Masks with Jim's Beast, Tides, Among the Lions, the Reason, the House: One-Act Plays of Contemporary Life, by George Middleton

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Masks: with Jim's beast, Tides, Among the lions, The reason, The house, by George Middleton

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

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

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

MASKS
with
Jim’s Beast, Tides, Among the Lions, The Reason, The House
One-Act Plays of Contemporary Life
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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.

MASKS

THE PEOPLE

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[4] 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[5] 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.

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.

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.

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.

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....

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

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!”

“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,[8] is a character which will appeal to every married woman.”

“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!

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!

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.

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....

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.

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?

You thought it was going to be so easy when we were first married. It’s been hard for you, dear. I[10] 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.

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.

And some crackers. (Sitting at machine.) They want something on: “How I Make My Characters[11] Live.” (She laughs suddenly: he starts.) Oh; it’s you?

Yes. But the greatest joke of all is that The Sand Bar is a success—a real financial success.

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!

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

“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....”

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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!

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

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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

But in The Lonely Way you didn’t consider me a fool when I continued to paint great pictures—in spite of conditions.

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

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

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.

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

Yet you cared for nobody when you made me live in it—perfect as the frame that held me. The strength[28] 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.

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?

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

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

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

Marie and I haven’t been on speaking terms since; but after she saw The Sand Bar she simply insisted on coming here.

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

Case. Mrs. Pendleton Case. You’ve also forgotten that in The Lonely Way you made her marry him.

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

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.

When I gave you your fondness for alcohol in The Lonely Way, we didn’t have prohibition.

Was that the reason you took it away from Marie when you changed her in The Sand Bar?

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

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

Your ignorance of theatrical conditions is appalling. The Sand Bar had to have a happy ending. If I[39] hadn’t made you both charming the public wouldn’t have believed in your ultimate happiness together.

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

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.

Yes; but that was too unsympathetic a motive to[40] use in a popular play. So I had to make Pendleton Case a villain who took advantage of your trust in him.

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?

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

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?

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

You call my child a side-issue! (Looking at Tom.) Hasn’t his father anything to say to that?

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

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?

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

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!

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

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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

Only I think the public has its rights. They have the right to laugh, to watch virtue triumph, to behold[50] 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.

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

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?

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

Yet when you created Tom Robinson in The Lonely Way you did not let him think of his wife and child.

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!

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

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[53] 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!

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.

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

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!

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[54] make money so she would be happy. I couldn’t stand it to see her hands grow rough....

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!

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

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.

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

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

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

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....

I’ll kill you forever now. (He picks up the manuscript of The Lonely Way and savagely tears it up.) Die. Die forever.... Die....

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.

I do wish you’d get over the habit of acting all your plays out. The neighbors will think you and I[58] aren’t happy. You’d better come to bed and get some rest.

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?

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

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

Yes. I never told you before because I didn’t want to discourage you when we were so hard up. But,[60] 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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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

“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....”

FOOTNOTES:

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

JIM’S BEAST

THE PEOPLE

SCENE

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[68] 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.

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’.

(Mumbling half to herself resentfully, as he walks over where she has just mopped)

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.

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

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

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.

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

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.

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.

I daresay you’re right. (Over by the Brontosaurus.) You’ve forgotten to run your rag over this platform.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

That’s much better, Sarah. (Gazing in admiration at the fossil.) Wonderful specimen—wonderful!

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....

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

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

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

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.

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

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

It might suit you, dear; but I think I’ll wear at least some jewelry. I’m sure there must be wonderful[80] old pieces in the museum I can get Tiffany to copy in time. I must find something original.

I can’t say they’re very showy. (Glancing at the Brontosaurus.) What an ugly animal! What is it?

It’s a Bron—(Not able to pronounce it and turning away) I left my reading-glasses at home. You try.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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!

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....

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.

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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, everything 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?

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

What I mean is that people cut off a useful hand or limb—metaphorically, of course—because they go[93] a little too near the machinery: the machinery of what we call the hard facts of life.

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....

“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?

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.

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

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?

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.)

Perhaps. Curious though how much information a man picks up while he waits about. (He crosses over[95] to the case opposite.) I wonder what this one will reveal.

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?

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

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

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

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.

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....

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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?

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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?

Sure I am. (Looking at the Brontosaurus.) But that lizard kinder takes the pride out of a fellow.

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

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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

FOOTNOTES:

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

TIDES

THE PEOPLE

SCENE

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.[114] 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.

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

If you care for what he says—(Continuing to read the letter)—“Remember, Hilda, you are an American.[115] I don’t suppose your husband considers that an honor; but I do.”

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!

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

Yes; that aggravates the offense. And I’ll tell you something you may not know: (Bitterly) Whenever[117] 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

This part gave me new strength when I thought of Wallace. (Reading with eloquence.) “War will[121] 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!”

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

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

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

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....

And Wallace. Yes. (Wallace looks away guiltily.) Let me know when the phone comes.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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?

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

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.

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.

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[131] 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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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[134] worn-out weapons of their own accord? Won’t permanent peace come through bitter experience rather than talk—talk—talk?

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?

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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?

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.

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.

And to get ready you are willing to link arms now with Senator Bough—a man you once called the lackey[139] of Wall Street—a man who has always opposed every democratic principle....

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?

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

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?

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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[142] what hurts. If you were only like him, I—I could stand it.

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.

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

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[143] 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.

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

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[144] 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.

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.

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

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

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!!

FOOTNOTES:

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

AMONG THE LIONS

THE PEOPLE

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[150] 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.

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.

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

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

Oh, Mr. Silverton, your playing made me so—so—(at a loss for words) don’t you know?

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.

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?

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

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!

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——

Funny, George, while you were playing I was thinking of when I hadn’t a job and you were copying for a[159] living. Your music actually made me want to throw off all my insincerities here just for once and see what would happen.

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.

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

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

(Beautifully covering with an air of sincerity her
mockery which Silverton alone detects)

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.

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

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

Yes, I’m going to Cartier’s for the prizes. (To Patricia) Good afternoon. (After a moment’s hesitation.) Good afternoon, Miss Stannard.

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

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.

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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!

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.

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?

And what have you heard about me? Let’s see if it is correct. My name? It isn’t my own. My real[171] 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.

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[172] 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.

Oh, I’m not ungrateful for their kindness, but I owe them nothing, for I repaid them, by letting them[173] 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?

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.[174] (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?

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.[175] 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.

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

Temperament—oh, yes. (She smiles sarcastically and then looks surprised at Mrs. Frowde.) And you are not angry with me?

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

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

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

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

We’ll wait for you. (As they are walking out) I hope you’ll forget what she said.

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

FOOTNOTES:

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

THE REASON

THE PEOPLE

SCENE

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

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 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[182] is concealed an instinctive mistrust. They are silent a long while until Randolph looks up from the papers.

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

You know so little of life. (Paula sighs in agreement.) And I wish you to keep your sweetness until you are married.

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.

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

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

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.

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[191] tell Mr. Sabine. I hope it’s nothing serious. (He hangs up receiver, concealing from Paula his displeasure.)

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?

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[193] you’re sure it’s Mrs. Sabine, better let her come up here. That’ll be all for to-night.

Then he said you would want to see him and (ominously) he’d do some talking.

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[197] to marry him, and then not even striking me when he found out what I was!

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.

No. She’s a good woman—with her lily hands and her thin eyebrows. What does she know of life: the[198] 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?

That will depend on your husband and whether he’ll be sensible. (He goes to phone, switching it.)

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.

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.

No: you’re the sort that needs a diamond-studded clasp to keep her morals fastened on.

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.

Oh, I know we’ll get tired of each other if that’s what you’re suggesting.

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.

And that’s the sort of man I married. (To Sabine) Do you blame me for throwing you over?

Isn’t it funny! It’s losing its romance—being handed over like some food at supper. Isn’t it funny—and disappointing.

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.)

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.

FOOTNOTES:

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

THE HOUSE

THE PEOPLE

SCENE

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.

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.

What is the world doing here on our wedding anniversary? (Seriously) Let’s drink to each other—and the children.

Cato learned Greek at eighty. The minute people cease to learn—even a vice—they have begun to grow old. So beware.

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.

It’s lovely, dear. Who but you would have thought of having a birthday cake on our wedding anniversary.

I started to put forty candles: one for each year; but there was no room left for the cake.

Yes; three birthdays that meant so much in our time together: Teddy, Mary and Paul.

But think how important those have always been from the beginning: each one the start of a great adventure for us.

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.

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.

You’re right, of course, dear. We have kept young through having our children; only——

Of course it is, dear. And we have dreamed more than most because we have been young four times.

Yes. Now that they’ve retired me with a pension and our children no longer need our help, we can build our house.

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?

It’s the fourth we’ve really thought of most—and that hasn’t been built yet.

That’s to be ours—all ours; with room for the children if they want to come back.

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.

I have a solution. I’ll live in your city house, if you’ll have my forest around it.

But we certainly can’t have the city you love around my house in the woods! I’m afraid of the streets.

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?

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?

Somehow they are no more lovely than the sense of life in the tall ugly buildings man has built with his own hands.

I mean I love every minute that passes and everything the moment brings. I love the people who are of that moment.

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.

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?

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?

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.

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.

Nonsense. We can go on building it just as though it were really possible. Come, little mother, let’s be[223] 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?

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.

But this one really was. I had André Gidet and Arsène Tailleur there. They are those clever new writers all Paris is talking about.

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.

But surely even you would have envied me my dinner when the celebrated Mary Mevin explained her new symphony.

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[225] 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?

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.)

I know. You left all that which might have been yours ... if ... if you hadn’t married me.

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.

And the way it is with our house we shall never build. We can’t enter it together.

As clearly as I do mine. (Looking whimsically over at the smoking candles.) Even though our own log fire is burned out.

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?

FOOTNOTES:

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

Comedy in 3 acts, by Harvey O’Higgins and Harriet Ford. 5 males, 4 females. Interior throughout. Costumes, modern. Plays 2½ hours.

A farcical comedy in 3 acts. By Fred Jackson. 7 males, 7 females. One interior scene. Modern costumes. Time, 2½ hours.

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.

Comedy in 3 acts, by Rida Johnson Young. 4 males, 5 females. 3 easy interiors. Costumes, modern. Plays 2¼ hours.

“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.

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.

Play in 4 acts. By Willard Mack. 7 males, 5 females. 2 interiors. Modern costumes. Plays 2½ hours.

(“Happy-Go-Lucky.”) A comedy in 3 acts. By Ian Hay. 9 males, 7 females. 2 interior scenes. Modern dress. Plays a full evening.

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.

Comedy in 3 acts, by Booth Tarkington and Harry Leon Wilson. 5 males, 4 females. 1 interior. Costumes, modern. Plays 2½ hours.

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.

Farce in 3 acts. By Leo Ditrichstein. 7 males, 7 females. Modern costumes. Plays 2¼ hours. 1 interior.

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.

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

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New York	\|	London
SAMUEL FRENCH	\|	SAMUEL FRENCH, Ltd.
PUBLISHER	\|	26 Southampton Street
25 WEST 45TH STREET	\|	STRAND

	PAGE
Preface	v
Masks	3
Jim’s Beast	67
Tides	113
Among the Lions	149
The Reason	181
The House	211

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.”

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.

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

MASKS
With
JIM’S BEAST, TIDES, AMONG THE LIONS,
THE REASON, THE HOUSE
One-Act Plays of Contemporary Life

CONTENTS

MASKS

THE PEOPLE

SCENE

MASKS[A]

FOOTNOTES:

JIM’S BEAST

THE PEOPLE

SCENE

JIM’S BEAST[B]

FOOTNOTES:

TIDES

THE PEOPLE

SCENE

TIDES[C]

FOOTNOTES:

AMONG THE LIONS

THE PEOPLE

SCENE

AMONG THE LIONS[D]

FOOTNOTES:

THE REASON

THE PEOPLE

SCENE

THE REASON[E]

FOOTNOTES:

THE HOUSE

THE PEOPLE

SCENE

THE HOUSE[F]

FOOTNOTES:

FRENCH’S
Standard Library Edition

MASKS With JIM’S BEAST, TIDES, AMONG THE LIONS, THE REASON, THE HOUSE One-Act Plays of Contemporary Life

CONTENTS

MASKS

THE PEOPLE

SCENE

MASKS[A]

FOOTNOTES:

JIM’S BEAST

THE PEOPLE

SCENE

JIM’S BEAST[B]

FOOTNOTES:

TIDES

THE PEOPLE

SCENE

TIDES[C]

FOOTNOTES:

AMONG THE LIONS

THE PEOPLE

SCENE

AMONG THE LIONS[D]

FOOTNOTES:

THE REASON

THE PEOPLE

SCENE

THE REASON[E]

FOOTNOTES:

THE HOUSE

THE PEOPLE

SCENE

THE HOUSE[F]

FOOTNOTES:

FRENCH’S Standard Library Edition

MASKS
With
JIM’S BEAST, TIDES, AMONG THE LIONS,
THE REASON, THE HOUSE
One-Act Plays of Contemporary Life

FRENCH’S
Standard Library Edition