Chapter II: The Technic of the One-Act Play (2)

SIR HARRY. [_Odd that so confident a man should ask this._] Emmy, I know you well, don't I? I can read you like a book, eh?

LADY SIMS. [_Nervously._] Yes, Harry.

SIR HARRY. [_Jovially, but with an inquiring eye._] What a different existence yours is from that poor lonely wretch's.

LADY SIMS. Yes, but she has a very contented face.

SIR HARRY. [_With a stamp of his foot._] All put on. What?

LADY SIMS. [_Timidly._] I didn't say anything.

SIR HARRY. [_Snapping._] One would think you envied her.

LADY SIMS. Envied? Oh, no--but I thought she looked so alive. It was while she was working the machine.

SIR HARRY. Alive! That's no life. It is you that are alive. [_Curtly._] I'm busy, Emmy. [_He sits at his writing-table._

LADY SIMS. [_Dutifully._] I'm sorry; I'll go, Harry. [_Inconsequentially._] Are they very expensive?

SIR HARRY. What?

LADY SIMS. Those machines?

[_When she has gone the possible meaning of her question startles
him. The curtain hides him from us, but we may be sure that he will
soon be bland again. We have a comfortable feeling, you and I, that
there is nothing of_ HARRY SIMS _in us_.

TRADITION

BY

GEORGE MIDDLETON

_Tradition_ is reprinted by permission of the author and the publisher, Henry Holt & Company, New York City. All rights reserved. For permission to perform, address the author, in care of the publisher.

The author and publisher of this play have permitted this reprinting of copyrighted material on the understanding that the play will be used only in classroom work. No other use of the play is authorized, and permission for any other use must be secured from the holder of the acting rights.

GEORGE MIDDLETON

George Middleton, one of the first to write and publish a volume of one-act plays in America, was born in Paterson, New Jersey, 1880. He was graduated from Columbia University in 1902. Since 1921 he has been literary editor of _La Follette's Weekly_, and, in addition, has been a frequent contributor to magazines and reviews on dramatic and literary subjects. During the last few years he has spent much of his time abroad.

George Middleton's chiefest interest has been in the one-act play. He has been an ardent champion of the shorter form of drama. Among his three volumes of one-act plays are _Embers_ (including _The Failures_, _The Gargoyle_, _In His House_, _Madonna_, and _The Man Masterful_), _Tradition_ (including _On Bail_, _Their Wife_, _Waiting_, _The Cheat of Pity_, and _Mothers_), and _Possession_ (including _The Grove_, _A Good Woman_, _The Black Tie_, _Circles_, and _The Unborn_). Other one-act plays are _Criminals_ and _The Reason_. His longer plays are _Nowadays_ and _The Road Together_. Mr. Middleton has lectured widely on the one-act play before colleges, in Little Theatres, and clubs. Perhaps his most notable article is _The Neglected One-Act Play_, which appeared in _The New York Dramatic Mirror_ in 1912.

_Tradition_ is one of Mr. Middleton's best and most popular one-act plays; and it most nearly conforms to the organic technic of the one-act play.

FIRST PERFORMANCE AT THE BERKELEY THEATRE, NEW YORK CITY, JANUARY 24, 1913.

(Produced under the personal direction of Mr. FRANK REICHER.)

THE PEOPLE

GEORGE OLLIVANT MR. GEORGE W. WILSON

EMILY, _his wife_ MISS ALICE LEIGH

MARY, _his daughter, an actress_ MISS FOLA LA FOLLETTE

TRADITION[B]

SCENE: _The sitting-room at the_ OLLIVANTS' _in a small town
up-State. It is an evening late in the spring._

_A simple room is disclosed, bearing the traces of another
generation. Old-fashioned window-doors at the right, overlooking
the garden, open on a porch; another door in back opening on the
hall-way. A large fire-place at the left, now concealed by an
embroidered screen; the horsehair furniture, several terra-cotta
statuettes, and a woodcut or two on the walls create the subtle
atmosphere of the past. There is a lamp on the table, and another
on a bracket by the door in back. Moonlight filters through the
window-doors._

_The_ OLLIVANTS _are discovered together_. MARY, _a rather plain
woman of about twenty-five, with a suggestion of quick
sensibilities, is standing, lost in thought, looking out into the
garden. Her mother_, EMILY, _nearing fifty, quiet and subdued in
manner, is seated at the table trimming a hat. Occasionally she
looks at_ MARY, _stops her work, glances at her husband, closes her
eyes as though tired, and then resumes. The silence continues for
some time, broken only by the rattle of the town paper which_
GEORGE OLLIVANT _is reading. He is well on in middle life, with a
strong, determined face not entirely without elements of kindness
and deep feeling. When he finishes, he folds the paper, puts it on
the table, knocks the ashes carefully from his pipe into his hand,
and throws them behind the screen; takes off his spectacles and
wipes them as he, too, looks over toward his daughter, still gazing
absently into the garden. Finally, after a slight hesitation, he
goes to her and puts his arm about her; she is startled but smiles
sweetly._

OLLIVANT. [_Affectionately._] Glad to be home again, Mary?

MARY. [_Evasively._] The garden is so pretty.

OLLIVANT. Hasn't changed much, eh?

MARY. It seems different; perhaps it's the night.

OLLIVANT. I guess it isn't up to its usual standard. Haven't seen your mother there so often this spring.

EMILY. [_Quietly._] This dry spell is not good for flowers.

OLLIVANT. It's only the cultivated flowers that need care; can't help thinking that when I see the wild ones so hardy in my fields on the hill. [_Turning to_ EMILY _and patting her_.] Is there any of that spray mixture left, Emily, dear?

EMILY. I haven't looked lately.

OLLIVANT. I'll order some to-morrow. [_Taking up his pipe again and looking for the tobacco._] Think it would be a good idea, daughter, if you'd spray those rosebushes every couple of weeks. The bugs are a pest this spring. Where's my tobacco?

EMILY. On the mantel.

OLLIVANT. Wish you would always leave it on the table; you know how I hate to have things changed.

[OLLIVANT _goes to the mantel, filling his pipe, and while his back
is turned_, MARY _makes a quick questioning gesture to her mother,
who sighs helplessly_. MARY _ponders a moment_.]

MARY. How's Ben been doing these two years, father?

OLLIVANT. Hasn't your brother written you?

MARY. Only once--when I left home; he disapproved, too.

OLLIVANT. Had an older brother's feeling of wanting to take care of you, Mary.

MARY. Yes; I know. How's he doing?

OLLIVANT. He's commencing to get on his feet. Takes time and money for any one to get started these days.

MARY. But he's still in partnership with Bert Taylor, isn't he?

OLLIVANT. Yes. He'd have been somewhere if he'd worked in with me as I did with _my_ father. Things should be handed down. Offered him the chance, tried to make him take it, as your mother knows; but that college chum--nice enough fellow, I've heard--turned his head another way. [_Lighting his pipe and puffing slowly._] It's best to humor a young fellow's ideas if he sticks them out, but I'd like to have had us all here together now. The place is big enough even if he should want to marry. Your mother and I came here, you know, when your grandfather was still alive.

MARY. Then Ben isn't making any money?

OLLIVANT. [_Reluctantly._] Not yet--to speak of.

EMILY. [_Quietly._] But he's promised to pay his father back, Mary.

MARY. I see. [_Thoughtfully._] College and then more help to get started, because he's a man.

OLLIVANT. [_Complacently._] He'll have to support a family some day; I've had to keep that in mind.

MARY. I'd like to have a real talk with him.

OLLIVANT. When did his letter say he'd be coming for a visit, Emily?

EMILY. The fifteenth.

MARY. Not till then? That's too bad.

OLLIVANT. Eh?

MARY. [_After exchanging a quick glance with her mother and gaining courage._] Father, I hope you didn't misunderstand my coming back?

OLLIVANT. Not at all. We all make mistakes--especially when we're young. Perhaps I was a bit hasty when you left home, but I knew you'd soon see I was right. I didn't think it would take you two years--but perhaps if I'd written you before you'd have come sooner. I told your mother I'd like to make it easy for you to come home.

MARY. Mother suggested that you write me?

OLLIVANT. Well, I suppose you might put it that way. I always felt she thought I was a bit hard on you, but I'm not one to back down easily.

MARY. Don't blame me then, father, if I showed I was your daughter.

OLLIVANT. Let's forget my feeling; but naturally I was set back.

MARY. Because you didn't take my going seriously until I was actually leaving.

OLLIVANT. I couldn't get it into my head then, and I can't now, how any girl would want to leave a home like this, where you have everything. You don't know how lucky you are--or maybe you have realized it. Look about you and see what other girls have. Is it like this? Trees, flowers, and a lake view that's the best in the county. Why, one can breathe here and even taste the air. Every time I come back from a business trip it makes a new man of me. Ask your mother. Eh, Emily? When I sit out there on the porch in the cool evenings it makes me feel at ease with the world to know that the place is _mine_ and that I've raised a family and can take care of them all. Ben had to go, I suppose--it's the way with sons; but I thought you, at least, would stay here, daughter, in this old house where you were born, where I was born, where all your early associations----

MARY. [_Shuddering._] I hate associations.

OLLIVANT. [_Eying her._] Well, I'd like to know where you get _that_ from. Not from your mother and me. _We_ like them, don't we, Emily? Why, your mother's hardly ever even left here--but you had to up and get out.

MARY. Yes. That's right, father; I _had_ to.

OLLIVANT. [_He stops smoking and looks at her sharply._] Had to? Who made you?

MARY. [_Reluctantly._] It was something inside me.

OLLIVANT. [_In spite of himself._] Tush--that foolishness.

MARY. [_Quickly._] Don't make it hard for us again.

OLLIVANT. I made it hard, Mary? Because I objected to your leaving your mother here alone?

MARY. I remember; you said I was a foolish, "stage-struck" girl.

OLLIVANT. Well, you're over _that_, aren't you?

MARY. That's just where you are mistaken, father. [_Slowly._] That's why I asked you if you hadn't misunderstood my coming back.

OLLIVANT. [_Suspiciously._] Then why did you come at all?

MARY. I'm human; I wanted to see you and mother, so I came when you generously wrote me. I'm not going to stay and spray the roses.

OLLIVANT. [_He eyes her tensely and controls himself with an effort._] So you are not going to stay with your mother and me?

MARY. [_Affectionately._] I'll come see you as often as I can and----

OLLIVANT.--and make a hotel of your home? [MARY _is silent_.] Don't you see your mother is getting older and needs somebody to be here?

EMILY. [_With a quiet assurance._] I have never been so well and contented.

OLLIVANT. [_Tenderly._] I know better, Emily; can't I see you're getting thinner and older? [_Stopping her protests._] Now, let me manage this, dear. It's a girl's place to stay at home. You know my feelings about that. Suppose anything should happen to your mother, what would _I_ do?

MARY. So it's not mother alone you are thinking of?

OLLIVANT. [_Tersely._] I'm thinking of your place at home--doing a woman's work. I'm not proud of having my daughter off earning her own living as though I couldn't support her.

EMILY. George!

MARY. I thought it was only because I was on the stage.

OLLIVANT. Well, it's not the most heavenly place, is it? A lot of narrow-minded fools here in town thought I was crazy to _let_ you go; I knew how they felt; I grinned and bore it. You were my daughter and I loved you, and I didn't want them to think any less of you by their finding out you were leaving against my wish.

MARY. [_Slowly, with comprehension._] That's what hurt you.

OLLIVANT. Well, I blamed myself a bit for taking you to plays and liking them myself.

MARY. People here will soon forget about me and merely be sorry for you.

OLLIVANT. [_Persuasively._] Why, Mary. I've made it easy for you to stay. I told every one you were coming home for good. They'll think me a fool if----

MARY. [_Tenderly._] You meant what was dear and good, father; but you had no right to say that. I'm sorry.

OLLIVANT. I did it because I thought you had come to your senses.

MARY. [_Firmly._] I never saw so clearly as I do now.

OLLIVANT. [_Bluntly._] Then you're stubborn--plain stubborn--not to admit failure.

MARY. [_Startled._] Failure?

OLLIVANT. I know what the newspapers said; Ben sent them to me.

MARY. Which ones?

OLLIVANT. Why, all of them, I guess.

MARY. Did he send you the good ones?

OLLIVANT. Were there any?

MARY. Oh, I see. So Ben carefully picked out only those which would please you.

OLLIVANT. [_Sarcastically._] Please me?

MARY. Yes; because you and he didn't want me to succeed; because you thought failure would bring me home. But don't you think I'll let some cub reporter settle things for me. I'll never come home through failure--never.

OLLIVANT. [_Kindly._] Ben and I only want to protect you, Mary.

MARY. Why do men always want to protect women?

OLLIVANT. Because we know the world.

MARY. Yes; but you don't know _me_. Father, you still think I'm only a foolish, stage-struck girl, and want flowers and men and my name in big letters. It isn't that.

OLLIVANT. Well, what is it, then?

MARY. Oh--I want to be an artist. I don't suppose you can understand it; I didn't, myself, at first. I was born with it, but didn't know what it was till that first time you took me to the theatre.

OLLIVANT. So it was all my fault?

MARY. It isn't anybody's fault; it's just a fact. I knew from that day what I wanted to do. I wanted to act--to create. I don't care whether I play a leading lady or a scrub-woman, if I can do it with truth and beauty.

OLLIVANT. Well, you haven't done much of either, have you? What have you got to show for our unhappiness? What have you got ahead of you?

MARY. Nothing--definite.

OLLIVANT. [_Incredulously._] Yet, you're going to keep at it?

MARY. Yes.

OLLIVANT. What do you think of that, Emily?

MARY. I am going to the city Monday.

OLLIVANT. [_Persistently._] But what will you do when you get there?

MARY. What I've done before: hunt a job, tramp the streets, call at the offices, be snubbed and insulted by office-boys--keep at it till I get something to do.

OLLIVANT. Come, come, Mary; don't make me lose patience. Put your pride in your pocket. You've had your fling. You've tried and failed. Give it all up and stay home here where you can be comfortable.

MARY. [_With intense feeling._] Father, I can't give it up. It doesn't make any difference how they treat me, how many times I get my "notice" and don't even make good according to their standards. I can't give it up. I simply can't. It keeps gnawing inside me and driving me on. It's there--always there, and I know if I keep at work I will succeed. I know it; I know it.

[MARY _throws herself into the chair, much stirred_. EMILY'S _eyes
have eagerly followed her throughout this as though responding
sympathetically, but_ OLLIVANT _has stood in silence, watching her
apparently without comprehension_.]

OLLIVANT. [_Not without kindness._] Something inside. Huh! Have you any clear idea what she's talking about, Emily?

[MARY _gives a short, hurt cry and goes quickly to the window,
looking out and controlling herself with an effort_.]

EMILY. [_Softly, as she looks at_ MARY.] I think I understand.

OLLIVANT. I don't. Something inside. I never had anything like that bothering me. What's it all mean?

EMILY. [_Quietly._] So many people use the same words, but cannot understand each other.

OLLIVANT. Well, you seem to think it's mighty important Mary, whatever it is; but it's too much for me. If you had something to show for it I wouldn't mind. But you're just where you started and you might as well give up.

EMILY. George!

OLLIVANT. Now I don't know much about the stage, Emily, but Ben does. He says you're not made for an actress, Mary; you haven't got a chance.

MARY. [_Turning._] Father!

OLLIVANT. Can't you see your failure isn't your own fault? If you were a beauty like Helen Safford or some of those other "stars"--but you're not pretty, why, you're not even good-looking and----

MARY. [_With bitter vehemence_.] Oh, don't go any further. I know all that. But I don't care how I look off the stage if only I can grow beautiful on it. I'll create with so much inner power and beauty that people will forget how I look and only see what I think and feel. I can do it; I have done it; I've made audiences feel and even got my "notice" because the stage-manager said I was "too natural." Helen Safford--what's she? A professional beauty with everything outside and nothing in. You think of her eyes, her mouth, and her profile; but does she touch you so you remember? I know her work. Wait till I get a chance to play a scene with her--which they may give me because I'm not good-looking--I'll make them forget she's on the stage the first ten minutes--yes, and you and Ben, too, if you'll come. Helen Safford? Huh! Why, people will remember me when she's only a lithograph.

OLLIVANT. Well, then, why haven't you had your chance?

MARY. [_Quickly._] Because most managers feel the way you and Ben do. And not having a lovely profile and a fashion-plate figure stands between me and a chance even to read a part, let alone play it. That's what eats the heart out of me, mother; and makes me hate my face every time I sit down to put on the grease paint.

OLLIVANT. Well, don't blame me for that.

MARY. [_Going to her mother, who takes her hand._] You can laugh at me, father; you don't understand. It's foolish to talk. But, oh, mother, why is such beauty given to women like Helen Safford who have no inner need of it, and here am I, with a real creative gift, wrapped up in a nondescript package which stands between me and everything I want to do? [_With determination._] But I will--ultimately I will make good, in spite of my looks; others have. And what I've suffered will make me a greater artist.

OLLIVANT. [_In a matter-of-fact tone._] Are you sure all this isn't overconfidence and vanity?

MARY. I don't care what you call it. It's what keeps me working.

OLLIVANT. [_Quickly._] Working? But how can you work without an engagement?

MARY. That _is_ the hard part of our life; waiting, waiting for a chance to work. But don't think I stand still when I haven't an engagement. I don't dare. That's why I keep at my voice work and dancing and----

OLLIVANT. [_Suddenly interrupting._] Dancing and voice work when you have no engagements. Would you mind telling me who is paying the bills?

MARY. [_Indignantly._] Father!

OLLIVANT. I think I have the right to ask that.

MARY. Have you?

OLLIVANT. I am your father.

MARY. [_With quiet dignity._] You thought you'd force me here at home to do as you wished because you paid for my food and clothes; when you took that from me you _ceased_ to have that right. Don't forget since I left you've not helped me with my work or given me a penny.

OLLIVANT. [_Suspiciously._] Mary.... No, that's not why you went away from home?

MARY. No.

OLLIVANT. Or you met some man _there_ and....

MARY. No.

OLLIVANT. There is some man.

MARY. Why a _man_?

OLLIVANT. Damn them; I know them. [_Breaking._] Good God, Mary, dear, you haven't...? Answer me, daughter.

MARY. [_Calmly._] No, there's been no need of that.

[_He has been violently shaken at the thought, looks at her
intently, believes her, and then continues in a subdued manner._

OLLIVANT. Then who helped you? Ben?

MARY. How could he help me? Are men the only ones who help women?

EMILY. [_Quietly._] Tell him, Mary; it's best now.

OLLIVANT. [_Turning slowly to her in surprise._] You knew and have kept it from me?

EMILY. [_Calmly, as she puts down the hat she has been trimming._] I found I hadn't lost my old skill, though it's been a good many years since I held a brush--since before we were married, George. I had an idea I thought would sell: paper dolls with little hand-painted dresses on separate sheets; they were so much softer than the printed kind, and children like anything soft. I wrote to Mr. Aylwin--you remember--he was so kind to me years before. He had called here once before when you were away and asked after my work. He used to think I had such promise. He found an opportunity to use the dolls as a specialty, and when I explained he induced some other firms to use all I can paint, too. They pay me very well. I made enough each month to help Mary when she went behind.

OLLIVANT. [_Incredulously._] You! After you heard me say when she left I wouldn't give her a cent?

EMILY. [_Looking fondly at_ MARY.] You were keeping Ben, weren't you?

OLLIVANT. But--that's--that's different.

EMILY. I didn't see why we shouldn't help _both_ our children.

OLLIVANT. [_Perplexed by this he turns to_ MARY.] And you took it?

MARY. Yes.

OLLIVANT. You knew how she got the money?

MARY. Yes.

OLLIVANT. Your mother working herself sick for you, and you took it?

EMILY. I told you I've never been so happy.

MARY. [_Simply._] I couldn't bargain with what I felt. I had to study. I'd have taken anything, gotten it anywhere. I had to live. You didn't help me. Ben and I both went against your will, but you helped him because he was your son. I was only your daughter.

[OLLIVANT _eyes her and seems to be struggling with himself. He is
silent a long while as they both watch him. Finally, after several
efforts he speaks with emotion._]

OLLIVANT. Mary, I--I didn't realize how much you meant to me till--till I thought of what might have happened to you without my help. Would--would you have stayed on in the city if--if your mother hadn't helped you?

MARY. [_Firmly._] Yes, father; I would have stayed on.

OLLIVANT. [_After a pause._] Then I guess what you _feel_ is stronger than all your mother and I tried to teach you.... Are you too proud to take help from me--now?

MARY. [_Simply._] No, father; till I succeed. Then I'll pay you back like Ben promised.

OLLIVANT. [_Hurt._] You don't think it was the money, daughter? It would have cost to keep you here. It wasn't that.

MARY. No; it was your father speaking and his father and his father. [_Looking away wistfully._] And perhaps I was speaking for those before me who were silent or couldn't be heard.

OLLIVANT. [_With sincerity._] I don't exactly understand _that_ any more than the feeling you spoke of driving you from home. But I do see what you mean about brothers and sisters. You seem to think boys and girls are the same. But they're not. Men and women are different. You may not know it, but your mother had foolish ideas like you have when I first knew her. She was poor and didn't have a mother to support her, and she had to work for a living. She'd about given up when I met her--trying to work at night to feed herself in the day while studying. But she was sensible; when a good man came along who could support her she married him and settled down. Look how happy she's been here with a home of her own that is a home--with associations and children. Where would she be, struggling to-day trying to paint pictures for a living? Why, there's lots of men who can paint pictures, and too few good wives for hard-working, decent men who want a family--which is God's law. You'll find that out one of these days and you'll give yourself as she did. Some day a man will come and you'll want to marry him. How could you if you keep on with your work, going about the country?

MARY. [_Quietly._] You leave mother at times, don't you?

OLLIVANT. I've got to.

MARY. So may I.

OLLIVANT. And the children?

MARY. They'd have a share of my life.

OLLIVANT. A mighty big share if you're human, I tell you. Ask your mother if you think they're easy coming and bringing up.

MARY. And now they've left her. Dear mother, what has she to do?

OLLIVANT. Well, if you ever get a husband with those ideas of yours you'll see what a wife has to do. [_He goes to her._] Mary, it isn't easy, all this you've been saying. But your mother and I are left alone, and perhaps we _have_ got different views than you. But if ever you do see it our way, and give up or fail--- well, come back to us, understand?

MARY. [_Going to him and kissing him._] I understand how hard it was for you to say that. And remember I may come back a success.

OLLIVANT. Yes. I suppose they all think that; it's what keeps them going. But some day, when you're in love and marry, you'll see it all differently.

MARY. Father, what if the man does not come--or the children?

OLLIVANT. Why--[_He halts as though unable to answer her._] Nonsense. He'll come, never fear; they always do.

MARY. I wonder.

OLLIVANT. [_He goes affectionately to_ EMILY_, who has been staring before her during this_.] Emily, dear. No wonder the flowers have been neglected. Well, you'll have time to spray those roses yourself. I'll get the spray mixture to-morrow. [_Kisses her tenderly._] Painting paper dolls with a change of clothes! When I might have been sending her the money without ever feeling it. No more of that, dear; you don't have to now. I shan't let you get tired and sick. That's one thing I draw the line at. [_He pats her again, looks at his watch, and then goes slowly over to the window-doors._] Well, it's getting late. I'll lock up. [_Looking up at sky._] Paper says it will rain to-morrow.

EMILY. [_Very quietly so only_ MARY _can hear_.] At the art school they said I had a lovely sense of color. Your father is so kind; but he doesn't know how much I enjoyed painting again--even those paper dolls.

MARY. [_Comprehending in surprise._] Mother! You, _too_?

EMILY. [_Fearing lest_ OLLIVANT _should hear_.] Sh!

[OLLIVANT _closes the doors and eyes the women thoughtfully_.]

OLLIVANT. Better fasten the other windows when you come. Good-night.

[_He goes out slowly as mother and daughter sit there together._]

THE CURTAIN FALLS

THE EXCHANGE

BY

ALTHEA THURSTON

_The Exchange_ is reprinted by permission of Althea Thurston. This play is one of the farces written in the Course in Dramatic Composition (English 109) in the University of Utah. For permission to perform, address B. Roland Lewis, Department of English, University of Utah, Salt Lake City, Utah.

ALTHEA THURSTON

Althea Cooms-Thurston, one of the promising writers of the younger set of American dramatists, was born in Iowa, but soon moved with her parents to Colorado, where she spent her girlhood. She was educated in the public schools of Colorado Springs and Denver. Her collegiate training was received in the University of Utah, Salt Lake City. In 1902 she married Walter R. Thurston, a well-known engineer. At present she resides in Dallas, Texas.

Mrs. Thurston has travelled widely and has resided for periods of time in Mexico City and Havana, Cuba. She is an able linguist and has made a special study of her native English tongue and of Spanish and French, all of which she uses fluently.

From childhood she has shown dramatic ability. Her dramatic composition has been more or less directly associated with the courses in playwriting and the history of the drama which she completed in the University of Utah. Among her one-act plays are _When a Man's Hungry_, _And the Devil Laughs_, and _The Exchange_.

Mrs. Thurston has an aptitude for delicate and satirical farce. _The Exchange_ is an excellent example of farce-comedy in the contemporary one-act play.

CHARACTERS

JUDGE, _the exchanger of miseries_
IMP, _office boy to the_ JUDGE
A POOR MAN
A VAIN WOMAN
A RICH CITIZEN

THE EXCHANGE[C]

SCENE I

_The curtain rises upon an office scene. Seemingly there is nothing
unusual about this office: it has tables, chairs, a filing cabinet,
and a hat-rack. A portion of the office is railed off at the right.
Within this enclosed space is a commodious desk and swivel-chair;
and the filing cabinet stands against the wall. This railed-off
portion of the office belongs, exclusively, to the_ JUDGE. _Here he
is wont to spend many hours--sometimes to read or write, and again,
perhaps, he will just sit and ponder upon the vagaries of mankind.
The_ JUDGE _is a tall, spare man with rather long gray hair, which
shows beneath the skull-cap that he always wears. When we first see
him, he is reading a letter, and evidently he is not pleased, for
he is tapping with impatient fingers upon his desk._

_At the left of the stage is a heavily curtained door which leads
to an inner room. At centre rear is another door which evidently
leads to the street, as it is through this door that the_ POOR MAN,
_the_ VAIN WOMAN, _and the_ RICH CITIZEN _will presently enter,
each upon his special quest. The hat-rack stands near the street
door, and we glimpse a soft black hat and a long black overcoat
hanging upon it._

_Down stage to the left is a flat-topped desk, littered with papers
and letters. This desk has two large drawers, wherein a number of
miscellaneous articles might be kept. It is at this desk that we
catch our first glimpse of_ IMP. _He is busily writing in a huge
ledger, and he seems to be enjoying his work, for he chuckles the
while._ IMP _is a little rogue; he looks it and acts it, and we
feel that he has a Mephistophelian spirit. He wears a dark-green
tight-fitting uniform, trimmed with red braid. His saucy little
round cap is always cocked over one eye. He is ever chuckling
impishly, and we feel that he is slyly gleeful over the weaknesses
of mankind and the difficulties that beset them._

IMP. [_Throws down his pen, chuckles, and half standing on the rungs of his chair and balancing himself against his desk, surveys the ledger._] Your honor, I've all the miseries listed to date and a fine lot there is to choose from. Everything from bunions to old wives for exchange.

JUDGE. [_Scowls and impatiently taps the letter he is reading._] Here is another one. A woman suspects her husband of a misalliance. Wants to catch him, but is so crippled with rheumatism she can't get about. Wants us to exchange her rheumatism for something that won't interfere with either her walking or her eyesight.

IMP. [_Referring to the ledger and running his finger along the lines._] We have a defective heart or a lazy liver that we could give her.

JUDGE. [_Irritably tossing the letter over to_ IMP.] She would not be satisfied. People never are. They always want to change their miseries, but never their vices. Each thinks his own cross heavier than others have to bear, but he is very willing to make light of his own weaknesses and shortcomings. He thinks they are not half so bad as his neighbor's. I have tried for years to aid distressed humanity, but I can't satisfy them. I am growing tired of it all, Imp. People need a lesson and they're going to get it, too. I am going to----

[_Knock is heard at the street door._ JUDGE _sighs, turns to his
desk and begins to write_. IMP _sweeps the litter of papers on his
desk into a drawer, closes ledger, and goes to answer knock_.

IMP. Here comes another misery.

[IMP _opens the door to admit the_ POOR MAN, _who is very shabbily
dressed. He hesitates, looks around the room as if he were in the
wrong place, and then addresses_ IMP _in a loud whisper_.

POOR MAN. [_Indicating the_ JUDGE _with a motion of his head_.] Is that him?

IMP. [_Whispering loudly his reply._] Yes, that is his honor.

POOR MAN. [_Still whispering and showing signs of nervousness._] Do I dare speak to him?

IMP. [_Enjoying the situation and still whispering._] Yes, but be careful what you say.

POOR MAN. [_Takes off his hat, approaches slowly to the railing, and speaks humbly._] Your honor. I--[_Swallows hard, clears throat._] Your honor, I've a little favor--to ask of you.

JUDGE. [_Looking coldly at the_ POOR MAN.] Well?

POOR MAN. You see, your honor, I've been poor all my life. I've never had much fun. I don't ask for a lot of money, but--I would like enough so that I could have some swell clothes, and--so that I could eat, drink, and be merry with the boys. You know, I just want to have a good time. Do you think you could fix it for me, Judge?

JUDGE. [_Gazes at him sternly for a moment._] So you just want to have a good time? Want me to take away your poverty? I suppose you have no moral weakness you want to change, no defects in your character that you want to better?

POOR MAN. [_Stammering and twirling his hat._] Why, w-hy, Judge, I--I am not a bad man. Of--of course, I have my faults, but then--I've never committed any crimes. I guess I stack up pretty fair as men go. I'm just awful tired of being poor and never having any fun. Couldn't you help me out on that point, Judge?

JUDGE. [_Sighs wearily and turns to_ IMP.] Bring me the ledger.

[IMP _gives him the ledger in which he has been writing_. JUDGE
_opens it, and then speaks sharply to the_ POOR MAN.

JUDGE. You understand, do you, my good man, that if I take away your poverty and give you enough money for your good time, you will have to accept another misery?

POOR MAN. [_Eagerly._] Yes, your honor, that's all right. I'm willing.

JUDGE. [_Scanning ledger._] Very well. Let us see. Here is paralysis.

POOR MAN. [_Hesitatingly._] Well. I--I couldn't have a--very good time, if--if I was paralyzed.

JUDGE. [_Shortly._] No. I suppose not. How about a glass eye?

POOR MAN. [_Anxiously._] Please, your honor, if I'm going to have a good time I need two good eyes. I don't want to miss anything.

JUDGE. [_Wearily turning over the leaves of the ledger._] A man left his wife here for exchange, perhaps you would like her.

POOR MAN. [_Shifting from one foot to the other and nervously twirling his hat._] Oh, Judge, oh, no, please, no. I don't want anybody's old cast-off wife.

JUDGE. [_Becoming exasperated._] Well, choose something, and be quick about it. Here is lumbago, gout, fatness, old age, and----

IMP. [_Interrupting, and walking quickly over to the railing._] Excuse me, Judge, but maybe the gentleman would like the indigestion that Mr. Potter left when he took old Mrs. Pratt's fallen arches.

POOR MAN. [_Eagerly._] Indigestion? Sure! That will be fine! I won't mind a little thing like indigestion if I can get rid of my poverty.

JUDGE. [_Sternly._] Very well. Raise your right hand. Repeat after me: "I swear to accept indigestion for better or for worse as my portion of the world's miseries, so help me God."

POOR MAN. [_Solemnly._] "I swear to accept indigestion for better or for worse as my portion of the world's miseries, so help me God."

JUDGE. [_To_ IMP.] Show this gentleman to the changing-room.

[POOR MAN _follows_ IMP, _who conducts him to the heavily curtained
door. The_ POOR MAN _throws out his chest and swaggers a bit, as a
man might who had suddenly come into a fortune_. IMP _swaggers
along with him_.

IMP. Won't you have a grand time, though. I'll get you a menu card, so that you can be picking out your dinner.

POOR MAN. [_Joyfully slapping_ IMP _on the back_.] Good idea, and I'll pick out a regular banquet.

[_Pausing a moment before he passes through the curtains, he smiles
and smacks his lips in anticipation. Exit._

JUDGE. [_Speaks disgustedly to_ IMP.] There you are! He's perfectly satisfied with his morals. Has no defects in his character. Just wants to have a good time.

[_Sighs heavily and turns back to his writing._ IMP _nods his head
in agreement and chuckles slyly_.

[_The street door opens slowly and the_ VAIN WOMAN _stands upon the
threshold. She does not enter at once, but stands
posing--presumably she desires to attract attention, and she is
worthy of it. She has a superb figure, and her rich gowning
enhances it. Her fair face reveals a shallow prettiness, but the
wrinkles of age are beginning to leave telltale lines upon its
smoothness. As_ IMP _hurries forward to usher her in, she sweeps
grandly past him to the centre of the stage_. IMP _stops near the
door, with his hands on his hips, staring after her, then takes a
few steps in imitation of her. She turns around slowly and,
sauntering over to the railing, coughs affectedly, and as the_
JUDGE _rises and bows curtly, she speaks in a coaxing manner_.

VAIN WOMAN. Judge, I have heard that you are very kind, and I have been told that you help people out of their troubles, so I have a little favor to ask of you.

JUDGE. [_Coldly._] Yes, I supposed so; go on.

VAIN WOMAN. [_Archly._] Well, you know that I am a famous beauty; in fact, both my face and my form are considered very lovely. [_She turns around slowly that he may see for himself._] Great and celebrated men have worshipped at my feet. I simply cannot live without admiration. It is my very life. But, Judge [_plaintively_], horrid wrinkles are beginning to show in my face. [_Intensely._] Oh, I would give anything, do anything, to have a smooth, youthful face once more. Please, oh, please, won't you take away these wrinkles [_touching her face with her fingers_] and give me something in their stead.

JUDGE. [_Looking directly at her and speaking coldly._] Are you satisfied with yourself in other ways? Is your character as beautiful as your face? Have you no faults or weaknesses that you want exchanged?

VAIN WOMAN. [_Uncertainly._] Why, I--don't know what you mean. I am just as good as any other woman and lots better than some I know. I go to church, and I subscribe to the charities, and I belong to the best clubs. [_Anxiously._] Oh, please, Judge, it's these wrinkles that make me so unhappy. Won't you exchange them? You don't want me to be unhappy, do you? Please take them away.

JUDGE. [_Wearily looking over the ledger._] Oh, very well, I'll see what I can do for you. [_To_ IMP.] Fetch a chair for this lady.

[IMP _gives her a chair and she sits facing front_. IMP _returns to
his desk, perches himself upon it and watches the_ VAIN WOMAN
_interestedly_. JUDGE _turns over the leaves of the ledger_.

JUDGE. I have a goitre that I could exchange for your wrinkles.

VAIN WOMAN. [_Protestingly, clasping her hands to her throat._] Oh, heavens, no! That would ruin my beautiful throat. See. [_Throwing back her fur and exposing her neck in a low-cut gown._] I have a lovely neck. [IMP _makes an exaggerated attempt to see_.

JUDGE. [_Glances coldly at her and then scans ledger again._] Well, how about hay-fever?

VAIN WOMAN. [_Reproachfully._] Oh, Judge, how can you suggest such a thing! Watery eyes and a red nose, the worst enemy of beauty there is. I simply couldn't think of it. I want something that won't show.

JUDGE. [_Disgustedly turns to filing cabinet and looks through a series of cards, withdraws one, and turns back to_ VAIN WOMAN.] Perhaps this will suit you. [_Refers to card._] A woman has grown very tired of her husband and wants to exchange him for some other burden.

VAIN WOMAN. [_Indignantly._] What! I accept a man that some other woman doesn't want! Certainly not! I prefer one that some other woman does want.

JUDGE. [_Irritated, puts the card back in its place, and turns upon the_ VAIN WOMAN _crossly_.] I fear that I cannot please you and I do not have time to----

IMP. [_Interrupts and runs over to the railing, speaking soothingly to the_ JUDGE.] Excuse me, Judge, but maybe the lady would like deafness in exchange for her wrinkles. Deafness wouldn't show, so it couldn't spoil her face or her elegant figure.

JUDGE. [_Wearily._] No, it won't show. Deafness ought to be a good thing for you.

VAIN WOMAN. [_Consideringly._] Why--yes--that might do. But--well, it wouldn't show. I've a notion to take it. [_Pause--she seems to consider and meditate. The_ JUDGE _stares at her coldly_. IMP _grins impudently. She rises leisurely, sighs._] All right. I'll accept it.

JUDGE. [_Sharply._] Hold up your right hand. [_She raises hand._] Do you swear to accept deafness for better or for worse, as your portion of the world's miseries, so help you God?

VAIN WOMAN. [_Sweetly._] Oh, yes. I do, Judge.

JUDGE. [_To_ IMP.] Show the lady to the changing-room.

IMP. [_Escorts her to the curtained door with rather mock deference._] No, deafness won't show at all, and you'll have 'em all crazy about you. [_Draws aside curtains for her to pass._] Take second booth to your right.

[VAIN WOMAN _stands posing a moment. She smiles radiantly and pats
her cheeks softly with her hands, then with a long-drawn sigh of
happiness, she exits._ IMP _bows low and mockingly after her
vanishing form, his hand on his heart_.

JUDGE. [_Sarcastically._] Do her faults or shortcomings trouble her? Not at all! Perfectly satisfied with herself, except for a few wrinkles in her face. Vain women! Bah!

IMP. Yes, sir; women have queer notions.

[_An imperative rap at the street-door, immediately followed by the
rapper's abrupt entrance. We see an important-appearing personage.
His arrogant bearing and commanding pose lead us to believe that he
is accustomed to prompt attention. It is the_ RICH CITIZEN,
_exceedingly well groomed. His manner is lordly, but he addresses
the_ JUDGE _in a bored tone. When_ IMP _scampers to meet him, the_
RICH CITIZEN _hands him his hat and cane and turns at once to the_
JUDGE. IMP _examines the hat and cane critically, hangs them on the
hat-rack, and returns to his desk, where he again perches to watch
the_ RICH CITIZEN.

RICH CITIZEN. [_Lighting a cigarette._] I am addressing the Judge, am I not?

JUDGE. [_Shortly._] You are.

RICH CITIZEN. [_Languidly, between puffs of his cigarette._] Well, Judge, life has become rather boresome, so I thought I would drop in and ask you to do me a small favor.

JUDGE. [_Wearily._] Yes? We--What is your grievance?

RICH CITIZEN. [_Nonchalantly._] Oh, I wouldn't say grievance exactly. You see, my dear Judge, it is this way. I am a very rich and influential citizen, a prominent member of society, and I am very much sought after.

JUDGE. [_Frigidly._] Oh, indeed!

RICH CITIZEN. [_In a very bored manner._] Yes. Women run after me day and night. Ambitious mothers throw their marriageable daughters at my head. Men seek my advice on all matters. I am compelled to head this and that committee. [_Smokes languidly._

JUDGE. [_Sharply._] Well, go on.

RICH CITIZEN. Really, Judge, my prestige has become a burden. I want to get away from it all. I would like to become a plain, ordinary man with an humble vocation, the humbler the better, so that people will cease bothering me.

JUDGE. [_Sarcastically._] Is your prestige all that troubles you? Don't worry about your morals, I suppose. Satisfied with your habits and character?

RICH CITIZEN. [_Coldly._] What have my habits or morals got to do with my request? [_Scornfully._] Certainly I am not one of your saintly men. I live as a man of my station should live, and I think I measure up very well with the best of them. I am simply bored and I would like a change. I would like to be a plain man with an humble calling.

JUDGE. [_Ironically._] I'll see what we have in humble callings. [_He looks at the ledger, turning the leaves over slowly._] We have several bartenders' vocations.

RICH CITIZEN. [_Wearily smoking._] No. Too many people about all the time, and too much noise.

JUDGE. Well, here's a janitor's job open to you.

RICH CITIZEN. [_Impatiently throwing away his cigarette._] No. I don't like that, either. Too confining. Too many people bickering at you all the time. I want to get out in the open, away from crowds.

JUDGE. [_Sighing, and turning over the leaves of the ledger, then hopefully._] Here's the very thing for you, then--postman in a rural district.

RICH CITIZEN. [_Showing vexation._] No, no, _no_. Too many old women that want to gossip. I tell you, I want to get away from women. Haven't you something peaceful and quiet; something that would take me out in the quiet of the early morning, when the birds are singing?

JUDGE. [_Closing ledger with a bang, and rising._] Well, you're too particular, and I have not time to bother with you. I bid you good after----

IMP. [_Slides from his desk, runs to railing, and speaks suavely._] Excuse me, Judge, but maybe the gentleman would like the vocation of milkman. That is early-morning work. And, you remember, a milkman left his job here when he took that old, worn-out senator's position.

JUDGE. [_Sharply, to_ RICH CITIZEN.] Well, how about it? Does a milkman's vocation suit you? It's early-morning hours, fresh air, and no people about.

RICH CITIZEN. [_Musingly._] Well, the very simplicity and quietness of it is its charm. It rather appeals to me. [_He ponders a moment._] Yes, by Jove, I'll take it.

JUDGE. [_Sternly._] Hold up your right hand. "Do you solemnly swear to accept, for better or for worse, the vocation of milkman as your lot in life, so help you God?"

RICH CITIZEN. I do.

JUDGE. [_To_ IMP.] Show this gentleman to the changing-room.

IMP. [_While escorting him to the curtained door._] Yes, sir, you will lead the simple life. Fresh air, fresh milk, no people, just cows--and they can't talk. [_Holding aside the curtains._] Third booth, sir.

RICH CITIZEN. [_Musingly._] The simple life--peace and quietness.

[_Exit._

JUDGE. [I_n disgust._] It's no use, Imp. They all cling to their vices, but they are very keen to change some little cross or condition that vexes them--or think vexes them.

IMP. It's strange that people always want something different from what they have.

[IMP _opens a drawer in his desk and takes out a bottle, evidently
filled with tablets, which he holds up, shaking it and chuckling.
He hunts in the drawer again, and this time brings forth a huge
ear-trumpet, which he chucklingly places an his table beside the
bottle of tablets._

JUDGE. Don't let any more in, Imp. I can't stand another one to-day. I am going to write a letter and then go home.

IMP. All right, sir.

JUDGE. I am feeling very tired; what I really need is a vacation. A sea-trip would put me right. By the way, Imp, where is that transatlantic folder that I told you to get?

[IMP _picks up the folder from his desk and takes it to the_ JUDGE,
_who studies it attentively_. IMP _returns to his own desk, where
he again looks in a drawer and brings forth a menu card, which he
glances over, grinning mischievously_.

[_The former_ POOR MAN _re-enters from the changing-room. He is
well dressed, and taking a well-filled wallet from his pocket, he
looks at it gloatingly. However, from time to time, a shade of
annoyance passes over his face, and he puts his hand to the pit of
his stomach._ IMP _runs to meet him, and hands him the menu that he
has been reading_.

IMP. Here's a menu from the Gargoyle. Say, you sure do look swell! [_Looking him over admiringly._

FORMER POOR MAN. [_Grinning happily._] Some class to me now, eh! [_Looking at menu._] And you watch me pick out a real dinner. [_Sits down at left front._] First, I'll have a cocktail, then--let's see--I'll have--another cocktail. Next, oysters, and [_he frowns and presses his hand to the pit of his stomach, keeping up a massaging motion_]--green-turtle soup, sand dabs--chicken breasts--

[_They become absorbed over the menu._

[_The_ VAIN WOMAN _re-enters from the changing-room. She now has a
smooth face, and she is looking at herself in a hand-glass,
smiling and touching her face delightedly, She walks over to the
railing, and leans over it to the_ JUDGE. _He looks up
questioningly._

VAIN WOMAN. [_Smiling._] Oh, I am so happy again. Am I not beautiful?

JUDGE. [_Pityingly._] You are a vain, foolish woman.

[_Since she is deaf, she does not hear his words, but thinks he is
complimenting her. She smiles at him coyly._

VAIN WOMAN. Ah, Judge, you too are susceptible to my charms.

[_The_ JUDGE, _in great exasperation, puts away his papers, thrusts
the transatlantic folder in his pocket, hastily closes his desk,
and hurries to the hat-rack, puts on his overcoat, slips his
skull-cap into his pocket and puts on his soft black hat. Then,
with a shrug of his shoulders and a wave of his hand indicative of
disgust, he slips quietly out._

[_The_ VAIN WOMAN _saunters past the_ FORMER POOR MAN, _stops near
him, posing, and begins to put on her gloves. He looks at her
admiringly, then, getting to his feet, makes an elaborate but
awkward bow._

FORMER POOR MAN. Excuse me, lady, but I've had a big piece of luck to-day, and I want to celebrate, so I am having a big dinner. Won't you join me and help me have a good time?

VAIN WOMAN. [_Looking at him blankly, and trying to fathom what he has said._] Oh--why, what did you say?

FORMER POOR MAN. [_Hesitating, and a bit surprised._] Why--er--I said that I had a big piece of luck to-day, and I am going to celebrate. I am having a fine dinner, and I just asked if--if--you wouldn't have dinner with me.

VAIN WOMAN. [_Still looking blank and a little confused, then smiling archly and acting as though she had been hearing compliments, she speaks affectedly._] Really, do you think so? [_Looking down and smoothing her dress._] But, then, every one tells me that I am.

FORMER POOR MAN. [_Puzzled, turns to_ IMP _for help_.] Just what is her trouble, Nut?

IMP. [_Secretly gleeful._] She is stone-deaf. You had better write it.

FORMER POOR MAN. Never! No deaf ones for me.

[_Turns away and consults menu again._ VAIN WOMAN _poses and
frequently looks in hand-glass to reassure herself_.

[FORMER RICH CITIZEN _re-enters from the changing-room. He is
dressed in shabby overalls, jumper, and an old hat. He has a pipe
in his mouth. He walks arrogantly over to the_ FORMER POOR MAN _and
addresses him_.

FORMER RICH CITIZEN. Give me a light.

FORMER POOR MAN. [_Trying to live up to his fine clothes and wallet full of money, looks the_ FORMER RICH CITIZEN _over snubbingly_.] Say, who do you think you are? You light out, see?

FORMER RICH CITIZEN. [_Very much surprised, stands nonplussed a moment._] Well, upon my word, I--I----

[_He stops short in his speech, walks haughtily over to the
railing, where he stands glowering at the_ FORMER POOR MAN. _The_
FORMER POOR MAN _starts for the street door, but_ IMP _runs after
him, waving the bottle of tablets_.

IMP. I'll sell you these for two bits.

FORMER POOR MAN. What is that?

IMP. [_Grinning._] Indigestion tablets.

FORMER POOR MAN. [_Puts his hand to his stomach and laughs a little lamely._] Keep 'em; I don't need 'em.

[VAIN WOMAN _fastens her fur and starts for the street-door, giving
the_ FORMER RICH CITIZEN _a snubbing look as she passes him_. IMP
_stops her and offers the ear-trumpet_.

IMP. You might need this; I'll sell it for a dollar.

[_She does not hear what he says, but she looks her scorn at the
ear-trumpet and walks proudly out._

FORMER RICH CITIZEN. [_Fumbling at his pocket, as if to find a watch._] Boy, what time is it? I haven't my watch.

IMP. [_Grinning mischievously._] Time to milk the cows.

[_The_ FORMER RICH CITIZEN _starts angrily toward_ IMP, _then
evidently thinking better of it, shrugs his shoulders and stalks
majestically to the street-door. He pauses with it partly open,
turns as if to speak to_ IMP, _drawing himself up haughtily--a
ludicrous figure in his shabby outfit--then he goes abruptly out,
slamming the door_.

[IMP _doubles himself up in a paroxysm of glee as the curtain
falls_.

SCENE II