Chapter XXIX: Part 29

MADAME LE BARGY [_gently_]. But after...?

DIANE [_puzzled_]. After?

MADAME LE BARGY. How long did you know Maurice?

DIANE. It would be two years this March.

MADAME LE BARGY. You loved each other all that time?

DIANE. From the very first. We never had any of those preliminaries in which people have a chance to deceive each other. We came together directly and frankly and we never regretted it.

MADAME LE BARGY. Maurice was very young.

DIANE. He was twenty-four. He was eager for life. But you two had kept him back. You had warmed his heart with your kind of love until he had begun to think it was the only love which is worthy.

MADAME LE BARGY. And you believe that that isn't so?

DIANE [_simply_]. I believe that there can be no flame like the love between two young people who are one.

MADAME LE BARGY [_going to Diane and putting a hand on her shoulder_]. Poor little woman.

DIANE [_astounded_]. Madame!

MADAME LE BARGY. You have been suffering a great deal, Diane.

DIANE [_bursting into wild weeping_]. Oh, Madame, how good you are, how kind you are! [_Grasping Madame's arms, she trembles and sobs._] Oh, how can I ever tell you? Thank you, thank you! [_She jumps up and paces about the room._] What am I going to do with myself? How can I go on? I simply can't stand it. If I had only died with Maurice! If I could only have died in his place! Oh, the cruelty of it! Why did they have to pick out _my_ lover? Surely there are thousands of others. Why did it have to be just mine? Mine--when I needed him so! He might have been spared a little longer, to give me time to get used to it. That would have been better. But now! Just as he was beginning to be of service, too. Why he hadn't been there a year yet. Not even a year! [_Beating her hips violently._] I could tear myself to pieces. I hate myself for going on living. I detest myself for being alive when he is dead.

MADAME LE BARGY [_who has watched Diane with infinite pity--softly_]. Diane, do you think that I loved my son?

DIANE [_in surprise_]. Why, yes, Madame, I believe that you loved Maurice.

MADAME LE BARGY. You think that my love was not as great as yours?

DIANE. No, I don't think so. You had had your life. Maurice and I were only beginning ours.

MADAME LE BARGY. Which do you think is the greater love, Diane, the love which endures for the moment, or the love which endures for all time?

DIANE [_puzzled_]. For all time...?

MADAME LE BARGY. For all time.

DIANE. We have the dear lips to kiss, the dear head to caress, but when these are gone there is only memory--and that is torture.

MADAME LE BARGY. What if I should tell you that Maurice still lives, Diane?

DIANE [_rushing to her_]. Madame! My God, is this true?

MADAME LE BARGY [_gently_]. Maurice still lives, Diane. He talks with me every day.

DIANE [_slowly_]. He talks with you....

MADAME LE BARGY [_holding her gaze_]. Yes, Diane, he talks with me.

DIANE [_the hope dies out of her face and she turns away_]. I understand.

MADAME LE BARGY. You see, you did not love Maurice.

DIANE. How can you tell me that--that I didn't love him?

MADAME LE BARGY. Because you don't continue to do so.

DIANE. But how can I love what no longer exists?

MADAME LE BARGY. Oh, the selfishness of those who have never really loved!

DIANE. That is what I said to Nanette--and now you say the same thing to me.

MADAME LE BARGY. Diane, when I knew for certain that Maurice had fallen into the sea, that they had recovered his body, that he was buried in German soil, then I felt that I should never live another moment. I felt as you have felt. I wanted to die. I could not bear it. I came here to this house. I was mad for the sight of him, for the things that he had touched and loved. I flew into his room and dragged his clothes from the pegs and crushed them to me, but even the odor and touch of his personal belongings was not enough to calm me. I came into this room. Then I drew near that chair. Something--I don't know what--drove me to sit in it. I flung myself into it as if it were into his arms, and I wept out all my grief. Then, all at once, a great calm came over me. I looked upon my solemn black dress in amazement and distaste. I looked into my solemn and black heart with surprise and shame. I felt that Maurice was _alive_, that he was not _dead_, Diane. Then I remembered, as I sat there, that it was in this chair that he had sat when he came to say good-by. There he had sat talking happily and confidently--he had seemed filled with radiance. And so he has talked to me again and again. Every day, at the same time, at twilight, I have sat there and felt myself with Maurice. We have talked together, just as we always did. There is nothing weird or supernatural about it, Diane. He is just as we knew him, as we knew him in those swift, strange moments when, in a flash, the body seems to slip aside and spirit rushes out to meet spirit. That is all. People see me cheerful and smiling and they say that I am mad. The few to whom I have told of these talks pity me and are sure that I have lost my reason. Perhaps, in a worldly sense, I am mad. But I know this, Diane, that Maurice lives as usual, more truly, than he did six weeks ago. I know that his youth has not been sacrificed in vain. As the dead plant enriches the soil from which it grew and into which it finally falls, so will this young soul in all its bloom enrich the life out of which it sprang and from which it can never entirely disappear.

DIANE [_after a pause--rising_]. That is beautiful, but I cannot do it. [_Stretching out her arms._] My arms are aching with emptiness.

MADAME LE BARGY. You see that you did not really love, Diane.

DIANE. Perhaps not. But it was the greatest I was capable of.

[_She gets a scarf she has dropped and goes toward the back._]

MADAME LE BARGY [_softly_]. This is the time, Diane.

DIANE. When you talk with him?

MADAME LE BARGY. Yes.

[_Diane goes slowly and sinks into the chair wearily. Suddenly she
flings her arms out, crying "Maurice, Maurice." Madame le Bargy
rises and goes to her._]

DIANE. Maurice, come back to me! Dear God, give him back to me!

[_Nanette enters at back with her black box. She sees Diane in the
chair. Suddenly she takes out the revolver and shoots Diane._]

NANETTE. Maurice! Forgive me!

MADAME LE BARGY. Nanette! Child! My child! [_She rushes to take Diane in her arms._] Nanette, what have you done, what have you done?

NANETTE. I have rid Maurice of a stain.

DIANE [_calling softly_]. Maurice, Maurice.... Oh, I knew you couldn't stay away. I knew you would come back to me. Now we will never be separated. We will be together like this for always--for all time.

MADAME LE BARGY [_softly_]. For all time, Diane.

NANETTE [_kneeling beside Diane--crossing herself_]. For all time.

[_Curtain._]

THE FINGER OF GOD

A PLAY

BY PERCIVAL WILDE

Copyright, 1915, by Percival Wilde.
Professional stage and motion picture rights reserved.

THE FINGER OF GOD was produced by the Wisconsin Players at the
Wisconsin Little Theatre, Milwaukee, Wis., March 28, 1916, and
subsequently, with the following cast:

STRICKLAND _Frederick Irving Deakin_.
BENSON _Harry V. Meissner_.
A GIRL _Marjorie Frances Hollis_.

Under the direction of FREDERIC IRVING DEAKIN.

Reprinted from "Dawn, and Other One-Act Plays of Life To-day" by
permission of, and special arrangement with, Mr. Wilde. The acting
rights in this play are strictly reserved. Performances may be
given by _amateurs_ upon payment to the author of a royalty of
five dollars ($5.00) for each performance. Production by
professional actors, without the written consent of the author, is
forbidden. Persons who wish to produce this play should apply to
Mr. Percival Wilde, in care of Walter H. Baker & Co., 5 Hamilton
Place, Boston, Mass.

THE FINGER OF GOD

A PLAY BY PERCIVAL WILDE

[_The living room of Strickland's apartment. At the rear, a
doorway, heavily curtained, leads into another room. At the left
of the doorway, a bay window, also heavily curtained, is set into
the diagonal wall. Near the center, an ornate writing desk, upon
which is a telephone. At the right, the main entrance. The
furnishings, in general, are luxurious and costly._

_As the curtain rises Strickland, kneeling, is burning papers in a
grate near the main door. Benson, his valet, is packing a suitcase
which lies open on the writing desk. It is ten-thirty; a bitterly
cold night in winter._]

STRICKLAND. Benson!

BENSON. Yes, sir.

STRICKLAND. Close the window: it's cold.

BENSON [_goes to the window_]. The window _is_ closed, sir. It's been closed all evening.

STRICKLAND [_shivers and buttons his coat tightly_]. Benson.

BENSON. Yes, sir?

STRICKLAND. Don't forget a heavy overcoat.

BENSON. I've put it in already, sir.

STRICKLAND. Plenty of fresh linen?

BENSON. Yes, sir.

STRICKLAND. Collars and ties?

BENSON. I've looked out for everything, sir.

STRICKLAND [_after a pause_]. You sent off the trunks this afternoon?

BENSON. Yes, sir.

STRICKLAND. You're sure they can't be traced?

BENSON. I had one wagon take them to a vacant lot, and another wagon take them to the station.

STRICKLAND. Good!

BENSON. I checked them through to Chicago. Here are the checks. [_He hands them over._] What train do we take, sir?

STRICKLAND. _I_ take the midnight. You follow me some time next week. We mustn't be seen leaving town together.

BENSON. How will I find you in Chicago?

STRICKLAND. You won't. You'll take rooms somewheres, and I'll take rooms somewheres else till it's all blown over. When I want you I'll put an ad in the "Tribune."

BENSON. You don't know when that will be, sir?

STRICKLAND. As soon as I think it is safe. It may be two weeks. It may be a couple of months. But you will stay in Chicago till you hear from me one way or the other. You understand?

BENSON. Yes, sir.

STRICKLAND. Have you plenty of money?

BENSON. Not enough to last a couple of months.

STRICKLAND [_producing a large pocketbook_]. How much do you want?

BENSON. Five or six hundred.

STRICKLAND [_takes out a few bills. Stops_]. Wait a minute! I left that much in my bureau drawer.

[_He goes toward the door._]

BENSON. Mr. Strickland?

STRICKLAND. Yes?

BENSON. It's the midnight train for Chicago, isn't it?

STRICKLAND. Yes.

[_He goes into the next room._]

BENSON [_waits an instant. Then he lifts the telephone receiver, and speaks very quietly_]. Hello. Murray Hill 3500.... Hello. This Finley? This is Benson.... He's going to take the midnight train for Chicago. Pennsylvania. You had better arrest him at the station. If he once gets to Chicago you'll never find him. And, Finley, you won't forget _me_, will you?... I want five thousand dollars for it. Yes, five thousand. That's little enough. He's got almost three hundred thousand on him, and you won't turn in _all_ of that to Headquarters. Yes, it's cash. Large bills. [_Strickland's step is heard._] Midnight for Chicago.

[_Benson hangs up the receiver and is busy with the suitcase as
Strickland enters._]

STRICKLAND. Here's your money, Benson. Count it.

BENSON [_after counting_]. Six hundred dollars, thank you, sir. [_He picks up the closed suitcase._] Shall I go now?

STRICKLAND. No. Wait a minute. [_He goes to the telephone._] Hello, Madison Square 7900 ... Pennsylvania? I want a stateroom for Chicago, midnight train. Yes, to-night.

BENSON. Don't give your own name, sir.

STRICKLAND. No. The name is Stevens.... Oh, you have one reserved in that name already? Well, this is _Alfred_ Stevens.... You have it reserved in that name? Then give me another stateroom.... What? You haven't any other? [_He pauses in an instant's thought. Then, decisively_]: Never mind, then. Good-by. [_He turns to Benson._] Benson, go right down to the Pennsylvania, and get the stateroom that is reserved for Alfred Stevens. You've got to get there before he does. Wait for me at the train gate.

BENSON. Yes, sir.

STRICKLAND. Don't waste any time. I'll see you later.

BENSON. Very well, sir.

[_He takes up the suitcase, and goes._]

STRICKLAND [_left alone, opens drawer after drawer of the desk systematically, dumping what few papers are still left into the fire. Outside a wintry gale whistles, and shakes the locked window. Suddenly there is a knock at the door. He pauses, very much startled. A little wait, and then the knock, a single knock, is repeated. He rises, goes to the door, opens it._] Who's there?

A GIRL. I, sir.

[_She enters. She is young: certainly under thirty: perhaps under
twenty-five: possibly still younger. A somewhat shabby boa of some
dark fur encircles her neck, and makes her pallid face stand out
with startling distinctness from beneath a mass of lustrous brown
hair. And as she steps over the threshold she gives a little
shiver of comfort, for it is cold outside, and her thin shoulders
have been shielded from the driving snow by a threadbare coat. She
enters the warm room gracefully, and little rivulets of melted ice
trickle to the floor from her inadequate clothing. Her lips are
blue. Her hands tremble in their worn white gloves. A seat before
a blazing fire, or perhaps, a sip of some strong cordial--this is
what she needs. But Strickland has no time for such things. He
greets her with a volley of questions._]

STRICKLAND. Who are you?

THE GIRL. Who, don't you remember me, sir?

STRICKLAND. No.

THE GIRL. I'm from the office, sir.

STRICKLAND. The office?

THE GIRL. _Your_ office. I'm one of your personal stenographers, sir.

STRICKLAND. Oh. I suppose I didn't recognize you on account of the hat. What do you want?

THE GIRL. There were some letters which came late this afternoon--

STRICKLAND [_interrupting harshly_]. And you're bothering me with them now? [_He crosses to the door, and holds it open.]_ I've got no time. Good night.

THE GIRL [_timidly_]. I thought you'd want to see these letters.

STRICKLAND. Plenty of time to-morrow.

THE GIRL. But you won't be here to-morrow, will you?

STRICKLAND [_starting violently_]. Won't be here? What do you mean?

THE GIRL. You're taking the train to Chicago to-night.

STRICKLAND. How did you know--[_He stops himself. Then, with forced ease._] Taking a train to Chicago? Of course not! What put that in your head?

THE GIRL. Why, you told me, sir.

STRICKLAND. _I_ told you?

THE GIRL. You said so this afternoon.

STRICKLAND [_harshly_]. I didn't see you this afternoon!

THE GIRL [_without contradicting him_]. No, sir? [_She produces a time-table._] Then I found this time-table.

[_She holds it out. He snatches it._]

STRICKLAND. Where did you find it?

THE GIRL. On your desk, sir.

STRICKLAND. On my desk?

THE GIRL. Yes, sir.

STRICKLAND [_suddenly and directly_]. You're lying!

THE GIRL. Why, Mr. Strickland!

STRICKLAND. That time-table never reached my desk! I lost it between the railroad station and my office.

THE GIRL. Did you, sir? But it's the same time-table: you see, you checked the midnight train. [_He looks at her suspiciously._] I reserved a stateroom for you.

STRICKLAND [_astonished_]. You reserved a stateroom?

THE GIRL [_smiling_]. I knew you'd forget it. You have your head so full of other things. So I telephoned as soon as you left the office.

STRICKLAND [_biting his lip angrily_]. I suppose you made the reservation in my own name?

THE GIRL. No, sir.

STRICKLAND [_immensely surprised_]. What?

THE GIRL. I thought you'd prefer some other name: you didn't want your trip to be known.

STRICKLAND. No, I didn't. [_A good deal startled, he looks at her as if he were about to ask, "How did you know that?" She returns his gaze unflinchingly. The question remains unasked. But a sudden thought strikes him._] What name did you give?

THE GIRL. Stevens, sir.

STRICKLAND [_thunderstruck_]. Stevens?

THE GIRL. Alfred Stevens.

STRICKLAND [_gasping_]. What made you choose that name?

THE GIRL. I don't know, sir.

STRICKLAND. You don't _know_?

THE GIRL. No, sir. It was just the first name that popped into my head. I said "Stevens," and when the clerk asked for the first name, I said "Alfred."

STRICKLAND [_after a pause_]. Have you ever _known_ anybody of that name?

THE GIRL. No, sir.

STRICKLAND [_with curious insistence_]. You are _sure_ you never knew anybody of that name?

THE GIRL. How can I be sure? I may have; I don't remember it.

STRICKLAND [_abruptly_]. How old are you? [_He gives her no time to answer._] You're not twenty, are you?

THE GIRL [_smiling_]. Do you think so?

STRICKLAND [_continuing the current of his thoughts_]. And I'm forty-seven. It was more than twenty-five years ago.... You couldn't have known.

THE GIRL [_after a pause_]. No, sir.

STRICKLAND [_looking at her with something of fear in his eye_]. What is your name?

THE GIRL. Does it matter? You didn't recognize my _face_ a few minutes ago; my _name_ can't mean much to you. I'm just one of the office force: I'm the girl who answers when you push the button three times. [_She opens a handbag._] These are the letters I brought with me.

STRICKLAND [_not offering to take them_]. What are they about?

THE GIRL [_opening the first_]. This is from a woman who wants to invest some money.

STRICKLAND. How much?

THE GIRL. Only a thousand dollars.

STRICKLAND. Why didn't you turn it over to the clerks?

THE GIRL. The savings of a lifetime, she writes.

STRICKLAND. What of it?

THE GIRL. She wrote that she had confidence in you. She says that she wants you to invest it for her yourself.

STRICKLAND. You shouldn't have bothered me with that. [_He pauses._] Did she inclose the money?

THE GIRL. Yes. A certified check.

[_She hands it over to him._]

STRICKLAND [_taking the check, and putting it in his pocketbook_]. Write her--oh, you know what to write: that I will give the matter my personal attention.

THE GIRL. Yes, sir. She says she doesn't want a big return on her investment. She wants something that will be perfectly safe, and she knows you will take care of her.

STRICKLAND. Yes. Of course. What else have you?

THE GIRL. A dozen other letters like it.

STRICKLAND. All from old women?

THE GIRL [_seriously_]. Some of them. Here is one from a young man who has saved a little money. He says that when he gets a little more he's going to open a store, and go into business for himself. Here is another from a girl whose father was an ironworker. He was killed accidentally, and she wants you to invest the insurance. Here is another from--but they're all pretty much alike.

STRICKLAND. Why did you bring them here?

THE GIRL. Every one of these letters asks you to do the investing yourself.

STRICKLAND. Oh!

THE GIRL. And you're leaving town to-night. Here are the checks. [_She passes them over._] Every one of them is made out to you personally; not to the firm.

STRICKLAND [_after a pause_]. You shouldn't have come here.... I haven't time to bother with that sort of thing. Every man who has five dollars to invest asks the head of the firm to attend to it himself. It means nothing. I get hundreds of letters like those.

THE GIRL. Still--

STRICKLAND. What?

THE GIRL. You must do something to deserve such letters or they wouldn't keep on coming in. [_She smiles._] It's a wonderful thing to inspire such confidence in people?

STRICKLAND. Do you think so?

THE GIRL. It is more than wonderful! It is magnificent! These people don't know you from Adam. Not one in a hundred has seen you: not one in a thousand calls you by your first name. But they've all heard of you: you're as real to them as if you were a member of their family. And what is even more real than you is your reputation! Something in which they rest their absolute confidence: something in which they place their implicit trust!

STRICKLAND [_slowly_]. So you think there are few honest men?

THE GIRL. No: there are many of them. But there is something about you that is different: something in the tone of your voice: something in the way you shake hands: something in the look of your eye, that is reassuring. There is never a doubt--never a question about you. Oh, it's splendid! Simply splendid! [_She pauses._] What a satisfaction it must be to you to walk along the street and know that every one you meet must say to himself, "There goes an honest man!" It's been such an inspiration to me!

STRICKLAND. To _you_?

THE GIRL. Oh, I know that I'm just one of the office force to you. You don't even know my name. But you don't imagine that any one can see you as I have seen you, can work with you as I have worked with you, without there being _some_ kind of an effect? You know, in my own troubles--

STRICKLAND [_interrupting_]. So _you_ have troubles?

THE GIRL. You don't pay me a very big salary, and there are others whom I must help. But I'm not complaining. [_She smiles._] I--I used to be like the other girls. I used to watch the clock. I used to count the hours and the minutes till the day's work was over. But it's different now.

STRICKLAND [_slowly_]. How--different?

THE GIRL. I thought it over, and I made up my mind that it wasn't right to count the minutes you worked for an honest man. [_Strickland turns away._] And there is a new pleasure in my work: I do my best--that's all I can do, but _you_ do your best, and it's the _least_ I can do.

STRICKLAND [_after a pause_]. Are you sure--I do my best? Are you sure I am an honest man?

THE GIRL. Don't you know it yourself, Mr. Strickland?

STRICKLAND [_after another pause_]. You remember--a few minutes ago, you spoke the name of Alfred Stevens?

THE GIRL. Yes.

STRICKLAND. Suppose I told you that there once _was_ an Alfred Stevens? [_The girl does not answer._] Suppose I told you that Stevens, whom I knew, stole money--stole it when there was no excuse for it--when he didn't need it. His people had plenty, and they gave him plenty. But the chance came, and he couldn't resist the temptation.... He was eighteen years old then.

THE GIRL [_gently_]. Only a boy.

STRICKLAND. Only a boy, yes, but he had the dishonest streak in him! Other boys passed by the same opportunity. Stevens didn't even know what to do with the money when he had stolen it. They caught him in less than twenty-four hours. It was almost funny.

THE GIRL. He was punished.

STRICKLAND [_nodding_]. He served a year in jail. God! What a year! His folks wouldn't do a thing for him: they said such a thing had never happened in the family. And they let him take the consequences. [_He pauses._] When he got out--[_stopping to correct himself_]--when he was _let_ out, his family offered him help. But he was too proud to accept the help: it hadn't been offered when he needed it most. He told his family that he never wanted to see them again. He changed his name so they couldn't find him. He left his home town. He came here.

THE GIRL. And he has been honest ever since!

STRICKLAND. Ever since: for twenty-eight years! It was hard at times, terribly hard! In the beginning, when he had to go hungry and cold, when he saw other men riding around in carriages, he wondered if he hadn't made a mistake. He had knocked about a good deal; he had learnt a lot, and he wouldn't have been caught so easily the second time. It was _almost_ worth taking the chance! It was _almost_ worth getting a foot of lead pipe, and waiting in some dark street, waiting, waiting for some sleek _honest_ man with his pockets full of money! It would have been so simple! And he knew _how_! I don't know why he didn't do it.

THE GIRL. Tell me more.

STRICKLAND. He managed to live. It wasn't pleasant living. But he stayed alive! I don't like to think of what he did to stay alive: it was humiliating; it was shameful, because he hadn't been brought up to do that kind of thing, but it was honest. Honest, and when he walked home from his work at six o'clock, walked home to save the nickel, his betters never crowded him because they didn't want to soil their clothes with his _honest_ dirt! He had thought the year in jail was terrible. The first year he was free was worse. He had never been hungry in jail.

THE GIRL. Then his chance came.

STRICKLAND. Yes, it _was_ a chance. He found a purse in the gutter, and he returned it to the owner before he had made up his mind whether to keep it or not. So they said he was honest! He knew he wasn't! He knew that he had returned it because there was so much money in it that he was afraid to keep it, but he never told them that. And when the man who owned the purse gave him a job, he worked--worked because he was afraid not to work--worked so that he wouldn't have any time to think, because he knew that if he began to think, he would begin to steal! Then they said he was a hard worker, and they promoted him: they made him manager. That gave him more chances to steal, but there were so many men watching him, so many men anxious for him to make a slip so that they might climb over him, that he didn't dare.

[_He pauses._]

THE GIRL. And then?

STRICKLAND. The rest was easy. Nothing succeeds like a good reputation, and he didn't steal because he knew they'd catch him. [_He pauses again._] But he wasn't honest at bottom! The rotten streak was still there! After twenty-eight years things began to be bad. He speculated: lost all the money he could call his own, and he made up his mind to take other money that _wasn't_ his own, all he could lay his hands on, and run off with it! It was wrong! It was the work of a lifetime gone to hell! But it was the rottenness in him coming to the surface! It was the thief he thought dead coming to life again!

THE GIRL [_after a pause_]. What a pity!

STRICKLAND. He had been honest so long--he had made other people think that he was honest so long, that he had made _himself_ think that he was honest!

THE GIRL. Was he wrong, Mr. Strickland?

STRICKLAND [_looking into her eyes; very quietly_]. Stevens, please. [_There is a long pause._] I don't know what sent you: who sent you: but you've come here to-night as I am running away. You're too late. You can't stop me. Not even the finger of God Himself could stop me! I've gone too far. [_He goes on in a voice which is low, but terrible in its earnestness._] Here is money! [_He pulls out his pocketbook._] Hundreds of thousands of it, not a cent of it mine! And I'm stealing it, do you understand me? _Stealing_ it! To-morrow the firm will be bankrupt, and there'll be a reward out for me. [_He smiles grimly, and bows._] Here, if you please, is your honest man! What have you to say to him?

THE GIRL [_very quietly_]. The man who has been honest so long that he has made _himself_ think that he is honest can't steal!

STRICKLAND [_hoarsely_]. You believe _that_?

THE GIRL [_opening her bag again_]. I was left a little money this week: only a few hundred dollars, hardly enough to bother you with. Will you take care of it for me--Alfred Stevens?

STRICKLAND. Good God!

[_And utterly unnerved he collapses to a chair. There is a long
pause._]

THE GIRL [_crossing slowly to the window, and drawing aside the curtain_]. Look! What a beautiful night! The thousands of sleeping houses! The millions of shining stars! And the lights beneath! And in the distance, how the stars and the lights meet! So that one cannot say: "Here Gods ends; Here Man begins."

[_The telephone rings, harshly, and shrilly. Strickland goes to the
receiver._]

STRICKLAND [_quietly_]. Yes?... You're afraid I'm going to miss the train?... Yes? Well, I'm _going_ to miss the train!... I'm going to stay and face the music! [_Hysterically._] I'm an honest man, d'ye hear me? I'm an honest man. [_And furiously, he pitches the telephone to the floor, and stands panting, shivering, on the spot. From the window a soft radiance beckons, and trembling in every limb, putting out his hands as if to ward off some unseen obstacle, he moves there slowly._] Did you hear what I told him? I'm going to make good. I'm going to face the music! Because I'm an honest man! An honest man!

[_He gasps, stops abruptly, and in a sudden panic-stricken
movement, tears the curtains down. The window is closed--has never
been opened--but the girl has vanished. And as Strickland, burying
his face in his hands, drops to his knees in awe,_

_The Curtain Falls._]

NIGHT

A PLAY

BY SHOLOM ASCH

Translated by Jack Robbins.
Copyright, 1920, by Sholom Asch.
All rights reserved.

NIGHT was originally produced by the East-West Players, at the
Berkeley Theatre, New York City, April 7, 1916, with the following
cast:

THE OUTCAST [_prostitute_] _Miriam Reinhardt_.
THE DRUNKARD _Mark Hoffman_.
THE BEGGAR _Maxim Vodianoy_.
THE BASTARD _Jack Dickler_.
THE FOOL _Max Lieberman_.
THE THIEF _Gustav Blum_.
HELENKA _Elizabeth Meltzer_.
THE DRUNKARD'S WIFE _Bryna Zaranov_.

Produced under the direction of GUSTAV BLUM.

Applications for permission to produce NIGHT must be addressed to
Mr. Sholom Asch, 3 Bank Street, New York.

NIGHT

A PLAY BY SHOLOM ASCH

[_Night in a market place. A small fire burns near a well. On a
bench near it sleeps the Beggar. The old Prostitute is warming
herself. There is the sound of dogs barking in the distance. Vast
shadows move about the market-place. The Drunkard emerges from the
gloom of the night._]

DRUNKARD. Good evening, Madam Prostitute. [_Listens to the dogs._] Why are the dogs whining like this to-night?

PROSTITUTE. They must be seeing things.

DRUNKARD. Yes, your black soul. Perhaps they think you a devil. That's why they chase all over the butchers' stalls. No wonder. They've reason to be afraid.

BEGGAR [_in his sleep_]. He-he-he. Ha-ha-ha.

PROSTITUTE. A drunkard and a prostitute are the same thing. None of us is clean of sin.

BEGGAR [_sleepily_]. Don't take me for a "pal."

[_Sleeps on._]

DRUNKARD. Leave him alone. He sings hymns the whole day long.

BEGGAR. Poverty is no sin.

DRUNKARD. Don't mix in. [_To the Prostitute._] What do dogs see at night?

PROSTITUTE. They say that on the first of May the Holy Mother walks through the market place, and gathers all the stray souls.

DRUNKARD. What have the dogs got to do with it?

PROSTITUTE. They are people laden with sins. People who died without the Holy Sacrament, and who were buried outside of the fence. At night they roam about the market in the shape of dogs. They run about in the stalls of the butchers. The devil, too, stays there, but when the first of May comes and the prayers begin, the Holy Mother walks through the market-place. The souls of the damned cling to her dress, and she takes them with her to Heaven.

[_Pause for a minute._]

BEGGAR [_turning in his sleep_]. Strong vinegar bursts the cask. Her soul must be black indeed.

DRUNKARD. It's awful to look into it. You'll be among them yet....

PROSTITUTE. I'm not afraid of that. The mercy of God is great. It will reach even me. But all of you will be among the dogs too. Those who live in the street come back to the street after death.

BEGGAR. The street is the home of the beggar. Poverty is no sin.

[_Stretches himself and sleeps on. There is a pause. The Fool
comes out of the darkness. He is tall, with a vacant, good-humored
face, dressed in a soldier's hat, with a wooden toy-sword in his
girdle. He grins kindly._]

DRUNKARD. Ah, good evening, Napoleon. [_He salutes the Fool._] Where do you hail from?

FOOL [_grins and chuckles_]. From Turkey. I have driven out the Turk.

DRUNKARD. And where is your army?

FOOL. I have left it on the Vistula.

DRUNKARD. And when will you drive the Russians out of there?

FOOL. I have given my orders already.

DRUNKARD. Are they being carried out?

FOOL. I only need to draw my sword.

DRUNKARD. Your sword?

FOOL. Napoleon gave it to me.

PROSTITUTE. Leave him be. Every one is crazy in his way. [_To the fool._] You are cold. Come to the fire. He wanders about the hollows the whole night long.

FOOL [_smiles_]. I've quartered all of my soldiers, but I have no place for myself to sleep in.

PROSTITUTE. A fool, and yet he knows what he says. [_Gives him bread._] Do you want to eat?

FOOL. I get my dinner from the tables of Kings.

BEGGAR [_awaking_]. You've brought the fool here too? He's got the whole market place to be crazy in, and he comes here, where honest people sleep.

[_Takes his stick and tries to reach the Fool._]

PROSTITUTE [_defending the Fool_]. Leave him alone I tell you. Crazy though he be, he still wants to be among people. Like aches for like.

BEGGAR. Let him go to the graveyard, and yell his craziness out among the graves;--and not disturb honest men in their sleep. The street is the beggar's home, and I don't want to share it with madmen. All that the people throw out of their homes, wanders into the street.

[_He chases the Fool away, and lies down._]

DRUNKARD. Who made you boss here? The street belongs to all. Lie down in the city hall, in the mayor's bed, if you want to have rest.

PROSTITUTE. Keep still. He has a right to the place. He's had it long enough.

DRUNKARD. What kind of a right? Are you a newcomer? How long have you been here?

PROSTITUTE. All my life. I was born in the street, there, behind the fence near the church. My mother pointed out the place to me. I have never known any other home, but the street. In the daytime it belongs to all. When people open their shops, and peasants come in their wagons, and trade begins, I feel a stranger here, and I hide in the fields near the cemetery. But when night comes, and people retire into their holes, then the street is mine. I know every nook and corner of the market place. It is my home.

DRUNKARD. You've said it well. In that house there, I have a home, a bed, and a wife. In the daytime I work there. I sit among boots, and drive nails into heels and soles. And I bear my wife's nagging and cursing patiently.... But when night comes I can't stand it any longer. The house becomes too small for me. Something draws me into the street.

PROSTITUTE. It is the curse of the street that rests on you as it does on the howling dogs. All of us are damned, and we are punished here for our sins. And we will not be delivered, till the Holy Mother will come, and we will take hold of her dress, and our souls will be freed.

BEGGAR [_in his sleep_]. He-he-he. Ha-ha-ha.

DRUNKARD [_becomes sad, bows his head_]. In the daytime I don't mind it. Then I am like other people. I work like all do. But when night comes....

PROSTITUTE. It's the curse of the street. Don't worry. God will pity all of us. His mercy is great.

[_The cry of a child comes from the distance. It resembles the
howling of a dog._]

DRUNKARD. What's that?

PROSTITUTE. That's Manka's bastard. He strays the street. He wants to come near the fire.

DRUNKARD. Call him here.

PROSTITUTE. Keep still. [_She points to the Beggar._] He will chase the boy away. They believe the boy is born of the Devil.

DRUNKARD. Who made him boss here? All of us are children of the Devil. [_He calls to the boy as one calls to a dog._] Come here, you.

[_A dumb boy, all in rags, drags himself near. He makes noises
like a little beast. He trembles with cold. The Prostitute tries
to quiet him._]

PROSTITUTE. He lies the whole night behind his mother's doorstep. She is afraid of her husband. Sometimes she gives him a piece of bread, when no one looks. Thus he crawls like a worm in the street--human flesh and blood.

DRUNKARD. Let him come near the fire--so. [_He pushes the boy nearer to the fire._] Give him a piece of bread. I'll take care of any one who tries to hurt him.

BEGGAR [_awaking_]. No. That's too much. Who brought this here? You know that the Devil is in him?

[_Tries to chase the boy away._]

PROSTITUTE [_hiding the boy in her shawl_]. Have pity.

BEGGAR. You're the Devil's wife. That's why you pity his child.

[_Tries to reach the boy._]

DRUNKARD [_tears the stick from the Beggar's hand_]. We're all the children of the Devil. You've no more on your hide than he has.

BEGGAR. Don't you start anything. I am a Christian, and believe in God. I've no home. That's why I sleep on the street. Every dog finds his hole. But I won't live together with the Devil. And I won't be the neighbor of a harlot either. Nor was a drunkard ever a friend of mine. [_He gathers his belongings._] What are you running after me for? This whole street belongs to the Devil. Why are you trying to stop me?

[_He tries to go away._]

PROSTITUTE [_detaining him_]. Don't leave us. Let him only warm himself. He'll go away.

BEGGAR. It does me little honor to be with folk like you anyway.

[_He goes away._]

DRUNKARD. Why do you hold him back? Let him go if he thinks us below his dignity.

PROSTITUTE. And do you really think it an honor for one to remain with you? That man is decent at least.

DRUNKARD. Ah, you grow pious as you grow old.

PROSTITUTE. I have always wanted to be in decent company.

[_As the Beggar disappears, strange figures begin to show
themselves in the darkness. Most of them are half-naked. The Fool
also comes back. A dog comes wandering into the crowd._]

PROSTITUTE [_looking around in terror_]. It's awful to be with so many sick people. Not one amongst them who is of sound mind. Not one who has a clean conscience. The Beggar has gone away.

DRUNKARD [_with fear_]. The dogs have also come to the fire.

PROSTITUTE. Even they are drawn to people.

[_There is a short pause. The Bastard begins to wail._]

DRUNKARD. What's the trouble with him? Take him away.

PROSTITUTE. That's the Devil in him crying--see him gazing at something.

[_The day begins to grow gray in the east. Strange, awful light
falls over all. Now one, now another corner of the street appears
and disappears. All is covered with shadows as in twilight._]

DRUNKARD. Praised be God. The dawn.

PROSTITUTE. How different the light is to-day.

[_The dogs begin to howl._]

DRUNKARD. What are the dogs howling about? Chase them away from the fire.

PROSTITUTE. They are looking somewheres. They sniff at the air. They must see something now.

[_In the distance is heard the sound of beating against tin
plates. The dogs howl with fright._]

PROSTITUTE. Something is coming near to us.

[_The Fool laughs._]

DRUNKARD. What is the Fool laughing at? What is he gazing at? Chase him away from the fire.

PROSTITUTE. They all see more clearly than we.

[_The dogs howl again, and gather in one group. Footsteps
approach._]

DRUNKARD [_frightened_]. Something is coming near to us.

[_A minute's pause. All waiting in fear. The Thief appears. He
carries a woman on his shoulders. The woman has a child in her
arms. They are followed by small, poorly clad boys who hold
trumpets and kettles in their hands, and make as much noise as
they can._]

THIEF [_thunders_]. Fall on your knees. Draw off your hats! Do you see who is coming? The queen! The queen! [_All grow pale, and move aside. The Thief walks into their midst._] Who is there? Ah, the Fool. Well, how are your armies getting along? Hold them in readiness. Hold them in readiness. The Drunkard! Ah, the right man for the game. [_He bows._] With awe do I kiss the little hand of Madame Prostitute. [_To the Bastard_]: And your little heir is here also? [_To the woman_]: Take them with you, oh, Queen. They too are dogs like us, thrown into the street. Let them come with us, We have room for many, many.

WOMAN. Take them with us, my man. We will all go together.

THIEF [_letting the Woman down_]. Our company is growing big. Come with us.

DRUNKARD [_awaking from his torpor and looking at the Thief_]. So you are the thief they let out of prison not long ago. And I was afraid of you a little while ago. [_He spits._] That's a fine joke. Always at your play. Who's the woman, and the children? Where did you get them?

THIEF. Brother, this is not play. [_He points to the Woman._] She is a queen. [_He points to the children._] And they are princes. Every one a prince. At your knees before her! Take off your hat.

DRUNKARD. I know this gentleman quite well. He likes to joke.

[_The Thief comes close to him._]

THIEF. To-night is the night when the dogs are delivered. Look at her. [_He points at the Woman._] Look at us. We were locked in, and we have come out. We are all one family--dogs. We wander on the street. Men have shut their doors in our faces. Come, dogs. We will unite to-day. Throw off your chains, and shake yourself as if you were shaking dust from your shoulders. You are men after all. I have known you from childhood. I knew your mother.

DRUNKARD [_wondering_]. I don't know what you mean.

THIEF. Look at yourself. What have they made of you? You walk the street all night like an outcast. Your children are afraid of you. They hide when they see you drunk on the street, and weep for you. Are you to blame for it? You were made one with a mass of flesh you hate. You sit bent over your boots the whole day long, and curses and blows are hurled at your head. And when night comes you crawl in the gutter, and you will crawl there till you will be freed from shame.

DRUNKARD. What are you telling me this for?

THIEF. And are you to blame for this? Have you had one minute of happiness in your whole life? Who took care of you? You were raised by your stepfather's cane. Show me the scars on your body. They beat you from childhood on; first your stepfather, then your "step-wife." No one ever spoke to you as to a friend. No one ever comforted you in your grief.

[_The Drunkard falls to the ground and weeps._]

THIEF [_to the Woman_]. And he is an honest man. I know him. We went to the same school. He had an honest mother. She loved him only as a mother can. [_Whispering to the Woman._] She brought him bread behind his stepfather's back.

DRUNKARD. I will never drink again. I give my word of honor.

[_He weeps._]

THIEF. Don't cry, brother. We are all dogs of the street. But we unite to-day. Come with us, come. We will care for you. We will all be together. Take the Prostitute, and come with us.

[_The old Prostitute rises and looks amazed._]

PROSTITUTE. Me?

THIEF [_taking her hand_]. We will not turn you, nor avoid you. We know what you are. You are not to blame. Who brought you up? Who was your mother? You were born in the street like a goat. Every stone, every hole in the earth caresses you like a mother. You were thrown into the street at birth, and men ran from you as from a leper. Any wonder that this is what became of you? You lay in the street like an old, dirty rag.

PROSTITUTE [_half-crying_]. I am not worthy of such comforting words by a gentleman.

THIEF. You are worthy. You are like all of us. Your skin is dirty, but your soul is clean. Wash your sins away, throw the curse from off your shoulders, and you will become a human being like all of us. You too long for people. I know you. You are good, you love humanity. It is they who have cursed you so. You were always a clean child. Wait. Wait. [_He takes water from the well, and pours it on her._] I wash your head, and you are a human being like the rest of us. The curse is removed from you. Look around yourself. Spring is here. Its fragrance is everywhere. You are a girl yet, a mere child. You know no wickedness. You are in your father's garden. Your mother sits near the window and looks at you. You are walking with your beloved.

[_He takes the Drunkard, puts him side by side with the
Prostitute, joins their hands, and leads them back and forth._]

PROSTITUTE [_smiles_]. Don't talk to me like that.

THIEF. You are being married now. Virgins come and bring you your bridal dress, your veil, your myrtle wreath. You are chaste. They lead you to the altar. Your mother lays her hand on your head and blesses you. Sweet harp music is heard. Your bridegroom takes his place beside you.

[_The Prostitute breaks out into tears._]

DRUNKARD [_excited_]. I will be together with her. I will defend her. I will not let them insult her. She is my sister. I will work for her.

THIEF. That's the way. The dogs unite to-day. [_He takes the Bastard in his arms and kisses him on the forehead._] And, he, too, is our child. All of us are dogs of the street. All of us unite to-day.

DRUNKARD [_takes the boy from the Thief_]. He is our child. He will be with us. [_He takes the arm of the Prostitute._] Come, we will go together. I will work for you. You will bring him up, and he will be our child. [_He takes the shawl from the Prostitute, and wraps himself and the boy in it._] What? You do not hear? Listen. I mean it with my whole heart.

[_The Prostitute does not hear. She looks with awe at the Woman._]

THIEF. That's the way. That's the way. That's the way. To-day we unite. We go together. We will be one with the dogs. [_He caresses all he finds on the street._] Blow the trumpets, boys. Beat the drums. We choose a queen to-day. [_To the Fool._] The army waits for you, with swords in their hands, with spears ready. Do you see the cannon all trained? All wait for your command. Do you see the foe around you? [_He points to the street with a broad majestic gesture._] Here stands the army.

FOOL [_happily_]. Yes, yes.

THIEF. Give your order, Napoleon. You are our general. Draw the sword, and command!

FOOL [_draws his wooden sword and cries loudly as if he saw an army in the market-place_]. Present arms!

THIEF [_loudly_]. That's the way. The dogs unite to-day. All will unite. We choose a queen to-day. [_He points to the Woman._] She is worthy of wearing the crown of the street. Come, queen. Mount to your throne. [_He bends his back._] Boys, blow your trumpets. Beat your drums. At your knees. All hats off. The queen comes. The queen comes. So will we go to our land.

[_It is grown lighter. The face of the Woman has grown young and
beautiful, and begins to look like the face of the Holy Mother._]

PROSTITUTE [_who has looked at the Woman with awe, recognizes her in the gray light, as she sits on the Thief's shoulders with the child in her arms. She falls to her knees before her, and cries in an unearthly voice_]. Oh, see, see. It is the Holy Mother. Look at her--her face. She has come from the church. Oh, it is the holy picture before which I always pray. I know her. Our Holy Mother in her very flesh. [_She gives a great cry, and falls prostrate before the Woman._] Oh, Mother, Mother, take me under Thy protection. [_She falls prostrate, unable to talk any more. The others are infected with the spirit of her words. They look with fear at the Woman's face. They recognize the Madonna. They bend half-ways on their knees. The Thief, who has let her down from his shoulders, takes off his hat and kneels with the rest. All prostrate themselves. There is the sound of a church-bell. It is day. From the open window of a house across the way, leans out the wife of the Drunkard, and yells._] Ah, ah, what are you doing there. Come into the house. There is work to be done.

DRUNKARD [_roused from his ecstasy, tears his hand away from that of the Prostitute, and looks at the Woman with the Thief._] Ha-ha-ha. That's Helenka, Andrey the Plasterer's wife. Ha-ha-ha. He's cracked a good joke.

[_He runs away. The others awake as if from sleep. The Prostitute
suddenly rises. Helenka tries to escape from the Thief's hands._]

HELENKA. Why did you drag me into the street?

THIEF [_holding her hand_.] Come with me. Remember what we said. Come to another land with me.

HELENKA [_weeping_]. What does he want with me? Why did he drag me into the street? Come home, children.

[_All run from him._]

THIEF [_stands near the well, and thunders after them_]. Dogs, where are you running?... You dogs, you damned dogs.... [_Townspeople come to the well with pails, grumbling._] Get out of the way....

[_Curtain._]

FORGOTTEN SOULS

A PLAY

BY DAVID PINSKI
TRANSLATED AND EDITED BY ISAAC GOLDBERG, PH.D.

Copyright, 1916, by L. E. Bassett.
All rights reserved.

PERSONS

FANNY SEGAL [_owner of a tailoring establishment_].
LIZZIE EHRLICH [_a pianist_], } [_Miss Segal's boarders_].
HINDES [_a teacher_], }

PLACE: _A Russian Provincial Town_.
TIME: _1916_.

Reprinted from "Six Plays of the Yiddish Theatre" by permission of,
and special arrangements with, Dr. Isaac Goldberg and David Pinski.

FORGOTTEN SOULS

A PLAY BY DAVID PINSKI

[SCENE: _Workroom at Fanny Segal's. A door to the left of the
spectator, another in the back. A large table, covered with
various materials; at each side of the table a sewing machine. On
the wall to the right, a three-panelled mirror; in the corner, a
large wardrobe. Not far from the wardrobe two dressmaker's forms,
covered with cloaks. In the middle a broad armchair. Evening._]

FANNY [_runs out through the rear door and soon returns with a letter in her hand. She tears it nervously open and is absorbed in reading. Suddenly she gives a scream of delight_]. Oh!--Oh! [_Passes her hand over her face and through her hair, looks at the letter, cries out anew, breathing with difficulty. Looks at the letter once more, and exclaims heavily._] You! My love! My love! [_She is lost for a moment in thought, then calls._] Lizzie! Lizzie! Lizzie!

LIZZIE [_enters, dressed up as if for a ball, sticking a pin in her hat. Mocks Fanny's tone._] What's up? What's up? What's up?

FANNY. Read this! Quickly! It's from Berman!

LIZZIE [_takes the letter_]. Why see! We've just been talking about him. And they really accepted his drama?

[_Looks at the letter._]

FANNY [_looks on, too, in great excitement_].

LIZZIE [_as she reads_]. That's fine! [_Turns over a page and continues reading._] Why! This is an actual proposal of marriage, Fanny, my dear!

FANNY [_her breath short from delight_]. Did you understand it that way, too?