Chapter III: Part 3

Announcements of the play were posted by pupils in various parts of the building. Tiny brochures decorated with Chinese motives were prepared by students during an English period, and later were circulated among the faculty, and placed upon office bulletin boards, and in diaries. In writing these brochures the girls applied the knowledge they had gained in studying the writing of advertisements. Two illustrated advertisements made in one class were displayed in other high schools; a number were sent in an envelope with tickets to patrons and distinguished friends of the schools. One class wrote letters to firms of wholesale silk merchants and importers, advertising _The Goddess of the Woven Wind_, the story of silk.

In order to increase the sale of tickets and to prepare an appreciative audience, various subjects were suggested to English teachers for projects in class work connected with the plays. In many classes every girl wrote and illustrated a paper on some topic pertaining to Chinese life, such as customs, costumes, religion, occupations, silk, China, umbrellas, fireworks, fans, position of women, objects of art. Oral compositions were devoted to phases of some of these subjects. In the oral work and in the written composition, accurate knowledge of authorities consulted was insisted upon. Chinese proverbs were studied. "A man knows, but a woman knows better," used by the author in her play, was one of the most popular ones. Translations, found in the _Literary Digest_, of Chinese poems of the sixteenth and of the eighteenth century were produced and read by the girls, many of whom brought to class all the Chinese articles they could find at home. Incense burners, fans, pitchers, embroideries, chop sticks, beads, shoes, vases, and even a Chinese newspaper, found their way to the class-room and were exhibited with pride. Interest in things Chinese was so great that clippings and prints continued coming in for almost two weeks after the play had been presented. Class visits were made to the Chinese exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and to importing houses in the neighborhood.

The kind of co-operation described has led in some schools to the establishment of workshops similar to those conducted in connection with certain university courses in playwriting and dramatics and with many of the Little Theatres. A paragraph that appeared recently in a calendar of the New York Drama League explains in a convincing way the necessity for a workshop in connection with all amateur producing. "One of the most vital problems that the amateur group has to solve," says the writer, "is that of securing a proper place for the preparing of a production. Not all organizations can hold rehearsals, paint scenery, experiment with lighting on costumes and scenery on the stage on which they are finally to play. Even where this is possible, it is costly. Much of the activity is now carried on in the homes of members so far as rehearsals go; in barns or garages as regards the painting of scenery and not at all so far as the lighting question is concerned. More often than not, a few hasty final rehearsals are relied upon to pull into shape some of the most important elements of a satisfactory performance.

"The remedy lies in the acquisition of a workshop. A large room with a very high ceiling will serve admirably. But you must be able to work recklessly in it, sawing wood, hammering nails, mussing things up generally with paint and riddling the walls and ceiling with hooks and screws to hang lighting apparatus and other properties. An old-fashioned barn can be converted into an ideal workshop, if provision is made for proper heating. All the activity should be concentrated in the workshop and there is no reason why all the experimentalists cannot be at work at once--the carpenters, the scene painters, the electricians, the property men, and even the actors with their director."

The use of miniature model stages is becoming more and more common in the schools, the preliminary model serving the workshop, until the background, lighting, properties, and costumes are completed. It is an excellent thing for schools to start a collection of models of famous theatres and notably successful stage-sets. The material for these exists in illustrated books and magazines and in the mass of descriptive material in regard to the stage that is now being published.[21]

[Footnote 21: There is a comprehensive list of books
published by the Public Library of New York that is an
indispensable guide to amateurs interested in Little Theatres
and play production and in matters connected with lighting,
scenery, costumes, and theatre building; it is W. B. Gamble,
_The Development of Scenic Art and Stage Machinery_, New
York, 1920. Cf. also the articles of Irving Pichel that have
appeared from time to time in _The Theatre Arts Magazine_.
The three following books are especially valuable for school
theatres: Barrett H. Clark, _How to Produce Amateur Plays_,
Boston, 1917; Constance D'Arcy Mackay, _Costumes and Scenery
for Amateurs_. _A Practical Working Handbook_, New York, 1915
(the illustrations are especially valuable); and Evelyn
Hilliard, Theodora McCormick, Kate Oglebay, _Amateur and
Educational Dramatics_, New York, 1917.]

Two school theatres designed especially for the purpose of fostering in the schools to which they are attached an interest in the drama are the Garden Theatre of the high school at Montclair, New Jersey, and the Beechwood Theatre in the private school at Scarborough-on-Hudson, New York, built by Frank A. Vanderlip. At Montclair the present high school building was completed in 1914. To the northeast of the building at that time was a ravine which afforded a natural amphitheatre. The site was perfect, and a gift from a public-spirited citizen, Mrs. Henry Lang, made it possible to create on this spot a very artistic and beautiful place for outdoor performances, either plays or pageants.

On the slope nearest the building are semi-circular rows of concrete seats accommodating about fifteen hundred people. A brook spanned by two arched bridges separates the audience from the stage. Back of the turf stage is a graveled stage slightly raised and reached by two flights of steps. The pergola and trees make a beautiful background. The house in the rear is a part of the plant and is used for dressing and make-up.

The Beechwood Theatre within the school has a proscenium opening of twenty-seven feet and a stage depth, back to the plaster horizon, of the same dimensions. There are two complete sets of drapery, one of coarse ecru linen and one of blue velvet; there is also a stock drawing-room set of thirty pieces. Back of the stage are ten dressing-rooms. The lighting arrangements are extraordinarily complete: the theatre has a standard electrical equipment of footlights and borders and a switchboard of the best type to which has recently been added the latest lighting devices, consisting of an X-ray border, the end section of which is on a separate dimmer, a thousand-watt centre floodlight, six five-hundred watt-spotlights, each on separate dimmers, in the false proscenium or tormentor,[22] and a line of one-thousand-watt floodlights for lighting the plaster sky. All of this recently added equipment is controlled from a separate portable switchboard.

[Footnote 22: For the explanation of this and kindred
technical terms, see Arthur Edwin Krows, _Play Production in
America_, New York, 1916.

Cf. Maurice Browne, _The Temple of a Living Art_. _The
Drama_, Chicago, 1913, No. 12, p. 168: "Nor is this just a
question of stage jargon; that man or woman who would
establish an Art Theatre that is an Art Theatre and not a pet
rabbit fed by hand, must be able to design it, to ventilate
it, to decorate it, to equip its stage, to light it (and to
handle its lighting himself, or his electricians will not
listen to him), to plan his costumes and scenery, aye, and at
a shift, to make them with his own hand."]

Though this plant was built primarily for the school, it is used also by the Beechwood Players, a Little Theatre organization, and by other community clubs which comprise an orchestra, a chorus, a group interested in the fine arts, and a poetry circle. Mr. Vanderlip looks forward to the development of a school of the arts of the theatre from the nucleus of the Beechwood community clubs. With this idea in mind he has just built a workshop for the Beechwood Players in a separate building. It contains power woodworking machines, and rooms for painting scenery and for the costume department, the latter containing power sewing machines.

There is no doubt but that these two schools have unique facilities for developing an interest in the acted drama. But artistic results have often been secured in the school theatre with equipment falling far short of the ideal standards achieved at Montclair and at Scarborough. Other less fortunate schools are, moreover, at no particular disadvantage when it comes to the class-room study of the drama for which this book is primarily planned, this work being the first step in the direction of a more intelligent attitude toward modern plays and modern theatres. A class-room reading of modern plays without any accessories, as Shakespeare is often read from the seats and the aisles, is one of the most practical methods of speech and voice improvement. Louis Calvert, the eminent actor, speaking of this kind of training says: "After all it is one of the simplest things in the world to learn to speak correctly, to take thought and begin and end each word properly.... A little attention to one's everyday conversation will often work wonders. If one schools himself for a while to speak a little more slowly, and to give each syllable its due, it is surprising how naturally and rapidly his speech will clarify. If we take care of the consonants, the vowels will take care of themselves."

At the present time, then, the theatre in the schools means a variety of things. It means first and foremost, as suggested by the latest college entrance requirements, the study of modern plays, side by side with the classics. It means also the improvement of English speech, through the interpretation and the reading aloud of the text. It means a study of the new art of the theatre such as the present book suggests. It means often the presentation of plays before outside audiences and the consequent strengthening of the ties that should exist between the school and the community. It may mean the co-operation of several departments of the school in the production; and, in this case, it usually results in the establishment of some kind of a workshop. And finally, in certain favored schools, it means the erection of model Little Theatres. It seems fair to suppose that this newly aroused interest in modern drama and in modern methods of production in the schools will have far-reaching results.

BEAUTY AND THE JACOBIN[23]

By BOOTH TARKINGTON

[Footnote 23: Copyright, 1912, by Harper and Brothers.
Copyright in Great Britain. All acting rights both amateur
and professional reserved by the author.]

Since the days of Edward Eggleston, Indiana has been accumulating literary traditions until at the present time it rivals New England in the variety of its literary associations. Newton Booth Tarkington, born in Indianapolis in 1869, and continuing to make his home there still in the old family house on North Pennsylvania Street, is one of the most distinguished of the Hoosier writers. As a lad of eleven he began his friendship with James Whitcomb Riley, then a neighbor. "He acknowledges (shaking his head in reflection at the depth of it) that the spirit of Riley has exercised over him a strong, if often unconsciously felt, influence all his life." The delicious stories of Penrod and of the William Sylvanus Baxter of _Seventeen_ that Booth Tarkington has told for the unalloyed delight of old and young are said to reproduce quite accurately the author's recollection of his own boyhood pranks and associations in the Middle-Western city of his birth. Tarkington went first to Phillips Exeter Academy and later to Purdue University at Lafayette, Indiana, before he became a member of the class of '93 at Princeton. His popularity and his good fellowship are still cherished memories on the campus.

It seems that he was infallibly associated in the undergraduate mind with the singing of _Danny Deever_; so much so, that whenever he appeared on the steps at Nassau Hall there would be an immediate demand for his speciality, a demand that often caused him to retire as inconspicuously as possible from the crowd. These old days are commemorated in the following verses, a copy of which, framed, hangs on the walls of the Princeton Club in New York.

RONDEL

"The same old Tark--just watch him shy
Like hunted thing, and hide, if let,
Away behind his cigarette,
When 'Danny Deever' is the cry.

Keep up the call and by and by
We'll make him sing, and find he's yet
The same old Tark.

No 'Author Leonid' we spy
In him, no cultured ladies' pet:
He just drops in, and so we get
The good old song, and gently guy
The same old Tark--just watch him shy!"

No biography of Booth Tarkington, no matter how brief, should omit to mention that he was elected to the Indiana State Legislature and sat for a time in that body, where he accumulated, no doubt, some data on the subject of Indiana politics that he may afterwards have put to literary use.

He has found the subject for most of his novels and plays[24] in contemporary American life, which he treats unsentimentally, spiritedly, and vigorously. _Beauty and the Jacobin_, like his famous and fascinating tale, _Monsieur Beaucaire_, is exceptional among his works in deserting the modern American scene for an Eighteenth Century situation. The story and the play are likely, for this reason, to be compared. The tone of _Monsieur Beaucaire_ is more urbane, more whimsical, more romantic than the mood of _Beauty and the Jacobin_ which "breaks with the pretty, pretty kind of thing. There is a new quality in the texture of the writing.... The plot here springs directly from character, and the action of the piece is inevitable. _Beauty and the Jacobin_ gives evidence of being the first conscious and determined, as it is the first consistent, effort of the author to leave the surface and work from the inside of his characters out.... The whole of the little drama is scintillant with wit, delicate and at times brilliant and somewhat Shavian, which flashes out poignantly against the sombreness of its background."[25]

[Footnote 24: For a bibliography of his works through the
year 1913, see Asa Don Dickinson, _Booth Tarkington, a
Gentleman from Indiana_, Garden City, no date.]

[Footnote 25: Robert Cortes Holliday, _Booth Tarkington_,
Garden City and New York, 1918, pp. 155-156; p. 157.]

_Beauty and the Jacobin_ was published in 1912 and has had at least one performance on the professional stage. On November 12, 1912, it was played by members of the company then acting in _Fanny's First Play_, at a matinee at the Comedy Theatre, in New York. It has always been a favorite with amateurs and quite recently was performed in St. Louis by one of the dramatic clubs of that city.

BEAUTY AND THE JACOBIN

_Our scene is in a rusty lodging-house of the Lower Town, Boulogne-sur-Mer, and the time, the early twilight of dark November in northern France. This particular November is dark indeed, for it is November of the year 1793, Frimaire of the Terror. The garret room disclosed to us, like the evening lowering outside its one window, and like the times, is mysterious, obscure, smoked with perplexing shadows; these flying and staggering to echo the shiftings of a young man writing at a desk by the light of a candle._

_We are just under the eaves here; the dim ceiling slants; and there are two doors: that in the rear wall is closed; the other, upon our right, and evidently leading to an inner chamber, we find ajar. The furniture of this mean apartment is chipped, faded, insecure, yet still possessed of a haggard elegance; shamed odds and ends, cheaply acquired by the proprietor of the lodging-house, no doubt at an auction of the confiscated leavings of some emigrant noble. The single window, square and mustily curtained, is so small that it cannot be imagined to admit much light on the brightest of days; however, it might afford a lodger a limited view of the houses opposite and the street below. In fact, as our eyes grow accustomed to the obscurity we discover it serving this very purpose at the present moment, for a tall woman stands close by in the shadow, peering between the curtains with the distrustfulness of a picket thrown far out into an enemy's country. Her coarse blouse and skirt, new and as ill-fitting as sacks, her shop-woman's bonnet and cheap veil, and her rough shoes are naively denied by her sensitive, pale hands and the high-bred and in-bred face, long profoundly marked by loss and fear, and now very white, very watchful. She is not more than forty, but her hair, glimpsed beneath the clumsy bonnet, shows much grayer than need be at that age. This is ANNE DE LASEYNE_.

_The intent young man at the desk, easily recognizable as her brother, fair and of a singular physical delicacy, is a finely completed product of his race; one would pronounce him gentle in each sense of the word. His costume rivals his sister's in the innocence of its attempt at disguise: he wears a carefully soiled carter's frock, rough new gaiters, and a pair of dangerously aristocratic shoes, which are not too dusty to conceal the fact that they are of excellent make and lately sported buckles. A tousled cap of rabbit-skin, exhibiting a tricolor cockade, crowns these anomalies, though not at present his thin, blond curls, for it has been tossed upon a dressing-table which stands against the wall to the left. He is younger than MADAME DE LASEYNE, probably by more than ten years; and, though his features so strikingly resemble hers, they are free from the permanent impress of pain which she bears like a mourning-badge upon her own._

_He is expending a feverish attention upon his task, but with patently unsatisfactory results; for he whispers and mutters to himself, bites the feather of his pen, shakes his head forebodingly, and again and again crumples a written sheet and throws it upon the floor. Whenever this happens ANNE DE LASEYNE casts a white glance at him over her shoulder--his desk is in the center of the room--her anxiety is visibly increased, and the temptation to speak less and less easily controlled, until at last she gives way to it. Her voice is low and hurried._

ANNE. Louis, it is growing dark very fast.

LOUIS. I had not observed it, my sister. [_He lights a second candle from the first; then, pen in mouth, scratches at his writing with a little knife._]

ANNE. People are still crowding in front of the wine-shop across the street.

LOUIS [_smiling with one side of his mouth_]. Naturally. Reading the list of the proscribed that came at noon. Also waiting, amiable vultures, for the next bulletin from Paris. It will give the names of those guillotined day before yesterday. For a good bet: our own names [_he nods toward the other room_]--yes, hers, too--are all three in the former. As for the latter--well, they can't get us in that now.

ANNE [_eagerly_]. Then you are certain that we are safe?

LOUIS. I am certain only that they cannot murder us day before yesterday. [_As he bends his head to his writing a woman comes in languidly through the open door, bearing an armful of garments, among which one catches the gleam of fine silk, glimpses of lace and rich furs--a disordered burden which she dumps pell-mell into a large portmanteau lying open upon a chair near the desk. This new-comer is of a startling gold-and-ivory beauty; a beauty quite literally striking, for at the very first glance the whole force of it hits the beholder like a snowball in the eye; a beauty so obvious, so completed, so rounded, that it is painful; a beauty to rivet the unenvious stare of women, but from the full blast of which either king or man-peasant would stagger away to the confessional. The egregious luster of it is not breathed upon even by its overspreading of sullen revolt, as its possessor carelessly arranges the garments in the portmanteau. She wears a dress all gray, of a coarse texture, but exquisitely fitted to her; nothing could possibly be plainer, or of a more revealing simplicity. She might be twenty-two; at least it is certain that she is not thirty. At her coming, LOUIS looks up with a sigh of poignant wistfulness, evidently a habit; for as he leans back to watch her he sighs again. She does not so much as glance at him, but speaks absently to MADAME DE LASEYNE. Her voice is superb, as it should be; deep and musical, with a faint, silvery huskiness._]

ELOISE [_the new-comer_]. Is he still there?

ANNE. I lost sight of him in the crowd. I think he has gone. If only he does not come back!

LOUIS [_with grim conviction_]. He will.

ANNE. I am trying to hope not.

ELOISE. I have told you from the first that you overestimate his importance. Haven't I said it often enough?

ANNE [_under her breath_]. You have!

ELOISE [_coldly_]. He will not harm you.

ANNE [_looking out of the window_]. More people down there; they are running to the wine-shop.

LOUIS. Gentle idlers! [_The sound of triumphant shouting comes up from the street below._] That means that the list of the guillotined has arrived from Paris.

ANNE [_shivering_]. They are posting it in the wine-shop window. [_The shouting increases suddenly to a roar of hilarity, in which the shrilling of women mingles._]

LOUIS. Ah! One remarks that the list is a long one. The good people are well satisfied with it. [_To ELOISE_] My cousin, in this amiable populace which you champion, do you never scent something of--well, something of the graveyard scavenger? [_She offers the response of an unmoved glance in his direction, and slowly goes out by the door at which she entered. Louis sighs again and returns to his scribbling._]

ANNE [_nervously_]. Haven't you finished, Louis?

LOUIS [_indicating the floor strewn with crumpled slips of paper_]. A dozen.

ANNE. Not good enough?

LOUIS [_with a rueful smile_]. I have lived to discover that among all the disadvantages of being a Peer of France the most dangerous is that one is so poor a forger. Truly, however, our parents are not to be blamed for neglecting to have me instructed in this art; evidently they perceived I had no talent for it. [_Lifting a sheet from the desk._] Oh, vile! I am not even an amateur. [_He leans back, tapping the paper thoughtfully with his pen._] Do you suppose the Fates took all the trouble to make the Revolution simply to teach me that I have no skill in forgery? Listen. [_He reads what he has written._] "Committee of Public Safety. In the name of the Republic. To all Officers, Civil and Military: Permit the Citizen Balsage"--that's myself, remember--"and the Citizeness Virginie Balsage, his sister"--that's you, Anne--"and the Citizeness Marie Balsage, his second sister"--that is Eloise, you understand--"to embark in the vessel _Jeune Pierrette_ from the port of Boulogne for Barcelona. Signed: Billaud Varennes. Carnot. Robespierre." Execrable! [_He tears up the paper, scattering the fragments on the floor._] I am not even sure it is the proper form. Ah, that Dossonville!

ANNE. But Dossonville helped us--

LOUIS. At a price. Dossonville! An individual of marked attainment, not only in penmanship, but in the art of plausibility. Before I paid him he swore that the passports he forged for us would take us not only out of Paris, but out of the country.

ANNE. Are you sure we must have a separate permit to embark?

LOUIS. The captain of the _Jeune Pierrette_ sent one of his sailors to tell me. There is a new Commissioner from the National Committee, he said, and a special order was issued this morning. They have an officer and a file of the National Guard on the quay to see that the order is obeyed.

ANNE. But we bought passports in Paris. Why can't we here?

LOUIS. Send out a street-crier for an accomplished forger? My poor Anne! We can only hope that the lieutenant on the quay may be drunk when he examines my dreadful "permit." Pray a great thirst upon him, my sister! [_He looks at a watch which he draws from beneath his frock._] Four o'clock. At five the tide in the river is poised at its highest; then it must run out, and the _Jeune Pierrette_ with it. We have an hour. I return to my crime. [_He takes a fresh sheet of paper and begins to write._]

ANNE [_urgently_]. Hurry, Louis!

LOUIS. Watch for Master Spy.

ANNE. I cannot see him. [_There is silence for a time, broken only by the nervous scratching of Louis's pen._]

LOUIS [_at work_]. Still you don't see him?

ANNE. No. The people are dispersing. They seem in a good humor.

LOUIS. Ah, if they knew--[_He breaks off, examines his latest effort attentively, and finds it unsatisfactory, as is evinced by the noiseless whistle of disgust to which his lips form themselves. He discards the sheet and begins another, speaking rather absently as he does so._] I suppose I have the distinction to be one of the most hated men in our country, now that all the decent people have left it--so many by a road something of the shortest! Yes, these merry gentlemen below there would be still merrier if they knew they had within their reach a forfeited "Emigrant." I wonder how long it would take them to climb the breakneck flights to our door. Lord, there'd be a race for it! Prize-money, too, I fancy, for the first with his bludgeon.

ANNE [_lamentably_]. Louis, Louis! Why didn't you lie safe in England?

LOUIS [_smiling_]. Anne, Anne! I had to come back for a good sister of mine.

ANNE. But I could have escaped alone.

LOUIS. That is it--"alone"! [_He lowers his voice as he glances toward the open door._] For she would not have moved at all if I hadn't come to bully her into it. A fanatic, a fanatic!

ANNE [_brusquely_]. She is a fool. Therefore be patient with her.

LOUIS [_warningly_]. Hush.

ELOISE [_in a loud, careless tone from the other room_]. Oh, I heard you! What does it matter? [_She returns, carrying a handsome skirt and bodice of brocade and a woman's long mantle of light-green cloth, hooded and lined with fur. She drops them into the portmanteau and closes it._] There! I've finished your packing for you.

LOUIS [_rising_]. My cousin, I regret that we could not provide servants for this flight. [_Bowing formally._] I regret that we have been compelled to ask you to do a share of what is necessary.

ELOISE [_turning to go out again_]. That all?

LOUIS [_lifting the portmanteau_]. I fear--

ELOISE [_with assumed fatigue_]. Yes, you usually do. What now?

LOUIS [_flushing painfully_]. The portmanteau is too heavy. [_He returns to the desk, sits, and busies himself with his writing, keeping his grieved face from her view._]

ELOISE. You mean you're too weak to carry it?

LOUIS. Suppose at the last moment it becomes necessary to hasten exceedingly--

ELOISE. You mean, suppose you had to run, you'd throw away the portmanteau. [_Contemptuously._] Oh, I don't doubt you'd do it!

LOUIS [_forcing himself to look up at her cheerfully_]. I dislike to leave my baggage upon the field, but in case of a rout it might be a temptation--if it were an impediment.

ANNE [_peremptorily_]. Don't waste time. Lighten the portmanteau.

LOUIS. You may take out everything of mine.

ELOISE. There's nothing of yours in it except your cloak. You don't suppose--

ANNE. Take out that heavy brocade of mine.

ELOISE. Thank you for not wishing to take out my fur-lined cloak and freezing me at sea!

LOUIS [_gently_]. Take out both the cloak and the dress.

ELOISE [_astounded_]. What!

LOUIS. You shall have mine. It is as warm, but not so heavy.

ELOISE [_angrily_]. Oh, I am sick of your eternal packing and unpacking! I am sick of it!

ANNE. Watch at the window, then. [_She goes swiftly to the portmanteau, opens it, tosses out the green mantle and the brocaded skirt and bodice, and tests the weight of the portmanteau._] I think it will be light enough now, Louis.

LOUIS. Do not leave those things in sight. If our landlord should come in--

ANNE. I'll hide them in the bed in the next room. Eloise! [_She points imperiously to the window. ELOISE goes to it slowly and for a moment makes a scornful pretense of being on watch there; but as soon as MADAME DE LASEYNE has left the room she turns, leaning against the wall and regarding Louis with languid amusement. He continues to struggle with his ill-omened "permit," but, by and by, becoming aware of her gaze, glances consciously over his shoulder and meets her half-veiled eyes. Coloring, he looks away, stares dreamily at nothing, sighs, and finally writes again, absently, like a man under a spell, which, indeed, he is. The pen drops from his hand with a faint click upon the floor. He makes the movement of a person suddenly awakened, and, holding his last writing near one of the candles, examines it critically. Then he breaks into low, bitter laughter._]

ELOISE [_unwillingly curious_]. You find something amusing?

LOUIS. Myself. One of my mistakes, that is all.

ELOISE [_indifferently_]. Your mirth must be indefatigable if you can still laugh at those.

LOUIS. I agree. I am a history of error.

ELOISE. You should have made it a vocation; it is your one genius. And yet--truly because I am a fool I think, as Anne says--I let you hector me into a sillier mistake than any of yours.

LOUIS. When?

ELOISE [_flinging out her arms_]. Oh, when I consented to this absurd journey, this _tiresome_ journey--with _you_! An "escape"? From nothing. In "disguise." Which doesn't disguise.

LOUIS [_his voice taut with the effort for self-command_]. My sister asked me to be patient with you, Eloise--

ELOISE. Because I am a fool, yes. Thanks. [_Shrewishly._] And then, my worthy young man? [_He rises abruptly, smarting almost beyond endurance._]

LOUIS [_breathing deeply_]. Have I not been patient with you?

ELOISE [_with a flash of energy_]. If _I_ have asked you to be anything whatever--with me!--pray recall the petition to my memory.

LOUIS [_beginning to let himself go_]. Patient! Have I ever been anything but patient with you? Was I not patient with you five years ago when you first harangued us on your "Rights of Man" and your monstrous republicanism? Where you got hold of it all I don't know--

ELOISE [_kindling_]. Ideas, my friend. Naturally, incomprehensible to you. Books! Brains! Men!

LOUIS. "Books! Brains! Men!" Treason, poison, and mobs! Oh, I could laugh at you then: they were only beginning to kill us, and I was patient. Was I not patient with you when these Republicans of yours drove us from our homes, from our country, stole all we had, assassinated us in dozens, in hundreds, murdered our King? [_He walks the floor, gesticulating nervously._] When I saw relative after relative of my own--aye, and of yours, too--dragged to the abattoir--even poor, harmless, kind Andre de Laseyne, whom they took simply because he was my brother-in-law--was I not patient? And when I came back to Paris for you and Anne, and had to lie hid in a stable, every hour in greater danger because you would not be persuaded to join us, was I not patient? And when you finally did consent, but protested every step of the way, pouting and--

ELOISE [_stung_]. "Pouting!"

LOUIS. And when that stranger came posting after us so obvious a spy--

ELOISE [_scornfully_]. Pooh! He is nothing.

LOUIS. Is there a league between here and Paris over which he has not dogged us? By diligence, on horseback, on foot, turning up at every posting-house, every roadside inn, the while you laughed at me because I read death in his face! These two days we have been here, is there an hour when you could look from that window except to see him grinning up from the wine-shop door down there?

ELOISE [_impatiently, but with a somewhat conscious expression_]. I tell you not to fear him. There is nothing in it.

LOUIS [_looking at her keenly_]. Be sure I understand why you do not think him a spy! You believe he has followed us because you--

ELOISE. I expected that! Oh, I knew it would come! [_Furiously._] I never saw the man before in my life!

LOUIS [_pacing the floor_]. He is unmistakable; his trade is stamped on him; a hired trailer of your precious "Nation's."

ELOISE [_haughtily_]. The Nation is the People. You malign because you fear. The People is sacred!

LOUIS [_with increasing bitterness_]. Aren't you tired yet of the Palais Royal platitudes? I have been patient with your Mericourtisms for so long. Yes, always I was patient. Always there was time; there was danger, but there was a little time. [_He faces her, his voice becoming louder, his gestures more vehement._] But now the _Jeune Pierrette_ sails this hour, and if we are not out of here and on her deck when she leaves the quay, my head rolls in Samson's basket within the week, with Anne's and your own to follow! _Now_, I tell you, there is no more time, and _now_--

ELOISE [_suavely_]. Yes? Well? "Now?" [_He checks himself; his lifted hand falls to his side._]

LOUIS [_in a gentle voice_]. I am still patient. [_He looks into her eyes, makes her a low and formal obeisance, and drops dejectedly into the chair at the desk._]

ELOISE [_dangerously_]. Is the oration concluded?

LOUIS. Quite.

ELOISE [_suddenly volcanic_]. Then "_now_" you'll perhaps be "patient" enough to explain why I shouldn't leave you instantly. Understand fully that I have come thus far with you and Anne solely to protect you in case you were suspected. "_Now_," my little man, you are safe: you have only to go on board your vessel. Why should I go with you? Why do you insist on dragging me out of the country?

LOUIS [_wearily_]. Only to save your life; that is all.

ELOISE. My life! Tut! My life is safe with the People--my People! [_She draws herself up magnificently._] The Nation would protect me! I gave the people my whole fortune when they were starving. After that, who in France dare lay a finger upon the Citizeness Eloise d'Anville!

LOUIS. I have the idea sometimes, my cousin, that perhaps if you had not given them your property they would have taken it, anyway. [_Dryly._] They did mine.

ELOISE [_agitated_]. I do not expect you to comprehend what I felt--what I feel! [_She lifts her arms longingly._] Oh, for a Man!--a Man who could understand me!

LOUIS [_sadly_]. That excludes me!

ELOISE. Shall I spell it?

LOUIS. You are right. So far from understanding you, I understand nothing. The age is too modern for me. I do not understand why this rabble is permitted to rule France; I do not even understand why it is permitted to live.

ELOISE [_with superiority_]. Because you belong to the class that thought itself made of porcelain and the rest of the world clay. It is simple: the mud-ball breaks the vase.

LOUIS. You belong to the same class, even to the same family.

ELOISE. You are wrong. One circumstance proves me no aristocrat.

LOUIS. What circumstance?

ELOISE. That I happened to be born with brains. I can account for it only by supposing some hushed-up ancestral scandal. [_Brusquely._] Do you understand that?

LOUIS. I overlook it. [_He writes again._]

ELOISE. Quibbling was always a habit of yours. [_Snapping at him irritably._] Oh, stop that writing! You can't do it, and you don't need it. You blame the people because they turn on you now, after you've whipped and beaten and ground them underfoot for centuries and centuries and--

LOUIS. Quite a career for a man of twenty-nine!

ELOISE. I have said that quibbling was--

LOUIS [_despondently_]. Perhaps it is. To return to my other deficiencies, I do not understand why this spy who followed us from Paris has not arrested me long before now. I do not understand why you hate me. I do not understand the world in general. And in particular I do not understand the art of forgery. [_He throws down his pen._]

ELOISE. You talk of "patience"! How often have I explained that you would not need passports of any kind if you would let me throw off my incognito. If anyone questions you, it will be sufficient if I give my name. All France knows the Citizeness Eloise d'Anville. Do you suppose the officer on the quay would dare oppose--

LOUIS [_with a gesture of resignation_]. I know you think it.

ELOISE [_angrily_]. You tempt me not to prove it. But for Anne's sake--

LOUIS. Not for mine. That, at least, I understand. [_He rises._] My dear cousin, I am going to be very serious--

ELOISE. O heaven! [_She flings away from him._]

LOUIS [_plaintively_]. I shall not make another oration--

ELOISE. Make anything you choose. [_Drumming the floor with her foot._] What does it matter?

LOUIS. I have a presentiment--I ask you to listen--

ELOISE [_in her irritation almost screaming_]. How can I help but listen? And Anne, too! [_With a short laugh._] You know as well as I do that when that door is open everything you say in this room is heard in there. [_She points to the open doorway, where MADAME DE LASEYNE instantly makes her appearance, and after exchanging one fiery glance with ELOISE as swiftly withdraws, closing the door behind her with outraged emphasis._]

ELOISE [_breaking into a laugh_]. Forward, soldiers!

LOUIS [_reprovingly_]. Eloise!

ELOISE. Well, _open_ the door, then, if you want her to hear you make love to me! [_Coolly._] That's what you're going to do, isn't it?

LOUIS [_with imperfect self-control_]. I wish to ask you for the last time--

ELOISE [_flouting_]. There are so many last times!

LOUIS. To ask you if you are sure that you know your own heart. You cared for me once, and--

ELOISE [_as if this were news indeed_]. I did? Who under heaven ever told you that?

LOUIS [_flushing_]. You allowed yourself to be betrothed to me, I believe.

ELOISE. "Allowed" is the word, precisely. I seem to recall changing all that the very day I became an orphan--and my own master! [_Satirically polite._] Pray correct me if my memory errs. How long ago was it? Six years? Seven?

LOUIS [_with emotion_]. Eloise, Eloise, you did love me then! We were happy, both of us, so very happy--

ELOISE [_sourly_]. "Both!" My faith! But I must have been a brave little actress.

LOUIS. I do not believe it. You loved me. I--[_He hesitates._]

ELOISE. Do get on with what you have to say.

LOUIS [_in a low voice_]. I have many forebodings, Eloise, but the strongest--and for me the saddest--is that this is the last chance you will ever have to tell--to tell me--[_He falters again._]

ELOISE [_irritated beyond measure, shouting_]. To tell you what?

LOUIS [_swallowing_]. That your love for me still lingers.

ELOISE [_promptly_]. Well, it doesn't. So _that's_ over!

LOUIS. Not quite yet. I--

ELOISE [_dropping into a chair_]. O Death!

LOUIS [_still gently_]. Listen. I have hope that you and Anne may be permitted to escape; but as for me, since the first moment I felt the eyes of that spy from Paris upon me I have had the premonition that I would be taken back--to the guillotine, Eloise. I am sure that he will arrest me when I attempt to leave this place to-night. [_With sorrowful earnestness._] And it is with the certainty in my soul that this is our last hour together that I ask you if you cannot tell me that the old love has come back. Is there nothing in your heart for me?

ELOISE. Was there anything in _your_ heart for the beggar who stood at your door in the old days?

LOUIS. Is there nothing for him who stands at yours now, begging for a word?

ELOISE [_frowning_]. I remember you had the name of a disciplinarian in your regiment. [_She rises to face him._] Did you ever find anything in your heart for the soldiers you ordered tied up and flogged? Was there anything in your heart for the peasants who starved in your fields?

LOUIS [_quietly_]. No; it was too full of you.

ELOISE. Words! Pretty little words!

LOUIS. Thoughts. Pretty, because they are of you. All, always of you--always, my dear. I never really think of anything but you. The picture of you is always before the eyes of my soul; the very name of you is forever in my heart. [_With a rueful smile._] And it is on the tips of my fingers, sometimes when it shouldn't be. See. [_He steps to the desk and shows her a scribbled sheet._] This is what I laughed at a while ago. I tried to write, with you near me, and unconsciously I let your name creep into my very forgery! I wrote it as I wrote it in the sand when we were children; as I have traced it a thousand times on coated mirrors--on frosted windows. [_He reads the writing aloud._] "Permit the Citizen Balsage and his sister, the Citizeness Virginie Balsage, and his second sister, the Citizeness Marie Balsage, and Eloise d'Anville"--so I wrote!--"to embark upon the vessel _Jeune Pierrette_--" You see? [_He lets the paper fall upon the desk._] Even in this danger, that I feel closer and closer with every passing second, your name came in of itself. I am like that English Mary: if they will open my heart when I am dead, they shall find, not "Calais," but "Eloise"!

ELOISE [_going to the dressing-table_]. Louis, that doesn't interest me. [_She adds a delicate touch or two to her hair, studying it thoughtfully in the dressing-table mirror._]

LOUIS [_somberly_]. I told you long ago--

ELOISE [_smiling at her reflection_]. So you did--often!

LOUIS [_breathing quickly_]. I have nothing new to offer. I understand. I bore you.

ELOISE. Louis, to be frank: I don't care what they find in your heart when they open it.

LOUIS [_with a hint of sternness_]. Have you never reflected that there might be something for me to forgive you?

ELOISE [_glancing at him over her shoulder in frowning surprise_]. What!

LOUIS. I wonder sometimes if you have ever found a flaw in your own character.

ELOISE [_astounded_]. So! [_Turning sharply upon him._] You are assuming the right to criticize me, are you? Oho!

LOUIS [_agitated_]. I state merely--I have said--I think I forgive you a great deal--

ELOISE [_beginning to char_]. You do! You bestow your gracious pardon upon me, do you? [_Bursting into flame._] Keep your forgiveness to yourself! When I want it I'll kneel at your feet and beg it of you! You can _kiss_ me then, for then you will know that "the old love has come back"!

LOUIS [_miserably_]. When you kneel--

ELOISE. Can you picture it--_Marquis?_ [_She hurls his title at him, and draws herself up in icy splendor._] I am a woman of the Republic!

LOUIS. And the Republic has no need of love.

ELOISE. Its daughter has no need of yours!

LOUIS. Until you kneel to me. You have spoken. It is ended. [_Turning from her with a pathetic gesture of farewell and resignation, his attention is suddenly arrested by something invisible. He stands for a moment transfixed. When he speaks, it is in an altered tone, light and at the same time ominous._] My cousin, suffer the final petition of a bore. Forgive my seriousness; forgive my stupidity, for I believe that what one hears now means that a number of things are indeed ended. Myself among them.

ELOISE [_not comprehending_]. "What one hears?"

LOUIS [_slowly_]. In the distance. [_Both stand motionless to listen, and the room is silent. Gradually a muffled, multitudinous sound, at first very faint, becomes audible._]

ELOISE. What is it?

LOUIS [_with pale composure_]. Only a song! [_The distant sound becomes distinguishable as a singing from many unmusical throats and pitched in every key, a drum-beat booming underneath; a tumultuous rumble which grows slowly louder. The door of the inner room opens, and MADAME DE LASEYNE enters._]

ANNE [_briskly, as she comes in_]. I have hidden the cloak and the dress beneath the mattress. Have you--

LOUIS [_lifting his hand_]. Listen! [_She halts, startled. The singing, the drums, and the tumult swell suddenly much louder, as if the noise-makers had turned a corner._]

ANNE [_crying out_]. The "Marseillaise"!

LOUIS. The "Vultures' Chorus"!

ELOISE [_in a ringing voice_]. The Hymn of Liberty!

ANNE [_trembling violently_]. It grows louder.

LOUIS. Nearer!

ELOISE [_running to the window_]. They are coming this way!

ANNE [_rushing ahead of her_]. They have turned the corner of the street. Keep back, Louis!

ELOISE [_leaning out of the window, enthusiastically_]. _Vive la_--[_She finishes with an indignant gurgle as ANNE DE LASEYNE, without comment, claps a prompt hand over her mouth and pushes her vigorously from the window._]

ANNE. A mob--carrying torches and dancing. [_Her voice shaking wildly._] They are following a troop of soldiers.

LOUIS. The National Guard.

ANNE. Keep back from the window! A man in a tricolor scarf marching in front.

LOUIS. A political, then--an official of their government.

ANNE. O Virgin, have mercy! [_She turns a stricken face upon her brother._] It is that--

LOUIS [_biting his nails_]. Of course. Our spy. [_He takes a hesitating step toward the desk; but swings about, goes to the door at the rear, shoots the bolt back and forth, apparently unable to decide upon a course of action; finally leaves the door bolted and examines the hinges. ANNE, meanwhile, has hurried to the desk, and, seizing a candle there, begins to light others in a candelabrum on the dressing-table. The noise outside grows to an uproar; the "Marseillaise" changes to "Ca ira"; and a shaft of the glare from the torches below shoots through the window and becomes a staggering red patch on the ceiling._]

ANNE [_feverishly_]. Lights! Light those candles in the sconce, Eloise! Light all the candles we have. [_ELOISE, resentful, does not move._]

LOUIS. No, no! Put them out!

ANNE. Oh, fatal! [_She stops him as he rushes to obey his own command._] If our window is lighted he will believe we have no thought of leaving, and pass by. [_She hastily lights the candles in a sconce upon the wall as she speaks; the shabby place is now brightly illuminated._]

LOUIS. He will not pass by. [_The external tumult culminates in riotous yelling, as, with a final roll, the drums cease to beat. MADAME DE LASEYNE runs again to the window._]

ELOISE [_sullenly_]. You are disturbing yourselves without reason. They will not stop here.

ANNE [_in a sickly whisper_]. They have stopped.

LOUIS. At the door of this house? [_MADAME DE LASEYNE, leaning against the wall, is unable to reply, save by a gesture. The noise from the street dwindles to a confused, expectant murmur. LOUIS takes a pistol from beneath his blouse, strides to the door, and listens._]

ANNE [_faintly_]. He is in the house. The soldiers followed him.

LOUIS. They are on the lower stairs. [_He turns to the two women humbly._] My sister and my cousin, my poor plans have only made everything worse for you. I cannot ask you to forgive me. We are caught.

ANNE [_vitalized with the energy of desperation_]. Not till the very last shred of hope is gone. [_She springs to the desk and begins to tear the discarded sheets into minute fragments._] Is that door fastened?

LOUIS. They'll break it down, of course.

ANNE. Where is our passport from Paris?

LOUIS. Here. [_He gives it to her._]

ANNE. Quick! Which of these "permits" is the best?

LOUIS. They're all hopeless--[_He fumbles among the sheets on the desk._]

ANNE. Any of them. We can't stop to select. [_She thrusts the passport and a haphazard sheet from the desk into the bosom of her dress. An orderly tramping of heavy shoes and a clinking of metal become audible as the soldiers ascend the upper flight of stairs._]

ELOISE. All this is childish. [_Haughtily._] I shall merely announce--

ANNE [_uttering a half-choked scream of rage_]. You'll announce nothing! Out of here, both of you!

LOUIS. No, no!

ANNE [_with breathless rapidity, as the noise on the stairs grows louder_]. Let them break the door in if they will; only let them find me alone. [_She seizes her brother's arm imploringly as he pauses, uncertain._] Give me the chance to make them think I am here alone.

LOUIS. I can't--

ANNE [_urging him to the inner door_]. Is there any other possible hope for us? Is there any other possible way to gain even a little time? Louis, I want your word of honor not to leave that room unless I summon you. I must have it! [_Overborne by her intensity, LOUIS nods despairingly, allowing her to force him toward the other room. The tramping of the soldiers, much louder and very close, comes to a sudden stop. There is a sharp word of command, and a dozen muskets ring on the floor just beyond the outer door._]

ELOISE [_folding her arms_]. You needn't think I shall consent to hide myself. I shall tell them--

ANNE [_in a surcharged whisper_]. You will not ruin us! [_With furious determination, as a loud knock falls upon the door._] In there, I tell you! [_Almost physically she sweeps both ELOISE and LOUIS out of the room, closes the door upon them, and leans against it, panting. The knocking is repeated. She braces herself to speak._]

ANNE [_with a catch in her throat_]. Who is--there?

A SONOROUS VOICE. French Republic!

ANNE [_faltering_], It is--it is difficult to hear. What do you--

THE VOICE. Open the door.

ANNE [_more firmly_]. That is impossible.

THE VOICE. Open the door.

ANNE. What is your name?

THE VOICE. Valsin, National Agent.

ANNE. I do not know you.

THE VOICE. Open!

ANNE. I am here alone. I am dressing. I can admit no one.

THE VOICE. For the last time: open!

ANNE. No!

THE VOICE. Break it down. [_A thunder of blows from the butts of muskets falls upon the door._]

ANNE [_rushing toward it in a passion of protest_]. No, no, no! You shall not come in! I tell you I have not finished dressing. If you are men of honor--Ah! [_She recoils, gasping, as a panel breaks in, the stock of a musket following it; and then, weakened at rusty bolt and crazy hinge, the whole door gives way and falls crashing into the room. The narrow passage thus revealed is crowded with shabbily uniformed soldiers of the National Guard, under an officer armed with a saber. As the door falls a man wearing a tricolor scarf strides by them, and, standing beneath the dismantled lintel, his hands behind him, sweeps the room with a smiling eye._

_This personage is handsomely, almost dandiacally dressed in black; his ruffle is of lace, his stockings are of silk; the lapels of his waistcoat, overlapping those of his long coat, exhibit a rich embroidery of white and crimson. These and other details of elegance, such as his wearing powder upon his dark hair, indicate either insane daring or an importance quite overwhelming. A certain easy power in his unusually brilliant eyes favors the probability that, like Robespierre, he can wear what he pleases. Undeniably he has distinction. Equally undeniable is something in his air that is dapper and impish and lurking. His first glance over the room apparently affording him acute satisfaction, he steps lightly across the prostrate door, MADAME DE LASEYNE retreating before him but keeping herself between him and the inner door. He comes to an unexpected halt in a dancing-master's posture, removing his huge hat--which displays a tricolor plume of ostrich feathers--with a wide flourish, an intentional burlesque of the old-court manner._]

VALSIN. Permit me. [_He bows elaborately._] Be gracious to a recent fellow-traveler. I introduce myself. At your service: Valsin, Agent of the National Committee of Public Safety. [_He faces about sharply._] Soldiers! [_They stand at attention._] To the street door. I will conduct the examination alone. My assistant will wait on this floor, at the top of the stair. Send the people away down below there, officer. Look to the courtyard. Clear the streets. [_The officer salutes, gives a word of command, and the soldiers shoulder their muskets, march off, and are heard clanking down the stairs. VALSIN tosses his hat upon the desk, and turns smilingly to the trembling but determined MADAME DE LASEYNE._]

ANNE [_summoning her indignation_]. How dare you break down my door! How dare you force your--

VALSIN [_suavely_]. My compliments on the celerity with which the citizeness has completed her toilet. Marvelous. An example to her sex.

ANNE. You intend robbery, I suppose.

VALSIN [_with a curt laugh_]. Not precisely.

ANNE. What, then?

VALSIN. I have come principally for the returned Emigrant, Louis Valny-Cherault, formerly called Marquis de Valny-Cherault, formerly of the former regiment of Valny; also formerly--