Within the Gates

by Elizabeth Stuart Phelps

SCENE I.

Paradise: A beautiful country. Trees, flowers, shrubs, vines of great luxuriance abound. Brilliant birds of unfamiliar plumage can be heard singing in the boughs. They dip, blazing, through the air. The grass is bright, and like short fur in effect. The sheen of water, like the surface of a lake or sea, glimmers beyond. Sails of faint, fair tints, move and melt upon the sea. At a distance, upon a hill, are outlines of graceful architecture. A narrow brook can be seen, with strange shells upon its little banks. There are no highways visible. Foot-worn walks and paths, trodden through the grass, intersperse the landscape. The grass, however, springs afresh beneath the foot, and is not crushed or sear. Annunciation lilies and scarlet passion-flowers grow in the foreground. Bluebells, in clusters, spring beyond. Roses are many. Flowers unknown to the botanies of earth are frequent; and among those to which we are used, it will be noticed that the blossoms of the tropics and of the North countries flourish side by side. The whole impression is one of delight and beauty. The sky has a misty softness, and the atmosphere is capable of taking on (and takes on) sudden and subtle changes of effect. It is now seen to be early morning, and all the tints of the landscape are tender and fresh.

The scene is populous with bright beings. These are seen to differ from the people of this planet chiefly in their joyousness of manner, and in a certain high expression, of which it might be said, in a word, that the absence of low motive, and the presence of a sense of ease and security, are the predominant features. These beings wear flowing robes of various tints—dove, rose, blue, corn, violet, silver, gold, and pearl. Here and there one appears garbed in the color of the pale leaf, and, in moving among the foliage, seems to have sprung from it. Many spirits are clothed in shining white. Happy conversation and gentle laughter can be heard.

Enter Two Children. These play in the
brook, and gather the shells. They are
robed in short, childish garments—a
little frock, a little dress, both white,
and each clasped by a small, golden
cross.

First Child (a boy, four or five years old). I never saw such pretty shells in that other place we lived. They took me to the seaside summers, but there weren’t any there that began to be so pretty.

Second Child (a girl). I never played with any shells before. We lived in a street. It was dark and dirty. I never saw the sea till I came here.

First Child. I never saw you in that other place, did I?

Second Child. No. You wouldn’t have played with me there.

First Child. I like you here—don’t I?

Second Child. And I like you. I like you best of anybody I’ve seen in this pretty country.

First Child. Do you like roses? Or don’t you care for anything but shells?

Second Child (adoringly). I like roses, if you like roses.

(They leave the brook, and gather roses, pelting each other with them, and laughing merrily.)

(First Child tosses a rose over the brook.)

(Second Child picks a bluebell, and puts it to her lips.)

First Child. No. They’re not to eat. They’re to listen to. See! I’ll ring mine. Hark! (He rings the bluebell. It gives out a musical tintinnabulation.) Now, you hark again. I never heard a bluebell ring in that other place, did you?

Second Child. I never saw one on our street.... Oh, mine rings, too!... Say! Are these angels? I never saw an angel either, in our street.

(The Children wander away and mingle with the groups of spirits. They ring the bluebells as they go. The tintinnabulation is drowned in orchestral music, which can be heard from a distance. The theme is from Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony. Certain of the spirits listen attentively, and move towards the music. Certain others continue to talk happily, and stir among the trees.)

Enter Dr. Thorne. (Walks slowly and
alone. He is robed still in purple,
with a tunic of white showing at the
throat. He looks pallid and harassed.
He stands for a time apart,
keenly observant of the scene and of
the people, then sinks in thought. He
speaks.)

Dr. Thorne. Children here, too?

(He looks wistfully at the two children, who are playing together at a distance from him. He picks up the rose which the little boy had tossed over the brook; puts it to his face; speaks.)

Dr. Thorne. What a perfume the flowers have in this country! This seems to be a rose, yet it is not a rose. You might call it the soul of a rose. Exquisite, whatever it is. Some one has dropped this one. There is personality clinging to it. Curious! It is as though I clasped a little hand when I touch it.

(He sighs; walks to and fro thoughtfully; does not throw away the rose, but cherishes it. Groups of spirits pass and repass. Some of them smile at him kindly, but he does not return the smile. No one addresses him.)

Dr. Thorne. I have done my share of traveling in my day, but I must say I never was in a land that seems to me so foreign as this. Nothing looks natural. I seem to have no acquaintances. Apparently nobody knows me. I have no introductions. I am afraid I have got here without letters of credit. (Breaks off.) That was a mistake. I never did such an ignorant thing before. I must say it is an attractive country, too. Everything shows a high degree of civilization, and the beauty of the place is unsurpassed. But it does not appeal to me. (He shakes his head.) ... I am too homesick.... If Helen were here, I could enjoy it.

(He strolls about without aim or interest. Happy spirits pass and repass.)

Enter a man-spirit of impressive and
commanding appearance. His costume
bears a certain vague resemblance
to the dress of a gentleman and scholar
of the Court of Charles I. of England.
A cloak of the tint of the dead
oak-leaf is clasped across his breast
by a golden cross. He regards Dr.
Thorne with a piercing but kindly
look. He speaks with a fine and
courtly manner, dating from a bygone
age.

The Man-Spirit. I read thee for a stranger here.

Dr. Thorne (bitterly). A stranger in a strange place am I, indeed. You are the first inhabitant of this country who has troubled himself to speak to me. Thank you for your politeness, sir.

The Man-Spirit. I was commanded. These (waving his hand toward the groups of spirits) were not.

Dr. Thorne. You look like a person more fitted to give commands than to receive them. I fail to understand that word—commanded. I am—at least, I was—a sovereign citizen of America. I was not born or trained a subject.

The Man-Spirit (smiling). And I was subject of an English sovereign—in fact, an officer of the royal court.

Dr. Thorne (without smiling). And this nation? Is it an autocratic monarchy you have here? What is your political system?

The Man-Spirit. It is a simple one—a pure theocracy.

Dr. Thorne (indifferently). Oh, theocracy? That is a system into which I have never studied. I have been a busy man. I was a physician— (Abruptly.) Would you favor me with your name?

The Man-Spirit. I was a healer of the sick in my time. My name was— (Whispers his name.)

Dr. Thorne (starts with pleased surprise). The great Harvey? And you discovered the circulation of the blood? How wonderful! Why, I thought you had been mould and clover these two hundred and fifty years! It never occurred to me that you were alive.... What an extraordinary fact!

Harvey (turns away wearily). I did not think to find your education so limited. I understood you to be a man of superior powers.

Dr. Thorne (humbly). Don’t leave me, Doctor Harvey! I am the most unhappy man in this most happy country.

Harvey (slowly). Then you did not bring with you the materials of happiness. What had you? What were your possessions in the life yonder?

Dr. Thorne (solemnly, but still bitterly). Love, happiness, home, health, prosperity, fame, wealth, ambition. None of them did I bring with me. I have lost them all upon the way.

Harvey. Was there by chance nothing else?

Dr. Thorne. Nothing more, unless you count a little incidental usefulness.

Harvey. Plainly, you are not in a normal condition.

Dr. Thorne (hastily). I am perfectly well.

Harvey. You are sick of soul. You are not in health of spirit. You are out of harmony with your atmosphere. Do you wish me to take the case?

Dr. Thorne. Take the case, Doctor Harvey. Cure me of my nostalgia. Show me how to become a citizen of this foreign land.

Harvey. You know what it means to be a patient.

Dr. Thorne (grimly). I can think of no worse fate; but I’ll make the best of it.

Harvey (smiling kindly). I will undertake the case. At evening inquire your way to my dwelling. (Moves away; returns; hesitates; lingers; speaks impulsively.) Concerning the latest attainments in science on the planet Earth—they have the keenest interest for me. You have so many advantages—facilities that we never had. (He sighs wistfully.) I am told that your therapeutics are really wonderful. And the advances in surgery? Did you find them as beautiful as they are said to be?

Enter a newly arrived woman-spirit. She
is still pale, but has a happy expression.
She recognizes Dr. Thorne;
cries eagerly.

Woman-Spirit. Doctor! Doctor Thorne!

Harvey. Here comes some of your incidental usefulness. That is a good symptom. (He moves away, still smiling.)

[Exit Harvey.

Dr. Thorne. Why, Mrs. True! (Grasps her hand joyfully.) You are the first person I have seen—the first one I knew! But (reflecting) what has happened to you? How did you get here?

Mrs. True. I died yesterday.... I knew I should see you, Doctor. (Calmly.) I counted on that.

Dr. Thorne (starting back). Did they—you don’t mean to say they really operated on you? You were convalescent!

Mrs. True (laughing outright). Yes, in a week after you were killed. Dr. Carver vivisected guinea-pigs all that week to keep in practice. I died under the knife.... I wish you’d seen their faces!

Dr. Thorne (eagerly). What did they find—anything to justify the butchery?

Mrs. True. Of course not. Didn’t you say there wasn’t?

Dr. Thorne (gratefully). You always were a loyal patient—better than I deserved.

Mrs. True. You always were a kind doctor—better than I deserved.

Dr. Thorne. And they slaughtered you in my hospital!

Mrs. True (hurrying on). Have you seen my husband? Do you know where my mother is? I lost a baby twenty years ago. I want to see the little thing. And oh? when can I see—?

(She breaks off, with a devout expression, and moves away; joins the upper group of spirits. Two of these can be seen to meet and embrace her, and lead her on.)

[Vanish Mrs. True.

Enter Jerry, the loafer, hurriedly and
stumbling. His robe is of dull blue,
something in the fashion of a smock-frock,
or butcher’s blouse.

Jerry (staring about him stupidly, and with a kind of social embarrassment, as if he had been suddenly introduced into a drawing-room). Div-niver a cint in me pocket, and me hoofin’ it in this quaer counthree. (Scratches his head, and mutters unintelligibly.) ... I wondher where the ... sinsible saints I’m at.

Dr. Thorne (steps forward; speaks). Why, Jerry! How are you, Jerry? (Holds out his hand heartily.)

Jerry (staring). Sinsible saints, and silly sinners! Doctor Thorne?... Why, I thought you was dead. Hilloa, Doctor! (Grasps the doctor’s hand, and shakes it violently. Then meditatively.) Ye took a t’orn out av me eye onct, and div-niver a cint did ye charrge for ’t.

Dr. Thorne. What are you doing here, Jerry? How did you get here?

Jerry. I was knocked down by a blame bicycle underneat’ a murdherin’ trolley car. Nixt I know I don’t know nothin’, an’ now, behold me, I’m let loose loafin’ in this quaer counthree.

Dr. Thorne. Not drunk, were you, Jerry?

Jerry (shaking his head gravely). I shwore off, Doctor. I shwore off t’ree years ago. Me little gurrl she give me no repose till I shwore off.... She died jist av the hospittle, did me little gurrl.... Say, Doctor, do ye know what’s the thramp laws in this counthree?

Enter Norah hastily.

Norah. Doctor—Doctor Thorne? Have you seen—oh, there he is! There’s me father! Why, Father, Father dear! (Caresses Jerry affectionately.)

Jerry. Och! wisha, wisha! Norah, me darlint! (Returns her caresses tenderly.) What luck for the likes of us arrivin’ emigrants thegither in this agra-able counthree!

Norah (puts her arm in his). Come yonder wid me, Father. (Draws him away.)

Jerry (looks back over his shoulder at Dr. Thorne). Is it to confession we do be goin’, Norah?—the wan av us arrivin’ be way of a murdherin’ doctor, and the wan be way av a murdherin’ trolley! I’m thinkin’, sir, it’s niver a cint to choose bechune.

[Exeunt Jerry and Norah.

Dr. Thorne (watches their departure drearily; turns, and walks feebly towards the brook; speaks). Now I think of it, I have not tasted food or drink since I have been in this place. I believe I am downright faint.

(Drinks water from the brook in the palm of his hand; sinks beneath the low boughs of a tree on thick moss. His head falls upon his arm. From a distance, and from a height, slowly moving downwards, over the beautiful landscape, robed in cream white, and unseen by Dr. Thorne,

Enter Mrs. Fayth.

As she approaches, it can be seen that her robe also is clasped across the breast by a little golden cross.)

Spirits beyond (softly chant the Te Deum).

“We praise Thee, O God: we acknowledge Thee to be
the Lord”—

(Midway of the landscape, and playing merrily,)

Enter the Two Children.

First Child (running to Mrs. Fayth). Oh, here I am! (He clasps her hand; clings to her affectionately.)

Mrs. Fayth (to Second Child). Run yonder and play, Maidie.

(Second Child obeys prettily, and joins the spirits above. Mrs. Fayth and the First Child move slowly to the front of the landscape.)

The Child. See that poor man under the tree! I think he’s a hungry man—don’t you?

(He breaks away from Mrs. Fayth, and runs to Dr. Thorne; examines the exhausted man attentively, bending forward with his hands on his little knees. Mrs. Fayth advances slowly, with her mysterious smile; she does not speak.)

The Child (touches Dr. Thorne timidly; after a silence speaks, ceremoniously). Would you like a peach, or do you like plums instead? I’ll pick you one.

Dr. Thorne (arousing). Who spoke to me? Oh, it is a child. (Sinks back feebly.)

(The Child gathers some fruit from the trees, and brings water from the brook in the cup of an annunciation lily, which holds the liquid perfectly; offers the food and drink to the exhausted man. Mrs. Fayth, still unseen by Dr. Thorne, stands quite near, nodding and smiling at The Child. The Child looks to her for encouragement and direction.)

Dr. Thorne (reviving). Thank you, my little man. (Leans on his elbow, and gazes steadfastly at The Child; rises to a sitting posture.)

The Child (creeps nearer to Dr. Thorne, and, after a moment’s hesitation, throws his little length full on the moss at the man’s feet, and scrutinizes him seriously, putting his chin into his hand as he does so; speaks sympathetically). Do you feel better now?

Dr. Thorne. Much better. You’re a thoughtful little fellow.

The Child. Our breakfasts grow all cooked here. This is a nice country.

Dr. Thorne (still gazing steadfastly at The Child). Where is your mother, my lad?

The Child. I don’t know. I lost her on the way, somewhere.

Dr. Thorne. And your father? What has become of your father?

The Child. Oh, he’s dead. He got dead before I came here.

Mrs. Fayth (moves within Dr. Thorne’s range of vision; speaks quietly). Good-morning, Doctor. (Smiles brightly.)

Dr. Thorne (springs to his feet; cries out). Mary Fayth! I thought you had forgotten me! I have—needed you.

(The Child rises; leans up against Dr. Thorne’s knee confidingly.)

Mrs. Fayth. I have often needed you, Doctor. And you never failed me once.

Dr. Thorne (impetuously). I thought you would have come before. I looked for you—

Mrs. Fayth. As I have often looked for you. But I was not commanded to meet you—till this very minute.

Dr. Thorne. Commanded? Commanded? There is that singular phrase again. Have you seen Helen? (Quickly.)

Mrs. Fayth (shakes her head). Not yet.

Dr. Thorne. Have you seen your husband? Did they let you go to Fred?

Mrs. Fayth (contentedly). Oh, many times.

The Child (interrupting). He doesn’t kiss me! (Puts up his lips in a grieved, babyish fashion.)

Mrs. Fayth (very quietly). Doctor, don’t hurt that child’s feelings. He’s yours.

Dr. Thorne (gasping). I don’t understand you!

Mrs. Fayth. I have had the care of him since he came here. He’s kept me busy, I can tell you. I am to give him over to you now.... See how he’s grown! No wonder you didn’t know him.

Dr. Thorne (in great agitation). Did Laddie die?

Mrs. Fayth (solemnly). Yes, Laddie died.

Dr. Thorne. Did something really ail him that night—that most miserable night?... Oh, poor Helen! Poor, poor Helen! (His face falls into his hands. His frame shakes with soundless, tearless sobs.)

Laddie (creeps into his lap; lays his head on his father’s neck). Hilloa, Papa! (Pats his father on the cheek.)

[Exit Mrs. Fayth silently, with emotion.

Dr. Thorne (raises his head, showing his stormy face. Clasps the child, hesitatingly at first, then passionately; holds him off at arm’s length; scans him closely; draws him back; kisses his little hands, then his face; clasps him again). My little son! Papa’s little boy! My son! My little son! (Smiles naturally for the first time since he died; then with sudden recollection, he cries out.) Oh, what will your poor mother do without you?

Laddie. You homesick, Papa?

Dr. Thorne. My little son! (Caresses the child with a touching timidity, broken by bursts of wild affection. The child responds warmly, laughing for joy.)

End of Scene I.