MOONSHINE
SCENE: Hut of a moonshiner in the mountain wilds of North Carolina. Door back left. Window back right centre. Old deal table right centre. Kitchen chair at either side of table, not close to it. Old cupboard in left corner. Rude stone fireplace left side. On back wall near door is a rough pencil sketch of a man hanging from a tree.
At rise of curtain a commotion is heard outside of hut.
LUKE. [Off stage.] It's all right, boys.... Jist leave him to me.... Git in there, Mister Revenue.
[Revenue, a Northerner in city attire, without hat, clothes dusty, is pushed through doorway. Luke, a lanky, ill-dressed Southerner, following, closes door. Revenue's hands are tied behind him.
LUKE. You must excuse the boys for makin' a demonstration over you, Mister Revenue, but you see they don't come across you fellers very frequent, and they allus gits excited.
REVENUE. I appreciate that I'm welcome.
LUKE. 'Deed you is, and I'm just agoin' to untie your hands long nuff fer you to take a sociable drink. [Goes to stranger, feels in all-pockets for weapons.] Reckon yer travellin' peaceable. [Unties hands.] Won't yer sit down?
REVENUE. [Drawing over chair and sitting.] Thank you. [Rubs wrists to get back circulation.]
LUKE. [Going over to cupboard and taking out jug.] Yessa, Mister, the boys ain't seen one o' you fellers fer near two years. Began to think you wus goin' to neglect us. I wus hopin' you might be Jim Dunn. Have a drink?
REVENUE. [Starts slightly at mention of Jim Dunn.] No, thank you, your make is too strong for me.
LUKE. It hain't no luck to drink alone when you git company. Better have some.
REVENUE. Very well, my friend, I suffer willingly.
[Drinks a little and chokes.
LUKE. [Draining cup.] I reckon ye all don't like the flavor of liquor that hain't been stamped.
REVENUE. It's not so bad.
LUKE. The last Revenue that sit in that chair got drunk on my make.
REVENUE. That wouldn't be difficult.
LUKE. No, but it wuz awkward.
REVENUE. Why?
LUKE. I had to wait till he sobered up before I give him his ticker. I didn't feel like sendin' him to heaven drunk. He'd a found it awkward climbin' that golden ladder.
REVENUE. Thoughtful executioner.
LUKE. So you see mebbe you kin delay things a little by dallyin' with the licker.
REVENUE. [Picking up cup, getting it as far as his lips, slowly puts it down.] The price is too great.
LUKE. I'm mighty sorry you ain't Jim Dunn. But I reckon you ain't. You don't answer his likeness.
REVENUE. Who's Jim Dunn?
LUKE. You ought to know who Jim Dunn is. He's just about the worst one of your revenue critters that ever hit these parts. He's got four of the boys in jail. We got a little reception all ready for him. See that?
[Pointing to sketch on back wall.
REVENUE. [Looking at sketch.] Yes.
LUKE. That's Jim Dunn.
REVENUE. [Rising, examining picture.] Doesn't look much like any one.
LUKE. Well, that's what Jim Dunn'll look like when we git 'im. I'm mighty sorry you hain't Jim Dunn.
REVENUE. I'm sorry to disappoint you.
LUKE. [Turning to cupboard and filling pipe.] Oh, it's all right. I reckon one Revenue's about as good as another, after all.
REVENUE. Are you sure I'm a revenue officer?
LUKE. [Rising.] Well, since we ketched ye climin' trees an' snoopin' round the stills, I reckon we won't take no chances that you hain't.
REVENUE. Oh.
LUKE. Say, mebbe you'd like a seggar. Here's one I been savin' fer quite a spell back, thinkin' mebbe I'd have company some day. [Brings out dried-up cigar, hands it to him.
REVENUE. No, thank you.
LUKE. It hain't no luck to smoke alone when ye got company. [Striking match and holding it to Revenue.] Ye better smoke. [Revenue bites off end and mouth is filled with dust, spits out dust. Luke holds match to cigar. With difficulty Revenue lights it.] That's as good a five-cent cigar as ye can git in Henderson.
REVENUE. [After two puffs, makes wry face, throws cigar on table.] You make death very easy, Mister.
LUKE. Luke's my name. Yer kin call me Luke. Make you feel as though you had a friend near you at the end—Luke Hazy.
REVENUE. [Starting as though interested, rising.] Not the Luke Hazy that cleaned out the Crosby family?
LUKE. [Startled.] How'd you hear about it?
REVENUE. Hear about it? Why, your name's been in every newspaper in the United States. Every time you killed another Crosby the whole feud was told all over again. Why, I've seen your picture in the papers twenty times.
LUKE. Hain't never had one took.
REVENUE. That don't stop them from printing it. Don't you ever read the newspapers?
LUKE. Me read? I hain't read nothin' fer thirty years. Reckon I couldn't read two lines in a hour.
REVENUE. You've missed a lot of information about yourself.
LUKE. How many Crosbys did they say I killed?
REVENUE. I think the last report said you had just removed the twelfth.
LUKE. It's a lie! I only killed six ... that's all they wuz—growed up. I'm a-waitin' fer one now that's only thirteen.
REVENUE. When'll he be ripe?
LUKE. Jes as soon as he comes a-lookin' fer me.
REVENUE. Will he come?
LUKE. He'll come if he's a Crosby.
REVENUE. A brave family?
LUKE. They don't make 'em any braver—they'd be first-rate folks if they wuzn't Crosbys.
REVENUE. If you feel that way why did you start fighting them?
LUKE. I never started no fight. My granddad had some misunderstandin' with their granddad. I don't know jes what it wuz about, but I reckon my granddad wuz right, and I'll see it through.
REVENUE. You must think a lot of your grandfather.
LUKE. Never seen 'im, but it ain't no luck goin' agin yer own kin. Won't ye have a drink?
REVENUE. No—no—thank you.
LUKE. Well, Mr. Revenue, I reckon we might as well have this over.
REVENUE. What?
LUKE. Well, you won't get drunk, and I can't be put to the trouble o' havin' somebody guard you.
REVENUE. That'll not be necessary.
LUKE. Oh, I know yer like this yer place now, but this evenin' you might take it into yer head to walk out.
REVENUE. I'll not walk out unless you make me.
LUKE. Tain't like I'll let yer, but I wouldn't blame yer none if yu tried.
REVENUE. But I'll not.
LUKE. [Rising.] Say, Mistah Revenue, I wonder if you know what you're up against?
REVENUE. What do you mean?
LUKE. I mean I gotta kill you.
REVENUE. [Rising, pauses.] Well, that lets me out.
LUKE. What do yu mean?
REVENUE. I mean that I've been trying to commit suicide for the last two months, but I haven't had the nerve.
LUKE. [Startled.] Suicide?
REVENUE. Yes. Now that you're willing to kill me, the problem is solved.
LUKE. Why, what d'ye want to commit suicide fer?
REVENUE. I just want to stop living, that's all.
LUKE. Well, yu must have a reason.
REVENUE. No special reason—I find life dull and I'd like to get out of it.
LUKE. Dull?
REVENUE. Yes—I hate to go to bed—I hate to get up—I don't care for food—I can't drink liquor—I find people either malicious or dull—I see by the fate of my acquaintances, both men and women, that love is a farce. I have seen fame and preference come to those who least deserved them, while the whole world kicked and cuffed the worthy ones. The craftier schemer gets the most money and glory, while the fair-minded dealer is humiliated in the bankruptcy court. In the name of the law every crime is committed; in the name of religion every vice is indulged; in the name of education greatest ignorance is rampant.
LUKE. I don't git all of that, but I reckon you're some put out.
REVENUE. I am. The world's a failure ... what's more, it's a farce. I don't like it but I can't change it, so I'm just aching for a chance to get out of it.... [Approaching Luke.] And you, my dear friend, are going to present me the opportunity.
LUKE. Yes, I reckon you'll get your wish now.
REVENUE. Good ... if you only knew how I've tried to get killed.
LUKE. Well, why didn't you kill yerself?
REVENUE. I was afraid.
LUKE. Afreed o' what—hurtin' yourself?
REVENUE. No, afraid of the consequences.
LUKE. Whad d'ye mean?
REVENUE. Do you believe in another life after this one?
LUKE. I kan't say ez I ever give it much thought.
REVENUE. Well, don't—because if you do you'll never kill another Crosby ... not even a revenue officer.
LUKE. 'Tain't that bad, is it?
REVENUE. Worse. Twenty times I've had a revolver to my head—crazy to die—and then as my finger pressed the trigger I'd get a terrible dread—a dread that I was plunging into worse terrors than this world ever knew. If killing were the end it would be easy, but what if it's only the beginning of something worse?
LUKE. Well, you gotta take some chances.
REVENUE. I'll not take that one. You know, Mr. Luke, life was given to us by some one who probably never intended that we should take it, and that some one has something ready for people who destroy his property. That's what frightens me.
LUKE. You do too much worryin' to be a regular suicide.
REVENUE. Yes, I do. That's why I changed my plan.
LUKE. What plan?
REVENUE. My plan for dying.
LUKE. Oh, then you didn't give up the idea?
REVENUE. No, indeed—I'm still determined to die, but I'm going to make some one else responsible.
LUKE. Oh—so you hain't willing to pay fer yer own funeral music?
REVENUE. No, sir. I'll furnish the passenger, but some one else must buy the ticket. You see, when I finally decided I'd be killed, I immediately exposed myself to every danger I knew.
LUKE. How?
REVENUE. In a thousand ways.... [Pause.] Did you ever see an automobile?
LUKE. No.
REVENUE. They go faster than steam engines, and they don't stay on tracks. Did you ever hear of Fifth Avenue, New York?
LUKE. No.
REVENUE. Fifth Avenue is jammed with automobiles, eight deep all day long. People being killed every day. I crossed Fifth Avenue a thousand times a day, every day for weeks, never once trying to get out of the way, and always praying I'd be hit.
LUKE. And couldn't yu git hit?
REVENUE. [In disgust.] No. Automobiles only hit people who try to get out of the way. [Pause.] When that failed, I frequented the lowest dives on the Bowery, flashing a roll of money and wearing diamonds, hoping they'd kill me for them. They stole the money and diamonds, but never touched me.
LUKE. Couldn't you pick a fight?
REVENUE. I'm coming to that. You know up North they believe that a man can be killed in the South for calling another man a liar.
LUKE. That's right.
REVENUE. It is, is it? Well, I've called men liars from Washington to Atlanta, and I'm here to tell you about it.
LUKE. They must a took pity on ye.
REVENUE. Do you know Two Gun Jake that keeps the dive down in Henderson?
LUKE. I should think I do.... Jake's killed enough of 'em.
REVENUE. He's a bad man, ain't he?
LUKE. He's no trifler.
REVENUE. I wound up in Jake's place two nights ago, pretending to be drunk. Jake was cursing niggers.
LUKE. He's allus doin' that.
REVENUE. So I elbowed my way up to the bar and announced that I was an expert in the discovery of nigger blood ... could tell a nigger who was 63-64ths white.
LUKE. Ye kin?
REVENUE. No, I can't, but I made them believe it. I then offered to look them over and tell them if they had any nigger blood in them. A few of them sneaked away, but the rest stood for it. I passed them all until I got to Two Gun Jake. I examined his eyeballs, looked at his finger-nails, and said, "You're a nigger."
LUKE. An' what did Jake do?
REVENUE. He turned pale, took me into the back room. He said: "Honest to God, mister, can ye see nigger blood in me?" I said: "Yes." "There's no mistake about it?" "Not a bit," I answered. "Good God," he said, "I always suspected it." Then he pulled out his gun—
LUKE. Eh ... eh?
REVENUE. And shot himself.
LUKE. Jake shot hisself!... Is he dead?
REVENUE. I don't know—I was too disgusted to wait. I wandered around until I thought of you moonshiners ... scrambled around in the mountains until I found your still. I sat on it and waited until you boys showed up, and here I am, and you're going to kill me.
LUKE. [Pause.] Ah, so ye want us to do yer killin' fer ye, do ye?
REVENUE. You're my last hope. If I fail this time I may as well give it up.
LUKE. [Takes out revolver, turns sidewise and secretly removes cartridges from chamber. Rises.] What wuz that noise?
[Lays revolver on table and steps outside of door. Revenue looks at revolver, apparently without interest.
[Luke cautiously enters doorway and expresses surprise at seeing Revenue making no attempt to secure revolver. Feigning excitement, goes to table, picks up gun.
LUKE. I reckon I'm gettin' careless, leavin' a gun layin' around here that-a-way. Didn't you see it?
REVENUE. Yes.
LUKE. Well, why didn't ye grab it?
REVENUE. What for?
LUKE. To git the drop on me.
REVENUE. Can't you understand what I've been telling you, mister? I don't want the drop on you.
LUKE. Well, doggone if I don't believe yer tellin' me the truth. Thought I'd just see what ye'd do. Ye see, I emptied it first.
[Opens up gun.
REVENUE. That wasn't necessary.
LUKE. Well, I reckon ye better git along out o' here, mister.
REVENUE. You don't mean you're weakening?
LUKE. I ain't got no call to do your killin' fer you. If ye hain't sport enough to do it yerself, I reckon ye kin go on sufferin'.
REVENUE. But I told you why I don't want to do it. One murder more or less means nothing to you. You don't care anything about the hereafter.
LUKE. Mebbe I don't, but there ain't no use my takin' any more chances than I have to. And what's more, mister, from what you been tellin' me I reckon there's a charm on you, and I ain't goin' to take no chances goin' agin charms.
REVENUE. So you're going to go back on me?
REVENUE. Well, maybe some of the other boys will be willing. I'll wait till they come.
LUKE. The other boys ain't goin' to see you. You're a leavin' this yer place right now—now! It won't do no good. You may as well go peaceable; ye ain't got no right to expect us to bear yer burdens.
REVENUE. Damn it all! I've spoiled it again.
LUKE. I reckon you better make up yer mind to go on livin'.
REVENUE. That looks like the only way out.
LUKE. Come on, I'll let you ride my horse to town. It's the only one we got, so yu can leave it at Two Gun Jake's, and one o' the boys'll go git it, or I reckon I'll go over myself and see if Jake made a job of it.
REVENUE. I suppose it's no use arguing with you.
LUKE. Not a bit. Come on, you.
REVENUE. Well, I'd like to leave my address so if you ever come to New York you can look me up.
LUKE. 'Tain't likely I'll ever come to New York.
REVENUE. Well, I'll leave it, anyhow. Have you a piece of paper?
LUKE. Paper what you write on? Never had none, mister.
REVENUE. [Looking about room, sees Jim Dunn's picture on wall, goes to it, takes it down.] If you don't mind, I'll put it on the back of Jim Dunn's picture. [Placing picture on table, begins to print.] I'll print it for you, so it'll be easy to read. My address is here, so if you change your mind you can send for me.
LUKE. 'Tain't likely—come on. [Both go to doorway—Luke extends hand, Revenue takes it.] Good-by, mister—cheer up ... there's the horse.
REVENUE. Good-by. [Shaking Luke's hand.
LUKE. Don't be so glum, mister. Lemme hear you laff jist onct before yu go. [Revenue begins to laugh weakly.] Aw, come on, laff out with it hearty. [Revenue laughs louder.] Heartier yit.
[Revenue is now shouting his laughter, and is heard laughing until hoof-beats of his horse die down in the distance.
[Luke watches for a moment, then returns to table—takes a drink—picks up picture—turns it around several times before getting it right—then begins to study. In attempting to make out the name he slowly traces in the air with his index finger a capital "J"—then mutters "J-J-J," then describes a letter "I"—mutters "I-I-I," then a letter "M"—muttering "M-M-M, J-I-M—J-I-M—JIM." In the same way describes and mutters D-U-N-N.
LUKE. Jim Dunn! By God! [He rushes to corner, grabs shot-gun, runs to doorway, raises gun in direction stranger has gone—looks intently—then slowly lets gun fall to his side, and scans the distance with his hand shadowing his eyes—steps inside—slowly puts gun in corner—seats himself at table.] Jim Dunn!—and he begged me to kill 'im!!
MODESTY
BY
PAUL HERVIEU
Modesty is reprinted by special permission of Barrett H. Clark, the translator of the play from the French, and of Samuel French, publisher, New York City. All rights reserved. For permission to perform, address Samuel French, 28-30 West 38th Street, New York City.
Paul Hervieu, one of the foremost of contemporary French dramatists, was born in 1857 at Neuilly, near Paris. Although he prepared for the bar, having passed the examination at twenty, and practised his profession for a few years, he soon set to writing short stories and novels which appeared in the early eighties. The Nippers, in 1890, established his reputation as a dramatist. The remainder of his life was given to writing for the stage. In 1900 he was elected to the French Academy. He died October 15, 1915.
In addition to The Nippers, Hervieu's best-known long plays are The Passing of the Torch, The Labyrinth, and Know Thyself.
Modesty is his well-known one-act play. In subtlety of technic and in delicacy of touch it is one of the finest examples of French one-act plays. Its humor and light, graceful satire are noteworthy.
| PERSONS IN THE PLAY |
| Henriette |
| Jacques |
| Albert |
MODESTY
TIME: The present.
SCENE: A drawing-room. Entrance, C; sofa, chairs, writing-desk. Jacques and Henriette enter C, from dinner. Henriette in ball costume, Jacques in evening dress. They come down C.
HENRIETTE. What is it? Is it so terribly embarrassing?
JACQUES. You can easily guess.
HENRIETTE. You're so long-winded. You make me weary—come to the point.
JACQUES. I'll risk all at a stroke—My dear Henriette, we are cousins. I am unmarried, you—a widow. Will you—will you be my wife?
HENRIETTE. Oh, my dear Jacques, what are you thinking of? We were such good friends! And now you're going to be angry.
JACQUES. Why?
HENRIETTE. Because I'm not going to give you the sort of answer you'd like.
JACQUES. You don't—you don't think I'd make a good husband?
HENRIETTE. Frankly, no.
JACQUES. I don't please you?
HENRIETTE. As a cousin you are charming; as a husband you would be quite impossible.
JACQUES. What have you against me?
HENRIETTE. Nothing that you're to blame for. It is merely the fault of my character; that forces me to refuse you.
JACQUES. But I can't see why you——?
HENRIETTE. [With an air of great importance.] A great change is taking place in the hearts of us women. We have resolved henceforward not to be treated as dolls, but as creatures of reason. As for me, I am most unfortunate, for nobody ever did anything but flatter me. I have always been too self-satisfied, too——
JACQUES. You have always been the most charming of women, the most——
HENRIETTE. Stop! It's exactly that sort of exaggeration that's begun to make me so unsure of myself. I want you to understand once for all, Jacques, I have a conscience, and, furthermore, it is beginning to develop. I have taken some important resolutions.
JACQUES. What do you mean?
HENRIETTE. I have resolved to better myself, to raise my moral and intellectual standards, and to do that I must be guided, criticised——
JACQUES. But you already possess every imaginable quality! You are charitable, cultured, refined——
HENRIETTE. [Annoyed.] Please!
[Turns away and sits on settee. Jacques addresses her from behind chair.
JACQUES. You are discreet, witty——
HENRIETTE. The same old compliments! Everybody tells me that. I want to be preached to, contradicted, scolded——
JACQUES. You could never stand that.
HENRIETTE. Yes, I could. I should be happy to profit by the criticism. It would inspire me.
JACQUES. I'd like to see the man who has the audacity to criticise you to your face——
HENRIETTE. That is enough! I trust you are aware that you are not the person fit to exercise this influence over me?
JACQUES. How could I? Everything about you pleases me. It can never be otherwise.
HENRIETTE. How interesting! That's the very reason I rejected your proposal. I sha'n't marry until I am certain that I shall not be continually pestered with compliments and flattery and submission. The man who marries me shall make it his business to remind me of my shortcomings, to correct all my mistakes. He must give me the assurance that I am continually bettering myself.
JACQUES. And this—husband—have you found him already?
HENRIETTE. What—? Oh, who knows?
JACQUES. Perhaps it's—Albert?
HENRIETTE. Perhaps it is—what of it?
JACQUES. Really!
HENRIETTE. You want me to speak frankly?
JACQUES. Of course.
HENRIETTE. Then—you wouldn't be annoyed if I said something nice about Albert?
[Jacques brings down C. chair which is by desk, facing Henriette.
JACQUES. Why, he's your friend!
HENRIETTE. Oh! So you, too, have a good opinion of him?
JACQUES. Certainly.
HENRIETTE. Well, what would you say of him?
JACQUES. [Trying to be fair.] I'd trust him with money—I've never heard he was a thief.
HENRIETTE. But in other ways?
JACQUES. [Still conscientious.] I believe him to be somewhat—somewhat——
HENRIETTE. Wilful? Headstrong?
JACQUES. Um—uncultured, let us say.
HENRIETTE. As you like—but for my part, I find that that air of his inspires absolute confidence. He knows how to be severe at times——
JACQUES. You're mistaken about that; that's only simple brute force. Go to the Zoo: the ostrich, the boa constrictor, the rhinoceros, all produce the same effect on you as your Albert——
HENRIETTE. My Albert? My Albert? Oh, I don't appropriate him so quickly as all that. His qualifications as censor are not yet entirely demonstrated.
[Jacques rises and approaches Henriette, who maintains an air of cold dignity.
JACQUES. For heaven's sake, Henriette, stop this nonsense!
HENRIETTE. What nonsense?
JACQUES. Tell me you are only playing with me. That you only wanted to put my love to the test! To make me jealous! To torture me! You have succeeded. Stop it, for heaven's sake——
HENRIETTE. My dear friend, I'm very sorry for you. I wish I could help you, but I cannot. I have given you a perfect description of the husband I want, and I am heart-broken that you bear so remote a resemblance to him.
JACQUES. Only promise you will think over your decision.
HENRIETTE. It is better to stop right now.
JACQUES. Don't send me away like this. Don't——
HENRIETTE. I might give you false hopes. I have only to tell you that I shall never consent to be the wife of a man who cannot be the severest of censors.
JACQUES. [Kneeling.] I beg you!
HENRIETTE. No, no, no, Jacques! Spare me that. [A telephone rings in the next room.] There's the 'phone——
JACQUES. Don't go!
[Henriette rises hastily and goes to door. Jacques tries for a moment to stop her.
HENRIETTE. I must go. Go away, I tell you. I'll be furious if I find you here when I come back.
JACQUES. Henriette!
HENRIETTE. [Coming down L. to table.] Not now! Please, Jacques. [Exit.]
JACQUES. I can't leave it that way. I am the husband who will make her happy. But how? That is the question. [Pause.] Ah, Albert!
[Enter Albert. He shakes hands with Jacques.
ALBERT. How are you, rival?
JACQUES. [Gravely.] My friend, we are no longer rivals.
ALBERT. How's that?
JACQUES. I have just had a talk with Henriette; she refuses to marry either one of us.
ALBERT. Did she mention me?
JACQUES. Casually.
[Both sit down, Albert on sofa, Jacques on chair near it.
ALBERT. What did she say?
JACQUES. Oh, I wouldn't repeat it; it wouldn't be friendly.
ALBERT. I must know.
JACQUES. Very well, then—she said that you had not succeeded—nor had I—to find the way to her heart. Between you and me, we've got a high-minded woman to deal with, a philosopher who detests flattery. It seems you have been in the habit of paying her compliments——
ALBERT. I never pay compliments.
JACQUES. Whatever you did, she didn't like it. Moreover—since you want the whole truth—you seem to her a bit—ridiculous.
ALBERT. Pardon?
JACQUES. The very word: ridiculous. She wants a husband who will act as a sort of conscience pilot. Evidently, you haven't appealed to her in that capacity.
ALBERT. Sometimes I used to be rather sharp with her——
JACQUES. You did it too daintily, perhaps; you lacked severity. I'll wager you smiled, instead of scowled—that would have been fatal!
ALBERT. I don't understand.
JACQUES. Henriette is a singular woman; to get her, you have to tell her that you don't like her—her pride demands it. Tell her all her bad qualities, straight from the shoulder.
ALBERT. [Feeling himself equal to the task.] Don't worry about that! [Rises and walks about.] I know women love to be told things straight out.
JACQUES. I'm not the man for that; nor are you, I suppose?
ALBERT. No? Jacques, I'm awfully obliged to you; you've done me a good turn——
JACQUES, Don't mention it——
ALBERT. You want to do me one more favor?
JACQUES. [Devotedly.] Anything you like!
ALBERT. Promise me you'll never let Henrietta know that you told me this?
JACQUES. I promise; but why?
ALBERT. You know she has to understand that my behavior toward her is in character. Natural, you see.
JACQUES. Oh, you're going at it strenuously.
ALBERT. I am.
JACQUES. Your decision honors you.
ALBERT. Let's not have Henriette find us together. Would you mind disappearing?
JACQUES. With pleasure. I'll look in later and get the news.
[Jacques rises.
ALBERT. Thanks, Jacques.
JACQUES. Good-by, Albert.
[Exits after shaking hands cordially with Albert.
HENRIETTE. [Re-entering as Albert assumes a rather severe attitude.] How are you? [Pause.] Have you seen Jacques?
ALBERT. [With a determined air.] No, Henriette. Thank God!
HENRIETTE. Why?
ALBERT. Because it pains me to see men in your presence whom you care nothing for.
HENRIETTE. [Delighted.] You don't like that?
[Sitting down on sofa.
ALBERT. No, I don't. And I'd like to tell you——
HENRIETTE. About my relations with Jacques?
ALBERT. Oh, he's not the only one.
HENRIETTE. Heaps of others, I suppose?
ALBERT. [Sits on chair near sofa.] You suppose correctly; heaps.
HENRIETTE. Really?
ALBERT. You are a coquette.
HENRIETTE. You think so?
ALBERT. I am positive.
HENRIETTE. I suppose I displease you in other ways, too?
ALBERT. In a great many other ways.
HENRIETTE. [Really delighted.] How confidently you say that!
ALBERT. So much the worse if you don't like it!
HENRIETTE. Quite the contrary, my dear Albert; you can't imagine how you please me when you talk like that. It's perfectly adorable.
ALBERT. It makes very little difference to me whether I please you or not. I speak according to my temperament. Perhaps it is a bit authoritative, but I can't help that.
HENRIETTE. You are superb.
ALBERT. Oh, no. I'm just myself.
HENRIETTE. Oh, if you were only the——
ALBERT. I haven't the slightest idea what you were about to say, but I'll guarantee that there's not a more inflexible temper than mine in Paris.
HENRIETTE. I can easily believe it. [Pause.] Now tell me in what way you think I'm coquettish.
[Sitting on edge of sofa in an interested attitude. Albert takes out cigarette, lights and smokes it.
ALBERT. That's easy; for instance, when you go to the theatre, to a reception, to the races. As soon as you arrive the men flock about in dozens; those who don't know you come to be introduced. You're the talking-stock of society. Now I should be greatly obliged if you would tell me to what you attribute this notoriety?
HENRIETTE. [Modestly.] Well, I should attribute it to the fact that I am—agreeable, and pleasant——
ALBERT. There are many women no less so.
HENRIETTE. [Summoning up all her modesty to reply.] You force me to recognize the fact——
ALBERT. And I know many women fully as pleasant as you who don't flaunt their favors in the face of everybody; they preserve some semblance of dignity, a certain air of aloof distinction that it would do you no harm to acquire.
HENRIETTE. [With a gratitude that is conscious of its bounds.] Thanks, thanks so much. [Drawing back to a corner of the sofa.] I am deeply obliged to you——
ALBERT. Not at all.
HENRIETTE. In the future I shall try to behave more decorously.
ALBERT. Another thing——
HENRIETTE. [The first signs of impatience begin to appear.] What? Another thing to criticise?
ALBERT. A thousand! [Settling himself comfortably.
HENRIETTE. Well, hurry up.
ALBERT. You must rid yourself of your excessive and ridiculous school-girl sentimentality.
HENRIETTE. I wonder just on what you base your statement. Would you oblige me so far as to explain that?
ALBERT. With pleasure. I remember one day in the country you were in tears because a poor little mouse had fallen into the claws of a wretched cat; two minutes later you were sobbing because the poor cat choked in swallowing the wretched little mouse.
HENRIETTE. That was only my kindness to dumb animals. Is it wrong to be kind to dumb animals?
[She is about to rise when Albert stops her with a gesture.
ALBERT. That would be of no consequence, if it weren't that you were of so contradictory a nature that you engage in the emptiest, most frivolous conversations, the most——
HENRIETTE. [Slightly disdainful.] Ah, you are going too far! You make me doubt your power of analysis. I am interested only in noble and high things——
ALBERT. And yet as soon as the conversation takes a serious turn, it's appalling to see you; you yawn and look bored to extinction.
HENRIETTE. There you are right—partly.
ALBERT. You see!
HENRIETTE. [Sharp and even antagonistic.] Yes, I have that unfortunate gift of understanding things before people have finished explaining them. While the others are waiting for the explanation, I can't wait, and I fly on miles ahead——
ALBERT. Hm—that sounds probable; I sha'n't say anything more about that just now. But while I'm on the subject, I have more than once noticed that you are guilty of the worst vice woman ever possessed——
HENRIETTE. And what, if you please?
ALBERT. Vanity.
HENRIETTE. I vain? Oh, you're going too far!
ALBERT. [Unruffled.] Not a word! Every time I tell you a fault, you twist it round to your own advantage. Whereas you are really worse——
HENRIETTE. [Rising and gathering her skirts about her with virtuous indignation.] You are rude! I suppose you would find fault with me if I considered myself more polite than the person whom I have the honor to address?
ALBERT. I hope you don't intend that remark as personal.
[She crosses to the other side of the stage and sits down. Albert rises and goes up to her.
ALBERT. Henriette! No! [Laughing.] I see your trick.
HENRIETTE. What do you mean?
ALBERT. You can't deceive me by pretending to be angry. You wanted to see whether I could withstand your temper. Let us now proceed to the next chapter: your manner of dressing.
HENRIETTE. [Now really outraged.] My manner of dressing? You dare!
[Henriette crosses L. Front, Albert following her.
ALBERT. Yes, that will be enough for to-day——
HENRIETTE. And then you'll begin again to-morrow!
ALBERT. Yes.
HENRIETTE. And do you think for one minute that I'll listen to you while you insult me to my face? You are the vain one, to think you can come to that! You are the frivolous one, you are the——
ALBERT. [Slightly perturbed.] Be careful what you say!
HENRIETTE. I'll take care of that. Let me tell you that you are a detestable cynic. You are disgustingly personal; always dwelling on details, on the least——
ALBERT. Which is as much as calling me a fool?
HENRIETTE. Just about. You would be if you didn't read your morning paper regularly; so regularly that I know in advance exactly what you are going to say to me during the day.
ALBERT. Why not call me a parrot?
HENRIETTE. That would flatter you, for you don't speak as well as a parrot; a parrot's memory never gets clouded, a parrot has at least the common politeness to——
ALBERT. [Between his teeth.] I won't stand for this. I wonder how you could have endured me so long if you thought me such a fool.
HENRIETTE. I believed you harmless.
ALBERT. Are you aware that you have wounded me cruelly?
HENRIETTE. You have wounded me. Thank heaven, though, we had this discussion! Now I'll know how to conduct myself toward you in the future.
ALBERT. Thank heaven for the same thing! It was high time! I grieve to think that only last night I had fully made up my mind to ask you to be my wife!
HENRIETTE. My dear friend, if you ever do so, I shall show you the door immediately.
[Enter Jacques hurriedly. Henriette runs to him as for protection.
JACQUES. What's all this noise? What's the matter?
HENRIETTE. Oh, Jacques—I'm so glad you've come.
ALBERT. Just in time! You put an end to our pleasant little tête-à-tête.
JACQUES. But what's happened?
HENRIETTE. Well, monsieur here——
ALBERT. No, it was mademoiselle who——
[Henriette and Albert each take an arm of Jacques and bring him down-stage C. His attention is constantly shifting from one to the other, as they address him in turn.
HENRIETTE. Just think, Jacques——
ALBERT. Jacques, she had the audacity to——
HENRIETTE. Stop! I'm going to tell him first——
JACQUES. You're both too excited to explain anything. Albert, you take a little stroll and cool off.
ALBERT. [Retreating toward the door.] Charmed.
HENRIETTE. Then I can draw a free breath.
JACQUES. [To Albert.] I'll fix up things while you're away.
ALBERT. [To both.] I won't give in.
HENRIETTE. Neither will I.
JACQUES. Tut, tut!
ALBERT. Good-day, mademoiselle.
JACQUES. Good-day, Albert.
[Exit Albert.
HENRIETTE. Thank goodness, we're rid of him!
JACQUES. [Sympathetically.] Tell me all about it.
HENRIETTE. [Sits down on sofa, inviting Jacques by a gesture to do the same. He sits beside her.] That man invented the most abominable things about me; criticised me to my face!
JACQUES. He did!
HENRIETTE. It was so ridiculous—makes me sick to think about it.
JACQUES. My dear Henriette, don't think about it. Albert must have behaved like a brute to make you so angry.
HENRIETTE. Yes, don't you think so? You think I'm right?
JACQUES. [Loyally.] Of course I do.
HENRIETTE. [At her ease once more.] You encourage me, Jacques.
JACQUES. When I saw you were angry I said to myself at once: "Henriette is right."
HENRIETTE. Really?
JACQUES. I said it because I knew you were by nature peace-loving and considerate——
HENRIETTE. [With profound conviction.] Well, I think that's the least that could be said of me.
JACQUES. In any event, you are always tactful, you always——
HENRIETTE. You know me, Jacques!
JACQUES. I flatter myself. I felt instinctively you couldn't be wrong. You have always been so admirably poised, so unfailingly considerate.
HENRIETTE. [With perfect simplicity.] Frankly now, do I ever lose my temper with you?
JACQUES. [In good faith.] Never. With me you are always patient, gracious, modest——
HENRIETTE. But I remember, a little while ago, I made you suffer——
JACQUES. Yes, I was unhappy. But "if after every storm comes such a calm"——
HENRIETTE. It was all my fault. You understand me; you are truly a friend.
JACQUES. Nothing more?
[Rising, but standing near her. Henriette blushingly looks down at her shoe.
HENRIETTE. Oh——
JACQUES. Prove that you mean that sincerely.
HENRIETTE. What have I to do? [Same business.
JACQUES. Place your future in my hands; marry me.
HENRIETTE. [With downcast eyes.] I was just thinking about it. [Same business, but with repressed joy.
JACQUES. [About to embrace her.] Ah!
HENRIETTE. Wait!
[Complete metamorphosis. Her joy is still present, but it has taken on a playful, serio-comic aspect. Rising and putting her hand in his.
JACQUES. Why do you hesitate?
HENRIETTE. Jacques, do you remember what I told you not long ago?
JACQUES. Yes.
HENRIETTE. In spite of that, are you quite sure that I am not vain or coquettish?
JACQUES. I am certain.
HENRIETTE. You are also firmly resolved to be my moral guide, critic, helper?
JACQUES. [Stolid as ever.] I am.
HENRIETTE. I make one condition.
JACQUES. Name it.
HENRIETTE. On your word of honor?
JACQUES. On my word of honor. Tell me.
HENRIETTE. Will you swear to tell me, without pity, every time you find me at fault? Swear.
JACQUES. I swear.
HENRIETTE. Then you have my promise.
JACQUES. [As they embrace.] Dearest!
CURTAIN
THE DEACON'S HAT
BY
JEANNETTE MARKS
The Deacon's Hat is reprinted by special arrangement with Miss Jeannette Marks and with Little, Brown and Company, Boston, the publisher of Three Welsh Plays, from which this play is taken. All rights reserved. For permission to perform address the author in care of the publisher.
Jeannette Marks, well-known essayist, poet, and playwright, was born in 1875 at Chattanooga, Tennessee, but spent her early life in Philadelphia, where her father, the late William Dennis Marks, was professor of dynamics in the University of Pennsylvania and president of the Edison Electric Light Company. She attended school in Dresden, and in 1900 was graduated from Wellesley College. She obtained her master's degree from Wellesley in 1903. Her graduate studies were continued at the Bodleian Library and at the British Museum. Since 1901 she has been on the staff of the English Department at Mount Holyoke College, South Hadley, Massachusetts. Her chief courses are Nineteenth Century Poetry and Play-writing.
Miss Marks's interest in Welsh life is the result of her hiking several summers among the Welsh hills and valleys. She became intimately acquainted with Welsh peasant life. It is said that Edward Knobloch, well-known dramatist, on one of her homeward voyages from one of her summer outings in Wales, pointed out to Miss Marks the dramatic possibilities of the material she had thus acquired. Three Welsh Plays was the result. Two of these plays, without the author's knowledge, were entered in 1911 for the Welsh National Theatre prize contest. To her credit, the plays won the prize. The complete volume appeared in 1917.
The Deacon's Hat is a fine study of the life of the common folk of Wales.
THE DEACON'S HAT[I]
SCENE: A little shop called Y Gegin (The Kitchen), in Bala, North Wales.
TIME: Monday morning at half-past eleven.
To the right is the counter of Y Gegin, set out with a bountiful supply of groceries; behind the counter are grocery-stocked shelves. Upon the counter is a good-sized enamel-ware bowl filled with herring pickled in brine and leek, also a basket of fresh eggs, a jar of pickles, some packages of codfish, a half dozen loaves of bread, a big round cheese, several pounds of butter wrapped in print paper, etc., etc.
To the left are a cheerful glowing fire and ingle.
At the back center is a door; between the door and the fire stands a grandfather's clock with a shining brass face. Between the clock and the door, back centre, is a small tridarn [Welsh dresser] and a chair. From the rafters hang flitches of bacon, hams, bunches of onions, herbs, etc. On either side of the fireplace are latticed windows, showing a glimpse of the street. Before the fire is a small, round, three-legged table; beside it a tall, straight-backed chair.
Between the table and left is a door which is the entrance to Y Gegin and from which, on a metal elbow, dangles a large bell.
At rise of curtain Hugh Williams enters at back centre, absorbed in reading a volume of Welsh theological essays. He is dressed in a brightly striped vest, a short, heavy cloth coat, cut away in front and with lapels trimmed with brass buttons, swallowtails behind, also trimmed with brass buttons, stock wound around his neck, and tight trousers down to his boot-tops.
Neli Williams, his wife, a comely, capable young woman, busy with her knitting every instant she talks, is clad in her market costume, a scarlet cloak, and a tall black Welsh beaver. Over her arm is an immense basket.
NELI. [Commandingly.] Hughie, put down that book!
HUGH. [Still going on reading.] Haven't I just said a man is his own master, whatever!
NELI. Hughie, ye're to mind the shop while I'm gone!
HUGH. [Patiently.] Yiss, yiss.
NELI. I don't think ye hear a word I am sayin' whatever.
HUGH. Yiss, I hear every word ye're sayin'.
NELI. What is it, then?
HUGH. [Weakly.] 'Tis all about—about—the—the weather whatever!
NELI. Ye've not heard a word, an' ye're plannin' to read that book from cover to cover, I can see.
HUGH. [A little too quickly.] Nay, I have no plans....
[He tucks book away in back coat pocket over-hastily.
NELI. Hugh!
HUGH. [Weakly.] Nay, I have no plans whatever!
NELI. [Reproachfully.] Hugh—ie! 'Twould be the end of sellin' anythin' to anybody if I leave ye with a book whatever! Give me that book!
HUGH. [Obstinately.] Nay, I'll no read the book.
NELI. Give me that book!
HUGH. [Rising a little.] Nay. I say a man is his own master whatever!
NELI. [Finding the book hidden in his coat-tail pocket.] Is he? Well, I'll no leave ye with any masterful temptations to be readin'.
HUGH. Ye've no cause to take this book away from me.
NELI. [Opens book and starts with delight.] 'Tis Deacon Roberts's new book on "The Flamin' Wickedness of Babylon." Where did ye get it?
HUGH. [Reassured by her interest.] He lent it to me this morning.
NELI. [Resolutely.] Well, I will take it away from ye this noon till I am home again whatever!
HUGH. [Sulkily.] Sellin' groceries is not salvation. They sold groceries in Babylon; Deacon Roberts says so.
NELI. [Looking at book with ill-disguised eagerness.] I dunno as anybody ever found salvation by givin' away all he had for nothin'! 'Tis certain Deacon Roberts has not followed that way.
HUGH. [Still sulkily.] A man is his own master, I say.
NELI. [Absent-mindedly, her nose in the book.] Is he? Well, indeed!
HUGH. [Crossly.] Aye, he is. [Pointedly.] An' I was not plannin' to give away the book whatever.
NELI. [Closing volume with a little sigh, as for stolen delights, and speaking hastily.] An' I am not talkin' about acceptin' books, but about butter an' eggs an' cheese an' all the other groceries!
HUGH. Aye, ye'll get no blessin' from such worldliness.
NELI. [Absent-mindedly.] Maybe not, but ye will get a dinner from that unblessed worldliness an' find no fault, I'm thinkin'. [Her hand lingering on the book, which she opens.] But such wonderful theology! An' such eloquence! Such an understandin' of sin! Such glowin' pictures of Babylon!
HUGH. Aye, hot! I tell ye, Neli, there's no man in the parish has such a gift of eloquence as Deacon Roberts or such theology. In all Wales ye'll not find stronger theology than his.
NELI. Ye have no need to tell me that! [Looking for a place in which to hide the book until she returns.] Have I not a deep an' proper admiration for theology? Have I not had one minister an' five deacons an' a revivalist in my family, to say nothin' at all of one composer of hymns?
HUGH. Yiss, yiss. Aye, 'tis a celebrated family. I am no sayin' anythin' against your family.
NELI. Then what?
HUGH. [Pleadingly.] Deacon Roberts has great fire with which to save souls. We're needin' that book on Babylon's wickedness. Give it back to me, Neli!
NELI. Oh, aye! [Looks at husband.] I'm not sayin' but that ye are wicked, Hugh, an' needin' these essays, for ye have no ministers and deacons and hymn composers among your kin.
HUGH. [Triumphantly.] Aye, aye, that's it! That's it! An' the more need have I to read till my nostrils are full of the smoke of—of Babylon.
NELI. [Absent-mindedly tucking book away on shelf as she talks.] Aye, but there has been some smoke about Deacon Roberts's reputation which has come from some fire less far away than Babylon.
HUGH. What smoke?
NELI. [Evasively.] Well, I am thinkin' about my eggs which vanished one week ago to-day. There was no one in that mornin' but Deacon Roberts. Mrs. Jones the Wash had come for her soap an' gone before I filled that basket with eggs.
HUGH. [Watching her covertly, standing on tiptoe and craning his neck as she stows away book.] Yiss, yiss!
NELI. [Slyly.] Ask Deacon Roberts if cats steal eggs whatever?
HUGH. [Repeating.] If cats steal eggs, if cats steal eggs.
NELI. Aye, not if eggs steal cats.
HUGH. [Craning neck.] Yiss, yiss, if eggs steal cats!
NELI. Hugh—ie! Now ye'll never get it correct again! 'Tis if cats steal eggs.
HUGH. [Sulkily.] Well, I'm no carin' about cats with heaven starin' me in the face.
[Neli turns about swiftly with the quick, sudden motions characteristic of her, and Hugh shrinks into himself. She shakes her finger at him and goes over to kiss him.
NELI. Hughie, lad, ye're not to touch the book while I am gone to market.
HUGH. Nay, nay, certainly not!
NELI. And ye're to be on the lookout for Mrs. Jones the Wash, for Mrs. Jenkins the Midwife—Jane Elin has a new baby, an' it'll be needin' somethin'. [Pointing to counter.] Here is everythin' plainly marked. Ye're no to undersell or give away anythin.' D'ye hear?
HUGH. Aye, I hear!
NELI. An' remember where the tobacco is, for this is the day Tom Morris the Sheep comes in.
HUGH. Aye, in the glass jar.
NELI. Good-by. I will return soon.
HUGH. [Indifferently.] Good-by.
[Neli leaves by door at back centre. Immediately Hugh steals toward the shelves where she hid the book.
NELI. [Thrusting head back in.] Mind, Hughie lad, no readin'—nay, not even any theology!
HUGH. [Stepping quickly away from shelves and repeating parrotlike.] Nay, nay, no readin', no sermons, not even any theology!
NELI. An' no salvation till I come back!
[She smiles, withdraws head, and is gone. Hugh starts forward, collides clumsily with the counter in his eagerness, knocks the basket of eggs with his elbow, upsetting it. Several eggs break. He shakes his head ruefully at the mess and as ruefully at the counter. He finds book and hugs it greedily to him.
HUGH. [Mournfully.] Look at this! What did I say but that there was no salvation sellin' groceries! If Neli could but see those eggs! [He goes behind counter and gets out a box of eggs, from which he refills the basket. The broken eggs he leaves untouched upon the floor. He opens his volume of sermons and seats himself by a little three-legged table near the fire. He sighs in happy anticipation. Hearing a slight noise, he looks suspiciously at door, gets up, tiptoes across floor to street door, and locks it quietly. An expression of triumph overspreads his face.] Da, if customers come, they will think no one is at home whatever, an' I can read on! [He seats himself at little three-legged table, opens volume, smooths over its pages lovingly, and begins to read slowly and halting over syllables.] The smoke of Ba-by-lon was hot—scorchin' hot. An' 'twas filled with Ba-ba-ba-baal stones, slimy an' scorchin' hot also——
[There is the sound of feet coming up the shop steps, followed by a hand trying the door-knob. Hugh looks up from his sermons, an expression of innocent triumph on his face. The door-knob is tried again, the door rattled.
[Then some one rings the shop door-bell.
MRS. JONES THE WASH. [Calling.] Mrs. Williams, mum, have ye any soap? [No answer. Calling.] Mrs. Williams! Mrs. Williams!
[Hugh nods approvingly and lifts his volume to read.
MRS. JONES THE WASH. Where are they all whatever? I will just look in at the window, [A large, kindly face is anxiously flattened against the window. At that Hugh drops in consternation under the three-legged table.] Uch, what's that shadow skippin' under the table? No doubt a rat after the groceries. Mrs. Williams, mum, Mrs. Williams! Well, indeed, they're out.
[She pounds once more on the door with a heavy fist, rings, and then goes. Suddenly the door back centre opens, and Neli Williams appears.
NELI. [She does not see Hugh and peers around for him.] What is all that bell-ringing about?
[Hugh crawls out from under the table.
NELI. [Amazed, and whispering to herself.] Under the table!
HUGH. [Rising and putting up his hand as a sign for her to keep silent.] Nay, 'twas Mrs. Jones the Wash come to buy her soap whatever!
NELI. Aye, well, why didn't she come in whatever?
HUGH. [Whispering.] I locked the door, Neli, so I could finish readin' those essays whatever! An' then she looked in at the window, an' I had to get under the table.
NELI. [Indignantly.] Locked the door against a customer, an' after all I said! An' crawled under a table! Hugh Williams, your wits are goin' quite on the downfall!
HUGH. [In a whisper.] Aye, but Neli, those essays—an' I thought ye had gone to market.
NELI. I had started, but I came back for my purse. Put down that book!
HUGH. Aye, but, Neli——
NELI. [Angrily.] Much less of heaven an' much more of earth is what I need in a husband! Ye have sent away a customer; very like Mrs. Jones the Wash after soap will go elsewhere.
HUGH. Aye, but Neli....
[Steps are heard approaching.
NELI. Get up! Some one is coming.
[Hugh gets up very unwillingly.
HUGH. [Whispering still.] Aye, but Neli....
NELI. [Angrily.] Put down that book, I say! [She crunches over some eggshells.] Eggs? Broken?
HUGH. [Putting down book.] Aye, Neli, my elbow an' the eggs in Babylon....
NELI. [Sarcastically.] Aye, I see beasts in Babylon here together—doleful creatures smearin' one an' sixpence worth of eggs all over the floor. An' a half-dozen eggs gone last week. [Wiping up eggs.] An' I'm to suppose Babylon had something to do with that half-dozen eggs, too? They were put in the basket after Mrs. Jones the Wash had left whatever, an' before Deacon Roberts came.
HUGH. Neli, I did not say——
NELI. [Still angrily.] Well, indeed, unlock that door!
HUGH. [Going to unlock door.] But, Neli....
NELI. [Disappearing through door back centre.] Not a word! Your mind has gone quite on the downfall—lockin' doors against your own bread and butter an' soap.
HUGH. [Unlocking door sullenly.] But, Neli, salvation an' soap....
NELI. [Snappily.] Salvation an' soap are as thick as thieves.
HUGH. But, Neli, a man is his own master.
NELI. Yiss, I see he is!
[Neli goes out, slamming door noisily.
HUGH. Dear anwyl, she seems angry!
[Hugh opens street door left just as Neli goes out through kitchen, by door back centre. Deacon Roberts enters the door Hugh has unlocked. He looks at Hugh, smiles, and goes over to counter in a businesslike way. He is a stout man, dressed in a black broadcloth cutaway coat, tight trousers, a drab vest, high collar and stock, woollen gloves, a muffler wound about his neck and face, and a tall Welsh beaver hat. Under his arm he carries a book.
DEACON ROBERTS. [Speaking affectionately, pulling off his gloves, putting down book on counter, and beginning eagerly to touch the various groceries.] Essays on Babylon to-day, Hughie lad?
HUGH. [Looking about for Neli and speaking fretfully.] Nay.
DEACON ROBERTS. [Unwinding his muffler.] Ye look as if ye had been in spiritual struggle.
HUGH. [Drearily.] I have.
DEACON ROBERTS. Well, indeed, Hughie, 'tis neither the angel nor the archfiend here now, nor for me any struggle except the struggle to both live an' eat well—ho! ho! an' eat well, I say—in Bala. [Laughs jovially.] Ho! ho! not bad, Hughie lad—live an' eat in Bala!
HUGH. [Patiently.] With that muffler around your head, deacon, ye are enough to frighten the devil out of Babylon.
DEACON ROBERTS. [Unwinding last lap of muffler.] Yiss, yiss, Hughie lad. But I dunno but ye will understand better if I call myself, let us say the angel with the sickle—ho! ho!—not the angel of fire, Hughie, but the angel with the sharp sickle gatherin' the clusters of the vines of the earth. [Sudden change of subject.] Where is Neli?
HUGH. [Vacantly.] I dunno—yiss, yiss, at market.
DEACON ROBERTS. [Chuckling.] Dear, dear, at market—a fine day for marketing! An' my essays on the Flamin' Wickedness of Babylon, Hughie lad, how are they? Have ye finished them?
HUGH. Nay, not yet.
DEACON ROBERTS. [Looking over counter, touching one article after another as he mentions it.] Pickled herrin'—grand but wet! Pickles—dear me, yiss, Neli's—an' good! Butter from Hafod-y-Porth—sweet as honey! [He picks up a pat of butter and sniffs it, drawing in his breath loudly. He smiles with delight and lays down the butter. He takes off his hat and dusts it out inside. He puts his hat back on his head, smiles, chuckles, picks up butter, taps it thoughtfully with two fingers, smells it and puts down the pat lingeringly. He lifts up a loaf of Neli Williams's bread, glancing from it to the butter.] Bread! Dear me! [His eyes glance on to codfish.] American codfish [picks up package and smacks his lips loudly], dear anwyl, with potatoes—[reads] "Gloucester." [Reaches out and touches eggs affectionately.] Eggs—are they fresh, Hugh?
HUGH. [Dreamily.] I dunno. But I broke some of them. They might be!
[Looks at floor.
DEACON ROBERTS. Were they fresh?
DEACON ROBERTS. [Sharply.] Dunno? About eggs?
[Picks up egg.
HUGH. [Troubled.] Neli's hens laid them.
DEACON ROBERTS. I see, Neli's hens laid 'em, an' you broke 'em! Admirable arrangement! [Putting down the egg and turning toward the cheese, speaks on impatiently.] Well, indeed then, were the hens fresh?
HUGH. [More cheerful.] Yiss, I think. Last week the basket was grand an' full of fresh eggs, but they disappeared, aye, they did indeed.
DEACON ROBERTS. [Starts.] Where did they go to?
HUGH. [Injured.] How can I say? I was here, an' I would have told her if I had seen, but I did not whatever. Neli reproves me for too great attention to visions an' too little to the groceries.
DEACON ROBERTS. [Chuckling.] Aye, Hughie lad, such is married life! Let a man marry his thoughts or a wife, for he cannot have both. I have chosen my thoughts.
HUGH. But the cat——
DEACON ROBERTS. [Briskly.] Aye, a man can keep a cat without risk.
HUGH. Nay, nay, I mean the cat took 'em. I dunno. That's it— [Hugh clutches his head, trying to recall something.] Uch, that's it! Neli told me to remember to ask ye if ye thought eggs could steal a cat whatever.
DEACON ROBERTS. [Puzzled.] Eggs steal a cat?
HUGH. [Troubled.] Nay, nay, cats steal an egg?
DEACON ROBERTS. [Startled and looking suspiciously at Hugh.] Cats? What cats?
HUGH. [With solemnity.] Aye, but I told Neli I'm no carin' about cats with heaven starin' me in the face. Deacon Roberts, those essays are grand an' wonderful.
DEACON ROBERTS. [Relieved.] Yiss, yiss! Hughie lad, theology is a means to salvation an' sometimes to other ends, too. But there's no money in theology. [Sighs.] And a man must live! [Points to corroded dish of pickled herring, sniffing greedily.] Dear people, what beautiful herrin'! [Wipes moisture away from corners of his mouth and picks up a fish from dish, holding it, dripping, by tail.] Pickled?
HUGH. [Looking at corroded dish.] Tuppence.
DEACON ROBERTS. [Shortly.] Dear to-day.
HUGH. [Eyeing dish dreamily.] I dunno. Neli——
DEACON ROBERTS. [Eyes glittering, cutting straight through sentence and pointing to cheese.] Cheese?
HUGH. A shillin', I'm thinkin'.
DEACON ROBERTS. A shillin', Hugh? [Deacon Roberts lifts knife and drops it lightly on edge of cheese. The leaf it pares off he picks up and thrusts into his mouth, greedily pushing in the crumbs. Then he pauses and looks slyly at Hugh.] Was it sixpence ye said, Hugh?
HUGH. [Gazing toward the fire and the volume of essays.] Yiss, sixpence, I think.
DEACON ROBERTS. [Sarcastically.] Still too dear, Hugh!
HUGH. [Sighing.] I dunno, it might be dear. [With more animation.] Deacon, when Babylon fell——
DEACON ROBERTS. [Wipes his mouth and, interrupting Hugh, speaks decisively.] No cheese. [He removes his tall Welsh beaver hat, mops off his bald white head, and, pointing up to the shelves, begins to dust out inside of hatband again, but with a deliberate air of preparation.] What is that up there, Hughie lad?
HUGH. [Trying to follow the direction of the big red wavering forefinger.] Ye mean that? A B C In-fants' Food, I think.
DEACON ROBERTS. [Giving his hat a final wipe.] Nay, nay, not for me, Hughie lad! Come, come, brush the smoke of burnin' Babylon from your eyes! In a minute I must be goin' back to my study, whatever. An' I have need of food!
[Hugh takes a chair and mounts it. The Deacon looks at Hugh's back, puts his hand down on the counter, and picks up an egg from the basket. He holds it to the light and squints through it to see whether it is fresh. Then he turns it lovingly over in his fat palm, makes a dexterous backward motion and slides it into his coat-tail pocket. This he follows with two more eggs for same coat-tail and three for other—in all half a dozen.
HUGH. [Dreamily pointing to tin.] Is it Yankee corn?
DEACON ROBERTS. [To Hugh's back, and slipping in second egg.] Nay, nay, not that, Hughie lad, that tin above!
HUGH. [Absent-mindedly touching tin.] Is it ox tongue?
DEACON ROBERTS. [Slipping in third egg and not even looking up.] Ox tongue, lad? Nay, nuthin' so large as that.
HUGH. [Dreamily reaching up higher.] American condensed m-m-milk? Yiss, that's what it is.
DEACON ROBERTS. [Slipping in fourth egg.] Condensed milk, Hughie? Back to infants' food again.
HUGH. [Stretching up almost to his full length and holding down tin with tips of long white finger.] Kippert herrin'? Is it that?
DEACON ROBERTS. [Slipping in fifth egg.] Nay, nay, a little further up, if you please.
HUGH. [Gasping, but still reaching up and reading.] Uto—U-to-pi-an Tinned Sausage. Is it that?
DEACON ROBERTS. [Slipping in sixth egg with an air of finality and triumph, and lifting his hat from the counter.] Nay, nay, not that, Hughie lad. Why do ye not begin by askin' me what I want? Ye've no gift for sellin' groceries whatever.
HUGH. [Surprised.] Did I not ask ye?
DEACON ROBERTS. Nay.
HUGH. What would Neli say whatever? She would never forgive me.
DEACON ROBERTS. [Amiably.] Well, I forgive ye, Hughie lad. 'Tis a relish I'm needin'!
HUGH. [Relieved.] Well, indeed, a relish! We have relishes on that shelf above, I think. [Reaches up but pauses helplessly.] I must tell Neli that these shelves are not straight.
[Dizzy and clinging to the shelves, his back to the Deacon.
DEACON ROBERTS. [Picking up a pound of butter wrapped in print paper.] Is it up there?
HUGH. No, I think, an' the shelves are not fast whatever. I must tell Neli. They go up like wings. [Trying to reach to a bottle just above him.] Was it English or American?
DEACON ROBERTS. [Putting the pound of butter in his hat and his hat on his head.] American, Hughie lad.
[At that instant there is a noise from the inner kitchen, and Neli Williams opens the door. The Deacon turns, and their glances meet and cross. Each understands perfectly what the other has seen. Neli Williams has thrown off her red cloak and taken off her Welsh beaver hat. She is dressed in a short full skirt, white stockings, clogs on her feet, a striped apron, tight bodice, fichu, short sleeves, and white cap on dark hair.
NELI. [Slowly.] Uch! The deacon has what he came for whatever!
HUGH. [Turning to contradict his wife.] Nay, Neli— [Losing his balance on chair, tumbles off, and, with arm flung out to save himself, strikes dish of pickled herring. The herring and brine fly in every direction, spraying the Deacon and Hughie; the bowl spins madly, dipping and revolving on the floor. For a few seconds nothing is audible except the bowl revolving on the flagstones and Hughie picking himself up and sneezing behind the counter.] Achoo! Achoo! Dear me, Neli—Achoo!
NELI. [Going quickly to husband and beginning to wipe brine from husband's forehead and cheeks; at the same time has her back to the Deacon and forming soundless letters with her lips, she jerks her head toward the Deacon.] B-U-T-T-E-R!
HUGH. [Drearily.] Better? Aye, I'm better. It did not hurt me whatever.
NELI. [Jerking head backwards toward Deacon Roberts and again forming letters with lips.] B-U-T-T-E-R!
HUGH. What, water? Nay, I don't want any water.
DEACON ROBERTS. [Coughing, ill at ease and glancing suspiciously at bowl that has come to rest near his leg.] Ahem! 'Tis cold here, Mrs. Williams, mum, an' I must be movin' on.
NELI. [Savagely to Deacon.] Stay where ye are whatever!
DEACON ROBERTS. [Unaccustomed to being spoken to this way by a woman.] Well, indeed, mum, I could stay, but I'm thinkin' 'tis cold an'—I'd better go.
NELI. [Again savagely.] Nay, stay! Stay for—for what ye came for whatever!
[Neli looks challengingly at the Deacon. Then she goes on wiping brine carefully from husband's hair and from behind his ears. The Deacon coughs and pushes bowl away with the toe of his boot.
DEACON ROBERTS. [Smiling.] 'Tis unnecessary to remain then, mum.
NELI. [To Hugh.] What did he get?
HUGH. [Sneezing.] N—n—Achoo!—nothin'!
DEACON ROBERTS. [With sudden interest, looking at the floor.] Well, indeed!
NELI. [Suspiciously.] What is it?
[He reaches down with difficulty to a small thick puddle on the floor just beneath his left coat-tail. He aims a red forefinger at it, lifts himself, and sucks fingertip.
DEACON ROBERTS. [Smiling.] Ahem, Mrs. Williams, mum, 'tis excellent herrin' brine! [From the basket on the counter he picks up an egg, which he tosses lightly and replaces in basket.] A beautiful fresh egg, Mrs. Williams, mum. I must be steppin' homewards.
HUGH. [Struggling to speak just as Neli reaches his nose, wringing it vigorously at she wipes it.] Aye, but Neli, I was just tellin' ye when I fell that I could not find the deacon's relish—uch, achoo! achoo!
DEACON ROBERTS. [With finality, tossing the egg in air, catching it and putting it back in basket.] Well, indeed, mum, I must be steppin' homewards now.
[Neli's glance rests on fire burning on other side of room. She puts down wet cloth. She turns squarely on the Deacon.
NELI. What is your haste, Mr. Roberts? Please to go to the fire an' wait! I can find the relish.
DEACON ROBERTS. [Hastily.] Nay, nay, mum. I have no need any more—[Coughs.] Excellent herrin' brine.
[Goes toward door.
NELI. [To Hugh.] Take him to the fire, Hugh. 'Tis a cold day whatever! [Insinuatingly to Deacon.] Have ye a reason for wantin' to go, Mr. Roberts?
DEACON ROBERTS. [Going.] Nay, nay, mum, none at all! But, I must not trouble ye. 'Tis too much to ask, an' I have no time to spare an'——
NELI. [Interrupting and not without acerbity.] Indeed, Mr. Roberts, sellin' what we can is our profit. [To Hugh, who obediently takes Deacon by arm and pulls him toward fire.] Take him to the fire, lad. [To Deacon.] What kind of a relish was it, did ye say, Mr. Roberts?
DEACON ROBERTS. [Having a tug of war with Hugh.] 'Tis an Indian relish, mum, but I cannot wait.
HUGH. [Pulling harder.] American, ye said.
DEACON ROBERTS. [Hastily.] Yiss, yiss, American Indian relish, that is.
NELI. Tut, 'tis our specialty, these American Indian relishes! We have several. Sit down by the fire while I look them up. [Wickedly.] As ye said. Mr. Roberts, 'tis cold here this morning.
DEACON ROBERTS. There, Hughie lad, I must not trouble ye. [Looks at clock.] 'Tis ten minutes before twelve, an' my dinner will be ready at twelve.
[Pulls harder.
NELI. [To Hugh.] Keep him by the fire, lad.
DEACON ROBERTS. There, Hughie lad, let me go!
[But Hugh holds on, and the Deacon's coat begins to come off.
NELI. [Sarcastically.] The relish—American Indian, ye said, I think—will make your dinner taste fine and grand!
DEACON ROBERTS. [Finding that without leaving his coat behind he is unable to go, he glowers at Hugh and speaks sweetly to Neli.] 'Tis a beautiful clock, Mrs. Williams, mum. But I haven't five minutes to spare.
NELI. [Keeping a sharp lookout on the rim of the Deacon's hat.] Well, indeed, I can find the relish in just one minute. An' ye'll have abundance of time left.
DEACON ROBERTS. [Trapped, and gazing at clock with fine air of indifference.] 'Tis a clever, shinin' lookin' clock whatever, Mrs. Williams, mum.
NELI. Have ye any recollection of the name of the maker of the relish, Mr. Roberts?
DEACON ROBERTS. [Putting his hands behind him anxiously and parting his freighted coat-tails with care; then, revolving, presenting his back and one large, well-set, bright-colored patch to the fire.] Nay, I have forgotten it, Mrs. Williams, mum.
NELI. Too bad, but I'm sure to find it. [She mounts upon chair. At this moment the shop door-bell rings violently, and there enters Mrs. Jones the Wash, very fat and very jolly. She is dressed in short skirt, very full, clogs on her feet, a bodice made of striped Welsh flannel, a shabby kerchief, a cap on her head, and over this a shawl. Neli turns her head a little.] Aye, Mrs. Jones the Wash, in a minute, if you please. Sit down until I find Deacon Roberts's relish whatever.
MRS. JONES THE WASH. [Sits down on chair by door back centre and folds her hands over her stomach.] Yiss, yiss, mum, thank you. I've come for soap. I came once before, but no one was in.
NELI. Too bad!
MRS. JONES THE WASH. An' I looked in at the window an' saw nothin' but a skippin' shadow looked like a rat. Have ye any rats, Mrs. Williams, mum, do ye think?
NELI. Have I any rats? Well, indeed, 'tis that I'm wantin' to know, Mrs. Jones the Wash!
MRS. JONES THE WASH. Well, I came back, for the water is eatin' the soap to-day as if 'twere sweets—aye, 'tis a very meltin' day for soap! [Laughs.
DEACON ROBERTS. 'Tis sweet to be clean, Mrs. Jones the Wash.
MRS. JONES THE WASH. [Laughing.] Yiss, yiss, Deacon Roberts, there has many a chapel been built out of a washtub, an' many a prayer risen up from the suds!
DEACON ROBERTS. [Solemnly.] Aye, Mrs. Jones the Wash, 'tis holy work, washin' is very holy work.
MRS. JONES THE WASH. [Touched.] Yiss, yiss, I thank ye, Deacon Roberts.
DEACON ROBERTS. Well, I must be steppin' homeward now.
NELI. [Firmly.] Nay, Mr. Roberts. I am searchin' on the shelf where I think that American Indian relish is. Ye act as if ye had some cause to hurry, Mr. Roberts. Wait a moment, if you please.
DEACON ROBERTS. Well, indeed, but I am keepin' Mrs. Jones the Wash waitin'!
NELI. [To Mrs. Jones.] Ye are in no haste?
MRS. JONES THE WASH. [Thoroughly comfortable and happy.] Nay, mum, no haste at all. I am havin' a rest, an' 'tis grand an' warm here whatever.
NELI. [Maliciously to Deacon.] Does it feel hot by the fire?
DEACON ROBERTS. [Experiencing novel sensations on the crown of his bald head.] Mrs. Williams, mum, 'tis hot in Y Gegin, but as with Llanycil Churchyard, Y Gegin is only the portal to a hotter an' a bigger place where scorchin' flames burn forever an' forever. Proverbs saith, "Hell an' destruction are never full." What, then, shall be the fate of women who have no wisdom, Mrs. Williams, mum?
NELI. [Searching for relish.] Aye, what? Well, indeed, the men must know.
MRS. JONES THE WASH. [Nodding her head appreciatively at Hugh.] Such eloquence, Mr. Williams! Aye, who in chapel has such grand theology as Deacon Roberts!
[She sighs. The bell rings violently again, and Tom Morris the Sheep enters. He is dressed in gaiters, a shepherd's cloak, etc., etc. He carries a crook in his hand. He is a grizzle-haired, rosy-faced old man, raw-boned, strong, and awkward, with a half-earnest, half-foolish look.
NELI. [Looking around.] Aye, Tom Morris the Sheep, come in an' sit down. I am lookin' out an American Indian relish for the deacon.
TOM MORRIS THE SHEEP. Yiss, mum. I am wantin' to buy a little tobacco, mum. 'Tis lonely upon the hillsides with the sheep, whatever.
DEACON ROBERTS. [Hastily.] I must go now, Mrs. Williams, mum, an' ye can wait on Tom Morris.
TOM MORRIS THE SHEEP. Nay, nay, Mr. Roberts, sir, there is no haste.
NELI. [To Tom Morris.] Sit down there by the door, if you please.
[Tom Morris seats himself on other side of door by back centre.
TOM MORRIS THE SHEEP. Yiss, mum. [Touches his forelock to Mrs. Jones the Wash.] A grand day for the clothes, Mrs. Jones, mum.
MRS. JONES THE WASH. Yiss, yiss, an' as I was just sayin' 'tis a meltin' day for the soap!
NELI. [Significantly.] An' perhaps 'tis a meltin' day for somethin' besides soap!
[She looks at Deacon.
HUGH. [Earnestly.] Yiss, yiss, for souls, meltin' for souls, I am hopin'. [Picking up the book from the little three-legged table, and speaking to the Deacon.] They are enlargin' the burial ground in Llanycil Churchyard—achoo! achoo!
DEACON ROBERTS. [Slyly moving a step away from fire.] They're only enlargin' hell, Hughie lad, an' in that place they always make room for all. [He casts a stabbing look at Neli.
MRS. JONES THE WASH. [Nodding head.] True, true, room for all! [Chuckling.] But 'twould be a grand place to dry the clothes in!
DEACON ROBERTS. [Severely.] Mrs. Jones, mum, hell is paved with words of lightness.
HUGH. [Looking up from book, his face expressing delight.] Deacon Roberts, I have searched for the place of hell, but one book sayeth one thing, an' another another. Where is hell?
TOM MORRIS THE SHEEP. Aye, where is hell?
[The bell rings violently. All start except Neli. Mrs. Jenkins the Midwife enters. She is an old woman, white-haired, and with a commanding, somewhat disagreeable expression on her face. She wears a cloak and black Welsh beaver and walks with a stick.
NELI. Yiss, yiss, Mrs. Jenkins the Midwife, I am just lookin' out a relish for the Deacon. Sit down by the fire, please.
MRS. JENKINS THE MIDWIFE. [Seating herself on other side of fire.] Aye, mum, I've come for pins; I'm in no haste.
NELI. is it Jane Elin's baby?
MRS. JENKINS THE MIDWIFE. Aye, Jane Elin's, an' 'tis my sixth hundredth birth.
HUGH. We're discussing the place of hell, Mrs. Jenkins, mum.
MRS. JENKINS THE MIDWIFE. Well, indeed, I have seen the place of hell six hundred times then. [Coughs and nods her head up and down over stick.] Heaven an' hell I'm thinkin' we have with us here.
HUGH. Nay, nay, how could that be? Tell us where is the place of hell, Deacon Roberts.
[All listen with the most intense interest.
DEACON ROBERTS. [Nodding.] Aye, the place of hell—[stopping suddenly, a terrified look on his face, as the butter slides against the forward rim of his hat, almost knocking it off, then going on with neck rigid and head straight up] to me is known where is that place—their way is dark an' slippery; they go down into the depths, an' their soul is melted because of trouble.
NELI. [Pausing sceptically.] Aye, 'tis my idea of hell whatever with souls meltin', Mr. Roberts!
HUGH. [Tense with expectation.] Tell us where is that place!
DEACON ROBERTS. [Neck rigid, head unmoved, and voice querulous.] Yiss, yiss. [Putting his hand up and letting it down quickly.] Ahem! Ye believe that it rains in Bala?
HUGH. [Eyes on Deacon, in childlike faith.] I do.
MRS. JENKINS THE MIDWIFE. Yiss, yiss, before an' after every birth whatever!
MRS. JONES THE WASH. Yiss, yiss, who would know better than I that it rains in Bala?
TOM MORRIS THE SHEEP. Aye, amen, it rains in Bala upon the hills an' in the valleys.
DEACON ROBERTS. Ye believe that it can rain in Bala both when the moon is full an' when 'tis new?
HUGH. [Earnestly.] I do.
MRS. JONES THE WASH. [Wearily.] Yiss, any time.
TOM MORRIS THE SHEEP. Aye, all the time.
MRS. JENKINS THE MIDWIFE.. Yiss, yiss, it rains ever an' forever!
NELI. [Forgetting the relish search.] Well, indeed, 'tis true it can rain in Bala at any time an' at all times.
DEACON ROBERTS. [Paying no attention to Neli.] Ye believe that Tomen-y-Bala is Ararat?
HUGH. [Clutching his book more tightly and speaking in a whisper.] Yiss.
MRS. JONES THE WASH. Aye, 'tis true.
MRS. JENKINS THE MIDWIFE.. Yiss, the Hill of Bala is Ararat.
TOM MORRIS THE SHEEP. Yiss, I have driven the sheep over it whatever more than a hundred times.
NELI. [Both hands on counter, leaning forward, listening to Deacon's words.] Aye, Charles-y-Bala said so.
DEACON ROBERTS. [Still ignoring Neli and lowering his coat-tails carefully.] Ye believe, good people, that the Druids called Noah "Tegid," an' that those who were saved were cast up on Tomen-y-Bala?
HUGH. Amen, I do!
MRS. JENKINS THE MIDWIFE. [Nodding her old head.] Aye, 'tis true.
MRS. JONES THE WASH. Yiss, yiss.
TOM MORRIS THE SHEEP. Amen, 'tis so.
DEACON ROBERTS. [Moving a few steps away from the fire, standing sidewise, and lifting hand to head, checking it in midair.] An' ye know that Bala has been a lake, an' Bala will become a lake?
HUGH. Amen, I do!
NELI. [Assenting for the first time.] Yiss, 'tis true—that is.
MRS. JONES THE WASH. Dear anwyl, yiss!
DEACON ROBERTS. [With warning gesture toward window.] Hell is out there—movin' beneath Bala Lake to meet all at their comin'. [Raises his voice suddenly.] Red-hot Baal stones will fall upon your heads—Baal stones. Howl ye! [Shouting loudly.] Meltin' stones smellin' of the bullocks. Howl, ye sinners! [Clasping his hands together desperately.] Scorchin' hot—Oo—o—o—Howl ye!—howl ye! [The Deacon's hat sways, and he jams it down more tightly on his head. Unclasping his hands and as if stirring up the contents of a pudding-dish.] 'Round an' round like this! Howl, ye sinners, howl!
[All moan and sway to and fro except Neli.
NELI. [Sceptically.] What is there to fear?
MRS. JENKINS THE MIDWIFE. [Groaning.] Nay, but what is there not to fear?
MRS. JONES THE WASH. Aye, outermost darkness. Och! Och!
TOM MORRIS THE SHEEP. Have mercy!
DEACON ROBERTS. [Shouting again.] Get ready! Lift up your eyes! [Welsh beaver almost falls off and is set straight in a twinkling.] Beg for mercy before the stones of darkness burn thee, an' there is no water to cool thy tongue, an' a great gulf is fixed between thee an' those who might help thee!
NELI. [Spellbound by the Deacon's eloquence and now oblivious to hat, etc.] Yiss, yiss, 'tis true, 'tis very true!
[She steps down from chair and places hands on counter.
DEACON ROBERTS. [His face convulsed, shouting directly at her.] Sister, hast thou two eyes to be cast into hell fire?
NELI. [Terrified and swept along by his eloquence.] Two eyes to be burned?
[All lower their heads, groaning and rocking to and fro.
DEACON ROBERTS. [The butter trickling down his face, yelling with sudden violence.] Hell is here an' now. Here in Bala, here in Y Gegin, here with us! Howl ye! Howl, ye sinners!
[All moan together.
HUGH. [Whispering.] Uch, here!
MRS. JENKINS THE MIDWIFE. Yiss, here!
MRS. JONES THE WASH. Yiss.
TOM MORRIS THE SHEEP. [Terrified.] Aye. Amen! Yiss!
NELI. [Whispering.] Here in Y Gegin!
DEACON ROBERTS. [Clapping his hands to his face.] Stones of Baal, stones of darkness, slimy with ooze, red-hot ooze, thick vapors! Howl ye, howl, ye sinners! [All moan and groan. Takes a glance at clock, passes hand over face and runs on madly, neck rigid, eyes staring, fat red cheeks turning to purple.] Midday, not midnight, is the hour of hell; its sun never sets! But who knows when comes that hour of hell?
NELI. [Taking hands from counter and crossing them as she whispers.] Who knows?
ALL. [Groaning.] Who knows?
HUGH. [Voice quavering and lifting his Welsh essays.] Who knows?
DEACON ROBERTS. [Big yellow drops pouring down his face, his voice full of anguish.] I will tell ye when is the hour of hell. [He points to the clock.] Is one the hour of hell? Nay. Two? Nay. Three? No, not three. Four? Four might be the hour of hell, but 'tis not. Five? Nor five, indeed. Six? Nay. Seven? Is seven the hour, the awful hour? Nay, not yet. Eight? Is eight the hour—an hour bright as this bright hour? Nay, eight is not. [The Deacon shouts in a mighty voice and points with a red finger at the clock.] 'Tis comin'! 'Tis comin', I say! Howl ye, howl! Only one minute more! Sinners, sinners, lift up your eyes! Cry for mercy! [All groan.] Cry for mercy! When the clock strikes twelve, 'twill be the hour of hell! Fix your eyes upon the clock! Watch! Count! Listen! 'Tis strikin'. The stroke! The hour is here!
[All dropped on their knees and turned toward the clock, their backs to the street door, are awaiting the awful stroke. The book has fallen from Hugh's hands. Neli's hands are clenched. Mrs. Jenkins the Midwife is nodding her old head. Mrs. Jones the Wash on her knees, her face upturned to the clock, is rubbing up and down her thighs, as if at the business of washing. Tom Morris The Sheep is prostrate and making a strange buzzing sound between his lips. The wheels of the clever old timepiece whir and turn. Then in the silent noonday the harsh striking begins: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve.
DEACON ROBERTS. [Yelling suddenly in a loud and terrible voice.] Hell let loose! Howl ye! Howl, ye sinners! [All cover their eyes. All groan or moan. The clock ticks, the flame in the grate flutters, Neli's bosom rises and falls heavily.] Lest worse happen to ye, sin no more!
[The Deacon looks at them all quietly. Then he lifts his hands in sign of blessing, smiles and vanishes silently through street door. All remain stationary in their terror. Nothing happens. But at last Neli fearfully, still spellbound by the Deacon's eloquence, lifts her eyes to the clock. Then cautiously she turns a little toward the fire and the place of Deacon Roberts.
NELI. Uch! [She stands on her feet and cries out.] The Deacon is gone!
HUGH. [Raising his eyes.] Uch, what is it? Babylon——
NELI. Babylon nothing! [She wrings her hands.
MRS. JENKINS THE MIDWIFE. [Groaning.] Is he dead? Is he dead?
NELI. [With sudden plunge toward the door.] Uch, ye old hypocrite, ye villain! Uch, my butter an' my eggs, my butter an' my eggs!
[Neli throws open the door and slams it to after her as she pursues the Deacon out into the bright midday sunshine.
MRS. JENKINS THE MIDWIFE. Well, indeed, what is it? Has she been taken?
MRS. JONES THE WASH. [Getting up heavily.] Such movin' eloquence! A saintly man is Deacon Roberts!
TOM MORRIS THE SHEEP. Aye, a saintly man is Deacon Roberts!
HUGH. [Picking up his book and speaking slowly.] Aye, eloquence that knoweth the place of hell even better than it knoweth Bala whatever!
MRS. JENKINS THE MIDWIFE. [Very businesslike.] Aye, 'twas a treat—a rare treat! But where's my pins now?
MRS. JONES THE WASH. [Very businesslike.] Yiss, yiss, 'twas a grand an' fine treat. But I'm wantin' my soap now.
TOM MORRIS THE SHEEP. Have ye any tobacco, Hughie lad?
CURTAIN
WHERE BUT IN AMERICA
BY
OSCAR M. WOLFF
Where But In America is reprinted by special permission of the author and of the Smart Set Magazine, in which this play was first printed. For permission to perform address the author at Room 1211, 105 Monroe Street, Chicago, Illinois.
Oscar M. Wolff was born July 13, 1876. After graduation from Cornell University he completed his law course in the University of Chicago. In addition to his interest in law, which he has practised and taught, he has done considerable writing and editing. He has published a legal text-book, and his articles on legal subjects have appeared both in law journals and in magazines of general interest. During the war he was connected with the United States Food Administration at Washington. At present he lives in Chicago, Illinois.
In addition to some stories, he has written several one-act plays: Where But in America, The Claim for Exemption, and The Money-Lenders.
Where But in America is an excellent play of situation, as well as a delicate satire on a certain aspect of American social life.
| CAST |
| Mrs. Espenhayne |
| Mr. Espenhayne |
| Hilda |
WHERE BUT IN AMERICA[ [J]
SCENE: The Espenhayne dining-room.
The curtain rises on the Espenhayne dining-room. It is furnished with modest taste and refinement. There is a door, centre, leading to the living-room, and a swinging door, left, leading to the kitchen.
The table is set, and Robert and Mollie Espenhayne are discovered at their evening meal. They are educated, well-bred young Americans. Robert is a pleasing, energetic business man of thirty; Mollie an attractive woman of twenty-five. The bouillon cups are before them as the curtain rises.
BOB. Mollie, I heard from the man who owns that house in Kenilworth. He wants to sell the house. He won't rent.
MOLLIE. I really don't care, Bob. That house was too far from the station, and it had only one sleeping-porch, and you know I want white-enamelled woodwork in the bedrooms. But, Bob, I've been terribly stupid!
BOB. How so, Mollie?
MOLLIE. You remember the Russells moved to Highland Park last spring?
BOB. Yes; Ed Russell rented a house that had just been built.
MOLLIE. A perfectly darling little house! And Fanny Russell once told me that the man who built it will put up a house for any one who will take a five-year lease. And she says that the man is very competent and they are simply delighted with their place.
BOB. Why don't we get in touch with the man?
MOLLIE. Wasn't it stupid of me not to think about it? It just flashed into my mind this morning, and I sat down at once and sent a special-delivery letter to Fanny Russell. I asked her to tell me his name at once, and where we can find him.
BOB. Good! You ought to have an answer by to-morrow or Thursday and we'll go up north and have a talk with him on Saturday.
MOLLIE. [With enthusiasm.] Wouldn't it be wonderful if he'd build just what we want! Fanny Russell says every detail of their house is perfect. Even the garage; they use it——
BOB. [Interrupting.] Mollie, that's the one thing I'm afraid of about the North Shore plan. I've said repeatedly that I don't want to buy a car for another year or two. But here you are, talking about a garage already.
MOLLIE. But you didn't let me finish what I was saying. The Russells have fitted up their garage as a playroom for the children. If we had a garage we could do the same thing.
BOB. Well, let's keep temptation behind us and not even talk to the man about a garage. If we move up north it must be on an economy basis for a few years; just a half-way step between the apartment and the house we used to plan. You mustn't get your heart set on a car.
MOLLIE. I haven't even thought of one, dear. [Bob and Mollie have now both finished the bouillon course and lay down their spoons. Reaching out her hand to touch the table button, and at the same time leaning across the table and speaking very impressively.] Bob, I'm about to ring for Hilda!
BOB. What of it?
MOLLIE. [Decidedly and with a touch of impatience.] You know very well, what of it. I don't want Hilda to hear us say one word about moving away from the South Side!
BOB. [Protesting.] But Mollie——
MOLLIE. [Interrupting hurriedly and holding her finger to her lips in warning.] Psst!
[The next instant Hilda enters, left. She is a tall, blonde Swedish girl, about twenty-five years old. She is very pretty and carries herself well and looks particularly charming in a maid's dress, with white collars and cuffs and a dainty waitress's apron. Every detail of her dress is immaculate.
MOLLIE. [Speaking the instant that Hilda appears and talking very rapidly all the time that Hilda remains in the room. While she speaks Mollie watches Hilda rather than Robert, whom she pretends to be addressing.] In the last game Gert Jones was my partner. It was frame apiece and I dealt and I bid one no trump. I had a very weak no trump. I'll admit that, but I didn't want them to win the rubber. Mrs. Stone bid two spades and Gert Jones doubled her. Mrs. Green passed and I simply couldn't go to three of anything. Mrs. Stone played two spades, doubled, and she made them. Of course, that put them out and gave them the rubber. I think that was a very foolish double of Gert Jones, and then she said it was my fault, because I bid one no trump.
[As Mollie begins her flow of words Bob first looks at her in open-mouthed astonishment. Then as he gradually comprehends that Mollie is merely talking against time he too turns his eyes to Hilda and watches her closely in her movements around the table. Meanwhile Hilda moves quietly and quickly and pays no attention to anything except the work she has in hand. She carries a small serving-tray, and, as Mollie speaks, Hilda first takes the bouillon cups from the table, then brings the carving-knife and fork from the sideboard and places them before Robert, and then, with the empty bouillon cups, exits left. Bob and Mollie are both watching Hilda as she goes out. The instant the door swings shut behind her, Mollie relaxes with a sigh, and Robert leans across the table to speak.
BOB. Mollie, why not be sensible about this thing! Have a talk with Hilda and find out if she will move north with us.
MOLLIE. That's just like a man! Then we might not find a house to please us and Hilda would be dissatisfied and suspicious. She might even leave. [Thoughtfully.] Of course, I must speak to her before we sign a lease, because I really don't know what I'd do if Hilda refused to leave the South side. [More cheerfully.] But there, we won't think about the disagreeable things until everything is settled.
BOB. That's good American doctrine.
MOLLIE. [Warningly and again touching her finger to her lips.] Psst!
[Hilda enters, left, carrying the meat plates, with a heavy napkin under them.
MOLLIE. [Immediately resuming her monologue.] I think my last year's hat will do very nicely. You know it rained all last summer and I really only wore the hat a half a dozen times. Perhaps not that often. I can make a few changes on it; put on some new ribbons, you know, and it will do very nicely for another year. You remember that hat, don't you dear?
[Bob starts to answer, but Mollie rushes right on.
Of course you do, you remember you said it was so becoming. That's another reason why I want to wear it this summer.
[Hilda, meanwhile, puts the plates on the table in front of Bob, and goes out, left. Mollie at once stops speaking.
BOB. [Holding his hands over the plates as over a fire and rubbing them together in genial warmth.] Ah, the good hot plates! She never forgets them. She is a gem, Mollie.
MOLLIE. [In great self-satisfaction.] If you are finally convinced of that, after three years, I wish you would be a little bit more careful what you say the next time Hilda comes in the room.
BOB. [In open-mouthed astonishment.] What!
MOLLIE. Well, I don't want Hilda to think we are making plans behind her back.
BOB. [Reflectively.] "A man's home is his castle." [Pauses.] It's very evident that the Englishman who first said that didn't keep any servants.
[Telephone bell rings off stage.
MOLLIE. Answer that, Bob.
BOB. Won't Hilda answer it?
MOLLIE. [Standing up quickly and speaking impatiently.] Very well, I shall answer it myself. I can't ask Hilda to run to the telephone while she is serving the meal.
BOB. [Sullenly, as he gets up.] All right! All right!
[Bob exits, centre. As he does so Hilda appears at the door, left, hurrying to answer the telephone.
MOLLIE. Mr. Espenhayne will answer it, Hilda.
[Hilda makes the slightest possible bow of acquiescence, withdraws left, and in a moment reappears with vegetable dishes and small side dishes, which she puts before Mrs. Espenhayne. She is arranging these when Bob re-enters, centre.
BOB. Somebody for you, Hilda.
HILDA. [Surprised.] For me? Oh! But I cannot answer eet now. Please ask the party to call later.
[Hilda speaks excellent English, but with some Swedish accent. The noticeable feature of her speech is the precision and great care with which she enunciates every syllable.
MOLLIE. Just take the number yourself, Hilda, and tell the party you will call back after dinner.
HILDA. Thank you, Messes Aispenhayne.
[Hilda exits, centre. Bob stands watching Hilda, as she leaves the room, and then turns and looks at Mollie with a bewildered expression.
BOB. [Standing at his chair.] But I thought Hilda couldn't be running to the telephone while she serves the dinner?
MOLLIE. But this call is for Hilda, herself. That's quite different, you see.
BOB. [Slowly and thoughtfully.] Oh, yes! Of course; I see! [Sits down in his chair.] That is—I don't quite see!
MOLLIE. [Immediately leaning across the table and speaking in a cautious whisper.] Do you know who it is?
[Bob closes his lips very tightly and nods yes in a very important manner.
MOLLIE. [In the same whisper and very impatiently.] Who?
BOB. [Looking around the room as if to see if any one is in hiding, and then putting his hand to his mouth and exaggerating the whisper.] The Terrible Swede.
MOLLIE. [In her ordinary tone and very much exasperated.] Robert, I've told you a hundred times that you shouldn't refer to—to—the man in that way.
BOB. And I've told you a hundred times to ask Hilda his name. If I knew his name I'd announce him with as much ceremony as if he were the Swedish Ambassador.
MOLLIE. [Disgusted.] Oh, don't try to be funny! Suppose some day Hilda hears you speak of him in that manner?
BOB. You know that's mild compared to what you think of him. Suppose some day Hilda learns what you think of him?
MOLLIE. I think very well of him and you know it. Of course, I dread the time when she marries him, but I wouldn't for the world have her think that we speak disrespectfully of her or her friends.
BOB. "A man's home is his castle."
[Mollie's only answer is a gesture of impatience. Mollie and Bob sit back in their chairs to await Hilda's return. Both sit with fingers interlaced, hands resting on the edge of the table in the attitude of school children at attention. A long pause. Mollie unclasps her hands and shifts uneasily. Robert does the same. Mollie, seeing this, hastily resumes her former attitude of quiet waiting. Robert, however, grows increasingly restless. His restlessness makes Mollie nervous and she watches Robert, and when he is not observing her she darts quick, anxious glances at the door, centre. Bob drains and refills his glass.
MOLLIE. [She has been watching Robert and every time he shifts or moves she unconsciously does the same, and finally she breaks out nervously.] I don't understand this at all! Isn't to-day Tuesday?
BOB. What of it?
MOLLIE. He usually calls up on Wednesdays and comes to see her on Saturdays.
BOB. And takes her to the theatre on Thursdays and to dances on Sundays. He's merely extending his line of attack.
[Another long pause—then Bob begins to experiment to learn whether the plates are still hot. He gingerly touches the edges of the upper plate in two or three places. It seems safe to handle. He takes hold of upper and lower plates boldly, muttering, as he does so, "Cold as—" Drops the plates with a clatter and a smothered oath. Shakes his fingers and blows on them. Meanwhile Mollie is sitting very rigid, regarding Bob with a fixed stare and beating a vigorous tattoo on the tablecloth with her fingers. Bob catches her eye and cringes under her gaze. He drains and refills his glass. He studies the walls and the ceiling of the room, meanwhile still nursing his fingers. Bob steals a sidelong glance at Mollie. She is still staring at him. He turns to his water goblet. Picks it up and holds it to the light. He rolls the stem between his fingers, squinting at the light through the water. Reciting slowly as he continues to gaze at the light.
BOB. Starlight! Starbright! Will Hilda talk to him all night!
MOLLIE. [In utter disgust.] Oh, stop that singing.
[Bob puts down his glass, then drinks the water and refills the glass. He then turns his attention to the silverware and cutlery before him. He examines it critically, then lays a teaspoon carefully on the cloth before him, and attempts the trick of picking it up with the first finger in the bowl and the thumb at the point of the handle. After one or two attempts the spoon shoots on the floor, far behind him. Mollie jumps at the noise. Bob turns slowly and looks at the spoon with an injured air, then turns back to Mollie with a silly, vacuous smile. He now lays all the remaining cutlery in a straight row before him.
BOB. [Slowly counting the cutlery and silver, back and forth.] Eeny, meeny, miney, mo. Catch a—[Stops suddenly as an idea comes to him. Gazes thoughtfully at Mollie for a moment, then begins to count over again.] Eeny, meeny, miney, mo; Hilda's talking to her beau. If we holler, she may go. Eeny, mee——
MOLLIE. [Interrupting and exasperated to the verge of tears.] Bob, if you don't stop all that nonsense, I shall scream! [In a very tense tone.] I believe I'm going to have one of my sick headaches! [Puts her hand to her forehead.] I know it; I can feel it coming on!
BOB. [In a soothing tone.] Hunger, my dear, hunger! When you have a good warm meal you'll feel better.
MOLLIE. [In despair.] What do you suppose I ought to do?
BOB. Go out in the kitchen and fry a couple of eggs.
MOLLIE. Oh! be serious! I'm at my wits' end! Hilda never did anything like this before.
BOB. [Suddenly quite serious.] What does that fellow do for a living, anyhow?
BOB. Didn't you ever ask Hilda?
MOLLIE. Certainly not. Hilda doesn't ask me about your business; why should I pry into her affairs?
BOB. [Taking out his cigarette case and lighting a cigarette.] Mollie, I see you're strong for the Constitution of the United States.
MOLLIE. [Suspiciously.] What do you mean by that?
BOB. The Constitution says: "Whereas it is a self-evident truth that all men are born equal"—[With a wave of the hand.] Hilda and you, and the Terrible Swede and I and——
MOLLIE. [Interrupting.] Bob, you're such a heathen! That's not in the Constitution. That's in the Bible!
BOB. Well, wherever it is, until this evening I never realized what a personage Hilda is.
MOLLIE. You can make fun of me all you please, but I know what's right! Your remarks don't influence me in the least—not in the least!
BOB. [Murmurs thoughtfully and feelingly.] How true! [Abruptly.] Why don't they get married? Do you know that?
MOLLIE. All I know is that they are waiting until his business is entirely successful, so that Hilda won't have to work.
BOB. Well, the Swedes are pretty careful of their money. The chances are Hilda has a neat little nest-egg laid by.
MOLLIE. [Hesitating and doubtfully.] That's one thing that worries me a little. I think Hilda puts money—into—into—into the young man's business.
BOB. [Indignantly.] Do you mean to tell me that this girl gives her money to that fellow and you don't try to find out a thing about him? Who he is or what he does? I suppose she supports the loafer.
MOLLIE. [With dignity.] He's not a loafer. I've seen him and I've talked with him, and I know he's a gentleman.
BOB. Mollie, I'm getting tired of all that kind of drivel. I believe nowadays women give a good deal more thought to pleasing their maids than they do to pleasing their husbands.
MOLLIE. [Demurely.] Well, you know, Bob, your maid can leave you much easier than your husband can—[pauses thoughtfully] and I'm sure she's much harder to replace.
BOB. [Very angry, looking at his watch, throwing his napkin on the table and standing up.] Mollie, our dinner has been interrupted for fifteen minutes while Hilda entertains her [with sarcasm] gentleman friend. If you won't stop it, I will.
[Steps toward the door, centre.
MOLLIE. [Sternly, pointing to Bob's chair.] Robert, sit down!
[Bob pauses, momentarily, and at the instant Hilda enters, centre, meeting Bob, face to face. Both are startled. Bob, in a surly manner, walks back to his place at the table. Hilda follows, excited and eager. Bob sits down and Hilda stands for a moment at the table, smiling from one to the other and evidently anxious to say something. Bob and Mollie are severe and unfriendly. They gaze at Hilda coldly. Slowly Hilda's enthusiasm cools, and she becomes again the impassive servant.
HILDA. Aixcuse me, Meeses Aispenhayne, I am very sorry. I bring the dinner right in.
[Hilda exits left.
BOB. It's all nonsense. [Touches the plates again, but this time even more cautiously than before. This time he finds they are entirely safe to handle.] These plates are stone cold now.
[Hilda enters, left, with meat platter. Places it before Bob. He serves the meat and Mollie starts to serve the vegetables. Hilda hands Mollie her meat plate.
MOLLIE. Vegetables? [Bob is chewing on his meat and does not answer. Mollie looks at him inquiringly. But his eyes are on his plate. Repeating.] Vegetables? [Still no answer from Bob. Very softly, under her breath.] H'mm.
[Mollie helps herself to vegetables and then dishes out a portion which she hands to Hilda, who in turn places the dish beside Bob. When both are served Hilda stands for a moment back of the table. She clasps and unclasps her hands in a nervous manner, seems about to speak, but as Bob and Mollie pay no attention to her she slowly and reluctantly turns, and exits left. Mollie takes one or two bites of the meat and then gives a quick glance at Bob. He is busy chewing at his meat, and Mollie quietly lays down her knife and fork and turns to the vegetables.
BOB. [Chewing desperately on his meat.] Tenderloin, I believe?
MOLLIE. [Sweetly.] Yes, dear.
BOB. [Imitating Mollie a moment back.] H'mm! [He takes one or two more hard bites.] Mollie, I have an idea.
MOLLIE. I'm relieved.
BOB. [Savagely.] Yes, you will be when you hear it. When we get that builder's name from Fanny Russell, we'll tell him that instead of a garage, which we don't need, he can build a special telephone booth off the kitchen. Then while Hilda serves the dinner——
[Bob stops short, as Hilda bursts in abruptly, left, and comes to the table.
HILDA. Aixcuse me, Meeses Aispenhayne, I am so excited.
MOLLIE. [Anxiously.] Is anything wrong, Hilda?
HILDA. [Explosively.] Meeses Aispenhayne, Meester Leendquist he say you want to move to Highland Park.
[Bob and Mollie simultaneously drop their knives and forks and look at Hilda in astonishment and wonder.
MOLLIE. What?
BOB. Who?
HILDA. [Repeats very rapidly.] Meester Leendquist, he say you look for house on North Shore!
MOLLIE. [Utterly overcome at Hilda's knowledge and at a loss for words of denial.] We move to the North Shore? How ridiculous! Hilda, where did you get such an idea? [Turns to Robert.] Robert, did you ever hear anything so laughable? [She forces a strained laugh.] Ha! Ha! Ha! [Robert has been looking at Hilda in dumb wonder. At Mollie's question he turns to her in startled surprise. He starts to answer, gulps, swallows hard, and then coughs violently. Very sharply, after waiting a moment for Bob to answer.] Robert Espenhayne, will you stop that coughing and answer me!
BOB. [Between coughs, and drinking a glass of water.] Egh! Egh! Excuse me! Something, eh! egh! stuck in my throat.
MOLLIE. [Turning to Hilda.] Some day we might want to move north, Hilda, but not now! Oh, no, not now!
BOB. Who told you that, Hilda?
HILDA. Meester Leendquist.
MOLLIE. [Puzzled.] Who is Mr. Lindquist?
HILDA. [Surprised.] Meester Leendquist—[Pauses, a trifle embarrassed.] Meester Leendquist ees young man who just speak to me on telephone. He come to see me every Saturday.
BOB. Oh, Mr. Lindquist, the—the—Ter——
MOLLIE. [Interrupting frantically, and waving her hands at Bob.] Yes, yes, of course. You know—Mr. Lindquist! [Bob catches himself just in time and Mollie settles back with a sigh of relief, then turns to Hilda with a puzzled air.] But where did Mr. Lindquist get such an idea?
HILDA. Mrs. Russell tell heem so.
MOLLIE. [Now entirely bewildered.] What Mrs. Russell?
HILDA. Meeses Russell—your friend.
MOLLIE. [More and more at sea.] Mrs. Edwin Russell, who comes to see me—every now and then?
HILDA. Yes.
MOLLIE. But how does Mrs. Russell know Mr. Lindquist and why should she tell Mr. Lindquist that we expected to move to the North Shore?
HILDA. Meester Leendquist, he build Meeses Russell's house. That ees hees business. He build houses on North Shore and he sell them and rent them.
[Bob and Mollie look at each other and at Hilda, in wonder and astonishment as the situation slowly filters into their brains. A long pause.]
BOB. [In awe and astonishment.] You mean that Mr. Lindquist, the young man who comes to see you every—every—every now and then—is the same man who put up the Russell house?
HILDA. Yes, Meester Aispenhayne.
BOB. [Slowly.] And when Mrs. Espenhayne [points to Mollie] wrote to Mrs. Russell [jerks his thumb to indicate the north], Mrs. Russell told Mr. Lindquist [jerks his thumb in opposite direction] and Mr. Lindquist telephoned to you?
[Points to Hilda.
HILDA. Yes, Meester Aispenhayne.
[Nodding.
BOB. [Very thoughtfully and slowly.] H'mm! [Then slowly resuming his meal and speaking in mock seriousness, in subtle jest at Mollie, and imitating her tone of a moment or two back.] But of course, you understand, Hilda, we don't want to move to the North Shore now! Oh, no, not now!
HILDA. [Somewhat crestfallen.] Yes, Meester Aispenhayne.
BOB. [Reflectively.] But, of course, if Mr. Lindquist builds houses, we might look. Yes, we might look.
HILDA. [In growing confidence and enthusiasm.] Yes, Meester Aispenhayne, and he build such beautiful houses and so cheap. He do so much heemself. Hees father was carpenter and he work hees way through Uneeversity of Mennesota and study architecture and then he go to Uneeversity of Eelenois and study landscape gardening and now he been in business for heemself sex years. And oh, Meeses Aispenhayne, you must see hees own home! You will love eet, eet ees so beautiful. A little house, far back from the road. You can hardly see eet for the trees and the shrubs, and een the summer the roses grow all around eet. Eet is just like the picture book!
MOLLIE. [In the most perfunctory tone, utterly without interest or enthusiasm.] How charming! [Pauses thoughtfully, then turns to Hilda, anxiously.] Then I suppose, Hilda, if we should decide to move up to the North Shore you would go with us?
HILDA. [Hesitatingly.] Yes, Meeses Aispenhayne. [Pauses.] But I theenk I must tell you thees spring Meester Leendquist and I aixpect to get married. Meester Leendquist's business ees very good. [With a quick smile and a glance from one to the other.] You know, I am partner with heem. I put all my money een Meester Leendquist's business too.
[Mollie and Bob gaze at each other in complete resignation and surrender.
BOB. [Quite seriously after a long pause.] Hilda, I don't know whether we will move north or not, but the next time Mr. Lindquist comes here I want you to introduce me to him. I'd like to know him. You ought to be very proud of a man like that.
HILDA. [Radiant with pleasure.] Thank you, Meester Aispenhayne.
MOLLIE. Yes, indeed, Hilda, Mr. Espenhayne has often said what a fine young man Mr. Lindquist seems to be. We want to meet him, and Mr. Espenhayne and I will talk about the house, and then we will speak to Mr. Lindquist. [Then weakly.] Of course, we didn't expect to move north for a long time, but, of course, if you expect to get married, and Mr. Lindquist builds houses——
[Her voice dies out. Long pause.
HILDA. Thank you, Meeses Aispenhayne, I tell Mr. Leendquist.
[Hilda stands at the table a moment longer, then slowly turns and moves toward door, left. Bob and Mollie watch her and as she moves away from the table Bob turns to Mollie. At this moment Hilda stops, turns suddenly and returns to the table.
HILDA. Oh, Meeses Aispenhayne, I forget one theeng!
MOLLIE. What now, Hilda?
HILDA. Meester Leendquist say eef you and Meester Aispenhayne want to look at property on North Shore, I shall let heem know and he meet you at station weeth hees automobile.
CURTAIN
A DOLLAR
BY
DAVID PINSKI
A Dollar is reprinted by special permission of David Pinski and of B. W. Huebach, New York City, the publisher of David Pinski's Ten Plays, from which this play is taken. All rights reserved. For permission to perform address the publisher.
David Pinski, perhaps the most notable dramatist of the Yiddish Theatre, was born of Jewish parentage April 5, 1872, in Mohilev, on the Dnieper, White Russia. Because his parents had rabbinical aspirations for him he was well educated in Hebrew studies (Bible and Talmud) by his fourteenth year, when he moved to Moscow, where he was further trained in classical and secular studies. In 1891 he planned to study medicine in Vienna, but soon returned to Warsaw, where he began his literary work as a short-story writer. In 1896 he took up the study of philosophy and literature, and in 1899 wrote his first plays. In 1899 he came to New York City, where he is now editor of the Jewish daily, Die Zeit. In 1911 he revisited Germany to see a production of his well-known comedy, The Treasure, by Max Reinhart.
Mr. Pinski is zealous in his interests in literature, drama, socialism, and Zionism. Drama is to him an interpretation of life, and a guide and leader, as were the words of the old poets and prophets. "The dramatic technique," says he, "changes with each plot, as each plot brings with it its own technique. One thing, however, must be common to all the different forms of the dramatic technique—avoidance of tediousness."
Mr. Pinski has written a goodly number of plays, most of which are on Yiddish themes. Forgotten Souls, The Stranger, Sufferings, The Treasure, The Phonograph, and A Dollar may be mentioned. Most of his plays have been produced many times; The Stranger played the third season in Moscow.
"I wrote A Dollar," says he, "in the summer of 1913, when I was hard pressed financially. I relieved myself of my feelings by a hearty laugh at the almighty dollar and the race for it. Just as I did many summers before, in 1906, when I entertained myself by ridiculing the mad money joy in the bigger comedy, The Treasure."
| PERSONS |
| The Characters are given in the order of their appearance. |
| The Comedian |
| The Villain |
| The Tragedian |
| Actor who plays "Old Man" rôle |
| The Heroine |
| The Ingenue |
| Actress who plays "Old Woman" rôle |
| The Stranger |