE
They are looking over the house.
LOUISE
Who’s with them? Who is showing them round?
STANHOPE
Ann.
LOUISE
Ann? But why Ann? Why an outsider?
STANHOPE
Oh, I don’t consider Ann an outsider.
LOUISE

(Forcing herself to speak respectfully.) But she is an outsider, Father Stanhope. She’s your secretary. She’s not a member of the family. (After a silence.) Is she?

STANHOPE

She is as dear to me as my own daughter. Well—no, not that.

LOUISE

(gently) Of course, Father, I know Elsa can’t be dear to you—now.

STANHOPE

Elsa is dear to me, though I’ve lost her.

EBEN

Don’t say that, Father.

STANHOPE

Isn’t it true?

LOUISE

You have me, Father.

STANHOPE

Yes. Yes, thank you, Louise.

[There are voices on the stairs. The Hodges enter, Ann leaving them at the door.

LOUISE

(Capably taking hold of things.) How do you do, Mrs. Hodges? Though perhaps you don’t know me. I am Mrs. Eben Stanhope.

MRS. HODGES
How’d do, Mrs. Stanhope.
HODGES
Pleased to meet you, mam.
LOUISE

Of course you are seeing the house in great confusion. But we’ll have everything out of here soon.

MRS. HODGES
Oh, that’s all right.
HODGES
Quite a chore—moving.
LOUISE
It’s a dear old place, isn’t it?
HODGES

Well, we think it’s dear enough. (Looks slyly at Eben.)

LOUISE

So roomy, and well built. And such traditions.

HODGES
How?
MRS. HODGES
It’s for my summer boarders—if we take it.
LOUISE

Now Mrs. Hodges, I think that’s an excellent idea. So practical. Do you know, I’ve thought the same thing myself. It’s really too big for a family, but for summer boarders—right here on the river—the woods all around. Quite likely I can send you some people.

MRS. HODGES
Oh, that would be nice.
HODGES
Right clever of you, mam.
LOUISE

And that big cheerful kitchen to cook for them! I wonder how many people used to be cooked for in that kitchen, Father?

STANHOPE
A good many.
LOUISE

And now again the house will be full of people having a good time. That’s a nice idea for us, too, isn’t it, Father? (Stanhope tries to reply, but does not speak.) You see we love the house. It’s a real grief to us, giving it up. But it’s too big for a family. That’s why we’re letting you have it.

HODGES
(slyly) Very good of you, mam.
EBEN
Quite philanthropic.
HODGES

How? (Bursting out laughing.) He jokes, don’t he?

LOUISE
Yes. Jokes.
STANHOPE
(abruptly) Do you want the house, Hodges?
HODGES
Yes.
STANHOPE

(who seems stunned.) Good. (With effort.) Sign up for it now?

HODGES

(Sitting down at the table, taking out his check book.) Bind the bargain.

STANHOPE

(resolutely) Good. Then come in the office—tomorrow’s New Year’s—come Thursday, and we’ll go over the deed. You’ll find everything in order.

LOUISE

(To Mrs. Hodges.) You see there are no complications. The place has been in the family from the first.

[Stanhope is staring ahead, and does not see the check Hodges holds out to him.

HODGES
A hundred fifty. That all right?
STANHOPE
Yes. Quite all right.
HODGES

Well, now we’ll be out of your way. Soon’s you go out, we come in.

STANHOPE
Very good.
LOUISE

And I know you’re going to enjoy it—just as much as we did.

MRS. HODGES
You must come to see us sometime.
LOUISE
Indeed we will.
HODGES

Guess you won’t hardly know the old place, once we take hold.

MRS. HODGES
We’re going to paint—modernize.
LOUISE
That’s just what it needs.
HODGES
Well, Thursday then.
STANHOPE
Thursday.
HODGES
How’s ten?
STANHOPE

Let us say ten. (Rising.) Good day, Mrs. Hodges.

MRS. HODGES

Good day, Mr. Stanhope. And I hope your sister will find herself more smart for the moving.

STANHOPE
Thank you. I hope so.
HODGES

Well, ’bye folks. (To Eben, laughing.) Couldn’t crack another joke, could you?

EBEN
Couldn’t possibly.
HODGES

(To Louise.) Always nice to have a cheerful member of the family.

LOUISE

Yes, isn’t it nice?

[Louise starts out with them.

HODGES

We go out the back way. Got the team there.

[Stanhope, sinking to his chair, holds the check, staring at it.

EBEN

(bitterly) So that ends— (But observing his father, doesn’t go on.)

TED

Well, so it’s sold. Gee! Now it isn’t ours any more. What you getting for it, Father? (His father does not seem to hear.)

[Enter Jennie.

JENNIE
He’s here again.
EBEN
Who?
JENNIE

Him. That reporter that didn’t set fire to the house.

EBEN
We can’t see a reporter now.
JENNIE
It isn’t you he wants. It’s Miss Ann.
STANHOPE
(sharply) What for?
KNOWLES

(Stepping inside the door.) Afraid I’ll have to explain that myself. Only, well, you see— (Confused.). Awfully sorry to bother you, but what else could I do?

[Jennie, wanting to linger, is putting to rights some things on the window seat.

STANHOPE

I can think of a number of other things you might have done.

KNOWLES
(Smiling.) What?
STANHOPE
Gone back to Chicago.
KNOWLES
Without seeing her, you mean?
STANHOPE
But why do you wish to see Miss Leslie?
KNOWLES
Is that her name?
STANHOPE

That is her name, but you haven’t said why you wish to see her.

KNOWLES
(Flushing.) Well, that’s hard to say—to you.
STANHOPE
Then I’m afraid you can’t see her.
TED
(in warning voice) Be kind, Father. Be kind.
STANHOPE

Anything you wish to ask my secretary you can ask me.

KNOWLES

Sorry to disagree, Mr. Stanhope, but, really, I can’t.

STANHOPE
Something about my sister Alison?
KNOWLES
Well—yes, indirectly.
STANHOPE
Oh, we’ve had enough of that.
KNOWLES
I haven’t.
STANHOPE
We are unable to give you more time.
KNOWLES

But excuse me again, it isn’t your time I want.

TED

You’ll just have to tell him straight out. When people get older they have to be told.

STANHOPE
(angrily) Is that so?
TED
Yes, sir.
KNOWLES
It hasn’t anything to do with the paper.
STANHOPE
Then I understand it even less.
KNOWLES
I wanted to ask her to take a walk with me.
STANHOPE

You don’t even know her name, and you expect her to take a walk with you?

KNOWLES
I don’t expect, exactly. I hope.
TED
There’s a difference.
STANHOPE
Indeed?
TED
(meekly) Yes, sir.
STANHOPE

(heatedly) But why do you want to take a walk with her?

TED

Oh—gee. ’Cause he likes her. You don’t have to know a girl’s name to like her.

KNOWLES

No, you don’t. Though it’s a very nice name, Ann Leslie. It suits her, I think.

STANHOPE

(After looking at him some time.) Jennie, tell Miss Ann a gentleman is here to see her.

[ Jennie goes.

KNOWLES

Thank you, sir. I thought about it a long time, and I didn’t know any way to see her, but just walk in and ask for her.

STANHOPE

(who seems confused.) No doubt it was better than throwing stones at the window.

TED

Or you might have set fire to the house. (As his father pushes his chair back.) Well, then she would have run out, wouldn’t she? (He and Knowles laugh.)

STANHOPE

Eben, have you decided which books you want to take?

[They walk over to the books, into the alcove.

KNOWLES

You know, I think all your family have something of the spirit of Alison Stanhope.

TED
Oh, gee, I don’t.
KNOWLES

Yes, coming in fresh, I can tell better than you. It’s as if something of her remained here, in you all, in—in quite a different form.

TED
Different, all right.
KNOWLES
A—playfulness.
TED

Golly, you think we’re playful? Why man, we’re going through the blackest page of our history. As for me, I can’t decide which room to choose.

KNOWLES
Choose?
TED
To hang myself.
KNOWLES
The river’s handy.
TED
Good swimmer. Can you write themes?
KNOWLES
You bet.
TED

Write one for me—about playfulness, or suicide, or something, and I’ll—I got a lot of influence with Ann.

KNOWLES
Maybe you’re in love with her.
TED

No. Always been around the house a lot. Too much like a sister. Anyway, Ann’s pretty old.

KNOWLES

She is not old!

TED

She’s twenty-three!

KNOWLES

I’m twenty-five.

TED

Well, then she isn’t old for you.

KNOWLES

I’m glad she has this nice position.

TED

It isn’t a position.

KNOWLES

What is it then?

TED

Oh, it’s just—the way it is.

[Enter Ann ; Ted returns to his letter, whistling “The Stars and Stripes.”

KNOWLES
I thought perhaps you’d take a walk with me.
ANN
(Startled, confused.) You did?
KNOWLES
Got my nerve, haven’t I?
ANN
Why, I don’t know.
TED
Better not go, Ann. You might take cold.
KNOWLES
No theme.
TED

(softly) Oh, yes. Clever work. (Rising.) Well, I’m not going to take a walk, thank you just as much. Got to two-step a hundred miles tonight. (Goes to the door, whistling a two-step.) My advice to you, Ann, as one of your natural protectors, is not to go. What do we know about this young man? Never trust anybody from Chicago.

KNOWLES
I was born in Grand Rapids.
TED

You see? We hadn’t even known where he was born. And we don’t know yet what his grandfather did.

KNOWLES

He made shoes.

TED

That’s why he has to walk. Bum joke.

ANN

No joke at all.

TED

(sadly) No joke at all.

[He goes.

KNOWLES

It’s true you don’t know anything about me. But how will you ever know, if I don’t have a chance to tell you? Now don’t say you don’t want to know.

ANN
I haven’t said it.
KNOWLES

If we don’t take a walk now, we’ll never take a walk in this century. Had you thought of that?

ANN

I hadn’t, to tell the truth.

[Eben comes in with an armful of books.

KNOWLES

The sun of this century is setting.

[He has said it as matter of fact, but is himself caught into its large implication, Eben, who has put his books on the table stands, a little bowed, in thought.

ANN

(softly) Yes.

[Eben goes back into the alcove.

KNOWLES

I was walking down there by the river. (While he is speaking Stanhope is seen at the opening of the alcove, his back to them, looking at books. He takes out a small volume, opening it.) And I didn’t know whether I was thinking of Alison Stanhope, or thinking of you. Well, guess you were part of the same thing. And I was thinking of the last day of the century getting dim. (Stanhope is listening, though he has not turned.) You know, how you think of a lot of things at once. I thought of how she used to walk where I was walking, (Stanhope turns, though they do not see him.) And never will again. But it was as if her thoughts were there. They must have been hers—for they were better than mine. And it seemed to me if you would walk there with me—you and I together—well, that she wouldn’t be gone. (Abruptly.) You think I’m crazy?

ANN
No. No, I don’t.
KNOWLES

Perhaps I could even write a poem about it—how the river flowed by the sea, as her century flowed—to eternity.

STANHOPE

(quietly) I think a walk might do you good, Ann.

KNOWLES

Thank you, sir.

ANN

Well, just a little walk. I’ll get my things.

KNOWLES

Fine!

[She goes.

(Rather timidly, to Stanhope who stands as he was, and holding open the little book.) It must be hard for you, leaving this old house.

STANHOPE

It is hard. (He feels the book in his hands, looks at it, looks at the young man, goes to him, holding it out.) This is a book my sister Alison loved and used.

KNOWLES

(Taking it.) Emerson’s Poems. (Looking through it.) Did she mark it?

[Stanhope nods.

STANHOPE

I was going to take it for myself. But she loved to make her little gifts. So—for her—on the last day of her century—I would like to give it to you.

KNOWLES

(incredulous) You would? Oh, thank you, sir. (Feeling the book as something precious.) I can’t tell you how—Why, I can hardly believe it! I never in my life heard of anything more generous.

STANHOPE
(A little embarrassed.) Oh, no; not at all.
KNOWLES

(Looking at the book, begins to read aloud what he sees.)

“Hast thou named all the birds without a gun;
Loved the wood-rose and left it on its stalk;
At rich men’s tables eaten bread and pulse;
Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust;
And loved so well a high behavior

In man or maid, that thou from speech refrained,

Nobility more nobly to repay?—

O be my friend, and teach me to be thine!”

(Pause.) It’s called Forbearance.

STANHOPE

(simply) Thank you. (Holds out his hand for the book.) I will read you one—because you are a poet. (Turns a few pages.)

KNOWLES
I’m afraid—
STANHOPE
It is called “The House.”

“There is no architect
Can build as the muse can;
She is skilful to select
Materials for her plan ;

Slow and warily to choose

Rafters of immortal pine,

(He glances up to the beamed ceiling above.)

Or cedar incorruptible,

Worthy her design.”

Some other things, and then— (Looking ahead.)

“She lays her beams in music,
In music every one,
To the cadence of the whirling world
Which dances round the sun.

That so they shall not be displaced
By lapses or by wars,
But for the love of happy souls
Outlive the newest stars.”

[He hands back the book.

KNOWLES

Alison’s house.

STANHOPE

Yes.

[Eben comes from the alcove with more books.

EBEN

These all right for me, Father?

[They look at them. Ann returns.

ANN

All ready.

KNOWLES

Fine! Well—goodbye. And thank you—again.

STANHOPE

Goodbye.

ANN

I’ll be back.

[They laugh, go out.

EBEN
Did you notice Ann?
STANHOPE

Yes, I noticed her. She never looked more like her mother.

EBEN
Happy.
STANHOPE
She’s in love.
EBEN

In love? (Laughing.) Oh, come, Father! She doesn’t know him!

STANHOPE
Neither did Alison know him.
EBEN

It must have been—pretty tough for Alison—giving him up.

STANHOPE

You’ll never know. I know a little—no one will ever know the half. Yes, you can have the Plato, and what you want. Who will value them more than you?

EBEN
Shall I ask Aunt Agatha, too?
STANHOPE

(Shaking his head.) What are books to Agatha—now?

[Elsa comes in.

EBEN

We’re looking through the books. You must take some of them, mustn’t she, Father?

STANHOPE
If she likes.
ELSA

Could I have the David Copperfield Alison read to us?

EBEN

(Taking it from the books he has selected.) Here it is.

ELSA
But you were taking it.
EBEN

I have others. (Giving it.) Take it. She read it to us when you had sprained your ankle jumping from the hayloft. Remember?

ELSA

(Looking through the book.) I remember. (Reads on, smiles at something she sees.) Aunt Agatha wants to come in here, Father.

STANHOPE
The doctor said she should stay in bed.
ELSA

She won’t. She’s up, and she says she wants to be down here.

STANHOPE
Oh, I wish it were tomorrow.
ELSA
Shall I let her come?
STANHOPE

I don’t suppose you can stop her. I’ll speak to her.

[He goes.

EBEN
You staying long, Elsa?
ELSA

No. How could I? (Eben is silent.) I suppose I shouldn’t have come.

EBEN
Far as I am concerned, you should. Father—
ELSA
He looks so much older.
EBEN

You made him older. Nothing ever hit him as hard.

ELSA
Oh, Eben—don’t.
EBEN
Well, you’ve got to take it.
ELSA
Of course. But if only I could take it—all.
EBEN

You can’t. That’s why you had no right to do it. Alison didn’t.

ELSA
No. But she was Alison. She had God.
EBEN
Afraid God left her pretty lonely at times.
ELSA

Yes. That’s why she wrote about Him as if He ought to be more.

EBEN
How’s Bill?
ELSA

Bill’s all right. He misses the business, and his friends, and the children. I can see him missing them.

EBEN
Lucky he has enough to live on.
ELSA
Yes. But that isn’t enough.
EBEN
But you’re happy?
ELSA
Happy, and unhappy.
EBEN

What did you run away like that for? Why didn’t you talk it over with me?

ELSA
You would have kept me from going.
EBEN
Of course I would!
ELSA

But I had to go, Eben. Don’t you see? That was the way I loved him.

EBEN

(After watching her face.) Wish I loved someone.

ELSA

I wish you did. (Listening.) They’re coming. (She arranges the big chair.)

AGATHA

(As they come in.) I’m no prisoner, am I? Why should I stay up in my room if I don’t want to?

[Her brother is steadying her arm; on her other arm swings a silk bag, closed by a draw-string. Both Eben and Stanhope help in seating her, more feeble than in the morning. As soon as she is seated she clutches for the bag, holding it. Elsa brings a footstool, which her aunt disregards.

EBEN
(cheerfully) All right now?
AGATHA

If it’s the last day I’ll ever be here, then I want to be here.

EBEN

That’s right, Aunt Agatha, and here we all are.

AGATHA

But tomorrow. We won’t be here tomorrow.

ELSA

Then let’s think about our being here today.

[She sits on the footstool, Eben throws more papers on the fire from the heap on the floor.

AGATHA

Yes. Make it burn. (Turning a little to see.) Burn them. Burn them all. (She clutches the bag.) What are they?

EBEN

Old things we don’t need any more.

AGATHA

Old things we don’t need any more.

[Stanhope, who has been watching her, can bear it no longer, goes out.

ELSA

You’ll have your tea now, won’t you, Aunt Agatha?

AGATHA

(After a moment of not coming from her own thought) What? No. No, I don’t want it. (She turns her head to the fire, taking the bag from her arm, holding it in her hands.) Put on—old things we don’t need any more.

[After an anxious look at her, Eben puts more papers on the fire.

EBEN

(briskly) It’s going to be fine for you up at Father’s. That’s going to be the most comfortable room you ever had.

AGATHA

If Elsa hadn’t run away and left her father I wouldn’t be turned out.

ELSA
I’m sorry, Aunt Agatha.
AGATHA

(quite differently) Little Elsa. (With a low sob Elsa leans against her aunt, Eben goes softly out. So they sit a moment, Agatha’s hand on Elsa’s hair. But from this she goes into a curious, fixed state.) Where is Alison?

ELSA

She isn’t here. Though she seemed here, just a moment ago.

AGATHA
I have to take care of Alison.
ELSA
Yes. You always did.
AGATHA
I always did.
ELSA
Always.
AGATHA

But she—went away. How could I tell—what she wanted me to do? (Pause.) Who is looking at us?

ELSA

No one is looking at us. You and I are here alone.

AGATHA

You are Elsa?

ELSA

I am Elsa.

[With trembling fingers Agatha undoes the string of her bag and takes out a small leather portfolio. Looks fearfully around, looks at the fire. She tries to rise.

ELSA

What is it, Aunt Agatha? I will do anything you want done.

AGATHA
You will—do anything—I want done?
ELSA

Why yes, Aunt Agatha. I will do anything in the world for you.

AGATHA
Elsa will do it. Elsa.
ELSA
Yes. Elsa will do it.
AGATHA

Then— (She holds out the leather case, but withdraws it. Then suddenly gives it.) Take it! For—Elsa.

[She falls forward.

ELSA

(frightened) Aunt Agatha! (She leans her back in the chair, though not letting go the small portfolio Agatha has given her. Becomes more frightened as she looks.) Aunt Agatha! What is it? Speak to me! (After another moment of growing fear she runs to the door.) Father! Eben!

[Eben hurries in.

EBEN

What is it?

[Stanhope enters.

ELSA

She—has she fainted?

STANHOPE

(Bending over her.) Agatha! Agatha!

[On the other side Eben takes one of her hands, he is feeling for her pulse. Eben lays his head against her heart.

EBEN

(Looking up.) Why, Father, I don’t—

[Her eyes are closed, Stanhope lifts one of the lids, looking at the eye.

ELSA

Has she—fainted?

STANHOPE

She has died.

[Elsa, who has not let go the leather case, presses it against her breast.

EBEN
It is better.
STANHOPE

(who is kneeling by her.) My sister! Agatha! Forgive me. (Lifting his head, taking her two hands, looking into her face. Softly, as if putting her to sleep.) Yes. Yes. Find Alison, dear. Find Alison.

(CURTAIN)

ACT THREE

SCENE:  Alison’s room. The door into the hall is rear, toward left; center, rear, a fireplace. Beyond this is a smaller door, as if opening into dressing-room or closet. At right, extending from rear, a single, four-poster bed. It has a light, flowered counterpane. Right, front, a desk. There is a small stand near the head of the bed; between the bed and fireplace, a low easy chair. In the rear corner, left, an old bureau. In the middle of the room, though somewhat front, and left, an old-fashioned walnut table. The curtains are white. The carpet is the color of gray-green moss. A fire is burning, and the room is lighted by a lamp on the stand near the bed.

It nears the last hour of the century, a little after half past ten, evening of the same day.

The door opens slowly, and Elsa comes in. She waits a moment by the door, as if to be asked to enter. Then goes to the fire, holding out her hands. She looks at the clock, on the fireplace mantel. Winds, sets it, consulting her watch. Turns, standing uncertainly a moment. Goes slowly to the desk. Looks at a picture in a gold, oval frame, which hangs over the desk. She opens a drawer and takes out the portfolio her Aunt Agatha gave her. Stands there holding it. She is about to sit at the desk, but steps back from it, as if it is not for her to sit there. Goes to the table; putting the portfolio there, she goes to the mantel, where are two silver candle sticks. Lights them, and takes them to the table. She sits down, and after holding the portfolio a moment, spreads it out as if to open the pockets. (It is one of those flexible cases which doubles over.) She is opening one side when there is a knock at the door.

ELSA

(Putting the portfolio on the table.) Come in.

ANN
May I? Just a moment?
ELSA
Of course, Ann.
ANN

(Looking around.) Alison’s room. As if—as if she might be going to bed here.

ELSA

I have been thinking of that. Father said I might sleep here tonight. Eben asked him. (Pause.) Won’t you sit down, dear?

[Ann comes to the table, sits.

ANN

I feel I shouldn’t be here. I know you are tired, and want to be alone in this room. I’ll only stay a minute.

ELSA
I’m glad you came.
ANN

(impulsively, yet timid) I was so glad to see you, Elsa, when you came.

ELSA
(grateful) You were?
ANN
Oh, yes. So were Eben and Ted.
ELSA
But Father—
ANN
He can’t help it, can he?
ELSA

No. Of course not. But—I did so want to come. (Shaking her head.) It wasn’t that I wanted to. I had to.

ELSA

I used to come to this room when things went wrong. “Come to Alison, dear,” she’d say. Or “Whatever is wrong, Alison will make it right.” (Pause.) If only she could!

ANN
Perhaps she can.
ELSA
I fear not. I have gone—out of her world.
ANN
I’m not sure she would think so.
ELSA

Perhaps not. For—really—you couldn’t go out of her world. She was everywhere. She knew.

ANN

I didn’t know her but—it does seem that way. What did I say? I didn’t know her? But I do know her. Her poems let me know her. And now—tonight—I know her better than before, (Elsa only waits in inquiry.) Elsa! Can you fall in love, all at once, with somebody you don’t know?

ELSA

(Looking at the picture over the desk.) Ask Alison.

ANN
(Following her look.) Is that—his picture?
ELSA

Yes. It was always there—as long as I can remember.

ANN
(Going to it.) How strange the clothes look.
ELSA
Ours will look strange too, in thirty years.
ANN

Why, I suppose they will. They seem so right now.

ELSA
Nothing stays right—forever.
ANN
(Turning to her.) Love does.
ELSA

(With a little laugh.) Love doesn’t have to clothe itself.

ANN

(Coming back to her.) Then you think it really can be love, though it happens—all at once?

ELSA

It has happened too often for me to say it can’t be true. Though it wasn’t that way with me.

ANN

You and Bill had known each other a long time.

ELSA

Since I had braids down my back. And he never used to be—different from anyone else. And then—all of a sudden—We had been dancing; we stopped by the door. We just looked at each other—stared, rather, and he said—“Why, Elsa!” We stood there, and then he said, “It is Elsa.” And we went out to the verandah, and everything was different, because he was Bill and I was Elsa.

ANN
So it did happen suddenly, after all.
ELSA

And everything we had together in the past—when we used to slide down hill together—was there, alive, giving us a past we hadn’t known we were making for ourselves.

ANN
I think it is a miracle, don’t you?
ELSA

Yes, I think it is a miracle. Though it’s a miracle you have to pay for, sometimes.

ANN
Always, perhaps.
ELSA

I don’t know. Often it goes happily. It’s nice that you don’t have to hurt anyone.

ANN

But I do, I fear. He was almost engaged. Not quite. Elsa! His name is Richard.

ELSA
Richard is a nice name.
ANN

I shall never call him Dick. Richard I think is better for him. (Elsa nods gravely.) And to think it was Alison brought us together! That is like a blessing, don’t you think?

ELSA
I do think so.
ANN

It was wonderful—down by the river, thinking of all that happened in this century that is going, of all that will happen in the century that is right here now, for us. (She is lost in this a moment.) Perhaps it seems cruel we should be sitting here talking of love, with poor Miss Agatha dead just across the hall.

ELSA
It is the way it is.
ANN

And it is strange: She was so good, but she does seem dead, and Alison, dead eighteen years, is here, (Elsa’s hand moves, rests on the portfolio.) Elsa, I came to ask you something, and I’m sorry it seems I came for a purpose—a favor, because I stayed down here hoping to have a talk with you, but—

ELSA
What is it, dear? I will do it, if I can.
ANN

You see Richard has to think of—the story. In spite of— (An excited little laugh.) everything else, he has to think of the paper. And it’s more of a story now, Alison’s sister dying just as she is leaving the house where she and Alison lived together.

ELSA
Yes, I suppose it is more of a story.
ANN
And he needs a picture of Miss Agatha.
ELSA
You would have to ask Father about that.
ANN
How can I? He’s with her.
ELSA
But you see I haven’t—the right. Ask Eben.
ANN

Eben is so strange. He’s down in the library, reading the books, and he doesn’t look up when you come in, or hear you when you speak. So I thought—I can’t talk to the others, but I believe I could talk to Elsa. I always wanted to talk to you. I always had—sounds foolish—a sort of case on you. All the younger girls did. Elsa Stanhope—they’d say. As if you were what they wanted to be.

ELSA
Oh—Ann.
ANN

It seemed you had everything. Beautiful—a Stanhope—so nice to everyone, yet always holding yourself a little apart. We used to think of you as a princess.

ELSA

(After looking at her in silence a moment.) And then I—went back on you, didn’t I?

ANN

It was—a shock. But we thought you were brave.

ELSA

I wasn’t brave. I was trapped. I didn’t think it was right—but I couldn’t help myself. And Bill. When you love, you want to give your man—everything in the world.

ANN
Everything.
ELSA

But in giving to him, I took so much away from him.

ANN

(For a moment not intruding on all Elsa is feeling.) But you love each other—as much as ever.

ELSA

Our love is a flame—burning fiercely—in sorrow. (Coming from this.) I wish I could say yes about the picture, Ann. There is one here. (She goes to the desk, takes a picture from the drawer. Ann goes to her, they look at it.)

ANN
Oh, it’s a dear. She was much younger then.
ELSA
Taken years ago, before Alison died.
ANN
When she was Agatha, while Alison was Alison.
ELSA

(Nodding.) It never would have occurred to her to have one taken afterwards. She thought she was just for Alison.

ANN
She worshipped her.
ELSA

And guarded her, her whole life through. I’d really like to give it to you, for her own sake. Aunt Agatha, who lived always in this house, now wanted, for a moment, by the world. She was so good. And she will pass—so soon. I’d like to talk to your Richard, and tell him how good she was.

ANN
Oh, would you, Elsa?
ELSA

But I haven’t the right to speak for the family. (A knock.) Come in. (Eben enters.) I thought you’d come, Eben.

EBEN

(With an emotional, rather reckless laugh.) See the New Year in.

ANN
(softly) Will you ask him?
ELSA

Eben, Ann wants this picture of Aunt Agatha, to give to her reporter.

EBEN

She’s in love with him.

ELSA

(Laughing.) It certainly looks that way.

EBEN

Are you going to marry him, Ann?

ANN

What else can I do?

[They all laugh a little.

EBEN
And go away and leave Father?
ANN
What else can I do?
EBEN

Poor Father. We all want to go away and leave him.

ELSA
You won’t, Eben.
EBEN

What else can I do—but stay? (Pause.) I don’t know about the picture. You’d have to ask Father.

ANN
He’s with his sister.
EBEN

And she too—went away and left him. (He holds out his hand for the picture.) Remember her that way, Elsa?

ELSA
I remember.
EBEN

And then she got old, and strange. Yes—yes, take it. Let her have—one moment of youth.

ANN

Oh, thank you, Eben. You know, I think you are right.

EBEN

Oh, yes, you would think so. Easy to call it right, when it’s what you want to do. Don’t mind me, Ann. Just talking to myself.

ANN

I do thank you. And I do think you are right.

EBEN

Well, that’s good.

ANN

Good night.

ELSA

Good night, Ann. Many happy new years.

ANN

Thank you. And to you.

ELSA

Thank you.

[Ann goes.

EBEN

You’ve no idea how Father will miss her. Seems a pretty sudden decision. You see, I don’t get/787771 it. You are yourself for years and years, and then some other self, you don’t know at all, is more to you than anything else. It’s like building up something—only to throw it down.

ELSA
And then it all means something.
EBEN

Does it? Poor Father. It isn’t only that Ann is so helpful to him, but he has a particular feeling about her. I wonder how long Mother and Father were happy together?

ELSA
I don’t remember them as happy.
EBEN

I suspect he gave up a lot. I almost know it—felt I shouldn’t know. And what’s he left with? I don’t see Ted comforting anyone’s old age.

ELSA

But I think he may. He’s so much like everyone else.

EBEN
Dreary picture of the world.
ELSA

Though you are Father’s greatest comfort, Eben.

EBEN
Then I can only say again—poor Father.
ELSA
What’s the matter, Eben?
EBEN

(Considering talking to her, putting it off.) It’s a good thing you were here—when it happened. Father would have sent for you.

ELSA
Yes, I think he would want me to be here—now.
EBEN
(Standing by the fire.) The clock is going.
ELSA
I wanted it to tell—the last hour.
EBEN

As it told the hours for Alison. Don’t you suppose they seemed pretty long at times?

ELSA

Here—she should be sitting. (Her hand on the chair by the fire.)

EBEN

Unless— (He goes over to the desk, puts his hand on that chair.) Here. (Standing back, as if looking at Alison.) She is sitting here with her papers—with her thoughts, and the words for her thoughts. She is wearing a white dress. The full skirt spreads out from the chair. The sleeves too are full, and her small hands hover over what she has. Her eyes—Heavens! Have I forgotten them?

ELSA
They are clear—like golden wine.
EBEN

Her brown hair is parted in the middle, and held loosely at the neck. She is looking straight ahead, as if into something. But she is really waiting for the right word to come. They came, you can tell that. They were willing visitors. She didn’t have to go out and pull them in. There is a knock at the door. It’s me. I am crying. She makes a funny little face. She says—Tell Allison. I tell her Jimmy Miles has knocked over my mud house. She says—You can build a fort, and put him in it. She tells me the story of the bumble bee that got drunk on larkspur and set out to see how drunk you could get in heaven. And what became of her thoughts—the thought I interrupted?

ELSA

Oh, it waited for her, and the bumble bee came into it.

EBEN
And that was his heaven.
ELSA

Why not? (They are both brighter.) Then another knock. No, a pounding with fists—Alison—Alison. Little Elsa! Aunt Agatha won’t give me a cookie, because I pulled the cat’s tail. She tells me Aunt Agatha can’t help being like that, and that the cat would agree with her. And she says—what if I had pulled the tail off, and we laugh; and she writes me a little poem, about a cookie that had no tail. She gives me candy, and stands at the door so Aunt Agatha can’t get in, but God, she says, could come down the chimney. (They both laugh, Elsa goes over to the table, takes up the portfolio she was about to open when Ann came in. Slowly.) I don’t know what is in this.

EBEN

Where did you get it? (A knock at the door.) Come in.

[Stanhope opens the door. Stands there a moment before closing it. Continues to stand near the door.

STANHOPE

(As if to himself.) I wish I could talk with Alison.

EBEN

Come into her room, Father. Do sit down. You look tired out.

[Stanhope sits in the chair near the fire; Eben sits by the desk, Elsa at the table. A long pause.

STANHOPE
The funeral must be down here.
EBEN
Yes. I think so too.
STANHOPE

It means a good deal of work, but I won’t take her out of her house. Not into another—house.

EBEN

Things can be straightened around enough—for that.

STANHOPE
How badly we did it.
EBEN
We did the best we could.
STANHOPE

Poor consolation. (After a moment he turns directly to Elsa.) You were alone with your aunt when she died.

ELSA
Yes, Father.
STANHOPE
What did she say?
ELSA
The last thing?
STANHOPE
Yes.
ELSA
She said—For Elsa.
STANHOPE
What did she mean?
ELSA
I don’t know—yet.
STANHOPE

You were holding a little leather case that Alison used.

ELSA
Yes.
STANHOPE
Where did you get it?
ELSA
Aunt Agatha gave it to me.
STANHOPE
And it was then she said—
ELSA
For Elsa.
STANHOPE
What is in it?
ELSA
I don’t know yet.
STANHOPE
Open it and see.

[Elsa hesitates, looks to Eben.

EBEN

But it’s Elsa’s, isn’t it, Father, if Aunt Agatha gave it to her?

STANHOPE

It belongs to the family. Agatha didn’t know what she was doing. Where is it? (Elsa takes it from the table.) Open it. (There is a knock at the door.)

ELSA

(After waiting for one of the others to speak.) Come.

[ Jennie enters.

JENNIE

(who seems confused at seeing the two men.) Oh, I thought it was just Miss Elsa. (Stands uncertainly, troubled.)

ELSA

What is it, Jennie?

JENNIE

Never mind—now. (But stands there.)

EBEN

Did you want something?

JENNIE

Yes.

EBEN

Well, what?

JENNIE

She told me to.

STANHOPE

Who?

JENNIE

Her. Miss Agatha.

EBEN

Told you what?

[Jennie goes to the desk, starts to open a drawer, turns to Stanhope.

JENNIE

Excuse me, but I gave my promise. (Looks.) It’s gone! Where is it?

STANHOPE
Where is what, Jennie?
JENNIE
Give it to me! I gave my promise.
EBEN

You’ll have to tell us a little more, Jennie. We don’t know what you are talking about.

JENNIE

All these last days—after she got the idea—and couldn’t—it was always the same—“Make the fire, Jennie. Put on more wood—make it burn”—and she’d sit by it—and couldn’t.

STANHOPE
Couldn’t what?
JENNIE

Do it herself. So she’d tell me—and each time I’d promise.

EBEN
What did you promise, Jennie?
JENNIE

(a little impatiently) To do it for her, if she died before—Where is it? It isn’t here— (Looking again in the drawer, then in the pigeon holes.) or here.

[Stanhope, rising, takes the portfolio from Elsa, who almost resists, and rises.

ELSA
No! It is mine!
STANHOPE

(To Jennie.) Is this what you are looking for?

JENNIE

That’s it! Oh, give it to me! Please give it to me—so’s I can carry out my promise. I could never draw another easy breath if—

STANHOPE
What did Miss Agatha say about it?
JENNIE

Nothing. Only she’d try—and couldn’t. Get it—then bring it back here. Give it to me—so I can carry out my promise!

EBEN
Just what did you promise, Jennie?
STANHOPE

(As Jennie does not reply.) Answer, please. What did you promise?

JENNIE
I promised to burn it.
ELSA
(low) Oh, no!
STANHOPE

My sister must have changed her mind. She gave this to Miss Elsa.

JENNIE
Then she wanted you to—
STANHOPE
Is that it? Did she ask you to burn it?
ELSA

(Shaking her head.) She held it out to me—started to take it back—then gave it, said—For Elsa, and died.

EBEN
That certainly makes it Elsa’s.
JENNIE

I was to do it, the very night she—couldn’t. I won’t sleep a wink tonight unless—

STANHOPE

Yes you will sleep, Jennie. This is a family matter. You may rest assured I will see that the right thing is done.

JENNIE

(After standing there helplessly.) Well, I can’t help it, can I?

STANHOPE
No, it is out of your hands now.
EBEN

It’s after half past ten, Jennie. Better get some rest. You’ll have a hard day tomorrow.

JENNIE

(Looking from him to his father.) I looked after her—thirty years. And I did for Miss Alison, when we had Miss Alison. What am I going to do—now?

STANHOPE

Of course you know we will always look after you, Jennie.

JENNIE
But who—who will I look after?
STANHOPE
Oh, you’ll have to look after me.
JENNIE
You have so many.
STANHOPE
Have I?
JENNIE

(Moving to the door.) Well— (Turning back.) That was why she tried to burn the house—burn it all together, because she couldn’t burn it alone. You can tell by that—how much she wanted to do it.

EBEN
And how impossible it was to do it.
JENNIE

But I could do it. I wouldn’t even look at it. I promised not to. I would put it in the kitchen stove, put down the lid, and wait. Then I was to stir the ashes, to make sure.

STANHOPE

Good night, Jennie. I promise you again, the right thing will be done.

JENNIE
Good night.
EBEN

Good night, Jennie. (She goes.) Poor old thing. Remember all the good things she used to make for us, Elsa?

ELSA
Cookies with nuts in them.
EBEN

Doughnuts sprinkled with sugar. (Looking at his father, who has returned to his chair, spread the portfolio on his lap, and is about to open it.) If you will forgive me, Father, you’re awfully tired now, I think you would feel better about it—afterwards, to let Elsa open the package Aunt Agatha gave her and see whether it is for all of us.

[Stanhope, after considering, holds the portfolio out to Elsa.

ELSA

(Taking it.) Thank you, Father. (She sits at the table. Uncertainly, to Eben.) Shall I open it now?

EBEN
If you will. Why not?
ELSA

(She puts the case on the table, spreads it out. Nervously, to Eben.) Perhaps you had better do it.

EBEN

No, open it.

[She unfastens one side, takes out a slender package of old papers, tied with a thread.

EBEN
Why, that’s like—
ELSA

(Feeling it.) It’s the paper Alison used for—for her— (Taking out others.) All tied—that same way.

EBEN

The way she tied them. (After a pause.) Undo one of them.

[Elsa tries to untie the knot, has trouble with it.

STANHOPE

Break that thread!

[Elsa does so, and unfolds a long sheet of old paper.

EBEN
Alison’s writing!
STANHOPE
(sharply) What are they?
ELSA
(reading) Why—they are—they are—
EBEN

(Reading over her shoulder.) Are they—poems? (He takes one from another package, then opens still another. As if he cannot believe it.) All of them. (He takes a package to his father.) They are Alison’s. They are poems. Poems we never saw. (Stanhope examines one.) They are her poems, aren’t they?

STANHOPE

(slowly) No one else—that ever lived—would say it just that way.

EBEN
But Father—had you known about them?
STANHOPE
I did not know they existed.
EBEN

But why? (Showing one he is himself reading.) See? She never wrote a thing more Alison.

STANHOPE
(Reading it.) Alison—at her best.
EBEN

Then I just can’t understand it! Where have they been? Why? My God—was it this Aunt Agatha thought she must burn?

STANHOPE
I don’t understand it.
ELSA
(who has been reading.) O-h, I think I do.
EBEN

(About to speak to her, but she is deeply absorbed, turns again to his father.) But Father—this is of immense importance! Look at them! Why I believe it’s almost as many as we published! Coming now—when she has her place—you know all they say about her—now—so much later—all of these—But why?

ELSA

Alison!

[Her head goes down among the papers. The two men look at her. There is a tap at the door, Ted comes in, wearing outdoor things. At the interruption, Elsa raises her head, and while he is there goes on reading.

TED

(Going to his father.) I’m sorry, Father—about Aunt Agatha. Know how you feel. I’m— (Feels awkward.) Gee, I had an awful time getting here. Awfully sorry not to have been here before. You see I was at the Martin’s, and Louise didn’t know that, so I didn’t get the word till I got to the dance. (Turning to Eben, as his father does not seem to hear him.) Started on my bike. Gee, those ruts, in the dark. Had to walk from the Swartz’s. Thought I was never going to get here.

EBEN

(Still dazed.) You were good to try so hard. Glad you’re here.

TED
Must have happened just after I left.
EBEN
Yes. At four-fifteen.
TED

Louise’ll be down first thing in the morning. She’s awfully sorry she can’t be here tonight.

EBEN
It’s just as—That’s all right.
TED

(Looking at his father.) Well, gee I’m— (Looking from one to the other.) Course I know how you all feel. (As no one speaks he stoops to pick up a paper Elsa has brushed to the floor.) That’s Alison’s writing. (Reading.) It’s a poem. Guess I don’t know that one. (Looking up at Eben.) Why, I thought the manuscripts were all at the State Historical Society. (Putting it on the table he takes up another.) Don’t seem to remember this one, either. (Turning over others.) Say! Where did these come from?

EBEN
We have just found them.
TED
Found them? Where were they?
EBEN
Aunt Agatha had them.
TED

And never—For Pete’s sake! (Suddenly excited.) Why say, that’s important, isn’t it?

EBEN

(Nodding, speaking low.) Father’s pretty—done up by this, after—everything else. Just leave him here with us now. You can look at those tomorrow.

TED

(Looking at his father.) Well—all right. (Going reluctantly to the door.) But gee, what did Aunt Agatha want to hide them for?

EBEN

We don’t know. She must have thought it was the right thing to do.

TED
Don’t see how she figured that out.
EBEN

We can talk about it tomorrow. (As Ted is closing the door.) Don’t say anything about it!

STANHOPE
(Looking up.) No!
TED
Gee! (He goes.)
EBEN

(Regarding his father.) Don’t you think we’d better put them away for tonight! They’re too important for now. Hadn’t you better get to bed, Father?

STANHOPE

(To Elsa.) Why did you say her name like that?

ELSA

Because she was telling me her story. It’s here—the story she never told. She has written it, as it was never written before. The love that never died—loneliness that never died—anguish and beauty of her love! I said her name because she was with me.

[Stanhope holds out his hand.

EBEN

Not tonight.

[But as Stanhope continues to hold out his hand, Eben gives him the poems Elsa had been reading. He and Elsa sit by the table, bending over others.

EBEN

(Low, and in beautiful excitement.) Why, that bird sang—thirty years ago, and sings now.

ELSA
But her—her.
EBEN

But the way she kept it all in life. I can see that flower bend, and smell it.

STANHOPE
(simply) I can not bear it.
EBEN

(Going to him and trying to take the poems.) Don’t read them tonight, Father.

[But Stanhope keeps them, and takes up another. Eben goes back to the table.

ELSA

(Speaking to what she reads.) Yes. I know.

[The clock strikes eleven. A dimming of the lights indicates the passing of time. A moment’s darkness. When the lights rise Elsa still sits at the table, as if she has had a great experience, as if she has come to know something, and has the courage to know it. Eben has moved, and is standing by the fire, Stanhope sits as he was, bowed over the papers still in his lap. After a moment the clock strikes the half hour.

EBEN

(Slowly, as if trying to realize it.) And all of that—went on in this room.

STANHOPE

If I had known it was, as much as this—I would not have asked her to stay.

ELSA
You did ask her to stay?
STANHOPE

In this room I asked her to stay. He was below. He had come for her.

EBEN
I never really knew the story.
STANHOPE

She had gone East, with Father, to Cambridge, Thirtieth reunion of Father’s class. She met him there. He was a teacher of English, at Harvard. At once they seemed to recognize each other. He was for her. She was for him. That was—without question. But he was married. He had children. They parted. But—they were one. I know that now.

EBEN

And it was after that—all those years after that—she played with us, Elsa—loved her flowers—comforted us and gave us the little presents.

ELSA

It was death for her. But she made it—life eternal.

EBEN

(So moved it is hard to speak.) Never mind, Alison. We have found you.

ELSA

You will never be alone again.

[A knock. Ted comes in.

TED

I want to read some of the poems. (As no one speaks.) Well, gee, I’m of the family too, ain’t I? If you don’t want me here I’ll take some of them down to the library.

STANHOPE
They will not be taken from this room.
TED
All right, then I’ll read them here.
EBEN
Not now.
TED
They’re mine as much as yours, aren’t they?
STANHOPE

I will protect my sister. I will do—what Agatha could not do.

EBEN
(sharply) What do you mean?
STANHOPE

They were for her alone. She does not have to show her heart to the world.

ELSA

Father! You don’t mean—Tell us you don’t mean—!

STANHOPE

I mean that I am going to burn them in her own fireplace—before her century goes.

EBEN
Father!
ELSA
(Gathering up the papers.) No!
TED
And I say—No! They’re ours too, aren’t they?
STANHOPE

I shall protect my sister, if it’s the last thing I do on earth.

EBEN
She isn’t just your sister, Father.
TED
I should say not! She’s Alison.
STANHOPE

And she could help get you through Harvard, couldn’t she? What luck! Send a wire to your teacher! Get your grade!

EBEN

Steady now, Father. There’s been too much today. No decisions can be made tonight.

STANHOPE

If they’re not made tonight, they will never be made. (He rises.)

TED

Now here I object. Here I step in. I’ll protect Alison. I’m younger than you are. I can do it better.

EBEN
Leave it to us, Ted.
TED

I’ll not leave it to anybody! I am Alison Stanhope’s nephew and I will not have her poems burned. Understand?

STANHOPE
Leave the room!
TED

Oh no, Father, you can’t go on doing that. I’ll be alive when the rest of you are dead. Then I’m the one to look after them.

[With a swift movement he puts some of the papers in his pocket, reaches for others.

STANHOPE

(Springing at him.) Drop them! Drop them or I’ll kill you!

EBEN

Father!

[Stanhope, overcome by what he has said, steps back, Eben comes between him and Ted.

EBEN

(To Ted.) I agree with you. I want what you want. The poems must be kept. But the way you go at it would make anybody want to knock you down.

TED
All right. Knock me down. Try it.
EBEN

Shut up. Use some judgment. Can’t you see Father’s worn out?

TED
I’m not.
ELSA

Oh, Ted! Please. Here in Alison’s room, Aunt Agatha dead across the hall, must we quarrel?

EBEN

Go away, Ted. Elsa and I will talk to Father. You have no sense.

TED

I’ve sense enough to know the value of things.

STANHOPE

They’re almost as valuable as rubber tires, aren’t they?

ELSA

Please go away now. We promise you it will be all right.

STANHOPE

I promise you my sister’s intimate papers are not going into your vulgar world.

[Ted snatches for more of them, Eben seizes him.

EBEN

I’m a match for you yet! Don’t be so damned sure you’ll be alive when I am dead! And what if you are? You’re alive now, and what of it? What do you amount to?

TED

I’ll show you what I amount to!

[He tries to break from Eben’s grip, Elsa comes behind them, one hand on Eben’s shoulder, the other on Ted’s.

ELSA

(quietly) Oh, this isn’t the way we act in our family, (Eben steps back.) Come, Ted dear. I ask you to go. And leave them to me. I know their value—as no one else knows.

TED

(Looking hard at her.) All right, Elsa. I trust them to you. Not Eben. Not Father. I leave them with Elsa.

[He goes.

STANHOPE
He has some of them.
EBEN

It’s all right, Father. Ted is really all right.

[With a groan, Stanhope sinks to his chair, burying his face in his hands.

EBEN

(Looking anxiously at him.) Let’s have a little sherry—for the New Year. (He goes.)

ELSA

(After Stanhope has raised his head.) Ted’s exasperating, but of course you didn’t mean it, Father. You couldn’t mean it. It’s Alison’s heart. You wouldn’t keep that from—living in the world she loved.

STANHOPE
Living in your world? Linked with—you? As if—
ELSA

Don’t say it, Father. She wouldn’t. She would understand. Alison knew. And do you know, I think she would be glad?

STANHOPE

Glad you ran away with a married man—living in shame and leaving misery behind you?

ELSA

Glad I have my love. In spite of—all the rest. Knowing what it is to be alone, I think she would be glad I am not alone. What could I do—alone? How could I—Elsa—find victory in defeat? For you see, I am not enough. She would know that. She would be tolerant. She would be gentle—oh, so gentle. If she were here now—in her own room;—she would say—Happy? Are you happy? Be happy, little Elsa, she would say.

[Eben returns with the tray of bottle and glasses.

EBEN

(Pouring the wine, trying to speak naturally.) Well, it’s a trial, having Ted in the family. It’s a chore. Though do you know—I rather liked him. (Giving his father the glass.) Keep in mind, Father, how Alison loved the kids of the family.

ELSA

(Holding her drink before the candle.) That was the color of her eyes.

EBEN

(Raising his glass.) To Alison’s love of youth!

ELSA
(as if speaking to her) Alison.
STANHOPE

To my sister, who loved to the uttermost, and denied, because it was right.

[After drinking a little, Eben begins arranging the papers, which are in confusion.

STANHOPE

Gather them up. Put them as they were.

[Elsa helps him.

EBEN

(who has paused to read, and smiles at something he sees.) No question about it. They were too big for just us. They are for the world.

STANHOPE

In justification of myself—I am so tired of justifying myself that I wish—I wish I were with Agatha—but I ask you, did she give them to the world?

EBEN

She didn’t give the others to the world, either. She was too timid of the world. She just left them, and we did the right thing, as in her heart she knew we would.

STANHOPE

These were not left with the others. Where were they left? What did she tell Agatha?

EBEN

We don’t know their story, and now we won’t know it, for Aunt Agatha can’t tell us. But we know they are here, alive, and we know we will do the right thing.

STANHOPE

Yes. We will do the right thing.

[He goes to the fire, stirs it. There is a knock, Ann comes in followed by Ted and Knowles.

ANN

I’m sorry to come in here now. But I couldn’t help it.

[Stanhope, as if unable to bear the thought there is more to meet, sinks to his chair.

KNOWLES

And I’m sorry. You’ve been so good to me, and I’ve been such a nuisance on a hard day. But when I realized I was the only one from the outside who knew, I—I had to come. It was my duty, sir.

EBEN
(To Ted.) So you told.
TED

You think you can keep them to yourself. Ask anybody. Anybody.

ANN

(Going to Stanhope, and sitting in a low seat beside him.) You were so good to me, always. I feel as if you were my father, though I know you’re not, really. You were so good to Mother. (Low.) You loved her. And she loved you. Through years. And you denied your love, because of me, and Eben, and Elsa, and Ted. Well, here we all are—the children—Eben, Elsa, Ted, and Ann. Can’t you let us, now when you are old, and sad, tell you what to do—for us? Won’t you let Alison’s words pass on—as a gift to all love—let them be here—when you are not here?

STANHOPE
Ann! Don’t!
ANN

I must. It is too important. I know that now. I know tonight, better than I would have known last night.

STANHOPE

(His hands falling at his sides.) I cannot make it plain to you, but she was of an age when people did not tell their love. She held it deep in her heart. Then can I let her tell it now, to serve you?

ANN
Yes.
STANHOPE

(Turning his face away.) I cannot bear—your youth.

ANN
Will you promise me to leave it to Elsa?
STANHOPE
Elsa! Why should I leave it to Elsa?
ANN
To a woman. Because Alison said it—for women.
STANHOPE
Alison was not like Elsa. Alison stayed.
ELSA

Then let her speak for Elsa, and Mother, and me. Let her have that from it. For her own sake—let her have that from it!

EBEN

Yes. I think Father will leave it to Elsa. And now the rest of you, please go.

ANN

(Making a move to go, but turning back.) I don’t want you to do it, because I have a great love for you, and I don’t want you, when dying, to feel, I am guilty, I took life.

[She goes out. Ted starts after her, but as Knowles steps forward Ted stands in the doorway.

KNOWLES

(Very simply, but as if the words have a great mission.)

“She lays her beams in music,
In music every one,
To the cadence of the whirling world
Which dances round the sun.

That so they shall not be displaced
By lapses or by wars,
But for the love of happy souls
Outlive the newest stars.”

[Stands silent, motionless a moment, goes.

EBEN

(After a little time.) Enough for one night, isn’t it? One thing we know. Aunt Agatha left the poems to Elsa. For the time being then, they are with Elsa. After—after the funeral, we can decide just what to do. (Pause.) Good night, Father. (No reply.) Good night, Elsa.

ELSA
Eben! Don’t leave me.
EBEN

(With a nod, as to say, it is better.) Yes. (He goes.)

ELSA

(after a pause, low) I didn’t know, Father, that you had gone through it too.

STANHOPE
Did you think I was happy with your mother?
ELSA
No.
STANHOPE

And why did I stay? For you, and your brothers. Mostly, for you.

ELSA
And then I—
STANHOPE
Then you—made it all nothing.
ELSA
I must seem—all wrong to you, Father.
STANHOPE

You are wrong. You did not think of others, and that is wrong. And don’t you know what this would say? It would say—They are like that. They were always like that. Louise is right there.

ELSA

Oh, Father—Louise! Our little town! Is that the thing to think of—when Alison has spoken?

STANHOPE

Our little town is our lives. It’s Eben’s children.

ELSA

And what will be wrong with Eben’s children—that they can’t love, and understand? You do. Eben does. Have faith, Father. Trust them to understand.

STANHOPE

(as a cry from deep) Oh, Elsa! Why did you go away—and besmirch the name Alison held high? (A sound from Elsa, a sobbing under her breath.) And now—because of you—

ELSA

Don’t, Father. Don’t say it. She wouldn’t. You ought to hurt me—some. But don’t be that cruel, to make me feel—because of me—she can’t go on. I loved, Father. I loved so much that—

STANHOPE

It is possible to love so much you can live without your love.

ELSA

I suppose it is possible, if you are a very great soul, or have a very stern sense of duty. But do you know, Father, I feel Alison wrote those poems for me.

STANHOPE
I feel she wrote them for me.
ELSA

And there will be those in the future to say, She wrote them for me.

STANHOPE

I feel—something right, something that all the time had to be, in you and me, here alone in her room, giving back to her century what she felt and did not say.

ELSA
But she did say.
STANHOPE
For herself alone.
ELSA

How can you know that? And even so—What has been brought into life cannot be taken from life.

[Stanhope goes to the fire, puts on more wood.

STANHOPE

I never thought you and I would do another thing together. But she did love you. Then shield her. Join with me. What went on in this room—let it end in this room. It is right. (He goes to the table and takes the portfolio.)

ELSA

(Standing between him and the fire.) Father! The birds that sang thirty years ago. (Her hands go out, as birds.) The flower that bent in the wind.

[She bends, as in the wind. The clock gives the first stroke of twelve. He stands motionless, listening.

ELSA
(choked with tears) Happy New Year, Father.
STANHOPE

(mechanically) Happy— (From a distance are bells in the village, whistles, a few gunshots. He looks around the room, hearing the bells. He looks long at Elsa.) It isn’t—what you said. Or even, what Ann said. But her. It goes. It is going. It is gone. She loved to make her little gifts. If she can make one more, from her century to yours, then she isn’t gone. Anything else is—too lonely. (He holds the poems out to her.) For Elsa—From Alison.

ELSA

(Taking them.) Father! My father!

STANHOPE

(His arms around her.) Little Elsa.

[He holds her close while distant bells ring in the century.

CURTAIN

About this eBook

The Collected Plays
OF
Susan Glaspell
(1876–1948)

Susan Keating Glaspell (July 1, 1876 – July 28, 1948) was an American playwright, novelist, and journalist. She is known to have composed nine novels, fifteen plays, over fifty short stories, and one biography. Often set in her native Midwest, these semi-autobiographical tales typically explore contemporary social issues, such as gender, ethics, and dissent, while featuring deep, sympathetic characters who make principled stands, and characters in search of life’s meaning.

She is today recognized as a pioneering feminist writer and America’s first important modern female playwright. Her one-act play Trifles (1916) is frequently cited as one of the great works of American theater. Trifles, and its short-story adaptation, “A Jury of Her Peers” have become staples of theater and Women’s Studies curricula across the United States and the world. Inheritors (1921) was considered the first modern historical drama. Alison’s House earned her the 1931 Pulitzer Prize for Drama.

* * * *

This collection presents eleven of Glaspell’s plays.

The following are not included:

The Comic Artist (1927), co-written with her then-husband Norman H. Matson (1893–1965).

Free Laughter (1919), Chains of Dew (1922), and Springs Eternal (1943); all three published for the first time in 2010.

This ebook was compiled and created by ECM for MobileRead.com, January 2019, and may be freely distributed for non-commercial purposes.

The contents of this book were first published 1916 ~ 1930. Text is in the public domain in countries where the copyright term is “Life+70” or less.

Click here for editing notes.

EDITING NOTES

>>TOC     >>ABOUT

This is my own compilation. Texts were obtained from multiple files at the Internet Archive and Project Gutenberg.

OCR and printer’s errors were silently corrected; punctuation, diacritics, and italics formatted. Titles are cross-linked to table of contents.

Validation by Pagina Epub Checker.