FARMER HANKS WANTS A DIVORCE.

(For two males and one female.)

Scene.—Lawyer’s office. Lawyer Porter sitting at desk writing. Knock at door.

(Enter Farmer Hanks in rustic attire, looking hesitatingly around.)

Farmer Hanks.

Be you the divorce man?

Lawyer Porter. (Smiling.) Well, I don’t exactly know that my vocation lies particularly in that direction, but I have been known to undertake such cases. Are you in trouble?

Far. H. I should rather say so! It’s come to jest this ’ere climax that I can’t stand it nohow, not another day; an’ ef you can’t git me unspliced, I’ll hev to find some one who can.

Law. P. What are your grounds for complaint?

Far. H. Grounds! Ordinary grounds wouldn’t hold ’em! I’ve a hull farm full!

Law. P. One or two are just as efficient in procuring a divorce as a hundred, providing the offence is grave enough. Your wife now, for instance; I suppose she hasn’t fallen in love with another man?

Far. H. Haw-haw! That’s a good ’un! Betsey in love with another feller! Wal, hardly, mister! Betsey isn’t no fool. You can bet high on that!

Law. P. Of course that was a suppositional case, merely. Is she a scandal-monger?

Far. H. Scandal-monger? Not much; ef ever a woman knew how to hold her tongue when other folks’s is a-waggin’, that’s Betsey every time.

Law. P. Cruel to her children, possibly?

Far. H. I swow, I’ll begin to take you fer the fool, mister. Our children is growed up an’ in homes of the’r own, years back; an’ ez fer gran’children, ef ever an old woman made an idjit of herself over babies, it’s Betsey with them thar youngsters. She jest sp’iles them no end, an’ thar’s nobudy they sets such store by as gran’ma. You hain’t on the right track, by long odds.

Law. P. Evidently not. Suppose now, as my time is valuable, we reverse the case, and you enlighten me as to the cause of your unhappiness, instead of my wasting the minutes in making conjectures? Perhaps incompatibility of temper may cover the ground.

Far. H. In—com—what kind of temper? You beat me with them long words o’ yourn; but, mebbe you’ve struck it, this time. Thar’s no use talking, but Betsey’s that aggervatin’, she riles me so it seems like as though I’d bu’st! Ef she’d ever say a word I could stand it; but she’s that mum you can’t get a word out o’ her edgewise; you’d say, for sartain, thet she’d b’en born deaf, an’ without a tongue in her mouth.

Law. H. A woman and dumb? Ye gods! This is a reversal of the laws of nature with a vengeance! Do you mean for me to understand that your wife never speaks? How can she conduct her household?

Far. H. Oh, she’s chipper enough when things goes to suit; but when I’m r’iled, an’ dyin’ to see the fur fly—to hev it out with some one—then she’s mummer than the side o’ a house; ye couldn’t git a word out o’ her then with a pair o’ oxen! Ef she’d only spit it out, too, an’ hev a good out en out settlin’ o’ matters, ’twould clear the air like a thunder-storm; but thet’s exactly whar the pinch comes. I might r’are an’ tear, an’ pull the house down over our heads, fer all the good ’twould do—thet woman would set as calm es a cucumber, or go about her chores, an’ you’d never guess she knew I was within a hundred miles o’ her! Either she hain’t got an atom o’ sense in her git up, or else she’s too dumb to show it at sech times. It’s enough to drive a man into fits, an’ I can’t go it no longer. It’s either her or me that’s got to git out! I’m willin’ to do my duty to the letter, an’ give her a share in the old farm. I wouldn’t see her want for nothin’, fer in spite o’ her tongue—

Law. P. I rather think you mean her want of tongue!

Far. H. Jest so! There isn’t a kinder or willin’er woman in the section.

Law. P. Suppose, now, that we sum up: your wife, according to your statements, is a good, pure woman—

Far. H. That she is, lawyer! I’d like to hear any one say a thing against Betsey’s character! I’d choke the life out ov him!

Law. P. Fond of her children and grandchildren; don’t gossip; domestic in her tastes—Does she keep your house in order, your clothes mended, your wants all attended to, and give you your meals on time!

Far. H. Why, of course! Thet’s what a wife’s fer, isn’t she? What a question to ax!

Law. P. You acknowledge all this. Now, supposing, on the contrary, that your wife was a shrew.

Far. H. (Bewildered.) A which?

Law. P. A cross, scolding woman; a woman who left her own fireside to gossip and make scandal among her neighbors; who neglected her home; who got your meals at all or no times and let you look out for yourself; who abused the little children around her; who—

Far. H. Stop, mister! Betsey couldn’t do none o’ them things. Why, you’d make her out a pretty sort o’ critter for me to hev been livin’ with these forty years!

Law. P. No, Betsey couldn’t do all or any of these things. From your own story you have a saint instead of an ordinary woman for a wife; a being who knows that essence of all true happiness—how to hold her tongue; who, instead of lowering herself to petty quarrels and commonplace bickerings, keeps her temper within bounds while you are purposely doing all you possibly can to aggravate her—to make her dislike you—to—

Far. H. (Shamefacedly.) Sho! You air trying to make out a purty strong case against me, ain’t you now? I never looked at it in jest that light before, an’ you can’t tell how a few words now an’ then would splice up things in general.

Law. P. If your wife were to come to me and demand a divorce, after what you have told me, I should be strongly tempted to take up her case.

Far. H. Betsey git a divorce from me! Thet’s the best yet! Well, I should as soon think o’ the sky falling. (Knock at door, voice outside asking if Lawyer Porter is in.) I’ll be everlastin’ly simmered, ef thet don’t sound like Betsey’s voice this actual minute! Whar’ll I go? I don’t want to be found around these parts; but, what in the name o’ conscience kin she want with you, now? (Glares, at the lawyer, who takes him by the shoulder and leads him up to closet door or behind a screen.)

Law. P. Step into this cover, and be quick about it. You’ll soon ascertain what your wife wants of me. And remember, this is a private interview which you are not to interrupt (Farmer Hanks disappears, and the lawyer goes to door.)

(Enter Mrs Hanks, hesitatingly.)

Law. P. Good morning, madame! What can I do for you? Let me give you a chair. (Seats her with back to closet or screen. Farmer H. pokes his head out.)

Far. H. I’ll be durned but it is Betsey! (Comes half out into room, but Lawyer P. scowls and motions him back. Mrs. Hanks sits silent.)

Law. P. (Kindly.) Well, madame, you want—

Mrs. Hanks. (In a half whisper.) I want, or I guess I want a bill of divorce. (Farmer Hanks’s face pops out again, with an expression of bewilderment and horror upon it.)

Law. P. Your husband is addicted to the excessive use of liquor, maybe? (Farmer H. shakes his fist at the lawyer.)

Mrs. H. Good gracious, no! Samuel never took too much liquor in his life, to my knowledge.

Law. P. Then, perhaps, he is violent, and cruel to you and the children?

Mrs. H. Mercy, no! Whatever made you think of sech a thing! Samuel wouldn’t hurt a fly; he’s the softest-hearted man in the world; it isn’t that—it’s only—only—

Law. P. Well, you must try to tell me your difficulty, or I will be unable to help you.

Mrs. H. (Bursting into tears.) It’s so hard to tell, yet it’s so hard to bear. It seems jest as if I’d go wild ef I had it to stand another day. Yet except fer this one thing Samuel’s the best husband a woman could ask fer. He is perfect temperate in all his habits, liberal an’ open-handed as the day is long, an’ as kind an’ considerate as any one could wish fer. (Farmer H. looks out at the lawyer exultingly.) But—but—

Law. P. But what?

Mrs. H. Oh, those dreadful tantrums of his’n! They come on without any apparent reason at all, an’ he’s like to a crazy man.

Law. P. And you oppose him and aggravate him when he gets in these moods, possibly?

Mrs. H. (Sadly.) Oh, no! What good would that do? or rather, what harm wouldn’t it do? I jest stand them as best I may, an’ pray the Good Power above for strength to hold my tongue, an’ bear the affliction which he has seen fit to visit me with. (Farmer H. looks out again with an incredulous, shamefaced expression, and seems about to speak, but the lawyer motions him back.)

Law. P. And you say absolutely nothing?

Mrs. H. I never hev given way to my tongue yet; ef I once should, or to the feelin’ that he rouses in me at sech times, I almost think I should strike him. (Farmer H. again advances, but is motioned back.)

Law. P. Wouldn’t that serve him right?

Mrs. H. (Surprised.) Strike Samuel? I’d never forgive myself ef I did. Yet, it is so hard; you can’t tell! It really seems as ef the harder I tried to hold my tongue an’ keep the peace, the worse he got, until sometimes I ’most think he’d like to kill me!

Law. P. Oh, surely not! His wicked temper would not, or could not, carry itself to such an extent against such an angel of peace. But, I cannot find words to express my opinion of such a brute. I cannot find strong enough terms to convey my condemnation. A man who will seek willfully to quarrel with a wife who is gentleness and meekness itself, to say nothing of the other cardinal virtues, is a selfish heartless piece of humanity, unworthy of the name of man, and deserves nothing better than the public whipping-post, which, unhappily—

Mrs. H. Stop! I will not allow you to speak of Samuel in such a manner! He may hev his little faults as all men do—

Far. H. (Rushing out). Yes, let him say every durned thing he kin of me, Betsey! I deserve it all, an’ a hundred times more—(Mrs. Hanks gives a scream and almost sinks to the floor, but her husband catches her)—when I think of what a howlin’ idjit I’ve b’en all these years. The whippin’-post ain’t half severe enough.

Mrs. H. Oh, you never was that, Samuel!

Far. H. Yes I was, an’ be, up to this very minute; but I be goin’ to make a clean breast of it or bu’st. Here I hev b’en thinkin’ an’ sayin’ that you didn’t quarrel with me nor answer me back, because ye didn’t know enough—

Mrs. H. Oh, Samuel, how could you?

Far. H. An’ thet you was a perfect fool, with no spunk in ye, an’ here you’ve b’en with the spunk all bottled up, an’ never darin’ to let her loose for fear o’ makin’ me wuss, an’ doin’ wrong yourself! Oh! I’m the wickedest kind of a sinner, Betsey. (Groans). I don’t wonder you want to git a bill ag’inst me; an’ this here lawyer’ll be sure to git ye one, as he sees you deserve it fast enough, an’ I don’t blame neither o’ ye.

Mrs. H. But I don’t want it, Samuel. Now you see jest how it is, an’ that I never allowed to r’ile you, I’m sure ’twill all be right. (Turning to Lawyer P). An’ you won’t let what I’ve said turn you ag’inst him, will you? You can see for yourself that he never could hev meant it.

Law. P. And he never was such a man as he proves at this very time when he humbles himself to confess how wrong he has been, and acknowledges the true worth of his devoted wife whom he has so long misjudged or misunderstood.

Far. H. You’re right thar, Lawyer Porter. I can’t find the words to tell what a blamed fool I’ve been; yet, ef you’ll believe it, I feel lighter o’ heart this blessed minute than I hev in a month o’ Sundays before. An’ to think that an hour ago I was actually hankerin’ after a bill ag’in ye, Betsey! I don’t desarve ye should forgive me, like this, but I give ye my word o’ honor that the next time a tantrum strikes me I’ll hev it out down in the meddar with that old Jersey bull o’ mine.

(Curtain falls.)