Part 2

MRS. RANSOME. I don’t think he’ll be more than half an hour. He’d like to see you, if you could wait that long, I know.

TANNER. Very well. I have an engagement later, but I can let that go if necessary.

(_Tanner and Mrs. Ransome sit down in front of the table._)

MRS. RANSOME. It certainly is a great comfort havin’ you here, Mr. Tanner. I feel so upset I don’t know what to say.

TANNER. Bear up, Mrs. Ransome. You are not the greatest sufferer. Let me say a few words to your daughter. (_He rises, goes to Janet, and places his hand on her shoulder, but she takes no notice of him._) Miss Ransome, you must try to bear up, too. I know how hard it is, but you must remember it’s something that must come to all of us.

MRS. RANSOME. She takes it so bad, Mr. Tanner, that the Lord should have took him on their weddin’ mornin’.

TANNER (_Returning to his chair_). We must not question, Mrs. Ransome, we must not question. The Almighty has thought fit to gather him back to the fold, and we must submit to His will. In such moments as these we feel helpless. We feel the need of a Higher Being to cling to—to find consolation. Time is the great healer.

MRS. RANSOME. But to expect a weddin’ (_Sobs_) and find it’s a funeral—it’s awful; (_Sobs_) and besides—Mr. Tanner, you’ve always been good to us. We’re in other trouble, too. Worse—worse even than this.

TANNER. In other trouble?

MRS. RANSOME. Yes, much worse. I just can’t bear to think about it.

TANNER. Your husband’s business?

MRS. RANSOME. No, sir. It’s—I don’t know how to say it. It’s her and him.

TANNER. Her and him?

MRS. RANSOME. Yes, sir—I’m almost ashamed to tell you. She’s goin’ to have a baby.

TANNER (_Astounded_). She’s going to be a mother?

MRS. RANSOME. Yes. (_Sobs._) Oh, you don’t know how hard this is on us, Mr. Tanner. We’ve always bin respectable people, sir, as you well know. We’ve bin livin’ right here on this block these last ten years, an’ everybody knows us in the neighborhood. Her father don’t know about it yet. What he’ll say—God only knows.

TANNER. I’m terribly sorry to hear this, Mrs. Ransome.

MRS. RANSOME. I can forgive her, sir, but not him. They say we shouldn’t speak ill of the dead—but I always was opposed to her marryin’ him. I wanted her to marry a steady young fellow of her own religion, but I might as well have talked to the wall, for all the notice she took of me.

TANNER. It’s what we have to expect of the younger generation, Mrs. Ransome. Let me see—how long were they engaged?

MRS. RANSOME. Well, sir, I suppose on and off it’s bin about three years. He never could hold a job long, an’ me and her father said he couldn’t marry her—not with our consent—until he was earnin’ at least twenty dollars a week—an’ that was only right, considerin’ he’d have to support her.

TANNER. I quite agree with you. I’m sorry to see a thing of this sort happen—and right in my own congregation, too. I’ve expressed my views from the pulpit from time to time very strongly upon the subject, but nevertheless it doesn’t seem to make much difference in this neighborhood.

MRS. RANSOME. I know it’s a bad neighborhood in some ways, sir. But you got to remember they was going to get married, sir. If you’d bin here only an hour earlier, Mr. Tanner, there wouldn’t have bin no disgrace. (_Points to official-looking book lying on table._) Why, sir—there’s the marriage register—Mr. Smith brought it down from church this morning—all waiting for you to fix it. If you’d only come earlier, sir, they’d have bin properly married, an’ there wouldn’t have bin a word said.

TANNER. That’s true. They might have avoided the immediate disgrace, perhaps. But you know as well as I do that _that_ isn’t the way to get married. It isn’t so much a matter of disgrace. That means nothing. It’s the principle of the thing.

MRS. RANSOME (_Eagerly_). Oh, Mr. Tanner, do you mean it? Do you mean that the disgrace of it means nothin’?

TANNER. Well—not exactly nothing—but nothing to the principle of the thing.

MRS. RANSOME. An’ would you save her from the disgrace of it, if you could, Mr. Tanner, if it don’t mean nothin’?

TANNER. I’ll do anything I can to help you, within reason, Mrs. Ransome, but how can I save her?

MRS. RANSOME (_Eagerly pleading_). Mr. Tanner, if she has a child, as she expects, you know that respectable people won’t look at us any more. We’ll have to move away from here. We’ll be the laughing stock of the place. It’ll break her father’s heart, as sure as can be. But if you could fill in the marriage register as though they’d bin married, Mr. Tanner, why, nobody’s to know that it isn’t all respectable and proper. They had their license, and ring, and everything else, sir, as you know.

TANNER (_Astounded_). _Me_ fill in the marriage register? Do you mean that you want _me_ to make a fictitious entry in the marriage register?

MRS. RANSOME. It wouldn’t be so very fictitious, Mr. Tanner. They’d have bin married regular if you’d only come half an hour earlier. Couldn’t you fill it in that they was married before he died, sir?

TANNER. But that would be forgery.

MRS. RANSOME. It would be a good action, Mr. Tanner—indeed, it would. Her father an’ me haven’t done nothing to deserve it, but we’ll be blamed for it just the same. It wouldn’t take you a minute to write it in the register, Mr. Tanner. Look at all the years we’ve bin goin’ to your church, and never asked you a favor before.

TANNER. My good woman, I’m sorry; I’d like to help you, but I don’t see how I can. In the first place, don’t you see that you’re asking me to commit forgery? But what’s more important, you’re asking me to act against my own principles. I’ve been preaching sermons for years, and making a public stand too, against these hasty marriages that break up homes and lead to the divorce court—or worse. The church is trying to make marriage a thing sacred and apart, instead of the mockery it is in this country today. I sympathize with you. I know how hard it is. But for all I know, you may be asking me to help you thwart the will of God.

MRS. RANSOME. The will of God?

TANNER. Mind you, I don’t say that it is, Mrs. Ransome, but it may very well be the Hand of the Almighty. Your daughter and her young man, as she has confessed herself, have tried to use the marriage ceremony—a _holy_ ceremony, mind you—to cover up what they’ve done.

MRS. RANSOME. Oh, don’t talk like that before her, Mr. Tanner.

TANNER. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt her feelings. I’m sorry I can’t help you. It wouldn’t be _right_.

MRS. RANSOME. But they was goin’ to get married, sir. You got to take that into consideration. My girl ain’t naturally bad. It isn’t as though she’d pick up any feller that happened to come along. Hundreds and thousands do it, sir, indeed they do, and most of them much worse than she and him, poor fellow.

TANNER. Yes, there you are right. Thousands _do_ do it, and I’ve been making a stand against it in this neighborhood for years. I may seem hard, Mrs. Ransome, but I’m trying my best to be fair. I sincerely believe that no minister of the Gospel should ever legalize or condone—er—misconduct—that is, before marriage.

MRS. RANSOME (_Pleading hard_). You can’t know what this means to us, sir—or you’d pity us, indeed you would. Her father’ll take on somethin’ dreadful when he hears about it. He’ll turn her out of the house, sir, as sure as can be. You know him, sir. You know he’s too good a Christian to let her stay here after she’s disgraced us all. And then, what’s to become of her? She’ll lose her job, and who’ll give her another—without a reference—an’ a baby to support? That’s how they get started on the streets, sir (_Sobs_), an’ you know it as well as I do.

TANNER. Yes, I know. I wish I could help you. It’s very distressing—but we all have to do our duty as we see it. But I do pity you, indeed I do. From the bottom of my heart. I’ll do anything I can for you—within reason.

MRS. RANSOME (_Almost hysterical, dragging Janet from the side of the body_). Janet, Janet! Ask him yourself. Ask him on your bended knees. Ask him to save us! (_Janet attempts to return to side of the body._) Janet, do you want to ruin us? Can’t you speak to him? Can’t you ask him? (_Mrs. Ransome breaks into sobs._)

TANNER. It is as I feared, Mrs. Ransome. Her heart is hardened.

JANET (_Rises and turns fiercely on him_). Whose heart’s hardened?

TANNER. Come, come. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I can’t tell you how sorry I am for you, and your parents, too.

JANET. Well, I’ll tell you flat, I don’t want none of your pity.

MRS. RANSOME. Janet, don’t speak like that to him. You’re excited. (_To Tanner_). She don’t mean it, sir—she’s all worked up.

JANET (_Her excitement increasing, and speaking in loud tones_). All right, mother—I’ll tell him again—I don’t want none of his pity. I c’n get along without it. An’ if you and him think that writin’ a few words in his marriage register—or whatever he calls it—is going to make any difference, well—you’re welcome to.

TANNER. My dear girl. Don’t you understand, if it was merely a question of writing a few words, I’d do it in a minute. But it’s the principle of the thing.

JANET (_Bitingly_). Huh! Principle of the thing! I heard it all. You preached against it, didn’t yer? It’s a pity you never preached a sermon on how me and him could have gotten married two years ago, instead of waiting till now, when it’s too late.

TANNER. Others have to wait.

JANET. We did wait. Isn’t three years long enough? D’ye think we was made of stone? How much longer d’ye think we could wait? We waited until we couldn’t hold out no longer. I only wish to God we hadn’t waited at all, instead of wastin’ all them years.

MRS. RANSOME (_Shocked_). Janet, you don’t know what you’re sayin’.

JANET. I do, an’ I mean it. We waited, an’ waited, an’ waited. Didn’t he try all he could to get a better job? ’Twasn’t his fault he couldn’t. We was planning to go West, or somewhere—where he’d have more of a chance—we was savin’ up for it on the quiet. An’ while we was waiting, we wanted one another—all day an’ all night. An’ what use was it? We held out till we couldn’t hold out no longer—an’ when we knew what was goin’ to happen, well—we had to get married—an’ that all there’s to it!

TANNER (_Making a remarkable discovery, supporting all his personal theories on the subject_). Ah! Then your idea was to marry _simply_ because you were going to have a baby!

JANET. Of course it was. D’ye think we wanted to marry an’ live here on the fifteen a week he was getting? We’d have bin starvin’ in a month. But when this happened—we had to get married—starve or not. What else could we do?

TANNER. Well, I don’t know what to say. It seems to me that you should have thought of all this before. You knew what it would mean to have a baby.

JANET. D’ye think I wanted a baby? I didn’t want one. I didn’t know how to stop it. If you don’t like it—it’s a pity you don’t preach sermons on how to stop havin’ babies when they’re not wanted. There’d be some sense in that. That’d be more sense than talkin’ about waitin’—an’ waitin’—an’ waitin’. There’s hundreds of women round here—starvin’ and sufferin’—an’ havin’ one baby after another, and don’t know the first thing about how to stop it. ’Tisn’t my fault I’m going to have one. I didn’t want it.

TANNER. Miss Ransome, your views simply astound me.

JANET. I can’t help it. People may think it wrong, an’ all that, but it ain’t his fault and it ain’t mine. Don’t you think we used to get sick of goin’ to movies, an’ vaudeville shows, an’ all them other places—time after time? I wanted him to love me, an’ I ain’t ashamed of it, neither.

MRS. RANSOME. Janet, how dare you talk like that in front of Mr. Tanner? (_To Tanner._) She don’t mean it, Mr. Tanner. She don’t know what she’s saying. I’ve always brought her up to be innercent about things. She must have got all this from the other girls at the store where she works. She didn’t get it in her home, that’s sure.

JANET. No, that I didn’t. Nor nothing else, neither. You was always ashamed to tell me about anything, so I found out about things from other girls, like the rest of ’em do. I’ve known it for years and years, an’ all the while I suppose you’ve bin thinkin’ I didn’t know anything, I’ve known everything—all except what’d be useful to me. If I’m going to have a baby it’s your fault, mother, as much as anybody. You only had one yourself—but you never told _me_ nothin’.

MRS. RANSOME. Janet!

TANNER. Miss Ransome, this is not a subject I ordinarily discuss, but since you know what you do know, let me tell you that there is nothing worse than trying to interfere with the workings of nature, or—if I may say so—of God.

JANET. Well, Bob said the rich people do it. He said they must know how to do it, because they never have more’n two or three children in a family; but you’ve only got to walk on the next block—where it’s all tenements—to see ten and twelve in every family, because the workin’ people don’t know any better. But I don’t want no pity from anybody. I can take a chance on it. I got a pair of hands, an’ I c’n take care of myself.

TANNER. Mrs. Ransome, it’s no good my talking to your daughter while she’s in this frame of mind. She appears to have most extraordinary views. Mind you, I don’t blame you for it. She _seems_ to be an intelligent girl. There’d be some hope for her if she’d show a little penitence—a little regret for what’s been done and can’t be undone. You know I don’t like preaching out of church, but you’ve often heard me say in the pulpit that God is always willing to forgive the humble and the penitent.

JANET (_With fine scorn_). “God” indeed. Don’t make me laugh. (_Points to body of Bob._) Look at him lyin’ there. God? What’s God got to do with it? (_She kneels again at the side of the couch, rigid and silent. After an uncomfortable interval, Tanner rises._)

TANNER. Well, I’m afraid I must be going. I feel very pained by what your daughter has said, Mrs. Ransome. You know I have a deep regard for you and your husband. I’m frank to say that if your daughter had shown some signs of penitence—some remorse for what has happened—I might even have gone so far as to have made the entry in the register—seeing the punishment she’s already had. But as she is now, I don’t see what good it would do. Really I don’t, so I think I’d better go.

MRS. RANSOME (_Appealingly_). Oh, don’t go, Mr. Tanner. Wait just a minute while I talk to her, please. Janet, can’t you say you’re sorry for what you done? Can’t you see that Mr. Tanner only wants to be fair with you? Come, do it for our sakes—your father and me. You know how hard he’s worked, how he’s keep teetotal an’ everything. You don’t want to ruin us, do you? Can’t you see it isn’t only yourself that’s got to be considered? Think of what we’ve done for you. Tell him you’re sorry for it, _do_!

TANNER (_Rising_). It’s no use, Mrs. Ransome. I can see it’s of no use. I really must go.

MRS. RANSOME. Just one minute more. Please wait one minute more. Janet, what’s the matter with you? Can’t you see the disgrace it’ll be to all of us? Can’t you see it will ruin us to our dying days? They’ll all laugh at us—an’ jeer at us. It’ll follow us around wherever we go. You know how the folk round here make fun of your father—because he keeps himself respectable—an’ saves his money. Do you want them to laugh at him? Do you want them to be laughin’ at you an’ talkin’ about you? Do you want them to be making fun of your baby—an’ calling it a bastard—an’ asking who it’s father was?

JANET (_Nervously_). They wouldn’t.

MRS. RANSOME. Yes, they would. An’ all the time he’s growin’ up, the other children in school’ll be tormentin’ him, and callin’ him names. Didn’t the same thing happen with Susan Bradley’s boy? Didn’t they have to go an’ live out in Jersey, cos she couldn’t stand it no longer? You know it as well as I do.

JANET (_Defiantly_). They went away ’cos he was always gettin’ sick.

MRS. RANSOME. Of course he was always gettin’ sick—with all them devils makin’ fun of him—an’ makin’ his life a misery. Didn’t we used to see him goin’ down the block—with the tears runnin’ down his cheeks—an’ all of ’em yellin’ names after him. Just think of the baby you’re goin’ to have. D’ye want that to happen to _your_ baby? D’ye want them to make _its_ life a misery—same as the other one?

JANET (_Lifelessly_). They wouldn’t.

MRS. RANSOME. Of course they would. They’ll tease an’ torment it, just like the other—an’ when he’s old enough to understand—who’ll he blame for it? He’ll blame _you_ for it. (_Inspired_) He’ll blame Bob for it—he’ll hate him for it. D’ye want your boy—Bob’s boy—to be hatin’ his own father? What’d Bob say? What’d _he_ think of you—ruinin’ his baby’s life—an’ all just because you’re obstinate an’ won’t listen to reason. Can’t you see it? Just think—if you’d only say you was in the wrong—an’ do what Mr. Tanner asks you—he’d forgive you an’ make everything all right. Oh, Janet—can’t you see it? Ask him—beg him!

JANET. Oh, dear. Well—how c’n Mr. Tanner make it all right?

MRS. RANSOME. You know what I mean. Oh, Janet, it won’t take him a minute to write it. If he don’t, can’t you see it’ll ruin us all our lives?

JANET. Only a minute to write it—or it’ll ruin us all our lives.

MRS. RANSOME. Oh, Janet, this is your last chance. Tell him you’re sorry. (_To Tanner, who has edged towards the door, and is about to leave._) Oh, Mr. Tanner, please don’t go. Just wait another minute.

TANNER. Really, I must go.

MRS. RANSOME. Oh, sir! I can see she’s sorry. You won’t go back on your word, sir?

JANET (_Unwillingly feigning remorse_). Let me think a bit. Oh, Mr. Tanner, I suppose I’m in the wrong—if you say so. It didn’t seem to me to be wrong—that’s all I got to say. I hope you’ll forgive me. I’m sorry for the way I spoke—and what I done.

TANNER (_Returning_). My child, it’s not for me to forgive you. I knew I could appeal to something higher in you, if you’d only listen to me. Are you truly repentant—from the bottom of your heart?

JANET. Yes, sir.

TANNER. As I said to your mother just now, I don’t like preaching sermons, but I hope this has taught you that there can be no justification for our moments of passion and wilfulness. We must all try to humble our pride and our spirit. I won’t go back on my word, but when you start out afresh you must try to wipe out the past by living for the future.

JANET. I’ll try to, sir.

TANNER. And now, Mrs. Ransome, I suppose I’ll have to make the entry as though it had happened an hour or so ago. I know I may seem soft-hearted about it. But I feel I am doing my duty. This may save your daughter from a life of degradation. I think the end justifies the means. But first, let me ask you, who knows that the ceremony wasn’t performed before he died?

MRS. RANSOME. Only me—an’ her father—an’ my sister outside.

TANNER. Can she be relied upon to hold her tongue?

MRS. RANSOME. She surely can, sir.

TANNER. Well, you understand this is a very serious thing for me to do. If it becomes public I shall be faced with a very unpleasant situation.

MRS. RANSOME. Oh, I promise you, Mr. Tanner, not a soul will know of it. We’ll take our dyin’ oaths, sir, all of us.

TANNER. All right. But first let me lend your daughter this prayer-book. (_Takes prayer-book out of pocket; addressing Janet._) Here’s a prayer-book, Miss Ransome. I’ll go with your mother now into the back-parlor, and meanwhile I want you to read over this prayer. Try to seek its inner meeting. Come, Mrs. Ransome, you can carry the register, and we’ll come back later and discuss the funeral arrangements.

MRS. RANSOME (_Takes the marriage register_). Oh, Mr. Tanner, I don’t know how to thank you.

TANNER. Well, Mrs. Ransome—I shall expect your husband to send us something for our new mission to spread Christianity amongst the Chinese.

(_Exit Tanner and Mrs. Ransome. Janet closes the door. She walks towards the couch, looks at the prayer-book, then at the couch. She flings the prayer-book to the other end of the room, smashing some of the ornaments on the mantle-shelf, and throws herself upon the side of the couch, sobbing wildly._)

SLOW CURTAIN.

“The Immutable”

MARGARET C. ANDERSON

In a world where flippancies arrange an effective concealment of beauty there are still major adventures in beauty to be had beneath the grinning surface. One of them is the discovery of those rare persons to whom flippancies are impossible—those splendid persons who take life simply and greatly. Several months ago I tried to write an impression of Emma Goldman, from an inadequate background of having merely heard two of her lectures. Since then I have met her. One realizes dimly that such spirits live somewhere in the world: history and legend and poetry have proclaimed them, and at times we hear of their passing; but to meet one on its valiant journey is like being whirled to some far planet and discovering strange new glories.

Emma Goldman is one of the world’s great people; therefore, it is not surprising to find her among the despised and rejected. Of course she is as different from the popular conception of her as anyone could be. The first thing you feel in meeting her is that indefinable something which all great and true people have in common—a quality which seems to proceed on some a priori principle that anything one feels deeply is sublime. Then a sense of her great humanity sweeps upon you, and the nobility of the idealist who wrenches her integrity from the grimest depths. A terrible sadness is in her face—as though the suffering of centuries had concentrated there in some deep personal struggle; and through it shines that capacity for joy which becomes colossal in its intensity and tragic in its disappointments. But the thing which takes your heart in a grip, and thrusts you quickly into the position of the small boy who longs to die for the object of his worship, is that imperative gift of motherhood which is hers and which spends itself with such utter prodigality upon all those who come to her for inspiration. Emma Goldman has ministered to every kind of human being from convicts to society women. She has no more idea of conservation than a lavish springtime; and where she draws courage and endurance and inspiration for it all will remain one of those mysteries which only the artist can explain. A mountain-top figure, calm, vast, dynamic, awful in its loneliness, exalted in its tragedy—this is Emma Goldman, “the daughter of the dream,” as William Marion Reedy called her in an appreciation written several years ago. “A dream, you say?” he asked, after sketching her gospel. “Yes; but life is death without the dream.” In that rich book of Alexander Berkman’s, _Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist_, she is given a better name. “I have always called you the Immutable,” is the way the author closes one of his letters to her. And this is the quality which distinguishes Emma Goldman—a kind of eternal staunchness in which one may put his fundamental trust.