MRS. PARTRIDGE PRESENTS

Comedy in 3 acts. By Mary Kennedy and Ruth Hawthorne. 6 males, 6
females. Modern costumes. 2 interiors. Plays 2½ hours.

    The characters, scenes and situations are thoroughly
    up-to-date in this altogether delightful American comedy.
    The heroine is a woman of tremendous energy, who manages a
    business--as she manages everything--with great success, and
    at home presides over the destinies of a growing son and
    daughter. Her struggle to give the children the opportunities
    she herself had missed, and the children’s ultimate revolt
    against her well-meant management--that is the basis of
    the plot. The son who is cast for the part of artist and
    the daughter who is to go on the stage offer numerous
    opportunities for the development of the comic possibilities
    in the theme.

    The play is one of the most delightful, yet thought-provoking
    American comedies of recent years, and is warmly recommended
    to all amateur groups, (Royalty on application.)

  Price, 75 Cents.


IN THE NEXT ROOM

Melodrama in 3 acts. By Eleanor Robson and Harriet Ford. 8 males, 3
females. 2 interiors. Modern costumes. Plays 2¼ hours.

    “Philip Vantine has bought a rare copy of an original Boule
    cabinet and ordered it shipped to his New York home from
    Paris. When it arrives it is found to be the original itself,
    the possession of which is desired by many strange people.
    Before the mystery concerned with the cabinet’s shipment can
    be cleared up, two persons meet mysterious death fooling
    with it and the happiness of many otherwise happy actors
    is threatened” (Burns Mantle). A first-rate mystery play,
    comprising all the elements of suspense, curiosity, comedy
    and drama. “In the Next Room” is quite easy to stage. It can
    be unreservedly recommended to high schools and colleges.
    (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)

  Price, 75 Cents.


  SAMUEL FRENCH, 25 West 45th Street, New York City
  New and Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed Free on Request




                               MASKS

                               With

               JIM’S BEAST, TIDES, AMONG THE LIONS,
                       THE REASON, THE HOUSE

               _One-Act Plays of Contemporary Life_


                                BY
                         GEORGE MIDDLETON
                    “_We all wear many masks_”


               COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY GEORGE MIDDLETON

                       _ALL RIGHTS RESERVED_


  CAUTION.--Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that
  “Masks,” “Jim’s Beast,” “Tides,” “Among the Lions,” “The
  Reason,” and “The House,” being fully protected under the
  copyright laws of the United States of America, the British
  Empire, including the Dominion of Canada, and the other
  countries of the Copyright Union, is subject to a royalty, and
  anyone presenting the play without the consent of the owner
  or his authorized agents will be liable to the penalties of the
  law provided. Applications for the professional and amateur acting
  rights must be made to Samuel French, 25 West 45th Street, New
  York, N. Y.


                  NEW YORK        |         LONDON
                SAMUEL FRENCH     |   SAMUEL FRENCH, LTD.
                  PUBLISHER       |  26 SOUTHAMPTON STREET
             25 WEST 45TH STREET  |         STRAND




                              =MASKS=

                               with

   =Jim’s Beast, Tides, Among the Lions, The Reason, The House=

               _One-Act Plays of Contemporary Life_

                       =ALL RIGHTS RESERVED=


+------------------------------------------------------------------+
|                                                                  |
|                                                                  |
| Especial notice should be taken that the possession of this book |
| without a valid contract for production first having been        |
| obtained from the publisher, confers no right or license to      |
| professionals or amateurs to produce the play publicly or in     |
| private for gain or charity.                                     |
|                                                                  |
| In their present form these plays are dedicated to the reading   |
| public only, and no performance, representation, production,     |
| recitation, or public reading, or radio broadcasting may be      |
| given except by special arrangement with Samuel French, 25 West  |
| 45th Street, New York.                                           |
|                                                                  |
| These plays may be presented by amateurs upon payment of a       |
| royalty of Ten Dollars per performance, payable to Samuel        |
| French, 25 West 45th Street, New York, one week before the date  |
| when the play is given.                                          |
|                                                                  |
| Professional royalty quoted on application to Samuel French, 25  |
| West 45th Street, New York, N. Y.                                |
|                                                                  |
| Whenever the play is produced the following notice must appear   |
| on all programs, printing and advertising for the play:          |
| “Produced by special arrangement with Samuel French of New       |
| York.”                                                           |
|                                                                  |
| Attention is called to the penalty provided by law for any       |
| infringement of the author’s rights, as follows:                 |
|                                                                  |
| “SECTION 4966:--Any person publicly performing or representing   |
| any dramatic or musical composition for which copyright has      |
| been obtained, without the consent of the proprietor of said     |
| dramatic or musical composition, or his heirs and assigns,       |
| shall be liable for damages thereof, such damages, in all        |
| cases to be assessed at such sum, not less than one hundred      |
| dollars for the first and fifty dollars for every subsequent     |
| performance, as to the court shall appear to be just. If         |
| the unlawful performance and representation be wilful and        |
| for profit, such person or persons shall be guilty of a          |
| misdemeanor, and upon conviction shall be imprisoned for a       |
| period not exceeding one year.”--U. S. Revised Statutes: Title   |
| 60, Chap. 3.                                                     |
|                                                                  |
+------------------------------------------------------------------+




                               =To=

                        GARDNER and MARICE

               SOUVENIR OF HAPPY DAYS IN THE FOREST
                  WHERE MUCH OF THIS WAS WRITTEN




In the prefaces to my five previous volumes I have sufficiently
explained my reason for play publication--not as a substitute
for production but as an alternative sometimes compelled by the
exigencies of a highly commercialized theater. Further, I have
stated in other places why I have so frequently turned to the
one-act form.

The present volume is dedicated to no thesis, though perhaps the
title may offer some hint of the underlying motive which has
prompted this series.

  G. M.

  _December 23, 1919._




CONTENTS

                            PAGE

  PREFACE                      v

  MASKS                        3

  JIM’S BEAST                 67

  TIDES                      113

  AMONG THE LIONS            149

  THE REASON                 181

  THE HOUSE                  211




MASKS


THE PEOPLE

  GRANT WILLIAMS, _a dramatist_.
  JERRY, _his wife_.

                                          {_Characters_
                                          {_in his_
  TOM ROBINSON, _a great painter_.        {_unproduced_
  MARIE CASE, _formerly Tom’s wife_.      {_drama “The_
                                          {_Lonely Way.”_


SCENE

_In the_ WILLIAMS’ _flat, New York City, after the second
performance of_ GRANT WILLIAMS’ _first great success_, THE SAND
BAR, _produced at the National Theater_.




MASKS[A]


_The doorway from the public stairs opens immediately upon the
living-room without the intervening privacy of a small hallway. The
room was, no doubt, more formally pretentious in the early days
of the_ WILLIAMS’ _marriage; but the relics of that time--some
rigid mahogany chairs and stray pieces of staid furniture--have
been ruthlessly pushed against the walls, so that one perceives
a “parlor” transformed into a miscellaneous room upon which the
flat’s overflow has gradually crept. And with this has come_
GRANT WILLIAMS’ _plain wooden work-table, bearing now a writer’s
accessories, a desk lamp, and a mass of manuscripts; one of
which is his unproduced drama_, THE LONELY WAY, _bound in the
conventional blue linen cover. His well-worn typewriter is perched
on the end of the table, in easy reach of his work-chair with its
sofa cushions crushed and shaped to his form. Another chair is near
by, so that it also may catch the flood of light which comes from
the conventional electric bunch-light above. There is a small black
kerosene heater to be used in those emergencies of temperature
which landlords create. Not far from it, a child’s collapsible
go-cart is propped. On the walls, above some over-flowing
bookshelves, are several tastefully selected etchings. A window
in back, which hides an airshaft, is partly concealed by heavy
curtains that hang tired and limp. There is another doorway,
directly opposite the entrance, which leads to the other rooms of a
characteristically compressed city flat._

_Yet the room is not forbidding: it merely suggests forced
economies that have not quite fringed poverty: continual
adaptation, as it were, to the financial contingencies of a
marriage that has just managed to make both ends meet._

_When the curtain rises_ JERRY WILLIAMS _is seated in the cozy
chair reading a number of newspaper clippings_.

JERRY _is an attractive woman in her thirties. Externally, there
is nothing particularly striking about her: if there be such a
thing as an average wife_ JERRY _personifies it. She has loved her
husband and kept house for him without a spoken protest; for she
has had no advanced ideas or theories. Yet she has had her fears
and little concealments and dreams--like any married woman. She has
been sustained through the ten years of hard sledding by the belief
in her husband’s ultimate financial success. And as she reads the
criticisms of his play_, THE SAND BAR, _produced the night before,
she realizes it has come at last. She is now completely happy and
calm in the thought of her rewards._

_She looks at the cheap watch lying on the desk and indicates it
is late. She closes the window, walks over to the doorway and
looks in, apparently to see if the child is still asleep. Then
she closes the door and stands there, with just a suspicion of
impatience._

_Several minutes pass. Then she gives a little cry of joy as she
hears the key turn in the lock and she sees the hall door open
slowly--admitting her husband._

GRANT WILLIAMS _is a more striking personality than his wife; about
forty, with a tinge of iron gray on his temples, he has a strong
virile face not without traces of idealism. His whole appearance
is normal and devoid of any conscious affectation of dress. But a
very close inspection might reveal that his suit, though carefully
pressed, is well worn--as is the overcoat which covers it._ GRANT
_happens to be a man of cultivation and breeding, with a spark of
genius, who has strayed into strange pastures. At present there
lurks an unexpected depression back of his mood; perhaps it is only
the normal reaction which comes to every artist when success is won
and the critical sense within mocks the achievement so beneath the
dream. Perhaps with_ GRANT WILLIAMS _it is something else_.

JERRY

Oh, Grant, I thought you’d never come home.

GRANT

Best, the house manager, detained me.

JERRY

(_Detecting his mood_)

There’s nothing the matter with the play?

GRANT

Nothing; except it’s an enormous success. (_She smiles again, and
he wants to keep her smiling._) We were sold out to-night. The
second night! Think of that! I had to stand myself.

JERRY

Well, I don’t see why you should be blue about it. There were
always plenty of empty seats at your other plays. I knew THE SAND
BAR couldn’t fail.

GRANT

(_Throwing coat carelessly over chair_)

You felt the same about the others.

JERRY

(_Trying to cheer him_)

They didn’t fail--artistically.

GRANT

You mean nobody came to see them--except on passes. But THE SAND
BAR! That’s different! (_With a tinge of sarcasm throughout._) You
ought to have seen the way the mob at the National ate it up.

JERRY

I wanted to go but I couldn’t ask Mrs. Hale to take care of the
baby again. Besides, I was anxious to read all the notices over
quietly by myself and....

GRANT

(_Picking them up and glancing through them_)

Great, aren’t they? Not a “roast” among them.

JERRY

Not one. I couldn’t find Arthur Black’s review: he was always so
kind to your other plays, too.

GRANT

(_Evasively_)

I forgot to bring in the _Gazette_. Best says he never saw such
“money” notices. (_Glances at one._) Doran outdid himself.
(_Reading the critic’s notice with a touch of theatrical
exaggeration._) “The perception of human nature evinced by Grant
Williams in his profoundly moving drama THE SAND BAR places him in
the front rank of American dramatists!”

JERRY

Just where you belong.

GRANT

(_Skipping_)

“His hero, Tom Robinson, the artist, who deliberately deserts his
highest ideals because his wife’s happiness is of more value than
his own egoistic self-expression, is a new angle on the much abused
artistic temperament.” (_With a wise smile._) That “twist” seems to
have got them. (_Reading_) “Marie, his wife, who is willing to risk
her honor to test his love and thus awaken him to a sense of his
human responsibility, is a character which will appeal to every
married woman.”

JERRY

(_She nods in approval, without his seeing her_)

But read the last paragraph, dear.

GRANT

“In fact, all the characters are true to themselves, never
once being bent by the playwright for dramatic effect out of
the inevitable and resistless momentum of their individual
psychologies.” And Doran used to report prizefights!

JERRY

I hope he doesn’t go back to it. He writes beautifully.

GRANT

By the way, I haven’t told you the crowning achievement of my ten
years of writing. Trebaro--the great Trebaro who would never even
read my plays before--asked me in the lobby to-night to write him a
curtain raiser!

JERRY

(_Happily_)

That’s splendid!

GRANT

I’ve promised to get it done in ten days. His new play is going to
run short. He’s got to have something to lengthen the evening.

JERRY

Have you an idea?

GRANT

No; not yet. But he doesn’t like anything with ideas in it.

JERRY

(_As she sees him go to his typewriter to remove cover_)

But, dear, you’re not going to begin it to-night! (_Significantly
stopping him._) To-night belongs to me--not to your work.
(_Nestling close beside him._) Dearest....

GRANT

All right, Jerry. I’ve only got a few paragraphs of personal stuff
to bang off. Then I’ll be with you. _The Times_ wants it for a
Sunday story--with my photo. (_As her face brightens again._) You
see, Mrs. Grant Williams, your husband is now in the limelight.

JERRY

I’m so glad success has come to you at last.

GRANT

Better at last than at first. I’m told it’s bad for your character
to be too successful when you’re young. So providence nearly
starved us a bit, eh?

JERRY

You thought it was going to be so easy when we were first married.
It’s been hard for you, dear. I know. Writing and writing and
seeing other fellows make money. But now you’ve won out. You ought
to be very happy, as I am.

GRANT

You are happy, aren’t you? (_He takes her hands affectionately,
then looks at them, turning them over._) The only hard thing,
Jerry, was to see these hands of yours grow red and rough with the
work here.

JERRY

Maybe that’s the only way they could help you.

GRANT

(_Enigmatically_)

It’s because of them and only because of them that I’ve done it.

JERRY

Done what?

GRANT

Oh, nothing. (_He puts paper in the machine._) How about a glass of
milk?

JERRY

I’ll get it while the great man reveals himself to an anxious
public.

GRANT

And some crackers. (_Sitting at machine._) They want something
on: “How I Make My Characters Live.” (_She laughs suddenly: he
starts._) Oh; it’s you?

JERRY

Yes. I was thinking how funny it was to celebrate a success in milk.

GRANT

Yes. But the greatest joke of all is that THE SAND BAR _is_ a
success--a real financial success.

JERRY

It’s a very good joke.

    (_She goes out happily. Then a cynical look creeps into his
    face. He reads as he types._)

GRANT

“How I Made My Characters in THE SAND BAR Live.”

    (_He pauses a second, smiling cynically. Then, as he
    apparently hears something, he rises and goes over to
    the hall door which he opens quickly. He looks out and
    apparently sees a neighbor entering the apartment opposite.
    A bibulous “good night” is heard. He closes the door, turns
    the key, tests the door and sees it is locked. As he stands
    there puzzled_, JERRY _enters, with a bottle of milk, some
    crackers, and an apple on a small tray_.)

You’ll have to get over this habit of waiting on me now.

JERRY

Don’t ask the impossible.

GRANT

But we shall have servants now; plenty of them.

JERRY

Plenty of them? Why how much money are you going to make out of THE
SAND BAR?

GRANT

Nearly a thousand dollars a week.

JERRY

(_Almost inaudibly as she nearly drops the tray_)

My God!

GRANT

(_As he puts tray on table_)

It will run forty weeks at the National. Then three road companies
next year: “stock” and the “movies” after that. I’m going to
make as much money in two weeks now as I ever made before in one
year--turning out hack stuff and book reviews. And all I’ve got to
do is to sit back and let it work for me!

JERRY

It doesn’t seem honest.

GRANT

Maybe it isn’t, Jerry. (_As he eats._) But when the public is
pleased it pays to be pleased.

JERRY

(_Venturing_)

The first thing I want is some new clothes.

GRANT

(_Grandiloquently_)

My first week’s royalty is yours.

JERRY

Really?

GRANT

Throw away everything that’s darned and patched. I’m sick of seeing
them.

JERRY

I was always so ashamed, too. Just think what people would have
said if I’d been run over or killed in an accident.

GRANT

Now you’ll do the running over--in our new car.

JERRY

(_Hardly believing her ears_)

A car!

GRANT

Every successful playwright has a car.

JERRY

(_Joyfully_)

Then we’ll have to move from here to live up to the car?

GRANT

We’ve got to move. It’s more important to look like a success than
to be one. (_Glancing about flat._) And the Lord knows this doesn’t
look like success.

JERRY

I’m so glad. I’ve grown to hate these five stuffy rooms without
sunlight.

GRANT

Nothing to light them up these ten years but the glow of my genius,
eh? Now I’ll have a big house to shine in.

JERRY

I’ve always dreamed of you having a room off by yourself.

GRANT

Where you could really dream without the sound of my typewriter
waking you and the baby?

JERRY

But it will be splendid for you, too. I don’t see how you ever
wrote here with me always fussing in and out.

GRANT

Washing the eternal dish and cooking the eternal chop.

JERRY

I don’t ever want to look another gas stove in the face.

GRANT

You’ve cooked your last chop.

JERRY

Oh, Grant; my dreams have come true.

GRANT

(_Enigmatically again_)

Yes. Success or failure: it’s all a matter of how you dream. (_She
looks up puzzled: he is silent a moment and then goes to machine
again._) But I’ll never get this done.

JERRY

I’ll put on my old wrapper, for the last time, and wait up for you.
I’m going to get a real négligée to-morrow. Your favorite color.

GRANT

I won’t be long. This is an awful bore and I’m tired.

    (_He begins to pound out something on his machine._ JERRY
    _goes over to hang up his coat, and as she does so, a
    newspaper clipping falls out of his pocket, on the floor.
    She picks it up unnoticed by_ GRANT. _She glances at it;
    starts angrily to speak to_ GRANT _about it; but seeing he
    is absorbed, hesitates and then conceals it. She hangs up
    the coat, comes around back of him as though to speak--but
    changes her mind. She kisses him. As she passes the table,
    she knocks off the manuscript of a play. She picks it up._)

GRANT

What’s that?

JERRY

The manuscript of THE LONELY WAY. (_He looks over at it, with a
cynical smile._) You’ve learned a lot about playwrighting since you
wrote that, haven’t you, dear?

GRANT

Yes--a lot.

JERRY

(_Tentatively_)

You used to say it was the best thing you ever did.

GRANT

How did you happen to come across it?

JERRY

I found it behind the chest when I was cleaning.

GRANT

Oh, yes; I remember. I threw it there the day of my great decision:
The day I made up my mind to rewrite it and call it THE SAND BAR.

JERRY

(_As she glances over the pages_)

Grant. I’m not going to lose you now that you’re a success?

GRANT

What ever put such a foolish idea in your head?

JERRY

You remember the Tom Robinson you drew in this play? All you made
him think of was his art; he even threw away his wife to make a
success of it.

GRANT

That was because his wife didn’t understand. Besides, dear, you
know how much I altered my original conception of their characters
and completely changed the plot. Look how different it all is in
THE SAND BAR.

JERRY

And you think your changes made the play truer to life? In real
life a Tom Robinson wouldn’t have got rid of her?

GRANT

I don’t think anything’s ever going to come between us, if that’s
what you mean.

JERRY

Of course not. (_Putting the manuscript on table, relieved, as she
sees him resume his typing._) But I felt so sure of you when we
were poor. Perhaps it was because you couldn’t afford to be wild.

    (_She turns off the switch and goes out. The room is lighted
    only by the desk lamp, casting its shadows into the corners
    of the room. He takes a cigarette from the box on the table,
    and as he smokes he reads half to himself what he has
    written._)

GRANT

“An author’s characters grow into life out of his observation and
experience. Once they are conceived by these two parents their
first heart beats are the taps of the author’s typewriter.” Good.
“Gradually they grow into living men and women. They live with him,
yet with a life of their own. In writing THE SAND BAR I ... I....”

    (_This makes him hesitate to continue. He glances toward the
    manuscript of_ THE LONELY WAY. _He rises slowly and picks
    it up cynically. Then, as though fascinated, he gradually
    settles in the cozy chair by his table. He begins to become
    absorbed as he reads his earlier play. He puts his hand over
    his eyes, he lowers the manuscript, gives a sigh as though
    lost in the thoughts it calls up. The door, which he has
    locked, opens noiselessly, and closes as_ GRANT _looks up in
    surprise and sees a man enter_.

    GRANT _immediately discovers there is something extraordinary
    about his unexpected visitor. As he directs the light upon
    him_, GRANT _perceives the man’s power which lies both in his
    frame and impressive personality. His eyes have a relentless
    coldness when they narrow. His mouth is firm but cruel, with
    a sarcastic droop pulling down the corners. In spite of
    an occasional uncouth manner of spasmodically blurting out
    his words_, GRANT _soon realizes how keen is the intruder’s
    penetration when it is sharpened to the one point which
    vitally concerns him--his art. For this man of fifty-five
    winters, is a great artist._ GRANT _is too amazed and puzzled
    to recognize it is one of his own creations_: TOM ROBINSON.

    _The latter comes over to the dramatist and places a hand on
    his shoulder._)

TOM

You and I have some scores to settle.

GRANT

(_Moving away_)

Who are you?

TOM

So you don’t recognize me?

GRANT

Your manners are familiar.

TOM

So Whistler once said. Look at me closely.

GRANT

Is this a dare?

TOM

(_Shaking his head slowly_)

An author’s brain is indeed a store-house of mixed impressions: a
strange asylum for me to have escaped from.

GRANT

(_Starting toward door_)

Possibly the police may be able to lead you safely home.

TOM

I am at home with you.

GRANT

Don’t get excited. Keep perfectly cool.

TOM

I am cool because my intention is. (GRANT _gives him a look as_
TOM _goes over to the machine and glances at the heading of the
article_.) “How I Make My Characters Live!” You certainly do--some
of us.

    (GRANT _suddenly crosses to the door, tries it and realizes
    it is still locked. He turns, bewildered, to_ TOM.)

GRANT

How did you get in here?

TOM

Why shouldn’t I? As your fellow-craftsman once remarked: “I am a
trifle light as air.”

GRANT

I can’t say you look it.

TOM

(_Eyeing him as he lights one of_ GRANT’S _cigarettes_)

Since you don’t recognize me perhaps you didn’t do what you did to
me--deliberately.

GRANT

But I’ve never done a thing to you.

TOM

Are we so soon forgot? (_Puffing_) Yet how reminiscent the odor of
this cigarette. I notice you still smoke the same cheap brand.

GRANT

I must say I admire your nerve.

TOM

You ought to admire it. You gave it to me.

GRANT

I never gave you anything.

TOM

(_Bluntly_)

Liar! You gave me life!

GRANT

Gave you life?

TOM

Yes; I am your child.

GRANT

My child? (_He laughs._)

TOM

Many a man before you has tried to deny paternity with a laugh.

GRANT

But you’re old enough to _be_ my father. Are you accusing me of
improving on Nature?

TOM

All artists do. (_Picking up manuscript of_ THE LONELY WAY.) Here’s
how you described me. (_Reading_) “... his eyes have a relentless
coldness when they narrow ... mouth firm but cruel.... Not
attractive but impressive.” There I am. Read it for yourself.

GRANT

Then you are--?

TOM

(_Sarcastically_)

Your child. Your once dearly beloved brain baby.

GRANT

(_Awed_)

Tom Robinson!

TOM

As you originally conceived him here in THE LONELY WAY.

GRANT

Well, I’m damned.

TOM

I suspect you are. _That’s_ what I’m here to see. (_Ominously_)
And then if.... (_Suddenly casual_) But sit down and we’ll talk it
over calmly first. (GRANT _sits down astonished_. TOM _sits also_.)
Thanks.

GRANT

Go on.

TOM

Look at me. Here I am, as you drew me. Tom Robinson. Your greatest
creation!

GRANT

I recognize the egotism.

TOM

(_Blurting_)

I am what my egotism made me. Your egotism also made you dare to
conceive me, here at this very desk, out of your brain, in the
puffs of your cheap cigarettes. The taps on your typewriter were my
first heart beats. Your birth pains were my own cries of life.

GRANT

You certainly gave me a lot of trouble.

TOM

But you never suffered in having me as I did last night when I went
with you to THE SAND BAR and saw what you’d done to Tom Robinson!

GRANT

(_More and more amused at what seems to be the childish petulance
of an admittedly great man_)

You must have had quite a shock.

TOM

Shock? I was disgusted! Why, the actor who’s interpreting me isn’t
even bad looking.

GRANT

No. He couldn’t be. He’s a star.

TOM

But _I_ was your original conception. Why did you alter me into a
good-looking fashion plate with charm? There never was anything
charming about me; _never_.

GRANT

(_Glancing towards his wife’s door_)

Please not so loud. I made you unpleasant, I know; but don’t pile
it on, Tom.

TOM

(_With dignity_)

Robinson to you.

GRANT

(_Smiling_)

I beg your pardon.

TOM

Why you authors feel you can take liberties with your characters is
beyond me. I, for one, shall be treated with respect. (_His eyes
narrow_.) Unless you have lost your capacity to respect a work of
art like me.

GRANT

Come, come. I’m afraid it’s you who have lost your sense of humor.

TOM

(_Sarcastically_)

Perhaps you didn’t give me as much humor as you thought.

GRANT

But can’t we talk over the object of your visit in a friendly
spirit? (_With a smile_.) Say, as father to son?

TOM

You’ll take me seriously before I’m through. I’ll remind you that
_I_ was a force in THE LONELY WAY though in THE SAND BAR Tom
Robinson is merely a figure. One suit a year was good enough for
me. You make him change his every act.

GRANT

(_More at ease_)

I’m afraid you don’t understand the demands of the modern theater.

TOM

What have I--a great character--to do with the modern theater?

GRANT

Nothing. That’s why I revised you.

TOM

(_Bitterly_)

Then why did you give me life at all?

GRANT

Because then I was fool enough to think the modern theater was a
place for great creations. I recognize the conditions better now.

TOM

But in THE LONELY WAY you didn’t consider me a fool when _I_
continued to paint great pictures--in spite of conditions.

GRANT

You were a great artist in that play.

TOM

And when you drew me you were a great dramatist. (_Sadly_) Now I
see you are only a playwright.

GRANT

And at the National Tom Robinson has become only a painter of
pot-boilers. (_Mockingly_) You’ve certainly come down in the world.

TOM

I don’t need your pity; but I want you to realize that what you did
to me you also did to yourself. When you made me fall, I brought
you down with me. (_He shakes the manuscript before him._) Look! I
had life there in a powerful play.

GRANT

I won’t dispute that. It was fine: beautifully articulated in its
subtlety.

TOM

That just describes it. It was nearly as fine as my Sumatra
Sunlight or even my Russian Nocturne.

GRANT

Which you never sold.

TOM

But what is painted lives for the future.

GRANT

Don’t be sensitive: my LONELY WAY is still here. Nobody would
produce it.

TOM

Yet you cared for nobody when you made me live in it--perfect
as the frame that held me. The strength you gave me in my own
relentlessness was also yours. You glowed when you wrote it; as you
made me glow when I painted. You felt the joy which only a creator
knows when beauty and perfection slowly struggle out of his inner
vision.

GRANT

But, my dear fellow....

TOM

Wait. Contrast this play with THE SAND BAR! With your skill as a
builder you turned what was a lonely palace on a peak--aflame with
my art--into a scrambly suburban residence where miserable ordinary
people function. You produced a miserable makeshift of a play and
made Tom Robinson a miserable makeshift of a man. (_Accusing him._)
But when you played tricks on me you played tricks on yourself.
That’s what you did when you took from Tom Robinson his genius
and made him paint pot-boilers at the National. Pot-boilers!
Pot-boilers! Me!! Good God, man, did you know what you were doing
when you rewrote this play?

GRANT

(_Slowly_)

I knew exactly what I was doing. I was turning it into a popular
success.

TOM

(_Outraged_)

You had not even the excuse of self-deception?

GRANT

No.

TOM

(_Eyeing him strangely_)

Then you are worse off than we thought!

GRANT

_We?_

TOM

I wonder how far you have fallen! I shall be patient till we see
the depths of your artistic degradation.

GRANT

You said “we”?

A WOMAN’S VOICE

(_Outside_)

Yes. We.

    (GRANT _gives a start towards the door, thinking the voice
    has come from his wife’s room_.)

TOM

Oh, that isn’t your wife.

GRANT

Then if you’ve some friend concealed about your person, hadn’t you
better produce her?

TOM

That isn’t my friend; that’s my wife.

GRANT

Your humor isn’t inspiring. I’ve heard that brilliant retort before.

TOM

Certainly. You wrote it yourself; but you stole it from Molière. If
I had your memory I’d be witty, too.

GRANT

(_Looking about_)

I don’t seem to see Mrs. Robinson very clearly.

TOM

She says you never did. Come to think of it, she’s no longer Mrs.
Robinson.

GRANT

Oh, I forgot. In THE LONELY WAY you divorced her.

TOM

Marie and I haven’t been on speaking terms since; but _after_ she
saw THE SAND BAR she simply insisted on coming here.

GRANT

Well, I’ll be happy to hear her grievance, too.

TOM

(_Ominously_)

You won’t think us so amusing when we are through with you.

GRANT

As a dramatist, I admire your talent for suspense. (_Calling_) Come
in, Mrs. Robinson.

TOM

(_Correcting him_)

Case. Mrs. Pendleton Case. You’ve also forgotten that in THE LONELY
WAY you made her marry him.

GRANT

To be sure. But in THE SAND BAR I made her stay with you.

TOM

Yes. That’s one of her grievances.

GRANT

Come in, Mrs. Case.

    (GRANT _watches_ MARIE _come slowly from behind the curtains,
    into the light. Then he sees a handsome woman of thirty-five,
    bien soignée to the last degree. Yet somehow to_ GRANT _her
    manner is an assumption she has acquired and not inherited.
    Beneath her vivid personality, her unrestrained moods glitter
    with force if not heat. But now she eyes him steadily with
    the greatest contempt. She wears a magnificent opera cloak,
    clutched close to her. She carries a small hand bag._

    _Though_ MARIE _and_ TOM _are aware of each other’s presence,
    they never address each other; they speak to each other
    through_ GRANT _as though they existed only in him_.)

GRANT

Do sit down.

TOM

Oh, Marie will sit down. Don’t worry.

    (_Before she sits she carelessly throws her cloak over the
    same chair that_ GRANT _had previously thrown his coat. She
    stands revealed in a beautiful evening gown. It seems to
    proclaim to_ GRANT _her daring and contempt for conventions_.)

MARIE

After what I’ve just heard I don’t know whether it’s worth while to
waste words on a creature like you.

GRANT

(_Very politely throughout_)

Your husband seems to have succeeded in doing it.

TOM

Her husband? Don’t try to saddle her off on me. Once was enough.

MARIE

It’s only our contempt for you, Mr. Williams, that finds us two
together.

GRANT

To be sure. I keep forgetting.

    (MARIE _takes a cigarette out of the hand bag_; GRANT _offers
    her a light_.)

Permit me.

    (_She glares at him and refuses it. As she searches her hand
    bag for a match, a small pistol accidentally falls to the
    floor._ GRANT _quickly picks it up and hands it to her. She
    replaces it. He offers her another light, which she sullenly
    accepts._)

MARIE

I wouldn’t accept anything from you, only, in my haste, I forgot
my matches. (_She crosses one knee over the other and puffs._)
Brr--it’s cold here.

TOM

(_Bluntly_)

She wants a drink.

GRANT

Will she accept it from me?

TOM

She’ll take it from anybody.

GRANT

Oh, yes, I remember. I beg your pardon.

MARIE

(_Seeing him lift up the milk bottle_)

Milk!

GRANT

(_Apologetically_)

When I gave you your fondness for alcohol in THE LONELY WAY, we
didn’t have prohibition.

MARIE

Was that the reason you took it away from Marie when you changed
her in THE SAND BAR?

GRANT

Not exactly. You see no leading lady can ever have a real thirst.
I’m sorry if you’re cold.

TOM

Oh, Mrs. Case will warm up when she remembers what you’ve done to
her. She had a wonderful temper when she lived with me.

MARIE

I had to have. And you also took that away from me.

GRANT

I’m very sorry, Mrs. Case; the leading lady didn’t like your temper
either.

MARIE

But _I_ liked it. It was part of my character, as you originally
conceived me.

GRANT

Yes; a character touch. It was the only comedy relief in my play.

TOM

It may have been comedy to you but it was no relief to me.

MARIE

(_Emotionally_)

My temper was my defense and my attack. It aroused fear and
respect. Through it I got what I wanted out of life. It was mine!
Mine! And you took it away from me! Oh!

    (_She rushes angrily towards the milk bottle and lifts it
    above her as though to smash it; but_ GRANT _stops her_.)

TOM

(_As he lights another cigarette_)

There you see. Every time she thinks of what a temper she has she
loses it.

GRANT

(_Still holding the bottle with her_)

I concede your temper. I always had a hard time to control it.
(_Taking it from her courteously._) It was one of your most
unpleasant traits.

MARIE

(_Sullenly_)

Then why did you change me?

GRANT

It’s a professional secret, Mrs. Case. The leading lady hasn’t
the capacity to reach the heights your wonderful temper demanded.
Besides, her specialty is cute ingénue stuff. She’s a great
popular favorite, you know, and is consequently afraid to lose her
following by playing any part which lacks charm.

TOM

(_Bitterly_)

Charm! Charm! There it is again, Williams. You hadn’t a bit of
respect for Mrs. Case’s _true_ character so you made her charming.

MARIE

But you gave me a charm all my own before I married Tom.

TOM

She kept it to herself; I never suspected it after we were married.

MARIE

But, Mr. Williams, you knew no one could live with Tom Robinson
and not lose her charm. All he really wanted of me was to cook his
chops and wash his dishes.

TOM

She seems to forget she was my wife and that I was a genius. She
wanted me to get my precious fingers red and rough in a dish pan.

MARIE

(_Flaring_)

No. I wanted him to be a human being, not an artist.

GRANT

(_Who has been trying to speak throughout_)

Please. Please. Remember you two are no longer married.

TOM

You see: she’s warming up.

MARIE

(_Bitterly_)

How like old times.

GRANT

By Jove. I remember now. (_Opening manuscript._) I remember
everything about you.

MARIE

Don’t be humorous. There’s lots about your own characters you
authors never know.

TOM

That’s what critics are for.

MARIE

So don’t try to make my temper seem trivial, Mr. Williams. I valued
it. It gave me a chance to assert myself. It kept me alive as an
individual. In THE LONELY WAY, while I was his wife, you made my
whole fight to keep from being swamped by his personality.

TOM

As a married man yourself, Williams, you know damn well that women
have got to capitulate in marriage. We husbands have got to close
the door on them when they don’t understand us.

MARIE

(_Contemptuously_)

And in THE SAND BAR, Marie didn’t have the courage to take the
things of life that lay outside the door! She didn’t dare, like me,
because you’d changed _her_ into a sweet simpering woman who loved
her husband.

TOM

But the Tom Robinson she loved there isn’t the Tom Robinson you see
here.

MARIE

No. The other is a hero! He’s a halo on legs.

GRANT

Your ignorance of theatrical conditions is appalling. THE SAND BAR
_had_ to have a happy ending. If I hadn’t made you both charming
the public wouldn’t have believed in your ultimate happiness
together.

TOM

(_Bringing his hand down on the table_)

Now we’re getting at it. Why the devil did you bring us together?

GRANT

(_Trying to explain elementally_)

Because I’d turned you into the hero and you into the heroine. They
must always come together for the final curtain.

MARIE

But I wasn’t a heroine.

TOM

No. She’s right there.

MARIE

(_Emotionally_)

I was a bitter, disillusionized woman. I saw how Tom Robinson
succeeded in getting out of life what he wanted by being
relentless. I, too, became relentless and married Pendleton Case
because he could give me what _I_ most wanted.

GRANT

(_Beginning from now on to lose his patience_)

Yes; but that was too unsympathetic a motive to use in a popular
play. So I _had_ to make Pendleton Case a villain who took
advantage of your trust in him.

MARIE

But Penny was only a poor gullible fool consumed by my egotism. Why
were you so unfair to him? Why did you make him a villain?

TOM

Yes. I want to know why you gave him all my vices?

GRANT

If Case hadn’t had all your vices, Marie wouldn’t have had all the
sympathy.

MARIE

I didn’t want sympathy; I wanted clothes!

GRANT

(_Confused_)

But the leading lady has to, have sympathy even without clothes. I
mean----

TOM

(_Quickly_)

Do you mean that the reason you made me sacrifice my art in THE
SAND BAR and rescue her from Case was because she had to have
sympathy?

GRANT

Exactly. And, besides, how was an audience going to know you were a
hero unless you sacrificed something?

TOM

But I’m not a hero: I’m an artist. You know the real reason I got
rid of her was because she stood in the way of my art; because I
wouldn’t let a single human responsibility weaken the vision within
me.

MARIE

Wasn’t that reason enough why I should leave him?

GRANT

But that was too abstract an idea for the audience to get.

MARIE

So you turned an abstraction into a villain!

GRANT

Can’t you see your husband couldn’t rescue you from an abstraction?

MARIE

But I didn’t want to be rescued. I wanted to marry Penny!

TOM

And I was tickled to death to get rid of her.

MARIE

Yes. It meant release for us both to be ourselves.

GRANT

But, Robinson, you _had_ to rescue her. She was the leading lady.
The manager pays her five hundred dollars a week to marry the star.

MARIE

Well, she earns it.

GRANT

She earns it because she draws.

TOM

(_Surprised_)

Does she paint, too?

GRANT

She draws that much money into the box office.

TOM

Money, money! How that runs through your talk.

MARIE

(_Referring to_ TOM)

I wish to heaven it had run through his.

TOM

(_Lifting his voice angrily_)

I was above such things. I am an artist. Money! Money! I see red
when I hear that word. Money! Money! The curse of true art.

GRANT

(_Pointing to his wife’s door_)

Please, please; not so loud. You’ll wake the baby.

MARIE

(_With a poignant cry_)

Oh!

GRANT

What’s the matter with you?

MARIE

I forgot all about that. You also took my baby away from me in THE
SAND BAR.

TOM

So far as I was concerned that was the only decent thing you did. I
had to make money for the child.

MARIE

Have you forgotten that was the other reason I left him? He didn’t
love our child: it was in his way.

TOM

Love a mewling, puking child? Not much.

GRANT

(_Trying to calm her as she walks up and down_)

Sh! Control yourself.

MARIE

My love for the child was the only decent thing about me.

GRANT

But I gave you other virtues. I made you love your husband.

MARIE

If I _had_ to love my husband in your revised version couldn’t I at
least have kept my child?

GRANT

Don’t be unreasonable. No leading lady wants a child.

MARIE

So you took it away to please the leading lady!

GRANT

Can’t you understand if I’d given her a child it would have
complicated matters?

TOM

You’re right. It certainly complicated matters for me.

GRANT

(_Trying to explain_)

I wanted the struggle to be a simple one between two men and a
woman. A child would have been a side-issue.

MARIE

You call my child a side-issue! (_Looking at_ TOM.) Hasn’t his
father anything to say to that?

TOM

(_To_ GRANT)

She can’t get me excited about that brat. It stood in my way. I’d
have killed it myself if necessary.

MARIE

(_To_ GRANT)

But _you_ killed it instead.

GRANT

(_Losing patience_)

Yes. I killed it for the same reason he would have: because it
would have stood in the way of the play’s success. Are you a couple
of fools? Can’t you both get into your heads I was writing a play
to make money?

TOM

Money! Money again!

MARIE

(_Astonished as she comes to_ GRANT)

So you killed it for money?

GRANT

Yes. Just as I changed you both for money.

TOM

If you’d killed it for art I would have understood. But to kill a
creature for money! You are a murderer!

MARIE

(_Sneering_)

And how much blood money will you get for what you have done?

GRANT

A thousand dollars a week!

MARIE

(_Overcome_)

My God!

TOM

(_Awed_)

How much did you say?

GRANT

A thousand a week.

MARIE

You’re going to get that much for putting me into a popular success?

GRANT

Yes.

TOM

She isn’t worth it.

GRANT

(_Determined to have it out with them_)

It was worth it to me. Think of the exquisite joy I had in revising
my problem drama. Think of how I turned two hectic, distorted,
twisted, selfish, miserable, little-souled characters into two
self-sacrificing, sugar-coated, lovable beings!

TOM

You are not only a murderer but a hypocrite: you distorted life to
win sympathy for us.

GRANT

The theater no longer has anything to do with life. It’s a palace
of personality.

TOM

Well, what’s the matter with _my_ personality?

MARIE

Leaving him aside, what about me?

GRANT

You wouldn’t draw a cent. There wasn’t a dollar in either of you.

MARIE

Is that _my_ fault? You made us what we are.

GRANT

Yes; before I learned that the public pays to be pleased. Do you
think there’s anything pleasing about either of you? Why, you
couldn’t even be happy together.

TOM

This is getting damned personal.

MARIE

What right has the public got to be so proud of itself? There’s
many a woman in the audience worse than I am.

GRANT

But they want to be flattered into believing they are as much like
heroes and heroines as you are not. The successful playwright, like
the fashionable portrait painter, flatters and never reveals.

TOM

While true artists like me starve?

GRANT

And dramatists who write “Lonely Ways” also starve. What are you
two kicking so about? Because I’ve made you respectable, wealthy
and happy? Do you think the general public cares a whoop in Hades
what _I_ think of life, of my peculiar slant on the motives that
mess up the characters that happen to interest _me_? No: all they
want is what they want life to be.

TOM

How little you know of human nature. If we’d had a chance to be our
true selves we would have been appreciated.

GRANT

By whom, pray? A few professional soul lovers. And they’d get into
the theater on passes. No. You are caviar; most of the world lives
on mush. So I mixed you in mush, sentimental glue, anything you
want to call it.

TOM

You disgust me.

MARIE

But _I_ see hope for you. At heart you despise the crowd, as I did
its smug conventions.

GRANT

(_Bitterly_)

I hate what it has made me suffer.

TOM

Every great artist has despised them. I despise them.

GRANT

(_More seriously_)

Only I think the public has its rights. They have the right to
laugh, to watch virtue triumph, to behold success, to feel love
win out, to see what they think is happiness. They have that right
because their own lives are so full of the other things. And maybe
they like to dream a little, too.

MARIE

Who’s mushy now?

GRANT

Don’t sneer at a popular success. It’s sometimes more difficult to
perform a trick than climb a mountain peak.

TOM

Have _we_ artists no rights?

GRANT

(_Wearily_)

Only the right to dream and starve.

MARIE

But I’m not an artist: I’m one of your creations. Have _I_ no
rights? Must I be turned into a trained poodle and do tricks for
money?

GRANT

You are only a phantom, a projection, a figment.

MARIE

(_With great indignation_)

You call me a figment?

TOM

(_Rising ominously_)

I’m tired of hearing you insult your own flesh and blood.

GRANT

I disowned you both when I rewrote you. I was thinking then of only
one thing: the public.

TOM

Liar! You _did_ deceive yourself! You were thinking of your wife
and child.

MARIE

(_Seeing_ GRANT _is startled_)

That gets you. You did this to us for them.

GRANT

(_Himself serious now throughout_)

Yes. I was thinking of them most of all.

MARIE

Yet when you created Tom Robinson in THE LONELY WAY you did not let
him think of _his_ wife and child.

TOM

That’s where I was bigger than you, Grant Williams!

GRANT

You mean more brutal.

TOM

Mush. Mush. You can’t hide behind that. (_Impressively._) I am you!
I could never have lived had I not been a wish hidden in yourself.
I am what you would have been if you had dared!

GRANT

How dare you say a thing like that? I made you. I knew you inside
and out.

TOM

But you didn’t know yourself. _I_ knew when you wrote me that you
wanted to be as relentless as you made me.

GRANT

I hated you. I hated every bone beneath your miserable hide!

TOM

(_With a triumphant smile_)

That only proves it! You were afraid to be yourself; so you created
me!

GRANT

(_Shrinking back_)

No.... No....

TOM

You forget people have made gods and devils out of their own dreams
to worship and hate. Look at me, through the mask you gave me, and
see yourself! I was the worst of what was human in you--the devil
side of you: I was the best of what was the artist in you--the God
within you!

GRANT

(_As though stunned by the thought_)

God and devil. No.... No....

MARIE

(_Seriously_)

Now I see how _I_ came into being. I was your wife, as part of you
saw her! (_He protests._) She was in your way, as I was in his way.
You made Tom close the door on me because, deep in your soul, you
wished to close it on her. She never understood.

GRANT

Stop. You shan’t go any further. She stood by me through all these
years of poverty. She loves me and understands.

MARIE

(_Relentlessly_)

But you thought her a fool for loving you. You really thought she
ought to go. You wanted her to go, I tell you. You wanted her to
see that your art meant more to you than her love. But you didn’t
have the courage to do to her what you made him do to me!

GRANT

(_To_ TOM)

Take her away! I won’t let her say these things. I did what I did
to you for Jerry’s sake. I wanted to make money so _she_ would be
happy. I couldn’t stand it to see her hands grow rough....

TOM

(_Contemptuously_)

Bosh! Art denies all human responsibility. You made me face that
truth with my wife, and when I threw her out I was _your_ own inner
answer to that eternal question!

GRANT

I tell you my love for her is greater than for my art.

MARIE

Mush. Mush. It’s time to think of punishment.

GRANT

Punishment? (_Triumphantly_) I have a thousand a week. She will
have clothes and comfort. And you talk of punishment!

MARIE

(_Drawing a pistol and pointing it at him_)

What you did to us means your death.

TOM

(_Stopping her_)

No. You cannot be killed, Grant Williams. You are dead already.

MARIE

(_About to shoot_)

I think I’ll make sure.

TOM

(_As_ GRANT _stares at him spellbound_)

When you turned your soul into money you died. There is a greater
punishment. We’ll let what remains of you live, as we shall live to
haunt you in your dreams.

GRANT

(_Laughing hysterically_)

But you can’t live. I killed you. You’re dead, too. And the dead
cannot dream.

TOM

We are your dreams. We will outlast you.

MARIE

We live. We shall go on living. Yes. That is a greater revenge.
We’ll haunt you every time you are alone....

GRANT

You can’t. You can’t....

TOM

Whenever you smoke and think in your new house....

MARIE

Or walk by the sands, you will see only our hands beckon you from
the living waters of the sea....

GRANT

(_Frantically_)

I’ll drown you like rats. I’ll keep you under till you are dead.
You shan’t come back ... ever ... ever ... (_They both laugh._) Get
out. You phantoms.... I’ll kill you again....

TOM

Mush.... Mush....

GRANT

I’ll kill you forever now. (_He picks up the manuscript of_ THE
LONELY WAY _and savagely tears it up_.) Die. Die forever.... Die....

  (_They laugh loudly and mockingly at him._)

TOM

You see we still live!

GRANT

Ah. I’ll kill you yet. I’ll kill you!

    (_He rushes towards them and overturns the lamp. They laugh
    mockingly farther off in the complete darkness._)

I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!

JERRY

(_As she enters_)

Grant!! What is the matter?

    (_She turns on the switch by the door. The other lights flare
    up. She is dressed in a kimono, with her hair in braids. He
    rushes towards her._)

GRANT

I’ll kill you!

JERRY

Grant!

    (_He holds her arms, suddenly realizing who she is and that
    they are alone._)

GRANT

You are real, aren’t you? You are flesh and blood?

JERRY

Silly boy. What on earth is the matter with you? I go out of the
room for a moment and I come back to find you yelling and wanting
to kill me.

GRANT

(_Still dazed_)

No. It wasn’t true: I don’t want to get rid of you. I....

JERRY

(_In a matter-of-fact tone_)

I do wish you’d get over the habit of acting all your plays out.
The neighbors will think you and I aren’t happy. You’d better come
to bed and get some rest.

GRANT

I--I couldn’t sleep just now.

    (_He goes over to the table and sees the manuscript of_ THE
    LONELY WAY _untouched. He stands trying to collect himself._)

JERRY

It’s upset you, reading over THE LONELY WAY?

GRANT

(_Half to himself_)

That’s strange.

JERRY

Then what is the matter?

GRANT

(_Evasively as he sits down wearily_)

I--I was reading over the notices.

JERRY

I should have thought they’d soothe you, not get you so excited.
Though there is one that put me in a terrible temper. (_He looks at
her quickly._) Why did you conceal the _Gazette_ notice from me?
(_Smiling, she shows it to him: he takes it._) Did you think this
would worry me because Arthur Black said THE SAND BAR didn’t live
up to the promise of your other plays?

GRANT

(_Half to himself_)

And he was the only one who liked the others that failed.

JERRY

But it is outrageous of him to say you’d deserted your ideals. I
have half a mind to write to the Editor.

GRANT

(_With a thought_)

Would it mean so very much to you if it were true?

JERRY

Of course it would.

GRANT

(_Defensively_)

But, after all, Jerry, does it make any difference to anybody but
the artist whether he sells out or not?

JERRY

But, dear, _I_ think you’ve just begun to reach your ideals.

GRANT

Just begun?

JERRY

Yes. I never told you before because I didn’t want to discourage
you when we were so hard up. But, Grant dear, I never liked all
those other plays--especially THE LONELY WAY. They seemed unworthy
of you. THE SAND BAR is the first play that really seems true to
life.

GRANT

(_Staring at her_)

Really true to life?

JERRY

Yes. And I hope from now on you’ll go on writing the plays that
will make people feel happier and....

GRANT

(_Suddenly bursting out in an ironic laugh_)

I’ve got it. I’ve got it.

JERRY

What?

GRANT

The curtain raiser Trebaro wants. I’ll call it THE MASK. No. MASKS!
That’s the title. I’ll show _them_ whether I’m dead or not.

JERRY

What are you talking of?

GRANT

The theme of my play: that so long as an artist knows what he is
doing with his art he is alive: that the only thing which can kill
him is self-deception.

JERRY

Dear me, you’re going to write another play nobody will understand?

GRANT

(_Contemptuously_)

Why should I care whether _anybody_ will understand it?

JERRY

But Trebaro won’t produce it, dear.

GRANT

Oh yes, he will: he said he’d produce anything I wrote no matter
how good it was.

JERRY

(_Seeing him eagerly go to his typewriter_)

You’re going to begin it _now_?

GRANT

Yes. _Now._ I can write it off at a sitting.

JERRY

To-night--of all nights?

GRANT

Yes. As Tom said: while the “glow” is here. Now that I’m free. I’ll
show them whether I’m dead or not. I’ll use their very words. I’ll
make it bite.

JERRY

(_Completely lost_)

I don’t understand you or what you are talking about.

GRANT

(_Gives her a look_)

You don’t need to understand now, Jerry; THE SAND BAR has released
you.

JERRY

(_Hurt_)

I never heard you talk like this before. You’re unkind.

GRANT

(_Putting paper in machine_)

I don’t mean to be, dear; only my nerves are on edge.

JERRY

(_Begins to cry_)

I can see that. You’ve no regard for my feelings.

GRANT

I have my work....

JERRY

You seem so far off all of a sudden. To-night of all nights! Just
when you’ve made your first real success!

GRANT

(_More testily_)

Please. Please, Jerry. I won’t be able to write this if I have to
think of anything else.

    (_He begins to write. He looks about the room showing he is
    describing it._)

“The scene is the living-room in a flat. The doorway from the
public stairs opens immediately upon it without the intervening
privacy of a small hallway....”

    (_He murmurs as he goes on, striking the keys very rapidly.
    She stands looking at him--hurt and wondering what it means:
    but he is absorbed. Then she slowly goes to the kerosene
    heater and lights it. She looks at him a moment._)

JERRY

I guess I won’t wait up for you to-night. I’m cold.

    (_She goes out, hardly controlling herself. He continues for
    a moment. Then he gets up, still absorbed, and closes the
    door after her. He resumes his work with the glow of intense
    creation on his face._)


[CURTAIN]


[A] Copyright by George Middleton. See back of title page.




JIM’S BEAST


THE PEOPLE

  BRONTOSAURUS, _a fossil_.
  SARAH, _a scrubwoman_.
  PROFESSOR POHL, _a curator_.
  ROBERT HOOD, _a member of the Legislature_.
  ELIZABETH LIVINGSTON, _a seeker of sensations_.
  MRS. CORNELIUS VAN DYKE, _a social leader_.
  MRS. JAMES MORROW, _a wealthy woman_.
  ROBERT LIVINGSTON, _a good citizen_.
  LARRY ANDERSON, _a doughboy_.


SCENE

_A corner in the Hall of Paleontology of a Public Museum; late one
afternoon._




JIM’S BEAST[B]


_Two arched passageways are in back, and between them, on the
wall, is a large dark plaster cast which may be a replica of the
famous Dinosaur footprints in Brownstone. Beneath this is a low
bench. At the extreme right, as one enters from back, there are two
cases, just visible, in which are fossil bones and casts. There
is a bench near them and an aisle between which leads off to the
windows beyond, suggested by the soft streams of sunlight which
shoot over the tops of the cases to the_ BRONTOSAURUS _opposite.
Only the dull-colored flat skull and a portion of the neck of this
venerable fossil are to be seen, projecting about a yard or two. It
stands seven feet above its low platform, which is surrounded by a
railing. On this is a slanted sign which describes it. Its size,
its grimness and the light which rests upon it make it dominate
everything. The remainder of the huge dinosaur is masked by a high
screen at its left, upon which hangs a map indicating by its varied
horizontal shades of color, the various geological strata and
periods._

_When the curtain slowly lifts_, SARAH, _a scrubwoman, is on her
knees, mopping the floor with long practised sweeps_.

_She is fifty, heavy, with a dull tired face lined by years of
physical toil. Though her hair is tightly drawn back and tied in a
knot, several long wisps fall across her eyes as she leans forward
over her work; and she continually pushes these back with her arm,
since her hands are wet and soapy._

_As she wrings her rag savagely she mumbles to herself in a rich
Irish brogue._

SARAH

Scrub. Mop. Scrub. (_She looks up at the_ BRONTOSAURUS.) Keepin’
watch on me, too, ye dirty heathen. Grinnin’ there every day at me
a-scrubbin’ and moppin’.

    (_She raises the rag, in momentary revolt, as though she were
    about to throw it at the skull. But she stops sullenly as she
    mechanically resumes her work._)

Ye dirty heathen ... me a-scrubbin’....

    (_As she finds a hairpin and sticks it in her hair_, PROF.
    POHL _enters, carrying a small plaster cast in which is
    embedded the outlines of a fossil_.

    PROF. POHL, _the curator, is a short, round-shouldered man
    nearing sixty. He is absorbed in his scientific interest,
    devoid of conscious humor and fundamentally inclined to be
    impatient with anything that has not been dead for at least
    several million years._)

PROFESSOR

Good afternoon, Sarah.

SARAH

(_Mumbling half to herself resentfully, as he walks over where she
has just mopped_)

And I was just after a-moppin’ up that place.

PROFESSOR

You’re cleaning up earlier than usual.

SARAH

Wipe ’em up as they comes, says I: it’s easier in the end.

PROFESSOR

But I’m expecting over two hundred soldiers here this afternoon.

SARAH

(_Astonished_)

Here? What’s the matter with ’em?

PROFESSOR

They’re slightly wounded.

SARAH

Shure: that explains it.

PROFESSOR

All the theaters are entertaining them so I’ve invited them here.
I thought the soldiers might enjoy having me personally show them
through the paleontological section. Dr. Taylor has volunteered to
explain the mummies.

SARAH

What between these dead ’uns and them ould ladies the boys’ll be
havin’ a foine time, all roight.

PROFESSOR

I thought it might be edifying, too.

SARAH

(_As she resumes her mopping_)

They’ll be a-makin’ more work for me; but footprints is footprints
no matter who makes ’em.

PROFESSOR

(_Looking in case at the right_)

Now where’s that card?

    (_He tries to get key out of pocket to open case but he is
    afraid of breaking the cast._)

Sarah, will you assist me?

SARAH

Me! Touch one of them dead corpses?

PROFESSOR

No; no. That’s so; you’d get them wet.

    (_She watches him as he goes to bench and lays the cast down
    carefully on the handkerchief he has spread for it. Then he
    goes over to case, opens it with a key, returns for cast and
    puts it with care and affection in the case._)

SARAH

Ye’d be a-thinkin’ it was a baby ye was puttin’ to bed.

PROFESSOR

(_Admiring them_)

All these are my children, Sarah.

SARAH

(_Mumbling as she looks up at the_ BRONTOSAURUS)

I’d see a doctor about it if I was their mother.

PROFESSOR

There. (_He closes the case._) That’s a very rare Pterodactyl.
(_She is somehow not impressed._) I’ve reconstructed it from five
tiny bones found in Oregon.

SARAH

(_Wringing mop with a contemptuous look at him_)

Why go to all that trouble?

PROFESSOR

I’m afraid you wouldn’t understand. I study fossils, Sarah, because
it is my profession--just as scrubbing is yours.

SARAH

Do ye have to do it?

PROFESSOR

No; I chose it. I’m very happy in it.

SARAH

What I’d loike to know is why I’ve got to scrub and mop all the
day? _I_ don’t do it for pleasure.

PROFESSOR

(_Failing to see the human analogy_)

Somebody’s got to keep the Museum clean.

SARAH

(_Seeing him blow off some clay from bench_)

Yes. Some o’ us is born to wipe up other people’s dirt, and some’s
born to make it. (_Wiping it._) Why can’t everybody clean up his
own dirt, says I? Maybe they wouldn’t be makin’ so much.

PROFESSOR

I daresay you’re right. (_Over by the_ BRONTOSAURUS.) You’ve
forgotten to run your rag over this platform.

SARAH

(_Rebelliously_)

Ye don’t git me inside th’ rail with that dirty heathen.

PROFESSOR

The superintendent tells me he’s had to remind you every day.

SARAH

(_Her revolt rises_)

If I’ve got to go inside there alone ye can tell ’im I’m through.
There’s plenty of dirty places in the world what needs cleanin’
and if I’ve got to mop I’m going to do me own pickin’ of dirt an’
places.

PROFESSOR

(_Firmly_)

But you forget you’re paid for this.

SARAH

If ye’ll pardon my saying so I ain’t paid to go rubbin’ agin’
the slats of that dirty heathen loike you. I’m paid me two an’ a
quarter a day to wash up people’s tracks. Two an’ a quarter a day,
mind ye, by this place what owns jewels and things they wraps up
in satins and laces what honest people could git some comfort out
of--and the cost of livin’ mountin’ high as St. Peter himself.

PROFESSOR

(_Impatiently_)

If you won’t keep it clean, there are plenty of scrubwomen who will.

SARAH

Ye care more for the looks of that dirty heathen than ye do for my
feelin’s.

PROFESSOR

(_Outraged_)

Sarah! You forget there are only a few fossils like this in
existence! I don’t want to have to report you for lack of respect.

SARAH

Shure, it’s not ye I’m not respectin’--it’s that other inhuman
beast.

PROFESSOR

Now be a sensible girl and run your rag over it.

SARAH

(_Sullenly as her revolt subsides_)

Oh, all roight. It’s seein’ it in me sleep I am as it is.

    (_She slowly picks up the mop and pail and goes under the
    rail, cautiously rubbing the platform with wide stretched
    arms._)

PROFESSOR

Around the feet, Sarah.

SARAH

They’re so big it’s glad I am they’ve put a brass rail around ’im
so he can’t be prowlin’ about at night trackin’ the place up. It’s
bad enough some of the people what come here to see him.

PROFESSOR

But you have less to clean up than some of the other girls.
(_Sighing._) So few people wander in this out of the way section.

SARAH

Ye don’t think anyone would be fool enough to look at these corpses
for pleasure, do ye?

PROFESSOR

I suppose not.

SARAH

Even though it means more work to my poor back, I’m goin’ to ask
to be put over where the cases of butterflies are. When I was
a-scrubbin’ around them I could be thinkin’ that I was out among
the daisies, instead of hangin’ ’round a morgue.

PROFESSOR

That’s much better, Sarah. (_Gazing in admiration at the fossil._)
Wonderful specimen--wonderful!

    (ROBERT HOOD _enters. He is a well set-up, attractive young
    man about thirty. As he glances impatiently at his watch,
    it is evident he is ill at ease and under the stress of an
    unusual emotion. Though he carries a Museum catalogue it is
    soon apparent he has come for a rendezvous._

    SARAH _soon disappears from view--scrubbing_.)

HOOD

I beg your pardon. Is this where the Brontosaurus lives?

PROFESSOR

Yes. (_Proudly_) This is the Brontosaurus.

HOOD

(_Indifferently_)

Oh, is it? Thanks.

PROFESSOR

Are you interested in fossils?

HOOD

Fossils?--Oh, yes; but only the living ones.

PROFESSOR

Oh, then you’ve come to see the Hoatzins?

HOOD

(_Impatiently_)

Not especially.

PROFESSOR

They’re in the ornithological section. Curious, isn’t it, when
people think fossils are so remote, that to-day in the thorn bushes
along the Berbice River there should be a small living bird who
swims, creeps, climbs, dives and can duplicate within a few minutes
the processes of evolution through the centuries. Mr. Beebe calls
them “living fossils”; so when you said....

HOOD

(_Again looking at his watch_)

It’s very interesting.

PROFESSOR

Their wing formation somewhat resembles the Archæopteryx. We have a
cast of the Solenhofen specimen, if you....

HOOD

I have a catalogue. I’d like to study them myself, quietly at
first, if you don’t mind.

    (_He sits down on the bench at back and opens the catalogue.
    The_ PROFESSOR _is offended, gives him a look and goes out.
    The minute he has gone_, HOOD _arises, takes several steps
    about as though looking for someone_. SARAH _has entered with
    her pail and watches him. She stands there, a worn and abject
    figure._ HOOD _takes out his watch again_.)

SARAH

I beg ye pardon?

HOOD

(_Startled a moment_)

Eh?

SARAH

Do ye be havin’ the toime about ye?

HOOD

My watch says four. But I think it must be fast.

SARAH

(_As she wearily crosses_)

Thank ye, sir.

HOOD

(_A bit anxiously_)

When does the Museum close?

SARAH

For ye or for me?

HOOD

Why, for me; of course.

SARAH

Ye’ll hear the bell in a half-hour; it’s not long after that I’ll
be a-pullin’ up these shades.

HOOD

Thanks.

SARAH

(_Pointedly as she begins to wash up his footsteps_)

If ye need more toime to _look_ at the animals ye may be doin’ it,
as the Professor is expectin’ a whole regiment of soldiers.

HOOD

(_Vexed_)

Coming _here_? I thought nobody ever came here?

SARAH

Ye mustn’t be surprised at anythin’ in a museum. All the strange
animals ain’t behind the railin’s.

    (_She gives him a knowing look and finally goes out of sight,
    mopping down the aisle. He takes a step impatiently and then
    sits in back and opens catalogue aimlessly as he sees_ MRS.
    CORNELIUS VAN DYKE _and_ MRS. JAMES MORROW _enter from back.
    They do not notice him at first._

    MRS. VAN DYKE _is a harmless middle-aged woman who throughout
    life has comfortably relied on her blood instead of her
    brains. She hides the absence of the latter by a calm and
    superior imperturbability._

    _Her companion_, MRS. JAMES MORROW, _is younger; obviously
    nouveau riche, she has achieved a successful manner, most of
    which is dexterously expressed in her lorgnette_.

    _Both women are handsomely gowned and proclaim to the
    observer flaunting wealth._)

MRS. VAN DYKE

I’m sure we’ve lost our way.

MRS. MORROW

The attendant said keep turning to the right.

MRS. VAN DYKE

I can’t say it’s my idea of ancient jewelry.

MRS. MORROW

No. But if we dressed up at Mrs. Bilton’s ball like some of these
animals, we’d certainly make a hit.

MRS. VAN DYKE

It might suit you, dear; but I think I’ll wear at least some
jewelry. I’m sure there must be wonderful old pieces in the museum
I can get Tiffany to copy in time. I must find something original.

MRS. MORROW

(_Looking absently at_ HOOD _through her lorgnette_)

Dear me, this is a terrible place--full of monsters.

MRS. VAN DYKE

I can’t say they’re very showy. (_Glancing at the_ BRONTOSAURUS.)
What an ugly animal! What is it?

MRS. MORROW

(_Reading sign_)

It’s a Bron--(_Not able to pronounce it and turning away_) I left
my reading-glasses at home. You try.

MRS. VAN DYKE

(_After studying it a moment_)

Oh, yes: I’ve heard of them. (_More closely._) Why, that looks like
your husband....

MRS. MORROW

(_Interrupting, as she turns quickly to the fossil_)

My husband? That?

MRS. VAN DYKE

(_Looking more closely_)

Yes. It _is_ your husband’s name. (_Reading_) “Donated by James
Morrow.”

MRS. MORROW

Why this must be Jim’s beast!

MRS. VAN DYKE

Jim’s beast?

    (HOOD _covertly shows a bit of interest in spite of his more
    pressing impatience over their presence_.)

MRS. MORROW

I knew there was something here Jim wanted me to see. He donated
$250,000 to the museum last year. He said they’d bought some old
animal with it.

MRS. VAN DYKE

I can’t say I admire his taste. I thought he went in for horses.

MRS. MORROW

Of course, it’s Jim’s own money; but it does seem a bit extravagant
to turn all that money into old bones.

MRS. VAN DYKE

Yes; when he might buy so many nicer things you could wear.

MRS. MORROW

Jim’s been awfully generous to me; though, of course, now that the
war’s over we’ve got to hold in a bit. He hasn’t any more army
contracts, you know. (_Sighing_) It certainly was wonderful while
it lasted.

MRS. VAN DYKE

I shouldn’t worry about it if I were you. Why, even this beast
would look like a piece of bric-a-brac in that new house he gave
you.

MRS. MORROW

    (_The hand of_ SARAH _mopping in the aisle is seen_. MRS.
    MORROW _is startled_.)

What’s that?

MRS. VAN DYKE

Oh, it’s only an old scrubwoman.

MRS. MORROW

They might wait till the museum closed before they splash about
spoiling our gowns.

MRS. VAN DYKE

Well, if we’re ever going to see that ancient jewelry before we’re
as old as it is, I suppose we’d better try and find it.

MRS. MORROW

But I’ll have to tell Jim I came especially to see his beast: he’ll
want to know what it looks like, the poor dear!

    (ELIZABETH LIVINGSTON _enters. She is a woman of such an
    indefinite age that she must be past her early thirties.
    Handsome, well-groomed and yet a bit hectic, her secret
    is that she is a born intriguanté and likes to see men
    feverish._

    _She sees_ HOOD: _he sees her: the two women catch this
    exchange of glances, though_ HOOD _instantly resumes reading
    and_ BESS _goes quickly to the case opposite not to betray
    she is there to meet_ HOOD.

    _The two women exchange significant glances._ HOOD _looks up
    and catches_ MRS. MORROW _eyeing him through her lorgnette.
    He rises in question._)

MRS. MORROW

(_To cover it_)

I beg pardon. Do _you_ happen to know where they keep the ancient
jewelry?

HOOD

(_Politely_)

I think it’s to the right.

MRS. VAN DYKE

But that’s what the other man said.

HOOD

Have you tried the long hall?

MRS. MORROW

But _which_ hall?

HOOD

(_Obviously trying to get rid of them_)

The very _furthest_ hall.

MRS. MORROW

Oh.... (_She turns to_ MRS. VAN DYKE.) The very furthest hall, he
said. (_Aside to her as they turn_) I’m afraid we’re _de trop_. I’m
sure it’s....

MRS. VAN DYKE

I thought so, too; and with a different tame robin this time. (_As
she turns and looks at the_ BRONTOSAURUS.) I’m glad I won’t look
like Jim’s beast when I’m dead.

MRS. MORROW

Well, dear, we’ll never be found in a museum at any rate.

MRS. VAN DYKE

(_As they go up_)

I don’t know. I’m most dead already.

    (MRS. MORROW _gives a look at_ BESS _through her lorgnette.
    They go out obviously gossiping about her._

    HOOD _takes a step to see they have gone. Then he turns
    tensely._)

HOOD

Bess!

BESS

Oh, Bob!

HOOD

Dearest!

BESS

Be careful. Somebody may see us. I’m sure those women....

HOOD

(_With extravagant expression_)

I’d like the whole world to see us. I can’t stand this much longer.
Bess, I want you.

BESS

I know. Sh!

    (SARAH _comes from out of aisle, goes out of sight, obviously
    to clean another aisle. But she has seen them and gives a
    knowing smile as though such rendezvous were not unusual._)

HOOD

It can’t go on like this.

BESS

Aren’t you satisfied with what we’ve already had?

HOOD

(_Unconsciously playing up to the situation_)

I want all or nothing--the _you_ all the world has, too. I....

BESS

Yes? Say it. I like to hear you say it.

HOOD

I want you to be my wife. (_Intensely_) Bess! Bess! Will you?

BESS

Give me time to think.

HOOD

But it can’t go on like this ... having me meet you in strange
places ... always being afraid. Bess, you love me, don’t you?

BESS

Oh, Bob!

HOOD

You’ve never loved anybody before as you love me?

BESS

Oh, no; you’re so fine and strong and....

HOOD

Then why are you afraid?

BESS

The world ... my world ... your world....

HOOD

But you wouldn’t be the first who....

BESS

Don’t drive me to the wall!

HOOD

You must decide.

BESS

I’m thinking of you. I’m older than you. In time, perhaps, you....

HOOD

Never.

BESS

How you say it!

HOOD

I love you. I’ve never loved any woman before. I’ll never love any
woman again.

BESS

My dear boy! I must go now. I just wanted to see you, to hear you
say you love me.

HOOD

And I came because I wanted a definite answer.

BESS

Wait. In time. Don’t drive me to the wall.

HOOD

(_Heroically_)

I tell you I’ll kill myself if....

BESS

Bob! Do you care as much as that?

HOOD

Yes. Nothing else matters.

BESS

But your career--your position?

HOOD

You are more than all that. What will you give up for me?

BESS

Sh! Somebody’s coming. (_In a different tone, mistress of
herself._) It must have taken a good many years to collect these
specimens.

    (RAY LIVINGSTON _has come in on this, walking slowly down
    with eyes that glitter for a moment on seeing them_.

    _He is about sixty. The tightly drawn skin on his face
    clearly reveals the bones beneath. He is an aristocratic,
    calm, collected man: the essence of deliberate politeness.
    When he comes to them he acts as though he were surprised._)

LIVINGSTON

Bess. This is a surprise.

BESS

Ray?

LIVINGSTON

Do you come here often?

BESS

I was just strolling through to look at some ancient jewelry when I
happened to meet Mr. Hood.--This is my husband. Mr. Hood.

    (_As_ LIVINGSTON _crosses slowly and shakes his hand with
    cold studied courtesy_, HOOD _gives him a sickly smile, ill
    at ease in an unaccustomed situation_.)

LIVINGSTON

I’m charmed to meet you. I’ve heard Mrs. Livingston speak of you.
Let me see, where was it?

BESS

(_Casually, mistress of herself_)

Perhaps it was after I first met him at Judge Wilton’s. Mr. Hood is
in the Legislature, you know.

LIVINGSTON

To be sure. I remember your photograph in all the newspapers.
(_Half playfully_) But you’re rather a young man for such a
conspicuous and responsible office.

HOOD

(_Trying to be at ease_)

One soon grows older up there.

LIVINGSTON

(_Pleasantly_)

I hope that means wiser; for wisdom, I’m told, is only a matter of
perspective, and its secret is finding the relative importance of
things. (_With a smile._) But, of course, _every_thing must seem
vitally important at the beginning. Just as each moment of life was
_once_ the most important thing to these animals. (_Before_ HOOD
_can answer_.) Are you interested in fossils?

HOOD

(_Eyes him_)

I’m trying to understand their meaning and significance.

LIVINGSTON

Do you find it difficult? I see you have a catalogue. Do you come
here to study them?

BESS

(_Trying with her skill to relieve the situation_)

Mr. Hood was just telling me he was planning to introduce a bill in
the Legislature to--to extend the wings.

LIVINGSTON

To extend the wings? What of?

BESS

Of the Museum, of course.

LIVINGSTON

Indeed?

HOOD

(_Lying in spite of himself_)

Yes.

BESS

(_With a reassuring smile_)

He thinks it’s a bit cramped here.

LIVINGSTON

I quite approve. Space is what is needed. But you’ll find it
difficult to get money from the Legislature for such purposes. I’ve
tried myself.

HOOD

Oh, are you interested in museums?

LIVINGSTON

Didn’t you tell him, Bess, about the museum I had planned?

BESS

(_Beginning to detect his intention_)

No; it slipped my mind.

LIVINGSTON

(_Playfully reproving her_)

And I had such a personal interest in it, too.

HOOD

Was it a museum for fossils?

LIVINGSTON

It was to prevent people from becoming fossils before their time.
It was a museum of safety appliances.

HOOD

Industrial?

LIVINGSTON

No: domestic. From a very long life, I’d observed that in the
world and in the home, most everybody, through lack of a little
precaution, makes a fool of himself or herself once or twice in a
life.

BESS

(_Suavely_)

I thought the average was higher; didn’t you, Mr. Hood?

LIVINGSTON

Perhaps the nasty messy mangling is. I’m not sure of the
mortalities. You see, Mr. Hood--if you are interested?

HOOD

(_With a start_)

Very.

LIVINGSTON

What I mean is that people cut off a useful hand or
limb--metaphorically, of course--because they go a little too near
the machinery: the machinery of what we call the hard facts of life.

HOOD

And what was your exhibit intended for?

LIVINGSTON

(_Pointedly_)

To have them read the danger signs _first_. It was my plan to
indicate how signs should be put up over terrain places, like
stores and homes and....

BESS

(_Calmly_)

How interesting. What sort of signs were they to be, dear?

HOOD

“Don’t Handle,” “Watch Your Step.” You know the sort. You see,
I have a theory that if these signs were placed about in enough
places people would soon grow accustomed to carrying them in their
mind’s eye, as it were. (_Pointedly_) Do you get my meaning?

BESS

But, dear; there are so many signs now. Look at these about here
for instance. I’m sure people would never get anything out of these
by carrying them about in their heads.

LIVINGSTON

It’s merely a matter of how much intelligence and imagination you
bring to signs--otherwise they are only words.

    (_As_ LIVINGSTON _crosses to read sign under the_ BRONTOSAURUS,
    HOOD _makes a movement as though to speak, but_ BESS, _who has
    sat on the bench, stops him with an imploring gesture_.)

Um--highly suggestive, this. (_Reading_) “Great Amphibious Dinosaur
Brontosaurus ... Jurassic Period ... Donated by James Morrow....
The Brontosaurus lived several million years ago....” You see
(_To them_) James Morrow and the animal have clasped hands over
the centuries. Um. From this sign, can’t you picture the love and
devotion to science that prompted such a gift?

HOOD

(_Now smiling for the first time_)

As it happens he didn’t even know what his money was for. While I
was waiting here I heard Mrs. Morrow say.... (_He stops short as_
LIVINGSTON _gives him a sharp look_.)

BESS

(_Quickly_)

You see, dear, you were mistaken in that sign.

LIVINGSTON

(_Casually_)

Perhaps. Curious though how much information a man picks up while
he _waits_ about. (_He crosses over to the case opposite._) I
wonder what this one will reveal.

    (HOOD _sees he has been caught in a slip. It spurs him into a
    mood of retaliation. He overcomes a momentary hesitation and
    then shows he resolves to tell_ LIVINGSTON _everything_.)

HOOD

(_With hoarse nervous intensity_)

Mr. Livingston!

BESS

(_Under her breath to him_)

Bob!

LIVINGSTON

(_Not turning_)

Yes?

    (_For a second_ HOOD _is about to speak, but he is halted by_
    BESS’S _look and voices, as the_ PROFESSOR, _followed by_
    LARRY ANDERSON, _enters_.

    LARRY _is a fine strapping doughboy in his uniform, on which
    are two gold service stripes and several decorations for
    bravery. His hand is bandaged. They come down._

    _As_ LIVINGSTON _gives no indication of leaving_, BESS _still
    sits there while_ HOOD _keeps his eyes on her husband’s back.
    His silence holds them there._)

PROFESSOR

But I was expecting at least two hundred.

LARRY

They got lost on the way.

PROFESSOR

Lost?

LARRY

Yes. I left them at the Follies. But I’d heard my uncle speak of
this place.

PROFESSOR

(_Brightens_)

Is your uncle interested in fossils?

LARRY

Yes. He’s a queer bug. He told me to be sure and not miss the
Chamber of Horrors. You know, where all the Kings and Queens and
statesmen are embalmed in wax?

PROFESSOR

But, my dear friend, they tore down the Eden Musée several years
ago.

LARRY

They did? Why didn’t they wait till I got back? Haven’t you any
Chamber of Horrors here?

PROFESSOR

No; this is the Paleontological section.

LARRY

(_Looking about_)

Well, now that I’m here maybe this will do as well.

    (LIVINGSTON _now turns, leaning against the case, much
    interested in the two men. As he shows no intention of
    moving_, BESS _sits there, twisting her handkerchief
    nervously in her hand_. HOOD _is embarrassed and undecided_.)

Trot ’em out, so I can tell uncle I’ve seen ’em.

PROFESSOR

(_Pointing to_ BRONTOSAURUS)

This is a major Dinosaur.

LARRY

Major what?

PROFESSOR

The more popular name is the Brontosaurus.

LARRY

Is that so? (_Looking at it._) Some bird!

PROFESSOR

It’s a reptile: its name means Thunder Lizard because its mighty
tread shook the earth.

LARRY

Where did it grow?

PROFESSOR

From other bones we have found I should say it roamed all over the
world. This specimen was dug up in Wyoming.

LARRY

What was it doing in Wyoming?

PROFESSOR

(_On his dignity_)

It was possibly overtaken there by an earthquake.

LARRY

Must have been some earthquake.

PROFESSOR

Since it was thus buried in silica away from the decomposing air
and moisture, it was preserved for centuries--till we happened to
discover it with a pick.

LARRY

You don’t say so! (_He looks at it a bit awed._) When we were
digging trenches in No Man’s Land we used to find....

PROFESSOR

What?

LARRY

Not that sort of bones.

PROFESSOR

This was in an excellent state of preservation. It is sixty feet
long and must have weighed when alive forty tons. It took seven
years to dig it out and mount it. We had to be very careful not to
break its marvelous tail. If you’ll walk to the other end you’ll
get an idea of its length. We found ninety-seven perfect vertebræ.

LARRY

Ninety-seven? You don’t say so?

PROFESSOR

You can count them and see.

LARRY

Ninety-seven what you call ’ems! Think of that. (_As he goes up._)
And you say it came from Wyoming?

PROFESSOR

Yes.

LARRY

(_Proudly_)

That’s my state, too.

    (LARRY _wanders off out of sight looking at the fossil. As
    the_ PROFESSOR _starts to follow_, LIVINGSTON, _who has been
    watching his wife and_ HOOD, _stops him_.)

LIVINGSTON

I beg your pardon. I hope you won’t mind our being interested
in what you were saying; but we were wondering about the animal
ourselves.

    (HOOD _looks at_ BESS _quickly not knowing what_ LIVINGSTON
    _is driving at_.)

PROFESSOR

(_Brightening_)

Indeed? I’m afraid our young friend is a bit irreverent.

LIVINGSTON

May I ask what is known of its domestic habits?

PROFESSOR

It was hardly a domestic animal. Its family life probably extended
only during the infancy of its young.

LIVINGSTON

Was this a female, by chance?

PROFESSOR

Yes: the large pelvic development....

LIVINGSTON

This one undoubtedly had young, too?

PROFESSOR

Of course. But we have never found any of its eggs. It was a
reptile, you know.

LIVINGSTON

But while they were dependent it undoubtedly fought to protect its
young--like other animals?

PROFESSOR

With very few exceptions all the female animals at least do that;
even those of low intelligence.

LIVINGSTON

This one couldn’t by any chance have been wooed away from that
obligation by romantic notions?

PROFESSOR

(_Suspiciously_)

This--romantic?

LIVINGSTON

But you said it roamed in search of adventure?

PROFESSOR

(_A bit on his dignity_)

Romance lies in the field of the emotions: I am a scientist.

LIVINGSTON

What I mean is: was she faithful to one or promiscuous?

PROFESSOR

(_Embarrassed_)

Undoubtedly promiscuous.

LIVINGSTON

Of course.--You see, Bess, the lady existed before man made his
conventions.

PROFESSOR

Yes. She could follow all her natural instincts.

LIVINGSTON

Which were?

PROFESSOR

Food and fighting. You will observe her large maw and small brain.
Her main weapon of defense was her long powerfully muscled tail.
From the teeth, we deduce she was mainly herbivorous.

LIVINGSTON

What did she feed on?

PROFESSOR

Everything she could pick up.

LIVINGSTON

(_Significantly_)

Think of that, Hood--“everything she could pick up.”

PROFESSOR

Young weeds, tender grass and the like.

LIVINGSTON

Young weeds--ah, yes, of course. Yet in spite of her diet, there is
something quite impressive about dead things, isn’t there?

PROFESSOR

(_Eyeing it_)

They have a dynamic power.

LIVINGSTON

Exactly. You see, Mr. Hood, a dead tree, that has in its time given
shelter and substance, fights to be left standing. It resists the
alien ax. Its roots go as deep as when they flowed with sap. They
also fight to prevent themselves from being torn up. They don’t
like to be disturbed--any more than this animal did in its cold
clayey comfort. (_To_ PROFESSOR) You say it took seven years?

PROFESSOR

(_Not understanding_)

Yes. We were afraid of hurting it if we were careless.

LIVINGSTON

You were right to be careful: one shouldn’t hurt the dead. What is
its scientific significance?

PROFESSOR

Nothing but a further proof of the slow processes of evolution.

LIVINGSTON

(_With a smile_)

I am a utilitarian. I see another significance. Possibly she was
dug up, a thousand centuries after she died, just to give _you_ an
occupation.

PROFESSOR

I can’t accept that as a working hypothesis.

LIVINGSTON

Just think, Hood. Several million years dead! There it stands for
man to look upon! Possibly that was _why_ it existed, after all:
for us _three_ to look upon. (_He glances pointedly at them._)
Mr. Hood is thinking of introducing a bill in the Legislature to
increase the wings of the Museum.

PROFESSOR

That’s very kind of him. We have many boxes still unpacked in the
cellar for lack of room. But, unfortunately, this museum is under
the control of the city, not the state.

LIVINGSTON

(_Smiling at_ HOOD)

Indeed?

BESS

(_Rising impatiently_)

It’s getting late.

LARRY

(_Re-entering_)

I only counted sixty-three.

PROFESSOR

(_Emphatically_)

But there are ninety-seven.

LARRY

All right. I won’t argue it.

PROFESSOR

If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you the Tyrannosaurus. They were
carnivorous and the greatest fighters of them all.

LARRY

Say, this is a fine place to be showing a fellow who’s just back
from France.

BESS

(_Sweetly_)

Young man, I’d like to shake your hand. I see you have all sorts of
lovely decorations. May I ask how you got them?

LARRY

(_Embarrassed_)

Oh, I was careless and they pinned a rose on me by mistake.

BESS

You must be very proud of them?

LARRY

Sure I am. (_Looking at the_ BRONTOSAURUS.) But that lizard kinder
takes the pride out of a fellow.

BESS

But _I_ admire bravery--whenever I see it. I’d like to hear about
how you really got those decorations.

LARRY

Would you?

(_The gong in the distance rings._)

PROFESSOR

(_In back_)

If you want to see the Tyrannosaurus before we close....

LARRY

Oh, all right. (_To others_) Gee, I’ll be glad to get out among the
live ones.

BESS

(_Smiling at him_)

So will I.

LIVINGSTON

(_Coldly_)

You should have gone to the Follies, young man.

LARRY

Oh, I might have sprained an ankle going to my seat.

    (_He goes out after the_ PROFESSOR _as_ BESS _looks after
    him_. SARAH _comes in back and then goes off. The rear of
    room darkens, indicating she has pulled the curtain up._
    LIVINGSTON _glances at_ HOOD _who is gazing at_ BESS _with a
    strange enlightenment_.)

LIVINGSTON

I think you’re right, Bess: we’d better be going. We might stop and
take the children for a spin before it’s dark.

BESS

Yes.

LIVINGSTON

(_To_ HOOD)

Are you going _our_ way?

HOOD

No.

BESS

You’re sure we can’t drop you somewhere?

HOOD

No. Thank you.

LIVINGSTON

I’m delighted to have met you, Mr. Hood. (_Shaking hands._) I shall
follow your work in the Legislature with great interest.

HOOD

Perhaps I may be able to help you with _your_ museum.

LIVINGSTON

Just talking to you has encouraged me greatly. Good-bye. There is
a big political future waiting a young man these days--if he keeps
his head.

BESS

(_Shaking his hand_)

I’m sure my husband is right.

HOOD

(_Looking at her_)

So am I. Quite sure.

    (_She turns away, as she sees what his tone of finality
    implies, and looks up at the_ BRONTOSAURUS _with a start_.)

LIVINGSTON

What is it, dear?

BESS

Nothing. Only it seems to be smiling at us.

LIVINGSTON

All skulls grin: it’s the eternal laughter of the dead.

BESS

Come. (_As she starts._) Dear, don’t you think it might be a good
idea to rescue that fine strong good-looking young soldier? He must
be so lonely and we might take him for a drive.

LIVINGSTON

(_A bit wearily at what he sees ahead_)

Oh, yes; if you wish. But I’m sure he should have gone to the
Follies.

    (_He offers her his arm--she takes it._ HOOD _watches them as
    they walk out without turning back. He stands there a moment,
    with a cynical smile creeping over his lips. He throws the
    catalogue on the seat. Then he goes to the sign before the_
    BRONTOSAURUS.)

HOOD

(_Reading and thinking_)

“Mainly Herbivorous.” “Anything she can pick up.” “Several million
years”....

    (_As he gazes there_, SARAH _enters and goes out to pull
    up the other curtain. She apparently does so for some red
    rays slowly gather about the fossil. The room is darker. She
    re-enters and stands there looking at him._ HOOD _gives a
    sigh of relief, and determination: he puts on his hat, and,
    with hands in his pockets, goes off whistling_.

    SARAH _stands there as the room darkens. Then she goes over
    near the seat and begins to mop._)

SARAH

Moppin’ and scrubbin’ ... moppin’....

    (_She pauses and gives a glance at the_ BRONTOSAURUS _on
    whose skull are now centered the rays of the setting sun_.)

Holy Mother of Saints! What are you grinnin’ at, ye dirty heathen?

    (_She lifts her arm again in revolt as though to throw the
    mop at it. Then she puts it down with a sense of futility.
    She picks up her things and goes off slowly._

    _The place is now dark save for the faint light on the skull;
    and even that fades after a little while._)


[CURTAIN]


[B] Copyright by George Middleton. See back of title page.




  TIDES


THE PEOPLE

  WILLIAM WHITE, _a famous Internationalist_.
  HILDA, _his wife_.
  WALLACE, _their son_.


SCENE

_At the Whites; spring, 1917._




TIDES[C]


_A simply furnished study. The walls are lined with bookshelves,
indicating, by their improvised quality, that they have been
increased as occasion demanded. On these are stacked, in addition
to the books themselves, many files of papers, magazines and
“reports.” The large work-table, upon which rests a double student
lamp and a telephone, is conspicuous. A leather couch with pillows
is opposite, pointing towards a doorway which leads into the
living-room. There is also a doorway in back, which apparently
opens on the hallway beyond. The room is comfortable in spite of
its general disorder: it is essentially the work-shop of a busy man
of public affairs. The strong sunlight of a spring day comes in
through the window, flooding the table._

WILLIAM WHITE _is standing by the window, smoking a pipe. He is
about fifty, of striking appearance: the visual incarnation of
the popular conception of a leader of men. There is authority
and strength in the lines of his face; his whole personality is
commanding; his voice has all the modulations of a well-trained
orator; his gestures are sweeping--for, even in private
conversation, he is habitually conscious of an audience.
Otherwise, he is simple and engaging, with some indication of his
humble origin._

_On the sofa opposite, with a letter in her hand_, HILDA WHITE,
_his wife, is seated. She is somewhat younger in fact, though in
appearance she is as one who has been worn a bit by the struggle
of many years. Her manner contrasts with her husband’s: her
inheritance of delicate refinement is ever present in her soft
voice and gentle gesture. Yet she, too, suggests strength--the sort
which will endure all for a fixed intention._

_It is obvious throughout that she and her husband have been happy
comrades in their life together and that a deep fundamental bond
has united them in spite of the different social spheres from which
each has sprung._

WHITE

(_Seeing she has paused_)

Go on, dear; go on. Let’s hear all of it.

HILDA

Oh, what’s the use, Will? You know how differently he feels about
the war.

WHITE

(_With quiet sarcasm_)

But it’s been so many years since your respectable brother has
honored me even with the slightest allusion....

HILDA

If you care for what he says--(_Continuing to read the
letter_)--“Remember, Hilda, you are an American. I don’t suppose
your husband considers that an honor; but I do.”

WHITE

(_Interrupting_)

And what kind of an American has he been in times of peace? He’s
wrung forty per cent profit out of his factory and fought every
effort of the workers to organize. Ah, these smug hypocrites!

HILDA

(_Reading_)

“His violent opposition to America going in has been disgrace
enough----”

WHITE

But his war profits were all right. Oh, yes.

HILDA

Let me finish, dear, since you want it. (_Reading_) “--been
disgrace enough. But now that we’re in, I’m writing in the faint
hope, if you are not too much under his influence, that you will
persuade him to keep his mouth shut. This country will tolerate no
difference of opinion now. You radicals had better get on board the
band wagon. It’s prison or acceptance.” (_She stops reading._) He’s
right, dear. There will be nothing more intolerant than a so-called
democracy at war.

WHITE

By God! It’s superb! Silence for twenty years and now he writes his
poor misguided sister for fear she will be further disgraced by her
radical husband.

HILDA

We mustn’t descend to his bitterness.

WHITE

No: I suppose I should resuscitate the forgotten doctrine of
forgiving my enemies.

HILDA

He’s not your enemy; he merely looks at it all differently.

WHITE

I was thinking of his calm contempt for me these twenty years--ever
since you married me--“out of your class,” as he called it.

HILDA

Oh, hush, Will. I’ve been so happy with you I can bear him no ill
will. Besides, doesn’t his attitude seem natural? You mustn’t
forget that no man in this country has fought his class more than
you. That hurts--especially coming from an _acquired_ relative.

WHITE

Yes; that aggravates the offense. And I’ll tell you something you
may not know: (_Bitterly_) Whenever I’ve spoken against privilege
and wealth it’s been his pudgy, comfortable face I’ve shaken my
fist at. He’s been so damned comfortable all his life.

HILDA

(_She looks at him in surprise_)

Why, Will, you surely don’t envy him his comfort, do you? I can’t
make you out. What’s come over you these last weeks? You’ve always
been above such personal bitterness; even when you were most
condemned and ridiculed. If it were anybody but you I’d think you
had done something you were ashamed of.

WHITE

What do you mean?

HILDA

Haven’t you sometimes noticed that is what bitterness to another
means: a failure within oneself? (_He goes over to chair and
sits without answering._) I can think of you beaten by outside
things--that sort of failure we all meet; but somehow I can
never think of you failing yourself. You’ve been so brave and
self-reliant: you’ve fought so hard for the truth.

WHITE

(_Tapping letter_)

But he thinks _he_ knows the truth, too.

HILDA

He’s also an intense nature.

WHITE

(_Thoughtfully after a pause_)

Yet there is _some_ truth in what he says.

HILDA

(_Smiling_)

But you didn’t like it--coming from him?

WHITE

It will be different with you and me now that America’s gone in.

HILDA

Yes. It will be harder for us here; for hate is always furthest
from the trenches. But you and I are not the sort who would
compromise to escape the persecution which is the resource of the
non-combatant.

(_The phone rings: he looks at his watch._)

WHITE

That’s for me.

HILDA

Let me. (_She goes._) It may be Wallace. (_At phone._) Yes: this
is 116 Chelsea. Long Distance? (_He starts as she says to him_) It
must be our boy. (_At phone._) Who? Oh--_Mr._ William White? Yes:
he’ll be here. (_She hangs up receiver._) She’ll ring when she gets
the connection through.

WHITE

(_Turning away_)

It takes so long these days.

HILDA

Funny he didn’t ask for me.

WHITE

What made you think it was Wallace?

HILDA

I took it for granted. He must be having a hard time at college
with all the boys full of war fever.

WHITE

And a father with my record.

HILDA

He should be proud of the example. He has more than other boys to
cling to these days when everybody is losing his head as the band
plays and the flag is waved. He won’t be carried away by it. He’ll
remember all we taught him. Ah, Will, when I think we now have
conscription--as they have in Germany--I thank God every night our
boy is too young for the draft.

WHITE

But when his time comes what will he do?

HILDA

(_Calmly_)

He will do it with courage.

WHITE

(_Referring to her brother’s letter_)

Either prison or acceptance!

HILDA

I would rather have my son in prison than have him do what he felt
was wrong. Wouldn’t you?

WHITE

(_Evasively_)

We won’t have to face that problem for two years.

HILDA

And when it comes--if he falters--I’ll give him these notes of that
wonderful speech you made at the International Conference in 1910.
(_Picking it up._) I was looking through it only this morning.

WHITE

(_Troubled_)

Oh, that speech.

HILDA

(_Glancing through it with enthusiasm_)

“All wars are imperialistic in origin. Do away with overseas
investments, trade routes, private control of ammunition factories,
secret diplomacy....”

WHITE

Don’t you see that’s all dead wood?

HILDA

(_Not heeding him_)

This part gave me new strength when I thought of Wallace.
(_Reading with eloquence._) “War will stop when young men put
Internationalism above Nationality, the law of God above the
dictates of statesmen, the law of love above the law of hate, the
law of self-sacrifice above the law of profit. There must be no
boundaries in man’s thought. Let the young men of the world once
throw down their arms, let them once refuse to point their guns at
human hearts, and all the boundaries of the world will melt away
and peace will find a resting-place in the hearts of men!”

WHITE

(_Taking it from her_)

And I made you believe it! What silly prophets we radicals were.
(_He tears it up._) Mere scraps of paper, dear; scraps of paper,
now.

HILDA

But it was the truth; it still _is_ the truth.

WHITE

Hilda, there’s something I want to talk over very very seriously
with you. I’ve been putting it off.

HILDA

Yes, dear? (_The outer door is heard to bang._) Listen: wasn’t that
the front door?

WHITE

Perhaps it’s the maid?

HILDA

(_A bit nervously_)

No: she’s upstairs. No one rang. Please see.

WHITE

(_Smiling_)

Now don’t worry! It can’t possibly be the Secret Service.

HILDA

One never knows in war times what to expect. I sometimes feel I am
in a foreign country.

    (WHITE _goes slowly to the door in back and opens it_.
    WALLACE, _their son, with valise in hand, is standing there,
    as though he had hesitated to enter_.

    _He is a fine clean-cut young fellow, with his father’s
    physical endowment and his mother’s spiritual intensity. The
    essential note he strikes is that of honesty. It is apparent
    he is under the pressure of a momentous decision which has
    brought him unexpectedly home from college._)

WHITE

Wallace!

WALLACE

(_Shaking hands_)

Hello! Dad.

HILDA

Wallace! My boy!

    (WALLACE _drops valise and goes to his mother’s arms_.)

WALLACE

(_With deep feeling_)

Mother!

WHITE

(_After a pause_)

Well, boy; this is unexpected. We were just talking of you.

WALLACE

Were you?

HILDA

I’m so glad to see you, so glad.

WALLACE

Yes ... yes ... but....

WHITE

There’s nothing the matter?

HILDA

You’ve had trouble at college?

WALLACE

Not exactly. But I couldn’t stand it there. I’ve left--for good.

WHITE

I was sure that would happen.

HILDA

Tell us. You know we’ll understand.

WALLACE

Dad, if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk it over with mother first.

WHITE

Of course, old fellow, that’s right. She’ll stand by you just as
she’s always stood by me--all these years. (_He kisses her._) I ...
I....

    (_He smooths her hair gently, looking into her eyes as she
    smiles up at him._)

We mustn’t let this war hurt all we’ve had together--you and I----

HILDA

(_Smiling and turning towards her son_)

And Wallace.

WHITE

And Wallace. Yes. (WALLACE _looks away guiltily_.) Let me know when
the phone comes.

    (_He goes out hastily. She closes the door after him and
    then comes to_ WALLACE, _who has sat down, indicating he is
    troubled_.)

HILDA

They made it hard for you at college?

WALLACE

I don’t know how to tell you.

HILDA

I understand. The flag waving, the patriotic speeches, the
billboards advertising the glory of war, the call of adventure
offered to youth, the pressure of your friends--all made it hard
for you to be called a slacker.

WALLACE

No, mother. I wasn’t afraid of what they could call me. That was
easy.

HILDA

(_Proudly_)

You are your father’s son!

WALLACE

Mother, I can’t stand the thought of killing, you know that. And I
couldn’t forget all you’ve told me. That’s why I’ve had to think
this out all these months alone; why I’ve hesitated longer than
most fellows. The only thing I was really afraid of was being
wrong. But now I know I’m right and I’m going clean through to the
limit.

HILDA

As your father said I’ll stand by you--whatever it is--if only you
feel it’s right.

WALLACE

Will you? Will you, mother? No matter what happens? (_She nods._)
I knew you would. (_Taking her hand._) Then mother, listen. I’ve
volunteered.

HILDA

(_Shocked_)

Volunteered!

WALLACE

Yes. I leave for training-camp to-night.

HILDA

To-night?

WALLACE

Yes, mother. Once I made up my mind I couldn’t wait to be drafted.
I wanted to offer myself. I didn’t want to be made to go.

HILDA

(_Hardly grasping it_)

But you are too young.

WALLACE

I lied about my age. You and father can stop me if you tell the
truth. That’s why I’ve come back. I want you to promise you won’t
tell.

HILDA

_You_ ask me to aid you in what I don’t believe?

WALLACE

But you said you’d stick by me if _I_ thought it was right.

HILDA

But....

WALLACE

(_With fervor_)

And I tell you, mother, I do feel it was right for America to go
in. I see now we ought to have declared war when they crushed
Belgium. Yes; we ought to have gone in when the Lusitania was sunk.
But we’ve been patient. The President tried to keep us out of it
until we _had_ to go in to save our self-respect. We had to go in
to show we were men of honor, not pussy cats. We had to go in to
show the world the Stars and Stripes wasn’t a dishrag on which the
Germans could dry their bloody hands!

HILDA

(_Gazing at him incredulously_)

You hate them as much as that?

WALLACE

Hate? No, mother, no. (_As though questioning himself._) I really
haven’t any hate for the German _people_. People are just people
everywhere, I suppose, and they’re tricked and fooled by their
rotten government, as the President says.

HILDA

Then why fight them?

WALLACE

Because they’re standing back of their government, doing what it
says. And they’ve got to be licked to show them what kind of a
government they have.

HILDA

At least you have no hate in your heart--that’s something.

WALLACE

Oh, yes, I have, mother. But it isn’t for the poor devils I’ve got
to shoot. It’s for the stay-at-home fellow here in America who sits
in a comfortable armchair, who applauds patriotic sentiment, cheers
the flag and does nothing for his country but hate and hate--while
we fight for him. That’s the fellow I’ll hate all right when I sit
in the trenches. And that’s why I couldn’t look myself in the face
if I stayed out a day longer; why, I’ve got to go in; why, I’m
going to die if I must, because _everybody_ ought to be willing to
die for what he believes.

HILDA

You are my son, _too_! For I would willingly have died if it could
have kept us out of this war.

WALLACE

Yes. I am your son, too. And that’s why you wouldn’t respect me if
I didn’t go through.

HILDA

No. I wouldn’t have respected you. But ... but.... (_She breaks
a bit, then controls herself._) You are quite sure you’re doing
what’s right?

WALLACE

(_Tenderly_)

Would I have been willing to hurt you like this?

HILDA

(_Holding him close to her_)

My boy; my boy!

WALLACE

It’ll be all right, mother.

HILDA

Ah, yes. It will be all right. Nothing matters in time: it’s only
the moments that hurt.

WALLACE

(_After a pause_)

Then you won’t tell my real age, or interfere?

HILDA

I respect your right to decide your own life.

WALLACE

(_Joyed_)

Mother!

HILDA

I respect your dedication; your willingness to sacrifice for your
beliefs. Why, Wallace, it would be a crime for me to stand in your
way--even with my mother’s love. (_He kisses her._) Do it all as
cleanly as you can. I’ll hope and pray that you’ll come back to
me. (_Half breaking down and taking him in her arms._) Oh, my boy;
my boy. Let me hold you. You’ll never know how hard it is for a
mother.

WALLACE

(_Gently_)

But other mothers send their boys.

HILDA

Most of them believe in what their sons are fighting for. Mothers
have _got_ to believe in it; or else how could they stand the
thought of bayonets stuck into the bodies they brought forth in
their own blood? (_There is a pause till she controls herself._)
I’ll help you get your things together.

WALLACE

And father?

HILDA

He will be angry.

WALLACE

But you will make him understand?

HILDA

I’ll try. Yet you must be patient with him if he doesn’t
understand. Don’t ever forget his long fight against all kinds of
Prussianism when you hear him reviled by those who have always
hated his radicalism and who, now, under the guise of patriotism,
are trying to render him useless for further attacks on them after
the war. He’s been persecuted so by them--even back in the days
when our press was praising Germany and our distinguished citizens
were dining at the Emperor’s table. Don’t forget all this, my boy.
These days are hard for him--and me--harder perhaps than for you
who go out to die in glory and praise. There are no flags for us,
no music that stirs, no applause; but we too suffer in silence for
what we believe. And it is only the strongest who can survive.--Now
call your father.

WALLACE

(_Goes to door_)

Dad! (_He leaves door open and turns to his mother._) I’ll be
getting my things together. (_There is a pause._ WHITE _enters_.)
Dad, mother has something to ask you. (_He looks from father to
mother._) Thanks, little mother.

    (_He kisses her and goes out taking the valise. His father
    and mother stand facing each other._)

HILDA

Wallace has volunteered. (_He looks at her keenly._) He has lied
about his age. He wants us to let him go.

WHITE

Volunteered?

HILDA

Yes; he leaves to-night.

WHITE

(_After a pause_)

And what have _you_ told him?

HILDA

That he must go.

WHITE

You can say that?

HILDA

It is the way he sees it.

WHITE

(_Going to her sympathetically_)

Hilda.

HILDA

(_Looking up at him tenderly_)

Oh, Will, do you remember when he was born? (_He soothes her._) And
all we nursed him through afterwards; and all we taught him; all
we tried to show him about war. (_With a shrug of her shoulders._)
None of it has mattered.

WHITE

War is stronger than all that.

HILDA

So we mustn’t blame him. You won’t blame him?

WHITE

He fears I will?

HILDA

He has always feared you a little though he loves you deeply. You
mustn’t oppose him, dear. You won’t?

WHITE

(_Wearily_)

Is there any use opposing anybody or anything these days?

HILDA

We must wait till the storm passes.

WHITE

That’s never been my way.

HILDA

No. You’ve fought all your life. But now we must sit silent
together and wait; wait for our boy to come back. Will, think of
it; we are going to have a boy “over there,” too.

WHITE

Hilda, hasn’t it ever struck you that we may have been all wrong?
(_She looks at him, as she holds his hand._) What could these frail
hands do? How could we poor little King Canutes halt this tide that
has swept over the world? Isn’t it better, after all, that men
should fight themselves out; bring such desolation upon themselves
that they will be forced to see the futility of war? May it not
become so terrible that men--the workers, I mean--will throw down
their worn-out weapons of their own accord? Won’t permanent peace
come through bitter experience rather than talk--talk--talk?

HILDA

(_Touching the torn pages of his speech and smiling_)

Here is your answer to your own question.

WHITE

Oh, that was all theory. We’re in now. You say yourself we can’t
oppose it. Isn’t it better if we try to direct the current to our
own ends rather than sink by trying to swim against it?

HILDA

Oh, yes; it would be easier for one who _could_ compromise.

WHITE

But haven’t we radicals been too intolerant of compromise?

HILDA

That has been _your_ strength. And it is your strength I’m relying
on now that Wallace.... Shall I call him?

WHITE

(_Significantly_)

No; wait.

HILDA

(_Apprehensive at his turn_)

Oh, yes. Before he came you said there was something...? (_The
phone rings. They both look at it._) That’s for you.

WHITE

(_Not moving_)

Yes.

HILDA

(_Hardly believing his attitude_)

Is--is it private?

WHITE

No. Perhaps it will be easier this way. (_He hesitates, then goes
to phone as she stands expectant._) Yes. Yes. Long Distance?
Washington? (_Her lips repeat the word._) Yes. This is William
White. Hello. Yes. Is this the Secretary speaking? Oh, I appreciate
the honor of having you confirm it personally. Senator Bough is
chairman? At _his_ request? Ah, yes; war makes strange bedfellows.
Yes. The passport and credentials? Oh, I’ll be ready. Yes. Good-bye.

(_He hangs up the receiver and looks at her._)

HILDA

You, too!

WHITE

I’ve been trying to tell you these last weeks; but I couldn’t
somehow.

HILDA

You were ashamed?

WHITE

No, dear; only I knew it would hurt you.

HILDA

I’m not thinking of myself but of you. You are going to be part of
this war?

WHITE

I’m going to do what I can to help finish it.

HILDA

By compromising with the beliefs of a lifetime?

WHITE

No, dear; not that. I’ve accepted the appointment on this
commission because I’m going to accept facts.

HILDA

Have the facts of war changed or is it you?

WHITE

Neither has changed; but I’m going to act differently. I’m going to
be part of it. Yes. I’m going to help direct the current.

HILDA

I can’t believe what I am hearing. Is it you, William White,
speaking? You who, for twenty years, have stood against _all_ war!

WHITE

Yes.

HILDA

And now when the test comes you are going to lend yourself to it!
You of all men!

WHITE

Hilda, dear; I didn’t expect you to accept it easily; but I think I
can make you see if you will let me.

HILDA

(_Poignantly_)

If I will _let_ you! Why, Will, I must understand; I must.

WHITE

Perhaps it will be difficult at first--with your standards.

HILDA

But my standards were yours, Will. You gave them to me. You taught
me. You took a young girl who loved you. You showed her the truth,
and she followed you and has followed you gladly through hard years
of struggle and poverty because of those ideals. And now you talk
of _my_ standards! Will, don’t you see, I _must_ understand?

WHITE

Dear, standards are relative things; they differ with circumstance.

HILDA

Have your ideals only been old clothes you change to suit the
weather?

WHITE

It’s the end we must keep in mind. _I_ haven’t changed or
compromised one bit in that. I’m working in changed conditions,
that’s all; working with all my heart to do away with all war.

HILDA

By fighting one?

WHITE

(_With eloquence_)

Yes. Because it is necessary. I’ve come to see we can’t argue war
out of the world with words. We’ve got to beat it out of the world.
It can’t be done with our hands lifted up in prayer; it can only
be done with iron hands crushing it down. War is the mood of the
world. Well, I’m going to fight in my fashion. And when it is over
I’m going to keep on fighting; for the next war will be greater
than this. It will be economic revolution. It will be the war of
capital and labor. And I mean to be ready.

HILDA

(_Listening incredulously_)

And to get ready you are willing to link arms now with Senator
Bough--a man you once called the lackey of Wall Street--a man who
has always opposed every democratic principle....

WHITE

Yes. Don’t you see the Government is beginning to realize
they can’t do without us? Don’t you see my appointment is an
acknowledgment of the rising tide of radicalism in the world?
Don’t you see, with the prestige that will come to me from this
appointment, I will have greater power after the war; power
to bring about the realization of all our dreams; power to
demand--even at the Peace table itself, perhaps--that all wars must
end?

HILDA

Do you actually believe you will have any power with your _own_
people when you have compromised them for a temporary expediency?

WHITE

(_With a gesture_)

The leader must be wiser than the people who follow.

HILDA

So, contempt for your people is the first thing your new power has
brought you! (_He makes a gesture of denial._) You feel you are
above them--not of them. Do you believe for a moment that Senator
Bough has anything but contempt for you, too?

WHITE

(_Confidently_)

He needs me.

HILDA

Needs you? Don’t you understand why he had you appointed on that
committee? He wanted to get you out of the way.

WHITE

Isn’t that an acknowledgment of my power?

HILDA

Yes. You’re a great asset _now_. You’re a “reformed” radical. Why,
Will, he’ll use you in the capitals of Europe to advertise his
liberalism; just as the prohibitionist exhibits a reformed drunkard.

WHITE

And I tell you, Hilda, after the war I shall be stronger than he
is, stronger than any of them.

HILDA

No man is strong unless he does what he feels is right. No, no,
Will; you’ve convicted yourself with your own eloquence. You’ve
wanted to do this for some reason. But it isn’t the one you’ve told
me. No; no.

WHITE

(_Angrily_)

You doubt my sincerity?

HILDA

No; only the way you have read yourself.

WHITE

Well, if you think I’ve tried to make it easy for myself you are
mistaken. Is it easy to pull out of the rut and habit of years?
Easy to know my friends will jeer and say I’ve sold out? Easy to
have _you_ misunderstand? (_Goes to her._) Hilda, I’m doing this
for their good. I’m doing it--just as Wallace is--because I feel
it’s right.

HILDA

No; you shouldn’t say that. You are not doing this for the same
reason Wallace is. He believes in this war. He has accepted it
all simply without a question. If you had seen the look in his
eyes, you would have known he was a dedicated spirit; there was
no shadow, no doubt; it was pure flame. But you! You believe
differently! You can’t hush the mind that for twenty years has
thought no war ever could henceforth be justified. You can’t give
yourself to this war without tricking yourself with phrases. You
see power in it and profit for yourself. (_He protests._) That’s
your own confession. You are only doing what is expedient--not what
is right. Oh, Will, don’t compare your motives with those of our
son. I sent him forth, without a word of protest, because he wishes
to die for his own ideals: you are killing your own ideals for the
ideals of others! (_She turns away._) Oh, Will, that’s what hurts.
If you were only like him, I--I could stand it.

WHITE

(_Quietly, after a pause_)

I can’t be angry at you--even when you say such things. You’ve
been too much a part of my life, and work, and I love you, Hilda.
You know that, don’t you, dear? (_He sits beside her and takes her
hand._) I knew it would be difficult to make you understand. Only
once have I lacked courage and that was when I felt myself being
drawn into this and they offered me the appointment. For then I
saw I must tell you. You know I never have wanted to cause you
pain. But when you asked me to let Wallace go, I thought you would
understand my going, too.--Oh, perhaps our motives are different;
he is young: war has caught his imagination; but, I, too, see a
duty, a way to accomplish my ideals.

HILDA

Let’s leave ideals out of this now. It’s like bitter enemies
praying to the same God as they kill each other.

WHITE

Yes. War is full of ironies. I see that: Wallace can’t. It’s so
full of mixed motives, good and bad. Yes. I’ll grant all that. Only
America has gone in. The whole tide was against us, dear. It is
sweeping over the world: a brown tide of khaki sweeping everything
before it. All my life I’ve fought against the current. (_Wearily_)
And now that I’ve gone in, too, my arms seem less tired. Yes; and
except for the pain I’ve caused you, I’ve never in all my life felt
so--so happy.

    (_Then she understands. She slowly turns to him, with
    tenderness in her eyes._)

HILDA

Oh, now, Will, I do understand. Now I see the real reason for what
you’ve done.

WHITE

(_Defensively_)

I’ve given the real reason.

HILDA

(_Her heart going out to him_)

You poor tired man. My dear one. Forgive me, if I made it difficult
for you; if I said cruel words. I ought to have guessed; ought
to have seen what life has done to you. (_He looks up, not
understanding her words._) Those hands of yours first dug a living
out of the ground. Then they built houses and grew strong because
you were a workman--a man of the people. You saw injustice and all
your life you fought against those who had the power to inflict
it: the press; the comfortable respectables, like my brother; and
even those of your own group who opposed you--you fought them all.
And they look at you as an outsider, an alien in your own country.
Oh, Will, I know how hard it has been for you to be always on the
defensive, against the majority. It is hard to live alone away from
the herd. It does tire one to the bone and make one envious of the
comfort and security they find by being together.

WHITE

Yes ... but....

HILDA

Now the war comes and with it a chance to get back; to be part
of the majority; to be welcomed with open arms by those who have
fought you; to go back with honor and praise. And, yes, to have
the warmth and comfort of the crowd. That’s the real reason you’re
going in. You’re tired and worn out with the fight. I know. I
understand now.

WHITE

(_Earnestly_)

If I thought it was that, I’d kill myself.

HILDA

There’s been enough killing already. I have to understand it
somehow to accept it at all.

    (_He stares at her, wondering at her words. She smiles.
    He goes to a chair and sits down, gazing before him. The
    music of “Over There” is now heard outside in the street,
    approaching nearer and nearer. It is a military band._
    WALLACE _excitedly rushes in dressed in khaki_.)

WALLACE

Mother, mother. The boys are coming down the street. (_Sees
father._) Dad! Mother has told you?

HILDA

(_Calmly_)

Yes; I’ve told him.

WALLACE

And you’re going to let me go, Dad?

HILDA

Yes.

WALLACE

Oh, thanks, Dad. (_Grasping his hand._) I knew mother would make
you see. (_Music nearer._) Listen! Isn’t that a great tune? Lifts
you up on your feet and carries you over there. Gee, it just gets
into a fellow and makes him want to run for his gun and charge
over the top. (_He goes to balcony._) Look! They’re nearing here;
all ready to sail with the morning tide. They’ve got their helmets
on. You can’t see the end of them coming down the avenue. Oh,
thank God, I’m going to be one of them soon. Thank God! I’m going
to fight for Uncle Sam and the Stars and Stripes. (_Calls off._)
Hurrah! (_To them._) Oh, I wish I had a flag. Why haven’t we got a
flag here--Hurrah!!

    (_As he goes out on the balcony the music plays louder._
    HILDA _has gone to_ WHITE _during this, and stands behind
    him, with her arms down his arms, as he sits there, gazing
    before him_.)

HILDA

(_Fervently_)

Oh, Will, if I could only feel it as he does!!

    (_The music begins to trail off as_ WHITE _tenderly takes
    hold of her hands_.)


[CURTAIN]


[C] Copyright by George Middleton. See back of title page.




  AMONG THE LIONS


THE PEOPLE

  PATRICIA TENNER, _a popular “star.”_
  MRS. EMILY FROWDE, “_a lion-hunter_.”
  MISS EVA STANNARD, _about whom there has been talk_.
  THE BROWN ONE, }
  THE BLUE ONE,  } _as they appear to Patricia_.
  THE GREEN ONE, }
  M. MAVOSKY, _an artist “who’s all the rage.”_
  GEORGE SILVERTON, _a musician; an old friend of Patricia_.
  OTHER GUESTS.


SCENE

_Drawing-room at Mrs. Frowde’s during a small reception given to
Patricia Tenner. A late afternoon._




AMONG THE LIONS[D]


_An elaborate drawing-room is disclosed, with bare high-paneled
walls, relieved only by attractive candle-clusters and a stretch
of tapestry. At back is an alcove effect in which a piano is seen,
with the usual decorations of a music-room suggested beyond.
There are two openings which lead to the hallways and street
doors without. Opposite these is a stone-built fireplace with a
smoldering log blaze and attractive “British Soldier” andirons. By
this rests a deep chair which tones with the other furnishings. A
tea-table, resplendent with silver, stands obliquely in the center,
with lighted candles. Appropriate ferns and flowers rest in likely
places._

GEORGE SILVERTON _is playing a Chopin étude in the music-room;
about the opening are grouped_ PATRICIA TENNER, MRS. FROWDE, THE
BROWN ONE, THE GREEN ONE, THE BLUE ONE _and others. They are
listening, duly impressed by the touch of an expert._

MAVOSKY, _the artist, is standing off alone by the tea-table
complacently munching a macaroon and eyeing_ PATRICIA.

MAVOSKY _is about forty, tall, with large eyes and a pointed beard.
There is a slight Russian accent in his speech and his manners have
the studied spontaneity of a professional foreigner exploiting
a new field. As he continues to watch_ PATRICIA _with a cynical
smile, she leaves the group unobserved by the others and moves
towards the low, deep chair near the fireplace_.

PATRICIA _has the large features of a stage-beauty, which enhance
her appearance before the footlights. Her hair is parted and coiled
low on her neck. She is elegantly gowned, and carries a long,
elaborate scarf which is hung across her back and held by each arm.
She uses this continually to increase her instinctive plasticity.
As she turns there is a serious expression upon her face, as
though, for once she had been her true self._

PATRICIA

(_Almost inaudibly_)

George Silverton. Poor George!

    (_She seems to feel_ MAVOSKY’S _eyes; but again mistress
    of herself, turns, and smiles invitingly. Then she drapes
    herself artistically in the chair._ MAVOSKY _comes with
    the plate of macaroons, which she declines with a pretty
    gesture. He replaces them on the table, and, seeing no one
    is watching, returns to her, speaking softly as the music
    continues._)

MAVOSKY

_Quel charme!_

PATRICIA

The gown or the pose?

MAVOSKY

Mademoiselle Tenner, in _your_ profession they are inseparable.

PATRICIA

We actresses belong only to each moment we act. It is _your_
profession which fastens us as we should be in the memory of others.

MAVOSKY

Perhaps that is why my portraits please.

PATRICIA

(_Bantering charmingly_)

And you only take celebrities, Monsieur Mavosky.

MAVOSKY

I wish to go to posterity on the hem of their garments.

PATRICIA

(_Smiling_)

Some day I may wear a gown that pleases you, eh?

    (_He starts to answer, but the music stops and the others
    applaud in perfect taste. He offers his hand in parting, as
    she seems to invite it._)

MAVOSKY

_Au revoir._

PATRICIA

(_With a fascinating smile_)

_Déjà?_

    (_He bows far over her hand and their eyes meet with
    interest. As he turns away, while the others come into the
    room_, PATRICIA _gives a secret smile of satisfaction,
    as though she had obtained her intention. Then she sighs
    wearily, bored, as she glances at the others._

    MRS. FROWDE, _the hostess is about fifty, looking forty;
    rather large and as self-contained as possible in her
    loose black tea-gown. She is a nervous woman with an
    apparent seriousness in her social undertakings. Her eyes
    are continually criticizing and her hands correcting. She
    has a gracious voice, and towards_ PATRICIA, _at least, a
    possessive protectiveness_.

    THE BROWN ONE _has a good profile from her chin up, but
    otherwise, in spite of lacing, is stout. Her tan gown makes
    up in elegance what it lacks in outline._

    _The clinging gown of_ THE BLUE ONE _accentuates the languid
    manner she affects. There is a satisfied, set smile upon her
    aquiline face and her voice maintains a gentle, persistent
    tremolo._

    THE GREEN ONE _is younger than the others and in general
    indefiniteness of bearing and appearance merely suggests
    money. Her olive-trimmed gown is very simple, but is caught
    by a conspicuous jade belt._

    _These, with the other guests who gradually depart, suggest
    the atmosphere of a conventional tea._)

OMNES

(_Enthusiastically to Silverton_)

How delightful! How wonderful!

    (GEORGE SILVERTON _is medium-sized, in the late thirties,
    with a fine, sensitive face and short-cropped hair. He is
    retiring in manner and seems ill at ease in the present
    company. Towards_ PATRICIA, _however, this disappears and it
    is evident he has known her well_.)

THE BROWN ONE

(_Shrugging her shoulders, and splashing each sentence with jerky
gestures throughout._)

He has such a _je-ne-sais-quoi_. Don’t you think?

THE BLUE ONE

(_In a shocked tone_)

I’d hardly put it that way.

SILVERTON

(_To_ THE BROWN ONE)

You compliment me.

MRS. FROWDE

Didn’t Pachmann play that at the Philharmonic Friday?

THE GREEN ONE

How should I know?

MRS. FROWDE

I wish they’d announce what they play as an encore so I can
recognize it.

THE BROWN ONE

We need a Chopin in this country. Do you compose, Mr. Silverton?

THE BLUE ONE

(_Who has come down to_ PATRICIA)

It must be splendid to be a real artist, Miss Tenner, instead of
just having money. _We_ have to be so careful.

    (PATRICIA _smiles and nods understandingly throughout_.
    SILVERTON, _apparently ill at ease, comes beside_ PATRICIA
    _as_ MAVOSKY _is speaking to_ MRS. FROWDE _and the others at
    the table_.)

Oh, Mr. Silverton, your playing made me so--so--(_at a loss for
words_) don’t you know?

SILVERTON

(_Stiffly_)

Music is the only mental adventure in good and evil which some of
us ever have.

THE BLUE ONE

How clever of you! I wonder if that’s why I adore Tristan? You will
come to my next Thursday and play for me? _I_ need adventure. (_She
laughs, tremulously_) I’ll have some people there if I may tell
them _you_ are coming.

SILVERTON

(_Hiding his displeasure_)

Charmed.

THE BLUE ONE

(_To_ PATRICIA)

You have a beastly rehearsal then, haven’t you? So sorry.

    (PATRICIA _smiles as though regretful, and the three continue
    talking_.)

MRS. FROWDE

(_By the table, shaking_ MAVOSKY’S _hand_)

Must you go?

MAVOSKY

Only till luncheon Tuesday.

MRS. FROWDE

(_Aside to him_)

It was good of you to meet her.

MAVOSKY

(_Looking across to_ PATRICIA)

Miss Tenner is a poem in pose.

THE BROWN ONE

    (_Who has been manœuvering to be in his line of departure,
    as_ MRS. FROWDE _turns to give_ THE GREEN ONE _a cup of tea_.)

M. Mavosky, I’ve heard if you wait at Port Said you’ll sooner or
later meet everyone you know. Here, at Mrs. Frowde’s, one only
meets those one wishes, _n’est-ce pas_?

MAVOSKY

(_Gallantly_)

You American women!

THE BROWN ONE

I’ll bring my husband to see your portraits. May I?

MAVOSKY

(_Bowing_)

_You_ speak for his taste.

THE BROWN ONE

(_Pleased_)

He actually threatens to have one of me, and wishes the very best
that can possibly be painted.

    (_They exchange pleasantries, and as_ MAVOSKY _passes out he
    glances towards_ PATRICIA, _who has been watching him, while_
    SILVERTON _has engaged_ THE BLUE ONE, _who by now has joined_
    THE GREEN ONE _and_ THE BROWN ONE _and_ MRS. FROWDE _at the
    table. They laugh as_ SILVERTON _and_ PATRICIA _find a chance
    to snatch a few words unheard_.)

SILVERTON

(_Referring to_ THE BLUE ONE)

Who is she that I must pay for my tea by playing for her Thursday?

PATRICIA

(_Flippantly_)

Her name begins with T. Her husband owns _The Star_. It’s been good
to me. I call her The Blue One; I no longer remember names. People
are color to me. See the stout one--like an overfed question mark?
She seems brown all through. Have you heard her talk? With her
(_imitating and shrugging shoulders_) “je-ne-sais-quois”? No one
who is fat should speak French. And The Green One--ugh!--with the
jade life-belt!

SILVERTON

(_Seriously_)

Pat, why do you still come to these stupid affairs?

PATRICIA

There are still things _I_ may want, too.

SILVERTON

Mavosky?

PATRICIA

A portrait by him in my new rôle. Yes. Mrs. Frowde knew him.
_Voilà._

SILVERTON

I see: that’s how you still get things.

PATRICIA

Mrs. Frowde is the greatest “lion-hunter” in captivity. She is
happy to-day; she’s caught three of us: a star, a painter, and a
promising musician. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? (_He nods._)
You’ve finally decided to follow the advice I gave you when we
first came East----

SILVERTON

Yes: how different it was then----

PATRICIA

(_Reminiscently_)

Yes--how different!

MRS. FROWDE

    (_Gently restraining_ THE BROWN ONE, _who has started
    towards_ PATRICIA _and_ SILVERTON)

I’ve heard they had quite a romance once.

THE BROWN ONE

How romantic! I wish my husband played a piano. (_They talk._)

PATRICIA

(_Quietly to_ SILVERTON)

Funny, George, while you were playing I was thinking of when
I hadn’t a job and you were copying for a living. Your music
actually made me want to throw off all my insincerities here just
for once and see what would happen.

SILVERTON

They’d be shocked----

PATRICIA

And I’d be chilly.

SILVERTON

But _I_ couldn’t be of any use to you--_then_.

PATRICIA

No; my “art” wasn’t big enough to succeed by itself alone. I had to
play the game--get influence--(_He protests._) Oh, I know myself,
George; I was cruel to you and all the others. Some day, just to
square myself in my own eyes, I’ll tell people like these here
about my life and how I have always used them to get what I wanted.

SILVERTON

(_Surprised_)

What is the matter, Pat? You’re not yourself.

PATRICIA

(_Smiling_)

I’m having a rush of sincerity to my lips.

SILVERTON

(_Looking over toward the others_)

I wonder what _they_ would say if it slipped out?

PATRICIA

Perhaps they’d say it was “temperament.” I’ve affected it so much I
actually believe I’ve got it.

MRS. FROWDE

(_Laughing with others_)

Mavosky is _so_ clever; he said in America passion was only
sentiment waving a red flag!

THE GREEN ONE

He told me art had no morals and I understood him. He’s so subtle.

SILVERTON

(_To_ PATRICIA)

If I could but make phrases.

PATRICIA

(_Rising, wearily_)

I don’t have to; I smile them.

MRS. FROWDE

(_Coming down anxiously_)

Surely, you’re not going yet, Patricia?

THE GREEN ONE

(_To_ THE BROWN ONE)

She calls her Patricia!

MRS. FROWDE

(_Offering_ PATRICIA _a cup_)

I’ve fixed it the way you like it--no lemon.

PATRICIA

(_Declining_)

You are so thoughtful, dear Emily.

THE GREEN ONE

(_To_ THE BROWN ONE)

Emily!

THE BLUE ONE

(_Coming to_ PATRICIA)

I’m just dying to see your Rosalind.

PATRICIA

  (_Beautifully covering with an air of sincerity her mockery which_
  SILVERTON _alone detects_)

You may before you do.

THE GREEN ONE

(_In surprise_)

But the papers say----

PATRICIA

You mustn’t believe all you see _there_. My press agent has
imagination.

THE BLUE ONE

(_Cozily to the others_)

Isn’t it splendid to be taken into her confidence.

    (PATRICIA _darts a humorous glance at_ SILVERTON.)

THE BROWN ONE

I should think you’d be tired going out so much.

PATRICIA

Mrs. Frowde’s friends are always interesting and proper--a rare
combination. (_Smiling._) Her idea of a tragedy would be a social
mishap--that way.

MRS. FROWDE

(_Protectively_)

I warn her against overtaxing herself--and with that trying part to
play every night.

PATRICIA

Whenever it gets trying to me I think of the audience.

MRS. FROWDE

(_As the others laugh_)

I always said one must have a sense of humor off the stage to play
the parts you do.

PATRICIA

I get my inspiration from my friends; a cup of tea, and brilliant
conversation before the horrid time to go and “make up.”

THE GREEN ONE

Doesn’t all the make-up hurt the complexion?

PATRICIA

(_Sweetly_)

I always use cold cream first--don’t you?

    (_An abrupt halt in the laughter comes as_ MISS EVA STANNARD
    _enters and pauses momentarily in the doorway_.

    MISS STANNARD _is about twenty-nine, tall, vibrant and almost
    imperious in bearing. Her forehead is high, her eyes keen and
    her mouth thin and tense. She is gowned in gray._

    PATRICIA _is immediately interested in her and in the
    constrained attitude of the others_.

    MISS STANNARD _slowly comes to_ MRS. FROWDE, _bowing
    graciously, as she passes, to the others, who return it
    with sickly smiles, exchanging secret looks of surprise and
    indignation_. MRS. FROWDE _in her obvious embarrassment,
    instead of offering her hand, proffers the tea-cup, which_
    MISS STANNARD _smilingly declines_. THE BLUE ONE, _with rare
    presence of mind, coughs, and the others all laugh nervously,
    as though to cover the silence which has ensued_.

    PATRICIA _slowly sits again, with_ SILVERTON _standing by her
    chair, intensely interested and curious_.)

MISS STANNARD

(_Sweetly_)

I had no idea, Mrs. Frowde, you were receiving formally to-day.

MRS. FROWDE

(_Constrained throughout_)

I only sent out a few special cards to meet Miss Tenner. But now
that you’ve come, let me present you to her. Miss Stannard.

PATRICIA

(_More cordial than ever_)

Miss _Eva_ Stannard? (_Miss Stannard nods._) Oh; I’m indeed glad to
meet you.

MISS STANNARD

(_Formally and a bit puzzled_)

Thanks.

MRS. FROWDE

You know the others?

MISS STANNARD

(_Cordially_)

Oh, yes----

    (_The others laugh a little nervously, nod mechanically, with
    ill-concealed rudeness._)

MRS. FROWDE

(_Nervously_)

_Do_ have another cup of tea. (_Pause._) What lovely weather we are
having! (_They all agree._) I almost hate to go to Florida this
winter; but it saves fuel.

    (MISS STANNARD _declines again and_ SILVERTON _takes the cup
    from_ MRS. FROWDE _to the table, returning to_ PATRICIA.
    _There is another embarrassing silence in which they all look
    at one another. Finally_ THE BROWN ONE _comes to say good-bye
    to_ MRS. FROWDE, _whose discomfort increases throughout_.)

Must you really go so soon?

THE BROWN ONE

(_Pointedly_)

Yes; I--I had expected to stay longer, but I’ve just remembered a
most important engagement.

THE BLUE ONE

Can’t I drop you on the way? My car’s waiting.

MRS. FROWDE

(_Distressed_)

Must you, too? But Mr. Silverton has promised to play again.

SILVERTON

(_Significantly_)

An improvisation--prompted by the occasion.

THE BLUE ONE

I’m to hear it Thursday--remember.

    (_As_ THE BLUE ONE _and_ THE BROWN ONE _say good-bye to_ MISS
    STANNARD, THE GREEN ONE _goes to_ MRS. FROWDE. MISS STANNARD
    _being left alone, shows her struggle at self-control and
    sits in a chair unasked_. THE BROWN ONE _and_ THE BLUE ONE
    _with heads together go out the upper opening_.)

THE GREEN ONE

It’s getting late. I’ve had such a pleasant afternoon. You won’t
forget bridge next Monday?

    (MRS. FROWDE _responds limply and as_ THE GREEN ONE _turns_,
    MISS STANNARD _rises and halts her with a look_.)

MISS STANNARD

Good afternoon.

MRS. FROWDE

Must you?

THE GREEN ONE

Yes, I’m going to Cartier’s for the prizes. (_To_ PATRICIA) Good
afternoon. (_After a moment’s hesitation._) Good afternoon, Miss
Stannard.

    (THE GREEN ONE _goes out as_ MISS STANNARD _eyes_ MRS. FROWDE
    _in silence while_ PATRICIA _and_ SILVERTON _speak unheard_.)

PATRICIA

Leave me here alone, George: _this_ is real. I’ve heard about her.

SILVERTON

What are you going to do?

PATRICIA

The cats! There’s something inside me wants to speak. Run along.
I’m feeling that rush of sincerity I spoke of.

SILVERTON

Mrs. Frowde, I leave only because--(_as_ MISS STANNARD _catches
his eye_) Miss Stannard, I’m sorry they did not wait for that
improvisation. But I’m afraid they wouldn’t have understood the
_motif_.

    (SILVERTON _goes out_. PATRICIA _leans forward watching the
    two, as_ MRS. FROWDE _faces_ MISS STANNARD. _There is an
    embarrassing pause._)

MRS. FROWDE

Really, I don’t know what to say. I hardly thought you would
come--under the circumstances.

MISS STANNARD

(_Fencing carefully throughout_)

I’m dreadfully sorry. I did not know it was a select affair. I
thought you were always at home to your friends.

MRS. FROWDE

(_Pointedly_)

Friends--yes.

MISS STANNARD

(_Sweetly_)

Then _I’m_ forgiven?

MRS. FROWDE

I think you must have seen my friends did not remain after you
arrived.

MISS STANNARD

I’m very sorry; but it is they you should criticize for being so
frightfully inconsiderate of you. (_With a sudden firmness_) And
now Mrs. Frowde, don’t you think you owe me an explanation?

MRS. FROWDE

(_Controlling herself with difficulty_)

I feel a strong desire to give it, only I hardly think you would
like me to speak before----

MISS STANNARD

(_Sarcastically_)

Strangers? The resentment was shown before Miss Tenner, why not the
explanation?

PATRICIA

(_Appealing with the usual success to their intimacy._)

Emily, dear, you forget you have already spoken to me of Miss
Stannard. (MISS STANNARD _stiffens_.)

MRS. FROWDE

Wouldn’t it be better if I simply asked you not to call again?

MISS STANNARD

(_With a note of challenge_)

I must insist that you tell me frankly the reason.

MRS. FROWDE

You insist?

MISS STANNARD

Yes.

MRS. FROWDE

(_Bluntly_)

There has been too much talk about you. Surely you must have
realized your name is on every tongue. You know the world: women
can’t do what you have done. You must have been mad--and with a
married man at that!

    (PATRICIA _eyes her keenly_. MISS STANNARD _tosses her
    head defiantly; but as_ MRS. FROWDE _eyes her piercingly
    she seems to lose all her control, begins to tremble,
    totters, clutching the back of a chair and finally sinks
    with an hysterical sob upon the sofa, burying her face in
    her hands. Her vanity-case rattles to the floor._ PATRICIA
    _rises instinctively to go to her but sits again as_ MRS.
    FROWDE _motions her back and approaches_ MISS STANNARD _less
    harshly_.)

I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you like this. Only one must
protect one’s self--one’s friends. I couldn’t have you come here.
(_Slowly_) Oh, well, I’m sure you will see one must draw the line
somewhere.

PATRICIA

(_Impressively_)

Yes, Emily, one must draw the line somewhere. Why didn’t you begin
with me?

    (MRS. FROWDE _sits in astonishment as_ PATRICIA _leans
    forward. There is a long pause till_ MISS STANNARD _looks up
    slowly in wonder and curiosity_.)

I really don’t see why you discriminate.

MRS. FROWDE

But----

PATRICIA

If you and your friends are so shocked by Miss Stannard’s presence,
why should you tolerate me? No one gives us stage people the right
to privacy. Everybody makes it their business to retail our lives.
We’re public property; so surely you and your friends have heard my
story, too. Now, really, haven’t you?

MRS. FROWDE

(_Confused_)

Yes, but--my dear....

PATRICIA

And what have you heard about me? Let’s see if it is correct. My
name? It isn’t my own. My real one wouldn’t look well on the
advertising. Besides, my father hadn’t given me any reason to be
proud of it. My mother may have been a good soul if I had ever
really known her. I’ve always thought I was an unwanted child: I
hate children so myself. But mother couldn’t have been the sort
who’d drink with ease out of your frail tea-cups, and I’ll warrant
no amount of coaching would have kept the veneer from peeling when
she spoke. I grew up somehow among “beer and skittles,” as Trilby
would say; didn’t know what pictures and teas and things were till
I came East. And do you know _how_ I came? _He_ seemed so handsome,
too, in those days.

MRS. FROWDE

    (_Moving uneasily as she sees a grim smile come to_ MISS
    STANNARD)

But, dear, you were young and----

PATRICIA

Oh, I knew better; but I was bored--bored out there and I wanted
a chance to live. We didn’t get along very well--he and I; partly
my fault. He couldn’t be happy with a woman who also had a spark
of creation tucked away in her soul. Then, besides, I had made up
my mind I’d do something because I had to keep alive. I turned
to the stage--most of us poor fools do. But I happened to have a
way with me and a pair of shoulders that were proud of my face.
(_Sarcastically_.) The critics called it personality. (_Quickly_)
I wonder if you also know I lived in a five-dollar-a-week
boarding-house with circus acrobats on the floor above, a sad
soprano in a closet next to mine and a smell of cooking all over
so I wouldn’t be lonely? (_Almost unconsciously her voice at times
betrays an unexpected commonness._) How I hated it! How I wanted
these feathers and gilt! And every time I made up my face in that
two-by-four part I had, I determined to succeed somehow--_anyhow_.
I deserve every bit of success I’ve got, for I worked hard getting
the burrs out of my speech and some grammar into it. (MRS. FROWDE
_moves uncomfortably again_.) That’s the truth. People suspected
I had a brain and I had; but I wasn’t wasting it on books--I was
studying the hearts and souls of the sort of people I needed to get
along. (_With increasing relish at the effect of her revelations._)
And I saw to succeed in my life I had to grow hard inside and soft
out. So I affected my husky voice and my sad smile; sadness gave
me a touch of mystery and encouraged curiosity. I knew I’d have
to keep my face smooth, too; so I stopped feeling for others and
thought only of myself. Suffering isn’t good for the complexion.
But I helped everybody in convenient ways, because I knew I could
make them help me in greater. And as I began to get along I went
out more to teas and the like so I could meet the people I could
use.

MRS. FROWDE

But, my dear....

PATRICIA

Oh, I’m not ungrateful for their kindness, but I owe them
nothing, for I repaid them, by letting them do things for me.
Yes, it flattered them to have me about and to say they knew me
“intimately.” I was a good asset to their affairs because I was a
success. Then I picked up a lot of cant phrases about art and the
like, so I could prattle; and I even signed articles which somebody
else wrote lamenting the decline of the stage, when I knew in my
heart I was glad things were as they were because I could make more
money with a dramatized novel or a tailor-made part than in my much
advertised and never intended appearance in Shakespeare. (_Acting
as with apparent conviction._) And back of this, life was calling
me. So I did other things to get along. My eyes were open and so
it seems were those of the world. It envied me my freedom because
I was a success. All of us don’t do it, but I did and it wasn’t
always for love. (MISS STANNARD’S _quick breath halts her for a
moment; then she adds dramatically_) Yes, Mrs. Frowde, if you’re
going to draw the line somewhere at your teas, why don’t you begin
with me?

MRS. FROWDE

(_Floundering_)

But--but you forget, dear, you--you are a great creative artist.

PATRICIA

No, I don’t. Everybody’s tolerance of my whims, my moods, my
morals would never let me forget it. But what has that to do with
the right and wrong of it? That’s what you are wondering, Miss
Stannard. (MISS STANNARD _gazes at her_.) I don’t ask any less
charity for myself because my “temperament” has made me live my
life my own way; though I don’t need charity now I’m on top.
(_Surging along effectively._) But why shouldn’t you and your
friends extend that same charity to the rest of the sinners?
(PATRICIA _does not detect_ MISS STANNARD’S _change of manner so
intent is she in her own words_.) You give it to me because I am a
creative artist. Everybody has a bit of the artist in them. Some
of us use it to make bread; others use it to make trouble. All the
nice sinners of the world have the creative spirit, too. Sin is the
creating of the actual out of the imagined. It’s falling over the
fence in a desire to see what is on the other side. (_Consciously
shaping her words and manner to a climax._) But the more so are the
sins one does for love. Love is the most creative of all impulses.
If you forgive me because I’m an artist, as you say; if you can ask
_me_ to sit beside your lily-faced daughters and stubby-chinned
sons; if you can kiss my lips--I, who have openly violated all your
standards--why do you turn against this woman, who has done what
she has for the noblest of motives--love--the love of a man?

MISS STANNARD

(_She has risen tensely and speaks with a biting bitterness_)

I suppose you meant very well, Miss Tenner; you said it just as
though it were a scene in some play--with the proper emphasis and
pause and nice phrases. But believe me, Mrs. Frowde is right:
we can’t judge people by the same standards. (_Contemptuously_)
There _is_ a difference between you and me. _I_ feel it myself.
When I need forgiveness I shall only want it of my own class.
(_Scornfully_) The tolerance of yours means nothing to me. (_Very
quietly_) I am sorry, Mrs. Frowde. I’ll not call again till he and
I are married. Then, of course, it will be all right. Good-bye.

    (MISS STANNARD _goes out quickly leaving_ PATRICIA _dumb at
    her mis-reading of the situation_.

    MRS. FROWDE, _who has been too confused throughout to speak,
    now vents her anger on_ MISS STANNARD.)

MRS. FROWDE

The brazen hussy! You see what she is--to insult you so after your
splendid defense of her!

PATRICIA

(_Slowly_)

She was right.

MRS. FROWDE

Not at all. She doesn’t understand the difference with a lady of
temperament.

PATRICIA

Temperament--oh, yes. (_She smiles sarcastically and then looks
surprised at_ MRS. FROWDE.) And you are not angry with me?

MRS. FROWDE

(_Affectionately_)

At _you_, my dear friend? Indeed not. I know you didn’t mean _me_.
And besides I would have understood you if you had.

PATRICIA

(_Eyeing her with undetected cynicism_)

Yes, yes. You would have understood.

MRS. FROWDE

(_Impulsively_)

Won’t you stay and have a bite to eat with me--all alone? I can
drive you to the theater.

PATRICIA

I have an interview.

MRS. FROWDE

(_As they walk to the door_)

Too bad they misquote so.

PATRICIA

Yes, isn’t it? I’ve had such a dear afternoon.

MRS. FROWDE

(_Embracing her affectionately_)

And you’ll come to lunch Tuesday?

PATRICIA

(_As though wishing to escape_)

No ... I....

MRS. FROWDE

(_Solicitously_)

But Mavosky will be here and he’s taken quite fancy to you. Thinks
you’d make a splendid study.

PATRICIA

(_Recalling_)

Mavosky! Oh, yes. I thought you said Wednesday; that’s matinée day.
Tuesday is all right.

MRS. FROWDE

Say at two?

PATRICIA

I may be a moment late.

MRS. FROWDE

We’ll wait for you. (_As they are walking out_) I hope you’ll
forget what _she_ said.

PATRICIA

Oh, Miss Stannard hasn’t any temperament. And it does make a
difference, doesn’t it?

    (_They go out leaving the room empty, with the candles on the
    table winking in their sockets._)


[CURTAIN]


[D] Copyright by George Middleton. See back of title page.




THE REASON


THE PEOPLE

  LOCKSLEY RANDOLPH, _a retired merchant_.
  PAULA, _his daughter_.
  TOM SABINE, _his secretary_.
  MARY SABINE, _his secretary’s wife_.


SCENE

_Sitting-room at the Randolph home in a suburb of the city; an
early winter night._




THE REASON[E]


_A handsomely furnished sitting-room, the general entrance of which
from the floor below is at the right. Beyond this a broad window is
seen as the moonlight faintly filters through the trees outside.
Directly opposite, some smoldering logs betray a fireplace, near
which is another door opening into_ PAULA’S _apartments. Large
double doors in the center open into a hallway leading to library.
A telephone is on a large writing-table, upon which a light, with
a luxurious shade suspended above, casts a strong yellow glow. The
furnishings show signs of tasteless wealth and are devoid of any
feminine touch._

SABINE _and_ RANDOLPH _are bending over some documents_.

SABINE _is about thirty-three, clean-shaven with shrewd eyes and a
conspicuously insinuating smile. The manner with which he feels for
his words and his studied coolness suggest a deep and significant
interest in the developments._

RANDOLPH _is fifty, well-preserved and possessing the assurance of
permanent prosperity: he is apparently without illusions as the
lines about his slightly protruding eyes and thick lips indicate a
dissipated life_.

_Though the two men are obviously considerate, there is concealed
an instinctive mistrust. They are silent a long while until_
RANDOLPH _looks up from the papers_.

SABINE

Anything else?

RANDOLPH

How long will those compilations take?

SABINE

Same as the others.

RANDOLPH

A month each, eh? You’ve done ... let’s see....

SABINE

I’ve been your secretary for three months.

RANDOLPH

And you’ve been at these every evening--ever since I took you in.

SABINE

I wouldn’t put it that way.

RANDOLPH

You are sure you can still find all you need in my own library here?

SABINE

All I need--behind the closed doors.

RANDOLPH

(_Casually_)

I shall see that my orders not to disturb you are continued.

SABINE

I’ve noticed you never even come yourself.

RANDOLPH

I like to think of young genius being left alone.

SABINE

(_Mock seriously_)

And out of harm’s way?

RANDOLPH

Exactly--at night. (_Half to himself._) Another month will about
finish it.

SABINE

(_Significantly_)

Mr. Randolph, you are paying rather high for----

RANDOLPH

(_Eyeing him quickly_)

For what?

SABINE

(_Turning the pages casually_)

Unremunerative work.

RANDOLPH

One never pays too high for what one wants.

SABINE

Not at the time.

    (_They look at each other_: SABINE _slowly gathers the papers
    together and glances towards_ RANDOLPH _who is coolly staring
    before him. There is a quiet pause. Then_ SABINE _opens the
    library door and casually steps back_.)

Your daughter. (_Calmly to_ PAULA) Your father is here, Miss
Randolph.

    (PAULA _enters with a book in hand. She is twenty-three
    and charming, with a sweet innocent air which suggests a
    hedged-in life. She is dressed in a simple tea-gown and her
    manner throughout is calm and unsophisticated._)

PAULA

Good evening, Mr. Sabine.

RANDOLPH

Where have you been, Paula?

PAULA

Getting a book.

RANDOLPH

You mustn’t read so much.

SABINE

Anything further, Mr. Randolph, before you go out?

RANDOLPH

No. But--but I don’t remember mentioning that I was going out.

SABINE

I thought you did. Good evening.

PAULA

(_Good-naturedly_)

Is Mrs. Sabine well?

SABINE

Not exactly.

RANDOLPH

Indeed?

SABINE

(_Smiling_)

My wife seems upset about something.

RANDOLPH

(_Casually_)

Why, she seemed well when she was here last, didn’t she, Paula?

PAULA

Yes, and so happy.

RANDOLPH

What’s the trouble?

SABINE

I’m not quite sure--_yet_.

RANDOLPH

Perhaps she needs a change.

SABINE

I’ll tell her you asked after her, Mr. Randolph.

RANDOLPH

Certainly. Do. But it was _Miss_ Randolph who inquired.

SABINE

I thought it was you. (_He smiles._) The air in the library has
affected me. (_He smiles._) Good evening.

    (_He leaves the room, slowly closing the door. There is a
    pause as_ PAULA _looks curiously before her, while_ RANDOLPH,
    _somewhat puzzled, goes up to door and sees that_ SABINE _has
    gone into the library beyond_.)

PAULA

I hope it’s nothing serious.

RANDOLPH

What?

PAULA

Mrs. Sabine.

RANDOLPH

Nothing, of course.

PAULA

Hasn’t she told _you_?

RANDOLPH

Me?

PAULA

You’re such good friends.

RANDOLPH

My dear, women with attractive husbands never confide in outsiders.

PAULA

(_Innocently_)

Don’t they?

RANDOLPH

(_Laughing_)

You know so little of life. (PAULA _sighs in agreement_.) And I
wish you to keep your sweetness until you are married.

PAULA

Doesn’t one need it then?

RANDOLPH

You’ll understand when the time comes, child.

PAULA

(_Enigmatically_)

And one mustn’t before!

RANDOLPH

Children don’t realize how they unconsciously hold parents to
higher things: it’s because of you, for instance, more than
anything else since your dear mother died, that I’ve tried to keep
_my_ life an example.

PAULA

I’ve always had it before me, father. (_Coming closer._) I’m deeply
grateful for showing me what I, too, should be.

RANDOLPH

Yes, yes. (_Patting her._) Now, dear, run along to bed: your eyes
are tired.

PAULA

(_Glancing at book_)

I’m fond of reading.

RANDOLPH

(_Humoring her throughout_)

What do you like best?

PAULA

(_Cheerfully_)

Adventure.

RANDOLPH

With real heroes?

PAULA

(_Referring to book_)

I love those who keep cool in times of danger.

RANDOLPH

You’re only a child, after all, eh? (_He pats her tenderly as she
notices him glancing at his watch._)

PAULA

(_Casually_)

You _are_ going out?

RANDOLPH

Yes: some business.

PAULA

Will you be late?

RANDOLPH

Do I disturb you?

PAULA

I can generally hear the machine from my room, before you turn up
the path.

RANDOLPH

It’s easy nowadays to go fast in the dark.

PAULA

You will always toot the horn? (_Reprovingly_) Think of the danger
to others.

RANDOLPH

Foolish girl! There’s no danger about here.

PAULA

No; of course not. (_Goes to him._) Good night.

RANDOLPH

Dear, dear girl. (_Looking at her._) It’s good to have such a
daughter.

PAULA

And such a father. (_They kiss; the telephone rings._) Oh, let
me. (_She goes to phone._) Good evening, Mrs. Sabine. (RANDOLPH
_starts a bit, unnoticed_.) I thought you were ill. Mr. Sabine was
telling father. I believe he’s in the library. Father will take the
message: he’s here. Do take care of yourself: just think what Mr.
Sabine would do if you were ill. Good night.

    (_She hands receiver to father, who half pauses, thinking she
    will leave the room; but she lingers over her book._)

RANDOLPH

Good evening. (_Half pointedly_) Yes, my daughter is here. Anything
I can do? Do you want my advice? Oh, whatever is wisest. Of course
I’ll tell Mr. Sabine. I hope it’s nothing serious. (_He hangs up
receiver, concealing from_ PAULA _his displeasure_.)

PAULA

She seemed excited.

RANDOLPH

Woman’s nerves.

PAULA

Funny I never have them.

RANDOLPH

You’re not married.

PAULA

You’re going to see her?

RANDOLPH

She’s on her way here.

PAULA

Here? Then you will tell Mr. Sabine she’s coming?

RANDOLPH

Yes. But you’re tired, dear.

PAULA

I’ll feel better with my things off. Good night. (_She pauses at
her door._) Father; she and Mr. Sabine are happily married, aren’t
they?

RANDOLPH

Of course, of course.

PAULA

I’m glad to hear so.

RANDOLPH

Why?

PAULA

(_Glancing at him_)

Then it couldn’t be about _that_.

    (_She closes the door softly._ RANDOLPH _looks after her
    puzzled, then walks up and down alone very much irritated.
    He takes out his check book, glancing through the stubs
    cynically. Then he throws it back into the table drawer.
    Finally he picks up the phone, obviously switching it._)

RANDOLPH

Is that you, Sabine? You’ve found what you want? You won’t need
me any more? Well, stick close to it. I just wished to see. Good
night. (_He switches it off again and impatiently waits._) Is
that you, Brooks? Tell Toder to have the car ready. I may need it
later. No, the closed car--it’s chilly. Oh, by the way, (_trying
to be casual_), in case _I_ should be out, Mr. Sabine is expecting
Mrs. Sabine. Let her come right up to the library. What’s that?
Better see who it is. (_Showing displeasure._) I’ll tell Mr. Sabine
myself. Yes; if you’re sure it’s Mrs. Sabine, better let her come
up here. That’ll be all for to-night.

    (_He hangs up the receiver, walks up and down again and
    finally opens the hall door. There is quite a pause as he
    stands, smoking a cigarette, awaiting her. Finally_, MRS.
    SABINE _enters, leaving the door open_.

    _She is in her late twenties, of rather restless beauty,
    which under her shifting expression becomes hard and cynical.
    She apparently has little resistance and suggests a love
    of excitement and sensation. Her manner is flighty though
    worldly. She is handsomely dressed, with beautiful furs upon
    her sensuous shoulders._)

RANDOLPH

(_Abruptly_)

What the devil does this mean?

MRS. SABINE

We’re alone?

RANDOLPH

Naturally.

MRS. SABINE

(_Half flippantly_)

I had to see you.

RANDOLPH

Why here?

MRS. SABINE

I couldn’t wait till you came to me.

RANDOLPH

(_With strained jocularity_)

Feather brain; what’s the trouble?

MRS. SABINE

Nothing--only my husband _knows_.

RANDOLPH

(_Quickly_)

About us?

MRS. SABINE

He’s known for some time.

RANDOLPH

And he only spoke----?

MRS. SABINE

To-day.

RANDOLPH

The devil! (_Slowly_) What’s the reason?

MRS. SABINE

Why he kept silent? (_Shrugging shoulders_) You men always have
reasons.

RANDOLPH

What did he say?

MRS. SABINE

(_Laughing cynically_)

He smiled. It was so funny and so unexpected.

RANDOLPH

(_Incredulously_)

He didn’t make a scene?

MRS. SABINE

No. And I’d been rehearsing for weeks what I should say.

RANDOLPH

But didn’t he----?

MRS. SABINE

(_Bitterly_)

I tell you he didn’t even insult me!

RANDOLPH

Sh!

    (_He looks towards his daughter’s room and then crosses and
    closes the door through which_ MRS. SABINE _has entered_.)

MRS. SABINE

(_After she has watched him_)

Hasn’t he spoken to you?

RANDOLPH

Not yet.

MRS. SABINE

That’s like him. He said he’d wait till I broke the news to you.

RANDOLPH

And then?

MRS. SABINE

Then he said you would want to see him and (_ominously_) he’d do
some talking.

RANDOLPH

(_Recalling_)

So that’s why he smiled just now.--Didn’t he say _anything_?

MRS. SABINE

He merely put his hands on your furs. I thought he’d believe I’d
saved enough to buy them myself. He stroked them once or twice
slowly--and smiled. But he _said_ nothing. Then he led me to the
window and pointed to your car--the extra one you forced upon
_us_--when you began. He smiled; but he said nothing. He picked
up a book: the work in the library was interesting; it kept him
_safe_ in the long winter evenings. I tell you he said it all in
his smiles and never a word. (_Violently_) He disappointed me so!
I’d be sorry for him a little if he’d only struck me. God! I hate
men who only smile when they are angry. (RANDOLPH _trying to quiet
her_.) Oh, I hate him with his penny a year. I hate him for asking
me to marry him, and then not even striking me when he found out
what I was!

RANDOLPH

But didn’t you even try to deny it?

MRS. SABINE

(_Defiantly_)

Why should I deny it?

RANDOLPH

(_Cynically_)

Of course not. Sooner or later, a woman always confesses to someone.

MRS. SABINE

(_Quickly_)

What did you want me to do? Think of you? I was sick of him. When I
saw he wasn’t going to make a fuss, I didn’t think your well-known
reputation would suffer; so I didn’t care about protecting myself.
What’s the difference, anyhow? He can’t give me what I want:
you can. If we can only keep it quiet, nobody need know--and it
wouldn’t even reach your daughter’s ears.

RANDOLPH

(_Angrily_)

We’ll not discuss her.

MRS. SABINE

No. She’s a good woman--with her lily hands and her thin eyebrows.
What does she know of life: the sordid soapy hours ending with
the snore of a husband you hate. Ugh! (_He walks up and down,
irritated._) Well, then, what are we going to do to keep it from
her?

RANDOLPH

That will depend on your husband and whether he’ll be sensible.
(_He goes to phone, switching it._)

MRS. SABINE

(_Looking before her_)

You did it beautifully, Randolph; with such knowledge of me and my
kind. But don’t take too much credit. I’d have done it with _any_
man who offered me what you did--if he’d come at the right time, as
you did, and found me at the end of a trolley line like this.

RANDOLPH

(_At phone_)

Step here a moment, Sabine. Yes: your wife is here. (_Cynically_)
She said you’d be expecting her. (_He hangs up the receiver._) You
could almost hear him smile.

MRS. SABINE

(_Without self-delusion_)

He couldn’t hold me: he was too poor.

RANDOLPH

No: you’re the sort that needs a diamond-studded clasp to keep her
morals fastened on.

MRS. SABINE

And they’re your specialty.

RANDOLPH

I think Sabine and I can make some arrangement.

MRS. SABINE

Let’s be comfortable, that’s all I say. I’m so tired of making my
lies fit. I’m willing to keep on with it. Why not? It’s all so easy
with a woman once she’s slipped. Lots of us would be what I am if
they could find a man to go through the marriage ceremony with them
_first_.

    (_A knock is heard at the door--it seems almost sarcastic, as
    it waits for a reply._)

RANDOLPH

Come in.

    (_The door opens softly and_ SABINE _enters slowly and comes
    down to them with the same smile. There is a pause._ MRS.
    SABINE _remains tense and seated_.)

Have a cigarette?

SABINE

(_They eye each other as they light up_)

Thanks.

RANDOLPH

(_Coming to the point_)

You know.

SABINE

(_Puffing throughout_)

Yes.

RANDOLPH

Well?

SABINE

I repeat the word--well?

RANDOLPH

You will come to an understanding?

SABINE

Which means?

RANDOLPH

You are--shall I say agreeable?

SABINE

You love my wife?

RANDOLPH

(_Courteously_)

Naturally.

SABINE

And you, Mary?

MRS. SABINE

Would a woman do what I’ve done without love?

SABINE

Never.

RANDOLPH

Well, say something.

SABINE

(_Calmly_)

It seems very simple.

RANDOLPH

Which means?

SABINE

That I’d still like to complete the compilations in your library.

MRS. SABINE

(_Rising, astonished_)

You’re even willing to stay _here_?

RANDOLPH

(_Quickly_)

And live ostensibly at home--with your wife?

SABINE

(_Calmly_)

Why not? I have no place else to go and she merely wishes to be
comfortable.

RANDOLPH

(_Relieved_)

You will not make a fuss?

SABINE

I’m sorry to disappoint my wife.

RANDOLPH

You will not let my daughter discover?

SABINE

No. I consider your position embarrassing enough.

RANDOLPH

(_Eyeing him_)

So your wife is worth nothing to you?

SABINE

(_Quickly_)

You’re mistaken there.

MRS. SABINE

Thanks. But how?

SABINE

Protection.

MRS. SABINE

Against what?

SABINE

Against Mr. Randolph.

RANDOLPH

Me?

SABINE

Exactly.

RANDOLPH

What the devil are you driving at?

SABINE

Perhaps if I take it kindly now, you will not blame _me_--in the
future.

MRS. SABINE

Oh, I know we’ll get tired of each other if that’s what you’re
suggesting.

SABINE

(_Detecting an agreeing look in_ RANDOLPH’S _face_)

That _may_ be what I mean. (_Eyeing_ RANDOLPH _keenly as he sees
her bite her lips_.) If that’s all, I’ll return to the library.

RANDOLPH

Have you no suggestions?

SABINE

(_Coldly_)

Be careful not to make a fool of me--in public.

MRS. SABINE

There speaks the man.

RANDOLPH

Then you’ll be silent?

SABINE

Until----

RANDOLPH

Until?

SABINE

Until you get your deserts.

RANDOLPH

A threat?

SABINE

(_Smiling_)

No. Only I know my wife.

MRS. SABINE

And that’s the sort of man I married. (_To_ SABINE) Do you blame me
for throwing you over?

SABINE

Have I?

MRS. SABINE

(_Indignantly_)

How dared you open me to this?

RANDOLPH

Don’t blame him, Mary.

MRS. SABINE

(_Indignantly_)

You knew, and you let him steal your wife.

SABINE

Some men like their women that way.

MRS. SABINE

Isn’t it funny! It’s losing its romance--being handed over like
some food at supper. Isn’t it funny--and disappointing.

RANDOLPH

I can’t say I admire you, Sabine.

SABINE

No, you can’t. But you will when you know my wife better.

MRS. SABINE

(_Losing control_)

I’m more ashamed of you than I am of myself. Why didn’t you stop
me if you knew? What’s the reason? Why didn’t you strike me? Why
didn’t you, so I could feel you and I were quits? Why didn’t
you--like that and that. (_She strikes him furiously with her
gloves once or twice, but he continues smiling._)

RANDOLPH

Mary, don’t let’s have a scene. Sh!

MRS. SABINE

I wanted a scene! And to think I wasn’t even worth insulting!

    (_She goes out quickly, leaving the hall door open. She
    has dropped her glove and as_ RANDOLPH, _with a resigned,
    half-bored air, starts to follow her_, SABINE _stoops, picks
    up the glove and, smiling, halts_ RANDOLPH.)

SABINE

My wife dropped her glove. Will you take it to her? I have my work,
and, as you remarked, another month will about finish it.

RANDOLPH

(_Smiling in spite of himself_)

Life would be so much simpler if all husbands were so considerate.

SABINE

The spice would be gone.

RANDOLPH

I suppose she is waiting----

SABINE

--For the glove. (_Offering it to him._)

RANDOLPH

(_Taking it_)

Yes: for her glove.

SABINE

I’m glad you will drive in the closed car.

RANDOLPH

(_At the door_)

Our reputations must be protected.

SABINE

No man likes to be made a fool of.

RANDOLPH

(_Slowly_)

After all, she’s only a woman and they’re all alike, eh?

SABINE

(_Slowly_)

_All_ alike. Yes.

RANDOLPH

(_Casually_)

You’ll find the cigarettes on the table.

SABINE

Thanks.

    (RANDOLPH _goes out, closing the door. Sabine stands a
    moment, then turns to the window and looks off till he sees
    the car has driven away. He turns down the light and then
    crossing eagerly, he knocks on_ PAULA’S _door. He repeats
    this._)

Paula! Paula!!

(_He stands waiting._)


[CURTAIN]


[E] Copyright by George Middleton. See back of title page.




THE HOUSE


THE PEOPLE

  CHARLES RAY, a _professor of philosophy_.
  ELIZABETH, _his wife_.


SCENE

_A room in an apartment hotel suite. One evening._




THE HOUSE[F]


_PROFESSOR and MRS. RAY are at the little table finishing their
coffee. In the center there is a white-robed birthday cake with
three golden candles sending a gentle light on them. A myriad of
faint wrinkles on the_ PROFESSOR’S _kindly face might betray his
age, though his thin body, in spite of its slight stoop, belies
his seventy years. As he sits there precisely dressed in his
evening clothes, he is the personification of fine breeding, the
incarnation of all that blood and culture can produce. And through
it all, there glows an alluring whimsy which one has no right to
expect in a professor of philosophy._

MRS. RAY, _gowned also for the ceremony they are celebrating, is
ten years younger; soft and gentle, too, yet sadder somehow, as
though, in spite of her effort to live in his enthusiasms, it has
become a bit difficult to sustain his mood of happiness._

_But as they sip their coffee alone in the hotel suite with its
conventional furnishings of a stereotyped comfort, graced only
by a large bunch of white roses, one senses the deep and abiding
affection which has warmed their long life together._

PROFESSOR

(_With a sigh of contentment_)

Ah!

    (_He sees she is thoughtful: he reaches over and takes from
    behind the table the quart bottle of champagne. He pours a
    little in her glass._)

MRS. RAY

Oh, dear; I’m afraid I’ve had enough.

PROFESSOR

Nonsense.

MRS. RAY

But I’m beginning to feel it.

PROFESSOR

That’s the intention. (_Filling his glass._) There. Now a toast.
(_Standing with the greatest gallantry._) Here’s to my comrade of
forty years: may we have as many more together.

MRS. RAY

Oh, Charles, I’m afraid that’s asking too much of Providence.

PROFESSOR

We should ask much and be satisfied with less.

MRS. RAY

(_Raising her glass_)

To my friend and husband.

PROFESSOR

You make a distinction?

MRS. RAY

The world does.

PROFESSOR

What is the world doing here on our wedding anniversary?
(_Seriously_) Let’s drink to each other--and the children.

MRS. RAY

(_Wistfully looking at the candles_)

And the children.

    (_They sip: he shows he enjoys it; she sits thoughtfully
    while he takes out his cigarette case. He starts to take one,
    and then, with a twinkle in his eyes, offers her the case._)

PROFESSOR

Cigarette, dear?

MRS. RAY

(_Smiling_)

No: thank you. I shan’t begin at my time of life.

PROFESSOR

Cato learned Greek at eighty. The minute people cease to
learn--even a vice--they have begun to grow old. So beware.

MRS. RAY

(_Striking a match_)

Let me light it for you.

PROFESSOR

(_Slyly_)

Which illustrates a woman’s part in life: encouraging vice in men,
eh? (_He lights it and puffs in enjoyment._) I must say I like my
idea about the cake and the candles.

MRS. RAY

It’s lovely, dear. Who but you would have thought of having a
birthday cake on our wedding anniversary.

PROFESSOR

I started to put forty candles: one for each year; but there was no
room left for the cake.

MRS. RAY

I like the idea of three--just three.

PROFESSOR

Yes; three birthdays that meant so much in our time together:
Teddy, Mary and Paul.

MRS. RAY

Forty years!

PROFESSOR

It’s a long while to be married, dear. Speaks well for our
patience, eh?

MRS. RAY

And not a word to-night from our three children.

PROFESSOR

(_Waving it aside_)

After all, our marriage didn’t concern them--at the time.

MRS. RAY

And we never forget their anniversaries.

PROFESSOR

But think how important those have always been from the beginning:
each one the start of a great adventure for us.

MRS. RAY

And more responsibility.

PROFESSOR

Certainly. Isn’t that the way we have broadened our lives? Think,
dear, of how many times we have been young--once with our own youth
and three times with our candles.

MRS. RAY

(_She rises and goes to the roses which she inhales_)

And our hair is white.

PROFESSOR

(_Gallantly rising also_)

That can’t be blamed on the children. White hair doesn’t indicate
marriage--always. It’s a matter of pigment, I’m told, and affects
bachelors equally.

MRS. RAY

You’re right, of course, dear. We have kept young through having
our children; only----

PROFESSOR

(_Coming to her_)

Only what? Surely there isn’t a regret as you look back?

MRS. RAY

Oh, no, not regret; only so many of our dreams have never been
realized.

PROFESSOR

(_As he breaks off a rose and gives it to her_)

But we have dreamed; that’s the important thing, isn’t it?

MRS. RAY

(_Looking at rose_)

I suppose so.

PROFESSOR

Of course it is, dear. And we have dreamed more than most because
we have been young four times.

MRS. RAY

(_As she crosses to the sofa_)

But it’s always been through others--for others.

PROFESSOR

But _now_ it is for ourselves.

MRS. RAY

(_Smiling_)

You mean our house?

PROFESSOR

Yes. Now that they’ve retired me with a pension and our children no
longer need our help, we can build our house.

MRS. RAY

(_Wearily, as she sits_)

We have built so many houses.

PROFESSOR

Yes. Life’s an experiment. Remember the first little cottage where
Teddy was born? It didn’t leave us much margin even though it was
small. Come to think of it, dear, we’ve built three houses, haven’t
we?

MRS. RAY

It’s the fourth we’ve really thought of most--and that hasn’t been
built _yet_.

PROFESSOR

That’s to be ours--all ours; with room for the children if they
want to come back.

MRS. RAY

Oh, that’s it: they won’t come back now. Our house won’t suit them.

PROFESSOR

(_Taking a chair over near her_)

How can we expect them to come into a house that isn’t even built?
You know our modern children are very peculiar. They get that from
you.

MRS. RAY

Nonsense. It’s you who are peculiar. Just look at the kind of house
you want.

PROFESSOR

(_Doubtfully_)

It _is_ different from yours, I’ll admit.

MRS. RAY

I don’t object to the architecture. It’s the surroundings you
insist on.

PROFESSOR

You want the city and I want the forest.

MRS. RAY

(_Shaking her head_)

We’ll never agree.

PROFESSOR

(_As though with an inspiration_)

I have a solution. I’ll live in your city house, if you’ll have my
forest around it.

MRS. RAY

I’m afraid, dear, that is a bit impractical at present prices.

PROFESSOR

(_With a whimsical smile_)

But we certainly can’t have the city you love around my house in
the woods! I’m afraid of the streets.

MRS. RAY

Any friendly policeman would help you across them.

PROFESSOR

Think of me walking arm in arm with a policeman! I must consider
my reputation, even though I am seventy. No. (_With a twinkle._) I
can’t seem to visualize the house, can you, dear?

MRS. RAY

It isn’t like your dream or mine.

PROFESSOR

No. I’d have a hard time finding my birch trees in the moonlight.
Have you ever noticed how lovely they are when the leaves have all
gone?

MRS. RAY

Somehow they are no more lovely than the sense of life in the tall
ugly buildings man has built with his own hands.

PROFESSOR

But trees are eternal.

MRS. RAY

That’s where we differ. I live in to-day: you live in all time.

PROFESSOR

That’s my profession. You lose count of time when you are a
philosopher.

MRS. RAY

And I am a woman of the world.

PROFESSOR

(_As he goes to light another cigarette from the candles_)

I’d hardly describe you that way, my dear; that sounds so naughty.

MRS. RAY

I mean I love every minute that passes and everything the moment
brings. I love the people who are of that moment.

PROFESSOR

You still dream of having a _salon_ of celebrities?

MRS. RAY

(_Smiling_)

It’s no worse than the museum of antiquities on your book shelves.
But I keep forgetting you want your house in the forest so you can
write about the dead.

PROFESSOR

And you want your house in the city for the living.

MRS. RAY

I wish we could compromise somehow.

PROFESSOR

If we only had more money I could do away with the wilderness and
content myself with a few wooded acres, I suppose. Only it must be
roomy where the winds can speak. And I must have some wild things
about. Though perhaps I could compromise on a pet squirrel, if
necessary. (_He smiles._) And if I met you that far do you think
you would be willing to live an hour or so from the city?

MRS. RAY

Why, of course. But haven’t we been looking for that sort of place
for years; even when we weren’t free to live where we wished?

PROFESSOR

I can’t see why money is always getting in the way of our dreams. I
often wonder what scoundrel it was who first invented money.

MRS. RAY

And yet we might now be able to have what we wished if----

PROFESSOR

If? The eternal if?

MRS. RAY

(_She has gone to the table, placing rose there_)

I was thinking of all we gave up for our children.

PROFESSOR

Wasn’t it jolly?

MRS. RAY

While we still dreamed of the house we two would build for
ourselves.

PROFESSOR

With rooms for them, don’t forget that.

MRS. RAY

And now where are our children?

PROFESSOR

Living--maybe dreaming a bit of our dreams and not knowing it is
ours. That’s the lovely thing about dreams: I like to think they
are never lost.

MRS. RAY

Yet here we sit alone on our anniversary and they have forgotten.

PROFESSOR

The young have so many things to remember.

MRS. RAY

And we can _never_ build our house now.

PROFESSOR

Nonsense. We can go on building it just as though it were really
possible. Come, little mother, let’s be young together to the
end. I’ll have to throw another log on this make-believe open
fire in _my_ house. (_He pulls the sofa around so it faces the
radiator which he eyes dubiously._) Hm! That won’t stimulate the
imagination. Wait! I know.

    (_He goes over to the table and smiling quaintly he lifts up
    the cake with its three burning candles and carefully places
    it on the low radiator. Then he presses a switch on wall
    nearby and the lights overhead go out, leaving only the
    candles, a desk lamp and the moonlight through the window to
    give the shadows life. He laughs and warms his hands before
    the candles as he would before a fire._)

Come, dear, before my fire! By the way, is there a log fire in your
dream-house, dear?

MRS. RAY

(_Smiling and fitting in with his fancy_)

If you are to be with me, of course.

PROFESSOR

Well then we have a blazing fire in both our houses, eh? (_He sits
beside her on sofa and they gaze at candles._) And how economical
fuel is when you dream about it. I’ve got a whole forest waiting to
be cut by me, to-morrow, after I’ve worked all morning on my new
book.

MRS. RAY

And I’ve been to the musicale at the Biltmore.

PROFESSOR

What did you do this afternoon, dear?

MRS. RAY

(_Tapping his arm_)

Oh, I had a brilliant reception.

PROFESSOR

Receptions are always brilliant.

MRS. RAY

But this one really was. I had André Gidet and Arsène Tailleur
there. They are those clever new writers all Paris is talking about.

PROFESSOR

You didn’t enjoy their witticisms more than I did a pesky little
bluejay that made fun of me as I fished in my emerald lake.

MRS. RAY

But surely even you would have envied me my dinner when the
celebrated Mary Mevin explained her new symphony.

PROFESSOR

Nonsense, dear. Think of grilled trout caught by my own hand! And
then the long lazy silent hours afterwards with Aristotle. Nice
chap, Aristotle: knew a heap about men and things, though he lived
in an age when there wasn’t so much to remember as there is now.
Then afterwards I confess I yawned with the comfort of it all;
good, deep-reaching yawns, as Nature intended. I went out to see
my friends the stars. Best friends a man ever had: a bit cold and
distant, perhaps; but always there behind the clouds. (_She has
risen and gone to the candles. There is a pause. Then she snuffs
them out._) And I suppose at the same time you were trying in vain
to find them out your city window? (_Sees she is sobbing very
quietly: the candles are out._) Why, dear! What’s the trouble?

MRS. RAY

Oh, I can’t pretend any more. Our log fire isn’t real. Here we are
all alone in a hotel apartment--before an old steam radiator and
electric light. (_Presses the switch again._)

PROFESSOR

(_Tenderly and seriously_)

I know. You left all that which might have been yours ... if ... if
you hadn’t married me.

MRS. RAY

And you--without me and the children--you might have had your dream
now.

PROFESSOR

(_Very seriously_)

No, dear. One never can realize them: that’s why they are called
dreams.

MRS. RAY

(_Goes to him looking up into his face_)

You know, I wouldn’t have given up one hour of my life with you.

PROFESSOR

(_Stroking her hair tenderly_)

We have been very happy.

MRS. RAY

Yet why is there something we both feel we have missed?

PROFESSOR

Because even the happy must be incomplete or else they would cease
to be happy. Isn’t happiness hope as much as realization? We have
realized--not ourselves completely--yet through each other. We have
been what the other sought. But only the very wise know that there
is an inner life no one can be part of: a lonely place where even
the dearest can not enter, because it is a lonely place.

MRS. RAY

Yes. I think that is the way it is with me, dear.

PROFESSOR

And the way it is with our house we shall never build. We can’t
enter it _together_.

MRS. RAY

(_Looking before her_)

Yet I can still see my house.

PROFESSOR

As clearly as I do mine. (_Looking whimsically over at the smoking
candles._) Even though our own log fire is burned out.

MRS. RAY

(_Smiling_)

It’s changed somewhat these forty years.

PROFESSOR

Yes. That’s the way dream-houses have. (_Taking her hand._) And,
dear one, when we each think of our houses we can never build,
let’s--let’s always go on holding each other’s hand, eh?

MRS. RAY

Dearest....

PROFESSOR

So many people lose each other when they dream.

(_He kisses her tenderly._)


[CURTAIN]


[F] Copyright by George Middleton. See back of title page.




ON THE HIRING LINE

Comedy in 3 acts, by Harvey O’Higgins and Harriet Ford. 5 males, 4
females. Interior throughout. Costumes, modern. Plays 2½ hours.

    Sherman Fessenden, unable to induce servants to remain for
    any reasonable length of time at his home, hits upon the
    novel expedient of engaging detectives to serve as domestics.

    His second wife, an actress, weary of the country and longing
    for Broadway, has succeeded in discouraging every other cook
    and butler against remaining long at the house, believing
    that by so doing she will win her husband to her theory that
    country life is dead. So she is deeply disappointed when she
    finds she cannot discourage the new servants.

    The sleuths, believing they had been called to report on
    the actions of those living with the Fessendens, proceeded
    to warn Mr. Fessenden that his wife has been receiving
    love-notes from Steve Mark, an actor friend, and that his
    daughter has been planning to elope with a thief.

    One sleuth causes an uproar in the house, making a mess of
    the situations he has witnessed. Mr. Fessenden, however, has
    learned a lesson and is quite willing to leave the servant
    problem to his wife thereafter. (Royalty, twenty-five
    dollars.)

  Price, 75 Cents.


A FULL HOUSE

A farcical comedy in 3 acts. By Fred Jackson. 7 males, 7 females.
One interior scene. Modern costumes. Time, 2½ hours.

    Imagine a reckless and wealthy youth who writes ardent
    love letters to a designing chorus girl, an attorney
    brother-in-law who steals the letters and then gets his
    hand-bag mixed up with the grip of a burglar who has just
    stolen a valuable necklace from the mother of the indiscreet
    youth, and the efforts of the crook to recover his plunder,
    as incidents in the story of a play in which the swiftness
    of the action never halts for an instant. Not only are the
    situations screamingly funny but the lines themselves hold
    a fund of humor at all times. This newest and cleverest
    of all farces was written by Fred Jackson, the well-known
    short-story writer, and if backed up by the prestige of an
    impressive New York success and the promise of unlimited fun
    presented in the most attractive form. A cleaner, cleverer
    farce has not been seen for many a long day. “A Full House”
    is a house full of laughs. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)

  Price, 75 Cents.


NOT SO LONG AGO

Comedy in a Prologue, 3 acts, and Epilogue. By Arthur Richman. 5
males, 7 females. 2 interiors, 1 exterior. Costumes, 1876. Plays a
full evening.

    Arthur Richman has constructed his play around the Cinderella
    legend. The playwright has shown great wisdom in his choice
    of material, for he has cleverly crossed the Cinderella theme
    with a strain of Romeo and Juliet. Mr. Richman places his
    young lovers in the picturesque New York of forty years ago.
    This time Cinderella is a seamstress in the home of a social
    climber, who may have been the first of her kind, though we
    doubt it. She is interested sentimentally in the son of this
    house. Her father, learning of her infatuation for the young
    man without learning also that it is imaginary on the young
    girl’s part, starts out to discover his intentions. He is a
    poor inventor. The mother of the youth, ambitious chiefly for
    her children, shudders at the thought of marriage for her
    son with a sewing-girl. But the Prince contrives to put the
    slipper on the right foot, and the end is happiness. The play
    is quaint and agreeable and the three acts are rich in the
    charm of love and youth. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)

  Price, 75 Cents.


THE LOTTERY MAN

Comedy in 3 acts, by Rida Johnson Young. 4 males, 5 females. 3 easy
interiors. Costumes, modern. Plays 2¼ hours.

    In “The Lottery Man” Rida Johnson Young has seized upon a
    custom of some newspapers to increase their circulation by
    clever schemes. Mrs. Young has made the central figure in her
    famous comedy a newspaper reporter, Jack Wright. Wright owes
    his employer money, and he agrees to turn in one of the most
    sensational scoops the paper has ever known. His idea is to
    conduct a lottery, with _himself_ as the prize. The lottery
    is announced. Thousands of old maids buy coupons. Meantime
    Wright falls in love with a charming girl. Naturally he
    fears that he may be won by someone else and starts to get
    as many tickets as his limited means will permit. Finally
    the last day is announced. The winning number is 1323, and
    is held by Lizzie, an old maid, in the household of the
    newspaper owner. Lizzie refuses to give up. It is discovered,
    however, that she has stolen the ticket. With this clue, the
    reporter threatens her with arrest. Of course the coupon is
    surrendered and Wright gets the girl of his choice. Produced
    at the Bijou Theater, New York, with great success. (Royalty,
    twenty-five dollars.)

  Price, 75 Cents.


POLLYANNA

“The glad play,” in 3 acts. By Catherine Chisholm Cushing. Based on
the novel by Eleanor H. Porter. 5 males, 6 females. 2 interiors.
Costumes, modern. Plays 2¼ hours.

    The story has to do with the experiences of an orphan girl
    who is thrust, unwelcome, into the home of a maiden aunt. In
    spite of the tribulations that beset her life she manages
    to find something to be glad about, and brings light into
    sunless lives. Finally, Pollyanna straightens out the love
    affairs of her elders, and last, but not least, finds
    happiness for herself in the heart of Jimmy. “Pollyanna”
    is a glad play and one which is bound to give one a better
    appreciation of people and the world. It reflects the humor,
    tenderness and humanity that gave the story such wonderful
    popularity among young and old.

    Produced at the Hudson Theatre, New York, and for two seasons
    on tour, by George C. Tyler, with Helen Hayes in the part of
    “Pollyanna.” (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)

  Price, 75 Cents.


THE CHARM SCHOOL

A comedy in 3 acts. By Alice Duer Miller and Robert Milton. 6
males, 10 females (may be played by 5 males and 8 females). Any
number of school girls may be used in the ensembles. Scenes, 2
interiors. Modern costumes. Plays 2½ hours.

    The story of “The Charm School” is familiar to Mrs. Miller’s
    readers. It relates the adventures of a handsome young
    automobile salesman, scarcely out of his ’teens, who, upon
    inheriting a girls’ boarding-school from a maiden aunt,
    insists on running it himself, according to his own ideas,
    chief of which is, by the way, that the dominant feature in
    the education of the young girls of to-day should be CHARM.
    The situations that arise are teeming with humor--clean,
    wholesome humor. In the end the young man gives up the
    school, and promises to wait until the most precocious of his
    pupils reaches a marriageable age. The play has the freshness
    of youth, the inspiration of an extravagant but novel idea,
    the charm of originality, and the promise of wholesome,
    sanely amusing, pleasant entertainment. We strongly recommend
    it for high school production. It was first produced at
    the Bijou Theatre, New York, then toured the country.
    Two companies are now playing it in England. (Royalty,
    twenty-five dollars.)

  Price, 75 Cents.


KICK IN

Play in 4 acts. By Willard Mack. 7 males, 5 females. 2 interiors.
Modern costumes. Plays 2½ hours.

    “Kick In” is the latest of the very few available mystery
    plays. Like “Within the Law,” “Seven Keys to Baldpate,” “The
    Thirteenth Chair,” and “In the Next Room,” it is one of those
    thrillers which are accurately described as “not having a
    dull moment in it from beginning to end.” It is a play with
    all the ingredients of popularity, not at all difficult to
    set or to act; the plot carries it along, and the situations
    are built with that skill and knowledge of the theatre for
    which Willard Mack is known. An ideal mystery melodrama, for
    high schools and colleges. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)

  Price, 75 Cents.


TILLY OF BLOOMSBURY

(“Happy-Go-Lucky.”) A comedy in 3 acts. By Ian Hay. 9 males, 7
females. 2 interior scenes. Modern dress. Plays a full evening.

    Into an aristocratic family comes Tilly, lovable and
    youthful, with ideas and manners which greatly upset the
    circle. Tilly is so frankly honest that she makes no secret
    of her tremendous affection for the young son of the family;
    this brings her into many difficulties. But her troubles have
    a joyous end in charmingly blended scenes of sentiment and
    humor. This comedy presents an opportunity for fine acting,
    handsome stage settings, and beautiful costuming. (Royalty,
    twenty-five dollars.)

  Price, 75 cents.


BILLY

Farce-comedy in 3 acts. By George Cameron. 10 males, 5 females. (A
few minor male parts can be doubled, making the cast 7 males, 5
females.) 1 exterior. Costumes, modern. Plays 2¼ hours.

    The action of the play takes place on the S. S. “Florida,”
    bound for Havana. The story has to do with the disappearance
    of a set of false teeth, which creates endless complications
    among passengers and crew, and furnishes two and a quarter
    hours of the heartiest laughter. One of the funniest comedies
    produced in the last dozen years on the American stage is
    “Billy” (sometimes called “Billy’s Tombstones”), in which the
    late Sidney Drew achieved a hit in New York and later toured
    the country several times. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)

  Price, 75 Cents.


TWEEDLES

Comedy in 3 acts, by Booth Tarkington and Harry Leon Wilson. 5
males, 4 females. 1 interior. Costumes, modern. Plays 2½ hours.

    Julian, scion of the blue-blooded Castleburys, falls in love
    with Winsora Tweedle, daughter of the oldest family in a
    Maine village. The Tweedles esteem the name because it has
    been rooted in the community for 200 years, and they look
    down on “summer people” with the vigor that only “summer
    boarder” communities know.

    The Castleburys are aghast at the possibility of a match, and
    call on the Tweedles to urge how impossible such an alliance
    would be. Mr. Castlebury laboriously explains the barrier
    of social caste, and the elder Tweedle takes it that these
    unimportant summer folk are terrified at the social eminence
    of the Tweedles.

    Tweedle generously agrees to co-operate with the Castleburys
    to prevent the match. But Winsora brings her father to
    realize that in reality the Castleburys look upon them
    as inferiors. The old man is infuriated, and threatens
    vengeance, but is checkmated when Julian unearths a number
    of family skeletons and argues that father isn’t a Tweedle,
    since the blood has been so diluted that little remains.
    Also, Winsora takes the matter into her own hands and
    outfaces the old man. So the youngsters go forth triumphant.
    “Tweedles” is Booth Tarkington at his best. (Royalty,
    twenty-five dollars.)

  Price, 75 Cents.


JUST SUPPOSE

A whimsical comedy in 3 acts, by A. E. Thomas, author of “Her
Husband’s Wife,” “Come Out of the Kitchen,” etc. 6 males, 2
females. 1 interior, 1 exterior. Costumes, modern. Plays 2¼ hours.

    It was rumored that during his last visit the Prince of Wales
    appeared for a brief spell under an assumed name somewhere
    in Virginia. It is on this story that A. E. Thomas based
    “Just Suppose.” The theme is handled in an original manner.
    Linda Lee Stafford meets one George Shipley (in reality is
    the Prince of Wales). It is a case of love at first sight,
    but, alas, princes cannot select their mates and thereby
    hangs a tale which Mr. Thomas has woven with infinite charm.
    The atmosphere of the South with its chivalry dominates the
    story, touching in its sentiment and lightened here and there
    with delightful comedy. “Just Suppose” scored a big hit at
    the Henry Miller Theatre, New York, with Patricia Collinge.
    (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)

  Price, 75 Cents.


ARE YOU A MASON?

Farce in 3 acts. By Leo Ditrichstein. 7 males, 7 females. Modern
costumes. Plays 2¼ hours. 1 interior.

    “Are You a Mason?” is one of those delightful farces like
    “Charley’s Aunt” that are always fresh. “A mother and a
    daughter,” says the critic of the New York _Herald_, “had
    husbands who account for absences from the joint household
    on frequent evenings, falsely pretending to be Masons. The
    men do not know each other’s duplicity, and each tells his
    wife of having advanced to leadership in his lodge. The
    older woman was so well pleased with her husband’s supposed
    distinction in the order that she made him promise to put
    up the name of a visiting friend for membership. Further
    perplexity over the principal liar arose when a suitor for
    his second daughter’s hand proved to be a real Mason....
    To tell the story of the play would require volumes, its
    complications are so numerous. It is a house of cards. One
    card wrongly placed and the whole thing would collapse. But
    it stands, an example of remarkable ingenuity. You wonder at
    the end of the first act how the fun can be kept up on such
    a slender foundation. But it continues and grows to the last
    curtain.” One of the most hilariously amusing farces ever
    written, especially suited to schools and Masonic Lodges.
    (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.)

  Price, 75 Cents.


KEMPY

A delightful comedy in 3 acts. By J. C. Nugent and Elliott Nugent.
4 males, 4 females. 1 interior throughout. Costumes, modern. Plays
2½ hours.

    No wonder “Kempy” has been such a tremendous hit in New York,
    Chicago--wherever it has played. It snaps with wit and humor
    of the most delightful kind. It’s electric. It’s small-town
    folk perfectly pictured. Full of types of varied sorts, each
    one done to a turn and served with zestful sauce. An ideal
    entertainment for amusement purposes. The story is about a
    high-falutin’ daughter who in a fit of pique marries the
    young plumber-architect, who comes to fix the water pipes,
    just because he “understands” her, having read her book and
    having sworn to marry the authoress. But in that story lies
    all the humor that kept the audience laughing every second of
    every act. Of course there are lots of ramifications, each
    of which bears its own brand of laughter-making potentials.
    But the plot and the story are not the main things. There is,
    for instance, the work of the company. The fun growing out of
    this family mixup is lively and clean. (Royalty, twenty-five
    dollars.)

  Price, 75 Cents.


  SAMUEL FRENCH, 25 West 45th Street, New York City
  New and Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed Free on Request

  +--------------------------------------------------------------+
  | FRENCH’S                                                     |
  | Standard Library Edition                                     |
  |                                                              |
  | Includes Plays by                                            |
  |                                                              |
  | Clyde Fitch                      Booth Tarkington            |
  | William Gillette                 J. Hartley Manners          |
  | Augustus Thomas                  James Forbes                |
  | George Broadhurst                James Montgomery            |
  | Edward E. Kidder                 Wm. C. de Mille             |
  | Percy MacKaye                    Roi Cooper Megrue           |
  | Sir Arthur Conan Doyle           Edward E. Rose              |
  | Louis N. Parker                  Israel Zangwill             |
  | R. C. Carton                     Henry Bernstein             |
  | Alfred Sutro                     Harold Brighouse            |
  | Richard Harding Davis            Channing Pollock            |
  | Sir Arthur W. Pinero             Harry Durant                |
  | Anthony Hope                     Winchell Smith              |
  | Oscar Wilde                      Margaret Mayo               |
  | Haddon Chambers                  Edward Peple                |
  | Jerome K. Jerome                 A. E. W. Mason              |
  | Cosmo Gordon Lennox                Charles Klein             |
  | H. V. Esmond                     Henry Arthur Jones          |
  | Mark Swan                        A. E. Thomas                |
  | Grace L. Furniss                 Fred. Ballard               |
  | Marguerite Merrington            Cyril Harcourt              |
  | Hermann Sudermann                Carlisle Moore              |
  | Rida Johnson Young               Ernest Denny                |
  | Arthur Law                       Laurence Housman            |
  | Rachel Crothers                  Harry James Smith           |
  | Martha Morton                    Edgar Selwyn                |
  | H. A. Du Souchet                 Augustin McHugh             |
  | W. W. Jacobs                     Robert Housum               |
  | Madeleine Lucette Ryley          Charles Kenyon              |
  |                    C. M. S. McLellan                         |
  |                                                              |
  | French’s International Copyrighted Edition contains plays,   |
  | comedies and farces of international reputation; also recent |
  | professional successes by famous American and English        |
  | Authors.                                                     |
  |                                                              |
  | Send a four-cent stamp for our new catalogue                 |
  | describing thousands of plays.                               |
  |                                                              |
  | SAMUEL FRENCH                                                |
  | Oldest Play Publisher in the World                           |
  | 25 West 45th Street,      NEW YORK CITY                      |
  +--------------------------------------------------------------+




=TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE=


  Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.

  Bold text is denoted by =equal signs=.

  Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
  corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within
  the text and consultation of external sources.

  Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the
  text, and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.

  Some hyphens in words have been silently removed, some added, when
  a predominant preference was found in the original book.

  Pg 206: ‘--for the glove’ replaced by ‘--For the glove’.