Chapter II: Part 2

It would seem the younger generation does not know the meaning of the word S-I-N.

[_Hurly-burly begins again._]

MRS. FESSENDEN.

Order! Order!

CURTAIN.

EXTREME UNCTION

_Played for the first time on October 23 and 24, 1914, by Miss ISABEL MCBIRNEY, Miss VOLNEY FOSTER, Mrs. EDWARD POPE, Mrs. HENRY HUBBARD, and Mr. ROSECRANS BALDWIN._

EXTREME UNCTION.

CHARACTERS:

A DYING PROSTITUTE
A SALVATION ARMY LASSIE
A SOCIETY LADY
A DOCTOR
A NURSE

SCENE: _The screened space around a high, narrow bed in a
hospital ward. Record-card hanging above. The screens have
anti-septic white sheets over them._

_When the curtain rises the nurse is straightening and tucking
in with uncomfortable tightness the white counterpane of the
bed. On the bed, with eyes closed, lies what is left of a girl
of eighteen or twenty. The nurse takes the thermometer from the
girl’s mouth, looks at it, shakes her head, and makes a record
note on the chart. She gives the girl water to drink and leaves
her with a final pull to straighten the bedclothes. The girl
tosses restlessly, moans a little and impatiently kicks at and
pulls the bedclothes out at the foot, exclaiming, “God, I wish
they’d lemme ’lone!”_

[_THE LADY enters._]

THE LADY.

Hattie dear, were you sleeping? No? See, I’ve brought you some roses. Aren’t they fresh and sweet? Shall I put them in water?

THE GIRL.

I don’ want ’em!

THE LADY.

All right, dear. We’ll just put them aside. I know sometimes the perfume is too strong if one isn’t quite oneself. Shall I read to you?

THE GIRL.

If you want to.

THE LADY.

What shall I read?

THE GIRL.

I don’ care.

THE LADY.

A story, perhaps?

THE GIRL.

All right—fire it off.

THE LADY.

And then afterwards, Hattie dear, perhaps if you’d let me, the twenty-third psalm. It’s so gentle and quiet! You might go to sleep—and when you awakened you’d hear those comforting words.

THE GIRL.

Is that the one about the valley? God, but I’m sick of it! Gives me the jimmies. Got a story?

[_THE LADY puts the flowers back in their box—takes off her
wrap and settles herself to read aloud from a magazine._]

Marianna Lane swung back and forth, back and forth, in the
hammock, tapping her small, brown toe on the porch as she
swung. It was a charming porch, framed in clematis and
woodbine, but Marianna had no eye for its good points. She
was lying with two slim arms clasped behind her head, staring
vacantly up at the ceiling and composing a poem. On the
wicker table beside her stood a glass of malted milk and a
teaspoon. They were not the subject of the poem, but they were
nevertheless responsible for it. Her cousin Frank, who lived in
the next house, had been inspired to make up an insulting ditty.

“Grocerman, bring a can
Baby-food for Mary Ann!”

[_THE GIRL listens for a moment with a faint show of interest,
then goes back to her restless tossing._]

THE GIRL.

[_Interrupting._]

Say, d’ye know I’m done for?

THE LADY.

Oh no! You’re getting better every day.

THE GIRL.

Oh, quit it! I’m goin’, I tell ye. I’ve got a head-piece on me, haven’t I? I can tell—they’ve stopped doin’ all them things to me. The doctor just sets down there where you are and looks at me—and, say—he’s got gump, that doctor. He’s the only one knows I know.

THE LADY.

You mustn’t talk like that. I’m sure you’re going to get well. [_Girl makes an angry snort._] Now try and lie quiet. You mustn’t get excited, you know, it isn’t good for sick people. I’ll go on with the story. You’ll see. Now listen, will you, dear? It’s quite interesting. [_Reads._]

“Grocerman, bring a can
Baby-food for Mary Ann!”

he sang loudly over the hedge whenever he caught sight
of Marianna’s middy blouse and yellow pigtails. That was
yesterday. To-day the malted milk was standing untouched upon
the wicker table, and Marianna in the hammock was trying to
think up an offensive rhyme for Frank. When she found it, she
intended to go around on the other side of the house and shout
it as loud as ever she could in the direction of her uncle’s
garden. This, it is true, was a tame revenge. What Marianna
really wanted to do was to go over and pinch her cousin Frank;
but that, unhappily, was out of the question, as Frank had a
cold, and she was strictly forbidden to go near anybody with a
cold.[3]

THE GIRL.

[_Interrupting._]

Lady, where d’ you think you’re goin’ to when you kick it? Tell me!

THE LADY.

Why—I don’t know—To Heaven, I hope—but you mustn’t—

THE GIRL.

What makes you think you’re goin’ to Heaven?

THE LADY.

Well—I think so because—well—because I’ve always tried to do right—no, no—I didn’t mean that exactly. Of course I’ve done millions of wrong things—but I mean— Oh, Hattie dear, Heaven is such a vague term! All we know is that it is a beautiful place where we’ll be happy, and that we’re going there.

THE GIRL.

How do you know we’re goin’?

THE LADY.

I don’t know. I believe.

THE GIRL.

But how do you know the wrong things you done won’t keep you out?

THE LADY.

Now I’m afraid you’re exciting yourself—

THE GIRL.

Oh, Lord, cut that out! I’m excited, all right, all right! Guess you’d be if you had the thoughts I got goin’ ’round in your head all the time—but there’s no sense talkin’ them out. Nobody can’t do nothin’ for me now!

THE LADY.

Oh, you mustn’t say that!

THE GIRL.

Well, can ye?

THE LADY.

I’ll try, if you will tell me what is troubling you.

THE GIRL.

Oh, Gawd! She wants to know what’s troublin’ me, she does!

THE LADY.

Can’t you tell me? Perhaps I could help you.

THE GIRL.

You said you done wrong things. What was they?

THE LADY.

I—I don’t know exactly.

THE GIRL.

You don’t know?

THE LADY.

Why, I suppose I could think of lots of things, but—

THE GIRL.

She could “think of lots o’ things”! Has to stop to remember. Oh, gee! Guess she’ll get in.

THE LADY.

Oh, please don’t laugh like that! Listen! Whatever you have done, no matter how dreadful, if you are sorry it will be all right. Don’t be afraid.

THE GIRL.

Is that true?

THE LADY.

Yes.

THE GIRL.

I don’t believe it.

THE LADY.

It is true, nevertheless.

THE GIRL.

Well, if you ain’t sorry?

THE LADY.

But surely you are—you must be!

THE GIRL.

No, I ain’t. It was better dead.

THE LADY.

What do you mean?

THE GIRL.

I tell ye, it was better to be dead. Say, Lady—in them wrong things you done you can’t remember did ye—did ye ever kill a kid that hadn’t hardly breathed? Say, did ye—did ye?

THE LADY.

Oh, oh! What shall I do? Hattie! Hattie! Try and stop crying. I’m so grieved for you. Tell me what you wish—only don’t cry so!

THE GIRL.

I ain’t sorry.

THE LADY.

No, no, never mind that. Tell me if you want to, tell me—about it.

THE GIRL.

An’ I ain’t sorry for what cum first—him—it was all I ever had that time, that little, weeny time!

THE LADY.

Wait a moment—wouldn’t you rather have a clergyman?

THE GIRL.

No! There’s one comes ’round here. I don’ want to tell him nothin’.

THE LADY.

Very well—go on.

THE GIRL.

It was so little, and it squawked! It squawked awful!

THE LADY.

Oh don’t!

THE GIRL.

You don’t want me to tell ye?

THE LADY.

Yes, yes.

THE GIRL.

Oh, what’s the use? What’s the use? You can’t do nothin’. Nobody kin. I ain’t sorry! The kid’s better dead, lots better. It’s what cum after. I’m so dirty! I’m so dirty! I’ll never get clean! Oh, what’s gona happen when I die? What’s gona happen? An’ I gotta die soon!

THE LADY.

You mustn’t feel so; you mustn’t! God is kind and good and merciful. He will forgive you. Ask Him to!

THE GIRL.

I did ask Him to—lots o’ times. It don’ do no good. I ain’t sorry! Everybody says you gotta feel sorry, an’ I ain’t. A girl kid’s better dead, I tell ye! That’s why I done it. I loved it, ’fore it came, ’cause it was his’n. After I done it nothin’ mattered—nothin’! So I— And I gotta die soon. What’s gona happen?

[_During the preceding the sound of a tambourine and singing
has been heard outside. As THE GIRL cries out the last words
THE LADY, finding no answer, goes to the window. She has a
sudden thought._]

THE LADY.

I’ll be back in a moment! [_She goes out._]

[_Nothing is heard but THE GIRL’S sobs for a moment. Then THE
LADY ushers in a SALVATION ARMY LASSIE, her tambourine held
tightly, but jingling a little. She stands embarrassed by the
foot of the bed. THE GIRL stares at her._]

THE GIRL.

I know them kind, too.

THE LASSIE.

Can’t I do something for you?

THE GIRL.

No—not now. You’re a good sort enough—but—I ain’t sorry— I tell ye—I ain’t, I ain’t!

THE LASSIE.

[_To LADY._]

What d’ye want me for? What’ll I do?

THE LADY.

Couldn’t you sing something brave and cheerful? You were singing so nicely out there.

THE LASSIE.

[_To GIRL._]

Shall I?

THE GIRL.

No, they won’t let ye. It ’u’d make a noise.

THE LADY.

Sing it low.

THE LASSIE.

[_In a sing-song voice, swaying, half chanting, half speaking._]

Shall we gather at the river—the beautiful, the beautiful river, etc.

THE GIRL.

[_After trying to listen for a stanza or two._]

Oh, cut it out! I don’t want ye to sing to me. I want ye to tell me what’s gona happen. Oh, don’ nobody know? I’m so ’fraid—so ’fraid!

[_As her voice rises the nurse, who has, unobserved, looked in
during the singing, enters with THE DOCTOR. He bows slightly to
THE LADY and THE LASSIE, then goes quickly to THE GIRL, putting
his hand on her forehead._]

THE DOCTOR.

Why, child, what troubles you?

THE GIRL.

[_Clinging to his hand._]

Doctor! Everybody says I got to be sorry to get in. I ain’t sorry, an’ I’m ’fraid, I’m ’fraid.

THE DOCTOR.

To get in where?

THE GIRL.

Heaven, where you’ll be happy.

THE DOCTOR.

That is very interesting. How do you suppose they found that out? How do they know, I mean?

THE LADY.

Doctor, I didn’t tell her that.

THE DOCTOR.

Didn’t you? She seems strangely excited. [_He seats himself by the bed._] Come, child, let’s talk about it.

[_He motions to the nurse that she is not needed. She goes out.
THE SALVATION ARMY LASSIE makes an awkward little bow and gets
herself out. THE LADY stands at the foot of the bed listening
for a few moments, then slips quietly out._]

THE DOCTOR.

Now, tell me what is on your mind. But try and stop crying and speak plainly, for I want to understand what you say.

THE GIRL.

I’m gona die, ain’t I?

THE DOCTOR.

Yes.

THE GIRL.

When?

THE DOCTOR.

I don’t know.

THE GIRL.

Soon?

THE DOCTOR.

Yes.

THE GIRL.

How soon? Tomorrow?

THE DOCTOR.

No, not tomorrow. Perhaps in a month, perhaps longer.

THE GIRL.

Will I get sorry ’fore I go?

THE DOCTOR.

How can I tell? But what does it matter? Why do you want to be sorry especially? What good would it do? It is all passed, isn’t it? Nothing can change that.

THE GIRL.

But I gotta be—to get in.

THE DOCTOR.

You seem very sure on that point.

THE GIRL.

But everybody says I gotta be.

THE DOCTOR.

What is the use saying it or thinking it when nobody knows?

THE GIRL.

What you sayin’?

THE DOCTOR.

You and I can believe differently if we want to. But why in the world should you be asking me all these hard questions? I’ve never been to heaven, have I? I don’t know whether you have to be sorry to get in or not. How do you suppose they found all that out?

THE GIRL.

But ain’t I gotta be punished somewhere till I git sorry?

THE DOCTOR.

Do you remember the other night when the pain was so bad?

THE GIRL.

Yep.

THE DOCTOR.

And I told you you would have to bear it, that I could do nothing for you, and that you must be quiet, not to disturb the others?

THE GIRL.

Oh, don’t I remember!

THE DOCTOR.

I guess that’s about enough punishment for one little girl. You’ve been pretty unhappy lately, haven’t you, with the pain and the terrible thoughts? I think it’s about time something else turned up for you that would be nicer, don’t you?

THE GIRL.

Turned up?

THE DOCTOR.

Yes, something that would make up for all this. Do you know, child, as I’ve gone through these wards day after day ’tending to all you sick folks I’ve about come to the conclusion that there must be—something nicer—

THE GIRL.

Tell me more about it.

THE DOCTOR.

Well, now—there’s another queer question. Didn’t I tell you I don’t know anything to tell? I’ve never been there. I should think you would have found out a little something, since you’re planning to go so soon. But no, I don’t suppose you know much more than the rest of us. And when you get there you will probably forget all about me and how much I’d like to know what’s happening to my little patient. No use, I suppose, asking you to tie a red string on your finger and say, “That’s to send Dr. Carroll a little message.” Is there any way, do you think you could remember?

THE GIRL.

You’re kiddin’ me!

THE DOCTOR.

Indeed I am not. I long to know with all my heart, and I suppose it will be years and years before I do. Why, just think, you—you, are going to have a great adventure. You are going on a journey to a far country where you’ll find out lots of things, and here am I, jogging along up and down, to and fro, between my office and this hospital, and wondering and wondering and wondering! What a lucky little girl you are!

THE GIRL.

And I don’t have to be sorry—to git in?

THE DOCTOR.

Didn’t I tell you you were going soon, anyway? You can be sorry if you want to—but I think it is more interesting to dream about the strange things there will be to discover at the end of the journey.

THE GIRL.

Will there be gates of gold that open wide, and angels standin’ by with shinin’ wings?

THE DOCTOR.

Wouldn’t you like to know? And so would I. You mustn’t forget to send that message. Will you? Do be careful to be accurate and try to speak distinctly. You know that a great many wise men have promised to send messages back, yet all that seems to come are foolish words. If you will look at everything carefully and find a way of telling me, I’ll write it down for all the world to ponder. Oh—then we should really know something—not just be groping—groping—groping in the dark. If you only could, if you only could! I wonder—[_In his turn he gazes at her intently, then rises abruptly._] Well, child, I must go on. Shall I teach you a few questions before you go, so you’ll be sure and find out for me the most important things?

THE GIRL.

Oh, Doctor!

THE DOCTOR.

You’d like to do something for me, wouldn’t you, child?

[_THE GIRL reaches out for his hand and kisses it humbly, then
gazes at him._]

THE DOCTOR.

Well, that would be the most wonderful thing in the world, only you must be very, very careful, and you must do a lot of thinking before you go, about what I’ve said. It is important to understand. Don’t waste any time thinking about what is passed, will you?

THE GIRL.

No, Doctor.

THE DOCTOR.

We must talk it all over. There aren’t many people I could trust to remember exactly all the things I want to know. But you can if you try hard. [_He touches the bell; the nurse appears._] Now, Miss Bryant, Miss Hattie and I have several important things to discuss and there isn’t much time left, so if she wants me at any time call me and I’ll come. And I think while she has so much thinking on hand about what I’m asking her to do for me, she had better not see other visitors. You don’t mind, do you?

THE GIRL.

No, no! I don’ want ’em! Doctor, when will it come? Doctor, will I know soon?

THE DOCTOR.

Soon, I think; very soon. [_He takes her hand a second, then goes out, motioning the nurse to precede him._]

THE GIRL.

Soon! He said it would be very soon—and I’m so tired! I’d like something nicer. [_She settles herself with a little sigh, and falls asleep._]

CURTAIN.

THE LETTER

_Played for the first time on August 18 and 19, 1915, by Mr. CHAS. ATKINSON, Mr. ERNST VON AMMON, and Mr. JOHN ROOT._

THE LETTER.

CHARACTERS:

HORACE TANNER.
JOHN ROBERTS.
BELL-BOY.

TIME: _Midnight of a summer night. Present day._

SCENE: _Writing-room of a club. Entrances at back and right._

_When the curtain rises the two men are seated on opposite
sides of the room, facing away from each other. HORACE TANNER
is occupied in opening, throwing away or laying aside a pile of
mail which is on the writing-table before him. JOHN ROBERTS is
writing a letter, which he folds, seals and addresses. Finding
himself without a stamp, he leaves the room, back. Neither man
is conscious of the other’s presence. TANNER starts to answer
a note, refers to a letter he has put aside, then lets his pen
drop and stares in front of him listlessly. He is a man between
thirty-five and forty with a clean-cut fine face. The jaw is
square, the eyes and brow those of a dreamer._

[_The BELL-BOY enters._]

BELL-BOY.

This Mr. Tanner, sir?

TANNER.

Yes. What is it?

BELL-BOY.

Letter for you, sir. [_Holds out a tray with a long sealed envelope._]

TANNER.

I got my mail at the desk when I arrived. Where was this?

BELL-BOY.

It is a registered letter, sir. The clerk always keeps ’em in the safe.

TANNER.

I see. Thank you.

[_The BELL-BOY goes out. TANNER opens the envelope slowly,
after looking curiously at the handwriting. Inside is another
envelope of which the seal has been broken. Around this is a
half-sheet of note-paper. At the handwriting on the second
envelope TANNER gives a start. He glances at the note, then
throws it aside and becomes absorbed in the contents of the
inner envelope. The letter he reads is not long, perhaps four
or five pages. He turns it over and over, trying to find more.
He has laid the envelope, the one on which the writing has
startled him, beside him on the desk. As he reads, leaning
forward, the envelope is pushed by his elbow onto the floor and
lies there unnoticed. TANNER is so absorbed he does not notice
or look up as ROBERTS re-enters from back. ROBERTS is a man of
address and strength. His mouth has set lines around it. He is,
perhaps, forty-five to fifty. He is dressed in mourning and
looks careworn. As he enters, a lighted cigar is in his hand,
but it is soon put down and forgotten. He thinks he recognizes
TANNER, then sees he is mistaken. He is about to return to his
desk when his eye falls on the envelope on the floor. He picks
it up courteously, saying, “I beg your pardon.” TANNER does not
hear him. As ROBERTS places the envelope on the table he sees
the handwriting. He is plainly amazed and glances sharply at
TANNER, who is still re-reading the letter._]

ROBERTS.

That is my wife’s handwriting. She is dead. The name on the envelope, James Douglas, is that of a friend of hers and of mine. You have a letter there in the same handwriting. Where did you get it?

[_TANNER holds the letter tightly in his left hand and makes no
answer._]

ROBERTS.

Where did you get it?

TANNER.

I decline to answer.

ROBERTS.

The letter does not belong to you.

[_For answer TANNER folds it, puts it in his pocket, rises and
bows._]

TANNER.

I will bid you good-night.

ROBERTS.

Not until you have explained how you come to have my wife’s letter in your possession, and why you were so absorbed in it as not to hear me when I spoke.

TANNER.

Why should I answer when you have no right to ask me the question?

ROBERTS.

No right! Was she not my wife?

TANNER.

No.

ROBERTS.

How do you know that?

TANNER.

Again I decline to answer.

ROBERTS.

Did you know my wife?

TANNER.

You mean Mrs. Roberts? Yes.

ROBERTS.

You know the person to whom the letter is directed?

TANNER.

No.

ROBERTS.

Yet you will not explain?

TANNER.

I see no obligation to do so.

ROBERTS.

Was the letter sent you?

TANNER.

Presumably, or given. One does not steal letters.

ROBERTS.

Can you not understand how it is that I should feel I had the right to ask an explanation?

TANNER.

Well, to be frank, I cannot. In my code, which no doubt is peculiar, no one has rights over another, even when that other is living—when he is dead still less. That the woman who bore your name wrote a letter to a friend, of which you were ignorant, is a sufficient reason for me to desire to protect its contents now from your curiosity. [_TANNER gathers up his papers._]

ROBERTS.

Admitting that I have not the right, have you? If you have, how came you by it?

TANNER.

You forget that I answer only such of your questions as I choose to answer. I think we had better say good-night. [_He moves towards the door, right._]

ROBERTS.

Wait! You have convinced me that the question of rights is not one to raise now. May there not be other questions involved, of kindness, of consideration, of humanity? If I ask you, to give me easement of pain, ask it as one human being in distress cries out to another, what will you say then?

TANNER.

Merely that in this particular instance the justice of withholding is more important than the doubtful “kindness,” as you call it, of giving.

[_ROBERTS turns away and bows his head, then sits down at the
writing-table and tries to write. His distress is so genuine
that for the first time TANNER shows an interest in him._]

TANNER.

This talk is becoming painful to us both. It had better be ended. You ask information which I cannot give. Let the matter end there.

ROBERTS.

Will you tell me your name?

TANNER.

I have no reason for not doing so. Horace Tanner.

ROBERTS.

[_Glancing at him as if the name were familiar._]

You are Horace Tanner, and you have in your possession a letter from my wife addressed to James Douglas? Mr. Tanner, you and I have met under extraordinary circumstances, and spoken together as men speak once or twice in a lifetime. It is not possible for us to part now—that is, it is not possible for me, with no further speech. I acknowledge that I exceeded my rights in demanding an explanation. I want to win your acquiescence by another method. Evidently you know something of what lay between my wife and myself. Until tonight I thought no one knew. [_A pause._] I will tell you the story if you wish. Shall I?

[_TANNER walks backwards and forwards behind ROBERTS, who
is seated. It is evidently a difficult decision. ROBERTS is
not looking at him. ROBERTS’ eyes are downcast, as he is
embarrassed with his own offer._]

ROBERTS.

[_Over his shoulder._]

If you say no, there is nothing left but to bid each other good-night. In that case, I shall have an additional weight to carry, when it often seems to me the one I have is too heavy to be borne.

TANNER.

Go on—speak.

[_There is a pause while each man seems to gather himself
together. TANNER seats himself, right desk._]

ROBERTS.

It is very extraordinary for me to find myself bidden to speak at my own solicitation, of matters which a half-hour since I should have said would be forever hidden, yet when one has upon one’s mind, day and night, waking and sleeping, one all-pervading thought, silence becomes an unbearable torment. Under such circumstances, even the dumb must speak.

TANNER.

I understand—go on.

ROBERTS.

In spite of our grim words just now, demanding and denying, something in you makes me willing to speak. May I ask you one question?

TANNER.

Yes, with the provision I need not answer it.

ROBERTS.

You would not allow me to use the words “my wife.” Did your knowledge come from her?

TANNER.

During the time I knew her, you mean?

[_ROBERTS bows his head in assent._]

TANNER.

No, it did not.

ROBERTS.

[_Springing from his chair, threateningly._]

What was there between you? Tell me!

TANNER.

To use your own term, you have no right to ask me that.

ROBERTS.

O God, don’t hurl that at me over and over again. [_He goes to back of stage._]

TANNER.

You were going to tell me a story?

ROBERTS.

Yes, I was, and I will. Forgive me—I’ll not lose my self-control again. [_There is a short pause during which ROBERTS makes an effort for calmness, and TANNER watches him quietly._] We were married eighteen years ago. She was nineteen, I thirty. We had known each other only a few months. She cared for me then—I know she did—I know it. For a few years there was happiness. There were the boys. She seemed absorbed in them. They were sturdy chaps. Then they went to school. That was five years ago. It was ghastly—not having them. For a long time we had not been much together. I never asked myself if she was happy. She seemed so. I suppose I wasn’t particularly, but I hadn’t time to think about it. I was away a good deal. We never seemed to have much to say to each other. She told me once that never in our whole married life had I asked her what she was thinking about. It only came back to me, afterwards—what she meant, I mean. I suppose she was lonely. [_TANNER bows his head in acquiescence. ROBERTS looks at him and sees he understands._] Well, after the boys went away there came a kind of crisis. Nothing definite. We never said anything to each other about our own situation. Gradually we had become entirely separated. I thought I had better get away. A friend was going to Italy, so I proposed to join him. She urged my going, saying I needed a holiday and that she was perfectly well. I was anxious at first, but her letters came regularly and sounded cheerful. I stayed abroad almost a year, first in Italy and Greece, then to India, then back to Italy. I was in London, wondering whether to come home or go back to the continent, when I heard, not from her, but from an acquaintance I ran into, that she was ill. A great longing came over me to see her—to take care of her. Why had she not told me? What was the matter? I cabled, and sailed at once. A month after I got home she died.

TANNER.

[_After waiting a moment._]

I think I can understand. It’s a pretty tragic story, and, I imagine, not an uncommon one. I fancy among people of our class, silence causes more trouble than speech. May I ask you a question? Did you have any intimate conversation with her before she died—about the past, I mean?

ROBERTS.

Yes, a little. I think she knew how I loved her. When I got home she said she had been ill, but was better. Shortly after she had a trifling operation from which she didn’t rally. She seemed to want to have me with her—but—I couldn’t hold her—it was too late—too late!

TANNER.

A strange nature!

ROBERTS.

When I began to speak it was with the intention and hope of making you do the same. As I think over the past, the difficulties she must have met are clear to me. I have been very dull and blind. Speaking about these things has been a relief. Everything seems plainer to me now. Mr. Tanner, I want to say this to you, if you knew her, if your friendship made her happier, why, I am glad.

TANNER.

I did know her, the winter you were abroad. We were a great deal together. It was a rare friendship, a peculiarly vivid and stimulating one for me. She had a rich nature full of surprises, and perhaps I may have drawn from her more than had been demanded before. I am a taxing friend, Mr. Roberts.

[_ROBERTS rises._]

ROBERTS.

I have given you my confidence, Mr. Tanner.

TANNER.

And I will be equally frank. If you still wish it, I will read the letter to you, but I will warn you first that you will find it extraordinarily painful.

ROBERTS.

That doesn’t matter now. Read it, please.

TANNER.

[_Taking out the letter from his pocket._]

I have never received anything in my life that has touched me more profoundly. I am awed by it. I feel as if I should touch the very paper with reverence.

ROBERTS.

May I have it? [_ROBERTS stands with his back to TANNER and with his arms folded._]

TANNER.

[_Unfolds the letter slowly._]

The letter reached me only tonight by registered mail. I have been away. There was a note from James Douglas. [_Reads._]

DEAR MR. TANNER:

I am discharging a sacred obligation in sending you the
enclosed. I need not tell you that the confidence given me is
equally sacred.

Yours truly,

JAMES DOUGLAS.

ROBERTS.

I understand—go on.

TANNER.

[_Reading._]

Oh Jim, dear old Jim—I am so wildly happy tonight I must talk to someone, and you’re such a good friend! If you were only here! Such a wonderful thing has happened to me, Jim—such a strange, exalting, beautiful thing. I did not know love was like this—I did not know anyone could be so happy—[_TANNER glances at ROBERTS, uncertain whether he can go on, then continues_] for I’m in love, Jim dear, in love, like a girl of eighteen. There, I’ve said it and I dare say it again—I’m in love. I love him! I love him! I love him! and if I must suffer all the rest of my life, still I shall have known what love meant, for I never have, Jim—never.

I turn to you, my old friend, because I have no one else, no one to whom I can speak, and that which is in my heart will not be held in. Oh, I know it’s mad, wild folly. It will mean dreadful pain somewhere ahead—but tonight, tonight is mine! and I can fling out my arms to the stars and sing and shout with the joy and the glory and the beauty. We have been together all day, talking, talking, talking, there was so much to say, and now I can hear his grave voice, his sudden laugh—I can feel the pressure of his hand as he said good-night. He is coming again tomorrow and we are going to take our lunch and go for a long tramp, and for a day the world, the whole wide world will be ours.

Oh Jim, I think I’ve been waiting for him all my life. I didn’t even know I was waiting—I didn’t know I lived in fog and mist and darkness until this great golden light burst in. Of course there’s pain to come—but I’ll bear it, Jim. I can, because I’ve had these two days, and I won’t cry out. I can be very still. I know there can be nothing ahead, nothing, but I shall always be stronger, bigger, wiser and more tender because I have known this. Oh Jim, I have been so lonely! The long days, the long nights alone, always alone. They have been hard to bear. I shall go on with my life, and, Jim—no one but you shall know what has come to be.

Shall I send this letter? I don’t even know where you are—I don’t think I’ve been really writing to you. I’ve been writing to him. I wrote “Jim,” and I meant “Horace.” I see that now—but he must never know, he must not. It would make things too difficult, and that is all that you shall know about him—just his name, but if I should die there would be no harm in his knowing then, would there? I think he would be glad. I’ll put the address in this little envelope and seal it and if I should die send him this letter. It is more his than yours.

[_ROBERTS has listened without a sound, scarcely a change of
expression—motionless. There is a pause._]

ROBERTS.

I am glad—she had—those—two days. They weren’t much, were they? And I never knew, I never knew—anything! Yet I loved her. She was the only woman that ever came into my life. She knew that—at the end—knew how deeply I loved her, I mean. She seemed glad to know it. She asked me once if I had been happy, if she had made me happy—asked it with her eyes fixed on mine. When I said yes she dropped back on the pillow. I remember it so well, and I didn’t know, I didn’t know! [_He sits down._] Oh how blind, how blind! You must have loved her dearly. If I had only known! [_TANNER is silent._] You did love her? [_TANNER makes no reply._] Man! you did love her?

TANNER.

We were great friends—

ROBERTS.

Yes, yes, of course, but—after that letter was written—what happened?

TANNER.

We saw each other often. I told you she was a wonderful friend.

ROBERTS.

But—but you loved her, [_rises_] didn’t you? She had a little happiness? Tell me! Tell me! I must know.

TANNER.

What is love? We had some golden days together, then I had to go away—I heard of her death when I was on the other side of the world. As I told you, this letter reached me only tonight. I found it here.

ROBERTS.

You never knew that she loved you?

TANNER.

Sometimes I guessed—but it seemed so incredible—I couldn’t believe— We never spoke—

ROBERTS.

Give me the letter.

TANNER.

No.

ROBERTS.

You shall. It is not yours— You did not love her.

TANNER.

It is mine. It’s a wonderful letter— It is precious to me.

ROBERTS.

Why?

TANNER.

You forget that I am a novelist.

[_The two men stand facing each other._]

CURTAIN.

TEMPERAMENT

A MUSICAL TRAGEDY IN TWO SCENES

_Played for the first time on October 25, 1915, by Mr. BENJAMIN CARPENTER, Mrs. CHARLES ATKINSON, and Mrs. ARTHUR ALDIS._

TEMPERAMENT.

A MUSICAL TRAGEDY IN TWO SCENES.

CHARACTERS:

HUGH IRWIN, _a Musician_.
ANNABELLE IRWIN, _his wife_.
GLADYS HUNTINGTON, _an Actress_.

TIME: _The present._

SCENE I: _Library of the Irwins’ house in the country,
simply and tastefully furnished. Black and white and rose
idea—one blue jar, etc. A piano closed and covered with an
embroidery—flowers about. An air of comfort and dainty luxury.
The time is ten o’clock of a winter’s evening. A wood fire
crackles behind bright brasses._

_When the curtain rises ANNABELLE is seated by the fire under
a rose-shaded lamp, sewing. Now she is plump and charming.
Later on she will be too stout. She holds up a child’s frock of
light-blue material and examines it critically, then pounces on
an unfinished spot and sets to work. HUGH IRWIN on the other
side of the room has been reading “The Nation.” He puts it down
once or twice and regards ANNABELLE over his eye-glasses as if
desiring to speak, in fact he gets as far as opening his mouth,
but, seeing her preoccupation, gives it up and attacks “The
Nation” with renewed determination. Finally he slaps it down._

HUGH.

Why in thunder don’t you say something?

ANNABELLE.

[_With five pins between her lips._]

Haven’t anything to say. Why don’t you?

HUGH.

Can’t you make up something?

ANNABELLE.

[_Pinning intently._]

In a minute! In a minute! This is so puzzling! Now I thought I had the front part of that yoke—[_Her voice trails off in a soliloquy about the intricacies of little girls’ frocks. Finally with a “ha” of satisfaction she lays it in her lap and comes to._] What was that you said, dear? Make up something! What a funny idea! You’re just like baby Gertrude! What do you want me to say? I can’t think of anything. [_She looks longingly at the frock and sneaks in another pin._]

HUGH.

You might tell me my faults.

ANNABELLE.

Your faults? Why, my dear! [_Pins more happily and frankly._] You haven’t any! At least if you have I don’t see them. [_Her voice indicates she is talking with the top of her mind._]

HUGH.

Good Lord! [_He takes up “The Nation” again, then drops it._] You mean I have so many you can’t be bothered trying to enumerate them?

ANNABELLE.

No, no, not at all. Let me see. Sometimes, oh very rarely, but just sometimes, I’ve thought if you could be a little tidier—not drop everything about, anywhere; and then sometimes, since you’re asking me, if I could know within an hour or so when you are coming to meals it would be a little more convenient, in the housekeeping, you know. I mean, of course, nicer for you; I don’t mind. That’s all I can think of—and of course I wouldn’t have said anything unless you’d asked. Oh, Hugh, I’m afraid I’ve been unkind. Have I? Oh do say I haven’t! It doesn’t matter much about the meals, truly it doesn’t; just on your account, that’s all.

HUGH.

Always on my account! Always fussing about me! Good Lord! haven’t you got any opinions of your own? Don’t you ever think of anything more interesting than what to get for my dinner? Great Scott!

ANNABELLE.

But, Hugh, it makes me so happy to think about what you’d like for your dinner! I know I have lots of faults, yes, of course I must have, but I do try to be a good housekeeper, and I think I am. What other faults have I got?

HUGH.

Hm! Faults! I guess perhaps it’s your virtues, then! There are too many of them. They stick out all over you like pins on the pink pin-cushion in the guest-room. In the first place, I’d like to know why you don’t grow old. You’re too darn good-looking. You’re just as soft and pink and white and dimpled as when I married you ten years ago. It’s outrageous!

[_ANNABELLE picks up the frock and purrs softly up at him with
an adoring smile._]

ANNABELLE.

Go on.

HUGH.

In the second place, you make me too damn comfortable. My clothes are always brushed and laid out just right. If I don’t want to dress, they vanish. Dinner is always ready any time, hot and delicious and too much of it! Other people’s cooks leave, but ours are marvels and stick. There’s never a sound in the house when I’m composing or practising. I never know when the piano-tuner comes, but the piano is always perfect. You never ask for more allowance, and the children never howl. But what—what about me? It’s awful! I’m getting fat! And my music! It’s getting fat, too. It waddles and clucks and cackles like a stuffed goose. And my soul, it’s growing fat—too fat to soar. Oh, it’s killing me—it’s killing me!

ANNABELLE.

[_Taking all the pins out of her mouth._]

Hugh! are you serious? I think your music is perfectly beautiful. You know I do.

HUGH.

Perfectly serious. I’m stifled, I tell you. I’m gasping for air. You smother me with comfort and ease and adoration. I’m dying of it, and, what’s worse, the heart, the core, the essence of me, the music I might have written! It’s dead too! Oh, it’s awful, awful! [_He paces the room like a caged tiger._]

ANNABELLE.

[_Watching him for a while._]

I see, I see it all, and I’ve been trying so hard for ten years to make you comfortable! Why didn’t you tell me before you didn’t want to be comfortable? And what do you want me to do now? I’ll try to be different. I won’t take so much pains keeping the meals hot and the children quiet. I’ll do all I can.

HUGH.

Oh no, no, that isn’t what I mean. You’re adorable, of course, perfectly adorable, but—if you could, Annabelle—I suppose it’s absurd to ask—but if you could be a little more romantic, Annabelle—just a little, you know! Do you think you could? Just now when I asked you to go out into the great still whiteness out there, to feel the sting and the glory and the beauty of the moonlight, to bathe in it, go mad in it, you said, “What! in that slush in my slippers? Certainly not!” Now, that’s what I mean, Annabelle. [_He wanders to the window and looks out at the moonlighted lawn._] Oh, to think, to think! I might have written another Moonlight Sonata!

ANNABELLE.

[_Folds up her sewing neatly and puts it in the work-basket,
picks the stray threads off of her dress, brushes her skirts
and folds her hands upon her stomach._]

Hugh, we must separate!

HUGH.

Good Lord!

ANNABELLE.

We must. I see I’ve made a great mistake. I wish you had spoken of it sooner, but that can’t be helped now. I never meant to make you waddle and cluck. I never meant to make your soul grow fat, I never did. I see now I’m a kind of a barn-yard duck myself. I suppose you’re growing like me and that is a very great pity. Hugh, I’m going home to mother.

HUGH.

But, Annabelle, you’re crazy.

ANNABELLE.

Oh no, I’m not. I always intended to do the right thing by your Art, and I’ll do it now.

HUGH.

But I don’t want you to go home to your mother. I don’t, indeed.

ANNABELLE.

Very likely not, just this minute. You’ll feel the wrench a good deal, I dare say, but you’ll be glad later because you’ll be terribly uncomfortable and then you’ll make perfectly beautiful music.

HUGH.

You don’t mean you’re going for good?

ANNABELLE.

Well, I don’t want to spoil your career, do I? That’s what you said just now, that your soul was dying because the dinner was hot—didn’t you?

HUGH.

No!

ANNABELLE.

Oh—well, perhaps I misunderstood, but I’m sure it was something like that. Oh yes, I remember, you said your soul was getting fat. I’m awfully sorry.

HUGH.

Annabelle, look here! I never supposed you’d go off half-cock like this. I didn’t indeed. I don’t want you to go home to your mother. I just want you to—to come out in the moonlight and be romantic. [_He laughs foolishly and tries to take her hand._] To feel the beauty and the romance and the joy. Can’t you see what I mean?

ANNABELLE.

Now, Hugh, let us have a clear understanding. You know I’d do anything in the world for you, but oh please listen—if I walked right out there in the wet in these slippers my feet would feel so horrid I couldn’t be romantic, I just couldn’t. Do be reasonable. Can’t you see what I mean?

HUGH.

[_Stalking to the window and back again._]

Yes, I do see, and what I see is that you have no imagination. You had better go home to your mother. We are not mates. Good-bye. [_He goes out fiercely._]

[_ANNABELLE opens her mouth as the curtain falls._]

SCENE II: _(A year later.) A studio apartment in Greenwich
Village in New York. It has attractive things in it, screens,
embroideries, couch, but is most woefully untidy._

_Before, and as the curtain rises, HUGH is playing the piano
furiously. Arpeggios and runs dash from base to treble and
back again. Chords crash like thunder. Triplets and ringlets
and streamlets tinkle about on top, then rush downwards to
embrace the chords—a very tempestuoso glorioso of sound. He
stops once or twice to jot down a note on a score. He gets up,
rubs his stomach, and goes to some unwashed dishes on a table,
the remains of afternoon tea, pokes among them unsuccessfully
and then returns dolefully to the piano, first lighting a
cigarette. GLADYS appears suddenly through the curtained
doorway, back, and poses against the portières. She is tall and
dark and angular and sinister, with a certain BEAUTÉ DE DIABLE.
She is very smart and very decolleté, and she smokes a long,
thin Italian cigar. HUGH looks up and sees her, and weaves into
his theme passionate welcome. She smiles crookedly at him._

HUGH.

My Beloved! [_He reaches out one hand, which she takes, leaning towards him._]

GLADYS.

You call that—music?

HUGH.

Yes, I call that music. Don’t you?

GLADYS.

Would you mind telling me how much longer you expect to keep it up?

HUGH.

Until I get this idea down on paper. Sorry you don’t like it. It’s my piano! [_Bangs louder, then catches sight of her cigar._] Throw that disgusting thing away!

GLADYS.

All right.

[_She does so, then takes his cigarette from his mouth and puts
it in her own._]

Ow wow! What a noise! [_Prinks before glass._] My ears!

HUGH.

[_Playing softly and beguilingly, and half chanting the
question._]

When do I get something to eat?

GLADYS.

[_Strolling around and stretching, dropping wrap on the floor._]

I dunno. I’ve had my supper.

[_Fearful discords on piano._]

HUGH.

[_To the accompaniment of chords of jealous gloom._]

You have? With whom?

GLADYS.

Jim took me to the Ritz after the show. What did you wait for? Guess you can scare up something somewhere if you try. Isn’t there some chocolate-cake over there?

[_She points to the tea-tray. HUGH goes on playing—motif—temper
and hunger._]

HUGH.

Chocolate-cake! Ye gods!

[_Jealous-temper motif. GLADYS unwinds herself luxuriously onto
the couch._]

GLADYS.

Say, Hughie!

HUGH.

Yes?

[_Basso profundo._]

GLADYS.

Did Old Grump take the Sonata?

HUGH.

No.

[_Anger motif._]

GLADYS.

Thought not. It’s rot that sonata! Little Hughie’ll have to try again.

[_Piano motif of temper and hunger plus wailing
disappointment._]

HUGH.

Woman! I’d like you to get me some supper, and get it P. D. Q.

[_Masterful chord accompaniment on piano._]

GLADYS.

[_Getting herself to sitting posture with astonishment._]

Me! Why?

HUGH.

Why? Because I’m hungry, that’s why—

GLADYS.

[_Cooingly._]

How funny! Hughie! Has the Oriental gone to bed?

HUGH.

Probably—at two o’clock in the morning!

[_Piano begins to wail._]

GLADYS.

No! Is it? And I’ve got to learn that part for eleven-o’clock rehearsal tomorrow morning. Golly! Where’d I put it, anyhow? [_Searches about, making the general untidiness worse. Finds MS. and curls herself up like a cat to study. Hunger motif rises again on piano._] Shut up, will you?

HUGH.

[_Playing more softly and looking up at her once or twice,
opening his mouth as if to speak, then playing again, finally
ending with a bang._]

Why in thunder don’t you get me my supper?

[_Seeing she isn’t listening, he gets up and crosses to her. She glances up vaguely, but hardly hears, as she is absorbed in learning her lines._] Please pay attention to me! Your little Hughie! Please!

GLADYS.

Oh Hugh, this is a lovely part! I’ll be great in it—listen—[_Recites, then stumbles, then goes on mumbling the lines. HUGH takes the MS. out of her hands and casts it aside—then proceeds to make love to her._]

HUGH.

Oh come on now, be a good fellow. There’s a duck! Get me something to eat. You know how I love you. Please! [_He lays himself down by the low couch and puts his head in her lap, closes his eyes with a rapt smile, murmuring “Beloved.” GLADYS twirls his hair in her fingers gracefully. He catches and kisses her fingers. Then, seeing his eyes are closed, she craftily reaches for her lines, while she continues petting him absent-mindedly with the free hand._]

GLADYS.

Old Silly!

HUGH.

[_With his eyes closed._]

Gladys, I’m very happy, very, very happy, but oh I’m so hungry! Don’t let my love die of starvation. Don’t! Won’t you please get me some supper?

GLADYS.

In a minute! In a minute! This is so puzzling. [_Goes on murmuring lines and gesticulating. Finally she pats him so vaguely that she is patting his nose._]

HUGH.

[_Opening his eyes._]

Good God—what are you doing?

GLADYS.

Learning my part. I have to, don’t I?

HUGH.

Learning your part! Ye gods! She’s learning her part while I starve! Oh I’m so hungry! Hungry for love—hungry for my supper!

[_He dashes to the piano and plays starvation motif. Then there
steals in the motif of passionate pain, begging, pleading,
imploring. A wild medley follows, crescendo furioso. After a
few ineffectual efforts to make him stop GLADYS puts down her
MS. and listens judicially. Finally the music stops in some
Dubussy chords. One seems to expect it to glide into another
movement, but it doesn’t._]

GLADYS.

[_Regarding him with her head cocked and the cigarette bobbing
from her lips._]

Hughie! That hunger motif is perfectly great—it’s one of the best things you do!

[_From now on the relative action takes place in the same part
of the stage as in preceding scene._]

HUGH.

[_Leaving the piano._]

That’s right! Make fun of my Art! Do you know what’s the reason I can’t play better, the reason Old Grump won’t publish my stuff? Do you? Do you? [_GLADYS makes a queer little face at him._] Well, I’ll tell you the reason. It’s you. Do you hear? It’s you! You make me so damned uncomfortable I never get a chance to write decent music. It’s all like that! I’m always hungry, I’m always cold, I never can find my clothes. When I want to be loved, when I need love, you go and study your part behind my back! I tell you it’s killing me, just killing me!

GLADYS.

Are you serious?

HUGH.

Perfectly serious. My music is rotten—do you hear?—rotten! It’s all alike—there’s no contrast. If you knew anything about music you’d know you have to have different movements to make up a symphony, different moods. The calm of a sunset at sea—the stress of a great wind—dash of the waves against the rocks, then peace again—a shepherd’s pipe in the gloaming— Well, when do I get a chance to compose a pastoral in this joint? It’s nothing but rows and nasty cold meals and hurly-burly and chocolate-cake! I don’t get sleep enough—my digestion is ruined—my socks have holes in them, bad holes— [_He kicks off his slippers and displays two toes bare._]

GLADYS.

But, Hughie, you have me, think of that!

HUGH.

Yes, I know I have you, and I’m not likely to forget it! As a first aid to a budding composer, you’re a regular scream! My soul is starving, I tell you, starving, and it’s killing me, killing me! [_He slumps gloomily onto the piano-stool._]

GLADYS.

[_Rising majestically._]

And what about me? I’d like to know where I get off? What about my soul? A swell chance I’ve got to study my parts with you banging that piano from morning till night! What do you take me for, anyhow? A nice little Dickie-bird that’s got nothing to think about but your supper and your socks? I’ve got my Art to think about—haven’t I? Why, five minutes ago, when you knew I just had to learn that part, you sat there and banged on the piano on purpose and then you came and dumped yourself down there! Who was uncomfortable then, I’d like to know? And all you talked about was food! You’re always thinking about food, always complaining there isn’t any. Talking about your stomach when I’m learning my lines, my great lines! You’re so unromantic—Hugh— You are, really!

[_HUGH looks startled. She has worked herself up to quite a
temper and now paces the room like an enraged panther._]

HUGH.

[_After watching her._]

I see, I see it all. I’ve made a terrible mistake. We are both IT, don’t you see, and it won’t work. It will never work!

GLADYS.

What do you mean, Hugh?

HUGH.

[_Folds up his music, putting the scattered sheets in a neat
pile, arranges his hair and tie, then clasps his hands over his
stomach._]

Gladys, we must separate.

GLADYS.

Good Lord!

HUGH.

I don’t want to spoil your career. I’m going home to Annabelle.

GLADYS.

[_Making a panther spring._]

Never! You’re mine!

HUGH.

[_Disengaging her hands._]

I see that I’ve done you a great wrong. I always intended to do the right thing by your Art, and I am going to do it now. [_A puzzled, frightened look comes into his face as he speaks._]

GLADYS.

[_Clinging to him._]