SCENE III: The Chapter-Room.

TIME: _Early in the eighteenth century. Some days elapse between scenes_.

Stage settings and properties by ALEXANDER WYCKOFF and DAVID S. GAITHER.

Lightning by ARLEIGH B. WILLIAMSON.

Costumes by SARA E. BENNETT and LELA MAY AULTMAN.

Music by CHARLES PEARSON.

The amateur and professional stage rights to THE NURSERY MAID OF HEAVEN are reserved by the author. Applications for permission to produce the play should be addressed to Frank Shay, Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Ohio. No performance may be given without his consent.

THE NURSERY MAID OF HEAVEN

A MIRACLE PLAY BY THOMAS WOOD STEVENS

[_SCENE I: Atalanta, the novice, sits, rebellious and sullen, on the steps of the Mother Superior's dais. From time to time nuns and novices pass across the stage to the left, on their way to the refectory. Sister Grimana, an old nun, comes down to Atalanta purposefully._]

GRIMANA. Sulking again, are you? Waiting for Sister Benvenuta, are you?

[_Atalanta is silent._]

Remembering things that are really no concern of yours; and thinking they concern you because you remember them--doubtless quite inaccurately. I know. It's a way of the Badoer family--and of the Loredani, too, for that matter. When you were a child there was confiture with the bread--and you threw away the crust; and they let you do it, and now you can't find your vocation.

[_She taps her foot impatiently._]

Well--well--will you come?

[_Atalanta is still silent, her face hard with resolution._]

I might mention it to the Sister Sacristan. She'd fetch you.

[_Atalanta gives her a look of scornful disgust._]

It's as well you didn't say that in so many words, Sister.

[_Atalanta looks straight before her, a statue of silence._]

Perhaps there is some one you would prefer to have me call, before the Sister Sacristan comes to fetch you? Sister Rosalba?

[_No response._]

So it must be Sister Benvenuta, must it?

ATALANTA. I would speak with her.

GRIMANA. Oho! You would speak with her! And so you shall--for the love I bore your mother when we were children together. But what good she can do you, with her chatter and laughing--childish laughing and chatter--I can't see. I'll send her to you. And meantime, count your buttons. That's my advice. Count your buttons.

[_She comes close and speaks more confidentially._]

That helps greatly--it did when I was your age.

[_Grimana goes off. Atalanta mechanically runs her fingers over the buttons of her novice's cape; as she arrives at the end of the row, she mutters._]

ATALANTA. Even you, Benvenuta!

[_At the second word she rises abruptly, her hands on the veil._]

Heaven forgive me!

[_She tears off the veil just as Benvenuta enters from the left. Benvenuta limps down around the Mother Superior's throne, and on seeing Atalanta with her veil off, bursts into laughter._]

ATALANTA. Even you, Benvenuta! What amuses you so?

BENVENUTA. It's your hair. It's so funny--it's so long since I've seen your hair, Atalanta, dear.

ATALANTA [_sullenly_]. It's not that I want to talk to you about. You needn't have laughed.

BENVENUTA. I know, dear. I shouldn't have laughed, but I always do. I'm so unworthy. I can't seem to help it, though I tell myself, often and often, that it's trifling and worldly to laugh so much, and undignified, too, before the children and novices. I will try not to laugh, Atalanta. Sister Grimana said you wanted me. What is it, dear?

[_She looks at Atalanta and smothers another laugh._]

Put on your veil, child.

ATALANTA. Don't call me child--I'm only three years younger than you, and I'm taller.

[_She puts on the veil again, still sullen._]

BENVENUTA. You're only a novice and I call you a child--very properly, too. And if you want me to talk to you, you must listen--like a good child.

[_A step is heard approaching and a rattle of keys; Atalanta pulls at Benvenuta's dress as if to draw her down beside her._]

ATALANTA. It's the Sister Sacristan. Now she'll make me go, and there's something you must tell me--you must--I beg of you.

[_The Sister Sacristan comes in and goes straight to Atalanta, ignoring Benvenuta. Her keys are audible as she walks._]

THE SISTER SACRISTAN. Well, Mistress Perverse and Disobedient? Not come to reason yet?

BENVENUTA. Pray you, Sister Sacristan, pardon her. Let me speak with her a little while--only a little while. Her tasks can wait--

SISTER SACRISTAN. Her tasks! Praise the Blessed Mother, in this noble house we need not depend on the novices for anything. It's not that--it's the discipline in the pigeon cot. The Mother Abbess will be displeased--

BENVENUTA. Pray you, Sister Sacristan. This novice has asked of me some spiritual admonition. She is my kinswoman, and I cannot refuse it. So I ask you for a little time with her, to speak to her of spiritual things, and perhaps bring her some comfort, to the end that her holy vocation may the sooner come. I ask it in humility, Sister Sacristan.

SISTER SACRISTAN [_crossing to the closet, which she unlocks_]. Admonition, eh?

[_She takes out some vestments, which she hangs over her arm, closing the door._]

BENVENUTA. I ask you to remember, Sister, that last Thursday I took upon myself the vexed matter of the hair of the two new novices, and that it throve in my charge.

SISTER SACRISTAN. Yes--throve. You so coddled them that they cried for you each night after, and are more trouble to the lay sisters than ever. But since she's your kinswoman--have it as you will. I look for little effect from your admonitions, I may as well tell you.

[_She removes her keys and goes out, without locking the closet._]

ATALANTA. That was good of you, Benvenuta. Now, listen to me. I am unworthy. I am unhappy. I feel no call. Tell me--tell me about the world, Sister Benvenuta--I beg you, tell me--

BENVENUTA. I will tell you of God's love, and of this holy life--

ATALANTA [_leading her to the stairway, where she sits down_]. Yes--I know. But first, tell me about the world.

BENVENUTA. I only tell you by way of admonition--that you may see how hollow is the world, and full of delusion--

ATALANTA. I understand you. Go on.

[_She draws Benvenuta down beside her._]

BENVENUTA. You must know then, that I--even I, Sister Benvenuta, was a most worldly little girl. I can remember so clearly how I used to run madly through the gardens, and roll on the grass like--like a wild puppy, and bury my face in the roses--till they scratched my nose and the warm scent made me dizzy. And then I would climb on the wall and watch the barges go by, with the strong men sculling them, and the women under the awnings sorting crabs and prawns.

ATALANTA. Tell me about the barge people.

BENVENUTA. That was all I saw of them. And then they would take me to my lady mother, of a forenoon, while she was having her hair powdered and curled; and there would be a black page bringing her chocolate, and her serving cavalier would be leaning beside her mirror taking snuff.

ATALANTA. Yes--tell me about the cavalier servant.

BENVENUTA. That was all I ever saw of him. But he was very worldly, I am sure.

ATALANTA. I wish you had seen more of him. And your mother? Did she have little children?

BENVENUTA. You know well I was the youngest of our family. That was why I was destined for the benefice we possessed in this high born convent.

ATALANTA. Tell me about your father?

BENVENUTA. I used only to see him once in a month, and I was much frightened of him--he was so noble and so just.

ATALANTA. Oh, he was a father of that sort, was he?

BENVENUTA. And when he did receive me, he had a handkerchief like a turban around his head, and horn spectacles on his nose, and he would be making gold with an astrologer, or putting devils in retorts. That was what he said he was doing, but I know now that he deceived me; he was a very worldly man, though he was so noble and just.

ATALANTA. Tell me, Benvenuta, when you were in the world, did you ever see mothers and babies--tiny babies--not old at all?

BENVENUTA. The only one was in the picture in our chapel--the panel in the center with the Blessed Mother and the little Child Christ. He was so sweet, and his eyes were as if they would open in a moment and then I should know what color of eyes they were.

ATALANTA [_glancing toward the Sacristy closet_]. And that's why you so love the Bambino they keep in the Sacristy closet?

BENVENUTA. Yes.

ATALANTA [_more passionately_]. And was it easy for you, Benvenuta--always easy in your heart, to give up the world?

BENVENUTA. I was destined for this, dear.

ATALANTA [_rising_]. I am not sure. I was not destined. I am--

BENVENUTA. Ssh! Dear Atalanta. Be quiet. Be calm. Yes, I was worldly, and I gave it up willingly--

ATALANTA. Yes, it was easy for you, and so you think it should be for me. You never even saw a little baby with her mother. You were destined, and you were the youngest--

BENVENUTA. It was for the best. I was unworthy, but I gave up the world willingly--

ATALANTA [_bitterly_]. Willingly--you were lame, and--

[_She stops, biting her lips. There is a pause._]

BENVENUTA. Yes. I was a little lame. But I was a worldly little girl.

ATALANTA. Forgive me, dear sister. I meant no hurt.

BENVENUTA. You did not hurt me. [_Another pause._]

ATALANTA. Dear Benvenuta, one thing I must tell you. I must. It happened just before I came here.

[_Benvenuta looks at her soberly._]

BENVENUTA. Are you sure it is to me you should tell it?

ATALANTA. It is not a sin--not something I could confess, dear. It was this. Just as you looked over the wall at the barges, it was. In our gardens there was a time when the old gardener brought a vinedresser to help him. And the vinedresser's wife came with his dinner and their baby. And I came on them eating under the ilex trees, very secretly, of course. And the baby was clambering over her. She was no older than I am now--the vinedresser's wife. And she fed the baby at her breast in the deep shade under the ilexes. And I talked to her. Then the old gardener came, and of course I walked away, very haughtily, as became a daughter of the house. But hear me, sister. I cannot forget her, the vinedresser's wife with the baby clambering over her, under the shade of the ilex trees, I cannot put her out of my thoughts.

BENVENUTA. I understand you, dear. I cannot put out of my thoughts the poor little Bambino in the Sacristy closet all the year around, shut up with the saint's bones and the spare vestments, and he with only a piece of stiff purple and gold stuff around his middle.

ATALANTA. I cannot think that the same. The vinedresser's baby was alive--so alive.

BENVENUTA. It is much the same, I think.

ATALANTA. Anyway, I am glad I told you, Benvenuta. Why can I not forget about it?

BENVENUTA [_laying her hand on Atalanta's head_]. It would be better if you could forget it, Atalanta. You must go now.

ATALANTA. One moment--don't take your hand away. I had to tell somebody.

[_Both look off in a sort of dreamy ecstasy, thinking of the two babies. Grimana enters again. Atalanta rises._]

ATALANTA. I am full of thankfulness, Sister Benvenuta. I will go to my task.

[_Atalanta bows her head and follows Grimana out. A muffled droning chorus is heard from the chapel. Benvenuta watches the others go off, and then speaks to the Bambino through the door of the Sacristy closet._]

BENVENUTA. My dear--my dear little Great One, can you hear my voice through the door? Dear little child Christ, I am so sorry for you, alone for days and days in the closet with the holy relics and the wax lights. And at night it must be very cold for you. I wish I might touch you, dear little Great One, with my hands.

[_She tries the door and, finding it unfastened, draws back from it a moment._]

It is open; the Sister Sacristan has left it unlocked. For this I am thankful, for I am sure you put it into her mind to leave it so--or that you by your divine power and foresight put it out of her mind to lock it as she intended.

[_She opens the door and looks in._]

If only I could get appointed Sacristan! But I am too young and being lame would prevent my getting on to the step-ladders, as a Sacristan must. But I would never leave you alone among the relics in their cotton-wool, little Great One. And now--just for a moment lest the Sister Sacristan come back--I will take you out of the closet.

[_She brings out the Bambino._]

I will show you the chapter room, for while you have seen all places, and the high heavens and all the hells, it will be pleasant to you to see the chapter room, after so long in the closet. See, yonder is the seat of the Mother Abbess. She is very great, and very holy, and of the high house of the Morosini. And that way is to the refectory and the work room. And that way is to the chapel--up the stairs. And up that way are our cells, where I sleep and where I pray to dream of you, little Great One. Touch my cheek, I pray you.... How cold your hands are!... Touch my cheek as she said the vinedresser's babe touched his mother's--

[_She stops suddenly, and then reverently returns the Bambino to his place. She kneels before the open door._]

Forgive me, dear little Child Christ. I spoke not in vain glory. But all my life I have waited, not knowing for what ... but happy ... dreaming that sometime.... If it be a sin I will confess it--I will.

[_Again the rattle of keys is heard. Benvenuta stands up hurriedly and speaks in a half whisper._]

She is coming back to lock the closet. But I will get you a coat for the cold nights. Your hands were so cold. I will get you a warm coat--that I promise, dear little Great One.

[_She closes the door and stands before it looking consciously innocent, as the Sister Sacristan enters. The Sister Sacristan is not deceived, however._]

SISTER SACRISTAN. By your leave, Sister Benvenuta.

[_She ostentatiously locks the closed door._]

BENVENUTA. Sister Sacristan, I trust the novice you left in my charge has returned to her task.

SISTER SACRISTAN. I trust she has.

BENVENUTA [_after a pause_]. I wish I might help you with your duties sometimes, Sister.

SISTER SACRISTAN. I do not need you, little sister.

BENVENUTA. I am sorry.

[_Mechanically she counts her buttons._]

[_Enter the Abbess._]

THE ABBESS [_to the Sacristan_]. Sister, go into the chapel and tell the Reverend Father that the Bolognese puppet man is waiting, and say that I wish to see him here; and bid the Reverend Father bring the manuscript of his poem for Shrove Tuesday.

[_The Sister Sacristan goes out. Benvenuta remains, waiting patiently for a word from the Abbess._]

Well, my little sister?

BENVENUTA. I pray you, Mother.

ABBESS. I listen, little sister.

BENVENUTA. It is about the little Child Christ. I pray you that a coat may be made for him--a warm coat of soft silk; for at Christmas he lies out in the draughty manger before the altar, and even at other times he is very cold at night here in the Sacristy closet. And I pray you, Mother?

ABBESS. I listen.

[_Reenter the Sister Sacristan._]

BENVENUTA. That I may help with the making of the coat, for all that I sew so badly.

ABBESS [_smiling_]. Truly, our little sister Benvenuta Loredan was born to be the nursery-maid of Heaven.

SISTER SACRISTAN. Is it for me to know also, Mother?

ABBESS. Our little sister wishes that a coat of warm silk be made for the little Bambino, against next Christmas in the cold of the chapel.

SISTER SACRISTAN. I suspected something of that kind.

ABBESS. You do not approve, sister?

SISTER SACRISTAN. No, mother. It would be taking the time and money from the redressing of the skeleton of Saint Prosdoscimus, which is a most creditable relic, of unquestioned authenticity, with real diamond loops in his eye holes; this skeleton ought to be made fit to exhibit for veneration. And besides, this Bambino never had any clothes, and so far as I know never wanted any. The purple sash is only for modesty's sake. And as for such a new-fangled proposal coming from Sister Benvenuta--that alone--

ABBESS. That will do. Fie, fie, little sister. The Sacred Bambino is not your serving Cavalier, that you should wish to cover him with silk and velvet. Is the Reverend Father coming?

SISTER SACRISTAN. Immediately, mother. He only stayed to gather his manuscript.

ABBESS. Call in the man with the puppets.

[_Exit Sister Sacristan._]

And now, little sister, you may go. You see it is not wise, ... your thought for the Bambino.

BENVENUTA. No, mother. I see it is not wise.

[_Benvenuta goes up the staircase and off at the left.--The Abbess seats herself in the chair of State. The Father Confessor comes in from the Chapel._]

ABBESS. You are welcome, Father.

ABBE FILOSI [_bowing very low_]. Happy greetings, Reverendissima.

ABBESS. I have sent for you because the puppet man, the Bolognese one you sent for, has come to make his bargain for the Shrove-tide play, and I wished you to be present, lest he fail to serve your inspiration worthily.

ABBE FILOSI. I am grateful for your care in the matter, Reverendissima.

[_Enter Sister Sacristan._]

ABBESS. The fellow is waiting?

[_The Sister Sacristan bows._]

Show him in.

[_The Sister Sacristan goes out._]

And now, Father, I pray that you will make terms for your play, as you please.

ABBE FILOSI. Perhaps I had better not do that, Reverendissima. Poets are proverbially improvident--

ABBESS. That does not matter in the least. Whatever he charges, I shall beat him down.

[_The Sister Sacristan brings in the Puppet Man, who carries a bag of his puppets on his arm. He bows extravagantly to the Abbess._]

PUPPET MAN. Excellenza Reverendissima, my prayers shall in the future be lightened by the memory of your presence. Reverend Father, I am humbly your servant.

[_The Abbess nods to Father Filosi._]

ABBE FILOSI. You have been summoned here, sir, with regard to the Shrove Tuesday play which her Excellenza condescends to give for the edification of the friends of this noble convent. She has commissioned me to write the poem, and she graciously proposes to allow you to perform it with your puppets.

PUPPET MAN. I am honored, and in me all my craft is honored.

ABBE FILOSI. I have here the manuscript of my poor device.

PUPPET MAN. I cannot have so excellent a work so slightly spoken of.

ABBE FILOSI. A trifle ... a trifle. But I trust, when you have done your part, it may amuse the novices and the ladies--noble guests of Our Lady of the Rosebush.

PUPPET MAN. Is it from the gospels, or a saint's story?

ABBE FILOSI. Humbly, it is the story of Judith.

PUPPET MAN. Humbly, as an artist, I am filled with delight. And I have for it just the figures you could wish. A Judith, lovely beyond the power of song, and a Prince, heavy with gold, and a cavalier for the lady--

ABBE FILOSI. That will not serve. In my play she goes with only her maid-servant to the tent of the Holophernes.

PUPPET MAN. It is not usual, in Venice. Will it not be deemed strange by the ladies present?

ABBE FILOSI. Better so, than its author be deemed ignorant by the learned Reverendissima, who will grace your performance personally.

PUPPET MAN [_stiffly_]. I bow to your learning, Reverend Father.

ABBE FILOSI. My poem will require of you some artistry, and not all of the stale and accustomed sort.

[_The Puppet Man bows._]

I shall require, for example, that the head of the Holophernes be actually and visibly severed.

PUPPET MAN. I will undertake it, and moreover, I will promise a goodly flow of red blood from the corpus of the Holophernes.

ABBE FILOSI. Excellent. Further, there is required a Triumph of Judith, in a car of state, and a figure of Time, speaking, and a Religion, out of the clouds, who speaks some verse in praise of the Reverendissima and of the noble house of the Morosini. All this must be carried out precisely.

PUPPET MAN. All this I undertake, seeing how famous is this convent, and of how illustrious a house is its Abbessa. Suffer me to inquire if the entire poem is of a lofty and tragic nature.

ABBE FILOSI. Certainly.

PUPPET MAN. This is a great honor to me, but a ruinous one as well. For I see I shall have no opportunity to bring on my most potent figures--my Harlequino with the seven wires, and--

ABBE FILOSI. Harlequino does not appear in the poem.

PUPPET MAN. But might he not appear in an interlude? Let me suggest, in all humility, that I might perform an interlude between the Harlequino and the serving-wench of Judith, after the death of the Holophernes?

ABBE FILOSI. Dio, dio--what a profanation!

ABBESS. Come, come, your Reverence, I see no profanation in it. We must not be too severe--too lofty. Think of our guests, and of the novices, mere children in heart--who will be witnessing our play. Let there be something in it for the liking of all, I should say.

ABBE FILOSI. But, Reverendissima--

PUPPET MAN. I could assure you of the success of the poem, if you would permit it.

ABBESS. I am sure it will be permitted. And now, sir, there are some other matters to be settled. First, we shall require that you bring here your puppets, in advance of the play, for our inspection, lest there be anything ungodly and unfit about them.

PUPPET MAN. It is the custom. I have brought some; and you shall have the others when I have conned the reverend Father's poem, and know which ones shall be required.

[_Opens his bag and takes out puppets._]

Here is a lady who might serve for Judith. And here a Prince, though I have a richer one, better perhaps for the Holophernes. And here a devil--a Satanasso, and here--

ABBESS. Leave them all on the table. I will have them examined at leisure. Now, sir, tell me what you expect to be paid for this performance?

PUPPET MAN [_fingering his manuscript_]. Reverendissima, considering the difficulties of the poem, and the Holophernes to be visibly beheaded, and the great fame of this convent, that is said to require of every novice sixteen quarterings to her crest and a thousand ducats of dowry, and considering the illustrious family of which the Abbessa herself descends--I will perform the poem in the best manner for twelve ducats.

ABBESS. Considering just the matters you mention, and the honor to you to bring your puppets into this convent at all, you shall have five ducats.

PUPPET MAN. Five ducats--Reverendissima, I cannot have heard you aright--five ducats.

ABBESS. Five ducats.

PUPPET MAN. Mercy of the Saints! Five ducats for Shrove Tuesday, and a Holophernes to be visibly beheaded--in a most illustrious convent, too. It is ruin to me, Reverendissima--black ruin.

ABBESS. Five ducats you shall have.

PUPPET MAN [_starting to put his puppets back in the bag_]. It is not possible, Reverendissima. No one of my craft could do it--even the worst of them would ask more than I have. Mere jugglers and bunglers from Padua would ask twenty ducats. And the fame of this convent! I see I have been deceived,--

ABBESS. Be silent, sir. You cannot trifle with me. Put down your trinkets. Do you know who I am, and of what family in the world? Well, sir?

PUPPET MAN [_slowly putting down his puppets again_]. Maybe it will profit me in the sight of the Saints--

ABBESS. I need not warn you further. Be prepared for the performance in the best style against Shrove Tuesday. And if all goes well, I may add a ducat to your fee.

[_She taps a gong on the table, and the Sister Sacristan enters. The Puppet Man, dismissed, bows himself out, clutching the manuscript to his breast. The Sacristan follows him out, returning at once._]

Now, Father, since the play is yours, it shall also be yours to pass on the propriety of the figures.

ABBE FILOSI. I do not seek the responsibility, Reverendissima. Will you not excuse me?

ABBESS. You have some intention in this, Father?

ABBE FILOSI. Will you not excuse me?

ABBESS [_smiling_]. Certainly not. What troubles you about it?

ABBE FILOSI. Reverendissima, I would gladly have passed it in silence. Your wisdom in matters of the world--and of the Church--is greater than mine. But look you now. This Judith I think shows more of her bosom than is seemly.

ABBESS [_with asperity_]. I will instruct you. By the laws on the serene Republic, a Venetian lady may show one-half of her bosom and no more, and there is no immodesty in the proceeding. This law the lady Judith obeys.

ABBE FILOSI. I do not dissent from your wisdom, nor from the law of Venice. Still, it seems to me there would be more propriety in it if we were to have a collarette of tissue pinned about her--the eyes of all the novices, remember--

ABBESS. I remember also our guests, many of them ladies of the first houses, who would certainly take it amiss, and as a reflection upon themselves--

ABBE FILOSI. I wish with all my heart, Reverendissima, you had excused me.

ABBESS [_turning to Sister Sacristan_]. I will ask the Sisters Grimana Emo and Rosalba Foscarini to examine the puppets.

[_The Sister Sacristan goes out._]

Their learning in theology may not be profound, but they know the world's judgment, coming as they do of the first families.

[_The Abbe Filosi bows low._]

ABBE FILOSI. I shall be at your service, Reverendissima.

ABBESS. I thank you enough for the poem. Farewell.

[_He bows himself out, at right, as Sister Grimana and Sister Rosalba enter left._]

GRIMANA. You have sent for us, Mother?

ABBESS. In the matter of the Shrove Tuesday play--yes. The puppets will be brought in advance, as usual. These few the show-man has already left.

GRIMANA. You wish them to be looked over, as usual?

ABBESS. Not quite as usual. This year they are to appear in a play or poem which the Father Confessor has written for us--dealing with the story of Judith. Now the good Abbe, though a man of great learning and a graceful poet withal, has not the advantage of family that some of our sisters--

GRIMANA. And some of our guests--

ROSALBA. I remember once, at a fete in the gardens of my uncle, the Doge--

ABBESS. I need instruct you no further. I do not wish anything ungodly or unfit to appear; nor do I wish anything in the play to suggest that there is any impropriety in the illustrious audience.

GRIMANA. I understand, Mother. It is chiefly a question of the dressing of the ladies.

ABBESS. Precisely. I shall leave it in your charge. Remembering, Sister Grimana, the laws of Venice and the customs of the house of your father, the most illustrious Admiral, and you Sister Rosalba, the fetes in the gardens of your uncle, the Doge--surely it will be properly cared for.

[_Exit the Abbess._]

GRIMANA. All this because we have been given a bourgeois Confessor--

ROSALBA. No matter for that, Sister. I love puppets. We had once a puppet festival, when they played the whole history of the Serene Republic, and there were great ships with puppet sailors--

[_They begin to separate the puppets with their wires and strings. Enter Sister Benvenuta._]

BENVENUTA. Oh, the joy! Are these for the Shrove Tuesday play? If only we could show them to--

[_She glances toward the Sacristy closet, stops, and goes on._]

Sister Rosalba, can you make them dance?

GRIMANA. Dance, forsooth--to what music, sister?

ROSALBA. You might sing for them, Sister.

GRIMANA. Aye, so I might.--Time was when I knew tunes enough.

BENVENUTA. There is a lute in the cloister--left from the musical mass. And my cousin Atalanta can play it--I should like to hear some music here.

[_She glances at the closet._]

I'll fetch her.

[_She goes off to find Atalanta._]

GRIMANA. What personages have we here? This lady for Judith?

ROSALBA. That can scarcely be, Judith was black haired.

GRIMANA. Nothing of the sort. She had hair of a dark red--a smoldering color.

ROSALBA. Was she not of the tribe?--

GRIMANA. What matters the tribe? In her picture by Titian, in the great hall of my father's house--

ROSALBA. We had a Judith also--by Jacopo Bellini. He was Titian's master. Her hair was black.

GRIMANA. You may be right. In our picture by Titian, now I remember it, the head was so covered with a wonderful jeweled crown that we could see little of the hair.

[_Rosalba is somewhat put down by the splendor of Grimana's Titian. Benvenuta comes back with Atalanta, who carries a lute. As she appears Grimana untangles and holds up another puppet--the Beelzebubb._]

GRIMANA. Here's a personage of terror.

[_She turns the figure and moves it threateningly toward Benvenuta, who looks at Beelzebubb and is instantly seized with a wild fit of laughter._]

Saint Mark preserve us! You are queerly pleased, Sister. It's not many that laugh at this figure.

ROSALBA [_reading the figure's label_]. He's Beelzebubb Satanasso, Prince of all Devils.

BENVENUTA. I pray your pardon. I could not keep from laughing. I can never look at a devil without laughing. He seems so anxious to understand, and so important with the responsibility of being Prince of all Devils.

ROSALBA. You may laugh if you like, but you should remember how ready he is to slip away with the unwary souls of people who laugh at him. How he is always in wait, by day and by night, for a wavering thought or a rift in one's faith--

GRIMANA. See here the pouch he carries to put your soul in. Truly, Sister, he might pluck you off like a cherry.

ATALANTA [_shuddering_]. Dear Sister Grimana--I beg of you--

GRIMANA. And he comes at the call of the secret thought--that's what makes him look so anxious--lest he should not be listening when you call him, and the Saints come to your soul first, and warn it--

ATALANTA. Sister Grimana!

BENVENUTA. Still, I can never look at him without laughing. He is droll. Atalanta, the lute.

[_Atalanta brings forward the lute and tries the strings. Rosalba takes up the puppet of the lady._]

I saw the show-man. He was a most ill-favored man. Sister Rosalba, do you think he was excommunicate.

ROSALBA. Of course not. And if he were, that would not make his puppets excommunicate.

GRIMANA. What if it did? A noble convent has privileges. It would not matter to us.

ATALANTA. What shall I play?

GRIMANA. Can you play? [_She sings_]:

Go visto una colomba el cielo andare Che la svolava su per un giardino In mezzo 'l peto la gavea do ale E in boca la tegniva un zenzamino!

ATALANTA. I do not know the air. But I can play a furlana.

BENVENUTA. That will be gay, Atalanta. Play a furlana, I beg you.

GRIMANA. That will serve, Sister Rosalba, your prince.

[_As Atalanta plays, Grimana manipulates the Judith and Rosalba the Prince. They are unskillful and the puppets dance crudely, but Benvenuta looks on in ecstasy, falling slowly back until she stands by the door of the closet. As she does so two or three more nuns and novices come furtively in at the back and stand watching the performance. As the dance of the puppets grows more animated the Abbess enters with the Sister Sacristan. For a moment the others do not see her, and the play continues. Then she speaks coldly and evenly._]

ABBESS. Sisters, is this the solemn judgment I bespoke on these trinkets? Sister Grimana!

[_Grimana lays down the puppets and comes forward._]

Sister Rosalba!

[_Rosalba also comes forward._]

I will consider this, and will give out the penances in chapter.

GRIMANA. Yes, Mother.

[_Rosalba stands with her head bowed and her fingers run along the buttons of her cape._]

ABBESS. There has been too much playing of lutes, too much worldly anticipation and imagining among us. So I have decided that all the holy relics shall be re-furbished, and all the vestments mended and cleaned, against Shrove Tuesday. And all other work, whether of embroidery or of whatever nature, shall wait till this be done. Sister Sacristan, let the tasks be set at once.

[_The sisters bow their heads and go out, the Sister Sacristan following Rosalba and Grimana off. Benvenuta stands still in an attitude of deep humility._]

Well, little Sister?

BENVENUTA. Holy Mother, I am waiting for my penance.

ABBESS. Your penance, Benvenuta?

BENVENUTA. The fault was mine. I brought Atalanta with her lute. I was to blame for it all. I am heedless, and unworthy, and stained with worldliness, Mother.

ABBESS. There, there, my child. I will overlook it.

[_Benvenuta turns away, weeping furtively._]

Come here, little Sister. Why should you weep? I have said I will overlook it.

BENVENUTA. I weep because I am unworthy to be penanced. I am nothing.

ABBESS. You are nothing? Is not this the very essence of humility? Little Sister, when I forgave you your fault, did you doubt my wisdom?

BENVENUTA. Yes, holy Mother. Oh, I have sinned in vain glory. I doubted. But I did not mean to doubt.

ABBESS [_smiling_]. Come hither, little Sister. If I must set you a penance, what would you have it be?

BENVENUTA. I would have it ... no....

[_She hesitates._]

ABBESS. Speak, Sister.

BENVENUTA. I would have you set me to the making of a coat for the Holy Bambino, as I asked of you before.

ABBESS. That would hardly be a penance. And, besides, you sew so badly.

BENVENUTA. Yes, Mother. I sew badly. And it would not really be a penance.

[_The Sister Sacristan comes in and takes from the closet some cloth and a reliquary or two. She lays them on the table, preparing them for work._]

ABBESS. I will speak of this another time. Another time, little Sister.

[_Benvenuta stands very still. The Abbess turns to the Sister Sacristan._]

What have you there?

SISTER SACRISTAN. The fine lawn for the surplices for His Eminence.

ABBESS. That can wait. I do not think it wise to leave the workroom alone while the relics are being done over.

[_She stands in the doorway. The Sister Sacristan is about to follow, but notices Benvenuta and goes over ostentatiously to lock the closet; then she goes out after the Abbess. Benvenuta stands still and her eyes go from the closet to the cloth and takes up a piece of lawn, and carries it with her to the closet door._]

BENVENUTA. Dear little Great One, I see no way but this to keep my promise. I do not understand what the Holy Mother means. But I will do my penance when she determines it. I do sew very badly, dear little Great One, but I will make the stitches slowly, night by night in my cell, and every one of them, no matter how far askew, shall have all the love of my heart drawn tight in it. I have promised you a coat, little Great One, and I will surely keep my promise.

[_She steals upstairs in the gathering darkness. The organ in the chapel is heard, faintly at first, then swelling in exultation. Slowly, after she disappears, the door of the closet opens of itself, and from within a golden light glows across the room and up the stair. The Curtain Falls._]

[_SCENE II. In her white-walled cell, with its one high window looking over the tree tops into the night sky, Benvenuta sits alone, sewing, with great labor and difficulty, by the light of a candle. There is a soft knock, and Atalanta slips in, bringing something concealed under her cape._]

BENVENUTA. Have you brought it, dear?

ATALANTA. I've got the coat of the gardener's child, but I fear it is not what you wanted.

BENVENUTA. I'm sure it will serve. Why do you fear for it?

ATALANTA. Because it's the little girl's coat. The boy's I could not get, for he has but the one, and the nights are so cold.

BENVENUTA. So they are--and we wouldn't have the poor lad shivering. Perhaps the girl's will serve. Did you get the thread of gold?

ATALANTA. Yes, dear.

[_There is a pause._]

You wouldn't be happier telling me all about it? Or letting me help you, perhaps?

BENVENUTA. What good were there in that? You sew as badly as I do, child.

ATALANTA. It's not kind of you to say so.

BENVENUTA. I'm sorry, Atalanta, dear. And it's most ungrateful of me--for you are helping me--helping me very much. And as for my telling you--it's a great secret, and you should be content to know as much as you do of it.

ATALANTA. I'm afraid I know too much of it now. I'm afraid I ought to be confessing what I know already.

BENVENUTA. Confessing it. Oh, no; Atalanta, dear--

ATALANTA. I'm afraid I ought--unless you tell me more.

BENVENUTA. Oh, I see. Now, listen, my child. This matter is one concerning my devotions--a private matter surely, and needing no confessions from you.

ATALANTA. Then why these secret messages, and the gold thread, and the gardener's child's coat to be got by stealth?

BENVENUTA. For what I am doing, I would call for help from you--or from any one--from the Evil One himself, if it would serve. But it is surely no sin--though it might get you into trouble to help me with it, Atalanta, dear.

ATALANTA. Prt! That's not what I mind.

BENVENUTA. You--you love me enough to be troubled for my sake, a little, dear?

ATALANTA [_breaking out_]. I would flout the Mother Abbess to her face for you, Benvenuta. It's that you try to keep me in the dark that I mind about it. I'm going.

[_Atalanta turns sharply and goes. Benvenuta lays out the little coat of the gardener's child, and lays her lawn, already cut, upon it. She seems discouraged, turns it over, and tries again. Then with an air of resolution, she takes it up and sews fiercely, pricking her fingers, stopping to put them to her mouth, and going on doggedly._]

BENVENUTA. I promised it, dear little Great One, and I would give my soul to keep my promise, but I fear me it will never comfort you.

[_She sews for a minute in silence. Then lifts her head with a sudden thought, and says aloud with a firm resolution_]:

I would give my soul.

[_She waits. After a moment there is a light tapping of footsteps; then a marked rapping, as of hoofs on a pavement; she shivers, and starts up in sudden terror, as Beelzebubb Satanasso confronts her. He is like the Devil Puppet in every respect, but the size of a small man. He bows low in a mechanical sort of way as if jointed. She gazes at him in wonder, laughs nervously and suppresses her laughter._]

BEELZEBUBB [_in a voice like a Jews' harp_]. Sister Benvenuta, did I hear you call for me, or wish for me to come?

BENVENUTA. Yes, I called you.

BEELZEBUBB. You wished me to help you?

BENVENUTA. Yes.

BEELZEBUBB. You know who I am.

[_He points to his label._]

BENVENUTA. I know. You are Beelzebubb Satanasso, Prince of all Devils.

[_She suppresses a laugh._]

BEELZEBUBB. You have made a promise, and you cannot keep it, so you call for help. I come, for I am always ready. Now tell me precisely what it is you want.

BENVENUTA. I have promised a coat to the little Child--

BEELZEBUBB. That will do. It were better not to speak the name. What sort of a coat do you wish?

BENVENUTA. May I have just what I like?

BEELZEBUBB. Certainly you may, my dear--if you are ready to pay for it.

BENVENUTA. I am ready. And I should like a little coat like the one on the second of the Magi in the Adoration by Bellini that is over the altar in our chapel at home--in the house of the Duke Loredano.

BEELZEBUBB. Let me understand exactly. The coat is to be like the coat on the second figure to the left from the center of the picture?

BENVENUTA. Yes--no, there's a Saint Joseph also at the back. He would be the third--from the Holy--

BEELZEBUBB. I pray you, keep the names of these people out of it.

BENVENUTA. These people!

[_Benvenuta's hand moves as if she were about to cross herself._]

BEELZEBUBB. And let your hand fall. You were about to make--to make some sort of sign with it. These practices are very distasteful to me. I cannot help you--or even stay for an interview--if you persist in them.

BENVENUTA. I beg your forgiveness. I had no intention--

BEELZEBUBB. I believe that--it is merely a habit you have learned--but it is distasteful to me.

BENVENUTA. I will not offend you again.

BEELZEBUBB. Now to business. You wish of me a coat, a rich coat like that on the third figure from the center of the picture that is in your father's chapel at Venice. And the size--

BENVENUTA. To fit the little Child--

BEELZEBUBB [_interrupting sharply_]. I beg of you! I understand. The coat is of what color?

BENVENUTA. It is the coat of the second of the Magi--

[_He puts up his hand, and she checks herself._]

It is of carmine silk damask with gold thread, and the inner vest is of white lawn. I wish it precisely like the picture, since you promise so much.

BEELZEBUBB. It shall be so. I will undertake to bring you the coat. And in exchange I ask only that you sign your name here.

[_He takes out a parchment contract, with a great red seal on it._]

I regret that ink will not do. You must prick one of your fingers. I am very sorry, but there is no other way.

BENVENUTA. Prick my finger? Once?

BEELZEBUBB. Only once, to secure the drop of blood. I am sorry to ask it, but--

BENVENUTA. As though it never happened to me before!

[_She pricks her finger and squeezes out a drop of Blood. He whips out a quill pen, and deftly wets it with the blood._]

BEELZEBUBB. You will sign here.

BENVENUTA. And what does it say? I should be loath to sign anything unworthy of my family, or of this noble convent--

BEELZEBUBB. There is nothing novel about it--the form is quite usual, and has been signed, I assure you, by many of the highest families in Venice. It merely binds me at once to furnish you the rich coat, and you to give me your little flame of a soul--when I come for it. That is all.

BENVENUTA. Give me the pen.

[_She signs the contract. He passes his hand thrice across the pouch and then takes from it the coat, and lays it across her lap. He steps back and bows stiffly, folding the contract and smiling._]

BEELZEBUBB. My dear young lady--my dear little sister.

[_He bows again, and vanishes; again the organ is heard, and Benvenuta is left, her face glowing in ecstasy, the carmine coat across her knees._]

[_Curtain._]

[SCENE III: _The Chapter Room. Night. The Abbess giving orders to Grimana, Rosalba, the Sister Sacristan and others, about the midnight office._]

ABBESS. All are to be present. None are to be indulged. I beg you, so inform the sisters.

[_Rosalba goes out._]

And the novices are all to be in their places. I know the hour is late for them, and many are young, but this is an exceptional night. Stay.--The novice Atalanta Badoer--I shall require her apart from the others. She will be needed with her lute.

GRIMANA. I will look to it, Reverend Mother.

[_She sets about to gather her embroidery._]

ABBESS. Now in the matter of the relics and vestments?

SISTER SACRISTAN. The relics are all re-furbished and repacked in new cotton-wool, Reverend Mother.

ABBESS. And the vestments?

SISTER SACRISTAN. The vestments are all in order--

[_She is about to mention something about the vestments, but stops herself._]

ABBESS. Go on.

SISTER SACRISTAN. I must report, as a matter of duty, Reverend Mother, that certain goods--a piece of fine lawn--cannot be found. It was laid out here to be used for the new surplice for His Eminence.

ABBESS. I do not like this. Tell me what you know of it.

SISTER SACRISTAN. This is all I know. Except that when I returned here, the door to the Sacristy Closet was open--

ABBESS. Who was here at the time?

SISTER SACRISTAN. Sister Benvenuta was left here. When I returned she was gone, and the closet was open, and the lawn--

GRIMANA [_interceding_]. I beg you, Reverend Mother--

ABBESS. Sister Grimana, I have given you your task. Be about it.

[_Grimana touches the buttons of her cape one by one, and then turns and goes out._]

Sister, remember that the Sister Benvenuta comes of the noble house of the Loredani. Guard your tongue.

[_The Sister Sacristan stands gloomily biting her lips._]

If she has removed the cloth to some other place, it does not matter. Remember who she is, and that she is after all a child in mind, in heart. We will speak no more of this.

SISTER SACRISTAN. No, Reverend Mother.

ABBESS. Send Sister Rosalba to me.

SISTER SACRISTAN. She is coming now, Reverend Mother.

[_Rosalba comes in and the Sister Sacristan goes out._]

ABBESS. I wish to speak with Benvenuta, Sister.

ROSALBA. I will fetch her, Reverend Mother.

ABBESS. One moment. You have observed her of late?

ROSALBA. Yes, Mother.

ABBESS. She seems pale, and not so strong as she was. And her mind--but then she was always a simple child.

ROSALBA. Of course, I do not know the cause of her pallor. Perhaps a penance she is undergoing secretly.

[_The suggestion is half a question as are those of the Abbess as well._]

She is still very young, Reverend Mother.

ABBESS. She has confided nothing to you, nor to Grimana?

ROSALBA. Not to me, Mother. Shall I call Sister Grimana?

ABBESS. No. Send Benvenuta to me. And ask Grimana to send the novice Atalanta also--a little later.

[_Rosalba goes out. The Abbess goes over and examines the Sacristy Closet door, tries the lock, finds it fast, and returns to her chair. Benvenuta enters. She is more pale than before, and looks frailer, and her limp is more apparent, but her eyes are wide, and rove about the room, and her expression is of one who has found her happiness. The Abbess speaks to her kindly._]

ABBESS. My child, I have called you to me because you have seemed so pale, and I fear you have burdened yourself beyond your strength.

BENVENUTA. No, Reverend Mother. I am not burdened.

ABBESS. You are not performing any secret penance?

BENVENUTA. None, Mother.

ABBESS. Answer me truly, Benvenuta. You have not been contemplating some penance, and so been filled with anxiety.

BENVENUTA. I look for no penance in this life, Reverend Mother, beyond such as may be imposed upon me.

ABBESS. Nothing beyond your strength will be imposed. If you have need of more sleep, I would be willing to relax for you, for a time.

BENVENUTA. I do not need it, Reverend Mother.

[_Atalanta enters, sees the Abbess, and stands waiting._]

ABBESS. If you should find yourself overburdened, little Sister, come to me. That will do. Atalanta, one moment.

[_Atalanta steps forward. Benvenuta starts to go, but lingers._]

I shall need your help with the lute to-night. I know you play it well. The best lute player among the lay sisters is ill. You can play from notes?

ATALANTA. If it be not too difficult, Reverend Mother.

ABBESS. It is simple. But I will have them give you the music, against the time when you will be needed.

[_The Abbess goes out toward the Chapel. Benvenuta comes down to Atalanta._]

BENVENUTA. Atalanta, dear!

ATALANTA. Yes, Benvenuta.

BENVENUTA. There is something I must talk to you about. I have put it off because I have been deep in my own thoughts. You told me not so long ago that you could not find your call, that the world still beckoned you.

ATALANTA. Yes, it did. But I have been calmer since we spoke of it. There was a thing in my heart that had to be spoken out--

BENVENUTA. Yes.

ATALANTA. I spoke it out to you, and since then it has not troubled me.

BENVENUTA. It was about the vinedresser's baby in your father's garden?

ATALANTA. Yes.

BENVENUTA. You told me about it here--in this room, was it not?

ATALANTA. Yes. Surely it was here. How strangely you speak, Benvenuta. Have you forgotten? It was after that you asked me to get the gold thread, and the child's coat.

BENVENUTA. So I did. I had almost forgotten it.

ATALANTA. It was a great comfort to me to tell you, Sister--and to serve you. Why have you asked nothing more of me?

BENVENUTA. I have all the help I need, now.

[_A pause. Atalanta looks at Benvenuta wonderingly._]

The vinedresser's baby--did you ever hold him in your arms?

ATALANTA. No.

BENVENUTA. Nor ever felt his lips soft and moist against your cheek, nor his fingers warm on your neck?

ATALANTA. No. I only saw the child, as I told you.

BENVENUTA. I remember now. You only saw him.

[_Another pause. Benvenuta is looking toward the Sacristy closet._]

Atalanta, dear, do you know that we can only be happy by pleasing those we love most--that is what people live for, I think. And dear, remember this: the happiness you saw on the face of the vinedresser's wife was as torment beside the joy that is glowing in me.

[_Her eyes meet Atalanta's for a moment._]

Don't, dear--don't think it too strange. Everything is strange, after all.

ATALANTA. Your face was like hers, then.

BENVENUTA. Please don't say that, dear. It's--it's foolish--isn't it? But I told you once I was waiting for something--all my life waiting. And now--and now!

[_She touches Atalanta's head, lightly, and goes off upstairs toward her cell. Atalanta is left looking after her. Grimana comes in._]

GRIMANA. Well, mistress. Prideful over not sitting with the novices this night, eh? The lute-playing comes in well at last, does it?

ATALANTA. Oh, Sister Grimana, I--

[_She stops, confused._]

GRIMANA. What is it, child?

ATALANTA. It's Benvenuta. Have you seen her? Have you?--

GRIMANA. Yes, dear, I've seen. She's young. These times come to all of us, I suppose. But they pass. Calm, child. Count your buttons.

ATALANTA. I was frightened, Sister Grimana.

GRIMANA. Aye, you'll frighten the novices just so in your turn. But just the same, I wish she wouldn't--

[_The Abbess reenters, as a bell strikes from the chapel. Rosalba comes on from the left, with two or three sisters._]

ABBESS. It is time. Let us all proceed to the chapel.

[_The Sister Sacristan carrying the lute and some music, enters from the chapel._]

Are all the sisters assembled?

SISTER SACRISTAN. All save those who are here, and Sister Benvenuta.

ABBESS. Please you, Sister Grimana, go for Benvenuta.

[_Grimana goes up the stairs._]

SISTER SACRISTAN. Here is the lute, Atalanta Badoer. The notes are clear, and the times you are to play them are written there.

ATALANTA. My hands tremble so. I'm afraid I shall fail in it.

ABBESS. Courage, child. I know it is the first time, but you will do well--I am sure you will do well. Come, let us take our places.

[_Grimana enters on the steps, in great trouble of mind. She carries in her hand the puppet of the Beelzebubb, twisted and shattered and singed with fire._]

GRIMANA. Reverend Mother, forgive me. I have seen--I have seen--

[_She clasps and unclasps her hands, unable to speak._]

ABBESS. What was it, Grimana?

GRIMANA. I scarcely know, Mother. Mary be my shield!

ABBESS. Speak, Sister.

GRIMANA. There was a great light through every crevice of the door of her cell. And music in the air--like harps and viols d'amour. And on the floor outside I found this--shattered and half burnt--this puppet. And from within, sounds--

ABBESS. Tell me all, Sister.

GRIMANA [_her fingers on the buttons of her cape_]. Sounds as of a mother and her babe, cooing and kissing and caressing each other.

ABBESS. Call the Father Confessor.

[_The Sister Sacristan goes out toward the chapel._]

We must look to this. If her mind have broken under some penance--

ATALANTA. Let me go--

ABBESS. No. She was so pale--

[_The Sister Sacristan returns with the Abbe Filosi._]

Reverend Father, the little sister of the house of Loredan--

[_Then, the upper corridor is filled with a growing light--the same radiant gold that streamed from the Sacristy closet. The sisters bless themselves and most of them fall on their knees. In the light Benvenuta appears walking erect, her lameness gone, and holding before her the Christ Child, in a wondrous robe of carmine silk damask. She laughs softly with the babe as she passes, and when she has passed off toward the chapel, whence the organ is again heard, the light fades._]

ABBE FILOSI [_in a hushed voice_]. A miracle!

ABBESS. She is healed! A miracle of the Holy Child. Blessed Mother--thy Holy Child in our house.

[_Atalanta goes swiftly up the steps and off after Benvenuta._]

ABBE FILOSI. Let there be a special service of thanksgiving.

ABBESS. Let all hearts be uplifted!

[_Atalanta returns, trailing her lute behind her, and sinks down at the head of the stairway, sobbing._]

[_Curtain._]

THREE TRAVELERS WATCH A SUNRISE

A PLAY

BY WALLACE STEVENS

Copyright, 1916, by Wallace Stevens.

All rights reserved.

Reprinted from "Poetry" (Chicago) by permission of Mr. Wallace Stevens and Miss Harriet Monroe. Applications for permission to produce this play should be addressed to Mr. Wallace Stevens, 125 Trumbull Street, Hartford, Conn.

THREE TRAVELERS WATCH A SUNRISE

A PLAY BY WALLACE STEVENS

[_The characters are three Chinese, two negroes and a girl._

_The scene represents a forest of heavy trees on a hilltop in eastern Pennsylvania. To the right is a road, obscured by bushes. It is about four o'clock of a morning in August, at the present time._

_When the curtain rises, the stage is dark. The limb of a tree creaks. A negro carrying a lantern passes along the road. The sound is repeated. The negro comes through the bushes, raises his lantern and looks through the trees. Discerning a dark object among the branches, he shrinks back, crosses stage, and goes out through the wood to the left._

_A second negro comes through the bushes to the right. He carries two large baskets, which he places on the ground just inside of the bushes. Enter three Chinese, one of whom carries a lantern. They pause on the road,_]

SECOND CHINESE. All you need, To find poetry, Is to look for it with a lantern. [_The Chinese laugh._]

THIRD CHINESE. I could find it without, On an August night, If I saw no more Then the dew on the barns.

[_The Second Negro makes a sound to attract their attention. The three Chinese come through the bushes. The first is short, fat, quizzical, and of middle age. The second is of middle height, thin and turning gray; a man of sense and sympathy. The third is a young man, intent, detached. They wear European clothes._]

SECOND CHINESE [_glancing at the baskets_]. Dew is water to see, Not water to drink: We have forgotten water to drink. Yet I am content Just to see sunrise again. I have not seen it Since the day we left Pekin. It filled my doorway, Like whispering women.

FIRST CHINESE. And I have never seen it. If we have no water, Do find a melon for me In the baskets.

[_The Second Negro, who has been opening the baskets, hands the First Chinese a melon._]

FIRST CHINESE. Is there no spring?

[_The negro takes a water bottle of red porcelain from one of the baskets and places it near the Third Chinese._]

SECOND CHINESE [_to Third Chinese_]. Your porcelain water bottle.

[_One of the baskets contains costumes of silk, red, blue and green. During the following speeches, the Chinese put on these costumes, with the assistance of the negro, and seat themselves on the ground._]

THIRD CHINESE. This fetches its own water.

[_Takes the bottle and places it on the ground in the center of the stage._]

I drink from it, dry as it is, As you from maxims, [_To Second Chinese._] Or you from melons. [_To First Chinese._]

FIRST CHINESE. Not as I, from melons. Be sure of that.

SECOND CHINESE. Well, it is true of maxims.

[_He finds a book in the pocket of his costume, and reads from it._]

"The court had known poverty and wretchedness; humanity had invaded its seclusion, with its suffering and its pity."

[_The limb of the tree creaks._]

Yes: it is true of maxims, Just as it is true of poets, Or wise men, or nobles, Or jade.

FIRST CHINESE. Drink from wise men? From jade? Is there no spring?

[_Turning to the negro, who has taken a jug from one of the baskets._]

Fill it and return.

[_The negro removes a large candle from one of the baskets and hands it to the First Chinese; then takes the jug and the lantern and enters the trees to the left. The First Chinese lights the candle and places it on the ground near the water bottle._]

THIRD CHINESE. There is a seclusion of porcelain That humanity never invades.

FIRST CHINESE [_with sarcasm_]. Porcelain!

THIRD CHINESE. It is like the seclusion of sunrise, Before it shines on any house.

FIRST CHINESE. Pooh!

SECOND CHINESE. This candle is the sun; This bottle is earth: It is an illustration Used by generations of hermits. The point of difference from reality Is this: That, in this illustration, The earth remains of one color-- It remains red, It remains what it is. But when the sun shines on the earth, In reality It does not shine on a thing that remains What it was yesterday. The sun rises On whatever the earth happens to be.

THIRD CHINESE. And there are indeterminate moments Before it rises, Like this, [_With a backward gesture._] Before one can tell What the bottle is going to be-- Porcelain, Venetian glass, Egyptian ... Well, there are moments When the candle, sputtering up, Finds itself in seclusion, [_He raises the candle in the air._] And shines, perhaps, for the beauty of shining. That is the seclusion of sunrise Before it shines on any house. [_Replacing the candle._]

FIRST CHINESE [_wagging his head_]. As abstract as porcelain.

SECOND CHINESE. Such seclusion knows beauty As the court knew it. The court woke In its windless pavilions, And gazed on chosen mornings, As it gazed On chosen porcelain. What the court saw was always of the same color, And well shaped, And seen in a clear light. [_He points to the candle._] It never woke to see, And never knew, The flawed jars, The weak colors, The contorted glass. It never knew The poor lights. [_He opens his book significantly._] When the court knew beauty only, And in seclusion, It had neither love nor wisdom. These came through poverty And wretchedness, Through suffering and pity. [_He pauses._] It is the invasion of humanity That counts.

[_The limb of the tree creaks. The First Chinese turns, for a moment, in the direction of the sound._]

FIRST CHINESE [_thoughtfully_]. The light of the most tranquil candle Would shudder on a bloody salver.

SECOND CHINESE [_with a gesture of disregard_]. It is the invasion That counts. If it be supposed that we are three figures Painted on porcelain As we sit here, That we are painted on this very bottle, The hermit of the place, Holding this candle to us, Would wonder; But if it be supposed That we are painted as warriors, The candle would tremble in his hands; Or if it be supposed, for example, That we are painted as three dead men, He could not see the steadiest light, For sorrow. It would be true If an emperor himself Held the candle. He would forget the porcelain For the figures painted on it.

THIRD CHINESE [_shrugging his shoulders_]. Let the candle shine for the beauty of shining. I dislike the invasion And long for the windless pavilions. And yet it may be true That nothing is beautiful Except with reference to ourselves, Nor ugly, Nor high, [_Pointing to the sky._] Nor low. [_Pointing to the candle._] No: not even sunrise. Can you play of this [_Mockingly to First Chinese._] For us? [_He stands up._]

FIRST CHINESE [_hesitatingly_]. I have a song Called _Mistress and Maid_. It is of no interest to hermits Or emperors, Yet it has a bearing; For if we affect sunrise, We affect all things.

THIRD CHINESE. It is a pity it is of women. Sing it.

[_He takes an instrument from one of the baskets and hands it to the First Chinese, who sings the following song, accompanying himself, somewhat tunelessly, on the instrument. The Third Chinese takes various things out of the basket for tea. He arranges fruit. The First Chinese watches him while he plays. The Second Chinese gazes at the ground. The sky shows the first signs of morning._]

FIRST CHINESE. The mistress says, in a harsh voice, "He will be thinking in strange countries Of the white stones near my door, And I--I am tired of him." She says sharply, to her maid, "Sing to yourself no more."

Then the maid says, to herself, "He will be thinking in strange countries Of the white stones near her door; But it is me he will see At the window, as before.

"He will be thinking in strange countries Of the green gown I wore. He was saying good-by to her." The maid drops her eyes and says to her mistress, "I shall sing to myself no more."

THIRD CHINESE. That affects the white stones, To be sure. [_They laugh._]

FIRST CHINESE. And it affects the green gown.

SECOND CHINESE. Here comes our black man.

[_The Second Negro returns, somewhat agitated, with water but without his lantern. He hands the jug to the Third Chinese. The First Chinese from time to time strikes the instrument. The Third Chinese, who faces the left, peers in the direction from which the negro has come._]

THIRD CHINESE. You have left your lantern behind you. It shines, among the trees, Like evening Venus in a cloud-top.

[_The Second Negro grins but makes no explanation. He seats himself behind the Chinese to the right._]

FIRST CHINESE. Or like a ripe strawberry Among its leaves. [_They laugh._] I heard to-night That they are searching the hill For an Italian. He disappeared with his neighbor's daughter.

SECOND CHINESE [_confidently_]. I am sure you heard The first eloping footfall, And the drum Of pursuing feet.

FIRST CHINESE [_amusedly_]. It was not an elopement. The young gentleman was seen To climb the hill, In the manner of a tragedian Who sweats. Such things happen in the evening. He was _Un miserable_.

SECOND CHINESE. Reach the lady quickly.

[_The First Chinese strikes the instrument twice as a prelude to his narrative._]

FIRST CHINESE. There are as many points of view From which to regard her As there are sides to a round bottle.

[_Pointing to the water bottle._]

She was represented to me As beautiful.

[_They laugh. The First Chinese strikes the instrument, and looks at the Third Chinese, who yawns._]

FIRST CHINESE [_reciting_]. She was as beautiful as a porcelain water bottle.

[_He strikes the instrument in an insinuating manner._]

FIRST CHINESE. She was represented to me As young. Therefore my song should go Of the color of blood.

[_He strikes the instrument. The limb of the tree creaks. The First Chinese notices it and puts his hand on the knee of the Second Chinese, who is seated between him and the Third Chinese, to call attention to the sound. They are all seated so that they do not face the spot from which the sound comes. A dark object, hanging to the limb of the tree, becomes a dim silhouette. The sky grows constantly brighter. No color is to be seen until the end of the play._]

SECOND CHINESE [_to First Chinese_]. It is only a tree Creaking in the night wind.

THIRD CHINESE [_shrugging his shoulders_]. There would be no creaking In the windless pavilions.

FIRST CHINESE [_resuming_]. So far the lady of the present ballad Would have been studied By the hermit and his candle With much philosophy; And possibly the emperor would have cried, "More light!" But it is a way with ballads That the more pleasing they are The worse end they come to; For here it was also represented That the lady was poor-- The hermit's candle would have thrown Alarming shadows, And the emperor would have held The porcelain in one hand ... She was represented as clinging To that sweaty tragedian, And weeping up the hill.

SECOND CHINESE [_with a grimace_]. It does not sound like an elopement.

FIRST CHINESE. It is a doleful ballad, Fit for keyholes.

THIRD CHINESE. Shall we hear more?

SECOND CHINESE. Why not?

THIRD CHINESE. We came for isolation, To rest in sunrise.

SECOND CHINESE [_raising his book slightly_]. But this will be a part of sunrise, And can you tell how it will end?-- Venetian, Egyptian, Contorted glass ...

[_He turns toward the light in the sky to the right, darkening the candle with his hands._]

In the meantime, the candle shines, [_Indicating the sunrise._] As you say, [_To the Third Chinese._] For the beauty of shining.

FIRST CHINESE [_sympathetically_]. Oh! it will end badly. The lady's father Came clapping behind them To the foot of the hill. He came crying, "Anna, Anna, Anna!" [_Imitating._] He was alone without her, Just as the young gentleman Was alone without her: Three beggars, you see, Begging for one another.

[_The First Negro, carrying two lanterns, approaches cautiously through the trees. At the sight of him, the Second Negro, seated near the Chinese, jumps to his feet. The Chinese get up in alarm. The Second Negro goes around the Chinese toward the First Negro. All see the body of a man hanging to the limb of the tree. They gather together, keeping their eyes fixed on it. The First Negro comes out of the trees and places the lanterns on the ground. He looks at the group and then at the body._]

First Chinese [_moved_]. The young gentleman of the ballad.

THIRD CHINESE [_slowly, approaching the body_]. And the end of the ballad. Take away the bushes.

[_The negroes commence to pull away the bushes._]

SECOND CHINESE. Death, the hermit, Needs no candle In his hermitage.

[_The Second Chinese snuffs out the candle. The First Chinese puts out the lanterns. As the bushes are pulled away, the figure of a girl, sitting half stupefied under the tree, suddenly becomes apparent to the Second Chinese and then to the Third Chinese. They step back. The negroes move to the left. When the First Chinese sees the girl, the instrument slips from his hands and falls noisily to the ground. The girl stirs._]

SECOND CHINESE [_to the girl_]. Is that you, Anna?

[_The girl starts. She raises her head, looks around slowly, leaps to her feet and screams._]

SECOND CHINESE [_gently_]. Is that you, Anna?

[_She turns quickly toward the body, looks at it fixedly and totters up the stage._]

ANNA [_bitterly_]. Go. Tell my father: He is dead.

[_The Second and Third Chinese support her. The First Negro whispers to the First Chinese, then takes the lanterns and goes through the opening to the road, where he disappears in the direction of the valley._]

FIRST CHINESE [_to Second Chinese_]. Bring up fresh water From the spring.

[_The Second Negro takes the jug and enters the trees to the left. The girl comes gradually to herself. She looks at the Chinese and at the sky. She turns her back toward the body, shuddering, and does not look at it again._]

ANNA. It will soon be sunrise.

SECOND CHINESE. One candle replaces Another.

[_The First Chinese walks toward the bushes to the right. He stands by the roadside, as if to attract the attention of any one passing._]

ANNA [_simply_]. When he was in his fields, I worked in ours-- Wore purple to see; And when I was in his garden I wore gold ear-rings. Last evening I met him on the road. He asked me to walk with him To the top of the hill. I felt the evil, But he wanted nothing. He hanged himself in front of me.

[_She looks for support. The Second and Third Chinese help her toward the road.--At the roadside, the First Chinese takes the place of the Third Chinese. The girl and the two Chinese go through the bushes and disappear down the road. The stage is empty except for the Third Chinese. He walks slowly across the stage, pushing the instrument out of his way with his foot. It reverberates. He looks at the water bottle._]

THIRD CHINESE. Of the color of blood ... Seclusion of porcelain ... Seclusion of sunrise ...

[_He picks up the water bottle._]

The candle of the sun Will shine soon On this hermit earth. [_Indicating the bottle._] It will shine soon Upon the trees, And find a new thing [_Indicating the body._] Painted on this porcelain, [_Indicating the trees._] But not on this. [_Indicating the bottle._]

[_He places the bottle on the ground. A narrow cloud over the valley becomes red. He turns toward it, then walks to the right. He finds the book of the Second Chinese lying on the ground, picks it up and turns over the leaves._]

Red is not only The color of blood, Or [_Indicating the body._] Of a man's eyes, Or [_Pointedly._] Of a girl's. And as the red of the sun Is one thing to me And one thing to another, So it is the green of one tree [_Indicating._] And the green of another, Which without it would all be black. Sunrise is multiplied, Like the earth on which it shines, By the eyes that open on it, Even dead eyes, As red is multiplied by the leaves of trees.

[_Toward the end of this speech, the Second Negro comes from the trees to the left, without being seen. The Third Chinese, whose back is turned toward the negro, walks through the bushes to the right and disappears on the road. The negro looks around at the object on the stage. He sees the instrument, seats himself before it and strikes it several times, listening to the sound. One or two birds twitter. A voice, urging a horse, is heard at a distance. There is the crack of a whip. The negro stands up, walks to the right and remains at the side of the road._]

[_The Curtain Falls Slowly._]

SHAM

A SOCIAL SATIRE

BY FRANK G. TOMPKINS

Copyright, 1920, by Stewart & Kidd Co. All rights reserved.

THREE PEOPLE

CHARLES, _the Householder_. CLARA, _his Wife_. THE THIEF.

Originally produced by Sam Hume as the dedicatory piece of the new Arts & Crafts Theater, Detroit, and by Maurice Browne of the Chicago Art Theater.

Reprinted from "The Stewart-Kidd Modern Plays," edited by Frank Shay. The professional and amateur stage rights on this play are strictly reserved by the author. Applications for permission to produce this play should be made to Mr. Frank Shay, care Stewart & Kidd Co., Cincinnati, U. S. A.

SHAM

A SOCIAL SATIRE BY FRANK G. TOMPKINS

[_SCENE: A darkened room. After a moment the door opens, admitting a streak of light. A man peers in cautiously. As soon as he is sure that the room is unoccupied, he steps inside and feels along the wall until he finds the switch which floods the room with light. He is dressed in impeccable taste--evidently a man of culture. From time to time he bites appreciatively on a ham sandwich as he looks about him, apparently viewing the room for the first time. Nothing pleases him until a vase over the mantel catches his eye. He picks it up, looks at the bottom, puts it down hard, and mutters, "Imitation." Other articles receive the same disdainful verdict. The whole room is beneath his notice. He starts to sit down before the fire and enjoy his sandwich. Suddenly he pauses to listen, looks about him hurriedly for some place to hide, thinks better of it, and takes his stand opposite the door, smiling pleasantly and expectantly. The door opens and a young woman enters with a man at her heels. As she sees the thief she stifles a scream and retreats, backing the man out behind her. The thief smiles and waits. Soon the door opens again, and the man enters with the woman clinging to him. They stand opposite the thief and stare at him, not sure what they ought to say or do._]

THIEF [_pleasantly_]. Good evening! [_Pause._] Good evening, good evening. You surprised me. Can't say I expected you home so soon. Was the play an awful bore? [_Pause._] We-e-ell, can't one of you speak. I CAN carry on a conversation alone, but the question-and-answer method is usually preferred. If one of you will ask me how I do, we might get a step farther.

CLARA [_breathlessly_]. You--you--[_With growing conviction._] You're a thief!

THIEF. Exactly. And you, madame? The mistress of the house, I presume. Or are you another thief? The traditional one that it takes to catch the first?

CLARA. This--this is OUR house. Charles, why don't you do something? Don't stand there like a--Make him go away! Tell him he mustn't take anything. [_Advancing toward the thief and speaking all in one sentence._] What have you taken? Give it to me instantly. How dare you! Charles, take it away from him.

CHARLES [_apparently not afraid, a little amused, but uncertain what to do, finally adopting the bullying tone._] I say, old man, you'd better clear out. We've come home. You know you can't--come now, give it up. Be sensible. I don't want to use force--

THIEF. I don't want you to.

CHARLES. If you've got anything of ours--We aren't helpless, you know. [_He starts to draw something black and shiny from his overcoat pocket. It might be a pistol, but he does not reveal its shape._]

THIEF. Let's see those glasses. Give them here. [_Takes them from the uncertain Charles._] Perhaps they're better than mine. Fine cases. [_Tries them._] Humph! Window glass! Take them back. You're not armed, you know. I threw your revolver down the cold-air shaft. Never carry one myself--in business hours. Yours was in the bottom of your bureau drawer. Bad shape, those bureau drawers were in. Nice and neat on top; rat's nest below. Shows up your character in great shape, old man. Always tell your man by his bureau drawers. Didn't it ever occur to you that a thief might drop in on you some night? What would he think of you?

CHARLES. I don't think--

THIEF. You should. I said to myself when I opened that drawer: "They put up a great surface, but they're shams. Probably streak that runs through everything they do." You ought to begin with real neatness. This other sort of thing is just a form of dishonesty.

CLARA. You! Talking to US about honesty--in our house!

THIEF. Just the place for honesty. Begin at home. Let's--

CLARA. Charles, I won't stand this? Grab hold of him. Search him. You hold him. I'll telephone.

THIEF. You can't.

CLARA. You've cut the wires.

THIEF. Didn't have to. Your telephone service has been cut off by the company. I found that out before I came. I suspect you neglected the bill. You ought not to, makes no end of trouble. Inconvenienced me this evening. Better get it put in right away.

CLARA. Charles, do I have to stand here and be insulted?

THIEF. Sit down. Won't you, please! This is your last ham-sandwich, so I can't offer you any, but there's plenty of beer in the cellar, if you care for it. I don't recommend it, but perhaps you're used to it.

CLARA [_almost crying_]. Charles, are you going to let him preach to us all night! I won't have it. Being lectured by a thief!

CHARLES. You can't stop a man's talking, my dear, especially this sort of man. Can't you see he's a born preacher? Old man, while advice is going round, let me tell you that you've missed your calling. Why don't you go in for reform? Ought to go big.

CLARA. Oh, Charles! Don't talk to him. You're a good deal bigger than he is.

THIEF. Maybe I'll jiu-jitsu him.

CLARA. He's insulting you now, Charles. Please try. I'll hold his feet.

THIEF. No doubt you would. But that wouldn't stop my talking. You'd be taking an unfair advantage, too; I couldn't kick a lady, could I? Besides, there are two of you. You leave it to Charles and me. Let's have fair play, at least.

CLARA. Fair play? I'd like to know--

THIEF. Ple-e-ase, don't screech! My head aches and your voice pierces so. Let's sit down quietly and discuss the situation like well-bred people, and when we've come to some understanding, I'll go.

CLARA. Yes, after you've taken everything in the house and criticized everything else you can't take, our manners and our morals.

CHARLES. But he isn't taking anything now, is he? Let the poor chap criticize, can't you? I don't suppose he often meets his--er--customers socially. He's just dying for a good old visit. Lonesome profession, isn't it, old man?

CLARA. If you WON'T do anything, I'll call the neighbors.

THIEF. No neighbors to call. Nearest one a block away, and he isn't at home. That comes of living in a fashionable suburb. Don't believe you can afford it, either. WON'T you sit down, madame? I can't till you do. Well, then I shall have to stand, and I've been on my feet all day. It's hardly considerate [_plaintively_]. I don't talk so well on my feet, either. It will take me much longer this way. [_Clara bounces into a chair, meaningfully._] Thank you, that's better [_sighs with relief as he sinks into the easy chair_]. I knew I could appeal to your better nature. Have a cigarette? [_Charles accepts one from his beautiful case._] And you, madame?

CLARA [_puts out her hand, but withdraws it quickly_]. Thank you, I don't care to smoke--with a thief.

THIEF. Right. Better not smoke, anyway. I'm so old-fashioned, I hate to see women smoke. None of the women in my family do it. Perhaps we're too conventional--

CLARA. I don't know that I care to be like the women of your family. I _will_ have one, if you please. No doubt you get them from a man of taste.

THIEF. Your next-door neighbor. This is--was--his case. Exquisite taste. Seen this case often, I suppose? [_He eyes them closely._] Great friends? Or perhaps you don't move in the same circles. [_Clara glares at him._] Pardon me. Tactless of me, but how could I guess? Well, here's your chance to get acquainted with his cigarettes. Will you have one now?

CLARA. I don't receive stolen goods.

THIEF. That's a little hard on Charles, isn't it? He seems to be enjoying his.

CHARLES. Bully cigarette. Hempsted's a connoisseur. Truth is--we don't know the Hempsteds. They've never called.

THIEF. That's right, Charles. Tell the truth and shame [_with a jerk of his head toward Clara_]--you know who.

CLARA. Charles, there isn't any reason, I'm sure--

THIEF. Quietly, please. Remember my head. I'm sorry, but I must decline to discuss your social prospects with you, and also your neighbors' shortcomings, much as we should all enjoy it. There isn't time for that. Let's get down to business. The question we've got to decide and decide very quickly is, What would you like to have me take?

CLARA [_aghast_]. What would we--what would we like to have you take? Why--why--you can't take anything now; we're here. Of all the nerve! What would we like--

THIEF. It gains by repetition, doesn't it?

CHARLES. You've got me, old man. You'll have to come again. I may be slow, but I don't for the moment see the necessity for your taking anything.

THIEF. I was afraid of this. I'll have to begin farther back. Look here now, just suppose I go away and don't take anything [_with an air of triumph_]. How would you like that?

CHARLES. Suits me to a "T." How about you, my dear? Think you can be firm and bear up under it?

THIEF. Don't be sarcastic. You're too big. Only women and little men should be sarcastic. Besides, it isn't fair to me, when I'm trying to help you. Here am I, trying to get you out of a mighty ticklish situation, and you go and get funny. It isn't right.

CHARLES. Beg pardon, old man. Try us in words of one syllable. You see this is a new situation for us. But we're anxious to learn.

THIEF. Listen, then. See if you can follow this. Now there's nothing in your house that I want; nothing that I could for a moment contemplate keeping without a good deal of pain to myself.

CLARA. We're trying to spare you. But if you care to know, we had the advice of Elsie de Wolfe.

THIEF [_wonderingly_]. Elsie de Wolfe? Elsie, how could you! Now, if you had asked me to guess, I should have said--the Pullman Company. I shudder to think of owning any of this bric-a-brac myself. But it must be done. Here am I offering to burden myself with something I don't want, wouldn't keep for worlds, and couldn't sell. [_Growing a little oratorical._] Why do I do this?

CHARLES. Yes, why do you?

CLARA. Hush, Charles; it's a rhetorical question; he wants to answer it himself.

THIEF. I do it to accommodate you. Must I be even plainer? Imagine that I go away, refusing to take anything in spite of your protests. Imagine it's to-morrow. The police and the reporters have caught wind of the story. Something has been taken from every house in Sargent Road--except one. The nature of the articles shows that the thief is a man of rare discrimination. To be quite frank--a connoisseur.

CLARA. A connoisseur of what? Humph!

THIEF. And a connoisseur of such judgment that to have him pass your Rubens by is to cast doubt upon its authenticity. I do not exaggerate. Let me tell you that from the Hempsteds--[_Clara leans forward, all interest._]--but that would take too long. [_She leans back._] The public immediately asks, Why did the thief take nothing from 2819 Sargent Road? The answer is too obvious: There is nothing worth taking at 2819 Sargent Road.

CHARLES [_comprehendingly_]. Um-hu-m!

THIEF. The public laughs. Worse still, the neighbors laugh. What becomes of social pretensions after that? It's a serious thing, laughter is. It puts anybody's case out of court. And it's a serious thing to have a thief pass you by. People have been socially marooned for less than that. Have I made myself clear? Are you ready for the question? What would you like to have me take?

CHARLES. Now, old man, I say that's neat. Sure you aren't a lawyer?

THIEF. I have studied the law--but not from that side.

CLARA. It's all bosh. Why couldn't we claim we'd lost something very valuable, something we'd never had?

THIEF [_solemnly_]. That's the most shameless proposal I've ever heard. Yes, you could _lie_ about it. I can't conceal from you what I think of your moral standards.

CHARLES. I can't imagine you concealing anything unpleasant.

CLARA. It's no worse than--

THIEF. Your moral sense is blunted. But I can't attend to that now. Think of this: Suppose, as I said, I should take nothing and you should publish that bare-faced lie, and then I should get caught. Would I shield you? Never. Or suppose I shouldn't get caught. Has no one entered your house since you have been here? Doesn't your maid know what you have? Can you trust her not to talk? No, no, it isn't worth the risk. It isn't even common sense, to say nothing of the moral aspects of the case. Why do people never stop to think of the practical advantages of having things stolen! Endless possibilities! Why, a woman loses a $5 brooch and it's immediately worth $15. The longer it stays lost, the more diamonds it had in it, until she prays God every night that it won't be found. Look at the advertising she gets out of it. And does she learn anything from it? Never. Let a harmless thief appear in her room and she yells like a hyena instead of saying to him, like a sensible woman: "Hands up; I've got you right where I want you; you take those imitation pearls off my dresser and get to hell out of here. If I ever see you or those pearls around here again, I'll hand you over to the police." That's what she ought to say. It's the chance of her life. But unless she's an actress, she misses it absolutely. A thief doesn't expect gratitude, but it seems to me he might at least expect understanding and intelligent cooeperation. Here are you facing disgrace, and here am I willing to save you. And what do I get? Sarcasm, cheap sarcasm!

CHARLES. I beg your pardon, old man. I'm truly sorry. You're just too advanced for us. Clara, there's an idea in it. What do you think?

CLARA. It has its possibilities. Now if he'll let me choose--Isn't there a joker in it somewhere? Let me think. We might let you have something. What do you want?

THIEF [_indignantly_]. What do I want? I--don't want--anything. Can't you see that? The question is, What do you want me to have? And please be a little considerate. Don't ask me to take the pianola or the ice-box. Can't you make up your minds? Let me help you. Haven't you got some old wedding gifts? Everybody has. Regular white elephants, yet you don't dare get rid of them for fear the donors will come to see you and miss them. A discriminating thief is a godsend. All you have to do is write: "Dear Maude and Fred: Last night our house was broken into, and of course the first thing that was taken was that lovely Roycroft chair you gave us." Or choose what you like. Here's opportunity knocking at your door. Make it something ugly as you please, but something genuine. I hate sham.

CLARA. Charles, it's our chance. There's that lovely, hand-carved--

THIEF. Stop! I saw it [_shuddering_]. It has the marks of the machine all over it. Not that. I can't take that.

CLARA. Beggars shouldn't be--

THIEF. Where's my coat? That settles it.

CLARA. Oh, don't go! I didn't mean it. Honestly I didn't. It just slipped out. You mustn't leave us like this--

THIEF. I don't have to put up with such--

CLARA. Oh, please stay, and take something! Haven't we anything you want? Charles, hold him; don't let him go. No, that won't do any good. Talk to him--

CHARLES. Don't be so sensitive, old man. She didn't mean it. You know how those old sayings slip out--just say themselves. She only called you a little beggar anyway. You ought to hear what she calls me sometimes.

THIEF. I don't want to. I'm not her husband. And I don't believe she does it in the same way, either. But I'm not going to be mean about this. I'll give you another chance. Trot out your curios.

CHARLES. How about this? Old luster set of Clara's grandmother's. I'm no judge of such things myself, but if you could use it, take it. Granddad gave it to her when they were sweethearts, didn't he, Clara?

THIEF. That! Old luster? That jug won't be four years old its next birthday. Don't lay such things to your grandmother. Have some respect for the dead. If you gave more than $3.98 for it, they saw you coming.

CLARA. You don't know anything about it. You're just trying to humiliate us because you know you have the upper hand.

THIEF. All right. Go ahead. Take your own risks.

CLARA. There's this Sheffield tray?

THIEF. No.

CHARLES. Do you like Wedgewood?

THIEF. Yes, where is it? [_Looks at it._] No.

CLARA. This darling hawthorne vase--

THIEF. Please take it away. It isn't hawthorne.

CHARLES. I suppose Cloisonne--

THIEF. If they were any of them what you call them. But they aren't.

CHARLES. Well, if you'd consider burnt wood. That's a genuine burn.

THIEF. Nothing short of cremation would do it justice. Of course I've got to take one of them, if they're all you've got. But honestly, there isn't one genuine thing in this house, except Charles--and--and the ham sandwich.

CLARA [_takes miniature from cabinet_]. I wonder if you would treasure this as I do. It's very dear to me. It's grandmother--

THIEF [_suspiciously_]. Grandmother again?

CLARA. As a little girl. Painted on ivory. See that quaint old coral necklace. And those adorable yellow curls. And the pink circle comb. Would you like it?

THIEF. Trying to appeal to my sympathy. I've a good notion to take it to punish you. I wonder if it IS your grandmother. There isn't the slightest family resemblance. Look here!--it is!--it's a copy of the Selby miniature! Woman, do you know who that IS? It's Harriet Beecher Stowe at twelve. What have you done with my overcoat?

CHARLES. I give up. Here it is. Clara, that was too bad.

CLARA. I wanted to see if he'd know.

CHARLES. There's no use trying to save us after this. We'll just have to bear the disgrace.

THIEF. Charles, you're a trump! I'll even take that old daub for YOU. Give it to me.

CHARLES. Wait a minute. You won't have to. Say, Clara, where is that old picture of Cousin Paul? It's just as bad as it pretends to be, if genuineness is all you want.

THIEF [_suspiciously_]. Who is Cousin Paul? Don't try to ring in Daniel Webster on me.

CHARLES. Cousin of mine. Lives on a farm near Madison, Wisconsin.

THIEF. You don't claim the picture is by Sargent or Whistler?

CLARA. It couldn't be--

THIEF [_ignoring her pointedly_]. Do you, Charles?

CHARLES. Certainly not. It's a water color of the purest water, and almost a speaking likeness.

THIEF. I'll take Cousin Paul. Probably he has human interest.

CHARLES. That's the last thing I should have thought of in connection with Cousin Paul.

THIEF. Bring him, but wrapped, please. My courage might fail me if I saw him face to face.

CHARLES [_leaving room for picture_]. Mine always does.

THIEF. While Charles is wrapping up the picture, I want to know how you got back so early. Your maid said you were going to the Garrick.

CLARA. We told her so. But we went to the moving pictures.

THIEF. You ought not to go to the movies. It will destroy your literary taste and weaken your minds.

CLARA. I don't care for them myself, but Charles won't see anything else.

THIEF. You ought to make him. Men only go to the theater anyway because their wives take them. They'd rather stay at home or play billiards. You have a chance right there. Charles will go where you take him. By and by he will begin to like it. Now to-night there was a Granville Barker show at the Garrick, and you went to the movies to see a woman whose idea of cuteness is to act as if she had a case of arrested mental development.

CHARLES [_entering, doing up picture_]. Silly old films, anyway. But Clara will go. Goes afternoons when I'm not here, and then drags me off again in the evening. Here's your picture, as soon as I get it tied up. Can't tell you how grateful we are. Shall we make it unanimous, Clara?

CLARA. I haven't the vote, you know. Clumsy! give me the picture.

THIEF. Don't try to thank me. If you'll give up this shamming I'll feel repaid for my time and trouble [_looking at watch_]. By Jove! it's far too much time. I must make tracks this minute. I'll feel repaid if you'll take my advice about the theater for one thing, and--why don't you bundle all this imitation junk together and sell it and get one genuine good thing?

[_Clara leaves, apparently for more string._]

CHARLES. Who'd buy them?

THIEF. There must be other people in the world with taste as infallibly bad as yours.

CHARLES. Call that honest?

THIEF. Certainly. I'm not telling you to sell them as relics. You couldn't in the first place, except to a home for the aged and indigent blind. But I know a man who needs them. They'd rejoice his heart. They'd be things of beauty to him. I wish I could help you pick out something with your money. But I don't dare risk seeing you again.

CLARA [_reentering, with the picture tied_]. Why not? There's honor among thieves.

THIEF. There _is_. If you were thieves, I'd know just how far to trust you. Now, I'd be willing to trust Charles as man to man. Gentleman's agreement. But [_looking at Clara_] I don't know--

CHARLES. Clara is just as honest as we are--with her own class. But your profession puts you outside the pale with her; you're her natural enemy. You haven't any rights. But you've been a liberal education for us both.

THIEF. I've been liberal. You meet me--listen!--there are footsteps on the porch. I--I've waited too long. Here I've stood talking--

CHARLES. Well, stop it now, can't you? I don't see how you've ever got anywhere. Hide!

THIEF. No, it can't be done. If you'll play fair, I'm safe enough here in this room, safer than anywhere else. Pretend I'm a friend of yours. You will? Gentleman's agreement? [_He shakes hands with Charles._]

CHARLES. Gentleman's agreement. My word of honor.

CLARA [_offers her hand as Charles starts for the door_]. Gentleman's agreement, but only in this. I haven't forgiven you for what you've said. If I ever get you in a tight place--look out.

THIEF [_taking her hand_]. Don't tell more than one necessary lie. It's so easy to get started in that sort of thing. Stick to it that I'm a friend of the family and that I've been spending the evening. God knows I have!

CLARA. I'll try to stick to that. But can't I improvise a little? It's such fun!

THIEF. Not a bit. Not one little white lie.

CHARLES [_entering with a young man behind him_]. It's a man from the _News_. He says he was out here on another story and he's got a big scoop. There's been some artistic burglary in the neighborhood and he's run onto it. I told him we hadn't lost anything and that we don't want to get into the papers; but he wants us to answer a few questions.

REPORTER. Please do. I need some stuff about the neighborhood.

CLARA. I don't know, Charles, but that it's our duty. [_She smiles wickedly at the thief._] Something we say may help catch the thieves. Perhaps we owe it to law and order.

REPORTER. That's right. Would you object if I used your name?

[_Charles and the thief motion to Clara to keep still, but throughout the rest of the conversation she disregards their frantic signals, and sails serenely on._]

CLARA. I don't know that we should mind if you mention us nicely. Will the Hempsteds be in? I shan't mind it, if they don't.

REPORTER. Good for you. Now, have you--

CLARA. We have missed something. We haven't had time to look thoroughly, but we do know that one of our pictures is gone.

[_The men are motioning to her, but she goes on sweetly._]

REPORTER. A-a-ah! Valuable picture. He hasn't taken anything that wasn't best of its class. Remarkable chap. Must be the same one that rifled the Pierpont collection of illuminated manuscripts. Culled the finest pieces without a mistake.

THIEF [_interested_]. He made one big mistake. He--[_stops short_].

REPORTER. Know the Pierponts?

THIEF. Er--ye-es. I've been in their house. [_Retires from the conversation. Clara smiles._]

REPORTER. Well, believe me, if he's taken anything, your reputation as collectors is made. Picture, eh? Old master, I suppose?

CLARA. A family portrait. We treasured it for that. Associations, you know.

REPORTER. Must have been valuable, all right. Depend on him to know. He doesn't run away with any junk. Who was the artist?

CLARA. We don't know--definitely.

REPORTER. Never heard it attributed to anybody?

CLARA. We don't care to make any point of such things. But there have been people who have thought--it was not--a--a Gilbert Stuart.

CHARLES. Clara!

CLARA. I don't know much about such things myself. But our friend [_nods toward the thief_], Mr.--Mr. Hibbard--who has some reputation as a collector, has always said that it was--not. In spite of that fact, he had offered to take it off our hands.

CHARLES. Clara, you're going too far--

REPORTER. She's quite right. You're wrong, Mr. Hibbard. You may be good, but this fellow KNOWS. Too bad you didn't take it while the taking was good. This fellow never sells. Of course he can't exhibit. Just loves beautiful things. No, sir, it was real.

THIEF [_between his teeth_]. It wasn't. Of all the--

CLARA [_smiling_]. You take your beating so ungracefully, Mr. Hibbard. The case, you see, is all against you.

THIEF. Be careful. The picture may be found at any minute. Don't go too far.

CLARA. I hardly think it will be found unless the thief is caught. And I have such perfect confidence in his good sense that I don't expect that.

REPORTER. Lots of time for a getaway. When was he here?

CLARA. He was gone when we came from the theater. But we must almost have caught him. Some of our finest things were gathered together here on the table ready for his flight. How he must have hated to leave them, all the miniatures and the cloisonne. I almost feel sorry for him.

CHARLES. I do.

CLARA. You see, we went to the Garrick for the Granville Barker show. Mr. Hibbard took us [_she smiles sweetly at him_]. I'm devoted to the best in drama and I always insist that Charles and Mr. Hibbard shall take me only to the finest things. And now we come home to find our--you're sure it was a Gilbert Stuart?--gone.

THIEF. I've got to be getting out of here! Can't stay a minute longer! Charles, I wish you luck in that reform we were speaking of, but I haven't much hope [_looking at Clara_]. There is such a thing as total depravity. Oh, here! [_taking package from under his arm_]. What am I thinking of? I was running away with your package [_hands it to Clara_].

CLARA [_refusing it_]. Oh, but it's yours, Mr. Hibbard. I couldn't think of taking it. Really, you must keep it to remember us by. Put it among your art treasures at home, next to your lovely illuminated manuscripts, and whenever you look at it remember us and this delightful evening, from which we are all taking away so much. You must keep it--that's part of the bargain, isn't it? And now are we even?

THIEF. Even? Far from it. I yield you your woman's right to the last word, and I admit it's the best [_stoops and kisses her hand_]. Good-night, Clara. [_To the reporter._] May I give you a lift back to town?

REPORTER. Thanks. As far as the Hempsteds' corner. Good-night. Thank you for this much help. [_Exeunt._]

CHARLES. Thank goodness, they've gone. What relief! That pace is too rapid for me. You had me running round in circles. But he's got the picture, and we're safe at last. But don't you think, Clara, you took some awful risks. You goaded him pretty far.

CLARA. I had to. Did you hear him call me Clara?

CHARLES [_chuckling_]. He doesn't know our name. But he wasn't a bad fellow, was he? I couldn't help liking him in spite of his impudence.

CLARA. You showed it. You took sides with him against me all the time the reporter was here. But, you know, he was right about our house. It's all wrong. The Hempsteds would see it in a minute. I believe I'll clear out this cabinet and have this room done over in mahogany.

CHARLES. Too expensive this winter.

CLARA. Birch will do just as well--nobody knows the difference. Listen! is he coming back?

REPORTER [_in the doorway_]. Excuse me--listen. Mr. Hibbard says you've given him the wrong package. He says you need this to go with the picture of your grandmother. And he says, sir, that you need to get wise to your own family. He's waiting for me. Good-night! [_Exit._]

CHARLES [_angrily_]. Get wise to my own family? He may know all about art [_undoing the picture_], but I guess I know my own relatives. [_Holds up picture so that audience can see it, but he can't._] And if that isn't a picture of my own cousin Paul, I'll eat--[_sees Clara laughing_]. What the devil! [_Looks at picture, which represents George Washington._] Clara! you did that! [_laughs uproariously_]. You little cheat!

[_Curtain._]

THE MEDICINE SHOW

A COMEDY

BY STUART WALKER

Copyright, 1917, by Stewart & Kidd Company. All rights reserved.

THE MEDICINE SHOW was first produced by Stuart Walker's Portmanteau Theatre, with the following cast:

LUT'ER _Williard Webster_. GIZ _Edgar Stehli_. DR. STEV'N VANDEXTER _Lew Medbury_.

CHARACTERS

LUT'ER. GIZ. DR. STEV'N VANDEXTER.

_THE SCENE is on the south bank of the Ohio River. An old soap box, a log and a large stone are visible. The river is supposed to flow between the stage and the audience. In the background, at the lop of the "grade," is the village of Rock Springs._

Reprinted from "Portmanteau Plays" published by Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Ohio, by special permission of Stewart and Kidd. The professional and amateur stage rights are strictly reserved by Mr. Stuart Walker.

THE MEDICINE SHOW

A COMEDY BY STUART WALKER

[_PROLOGUE: This is only a quarter of a play. Its faults are many. Come, glory in them with us._

_You are a little boy once more lying on your rounded belly on the cool, damp sands beside the beautiful river. You are still young enough to see the wonder that everywhere touches the world; and men are in the world--all sorts of men. But you can still look upon them with the shining eyes of brotherhood. You can still feel the mystery that is true understanding. Everywhere about you men and things are reaching for the infinite, each in his own way, be it big or little, be it the moon or a medicine show; and you yourself are not yet decided whether to reach for the stars or go a-fishing. Brother!_

_Lut'er enters or rather oozes in._

_He is a tall, expressionless, uncooerdinated person who might be called filthy were it not for the fact that the dirt on his skin and on his clothes seems an inherent part of him. He has a wan smile that--what there is of it--is not displeasing. Strangely enough, his face is always smooth-shaven. He carries a fishing pole made from a tree twig and equipped with a thread knotted frequently and a bent pin for hook._

_Lut'er looks about and his eyes light on the stone. He attempts to move it with his bare foot to the water's edge, but it is too heavy for him. Next he looks at the log, raises his foot to move it, then abandons the attempt because his eyes rest on the lighter soap box. This he puts in position, never deigning to touch it with his hands. Then he sits calmly and drawing a fishing worm from the pocket of his shirt fastens it on the pin-hook and casts his line into the water. Thereafter he takes no apparent interest in fishing._

_After a moment Giz enters._

_Giz is somewhat dirtier than Lut'er but the dirt is less assimilated and consequently less to be condoned. Besides he is fuzzy with a beard of long standing. He may have been shaved some Saturdays ago--but quite ago._

_Giz doesn't speak to Lut'er and Lut'er doesn't speak to Giz, but Lut'er suggests life by continued chewing and he acknowledges the proximity of Giz by spitting and wiping his lips with his hand. Giz having tried the log and the rock finally chooses the rock and acknowledges Lut'er's salivary greeting by spitting also; but he wipes his mouth on his sleeve._

_After a moment he reaches forward with his bare foot and touches the water._]

GIZ. 'Tis warm as fresh milk.

[_Lut'er, not to be wholly unresponsive, spits. A fresh silence falls upon them._]

GIZ. 'S Hattie Brown came in?

[_Lut'er spits and almost shakes his head negatively._]

She's a mighty good little steam-boat.

LUT'ER. She's water-logged.

GIZ. She ain't water-logged.

LUT'ER. She is.

GIZ. She ain't.

LUT'ER. She is.

GIZ. She ain't.

[_The argument dies of malnutrition. After a moment of silence Giz speaks._]

GIZ. 'S river raisin'?

LUT'ER. Nup!

[_Silence._]

GIZ. Fallin'?

LUT'ER. Nup!

GIZ. Standin' still?

LUT'ER. Uh!

[_The conversation might continue if Giz did not catch a mosquito on his leg._]

GIZ. Gosh! A galler-nipper at noonday!

[_Lut'er scratches back of his ear warily._]

GIZ. An' look at the whelp!

[_Giz scratches actively, examines the wound and anoints it with tobacco juice._

_The Play would be ended at this moment for lack of varied action if Dr. Stev'n Vandexter did not enter._

_He is an eager, healthy-looking man with a whitish beard that long washing in Ohio River water has turned yellowish. He wears spectacles and his clothes and general appearance are somewhat an improvement upon Lut'er and Giz. Furthermore he wears what were shoes and both supports of his suspenders are fairly intact. He is whittling a piece of white pine with a large jack-knife._

_Seeing Lut'er and Giz he draws the log between them and sits._

_After a moment in which three cuds are audibly chewed, Dr. Stev'n speaks._]

DOCTOR. What gits me is how they done it.

[_For the first time Lut'er turns his head as admission that some one is there. Giz looks up with a dawn of interest under his beard. Silence._]

DOCTOR. I traded a two-pound catfish for a box of that salve: an' I don't see how they done it.

[_Lut'er having turned his head keeps it turned. Evidently Dr. Stev'n always has something of interest to say._]

GIZ. Kickapoo?

DOCTOR. Ye'. Kickapoo Indian Salve. I don't think no Indian never seen it.

[_He looks at Giz for acquiescence._]

GIZ. Y'ain't never sure about nothin' these days.

[_Dr. Stev'n looks at Lut'er for acquiescence also, and Lut'er approving turns his head forward and spits assent._]

DOCTOR. I smelled it an' it smelled like ker'sene. I biled it an' it biled over an' burnt up like ker'sene.... I don't think it was nothin' but ker'sene an' lard.

GIZ. Reckon 't wuz common ker'sene?

DOCTOR. I don't know whether 't wuz common ker'sene but I know 't wuz ker'sene.... An' I bet ker'sene'll cure heaps o' troubles if yer use it right.

GIZ. That air doctor said the salve ud cure most anything.

LUT'ER [_as though a voice from the grave, long forgotten_]. Which doctor?

GIZ. The man doctor--him with the p'inted musstash.

LUT'ER. I seen him take a egg outer Jimmie Weldon's ear--an' Jimmie swore he didn't have no hen in his head.

DOCTOR. But the lady doctor said it warn't so good--effie-cacious she called it--withouten you took two bottles o' the buildin' up medicine, a box o' the liver pills an' a bottle o' the hair fluid.

GIZ. She knowed a lot. She told me just how I felt an' she said she hated to trouble me but I had a internal ailment. An' she said I needed all their medicine jus' like the Indians used it. But I told her I didn't have no money so she said maybe the box o' liver pills would do if I'd bring 'em some corn for their supper.

DOCTOR. Y' got the liver pills?

GIZ. Uh-huh.

LUT'ER. Took any?

GIZ. Nup, I'm savin' 'em.

LUT'ER. What fur?

GIZ. Till I'm feelin' sicker'n I am now.

DOCTOR. Where are they?

GIZ. In m' pocket.

[_They chew in silence for a minute._]

DOCTOR. Yes, sir! It smelled like ker'sene ter me--and ker'sene 't wuz.... Ker'sene'll cure heaps o' things if you use it right.

[_He punctuates his talk with covert glances at Giz. His thoughts are on the pills._]

DOCTOR. Which pocket yer pills in, Giz?

GIZ [_discouragingly_]. M' hip pocket.

[_Again they chew._]

DOCTOR. The Family Medicine Book where I learned ter be a doctor said camphor an' ker'sene an' lard rubbed on flannel an' put on the chest 'ud cure tizic, maybe. [_He looks at Giz._]

DOCTOR. An' what ud cure tizic ought ter cure anything, I think.... I'd 'a' cured m' second wife if the winder hadn't blowed out an' she got kivered with snow. Atter that she jus' wheezed until she couldn't wheeze no longer. An' so when I went courtin' m' third wife, I took a stitch in time an' told her about the camphor an' ker'sene an' lard. [_Ruefully._] She's a tur'ble healthy woman. [_His feelings and his curiosity having overcome his tact, he blurts out._] Giz, why'n th' hell don't yer show us yer pills!

GIZ. Well--if yer wanner see 'em--here they air.

[_He takes the dirty, mashed box out of his hip pocket and hands it to the Doctor. The Doctor opens the box and smells the pills._]

DOCTOR. Ker'sene.... Smell 'em, Lut'er. [_He holds the box close to Luter's nose._]

LUT'ER [_with the least possible expenditure of energy_]. Uh!

DOCTOR. Ker'sene!... Well, I guess it's good for the liver, too.... Gimme one, Giz?

GIZ. I ain't got so many I can be givin' 'em ter everybody.

DOCTOR. Jus' one, Giz.

GIZ. She said I ought ter take 'em all fer a cure.

LUT'ER. What yer got, Giz? [_Calling a man by name is a great effort for Lut'er._]

GIZ. Mostly a tired feelin' an' sometimes a crick in th' back. [_Lut'er displays a sympathy undreamed of._]

LUT'ER. Gimme one, Giz.

GIZ. Gosh! You want th' whole box, don't yer?

LUT'ER. Keep yer pills. [_He spits._]

DOCTOR. What's ailin' _you_, Lut'er?

LUT'ER. Oh, a tired feelin'. [_There is a long moment of suspended animation, but the Doctor knows that the mills of the gods grind slowly--and he waits for Lut'er to continue._] An' a crick in m' back.

DOCTOR. I'll cure yer, Lut'er. [_Lut'er just looks._] If that Kickapoo doctor with the p'inted muss-tash kin cure yer, I guess I can.

GIZ [_who has been thinking pretty hard_]. Got any terbaccer, Doc?

DOCTOR. Yep.

GIZ. Well, here's a pill fer a chaw. [_He and the Doctor rise._]

[_Giz takes a pill out of the box and the Doctor takes his tobacco from his pocket, reaches out his hand for the pill and holds out the tobacco, placing his thumb definitely on the plug so that Giz can bite off so much and no more. Giz bites and the Doctor takes over the pill. Lut'er not to be outdone takes a battered plug of tobacco from his pocket and bites of an unlimited "chaw." The Doctor takes his knife from his pocket and cuts the pill, smelling it._]

DOCTOR. Ker'sene! [_He tastes it._] Ker'sene! Now I been thinkin' things over, Lut'er and Giz.... [_He tastes the pill again._] Ker'sene, sure! [_He sits down on the log once more, spits carefully and crosses his legs._] I got a business proposition to make. [_Silence. Lut'er spits and crosses his legs, and Giz just spits._]

DOCTOR. There ain't enough home industry here in Rock Springs. We got a canning fact'ry and a stea'mill; but here comes a medicine show from Ioway--a Kickapoo Indian Medicine Show from Ioway! Now--what we need in Rock Springs is a medicine show! [_He waits for the effect upon his audience._]

LUT'ER [_after a pause_]. How yer goin' ter git it?

DOCTOR. Well, here's my proposition. Ain't we got as much horse sense as them Ioway Indians?

LUT'ER. A damn sight more. [_That is the evident answer to the Doctor, but Lut'er develops a further idea._] We got the country from the Indians.

GIZ [_after a moment of accumulating admiration_]. By Golly, Lut'er, yer right.

DOCTOR. Now, I got some medicine science. I'd 'a' cured my second wife if it hadn't been for that busted winder.

GIZ. Yeh, but what come o' yer first wife?

DOCTOR. I could 'a' cured her, too, only I hadn't found the Family Medicine Book then.

LUT'ER. Well, what I wanter know is--what's yer proposition.... I'm in a hurry.... Here comes the Hattie Brown.

[_The Hattie Brown and the whistle of the steam-mill indicate noon. Lut'er takes in the line--removes the fishing worm and puts it in his pocket._]

DOCTOR. Well, I'll make the salve an' do the talkin'; Giz'll sort o' whoop things up a bit and Lut'er'll git cured.

LUT'ER. What'll I get cured of?

DOCTOR. Oh, lumbago an' tired feelin' ... crick in the back and tizic.

LUT'ER. But who'll take a egg out o' somebody's ear?

DOCTOR. Giz'll learn that.

LUT'ER [_with a wan smile that memory illuminates._] An' who'll play the pianny?

DOCTOR. Besteena, my daughter.

LUT'ER. Where we goin'?

DOCTOR. We'll go ter Lavanny first.

LUT'ER. How'll we git there?

DOCTOR. Walk--unless somebody give us a tote.

GIZ. We kin go in my John-boat.

LUT'ER. Who'll row? [_There is fear in his voice._]

GIZ. We'll take turns. [_Lut'er looks with terror upon Giz._]

LUT'ER. How fur is it?

DOCTOR. Three an' a half mile.... Will you go, Lut'er?

LUT'ER [_evidently thinking deeply_]. How fur is it?

GIZ. Three an' a half mile.

DOCTOR. Will yer go, Lut'er?

LUT'ER. Uh-h.

DOCTOR. Huh?

GIZ. He said, uh-huh.

[_Lut'er chews in silence._]

DOCTOR. I thought he said uh-uh.

GIZ. He said uh-huh.

DOCTOR. He didn't say nothin' o' the sort--he said uh-uh.

[_They turn to Lut'er questioningly. He is chewing intensely._]

LUT'ER [_after a pause_]. How fur did yer say it wuz?

DOCTOR. Three an' a half mile.

[_Silence._]

GIZ. We'll each take a oar.

[_Silence. A stentorian voice is heard calling "Stee'vun." The Doctor rises, hastily._]

DOCTOR. What d'yer say, Lut'er?

LUT'ER. It's three an' a half mile ter Lavanny--an' three an' a half mile back.... Pretty fur.

DOCTOR. We kin come back on the current.

LUT'ER. Three an' a half mile air three an' a half mile--current or no current.

[_Again the masterful female voice calls "Stee'vun." There is no mistaking its meaning. The Doctor is torn between home and business. Lut'er takes up his rod, rebaits the hook with the fishing-worm from his pocket and casts his line into the river._]

LUT'ER. I'll think it over ... but I ain't givin' yuh no hope.... Three an' a half mile one way air pretty fur ... but two ways--it's turruble.

DOCTOR. Come on, Giz. We'll talk it over.

[_The Doctor and Giz leave Lut'er to his problem. Lut'er is undecided. He is at a crisis in his life. He spits thoughtfully and looks after the retreating Doctor and Giz._]

LUT'ER. Three an' a half mile.... [_He takes in his line and removes the fishing-worm. He rises and looks again after the Doctor and Giz. He hesitates._] ... two ways.... [_He starts in the opposite direction, as he justifies himself to his inner self._] Rock Springs is fur enough fur me! [_When he disappears the play is over._]

[_Curtain._]

FOR ALL TIME

A PLAY

BY RITA WELLMAN

Copyright, 1918, by Rita Wellman. All rights reserved.

CHARACTERS

MONSIEUR ROBERT. NANETTE. DIANE BERTRAL. MADAME LE BARGY.

TIME: _France, 1915_.

Dedicated to MAURICE MAETERLINCK,

Whose essay in "The Wrack of the Storm" inspired this play.

Application for the right of performing FOR ALL TIME must be made to Rita Wellman, 142 East 18th Street, New York.

FOR ALL TIME

A PLAY BY RITA WELLMAN

[_SCENE: Sitting room in the house of Madame le Bargy. Furnished in excellent taste. Main entrance center, this leads into a hall. Another entrance left, back. French window right near back, near this stands a large wing chair. Couch left, well forward. Chairs near this. Nanette comes from the entrance left as Monsieur Robert comes into the room from entrance center. Nanette is a European old maid. Her dark eyes are full of fire and her lips are bitter. She speaks quickly and sharply and is always on the defensive. Monsieur Robert is well groomed, gentle, weak and likable. Nanette is in deep mourning. Monsieur Robert carries a small bunch of flowers which he holds awkwardly and fussily as if they embarrassed him._]

NANETTE. Monsieur Robert....

ROBERT [_coming forward_]. Nanette.... How are you, Nanette! You look thinner.

NANETTE. Yes, it's the mourning. It's unbecoming.

ROBERT. I shouldn't say that, Nanette. How is Madame? Tell me. [_Nanette gives an eloquent shrug._] I haven't dared to come before. You know how I hate anything--anything like a scene.

NANETTE [_sitting left_]. Sit down, Monsieur Robert. [_He sits in a chair forward right._] It was cowardly of you not to come to see Madame.

ROBERT. Yes, I know. I am such a coward. I cannot imagine how I came to be such a coward, Nanette. I am afraid to do anything any more. Yet my mind keeps so active. How do you account for that? It's my imagination. It seems to run ahead and do things in my place. In these times I am all over the world at once. Nanette, will you believe it, that I suffer actually with every man in the trenches?

NANETTE [_contemptuously_]. Oh, I daresay.

ROBERT. You don't understand my case. I am fifty-five. I have lived for my work always. Why should I give it up now that the world has gone mad? Some one must stay behind and keep things together. Some one must conduct the dull march of everyday life. We can't all be heroes.

NANETTE. Your work!

ROBERT. Well, to be at the head of a big charity. That is something. Countless lives, numberless families are in my care. I am sort of a father to them all, Nanette.

NANETTE. They could have a mother as well.

ROBERT [_with pained eagerness_]. Do you really think that?

NANETTE. I know it. There are many women as well fitted for your post as you--better fitted, in fact.

ROBERT. Oh, surely not. I have had the experience of years. I love my work so. I love my little people.

NANETTE. You have made a pleasure out of what should be only your duty. It isn't the poor who couldn't get along without you, Monsieur Robert. It's you who couldn't get along without the poor.

ROBERT. Well, are we all to live merely to do our duty? Is that what the Germans are going to teach us--to be machines like themselves?

NANETTE. I suppose after all, you are better off where you are.

ROBERT. How do you mean, Nanette?

NANETTE. You are more of a woman than a man after all.

ROBERT. You were always bitter against me, Nanette.

NANETTE. You were always superior with me, because I was not beautiful like Madame nor young like Maurice.

ROBERT. How did you say she was, Nanette?

NANETTE. You will find her greatly changed.

ROBERT. I wanted to come to her as soon as she came, from Aix les Bains. When she went to recover the body.

NANETTE [_in a tone of deep feeling_]. Yes, when we went hoping to find Maurice.

ROBERT [_softly_]. Tell me about his death.

NANETTE. There were terrible days in which we could learn nothing certain. Several times they gave up hope. What hope! It only made certainty more unbearable.

ROBERT. They found him at last.

NANETTE. Yes, they found Maurice.

ROBERT. The French. That was good.

NANETTE. No, the Germans.

ROBERT. But Madame wrote me....

NANETTE. That was a lie she told you. The Germans found him. It was they who had the privilege of putting him away to his final rest. He had just won his cross.

ROBERT. He won the cross!

NANETTE. Yes, didn't you hear? That very week. [_Almost overcome with emotion she rises._] We have it now. [_She goes out back a moment and returns with a small black box which she opens reverently._] Here is all that we have left of Maurice. [_She hands him a picture post card._] This was taken only the day before.... [_She hands him a letter._] This was the last letter ... you can see the date.... He was never so confident or full of life.... There is even a joke about me. He was always making fun of me. I don't know why. [_She hands him a revolver._] Here is his revolver. [_She takes out the small box with the cross of war and hesitates to give it to him._] This--this is what we have left in place of Maurice. [_With a violent look she opens the box and then suddenly hands it to him._]

ROBERT. You mustn't look on it in that way, Nanette.

NANETTE. I can't help it.

ROBERT [_reading_]. Maurice Paul le Bargy. Little Maurice! He was never meant for action either. Do you remember how we used to tease him? He hated to make any decision. He loved life's dreams and nuances.

NANETTE. He was nothing but a dreamer. Madame and I were talking only yesterday of his garden--did we ever tell you of the garden he had when he was a boy?

ROBERT [_handing her the box very carefully_]. No. Tell me about the garden.

NANETTE. He made himself a garden, everything in it was arranged as if for people only an inch high.

ROBERT. But there are no such people.

NANETTE. Of course not. That is why every one made fun of him. But he went on building it just the same. It was scaled so that he was a giant in it. There were little houses and little walks and little boats sailing on lakes two feet across. The geraniums were great trees, his pet turtle was like a prehistoric monster, and the hollyhocks pierced heaven itself. When people told him that no one could really enjoy such a garden he said that the ants could, and they ought to appreciate a little beauty because they were always so busy.

ROBERT. That was like Maurice. How vast the sky must have seemed to him who loved minute shadowy things!

NANETTE. He was always timid. Everything violent frightened him. They made him positively ill. And how he dreaded the sea! Do you remember how Madame tried to get him to swim?

ROBERT. But he did learn to swim finally.

NANETTE. Yes. But he told me one day--"Nanette, when I hear the surf my whole body shakes with fear. I feel as if some terrible giant were calling me. I hate the great sea."

ROBERT. And he fell into the sea, didn't he?

NANETTE. Two thousand feet.

ROBERT. What he must have endured all alone!

NANETTE. No one can know.

[_After a pause._]

ROBERT. You say Madame has changed?

NANETTE [_looking toward left before speaking_]. Yes.

ROBERT. Why do you look around like that? Is there anything wrong?

NANETTE. Yes, there is.

ROBERT. What do you mean? Is Madame very ill?

NANETTE. There has been a change.

ROBERT. What kind of a change?

NANETTE. Madame has changed. You wouldn't know her, Monsieur Robert.

ROBERT. You mean she has grown old? Madame was always so beautiful. Has her hair turned white?

NANETTE. No, it isn't that.

ROBERT. You mean she is so stricken she can't talk with me? She won't see me?

NANETTE. She will see you. But for your own peace of mind I advise you to go away. I will tell her that you came. That will be the best way.

ROBERT. A change, you say? You mean she has altered so....

NANETTE. Yes. The truth is, it is Madame's mind.

ROBERT. Her mind! No, no, don't tell me that. That is the worst of all. Do you mean that she is not clear in her mind? She wouldn't know me? She wouldn't be able to remember? Nanette, I can't believe it. I can't believe that this great and beautiful woman could give in like that. Everywhere you see the small ones breaking down. But the great spirits like hers--oh they must keep up. What else is there left for us if they give up, too?

NANETTE. If you could hear her talk, Monsieur Robert. The things she says.... Sometimes I have to run away and lock my door. I am afraid of her.

ROBERT. I cannot stay now, Nanette. I couldn't bear it. It was hard enough for me before. What can I say to her, Nanette, when my own grief finds no comfort? Maurice was like my own son. He was the fruit of my own soul. Into him went all the spiritual love I had for Madame, the love which for fourteen years....

NANETTE. Monsieur Robert!

ROBERT. Oh, Nanette, forget your piety for once and let me speak my heart out.

NANETTE [_with her strange, bitter coldness_]. No, Monsieur Robert, I can never forget what you call my--piety.

ROBERT. No, you never can. That is why I have never been able to talk to you. Your heart is closed to all but Maurice.

NANETTE. Yes, that is true. My heart has been like one of those vases of domestic use which the ancients buried with the dead in their tombs. All that was warm and beautiful in me is closed away forever with Maurice. Although I was never more to him than a familiar object which was a part of his everyday life. Only his old nurse.

ROBERT. How did he come to inspire such love in every one who came near him?

NANETTE. Because he was young and beautiful.

ROBERT. But that is simply a temporary state.

NANETTE. Maurice would always have been young and beautiful.

ROBERT. Yes, he made you believe that. When he talked with you you felt glad and young as if you'd heard music.

NANETTE. He loved life.

ROBERT. Yet he was a coward.

NANETTE. But he always dared to do what he was afraid to do.

ROBERT. Yes, that is where he was different from me. That is what I have never been able to do--to dare as far as I could imagine.

[_He goes slowly toward the back._]

NANETTE [_rising_]. You are going?

ROBERT. Yes. I can't see her. You see the state I am in. What could I say to her? I had better go.

NANETTE. Yes, it is the best way for you both.

[_Robert hesitates at the chair right. He tentatively puts a hand out to touch the arm of it, and regards it curiously._]

NANETTE [_unsteadily_]. What are you doing?

ROBERT. It is strange.... [_Suddenly he falls into the chair and buries his head in the cushions, sobbing and calling._] Maurice! Maurice!

NANETTE [_hoarsely_]. Monsieur Robert. [_As he does not answer--sharply and frightened._] Monsieur Robert!

ROBERT [_rises slowly, a little dazed, but calm_]. Yes, yes, I know. I am trying your nerves. Forgive me. I am going now, Nanette. Here--I was forgetting--The flowers I brought for Madame. You will give them to her, Nanette.

NANETTE. Monsieur Robert, why did you act in that way just now? Why did you go to that chair?

ROBERT. I don't know.

NANETTE. When we came home from Aix les Bains I thought Madame would go wild. She tore her clothes. She went striding about the house from room to room calling at the top of her voice--Maurice, Maurice. She went into all the rooms, into his room, looking into the closets--everywhere--Then she came running down here. She went back into the back sitting room where she is now--then back into this room. At last she came to that chair.

ROBERT. To that chair, Nanette? Are you sure?

NANETTE. To that very chair. Then she flung herself down into it and cried. That was the first time she had cried. I went away. When I came back she was still there. And then this strange and terrible change came over her.

ROBERT. How do you mean?

NANETTE. A peculiar quiet, an awful calm like death--only more terrible.

ROBERT. Yes, that is how I felt.

NANETTE. Just now in that chair?

ROBERT. Yes, just now.

NANETTE. A calm, you say?

ROBERT. Yes, like a hand pressed over my heart.

NANETTE. But you seemed happier, Monsieur Robert.

ROBERT. I am happier, Nanette. [_He goes toward back._] I am going.

[_He goes out at center. Nanette watches him dumbfounded. She then gets the black box, carefully puts away her keepsakes, and takes the box out center, returning almost at the same time that Diane Bertral enters. Diane Bertral is a beautiful woman of about twenty-eight. She is nervous and ill at ease, almost hysterical._]

DIANE. Does Madame le Bargy live here?

NANETTE. Yes, she does. Where can Julie be? Did the maid let you in?

DIANE. No, the gentleman who just went out ... he left the door open for me. He evidently thought I was a friend.

NANETTE. Did you want to see Madame le Bargy?

DIANE. Yes, very much. Could I see her, do you think?

NANETTE. She is back in her own sitting room. She isn't to be disturbed.

DIANE. No, I suppose not. I shouldn't have come.

NANETTE. If you wished to speak with her about anything important I can take the message.

DIANE [_absently_]. No--no....

NANETTE [_regarding her suspiciously_]. You know Madame le Bargy personally?

DIANE. No, no, I don't.

NANETTE. I thought not.

[_Sitting._]

DIANE. May I sit down here for a moment? I am so tired. I have walked all the way, or rather I have run most of it. I am all out of breath.

NANETTE. If you will let me know your message at once.... Otherwise there is a seat down at the concierge. I am very busy.

[_She goes toward back, with her lips set._]

DIANE [_rising_]. The truth is.... I can't tell you. It is something personal.

NANETTE. Something personal? Perhaps you are mistaken in the Madame le Bargy ... this is Madame Jeanne le Bargy--the writer....

DIANE. Yes, yes, I know. Mightn't I speak with her for a moment?

NANETTE. That is impossible. Since the death of her son Madame le Bargy has seen no one. No one at all.

DIANE. I might have known. Let me think. My mind has been so confused lately. I have been in such a state of mind--I don't know what to do. I came running here without any idea in my head. I felt that I would be all right if I could only see Madame le Bargy.

NANETTE [_tersely_]. Perhaps Mademoiselle had better see the doctor. At the end of the street--number 27--you will find an excellent physician.

DIANE. No physician on earth can cure me.

NANETTE [_after giving her an uneasy, distrustful look_]. Well, since you cannot see Madame le Bargy, and since you have no message for her, I must ask you please to excuse me. I am busy.

[_She stands waiting for Diane to go, regarding her with undisguised hostility._]

DIANE. Yes, I will go. Why did I ever come? It was a mad idea. I see now that the things which seem so simple and easy in the heat of your own mind are the hardest of all to accomplish when you meet the coldness of other minds. Don't trouble about me. I am going. I didn't come to harm you or Madame in any way.

[_As she goes toward the door she passes the chair at right and stops. She goes toward it curiously, then hopefully. Finally she flings herself into it as Robert has done, and sobs the name--"Maurice! Maurice!"_]

NANETTE [_horrified_]. Mademoiselle!

[_Diane rises slowly, looking about her in a dazed way. Then she suddenly leaves the chair._]

DIANE [_quietly_]. Forgive me. I will go quietly now.

NANETTE [_trembling_]. Mademoiselle. Just now--you spoke a name....

DIANE. Yes.

NANETTE. Was it--Maurice?

DIANE. Yes.

NANETTE [_drawing away, her face going black_]. I see.

DIANE [_going up to her curiously_]. Who are you?

NANETTE [_drawing herself up, showing the utmost contempt, hatred and fear of Diane_]. Who are _you_?

DIANE. My name is Diane Bertral.

NANETTE. Who _are_ you?

DIANE. Just that.

NANETTE [_as before_]. I see.

DIANE [_passionately_]. Madame, listen to me....

NANETTE. Mademoiselle....

DIANE. Mademoiselle--are you--Nanette?

NANETTE [_who seems to grow small with dread_]. Those who know me well call me that.

DIANE. He often spoke of you. He told me of you. You were his old nurse. You were very dear to him. He always said he was the only person to reach your heart. [_Seizing Nanette's hand._] Nanette! Let me call you Nanette! Let me touch you. Let me know that heart which he could waken. I am so in need of help. I am so in need of love.

NANETTE [_drawing away_]. Mademoiselle!

DIANE. You have lost Maurice. You know what I feel. Only you can know. Help me. Let us help each other! We can never be strangers for our hearts bear the same sorrow.

NANETTE. I don't understand. [_Growing stern with the realization._] Maurice! Can it be that Maurice.... No, that is impossible. He was not like that.

DIANE. Nanette. I loved Maurice. He loved me.

NANETTE [_recoiling as if at a great obscenity_]. Oh!

DIANE. Why do you speak like that? What could there be in our love for each other that was wrong? If you only knew what we were to each other. If you only knew, Nanette....

NANETTE [_hoarsely_]. Maurice.... I can scarcely believe it.

DIANE. Let me talk to you about him. Let me tell you about us. [_She sits on the couch left, and feverishly begins to talk._] I am an actress. We met at a supper party after the theater. You know how shy Maurice was. He was afraid of most people. I saw that. I drew him to one side and got him to talk. He was like a child when any one took a real interest in him. He told me all about himself at once, about you, and about Madame le Bargy....

NANETTE [_passionately_]. Oh, keep still!

DIANE [_not noticing Nanette's hostility_]. And about your house in the country, and his garden and books and his piano and all the things he loved. Then he went on and told me about his work, and how he wanted to be a great writer, how he wanted to carry on what was best in the French theater. He promised to show me his play.

NANETTE. His play!

DIANE. I told him to come to my house and read it to me. He came the next day. It was the twenty-first of March. I remember the date perfectly.

NANETTE. We always left town on that day, but we could not get Maurice to go, so we had to leave him behind. Now I understand.

DIANE. Yes. He stayed to lunch with me, and that afternoon I had him read his play to me. Do you remember how beautiful his voice was? It started in a sort of sing song, like a child singing itself to sleep, but as he went on his voice grew deeper and stronger, all your senses melted into his voice and he carried you along as if on a great wave of emotion, of ecstasy. Monsieur Laugier came later. He was my manager then. I had Maurice read the play to him. And later some other people came, and every one urged Monsieur Laugier to take the play. I begged him to read it. I will never forget it. It seemed to me the most important thing in the world. Well, as you know, Monsieur Laugier did produce Maurice's play. And, although they wouldn't let me be in it, I always considered it my play, too.

NANETTE. Then the story he told us of his meeting with Monsieur Laugier--that wasn't true?

DIANE. No. I invented that for him to tell you.

NANETTE. He lied to us!

DIANE. You would never have understood.

NANETTE. Let me think--Maurice's play was produced in September, 1913. That is two years ago. Two years.... Maurice lived here with us--day after day--saying nothing--telling us nothing--We never suspected. We never dreamed that he would deceive us.

DIANE. He did not deceive you. Not even the closest hearts can reveal everything.

NANETTE. But to continue to see you ... all that time! It is unthinkable.

DIANE. How could he explain what he didn't understand himself? How could he tell you of what was a mystery to him? From the first moment we met we lived and thought and felt as one being.

NANETTE [_vehemently_]. No! With us he was like that! He was like that with us.

DIANE. With me!

NANETTE. To think of it! A common actress!

DIANE [_jumping up_]. How could you?

NANETTE. If I had known of this affair I would have gone straight to you.

DIANE. And what could you have done?

NANETTE [_significantly_]. I could have found a way.

DIANE. You are a terrible old woman.

NANETTE. Am I terrible? I had to fight my way when I was your age--because I was not pretty. I had the choice of being a free drudge or some man's slave. So I chose to toil alone. In order to get along alone I had to stifle every drop of humanity in my being. I had to bind up my human instincts as they bind up the breasts of mothers who flow too bounteously with life-blood long after their babes have need of it. I had to become sharp and bitter because sweetness and softness get crushed under in the battle to live. I learned to fight and I forgot to feel. Then, when I was used up and hard I met Madame le Bargy and she took me into her house because I had one valuable thing left. I had learned that it is wiser to be honest. I was there when Maurice was born.

DIANE. You were with him from the very beginning then.

NANETTE. I was an old maid of thirty-five. I had always lived alone. I hadn't ever had a dog to care for. Then all at once I had this baby, this little baby. I had his baby cries to call me. I had his tiny hands to kiss. I used to press my lips against his throbbing head, against the soft fissure where life and death meet, and I would say to myself, "Here, with one pressure I can crush away life. Here, with one pressure is where immortal life must have entered."

DIANE. Then later--when he grew up....

NANETTE. Day by day I watched over him. Madame was busy. Even after her husband died she was in the world. She had her writing. She had her friends. Her heart was fed in a hundred different ways. While I--I had only Maurice.

DIANE. I understand.

NANETTE. I lived only for Maurice. When I saw that it was raining I thought of Maurice. When I saw that the sun shone I thought of Maurice. If I was awakened suddenly in the night his name was on my lips. It seemed to me I could not take a deep breath for fear of disturbing his image against my heart.

DIANE. Nanette! Can you believe that I have felt that way too?

NANETTE. You!

DIANE. Yes, yes, I have. Nanette, when he was little, when he was a boy growing up, did you never think of me?

NANETTE. Of you!

DIANE. Yes, of the woman who would eventually take your place. Didn't you think of what she would be like, didn't you plan her, didn't you pray that she might be fine and great and beautiful? I know you did. You must have! Well, I tried to mold myself that way. I tried to be worthy of every dream you could have had for him, that his mother could have had. That is how I loved him.

NANETTE. Do you know what I thought of when the idea of a woman for Maurice came into my mind? I thought that when she came--if she ever did--

[_She pauses, looking ahead of her._]

DIANE. Yes?

NANETTE [_turning and looking at Diane vindictively_]. I would kill her!

DIANE. Nanette, I would have killed myself rather than harm Maurice.

NANETTE. Then why did you allow him to throw himself away?

DIANE. Throw himself away! Nanette, I never knew what love was until Maurice came. I was older than he. I knew life better. I knew myself better. I had struggled. You say that you had to struggle because you weren't pretty. I had to struggle because I was. You can't know what it is to have every other man you meet want to possess you, not because he loves you, but because your face suggests love to him and he hasn't learned to know the difference. He finds that out later, and then he reproaches you for being beautiful.

NANETTE. To think that Maurice should fall so low!

DIANE. But I came to know things. I was determined to find love. From man to man, Nanette, I climbed up and up, picking my way, falling and getting up again. Only the truly educated can love. I loved Maurice with all the wisdom I had accumulated in years of suffering. I gave him a perfect gift I had molded in pain.

NANETTE. You! What had _you_ to give?

DIANE. Then the war broke out.

NANETTE. Yes, the war. Maurice was one of the first. He made up his mind at once.

DIANE. No, he did _not_ make up his mind at once.

NANETTE [_with a dreadful realization_]. Then it was....

DIANE. I made up his mind for him.

NANETTE [_vehemently_]. You did it! It was you then! You sent Maurice to war. After they excused him! After they gave him a post at home! You sent him to his death. Oh, I hated you before, but now....

DIANE. His mother and you clung to him. There was one excuse after the other. You made him believe that he was too delicate and sensitive. You used all of your influence. Madame le Bargy tried in every way to keep him. She even testified officially that Maurice was weak from birth and had dizzy spells and an unaccountable fear of the sea. And you testified under oath to a long and dangerous illness he had had in childhood.

NANETTE. I did that. And it was all a lie.

DIANE. But all the time I was urging him to go. We three women fought for mastery. But you see who won! I did! When he came to me at nights--in the country--to my little house where we had been so happy, there, there, in the very room where we were nearest, then I persuaded him. With my kisses, Nanette, with my arms, with all the power I had over him--then was when I thrust him away.

NANETTE [_triumphantly_]. You didn't love him then!

DIANE [_passionately_]. Could I love Maurice and see him stay behind? Could I really want him to save his body for me when thousands were giving theirs for France?

NANETTE. For France.... But what of us?

DIANE. Oh, the selfishness of those who have never really loved!

NANETTE. Never loved! How can you say that I have never loved?

DIANE. What can you know of my loss? Your love was a habit. It was the love you could have lavished on a dog, or a horse or anything. But with me--now that he is gone, I have lost everything. I have no place to turn. I haven't even memory, as you have. Your love always took on the color of memory, but mine was a living, flaming thing, necessary as food and drink--as life itself!

NANETTE [_white with passion_]. But my love was pure and yours was not. [_She crosses the room._] Good God, to think that this thing should ever have happened to us in this house! [_She covers her face with her hands and runs out back._]

[_After a moment Madame le Bargy enters, left. She is a handsome woman of fifty or more. She wears a long loose gown of white silk. Her voice is perfectly modulated and beautiful. There is about her a gentleness and nobility of perfect spiritual strength. She looks at Diane curiously for a moment, and then goes to her with hand outstretched. During the following the day is fast becoming dark, and the sun's setting is seen from the French window._]

MADAME LE BARGY. I heard Nanette's voice. She has a habit of keeping people from me, although I am always glad to see any one. May I know your name?

DIANE. My name is Diane Bertral.

MADAME LE BARGY. Diane Bertral. I have never heard of you.

DIANE. No. I am an actress. But I am not so very well known. Are you Madame le Bargy?

MADAME LE BARGY. Yes. Won't you sit down on the couch there? Why did you come to see me, Mademoiselle?

[_She sits at right forward._]

DIANE [_embarrassed_]. I came.... I don't know why I came, Madame le Bargy.

MADAME LE BARGY. You know some one I know, perhaps--some friend of us both.

DIANE. Yes, that is it. Some one we have both--lost.

MADAME LE BARGY [_with a quick look at Diane_]. A _dear_ friend?

DIANE. Yes, a very dear friend.

MADAME LE BARGY. Do you mean--Maurice?

DIANE. Yes.

MADAME LE BARGY. You knew him well?

DIANE. I loved him.

MADAME LE BARGY. Yes, I know.

DIANE [_astonished_]. You know!

MADAME LE BARGY. Yes, Maurice has told me.

DIANE. No, no; that I am sure of. I am sure he never has. He has never told a soul. That was our agreement. We were to keep it secret and sacred. Not even you were to know, not as long as we lived.

MADAME LE BARGY [_gently_]. But after...?

DIANE [_puzzled_]. After?

MADAME LE BARGY. How long did you know Maurice?

DIANE. It would be two years this March.

MADAME LE BARGY. You loved each other all that time?

DIANE. From the very first. We never had any of those preliminaries in which people have a chance to deceive each other. We came together directly and frankly and we never regretted it.

MADAME LE BARGY. Maurice was very young.

DIANE. He was twenty-four. He was eager for life. But you two had kept him back. You had warmed his heart with your kind of love until he had begun to think it was the only love which is worthy.

MADAME LE BARGY. And you believe that that isn't so?

DIANE [_simply_]. I believe that there can be no flame like the love between two young people who are one.

MADAME LE BARGY [_going to Diane and putting a hand on her shoulder_]. Poor little woman.

DIANE [_astounded_]. Madame!

MADAME LE BARGY. You have been suffering a great deal, Diane.

DIANE [_bursting into wild weeping_]. Oh, Madame, how good you are, how kind you are! [_Grasping Madame's arms, she trembles and sobs._] Oh, how can I ever tell you? Thank you, thank you! [_She jumps up and paces about the room._] What am I going to do with myself? How can I go on? I simply can't stand it. If I had only died with Maurice! If I could only have died in his place! Oh, the cruelty of it! Why did they have to pick out _my_ lover? Surely there are thousands of others. Why did it have to be just mine? Mine--when I needed him so! He might have been spared a little longer, to give me time to get used to it. That would have been better. But now! Just as he was beginning to be of service, too. Why he hadn't been there a year yet. Not even a year! [_Beating her hips violently._] I could tear myself to pieces. I hate myself for going on living. I detest myself for being alive when he is dead.

MADAME LE BARGY [_who has watched Diane with infinite pity--softly_]. Diane, do you think that I loved my son?

DIANE [_in surprise_]. Why, yes, Madame, I believe that you loved Maurice.

MADAME LE BARGY. You think that my love was not as great as yours?

DIANE. No, I don't think so. You had had your life. Maurice and I were only beginning ours.

MADAME LE BARGY. Which do you think is the greater love, Diane, the love which endures for the moment, or the love which endures for all time?

DIANE [_puzzled_]. For all time...?

MADAME LE BARGY. For all time.

DIANE. We have the dear lips to kiss, the dear head to caress, but when these are gone there is only memory--and that is torture.

MADAME LE BARGY. What if I should tell you that Maurice still lives, Diane?

DIANE [_rushing to her_]. Madame! My God, is this true?

MADAME LE BARGY [_gently_]. Maurice still lives, Diane. He talks with me every day.

DIANE [_slowly_]. He talks with you....

MADAME LE BARGY [_holding her gaze_]. Yes, Diane, he talks with me.

DIANE [_the hope dies out of her face and she turns away_]. I understand.

MADAME LE BARGY. You see, you did not love Maurice.

DIANE. How can you tell me that--that I didn't love him?

MADAME LE BARGY. Because you don't continue to do so.

DIANE. But how can I love what no longer exists?

MADAME LE BARGY. Oh, the selfishness of those who have never really loved!

DIANE. That is what I said to Nanette--and now you say the same thing to me.

MADAME LE BARGY. Diane, when I knew for certain that Maurice had fallen into the sea, that they had recovered his body, that he was buried in German soil, then I felt that I should never live another moment. I felt as you have felt. I wanted to die. I could not bear it. I came here to this house. I was mad for the sight of him, for the things that he had touched and loved. I flew into his room and dragged his clothes from the pegs and crushed them to me, but even the odor and touch of his personal belongings was not enough to calm me. I came into this room. Then I drew near that chair. Something--I don't know what--drove me to sit in it. I flung myself into it as if it were into his arms, and I wept out all my grief. Then, all at once, a great calm came over me. I looked upon my solemn black dress in amazement and distaste. I looked into my solemn and black heart with surprise and shame. I felt that Maurice was _alive_, that he was not _dead_, Diane. Then I remembered, as I sat there, that it was in this chair that he had sat when he came to say good-by. There he had sat talking happily and confidently--he had seemed filled with radiance. And so he has talked to me again and again. Every day, at the same time, at twilight, I have sat there and felt myself with Maurice. We have talked together, just as we always did. There is nothing weird or supernatural about it, Diane. He is just as we knew him, as we knew him in those swift, strange moments when, in a flash, the body seems to slip aside and spirit rushes out to meet spirit. That is all. People see me cheerful and smiling and they say that I am mad. The few to whom I have told of these talks pity me and are sure that I have lost my reason. Perhaps, in a worldly sense, I am mad. But I know this, Diane, that Maurice lives as usual, more truly, than he did six weeks ago. I know that his youth has not been sacrificed in vain. As the dead plant enriches the soil from which it grew and into which it finally falls, so will this young soul in all its bloom enrich the life out of which it sprang and from which it can never entirely disappear.

DIANE [_after a pause--rising_]. That is beautiful, but I cannot do it. [_Stretching out her arms._] My arms are aching with emptiness.

MADAME LE BARGY. You see that you did not really love, Diane.

DIANE. Perhaps not. But it was the greatest I was capable of.

[_She gets a scarf she has dropped and goes toward the back._]

MADAME LE BARGY [_softly_]. This is the time, Diane.

DIANE. When you talk with him?

MADAME LE BARGY. Yes.

[_Diane goes slowly and sinks into the chair wearily. Suddenly she flings her arms out, crying "Maurice, Maurice." Madame le Bargy rises and goes to her._]

DIANE. Maurice, come back to me! Dear God, give him back to me!

[_Nanette enters at back with her black box. She sees Diane in the chair. Suddenly she takes out the revolver and shoots Diane._]

NANETTE. Maurice! Forgive me!

MADAME LE BARGY. Nanette! Child! My child! [_She rushes to take Diane in her arms._] Nanette, what have you done, what have you done?

NANETTE. I have rid Maurice of a stain.

DIANE [_calling softly_]. Maurice, Maurice.... Oh, I knew you couldn't stay away. I knew you would come back to me. Now we will never be separated. We will be together like this for always--for all time.

MADAME LE BARGY [_softly_]. For all time, Diane.

NANETTE [_kneeling beside Diane--crossing herself_]. For all time.

[_Curtain._]

THE FINGER OF GOD

A PLAY

BY PERCIVAL WILDE

Copyright, 1915, by Percival Wilde. Professional stage and motion picture rights reserved.

THE FINGER OF GOD was produced by the Wisconsin Players at the Wisconsin Little Theatre, Milwaukee, Wis., March 28, 1916, and subsequently, with the following cast:

STRICKLAND _Frederick Irving Deakin_. BENSON _Harry V. Meissner_. A GIRL _Marjorie Frances Hollis_.

Under the direction of FREDERIC IRVING DEAKIN.

Reprinted from "Dawn, and Other One-Act Plays of Life To-day" by permission of, and special arrangement with, Mr. Wilde. The acting rights in this play are strictly reserved. Performances may be given by _amateurs_ upon payment to the author of a royalty of five dollars ($5.00) for each performance. Production by professional actors, without the written consent of the author, is forbidden. Persons who wish to produce this play should apply to Mr. Percival Wilde, in care of Walter H. Baker & Co., 5 Hamilton Place, Boston, Mass.

THE FINGER OF GOD

A PLAY BY PERCIVAL WILDE

[_The living room of Strickland's apartment. At the rear, a doorway, heavily curtained, leads into another room. At the left of the doorway, a bay window, also heavily curtained, is set into the diagonal wall. Near the center, an ornate writing desk, upon which is a telephone. At the right, the main entrance. The furnishings, in general, are luxurious and costly._

_As the curtain rises Strickland, kneeling, is burning papers in a grate near the main door. Benson, his valet, is packing a suitcase which lies open on the writing desk. It is ten-thirty; a bitterly cold night in winter._]

STRICKLAND. Benson!

BENSON. Yes, sir.

STRICKLAND. Close the window: it's cold.

BENSON [_goes to the window_]. The window _is_ closed, sir. It's been closed all evening.

STRICKLAND [_shivers and buttons his coat tightly_]. Benson.

BENSON. Yes, sir?

STRICKLAND. Don't forget a heavy overcoat.

BENSON. I've put it in already, sir.

STRICKLAND. Plenty of fresh linen?

BENSON. Yes, sir.

STRICKLAND. Collars and ties?

BENSON. I've looked out for everything, sir.

STRICKLAND [_after a pause_]. You sent off the trunks this afternoon?

BENSON. Yes, sir.

STRICKLAND. You're sure they can't be traced?

BENSON. I had one wagon take them to a vacant lot, and another wagon take them to the station.

STRICKLAND. Good!

BENSON. I checked them through to Chicago. Here are the checks. [_He hands them over._] What train do we take, sir?

STRICKLAND. _I_ take the midnight. You follow me some time next week. We mustn't be seen leaving town together.

BENSON. How will I find you in Chicago?

STRICKLAND. You won't. You'll take rooms somewheres, and I'll take rooms somewheres else till it's all blown over. When I want you I'll put an ad in the "Tribune."

BENSON. You don't know when that will be, sir?

STRICKLAND. As soon as I think it is safe. It may be two weeks. It may be a couple of months. But you will stay in Chicago till you hear from me one way or the other. You understand?

BENSON. Yes, sir.

STRICKLAND. Have you plenty of money?

BENSON. Not enough to last a couple of months.

STRICKLAND [_producing a large pocketbook_]. How much do you want?

BENSON. Five or six hundred.

STRICKLAND [_takes out a few bills. Stops_]. Wait a minute! I left that much in my bureau drawer.

[_He goes toward the door._]

BENSON. Mr. Strickland?

STRICKLAND. Yes?

BENSON. It's the midnight train for Chicago, isn't it?

STRICKLAND. Yes.

[_He goes into the next room._]

BENSON [_waits an instant. Then he lifts the telephone receiver, and speaks very quietly_]. Hello. Murray Hill 3500.... Hello. This Finley? This is Benson.... He's going to take the midnight train for Chicago. Pennsylvania. You had better arrest him at the station. If he once gets to Chicago you'll never find him. And, Finley, you won't forget _me_, will you?... I want five thousand dollars for it. Yes, five thousand. That's little enough. He's got almost three hundred thousand on him, and you won't turn in _all_ of that to Headquarters. Yes, it's cash. Large bills. [_Strickland's step is heard._] Midnight for Chicago.

[_Benson hangs up the receiver and is busy with the suitcase as Strickland enters._]

STRICKLAND. Here's your money, Benson. Count it.

BENSON [_after counting_]. Six hundred dollars, thank you, sir. [_He picks up the closed suitcase._] Shall I go now?

STRICKLAND. No. Wait a minute. [_He goes to the telephone._] Hello, Madison Square 7900 ... Pennsylvania? I want a stateroom for Chicago, midnight train. Yes, to-night.

BENSON. Don't give your own name, sir.

STRICKLAND. No. The name is Stevens.... Oh, you have one reserved in that name already? Well, this is _Alfred_ Stevens.... You have it reserved in that name? Then give me another stateroom.... What? You haven't any other? [_He pauses in an instant's thought. Then, decisively_]: Never mind, then. Good-by. [_He turns to Benson._] Benson, go right down to the Pennsylvania, and get the stateroom that is reserved for Alfred Stevens. You've got to get there before he does. Wait for me at the train gate.

BENSON. Yes, sir.

STRICKLAND. Don't waste any time. I'll see you later.

BENSON. Very well, sir.

[_He takes up the suitcase, and goes._]

STRICKLAND [_left alone, opens drawer after drawer of the desk systematically, dumping what few papers are still left into the fire. Outside a wintry gale whistles, and shakes the locked window. Suddenly there is a knock at the door. He pauses, very much startled. A little wait, and then the knock, a single knock, is repeated. He rises, goes to the door, opens it._] Who's there?

A GIRL. I, sir.

[_She enters. She is young: certainly under thirty: perhaps under twenty-five: possibly still younger. A somewhat shabby boa of some dark fur encircles her neck, and makes her pallid face stand out with startling distinctness from beneath a mass of lustrous brown hair. And as she steps over the threshold she gives a little shiver of comfort, for it is cold outside, and her thin shoulders have been shielded from the driving snow by a threadbare coat. She enters the warm room gracefully, and little rivulets of melted ice trickle to the floor from her inadequate clothing. Her lips are blue. Her hands tremble in their worn white gloves. A seat before a blazing fire, or perhaps, a sip of some strong cordial--this is what she needs. But Strickland has no time for such things. He greets her with a volley of questions._]

STRICKLAND. Who are you?

THE GIRL. Who, don't you remember me, sir?

STRICKLAND. No.

THE GIRL. I'm from the office, sir.

STRICKLAND. The office?

THE GIRL. _Your_ office. I'm one of your personal stenographers, sir.

STRICKLAND. Oh. I suppose I didn't recognize you on account of the hat. What do you want?

THE GIRL. There were some letters which came late this afternoon--

STRICKLAND [_interrupting harshly_]. And you're bothering me with them now? [_He crosses to the door, and holds it open.]_ I've got no time. Good night.

THE GIRL [_timidly_]. I thought you'd want to see these letters.

STRICKLAND. Plenty of time to-morrow.

THE GIRL. But you won't be here to-morrow, will you?

STRICKLAND [_starting violently_]. Won't be here? What do you mean?

THE GIRL. You're taking the train to Chicago to-night.

STRICKLAND. How did you know--[_He stops himself. Then, with forced ease._] Taking a train to Chicago? Of course not! What put that in your head?

THE GIRL. Why, you told me, sir.

STRICKLAND. _I_ told you?

THE GIRL. You said so this afternoon.

STRICKLAND [_harshly_]. I didn't see you this afternoon!

THE GIRL [_without contradicting him_]. No, sir? [_She produces a time-table._] Then I found this time-table.

[_She holds it out. He snatches it._]

STRICKLAND. Where did you find it?

THE GIRL. On your desk, sir.

STRICKLAND. On my desk?

THE GIRL. Yes, sir.

STRICKLAND [_suddenly and directly_]. You're lying!

THE GIRL. Why, Mr. Strickland!

STRICKLAND. That time-table never reached my desk! I lost it between the railroad station and my office.

THE GIRL. Did you, sir? But it's the same time-table: you see, you checked the midnight train. [_He looks at her suspiciously._] I reserved a stateroom for you.

STRICKLAND [_astonished_]. You reserved a stateroom?

THE GIRL [_smiling_]. I knew you'd forget it. You have your head so full of other things. So I telephoned as soon as you left the office.

STRICKLAND [_biting his lip angrily_]. I suppose you made the reservation in my own name?

THE GIRL. No, sir.

STRICKLAND [_immensely surprised_]. What?

THE GIRL. I thought you'd prefer some other name: you didn't want your trip to be known.

STRICKLAND. No, I didn't. [_A good deal startled, he looks at her as if he were about to ask, "How did you know that?" She returns his gaze unflinchingly. The question remains unasked. But a sudden thought strikes him._] What name did you give?

THE GIRL. Stevens, sir.

STRICKLAND [_thunderstruck_]. Stevens?

THE GIRL. Alfred Stevens.

STRICKLAND [_gasping_]. What made you choose that name?

THE GIRL. I don't know, sir.

STRICKLAND. You don't _know_?

THE GIRL. No, sir. It was just the first name that popped into my head. I said "Stevens," and when the clerk asked for the first name, I said "Alfred."

STRICKLAND [_after a pause_]. Have you ever _known_ anybody of that name?

THE GIRL. No, sir.

STRICKLAND [_with curious insistence_]. You are _sure_ you never knew anybody of that name?

THE GIRL. How can I be sure? I may have; I don't remember it.

STRICKLAND [_abruptly_]. How old are you? [_He gives her no time to answer._] You're not twenty, are you?

THE GIRL [_smiling_]. Do you think so?

STRICKLAND [_continuing the current of his thoughts_]. And I'm forty-seven. It was more than twenty-five years ago.... You couldn't have known.

THE GIRL [_after a pause_]. No, sir.

STRICKLAND [_looking at her with something of fear in his eye_]. What is your name?

THE GIRL. Does it matter? You didn't recognize my _face_ a few minutes ago; my _name_ can't mean much to you. I'm just one of the office force: I'm the girl who answers when you push the button three times. [_She opens a handbag._] These are the letters I brought with me.

STRICKLAND [_not offering to take them_]. What are they about?

THE GIRL [_opening the first_]. This is from a woman who wants to invest some money.

STRICKLAND. How much?

THE GIRL. Only a thousand dollars.

STRICKLAND. Why didn't you turn it over to the clerks?

THE GIRL. The savings of a lifetime, she writes.

STRICKLAND. What of it?

THE GIRL. She wrote that she had confidence in you. She says that she wants you to invest it for her yourself.

STRICKLAND. You shouldn't have bothered me with that. [_He pauses._] Did she inclose the money?

THE GIRL. Yes. A certified check.

[_She hands it over to him._]

STRICKLAND [_taking the check, and putting it in his pocketbook_]. Write her--oh, you know what to write: that I will give the matter my personal attention.

THE GIRL. Yes, sir. She says she doesn't want a big return on her investment. She wants something that will be perfectly safe, and she knows you will take care of her.

STRICKLAND. Yes. Of course. What else have you?

THE GIRL. A dozen other letters like it.

STRICKLAND. All from old women?

THE GIRL [_seriously_]. Some of them. Here is one from a young man who has saved a little money. He says that when he gets a little more he's going to open a store, and go into business for himself. Here is another from a girl whose father was an ironworker. He was killed accidentally, and she wants you to invest the insurance. Here is another from--but they're all pretty much alike.

STRICKLAND. Why did you bring them here?

THE GIRL. Every one of these letters asks you to do the investing yourself.

STRICKLAND. Oh!

THE GIRL. And you're leaving town to-night. Here are the checks. [_She passes them over._] Every one of them is made out to you personally; not to the firm.

STRICKLAND [_after a pause_]. You shouldn't have come here.... I haven't time to bother with that sort of thing. Every man who has five dollars to invest asks the head of the firm to attend to it himself. It means nothing. I get hundreds of letters like those.

THE GIRL. Still--

STRICKLAND. What?

THE GIRL. You must do something to deserve such letters or they wouldn't keep on coming in. [_She smiles._] It's a wonderful thing to inspire such confidence in people?

STRICKLAND. Do you think so?

THE GIRL. It is more than wonderful! It is magnificent! These people don't know you from Adam. Not one in a hundred has seen you: not one in a thousand calls you by your first name. But they've all heard of you: you're as real to them as if you were a member of their family. And what is even more real than you is your reputation! Something in which they rest their absolute confidence: something in which they place their implicit trust!

STRICKLAND [_slowly_]. So you think there are few honest men?

THE GIRL. No: there are many of them. But there is something about you that is different: something in the tone of your voice: something in the way you shake hands: something in the look of your eye, that is reassuring. There is never a doubt--never a question about you. Oh, it's splendid! Simply splendid! [_She pauses._] What a satisfaction it must be to you to walk along the street and know that every one you meet must say to himself, "There goes an honest man!" It's been such an inspiration to me!

STRICKLAND. To _you_?

THE GIRL. Oh, I know that I'm just one of the office force to you. You don't even know my name. But you don't imagine that any one can see you as I have seen you, can work with you as I have worked with you, without there being _some_ kind of an effect? You know, in my own troubles--

STRICKLAND [_interrupting_]. So _you_ have troubles?

THE GIRL. You don't pay me a very big salary, and there are others whom I must help. But I'm not complaining. [_She smiles._] I--I used to be like the other girls. I used to watch the clock. I used to count the hours and the minutes till the day's work was over. But it's different now.

STRICKLAND [_slowly_]. How--different?

THE GIRL. I thought it over, and I made up my mind that it wasn't right to count the minutes you worked for an honest man. [_Strickland turns away._] And there is a new pleasure in my work: I do my best--that's all I can do, but _you_ do your best, and it's the _least_ I can do.

STRICKLAND [_after a pause_]. Are you sure--I do my best? Are you sure I am an honest man?

THE GIRL. Don't you know it yourself, Mr. Strickland?

STRICKLAND [_after another pause_]. You remember--a few minutes ago, you spoke the name of Alfred Stevens?

THE GIRL. Yes.

STRICKLAND. Suppose I told you that there once _was_ an Alfred Stevens? [_The girl does not answer._] Suppose I told you that Stevens, whom I knew, stole money--stole it when there was no excuse for it--when he didn't need it. His people had plenty, and they gave him plenty. But the chance came, and he couldn't resist the temptation.... He was eighteen years old then.

THE GIRL [_gently_]. Only a boy.

STRICKLAND. Only a boy, yes, but he had the dishonest streak in him! Other boys passed by the same opportunity. Stevens didn't even know what to do with the money when he had stolen it. They caught him in less than twenty-four hours. It was almost funny.

THE GIRL. He was punished.

STRICKLAND [_nodding_]. He served a year in jail. God! What a year! His folks wouldn't do a thing for him: they said such a thing had never happened in the family. And they let him take the consequences. [_He pauses._] When he got out--[_stopping to correct himself_]--when he was _let_ out, his family offered him help. But he was too proud to accept the help: it hadn't been offered when he needed it most. He told his family that he never wanted to see them again. He changed his name so they couldn't find him. He left his home town. He came here.

THE GIRL. And he has been honest ever since!

STRICKLAND. Ever since: for twenty-eight years! It was hard at times, terribly hard! In the beginning, when he had to go hungry and cold, when he saw other men riding around in carriages, he wondered if he hadn't made a mistake. He had knocked about a good deal; he had learnt a lot, and he wouldn't have been caught so easily the second time. It was _almost_ worth taking the chance! It was _almost_ worth getting a foot of lead pipe, and waiting in some dark street, waiting, waiting for some sleek _honest_ man with his pockets full of money! It would have been so simple! And he knew _how_! I don't know why he didn't do it.

THE GIRL. Tell me more.

STRICKLAND. He managed to live. It wasn't pleasant living. But he stayed alive! I don't like to think of what he did to stay alive: it was humiliating; it was shameful, because he hadn't been brought up to do that kind of thing, but it was honest. Honest, and when he walked home from his work at six o'clock, walked home to save the nickel, his betters never crowded him because they didn't want to soil their clothes with his _honest_ dirt! He had thought the year in jail was terrible. The first year he was free was worse. He had never been hungry in jail.

THE GIRL. Then his chance came.

STRICKLAND. Yes, it _was_ a chance. He found a purse in the gutter, and he returned it to the owner before he had made up his mind whether to keep it or not. So they said he was honest! He knew he wasn't! He knew that he had returned it because there was so much money in it that he was afraid to keep it, but he never told them that. And when the man who owned the purse gave him a job, he worked--worked because he was afraid not to work--worked so that he wouldn't have any time to think, because he knew that if he began to think, he would begin to steal! Then they said he was a hard worker, and they promoted him: they made him manager. That gave him more chances to steal, but there were so many men watching him, so many men anxious for him to make a slip so that they might climb over him, that he didn't dare.

[_He pauses._]

THE GIRL. And then?

STRICKLAND. The rest was easy. Nothing succeeds like a good reputation, and he didn't steal because he knew they'd catch him. [_He pauses again._] But he wasn't honest at bottom! The rotten streak was still there! After twenty-eight years things began to be bad. He speculated: lost all the money he could call his own, and he made up his mind to take other money that _wasn't_ his own, all he could lay his hands on, and run off with it! It was wrong! It was the work of a lifetime gone to hell! But it was the rottenness in him coming to the surface! It was the thief he thought dead coming to life again!

THE GIRL [_after a pause_]. What a pity!

STRICKLAND. He had been honest so long--he had made other people think that he was honest so long, that he had made _himself_ think that he was honest!

THE GIRL. Was he wrong, Mr. Strickland?

STRICKLAND [_looking into her eyes; very quietly_]. Stevens, please. [_There is a long pause._] I don't know what sent you: who sent you: but you've come here to-night as I am running away. You're too late. You can't stop me. Not even the finger of God Himself could stop me! I've gone too far. [_He goes on in a voice which is low, but terrible in its earnestness._] Here is money! [_He pulls out his pocketbook._] Hundreds of thousands of it, not a cent of it mine! And I'm stealing it, do you understand me? _Stealing_ it! To-morrow the firm will be bankrupt, and there'll be a reward out for me. [_He smiles grimly, and bows._] Here, if you please, is your honest man! What have you to say to him?

THE GIRL [_very quietly_]. The man who has been honest so long that he has made _himself_ think that he is honest can't steal!

STRICKLAND [_hoarsely_]. You believe _that_?

THE GIRL [_opening her bag again_]. I was left a little money this week: only a few hundred dollars, hardly enough to bother you with. Will you take care of it for me--Alfred Stevens?

STRICKLAND. Good God!

[_And utterly unnerved he collapses to a chair. There is a long pause._]

THE GIRL [_crossing slowly to the window, and drawing aside the curtain_]. Look! What a beautiful night! The thousands of sleeping houses! The millions of shining stars! And the lights beneath! And in the distance, how the stars and the lights meet! So that one cannot say: "Here Gods ends; Here Man begins."

[_The telephone rings, harshly, and shrilly. Strickland goes to the receiver._]

STRICKLAND [_quietly_]. Yes?... You're afraid I'm going to miss the train?... Yes? Well, I'm _going_ to miss the train!... I'm going to stay and face the music! [_Hysterically._] I'm an honest man, d'ye hear me? I'm an honest man. [_And furiously, he pitches the telephone to the floor, and stands panting, shivering, on the spot. From the window a soft radiance beckons, and trembling in every limb, putting out his hands as if to ward off some unseen obstacle, he moves there slowly._] Did you hear what I told him? I'm going to make good. I'm going to face the music! Because I'm an honest man! An honest man!

[_He gasps, stops abruptly, and in a sudden panic-stricken movement, tears the curtains down. The window is closed--has never been opened--but the girl has vanished. And as Strickland, burying his face in his hands, drops to his knees in awe,_

_The Curtain Falls._]

NIGHT

A PLAY

BY SHOLOM ASCH

Translated by Jack Robbins. Copyright, 1920, by Sholom Asch. All rights reserved.

NIGHT was originally produced by the East-West Players, at the Berkeley Theatre, New York City, April 7, 1916, with the following cast:

THE OUTCAST [_prostitute_] _Miriam Reinhardt_. THE DRUNKARD _Mark Hoffman_. THE BEGGAR _Maxim Vodianoy_. THE BASTARD _Jack Dickler_. THE FOOL _Max Lieberman_. THE THIEF _Gustav Blum_. HELENKA _Elizabeth Meltzer_. THE DRUNKARD'S WIFE _Bryna Zaranov_.

Produced under the direction of GUSTAV BLUM.

Applications for permission to produce NIGHT must be addressed to Mr. Sholom Asch, 3 Bank Street, New York.

NIGHT

A PLAY BY SHOLOM ASCH

[_Night in a market place. A small fire burns near a well. On a bench near it sleeps the Beggar. The old Prostitute is warming herself. There is the sound of dogs barking in the distance. Vast shadows move about the market-place. The Drunkard emerges from the gloom of the night._]

DRUNKARD. Good evening, Madam Prostitute. [_Listens to the dogs._] Why are the dogs whining like this to-night?

PROSTITUTE. They must be seeing things.

DRUNKARD. Yes, your black soul. Perhaps they think you a devil. That's why they chase all over the butchers' stalls. No wonder. They've reason to be afraid.

BEGGAR [_in his sleep_]. He-he-he. Ha-ha-ha.

PROSTITUTE. A drunkard and a prostitute are the same thing. None of us is clean of sin.

BEGGAR [_sleepily_]. Don't take me for a "pal."

[_Sleeps on._]

DRUNKARD. Leave him alone. He sings hymns the whole day long.

BEGGAR. Poverty is no sin.

DRUNKARD. Don't mix in. [_To the Prostitute._] What do dogs see at night?

PROSTITUTE. They say that on the first of May the Holy Mother walks through the market place, and gathers all the stray souls.

DRUNKARD. What have the dogs got to do with it?

PROSTITUTE. They are people laden with sins. People who died without the Holy Sacrament, and who were buried outside of the fence. At night they roam about the market in the shape of dogs. They run about in the stalls of the butchers. The devil, too, stays there, but when the first of May comes and the prayers begin, the Holy Mother walks through the market-place. The souls of the damned cling to her dress, and she takes them with her to Heaven.

[_Pause for a minute._]

BEGGAR [_turning in his sleep_]. Strong vinegar bursts the cask. Her soul must be black indeed.

DRUNKARD. It's awful to look into it. You'll be among them yet....

PROSTITUTE. I'm not afraid of that. The mercy of God is great. It will reach even me. But all of you will be among the dogs too. Those who live in the street come back to the street after death.

BEGGAR. The street is the home of the beggar. Poverty is no sin.

[_Stretches himself and sleeps on. There is a pause. The Fool comes out of the darkness. He is tall, with a vacant, good-humored face, dressed in a soldier's hat, with a wooden toy-sword in his girdle. He grins kindly._]

DRUNKARD. Ah, good evening, Napoleon. [_He salutes the Fool._] Where do you hail from?

FOOL [_grins and chuckles_]. From Turkey. I have driven out the Turk.

DRUNKARD. And where is your army?

FOOL. I have left it on the Vistula.

DRUNKARD. And when will you drive the Russians out of there?

FOOL. I have given my orders already.

DRUNKARD. Are they being carried out?

FOOL. I only need to draw my sword.

DRUNKARD. Your sword?

FOOL. Napoleon gave it to me.

PROSTITUTE. Leave him be. Every one is crazy in his way. [_To the fool._] You are cold. Come to the fire. He wanders about the hollows the whole night long.

FOOL [_smiles_]. I've quartered all of my soldiers, but I have no place for myself to sleep in.

PROSTITUTE. A fool, and yet he knows what he says. [_Gives him bread._] Do you want to eat?

FOOL. I get my dinner from the tables of Kings.

BEGGAR [_awaking_]. You've brought the fool here too? He's got the whole market place to be crazy in, and he comes here, where honest people sleep.

[_Takes his stick and tries to reach the Fool._]

PROSTITUTE [_defending the Fool_]. Leave him alone I tell you. Crazy though he be, he still wants to be among people. Like aches for like.

BEGGAR. Let him go to the graveyard, and yell his craziness out among the graves;--and not disturb honest men in their sleep. The street is the beggar's home, and I don't want to share it with madmen. All that the people throw out of their homes, wanders into the street.

[_He chases the Fool away, and lies down._]

DRUNKARD. Who made you boss here? The street belongs to all. Lie down in the city hall, in the mayor's bed, if you want to have rest.

PROSTITUTE. Keep still. He has a right to the place. He's had it long enough.

DRUNKARD. What kind of a right? Are you a newcomer? How long have you been here?

PROSTITUTE. All my life. I was born in the street, there, behind the fence near the church. My mother pointed out the place to me. I have never known any other home, but the street. In the daytime it belongs to all. When people open their shops, and peasants come in their wagons, and trade begins, I feel a stranger here, and I hide in the fields near the cemetery. But when night comes, and people retire into their holes, then the street is mine. I know every nook and corner of the market place. It is my home.

DRUNKARD. You've said it well. In that house there, I have a home, a bed, and a wife. In the daytime I work there. I sit among boots, and drive nails into heels and soles. And I bear my wife's nagging and cursing patiently.... But when night comes I can't stand it any longer. The house becomes too small for me. Something draws me into the street.

PROSTITUTE. It is the curse of the street that rests on you as it does on the howling dogs. All of us are damned, and we are punished here for our sins. And we will not be delivered, till the Holy Mother will come, and we will take hold of her dress, and our souls will be freed.

BEGGAR [_in his sleep_]. He-he-he. Ha-ha-ha.

DRUNKARD [_becomes sad, bows his head_]. In the daytime I don't mind it. Then I am like other people. I work like all do. But when night comes....

PROSTITUTE. It's the curse of the street. Don't worry. God will pity all of us. His mercy is great.

[_The cry of a child comes from the distance. It resembles the howling of a dog._]

DRUNKARD. What's that?

PROSTITUTE. That's Manka's bastard. He strays the street. He wants to come near the fire.

DRUNKARD. Call him here.

PROSTITUTE. Keep still. [_She points to the Beggar._] He will chase the boy away. They believe the boy is born of the Devil.

DRUNKARD. Who made him boss here? All of us are children of the Devil. [_He calls to the boy as one calls to a dog._] Come here, you.

[_A dumb boy, all in rags, drags himself near. He makes noises like a little beast. He trembles with cold. The Prostitute tries to quiet him._]

PROSTITUTE. He lies the whole night behind his mother's doorstep. She is afraid of her husband. Sometimes she gives him a piece of bread, when no one looks. Thus he crawls like a worm in the street--human flesh and blood.

DRUNKARD. Let him come near the fire--so. [_He pushes the boy nearer to the fire._] Give him a piece of bread. I'll take care of any one who tries to hurt him.

BEGGAR [_awaking_]. No. That's too much. Who brought this here? You know that the Devil is in him?

[_Tries to chase the boy away._]

PROSTITUTE [_hiding the boy in her shawl_]. Have pity.

BEGGAR. You're the Devil's wife. That's why you pity his child.

[_Tries to reach the boy._]

DRUNKARD [_tears the stick from the Beggar's hand_]. We're all the children of the Devil. You've no more on your hide than he has.

BEGGAR. Don't you start anything. I am a Christian, and believe in God. I've no home. That's why I sleep on the street. Every dog finds his hole. But I won't live together with the Devil. And I won't be the neighbor of a harlot either. Nor was a drunkard ever a friend of mine. [_He gathers his belongings._] What are you running after me for? This whole street belongs to the Devil. Why are you trying to stop me?

[_He tries to go away._]

PROSTITUTE [_detaining him_]. Don't leave us. Let him only warm himself. He'll go away.

BEGGAR. It does me little honor to be with folk like you anyway.

[_He goes away._]

DRUNKARD. Why do you hold him back? Let him go if he thinks us below his dignity.

PROSTITUTE. And do you really think it an honor for one to remain with you? That man is decent at least.

DRUNKARD. Ah, you grow pious as you grow old.

PROSTITUTE. I have always wanted to be in decent company.

[_As the Beggar disappears, strange figures begin to show themselves in the darkness. Most of them are half-naked. The Fool also comes back. A dog comes wandering into the crowd._]

PROSTITUTE [_looking around in terror_]. It's awful to be with so many sick people. Not one amongst them who is of sound mind. Not one who has a clean conscience. The Beggar has gone away.

DRUNKARD [_with fear_]. The dogs have also come to the fire.

PROSTITUTE. Even they are drawn to people.

[_There is a short pause. The Bastard begins to wail._]

DRUNKARD. What's the trouble with him? Take him away.

PROSTITUTE. That's the Devil in him crying--see him gazing at something.

[_The day begins to grow gray in the east. Strange, awful light falls over all. Now one, now another corner of the street appears and disappears. All is covered with shadows as in twilight._]

DRUNKARD. Praised be God. The dawn.

PROSTITUTE. How different the light is to-day.

[_The dogs begin to howl._]

DRUNKARD. What are the dogs howling about? Chase them away from the fire.

PROSTITUTE. They are looking somewheres. They sniff at the air. They must see something now.

[_In the distance is heard the sound of beating against tin plates. The dogs howl with fright._]

PROSTITUTE. Something is coming near to us.

[_The Fool laughs._]

DRUNKARD. What is the Fool laughing at? What is he gazing at? Chase him away from the fire.

PROSTITUTE. They all see more clearly than we.

[_The dogs howl again, and gather in one group. Footsteps approach._]

DRUNKARD [_frightened_]. Something is coming near to us.

[_A minute's pause. All waiting in fear. The Thief appears. He carries a woman on his shoulders. The woman has a child in her arms. They are followed by small, poorly clad boys who hold trumpets and kettles in their hands, and make as much noise as they can._]

THIEF [_thunders_]. Fall on your knees. Draw off your hats! Do you see who is coming? The queen! The queen! [_All grow pale, and move aside. The Thief walks into their midst._] Who is there? Ah, the Fool. Well, how are your armies getting along? Hold them in readiness. Hold them in readiness. The Drunkard! Ah, the right man for the game. [_He bows._] With awe do I kiss the little hand of Madame Prostitute. [_To the Bastard_]: And your little heir is here also? [_To the woman_]: Take them with you, oh, Queen. They too are dogs like us, thrown into the street. Let them come with us, We have room for many, many.

WOMAN. Take them with us, my man. We will all go together.

THIEF [_letting the Woman down_]. Our company is growing big. Come with us.

DRUNKARD [_awaking from his torpor and looking at the Thief_]. So you are the thief they let out of prison not long ago. And I was afraid of you a little while ago. [_He spits._] That's a fine joke. Always at your play. Who's the woman, and the children? Where did you get them?

THIEF. Brother, this is not play. [_He points to the Woman._] She is a queen. [_He points to the children._] And they are princes. Every one a prince. At your knees before her! Take off your hat.

DRUNKARD. I know this gentleman quite well. He likes to joke.

[_The Thief comes close to him._]

THIEF. To-night is the night when the dogs are delivered. Look at her. [_He points at the Woman._] Look at us. We were locked in, and we have come out. We are all one family--dogs. We wander on the street. Men have shut their doors in our faces. Come, dogs. We will unite to-day. Throw off your chains, and shake yourself as if you were shaking dust from your shoulders. You are men after all. I have known you from childhood. I knew your mother.

DRUNKARD [_wondering_]. I don't know what you mean.

THIEF. Look at yourself. What have they made of you? You walk the street all night like an outcast. Your children are afraid of you. They hide when they see you drunk on the street, and weep for you. Are you to blame for it? You were made one with a mass of flesh you hate. You sit bent over your boots the whole day long, and curses and blows are hurled at your head. And when night comes you crawl in the gutter, and you will crawl there till you will be freed from shame.

DRUNKARD. What are you telling me this for?

THIEF. And are you to blame for this? Have you had one minute of happiness in your whole life? Who took care of you? You were raised by your stepfather's cane. Show me the scars on your body. They beat you from childhood on; first your stepfather, then your "step-wife." No one ever spoke to you as to a friend. No one ever comforted you in your grief.

[_The Drunkard falls to the ground and weeps._]

THIEF [_to the Woman_]. And he is an honest man. I know him. We went to the same school. He had an honest mother. She loved him only as a mother can. [_Whispering to the Woman._] She brought him bread behind his stepfather's back.

DRUNKARD. I will never drink again. I give my word of honor.

[_He weeps._]

THIEF. Don't cry, brother. We are all dogs of the street. But we unite to-day. Come with us, come. We will care for you. We will all be together. Take the Prostitute, and come with us.

[_The old Prostitute rises and looks amazed._]

PROSTITUTE. Me?

THIEF [_taking her hand_]. We will not turn you, nor avoid you. We know what you are. You are not to blame. Who brought you up? Who was your mother? You were born in the street like a goat. Every stone, every hole in the earth caresses you like a mother. You were thrown into the street at birth, and men ran from you as from a leper. Any wonder that this is what became of you? You lay in the street like an old, dirty rag.

PROSTITUTE [_half-crying_]. I am not worthy of such comforting words by a gentleman.

THIEF. You are worthy. You are like all of us. Your skin is dirty, but your soul is clean. Wash your sins away, throw the curse from off your shoulders, and you will become a human being like all of us. You too long for people. I know you. You are good, you love humanity. It is they who have cursed you so. You were always a clean child. Wait. Wait. [_He takes water from the well, and pours it on her._] I wash your head, and you are a human being like the rest of us. The curse is removed from you. Look around yourself. Spring is here. Its fragrance is everywhere. You are a girl yet, a mere child. You know no wickedness. You are in your father's garden. Your mother sits near the window and looks at you. You are walking with your beloved.

[_He takes the Drunkard, puts him side by side with the Prostitute, joins their hands, and leads them back and forth._]

PROSTITUTE [_smiles_]. Don't talk to me like that.

THIEF. You are being married now. Virgins come and bring you your bridal dress, your veil, your myrtle wreath. You are chaste. They lead you to the altar. Your mother lays her hand on your head and blesses you. Sweet harp music is heard. Your bridegroom takes his place beside you.

[_The Prostitute breaks out into tears._]

DRUNKARD [_excited_]. I will be together with her. I will defend her. I will not let them insult her. She is my sister. I will work for her.

THIEF. That's the way. The dogs unite to-day. [_He takes the Bastard in his arms and kisses him on the forehead._] And, he, too, is our child. All of us are dogs of the street. All of us unite to-day.

DRUNKARD [_takes the boy from the Thief_]. He is our child. He will be with us. [_He takes the arm of the Prostitute._] Come, we will go together. I will work for you. You will bring him up, and he will be our child. [_He takes the shawl from the Prostitute, and wraps himself and the boy in it._] What? You do not hear? Listen. I mean it with my whole heart.

[_The Prostitute does not hear. She looks with awe at the Woman._]

THIEF. That's the way. That's the way. That's the way. To-day we unite. We go together. We will be one with the dogs. [_He caresses all he finds on the street._] Blow the trumpets, boys. Beat the drums. We choose a queen to-day. [_To the Fool._] The army waits for you, with swords in their hands, with spears ready. Do you see the cannon all trained? All wait for your command. Do you see the foe around you? [_He points to the street with a broad majestic gesture._] Here stands the army.

FOOL [_happily_]. Yes, yes.

THIEF. Give your order, Napoleon. You are our general. Draw the sword, and command!

FOOL [_draws his wooden sword and cries loudly as if he saw an army in the market-place_]. Present arms!

THIEF [_loudly_]. That's the way. The dogs unite to-day. All will unite. We choose a queen to-day. [_He points to the Woman._] She is worthy of wearing the crown of the street. Come, queen. Mount to your throne. [_He bends his back._] Boys, blow your trumpets. Beat your drums. At your knees. All hats off. The queen comes. The queen comes. So will we go to our land.

[_It is grown lighter. The face of the Woman has grown young and beautiful, and begins to look like the face of the Holy Mother._]

PROSTITUTE [_who has looked at the Woman with awe, recognizes her in the gray light, as she sits on the Thief's shoulders with the child in her arms. She falls to her knees before her, and cries in an unearthly voice_]. Oh, see, see. It is the Holy Mother. Look at her--her face. She has come from the church. Oh, it is the holy picture before which I always pray. I know her. Our Holy Mother in her very flesh. [_She gives a great cry, and falls prostrate before the Woman._] Oh, Mother, Mother, take me under Thy protection. [_She falls prostrate, unable to talk any more. The others are infected with the spirit of her words. They look with fear at the Woman's face. They recognize the Madonna. They bend half-ways on their knees. The Thief, who has let her down from his shoulders, takes off his hat and kneels with the rest. All prostrate themselves. There is the sound of a church-bell. It is day. From the open window of a house across the way, leans out the wife of the Drunkard, and yells._] Ah, ah, what are you doing there. Come into the house. There is work to be done.

DRUNKARD [_roused from his ecstasy, tears his hand away from that of the Prostitute, and looks at the Woman with the Thief._] Ha-ha-ha. That's Helenka, Andrey the Plasterer's wife. Ha-ha-ha. He's cracked a good joke.

[_He runs away. The others awake as if from sleep. The Prostitute suddenly rises. Helenka tries to escape from the Thief's hands._]

HELENKA. Why did you drag me into the street?

THIEF [_holding her hand_.] Come with me. Remember what we said. Come to another land with me.

HELENKA [_weeping_]. What does he want with me? Why did he drag me into the street? Come home, children.

[_All run from him._]

THIEF [_stands near the well, and thunders after them_]. Dogs, where are you running?... You dogs, you damned dogs.... [_Townspeople come to the well with pails, grumbling._] Get out of the way....

[_Curtain._]

FORGOTTEN SOULS

A PLAY

BY DAVID PINSKI TRANSLATED AND EDITED BY ISAAC GOLDBERG, PH.D.

Copyright, 1916, by L. E. Bassett. All rights reserved.

PERSONS

FANNY SEGAL [_owner of a tailoring establishment_]. LIZZIE EHRLICH [_a pianist_], } [_Miss Segal's boarders_]. HINDES [_a teacher_], }

PLACE: _A Russian Provincial Town_. TIME: _1916_.

Reprinted from "Six Plays of the Yiddish Theatre" by permission of, and special arrangements with, Dr. Isaac Goldberg and David Pinski.

FORGOTTEN SOULS

A PLAY BY DAVID PINSKI

[SCENE: _Workroom at Fanny Segal's. A door to the left of the spectator, another in the back. A large table, covered with various materials; at each side of the table a sewing machine. On the wall to the right, a three-panelled mirror; in the corner, a large wardrobe. Not far from the wardrobe two dressmaker's forms, covered with cloaks. In the middle a broad armchair. Evening._]

FANNY [_runs out through the rear door and soon returns with a letter in her hand. She tears it nervously open and is absorbed in reading. Suddenly she gives a scream of delight_]. Oh!--Oh! [_Passes her hand over her face and through her hair, looks at the letter, cries out anew, breathing with difficulty. Looks at the letter once more, and exclaims heavily._] You! My love! My love! [_She is lost for a moment in thought, then calls._] Lizzie! Lizzie! Lizzie!

LIZZIE [_enters, dressed up as if for a ball, sticking a pin in her hat. Mocks Fanny's tone._] What's up? What's up? What's up?

FANNY. Read this! Quickly! It's from Berman!

LIZZIE [_takes the letter_]. Why see! We've just been talking about him. And they really accepted his drama?

[_Looks at the letter._]

FANNY [_looks on, too, in great excitement_].

LIZZIE [_as she reads_]. That's fine! [_Turns over a page and continues reading._] Why! This is an actual proposal of marriage, Fanny, my dear!

FANNY [_her breath short from delight_]. Did you understand it that way, too?

LIZZIE [_still looking at the letter_]. How can it be interpreted otherwise? [_About to read the letter aloud._] Ahem! [_Reads with a certain solemnity._] "My drama has been accepted and will be produced this very winter. The conditions of the contract are first-rate, and the director promises me a great success, and incidentally a great reputation." [_Reads over some passages in an indistinct nasal monotone, then continues._] "My! You ought to see me now.--I've sung and danced so much that it'll be a wonder to me if I'm not asked to move. I feel so strong. And now to write, to create, to do things!" [_Reads again in a nasal monotone, and soon with greater solemnity than before, and a certain tenderness._] "And now, I hope, better days are in store for us, happiness of such a nature that you cannot be indifferent to it." [_Stops reading._] That's a bit veiled, but it's plain talk just the same. [_Gives Fanny the letter. Speaks lovingly._] Lucky woman! My darling Fanny! [_Embraces her._] You dear! [_Kisses her._]

FANNY. So that's the way you understand it, too? [_Speaks in gasps, trembling all over._] Oh! Oh!

[_Covers her face with the letter, takes it to her lips and breathes with difficulty. She takes from her right sleeve a handkerchief and wipes her eyes._]

LIZZIE [_moved, embracing her with both arms_]. My dear Fanny! How happy I am! You dear, you! [_Dreamily._] Now I know how I'll play at the Ginsbergs' to-night! I'll put my whole soul into the music, and it will be the merriest, cheeriest soul that ever lived in the world.

FANNY [_bends down and kisses her forehead_]. My faithful friend!

LIZZIE. At last! My dream's come true!

FANNY [_drops into the armchair_]. Your dream?

LIZZIE [_takes a piece of cloth from the table, spreads it out on the floor, and kneels before Fanny_]. Listen. I dreamed for you a hero before whom the world, even before seeing him, would bare its head. I dreamed for you a triumphal march of powerful harmonies, a genius, a superman, such as only you deserve.

FANNY. Sh! Sh! Don't talk like that!

LIZZIE. No, no. You can't take that away from me. As long as I shall live I'll never cease admiring you. There aren't many sisters in the world like you. Why, you never have given a thought to yourself, never a look, but have worked with might and main to make a somebody out of your sister. I'll tell you the truth. I've often had the most unfriendly feelings toward your sister Olga. She takes it so easy there in Petrograd, while you--

FANNY [_tenderly_]. You're a naughty girl.

LIZZIE. I simply couldn't see how things went on,--how you were working yourself to death.

FANNY. But that was my happiness, and now I am amply repaid for it, to see Olga placed upon an independent footing, with a great future before her as a painter.

LIZZIE. That kind of happiness did not appeal very much to me. I wanted, for you, a different kind of happiness,--the happiness of being a wife, of being a mother, of loving and being loved.

FANNY [_in a reverie_]. I had already weaned my thoughts away from love and family life as the only happiness.

LIZZIE. You poor soul!

FANNY. When my mother died, my road was clearly mapped out for me: to be to my sister, who is eight years younger than I, both a father and a mother. That purpose was great and holy to me. I never thought of anything else. Only in the early twenties, between twenty-two and twenty-five, a longing for something else came to me. Not that my sister became a burden to me, God forbid, but I wanted something more, a full life, happiness and--love. At that time I used to cry very much, and wet my pillow with my tears, and I was very unhappy. And I was easily angered then, too, so you see I was far from an angel.

LIZZIE [_draws Fanny nearer, and kisses her_]. You darling, you!

FANNY. But later the longing left me, as if it had been charmed away. Olga grew older, and her talents began to ripen. Then I forgot myself altogether, and she became again my sole concern.

LIZZIE. And is that all?

FANNY. What else can there be? Of course, when my sister went to Petrograd she was no longer under my immediate care and I was left all alone. The old longing re-awoke in my bosom but I told myself that one of my years had no right to expect happiness and love? So I determined to tear out, to uproot from my heart every longing. I tried to convince myself that my goal in life had already been attained--that I had placed a helpless child securely upon her feet--

LIZZIE. But you loved Berman all the time, didn't you?

FANNY. Yes, I loved him all the time, but I fought my feelings. Life had taught me to restrain and to suppress my desires. I argued: He is too far above me--

LIZZIE. Too far above you?

FANNY [_continuing_]. And I am too worn-out for him. And furthermore, I tried to make myself believe that his daily visits here were accidental, that they were not intended for me at all, but for his friend and nephew Hindes, who happens to board with me.

LIZZIE. But how could you help perceiving that he was something more than indifference to you? You must have been able to read it in his eyes.

FANNY [_smiling_]. Well, you see how it is! And perhaps for the very reason that I had abandoned all ideas of love, and had sought to deceive myself into believing that I was a dried-up twig on the tree of live--

LIZZIE [_jumping up_]. My! How you sinned against yourself!

FANNY [_rising_]. But now the sap and the strength flow again within me,--now I am young once more.--Ah! Life, life!--To enjoy it, to drink it down in copious draughts, to feel it in every pulse-beat--Oh, Lizzie, play me a triumphal march, a song of joy, of jubilation....

LIZZIE. So that the very walls will dance and the heavens join in the chorus. [_Goes to the door at the left, singing._] "Joy, thou goddess, fair, immortal, daughter of Elysium, Mad with rapture--" [_Suddenly stops._] Sh! Hindes is coming!

[_Listens._]

FANNY [_she has been standing as if entranced; her whole body trembles as she awakens to her surroundings. She puts her finger to her nose, warningly._] Don't say a word to him about it.

LIZZIE. I will! He must know it, he must be happy over it, too. And if he truly loves you, he will be happy to learn it. And then, once for all he'll get rid of his notions about winning you.

FANNY. Don't be so inconsiderate.

LIZZIE. Leave it to me!... Hindes! Hindes!

FANNY. It's high time you left for the Ginsbergs'.

LIZZIE. I've a few minutes yet.... Hindes! Hindes!

HINDES [_appears at the rear door. He wears spectacles; under his left arm a crutch, under his right arm books, and in his hands various bags of food_].

FANNY [_steals out through the door at the left_].

HINDES. Good evening. What's the news?

LIZZIE. Come here! Quick! Fa--

HINDES. Won't you give me time to carry my parcels into my room?

LIZZIE. Not even a second! Fanny has--

HINDES [_taking an apple from a bag_]. Have an apple.

LIZZIE [_refusing it_]. Let me speak, won't you! Fa--

HINDES. May I at least sit down?

LIZZIE [_loudly_]. Fanny has received a letter from Berman!

HINDES [_taking a seat_]. Saying that his drama has been accepted. I, too, have received a letter from Berman.

LIZZIE. That's nothing. The point is that he is seeking to make a match with her. He has practically proposed to her.

HINDES [_astonished_]. Practically proposed? To Fanny?

LIZZIE. Yes, and when Fanny comes back you just see to it that you wish her a right friendly congratulation, and that you make no--[_Stops suddenly._] Hm! I came near saying something silly.--Oh, I'm so happy, and I'd just have the whole world happy with me. Do you hear? You must help her celebrate, do you hear? And now, good night to you, for I must run along to the Ginsbergs'.

[_Turns to the door at the left singing: "Joy, thou goddess, fair, immortal...."_]

HINDES [_calling after her_]. But--the devil. Miss Ehrlich!

LIZZIE [_at the door_]. I haven't a single moment to spare for the devil.

[_She disappears._]

HINDES [_grunts angrily, throws his crutch to the ground, places his books and his packages on a chair, and mumbles_]. What mockery is this!

[_Takes out a letter from his inside pocket and reads it over several times. Grunts again. Rests his head heavily upon his hands, and looks vacantly forward, as if deeply puzzled._]

FANNY [_enters, embarrassed_]. Good evening, Hindes!

HINDES [_mumbles, without changing his position_]. Good evening!

FANNY [_looks at him in embarrassment, and begins to busy herself with the cloaks on the forms._]

HINDES [_still in the same position. He taps his foot nervously. He soon ceases this, and speaks without looking at Fanny_]. Miss Segal, will you permit me to see Berman's letter?

FANNY [_with a nervous laugh_]. That's a bit indiscreet--not at all like a cavalier.

HINDES [_same position and same tone_]. Will you permit me to see Berman's letter?

FANNY [_with a laugh of embarrassment, throws him the letter, which she has been holding in her sleeve_]. Read it, if that's how you feel.

HINDES [_bends slowly down, gets the letter, commences to read it, and then to grumble_]. H'm! So! [_He lets the letter fall to his knee, and stares vacantly before him. He shakes his foot nervously and mumbles as if to himself._] To be such an idiot!

FANNY [_regards him with astonishment_].

HINDES [_somewhat more softly_]. To be such an idiot!

FANNY [_laughing, still embarrassed_]. Who?

HINDES. Not I.

[_Picks up his crutch, the books and the parcels, arises, and gives the letter to Fanny._]

FANNY [_beseechingly_]. Hindes, don't take it so badly. You make me very sad.

HINDES. I'm going to my room, so you won't see me.

FANNY [_as before_]. Don't speak to me like that, Hindes. Be my good friend, as you always were. [_In a lower tone, embarrassed._] And be good to Berman. For you know, between us, between you and me, there could never have been anything more than friendship.

HINDES. There is no need of your telling me that. I know what I know and have no fault to find with you.

FANNY. Then why are you so upset, and why do you reproach yourself?

HINDES. Because....

FANNY. Because what?

HINDES [_after an inner struggle, stormily_]. Because I am in a rage! To think of a chap writing such a veiled, ambiguous, absolutely botched sentence, and cooking up such a mess!

FANNY. What do you mean by all this?

HINDES. You know, Miss Segal, what my feelings are toward you, and you know that I wish you all happiness. I assure you that I would bury deep within me all my grief and all my longing, and would rejoice with a full heart--if things were as you understood them from Berman's letter.

FANNY. As I understood them from Berman's letter?

HINDES. --And what rouses my anger and makes me hesitate is that it should have had to happen to you and that I must be the surgeon to cut the cataract from your eye.

FANNY [_astounded_]. Drop your rhetorical figures. End your work. Cut away, since you've begun the cutting.

HINDES [_without looking at her, deeply stirred_]. Berman did not mean you.

FANNY. Not me?

HINDES. Not you, but your sister.

FANNY [_with an outcry_]. Oh!--

HINDES. He writes me that his first meeting with her was as if the splendor of God had suddenly shone down upon him,--that gradually he was inflamed by a fiery passion, and that he hopes his love is returned, that....

FANNY [_falls upon a chair, her face turned toward the table. She breaks into moaning_]. She has taken from me everything!

[_In deepest despair, with cries from her innermost being, she tears at her hair._]

HINDES [_drops his books and packages to the floor. Limps over to Fanny, and removes her hands from her head_]. You have good reason to weep, but not to harm yourself.

FANNY [_hysterically_]. She has taken from me everything! My ambition to study, my youth, my fondest hopes, and now....

HINDES. And now?--Nothing. As you see, Berman never loved you. If it hadn't been for that unfortunate, ambiguous, absolutely botched, simply idiotic sentence....

FANNY [_softly_]. Hindes, I feel that I no longer care to live.

HINDES. Folly!

FANNY. I feel as if my heart had been torn in two. My soul is empty, desolate ... as if an abyss had opened before me.... What have I now in life for? I can live no longer!

HINDES. Folly! Nonsense!

FANNY. I have already lived my life....

HINDES. Absurd!

FANNY [_resolutely_]. I know what I'm talking about, and I know what to do.

[_Silence._]

HINDES [_regarding her closely. With blunt emphasis_]. You're thinking now over what death you shall choose.

FANNY [_motionless_].

HINDES [_taking a seat_]. Let me tell you a story. There was once upon a time a man who--not through doubt and misfortune, but rather through good times and pleasures, came to the conclusion that life wasn't worth living. So he went off to buy a revolver. On his way a great clamor arose in the street. A house had caught fire and in a moment was in flames. Suddenly, at one of the windows in the top story there appeared a woman. The firemen had placed their highest ladders against the building and a man began to climb up. That man was none other than our candidate for suicide. He took the woman out of the window, gave her to the firemen who had followed him up, and then went through the window into the house. The surrounding crowd trembled with fear lest the house should cave in at the very last moment. Flames already appeared at the window, and people were sure that the hero had been burned to death inside. But he had not been burned; he soon appeared on the roof, with a small child in his arms. The ladders could not reach to this height, so the firemen threw him a rope. He tied the rope about the child and lowered it to the firemen. But he himself was beyond rescue. He folded his hands over his heart, and tears trickled from his eyes. He, who but a moment before had sought death, now desired not to die. No, he wanted to live, for in that moment he had found a purpose: to live and to do good.

FANNY [_angrily_]. To do good! I'm tired of doing good!

HINDES. Don't sin against yourself, Fanny!

FANNY. Do good! I have done good; I have lived for others, not myself; and now you can see for yourself that I have not fulfilled my life. I feel as wretched as the most miserable, as the most wicked, and I long for death even as the most unhappy!

HINDES [_looking at her from under his spectacles_]. Does Olga know of your feelings toward Berman?

FANNY [_angrily_]. I don't know what she knows.

HINDES. Can't you give me any better reply than that?

FANNY. What can I know? I used to write her letters just full of Berman.

HINDES. Could Olga have gathered from them that you were not indifferently disposed toward him?

FANNY. What do you mean by this cross-examination?

HINDES. I have a notion that if you were to do what you have in your mind at present,--a thing I cannot bring myself to name,--then Olga would not accept Berman's love. Rather she would take her own life, since she would look upon herself as the cause of your death.

FANNY. What's this you've thought up?

HINDES. Just what you heard.

FANNY. And you mean--?

HINDES. --That you know your sister and ought to realize what she's liable to do.

FANNY [_in a fit of anger_]. First she takes away my life, and now she will not let me die!

[_Her head sinks to the table._]

HINDES. There spoke the true Fanny, the Fanny of yore.

FANNY [_weeps bitterly_].

HINDES. Well may you weep. Weep, Fanny, weep until the tears come no more. But when that is over, then dry your eyes and never weep again. Dry forever the source of all your tears. That's exactly what I did, do you understand? Such people as you and I, robbed of personal happiness, must either weep forever, or never weep at all. I chose the latter course. Harden yourself, Fanny, and then fold your arms on your breast and look fearlessly forward into life, fulfilling it as your heart dictates.

FANNY [_continues weeping_].

HINDES [_noticing Berman's letter on the table, takes it up and throws it down angrily_]. Such a botched, idiotic sentence! And he's a poet!

FANNY [_raising her head_]. If things are as you say, then Olga will in any case reject Berman. She will imagine that she is taking him away from me, and such a thing she would never do.

HINDES. Perhaps. [_Suddenly, bluntly._] And what will be the effect of all this upon you?

FANNY [_brokenly_]. Who's thinking of self? I mean that I want her to have him.

HINDES. There's the old Fanny again!

FANNY. Ah! Enough of that! Better help me with some suggestion.

HINDES. Some suggestion? Be her matchmaker.

FANNY. And suppose she should turn the tables and want to be my matchmaker?

HINDES. We've got to think that over.

[_Silence._]

FANNY [_brokenly_]. Hindes!

HINDES. What?

FANNY. I have an idea.

HINDES. Good.

FANNY. But I need your aid.

HINDES. Count on me, if I'm able.

FANNY. Do you promise?

HINDES. Blindly?

FANNY. Blindly.

HINDES [_looks at her_]. Why must I promise you blindly? If I'm able, you may be sure I'll help.

FANNY [_brokenly, yet in embarrassment_]. Take me.... Marry me.

HINDES [_for a moment he looks at her, then picks up his crutch, his books and the packages_].

FANNY [_beseechingly_]. Hindes! If I should marry, Olga wouldn't have any obstacle in her way.

HINDES. Miss Segal, I have loved you, and still do. But I refuse to be the altar upon which you shall sacrifice yourself.

FANNY. But a moment ago you dissuaded me from death. Will you now drive me back to it?

HINDES. Your sister will be able to find happiness without Berman.

FANNY. But if she loves him?--

HINDES. Then she'll suffer, just as we do.

FANNY. No! Olga must not suffer! Do you hear! I'll not have it!

HINDES. That is very nice of you.

FANNY [_through her tears_]. Hindes, I no longer know you.

HINDES [_turns toward the door_]. Good night.

FANNY [_is overcome by sobbing_].

HINDES [_limps to the door, then stops. Looks downwards, then raises his eyes toward Fanny_]. Miss Segal, why is it that during all the time that I have boarded with you I have made no declaration of love, that I have never proposed marriage?

FANNY [_weeps_].

HINDES. I'll tell you. Wasn't it because I knew that you didn't love me, and because I wanted your love, not merely your respect?

FANNY [_firmly_]. No. You didn't do it simply because you knew that I would refuse you.

HINDES. And suppose I expected "Yes" from you?

FANNY. Then you would have proposed.

HINDES. And married you without your love?

FANNY. Yes.

HINDES. But then I didn't know that you loved another.

FANNY [_brokenly_]. The other no longer exists for me.

HINDES [_looks again at the floor. Silence_].

FANNY. Hindes!

HINDES. Yes?

FANNY. Come nearer to me.

HINDES. I am lame.

FANNY. Put all your bundles aside.

HINDES [_hesitates for a moment, then puts down his books and packages_].

FANNY [_as if in embarrassment_]. Everything.... Everything....

HINDES [_bluntly_]. Don't be ashamed. Say just what you mean: Lay aside the crutch, too.

[_He lays aside the crutch._]

FANNY [_arises, takes his hand_]. Hindes, you know my attitude toward you. You know how highly I esteem you, how happy I've always been to possess in you a good, true friend.... [_Nestles her head against him, coyly._] Embrace me, and give me a kiss, a hot, passionate kiss. Put into it your whole love, make it express your whole true soul. [_Brokenly, and in tears._] I tell you, our life will be--happy. We souls, forgotten by happiness, will yet find it--in our own way--as best we can. [_Less tearfully._] You'll see how it'll soon be. Lizzie will come home and she'll play us a march of jubilation, a march of joy.... [_Brokenly._] She owes it to me!... I'll dance, I tell you; I'll dance for two. You'll see. And I'll sing. I'll turn things upside down. Hindes, kiss me, hotly, hotly.

HINDES [_passionately, through tears_]. You.... You....

[_He gives her a long kiss, as if entranced._]

[_Slow Curtain._]

* * * * *

BIBLIOGRAPHY

OF THE LITTLE THEATRE

FOREWORD

What is wanting in this list the reader will only too soon discover for himself. I do not, however, wish to offer a faltering apology for the incompleteness of the work. In truth, it needs none. Nevertheless, a brief word of explanation may not be amiss.

The duties of the bibliographer are more or less mechanical. He merely collects his data from the most available sources or from arcana known only to a few, arranges his material alphabetically and sends his copy to the printer.

The present list is an exception to the general practice. It will be noted that the bibliographer has broken his traces, forsaken his accustomed field and intruded, in some measure, upon the province of the critic. From the great mass of plays accessible in English I have sought to select only those which I hold best adapted to the little theater as it is to-day constituted. On the whole, they are plays which have encountered a certain measure of success or that I felt to be worthy of production. Rigid care has been taken to exclude such dramatic pieces which are fittingly described as "side-splitting farces." The latter contribute nothing to the art theater. Box and Cox, I doubt not, may be excruciatingly funny, but few would care to hear that Sam Hume, for instance, was about to produce it. Not that genuine laughter hasn't its place in the modern theater; but we cannot laugh to-day at the archaic drolleries of yesterday. We cannot abandon ourselves to papier-mache characterization in the theater. And this is what the art theater accomplished in its brief stay with us.

F. S.

THE BOOKS OF THE LITTLE THEATRE

ANTHONY, Luther B. DRAMATOLOGY. A Manual of Craftsmanship

APPIA, Adolphe DIE MUSIK UND DIE INSCENIERUNG

ARCHER, William PLAY MAKING. A Manual of Craftsmanship ABOUT THE THEATRE

ARCHER, William, and BARKER, Granville A NATIONAL THEATRE. Schemes and Estimates

ARNOLD, Robert S. DAS MODERNE DRAMA

AUSTIN, Stephen F. THE PRINCIPLES OF DRAMA-THERAPY

BAKER, George Pierce THE TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA DRAMATIC TECHNIQUE

BAKSHY, Alexander THE PATH OF THE MODERN RUSSIAN STAGE

BICKLEY, Francis J. M. SYNGE AND THE IRISH DRAMATIC MOVEMENT

BLEACKLEY, J. Arthur THE ART OF MIMICRY

BOOTH, William Stone A PRACTICAL GUIDE FOR AUTHORS AND PLAYWRIGHTS

BOURGEOIS, Maurice JOHN MILLINGTON SYNGE AND THE IRISH THEATRE

BOYD, Ernest A. THE CONTEMPORARY DRAMA OF IRELAND

BROADBENT, R. J. A HISTORY OF PANTOMIME

BROWNE, Maurice THE TEMPLE OF A LIVING ART

BROWNE, Van Dyke SECRETS OF SCENE PAINTING AND STAGE EFFECTS

BRUNETIERE, Ferdinand THE LAW OF THE DRAMA, with an introduction by Henry Arthur Jones. Translated by P. M. Hayden

BURLEIGH, Louise THE COMMUNITY THEATRE

BURTON, Richard HOW TO SEE A PLAY

CALTHROP, Dion Clayton ENGLISH COSTUME. Four volumes

CALVERT, Louis PROBLEMS OF THE ACTOR

CANNAN, Gilbert THE JOY OF THE THEATRE

CANNON, Fanny WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY

CARTER, Huntley THE NEW SPIRIT IN DRAMA AND ART THE THEATRE OF MAX REINHARDT

CHENEY, Sheldon THE OPEN AIR THEATRE THE THEATRE ARTS MAGAZINE THE NEW MOVEMENT IN THE THEATRE THE ART THEATRE

CLARK, Barrett H. HOW TO PRODUCE AMATEUR PLAYS CONTINENTAL DRAMA OF TO-DAY BRITISH AND AMERICAN DRAMA OF TO-DAY EUROPEAN THEORIES OF THE DRAMA

COLLES, W. M., and HARDY, H. PLAYWRIGHT AND COPYRIGHT IN ALL COUNTRIES

COQUELIN, Constant ART AND THE ACTOR. Translated by A. L. Alger

CRAIG, Gordon THE ART OF THE THEATRE ON THE ART OF THE THEATRE A LIVING THEATRE TOWARDS A NEW THEATRE THE THEATRE--ADVANCING

DEAN, Basil THE REPERTORY THEATRE, 1911

DICKINSON, Thomas H. THE CONTEMPORARY DRAMA OF ENGLAND THE INSURGENT THEATRE

EDWARDS, O. JAPANESE PLAYS AND PLAYFELLOWS

FENELLOSA, Ernest, and POUND, Ezra "NO"; or ACCOMPLISHMENT

FRY, Emma Sheridan EDUCATIONAL DRAMATICS

GILLETTE, William THE ILLUSION OF THE FIRST TIME IN ACTING

GOLDMAN, Emma THE SOCIAL SIGNIFICANCE OF THE MODERN DRAMA

GREGORY, Lady OUR IRISH THEATRE

HAMILTON, Clayton THEORY OF THE THEATRE STUDIES IN STAGECRAFT PROBLEMS OF THE PLAYWRIGHT

HASTINGS, Charles THE THEATRE. Its Development in France and England and a History of Its Greek and Latin Origins

HENDERSON, Archibald THE CHANGING DRAMA EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS

HENNEQUIN, Alfred THE ART OF PLAYWRITING

HILLIARD, E., McCORMICK, T., and OGLEBAY, K. AMATEUR AND EDUCATIONAL DRAMATICS

HORNBLOW, Arthur TRAINING FOR THE STAGE. Some Hints for Those About to Choose the Player's Career

HORRWITZ, Ernest P. THE INDIAN THEATRE. A Brief Survey of the Sanskrit Drama

HOWE, P. P. THE REPERTORY THEATRE

HUBERT, Philip G. THE STAGE AS A CAREER

HUNT, Elizabeth R. THE PLAY OF TO-DAY

IZUMO, Takeda. Translated by M. C. Marcus THE PINE TREE. With an Introductory Causerie on the Japanese Theatre

JONES, Henry Arthur RENASCENCE OF THE ENGLISH DRAMA FOUNDATIONS OF A NATIONAL DRAMA THE THEATRE OF IDEAS

KROWS, Arthur Edwin PLAY PRODUCTION IN AMERICA

LAWRENCE, W. J. THE ELIZABETHAN PLAYHOUSE

LEWES, G. H. ON ACTORS AND THE ART OF ACTING

LEWIS, B. Roland THE TECHNIQUE OF THE ONE-ACT PLAY: A Study in Dramatic Construction

LEWISOHN, Ludwig THE MODERN DRAMA

MACCARTHY, Desmond THE COURT THEATRE

MACCLINTOCK, Lander THE CONTEMPORARY DRAMA OF ITALY

MACKAY, Constance D'Arcy COSTUMES AND SCENERY FOR AMATEURS; A Practical Working Handbook THE LITTLE THEATRE IN THE UNITED STATES

MACKAY, F. F. THE ART OF ACTING

MACKAYE, Percy COMMUNITY DRAMA THE CIVIL THEATRE THE PLAYHOUSE AND THE PLAY PATRIOTIC DRAMA IN YOUR TOWN

MACKINNON, Alan THE OXFORD AMATEURS

MANTIZIUS, Karl HISTORY OF THEATRICAL ART IN ANCIENT AND MODERN TIMES. Five volumes

McCLEOD, Addison PLAYS AND PLAYERS IN MODERN ITALY

McEWEN, E. J. FREYTAG'S TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA

MATTHEWS, Brander ON ACTING

MODERWELL, Hiram Kelly THE THEATRE OF TO-DAY

MONTAGUE, C. E. DRAMATIC VALUES

MORSE, Elizabeth PRINCIPLES OF EXPRESSION: A Guide for Developing Readers, Speakers and Dramatic Artists

NICHOLSON, Watson THE STRUGGLE FOR A FREE STAGE IN LONDON

PALMER, John THE FUTURE OF THE THEATRE COMEDY THE CENSOR AND THE THEATRE

PHELPS, William Lyon THE TWENTIETH CENTURY THEATRE

POLLAK, Gustav FRANZ GRILLPARZAR AND THE AUSTRIAN DRAMA

POLTI, George. Translated by Lucille Ray THE THIRTY-SIX DRAMATIC SITUATIONS

PRICE, W. T. TECHNIQUE OF THE DRAMA ANALYSIS OF PLAY CONSTRUCTION AND DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE THE PHILOSOPHY OF DRAMATIC PRINCIPLE AND METHOD

RENNERT, Hugo A. THE SPANISH STAGE

RILEY, Alice C. D. THE ONE-ACT PLAY. A Study Course in Three Parts

ROUCHE, Jacques L'ART THEATRAL MODERNE

SACHS, Edward O. STAGE CONSTRUCTION

SAYLER, Oliver M. THE RUSSIAN THEATRE UNDER THE REVOLUTION

SEPET, Marius ORIGINES CATHOLIQUES DE THEATRE MODERNE

SHAW, George Bernard DRAMATIC OPINIONS AND ESSAYS

SHAY, Frank THE PLAYS AND BOOKS OF THE LITTLE THEATRE. A Listing of Over 1000 One-Act Plays Available in Printed Form

SMITH, Winifred THE COMMEDIA DELL'ARTE. A Study of Italian Popular Comedy

STOPES, Marie C. THE PLAYS OF OLD JAPAN. The No.

TAYLOR, Emerson PRACTICAL STAGE DIRECTING FOR AMATEURS

THEATRICAL SCENE PAINTING: A Thorough and Complete Work on How to Sketch, Paint and Install Theatrical Scenery

THE TRUTH ABOUT THE THEATRE

TURRELL, Charles A. CONTEMPORARY SPANISH DRAMATISTS

WAUGH, Frank A. OUTDOOR THEATRES

WITKOWSKI, George. Translated by L. E. Horning THE GERMAN DRAMA OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY

WOODBRIDGE, Elizabeth THE DRAMA. Its Law and Technique

* * * * *

THE PLAYS OF THE LITTLE THEATRE

ABBREVIATIONS

a--Allegory c--Comedy d--Drama m--Masque p--Play s--Satire m--Men, or Male Characters w--Women, or Female Characters j--Juvenile i--Characters played by either sex

ABERCROMBIE, Lascelles THE ADDER

AKINS, Zoe DID IT REALLY HAPPEN? THE MAGICAL CITY SUCH A CHARMING YOUNG MAN

ALDRICH, Thos. Bailey SISTERS' TRAGEDY CORYDON, a Pastoral. 2m PAULINE PAVLOVNA. p. 1m 1w supers _Houghton_

ALDIS, Mary PLAYS FOR SMALL STAGES MRS. PAT AND THE LAW. p 2m 2w 1j THE DRAMA CLASS AT TANKAHA, NEV. c 2m 9w EXTREME UNCTION. d 1m 4w THE LETTER. p 2m 1j TEMPERAMENT. t 1m 2w Five plays in one volume _Duffield_

ANCEY, Georges. See "Four Plays for the Free Theatre."

ANDREWS, K. AMERICA PASSES BY. p 2m 2w _Baker_

ANDREYEV, Leonid LOVE OF ONE'S NEIGHBOR. s 15m 7w 1j _Shay_

D'ANNUNZIO, Gabriele DREAM OF AN AUTUMN SUNSET. p 2m 4w _Poet Lore_ DREAM OF A SPRING MORNING. p 3m 4w _Poet Lore_

ARISTOPHANES LYSISTRATA. s 4m 5w 1j _French_

ARKELL, Reginald COLUMBINE, a fantasy. 4m 1w _S. & J._

AUGIER, Emile THE POSTSCRIPT. c 1m 2w _French_

AUGIER, Emile, and de MUSSET, Alfred THE GREEN COAT. c 3m 1w _French_

AUSTEN, Alfred A LESSON IN HARMONY. p 3m 1w _French_

BACON, Mrs. Josephine Dodge THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS. p 2 scenes _Kennerley_

BAKER, Elizabeth MISS TASSY. p _Sidgwick_

BALLARD, J. Fred THE GOOD NEWS. d 3m 1w 1j _Harvard_

BANGS, John Kendrick THE REAL THING, etc. THE REAL THING. c 2m 5w THE BARRINGTONS' "AT HOME." c 2m 3w THE RETURN OF CHRISTMAS. c 4m 3w THE SIDE SHOW. c 8m 3w Four plays in one volume _Harpers_ THE BICYCLERS, etc. THE BICYCLERS. c 4m 3w A DRAMATIC EVENING. c 4m 3w THE FATAL MESSAGE. c 5m 4w A PROPOSAL UNDER DIFFICULTIES. c 3m 2w Four plays in one volume _Harpers_

BANNING, Kendall "Copy." p 7m _Clinic_

DE BANVILLE, Theodore GRINGOIRE. c 4m 2w supers _Poet Lore_ GRINGOIRE. c 4m 2w _Dramatic_ CHARMING LEANDRE. c 2m 1w _French_

BARBER, M. E. MECHANICAL JANE. c 3W _French_

BARGATE, John THE PRIZE. p 4m 3w _French_

BARKER, Granville ROCOCO. f m w VOTE BY BALLOT. p m w FAREWELL TO THE THEATRE. p m w Three plays in one volume _Little_ ANATOL. (_See_ Schnitzler.)

BARRIE, James M. HALF HOURS PANTALOON. p 3m THE TWELVE POUND LOOK. c 2m 2w ROSALIND. p 1m 2w THE WILL. p 6m 1w Four plays in one vol. _Scribner's_ THE TRAGIC MAN _Scribner's_ ECHOES OF WAR OLD LADY SHOWS HER MEDALS. p 1m 5w THE NEW WORLD. p 2m 2w BARBARA'S WEDDING. p 3m 1w A WELL-REMEMBERED VOICE. p 2m 2w Four plays in one vol. _Scribner's_

BATES, W. O. POLLY OF POGUE'S RUN. p 6m 2w _Shay_

BEACH, Lewis THE CLOD. p 4m 1w _Shay_ BROTHERS. p 3m _Shay_ A GUEST FOR DINNER _Shay_

BECHHOFER, C. E. FIVE RUSSIAN PLAYS, etc. EVREINOV, N. A MERRY DEATH. c 5m EVREINOV, N. THE BEAUTIFUL DESPOT. c 5m 3w 1j VON VIZIN, D. THE CHOICE OF A TUTOR. c 5m 3w CHEKOV, A. THE WEDDING. c 9m 3w CHEKOV, A. THE JUBILEE. c 5m 1w UKRAINKA, L. THE BABYLONIAN CAPTIVITY. d 1m 7i Six plays in one vol. _Dutton_

BECQUE, Henri THE VULTURES, etc. THE MERRY-GO-ROUND. c 4m 1w _Little_

BELL, Mrs. Hugh, and CECIL, A. TIME IS MONEY. c 1m 2w _French_

BELMONT, Mrs. O. H. P., and MAXWELL, Elsa MELINDA AND HER SISTERS. p 6m 12w _Shores_

BEITH, Ian Hay THE CRIMSON COCOANUT, etc. THE CRIMSON COCOANUT. c 4m 2w A LATE DELIVERY. p 3m 2w THE MISSING CARD. c 2m 2w Three plays in one vol. _Baker_ QUEEN OF HEARTS. c 2m 2w _Penn_

BENEDIX, Roderich THE LAW OF SUIT. c 5m _French_ THE THIRD MAN. c 1m 3w _French_

BENEVENTE, Jacinto. PLAYS HIS WIDOW'S HUSBAND. c 2m 5w With other plays in one vol. _Scribner_ THE SMILE OF THE MONA LISA. p 5m 1i _Badger_ NO SMOKING. c 2m 2w _Drama_, _Feb._, 1917 IN THE PLACE OF DON JUAN. p 3m 2w _Poet Lore_

BENNETT, Arnold. POLITE FARCES THE STEPMOTHER. c 2m 1w A GOOD WOMAN. 3 cm 1w A QUESTION OF SEX. c 2m 2w Three plays in one volume _Doran_

BERINGER, Mrs. Oscar HOLLY TREE INN. p 4m 3w _French_

BERNARD, Tristan FRENCH WITHOUT A MASTER. c 5m 2w _French_ I'M GOING! c 1m 1w _French_

BIRO, Lajos THE BRIDEGROOM. p 5m 6w THE GRANDMOTHER. p 3m 8w Two plays in one number _Drama_, _May_, 1918

BLOCH, Bertram THE MAIDEN OVER THE WALL. f 2m 1w _Drama_, _Aug._, 1918 MORALS AND CIRCUMSTANCES. p 2m 3w _Smart Set_, _April_, 1919

BODENHEIM, Maxwell THE WANDERER. p 4m 2w _Seven Arts_ THE MASTER POISONER. "In Minna and Myself" _Pagan_

BONE, F. D. A DAUGHTER OF JAPAN. d _French_ PRIDE OF THE REGIMENT. p 2m 1w _French_

BOTTOMLEY, Gordon LAODICE AND DANAE. p 1m 5w _Four_ KING LEAR'S WIFE. p _Reynolds_

BOUCHOR, Maurice A CHRISTMAS TALE. p 2m 2w _French_

BOUCICAULT, Dion MY LITTLE GIRL. d 3m 2w _French_ LOVER BY PROXY. c 6m 4w _French_

BOYCE, Neith, and HAPGOOD, Hutchins ENEMIES. p 1m 1w _Shay_

BOYCE, Neith THE TWO SONS. p 2m 2w _Shay_

BRAGDON, Claude THE GIFT OF ASIA. p 2m _Forum_, _March_, 1913

BRANCH, Anna Hempstead THE ROSE OF THE WIND. p 2m 2w _Houghton_ SHOES THAT DANCED. p 3m 5w 1j _Houghton_

BRETHERTON, Evangeline THE MINISTER'S MESSENGER. p 14w _French_

BRIDGHAM, G. R. EXCUSE ME! c Two acts. 4m 6w _Baker_ A MODERN CINDERELLA. Two acts. p 16w _Baker_

BRIEUX, Eugene SCHOOL FOR MOTHERS-IN-LAW. p 2m 4w _Smart Set_, _Sept._, 1913

BRIGHOUSE, Harold SCARING OFF OF TEDDY DAWSON. c 2m 2w _French_ LONESOME-LIKE. p 2m 2w _Phillips_ THE PRICE OF COAL. p THE MAID OF FRANCE. p 3m 2w _Phillips_ THE DOORWAY. p _Joseph Williams_ SPRING IN BLOOMSBURY. p _Joseph Williams_

BRIGGS, Caroline ONE A DAY. c 5m _Shay_ In "Morningside Plays."

BROOKE, Rupert LITHUANIA. d 5m 2w _Chicago_

BROWN, Alice JOINT OWNERS IN SPAIN. c 4w _Baker_ THE LOVING CUP. p 4m 9w _Baker_

BROWNE, Maurice KING OF THE JEWS. p _Drama_, _Vol._ 6, 1916

BROWNING, Robert IN A BALCONY. p 1m 2w _Dramatic_

BRUNNER, Emma Beatrice. BITS OF BACKGROUND OVER AGE. p 1m 4w SPARK OF LIFE. p 2m 2w STRANGERS. p 2m 1w MAKING A MAN. p 2m 2w Four plays in one volume _Knopf_

BRYANT, E. M. THE PEACEMAKER. c 2m 3w _French_

BRYANT, Louise THE GAME. p 2m 2w _Shay_

BUCK, Gertrude MOTHER-LOVE. p 1m 3w _Drama_, _Feb._, 1919

BUNNER, H. C. COURTSHIP WITH VARIATIONS. c 1m 1w _Werner_

BUNNER, H. C., and MAGNUS, J. A BAD CASE. c 1m 3w _Baker_

BUSHIDO. _See_ IZUMO (TAKEDA)

BUTLER, Ellis Parker THE REVOLT. p 8w _French_

BYNNER, Witter THE LITTLE KING. p 3m 1w 1j _Kennerley_ TIGER. d 2m 3w _Kennerley_

DECAULAVET, G. A. CHOOSING A CAREER. c _French_

CALDERON, George THE LITTLE STONE HOUSE. p _Sidgwick_

CAMERON, Margaret. COMEDIES IN MINIATURE MISS DOULTON'S ORCHIDS. c 3m 3w THE BURGLAR. c 5w THE KLEPTOMANIAC. c 7w THE PIPE OF PEACE. c 1m 2w A CHRISTMAS CHIME. c 2m 2w COMMITTEE ON MATRIMONY. c 1m 1w HER NEIGHBOR'S CREED and FOUR MONOLOGUES. c 1m 1w Seven plays in one vol. _Doubleday_ PIPER'S PAY. c 7w French THE TEETH OF THE GIFT HORSE. c 2m 3w _French_ THE WHITE ELEPHANT. c 2m 3w _French_ Published separately _French_

CAMPBELL, M. D. A CHINESE DUMMY. c 6w _Baker_

CANNAN, Gilbert. FOUR PLAYS JAMES AND JOHN. p 3m 1w MILES DIXON. Two acts, p 3m 2w MARY'S WEDDING. p 2m 3w SHORT WAY WITH AUTHORS. p 7m 1w Four plays in one volume _Phillips_ EVERYBODY'S HUSBAND. p 1m 5w _Huebsch_

CAPUS, Alfred MY TAILOR. c 1m 2w _Smart Set_, _Feb._, 1918

CARMAN, Bliss, and KING, Mary. EARTH DEITIES, etc. THE DANCE DIURNAL. m 2m 3w i EARTH DEITIES. m 1m 10w i CHILDREN OF THE WAR. m 1m 1w 24j PAS DE TROIS. m 3m 1w Four masques in one vol. _Kennerley_

CARTER, Josephine Howell HILARION. c 2m 2w _Poet Lore_, _Summer_, 1915

CARTHEW, L. THE AMERICAN IDEA. p 3m 2w _Baker_

CARTON, R. C. THE NINTH WALTZ. c 1m 1w _French_

CHAMBERS, C. Haddon OPEN GATE. d 2m 2w _French_

CHATTERJI, Tapanmohan THE LIGHT-BEARER. d 4m _Drama_, _Aug._, 1918

CHURCH, Virginia PIERROT BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON. f 2m 3w _Drama_, _Feb._, 1919

CLEMENTS, Colin C., and SAUNDERS, John M. LOVE IN A FRENCH KITCHEN, a Mediaeval Farce. 1m 2w _Poet Lore_

CLARK, Barrett H. FOUR PLAYS FOR THE FREE THEATRE DECUREL, F. THE FOSSILS. Four acts p 6m 4w JULIAN, J. THE SERENADE. Three acts. p 7m 6w PORTO-RICHE, G. FRANCOISE'S LUCK. c 3m 2w ANCEY, G. THE DUPE. c 1m 2w Four plays in one volume _Stewart_

COLQUHON, Donald. _See_ REPERTORY PLAYS CONFEDERATES. d 4m 1w _French_

CONWAY, Ed. Harold THE WINDY SHOT. p 5m _Smart Set_, _April_, 1915

CONRAD, Joseph ONE DAY MORE. d 4m 1w _Smart Set_, _Feb._, 1914

CONVERSE, Florence THE BLESSED BIRTHDAY. A Christmas Miracle Play. 19 Characters _Dutton_

COOLIDGE, H. D. DEAD RECKONING. p 2m 1w _Baker_

COPPEE, Francois THE VIOLIN MAKER OF CREMONA. c 3m 1w supers _Dramatic_ PATER NOSTER. p 3m 3w _French_

COURTLELINE, Georges THE PITILESS POLICEMAN. c 3m _Poet Lore_ BLANK CARTRIDGE. p 1m 1w _International_, _July_, 1914 PEACE AT HOME. c 1m 1w _International_, _Dec._, 1913 PEACE AT HOME. c 1m 1w _Poet Lore_

COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. _See_ PRESBERY, E.

COWAN, Sada THE STATE FORBIDS. d 1m 2w 2j _Kennerley_ IN THE MORGUE. _Forum_, _April_, 1916 SINTRAM OF SKAGERRAK. p 1m 1w In Mayorga's "Representative One-Act Plays" _Little_

CRAIG, Marion Wentworth WAR BRIDES. d 3m 4w _Century_

CRANDALL, Irene Jean BEYOND THE GATE. Two acts. p 7m 2w _French_

CRANE, Mabel H. THE GIRLS. p 9w _French_

CROTHERS, Rachel THE RECTOR. p 1m 6w _French_

DANE, Essex FLEURETTE & CO. p 2w _French_ WRONG NUMBERS. c 3w _French_

DANGERFIELD, Trelawney OLD STUFF. p 1m 2w _Smart Set_, _June_, 1917

DARGAN, Olive Tilford. LORDS AND LOVERS LORDS AND LOVERS. p 18m 4w _Scribner_ WOODS OF IDA. m _Century_, _August_, 1907

DAVIS, Richard Harding MISS CIVILIZATION. c 4m 1w _French_ PEACE MANOEUVERS. p 2m 1w _French_ THE ZONE POLICE. p 4m _French_ ORATOR OF ZAPATA CITY. p 8m 1w _Dramatic_

DAVIES, Mary Carolyn SLAVE WITH TWO FACES. a 3m 4w _Arens_

DAVIS, Robert H. ROOM WITHOUT A NUMBER. c 3m 1w _Smart Set_, _April_, 1917

DAVIS, Robert H., and SHEEHAN, P. P. EFFICIENCY. d 3m _Doran_

DELL, Floyd A LONG TIME AGO. f _Forum_, 1917 KING ARTHUR'S SOCKS. c 1m 3w _Shay_ THE ANGEL INTRUDES. c 3m 1w _Arens_

DELAND, Margaret Dramatized by M. B. Vosburgh from "Old Chester Tales" MISS MARIA. c 2m 3w _French_

DEMUTH, Charles THE AZURE ADDER. s 3m 4w _Shay_

DENISON, Emily H. THE LITTLE MOTHER OF THE SLUMS Seven one-act plays _Badger_

DENTON, Clara J. TO MEET MR. THOMPSON. c 8w _Baker_

DEPUE, Elva HATTIE. p 2m 3w _Shay_ In "Morningside Plays"

DICKENS, Charles BROWNE, H. B. Short Plays from Dickens. Contains 20 dramatized sketches from the work of Charles Dickens _Scribner_ BARDELL VS. PICKWICK. c 6m 2w _Baker_ A CHRISTMAS CAROL. p 6m 3w _Baker_

DICKINSON, C. H., and GRIFFITHS, Arthur THE RIFT WITHIN THE LUTE. p 4m 1w _French_

DIX, Beulah Marie THE GLORIOUS GAME. d 6w _A.S.P.L._ THE ENEMY. d 5m _A.S.P.L._ CLEMENCY. d 3m 1w _A.S.P.L._ LEGEND OF ST. NICHOLAS. d _Poet Lore_ ALLISON'S LAD AND OTHER PLAYS ALLISON'S LAD. d 6m THE HUNDREDTH TRICK. d 4m THE WEAKEST LINK. d 4m THE SNARE AND THE FOWLER. d 3m THE CAPTAIN OF THE GATE. d 6m THE DARK OF THE DAWN. d 4m Six plays in one volume _Holt_

DONNAY, Maurice THE GIMLET. c 1m 1w _Stratford_, _Dec._, 1918

DORAN, Marie THE GIRLS OVER HERE. p 8w _French_

DOREY, J. Milnor UNDER CONVICTION. d 2m 2w _Drama_, _Feb._, 1919

DOWSON, Ernest PIERROT OF THE MINUTE. f 1m 1w _Baker_

DOWN, Oliphant THE MAKER OF DREAMS. f 2m 1w _Phillips_ THE QUOD WRANGLE. c 5m 1w _French_

DOYLE, A. C. WATERLOO. p 3m 1w _French_ A DUET. c 3m 1w _French_

DRACHMAN, Holgar "RENAISSANCE." d 6m 2w _Poet Lore_

DRAKE, Frank C. THE ROSEBERRY SHRUB. p 1m 3w _French_

DREISER, Theodore PLAYS OF THE NATURAL AND SUPERNATURAL THE GIRL IN THE COFFIN. p 4m 3w THE BLUE SPHERE. f 4m 2w 2j LAUGHING GAS. f 6m 2w IN THE DARK. f 11m 4w THE SPRING RECITAL. f 9m 9w LIGHT IN THE WINDOW. f 9m 7w OLD RAGPICKER. f 4m 1w Seven plays in one volume _Lane_

DREW, Sylvan THE NEW PYGMALION AND GALATEA. c 3m 6w _French_

DREYFUS, A. THE SILENT SYSTEM. c 1m 1w _Baker_

DRISCOLL, Louise THE POOR HOUSE. p 2m 2w _Drama_, _Aug._, 1917 THE CHILD OF GOD. p 2m 3w _Seven Arts_, _Nov._, 1916

DUNSANY, Lord. FIVE PLAYS THE GODS OF THE MOUNTAIN. p 10i THE GOLDEN DOOM. p 11m 1w THE GLITTERING GATE. c 2m KING ARGIMENES. p 10m 4w THE LOST SILK HAT. c 5m Five plays in one volume _Little_ PLAYS OF GODS AND MEN A NIGHT AT AN INN. p 8m THE QUEEN'S ENEMIES. p 9m 2w THE TENTS OF THE ARABS. p 6m THE LAUGHTER OF THE GODS. p 9m 4w Three acts Four plays in one volume _Luce_ THE MURDERESS. In prep. FAME AND THE POET. c 2m 1w _Atlantic_, _Aug._, 1919

DYMOW, Ossip NJU. t 6m 3w 2j _Knopf_

EARLE, Dorothy Kirchner YOU'RE SUCH A RESPECTABLE PERSON, MISS MORRISON. c 3m 2w _Smart Set_, _Aug._, 1915

EBNER-ESCHENBACH, Marie von A MAN OF THE WORLD. p 3m _Poet Lore_

ECHEGARAY, Jose THE STREET SINGER. p 2m 2w _Drama_, _Feb._, 1917 MADMAN OR SAINT. p 7m 4w _Poet Lore_

EDGERTON, Lady Alex. MASQUE OF THE TWO STRANGERS _Gowans_

ELDRIDGE, Paul THE JEST. p 4m 2w _Stratford_, _July_, 1918

ELKINS, Felton B. THREE TREMENDOUS TRIFLES THE BELGIAN BABY. c 2m 2w THE QUICK AND THE DEAD. c 5m 1w FIGURATIVELY SPEAKING. c 3m 2w Three plays in one volume _Duffield_

ELLIS, Mrs. Havelock. LOVE IN DANGER THE SUBJECTION OF KEZIA. p 2m 1w THE PIXY. p 3m THE MOTHERS. p 1m 2w Three plays in one vol. _Houghton_

ENANDER, Hilma L. IN THE LIGHT OF THE STONE. p 3m 1w THE MAN WHO DID NOT UNDERSTAND. p 1m 2w ON THE TRAIL. p 4m 1w Three plays in one volume _Badger_

ERVINE, St. John. Four Irish Plays THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER THE CRITICS MIXED MARRIAGE THE ORANGE MAN Four plays in one vol. _Macmillan_

ESKIL, Ragna IN THE TRENCHES OVER THERE. c 10m 6w _Dramatic_

ESMOND, H. V. HER VOTE. c 1m 2w _French_

ESTERBROOK, Anne L. THE CHRISTENING ROBE. p 1m 3w _Baker_

EURIPIDES ALKESTIS. Nine characters _Baker_ ELECTRA. Nine characters THE FROGS. Twelve characters IPHIGENIA IN TAURUS. Seven characters Translated by Gilbert Murray Allen

EVANS, Florence Wilkinson. THE RIDE HOME THE MARRIAGE OF GUINETH. p 7m 3w _Houghton_

EVREINOV, Nicholas THEATRE OF THE SOUL. f 5m 4w _Henderson_ A MERRY DEATH. c 5m THE BEAUTIFUL DESPOT. c 5m 3w 1j Two plays; in Bechofer: Five Russian Plays

FAYDON, Nita THE GREAT LOOK. c 2m 2w _French_

FENN, Frederick THE NELSON TOUCH. c 2m 2w _French_ CONVICT ON THE HEARTH. c 6m 5w _French_

FERGUSON, J. A. CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR. p 4m 2w _Phillips_

FERRIER, Paul THE CODICIL. c 3m 1w _Poet Lore_

FERRIS, E., and STUART, A. NICOLETE. p 2m 2w _French_

FEUILLET, Octave THE FAIRY. c 3m 1w _French_ THE VILLAGE. c 2m 2w _French_

FIELD, Rachel L. RISE UP, JENNIE SMITH.

FILLMORE, J. E. "WAR." p 2m 1w _Poet Lore_

FITZMAURICE, George MAGIC GLASSES. p 3m 3w THE PIEDISH. p 4m 2w 3j THE DANDY DOLLS. p 4m 2w 3j With two long plays in one volume _Little_

FLANNER, Hildegarde MANSIONS. p 1m 2w _Stewart_

FLANNER, Mary H. THE CHRISTMAS BURGLAR. p 3m 1w _French_

FLEXNER, Hortense VOICES. p 2w _Seven Arts_, _Dec._, 1916

FLORIAN, J. P. THE TWINS OF BERGAMO. p 2m 2w _Drama_, _Aug._, 1918

FLYING STAG PLAYS. Arens, 1917-19 CRONYN, G. THE SANDBAR QUEEN. d 6m 1w OPPENHEIM, J. NIGHT. d 4m 1w DELL, F. THE ANGEL INTRUDES. c 3m 1w HELBURN, T. ENTER THE HERO. c 1m 3w MOELLER, P. TWO BLIND BEGGARS AND ONE LESS BLIND. p 3m 1w O'BRIEN, S. BLIND. c 3m DAVIES, M. C. THE SLAVE WITH TWO FACES. a 3m 4w KEMP, H. THE PRODIGAL SON. c 3m 2w ROSTETTER, ALICE. THE WIDOW'S VEIL.

FRANCE, Anatole THE MAN WHO MARRIED A DUMB WIFE. Two acts. c 14m 4w _Lane_ CRAINQUEBILLE. Three scenes. p 12m 6w _French_

FRANK, Florence Kiper JAEL. _Chicago_ CINDERELLINE. p 1m 4w _Dramatic_ THE GARDEN. p 3m 3w _Drama_, _Nov._, 1918

FREDERICK, John T. THE HUNTER. p 2m 1w _Stratford_, _Sept._, 1917

FREYBE, C. E. IN GARRISON. p 5m _Poet Lore_

FROOME, John Redhead LISTENING. p 3w _Poet Lore_ MRS. MAINWARING'S MANAGEMENT. Two acts. c _French_ BILLY AND THE DIRECTING FATES. Two acts. p 3m _Dramatic_

FRY, Horace B. LITTLE ITALY. d 2m 1w 1j _Dramatic_

FULDA, Ludwig BY OURSELVES. c 3m 2w _Badger_

FURNISS, Grace L. A DAKOTA WIDOW. c 1m 2w _French_ PERHAPS. c 2m 1w _French_

GALBRAITH, Esther THE BRINK OF SILENCE. p 4m In Mayorga's "Representative One-Act Plays" _Little_

GALLON, Tom, and LION, L. M. MAN WHO STOLE THE CASTLE. p 4m 2w _French_

GALSWORTHY, John. THE LITTLE MAN, etc. THE LITTLE MAN. s 5m 2w HALLMARKED. s 3m 3w Two plays in one volume _Scribner_ THE LITTLE DREAM. An allegory in six scenes _Scribner_

GARLAND, Robert AT NIGHT ALL CATS ARE GRAY. p 3m 1w _Smart Set_, _March_, 1916 THE DOUBLE MIRACLE. p 4m 1w _Forum_, _April_, 1915

GERSTENBERG, Alice OVERTONES. _See_ "Washington Square Plays." BYOND. p 1w In Mayorga's "Representative One-Act Plays" _Little_

GIACOSA, Giuseppe. THE STRONGER, etc. SACRED GROUND. c 3m 1w _Little_ THE WAGER. c 4m 1w _French_ THE RIGHTS OF THE SOUL. p 2m 2w _Stratford_, _Feb._, 1918

GIBSON, Preston S.O.S. p 8m 2w _French_ DERELICTS. p 2w _French_ SUICIDES. p 2m _French_ THE SECRET WAY. p 3m _French_ THE VACUUM. p 2m 1w _French_ CUPID'S TRICKS. c 3m 2w _French_

GIBSON, Wilfred Wilson WOMENKIND. d 2m 3w _Macmillan_ The following volumes of Mr. Gibson's are replete with short, intensely dramatic sketches of English labor folk. DAILY BREAD. _Macmillan_ BORDERLANDS AND THOROUGHFARES. _Macmillan_ FIRES. _Macmillan_

GILBERT, W. S. SWEETHEARTS. Two acts. c 2m 2w _French_ ROSENCRANTZ AND GUILDENSTERN. c 5m 3w _French_ COMEDY AND TRAGEDY. d 14m 2w _French_

GLASPELL, Susan TRIFLES. p 3m 2w THE PEOPLE. p 10m 2w CLOSE THE BOOK. c 3m 5w THE OUTSIDE. p 3m 2w WOMAN'S HONOR. c 3m 6w BERNICE (3 Acts). p 2m 3w SUPPRESSED DESIRES. c 1m 2w TICKLESS TIME. c 2m 4w In One Vol. _Small_

GLICK, Carl OUTCLASSED. c 4m 2w _Smart Set_, _Sept._, 1918

GLICK, C., and HIGHT, M. THE POLICE MATRON. d 3m 2w _Baker_

GOLDBERG, Isaac THE BETTER SON. p 2m 1w _Stratford_, _Oct._, 1918

GOODMAN, Kenneth Sawyer BACK OF THE YARDS. d 3m 2w _Shay_ DUST OF THE ROAD. d 4m 4w _Shay_ EPHRAIM AND THE WINGED BEAR. c 4m 3w _Shay_ GAME OF CHESS. d 4m _Shay_ BARBARA. p 2m 1w _Shay_ DANCING DOLLS. p 4m 7w _Shay_ A MAN CAN ONLY DO HIS BEST. c 6m 2w _Shay_

GOODMAN, K. S. THE GREEN SCARF. c 1m 1w _Shay_

GOODMAN, K. S., and HECHT, Ben THE HERO OF SANTA MARIA. c 4m 1w _Shay_ THE WONDER HAT. f 3m 2w _Shay_

GOODMAN, K. S., and STEVENS, T. W. HOLBEIN IN BLACKFRIARS. c 6m 2w _Shay_ RYLAND. c 5m 2w _Shay_ REINALD AND THE RED WOLF. m _Shay_ CAESAR'S GODS. m _Shay_ THE DAIMIO'S HEAD. m _Shay_ THE MASQUE OF QUETZAL'S BOWL. m _Shay_ MASQUE OF MONTEZUMA. m _Shay_

GORDON, Leon. Three Plays _Four Seas_

GOULD, Felix. THE MARSH MAIDEN, etc. THE MARSH MAIDEN. p 2m 2w supers THE STRANGER. p 3m 2w IN THE MARSHES. p 1w Three plays in one vol. _Four Seas_

DE GOURMONT, Remy THEODAT. p 7m 1w THE OLD KING. p 3m 3w Two plays in one number _Drama_, _May_, 1916

GRAHAM, Bertha M. SPOILING THE BROTH, etc. SPOILING THE BROTH. c 2m 2w THE LAND OF THE FREE. p 2m 3w OH, THE PRESS. c 1m 1w THE ROSE WITH A THORN. c 2m 2w TAFFY'S WIFE. p 2m 1w Five plays in one volume _Chapman & Hall_

GROSSMITH, Weedon COMMISSION. c 3m 2w _French_

GRAY, Eunice T. WINNING OF FUJI. c 3 scenes 3m 3w _Dramatic_

GREENE, Clay M. THE DISPENSATION. p 4m THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. p 5m THROUGH CHRISTMAS BELLS. p 4m 1w AWAKENING OF BARBIZON. c 4m 1w Four plays in one volume _Doran_

GREGORY, Lady SPREADING THE NEWS. c 7m 3w HYACINTH HALVEY. c 3m 3w RISING OF THE MOON. c 4m THE JACKDAW. c 4m 2w THE WORKHOUSE WARD. c 2m 1w THE TRAVELING MAN. p 1m 2w THE _GAOL_ GATE. p 1m 2w Seven plays in one volume _Luce_ THE IMAGE. Three acts. p 5m 2w _Maunsel_ GRANIA. Three acts. p 4m 1w KINCORA. Three acts. p 8m 3w DERVORGILLA. p 3m 3w Three plays in one volume _Putnam_ THE CANAVANS. Three acts. p 3m 2w THE WHITE COCKADE. Three acts. p 10m 2w THE DELIVERERS. p 6m 3w Three plays in one volume _Putnam_ THE BOGIE MAN. c 2m THE FULL MOON. c 2m COATS. c 4m 1w DAMER'S GOLD. c 4m 1w MCDONOUGH'S WIFE. c 1m 2w Five plays in one volume _Putnam_

GREGORY, Lady, and YEATS, Wm. B. THE UNICORN FROM THE STARS. _Macmillan_

GUIMERA, Angel THE OLD QUEEN. p 7m 7w _Poet Lore_

GYALUI, Wolfgang AFTER THE HONEYMOON. c 1m 1w _French_

GYP THE LITTLE BLUE GUINEA-HEN. c 5m 4w _Poet Lore_

HAGEDORN, Herman MAKERS OF MADNESS. Five scenes. d 14m supers _Macmillan_ HORSE THIEVES. c 4m 2w _Harvard_ HEART OF YOUTH. _Macmillan_

HALE, Louise Closser THE OTHER WOMAN. p 2w _Smart Set_, _June_, 1911 PASTE CUT PASTE. p 3w _Smart Set_, _Jan._, 1912

HALMAN, Doris WILL 'O THE WISP. p 4w In Mayorga's "Representative One-Act Plays" _Little_

HALSEY, Forrest THE EMPTY LAMP. p 1m 1w 1j _Smart Set_, _May_, 1911

HAMILTON, Cicely JACK AND JILL AND A FRIEND. Two scenes. c 3m 1w _French_

HAMILTON, C., and ST. JOHN, Christopher HOW THE VOTE WAS WON. c 2m 8w _Dramatic_

HAMILTON, Cosmo. Short plays for small stages ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER. c 1m 2w SOLDIER'S DAUGHTERS. c 3w TOLLER'S WIFE. c 4m 1w WHY CUPID CAME TO EARL'S COURT. c 3m 4w Four plays in one vol. _Skeffington_ JERRY AND A SUNBEAM. c 1m 1w _French_ AUBREY CLOSES THE DOOR. c 3m 1w _French_

HANKIN, St. John THE CONSTANT LOVER. p 1m 1w Vol. III. No. 2 _Theatre Arts_

HARE, W. B. ISOSCELES. p 2m 1w _Baker_

HARVARD PLAYS. THE 47 WORKSHOP FIELD, R. L. THREE PILLS IN A BOTTLE. f 5m 3w OSBORNE, H. THE GOOD MEN DO. c 3m 5w PILLOT, E. TWO CROOKS AND A LADY. p 3m 3w PROSSER, W. FREE SPEECH. c 7m Four plays in one vol. _Brentano_ THE HARVARD DRAMATIC CLUB HAWKBRIDGE, W. THE FLORIST SHOP. c 3m 2w BROCK, H. THE BANK ACCOUNT. p 1m 2w SMITH, R. C. THE RESCUE. p 3w ANDREWS, K. AMERICA PASSES BY. p 2m 2w Four plays in one volume _Brentano_ THE HARVARD DRAMATIC CLUB. 2nd Series BRAY, L. W. HARBOR OF LOST SHIPS. p 3m 1w BATES, E. W. GARAFELIA'S HUSBAND. p 4m 1w BISHOP, F. SCALES AND THE SWORD. d 6m 1w KINKEAD, C. THE FOUR FLUSHERS. c 4m 1w Four plays in one vol. _Brentano_

HASLETT, H. H. DOLORES OF THE SIERRA, etc. DOLORES OF THE SIERRA. p 1m 1w THE SCOOP. p 2m 1w UNDERCURRENTS. p 4m 2w A MODERN MENACE. c 3m 1w 1j THE INVENTOR. p 2m 1w WHEN LOVE IS BLIND. c 1m 1w Six plays in one volume _Elder_

HASTINGS, Basil McDonald TWICE ONE. p 2m 2w _Smart Set_, _Jan._, 1913

HAUPTMANN, Gerhart THE ASSUMPTION OF HANNELLE. Two parts. p 7m 3w _Poet Lore_

HAWKRIDGE, Winifred THE PRICE OF ORCHIDS. c 4m 2w _Smart Set_, _Oct._, 1915

HAY, Ian. _See_ BEITH, Ian Hay

HEAD, Cloyd GROTESQUES _Poetry_

HEIDENSTAM, Verner von. Translated by K. M. Knudsen THE SOOTHSAYER. In prep. _Four Seas_ THE BIRTH OF GOD. In prep. _Four Seas_

HENNIQUE, Leon DEATH OF THE DUC D'ENGHIEN. d Three scenes. 22m 2w _Poet Lore_

HENRY, R. NORAH. p 2m 1w _Dramatic_

HERTZ, H. Translated by T. Martin KING RENE'S DAUGHTER. d 6m 2w _Baker_

HERVIEU, Paul MODESTY. c 1m 2w _French_

HENSLOWE, Leonard PERFIDIOUS MARRIAGE. A HERO FOR A HUSBAND. PEOPLE FROM THE PAST. Three plays in one vol. _Stanley Paul_

HELLEM, Valcos, and D'ESTOC SABOTAGE. d 2m 2w 1j _Dramatist_

HICKS, Seymour NEW SUB. c 8m 1w _French_

HILBERT, Jaroslav WHOM THE GODS DESTROY. d 12m 1w _Poet Lore_

HOFFMAN, Phoebe MARTHA'S MOURNING. p 3w _Drama_, _Feb._, 1918

VON HOFMANNSTHAL, Hugo DEATH AND THE FOOL. d 4m 3w _Four Seas_ MADONNA DIANORA. _Four Seas_ THE DEATH OF TITIAN. In prep. _Four Seas_

HOGG, C. W. MIRROR OF TIME. c 1m 1w _French_

HOLLEY, Horace. Read aloud plays Nine short plays _Kennerley_ ELLEN. p 2w _Stratford_, _March_, 1917

HOLT, Florence Taber THEY THE CRUCIFIED. p 7m 2w COMRADES. p 7m 2w Two plays in one volume _Houghton_

HOME, Ian A DREAM ON CHRISTMAS EVE. 10j _French_

HOPKINS, Arthur MOONSHINE. p 2m Vol. III. No. 1 _Theatre Arts_

HOUGHTON, Stanley. Five one-act plays THE DEAR DEPARTED. c 3m 3w FANCY FREE. c 2m 2w MASTER OF THE HOUSE. p 4m 2w PHIPPS. c 2m 1w THE FIFTH COMMANDMENT. p 2m 2w Five plays in one volume _French_ THE DEAR DEPARTED. c 3m 3w _French_ FANCY FREE. c 2m 2w _French_

HOUSMAN, Lawrence AS GOOD AS GOLD. p 7m _French_ BIRD IN HAND. c _French_ A LIKELY STORY. c _French_ LORD OF THE HARVEST. p 6m 1w _French_ NAZARETH. I 13m 3w _French_ THE SNOW MAN. p 4m 3w _French_ RETURN OF ALCESTIS. p 15m 20w _French_

HOWARD, Bronson OLD LOVE LETTERS. c 1m 1w _French_

HOWARD, Homer H. THE CHILD IN THE HOUSE. p 2m 2w _French_

HOWARD, Keble COMPROMISING MARTHA. c 1m 3w _French_ DRAMATIST AT HOME. p 1m 1w _French_ COME MICHAELMAS. p 2m 4w _French_ MARTHA THE SOOTHSAYER. c 2m 3w _French_

HUDSON, Holland THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE. 10 characters _Stewart_

HUTCHINS, Will JEANNE D'ARC AT VAUCOULEURS. d 5m 3w _Poet Lore_

HYDE, Douglas THE TWISTING OF THE ROPE. c 2m 3w _Poet Lore_

IGLESIAS, Ignacio THE CEMETERY. p 2m 1w _Poet Lore_

INDIAN PLAYS. By Helen P. Kane YOT-CHE-KE, THE ERIE. p 5j _French_ YAGOWANEA. p 4m 1w _French_ CAPTURE OF OZAH. c 2m 2w _French_

IRVING, Laurence PHOENIX. p 2m 2w _French_

IZUMO, Takeda THE PINE TREE. d 4m 3w 4j _Duffield_ Sometimes called BUSHIDO, MATSUO, etc.

JACOBS, W. W., and HUBBARD, P. E. A LOVE PASSAGE. c 3m 1w _French_

JACOBS, W. W., and ROCK, Charles THE GHOST OF JERRY BUNDLER. p 7m _French_ GREY PARROT. p 4m 2w _French_

JACOBS, W. W., and MILLS, Horace ADMIRAL PETERS. c 2m 1w _French_

JACOBS, W. W., and PARKER, L. N. THE MONKEY'S PAW. d 4m 1w _French_

JACOBS, W. W., and SERGENT, H. THE CHANGELING. c 2m 1w _French_ BOATSWAIN'S MATE. p 2m 1w _French_ IN THE LIBRARY. c _French_

JAGENDORF, Moritz A BLUE MORNING GLORY. p 2m 1w _International_, _Mar._, 1914

JAKOBI, Paula THE CHINESE LILY. p 8w _Forum_, _Nov._, 1915

JAMACOIS, Eduardo. In "Contemporary Spanish Dramatists." THE PASSING OF THE MAGI. p 7m 5w _Badger_

JAPANESE PLAYS _See_ STOPES, MARIE C. IZUMO, TAKEDA POUND, EZRA, and FENOLLOSA, ERNEST NOGUCHI, YONE, TEN NOH DRAMAS

JENKS, Tudor DINNER AT SEVEN SHARP. c 5m 3w _Baker_

JENNINGS, E. M. MRS. OAKLEY'S TELEPHONE. c 4w _French_ DINNER AT THE CLUB. c 9w _French_ PRINZESSEN VON BARNHOF. c 8w _French_ TOM'S FIANCEE. Two acts. c 5w _French_

JENNINGS, Gertrude THE REST CURE. c 1m 4w BETWEEN THE SOUP AND THE SAVOURY. c 3w THE PROS AND CONS. c 1m 3w ACID DROPS. p 1m 6w Four plays in one volume _Sidgwick_ BETWEEN THE SOUP AND THE SAVOURY. c 3w _French_

JEROME, Jerome K. SUNSET. c 3m 4w _Dramatic_ BARBARA. d 2m 2w _French_ FENNEL. d 3m 1w _French_

JEX, John. Passion playlets VIOLET SOULS. s 3m 2w THE NEST. p 2m 3w MR. WILLOUGHBY CALLS. p 3m 1w THE UNNECESSARY ATOM. p 3m 1w Four plays in one volume _Cornhill_

JOHNS, Orrick SHADOW. p 3w _Others_

JOHNSON, Martyn MR. AND MRS. P. ROE. c 1m 3w _Chicago_

JONES, Henry Arthur. THE THEATRE OF IDEAS, etc. THE GOAL. 4m 2w HERR TONGUE. 3m 2w GRACE MARY. 6m 2w Three plays in one volume _Doran_ CLERICAL ERROR. c 3m 1w _French_ SWEET WILL. p 1m 4w _French_ DEACON. Two acts. c 2m 2w _French_ HARMONY. d 3m 1w _French_ BED OF ROSES. c 4m 2w _French_ ELOPEMENT. Two acts. c 4m 3w _French_ HEARTS OF OAK. Two acts. c 5m 2w _French_

KALLEN, Horace M. THE BOOK OF JOB. d _Moffatt Yard_

KAUFMAN, S. Jay KISS ES. c 2m 4w _Smart Set_, _Nov._, 1915

KEMP, Harry THE PRODIGAL SON. c 3m 2w _Arens_

KEMPER, S. MOTH BALLS. p 3w _Baker_

KENNEDY, Charles Rann THE TERRIBLE MEEK. p _Harper_ THE NECESSARY EVIL. p _Harper_

KEYES, N. W. RED-CAP. Two acts. p 5m 10w _Baker_

KILMER, Joyce SOME MISCHIEF STILL. c 4m 1w _Smart Set_, _Aug._, 1914

KING, Pendleton COACAINE. p 1m 1w _Shay_

KINGSBURY, Sara THE CHRISTMAS GUEST. p 1m 3w 1j _Drama_, _Nov._, 1918

KINGSLEY, Ellis THE OTHER WOMAN. d 2w _Baker_

KNOBLAUCH, Edward A WAR COMMITTEE. p LITTLE SILVER RING. p Two plays in one volume _French_

KNOWLTON, A. R. WHY, JESSICA! c 1m 9w _Baker_

KNOX, F. C. THE MATRIMONIAL FOG. d 3m 1w _Baker_

KRAFT, Irma THE POWER OF PURIN and other plays _Jewish Publication Soc._, 1915

KREYMBORG, Alfred SIX PLAYS FOR POEM-MIMES _Others_

LABICHE GRAMMAR. c 4m 1w _French_ THE TWO COWARDS. c 3m 2w _French_

LAIDLAW, A. H. CAPTAIN WALRUS. p 1m 2w _French_

LANGER, Lawrence ANOTHER WAY OUT. c 2m 2w _Shay_ THE BROKEN IMAGE. d 7m _Arens_ PATENT APPLIED FOR. c 3m 3w _Arens_ WEDDED. p _Little Review_, _No._ 8

LAVEDAN, Henri. Five little plays ALONG THE QUAYS. p 2m FOR EVER AND EVER. p 1m 1w WHERE SHALL WE GO? p 1m 6w THE AFTERNOON WALK. p 1m 4j NOT AT HOME. p 2m 3w Five plays in one number _Poet Lore_ TWO HUSBANDS. p 2m _Poet Lore_ SUNDAY ON SUNDAY GOES BY. p 3m _Poet Lore_

LAWS, Anna C. A TWICE TOLD TALE. p 1m 3w _Drama_, _Aug._, 1918

LEACOCK, Stephen, and HASTINGS, Basil "Q." Farce _French_

LEE, Charles MR. SAMPSON. c 1m 2w _Dent_

LEE, M. E. THE BLACK DEATH, or Ta un. A Persian Tragedy. 2m 2w _Poet Lore_

LEFUSE, M. AT THE "GOLDEN GOOSE." d 2m 2w _French_

LEHMAN, Adolph THE TONGMAN. p 5m 1w _Little Theatre_, _July_, 1917

LELAND, Robert de Camp PURPLE YOUTH. p 2m 1w _Four Seas_ BARBARIANS. p 6m _Poetry-Drama_

LENNOX, Cosmo THE IMPERTINENCE OF THE CREATURE. c 1m 1w _French_

LENT, Evangeline M. LOVE IN IDLENESS. c 1m 3w _French_

LESAGE CRISPIN, HIS MASTER'S RIVAL. c 4m 3w _French_

LESLIE, Noel. Three plays FOR KING AND COUNTRY. In prep. WASTE. THE WAR FLY. Three plays in one vol. _Four Seas_

LEVICK, Milnes WINGS IN THE MESH. p 3w _Smart Set_, _July_, 1919

LEVINGER, E. E. THE BURDEN. p 3m 1w _Baker_

LEWISOHN, Ludwig THE LIE. p 2m 2w _Smart Set_, _Dec._, 1913

LINCOLN, Florence A PIECE OF IVORY. p 3m 2w _Harvard_, _April_, 1911

LION, Leon M. THE TOUCH OF A CHILD. p _French_

LION, L. M., and HALL, W. S. THE MOBSWOMAN. d 2m 2w _French_

LITTLE THEATRE CLASSICS. Edited by SAMUEL A. ELIOT, JR. EURIPIDES: POLYXENA A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE PLAY MARLOWE: DOCTOR FAUSTUS BEAUMONT and FLETCHER: RICARDO and VIOLA SHERIDAN: THE SCHEMING LIEUTENANT Five plays in one volume _Little_

LITTLE THEATRE CLASSICS. Second Series ABRAHAM AND ISAAC MIDDLETON: THE LOATHED LOVER MOLIERE: SGANARELLE PICHEL, I. PIERRE PATHELIN Four plays in one volume _Little_

LONDON, Jack. TURTLES OF TASMAN THE FIRST POET. p _Macmillan_

LOVE IN A FRENCH KITCHEN. A MEDIAEVAL FARCE. c 1m 2w _Poet Lore_

LUTHER, Lester LAW. 10 voices _Forum_, _June_, 1915

M. J. W. A BROWN PAPER PARCEL. c 2w _French_

MACINTIRE, E., and CLEMENTS, C. C. THE IVORY TOWER. p 3m 1w _Poet Lore_

MACDONALD, Zellah MARKHEIM. d 2m 1w In "Morningside Plays" _Shay_

MACKAYE, Constance D'Arcy THE FOREST PRINCES AND OTHER MASQUES _Holt_ THE BEAU OF BATH AND OTHER ONE-ACT PLAYS _Holt_ PLAYS OF THE PIONEERS _Harper_ THE SILVER THREAD AND OTHER FOLK PLAYS _Holt_

MACKAYE, Percy. YANKEE FANTASIES CHUCK. 1m 3j GETTYSBURG. 1m 1j THE ANTICK. 2m 3w THE CAT BOAT. 1m 2w 1j SAM AVERAGE. 4m Five plays in one volume _Duffield_

McKINNEL, Norman THE BISHOP'S CANDLESTICKS. p 3m 2w _French_

MACMILLAN, Mary. Short plays THE SHADOWED STAR. p 3m 5w THE RING. c 7m 3w THE ROSE. p 1m 2w LUCK? p 6m 7w ENTR'ACTE. p 1m 2w A WOMAN'S A WOMAN FOR A' THAT. 2m 3w FAN AND TWO CANDLESTICKS. p 2m 1w A MODERN MASQUE. p 3m 1w THE FUTURISTS. p 8w THE GATE OF WISHES. p 1m 1w 1j Ten plays in one volume _Stewart_ MORE SHORT PLAYS. HIS SECOND GIRL. p 3m 3w AT THE CHURCH DOOR. p 2m 2w HONEY. c 2m 3w 1j THE DRESS REHEARSAL OF HAMLET. c 10w THE PIONEER. p 10m 3w 5j IN MENDELESIA, I. p 5w IN MENDELESIA, II. p 5w THE DRYAD. p 1m 2w Eight plays in one volume _Stewart_ THE GATE OF WISHES. p 1m 1w 1j _Poet Lore_

MAETERLINCK, Maurice THE INTRUDER. p 3m 5w _Phillips_ INTERIOR. p 4m 5w 1j supers _Phillips_ DEATH OF TINTAGILES. d 1j 6w _Phillips_ HAPPINESS. _Phillips_ SEVEN PRINCESSES. p 3m 8w _Phillips_ ALLADINE AND PALOMIDES. 2m 7w _Phillips_ THE MIRACLE OF ST. ANTHONY A MIRACLE OF ST. ANTHONY AND OTHER PLAYS A MIRACLE OF ST. ANTHONY. 15 characters PELLEAS AND MELISANDE. Five acts DEATH OF TINTAGILES. 7 Characters ALLADINE AND PALOMIDES. Five acts INTERIOR. 10 Characters THE INTRUDER. 7 Characters Six plays in one volume _Boni & Liveright_

MALLESON, Miles BLACK 'ELL. d 3m 4w _Shay_ PADDY POOLS. f 19j _Henderson_ LITTLE WHITE THOUGHT. f 9w _Henderson_ "D" COMPANY. p 6m _Henderson_ YOUTH. Three acts. p 9m 2w _Henderson_

MANNERS, J. Hartley. HAPPINESS AND OTHER PLAYS HAPPINESS. p 2m 2w JUST AS WEL.L c 1m 3w DAY OF DUPES. c 5m 1w Three plays in one volume _Dodd_ QUEEN'S MESSENGER. d 1m 1w _French_ THE WOMAN INTERVENES. p 3m 1w _French_ JUST AS WELL. c 1m 1w _French_ AS ONCE IN MAY. c 3m 2w _French_ MINISTERS OF GRACE. p 3m 2w _Smart Set_, _Sept._, 1914

MAPES, Victor A FLOWER OF THE YEDDO. c 1m 3w _French_

MARBLE, T. L. GIUSEPPINA. p 3m 2w _Dramatic_

MARIVAUX THE LEGACY. c 4m 2w _French_

MARKS, Jeanette. Three Welsh Plays THE MERRY CUCKOO. p 3m 2w WELSH HONEYMOON. p 3m 2w THE DEACON'S HAT. c 3m 3w Three plays in one volume _Little_ THE HAPPY THOUGHT. p 4m 5w _International_, _July_, 1912

MARTIN, John Joseph THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL. d 3m 3w _Poet Lore_

MASEFIELD, John THE LOCKED CHEST. p 3m 1w SWEEPS OF NINETY-EIGHT. p 5m 1w Two plays in one volume _Macmillan_ THE CAMPDEN WONDER. p 4m 2w MRS. HARRISON. p 3m 1w In "The Tragedy of Nan," etc. _Macmillan_ PHILIP THE KING. p 7m 1w _Macmillan_ GOOD FRIDAY. p _Macmillan_

MASSEY, Edward PLOTS AND PLAYWRIGHTS. c Nine scenes. 11m 6w _Little_

MATHER, C. C. DISPATCHES FOR WASHINGTON. p 3m 5w _Baker_ DOUBLE-CROSSED. c 3m 3w _Baker_

MATSUO. _See_ IZUMO, Takeda

MATTHEWS, Brander THE DECISION OF THE COURT. c 2m 2w _Harpers_

MAUREY, Max ROSALIE. c 1m 2w _French_

McCONNILL, G. K. THE BONE OF CONTENTION. d 3m 8w _Baker_

McCOURT, Edna W. JILL'S WAY. p 3m 2w _Seven Arts_, _Feb._, 1917 THE TRUTH. p 2m 4w _Seven Arts_, _Mar._, 1917

McEVOY, Charles HIS HELPMATE DAVID BALLARD GENTLEMEN OF THE ROAD LUCIFER WHEN THE DEVIL WAS ILL _Bullen_

MCFADDEN, Elizabeth A. WHY THE CHIMES RANG. p 1m 1w 2j _French_

MEGRUE, Roi Cooper DOUBLE CROSS. p 3m _Smart Set_, _Aug._, 1911

MEILHAC and HALEVY PANURGE'S SHEEP. c 1m 2w _French_ INDIAN SUMMER. c 2m 2w _French_

MICHELSON, Miriam BYGONES. p 2m 1w _Smart Set_, _March_, 1917

MIDDLETON, George. EMBERS, etc. EMBERS. d 2m 1w THE FAILURES. d 1m 1w THE GARGOYLE. p 2m IN HIS HOUSE. p 2m 1w THE MAN MASTERFUL. d 2w MADONNA. d 3m 1w Six plays in one volume _Holt_ CRIMINALS. d 2m 2w _Huebsch_ TRADITION, etc. TRADITION. d 1m 2w ON BAIL. d 2m 1w MOTHERS. d 1m 2w WAITING. d 1m 1w 1j THEIR WIFE. d 2m 1w THE CHEAT OF PITY. d 2m 1w Six plays in one volume _Holt_ POSSESSION, etc. POSSESSION. d 2m 3w THE GROOVE. d 2w THE BLACK TIE. d 1m 2w 1j A GOOD WOMAN. d 1m 1w CIRCLES. d 1m 2w THE UNBORN. d 1m 2w Six plays in one volume _Holt_ BACK OF THE BALLOT. c 4m 1w _French_ Are published separately by Samuel French. AMONG THE LIONS. s 5m 3w _Smart Set_, _Feb._, 1917 THE REASON. p 2m 2w _Smart Set_, _Sept._, 1917

DE MILLE, William C. IN 1999. c 1m 2w _French_ FOOD. c 2m 1w _French_ POOR OLD JIM. p 2m 1w _French_ DECEIVERS. p _French_

MILTON, John. Adapted by L. Chater COMUS. m Nine characters _Baker_

MOLIERE DOCTOR IN SPITE OF HIMSELF. c 6m 3w _French_ THE SICILIAN. Two scenes. c 4m 3w _French_ THE AFFECTED YOUNG LADIES. s 6m 3w _French_ SGANARELLE. _See_ Eliot: Little Theatre Classics GREGORY, LADY. The Kiltartan Moliere DOCTOR IN SPITE OF HIMSELF. 6m 3w THE MISER THE ROGUERIES OF SCAPIN Three plays in one volume _Putnam_

MOELLER, Philip. FIVE SOMEWHAT HISTORICAL PLAYS HELENA'S HUSBAND. c 3m 2w THE LITTLE SUPPER. c 3m 1w SISTERS OF SUSANNAH. c 5m 1w ROADHOUSE IN ARDEN. c 4m 2w POKEY. c 6m 3w Five plays in one volume _Knopf_ TWO BLIND BEGGARS AND ONE LESS BLIND. p 3m 1w _Arens_

MONTAGUE, Harold PROPOSING BY PROXY. c 1m 1w _French_

MONTOMASA SUMIDA GAWA. d 2m 1w 1j _Stratford_, _Jan._, 1918

MORGAN, Charles D. SEARCH ME! c 1m 2w _Smart Set_, _Jan._, 1915

MORNINGSIDE PLAYS, The DEPUE, ELVA. HATTIE. d 2m 3w BRIGGS, CAROLINE. ONE A DAY. c 5m MACDONALD, Z. MARKHEIM. d 2m 1w REIZENSTEIN, E. L. HOME OF THE FREE. c 2m 2w Four plays in one vol. _Frank Shay_

MORRISON, Arthur THAT BRUTE SIMMONS. c 2m 1w _French_

MOSHER, John Chapin SAUCE FOR THE EMPEROR. c 5m 4w _Shay_

MOTHER, Charles C. DISPATCHES FOR WASHINGTON. p 4m 5w _Baker_

MOTHER GOOSE, A DREAM OF By J. C. MARCHANT, S. J. MAYHEW, H. WILBUR and others. Containing A Dream of Mother Goose; Scenes from Mother Goose; A Mother Goose Party; Two Mother Goose Operettas _Baker_

MOYLE, Gilbert THE TRAGEDY _Four Seas_

MUGGERIDGE, Marie THE REST CURE. p 1m 1w _French_

MURRAY, T. C. BIRTHRIGHT. Two acts. d 4m 1w _Maunsel_

MUSKERRY, William AN IMAGINARY AUNT. c 4w _French_

DE MUSSET, Alfred. BARBERINE AND OTHER COMEDIES BARBERINE. Three acts. 5m 2w FANTASIO. Two acts. 8m 2w NO TRIFLING WITH LOVE. Three acts. 4m 3w A DOOR MUST BE OPEN OR SHUT. 2m A CAPRICE. 1m 2w ONE CANNOT THINK OF EVERYTHING. 3m 2w Six plays in one volume _Sergel_

DE MUSSET, A., and AUGIER, E. THE GREEN COAT. c 3m 1w _French_ NAPOLEON AND THE SENTRY. p 3m 1w _Dramatic_

NARODNY, Ivan FORTUNE FAVORS FOOLS. c 4m 3w _Poet Lore_

NATHAN, George Jean THE ETERNAL MYSTERY. p 2m 1w 1j _Smart Set_

NATHAN, Robert G. THE COWARD. p 1m 2w _Harvard_, _March_, 1914 ATOMS. p 2m 1w _Harvard_, _Nov._, 1913

NEIHARDT, John G. EIGHT HUNDRED RUBLES. p 1m 2w _Forum_, _Mar._, 1915

NEVITT, Mary Ross THE ROSTOF PEARLS. p 7w _French_

NEWTON, H. L. OUTWITTED. p 1m 1w _Baker_ HER SECOND TIME ON EARTH. c 1m 1w _Baker_

NIRDLINGER, C. F. Four short plays LOOK AFTER LOUISE. d 3m 1w BIG KATE. d 4m 1w THE REAL PEOPLE. d 2m 1w AREN'T THEY WONDERS. d 2m 2w Four plays in one vol. _Kennerley_ WASHINGTON'S FIRST DEFEAT. c 1m 2w _French_

NOGUCHI, Yone THE DEMON'S SHELL. p 2m _Poet Lore_ TEN JAPANESE NOH PLAYS. In prep. _Four Seas_

NORMAND, Jacques A DROP OF WATER. c 2m 1w _Dramatic_

NORTON, Harold F. THE WOMAN. p 1m 2w _Sheffield_, _June_, 1914

O'BRIEN, Edward J. AT THE FLOWING OF THE TIDE. p 1m 1w _Forum_, _Sept._, 1914

O'BRIEN, Seumas. DUTY AND OTHER IRISH COMEDIES DUTY. c 5m 1w JURISPRUDENCE. c 9m 1w MAGNANIMITY. c 5m MATCHMAKERS. c 3m 3w RETRIBUTION. c 3m 1w Five plays in one volume _Little_

OFFICER, Katherine ALL SOULS' EVE. p 3m 4w _International_, _Jan._, 1913

OLIVER, Mary Scott. SIX ONE-ACT PLAYS THE HAND OF THE PROPHET. p 5m 2w CHILDREN OF GRANADA. p 6m 4w THE TURTLE DOVE. p 5m 1w THIS YOUTH--GENTLEMEN! f 2m THE STRIKER. p 2m 3w MURDERING SELINA. c 5m 2w Six plays in one volume _Badger_

O'NEILL, Eugene. THIRST AND OTHER ONE-ACT PLAYS THIRST. p 2m 1w THE WEB. p 5m 1w WARNINGS. p 5m 4w FOG. p 3m 1w RECKLESSNESS. p 3m 2w Five plays in one volume _Badger_ BOUND EAST FOR CARDIFF. d 11m _Shay_ BEFORE BREAKFAST. d 1w _Shay_ THE MOON OF THE CARIBBEES MOON OF THE CARIBBEES. p 17m 4w BOUND EAST FOR CARDIFF. p 11m THE LONG VOYAGE HOME. p 8m 3w IN THE ZONE. p 9m ILE. p 5m 1w WHERE THE CROSS IS MADE. p 6m 1w THE ROPE. p 3m 2w Seven plays in one volume _Boni & Liveright_

OPPENHEIM, James THE PIONEER. Two scenes. d 5m 2w _Huebsch_ NIGHT. p 4m 1w _Arens_

O'SHEA, Monica Barrie THE RUSHLIGHT. p _Drama_

OVERSTREET, H. A. HEARTS TO MEND. 2m 1w _Stewart_

OWEN, Harold A LITTLE FOWL PLAY. c 3m 2w _French_

PAIN, Mrs. Barry. NINE OF DIAMONDS AND OTHER PLAYS THE NINE OF DIAMONDS HER LADYSHIP'S JEWELS. c 1m 2w MRS. MARLOWE'S CASE. c 2m 1w Three plays in one volume _London, Chapman_ SHORT PLAYS FOR AMATEURS THE HAT. c 3w A LESSON IN PEARLS. c 1m 2w THIRTEEN. c -m 2w TRUST. c 1m 1w A VICIOUS CIRCLE. c 1m 1w Five plays in one volume _London_, _Pinker_ MORE SHORT PLAYS THE LADY TYPIST. c 1m 4w A QUICK CHANGE. Two scenes. c 2m 2w THE REASON WHY. c 1m 1w 'WARE WIRE. c 3m 2w Four plays in one volume _Chapman_

PALMER, John OVER THE HILLS. c 2m 2w _Smart Set_, _June_, 1915

PARAMORE, E. E. ACROSS THE MARSH. p 2m _Sheffield_, _April_, 1917

PARKER, Louis N. _See also_ JACOBS,W. W. MAN IN THE STREET. p 2m 1w _French_

PARKHURST, Winthrop. IT NEVER HAPPENS. c 2m 1w _Smart Set_, _Dec._, 1918 IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARLY. c 2m 2w _Smart Set_, _Nov._, 1916 MORRACA. p 7m 1w _Drama_, _Nov._, 1918 THE BEGGAR AND THE KING. p 3m _Drama_, _Feb._, 1919 GETTING UNMARRIED. p 1m 1w _Smart Set_, _April_, 1918

PASTON, George FEED THE BRUTE. p 1m 2w _French_ STUFFING. c 2m 2w _French_ TILDA'S NEW HAT. c 1m 3w _French_ PARENT'S PROGRESS. c 3m 3w _French_

PATRICK, A. JIMMY. p 2m

PAULL, H. M. HAL, THE HIGHWAYMAN. p 4m 2w _French_

PEABODY, Josephine Preston FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES. p 8m 2w i _French_ THE WINGS. p 3m 1w _French_

PEARCE, Walter 1588. c 4m 1w _French_

PEMBERTON, Max PRIMA DONNA. c 3m 3w _French_ LIGHTS OUT. c 3m 3w _French_

PHELPS, P., and SHORT, M. SAINT CECILIA. p 1m 7w _French_

PHILLPOTTS, Eden. CURTAIN RAISERS THE POINT OF VIEW. c 2m 1w HIATUS. c 4m 2w THE CARRIER PIGEON. d 2m 1w Three plays in one volume _Brentano_ PAIR OF KNICKERBOCKERS. c 1m 1w _French_ BREEZY MORNING. c 1m 1w _French_

PHILLPOTTS, Eden, and GROVES, Charles THEIR GOLDEN WEDDING. c 2m 1w _French_

PIAGGIO, E. E. AT THE PLAY. p _London_, _Williams_

PICHEL, Irving TOM, TOM, THE PIPER'S SON. p 3m _Harvard_, _Dec._, 1913

PILLOT, E. HUNGER. f 4m 1w _Stratford_, _June_, 1918 THE GAZING GLOBE. p 2m 1w _Stratford_, _Nov._, 1918

PINERO, Sir Arthur Wing PLAYGOERS. c 2m 6w _French_ THE WIDOW OF WASDALE HEAD. d _Smart Set_, _May_, 1914 HESTER'S MYSTERY. c 3m 2w _French_ MONEY SPINNER. Two acts. d 5m 3w _French_

PINSKI, David _See_ Six Plays for the Yiddish Theatre A DOLLAR. c 5m 3w _Stratford_, _June_, 1917 MICHAEL. p 4m _Stratford_, _April_, 1918

PORTMANTEAU PLAYS. See WALKER, Stuart

PORTO-RICHE, G. In Clark: Four Plays, etc. FRANCOISE'S LUCK. c 3m 2w

PLAUTUS THE TWINS. c 7m 2w _French_

PICARD, L. B. THE ROSEBUD. c 5m 2w _French_

POUND, Ezra, and FENOLLOSA, Ernest "NOH," or Accomplishment. A study of the Classical Stage of Japan. Contains KAYOI KOMACHI. 3m i SUMA GENJI. 3m KUMASAKA. Two acts. 3m i SHOJO. 2m supers TAHURA. 3m i and others _Knopf_

PRESBERY, Eugene COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. p 2m 2w _French_

PRICE, Graham THE CAPTURE OF WALLACE. p 4m 1w _Phillips_ THE SONG OF THE SEAL. p 2m 2w _Phillips_ THE ABSOLUTION OF BRUCE. p 10m _Phillips_ MARRIAGES ARE MADE IN HEAVEN. _Phillips_

PROVINCETOWN PLAYS. Edited by GEORGE CRAM COOK and FRANK SHAY ROSTETTER, ALICE. THE WIDOW'S VEIL OPPENHEIM, JAMES. NIGHT COOK AND GLASPELL. SUPPRESSED DESIRES O'NEILL, EUGENE. BOUND EAST FOR CARDIFF MILLAY, EDNA ST. VINCENT. ARIA DA CAPO WELLMAN, RITA. STRING OF THE SAMISEN STEELE, WILBUR DANIEL. NOT SMART HAPGOOD AND BOYCE. ENEMIES KING, PENDLETON. COACAINE In one volume _Stewart_

PRYCE, Richard THE VISIT. p 2m 3w _French_

PRYCE, R., and MORRISON A. DUMB-CAKE. p 1m 2w _French_

PRYCE, R., and DRURY, W. P. THE PRIVY COUNCIL. c 3m 4w _French_

PRYDZ, Alvilde HE IS COMING. p 1m 5w _Poet Lore_

PUTNAM, Nina Wilcox ORTHODOXY. p _Kennerley_

QUINTERO, Serafino, and JOAQUIN, Alvarez A BRIGHT MORNING. c 2m 2w _Poet Lore_ BY THEIR WORDS YE SHALL KNOW THEM. c 2m 1w _Drama_, _Feb._, 1917

RANCK, Edwin C. THE YELLOW BOOTS. p 2m 1w _Stratford_, _May_, 1919

RANDALL, William R. THE GREY OVERCOAT. p 3m _French_

REED, John FREEDOM. c 6m _Shay_ MOONDOWN. p 2w _Masses_ THE PEACE THAT PASSETH UNDERSTANDING. f 12 characters _Liberator_, _March_, 1919

REELY, Mary Katherine DAILY BREAD. p 1m 4w A WINDOW TO THE SOUTH. p 5m 3w THE LEAN YEARS. p 2m 2w Three plays in one vol. _H. W. Wilson_

REIZENSTEIN, Elmer L. HOME OF THE FREE. c 2m 2w In "Morningside Plays" _Shay_

RENARD, Jules GOOD-BYE! c 1m 1w _Smart Set_, _June_, 1916

RENARD, Jules. Translated by Alfred Sutro CARROTS. p 1m 2w _French_

REPRESENTATIVE ONE-ACT PLAYS BY AMERICAN AUTHORS Selected, with biographical notes, by Margaret Gardiner Mayorga, M. A. _Little_

RICE, Cale Young. THE IMMORTAL LURE GIORGIONE. p ARDUIN. p O-UME'S GODS. p THE IMMORTAL LURE. p Four plays in one vol. _Doubleday_ A NIGHT IN AVIGNON. p In "Collected Plays and Poems" _Doubleday_

RICHARDSON, Frank BONNIE DUNDEE. d 4m 2w _French_

RIVOIRE, Andre THE LITTLE SHEPHERDESS. p 1m 2w _French_

ROBINS, Gertrude. LOVING AS WE DO, etc. LOVING AS WE DO THE RETURN AFTER THE CASE 'ILDA'S HONOURABLE Four plays in one volume _Werner Laurie_ MAKESHIFTS. p REALITIES. p Two plays in one volume _French_ POT LUCK. c 3m 1w _French_

ROGERS, Maude M. WHEN THE WHEELS RUN DOWN. p 3m _French_

ROGERS, Robert E. BEHIND A WATTEAU PICTURE. f 6m 2w _Baker_

ROOF, Katherine THE WORLD BEYOND THE MOUNTAIN. p 2m 2w _International_, _Nov._, 1913

ROSENBERG, James N. THE RETURN TO MUTTON. Two acts. c 2m 1w _Kennerley_

ROSS, Clarendon THE AVENGER. f 2m _Drama_, _Aug._, 1918

RUSCHKE, Edmont W. THE ECHO, etc. THE ECHO. c 5m 5w DEATH SPEAKS. f 2m THE INTANGIBLE. d 2m 2w Three plays in one vol _Stratford_

RUSINOL, Santiago THE PRODIGAL DOLL. c 5m 6w _Drama_, _Feb._, 1917

SARDOU, Victorien THE BLACK PEARL. c 7m 3w _French_

SARGENT, Frederick Leroy OMAR AND THE RABBI. In prep. _Four Seas_

SARKADI, Leo A VISION OF PAGANINI. p 2m 1w _International_, _Feb._, 1916 THE PASSING SHADOW. p 2m _International_, _Aug._, 1916 THE LINE OF LIFE. p 4m 3w _International_, _Nov._, 1916

SAWYER, Ruth THE SIDHE OF BEN-MOR. p 1m 6w _Poet Lore_

SCHMERTZ, John R. THE MARKSMAN. p 4m 1w _Sheffield_, _Feb._, 1917

SCHNITZLER, Arthur. COMEDIES OF WORDS. Translated by Pierre Loving THE HOUR OF RECOGNITION. c 3m 2w THE BIG SCENE. c 5m 2w THE FESTIVAL OF BACCHUS. c 4m 2w LITERATURE. c 2m 1w HIS HELPMATE. c 5m 2w Five plays in one volume _Stewart_ COUNTESS MIZZIE. c 7m 2w In volume with LONELY WAY, etc. _Little_ LIVING HOURS THE WOMAN WITH THE DAGGER THE LAST MASKS LITERATURE Four plays in one volume _Badger_ GALLANT CASSIAN. Puppet Play. 3m 1w _Phillips_ DUKE AND THE ACTRESS. c 16m 2w _Badger_ LADY WITH THE DAGGER. d 1m 1w _Poet Lore_

SCOTT, Clement CAPE MAIL. p 3m 4w _Dramatic_

SCOTTISH REPERTORY PLAYS MAXWELL, W. B. THE LAST MAN IN. p 4m 1w BRIGHOUSE, H. THE PRICE OF COAL. p 1m 3w CHAPIN, H. AUGUSTUS IN SEARCH OF A FATHER. p 3m COLQUHON, D. JEAN. p 2m DOWN, O. THE MAKER OF DREAMS. f 2m 1w CHAPIN, H. DUMB AND THE BLIND. p 2m 1w 2j BRIGHOUSE, H. LONESOME-LIKE. p 2m 2w CHAPIN, H. AUTOCRAT OF THE COFFEE STALL. p CHAPIN, H. MUDDLE ANNIE. p FERGUSON, J. A. CAMPBELL OF KILMHOR. p 4m 2w KORI, TORAHIKO. KANAWA, the Incantation. 4m 1w BRIGHOUSE, H. MAID OF FRANCE. p 2m _Phillips_

SHAKESPEARE OBERON AND TITANIA, 12 characters _French_

SHAW, George Bernard HOW HE LIED TO HER HUSBAND. c 2m 1w _Brentano_ PRESS CUTTINGS. c 3m 3w _Brentano_ DARK LADY OF THE SONNETS. c 1m 2w _Brentano_ OVERRULED. p _Brentano_ HEARTBREAK HOUSE GREAT CATHERINE O'FLATHERTY, C. V. INCA OF PERUSALEM AUGUSTUS DOES HIS BIT THE BOLSHEVIK PRINCESS Six plays in one volume _Brentano_

SHAW, Mary THE PARROT CAGE. a 1m 7w _Dramatic_ THE WOMAN OF IT. c 9w _Dramatic_

SHORES, Elsa. _See_ BELMONT, Mrs. O. H. P.

SIERRA, Gregorio Martinez THE LOVER. c 1m 2w _Stratford_, _July_, 1919 LOVE MAGIC. c 4m 3w _Drama_, _Feb._, 1917 THE CRADLE SONG. 3 Two acts. 4m 10w _Poet Lore_

SINCLAIR, Upton. Plays of Protest. THE SECOND STORY MAN. d 1m 1w _Kennerley_

SOLOGUB, Feodor THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH. Three short acts. d 4m 2w _Drama_, _Aug._, 1916

SOPHOCLES ANTIGONE. 11 characters _Baker_

SOTILLO, Antonio, and MICHO, Andres THE JUDGMENT OF POSTERITY. p 5m 1w _Poet Lore_

SPEYER, Lady LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG. p 3m 1w _Smart Set_, _Jan._, 1919

SPRINGER, Thomas G. SECRETS OF THE DEEP. p 7m _Smart Set_, _June_, 1914

STEELL, W. p 6m 1w _Baker_

STERLING, George THE DRYAD. p 1m 2w _Smart Set_, _Feb._, 1919

STEVENS, Henry Bailey. A CRY OUT IN THE DARK THE MEDDLER BOLO AND BABETTE. In prep. THE MADHOUSE Three plays in one vol. _Four Seas_

STEVENS, Wallace THREE TRAVELERS WATCH A SUNRISE. p 5m 1w i _Poetry_, _July_, 1916

STEWART, Anna B. BELLES OF CANTERBURY.

STEWART-KIDD MODERN PLAYS. Edited by FRANK SHAY TOMPKINS, F. G. SHAM. c 3m 1w _Stewart_ HUDSON, HOLLAND. THE SHEPHERD IN THE DISTANCE. f 10 characters _Stewart_ FLANNER, HILDEGARDE. MANSIONS. p 1m 2w _Stewart_ OVERSTREET, H. A. HEARTS TO MEND. f 2m 1w _Stewart_

ST. HILL, T. N. DUTY. p 2m _Sheffield_, _May_, 1916

STRAMM, August THE BRIDE OF THE MOOR. p 4m 2w SANCTA SUSANNA. p 1m 3w Two plays in one number _Poet Lore_

STRATTON, Charles THE CODA. p 1m 2w _Drama_, _May_, 1918

STRINDBERG, August PLAYS. First Series THE DREAM PLAY. THE LINK THE DANCE OF DEATH. Parts I and II PLAYS. Second Series CREDITORS. p 2m 1w PARIAH. p 2m MISS JULIA. p 3w THE STRONGER. p 2w THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES LUCKY PEHR _Stewart_ EASTER _Stewart_ PLAYS. Third Series SWANWHITE. A Fairy Play. p 10m 6w SIMOON. p 2m 1w DEBIT AND CREDIT. p 6m 3w ADVENT. Three acts. p 7m 3w THE THUNDERSTORM. p 8m 4w AFTER THE FIRE. p 11m 4w PLAYS. Fourth Series THE BRIDAL CROWN. Six scenes. p 12m 8w others THE SPOOK SONATA. p 7m 6w THE FIRST WARNING. c 1m 4w GUSTAVUS VASA. Five acts. d 20m 8w Four volumes _Scribners_ THE STRONGER WOMAN. p 2w MOTHERLY LOVE. p 4w Two plays in one volume _Henderson_ PARIA. p 2m SIMOON. p 2m 1w Two plays in one volume _Henderson_ MISS JULIE. p 1m 2w _Henderson_ THE CREDITOR. p 2m 1w _Henderson_ THE OUTCAST. SIMOON. 2m 1w DEBIT AND CHRIST. p 6m 3w Three plays in one volume _Badger_ JULIE. p 2m 1w _Badger_ THE CREDITORS. p 2m 1w _Badger_ MOTHER LOVE. p 4w _Brown_

SUBERT, Frantisek Adolf JAN VYRAVA. d 21m 11w _Poet Lore_

SUDERMANN, Herman. ROSES STREAKS OF LIGHT. d 2m 1w MARGOT. d 4m 2w THE LAST VISIT. d 5m 3w FAR-AWAY PRINCESS. c 2m 7w Four plays in one volume _Scribner_ MORITURI TEJA. d 7m 2w FRITZCHEN. d 5m 2w ETERNAL MASCULINE. p 5m 2w Three plays in one volume _Scribner_ JOHANNES. p 40i _Poet Lore_

SUTRO, Alfred. FIVE LITTLE PLAYS THE MAN IN THE STALLS. 2m 1w A MARRIAGE HAS BEEN ARRANGED. 1m 1w THE MAN ON THE KERB. 1m 1w THE OPEN DOOR. p 1m 1w THE BRACELET. c 5m 3w Five plays in one volume _Brentano_ THE BRACELET. c 5m 3w _French_ A MARRIAGE HAS BEEN ARRANGED. 1m 1w _French_ THE CORRECT THING. p 1m 1w _French_ ELLA'S APOLOGY. p 1m 1w _French_ A GAME OF CHESS. p 1m 1w _French_ THE GUTTER OF TIME. p 1m 1w _French_ A MAKER OF MEN. p 1m 1w _French_ THE MAN OF THE KERB. 1m _French_ THE OPEN DOOR. p 1m 1w _French_ MR. STEINMANN'S CORNER. p 2m 2w _French_ THE SALT OF LIFE. p 1m 1w _French_ THE MARRIAGE WILL NOT TAKE PLACE. c 2m 1w

SYMONS, Arthur CLEOPATRA IN JUDEA. p 7m 3w _Forum_, _June_, 1916

SYNGE, John Millington THE SHADOW OF THE GLEN _Luce_ RIDERS TO THE SEA _Luce_ THE TINKER'S WEDDING _Luce_ DEIRDRE OF THE SORROWS _Luce_

TARKINGTON, Booth BEAUTY AND THE JACOBIN. c 3m 2w _Harper_

TERRELL, Maverick HONI SOIT.. s 1m 1w _Smart Set_, _Jan._, 1918 TEMPERAMENT.. c 2m 2w _Smart Set_, _Sept._, 1916

TERRELL, Maverick, and STECHHAN, H. O. THE REAL "Q." c 3m _Smart Set_, _Sept._, 1911

TCHEKOFF, Anton. PLAYS. First Series THE SWAN SONG. p 2m _Scribner_ PLAYS. Second Series ON THE HIGH ROAD. p 8m 3w THE PROPOSAL. c 2m 1w THE WEDDING. c 7m 3w THE BEAR. c 2m 1w TRAGEDIAN IN SPITE OF HIMSELF. c 2m ANNIVERSARY. c 2m 1w Six plays in one volume _Scribner_ A BEAR. c 2m 1w _French_ THE MARRIAGE PROPOSAL. c 2m 1w _French_ _See_ BECHHOFER. Five plays ON THE HIGHMAY. d 6m 3w _Drama_, _May_, 1916

TENNYSON, Alfred Lord THE FALCON. p 2m 2w _Collected Works_

TERENCE PHORMIO. c 11m 2w _French_

THEURIET, Jean JEAN MARIE. p 2m 1w _French_

THOMAS, Brandon HIGHLAND LEGACY. c 5m 2w _French_ LANCASHIRE SAILOR. p 3m 2w _French_ COLOUR SERGEANT. p 4m 1w _French_

THOMAS, Kate AN EVENING AT HELEN'S. p 7m _French_ A BIT OF NONSENSE. c 8w _French_

THOMPSON, Alice C. PLAYS FOR WOMEN CHARACTERS HER SCARLET SLIPPERS. p 4w _Penn_ AN IRISH INVASION. c 8w _Baker_ A KNOT OF WHITE RIBBON. p 3w _Penn_ THE LUCKIEST GIRL. p 4w _Denison_ MUCH TOO SUDDEN. p 7w _Baker_ OYSTERS. c 6w _Baker_ THE WRONG BABY. c 8w _Penn_

THOMPSON, Harlan ONE BY ONE. 2m 2w _Smart Set_, _May_, 1919 THE MAN HUNT. c 2m 1w _Smart Set_, _June_, 1919 PANTS AND THE MAN. c 5m 2w _Smart Set_, _Nov._, 1917 GEOMETRICALLY SPEAKING. p 3m 1w _Smart Set_, _Nov._, 1918

TOMPKINS, Frank G. SHAM. c 3m 1w _Stewart_

TORRENCE, Ridgely. THREE PLAYS FOR THE NEGRO THEATRE GRANNY MAUMEE. p 3w THE RIDER OF DREAMS. p 3m 1w SIMON THE CYRENIAN. p 10m 6w Three plays in one vol. _Macmillan_

TRADER, G. H. SHAKESPEARE'S DAUGHTERS. f 11w _French_

TREE, H. B. SIX AND EIGHTPENCE. c 2m 1w _French_

TREVOR, Philip UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE. p 2m 5w _French_ THE LOOKING GLASS. p 7j _French_

UKRAINKA, L. THE BABYLONIAN CAPTIVITY. d 1m 7i In Bechofer: Five Russian Plays.

URCHLICKY, Jaroslav AT THE CHASM. p 2m 1w _Poet Lore_

VIERECK, Geo. S. A GAME OF LOVE. p 1m 2w THE MOOD OF A MOMENT. p 2m 1w FROM DEATH'S OWN EYES. p 1m 2w QUESTION OF FIDELITY. p 1m 1w THE BUTTERFLY. p 2m 3w Five plays in one volume _Moffat_

Von VIZEN, D. THE CHOICE OF A TUTOR. c 5m 3w In Bechofer: Five Russian Plays.

VAN ETTEN, G. THE VAMPIRE CAT. p 4m 2w _Dramatic_

WALKER, Stuart. THE PORTMANTEAU PLAYS THE TRIMPLET. c 2m 4w NEVERTHELESS. c 2m 1w SIX WHO PASS WHILE THE LENTILS BOIL. c 5m 3w THE MEDICINE SHOW. c 3m Four plays in one volume _Stewart_ MORE PORTMANTEAU PLAYS THE LADY OF THE WEEPING WILLOW TREE THE VERY NAKED BOY JONATHAN MAKES A WISH Three in one volume _Stewart_ PORTMANTEAU ADAPTATIONS GAMMER GURTON'S NEEDLE WILDE, O. THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA TARKINGTON, BOOTH. SEVENTEEN In one volume _Stewart_

WALKER, W. R. A PAIR OF LUNATICS. c 1m 1w _French_ GENTLEMAN JIM. 1m 1w _French_

WALLACE, A. C. CHRYSANTHEMUMS. c 2m 2w _French_

WARE, J. Herbert THE MEASURE OF THE MAN. p 3m 1w _Sheffield_, _June_, 1916

WARREN, P., and HUTCHINS, W. THE DAY THAT LINCOLN DIED. p 5m 2w _Baker_

WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYS, THE BEACH, L. THE CLOD. p 4m 1w GOODMAN, E. EUGENICALLY SPEAKING. c 3m 1w GERSTENBERG, A. OVERTONES. p 4w MOELLER, P. HELENE'S HUSBAND. c 3m 2w Four plays in one vol. _Doubleday_ LANGER, L. ANOTHER WAY OUT. c 2m 3w _Shay_ GLASPELL, S. TRIFLES. d 3m 2w _Shay_ CROCKER, B. THE LAST STRAW. d 2m 1w 2j _Shay_ ANDREYEV, L. LOVE OF ONE'S NEIGHBOR. s 15m 7w _Shay_ CRONYN, G. THE SANDBAR QUEEN. p 6m 1w _Arens_ MOELLER, P. TWO BLIND BEGGARS, etc. p 3m 1w _Arens_ MAETERLINCK, M. INTERIOR MIRACLE OF ST. ANTHONY DEATH OF TINTAGILES. _See_ Author REED, J. MOONDOWN. p 2w _Masses_ TCHEKOW, A. THE BEAR. c 2m 1w _French_ MACKAYE, P. THE ANTICK. _See_ Author SCHNITZLER, A. LITERATURE. _See_ Author MOELLER, P. ROADHOUSE IN ARDEN SISTERS OF SUSANNA POKEY. _See_ Author WEDEKIND, F. THE TENOR. p 5m 3w _Smart Set_, _June_, 1913 AKINS, Z. THE MAGICAL CITY. p 7m 2w _Forum_, _May_, 1914 DE BRVEYS, D. A. PIERRE PATELIN. c 7m 2w _French_ TCHEKOV, A. THE SEA GULL. _See_ Author EVREINOV, N. _See_ Bechofer: Five Russian Plays PORTO-RICHE. LOVERS' LUCK. _See_ Clark: Plays for the Free Theatre IZUMO, T. THE PINE TREE. Bushido. _See_ Author MASSAY, E. PLOTS AND PLAYWRIGHTS. c 11m 6w _Little_ MOLIERE. SGANARELLE. DOCTOR IN SPITE OF HIMSELF. _See_ Author STRINDBERG, A. PARIAH. _See_ Author

WATTS, Mary S. THREE SHORT PLAYS AN ANCIENT DANCE. Two acts. p 6m 3w CIVILIZATION. p 5m 5w WEARIN' O' THE GREEN. c 8m 7w Three plays in one vol. _Macmillan_

WEDEKIND, Frank THE TENOR. p 5m 3w _Smart Set_, _June_, 1913

WEIL, Percival L. THE CULPRIT. p 3m 1w _Smart Set_, _Feb._, 1913

WELLMAN, Rita THE LADY WITH THE MIRROR. a 2m 2w _Drama_, _Aug._, 1918 DAWN. p 2m 1w _Drama_, _Feb._, 1919 FUNICULI FUNICULI. In Mayorga's "Representative One-Act Plays" _Little_

WELSH, Robert Gilbert JEZEBEL. p 6m 3w _Forum_, _May_, 1915

WENDT, Frederick W. DES IRAE. p 1m 1w _Smart Set_, _July_, 1911

WHITE, Lucy THE BIRD CHILD. p 2m 2w 1j _International_, _Nov._, 1914

WILCOX, Constance TOLD IN A CHINESE GARDEN. p 10 characters _Drama_, _May_, 1919

WILDE, Oscar SALOME. d 11m 2w _Several editions_ BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA

WILDE, Percival. DAWN AND OTHER ONE-ACT PLAYS DAWN. d 2m 1w 1j THE NOBLE LORD. c 2m 1w THE TRAITOR. d 7m THE HOUSE OF CARDS. p 1m 1w PLAYING WITH FIRE. c 1m 2w FINGER OF GOD. p 2m 1w Six plays in one volume _Holt_ CONFESSIONAL. p 3m 3w ACCORDING TO DARWIN. p 3m 2w A QUESTION OF MORALITY. c 3m 1w THE BEAUTIFUL STORY. p 1m 1w 1j THE VILLAIN OF THE PIECE. c 2m 1w Five plays in one volume _Holt_ LINE OF NO RESISTANCE. c 1m 2w _French_ SAVED. p 9m 1w _Smart Set_, _July_, 1915

WILEY, Sara King PATRIOTS. c 3m 2w _French_

WISCONSIN PLAYS FIRST SERIES GALE, Z. THE NEIGHBORS. d 2m 6w DICKINSON, T. H. IN HOSPITAL. c 3m 2w LEONARD, W. E. GLORY OF THE MORNING. p 3m 2w Three plays in one vol. _Huebsch_ SECOND SERIES ILLSEY, S. M. FEAST OF THE HOLY INNOCENTS. p 5w SHERRY, L. ON THE PIER. p 1m 1w JONES, H. M. THE SHADOW. p 4m 2w GILMAN, T. WE LIVE AGAIN. p 6m 6w Four Plays in one volume _Huebsch_

WOLFF, Oscar M. WHERE BUT IN AMERICA. c 1m 2w _Smart Set_, _March_, 1918

WORLD'S BEST PLAYS, The. Edited by BARRETT H. CLARK COPPEE, FRANCOIS. PATER NOSTER. p 3m 3w MEILHAC AND HALEVY. INDIAN SUMMER. c 2m 2w MAUREY, MAX. ROSALIE. c 1m 2w HERVIEU, PAUL. MODESTY. c 2m 1w TCHEKOF, ANTON. A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL. c 2m 1w DE MUSSET AND AUGIER. THE GREEN COAT. c 3m 1w GIACOSA, GIUSEPPE. THE WAGER. c 4m 1w TERRENCE. PHORMIO. c 11m 2w RIVOIRE, ANDRE. THE LITTLE SHEPERDESS. c 1m 2w PLAUTUS. THE TWINS. c 7m 2w SARDOU, VICTORIEN. THE BLACK PEARL. c 7m 3w TCHEKOF, ANTON. THE BOOR. c 2m 1w DE BANVILLE, THEO. CHARMING LEANDER. c 2m 1w AUGIER, EMILE. THE POST SCRIPTUM. c 1m 2w MOLIERE. THE DOCTOR IN SPITE OF HIMSELF. c 6m 3w DE CAILAVET, G. A. CHOOSING A CAREER. c BERNARD, TRISTAN. FRENCH WITHOUT A MASTER. c 5m 2w MEILHAC AND HALEVY. PANURGE'S SHEEP. c 1m 2w BENEDIX, RODERICK. THE LAW SUIT. c 5m BENEDIX, RODERICK. THE THIRD MAN. c 1m 3w MOLIERE. THE SICILIAN. Two scenes. c 4m 3w MOLIERE. THE AFFECTED YOUNG LADIES. s 6m 3w BERNARD, TRISTAN. I'M GOING! c 1m 1w FEUILLET, OCTAVE. THE FAIRY. c 3m 1w FEUILLET, OCTAVE. THE VILLAGE. c 2m 2w LABICHE. GRAMMAR. c 4m 1w LABICHE. THE TWO COWARDS. c 3m 2w LESAGE. CRISPIN, HIS MASTER'S RIVAL. c 4m 3w MARIVAUX. THE LEGACY. c 4m 2w GYALUI, WOLFGANG. AFTER THE HONEYMOON. c 1m 1w BOUCHOR, MAURICE. A CHRISTMAS TALE. p 2m 2w FRANCE, ANATOLE. CRAINQUEBILLE. 3 scenes. p 12m 6w THEURIET, ANDRE. JEAN MARIE. p 2m 1w PICARD, L. B. THE REBOUND. c 5m 2w ARISTOPHANES. LYSISTRATA. s 4m 5w 1j _Published by French_

WYNNE, Anna THE BROKEN BARS. p 10m 10w _French_

YEATS, William Butler THE COUNTESS CATHLEEN THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE THE SHADOWY WATERS THE KING'S THRESHOLD ON BAILE'S STRAND DEIRDRE _Macmillan_ THE GREEN HELMET _Macmillan_ WHERE THERE IS NOTHING _Macmillan_ THE HOUR GLASS CATHLEEN IN HOULIHAN A POT OF BROTH _Macmillan_ IN THE SEVEN WOODS _Macmillan_

YEHOASH THE SHUNAMITE. p 3m 1w _Stratford_, _June_, 1919

YIDDISH THEATRE: SIX PLAYS FOR FIRST SERIES PINSKI, D. ABIGAIL. 7m 1w PINSKI, D. FORGOTTEN SOULS. 1m 2w ALEICHEM, S. SHE MUST MARRY A DOCTOR. 3m 4w ASH, S. WINTER. 1m 6w ASH, S. THE SINNER. 9m 1w HIRSCHBEIN, P. IN THE DARK. 3m 2w Six plays in one volume. SECOND SERIES PINSKI, D. LITTLE HEROES. p 6j PINSKI, D. THE STRANGER. p 9m 6w HIRSCHBEIN, P. ON THE THRESHOLD. p 4m 2w LEVIN, Z. POETRY AND PROSE. p 1m 1w KOBRIN, L. BLACK SHEEP. p 3m 2w KOBRIN, L. THE SWEET OF LIFE. p 2m 1w Six plays in one volume _Huebsch_

YOUNG, Stark. AT THE SHRINE AND OTHER PLAYS ADDIO. p 3m 1w MADRETTA. p 2m 1w AT THE SHRINE. p 1m 1w Three plays in one volume _Stewart_

ZANGWILL, Israel SIX PERSONS. c 1m 1w _French_ GREAT DEMONSTRATION. c 2m 1w _French_

BIBLIOGRAPHIES

ACTABLE ONE-ACT PLAYS _Chicago Public Library, 1916_

PLAYS AND BOOKS OF THE LITTLE THEATRE. Compiled by Frank Shay.

A LIST OF PLAYS AND PAGEANTS. Prepared by the Committee on Pageantry, War Work Council, Young Woman's Christian Associations. 1919.

PLAYS FOR AMATEURS. Arranged by John Mantel Clapp. Drama League of America. Chicago. 1915.

GUIDE TO SELECTING PLAYS for the use of professionals and amateurs. By Wentworth Hogg. _French._ 1916.

THE DRAMATIC BOOKS AND PLAYS. An annual compilation by Henry Eastman Lower and George Heron Milne. Boston Book Co.

* * * * *

A SELECTED LIST

OF

DRAMATIC

LITERATURE

PUBLISHED BY STEWART & KIDD COMPANY CINCINNATI

_Plays and Players_

LEAVES FROM A CRITIC'S SCRAPBOOK

BY WALTER PRICHARD EATON

PREFACE BY BARRETT H. CLARK

A new volume of criticisms of plays and papers on acting, play-making, and other dramatic problems, by Walter Prichard Eaton, dramatic critic, and author of "The American Stage of To-day," "At the New Theater and Others," "Idyl of the Twin Fires," etc. The new volume begins with plays produced as far back as 1910, and brings the record down to the current year. One section is devoted to American plays, one to foreign plays acted on our stage, one to various revivals of Shakespeare. These sections form a record of the important activities of the American theater for the past six years, and constitute about half of the volume. The remainder of the book is given over to various discussions of the actor's art, of play construction, of the new stage craft, of new movements in our theater, such as the Washington Square Players, and several lighter essays in the satiric vein which characterized the author's work when he was the dramatic critic of the =New York Sun=. Unlike most volumes of criticisms, this one is illustrated, the pictures of the productions described in the text furnishing an additional historical record. At a time when the drama is regaining its lost position of literary dignity it is particularly fitting that dignified and intelligent criticism and discussion should also find accompanying publication.

=Toronto Saturday Night=:

Mr. Eaton writes well and with dignity and independence. His book should find favor with the more serious students of the Drama of the Day.

=Detroit Free Press=:

This is one of the most interesting and also valuable books on the modern drama that we have encountered in that period popularly referred to as "a dog's age." Mr. Eaton is a competent and well-esteemed critic. The book is a record of the activities of the American stage since 1910, down to the present. Mr. Eaton succinctly restores the play to the memory, revisualizes the actors, and puts the kernel of it into a nutshell for us to ponder over and by which to correct our impressions.

_Large 12mo. About 420 pages, 10 full-page illustrations on Cameo Paper and End Papers_ _Net_ $3.00 _Gilt top. 3/4 Maroon Turkey Morocco_ _Net_ 8.50

_Four Plays of the Free Theater_

Francois de Curel's _The Fossils_ Jean Jullien's _The Serenade_ Georges de Porto-Riche's _Francoise' Luck_ Georges Ancey's _The Dupe_

_Translated with an introduction on Antoine and Theatre Libre by BARRETT H. CLARK. Preface by BRIEUX, of the French Academy, and a Sonnet by EDMOND ROSTAND._

=The Review of Reviews says=:

"A lengthy introduction, which is a gem of condensed information."

=H. L. Mencken (in the Smart Set) says=:

"Here we have, not only skilful playwriting, but also sound literature."

=Brander Matthews says=:

"The book is welcome to all students of the modern stage. It contains the fullest account of the activities of Antoine's Free Theater to be found anywhere--even in French."

=The Chicago Tribune says=:

"Mr. Clark's translations, with their accurate and comprehensive prefaces, are necessary to anyone interested in modern drama.... If the American reader will forget Yankee notions of morality ... if the reader will assume the French point of view, this book will prove a rarely valuable experience. Mr. Clark has done this important task excellently."

_Handsomely Bound. 12mo. Cloth_ _Net_, $2.50 _3/4 Turkey Morocco_ 8.50

_Contemporary French Dramatists_

By BARRETT H. CLARK

_In "Contemporary French Dramatists" Mr. Barrett H. Clark, author of "The Continental Drama of Today," "The British and American Drama of Today," translator of "Four Plays of the Free Theater," and of various plays of Donnay, Hervieu, Lemaitre, Sardou, Lavedan, etc., has contributed the first collection of studies on the modern French theater. Mr. Clark takes up the chief dramatists of France beginning with the Theatre Libre: Curel, Brieux, Hervieu, Lemaitre, Lavedan, Donnay, Porto-Riche, Rostand, Bataille, Bernstein, Capus, Flers, and Caillavet. The book contains numerous quotations from the chief representative plays of each dramatist, a separate chapter on "Characteristics" and the most complete bibliography to be found anywhere._

_This book gives a study of contemporary drama in France which has been more neglected than any other European country._

=Independent, New York=:

"Almost indispensable to the student of the theater."

=Boston Transcript=:

"Mr. Clark's method of analyzing the works of the Playwrights selected is simple and helpful. * * * As a manual for reference or story, 'Contemporary French Dramatists,' with its added bibliographical material, will serve well its purpose."

_Uniform with FOUR PLAYS. Handsomely bound._

_Cloth_ _Net_, $2.50 _3/4 Turkey Morocco_ 8.50

_"European Dramatists"_

By ARCHIBALD HENDERSON

_Author of_ "George Bernard Shaw: His Life and Works."

_In the present work the famous dramatic critic and biographer of Shaw has considered six representative dramatists outside of the United States, some living, some dead--Strindberg, Ibsen, Maeterlinck, Wilde, Shaw, Barker, and Schnitzler._

=Velma Swanston Howard says=:

"Prof. Henderson's appraisal of Strindberg is certainly the fairest, kindest and most impersonal that I have yet seen. The author has that rare combination of intellectual power and spiritual insight which casts a clear, strong light upon all subjects under his treatment."

=Baltimore Evening Sun=:

"Prof. Henderson's criticism is not only notable for its understanding and good sense, but also for the extraordinary range and accuracy of its information."

Jeanette L. Gilder, in the =Chicago Tribune=:

"Henderson is a writer who throws new light on old subjects."

=Chicago Record Herald=:

"His essays in interpretation are welcome. Mr. Henderson has a catholic spirit and writes without parochial prejudice--a thing deplorably rare among American critics of the present day. * * * One finds that one agrees with Mr. Henderson's main contentions and is eager to break a lance with him about minor points, which is only a way of saying that he is stimulating, that he strikes sparks. He knows his age thoroughly and lives in it with eager sympathy and understanding."

=Providence Journal=:

"Henderson has done his work, within its obvious limitations, in an exceedingly competent manner. He has the happy faculty of making his biographical treatment interesting, combining the personal facts and a fairly clear and entertaining portrait of the individual with intelligent critical comment on his artistic work."

_Photogravure frontispiece, handsomely printed and bound, large 12mo_ _Net_, $3.00

_The Changing Drama_

By ARCHIBALD HENDERSON, M.A. Ph.D.

_Author of_ "European Dramatists," "George Bernard Shaw--His Life and Work." Etc.

A vital book, popular in style, cosmopolitan in tone, appraising the drama of the past sixty years, its changes, contributions and tendencies. Has an expression of the larger realities of the art and life of our time.

=E. E. Hale= in _The Dial_: "One of the most widely read dramatic critics of our day; few know as well as he what is 'up' in the dramatic world, what are the currents of present-day thought, what people are thinking, dreaming, doing, or trying to do."

=New York Times=: "Apt, happily allusive, finely informed essays on the dramatists of our own time--his essay style is vigorous and pleasing."

=Book News Monthly=: "Shows clear understanding of the evolution of form and spirit, and the differentiation of the forces--spiritual, intellectual and social--which are making the theatre what it is today ... we can recollect no book of recent times which has such contemporaneousness, yet which regards the subject with such excellent perspective ... almost indispensable to the general student of drama ... a book of rich perspective and sound analysis. The style is simple and direct."

=Geo. Middleton= in _La Follette's_: "The best attempt to formulate the tendencies which the drama is now taking in its evolutionary course."

=Argonaut=: "Marked by insight, discernment and enthusiasm."

_Large 12mo. Dignified binding_ _Net_, $2.50

GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

_HIS LIFE AND WORKS_ A Critical Biography (Authorized)

BY ARCHIBALD HENDERSON, M.A., Ph.D.

With two plates in color (one, the frontispiece, from an autochrome by Alvin Langdon Coburn, the other from a water color by Bernard Partridge), two photogravures, 26 plates on art paper, and numerous illustrations in the text.

In one volume, demy 8vo., cloth and gilt top, net $7.50.

This remarkable book, upon which the author has been at work for more than six years, is the authentic biography of the great Irish dramatist and socialist. In order to give it the authority which any true biography of a living man must possess, Mr. Shaw has aided the author in every possible way. The book is based not only on the voluminous mass of Mr. Shaw's works, published, uncollected in book form or unpublished, but also on extensive data furnished the author by Mr. Shaw in person.

A masterly and monumental volume, it is a history of Art, Music, Literature, Drama, Sociology, Philosophy, and the general development of the Ibsen-Nietzschean Movement in Morals for the last thirty years. The Press are unanimous in their praise of this wonderful work.

Opinions of the work and its author.

_The Bookman_: "A more entertaining narrative whether in biography or fiction has not appeared in recent years."

_The Independent_: "Whatever George Bernard Shaw may think of his Biography the rest of the world will probably agree that Dr. Henderson has done a good job."

_Boston Herald_: "This is probably the most informing and satisfactory biography of this very difficult man that has been written. A thoroughly painstaking work."

#European Dramatists#

_Short Plays_

By MARY MAC MILLAN

_To fill a long-felt want. All have been successfully presented. Suitable for Women's Clubs, Girls' Schools, etc. While elaborate enough for big presentation, they may be given very simply._

=Review of Reviews=:

"Mary MacMillan offers 'SHORT PLAYS,' a collection of pleasant one to three-act plays for women's clubs, girls' schools, and home parlor production. Some are pure comedies, others gentle satires on women's faults and foibles. 'The Futurists,' a skit on a woman's club in the year 1882, is highly amusing. 'Entr' Act' is a charming trifle that brings two quarreling lovers together through a ridiculous private theatrical. 'The Ring' carries us gracefully back to the days of Shakespeare; and 'The Shadowed Star,' the best of the collection, is a Christmas Eve tragedy. The Star is shadowed by our thoughtless inhumanity to those who serve us and our forgetfulness of the needy. The Old Woman, gone daft, who babbles in a kind of mongrel Kiltartan, of the Shepherds, the Blessed Babe, of the Fairies, rowan berries, roses and dancing, while her daughter dies on Christmas Eve, is a splendid characterization."

=Boston Transcript=:

"Those who consigned the writer of these plays to solitude and prison fare evidently knew that 'needs must' is a sharp stimulus to high powers. If we find humor, gay or rich, if we find brilliant wit; if we find constructive ability joined with dialogue which moves like an arrow; if we find delicate and keen characterization, with a touch of genius in the choice of names; if we find poetic power which moves on easy wing--the gentle jailers of the writer are justified, and the gentle reader thanks their severity."

=Salt Lake Tribune=:

"The Plays are ten in number, all of goodly length. We prophesy great things for this gifted dramatist."

=Bookseller, News Dealer & Stationer=:

"The dialogue is permeated with graceful satire, snatches of wit, picturesque phraseology, and tender, often exquisite, expressions of sentiment."

_Handsomely Bound. 12mo. Cloth_ _Net_, $2.50

_More Short Plays_

BY MARY MacMILLAN

Plays that act well may read well. Miss MacMillan's plays are good reading. Nor is literary excellence a detriment to dramatic performance. They were put on the stage before they were put into print. They differ slightly from those in the former volume. Two of them, "The Pioneers," a story of the settlement of the Ohio Valley, and "Honey," a little mountain girl cotton-mill worker, are longer. The other six, "In Mendelesia," Parts I and II, "The Dryad," "The Dress Rehearsal of Hamlet," "At the Church," and "His Second Girl," contain the spirit of humor, something of subtlety, and something of fantasy.

=Brooklyn Daily Eagle=: "Mary MacMillan, whose first volume of short plays proved that she possessed unusual gifts as a dramatist, has justified the hopes of her friends in a second volume, 'More Short Plays,' which reveal the author as the possessor of a charming literary style coupled with a sure dramatic sense that never leads her idea astray.... In them all the reader will find a rich and delicate charm, a bountiful endowment of humor and wit, a penetrating knowledge of human nature, and a deft touch in the drawing of character. They are delicately and sympathetically done and their literary charm is undeniable."

_Uniform with "Short Plays"_ _Net_, $2.50

_Comedies of Words and Other Plays_

BY ARTHUR SCHNITZLER

TRANSLATED BY PIERRE LOVING

{"=The Hour of Recognition=" {"=Great Scenes=" The contents are {"=The Festival of Bacchus=" {"=His Helpmate=" {"=Literature=."

In his "Comedies of Words," Arthur Schnitzler, the great Austrian Dramatist, has penetrated to newer and profounder regions of human psychology. According to Schnitzler, the keenly compelling problems of earth are: the adjustment of a man to one woman, a woman to one man, the children to their parents, the artist to life, the individual to his most cherished beliefs, and how can we accomplish this adjustment when, try as we please, there is a destiny which sweeps our little plans away like helpless chessmen from the board? Since the creation of Anatol, that delightful toy philosopher, so popular in almost every theater of the world, the great Physician-Dramatist has pushed on both as World-Dramatist and reconnoiterer beyond the misty frontiers of man's conscious existence. He has attempted in an artistic way to get beneath what Freud calls the "Psychic Censor" which edits all our suppressed desires. Reading Schnitzler is like going to school to Life itself!

_Bound uniform with the S & K Dramatic Series_, _Net_ $2.50

_The Provincetown Plays_

EDITED BY GEORGE CRAM COOK AND FRANK SHAY

THE CONTENTS ARE:

Alice Rostetter's comedy THE WIDOW'S VEIL James Oppenheim's poetic NIGHT George Cram Cook's and Susan Glaspell's SUPPRESSED DESIRES Eugene O'Neill's play BOUND EAST FOR CARDIFF Edna St. Vincent Millay's ARIA DE CAPO Rita Wellman's STRING OF THE SAMISEN Wilbur D. Steele's satire NOT SMART Floyd Dell's comedy THE ANGEL INTRUDES Hutchin Hapgood's and Neith Boyce's play ENEMIES Pendleton King's COCAINE

Every author, with one exception, has a book or more to his credit. Several are at the top of their profession.

Rita Wellman, a Saturday Evening Post star, has had two or three plays on Broadway, and has a new novel, THE WINGS OF DESIRE.

Cook and Glaspell are well known--he for his novels and Miss Glaspell for novels and plays.

E. Millay is one of America's best minor poets. Steele, according to O'Brien, is America's best short-story writer.

Oppenheim has over a dozen novels, books of poems and essays to his credit.

O'Neill has a play on Broadway now, BEYOND THE HORIZON.

Hutch, Hapgood is author of the STORY OF A LOVER, published by Boni and Liveright anonymously.

_8vo. Silk Cloth, Gilt Top_ _Net_ $3.00

Portmanteau Plays

BY STUART WALKER Edited and with an Introduction by EDWARD HALE BIERSTADT

This volume contains four One Act Plays by the inventor and director of the Portmanteau Theater. They are all included in the regular repertory of the Theater and the four contained in this volume comprise in themselves an evening's bill.

There is also an Introduction by Edward Hale Bierstadt on the Portmanteau Theater in theory and practice.

The book is illustrated by pictures taken from actual presentations of the plays.

The first play, the "=Trimplet=", deals with the search for a certain magic thing called a trimplet which can cure all the ills of whoever finds it. The search and the finding constitute the action of the piece.

Second play, "=Six who Pass While the Lentils Boil=", is perhaps the most popular in Mr. Walker's repertory. The story is of a Queen who, having stepped on the ring-toe of the King's great-aunt, is condemned to die before the clock strikes twelve. The Six who pass the pot in which boil the lentils are on their way to the execution.

Next comes "=Nevertheless=", which tells of a burglar who oddly enough reaches regeneration through two children and a dictionary.

And last of all is the "=Medicine-Show=", which is a character study situated on the banks of the Mississippi. One does not see either the Show or the Mississippi, but the characters are so all sufficient that one does not miss the others.

All of these plays are fanciful--symbolic if you like--but all of them have a very distinct raison d'etre in themselves, quite apart from any ulterior meaning.

With Mr. Walker it is always "the story first," and herein he is at one with Lord Dunsany and others of his ilk. The plays have body, force, and beauty always; and if the reader desires to read in anything else surely that is his privilege.

Each play, and even the Theater itself has a prologue, and with the help of these one is enabled to pass from one charming tale to the next without a break in the continuity.

_With five full-page illustrations on cameo paper._ _12mo. Silk cloth_ $2.50

_More Portmanteau Plays_

BY STUART WALKER Edited and with an Introduction by EDWARD HALE BIERSTADT

The thorough success of the volume entitled "=Portmanteau Plays=" has encouraged the publication of a second series under the title "=More Portmanteau Plays=". This continuation carries on the work begun in the first book, and contains "=The Lady of the Weeping Willow Tree=", one of the finest and most effective pieces Stuart Walker has presented under his own name; "=The Very Naked Boy=", a slight, whimsical, and wholly delightful bit of foolery; "=Jonathan Makes a Wish=", a truly strong three-act work with an appeal of unusual vigor.

_With Six full page illustrations on Cameo Paper._ _12mo. Silk cloth_ $2.00

TO BE PUBLISHED IN 1920

_Portmanteau Adaptations_

BY STUART WALKER Edited and with an Introduction by EDWARD HALE BIERSTADT

The third volume of the Portmanteau Series includes three of Stuart Walker's most successful plays which are either adapted from or based on works by other authors. The first is the ever wonderful "=Gammer Gurton's Needle=", written some hundreds of years ago and now arranged for the use of the modern theater goer. Next comes, "=The Birthday of the Infanta=" from the poignant story of Oscar Wilde (used also by Alfred Noyes in one of his most effective poems), and last of all the widely popular "=Seventeen=" from the story of the same name by Booth Tarkington.

_12mo. Silk cloth_ _Net_, $2.50

* * * * *

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:

1. Passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_.

2. Passages in bold are indicated by =bold=.

3. Misprints in character names have been silently corrected.

4. Punctuation has been normalized for the stage directions and the play listings in the Bibliography.

5. The following misprints have been corrected: "Is sounds as if" corrected to "It sounds as if" (page 31) "What should be" corrected to "What should we" (page 35) "Don't call be" corrected to "Don't call me" (page 60) "I don't now what!" corrected to "I don't know what!" (page 66) "want to see her" corrected to "went to see her" (page 66) "widly" corrected to "wildly" (page 72) "horried" corrected to "horrid" (page 96) "slindly" corrected to "blindly" (page 109) "accept" corrected to "accent" (page 121) "right. don't say" corrected to "right. I don't say" (page 162) "J. H. SPEENHOFF" corrected to "ST. JOHN HANKIN" (page 157) "SENE" corrected to "SCENE" (page 167) "stobbing" corrected to "stabbing" (page 179) "doube" corrected to "doubt" (page 204) "pursuade" corrected to "persuade" (page 209) "dring" corrected to "drink" (page 231) "sits on the soft." corrected to "sits on the sofa." (page 268) "lazzily" corrected to "lazily" (page 347) "rearlize" corrected to "realize" (page 347) "I sounds like" corrected to "It sounds like" (page 357) "come into see" corrected to "come in to see" (page 364) "ot do the decent" corrected to "to do the decent" (page 388) "For heaven't sake" corrected to "For heaven's sake" (page 388) "snuff-pox" corrected to "snuff-box" (page 400) "just bet me are" corrected to "just bet we are" (page 428) "ecstastically" corrected to "ecstatically" (page 428) "crepe" corrected to "crepe" (page 436) "paper ribbins." corrected to "paper ribbons." (page 437) "rupturously" corrected to "rapturously" (page 451) "palid" corrected to "pallid" (page 457) "the the" corrected to "the" (page 459) "port-hale" corrected to "porthole" (page 470) "fierecly" corrected to "fiercely" (page 473) "They why did" corrected to "Then why did" (page 525) "Wilwaukee" corrected to "Milwaukee" (page 530) "a few bille" corrected to "a few bills" (page 531) "if marriage," corrected to "of marriage," (page 547) "TREMENDOUR" corrected to "TREMENDOUS" (page 565) "Pheobe" corrected to "Phoebe" (page 568) "VON HOFFMANSTHALL" corrected to "VON HOFMANNSTHAL" (page 568) "The Legacy. 3 4m" corrected to "The Legacy. c 4m" (page 572) "MATUSO." corrected to "MATSUO." (page 572) "SHAKERPEARE'S" corrected to "SHAKESPEARE'S" (page 579) "volumn" corrected to "volume" (pages 561, 564, 565, 573)

6. Other than the corrections listed above, printer's inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation, hyphenation, and ligature usage have been retained.

End of Project Gutenberg's Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays, by Various