A DOLLAR
A cross-roads at the edge of a forest. One road extends from left to right; the other crosses the first diagonally, disappearing into the forest. The roadside is bordered with grass. On the right, at the crossing, stands a sign-post, to which are nailed two boards, giving directions and distances.
The afternoon of a summer day. A troupe of stranded strolling players enters from the left. They are ragged and weary. The Comedian walks first, holding a valise in each hand, followed by the Villain carrying over his arms two huge bundles wrapped in bed-sheets. Immediately behind these the Tragedian and the "Old Man" carrying together a large, heavy trunk.
COMEDIAN. [Stepping toward the sign-post, reading the directions on the boards, and explaining to the approaching fellow-actors.] That way [pointing to right and swinging the valise to indicate the direction] is thirty miles. This way [pointing to left] is forty-five—and that way it is thirty-six. Now choose for yourself the town that you'll never reach to-day. The nearest way for us is back to where we came from, whence we were escorted with the most splendid catcalls that ever crowned our histrionic successes.
VILLAIN. [Exhausted.] Who will lend me a hand to wipe off my perspiration? It has a nasty way of streaming into my mouth.
COMEDIAN. Stand on your head, then, and let your perspiration water a more fruitful soil.
[He drops his arms, the bundles fall down. He then sinks down onto one of them and wipes off the perspiration, moving his hand wearily over his face. The Tragedian and the "Old Man" approach the post and read the signs.
TRAGEDIAN. [In a deep, dramatic voice.] It's hopeless! It's hopeless!
[He lets go his end of the trunk.
"Old Man." [Lets go his end of the trunk.] Mm. Another stop.
[Tragedian sits himself down on the trunk in a tragico-heroic pose, knees wide apart, right elbow on right knee, left hand on left leg, head slightly bent toward the right. Comedian puts down the valises and rolls a cigarette. The "Old Man" also sits down upon the trunk, head sunk upon his breast.
VILLAIN. Thirty miles to the nearest town! Thirty miles!
COMEDIAN. It's an outrage how far people move their towns away from us.
VILLAIN. We won't strike a town until the day after to-morrow.
COMEDIAN. Hurrah! That's luck for you! There's yet a day-after-to-morrow for us.
VILLAIN. And the old women are still far behind us. Crawling!
"Old Man." They want the vote and they can't even walk.
COMEDIAN. We won't give them votes, that's settled. Down with votes for women!
VILLAIN. It seems the devil himself can't take you! Neither your tongue nor your feet ever get tired. You get on my nerves. Sit down and shut up for a moment.
COMEDIAN. Me? Ha—ha! I'm going back there to the lady of my heart. I'll meet her and fetch her hither in my arms.
[He spits on his hands, turns up his sleeves, and strides rapidly off toward the left.
"Old Man." How can he laugh and play his pranks even now? We haven't a cent to our souls, our supply of food is running low and our shoes are dilapidated.
TRAGEDIAN. [With an outburst.] Stop it! No reckoning! The number of our sins is great and the tale of our misfortunes is even greater. Holy Father! Our flasks are empty; I'd give what is left of our soles [displaying his ragged shoes] for just a smell of whiskey.
[From the left is heard the laughter of a woman. Enter the Comedian carrying in his arms the Heroine, who has her hands around his neck and holds a satchel in both hands behind his back.
COMEDIAN. [Letting his burden down upon the grass.] Sit down, my love, and rest up. We go no further to-day. Your feet, your tender little feet must ache you. How unhappy that makes me! At the first opportunity I shall buy you an automobile.
HEROINE. And in the meantime you may carry me oftener.
COMEDIAN. The beast of burden hears and obeys.
[Enter the Ingenue and the "Old Woman," each carrying a small satchel.
INGENUE. [Weary and pouting.] Ah! No one carried me.
[She sits on the grass to the right of the Heroine.
VILLAIN. We have only one ass with us.
[Comedian stretches himself out at the feet of the Heroine and emits the bray of a donkey. "Old Woman" sits down on the grass to the left of the Heroine.
"Old Woman." And are we to pass the night here?
"Old Man." No, we shall stop at "Hotel Neverwas."
COMEDIAN. Don't you like our night's lodgings? [Turning over toward the "Old Woman.">[ See, the bed is broad and wide, and certainly without vermin. Just feel the high grass. Such a soft bed you never slept in. And you shall have a cover embroidered with the moon and stars, a cover such as no royal bride ever possessed.
"Old Woman." You're laughing, and I feel like crying.
COMEDIAN. Crying? You should be ashamed of the sun which favors you with its setting splendor. Look, and be inspired!
VILLAIN. Yes, look and expire.
COMEDIAN. Look, and shout with ecstasy!
"Old Man." Look, and burst!
[Ingenue starts sobbing. Tragedian laughs heavily.
COMEDIAN. [Turning over to the Ingenue.] What! You are crying? Aren't you ashamed of yourself?
INGENUE. I'm sad.
"Old Woman." [Sniffling.] I can't stand it any longer.
HEROINE. Stop it! Or I'll start bawling, too.
[Comedian springs to his knees and looks quickly from one woman to the other.
VILLAIN. Ha—ha! Cheer them up, clown!
COMEDIAN. [Jumps up abruptly without the aid of his hands.] Ladies and gentlemen, I have it! [In a measured and singing voice.] Ladies and gentlemen, I have it!
HEROINE. What have you?
COMEDIAN. Cheerfulness.
VILLAIN. Go bury yourself, clown.
TRAGEDIAN. [As before.] Ho-ho-ho!
"Old Man." P-o-o-h!
[The women weep all the louder.
COMEDIAN. I have—a bottle of whiskey!
[General commotion. The women stop crying and look up to the Comedian in amazement; the Tragedian straightens himself out and casts a surprised look at the Comedian; the "Old Man," rubbing his hands, jumps to his feet; the Villain looks suspiciously at the Comedian.
TRAGEDIAN. A bottle of whiskey?
"Old Man." He-he-he—A bottle of whiskey.
COMEDIAN. You bet! A bottle of whiskey, hidden and preserved for such moments as this, a moment of masculine depression and feminine tears.
[Taking the flask from his hip pocket. The expression on the faces of all changes from hope to disappointment.
VILLAIN. You call that a bottle. I call it a flask.
TRAGEDIAN. [Explosively.] A thimble!
"Old Man." A dropper!
"Old Woman." For seven of us! Oh!
COMEDIAN. [Letting the flash sparkle in the sun.] But it's whiskey, my children. [Opening the flask and smelling it.] U—u—u—m! That's whiskey for you. The saloonkeeper from whom I hooked it will become a teetotaler from sheer despair.
[Tragedian rising heavily and slowly proceeding toward the flask. Villain still skeptical and rising as if unwilling. The "Old Man" chuckling and rubbing his hands. The "Old Woman" getting up indifferently and moving apathetically toward the flask. The Heroine and Ingenue hold each other by the hand and take ballet steps in waltz time. All approach the Comedian with necks eagerly stretched out and smell the flask, which the Comedian holds firmly in both hands.
TRAGEDIAN. Ho—ho—ho—Fine!
"Old Man." He—he—Small quantity, but excellent quality!
VILLAIN. Seems to be good whiskey.
HEROINE. [Dancing and singing.] My comedian, my comedian. His head is in the right place. But why didn't you nab a larger bottle?
COMEDIAN. My beloved one, I had to take in consideration both the quality of the whiskey and the size of my pocket.
"Old Woman." If only there's enough of it to go round.
INGENUE. Oh, I'm feeling sad again.
COMEDIAN. Cheer up, there will be enough for us all. Cheer up. Here, smell it again.
[They smell again and cheerfulness reappears. They join hands and dance and sing, forming a circle, the Comedian applauding.
COMEDIAN. Good! If you are so cheered after a mere smell of it, what won't you feel like after a drink. Wait, I'll join you. [He hides the whiskey flask in his pocket.] I'll show you a new roundel which we will perform in our next presentation of Hamlet, to the great edification of our esteemed audience. [Kicking the Villain's bundles out of the way.] The place is clear, now for dance and play. Join hands and form a circle, but you, Villain, stay on the outside of it. You are to try to get in and we dance and are not to let you in, without getting out of step. Understand? Now then!
[The circle is formed in the following order—Comedian, Heroine, Tragedian, "Old Woman," "Old Man," Ingenue.
Comedian. [Singing.]
| To be or not to be, that is the question. |
| That is the question, that is the question. |
| He who would enter in, |
| Climb he must over us, |
| If over he cannot, |
| He must get under us. |
| REFRAIN |
| Tra-la-la, tra-la-la, |
| Over us, under us. |
| Tra-la-la, tra-la-la, |
| Under us, over us. |
| Now we are jolly, jolly are we. |
[The Comedian sings the refrain alone at first and the others repeat it together with him.
COMEDIAN.
| To be or not to be, that is the question, |
| That is the question, that is the question. |
| In life to win success, |
| Elbow your way through, |
| Jostle the next one, |
| Else you will be jostled. |
REFRAIN
[Same as before.]
[On the last word of the refrain they flop as if dumbfounded, and stand transfixed, with eyes directed on one spot inside of the ring. The Villain leans over the arms of the Comedian and the Heroine; gradually the circle draws closer till their heads almost touch. They attempt to free their handy but each holds on to the other and all seven whisper in great astonishment.
ALL. A dollar!
[The circle opens up again, they look each at the other and shout in wonder.
ALL. A dollar!
[Once more they close in and the struggle to free their hands grows wilder; the Villain tries to climb over and then under the hands into the circle and stretches out his hand toward the dollar, but instinctively he is stopped by the couple he tries to pass between, even when he is not seen but only felt. Again all lean their heads over the dollar, quite lost in the contemplation of it, and whispering, enraptured.
ALL. A dollar!
[Separating once again they look at each other with exultation and at the same time try to free their hands, once more exclaiming in ecstasy.
[Then the struggle to get free grows wilder and wilder. The hand that is perchance freed is quickly grasped again by the one who held it.
INGENUE. [In pain.] Oh, my hands, my hands! You'll break them. Let go of my hands!
"Old Woman." If you don't let go of my hands I'll bite.
[Attempting to bite the hands of the Tragedian and the "Old Man," while they try to prevent it.
"Old Man." [Trying to free his hands from the hold of the Heroine and the "Old Woman.">[ Let go of me. [Pulling at both his hands.] These women's hands that—seem so frail, just look at them now.
HEROINE. [To Comedian.] But you let go my hands.
COMEDIAN. I think it's you who are holding fast to mine.
HEROINE. Why should I be holding you? If you pick up the dollar, what is yours is mine, you know.
COMEDIAN. Then let go of my hand and I'll pick it up.
HEROINE. No, I'd rather pick it up myself.
COMEDIAN. I expected something like that from you.
HEROINE. [Angrily.] Let go of my hands, that's all.
COMEDIAN. Ha-ha-ha—It's a huge joke. [In a tone of command.] Be quiet. [They become still.] We must contemplate the dollar with religious reverence. [Commotion.] Keep quiet, I say! A dollar is spread out before us. A real dollar in the midst of our circle, and everything within us draws us toward it, draws us on irresistibly. Be quiet! Remember you are before the Ruler, before the Almighty. On your knees before him and pray. On your knees.
[Sinks down on his knees and drags with him the Heroine and Ingenue. "Old Man" dropping on his knees and dragging the "Old Woman" with him.
"Old Man." He-he-he!
TRAGEDIAN. Ho-ho-ho, clown!
COMEDIAN. [To Tragedian.] You are not worthy of the serious mask you wear. You don't appreciate true Divine Majesty. On your knees, or you'll get no whiskey. [Tragedian sinks heavily on his knees.] O holy dollar, O almighty ruler of the universe, before thee we kneel in the dust and send toward thee our most tearful and heartfelt prayers. Our hands are bound, but our hearts strive toward thee and our souls yearn for thee. O great king of kings, thou who bringest together those who are separated, and separatest those who are near, thou who——
[The Villain, who is standing aside, takes a full jump, clears the Ingenue and grasps the dollar. All let go of one another and fall upon him, shouting, screaming, pushing, and fighting. Finally the Villain manages to free himself, holding the dollar in his right fist. The others follow him with clenched fists, glaring eyes, and foaming mouths, wildly shouting.
ALL. The dollar! The dollar! The dollar! Return the dollar!
VILLAIN. [Retreating.] You can't take it away from me; it's mine. It was lying under my bundle.
ALL. Give up the dollar! Give up the dollar!
VILLAIN. [In great rage.] No, no. [A moment during which the opposing sides look at each other in hatred. Quietly but with malice.] Moreover, whom should I give it to? To you—you—you—you?
COMEDIAN. Ha-ha-ha-ha! He is right, the dollar is his. He has it, therefore it is his. Ha-ha-ha-ha, and I wanted to crawl on my knees toward the dollar and pick it up with my teeth. Ha-ha-ha-ha, but he got ahead of me. Ha-ha-ha-ha.
HEROINE. [Whispering in rage.] That's because you would not let go of me.
COMEDIAN. Ha-ha-ha-ha!
TRAGEDIAN. [Shaking his fist in the face of the Villain.] Heaven and hell, I feel like crushing you!
[He steps aside toward the trunk and sits down in his former pose. Ingenue, lying down on the grass, starts to cry.
COMEDIAN. Ha-ha-ha! Now we will drink, and the first drink is the Villain's.
[His proposition is accepted in gloom; the Ingenue, however, stops crying; the "Old Man" and the "Old Woman" have been standing by the Villain looking at the dollar in his hand as if waiting for the proper moment to snatch it from, him. Finally the "Old Woman" makes a contemptuous gesture and both turn aside from the Villain. The latter, left in peace, smooths out the dollar, with a serious expression on his face. The Comedian hands him a small glass of whiskey.
COMEDIAN. Drink, lucky one.
[The Villain, shutting the dollar in his fist, takes the whiskey glass gravely and quickly drinks the contents, returning the glass. He then starts to smooth and caress the dollar again. The Comedian, still laughing, passes the whiskey glass from one to the other of the company, who drink sullenly. The whiskey fails to cheer them. After drinking, the Ingenue begins to sob again. The Heroine, who is served last, throws the empty whiskey glass toward the Comedian.
COMEDIAN. Good shot. Now I'll drink up all that's left in the bottle.
[He puts the flask to his lips and drinks. The Heroine tries to knock it away from him, but he skilfully evades her. The Villain continues to smooth and caress the dollar.
VILLAIN. Ha-ha-ha!...
[Singing and dancing.
| He who would enter in, |
| Jump he must over us. |
Ho-ho-ho! O Holy Dollar! O Almighty Ruler of the World!... O King of Kings! Ha-ha-ha!... Don't you all think if I have the dollar and you have it not that I partake a bit of its majesty? That means that I am now a part of its majesty. That means that I am the Almighty Dollar's plenipotentiary, and therefore I am the Almighty Ruler himself. On your knees before me!... He-he-he!...
COMEDIAN. [After throwing away the empty flask, lies down on the grass.] Well roared, lion, but you forgot to hide your jack-ass's ears.
VILLAIN. It is one's consciousness of power. He-he-he. I know and you know that if I have the money I have the say. Remember, none of you has a cent to his name. The whiskey is gone.
[Picking up the flask and examining it.
COMEDIAN. I did my job well. Drank it to the last drop.
VILLAIN. Yes, to the last drop. This evening you shall have bread and sausage. Very small portions, too, for to-morrow is another day. [Ingenue sobbing more frequently.] Not till the day after to-morrow shall we reach town, and that doesn't mean that you get anything to eat there, either, but I—I—I—he-he-he. O Holy Dollar, Almighty Dollar! [Gravely.] He who does my bidding shall not be without food.
COMEDIAN. [With wide-open eyes.] What? Ha-ha-ha!
[Ingenue gets up and throws herself on the Villain's bosom.
INGENUE. Oh, my dear beloved one.
VILLAIN. Ha-ha, my power already makes itself felt.
HEROINE. [Pushing the Ingenue away.] Let go of him, you. He sought my love for a long time and now he shall have it.
COMEDIAN. What? You!
HEROINE. [To Comedian.] I hate you, traitor. [To the Villain.] I have always loved—genius. You are now the wisest of the wise. I adore you.
VILLAIN. [Holding Ingenue in one arm.] Come into my other arm.
[Heroine, throwing herself into his arms, kissing and embracing him.
COMEDIAN. [Half rising on his knees.] Stop, I protest. [Throwing himself on the grass.] "O frailty, thy name is woman."
"Old Woman." [Approaching the Villain from behind and embracing him.] Find a little spot on your bosom for me. I play the "Old Woman," but you know I'm not really old.
VILLAIN. Now I have all of power and all of love.
COMEDIAN. Don't call it love. Call it servility.
VILLAIN. [Freeing himself from the women.] But now I have something more important to carry out. My vassals—I mean you all—I have decided we will not stay here over night. We will proceed further.
WOMEN. How so?
VILLAIN. We go forward to-night.
COMEDIAN. You have so decided?
VILLAIN. I have so decided, and that in itself should be enough for you; but due to an old habit I shall explain to you why I have so decided.
COMEDIAN. Keep your explanation to yourself and better not disturb my contemplation of the sunset.
VILLAIN. I'll put you down on the blacklist. It will go ill with you for your speeches against me. Now, then, without an explanation, we will go—and at once. [Nobody stirs.] Very well, then, I go alone.
WOMEN. No, no.
VILLAIN. What do you mean?
INGENUE. I go with you.
HEROINE. And I.
"Old Woman." And I.
VILLAIN. Your loyalty gratifies me very much.
"Old Man." [Who is sitting apathetically upon the trunk.] What the deuce is urging you to go?
VILLAIN. I wanted to explain to you, but now no more. I owe you no explanations. I have decided—I wish to go, and that is sufficient.
COMEDIAN. He plays his comedy wonderfully. Would you ever have suspected that there was so much wit in his cabbage head?
WOMEN. [Making love to the Villain.] Oh, you darling.
TRAGEDIAN. [Majestically.] I wouldn't give him even a single glance.
VILLAIN. Still another on the blacklist. I'll tell you this much—I have decided——
COMEDIAN. Ha-ha-ha! How long will you keep this up?
VILLAIN. We start at once, but if I am to pay for your food I will not carry any baggage. You shall divide my bundles among you and of course those who are on the blacklist will get the heaviest share. You heard me. Now move on. I'm going now. We will proceed to the nearest town, which is thirty miles away. Now, then, I am off.
COMEDIAN. Bon voyage.
VILLAIN. And with me fares His Majesty the Dollar and your meals for to-morrow.
WOMEN. We are coming, we are coming.
"Old Man." I'll go along.
TRAGEDIAN. [To the Villain.] You're a scoundrel and a mean fellow.
VILLAIN. I am no fellow of yours. I am master and bread-giver.
TRAGEDIAN. I'll crush you in a moment.
VILLAIN. What? You threaten me! Let's go.
[Turns to right. The women take their satchels and follow him.
"Old Man." [To the Tragedian.] Get up and take the trunk. We will settle the score with him some other time. It is he who has the dollar now.
TRAGEDIAN. [Rising and shaking his fist.] I'll get him yet.
[He takes his side of the trunk.
VILLAIN. [To Tragedian.] First put one of my bundles on your back.
TRAGEDIAN. [In rage.] One of your bundles on my back?
VILLAIN. Oh, for all I care you can put it on your head, or between your teeth.
"Old Man." We will put the bundle on the trunk.
COMEDIAN. [Sitting up.] Look here, are you joking or are you in earnest?
VILLAIN. [Contemptuously.] I never joke.
COMEDIAN. Then you are in earnest?
VILLAIN. I'll make no explanations.
COMEDIAN. Do you really think that because you have the dollar——
VILLAIN. The holy dollar, the almighty dollar, the king of kings.
COMEDIAN. [Continuing.] That therefore you are the master——
VILLAIN. Bread-giver and provider.
COMEDIAN. And that we must——
VILLAIN. Do what I bid you to.
COMEDIAN. So you are in earnest?
VILLAIN. You must get up, take the baggage and follow me.
COMEDIAN. [Rising.] Then I declare a revolution.
VILLAIN. What? A revolution!
COMEDIAN. A bloody one, if need be.
TRAGEDIAN. [Dropping his end of the trunk and advancing with a bellicose attitude toward the Villain.] And I shall be the first to let your blood, you scoundrel.
VILLAIN. If that's the case I have nothing to say to you. Those who wish, come along.
COMEDIAN. [Getting in his way.] No, you shall not go until you give up the dollar.
VILLAIN. Ha-ha. It is to laugh!
COMEDIAN. The dollar, please, or——
VILLAIN. He-he-he!
Comedian. Then let there be blood. [Turns up his sleeves.
TRAGEDIAN. [Taking off his coat.] Ah! Blood, blood!
"Old Man." [Dropping his end of the trunk.] I'm not going to keep out of a fight.
WOMEN. [Dropping his satchels.] Nor we. Nor we.
VILLAIN. [Shouting.] To whom shall I give up the dollar? You—you—you—you?
COMEDIAN. This argument will not work any more. You are to give the dollar up to all of us. At the first opportunity we'll get change and divide it into equal parts.
WOMEN. Hurrah, hurrah! Divide it, divide it!
COMEDIAN. [To Villain.] And I will even be so good as to give you a share.
TRAGEDIAN. I'd rather give him a sound thrashing.
COMEDIAN. It shall be as I say. Give up the dollar.
HEROINE. [Throwing herself on the Comedian's breast.] My comedian! My comedian!
INGENUE. [To the Villain.] I'm sick of you. Give up the dollar.
COMEDIAN. [Pushing the Heroine aside.] You better step aside or else you may get the punch I aim at the master and bread-giver. [To the Villain.] Come up with the dollar!
TRAGEDIAN. Give up the dollar to him, do you hear?
ALL. The dollar, the dollar!
VILLAIN. I'll tear it to pieces.
COMEDIAN. Then we shall tear out what little hair you have left on your head. The dollar, quick!
[They surround the Villain; the women pull his hair; the Tragedian grabs him by the collar and shakes him; the "Old Man" strikes him on his bald pate; the Comedian struggles with him and finally grasps the dollar.
COMEDIAN. [Holding up the dollar.] I have it!
[The women dance and sing.
VILLAIN. Bandits! Thieves!
TRAGEDIAN. Silence, or I'll shut your mouth.
[Goes back to the trunk and assumes his heroic pose.
COMEDIAN. [Putting the dollar into his pocket.] That's what I call a successful and a bloodless revolution, except for a little fright and heart palpitation on the part of the late master and bread-giver. Listen, some one is coming. Perhaps he'll be able to change the dollar and then we can divide it at once.
"Old Man." I am puzzled how we can change it into equal parts.
[Starts to calculate with the Ingenue and the "Old Woman."
HEROINE. [Tenderly attentive to the Comedian.] You are angry with me, but I was only playing with him so as to wheedle the dollar out of him.
COMEDIAN. And now you want to trick me out of my share of it.
"Old Man." It is impossible to divide it into equal parts. It is absolutely impossible. If it were ninety-eight cents or one hundred and five cents or——
[The Stranger enters from the right, perceives the company, greets it, and continues his way to left. Comedian stops him.
COMEDIAN. I beg your pardon, sir; perhaps you have change of a dollar in dimes, nickels, and pennies.
[Showing the dollar. The "Old Man" and women step forward.
STRANGER. [Getting slightly nervous, starts somewhat, makes a quick movement for his pistol-pocket, looks at the Comedian and the others and says slowly.] Change of a dollar? [Moving from the circle to left.] I believe I have.
WOMEN. Hurrah!
STRANGER. [Turns so that no one is behind him and pulls his revolver.] Hands up!
COMEDIAN. [In a gentle tone of voice.] My dear sir, we are altogether peaceful folk.
STRANGER. [Takes the dollar from the Comedian's hand and walks backwards to left with the pistol pointed at the group.] Good-night, everybody.
[He disappears, the actors remain dumb with fear, with their hands up, mouths wide open, and staring into space.
COMEDIAN. [Finally breaks out into thunderous laughter.] Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!
CURTAIN
THE DIABOLICAL CIRCLE
BY
BEULAH BORNSTEAD
The Diabolical Circle is reprinted by special permission of Professor Franz Rickaby, in whose course in dramatic composition (English 36) in the University of North Dakota this play was written. For permission to perform, address Professor Franz Rickaby, University of North Dakota, University, North Dakota.
Beulah Bornstead, one of the promising young playwrights of the Northwest, was born in Grand Forks, North Dakota, May 5, 1896. She has had her academic training at the University of North Dakota, from which she received her B.A. in 1921. At present Miss Bornstead is principal of the Cavalier High School, North Dakota. Before attempting drama she tried her hand at journalism and at short-story writing.
Miss Bornstead was introduced into playwriting by Professor Franz Rickaby, in whose course in dramatic composition at the University of North Dakota The Diabolical Circle was written. In speaking of this play Miss Bornstead writes: "The Diabolical Circle is the first play I have ever written. I never enjoyed doing anything so much in my life. The characters were so real to me that if I had bumped into one going round the corner I should not have been surprised in the least. Betty and Charles and Adonijah and even Cotton Mather himself worked that play out. All the humble author did was to set it down on paper." The Diabolical Circle was produced May 5, 1921, by the Dakota Playmakers in their Little Theatre at the University of North Dakota.
The Diabolical Circle is one of the best contemporary plays dealing with American historical material. Its characterization is one of its noteworthy elements.
| CHARACTERS |
| Cotton Mather |
| Betty, his daughter |
| Adonijah Wigglesworth, a suitor, and Cotton's choice |
| Charles Manning, likewise a suitor, but Betty's choice |
| The Clock |
THE DIABOLICAL CIRCLE
SCENE: The living-room in the Mather home in Boston.
TIME: About 1700, an evening in early autumn.
The stage represents the living-room of the Mather home. A large colonial fireplace is seen down-stage left, within which stand huge brass andirons. To one side hangs the bellows, with the tongs near by, while above, underneath the mantelpiece, is suspended an old flint-lock rifle. On both ends of the mantel are brass candlesticks, and hanging directly above is an old-fashioned portrait of Betty's mother. There are two doors, one leading into the hall at centre left, the other, communicating with the rest of the house, up-stage right. A straight high-backed settee is down-stage right, while in the centre back towers an old grandfather's clock.[K] To the left of the clock is the window, cross-barred and draped with flowered chintz. An old-fashioned table occupies the corner between the window and the hall door. Here and there are various straight-backed chairs of Dutch origin. Rag rugs cover the floor.
As the curtain rises Cotton Mather is seated in a large armchair by the fire, with Betty on a stool at his feet, with her knitting.
Cotton, his hair already touched with the whitening frost of many a severe New England winter, is grave and sedate. Very much exercised with the perils of this life, and serenely contemplative of the life to come, he takes himself and the world about him very seriously.
Not so with Mistress Betty. Outwardly demure, yet inwardly rebellious against the straitened conventions of the times, she dimples over with roguish merriment upon the slightest provocation.
As we first see them Cotton is giving Betty some timely advice.
COTTON. But you must understand that marriage, my daughter, is a most reverend and serious matter which should be approached in a manner fittingly considerate of its grave responsibility.
BETTY. [Thoughtfully.] Truly reverend and most serious, father [looking up roguishly], but I like not so much of the grave about it.
COTTON. [Continuing.] I fear thou lookest upon the matter too lightly. It is not seemly to treat such a momentous occasion thus flippantly.
BETTY. [Protesting.] Nay, father, why consider it at all? Marriage is yet a great way off. Mayhap I shall never leave thee.
COTTON. Thou little thinkest that I may be suddenly called on to leave thee. The Good Word cautions us to boast not ourselves of the morrow, for we know not what a day may bring forth.
BETTY. [Dropping her knitting.] Father, thou art not feeling well. Perhaps——
COTTON. Nay, child, be not alarmed. 'Tis but a most necessary lesson to be learned and laid up in the heart. I will not always be with thee and I would like to be comfortably assured of thy future welfare before I go.
BETTY. [Picking her knitting up.] Be comfortably assured, then, I prithee; I have no fears.
COTTON. [Bringing his arm down forcibly on the arm of the chair.] Aye! There it is. Thou hast no fears. Would that thou had'st some! [Looks up at the portrait.] Had thy prudent and virtuous mother only lived to point the way, I might be spared this anxiety; but, beset by diverse difficulties in establishing the kingdom of God in this country, and sorely harassed by many hardships and by evil men, I fear me I have not propounded to thee much that I ought.
BETTY. In what then is mine education lacking? Have I not all that is fitting and proper for a maiden to know?
COTTON. [Perplexed.] I know not. I have done my best, but thou hast not the proper attitude of mind befitting a maiden about to enter the married estate.
BETTY. [Protesting.] Nay, but I am not about to enter the married estate.
COTTON. It is time.
BETTY. [Mockingly pleading.] Entreat me not to leave thee, father, nor forsake thee; for whither thou goest I will go, and whither——
COTTON. [Interrupting sternly.] Betty! It ill befitteth a daughter of mine to quote the Scriptures with such seeming irreverence.—I would not be parted from thee, yet I would that thou wert promised to some godly and upright soul that would guide thee yet more surely in the paths of righteousness. There be many such.
BETTY. Yea, too many.
COTTON. What meanest thou?
BETTY. One were one too many when I would have none.
COTTON. [Shaking his head.] Ah. Betty, Betty! When wilt thou be serious? There is a goodly youth among the friends surrounding thee whom I have often marked, both on account of his godly demeanor and simple wisdom.
BETTY. [Nodding.] Yea, simple.
COTTON. I speak of Adonijah Wigglesworth, a most estimable young gentleman, an acquaintance whom thou would'st do well to cultivate.
BETTY. Yea, cultivate.
BETTY. A sod too dense for any ploughshare. My wit would break in the turning.
COTTON. His is a strong nature, born to drive and not be driven. There is not such another, nay, not in the whole of Boston.
BETTY. Nay. I have lately heard there be many such!
COTTON. [Testily.] Mayhap thou wouldst name a few.
BETTY. [Musingly, holds up her left hand with fingers outspread.] Aye, that I can. [Checks off one on the little finger.] There be Marcus Ainslee——
COTTON. A goodly youth that hath an eye for books.
BETTY. One eye, sayest thou? Nay, four; and since I am neither morocco bound nor edged with gilt, let us consign him to the shelf wherein he findeth fullest compensation.
COTTON. How now? A man of action, then, should appeal to thy brash tastes. What sayest thou to Jeremiah Wadsworth?
BETTY. Too brash and rash for me [checking off that candidate on the next finger], and I'll have none of him. There's Percy Wayne.
COTTON. Of the bluest blood in Boston.
BETTY. Yet that be not everything [checks off another finger]—and Jonas Appleby——
COTTON. He hath an eye to worldly goods——
BETTY. [Quickly.] Especially the larder. To marry him would be an everlasting round between the tankard and the kettle. [Checks him off.] Nay, let me look yet farther—James Endicott. [Checking.]
COTTON. Aye, there might be a lad for thee; birth, breeding, a well-favored countenance, and most agreeable.
BETTY. Yea, most agreeable—unto himself. 'Twere a pity to disturb such unanimity. Therefore, let us pass on. Take Charles Manning, an you please——
COTTON. It pleaseth me not! I know the ilk; his father before him a devoted servant of the devil and King Charles. With others of his kind he hath brought dissension among the young men of Harvard, many of whom are dedicated to the service of the Lord, with his wicked apparel and ungodly fashion of wearing long hair after the manner of Russians and barbarous Indians. Many there be with him brought up in such pride as doth in no ways become the service of the Lord. The devil himself hath laid hold on our young men, so that they do evaporate senseless, useless, noisy impertinency wherever they may be; and now it has e'en got out in the pulpits of the land, to the great grief and fear of many godly hearts.
[He starts to his feet and paces the floor.
BETTY. [Standing upright.] But Charles——
COTTON. [Interrupting.] Mention not that scapegrace in my hearing.
BETTY. [Still persisting.] But, father, truly thou knowest not——
COTTON. [Almost savagely, while Betty retreats to a safe distance.] Name him not. I will not have it. Compared with Adonijah he is a reed shaken in the winds, whereas Adonijah resembleth a tree planted by the river of waters.
BETTY. [Who has been looking out of the window.] Converse of the devil and thou wilt behold his horns. Even now he approacheth the knocker.
[The knocker sounds.
COTTON. [Sternly.] Betake thyself to thine own chamber with thine unseemly tongue, which so ill befitteth a maid.
[Betty is very demure, with head slightly bent and downcast eyes; but the moment Cotton turns she glances roguishly after his retreating form; then while her glance revolves about the room, she starts slightly as her gaze falls upon the clock. A smile of mischievous delight flits over her countenance as she tiptoes in Cotton's wake until the clock is reached. Cotton, unsuspecting, meanwhile, proceeds to do his duty as host, with never a backward glance. While he is out in the hall Betty, with a lingering smile of triumph, climbs into the clock and cautiously peeks forth as her father opens the door and ushers in Adonijah, whereupon the door softly closes.
ADONIJAH. Good-morrow, reverend sir.
COTTON. Enter, and doubly welcome.
ADONIJAH. I would inquire whether thy daughter Betty is within.
COTTON. We were but speaking of thee as thy knock sounded. Betty will be here presently; she hath but retired for the moment. Remove thy wraps and make thyself in comfort.
[Adonijah is a lean, lank, lantern-jawed individual, clad in the conventional sober gray of the Puritan, with high-crowned hat, and a fur tippet wound about his neck up to his ears. He removes the hat and tippet and hands them to Cotton, who carefully places them upon the table; meanwhile Adonijah looks appraisingly about him and judiciously selects the armchair by the fire. He pauses a moment to rub his hands before the blaze, and then gingerly relaxes into the depths of the armchair, as though fearful his comfort would give way ere fully attained. Cotton places a chair on the other side of Adonijah and is seated.
COTTON. And how is it with thee since I have seen thee last?
ADONIJAH. My business prospereth [mournfully], but not so finely as it might well do.
[The clock strikes four, but is unnoticed by the two men.
COTTON. Thou hast suffered some great loss?
ADONIJAH. But yes—and no—this matter of lending money hath many and grievous complications, not the least of which is the duplicity of the borrower. I but insist on the thirty pounds to the hundred as my due recompense, and when I demand it they respond not, but let my kindness lie under the clods of ingratitude. [Straightening up, and speaking with conviction.] They shall come before the council. I will have what is mine own.
COTTON. [Righteously.] And it is not unbecoming of thee to demand it. I wist not what the present generation is coming to.
ADONIJAH. They have no sense of the value of money. They know not how to demean themselves properly in due proportion to their worldly goods, as the Lord hath prospered them. There be many that have nothing and do hold their heads above us that be worthy of our possessions.
COTTON. The wicked stand in slippery places. It will not always be thus. Judgment shall come upon them.
ADONIJAH. Aye, let them fall. I for one have upheld them too far. They squander their means in riotous living, and walk not in the ways of their fathers.
COTTON. There be many such—many such—but thou, my lad, thou art not one of the multitude. As I have often observed to my Betty, thou standest out as a most upright and God-fearing young man.
ADONIJAH. [Brimming over with self-satisfaction.] That have I ever sought to be.
COTTON. An example that others would do well to imitate.
ADONIJAH. [All puffed up.] Nay, others value it not. They be envious of my good fortune.
COTTON. A most prudent young man! Nay, be not so over-blushingly timid. Thou'rt too modest.
ADONIJAH. [His face falling.] But Betty—doth she regard me thus?
COTTON. The ways of a maid are past finding out; but despair not. I think she hath thee much to heart, but, as the perverse heart of woman dictateth, behaveth much to the contrary.
ADONIJAH. [Brightening up as one with new hopes.] Thou thinkest——
COTTON. [Interrupting.] Nay, lad, I am sure of it. Betty was ever a dutiful daughter.
[All unseen, Betty peeks out mischievously.
ADONIJAH. But I mistrust me her heart is elsewhere.
COTTON. Thou referr'st to young Manning without doubt. It can never be. 'Tis but a passing fancy.
ADONIJAH. Nay, but I fear Charles thinketh not so. I have been told in secret [leaning forward confidentially] by one that hath every opportunity to know, that he hath enjoined Goodman Shrewsbury to send for—[impressively] a ring!
COTTON. [Angered.] A ring, sayest thou?
ADONIJAH. [Nodding.] Aye, even so.
COTTON. But he hath not signified such intention here to me.
ADONIJAH. Then there are no grounds for his rash presumption?
COTTON. Humph! Grounds! For a ring! Aye, there'll be no diabolical circle here for the devil to daunce in. I will question Betty thereon. [Rises.] Do thou remain here and I will send her to thee. Oh, that he should offer daughter of mine a ring!
[Cotton leaves the room. Adonijah leans back in his chair in supreme contentment at the turn affairs have taken. The clamorous knocker arouses him from his reverie. He gazes stupidly around. The continued imperious tattoo on the knocker finally brings him to his feet. He goes into the hall and opens the door. His voice is heard.
ADONIJAH. [Frostily.] Good-afternoon, Sir Charles, mine host is absent.
CHARLES. [Stepping in.] My mission has rather to do with Mistress Betty. Is she in?
ADONIJAH. [Closing the hall door, and turning to Charles, replies in grandiose hauteur.] Mistress Betty is otherwise engaged, I would have thee know.
CHARLES. Engaged? [Bowing.] Your humble servant, I trust, hath the supreme pleasure of that engagement.
[He glances inquiringly about the room, and places the hat on the table beside that of Adonijah. The two hats are as different as the two men: Adonijah's prim, Puritanic, severe; Charles's three-cornered, with a flowing plume.
[Charles is a handsome chap of goodly proportions, with a straightforward air and a pleasant smile. He is dressed more after the fashion of the cavaliers of Virginia, and wears a long wig with flowing curls. The two men size each other up.
ADONIJAH. [Meaningly.] Her father will shortly arrive.
CHARLES. [Impatiently striding forth.] Devil take her father. 'Tis Mistress Betty I would see. Where is she?
[Charles continues pacing the floor. Adonijah, shocked beyond measure, turns his back on the offending Charles, and with folded arms and bowed head stands aside in profound meditation. The clock door slowly opens and Betty cautiously peeks out. Charles stops short and is about to begin a decided demonstration, when Betty, with a warning glance toward Adonijah, checks him with upraised hand. The clock door closes and Charles subsides into the armchair with a comprehending grin of delight. Adonijah slowly turns and faces Charles with a melancholy air.
CHARLES. Prithee, why so sad?
[The grin becomes a chuckle.
ADONIJAH. I do discern no cause for such unrighteous merriment.
CHARLES. 'Tis none the less for all of that. I take life as I find it, and for that matter so do they all, even thou. The difference be in the finding.
[Whistles.
ADONIJAH. [Uneasily.] It is time her father did arrive.
CHARLES. Where then hath he been?
ADONIJAH. He but went in search of Betty.
CHARLES. Ah, then we'll wait.
[He whistles, while Adonijah moves uneasily about the room, glancing every now and then at this disturbing element of his peace, as if he would send him to kingdom come, if he only could.
ADONIJAH. [After considerable toleration.] Waiting may avail thee naught.
CHARLES. And thee? Nevertheless we'll wait.
[Whistles.
ADONIJAH. [Takes another turn or two and fetches up a counterfeit sigh.] Methinks, her father's quest be fruitless.
CHARLES. [Starting up.] Ah, then, let us go.
[Adonijah., visibly relieved, sits down in the chair opposite.
CHARLES. [Amused.] Nay? [Sits down and relaxes.] Ah, then, we'll wait. [Whistles.
ADONIJAH. [Troubled.] 'Tis certain Mistress Betty be not here.
CHARLES. Nay, if she be not here, then I am neither here nor there. I would wager ten pounds to a farthing she be revealed in time if she but will it. Wilt take me up?
ADONIJAH. It be not seemly so to stake thy fortune on a woman's whim.
CHARLES. [Laughs.] Thou'rt right on it. If she will, say I, for if she will she won't, and if she won't she will.
ADONIJAH. False jargon! A woman has no will but e'en her father's as a maid, her husband's later still.
[Enter Cotton, who stops short on seeing Charles, rallies quickly, and proceeds.
COTTON. [Stiffly.] Good-day to you, sir.
CHARLES. [Bowing; he has risen.] And to you, sire.
COTTON. [To Adonijah.] I am deeply grieved to report that Mistress Betty is not to be found.
[Adonijah. steals a sly look of triumph at Charles.
CHARLES. [In mock solemnity.] I prithee present my deep regrets to Mistress Betty. I will call again.
COTTON. God speed thee! [And as Charles takes his leave Cotton places his hand affectionately upon Adonijah's shoulder, saying reassuringly.] Come again, my son; Betty may not be afar off. I fain would have her soon persuaded of thy worth. Improve thy time.
ADONIJAH. [Beaming.] Good morrow, sir; I will.
[As the door closes behind them Cotton slowly walks toward the fire, where he stands in complete revery. Still absorbed in thought he walks slowly out the door at the right. Betty peeks cautiously out, but hearing footsteps quickly withdraws. Cotton re-enters with hat on. He is talking to himself, reflectively.
COTTON. Where can she be? Mayhap at Neighbor Ainslee's.
[He goes hurriedly out through the hall door. The banging of the outside door is heard. The clock door once more slowly opens and Betty peers forth, listening. The sound of a door opening causes her to draw back. As the noise is further emphasized by approaching footsteps, she pulls the clock door quickly to. Charles enters. He looks inquiringly about, tosses his hat on the table, and goes for the clock. He opens it with a gay laugh. Betty steps forth out of the clock, very much assisted by Charles.
CHARLES. Blessed relief! Thou art in very truth, then, flesh and blood?
BETTY. And what else should I be, forsooth?
CHARLES. [Laughing.] I marked thee for a mummy there entombed.
BETTY. [Disengaging her hand.] What? Darest thou?
CHARLES. A lively mummy now thou art come to, whilst I [sighs]—I waited through the ages!
BETTY. [Laughingly.] A veritable monument of patient grief.
BETTY. Yea, verily, old Father Time but come to life. [Mimics.] Thy waiting may avail thee naught.
CHARLES. In truth, it may avail me naught; thy father may be back at any time, while I have much to say, sweet Betty——
BETTY. [Interrupting.] Nay, sweet Betty call me not.
CHARLES. Dear Betty, then, the dearest——
BETTY. [Quickly.] Yea, call me dearest mummy, Hottentot, or what you will, just so it be not sweet, like Adonijah. It sickens me beyond expressing.
CHARLES. Then, sweet Betty thou art not, say rather sour Betty, cross Betty, mean Betty, bad Betty, mad Betty, sad Betty.
BETTY. [Suddenly dimpling.] Nay, glad Betty!
CHARLES. Art then so glad? Wilt tell me why? In sooth, I know not whither to be glad, or sad, or mad. Sometimes I am but one, sometimes I am all three.
BETTY. Wilt tell me why?
CHARLES. [Stepping closer and imprisoning her left hand.] Thou wilt not now escape it, for I will tell thee why, and mayhap this will aid me. [Slips ring, which he has had concealed in his pocket, on her finger.] Hath this no meaning for thee?
BETTY. [Her eyes sparkling with mischief.] Aye, 'tis a diabolical circle for the devil to daunce in!
CHARLES. [In astonishment.] A what?
BETTY. [Slowly.] A diabolical circle for the devil to daunce in—so father saith. Likewise Adonijah.
CHARLES. [Weakly endeavoring to comprehend.] A diabolical circle—but what!—say it again, Betty.
BETTY. [Repeats slowly, emphasizing it with pointed finger.] A diabolical circle for the devil to daunce in.
CHARLES. [Throws back his head and laughs.] May I be the devil!
BETTY. [Shaking her finger at him.] Then daunce!
[They take position, as though for a minuet. The knocker sounds. Betty runs to the window.
BETTY. Aye, there's Adonijah at the knocker. Into the clock—hie thee—quick, quick!
CHARLES. [Reproachfully.] And would'st thou incarcerate me through the ages? [Turns to the clock.] O timely sarcophagus!
[Charles is smuggled into the clock, and Betty has barely enough time to make a dash for the hat and conceal it behind her before the door opens and in stalks Adonijah. He looks about suspiciously. Betty faces him with the hat held behind her. He removes his hat and tippet and lays them on the table.
ADONIJAH. Methought I heard a sound of many feet.
BETTY. [Looking down.] Two feet have I; no more, no less.
ADONIJAH. [Dryly.] Aye, two be quite sufficient.
BETTY. An thou sayest the word, they yet can beat as loud a retreat as an whole regiment.
ADONIJAH. Thou dost my meaning misconstrue.
BETTY. Construe it then, I prithee.
ADONIJAH. I came not here to vex——
BETTY. Then get thee hence. [He steps forward. Betty steps back.] But not behind me, Satan.
ADONIJAH. [Coming closer.] And yet thou driv'st me to it.
BETTY. [Backing off.] Indeed, thou hast a nature born to drive and not be driven.
ADONIJAH. [Highly complimented.] So be it, yet I scarce had hoped that thou would'st notice. [Advancing.] Born to drive, thou sayest, not be driven.
BETTY. [Retreating.] Thou hast said it, born to drive. But what to drive I have not said. That knowledge hath my father yet concealed.
ADONIJAH. [Eagerly.] Thy father, then, hath told thee——
BETTY. [Who is retreating steadily across the room.] Thou wert born to drive!
[Strikes settee and goes down on the hat. Adonijah seats himself beside Betty. Betty is of necessity forced to remain—on the hat. Adonijah slides arm along the back of the settee. The clock door strikes erratically. He jerks his arm back and gazes in the direction of the clock. The clock hands wigwag. Adonijah stares abstractedly and passes his hand over his forehead in a dazed manner.
BETTY. [Solicitously.] What aileth thee?
ADONIJAH. [Still staring.] The time!
BETTY. [Stifles a yawn.] It doth grow late.
ADONIJAH. But not consistently; it changeth.
BETTY. 'Twas ever so with time.
ADONIJAH. [Reminiscently.] Of a certainty they moved.
BETTY. Yea, verily, 'tis not uncommon.
ADONIJAH. But backwards!
BETTY. [Joyfully.] Why, then, my prayers are answered. How often I have prayed them thus to move! Yet hath it never come to pass.
ADONIJAH. Nay, had'st thou seen——
BETTY. Prithee calm thyself. Thou'rt ill.
ADONIJAH. [Steals his arm along the back of the settee and moves over closer.] Sweet Betty! [Betty looks away with a wry face.] Thy indifference in no wise blinds me to thy conception of my true value. [Betty sits up, round-eyed.] There was a time when I despaired—[The clock again strikes wildly. The hands drop and rise as before. Adonijah excitedly points at the clock.] Again! Did'st mark it? Something doth ail the clock!
BETTY. Yea, truly thou art ill. The clock behaveth much more to the point than thou.
ADONIJAH. [Tearing his gaze from the clock.] As I was on the point of saying—[glances at the clock] thy father hath given—[another glance] me to understand—[with eye on the clock he hitches up closer] that thou art not averse to mine affections——
[As he attempts to put his arm around Betty the clock strikes a tattoo and startles him excitedly to his feet, as the hands travel all the way round.
ADONIJAH. [Pointing.] Now look! Mark the time!
[Cotton enters.
COTTON. Tarry yet awhile, my son, the time doth not prevent thee.
ADONIJAH. Tarry? Time doth not prevent? Little knowest thou! [Gazes abstractedly about. Sights the ring on Betty's finger, who in excitement has forgotten to keep her hands behind her back.] Aye, there it is, the diabolical circle. It is a charm. It harms her not, while all about me is askew. Whence came she here? [Points at Betty.] She neither came nor went, and yet she was not there and now she is. A manly form did enter. Yet hath vanished into thin air. Yea, verily, it was none other than the devil himself in one of his divers forms, of which he hath aplenty. The very clock indulgeth in unseemly pranks. A strange influence hangs over me. I cannot now abide. I must depart from hence. My conscience bids me go.
COTTON. [Striving to detain him.] Hold! Thou'rt mad!
BETTY. Nay, father, he is ill.
ADONIJAH. [Wildly.] Aye, if I be mad, thy daughter be to blame. The spell did come upon me. I have seen strange things.
COTTON. What meanest thou?
ADONIJAH. [Pointing at Betty, who regards him wonderingly.] Thy daughter is a witch!
BETTY. [Runs to Cotton.] Oh, father!
COTTON. [Consoles Betty; thunders at Adonijah.] What? Darest thou to being forth such an accusation?
ADONIJAH. Aye, while I yet have strength to order mine own will. We shall see what we shall see when the fires leap round the stake. All the diabolical circles the devil may invent or his helpmeets acquire will be of small avail when the leaping tongues of flame curl round you, false servant of the devil. I can delay no longer. I will repair to the council at once, and report what I have seen.
[Betty faints away. Cotton is at once all paternal solicitude. Adonijah gazes in stupefaction. All unobserved Charles slips out of the clock. Finally Adonijah, as Betty shows signs of reviving, turns himself away, only to find himself face to face with Charles. Adonijah stops dead in his tracks, absolutely nonplussed.
CHARLES. Thou goest to the council? Thou lackest evidence. Behold the devil an' thou wilt.
[Adonijah's jaw drops. He stares unbelievingly. Cotton looks up in surprise as Charles continues.
CHARLES. An' thou goest to the council with such a message, the devil will dog thy very footsteps. And match word of thine with word of truth in such a light that thine own words shall imprison thee in the stocks over Sunday.
[Adonijah recovers from his temporary abstraction, and seizing his hat and tippet, tears out the door as if a whole legion of imps were in full pursuit. Charles contemptuously turns on his heel and goes over to Betty, who is now clinging to her father's arm.
BETTY. [Faintly.] They will not burn me for a witch?
CHARLES. [Savagely.] Aye, let them try it an they will.
COTTON. [Hotly.] Aye—let them! [Then starting suddenly with a new thought.] But how cam'st thou here? Yea, verily, it seemeth to me thou did'st materialize out of thin air.
[Surveys Charles with piercing scrutiny.
CHARLES. Nay, see through me an thou can'st. Thou wilt find me a most material shadow, the like of which no eye hath ever pierced. 'Twas not out of the air, but out of yonder clock that I materialized.
BETTY. Yea, father, I put him there.
COTTON. [Going to the clock and opening it.] Of a truth, the evidence, all told, is here. Thou wert of a certainty in the clock. [Takes out the detached pendulum. Steps back and surveys the timepiece, whose hands clearly indicate a time long passed or not yet come.] And as far as pendulums are concerned [looking ruefully at the one in his hand], thou certainly wert no improve——
CHARLES. Aye, that I'll warrant. And may I never more be called to fulfil such position; the requirements be far too exacting for one of my build and constitution.
COTTON. But what extremity hath induced thee to take up thine abode in such a place?
[Lays the pendulum aside and gives Charles his entire attention.
CHARLES. Why, that came all in the course of events as I take it. When I returned a short time ago, hard upon mine heels came Adonijah; and, being loath either to leave the field or share it, I hid within the clock. Once there, the temptation to help time in covering its course grew strong upon me in the hope that Adonijah, misled by the lateness of the hour, would soon depart. Only I looked not for such a departure. Judge me not too harshly, sire, for I love thy daughter, and if thou wilt give thy consent to our marriage I will do all that becometh a man to deserve such treasure.
COTTON. I like not thy frivolous manner of wearing hair that is not thine own; it becomes thee not. And I strongly mistrust thine attitude toward the more serious things of life.
CHARLES. If my wig standeth between me and my heart's desire, why, I'll have no wig at all. [He pulls the wig off and tosses it aside. Betty, with a little cry, picks it up and smooths its disarranged curls.] And as for mine outlook on life, I promise thee that hath but matched the outer trappings, and can be doffed as quickly. I am as serious beneath all outward levity as any sober-minded judge, and can act accordingly.
COTTON. See to it that thou suit the action to those words. My heart is strangely moved toward thee, yet I would ponder the matter more deeply. [Turns to Betty, who has been absent-mindedly twirling the curls on the wig.] And where is thy voice, my daughter? Thou art strangely silent—[as an afterthought] for the once. But it is of small wonder, since thou hast had enough excitement for one evening. Methinks that scoundrel, Adonijah, needeth following up. Do thou remain with Betty, Charles, and I will hasten after him.
CHARLES. Nay, thou need'st not trouble thyself regarding Adonijah. He hath much too wholesome a regard for the ducking-stool to cause further mischief.
COTTON. Nevertheless, I will away to the council and make sure. [He plants his hat on his head and departs.
CHARLES. [Turning to Betty, who has dropped the wig on the settee, and who is now gazing demurely at the floor.] And now to finish up where we left off. The devil hath led us a merrier dance than we suspected. Thou hast not truly given answer to the question I have asked of thee.
BETTY. What more of an answer would'st thou yet require?
CHARLES. Why, I have yet had none at all.
BETTY. Must tell thee further?
CHARLES. [Gravely.] Thou must.
BETTY. [Mischievously.] Then—put the question once again.
CHARLES. Thou knowest the question, an thou wilt.
BETTY. An' thou knowest the answer.
[Charles takes her in his arms.
BETTY. [Holding up her hand so that the ring sparkles.] Look, Charles—the diabolical circle!
CURTAIN
THE FAR-AWAY PRINCESS
BY
HERMANN SUDERMANN
The Far-Away Princess is reprinted by special arrangement with Charles Scribner's Sons, the publishers of Roses, from which this play is taken. For permission to perform address the publishers.
Hermann Sudermann, one of the foremost of the Continental European dramatists, was born at Matziken, in East Prussia, Germany, September 30, 1857. He attended school at Elbing and Tilsit, and then at fourteen became a druggist's apprentice. He received his university training at Königsberg and Berlin. Soon he devoted his energies to literary work.
His greatest literary work is in the field of the drama, in which he became successful almost instantly. His strength is not in poetic beauty and in deep insight into human character, as in the instance of a number of other German dramatists. He is essentially a man of the theatre, a dramatist, and a technician by instinct. He is a dramatic craftsman of the first order.
His chief one-act plays are in two volumes: Morituri, which contains Teja, Fritchen, and The Eternal Masculine; and Roses, which contains Streaks of Light, Margot, The Last Visit, and The Far-Away Princess.
The Far-Away Princess is one of the most subtle and most delicate of Sudermann's plays. Its technic is exemplary.
| CHARACTERS |
| The Princess von Geldern |
| Baroness von Brook, her maid of honor |
| Frau von Halldorf |
| Liddy }her daughters |
| Milly } |
| Fritz Strübel, a student |
| Frau Lindemann |
| Rosa, a waitress |
| A Lackey |
THE FAR-AWAY PRINCESS[L]
THE PRESENT DAY: The scene is laid at an inn situated above a watering-place in central Germany.
The veranda of an inn. The right side of the stage and half of the background represent a framework of glass enclosing the veranda. The left side and the other half of the background represent the stone walls of the house. To the left, in the foreground, a door; another door in the background, at the left. On the left, back, a buffet and serving-table. Neat little tables and small iron chairs for visitors are placed about the veranda. On the right, in the centre, a large telescope, standing on a tripod, is directed through an open window. Rosa, dressed in the costume of the country, is arranging flowers on the small tables. Frau Lindemann, a handsome, stoutish woman in the thirties, hurries in excitedly from the left.
FRAU LINDEMANN. There! Now she can come—curtains, bedding—everything fresh and clean as new! No, this honor, this unexpected honor—! Barons and counts have been here often enough. Even the Russian princes sometimes come up from the Springs. I don't bother my head about them—they're just like—that!—But a princess—a real princess!
ROSA. Perhaps it isn't a real princess after all.
FRAU LINDEMANN. [Indignantly.] What? What do you mean by that!
ROSA. I was only thinking that a real princess wouldn't be coming to an inn like this. Real princesses won't lie on anything but silks and velvets. You just wait and see; it's a trick!
FRAU LINDEMANN. Are you going to pretend that the letter isn't genuine; that the letter is a forgery?
ROSA. Maybe one of the regular customers is playing a joke. That student, Herr Strübel, he's always joking. [Giggles.
FRAU LINDEMANN. When Herr Strübel makes a joke he makes a decent joke, a real, genuine joke. Oh, of course one has to pretend to be angry sometimes—but as for writing a forged letter—My land!—a letter with a gold crown on it—there! [She takes a letter from her waist and reads.] "This afternoon Her Highness, the Princess von Geldern, will stop at the Fairview Inn, to rest an hour or so before making the descent to the Springs. You are requested to have ready a quiet and comfortable room, to guard Her Highness from any annoying advances, and, above all, to maintain the strictest secrecy regarding this event, as otherwise the royal visit will not be repeated. Baroness von Brook, maid of honor to Her Highness." Now, what have you got to say?
ROSA. Herr Strübel lent me a book once. A maid of honor came into that, too. I'm sure it's a trick!
FRAU LINDEMANN. [Looking out toward the back.] Dear, dear, isn't that Herr Strübel now, coming up the hill? To-day of all days! What on earth does he always want up here?
ROSA. [Pointedly.] He's in such favor at the Inn. He won't be leaving here all day.
FRAU LINDEMANN. That won't do at all. He's got to be sent off. If I only knew how I could—Oh, ho! I'll be disagreeable to him—that's the only way to manage it!
[Strübel enters. He is a handsome young fellow without much polish, but cheerful, unaffected, entirely at his ease, and invariably good-natured.
STRÜBEL. Good day, everybody.
FRAU LINDEMANN. [Sarcastically.] Charming day.
STRÜBEL. [Surprised at her coolness.] I say! What's up? Who's been rubbing you the wrong way? May I have a glass of beer, anyway? Glass of beer, if you please! Several glasses of beer, if you please. [Sits down.] Pestiferously hot this afternoon.
FRAU LINDEMANN. [After a pause.] H'm, H'm.
STRÜBEL. Landlady Linda, dear, why so quiet to-day?
FRAU LINDEMANN. In the first place, Herr Strübel, I would have you know that my name is Frau Lindemann.
STRÜBEL. Just so.
FRAU LINDEMANN. And, secondly, if you don't stop your familiarity——
STRÜBEL. [Singing, as Rosa brings him a glass of beer.] "Beer—beer!"—Heavens and earth, how hot it is! [Drinks.
FRAU LINDEMANN. If you find it so hot, why don't you stay quietly down there at the Springs?
STRÜBEL. Ah, my soul thirsts for the heights—my soul thirsts for the heights every afternoon. Just as soon as ever my sallow-faced pupil has thrown himself down on the couch to give his red corpuscles a chance to grow, "I gayly grasp my Alpine staff and mount to my beloved."
FRAU LINDEMANN. [Scornfully.] Bah!
STRÜBEL. Oh, you're thinking that you are my beloved? No, dearest; my beloved stays down there. But to get nearer to her, I have to come up here—up to your telescope. With the aid of your telescope I can look right into her window—see?
ROSA. [Laughing.] Oh, so that's why——
FRAU LINDEMANN. Perhaps you think I'm interested in all that? Besides, I've no more time for you. Moreover, I'm going to have this place cleaned right away. Good-by, Herr Strübel. [Goes out.
STRÜBEL. [Laughing.] I certainly caught it that time! See here, Rosa, what's got into her head?
ROSA. [Mysteriously.] Ahem, there are crowned heads and other heads—and—ahem—there are letters with crowns and letters without crowns.
STRÜBEL. Letters—? Are you——?
ROSA. There are maids of honor—and other maids! [Giggles.
STRÜBEL. Permit me. [Tapping her forehead lightly with his finger.] Ow! Ow!
ROSA. What's the matter?
STRÜBEL. Why, your head's on fire. Blow! Blow! And while you are getting some salve for my burns, I'll just——
[Goes to the telescope.
[Enter Frau von Halldorf, Liddy, and Milly. Frau von Halldorf is an aristocratic woman, somewhat supercilious and affected.
LIDDY. Here's the telescope, mother. Now you can see for yourself.
FRAU V. HALLDORF. What a pity that it's in use just now.
STRÜBEL. [Stepping back.] Oh, I beg of you, ladies—I have plenty of time. I can wait.
FRAU V. HALLDORF. [Condescendingly.] Ah, thanks so much. [She goes up to the telescope, while Strübel returns to his former place.] Waitress! Bring us three glasses of milk.
LIDDY. [As Milly languidly drops into a chair.] Beyond to the right is the road, mother.
FRAU V. HALLDORF. Oh, I have found the road, but I see no carriage—neither a royal carriage nor any other sort.
LIDDY. Let me look.
FRAU V. HALLDORF. Please do.
LIDDY. It has disappeared now.
FRAU V. HALLDORF. Are you quite sure that it was a royal carriage?
LIDDY. Oh, one has an instinct for that sort of thing, mother. It comes to one in the cradle.
FRAU V. HALLDORF. [As Milly yawns and sighs aloud.] Are you sleepy, dear?
MILLY. No, only tired. I'm always tired.
FRAU V. HALLDORF. Well, that's just why we are at the Springs. Do as the princess does: take the waters religiously.
MILLY. The princess oughtn't to be climbing up such a steep hill either on a hot day like this.
FRAU V. HALLDORF. [More softly.] Well, you know why we are taking all this trouble. If, by good luck, we should happen to meet the princess——
LIDDY. [Who has been looking through the telescope.] Oh, there it is again!
FRAU V. HALLDORF. [Eagerly.] Where? Where?
[Takes Liddy's place.
LIDDY. It's just coming around the turn at the top.
FRAU V. HALLDORF. Oh, now I see it! Why, there's no one inside!
LIDDY. Well, then she's coming up on foot.
FRAU V. HALLDORF. [To Milly.] See, the princess is coming up on foot, too. And she is just as anæmic as you are.
MILLY. If I were going to marry a grand-duke, and if I could have my own carriage driven along beside me, I wouldn't complain of having to walk either.
FRAU V. HALLDORF. I can't see a thing now.
LIDDY. You have to turn the screw, mother.
FRAU V. HALLDORF. I have been turning it right along, but the telescope won't move.
LIDDY. Let me try.
STRÜBEL. [Who has been throwing little wads of paper at Rosa during the preceding conversation.] What are they up to?
LIDDY. It seems to me that you've turned the screw too far, mother.
FRAU V. HALLDORF. Well, what shall we do about it?
STRÜBEL. [Rising.] Permit me to come to your aid, ladies. I've had some experience with these old screws.
FRAU V. HALLDORF. Very kind—indeed.
[Strübel busies himself with the instrument.
LIDDY. Listen, mother. If the carriage has almost reached the top the princess can't be far off. Wouldn't it be best, then, to watch for them on the road?
FRAU V. HALLDORF. Certainly, if you think that would be best, dear Liddy.
STRÜBEL. This is not only an old screw, but it's a regular perverted old screw.
FRAU V. HALLDORF. Ah, really? [Aside to her daughters.] And if she should actually speak to us at this accidental meeting—and if we could present ourselves as the subjects of her noble fiancé, and tell her that we live at her future home—just imagine what an advantage that would give us over the other women of the court!
STRÜBEL. There, ladies! We have now rescued the useful instrument to which the far-sightedness of mankind is indebted.
FRAU V. HALLDORF. Thanks, so much. Pardon me, sir, but have you heard anything about the report that the princess is going to make the journey up here to-day?
STRÜBEL. The princess? The princess of the Springs? The princess of the lonely villa? The princess who is expected at the iron spring every morning, but who has never been seen by a living soul? Why, I am enormously interested. You wouldn't believe how much interested I am!
LIDDY. [Who has looked out, back.] There—there—there—it is!
FRAU V. HALLDORF. The carriage?
LIDDY. It's reached the top already. It is stopping over there at the edge of the woods.
FRAU V. HALLDORF. She will surely enter it there, then. Come quickly, my dear children, so that it will look quite accidental. Here is your money. [She throws a coin to Rosa and unwraps a small package done up in tissue-paper, which she has brought with her.] Here is a bouquet for you—and here's one for you. You are to present these to the princess.
MILLY. So that it will look quite accidental—oh, yes!
[All three go out.
STRÜBEL. Good heavens! Could I—? I don't believe it! Surely she sits—well, I'll make sure right away—[Goes up to the telescope and stops.] Oh, I'll go along with them, anyhow.
[Exit after them.
FRAU LINDEMANN. [Entering.] Have they all gone—all of them?
ROSA. All of them.
FRAU LINDEMANN. [Looking toward the right.] There—there—two ladies and a lackey are coming up the footpath. Mercy me! How my heart is beating!—If I had only had the sofa recovered last spring!—What am I going to say to them?—Rosa, don't you know a poem by heart which you could speak to the princess? [Rosa shrugs her shoulders.] They're coming through the court now!—Stop putting your arms under your apron that way, you stupid thing!—oh dear, oh dear——
[The door opens. A Lackey in plain black livery enters, and remains standing at the door. He precedes The Princess and Frau v. Brook. The Princess is a pale, sickly, unassuming young girl, wearing a very simple walking costume and a medium-sized leghorn hat trimmed with roses. Frau v. Brook is a handsome, stately, stern-looking woman, in the thirties. She is well-dressed, but in accordance with the simple tastes of the North German nobility.
FRAU V. BROOK. Who is the proprietor of this place?
FRAU LINDEMANN. At your command, your Highness.
FRAU V. BROOK. [Reprovingly.] I am the maid of honor. Where is the room that has been ordered?
FRAU LINDEMANN. [Opens the door, left.] Here—at the head of the stairs—my lady.
FRAU V. BROOK. Would your Highness care to remain here for a few moments?
THE PRINCESS. Very much, dear Frau von Brook.
FRAU V. BROOK. Edward, order what is needed for Her Highness, and see that a room next to Her Highness is prepared for me. I may assume that these are Your Highness's wishes?
THE PRINCESS. Why certainly, dear Frau von Brook.
[The Lackey, who is carrying shawls and pillows, goes out with Rosa, left.
THE PRINCESS. Mais puisque je te dis, Eugénie, que je n'ai pas sommeil. M'envoyer coucher comme une enfant, c'est abominable.
FRAU V. BROOK. Mais je t'implore, chérie, sois sage! Tu sais, que c'est le médecin, qui——
THE PRINCESS. Ah, ton médecin! Toujours cette corvée. Et si je te dis——
FRAU V. BROOK. Chut! My dear woman, wouldn't it be best for you to superintend the preparations?
FRAU LINDEMANN. I am entirely at your service.
[About to go out, left.
FRAU V. BROOK. One thing more. This veranda, leading from the house to the grounds—would it be possible to close it to the public?
FRAU LINDEMANN. Oh, certainly. The guests as often as not sit out under the trees.
FRAU V. BROOK. Very well, then do so, please. [Frau Lindemann locks the door.] We may be assured that no one will enter this place?
FRAU LINDEMANN. If it is desired, none of us belonging to the house will come in here either.
FRAU V. BROOK. We should like that.
FRAU LINDEMANN. Very well. [Exit.
FRAU V. BROOK. Really, you must be more careful, darling. If that woman had understood French— You must be careful!
THE PRINCESS. What would have been so dreadful about it?
FRAU V. BROOK. Oh, my dear child! This mood of yours, which is due to nothing but your illness—that reminds me, you haven't taken your peptonized milk yet—this is a secret which we must keep from every one, above all from your fiancé. If the Grand Duke should discover——
THE PRINCESS. [Shrugging her shoulders.] Well, what of it?
FRAU V. BROOK. A bride's duty is to be a happy bride. Otherwise——
THE PRINCESS. Otherwise?
FRAU V. BROOK. She will be a lonely and an unloved woman.
THE PRINCESS. [With a little smile of resignation.] Ah!
FRAU V. BROOK. What is it, dear? [The Princess shakes her head.] And then think of the strain of those formal presentations awaiting you in the autumn! You must grow strong. Remember that you must be equal to the most exacting demands of life.
THE PRINCESS. Of life? Whose life?
FRAU V. BROOK. What do you mean by that?
THE PRINCESS. Ah, what good does it do to talk about it?
FRAU V. BROOK. Yes, you are right. In my soul, too, there are unhappy and unholy thoughts that I would rather not utter. From my own experience I know that it is best to keep strictly within the narrow path of duty.
THE PRINCESS. And to go to sleep.
FRAU V. BROOK. Ah, it isn't only that.
THE PRINCESS. Look out there! See the woods! Ah, to lie down on the moss, to cover oneself with leaves, to watch the clouds pass by high above——
FRAU V. BROOK. [Softening.] We can do that, too, some-time.
THE PRINCESS. [Laughing aloud.] Sometime!
[The Lackey appears at the door.
FRAU V. BROOK. Is everything ready?
[The Lackey bows.
THE PRINCESS. [Aside to Frau v. Brook.] But I simply cannot sleep.
FRAU V. BROOK. Try to, for my sake. [Aloud.] Does Your Highness command——
THE PRINCESS. [Smiling and sighing.] Yes, I command.
[The stage remains empty for several moments. Then Strübel is heard trying the latch of the back door.
STRÜBEL'S VOICE. Hullo! What's up! Why is this locked all of a sudden? Rosa! Open up! I've got to look through the telescope! Rosa! Won't you? Oh, well, I know how to help myself. [He is seen walking outside of the glass-covered veranda. Then he puts his head through the open window at the right.] Not a soul inside? [Climbs over.] Well, here we are. What on earth has happened to these people? [Unlocks the back door and looks out.] Everything deserted. Well, it's all the same to me. [Locks the door again.] But let's find out right away what the carriage has to do with the case.
[Prepares to look through the telescope. The Princess enters cautiously through the door at the left, her hat in her hand. Without noticing Strübel, who is standing motionless before the telescope, she goes hurriedly to the door at the back and unlocks it.
STRÜBEL. [Startled at the sound of the key, turns around.] Why, how do you do? [The Princess, not venturing to move, glances back at the door through which she has entered.] Wouldn't you like to look through the telescope a while? Please do. [The Princess, undecided as to whether or not she should answer him, takes a few steps back toward the door at the left.] Why are you going away? I won't do anything to you.
THE PRINCESS. [Reassured.] Oh, I'm not going away.
STRÜBEL. That's right. But—where have you come from? The door was locked. Surely you didn't climb through the window as I did?
THE PRINCESS. [Frightened.] What? You came—through the window?——
STRÜBEL. Of course I did.
THE PRINCESS. [Frightened anew.] Then I had rather——
[About to go back.
STRÜBEL. Oh, my dear young lady, you just stay right here. Why, before I'd drive you away I'd pitch myself headlong over a precipice!
THE PRINCESS. [Smiling, reassured.] I only wanted to go out into the woods for half an hour.
STRÜBEL. Oh, then you're a regular guest here at the Inn?
THE PRINCESS. [Quickly.] Yes—yes, of course.
STRÜBEL. And of course you drink the waters down below?
THE PRINCESS. [In a friendly way.] Oh, yes, I drink the waters. And I'm taking the baths, too.
STRÜBEL. Two hundred metres up and down every time! Isn't that very hard on you? Heavens! And you look so pale! See here, my dear young lady, don't you do it. It would be better for you to go down there—that is— Oh, forgive me! I've been talking without thinking. Of course, you have your own reasons— It's decidedly cheaper up here. I know how to value a thing of that sort. I've never had any money in all my life!
THE PRINCESS. [Trying to seem practical.] But when one comes to a watering-place, one must have money.
STRÜBEL. [Slapping himself on the chest.] Do I look to you as if I drank iron? Thank Heaven, I can't afford such luxuries! No; I'm only a poor fellow who earns his miserable pittance during vacation by acting as a private tutor—that's to say, "miserable" is only a figure of speech, for in the morning I lie abed until nine, at noon I eat five and at night seven courses; and as for work, I really haven't a thing to do! My pupil is so anæmic—why, compared to him, you're fit for a circus rider!
THE PRINCESS. [Laughing unrestrainedly.] Oh, well, I'm rather glad I'm not one.
STRÜBEL. Dear me, it's a business like any other.
THE PRINCESS. Like any other? Really, I didn't think that.
STRÜBEL. And pray, what did you think then?
THE PRINCESS. Oh, I thought that they were—an entirely different sort of people.
STRÜBEL. My dear young lady, all people are "an entirely different sort." Of course we two aren't. We get along real well together, don't we? As poor as church mice, both of us!
THE PRINCESS. [Smiling reflectively.] Who knows? Perhaps that's true.
STRÜBEL. [Kindly.] Do you know what? If you want to stay down there—I'll tell you how one can live cheaply. I have a friend, a student like myself. He's here to mend up as you are. I feed him up at the house where I'm staying. [Frightened at a peculiar look of The Princess's.] Oh, but you mustn't be—No, I shouldn't have said it. It wasn't decent of me. Only, let me tell you, I'm so glad to be able to help the poor fellow out of my unexpected earnings, that I'd like to be shouting it from the housetops all the time! Of course, you understand that, don't you?
THE PRINCESS. You like to help people, then?
STRÜBEL. Surely—don't you?
THE PRINCESS. [Reflecting.] No. There's always so much talk about it, and the whole thing immediately appears in the newspapers.
STRÜBEL. What? If you help some one, that appears——?
THE PRINCESS. [Quietly correcting herself.] I only mean if one takes part in entertainments for charity——
STRÜBEL. Oh, yes, naturally. In those things they always get some woman of rank to act as patroness, if they can, and she sees to it, you may be sure, that the newspapers make a fuss over it.
THE PRINCESS. [Demurely.] Oh, not every——
STRÜBEL. Just try to teach me something I don't know about these titled women! Besides, my dear young lady, where is your home—in one of the large cities, or——?
THE PRINCESS. Oh, no. In quite a small town—really more like the country.
STRÜBEL. Then I'm going to show you something that you probably never saw before in all your life.
THE PRINCESS. Oh do! What is it?
STRÜBEL. A princess! H'm—not a make-believe, but a real, true-blue princess!
THE PRINCESS. Oh, really?
STRÜBEL. Yes. Our Princess of the Springs.
THE PRINCESS. And who may that be?
STRÜBEL. Why, Princess Marie Louise.
THE PRINCESS. Of Geldern?
STRÜBEL. Of course.
THE PRINCESS. Do you know her?
STRÜBEL. Why, certainly.
THE PRINCESS. Really? I thought that she lived in great retirement.
STRÜBEL. Well, that doesn't do her any good. Not a bit of it. And because you are such a jolly good fellow I'm going to tell you my secret. I'm in love with this princess!
THE PRINCESS. Oh!
STRÜBEL. You can't imagine what a comfort it is. The fact is, every young poet has got to have a princess to love.
THE PRINCESS. Are you a poet?
STRÜBEL. Can't you tell that by looking at me?
THE PRINCESS. I never saw a poet before.
STRÜBEL. Never saw a poet—never saw a princess! Why, you're learning a heap of things to-day!
THE PRINCESS. [Assenting.] H'm—and have you written poems to her?
STRÜBEL. Why, that goes without saying! Quantities of 'em!
THE PRINCESS. Oh, please recite some little thing—won't you?
STRÜBEL. No, not yet. Everything at the proper time.
THE PRINCESS. Ah, yes, first I should like to see the princess.
STRÜBEL. No, first I am going to tell you the whole story.
THE PRINCESS. Oh, yes, yes. Please do. [Sits down.
STRÜBEL. Well, then—I had hardly heard that she was here before I was dead in love with her. It was just as quick as a shot, I tell you. Just as if I had waited all my life long to fall in love with her. Besides, I also heard about her beauty—and her sorrow. You see, she had an early love affair.
THE PRINCESS. [Disconcerted.] What? Are they saying that?
STRÜBEL. Yes. It was a young officer who went to Africa because of her—and died there.
THE PRINCESS. And they know that, too?
STRÜBEL. What don't they know? But that's a mere detail—it doesn't concern me. Even the fact that in six months she will become the bride of a grand-duke—even that can make no difference to me. For the present she is my princess. But you're not listening to me!
THE PRINCESS. Oh, yes, I am!
STRÜBEL. Do you know what that means—my princess! I'll not give up my princess—not for anything in all the world!
THE PRINCESS. But—if you don't even know her——?
STRÜBEL. I don't know her? Why, I know her as well as I know myself!
THE PRINCESS. Have you ever met her, then?
STRÜBEL. I don't know of any one who has ever met her. And there's not a soul that can tell what she looks like. It is said that there were pictures of her in the shop-windows when she first came, but they were removed immediately. In the morning a great many people are always lurking around the Springs trying to catch a glimpse of her. I, myself, have gotten up at six o'clock a couple of times—on the same errand—and if you knew me better, you'd realize what that meant. But not a sign of her! Either she has the stuff brought to her house or she has the power of making herself invisible. [The Princess turns aside to conceal a smile.] After that, I used to hang around her garden—every day, for hours at a time. Until one day the policeman, whom the managers of the Springs have stationed at the gates, came up to me and asked me what on earth I was doing there. Well, that was the end of those methods of approach! Suddenly, however, a happy thought struck me. Now I can see her and have her near to me as often as I wish.
THE PRINCESS. Why, that's very interesting. How?
STRÜBEL. Yes, that's just the point. H'm, should I risk it? Should I take you into my confidence?
THE PRINCESS. You promised me some time ago that you would show her to me.
STRÜBEL. Wait a second. [Looks through the telescope.] There she is. Please look for yourself.
THE PRINCESS. But I am—[She, too, looks through the telescope.] Actually, there is the garden as plain as if one were in it.
STRÜBEL. And at the corner window on the left—with the embroidery-frame—that's she.
THE PRINCESS. Are you absolutely certain that that is the princess?
STRÜBEL. Why, who else could it be?
THE PRINCESS. Oh, 'round about a princess like that—there are such a lot of people. For instance, there is her waiting-woman, there's the seamstress and her assistants, there's——
STRÜBEL. But, my dear young lady, if you only understood anything about these matters, you would have been certain at the very first glance that it was she—and no one else. Observe the nobility in every motion—the queenly grace with which she bends over the embroidery-frame——
THE PRINCESS. How do you know that it's an embroidery-frame?
STRÜBEL. Why, what should a princess be bending over if not an embroidery-frame? Do you expect her to be darning stockings?
THE PRINCESS. It wouldn't hurt her at all!
STRÜBEL. Now, that's just one of those petty, bourgeois notions which we ought to suppress. It's not enough that we have to stick in this misery, but we'd like to drag her down, too—that being far above all earthly care——
THE PRINCESS. Oh, dear me!
STRÜBEL. What are you sighing about so terribly?
THE PRINCESS. Tell me, wouldn't you like to have a closer acquaintance with your princess, some time?
STRÜBEL. Closer? Why should I? Isn't she close enough to me, my far-away princess?—for that's what I call her when I talk to myself about her. And to have her still closer?
THE PRINCESS. Why, so that you could talk to her and know what she really was like?
STRÜBEL. [Terrified.] Talk to her! Heaven forbid! Goodness gracious, no! Just see here—how am I to face a princess? I'm an ordinary fellow, the son of poor folks. I haven't polished manners—I haven't even a decent tailor. A lady like that—why, she'd measure me from top to toe in one glance. I've had my lessons in the fine houses where I've applied as tutor. A glance from boots to cravat—and you're dismissed!
THE PRINCESS. And you think that I—[correcting herself] that this girl is as superficial as that?
STRÜBEL. "This girl"! Dear me, how that sounds! But, how should I ever succeed in showing her my real self? And even if I should, what would she care? Oh, yes, if she were like you—so nice and simple—and with such a kindhearted, roguish little twinkle in her eye——!
THE PRINCESS. Roguish—I? Why so?
STRÜBEL. Because you are laughing at me in your sleeve. And really I deserve nothing better.
THE PRINCESS. But your princess deserves something better than your opinion of her.
STRÜBEL. How do you know that?
THE PRINCESS. You really ought to try to become acquainted with her some time.
STRÜBEL. No, no, no—and again no! As long as she remains my far-away princess she is everything that I want her to be—modest, gracious, loving. She smiles upon me dreamily. Yes, she even listens when I recite my poems to her—and that can't be said of many people! And as soon as I have finished she sighs, takes a rose from her breast, and casts it down to the poet. I wrote a few verses yesterday about that rose, that flower which represents the pinnacle of my desires, as it were.
THE PRINCESS. [Eagerly.] Oh, yes. Oh, please, please!
STRÜBEL. Well, then, here goes. H'm——
"Twenty roses nestling close——"
THE PRINCESS. What? Are there twenty now?
STRÜBEL. [Severely.] My princess would not have interrupted me.
THE PRINCESS. Oh, please—forgive me.
STRÜBEL. I shall begin again.
| "Twenty roses nestling close |
| Gleam upon thy breast, |
| Twenty years of rose-red love |
| Upon thy fair cheeks rest. |
| "Twenty years would I gladly give |
| Out of life's brief reign, |
| Could I but ask a rose of thee |
| And ask it not in vain. |
| "Twenty roses thou dost not need— |
| Why, pearls and rubies are thine! |
| With nineteen thou'dst be just as fair, |
| And one would then be mine! |
| "And twenty years of rose-wreathed joy |
| Would spring to life for me— |
| Yet twenty years could ne'er suffice |
| To worship it—and thee!" |
THE PRINCESS. How nice that is! I've never had any verses written to me b——
STRÜBEL. Ah, my dear young lady, ordinary folks like us have to do their own verse-making!
THE PRINCESS. And all for one rose! Dear me, how soon it fades! And then what is left you?
STRÜBEL. No, my dear friend, a rose like that never fades—even as my love for the gracious giver can never die.
THE PRINCESS. But you haven't even got it yet!
STRÜBEL. That makes no difference in the end. I'm entirely independent of such externals. When some day I shall be explaining Ovid to the beginners, or perhaps even reading Horace with the more advanced classes—no, it's better for the present not to think of reaching any such dizzy heights of greatness—well, then I shall always be saying to myself with a smile of satisfaction: "You, too, were one of those confounded artist fellows—why, you once went so far as to love a princess!"
THE PRINCESS. And that will make you happy?
STRÜBEL. Enormously! For what makes us happy, after all? A bit of happiness? Great heavens, no! Happiness wears out like an old glove.
THE PRINCESS. Well, then, what does?
STRÜBEL. Ah, how should I know! Any kind of a dream—a fancy—a wish unfulfilled—a sorrow that we coddle—some nothing which suddenly becomes everything to us. I shall always say to my pupils: "Young men, if you want to be happy as long as you live, create gods for yourselves in your own image; these gods will take care of your happiness."
The Princess. And what would the god be like that you would create?
STRÜBEL. Would be? Is, my dear young lady, is! A man of the world, a gentleman, well-bred, smiling, enjoying life—who looks out upon mankind from under bushy eyebrows, who knows Nietzsche and Stendhal by heart, and—[pointing to his shoes] who isn't down at the heels—a god, in short, worthy of my princess. I know perfectly well that all my life long I shall never do anything but crawl around on the ground like an industrious ant, but I know, too, that the god of my fancy will always take me by the collar when the proper moment comes and pull me up again into the clouds. Yes, up there I'm safe. And your god, or rather your goddess—what would she look like?
THE PRINCESS. [Thoughtfully.] That's not easy to say. My goddess would be—a quiet, peaceful woman who would treasure a secret little joy like the apple of her eye, who would know nothing of the world except what she wanted to know, and who would have the strength to make her own choice when it pleased her.
STRÜBEL. But that doesn't seem to me a particularly lofty aspiration, my dear young lady.
THE PRINCESS. Lofty as the heavens, my friend.
STRÜBEL. My princess would be of a different opinion.
THE PRINCESS. Do you think so?
STRÜBEL. For that's merely the ideal of every little country girl.
THE PRINCESS. Not her ideal—her daily life which she counts as naught. It is my ideal because I can never attain it.
STRÜBEL. Oh, I say, my dear young girl! It can't be as bad as that! A young girl like you—so charming and—I don't want to be forward, but if I could only help you a bit!
THE PRINCESS. Have you got to be helping all the time? Before, it was only a cheap lunch, now it's actually——
STRÜBEL. Yes, yes, I'm an awful donkey, I know, but——
THE PRINCESS. [Smiling.] Don't say any more about it, dear friend! I like you that way.
STRÜBEL. [Feeling oppressed by her superiority.] Really, you are an awfully strange person! There's something about you that—that——
STRÜBEL. I can't exactly define it. Tell me, weren't you wanting to go into the woods before? It's so—so oppressive in here.
THE PRINCESS. Oppressive? I don't find it so at all—quite the contrary.
STRÜBEL. No, no—I'm restless. I don't know what—at all events, may I not escort you—? One can chat more freely, one can express himself more openly—if one——
[Takes a deep breath.
THE PRINCESS. [Smiling.] And you are leaving your far-away princess with such a light heart?
STRÜBEL. [Carelessly.] Oh, she! She won't run away. She'll be sitting there to-morrow again—and the day after, too!
THE PRINCESS. And so that is your great, undying love?
STRÜBEL. Yes, but when a girl like you comes across one's path——
FRAU V. HALLDORF. [Hurrying in and then drawing back in feigned astonishment.] Oh!
LIDDY AND MILLY. [Similarly.] Oh!
STRÜBEL. Well, ladies, didn't I tell you that you wouldn't find her? Princesses don't grow along the roadside like weeds!
FRAU V. HALLDORF. [Disregarding him—ceremoniously.] The infinite happiness with which this glorious event fills our hearts must excuse in some measure the extraordinary breach of good manners which we are committing in daring to address Your Highness. But, as the fortunate subjects of Your Highness's most noble fiancé, we could not refrain from——
STRÜBEL. Well, well! What's all this?
FRAU V. HALLDORF.—from offering to our eagerly awaited sovereign a slight token of our future loyalty. Liddy! Milly! [Liddy and Milly come forward, and, with low court bows, offer their bouquets.] My daughters respectfully present these few flowers to the illustrious princess——
STRÜBEL. I beg your pardon, but who is doing the joking here, you or——?
[Frau v. Brook enters. The Princess, taken unawares, has retreated more and more helplessly toward the door at the left, undecided whether to take flight or remain. She greets the arrival of Frau v. Brook with a happy sigh of relief.
FRAU V. BROOK. [Severely.] Pardon me, ladies. Apparently you have not taken the proper steps toward being presented to Her Highness. In matters of this sort one must first apply to me. I may be addressed every morning from eleven to twelve, and I shall be happy to consider your desires.
FRAU V. HALLDORF. [With dignity.] I and my children, madame, were aware of the fact that we were acting contrary to the usual procedure; but the impulse of loyal hearts is guided by no rule. I shall be glad to avail myself of your—very kind invitation.
[All three go out with low curtsies to The Princess.
FRAU V. BROOK. What forwardness! But how could you come down without me? And what is that young man over there doing? Does he belong to those people?
[The Princess shakes her head. Strübel, without a word, goes to get his hat, which has been lying on a chair, bows abruptly, and is about to leave.
THE PRINCESS. Oh, no! That wouldn't be nice. Not that way——
FRAU V. BROOK. [Amazed.] What? What! Why, Your Highness——!
THE PRINCESS. Let me be, Eugenie. This young man and I have become far too good friends to part in such an unfriendly, yes, almost hostile fashion.
FRAU V. BROOK. Your Highness, I am very much——
THE PRINCESS. [To Strübel.] You and I will certainly remember this hour with great pleasure, and I thank you for it with all my heart. If I only had a rose with me, so as to give you your dear wish! Eugenie, haven't we any roses with us?
FRAU V. BROOK. Your Highness, I am very much——
THE PRINCESS. [Examining herself and searching among the vases.] Well, how are we going to manage it?
STRÜBEL. I most humbly thank—your Highness—for the kind intention.
THE PRINCESS. No, no—wait! [Her glance falls upon the hat which she is holding in her hand—with a sudden thought.] I have it! But don't think that I'm joking. And we'll have to do without scissors! [She tears one of the roses from the hat.] I don't know whether there are just twenty—[Holding out one of the roses to him.] Well? This rose has the merit of being just as real as the sentiment of which we were speaking before—and just as unfading.
STRÜBEL. Is this—to be—my punishment? [The Princess smilingly shakes her head.] Or does your Highness mean by it that only the Unreal never fades?
THE PRINCESS. That's exactly what I mean—because the Unreal must always dwell in the imagination.
STRÜBEL. So that's it! Just as it is only the far-away princesses who are always near to us.
FRAU V. BROOK. Permit me to remark, Your Highness—that it is high time——
THE PRINCESS. As you see, those who are near must hurry away. [Offering him the rose again.] Well?
STRÜBEL. [Is about to take it, but lets his hand fall.] With the far-away princess there—[pointing down] it would have been in harmony, but with the—[Shakes his head, then softly and with emotion.] No, thanks—I'd rather not.
[He bows and goes out.
THE PRINCESS. [Smiling pensively, throws away the artificial flower.] I'm going to ask my fiancé to let me send him a rose.
FRAU V. BROOK. Your Highness, I am very much—surprised!
THE PRINCESS. Well, I told you that I wasn't sleepy.
CURTAIN
THE STRONGER
BY
AUGUST STRINDBERG
August Strindberg, Sweden's foremost dramatist, was born at Stockholm in 1849. He attended the University of Upsala but did not graduate. In 1872 he wrote Master Olaf, which was for six years steadily refused by managers. When it did appear it inaugurated the Swedish dramatic renascence. By turns Strindberg was schoolmaster, journalist, dramatist, writer of scientific and political treatises, and writer of short stories. In 1883 he left Sweden and travelled extensively in Denmark, Germany, France, and Italy. He died in 1912.
As a dramatist Strindberg's chief strength lies not so much in dramatic technique as it does in his trenchant and searching power of analysis of the human mind. His chief plays are very exact and narrow views of the feminine soul. Some of his own domestic bitterness finds expression in the feminine studies in his plays. He is very fond of showing the power of one character over another.
His important one-act plays are The Outlaw, Countess Julie, Creditors, Pariah, Facing Death, and The Stronger. The Stronger has a dramatic intensity that few plays possess. Though but one character speaks, the souls of three are skilfully laid bare.
| PERSONS |
| Mrs. X., an actress, married |
| Miss Y., an actress, unmarried |
THE STRONGER[M]
SCENE: A corner of a ladies' restaurant; two small tables of cast-iron, a sofa covered with red plush, and a few chairs.
Mrs. X. enters, dressed in hat and winter coat, and carrying a pretty Japanese basket on her arm.
Miss Y. has in front of her a partly emptied bottle of beer; she is reading an illustrated weekly, and every now and then, she exchanges it for a new one.
MRS. X. Well, how do, Millie! Here you are sitting on Christmas Eve, as lonely as a poor bachelor.
[Miss Y. looks up from the paper for a moment, nods, and resumes her reading.]
MRS. X. Really, I feel sorry to find you like this—alone—alone in a restaurant, and on Christmas Eve of all times. It makes me as sad as when I saw a wedding party at Paris once in a restaurant—the bride was reading a comic paper and the groom was playing billiards with the witnesses. Ugh, when it begins that way, I thought, how will it end? Think of it, playing billiards on his wedding day! Yes, and you're going to say that she was reading a comic paper—- that's a different case, my dear.
[A waitress brings a cup of chocolate, places it before Mrs. X., and disappears again.
MRS. X. [Sips a few spoonfuls; opens the basket and displays a number of Christmas presents.] See what I've bought for my tots. [Picks up a doll.] What do you think of this? Lisa is to have it. She can roll her eyes and twist her head, do you see? Fine, is it not? And here's a cork pistol for Carl.
[Loads the pistol and pops it at Miss Y. Miss Y. starts as if frightened.
MRS. X. Did I scare you? Why, you didn't fear I was going to shoot you, did you? Really, I didn't think you could believe that of me. If you were to shoot me—well, that wouldn't surprise me the least. I've got in your way once, and I know you'll never forget it—but I couldn't help it. You still think I intrigued you away from the Royal Theatre, and I didn't do anything of the kind—although you think so. But it doesn't matter what I say, of course—you believe it was I just the same. [Pulls out a pair of embroidered slippers.] Well, these are for my hubby—tulips—I've embroidered them myself. H'm!—I hate tulips—and he must have them on everything.
[Miss Y. looks up from the paper with an expression of mingled sarcasm and curiosity.
MRS. X. [Puts a hand in each slipper.] Just see what small feet Bob has. See? And you should see him walk—elegant! Of course, you've never seen him in slippers.
[Miss Y. laughs aloud.
MRS. X. Look here—here he comes.
[Makes the slippers walk across the table. Miss Y. laughs again.
MRS. X. Then he gets angry, and he stamps his foot just like this: "Blame that cook who can't learn how to make coffee." Or: "The idiot—now that girl has forgotten to fix my study lamp again." Then there is a draught through the floor and his feet get cold. "Gee, but it's freezing, and those blanked idiots don't even know enough to keep the house warm."
[She rubs the sole of one slipper against the instep of the other. Miss Y. breaks into prolonged laughter.
MRS. X. And then he comes home and has to hunt for his slippers—Mary has pushed them under the bureau. Well, perhaps it is not right to be making fun of one's own husband. He's pretty good for all that—a real dear little hubby, that's what he is. You should have such a husband—what are you laughing at? Can't you tell? Then, you see, I know he is faithful. Yes, I know, for he has told me himself—what in the world makes you giggle like that? That nasty Betty tried to get him away from me while I was on the road. Can you think of anything more infamous? [Pause.] But I'd have scratched the eyes out of her face, that's what I'd have done, if I had been at home when she tried it. [Pause.] I'm glad Bob told me all about it, so I didn't have to hear it first from somebody else. [Pause.] And, just think of it, Betty was not the only one! I don't know why it is, but all women seem to be crazy after my husband. It must be because they imagine his government position gives him something to say about the engagements. Perhaps you've tried it yourself—you may have set your traps for him, too? Yes, I don't trust you very far—but I know he never cared for you—and then I have been thinking you rather had a grudge against him.
[Pause. They look at each other in an embarrassed manner.
MRS. X. Amelia, spend the evening with us, won't you? Just to show that you are not angry—not with me, at least. I cannot tell exactly why, but it seems so awfully unpleasant to have you—you—for an enemy. Perhaps because I got in your way that time [rallentando] or—I don't know—really, I don't know at all——
[Pause. Miss Y. gazes searchingly at Mrs. X.
MRS. X. [Thoughtfully.] It was so peculiar, the way our acquaintance—why, I was afraid of you when I first met you; so afraid that I did not dare to let you out of sight. It didn't matter where I tried to go—I always found myself near you. I didn't have the courage to be your enemy—and so I became your friend. But there was always something discordant in the air when you called at our home, for I saw that my husband didn't like you—and it annoyed me—just as it does when a dress won't fit. I've tried my very best to make him appear friendly to you at least, but I couldn't move him—not until you were engaged. Then you two became such fast friends that it almost looked as if you had not dared to show your real feelings before, when it was not safe—and later—let me see, now! I didn't get jealous—strange, was it not? And I remember the baptism—you were acting as godmother, and I made him kiss you—and he did, but both of you looked terribly embarrassed—that is, I didn't think of it then—or afterwards, even—I never thought of it—till—now! [Rises impulsively.] Why don't you say something? You have not uttered a single word all this time. You've just let me go on talking. You've been sitting there staring at me only, and your eyes have drawn out of me all these thoughts which were lying in me like silk in a cocoon—thoughts—bad thoughts maybe—let me think. Why did you break your engagement? Why have you never called on us afterward? Why don't you want to be with us to-night?
[Miss Y. makes a motion as if intending to speak.
MRS. X. No, you don't need to say anything at all. All is clear to me now. So, that's the reason of it all. Yes, yes! Everything fits together now. Shame on you! I don't want to sit at the same table with you. [Moves her things to another table.] That's why I must put those hateful tulips on his slippers—because you love them. [Throws the slippers on the floor.] That's why we have to spend the summer in the mountains—because you can't bear the salt smell of the ocean; that's why my boy had to be called Eskil—because that was your father's name; that's why I had to wear your color, and read your books, and eat your favorite dishes, and drink your drinks—this chocolate, for instance; that's why—great heavens!—it's terrible to think of it—it's terrible! Everything was forced on me by you—even your passions. Your soul bored itself into mine as a worm into an apple, and it ate and ate and burrowed and burrowed, till nothing was left but the outside shell and a little black dust. I wanted to run away from you, but I couldn't. You were always on hand like a snake, with your black eyes, to charm me—I felt how my wings beat the air only to drag me down—I was in the water with my feet tied together, and the harder I worked with my arms, the further down I went—down, down, till I sank to the bottom, where you lay in wait like a monster crab to catch me with your claws—and now I'm there! Shame on you! How I hate you, hate you, hate you! But you, you just sit there, silent and calm and indifferent, whether the moon is new or full; whether it's Christmas or mid-summer; whether other people are happy or unhappy. You are incapable of hatred and you don't know how to love. As a cat in front of a mouse-hole, you are sitting there. You can't drag your prey out, and you can't pursue it, but you can outwait it. Here you sit in this comer—do you know they've nicknamed it "the mousetrap" on your account? Here you read the papers to see if anybody is in trouble, or if anybody is about to be discharged from the theatre. Here you watch your victims and calculate your chances and take your tributes. Poor Amelia! Do you know, I pity you all the same, for I know you are unhappy—unhappy as one who has been wounded, and malicious because you are wounded. I ought to be angry with you, but really I can't—you are so small, after all—and as to Bob, why, that does not bother me in the least. What does it matter to me, anyhow? If you or somebody else taught me to drink chocolate—what of that? [Takes a spoonful of chocolate; then, sententiously.] They say chocolate is very wholesome. And if I have learned from you how to dress—tant mieux!—it has only given me a stronger hold on my husband—and you have lost where I have gained. Yes, judging by several signs, I think you have lost him already. Of course, you meant me to break with him—as you did, and as you are now regretting—but, you see, I never would do that. It wouldn't do to be narrow-minded, you know. And why should I take only what nobody else wants? Perhaps, after all, I am the stronger now. You never got anything from me; you merely gave—and thus happened to me what happened to the thief—I had what you missed when you woke up. How explain in any other way that, in your hand, everything proved worthless and useless? You were never able to keep a man's love, in spite of your tulips and your passions—and I could; you could never learn the art of living from the books—as I learned it; you bore no little Eskil, although that was your father's name. And why do you keep silent always and everywhere—silent, ever silent? I used to think it was because you were so strong; and maybe the simple truth was you never had anything to say—because you were unable to think! [Rises and picks up the slippers.] I'm going home now—I'll take the tulips with me—your tulips. You couldn't learn anything from others; you couldn't bend—and so you broke like a dry stem—and I didn't. Thank you, Amelia, for all your instructions. I thank you that you have taught me how to love my husband. Now I'm going home—to him!
[Exit.
CURTAIN