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THE EASIEST WAY
[Illustration: EUGENE WALTER]
EUGENE WALTER
(Born, Cleveland, Ohio, November 27, 1874)
When questioned once regarding "The Easiest Way," Mr. Eugene Walter said, "Incidentally, I do not think much of it. To my mind a good play must have a tremendous uplift in thought and purpose. 'The Easiest Way' has none of this. There is not a character in the play really worth while, with the exception of the old agent. The rest, at best, are not a particular adornment to society, and the strength of the play lies in its true portrayal of the sordid type of life which it expressed. As it is more or less purely photographic, I do not think it should be given the credit of an inspiration—it is rather devilishly clever, but a great work it certainly is not."
Such was not the verdict of the first night audience, at the Stuyvesant Theatre, New York, January 19, 1909. It was found to be one of the most direct pieces of work the American stage had thus far produced—disagreeably realistic, but purging—and that is the test of an effective play—by the very poignancy of the tragic forces closing in around the heroine. Though it is not as literary a piece of dramatic expression as Pinero's "Iris," it is better in its effect; because its relentlessness is due, not so predominantly to the moral downgrade of the woman, as to the moral downgrade of a certain phase of life which engulfs those nearest the centre of it. The play roused a storm of comment; there were camps that took just the stand Mr. Walter takes in the opening quotation. But the play is included in this collection because its power, as a documentary report of a phase of American stage life, is undeniable; because, as a piece of workmanship, shorn of the usual devices called theatrical, it comes down to the raw bone of the theme, and firmly progresses to its great climax,—great in the sense of overpowering,—at the very fall of the final curtain.
Mr. Walter's various experiences in the theatre as an advance man, his star reporting on the Detroit News, his struggles to gain a footing in New York, contributed something to the bitter irony which runs as a dark pattern through the texture of "The Easiest Way." He is one of the many American dramatists who have come from the newspaper ranks, having served on the Cleveland Plain Dealer and Press, the New York Sun and Globe, the Cincinnati Post and the Seattle Star. Not many will disagree with the verdict that thus far he has not excelled this play, though "Paid in Full" (February 25, 1908) contains the same sting of modern life, which drives his characters to situations dramatic and dire, making them sell their souls and their peace of minds for the benefit of worldly ease and comfort. Note this theme in "Fine Feathers" (January 7, 1913) and "Nancy Lee" (April 9, 1918). In this sense, his plays all possess a consistency which makes no compromises. Arthur Ruhl, in his "Second Nights", refers to Walter as of the "no quarter" school. He brings a certain manly subtlety to bear on melodramatic subjects, as in "The Wolf" (April 18, 1908) and "The Knife" (April 12, 1917); he seems to do as he pleases with his treatment, as he did right at the start with his first successful play. For, of "The Easiest Way" it may be said that, for the first time in his managerial career, Mr. David Belasco agreed to accept it with the condition that not a word of the manuscript should be changed.
It is interesting to note about Walter that, though he may now repudiate it, "The Easiest Way" stands distinct in its class; perhaps the dramatist has ripened more in technique—one immediately feels the surety and vital grip of dramatic expertness in Walter, much more so than in George Broadhurst, Bayard Veiller, or other American dramatists of his class. But he has not surpassed "The Easiest Way" in the burning intention with which it was written.
As a dramatist, Walter adopts an interesting method; he tries out his plays on the road, experimenting with various names, and re-casting until ready for metropolitan production. His dramas have many aliases, and it is a long case to prove an alibi; any student who has attempted to settle dates will soon find that out. His military play, written out of his experiences as a United States cavalryman in the Spanish American War, was called "Boots and Saddles," after it was given as "Sergeant James." "Fine Feathers," "The Knife," "The Heritage," "Nancy Lee"—were all second or third choice as to name.
In his advancement, Mr. Walter gives much credit to three American managers—Kirke LaShelle, and the Selwyn brothers, Archie and Edgar. It was the Selwyns who, during his various ventures in the "show business," persuaded him to move to Shelter Island, and write "The Undertow." It was in their house that "Paid in Full" was finished. Let Mr. Walter continue the narrative:
The circumstances under which "The Easiest Way" was written are rather peculiar. When I was an advance-agent, ahead of second-class companies, the need of money caused me to write a one-act piece called "All the Way from Denver," which in time I was able to dispose of. Later, after having written "Paid in Full," I realized that in the play, "All the Way from Denver," there was a situation or theme that might prove exceedingly valuable in a four-act play. After discussing the possibilities with Mr. Archie Selwyn, we concluded to write it. In the meantime, the one-act piece had come into the possession of Margaret Mayo, and through her, Mr. Edgar Selwyn decided that the title should be "The Easiest Way" instead of "All the Way from Denver."
The play was then taken in its scenario form to Mr. C.B. Dillingham, and discussed with him at length. This was prior to the public presentation of "Paid in Full." I possessed no particular reputation as a dramatic writer—in fact, the Messrs. Selwyn—Archie and Edgar—were the only ones who took me seriously, and thought me a possibility. Mr. Dillingham was not particularly impressed with the piece, because he thought it was much too broad in theme, and he did not like the idea of slapping the managerial knuckles of the theatre. Further, the obvious inference in "The Easiest Way," that Laura was kept out of work in order to be compelled to yield herself to Brockton, was a point which did not appeal to him. However, we had a working agreement with him, and later, Mr. Archie Selwyn, in discussing the story of the play with Mr. David Belasco, aroused his interest. The latter saw "Paid in Full" and "The Wolf," and so he sent for me, with the result that "The Easiest Way" was first produced in Hartford, Conn., on December 31, 1908. Since its New York production, it has been presented in nearly every country of the world. It has not always met with commercial success, but it has always been regarded as a play of representative importance.
William Winter was one of the bitterest enemies of "The Easiest Way." He placed it with "Zaza" and Brieux's "Three Daughters of M. Dupont." As an opposite extreme view, we give the opinion of Mr. Walter Eaton, written in 1909, concerning the play: "It places Mr. Walter as a leader among our dramatists." In some respects, we may have surpassed it since then, in imaginative ideality; but, as an example of relentless realism, it still holds its own as a distinct contribution. The text has been edited for private circulation, and it is this text which is followed here. A few modifications, of a technical nature, have been made in the stage directions; but even with these slight changes, the directions are staccato, utilitarian in conciseness, rather than literary in the Shaw sense.
DAVID BELASCO'S STUYVESANT THEATRE
44th STREET near BROADWAY New York City
Under the sole management of DAVID BELASCO
DAVID BELASCO PRESENTS FRANCES STARR —IN— THE EASIEST WAY
An American play concerning a peculiar phase of New York life.
In Four Acts and Four Scenes.
By EUGENE WALTER.
CHARACTERS OF THE PLAY
JOHN MADISON EDWARD H. ROBINS
WILLARD BROCKTON JOSEPH KILCOUR
JIM WESTON WILLIAM SAMPSON
LAURA MURDOCK FRANCES STARR
ELFIE ST. CLAIR LAURA NELSON HALL
ANNIE EMMA DUNN
Program Continued on Second Page Following
PROGRAM CONTINUED.
* * * * *
SYNOPSIS.
ACT I.—Mrs. William's ranch house or country home, perched on the side of the Ute Pass, near Colorado Springs, Colorado. Time—Late in an August afternoon.
ACT II.—Laura Murdock's furnished room, second story, back. New York. Time—Six months later.
ACT III.—Laura Murdock's apartments in an expensive hotel. New York. Time—Two months later. In the morning.
ACT IV.—The same at Act III. Time—The same afternoon.
* * * * *
The play produced under the personal supervision of Mr. Belasco.
* * * * *
PROGRAM CONTINUED ON SECOND PAGE FOLLOWING.
PROGRAM CONTINUED.
Stage Director William J. Dean
Stage Manager Langdon West
* * * * *
Stage decorations and accessories designed by Wilfred Buckland.
* * * * *
Scenes by Ernest Cross.
* * * * *
Scenery built by Charles J. Carson.
Electrical effects by Louis Harlman.
Gowns by Mollie O'Hara. Hats by Bendel.
* * * * *
The Pianola used is from the Aeolian Co., New York.
THE EASIEST WAY
AN AMERICAN PLAY CONCERNING A
PARTICULAR PHASE OF
NEW YORK LIFE
IN FOUR ACTS AND FOUR SCENES
By EUGENE WALTER
1908 BY EUGENE WALTER
[The Editor wishes to thank Mr. Eugene Walter for his courtesy in granting permission to include "The Easiest Way" in the present Collection. All its dramatic rights are fully secured, and proceedings will immediately be taken against anyone attempting to infringe them.]
CHARACTERS.
LAURA MURDOCK. ELFIE ST. CLAIR. ANNIE. WILLARD BROCKTON. JOHN MADISON. JIM WESTON.
DESCRIPTION OF CHARACTERS.
LAURA MURDOCH, twenty-five years of age, is a type not uncommon in the theatrical life of New York, and one which has grown in importance in the profession since the business of giving public entertainments has been so reduced to a commercial basis.
At an early age she came from Australia to San Francisco. She possessed a considerable beauty and an aptitude for theatrical accomplishment which soon raised her to a position of more or less importance in a local stock company playing in that city. A woman of intense superficial emotions, her imagination was without any enduring depths, but for the passing time she could place herself in an attitude of great affection and devotion. Sensually, the woman had marked characteristics, and, with the flattery that surrounded her, she soon became a favourite in the select circles which made such places as "The Poodle Dog" and "Zinkand's" famous. In general dissipation, she was always careful not in any way to indulge in excesses which would jeopardize her physical attractiveness, or for one moment to diminish her sense of keen worldly calculation.
In time she married. It was, of course, a failure. Her vacillating nature was such that she could not be absolutely true to the man to whom she had given her life, and, after several bitter experiences, she had the horror of seeing him kill himself in front of her. There was a momentary spasm of grief, a tidal wave of remorse, and then the peculiar recuperation of spirits, beauty and attractiveness that so marks this type of woman. She was deceived by other men in many various ways, and finally came to that stage of life that is known in theatrical circles as being "wised up."
At nineteen, the attention of a prominent theatrical manager being called to her, she took an important part in a New York production, and immediately gained considerable reputation. The fact that, before reaching the age of womanhood, she had had more escapades than most women have in their entire lives was not generally known in New York, nor was there a mark upon her face or a single coarse mannerism to betray it. She was soft-voiced, very pretty, very girlish. Her keen sense of worldly calculation led her to believe that in order to progress in her theatrical career she must have some influence outside of her art and dramatic accomplishment; so she attempted, with no little success, to infatuate a hard-headed, blunt and supposedly invincible theatrical manager, who, in his cold, stolid way, gave her what love there was in him. This, however, not satisfying her, she played two ends against the middle, and, finding a young man of wealth and position who could give her, in his youth, the exuberance and joy utterly apart from the character of the theatrical manager, she adopted him, and for a while lived with him. Exhausting his money, she cast him aside, always spending a certain part of the time with the theatrical manager. The young man became crazed, and, at a restaurant, tried to murder all of them.
From that time up to the opening of the play, her career was a succession of brilliant coups in gaining the confidence and love, not to say the money, of men of all ages and all walks in life. Her fascination was as undeniable as her insincerity of purpose. She had never made an honest effort to be an honest woman, although she imagined herself always persecuted, the victim of circumstances,—and was always ready to excuse any viciousness of character which led her into her peculiar difficulties. While acknowledged to be a mistress of her business—that of acting—from a purely technical point of view, her lack of sympathy, her abuse of her dramatic temperament in her private affairs, had been such as to make it impossible for her sincerely to impress audiences with real emotional power, and, therefore, despite the influences which she always had at hand, she remained a mediocre artist.
At the time of the opening of our play, she has played a summer engagement with a stock company in Denver, which has just ended. She has met JOHN MADISON, a man of about twenty-seven years of age, whose position is that of a dramatic critic on one of the local papers. LAURA MURDOCH, with her usual wisdom, started to fascinate JOHN MADISON, but has found that, for once in her life, she has met her match.
JOHN MADISON is good to look at, frank, virile, but a man of broad experience, and not to be hoodwinked. For the first time LAURA MURDOCH feels that the shoe is pinching the other foot, and, without any possible indication of reciprocal affection, she has been slowly falling desperately, madly, honestly and decently in love with him. She has for the past two years been the special favourite and mistress of WILLARD BROCKTON. The understanding is one of pure friendship. He is a man who has a varied taste in the selection of his women; is honest in a general way, and perfectly frank about his amours. He has been most generous with LAURA MURDOCK, and his close relations with several very prominent theatrical managers have made it possible for him to secure her desirable engagements, generally in New York. With all her past experiences, tragic and otherwise, LAURA MURDOCH has found nothing equal to this sudden, this swiftly increasing, love for the young Western man. At first she attempted to deceive him. Her baby face, her masterful assumption of innocence and childlike devotion, made no impression upon him. He has let her know in no uncertain way that he knew her record from the day she stepped on American soil in San Francisco to the time when she had come to Denver, but still he liked her.
JOHN MADISON is a peculiar type of the Western man. Up to the time of his meeting LAURA, he had always been employed either in the mines or on a newspaper west of the Mississippi River. He is one of those itinerant reporters; to-day you might find him in Seattle, to-morrow in Butte, the next week in Denver, and then possibly he would make the circuit from Los Angeles to 'Frisco, and then all around again. He drinks his whiskey straight, plays his faro fairly, and is not particular about the women with whom he goes. He started life in the Western country at an early age. His natural talents, both in literature and in general adaptability to all conditions of life, were early exhibited, but his alma mater was the bar-room, and the faculty of that college its bartenders and gamblers and general habitués.
He seldom has social engagements outside of certain disreputable establishments, where a genial personality or an over-burdened pocketbook gives entrée, and the rules of conventionality have never even been whispered. His love affairs, confined to this class of women, have seldom lasted more than a week or ten days. His editors know him as a brilliant genius, irresponsible, unreliable, but at times inestimably valuable. He cares little for personal appearance beyond a certain degree of neatness. He is quick on the trigger, and in a time of over-heated argument can go some distance with his fists; in fact, his whole career is best described as "happy-go-lucky."
He realizes fully his ability to do almost anything fairly well, and some things especially well, but he has never tried to accomplish anything beyond the earning of a comfortable living. Twenty-five or thirty dollars a week was all he needed. With that he could buy his liquor, treat his women, sometimes play a little faro, sit up all night and sleep all day, and in general lead the life of good-natured vagabondage which has always pleased him and which he had chosen as a career.
The objection of safer and saner friends to this form of livelihood was always met by him with a slap on the back and a laugh. "Don't you worry about me, partner; if I'm going to hell I'm going there with bells on," was always his rejoinder; and yet, when called upon to cover some great big news story, or report some vital event, he settled down to his work with a steely determination and a grim joy that resulted in work which classified him as a genius. Any great mental effort of this character, any unusual achievement along these lines, would be immediately followed by a protracted debauch that would upset him physically and mentally for weeks at a time, but he always recovered and landed on his feet, and with the same laugh and smile again went at his work.
If there have been opportunities to meet decent women of good social standing, he has always thrown them aside with the declaration that they bore him to death, and there never had entered into his heart a feeling or idea of real affection until he met LAURA. He fell for a moment under the spell of her fascination, and then, with cold logic, he analyzed her, and found out that, while outwardly she had every sign of girlhood,—ingenuousness, sweetness of character and possibility of affection,—spiritually and mentally she was nothing more than a moral wreck. He observed keenly her efforts to win him and her disappointment at her failure—not that she cared so much for him personally, but that it hurt her vanity not to be successful with this good-for-nothing, good-natured vagabond, when men of wealth and position she made kneel at her feet. He observed her slowly-changing point of view: how from a kittenish ingenuousness she became serious, womanly, really sincere. He knew that he had awakened in her her first decent affection, and he knew that she was awakening in him his first desire to do things and be big and worth while. So together these two began to drift toward a path of decent dealing, decent ambition, decent thought, and decent love, until at last they both find themselves, and acknowledge all the wickedness of what had been, and plan for all the virtue and goodness of what is to be. It is at this point that our first act begins.
ELFIE ST. CLAIR is a type of a Tenderloin grafter in New York, who, after all, has been more sinned against than sinning; who, having been imposed upon, deceived, ill-treated and bulldozed by the type of men who prey on women in New York, has turned the tables, and with her charm and her beauty has gone out to make the same slaughter of the other sex as she suffered with many of her sisters.
She is a woman without a moral conscience, whose entire life is dictated by a small mental operation. Coming to New York as a beautiful girl, she entered the chorus. She became famous for her beauty. On every hand were the stage-door vultures ready to give her anything that a woman's heart could desire, from clothes to horses, carriages, money and what-not; but, with a girl-like instinct, she fell in love with a man connected with the company, and, during all the time she might have profited and become a rich woman by the attentions of these outsiders, she remained true to her love, until finally her fame as the beauty of the city had waned. The years told on her to a certain extent, and there were others coming, as young as she had been and as good to look at; and, where the automobile of the millionaire had once been waiting for her, she found that, through her faithfulness to her lover, it was now there for some one else. Yet she was content with her joys, until finally the man deliberately jilted her and left her alone.
What had gone of her beauty had been replaced by a keen knowledge of human nature and of men, so she determined to give herself up entirely to a life of gain. She knows just how much champagne should be drunk without injuring one's health. She knows just what physical necessities should be indulged in to preserve to the greatest degree her remaining beauty. There is no trick of the hair-dresser, the modiste, the manicurist, or any one of the legion of people who devote their time to aiding the outward fascinations of women, which she does not know. She knows exactly what perfumes to use, what stockings to wear, how she should live, how far she should indulge in any dissipation; and all this she has determined to devote to profit. She knows that as an actress she has no future; that the time of a woman's beauty is limited. Conscious that she has already lost the youthful litheness of figure which had made her so fascinating in the past, she has laid aside every sentiment, physical and spiritual, and has determined to choose a man as her companion who has the biggest bank-roll and the most liberal nature. His age, his station in life, the fact whether she likes or dislikes him, do not enter into this scheme at all. She figures that she has been made a fool of by men, and that there is only one revenge,—the accumulation of a fortune to make her independent of them once and for all. There are, of course, certain likes and dislikes that she enjoys, and in a way she indulges them. There are men whose company she cares for, but their association is practically sexless and has come down to a point of mere good fellowship.
WILLARD BROCKTON, a New York broker, is an honest sensualist, and when one says an honest sensualist, the meaning is—a man who has none of the cad in his character, who takes advantage of no one, and who allows no one to take advantage of him. He honestly detests any man who takes advantage of a pure woman. He detests any man who deceives a woman. He believes that there is only one way to go through life, and that is to be frank with those with whom one deals. He is a master-hand in stock manipulation, and in the questionable practises of Wall Street he has realized that he has to play his cunning and craft against the cunning and craft of others. He is not at all in sympathy with this mode of living, but he thinks it is the only method by which he can succeed in life. He measures success by the accumulation of money, but he considers his business career as a thing apart from his private existence.
He does not associate, to any great extent, with what is known as "society." He keeps in touch with it simply to maintain his business position. There is always an inter-relationship among the rich in business and private life, and he gives such entertainments as are necessary to the members of New York's exclusive set, simply to make certain his relative position with other successful Wall Street men.
As far as women are concerned, the particular type of actress, such as LAURA MURDOCH and ELFIE ST. CLAIR, appeals to him. He likes their good fellowship. He loves to be with a gay party at night in a café. He likes the rather looseness of living which does not quite reach the disreputable. Behind all this, however, is a certain high sense of honour. He detests and despises the average stage-door Johnny, and he loathes the type of man who seeks to take young girls out of theatrical companies for their ruin.
His women friends are as wise as himself. When they enter into an agreement with him there is no deception. In the first place he wants to like them; in the second place he wants them to like him; and finally, he wants to fix the amount of their living expenses at a definite figure, and have them stand by it. He wants them to understand that he reserves the right, at any time, to withdraw his support, or transfer it to some other woman, and he gives them the same privilege.
He is always ready to help anyone who is unfortunate, and he has always hoped that some of these girls whom he knew would finally come across the right man, marry and settle down; but he insists that such an arrangement can be possible only by the honest admission on the woman's part of what she has done and been, and by the thorough understanding of all these things by the man involved. He is gruff in his manner, determined in his purposes, honest in his point of view. He is a brute, almost a savage, but he is a thoroughly good brute and a pretty decent savage.
At the time of the opening of this play, he and LAURA MURDOCK have been friends for two years. He knows exactly what she is and what she has been, and their relations are those of pals. She has finished her season in Denver, and he has come out there to accompany her home. He has always told her, whenever she felt it inconsistent with her happiness to continue her relations with him, it is her privilege to quit, and he has reserved the same condition.
JIM WESTON, between forty-five and fifty years of age, is the type of the semi-broken-down showman. In the evolution of the theatrical business in America, the old circus and minstrel men have gradually been pushed aside, while younger men, with more advanced methods, have taken their place. The character is best realized by the way it is drawn in the play.
ANNIE. The only particular attention that should be called to the character of the negress, ANNIE, who is the servant of LAURA, is the fact that she must not in any way represent the traditional smiling coloured girl or "mammy" of the South. She is the cunning, crafty, heartless, surly, sullen Northern negress, who, to the number of thousands, are servants of women of easy morals, and who infest a district of New York in which white and black people of the lower classes mingle indiscriminately, and which is one of the most criminal sections of the city. The actress who plays this part must keep in mind its innate and brutal selfishness.
SYNOPSIS.
ACT I. Mrs. Williams' Ranch House or Country Home, perched on the side of Ute Pass, near Colorado Springs, Colorado.
TIME. Late in an August afternoon.
ACT II. Laura Murdock's furnished Room, second story back, New York.
TIME. Six months later.
ACT III. Laura Murdock's Apartments in an expensive Hotel.
TIME. Two months later. In the morning.
ACT IV. Laura Murdock's Apartments. The same as Act III.
TIME. The afternoon of the same day.
THE EASIEST WAY
ACT I.
SCENE. The scene is that of the summer country ranch house of MRS. WILLIAMS, a friend of LAURA MURDOCK'S, and a prominent society woman of Denver, perched on the side of Ute Pass, near Colorado Springs. The house is one of unusual pretentiousness, and, to a person not conversant with conditions as they exist in this part of Colorado, the idea might be that such magnificence could not obtain in such a locality. At the left of stage the house rises in the form of a turret, built of rough stone of a brown hue, two stories high, and projecting a quarter of the way out on the stage. The door leads to a small elliptical terrace built of stone, with heavy benches of Greek design, strewn cushions, while over the top of one part of this terrace is suspended a canopy made from a Navajo blanket. The terrace is supposed to extend almost to the right of stage, and here it stops. The stage must be cut here so that the entrance of JOHN can give the illusion that he is coming up a steep declivity or a long flight of stairs. There are chairs at right and left, and a small table at left. There are trailing vines around the balustrade of the terrace, and the whole setting must convey the idea of quiet wealth. Up stage is supposed to be the part of the terrace overlooking the cañon, a sheer drop of two thousand feet, while over in the distance, as if across the cañon, one can see the rolling foot-hills and lofty peaks of the Rockies, with Pike's Peak in the distance, snow-capped and colossal. It is late in the afternoon, and, as the scene progresses, the quick twilight of a cañon, beautiful in its tints of purple and amber, becomes later pitch black, and the curtain goes down on an absolutely black stage. The cyclorama, or semi-cyclorama, must give the perspective of greater distances, and be so painted that the various tints of twilight may be shown.
AT RISE. LAURA MURDOCK is seen leaning a bit over the balustrade of the porch and shielding her eyes with her hand from the late afternoon sun, as she seemingly looks up the Pass to the left, as if expecting the approach of someone. Her gown is simple, girlish and attractive, and made of summery, filmy stuff. Her hair is done up in the simplest fashion, with a part in the centre, and there is about her every indication of an effort to assume that girlishness of demeanour which has been her greatest asset through life. WILLARD BROCKTON enters; he is a man six feet or more in height, stocky in build, clean-shaven and immaculately dressed. He is smoking a cigar, and upon entering takes one step forward and looks over toward LAURA in a semi-meditative manner.
WILL. Blue?
LAURA. No.
WILL. What's up?
LAURA. Nothing.
WILL. A little preoccupied.
LAURA. Perhaps.
WILL. What's up that way?
LAURA. Which way?
WILL. The way you are looking.
LAURA. The road from Manitou Springs. They call it the trail out here.
WILL. I know that. You know I've done a lot of business west of the
Missouri.
LAURA. [With a half-sigh.] No, I didn't know it.
WILL. Oh, yes; south of here in the San Juan country. Spent a couple of years there once.
LAURA. [Still without turning.] That's interesting.
WILL. It was then. I made some money there. It's always interesting when you make money. Still—
LAURA. [Still leaning in an absent-minded attitude.] Still what?
WILL. Can't make out why you have your eyes glued on that road.
Someone coming?
LAURA. Yes.
WILL. One of Mrs. Williams' friends, eh? [Will crosses, and sits on seat.
LAURA. Yes.
WILL. Yours too?
LAURA. Yes.
WILL. Man?
LAURA. Yes, a real man.
WILL. [Catches the significance of this speech. He carelessly throws the cigar over the balustrade. He comes down and leans on chair with his back to LAURA. She has not moved more than to place her left hand on a cushion and lean her head rather wearily against it, looking steadfastly up the Pass.] A real man. By that you mean—
LAURA. Just that—a real man.
WILL. Any difference from the many you have known?
LAURA. Yes, from all I have known.
WILL. So that is why you didn't come into Denver to meet me to-day, but left word for me to come out here?
LAURA. Yes.
WILL. I thought that I was pretty decent to take a dusty ride half-way across the continent in order to keep you company on your way back to New York, and welcome you to our home; but maybe I had the wrong idea.
LAURA. Yes, I think you had the wrong idea.
WILL. In love, eh?
LAURA. Yes, just that,—in love.
WILL. A new sensation.
LAURA. No; the first conviction.
WILL. You have had that idea before. Every woman's love is the real one when it comes. [Crosses up to LAURA.] Do you make a distinction in this case, young lady?
LAURA. Yes.
WILL. For instance, what?
LAURA. This man is poor—absolutely broke. He hasn't even got a [Crosses to armchair, leans over and draws with parasol on ground.] good job. You know, Will, all the rest, including yourself, generally had some material inducement.
WILL. What's his business? [Crosses to table and sits looking at magazine.
LAURA. He's a newspaper man.
WILL. H'm-m. Romance?
LAURA. Yes, if you want to call it that,—romance.
WILL. Do I know him?
LAURA. How could you? You only came from New York to-day, and he has never been there.
He regards her with a rather amused, indulgent, almost paternal expression, in contrast to his big, bluff, physical personality, with his iron-gray hair and his bulldog expression. LAURA looks more girlish than ever. This is imperative in order to thoroughly understand the character.
WILL. How old is he?
LAURA. Twenty-seven. You're forty-five.
WILL. No, forty-six.
LAURA. Shall I tell you about him? Huh?
[Crosses to WILL, placing parasol on seat.
WILL. That depends.
LAURA. On what?
WILL. Yourself.
LAURA. In what way?
WILL. If it will interfere in the least with the plans I have made for you and for me.
LAURA. And have you made any particular plans for me that have anything particularly to do with you?
WILL. Yes, I have given up the lease of our apartment on West End Avenue, and I've got a house on Riverside Drive. Everything will be quiet and decent, and it'll be more comfortable for you. There's a stable near by, and your horses and car can be kept over there. You'll be your own mistress, and besides I've fixed you up for a new part.
LAURA. A new part! What kind of a part?
WILL. One of Charlie Burgess's shows, translated from some French fellow. It's been running over in Paris, Berlin, and Vienna, and all those places, for a year or more, and appears to be an awful hit. It's going to cost a lot of money. I told Charlie he could put me down for a half interest, and I'd give all the money providing you got an important rôle. Great part, I'm told. Kind of a cross between a musical comedy and an opera. Looks as if it might stay in New York all season. So that's the change of plan. How does it strike you?
[LAURA crosses to door, meditating; pauses in thought.
LAURA. I don't know.
WILL. Feel like quitting? [Turns to her.
LAURA. I can't tell.
WILL. It's the newspaper man, eh?
LAURA. That would be the only reason.
WILL. You've been on the square with me this summer, haven't you? [Crosses to table.
LAURA. [Turns, looks at WILL.] What do you mean by "on the square?"
WILL. Don't evade. There's only one meaning when I say that, and you know it. I'm pretty liberal. But you understand where I draw the line. You've not jumped that, have you, Laura?
LAURA. No, this has been such a wonderful summer, such a wonderfully different summer. Can you understand what I mean by that when I say "wonderfully different summer?"
[Crossing to WILL.
WILL. Well, he's twenty-seven and broke, and you're twenty-five and pretty; and he evidently, being a newspaper man, has that peculiar gift of gab that we call romantic expression. So I guess I'm not blind, and you both think you've fallen in love. That it?
LAURA. Yes, I think that's about it; only I don't agree to the "gift of gab" and the "romantic" end of it. [Crosses to table.] He's a man and I'm a woman, and we both have had our experiences. I don't think, Will, that there can be much of that element of what some folks call hallucination.
[Sits on chair; takes candy-box on lap; selects candy.
WILL. Then the Riverside Drive proposition and Burgess's show is off, eh?
LAURA. I didn't say that.
WILL. And if you go back on the Overland Limited day after to-morrow, you'd just as soon I'd go to-morrow of wait until the day after you leave? [LAURA places candy-box back on table.
LAURA. I didn't say that, either.
WILL. What's the game?
LAURA. I can't tell you now.
WILL. Waiting for him to come? [Crosses, sits on seat.
LAURA. Exactly.
WILL. Think he is going to make a proposition, eh?
LAURA. I know he is.
WILL. Marriage?
LAURA. Possibly.
WILL. You've tried that once, and taken the wrong end. Are you going to play the same game again?
LAURA. Yes, but with a different card.
[Picks up magazine off table.
WILL. What's his name?
LAURA. Madison—John Madison.
[Slowly turning pages of magazine.
WILL. And his job?
LAURA. Reporter.
WILL. What are you going to live on,—the extra editions?
LAURA. No, we're young, there's plenty of time. I can work in the meantime, and so can he; and then with his ability and my ability it will only be a matter of a year or two when things will shape themselves to make it possible.
WILL. Sounds well—a year off.
LAURA. If I thought you were going to make fun of me, Will, I shouldn't have talked to you.
[Throws down magazine, crosses to door of house.
WILL. [Crossing down in front of table.] I don't want to make fun of you, but you must realize that after two years it isn't an easy thing to be dumped with so little ceremony. Maybe you have never given me any credit for possessing the slightest feeling, but even I can receive shocks from other sources than a break in the market.
LAURA. [Crosses to WILL.] It isn't easy for me to do this. You've been awfully kind, awfully considerate, but when I went to you it was just with the understanding that we were to be pals. You reserved the right then to quit me whenever you felt like it, and you gave me the same privilege. Now, if some girl came along who really captivated you in the right way, and you wanted to marry, it would hurt me a little,—maybe a lot,—but I should never forget that agreement we made, a sort of two weeks' notice clause, like people have in contracts.
WILL. [Is evidently very much moved. Walks up stage to right end of seat, looks over the cañon. LAURA looks after him. WILL has his back to the audience. Long pause.] I'm not hedging, Laura. If that's the way you want it to be, I'll stand by just exactly what I said [Turns to LAURA.], but I'm fond of you, a damn sight fonder than I thought I was, now that I find you slipping away; but if this young fellow is on the square [LAURA crosses to WILL, taking his right hand.] and he has youth and ability, and you've been on the square with him, why, all right. Your life hasn't had much in it to help you get a diploma from any celestial college, and if you can start out now and be a good girl, have a good husband, and maybe some day good children [LAURA sighs.], why, I'm not going to stand in the way. Only I don't want you to make any of those mistakes that you made before.
LAURA. I know, but somehow I feel that this time the real thing has come, and with it the real man. I can't tell you, Will, how much different it is, but everything I felt before seems so sort of earthly—and somehow this love that I have for this man is so different. It's made me want to be truthful and sincere and humble for the first time in my life. The only other thing I ever had that I cared the least bit about, now that I look back, was your friendship. We have been good pals, haven't we?
[Puts arms about WILL.
WILL. Yes, it's been a mighty good two years for me. I was always proud to take you around, because I think you one of the prettiest things in New York [LAURA crosses and girlishly jumps into armchair.], and that helps some, and you're always jolly, and you never complained. You always spent a lot of money, but it was a pleasure to see you spend it; and then you never offended me. Most women offend men by coming around looking untidy and sort of unkempt, but somehow you always knew the value of your beauty, and you always dressed up. I always thought that maybe some day the fellow would come along, grab you, and make you happy in a nice way, but I thought that he'd have to have a lot of money. You know you've lived a rather extravagant life for five years, Laura. It won't be an easy job to come down to cases and suffer for the little dainty necessities you've been used to.
LAURA. I've thought all about that, and I think I understand.
[Facing audience; leaning elbows on lap.
WILL. You know if you were working without anybody's help, Laura, you might have a hard time getting a position. As an actress you're only fair.
LAURA. You needn't remind me of that. That part of my life is my own. [Crosses up to seat.] I don't want you to start now and make it harder for me to do the right thing. It isn't fair; it isn't square; and it isn't right. You've got to let me go my own way. [Crosses to WILL; puts right hand on his shoulder.] I'm sorry to leave you, in a way, but I want you to know that if I go with John it changes the spelling of the word comradeship into love, and mistress into wife. Now please don't talk any more. [Crosses to post; takes scarf off chair.
WILL. Just a word. Is it settled?
LAURA. [Impatiently.] I said I didn't know. I would know to-day—that's what I'm waiting for. Oh, I don't see why he doesn't come. [WILL turns up to seat looking over Pass.
WILL. [Pointing up the Pass.] Is that the fellow coming up here?
LAURA. [Quickly running toward the balustrade of seat, saying as she goes:] Where? [Kneels on seat.
WILL. [Pointing.] Up the road there. On that yellow horse.
LAURA. [Looking.] Yes, that's John. [She waves her handkerchief, and putting one hand to her mouth cries:] Hello!
JOHN. [Off stage with the effect as if he was on the road winding up toward the house.] Hello yourself!
LAURA. [Same effect.] Hurry up, you're late.
JOHN. [Same effect, a little louder.] Better late than never.
LAURA. [Same effect.] Hurry up.
JOHN. [Little louder.] Not with this horse.
LAURA. [To WILL, with enthusiastic expression.] Now, Will, does he look like a yellow reporter?
WILL. [With a sort of sad smile.] He is a good-looking chap.
LAURA. [Looking down again at JOHN.] Oh, he's just simply more than that. [Turns quickly to WILL.] Where's Mrs. Williams?
WILL. [Motioning with thumb toward left side of ranch house.]
Inside, I guess, up to her neck in bridge.
LAURA. [Goes hurriedly over to door.] Mrs. Williams! Oh, Mrs.
Williams!
MRS. WILLIAMS. [Heard off stage.] What is it, my dear?
LAURA. Mr. Madison is coming up the path.
MRS. WILLIAMS. [Off stage.] That's good.
LAURA. Sha'n't you come and see him?
MRS. WILLIAMS. [Same.] Lord, no! I'm six dollars and twenty cents out now, and up against an awful streak of luck.
LAURA. Shall I give him some tea?
MRS. WILLIAMS. [Same.] Yes, do, dear; and tell him to cross his fingers when he thinks of me.
In the meantime WILL has leaned over the balustrade, evidently surveying the young man, who is supposed to be coming up the, path, with a great deal of interest. Underneath his stolid, businesslike demeanour of squareness, there is undoubtedly within his heart a very great affection for LAURA. He realizes that during her whole career he has been the only one who has influenced her absolutely. Since the time they lived together, he has always dominated, and he has always endeavoured to lead her along a path that meant the better things of a Bohemian existence. His coming all the way from New York to Denver to accompany LAURA home was simply another example of his keen interest in the woman, and he suddenly finds that she has drifted away from him in a manner to which he could not in the least object, and that she had been absolutely fair and square in her agreement with him. WILL is a man who, while rough and rugged in many ways, possesses many of the finer instincts of refinement, latent though they may be, and his meeting with JOHN ought, therefore, to show much significance, because on his impressions of the young man depend the entire justification of his attitude in the play.
LAURA. [Turning toward WILL and going to him, slipping her hand involuntarily through his arm, and looking eagerly with him over the balustrade in almost girlish enthusiasm.] Do you like him?
WILL. [Smiling.] I don't know him.
LAURA. Well, do you think you'll like him?
WILL. Well, I hope I'll like him.
LAURA. Well, if you hope you'll like him you ought to think you like him. He'll turn the corner of that rock in just a minute and then you can see him. Do you want to see him?
WILL. [Almost amused at her girlish manner.] Why, yes—do you?
LAURA. Do I? Why, I haven't seen him since last night! There he is. [Waves her hand.] Hello, John!
[Gets candy-box, throws pieces of candy at JOHN.
JOHN. [His voice very close now.] Hello, girlie! How's everything?
LAURA. Fine! Do hurry.
JOHN. Just make this horse for a minute. Hurry is not in his dictionary.
LAURA. I'm coming down to meet you.
JOHN. All—right.
LAURA. [Turns quickly to WILL.] You don't care. You'll wait, won't you?
WILL. Surely.
LAURA hurriedly exits. WILL goes down centre of the stage. After a short interval LAURA comes in, more like a sixteen-year-old girl than anything else, pulling JOHN after her. He is a tall, finely built type of Western manhood, a frank face, a quick, nervous energy, a mind that works like lightning, a prepossessing smile, and a personality that is wholly captivating. His clothes are a bit dusty from the ride, but are not in the least pretentious, and his leggins are of canvas and spurs of brass, such as are used in the Army. His hat is off, and he is pulled on to the stage, more like a great big boy than a man. His hair is a bit tumbled, and he shows every indication of having had a rather long and hard ride.
LAURA. Hello, John!
JOHN. Hello, girlie!
Then she suddenly recovers herself and realizes the position she is in. Both men measure each other for a moment in silence, neither flinching the least bit. The smile has faded from JOHN'S face, and the mouth droops into an expression of firm determination. LAURA for a moment loses her ingenuousness. She is the least bit frightened at finally placing the two men face to face, and in a voice that trembles slightly from apprehension:
LAURA. Oh, I beg your pardon! Mr. Madison, this is Mr. Brockton, a friend of mine from New York. You've often heard me speak of him; he came out here to keep me company when I go home.
JOHN. [Comes forward, extends a hand, looking WILL right in the eye.] I am very glad to know you, Mr. Brockton.
WILL. Thank you.
JOHN. I've heard a great deal about you and your kindness to Miss Murdock. Anything that you have done for her in a spirit of friendliness I am sure all her friends must deeply appreciate, and I count myself in as one.
WILL. [In an easy manner that rather disarms the antagonistic attitude of JOHN.] Then we have a good deal in common, Mr. Madison, for I also count Miss Murdock a friend, and when two friends of a friend have the pleasure of meeting, I dare say that's a pretty good foundation for them to become friends too.
JOHN. Possibly. Whatever my opinion may have been of you, Mr. Brockton, before you arrived, now I have seen you—and I'm a man who forms his conclusions right off the bat—I don't mind telling you that you've agreeably surprised me. That's just a first impression, but they run kind o' strong with me.
WILL. Well, young man, I size up a fellow in pretty short order, and all things being equal, I think you'll do.
LAURA. [Radiantly.] Shall I get the tea?
JOHN. Tea!
LAURA. Yes, tea. You know it must be tea—nothing stronger.
[Crosses to door.
JOHN. [Looking at WILL rather comically.] How strong are you for that tea, Mr. Brockton?
WILL. I'll pass; it's your deal, Mr. Madison.
JOHN. Mine! No, deal me out this hand.
LAURA. I don't think you're at all pleasant, but I'll tell you one thing—it's tea this deal or no game.
[Crosses up stage to seat, picks up magazine, turns pages.
WILL. No game then [Crosses to door.], and I'm going to help Mrs. Williams; maybe she's lost nearly seven dollars by this time, and I'm an awful dub when it comes to bridge. [Exit.
LAURA. [Tossing magazine on to seat, crosses quickly to JOHN, throws her arms around his neck in the most loving manner.] John!
As the Act progresses the shadows cross the Pass, and golden light streams across the lower hills and tops the snow-clad peaks. It becomes darker and darker, the lights fade to beautiful opalescent hues, until, when the curtain falls on the act, with JOHN and WILL on the scene, it is pitch dark, a faint glow coming out of the door. Nothing else can be seen but the glow of the ash on the end of each man's cigar as he puffs it in silent meditation on their conversation.
JOHN. Well, dear?
LAURA. Are you going to be cross with me?
JOHN. Why?
LAURA. Because he came?
JOHN. Brockton?
LAURA. Yes.
JOHN. You didn't know, did you?
LAURA. Yes, I did.
JOHN. That he was coming?
LAURA. He wired me when he reached Kansas City.
JOHN. Does he know?
LAURA. About us?
JOHN. Yes.
LAURA. I've told him.
JOHN. When?
LAURA. To-day.
JOHN. Here?
LAURA. Yes.
JOHN. With what result?
LAURA. I think it hurt him.
JOHN. Naturally.
LAURA. More than I had any idea it would.
JOHN. I'm sorry. [Sits in armchair.
LAURA. He cautioned me to be very careful and to be sure I knew my way.
JOHN. That was right.
LAURA gets a cushion in each hand off seat; crosses down to left of armchair, throws one cushion on ground, then the other on top of it, and kneels beside his chair. Piano in house playing a Chopin Nocturne.
LAURA. John.
JOHN. Yes.
LAURA. We've been very happy all summer.
JOHN. Very.
LAURA. [Rises, sits on left arm of chair, her arm over back.] And this thing has gradually been growing on us?
JOHN. That's true.
LAURA. I didn't think that, when I came out here to Denver to play in a little stock company, it was going to bring me all this happiness, but it has, hasn't it?
JOHN. Yes.
LAURA. [Changing her position, sits on his lap, arms around his neck.] And now the season's over and there is nothing to keep me in Colorado, and I've got to go back to New York to work.
JOHN. I know; I've been awake all night thinking about it.
LAURA. Well?
JOHN. Well?
LAURA. What are we going to do?
JOHN. Why, you've got to go, I suppose.
LAURA. Is it good-bye?
JOHN. For a while, I suppose—it's good-bye.
LAURA. What do you mean by a while?
[LAURA turns JOHN'S face to her, looks at him searchingly.
JOHN. Until [Piano plays crescendo, then softens down.] I get money enough together, and am making enough to support you, then come and take you out of the show business and make you Mrs. Madison.
LAURA tightens her arm around his neck, her cheek goes close to his own, and all the wealth of affection the woman is capable of at times is shown. She seems more like a dainty little kitten purring close to its master. Her whole thought and idea seem to be centred on the man whom she professes to love.
LAURA. John, that is what I want above everything else.
JOHN. But, Laura, we must come to some distinct understanding before we start to make our plans. We're not children.
LAURA. No, we're not.
JOHN. Now in the first place [LAURA rises, crosses to centre.] we'll discuss you, and in the second place we'll discuss me. We'll keep nothing from each other [LAURA picks up cushions, places them on seat.], and we'll start out on this campaign [LAURA turns back to centre, facing audience.] of decency and honour, fully understanding its responsibilities, without a chance of a come-back on either side.
LAURA. [Becoming very serious.] You mean that we should tell each other all about each other, so, no matter what's ever said about us by other people, we'll know it first?
JOHN. [Rising.] That's precisely what I'm trying to get at.
LAURA. Well, John, there are so many things I don't want to speak of even to you. It isn't easy for a woman to go back and dig up a lot of ugly memories and try to excuse them. [Crosses to front of table, picks up magazine, places it on table.
JOHN. I've known everything from the first; how you came to San Francisco as a kid and got into the show business, and how you went wrong, and then how you married, still a kid, and how your husband didn't treat you exactly right, and then how, in a fit of drunkenness, he came home and shot himself. [LAURA buries her head in her hands, making exclamations of horror. JOHN crosses to her as if sorry for hurting her; touches her on shoulder.] But that's all past now, and we can forget that. And I know how you were up against it after that, how tough it was for you to get along. Then finally how you've lived, and—and that you and this man Brockton have been—well—never mind. I've known it all for months, and I've watched you. Now, Laura, the habit of life is a hard thing to get away from. You've lived in this way for a long time. If I ask you to be my wife you'll have to give it up; you'll have to go back to New York and struggle on your own hook until I get enough to come for you. I don't know how long that will be, but it will be. Do you love me enough to stick out for the right thing?
LAURA crosses to him, puts her arms around him, kisses him once very affectionately, looks at him very earnestly.
LAURA. Yes. I think this is my one great chance. I do love you and I want to do just what you said.
JOHN. I think you will. I'm going to make the same promise. Your life, dear girl, has been an angel's compared with mine. I've drank whiskey, played bank, and raised hell ever since the time I could develop a thirst; and ever since I've been able to earn my own living I've abused every natural gift God gave me. The women I've associated with aren't good enough to touch the hem of your skirt, but they liked me, and [JOHN crosses to armchair, turns up stage, then faces her.] well—I must have liked them. My life hasn't been exactly loose, it's been all in pieces. I've never done anything dishonest. I've always gone wrong just for the fun of it, until I met you. [Crosses to her, takes her in his arms.] Somehow then I began to feel that I was making an awful waste of myself.
LAURA. John!
JOHN. Some lovers place a woman on a pedestal and say, "She never has made a mistake." [Taking her by each arm he playfully shakes her.] Well, we don't need any pedestals. I just know you never will make a mistake.
LAURA. [Kissing him.] John, I'll never make you take those words back. [Arms around his neck.
JOHN. That goes double. You're going to cut out the cabs and cafés, and I'm going to cut out the whiskey and all-night sessions [LAURA releases him; he backs slightly away.]; and you're going to be somebody and I'm going to be somebody, and if my hunch is worth the powder to blow it up, we're going to show folks things they never thought were in us. Come on now, kiss me.
She kisses him; tears are in her eyes. He looks into her face with a quaint smile.
JOHN. You're on, ain't you, dear?
LAURA. Yes, I'm on.
JOHN. Then [Points toward door with his left arm over her shoulder.] call him.
LAURA. Brockton?
JOHN. Yes, and tell him you go back to New York without any travelling companion this season.
LAURA. Now?
JOHN. Sure.
LAURA. You want to hear me tell him?
JOHN. [With a smile.] We're partners, aren't we? I ought to be in on any important transaction like that, but it's just as you say.
LAURA. I think it would be right you should. I'll call him now.
JOHN. All right. [Crossing to stairway. LAURA crosses to door; twilight is becoming very much more pronounced.
LAURA. [At door.] Mr. Brockton! Oh, Mr. Brockton!
WILL. [Off stage.] Yes.
LAURA. Can you spare a moment to come out here?
WILL. Just a moment.
LAURA. You must come now.
WILL. All right. [She waits for him and after a reasonable interval he appears at door.] Laura, it's a shame to lure me away from that mad speculation in there. I thought I might make my fare back to New York if I played until next summer. What's up?
LAURA. Mr. Madison wants to talk to you, or rather I do, and I want him to listen.
WILL. [His manner changing to one of cold, stolid calculation.] Very well. [Comes down off step of house.
LAURA. Will.
WILL. Yes?
LAURA. I'm going home day after to-morrow on the Overland Limited.
WILL. I know.
LAURA. It's awfully kind of you to come out here, but under the circumstances I'd rather you'd take an earlier or a later train.
WILL. And may I ask what circumstances you refer to?
LAURA. Mr. Madison and I are going to be married. [Pause.] He [Will looks inquiringly at JOHN.] knows of your former friendship for me, and he has the idea that it must end.
WILL. Then the Riverside Drive proposition, with Burgess's show thrown in, is declared off, eh?
LAURA. Yes; everything is absolutely declared off.
WILL. Can't even be friends any more, eh?
JOHN crosses, and, taking LAURA'S arm, passes her over to seat; his back is partly to audience.
JOHN. You could hardly expect Miss Murdock to be friendly with you under the circumstances. You could hardly expect me to [LAURA puts scarf across her shoulders.] sanction any such friendship.
WILL. I think I understand your position, young man, and I perfectly agree with you, that is—if your plans come out successfully.
JOHN. Thank you.
LAURA. Then everything is settled [Crossing in front of JOHN and facing WILL, back to audience.] just the way it ought to be—frankly and aboveboard?
WILL. Why, I guess so. If I was perfectly confident that this new arrangement was going to result happily for you both, I think it would be great, only I'm somewhat doubtful, for when people become serious and then fail, I know how hard those things hit, having been hit once myself.
JOHN. So you think we're making a wrong move and there isn't a chance of success!
WILL. No, I don't make any such gloomy prophecy. If you make Laura a good husband, and she makes you a good wife, and together you win out, I'll be mighty glad. As far as I am concerned I shall absolutely forget every thought of Laura's friendship for me.
LAURA. I thought you'd be just that way.
[Crosses to WILL, shakes hands.
WILL. [Rising.] And now I must be off. [Takes her by both hands and shakes them.] Good-bye, girlie! Madison, good luck. [Crosses to JOHN. Shakes JOHN'S hands; looks into his eyes.] I think you've got the stuff in you to succeed if your foot don't slip.
JOHN. What do you mean by my foot slipping, Mr. Brockton?
WILL. You want me to tell you?
JOHN. I sure do.
WILL. [Turns to Laura.] Laura, run into the house and see if Mrs. Williams has won another quarter. [LAURA sinks fearfully into chair.] Madison and I are going to smoke a cigar and have a friendly chat, and when we get through I think we'll both be better off.
LAURA. You are sure that everything will be all right?
WILL. Sure.
LAURA looks at JOHN for assurance, and exits; he nods reassuringly.
WILL. Have a cigar?
[SERVANT places lamp on table inside house.
JOHN. No, I'll smoke my own.
[Crosses down right; sits in armchair.
WILL. What is your business? [Crosses up to seat centre; sits.
JOHN. What's yours?
WILL. I'm a broker.
JOHN. I'm a reporter, so I've got something on you.
WILL. What kind?
JOHN. General utility, dramatic critic on Sunday nights.
WILL. Pay you well?
JOHN. [Turns, looking at WILL.] That's pretty fresh. What's the idea?
WILL. I'm interested. I'm a plain man, Mr. Madison, and I do business in a plain way. Now, if I ask you a few questions and discuss this matter with you in a frank way, don't get it in your head that I'm jealous or sore, but simply I don't want either of you people to make a move that's going to cost you a lot of pain and trouble. If you want me to talk sense to you, all right. If you don't we'll drop it now. What's the answer?
JOHN. I'll take a chance, but before you start I want to tell you that the class of people that you belong to I have no use for—they don't speak my language. You are what they call a manipulator of stocks; that means that you're living on the weaknesses of other people, and it almost means that you get your daily bread, yes, and your cake and your wine, too, from the production of others. You're a "gambler under cover." Show me a man who's dealing bank, and he's free and aboveboard. You can figure the percentage against you, and then, if you buck the tiger and get stung, you do it with your eyes open. With your financiers the game is crooked twelve months of the year, and, from a business point of view, I think you are a crook. Now I guess we understand each other. If you've got anything to say, why, spill it.
WILL rises, comes down toward JOHN, showing anger in his tones.
WILL. We are not talking business now, but women. How much money do you earn?
[Crosses to chair left of table; gets it.
JOHN. Understand I don't think it is any of your damn business, but I'm going through with you on this proposition, just to see how the land lays. But take my tip, you be mighty careful how you speak about the girl if you're not looking for trouble.
WILL. All right, but how much did you say you made?
[Crosses over to centre of stage, carrying chair; sits.
JOHN. Thirty dollars a week.
WILL. Do you know how much Laura could make if she just took a job on her own merits?
JOHN. As I don't intend to share in her salary, I never took the trouble to inquire.
WILL. She'd get about forty dollars.
JOHN. That laps me ten.
WILL. How are you going to support her? Her cabs cost more than your salary, and she pays her week's salary for an every-day walking-hat. She's always had a maid; her simplest gown flirts with a hundred-dollar note; her manicurist and her hair-dresser will eat up as much as you pay for your board. She never walks when it's stormy, and every afternoon there's her ride in the park. She dines at the best places in New York, and one meal costs her more than you make in a day. Do you imagine for a moment that she's going to sacrifice these luxuries for any great length of time?
JOHN. I intend to give them to her.
WILL. On thirty dollars a week?
JOHN. I propose to go out and make a lot of money.
WILL. How?
JOHN. I haven't decided yet, but you can bet your sweet life that if I ever try and make up my mind that it's got to be, it's got to be.
WILL. Never have made it, have you?
JOHN. I have never tried.
WILL. Then how do you know you can?
JOHN. Well, I'm honest and energetic. If you can get great wealth the way you go along, I don't see why I can't earn a little.
WILL. There's where you make a mistake. Money-getting doesn't always come with brilliancy. I know a lot of fellows in New York who can paint a great picture, write a good play, and, when it comes to oratory, they've got me lashed to a pole; but they're always in debt. They never get anything for what they do. In other words, young man, they are like a sky-rocket without a stick,—plenty of brilliancy, but no direction, and they blow up and fizzle all over the ground.
JOHN. That's New York. I'm in Colorado, and I guess you know there is a difference.
WILL. I hope you'll make your money, because I tell you frankly that's the only way you can hold this girl. She's full of heroics now, self-sacrifice, and all the things that go to make up the third act of a play, but the minute she comes to darn her stockings, wash out her own handkerchiefs and dry them on the window, and send out for a pail of coffee and a sandwich for lunch, take it from me it will go Blah! [Rises, crosses to front of table with chair, places it with back to him, braces his back on it, facing JOHN.] You're in Colorado writing her letters once a day with no checks in them. That may be all right for some girl who hasn't tasted the joy of easy living, full of the good things of life, but one who for ten years has been doing very well in the way these women do is not going to let up for any great length of time. So take my advice if you want to hold her. Get that money quick, and don't be so damned particular how you get it either.
JOHN'S patience is evidently severely tried. He approaches WILL, who remains impassive.
JOHN. Of course you know you've got the best of me.
WILL. How?
JOHN. We're guests.
WILL. No one's listening.
JOHN. 'Tisn't that. If it was anywhere but here, if there was any way to avoid all the nasty scandal, I'd come a shootin' for you, and you know it.
WILL. Gun-fighter, eh?
JOHN. Perhaps. Let me tell you this. I don't know how you make your money, but I know what you do with it. You buy yourself a small circle of sycophants; you pay them well for feeding your vanity; and then you pose,—pose with a certain frank admission of vice and degradation. And those who aren't quite as brazen as you call it manhood. Manhood? [Crossing slowly to armchair, sits.] Why, you don't know what the word means. It's the attitude of a pup and a cur.
WILL. [Angrily.] Wait a minute [Crosses to JOHN.], young man, or
I'll—
JOHN rises quickly. Both men stand confronting each other for a moment with fists clenched. They are on the very verge of a personal encounter. Both seem to realize that they have gone too far.
JOHN. You'll what?
WILL. Lose my temper and make a damn fool of myself. That's something I've not done for—let me see—why, it must be nearly twenty years—oh, yes, fully that.
[He smiles; JOHN relaxes and takes one step back.
JOHN. Possibly it's been about that length of time since you were human, eh?
WILL. Possibly—but you see, Mr. Madison, after all, you're at fault.
JOHN. Yes?
WILL. Yes, the very first thing you did was to lose your temper. Now people who always lose their temper will never make a lot of money, and you admit that that is a great necessity—I mean now—to you.
JOHN. I can't stand for the brutal way you talk. [Crosses up to seat, picks up newspaper, slams it down angrily on seat, and sits with elbow on balustrade.
WILL. But you have got to stand it. The truth is never gentle. [Crosses up and sits left of JOHN.] Most conditions in life are unpleasant, and, if you want to meet them squarely, you have got to realize the unpleasant point of view. That's the only way you can fight them and win.
JOHN [Turns to WILL.] Still, I believe Laura means what she says, in spite of all you say and the disagreeable logic of it. I think she loves me. If she should ever want to go back to the old way of getting along, I think she'd tell me so. So you see, Brockton, all your talk is wasted, and we'll drop the subject.
[Crosses down and sits in armchair.
WILL. And if she should ever go back and come to me, I am going to insist that she let you know all about it. It'll be hard enough to lose her, caring for her the way you do, but it would hurt a lot more to be double-crossed.
JOHN. [Sarcastically.] That's very kind. Thanks!
WILL. Don't get sore. It's common sense and it goes, does it not?
JOHN. [Turns to WILL.] Just what goes?
WILL. If she leaves you first, you are to tell me, and if she comes to me I'll make her let you know just when and why.
JOHN is leaning on arm, facing WILL; his hand shoots out in a gesture of warning to WILL.
JOHN. Look out!
WILL. I said common sense.
JOHN. All right.
WILL. Agreed? [A pause.
JOHN. You're on.
By this time the stage is black and all that can be seen is the glow of the two cigars. Piano in the next room is heard. JOHN crosses slowly and deliberately to door, looks in, throws cigar away over the terrace, exits into house, closes doors, and, as WILL is seated on terrace, puffing cigar, the red coal of which is alone visible, a slow curtain.
CURTAIN.
ACT II.
SCENE. Six months have elapsed. The furnished room of LAURA MURDOCK, second story back of an ordinary, cheap theatrical lodging-house in the theatre district of New York. The house is evidently of a type of the old-fashioned brown-stone front, with high ceilings, dingy walls, and long, rather insecure windows. The woodwork is depressingly dark. The ceiling is cracked, the paper is old and spotted and in places loose. There is a door leading to the hallway. There is a large old-fashioned wardrobe in which are hung a few old clothes, most of them a good deal worn and shabby, showing that the owner—LAURA MURDOCK—has had a rather hard time of it since leaving Colorado in the first act. The doors of this wardrobe must be equipped with springs so they will open outward, and also furnished with wires so they can be controlled from the back. This is absolutely necessary, owing to "business" which is done during the progress of the act. The drawer in the bottom of the wardrobe is open at rise. This is filled with a lot of rumpled, tissue-paper and other rubbish. An old pair of shoes is seen at the upper end of the wardrobe on the floor. There is an armchair over which is thrown an ordinary kimono, and on top of the wardrobe are a number of magazines and old books, and an unused parasol wrapped up in tissue paper.
The dresser, which is upstage, against the wall, is in keeping with the general meanness, and its adornment consists of old postcards stuck in between the mirror and its frame, with some well-worn veils and ribbons hung on the side. On the dresser is a pincushion, a bottle of cheap perfume, purple in colour and nearly empty; a common crockery match-holder, containing matches, which must be practicable; a handkerchief-box, powder-box and puff, rouge-box and rouge paw, hand mirror, small alcohol curling-iron heater, which must also be practicable, as it is used in the "business" of the act; scissors, curling-tongs, hair comb and brush, and a small cheap picture of JOHN MADISON; a small work-box containing a thimble and thread,—and stuck in the pincushion are a couple of needles, threaded. Directly to the left of the bureau, with the door to the outside closet intervening, is a broken-down washstand, on which is a basin half full of water, a bottle of tooth-powder, tooth brushes and holder, soap and soap-dish, and other cheap toilet articles, and a small drinking-glass. Hung on the corner of the washstand is a soiled towel. Hung on the rack across the top of the washstand one can see a pair of stockings. On the floor in front of the washstand is a pitcher half full of water; also a large waste-water jar of the cheapest type.
Below the washstand, and with the head against the wall, is a three-quarter old wooden bed, also showing the general decay of the entire room. Tacked on the head of this bed is a large photo of JOHN MADISON, with a small bow of dainty blue ribbon at the top, covering the tack. Under the photo are arranged half a dozen cheap, artificial violets, in pitiful recognition of the girl's love for her absent sweetheart.
Under the mattress at the head of the bed is a heavy cardboard box, about thirty inches long, seven inches wide and four inches deep, containing about one hundred and twenty-five letters and eighty telegrams, tied in about eight bundles with dainty ribbon. One bundle must contain all practical letters of several closely written pages each, each letter having been opened. They must be written upon business paper and envelopes, such as are used in newspaper offices and by business men.
Under the pillow at the head of the bed is carelessly thrown a woman's night-dress. On the bed is an old book, open, with face downward, and beside it is an apple which some one has been nibbling. Across the foot of the bed is a soiled quilt, untidily folded. The pillows are hollow in the centre, as if having been used lately. At the foot of the bed is a small table, with soiled and ink-stained cover, upon which are a cheap pitcher, containing some withered carnations, and a desk-pad, with paper, pen, ink, and envelopes scattered around.
Against the wall below the bed is an old mantel-piece and fireplace with iron grate, such as are used in houses of this type. On the mantel-piece are photos of actors and actresses, an old mantel clock in the centre, in front of which is a box of cheap peppermint candy in large pieces, and a plate with two apples upon it; some cheap pieces of bric-à-brac and a little vase containing joss-sticks, such as one might burn to improve the atmosphere of these dingy, damp houses. Below the mantel-piece is a thirty-six inch theatre trunk, with theatre labels on it, in the tray of which are articles of clothing, a small box of thread, and a bundle of eight pawn tickets. Behind the trunk is a large cardboard box. Hanging from the ceiling directly over the table is a single arm gas-jet, from which is hung a turkey wish-bone. On the jet is a little wire arrangement to hold small articles for heating. Beside the table is a chair. Under the bed are a pair of bedroom slippers and a box. Between the bed and the mantel is a small tabourette on which are a book and a candle-stick with the candle half burned. On the floor in front of the door is a slipper,—also another in front of the dresser,—as if they had been thrown carelessly down. On the wardrobe door, on the down-stage side, is tacked another photo of JOHN MADISON.
In an alcove off left is a table on which is a small oil stove, two cups, saucers and plates, a box of matches, tin coffee-box, and a small Japanese teapot. On a projection outside the window is a pint milk bottle, half filled with milk, and an empty benzine bottle, which is labelled. Both are covered with snow.
The backing shows a street snow-covered. In arranging the properties it must be remembered that in the wardrobe is a box of Uneeda biscuits, with one end torn open. There is a door down right, opening inward, leading into the hallway. The window is at back, running from floor nearly to the ceiling. This window does not rise, but opens in the manner of the French or door window.
On the outside of the window covering the same is an iron guard such as is used in New York on the lower back windows. The rods running up and down are about four inches apart. There is a projection outside the window such as would be formed by a storm door in the basement; running the full length of the window and about thirty inches wide, raised about a foot from the floor in front and about nine inches in the back, there is opening inward a door at left back, leading into a small alcove, as has been mentioned before. The door is half glass, the glass part being the upper half, and is ajar when the curtain rises. A projection at fireplace such as would be made for a chimney is in the wall which runs from left centre diagonally to left first entrance.
AT RISE the stage is empty. After a pause LAURA enters, passes the dresser, places umbrella at the right, end of it against wall, crosses to back of armchair, removes gloves, lays them over back of chair, takes off coat and hat, hangs hat on end of wardrobe, and puts coat inside; notices old slipper in front of dresser and one on the extreme right, and with impatience picks them up and puts them in the wardrobe drawer. Then crosses to dresser, gets needle and thread off pincushion, and mends small rip in glove, after which she puts gloves in top drawer of dresser, crosses to extreme end of dresser, and gets handkerchief out of box, takes up bottle containing purple perfume, holds it up so she can see there is only a small quantity left, sprinkles a drop on handkerchief carefully, so as not to use too much, looks at bottle again to see how much is left, places it on dresser; goes to up-stage side of bed, kneels on head of the bed and looks lovingly at photo of JOHN MADISON, and finally pulls up the mattress, takes out box of letters, and opens it. She then sits down in Oriental fashion, with her feet under her, selects a bundle of letters, unties the ribbon, and takes out a letter such as has been hereinbefore described, glances it over, puts it down in her lap, and again takes a long look at the picture of JOHN MADISON. ANNIE is heard coming upstairs. LAURA looks quickly towards the door, puts the letters back in box, and hurriedly places box under mattress, and replaces pillow. ANNIE knocks on door. LAURA rises and crosses to door.
LAURA. Come in.
ANNIE, a chocolate-colored negress, enters. She is slovenly in appearance, but must not in any way denote the "mammy." She is the type one encounters in cheap theatrical lodging-houses. She has a letter in her hand,—also a clean towel folded,—and approaches LAURA.
LAURA. Hello, Annie.
ANNIE. Heah's yo' mail, Miss Laura.
LAURA. [Taking letter.] Thank you!
[She looks at the address and does not open it.
ANNIE. One like dat comes every mornin', don't it? Used to all be postmahked Denver. Must 'a' moved. [Trying to look over LAURA'S shoulder; LAURA turns and sees her; ANNIE looks away.] Where is dat place called Goldfield, Miss Laura?
LAURA. In Nevada.
ANNIE. In Nevada?
LAURA. Yes, Nevada.
ANNIE. [Draws her jacket closer around her as if chilly.] Must be mighty smaht to write yuh every day. De pos'man brings it 'leven o'clock mos' always, sometimes twelve, and again sometimes tehn; but it comes every day, don't it?
LAURA. I know.
ANNIE. [Crosses to right of armchair, brushes it off and makes an effort to read letter, leaning across chair.] Guess must be from yo' husban', ain't it?
LAURA. No, I haven't any.
ANNIE. [Crossing to centre triumphantly.] Dat's what Ah tole Mis' Farley when she was down talkin' about you dis morning. She said if he all was yo' husband he might do somethin' to help you out. Ah told her Ah didn't think you had any husban'. Den she says you ought to have one, you're so pretty.
LAURA. Oh, Annie!
ANNIE. [Sees door open; goes and bangs it shut.] Der ain't a decent door in dis old house. Mis' Farley said yo' might have mos' any man you [Hangs clean towel on washstand.] wanted just for de askin', but Ah said yuh [Takes newspaper and books off bed, and places them on table.] was too particular about the man yo' 'd want. Den she did a heap o' talking.
LAURA. About what? [Places letter open on table, looks at hem of skirt, discovers a rip, rises, crosses up to dresser, gets needle, crosses down to trunk; opens and takes thimble out; closes lid of tray, sits on it, and sews skirt during scene.
ANNIE. [At bed, fussing around, folds nightgown and places it under pillow.] Well, you know, Mis' Farley she's been havin' so much trouble wid her roomers. Yestuhday dat young lady on de second flo' front, she lef'. She's goin' wiv some troupe on the road. She owed her room for three weeks and jus' had to leave her trunk. [Crosses and fusses over table.] My! how Mis' Farley did scold her. Mis' Farley let on she could have paid dat money if she wanted to, but somehow Ah guess she couldn't—
[Reads letter on table.
LAURA. [Sees her, angrily exclaims.] Annie!
ANNIE. [In confusion, brushing off table.]—for if she could she wouldn't have left her trunk, would she, Miss Laura?
[Crosses to armchair, and picks up kimono off back.
LAURA. No, I suppose not. What did Mrs. Farley say about me?
ANNIE. Oh! nothin' much. [Crosses left and stands.
LAURA. Well, what?
ANNIE. She kinder say somethin' 'bout yo' being three weeks behind in yo' room rent, and she said she t'ought it was 'bout time yuh handed her somethin', seein' as how yuh must o' had some stylish friends when yuh come here.
LAURA. Who, for instance?
ANNIE. Ah don't know. Mis' Farley said some of 'em might slip yo' enough jest to help yuh out. [Pause.] Ain't yo' got nobody to take care of you at all, Miss Laura?
[Hangs kimono over back of armchair.
LAURA. No! No one.
ANNIE. Dat's too bad.
LAURA. Why?
ANNIE. [Crossing again.] Mis' Farley says yuh wouldn't have no trouble at all gettin' any man to take care of yuh if yuh wanted to.
LAURA. [With sorrowful shudder.] Please [Doors of wardrobe open very slowly.] don't, Annie.
ANNIE. Dere's a gemman [Playing with corner of tablecloth.] dat calls on one of de ladies from the Hippodrome, in de big front room downstairs. He's mighty nice, and he's been askin' 'bout you.
LAURA. [Exasperated.] Oh, shut up!
ANNIE. [Sees doors of wardrobe have swung open; she crosses, slams them shut, turns to LAURA.] Mis' Farley says—[Doors have swung open again; they hit her in the back. She turns and bangs them to with all her strength.] Damn dat door! [Crosses to washstand, grabs basin which is half full of water, empties same into waste-jar, puts basin on washstand, and wipes it out with soiled towel.] Mis' Farley says if she don't get someone in the house dat has reg'lar money soon, she'll have to shut up and go to the po'house.
LAURA. I'm sorry; I'll try again to-day. [Rises, crosses up to mantel, gets desk-pad, &c., crosses to right of table, sits.
ANNIE. [Crosses to back of bed, wiping basin with towel.] Ain't yo' got any job at all?
LAURA. No.
ANNIE. When yuh come here yuh had lots of money and yo' was mighty good to me. You know Mr. Weston?
LAURA. Jim Weston?
ANNIE. Yassum, Mr. Weston what goes ahead o' shows and lives on the top floor back; he says nobody's got jobs now. Dey're so many actors and actoresses out o' work. Mis' Farley says she don't know how she's goin' to live. She said you'd been mighty nice up until three weeks ago, but yuh ain't got much left, have you, Miss Laura?
LAURA. [Rising and going to the bureau.] No. It's all gone.
ANNIE. Mah sakes! All dem rings and things? You ain't done sold them? [Sinks on bed.
LAURA. They're pawned. What did Mrs. Farley say she was going to do?
ANNIE. Guess maybe Ah'd better not tell.
[Crosses to door hurriedly, carrying soiled towel.
LAURA. Please do. [Crosses to chair, left side.
ANNIE. Yuh been so good to me, Miss Laura. Never was nobody in dis house what give me so much, and Ah ain't been gettin' much lately. And when Mis' Farley said yuh must either pay yo' rent or she would ask yuh for your room, Ah jest set right down on de back kitchen stairs and cried. Besides, Mis' Farley don't like me very well since you've ben havin' yo' breakfasts and dinners brought up here.
LAURA. Why not? [Takes kimono of chair-back, crosses up to dresser, puts kimono in drawer, takes out purse.
ANNIE. She has a rule in dis house dat nobody can use huh chiny or fo'ks or spoons who ain't boa'ding heah, and de odder day when yuh asked me to bring up a knife and fo'k she ketched me coming upstairs, and she says, "Where yuh goin' wid all dose things, Annie?" Ah said, "Ah'm just goin' up to Miss Laura's room with dat knife and fo'k." Ah said, "Ah'm goin' up for nothin' at all, Mis' Farley, she jest wants to look at them, Ah guess." She said, "She wants to eat huh dinner wid 'em, Ah guess." Ah got real mad, and Ah told her if she'd give me mah pay Ah'd brush right out o' here; dat's what Ah'd do, Ah'd brush right out o' here. [Violently shaking out towel.
LAURA. I'm sorry, Annie, if I've caused you any trouble. Never mind, I'll be able to pay the rent to-morrow or next day anyway. [She fumbles in purse, takes out a quarter, and turns to ANNIE.] Here!
ANNIE. No, ma'am, Ah don' want dat.
[Making a show of reluctance.
LAURA. Please take it.
ANNIE. No, ma'am, Ah don' want it. You need dat. Dat's breakfast money for yuh, Miss Laura.
LAURA. Please take it, Annie. I might just as well get rid of this as anything else.
ANNIE. [Takes it rather reluctantly.] Yuh always was so good, Miss
Laura. Sho' yuh don' want dis?
LAURA. Sure.
ANNIE. Sho' yo' goin' to get planty mo'?
LAURA. Sure.
MRS. FARLEY'S VOICE. [Downstairs.] Annie! Annie!
ANNIE. [Going to door, opens it.] Dat's Mis' Farley. [To MRS.
FARLEY.] Yassum, Mis' Farley.
SAME VOICE. Is Miss Murdock up there?
ANNIE. Yassum, Mis' Farley, yassum!
MRS. FARLEY. Anything doin'?
ANNIE. Huh?
MRS. FARLEY. Anything doin'?
ANNIE. [At door.] Ah—Ah—hain't asked, Missy Farley.
MRS. FARLEY. Then do it.
LAURA. [Coming to the rescue at the door. To ANNIE.] I'll answer her. [Out of door to MRS. FARLEY.] What is it, Mrs. Farley?
MRS. FARLEY. [Her voice softened.] Did ye have any luck this morning, dearie?
LAURA. No; but I promise you faithfully to help you out this afternoon or to-morrow.
MRS. FARLEY. Sure? Are you certain?
LAURA. Absolutely.
MRS. FARLEY. Well, I must say these people expect me to keep—[Door closed.
LAURA quietly closes the door, and MRS. FARLEY'S rather strident voice is heard indistinctly. LAURA sighs and walks toward table; sits. ANNIE looks after her, and then slowly opens the door.
ANNIE. Yo' sho' dere ain't nothin' I can do fo' yuh, Miss Laura?
LAURA. Nothing.
ANNIE exits. LAURA sits down and looks at letter, opening it. It consists of several pages closely written. She reads some of them hurriedly, skims through the rest, and then turns to the last page without reading; glances at it; lays it on table; rises.
LAURA. Hope, just nothing but hope.
She crosses to bed, falls face down upon it, burying her face in her hands. Her despondency is palpable. As she lies there a hurdy-gurdy in the street starts to play a popular air. This arouses her and she rises, crosses to wardrobe, takes out box of crackers, opens window, gets bottle of milk off sill outside, places them on table, gets glass off washstand, at the same time humming the tune of the hurdy-gurdy, when a knock comes; she crosses quickly to dresser; powders her nose. The knock is timidly repeated.
LAURA. [Without turning, and in a rather tired tone of voice.] Come in.
JIM WESTON, a rather shabby theatrical advance-agent of the old school, enters timidly, halting at the door and holding the knob in his hand. He is a man of about forty years old, dressed in an ordinary manner, of medium height, and in fact has the appearance of a once prosperous clerk who has been in hard luck. His relations with LAURA are those of pure friendship. They both live in the same lodging-place, and, both having been out of employment, they have naturally become acquainted.
JIM. Can I come in?
LAURA. [Without turning.] Hello, Jim Weston. [He closes door and enters.] Any luck?
JIM. Lots of it.
LAURA. That's good. Tell me.
JIM. It's bad luck. Guess you don't want to hear.
LAURA. I'm sorry. Where have you been?
JIM. I kind o' felt around up at Burgess's office. I thought I might get a job there, but he put me off until to-morrow. Somehow those fellows always do business to-morrow.
[Hurdy-gurdy dies out.
LAURA. Yes, and there's always to-day to look after.
JIM. I'm ready to give up. I've tramped Broadway for nine weeks until every piece of flagstone gives me the laugh when it sees my feet coming. Got a letter from the missis this morning. The kids got to have some clothes, there's measles in the town, and mumps in the next village. I've just got to raise some money or get some work, or the first thing you'll know I'll be hanging around Central Park on a dark night with a club.
LAURA. I know just how you feel. Sit down, Jim. [JIM crosses and sits in chair right of table.] It's pretty tough for me [Offers JIM glass of milk; he refuses; takes crackers.], but it must be a whole lot worse for you with a wife and kids.
JIM. Oh, if a man's alone he can generally get along—turn his hand to anything; but a woman—
LAURA. Worse, you think?
JIM. I was just thinking about you and what Burgess said?
LAURA. What was that?
[Crosses to bed; sits on up-stage side, sipping milk.
JIM. You know Burgess and I used to be in the circus business together. He took care of the grafters when I was boss canvas man. I never could see any good in shaking down the rubes for all the money they had and then taking part of it. He used to run the privilege car, you know.
LAURA. Privilege car?
JIM. Had charge of all the pickpockets,—dips we called 'em—sure-thing gamblers, and the like. Made him rich. I kept sort o' on the level and I'm broke. Guess it don't pay to be honest—
LAURA. [Turns to him and in a significant voice:] You don't really think that?
JIM. No, maybe not. Ever since I married the missis and the first kid come, we figured the only good money was the kind folks worked for and earned; but when you can't get hold of that, it's tough.
LAURA. I know.
JIM. Burgess don't seem to be losing sleep over the tricks he's turned. He's happy and prosperous, but I guess he ain't any better now than he was then.
LAURA. Maybe not. I've been trying to get an engagement from him. There are half a dozen parts in his new attractions that I could do, but he has never absolutely said "no," but yet somehow he's never said "yes."
JIM. He spoke about you.
LAURA. In what way? [Rising, stands behind JIM'S chair.
JIM. I gave him my address and he seen it was yours, too. Asked if I lived in the same place.
LAURA. Was that all?
JIM. Wanted to know how you was getting on. I let him know you needed work, but I didn't tip my hand you was flat broke. He said something about you being a damned fool.
LAURA. [Suddenly and interested.] How? [She crosses.
JIM. Well, Johnny Ensworth—you know he used to do the fights on the Evening Journal; now he's press-agent for Burgess; nice fellow and way on the inside—he told me where you were in wrong.
LAURA. What have I done? [Sits in armchair.
JIM. Burgess don't put up the money for any of them musical comedies—he just trails. Of course he's got a lot of influence, and he's always Johnny-on-the-Spot to turn any dirty trick that they want. There are four or five rich men in town who are there with the bank-roll, providing he engages women who ain't so very particular about the location of their residence, and who don't hear a curfew ring at 11:30 every night.
LAURA. And he thinks I am too particular?
JIM. That's what was slipped me. Seems that one of the richest men that is in on Mr. Burgess's address-book is a fellow named Brockton from downtown some place. He's got more money than the Shoe and Leather National Bank. He likes to play show business.
LAURA. [Rises quickly.] Oh! [Crosses to wardrobe, gets hat; crosses to dresser, gets scissors with intention of curling feathers.
JIM. I thought you knew him. I thought it was just as well to tell you where he and Burgess stand. They're pals.
LAURA. [Coming over to JIM and with emphasis crosses to down-stage side of bed; puts hat and scissors on bed.] I don't want you to talk about him or any of them. I just want you to know that I'm trying to do everything in my power to go through this season without any more trouble. I've pawned everything I've got; I've cut every friend I knew. But where am I going to end? That's what I want to know—where am I going to end? [To bed and sits.] Every place I look for a position something interferes. It's almost as if I were blacklisted. I know I could get jobs all right if I wanted to pay the price, but I won't. I just want to tell you, I won't. No!
[Rises, crosses to mantel, rests elbow.
JIM. That's the way to talk. [Rises.] I don't know you very well, but I've watched you close. I'm just a common, ordinary showman who never had much money, and I'm going out o' date. I've spent most of my time with nigger-minstrel shows and circuses, but I've been on the square. That's why I'm broke. [Rather sadly.] Once I thought the missis would have to go back and do her acrobatic act, but she couldn't do that, she's grown so damn fat. [Crosses to LAURA.] Just you don't mind. It'll all come out right.
LAURA. It's an awful tough game, isn't it?
JIM. [During this speech LAURA gets cup, pours milk back into bottle, closes biscuit-box, puts milk on shed outside, and biscuits into wardrobe, cup in alcove.] It's hell forty ways from the Jack. It's tough for me, but for a pretty woman with a lot o' rich fools jumping out o' their automobiles and hanging around stage doors, it must be something awful. I ain't blaming the women. They say "self-preservation is the first law of nature," and I guess that's right; but sometimes when the show is over and I see them fellows with their hair plastered back, smoking cigarettes in a [LAURA crosses to chair right of table and leans over back.] holder long enough to reach from here to Harlem, and a bank-roll that would bust my pocket and turn my head, I feel as if I'd like to get a gun and go a-shooting around this old town.
LAURA. Jim!
JIM. Yes, I do—you bet.
LAURA. That wouldn't pay, would it?
JIM. No, they're not worth the job of sitting on that throne in Sing Sing, and I'm too poor to go to Matteawan. But all them fellows under nineteen and over fifty-nine ain't much use to themselves or anyone else.
LAURA. [Rather meditatively.] Perhaps all of them are not so bad.
JIM. [Sits on bed.] Yes, they are,—angels and all. Last season I had one of them shows where a rich fellow backed it on account of a girl. We lost money and he lost his girl; then we got stuck in Texas. I telegraphed: "Must have a thousand, or can't move." He just answered: "Don't move." We didn't.
LAURA. But that was business.
JIM. Bad business. It took a year for some of them folks to get back to Broadway. Some of the girls never did, and I guess never will.
LAURA. Maybe they're better off, Jim. [Sits right of table.
JIM. Couldn't be worse. They're still in Texas. [To himself.] Wish I knew how to do something else, being a plumber or a walking delegate; they always have jobs.
LAURA. Well, I wish I could do something else too, but I can't, and we've got to make the best of it.
JIM. I guess so. I'll see you this evening. I hope you'll have good news by that time. [Starts to exit, about to open door; then retreats a step, with hand on door-knob, crosses and in a voice meant to be kindly] If you'd like to go to the theatre to-night, and take some other woman in the house, maybe I can get a couple of tickets for some of the shows. I know a lot of fellows who are working.
LAURA. No, thanks. I haven't anything to wear to the theatre, and I don't—
JIM. [With a smile crosses to LAURA, puts arm around her.] Now you just cheer up! Something's sure to turn up. It always has for me, and I'm a lot older than you, both in years and in this business. There's always a break in hard luck sometime—that's sure.
LAURA. [Smiling through her tears.] I hope so. But things are looking pretty hopeless now, aren't they?
JIM. I'll go down and give Mrs. F. a line o' talk and try to square you for a couple of days more anyway. But I guess she's laying pretty close to the cushion herself, poor woman.
LAURA. Annie says a lot of people owe her.
JIM. Well, you can't pay what you haven't got. And even if money was growing on trees, it's winter now. [JIM goes towards door.] I'm off. Maybe to-day is lucky day. So long!
LAURA. Good-bye.
JIM. Keep your nerve. [Exit
LAURA. I will. [She sits for a moment in deep thought, picks up the letter received, as if to read it, and then throws it down in anger. She buries her head in hands.] I can't stand it—I just simply can't stand it.
MRS. FARLEY'S VOICE. [Off stage.] Miss Murdock—Miss Murdock.
LAURA. [Brushing away tears, rises, goes to door, and opens it.]
What is it?
SAME VOICE. There's a lady down here to see you.
ELFIE'S VOICE. [Off stage.] Hello, dearie, can I come up?
LAURA. Is that you, Elfie?
ELFIE. Yes; shall I come up?
LAURA. Why, certainly.
She waits at the door for a moment, and ELFIE ST. CLAIR appears. She is gorgeously gowned in the rather extreme style affected by the usual New York woman who is cared for by a gentleman of wealth and who has not gone through the formality of matrimonial alliance. Her conduct is always exaggerated and her attitude vigorous. Her gown is of the latest design, and in every detail of dress she shows evidence of most extravagant expenditure. She carries a hand-bag of gold, upon which are attached such trifles as a gold cigarette-case, a gold powder-box, pencils, and the like. ELFIE throws her arms around LAURA, and both exchange kisses.
ELFIE. Laura, you old dear [Crossing to table.], I've just found out where you've been hiding, and came around to see you.
LAURA. [Who is much brightened by ELFIE'S appearance.] Elfie, you're looking bully. How are you, dear?
ELFIE. Fine.
LAURA. Come in and sit down. I haven't much to offer, but—
ELFIE. Oh, never mind. It's such a grand day outside, and I've come around in my car to take you out. [Sits right of table.] You know I've got a new one, and it can go some.
LAURA. [Sits on arm of chair.] I am sorry, but I can't go out this afternoon, Elfie.
ELFIE. What's the matter?
LAURA. You see I'm staying home a good deal nowadays. I haven't been feeling very well and I don't go out much.
ELFIE. I should think not. I haven't seen you in Rector's or Martin's since you come back from Denver. Got a glimpse of you one day trailing up Broadway, but couldn't get to you—you dived into some office or other. [For the first time she surveys the room, rises, looks around critically, crossing to mantel.] Gee! Whatever made you come into a dump like this? It's the limit.
LAURA. [Crossing and standing back of the table.] Oh, I know it isn't pleasant, but it's my home, and after all—a home's a home.
ELFIE. Looks more like a prison. [Takes candy from mantel; spits it out on floor.] Makes me think of the old days of Child's sinkers and a hall bedroom.
LAURA. It's comfortable. [Leaning hands on table.
ELFIE. Not! [Sits on bed, trying bed with comedy effect. Say, is this here for an effect, or do you sleep on it?
LAURA. I sleep on it.
ELFIE. No wonder you look tired. Say, listen, dearie. What else is the matter with you anyway?
LAURA. Nothing.
ELFIE. Yes, there is. What happened between you and Brockton? [Notices faded flowers in vase on table; takes them out, tosses them into fireplace, replaces them with gardenias which she wears.] He's not broke, because I saw him the other day.
LAURA. Where?
ELFIE. In the park. Asked me out to luncheon, but I couldn't go. You know, dearie, I've got to be so careful. Jerry's so awful jealous—the old fool.
LAURA. Do you see much of Jerry nowadays, Elfie?
ELFIE. Not any more than I can help and be nice. He gets on my nerves.
Of course, I've heard about your quitting Brockton.
LAURA. Then why do you ask?
[Crosses around chair right of table; stands.
ELFIE. Just wanted to hear from your own dear lips what the trouble was. Now tell me all about it. Can I smoke here?
[Takes cigarette-case up, opens it, selecting cigarette.
LAURA. Surely. [Gets matches off bureau, puts them on table.
ELFIE. Have one? [Offers case.
LAURA. No, thank you.
[Sits in chair right of table, facing ELFIE.
ELFIE. H'm-m, h'm-m, hah! [Lights cigarette.] Now go ahead. Tell me all the scandal. I'm just crazy to know.
LAURA. There's nothing to tell. I haven't been able to find work, that is all, and I'm short of money. You can't live in hotels, you know, with cabs and all that sort of thing, when you're not working.
ELFIE. Yes, you can. I haven't worked in a year.
LAURA. But you don't understand, dear. I—I—Well, you know I—well, you know—I can't say what I want.
ELFIE. Oh, yes, you can. You can say anything to me—everybody else does. We've been pals. I know you got along a little faster in the business than I did. The chorus was my limit, and you went into the legitimate thing. But we got our living just the same way. I didn't suppose there was any secret between you and me about that.
LAURA. I know there wasn't then, Elfie, but I tell you I'm different now. I don't want to do that sort of thing, and I've been very unlucky. This has been a terribly hard season for me. I simply haven't been able to get an engagement.
ELFIE. Well, you can't get on this way. Won't [Pauses, knocking ashes off cigarette to cover hesitation.] Brockton help you out?
LAURA. What's the use of talking to you [Rises and crosses to fireplace.], Elfie; you don't understand.
ELFIE. [Puffing deliberately on cigarette and crossing her legs in almost a masculine attitude.] No? Why don't I understand?
LAURA. Because you can't; you've never felt as I have.
ELFIE. How do you know?
LAURA. [Turning impatiently.] Oh, what's the use of explaining?
ELFIE. You know, Laura, I'm not much on giving advice, but you make me sick. I thought you'd grown wise. A young girl just butting into this business might possibly make a fool of herself, but you ought to be on to the game and make the best of it.
LAURA. [Going over to her angrily.] If you came up here, Elfie, to talk that sort of stuff to me, please don't. I was West this summer. I met someone, a real man, who did me a whole lot of good,—a man who opened my eyes to a different way of going along—a man who—Oh, well, what's the use? You don't know—you don't know. [Sits on bed.
ELFIE. [Throws cigarette into fireplace.] I don't know, don't I? I don't know, I suppose, that when I came to this town from up state,—a little burg named Oswego,—and joined a chorus, that I didn't fall in love with just such a man. I suppose I don't know that then I was the best-looking girl in New York, and everybody talked about me? I suppose I don't know that there were men, all ages and with all kinds of money, ready to give me anything for the mere privilege of taking me out to supper? And I didn't do it, did I? For three years I stuck by this good man who was to lead me in a good way toward a good life. And all the time I was getting older, never quite so pretty one day as I had been the day before. I never knew then what it was to be tinkered with by hair-dressers and manicures or a hundred and one of those other people who make you look good. I didn't have to have them then. [Rises, crosses to right of table, facing LAURA.] Well, you know, Laura, what happened.
LAURA. Wasn't it partly your fault, Elfie?
ELFIE. [Speaking across table angrily.] Was it my fault that time made me older and I took on a lot of flesh? Was it my fault that the work and the life took out the colour, and left the make-up? Was it my fault that other pretty young girls came along, just as I'd come, and were chased after, just as I was? Was it my fault the cabs weren't waiting any more and people didn't talk about how pretty I was? And was it my fault when he finally had me alone, and just because no one else wanted me, he got tired and threw me flat—cold flat [Brings hand down on table.]—and I'd been on the dead level with him! [With almost a sob, crosses up to bureau, powders nose, comes down back of table.] It almost broke my heart. Then I made up my mind to get even and get all I could out of the game. Jerry came along. He was a has-been and I was on the road to be. He wanted to be good to me, and I let him. That's all.
LAURA. Still, I don't see how you can live that way.
[Lies on bed.
ELFIE. Well, you did, and you didn't kick.
LAURA. Yes, but things are different with me now. You'd be the same way if you were in my place.
ELFIE. No. I've had all the romance I want, and I'll stake you to all your love affairs. [Crosses back of bed, touches picture over bed.] I am out to gather in as much coin as I can in my own way, so when the old rainy day comes along I'll have a little change to buy myself an umbrella.
LAURA. [Rising and angrily crossing to armchair.] What did you come here for? Why can't you leave me alone when I'm trying to get along?
ELFIE. Because I want to help you.
LAURA. [During speech crosses to up-stage side of bed, angrily tosses quilt to floor and sits on bed in tears.] You can't help me. I'm all right—I tell you I am. What do you care anyway?
ELFIE. [Sits on bed, crosses down stage to lower left side of bed, sits facing LAURA.] But I do care. I know how you feel with an old cat for a landlady and living up here on a side street with a lot of cheap burlesque people. Why, the room's cold [LAURA rises, crosses to window.], and there's no hot water, and you're beginning to look shabby. You haven't got a job—chances are you won't have one. What does [Indicating picture on bed with thumb.] this fellow out there do for you? Send you long letters of condolences? That's what I used to get. When I wanted to buy a new pair of shoes or a silk petticoat, he told me how much he loved me; so I had the other ones re-soled and turned the old petticoat. And look at you, you're beginning to show it. [She surveys her carefully.] I do believe there are lines coming in your face [LAURA crosses to dresser quickly, picks up hand mirror, and looks at herself.], and you hide in the house because you've nothing new to wear.
LAURA. [Puts down mirror, crossing down to back of bed.] But I've got what you haven't got. I may have to hide my clothes, but I don't have to hide my face. And you with that man—he's old enough to be your father—a toddling dote hanging on your apron-strings. I don't see how you dare show your face to a decent woman.
ELFIE. [Rises.] You don't!—but you did once and I never caught you hanging your head. You say he's old. I know he's old, but he's good to me. He's making what's left of my life pleasant. You think I like him. I don't,—sometimes I hate him,—but he understands; and you can bet your life his check is in my mail every Saturday night or there's a new lock on the door Sunday morning. [Crossing to fireplace.
LAURA. How can you say such things to me?
ELFIE. [Crosses to left end of table.] Because I want you to be square with yourself. You've lost all that precious virtue women gab about. When you've got the name, I say get the game.
LAURA. You can go now, Elfie, and don't come back.
ELFIE. [Gathering up muff, &c.] All right, if that's the way you want it to be, I'm sorry. [A knock on the door.
LAURA. [Controlling herself after a moment's hesitation.] Come in.
ANNIE enters with a note, crosses, and hands it to LAURA.
ANNIE. Mis' Farley sent dis, Miss Laura.
[LAURA takes the note and reads it. She is palpably annoyed.
LAURA. There's no answer.
ANNIE. She tol' me not to leave until Ah got an answah.
LAURA. You must ask her to wait.
ANNIE. She wants an answah.
LAURA. Tell her I'll be right down—that it will be all right.
ANNIE. But, Miss Laura, she tol' me to get an answah.
[Exit reluctantly.
LAURA. [Half to herself and half to ELFIE.] She's taking advantage of your being here. [Standing near door.
ELFIE. How?
LAURA. She wants money—three weeks' room-rent. I presume she thought you'd give it to me.
ELFIE. Huh! [Moves to left.
LAURA. [Crossing to table.] Elfie, I've been a little cross; I didn't mean it.
ELFIE. Well?
LAURA. Could—could you lend me thirty-five dollars until I get to work?
ELFIE. Me?
LAURA. Yes.
ELFIE. Lend you thirty-five dollars?
LAURA. Yes; you've got plenty of money to spare.
ELFIE. Well, you certainly have got a nerve.
LAURA. You might give it to me. I haven't a dollar in the world, and you pretend to be such a friend to me!
ELFIE. [Turning and angrily speaking across table.] So that's the kind of woman you are, eh? A moment ago you were going to kick me out of the place because I wasn't decent enough to associate with you. You know how I live. You know how I get my money—the same way you got most of yours. And now that you've got this spasm of goodness I'm not fit to be in your room; but you'll take my money to pay your debts. You'll let me go out and do this sort of thing for your benefit, while you try to play the grand lady. I've got your number now, Laura. Where in hell is your virtue anyway? You can go to the devil—rich, poor, or any other way. I'm off! ELFIE rushes toward door; for a moment LAURA stands speechless, then bursts into hysterics.
LAURA. Elfie! Elfie! Don't go now! Don't leave me now! [ELFIE hesitates with hand on door-knob.] I can't stand it. I can't be alone. Don't go, please; don't go.
LAURA falls into ELFIE'S arms, sobbing. In a moment ELFIE'S whole demeanour changes and she melts into the tenderest womanly sympathy, trying her best to express herself in her crude way.
ELFIE. There, old girl, don't cry, don't cry. You just sit down here and let me put my arms around you. [ELFIE leads LAURA over to armchair, places muff, &c., in chair, and sits LAURA down in chair. ELFIE sits on right arm of chair with her left arm behind LAURA; hugs LAURA to her. LAURA in tears and sobbing during scene.] I'm awful sorry—on the level, I am. I shouldn't have said it. I know that. But I've got feelings too, even if folks don't give me credit for it.
LAURA. I know, Elfie. I've gone through about all I can stand.
ELFIE. Well, I should say you have—and more than I would. Anyway a good cry never hurts any woman. I have one myself, sometimes—under cover.
LAURA. [More seriously, recovering herself.] Perhaps what you said was true.
ELFIE. We won't talk about it.
[Wiping LAURA'S eyes and kissing her.
LAURA. [With persistence.] But perhaps it was true, and, Elfie—
ELFIE. Yes.
LAURA. I think I've stood this just as long as I can. Every day is a living horror.
ELFIE. [Looking around room.] It's the limit.
LAURA. I've got to have money to pay the rent. I've pawned everything
I have, except the clothes on my back.
ELFIE. I'll give you all the money you need, dearie. Great heavens, don't worry about that. Don't you care if I got sore and—and lost my head.
LAURA. No; I can't let you do that. [Rises; crosses to table.] You may have been mad,—awfully mad,—but what you said was the truth. I can't take your money. [Sits right of table.
ELFIE. Oh, forget that. [Rises, crosses to centre.
LAURA. Maybe—maybe if he knew all about it—the suffering—he wouldn't blame me.
ELFIE. Who—the good man who wanted to lead you to the good life without even a bread-basket for an advance-agent? Huh!
LAURA. Still he doesn't know how desperately poor I am.
ELFIE. He knows you're out of work, don't he?
LAURA. [Turning to ELFIE.] Not exactly. I've let him think that I'm getting along all right.
ELFIE. Then you're a chump. Hasn't he sent you anything?
LAURA. He hasn't anything to send.
ELFIE. Well, what does he think you're going to live on?—asphalt croquettes with conversation sauce?
LAURA. I don't know—I don't know. [Sobbing.
ELFIE. [Crosses to LAURA, puts arms around her.] Don't be foolish, dearie. You know there is somebody waiting for you—somebody who'll be good to you and get you out of this mess.
LAURA. You mean Will Brockton? [Looking up.
ELFIE. Yes.
LAURA. Do you know where he is?
ELFIE. Yes.
LAURA. Well?
ELFIE. You won't get sore again if I tell you, will you?
LAURA. No—why? [Rises.
ELFIE. He's downstairs—waiting in the car. I promised to tell him what you said.
LAURA. Then it was all planned, and—and—
ELFIE. Now, dearie, I knew you were up against it, and I wanted to bring you two together. He's got half of the Burgess shows, and if you'll only see him everything will be fixed.
LAURA. When does he want to see me?
ELFIE. Now.
LAURA. Here?
ELFIE. Yes. Shall I tell him to come up?
LAURA. [After a long pause, crossing around to bed, down-stage side.] Yes.
ELFIE. [Suddenly becomes animated.] Now you're a sensible dear. I'll bet he's half frozen down there. [Goes to door.] I'll send him up. Look at you, Laura, you're a sight. [Crosses to LAURA, takes her by hand, leads her up to washstand, takes towel and wipes LAURA'S eyes.] It'll never do to have him see you looking like this; come over here and let me fix your eyes. Now, Laura, I want you to promise me you won't do any more crying. [Leads LAURA over to dresser, takes powder-puff and powders LAURA'S face.] Come over here and let me powder your nose. Now when he comes up you tell him he has got to blow us all off to a dinner to-night at Martin's, seven-thirty. Let me look at you. Now you're all right. [After daubing LAURA'S face with the rouge paw, ELFIE takes LAURA'S face in her hands and kisses her.] Make it strong now, seven-thirty, don't forget. I'll be there. [Crosses to armchair, gathers up muff, &c.] So long.
[Exit.
After ELFIE'S exit LAURA crosses slowly to wardrobe, pulls off picture of JOHN; crosses to dresser, takes picture of JOHN from there; carries both pictures over to bed; kneels on bed, pulls down picture at head of bed; places all three pictures under pillow. WILL is heard coming upstairs, and knocks.
LAURA. Come in.
WILL enters. His dress is that of a man of business, the time being about February. He is well groomed and brings with him the impression of easy luxury.
WILL. [As he enters.] Hello, Laura.
There is an obvious embarrassment on the part of each of them. She rises, goes to him and extends her hand.
LAURA. I'm—I'm glad to see you, Will.
WILL. Thank you.
LAURA. Won't you sit down?
WILL. [Regaining his ease of manner.] Thank you again.
[Puts hat and cane at end of wardrobe; removes overcoat and places it on back of armchair; sits in armchair.
LAURA. [Sits right of table.] It's rather cold out, isn't it?
WILL. Just a bit sharp.
LAURA. You came with Elfie in the car?
WILL. She picked me up at Martin's; we lunched there.
LAURA. By appointment?
WILL. I'd asked her.
LAURA. Well?
WILL. Well, Laura.
LAURA. She told you?
WILL. Not a great deal. What do you want to tell me?
LAURA. [Very simply, and avoiding his glance.] Will, I'm ready to come back.
WILL. [With an effort concealing his sense of triumph and satisfaction. Rises, crosses to LAURA.] I'm mighty glad of that, Laura. I've missed you like the very devil.
LAURA. Do we—do we have to talk it over much?
[Crosses to left of table in front of bed.
WILL. Not at all unless you want to. I understand—in fact, I always have.
LAURA. [Wearily.] Yes, I guess you always did. I didn't.
[Crosses and sits right of table.
WILL. It will be just the same as it was before, you know.
LAURA. Yes.
WILL. I didn't think it was possible for me to miss anyone the way I have you. I've been lonely.
LAURA. That's nice in you to say that.
WILL. You'll have to move out of here right away. [Crossing to back of table, surveying room.] This place is enough to give one the colly-wabbles. If you'll be ready to-morrow I'll send my man over to help you take care of the luggage.
LAURA. To-morrow will be all right, thank you.
WILL. And you'll need some money in the meantime. I'll leave this here.
[He takes a roll of bills and places it on the bureau.
LAURA. You seem to have come prepared. Did Elfie and you plan this all out?
WILL. Not planned—just hoped. I think you'd better go to some nice hotel now. Later we can arrange.
[Sits on up-stage side of bed.
LAURA. Will, we'll always be frank. I said I was ready to go. It's up to you—when and where.
WILL. The hotel scheme is the best, but, Laura—
LAURA. Yes?
WILL. You're quite sure this is in earnest. You don't want to change?
You've time enough now.
LAURA. I've quite made up my mind. It's final.
WILL. If you want to work, Burgess has a nice part for you. I'll telephone and arrange if you say so.
LAURA. Thanks. Say I'll see him in the morning.
WILL. And, Laura, you know when we were in Denver, and—
LAURA. [Rises hurriedly; crosses right.] Please, please, don't speak of it.
WILL. I'm sorry, but I've got to. I told [Rises, and crosses to left.] Madison [LAURA turns her head.]—pardon me, but I must do this—that if this time ever came I'd have you write him the truth. Before we go any further I'd like you to do that now.
LAURA. Say good-bye? [Turns to WILL.
WILL. Just that.
LAURA. I wouldn't know how to begin. It will hurt him awfully deeply.
WILL. It'll be worse if you don't. He'll like you for telling him. It would be honest, and that is what he expects.
LAURA. Must I—now?
WILL. I think you should.
LAURA. [Goes to table and sits down.] How shall I begin, Will?
WILL. [Standing back of table.] You mean you don't know what to say?
LAURA. Yes.
WILL. Then I'll dictate.
LAURA. I'll do just as you say. You're the one to tell me now.
WILL. Address it the way you want to. [She complies.] I'm going to be pretty brutal. In the long run I think that is best, don't you?
LAURA. It's up to you.
WILL. Ready?
LAURA. Begin.
WILL. [Dictating.] "All I have to say can be expressed in one word, 'good-bye.' I shall not tell you where I've gone, but remind you of what Brockton told you the last time he saw you. He is here now [Pause.], dictating this letter. What I am doing is voluntary—my own suggestion. Don't grieve. Be happy and successful. I do not love you"—
[She puts pen down; looks at him.
LAURA. Will—please.
WILL. It has got to go just that way—"I do not love you." Sign it "Laura." [She does it.] Fold it, put it in an envelope—seal it—address it. Now shall I mail it?
LAURA. No. If you don't mind I'd sooner. It's a sort of a last—last message.
WILL. [Crosses to armchair; gets coat, puts it on.] All right.
You're a little upset now, and I'm going. We are all to dine at
Martin's to-night at seven-thirty. There'll be a party. Of course
you'll come. [Gets hat and cane.
LAURA. I don't think I can. You see—
WILL. I know. I guess there's enough there [Indicating money.] for your immediate needs. Later you can straighten things up. Shall I send the car?
LAURA. Yes, please.
WILL. Good. It will be the first happy evening I've had in a long, long time. You'll be ready?
[Approaches and bends over her as if to caress her.
LAURA. [Shrinking away.] Please don't. Remember we don't dine until seven-thirty.
WILL. All right. [Exit.
For a moment LAURA sits silent, and then angrily rises, crosses up to dresser, gets alcohol lamp, crosses to table with lamp, lights same, and starts back to dresser. Knock at door.
LAURA. Come in. [ANNIE enters, and stops.] That you, Annie?
ANNIE. Yassum.
LAURA. Mrs. Farley wants her rent. There is some money. [Tosses money on to table.] Take it to her.
ANNIE goes to the table, examines the roll of bills and is palpably surprised.
ANNIE. Dey ain't nothin' heah, Miss Laura, but five great big one hunderd dollah bills.
LAURA. Take two. And look in that upper drawer. You'll find some pawn tickets there. [ANNIE complies.
ANNIE. Yassum. [Aside.] Dat's real money—dem's yellow-backs sure.
LAURA. Take the two top ones and go get my lace gown and one of the hats. The ticket is for a hundred and ten dollars. Keep ten for yourself, and hurry.
ANNIE. [Aside.] Ten for myself—I never see so much money. [To LAURA, her astonishment nearly overcoming her.] Yassum, Miss Laura, yassum. [She goes toward door, and then turns to LAURA.] Ah'm so mighty glad yo' out all yo' trouble, Miss Laura. I says to Mis' Farley now—
LAURA. [Snapping her off.] Don't—don't. Go do as I tell you and mind your business. [ANNIE turns sullenly and walks toward the door. At that moment LAURA sees the letter, which she has thrown on the table.] Wait a minute. I want you to mail a letter. [By this time her hair is half down, hanging loosely over her shoulders. Her waist is open at the throat, collar off, and she has the appearance of a woman's untidiness when she is at that particular stage of her toilet. Hands letter to ANNIE, but snatches it away as ANNIE turns to go. She glances at the letter long and wistfully, and her nerve fails her.] Never mind.
ANNIE exits. Slowly LAURA puts the letter over the flame of the alcohol lamp and it ignites. As it burns she holds it in her fingers, and when half consumed throws it into waste-jar, sits on side of bed watching letter burn, then lies down across bed on her elbows, her chin in her hands, facing audience. As the last flicker is seen the curtain slowly descends.
CURTAIN.
ACT III.
SCENE. Two months have elapsed. The scene is at BROCKTON'S apartment in a hotel such as is not over particular concerning the relations of its tenants. There are a number of these hotels throughout the theatre district of New York, and, as a rule, one will find them usually of the same type. The room in which this scene is placed is that of the general living-room in one of the handsomest apartments in the building. The prevailing colour is green, and there is nothing particularly gaudy about the general furnishings. They are in good taste, but without the variety of arrangement and ornamentation which would naturally obtain in a room occupied by people a bit more particular concerning their surroundings. Down stage is a table about three feet square which can be used not only as a general centre-table, but also for service while the occupants are eating. There is a breakfast service on this table, and also a tray and stand behind it. There is a chair at either side of the table, and at right coming up stage, the room turns at a sharp angle of thirty-five degrees, and this space is largely taken up by a large doorway. This is equipped with sliding-doors and hung with green portières, which are handsome and in harmony with the general scheme of the furnishings of the room. This entrance is to the sleeping-room of the apartments.
At the back of the stage is a large window or alcove. The window is on the ordinary plan, and the view through it shows the back of another building of New York, presumably a hotel of about the same character. Green portières are also hung on the windows. Down left is the entrance to the corridor of the hotel, and this must be so arranged that it works with a latch-key and opens upon a small hallway, which separates the apartment from the main hallway. This is necessary as the action calls for the slamming of a door, and later the opening of the direct and intimate door of the apartment with a latch-key. Left of centre is a sofa, and there is a general arrangement of chairs without over-crowding the apartment. Just below, where the right portière is hung, is a long, full-length mirror, such as women dress by. Against wall is a lady's fancy dresser.
To the immediate left of the sliding-doors, which go into the sleeping-apartment, is a lady's small writing-desk, with a drawer on the right-hand side, in which is a pearl-handled 32-calibre revolver. The front of the desk is open at rise. On top of the desk is a desk lamp and a large box of candy; inside the desk is writing material, &c. In pigeon-hole left there is a small photo and frame, which ANNIE places on the table when she removes the breakfast set. In front of centre window in alcove is a small table on which is a parlour lamp, and some newspapers, including the "New York Sun." On the floor running between the desk and table is a large fur rug. In front of the table is a small gilt chair; in front of desk there is also a small gilt chair; there is a pianola piano, on top of which is a bundle of music-rolls. In place, ready to play, is a roll of a negro tune called "Bon-Bon Buddie, My Chocolate Drop." On top of the piano, in addition to the music-rolls, are a fancy lamp, a large basket of chrysanthemums, and two photos in frames, at the upper corner. Standing on the floor is a large piano lamp. On the sofa are cushions, and thrown over its back is a lady's opera-coat. On the sofa are also a fan and some small dinner favours.
On the dresser are a lady's silver toilet set, including powder boxes, rouge boxes, manicuring implements, and a small plush black cat that might have been a favour at some time. Two little dolls hang on the side of the glass of the dresser, which also might have been favours. These are used later in the action, and are necessary.
AT RISE. When the curtain rises on this scene it is noticeable that the occupants of the room must have returned rather late at night, after having dined, not wisely, but too well. In the alcove is a man's dress-coat and vest thrown on the cushions in a most careless manner; a silk hat badly rumpled is near it. Over the top of sofa is an opera-cloak, and hung on the mirror is a huge hat, of the evening type, such as women would pay handsomely for. A pair of gloves is thrown on top of the pier-glass. The curtains in the bay-window are half drawn, and the light shades are half drawn down the windows, so that when the curtain goes up the place is in a rather dim light. On the table are the remains of a breakfast, which is served in a box-like tray such as is used in hotels. LAURA is discovered sitting at right of table, her hair a bit untidy. She has on a very expensive negligée gown. WILL, in a business suit, is at the other side of the table, and both have evidently just about concluded their breakfast and are reading the newspapers while they sip their coffee. LAURA is intent in the scanning of her "Morning Telegraph," while WILL is deep in the market reports of the "Journal of Commerce," and in each instance these things must be made apparent. WILL throws down the paper rather impatiently.
WILL. Have you seen the Sun, Laura?
LAURA. No.
WILL. Where is it?
LAURA. I don't know.
WILL. [In a loud voice.] Annie, Annie! [A pause.] Annie! [In an undertone, half directed to LAURA.] Where the devil is that nigger?
LAURA. Why, I suppose she's at breakfast.
WILL. Well, she ought to be here.
LAURA. Did it ever occur to you that she has got to eat just the same as you have?
WILL. She's your servant, isn't she?
LAURA. My maid.
WILL. Well, what have you got her for,—to eat or to wait on you?
Annie!
LAURA. Don't be so cross. What do you want?
WILL. I want the Sun.
[BROCKTON pours out one half glass of water from bottle.
LAURA. I will get it for you.
Rather wearily she gets up and goes to the table, where there are other morning papers; she takes the "Sun," hands it to him, goes back to her seat, re-opens the "Morning Telegraph." There is a pause. ANNIE enters from the sleeping-room.
ANNIE. Do yuh want me, suh?
WILL. Yes, I did want you, but don't now. When I'm at home I have a man to look after me, and I get what I want.
LAURA. For heaven's sake, Will, have a little patience. If you like your man so well, you had better live at home, but don't come around here with a grouch and bulldoze everybody.
WILL. Don't think for a moment that there's much to come around here for. Annie, this room's stuffy.
ANNIE. Yassuh.
WILL. Draw those portières. Let those curtains up. [ANNIE lets up curtain.] Let's have a little light. Take away these clothes and hide them. Don't you know that a man doesn't want to see the next morning anything to remind him of the night before. Make the place look a little respectable.
In the meantime ANNIE scurries around, picking up the coat and vest, opera-cloak, &c., as rapidly as possible, and throwing them over her arm without any idea of order. It is very apparent that she is rather fearful of the anger of WILL while he is in this mood.
WILL. [Looking at her.] Be careful. You're not taking the wash off the line.
ANNIE. Yassuh. [Exit in confusion.
LAURA. [Laying down paper and looking at WILL.] Well, I must say you're rather amiable this morning.
WILL. I feel like hell.
LAURA. Market unsatisfactory?
WILL. No; head too big. [He lights a cigar; as he takes a puff he makes an awful face.] Tastes like punk. [Puts cigar into cup.
LAURA. You drank a lot.
WILL. We'll have to cut out those parties. I can't do those things any more. I'm not as young as I was, and in the morning it makes me sick. How do you feel?
LAURA. A little tired, that's all. [Rises, and crosses to bureau.
WILL. You didn't touch anything?
LAURA. No.
WILL. I guess you're on the safe side. It was a great old party, though, wasn't it?
LAURA. Did you think so?
WILL. Oh, for that sort of a blow-out. Not too rough, but just a little easy. I like them at night and I hate them in the morning. [He picks up the paper and commences to glance it over in a casual manner, not interrupting his conversation.] Were you bored?
LAURA. Yes; always at things like that.
WILL. Well, you don't have to go.
LAURA. You asked me.
WILL. Still, you could say no. [LAURA picks up paper, puts it on table and crosses back to bureau.
LAURA. But you asked me.
WILL. What did you go for if you didn't want to?
LAURA. You wanted me to.
WILL. I don't quite get you.
LAURA. Well, Will, you have all my time when I'm not in the theatre, and you can do with it just what you please. You pay for it. I'm working for you.
WILL. Is that all I've got,—just your time?
LAURA. [Wearily.] That and the rest. [LAURA crosses up to desk, gets "part," crosses to sofa, turning pages of "part."] I guess you know. [Crosses to sofa and sits.
WILL. [Looking at her curiously.] Down in the mouth, eh? I'm sorry.
LAURA. No, only if you want me to be frank, I'm a little tired. You may not believe it, but I work awfully hard over at the theatre. Burgess will tell you that. I know I'm not so very good as an actress, but I try to be. [LAURA lies down on sofa.] I'd like to succeed, myself. They're very patient with me. Of course they've got to be,—that's another thing you're paying for, but I don't seem to get along except this way.
WILL. Oh, don't get sentimental. If you're going to bring up that sort of talk, Laura, do it sometime when I haven't got a hang-over, and then don't forget talk never does count for much.
LAURA crosses up to mirror, picks up hat from box, puts it on, looks in mirror. She turns around and looks at him steadfastly for a minute. During this entire scene, from the time the curtain rises, she must in a way indicate a premonition of an approaching catastrophe, a feeling, vague but nevertheless palpable, that something is going to happen. She must hold this before her audience so that she can show to them, without showing to him, the disgust she feels. LAURA has tasted of the privations of self-sacrifice during her struggle, and she has weakly surrendered and is unable to go back, but that brief period of self-abnegation has shown to her most clearly the rottenness of the other sort of living. There are enough sentimentality and emotion in her character to make it impossible for her to accept this manner of existence as ELFIE does. Hers is not a nature of careless candour, but of dreamy ideals and better living, warped, handicapped, disillusioned, and destroyed by a weakness that finds its principal force in vanity. WILL resumes his newspaper in a more attentive way. The girl looks at him and expresses in pantomime, by the slightest gesture or shrug of the shoulders, her growing distaste for him and his way of living. In the meantime WILL is reading the paper rather carefully. He stops suddenly and then looks at his watch.
LAURA. What time is it?
WILL. After ten.
LAURA. Oh.
WILL at this moment particularly reads some part of the paper, turns to her with a keen glance of suspicion and inquiry, and then for a very short moment evidently settles in his mind a cross-examination. He has read in this paper a despatch from Chicago, which speaks of JOHN MADISON having arrived there as a representative of a big Western mining syndicate which is going to open large operations in the Nevada gold-fields, and representing MR. MADISON as being on his way to New York with sufficient capital to enlist more, and showing him to be now a man of means. The attitude of LAURA and the coincidence of the despatch bring back to WILL the scene in Denver, and later in New York, and with that subtle intuition of the man of the world he connects the two.
WILL. I don't suppose, Laura, that you'd be interested now in knowing anything about that young fellow out in Colorado? What was his name—Madison?
LAURA. Do you know anything?
WILL. No, nothing particularly. I've been rather curious to know how he came out. He was a pretty fresh young man and did an awful lot of talking. I wonder how he's doing and how he's getting along. I don't suppose by any chance you have ever heard from him?
LAURA. No, no; I've never heard. [Crosses to bureau.
WILL. I presume he never replied to that letter you wrote?
LAURA. No.
WILL. It would be rather queer, eh, if this young fellow should [Looks at paper.] happen to come across a lot of money—not that I think he ever could, but it would be funny, wouldn't it?
LAURA. Yes, yes; it would be unexpected. I hope he does. It might make him happy.
WILL. Think he might take a trip East and see you act. You know you've got quite a part now.
LAURA. [Impatiently.] I wish you wouldn't discuss this. Why do you mention it now? [Crossing to right of table.] Is it because you were drinking last night and lost your sense of delicacy? You once had some consideration for me. What I've done I've done. I'm giving you all that I can. Please, please, don't hurt me any more than you can help. That's all I ask.
[Crossing up to mirror. Crosses back to right of table; sits.
WILL. Well, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that, Laura. I guess I am feeling a little bad to-day. Really, I don't want to hurt your feelings, my dear.
He gets up, goes to her, puts his hands on her shoulders, and his cheek close to the back of her head. She bends forward and shudders a little bit. It is very easy to see that the life she is leading is becoming intolerable to her.
WILL. You know, dearie, I do a lot for you because you've always been on the level with me. I'm sorry I hurt you, but there was too much wine last night and I'm all upset. Forgive me.
LAURA, in order to avoid his caresses, has leaned forward; her hands are clasped between her knees, and she is looking straight outward with a cold, impassive expression. WILL regards her silently for a moment. Really in the man's heart there is an affection, and really he wants to try to comfort her; but he seems to realize that she has slipped away from the old environment and conditions, and that he simply bought her back; that he hasn't any of her affection, even with his money; that she evinces toward him none of the old camaraderie; and it hurts him, as those things always hurt a selfish man, inclining him to be brutal and inconsiderate. WILL crosses to centre, and stands reading paper; bell rings; a pause and second bell. WILL seizes upon this excuse to go up-stage and over towards the door.
WILL. [After second bell.] Damn that bell.
He continues on his way; he opens the door, leaves it open, and passes on to the outer door, which he opens. LAURA remains immovable and impassive, with the same cold, hard expression on her face. He comes in, slamming the outer door with effect, which one must have at this point of the play, because it is essential to a situation coming later. Enters the room, closes the door, and holds in his hand a telegram. Looks from newspaper to telegram.
WILL. A wire.
LAURA. For me?
WILL. Yes.
LAURA. From whom, I wonder. Perhaps Elfie with a luncheon engagement.
WILL. [Handing telegram to her.] I don't know. Here.
Pause; he faces her, looking at her. She opens it quickly. She reads it and, as she does, gasps quickly with an exclamation of fear and surprise. This is what the despatch says (it is dated at Buffalo and addressed to LAURA): "I will be in New York before noon. I'm coming to marry you and I'm coming with a bank-roll. I wanted to keep it secret and have a big surprise for you, but I can't hold it any longer, because I feel just like a kid with a new top. Don't go out, and be ready for the big matrimonial thing. All my love. John."
WILL. No bad news, I hope?
LAURA. [Walking up stage rather hurriedly.] No, no—not bad news.
WILL. I thought you were startled.
LAURA. No, not at all.
WILL. [Looking at paper about where he had left off.] From Elfie? [Crosses to, and sits in armchair.
LAURA. No, just a friend.
WILL. Oh!
He makes himself rather comfortable in the chair, and LAURA regards him for a moment from up stage as if trying to figure out how to get rid of him.
LAURA. Won't you be rather late getting down town, Will?
WILL. Doesn't make any difference. I don't feel much like the office now. Thought I might order the car and take a spin through the park. The cold air will do me a lot of good. Like to go?
LAURA. No, not to-day. I thought your business was important; you said so last night. [Crosses to sofa, and stands.
WILL. No hurry. Do you—er—want to get rid of me?
LAURA. Why should I?
WILL. Expecting someone?
LAURA. No—not exactly. [Crosses up to window.
WILL. If you don't mind, I'll stay here. [Lets curtain fly up.
LAURA. Just as you please. [A pause. Crosses to piano; plays.] Will?
WILL. Yes.
LAURA. How long does it take to come from Buffalo?
WILL. Depends on the train you take.
LAURA. About how long?
WILL. Between eight and ten hours, I think. Some one coming?
LAURA. Do you know anything about the trains?
WILL. Not much. Why don't you find out for yourself? Have Annie get the time-table?
LAURA. I will. Annie! Annie!
[Rises from piano. ANNIE appears at doorway.
ANNIE. Yassum!
LAURA. Go ask one of the hall-boys to bring me a New York Central time-table.
ANNIE. Yassum!
Crosses the stage and exits through door. LAURA sits on left arm of sofa.
WILL. Then you do expect someone, eh?
LAURA. Only one of the girls who used to be in the same company with me. But I'm not sure that she's coming here.
WILL. Then the wire was from her?
LAURA. Yes.
WILL. Did she say what train she was coming on?
LAURA. No.
WILL. Well, there are a lot of trains. About what time did you expect her in?
LAURA. She didn't say.
WILL. Do I know her?
LAURA. I think not. I met her while I worked in 'Frisco.
WILL. Oh! [Resumes his paper.
ANNIE reënters with a time-table and hands it to LAURA.
LAURA. Thanks; take those breakfast things away, Annie.
[Sits on sofa.
ANNIE complies; takes them across stage, opens the door leading to the corridor, exits. LAURA in the meantime is studying the time-table.
LAURA. I can't make this out.
WILL. Give it here; maybe I can help you.
LAURA crosses to right of table, sits opposite WILL, and hands him the time-table. He takes it and handles it as if he were familiar with it.
WILL. Where is she coming from?
LAURA. The West; the telegram was from Buffalo. I suppose she was on her way when she sent it.
WILL. There's a train comes in here at 9:30—that's the Twentieth Century,—that doesn't carry passengers from Buffalo; then there's one at 11:41; one at 1:49; another at 3:45; another at 5:40; and another at 5:48—that's the Lake Shore Limited, a fast train; and all pass through Buffalo. Did you think of meeting her?
LAURA. No. She'll come here when she arrives.
WILL. Knows where you live?
LAURA. She has the address.
WILL. Ever been to New York before?
LAURA. I think not.
WILL. [Passing her the time-table.] Well, that's the best I can do for you.
LAURA. Thank you. [Crosses and puts time-table in desk.
WILL. [Takes up the paper again. LAURA looks at clock.] By George, this is funny.
LAURA. What?
WILL. Speak of the devil, you know.
LAURA. Who?
WILL. Your old friend Madison.
LAURA. [Utters a slight exclamation and makes an effort to control herself.] What—what about him?
WILL. He's been in Chicago.
LAURA. How do you know?
WILL. Here's a despatch about him.
LAURA. [Coming quickly over to him, looks over his shoulder.]
What—where—what's it about?
WILL. Well, I'm damned if he hasn't done what he said he'd do—see! [Holds the paper so that she can see. LAURA takes paper.] He's been in Chicago, and is on his way to New York. He's struck it rich in Nevada and is coming with a lot of money. Queer, isn't it? [LAURA puts paper on table.] Did you know anything about it? [Lights cigarette.
LAURA. No, no; nothing at all. [Crosses to bureau.
WILL. Lucky for him, eh?
LAURA. Yes, yes; it's very nice.
WILL. Too bad he couldn't get this a little sooner, eh, Laura?
LAURA. Oh, I don't know—I don't think it's too bad. What makes you ask?
WILL. Oh, nothing. I suppose he ought to be here to-day. Are you going to see him if he looks you up?
LAURA. No, no; I don't want to see him. You know that, don't you, that I don't want to see him? What makes you ask these questions? [Crosses to sofa and sits.
WILL. Just thought you might meet him, that's all. Don't get sore about it.
LAURA. I'm not.