RELIEVER 
 
 GEORGE 
 FREDERICK 
 
 FINGER 
 
Class _ 
 
 Book- _j 
 
 fapyrijfofN 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
THE 
 
 GREAT 
 
 RELIEVER 
 
THE 
 
 GREAT 
 
 RELIEVER 
 
 A FOUR-ACT PLAY 
 
 by 
 GEORGE FREDERICK GUNDELFINGER 
 
 KMJ 
 
 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 Literature & Music 
 Sewicklet Pennsylvania 
 

 THE PLAY PUBLISHED IN THIS VOLUME 
 IS COPYRIGHTED AS A DRAMATIC COM- 
 POSITION. STAGE AND PLATPORM RIGHTS 
 RESERVED. 
 
 <S>CLD H0470 
 
 Copyright 1922 by 
 George F. Gundelfinger 
 
 MAR 20 1922 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2011 with funding from 
 The Library of Congress 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/greatrelieverfouOOgund 
 
THE CHARACTERS 
 {in order of entrance) 
 
 Miss William s, a student nurse, 
 Karl Lindenfels, a composer, 
 Constance Wakefield, a trained nurse, 
 Marianne Le Grand, "prima donna," 
 Harbison Caldwell, a physician, 
 An Errand Boy, 
 Tony, a violinist, 
 Maurice Guilbert, a theatrical manager, 
 Herr Schmetterling, an assistant conductor, 
 Abigail Strong, a trained nurse, 
 
 A Registration-Day Clerk, 
 
 Mrs. Chandler, an aged invalid, 
 
 Miss Stafford, a trained nurse, 
 
 A Janitor; 
 
 Chorus Girls and Men, Soldiers, 
 
 Invalids, Nurses, etc., etc. 
 
 TIME : June, 1917 
 PLACE'. America 
 
ACT I 
 
ACT I 
 
 SCENE — A Special Private Room in a Hospital. 
 
 It is the last room on the side of a hall which terminates 
 in a sun-parlor. The doorway into the hall is at the ex- 
 treme left front of the stage. It is a large doorway — 
 large enough to admit a bed. There are a framed set 
 of rules on the back of the door. When the door stands 
 open (the hinges being on the far side), one gets a 
 glimpse into the sun-parlor, which is furnished in wicker. 
 On the far side of this door there is an electric bracket- 
 lamp. A mahogany chair stands under it. Against the 
 wall of the room, on the far side of the chair, stands a 
 mahogany dresser; on it are two empty glass vases and 
 a small tumbler of antiseptic solution in which there is 
 a thermometer. There is a wastebasket between the 
 dresser and the chair. The extreme rear of the room 
 is in the form of an alcove. Against the wall of this al- 
 cove, opposite the dresser, stands a small mahogany 
 table. In the rear wall, between the dresser and the 
 table, there is a large window through which one can 
 see the trees and the houses on the other side of the 
 street, the room being on the ground floor. An ordi- 
 nary mahogany chair stands before this window. To 
 the right of the alcove, parallel to the first window but 
 farther front, is a second zvindow not quite so large. 
 A folding screen stands before it. In front of the 
 screen stands a low white iron cot, dressed with fresh 
 linens. Against the wall, between the cot and the screen, 
 there is a small white iron table, a glass and a tray on 
 the upper shelf, a reading-lamp and a call-bell with 
 connecting wires on the lower. Just around the cor- 
 ner of the wall, to the right of the cot, stands a small 
 white cabinet, on the top of which are a washbowl and a 
 pitcher. To the right of this cabinet there is a small 
 
12 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 door giving access to a clothes-closet. At right angles 
 to this door, on the extreme right front of the stage, is 
 another door to a bathroom. A mahogany Morris chair 
 with green plush cushions stands at the front center of 
 the stage. The walls and ceiling are painted grey. The 
 doors are plain mahogany ; the door frames and the 
 window frames, white. Buff curtains hang at the win- 
 dows. The window shades are not drawn. The floor 
 is buff tile, with inconspicuous oriental rugs placed here 
 and there. 
 
 It is a very dismal rainy day, and there are occasional 
 peals of thunder and faint flashes of lightning. 
 
 Miss Williams, a very plump student-nurse in a blue ging- 
 ham dress, white shoulder-apron, white cap and black 
 shoes, enters from the hall, carrying linens, small cloths 
 and a pitcher of ice water. After resting the pitcher and 
 small cloths on the white iron table, she places covers 
 on the dresser and on the table in the alcove. Then 
 she covers the green cushions of the Morris chair with 
 fresh slips of flowered creton. 
 
 A rolling noise is heard in the hall. Miss Williams opens 
 the door wide to guide a white iron bed which is being 
 shoved into the room headforemost. Karl Lindenfels, 
 still under the influence of ether, lies in the bed on the 
 flat of his back. His blonde hair is plainly visible on 
 the pillow; there is a greenish cast to his thin face. He 
 still wears the long white shirt from the operating-room 
 and is covered with a sheet from the chest down. A 
 chart for recording pulse, temperature, etc. lies on the 
 foot of the bed. Constance Wakefield, a trained nurse 
 in the usual immaculately white uniform, white cap and 
 white shoes, is pushing the bed from the foot. With 
 Miss William's assistance, she rolls the bed across the 
 floor to its position directly above the cot, the bed being 
 the usual high kind found in hospitals. Miss Williams 
 then leaves the room. 
 
 Constance Wakefield is about thirty years of age. She is 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 13 
 
 of average height, not heavy, yet well-preserved and 
 unseemingly strong. Her natural poise and quiet man- 
 ner indicate that she has had considerable experience in 
 her profession. Her brown hair, neatly and becomingly 
 arranged, accentuates, by contrast, the slight pallor of 
 her face — not the pallor due to anxiety but to self-sacri- 
 fice and lack of sleep. Her features are well defined; 
 her lips are thin and unobtrusively colored; there is a 
 faint tinge of pink on her cheeks; her expressive blue 
 eyes have a soft, steady, peaceful gaze. Her hands 
 seem capable of transmitting healing power. 
 Constance carries the chart to the dresser, takes the ther- 
 mometer from the antiseptic solution, and opens the 
 dresser drawer to obtain a counterpane. Standing on 
 the far side of the bed, she arranges her patient's head 
 more comfortably on his pillow, places the thermometer 
 under his tongue, smooths out the sheet and spreads the 
 counterpane over it, carefully lifting his arms from 
 under the cover. She takes the lamp and the call-bell 
 from the shelf under the table and fastens them to the 
 head of the bed. In the meanwhile, Miss Williams has 
 returned with a pair of low men's shoes in her hand and 
 with a blue serge suit and other garments on her arm. 
 She places them on the Morris chair and leaves the 
 room again. Constance takes her patient's pulse using 
 the watch on her wrist; she then removes the ther- 
 mometer from his mouth and places it in the glass on 
 the dresser, where she records her observations on the 
 chart. 
 
 Marianne Le Grand enters dramatically from the hall. 
 She is fully a head taller than the nurse — a woman 
 with a slender serpentine form, jet black hair, an acqui- 
 line nose, dancing sensual eyes and twitching rouged 
 lips. The forced animation of her face helps to dis- 
 guise its youthlessness. She wears a smart raincoat, a 
 black hat and gown, boots with extremely high heels, 
 and carries a handbag and an umbrella. 
 
14 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 MARIANNE — (leaning her dripping umbrella against 
 the door frame and rushing to the bedside) Oh ! Mon cher 
 Karl ! Mon petit genie ! (She places her handkerchief to 
 her eyes and turns to meet Constance who is coming for- 
 ward.) Is he out of zee danger, nurse? 
 
 CONSTANCE— The doctors said it was high time for 
 the operation. According to the chart, the appendix was 
 much inflamed and distended with considerable pus. Sooner 
 or later it would have burst. 
 
 MARIANNE— And zen? 
 
 CONSTANCE— Peritonitis, which is often fatal. 
 
 MARIANNE — (clasping her hands tragically, her brace- 
 lets jingling) Mon Dieu ! Mon Dieu ! How fortunate zat 
 I find him in time ! He was all stretch out on zee floor in 
 his studio, Mademoiselle. 
 
 CONSTANCE — But he must have had other attacks 
 before this? 
 
 MARIANNE — Yes; but zey were not serious — zat is he 
 would not take zem seriously. He take nozing seriously; he 
 do everyzing wizout effort — everyzing. His composing, his 
 musique — zey come so naturelle wiz him. Un petit genie ! 
 You have surely heard of him, Mademoiselle — Mademoi- 
 selle — I forget zee name? 
 
 CONSTANCE— Wakefield. 
 
 MARIANNE — You have surely heard of him, Made- 
 moiselle Wakefield. He is zee talk of zee town. 
 
 CONSTANCE — I am sorry to say I have never heard of 
 Mr. Lindenfels before. You see we nurses are pretty much 
 shut off from the world. I seldom go to the music halls or 
 to the theatre. 
 
 MARIANNE — Ah, you are like nuns in zee convent — 
 n'est-ce pas ? — always wiz invalids and zee grey walls. ( She 
 glances about the room, rolling her large eyes.) Ugh! zee 
 grey walls — nozing but zee grey walls. (She walks to the 
 large window.) Ugh! and zee grey day, too. Rain — rain 
 continuelle ! But I am glad Monsieur Lindenfels has a room 
 on zee first floor, where he can see zee street and zee peoples. 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 15 
 
 CONSTANCE — (lifting the trousers from the Morris 
 chair) The rooms higher up are far more quiet. 
 
 MARIANNE — (coming forward) Monsieur Lindenfels 
 must not have zee quiet. Non ! (She removes her raincoat, 
 placing it on the chair near the door.) 
 
 CONSTANCE — Most patients prefer the quiet ; they need 
 it, too. 
 
 MARIANNE — Mais Monsieur Lindenfels — il n'est pas 
 ordinaire; il est un petit genie. You not speak French; I 
 forget. Monsieur Lindenfels need zee couleur and zee mo- 
 tion for inspiration. 
 
 CONSTANCE — (catching a watch which has fallen from 
 the trousers) His watch ! I almost dropped it on the floor. 
 
 MARIANNE — (taking the watch from her) Ah, he would 
 have been tres sad if you had broken it. Zee watch is a 
 present from me, Mademoiselle Wakefield. (She opens the 
 watch.) See ! he wear my picture in zee front. Ah, it is 
 already half past ten. When did zee operation take place? 
 
 CONSTANCE — (walking to the dresser with the trou- 
 sers) The exact hour is on the chart. (She takes up the 
 chart.) You see I write everything about my patient on 
 this chart. The operation was at 9.20. 
 
 MARIANNE — Zen he has been in zee anezetic for over 
 an hour? (She walks to the bedside.) How long before he 
 will wake? 
 
 CON STANCE — (returning the chart to the dresser and 
 folding the trousers) Shortly, I presume. 
 
 MARIANNE — Why do he look so green — so cadavereux? 
 
 CONSTANCE — Some persons look that way under such 
 conditions. 
 
 MARIANNE — And so gloomy a day! Zat make him 
 look worse. (Constance crosses on the way to the clothes- 
 closet.) Ah, take good care of zee trousers. He is so par- 
 ticular about zee creases. Will he need more clothes? 
 
 CONSTANCE — (opening the closet door) It will be at 
 least a week before he is permitted to get out of bed. Until 
 then he will need only pajamas. (She places the trousers 
 
16 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 on the shelf in the closet and comes forward with a coat- 
 hanger.) 
 
 MARIANNE — Ah, he wear such beautiful pajamas. 
 When he see a pair he like in zee shop-window, he must 
 have zem — just like an infant. He like zee bright couleur 
 and zee silk stripes — anyzing gay and joli like his musique. 
 (Constance places his coat on the hanger and carries it to 
 the closet. Marianne lifts the remaining garments from the 
 Morris chair and then sits in it.) Ah, son petite chemise ! 
 (She holds up his undershirt. Constance takes it.) And zee 
 little calegon ! (She holds up a pair of knee drawers.) So 
 soft and so silky ! (She presses the drawers tenderly against 
 her cheek and then hands them to the nurse.) And zee chau- 
 sette de soie ! (She holds up a pair of socks.) Ah, if he had 
 known he was go on a trip to zee hospital, he would have 
 wear all zee baby-blue zings from Paris. (She hands the 
 remaining garments, shirt, tie, collar, etc. to Constance who 
 carries them to the dresser and places them in a drawer.}. 
 But zee ambulance come so quick — oh, ce fut terrible. (She 
 squirms about in the chair.) Zis chair is so uncomfortable, 
 Mademoiselle. 
 
 CONSTANCE — I shall bring this one. (She carries for- 
 ward the chair from the alcove.) 
 
 MARIANNE — (reaching under her and producing his 
 shoes) It is because I have been sitting on Monsieur Linden- 
 fels's shoes. Oh, such fine expensive shoes ! (She pats them.) 
 
 CONSTANCE — Everything is expensive now, on ac- 
 count of the war. (She takes the shoes.) 
 
 MARIANNE— Oh! Zee horrible war! You know, 
 Mademoiselle, I am glad after all zat zey had to take his 
 appendix out. Even if it had not been necessaire immedi- 
 ately, I would have persuade Monsieur Lindenfels to under- 
 go zee operation anyhow so he would be in zee hospital on 
 zee Registration Day. 
 
 CONSTANCE — (placing the shoes on the shelf in the 
 closet) Would he have been eligible? 
 
 MARIANNE — He is twenty-seven. (Constance walks to 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 17 
 
 the dresser drawer for her knitting.) When zey draft zee 
 young Americans for France, he would not be exempt. 
 Zey would say a musician can do no good at home, and a 
 German one would only serve as a spy. Non, we make him 
 fight, and let ze German bullet which would kill American 
 boy kill him. (Constance comes forward and sits on the 
 chair beside Marianne.) Ah! Mon Dieu ! To zink of mon 
 cher Karl lying out in Europe wiz a wound in his side, zee 
 red blood running, running, running until he turn green in 
 zee face. Ugh ! Ugh ! Mon Dieu ! Zere are so many worzless 
 lazy men, Mademoiselle, who would be glad to sacrifice zeir 
 lives on zee battlefield ; but to draft zee boys like mon 
 cher Karl who has zee great genius and zee great future — 
 ah ! it is outrageous, outrageous ! 
 
 CONSTANCE— (knitting) I do not believe that all men 
 who volunteer are lazy and worthless. While they may not 
 be geniuses, they feel their duty to their country as strongly 
 as the genius feels the creative instinct. There are many 
 things just as important as art. 
 
 MARIANNE — Ah, Mademoiselle — she know how to 
 knit. 
 
 CONSTANCE— Just a pair of socks. 
 
 MARIANNE— Socks ! Suck zick wooly socks ! If Mon- 
 sieur Lindenfels had to wear such socks, he could not com- 
 pose anozer note. 
 
 CONSTANCE— Silk socks would not last long if a sol- 
 dier had to march in them all day. 
 
 MARIANNE — Ah, zey are socks for zee soldiers. 
 Mademoiselle is patriotic — eh! 
 
 CO'N STANCE — In my spare moments I do all I can for 
 the relief and comfort of the men who are fighting at the 
 front. 
 
 MARIANNE — Yes; it is nice to serve zee country by 
 knitting, if one cannot serve it by doing greater zings. To 
 fight wiz zee sword and knit wiz zee needle — zey are such 
 ordinaire zings to do. Zee artists are so much superieure to 
 zee soldiers and zee mozers. Ah, Mademoiselle, zee only 
 
18 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 great zing zee mozer can do is to give birth to zee great 
 artist, and zee only great zing zee soldier can fight for and 
 save is zee work of zee great artist. Monsieur Lindenfels — 
 he leave home, parents, everyzing for his art. He wander 
 about zee streets trying to find publisher for his manuscript ; 
 but zee publisher accept nozing by an unknown artist. Zee 
 artist must first become known, Mademoiselle ; it was I who 
 find Monsieur Lindenfels. I saw in him zee great possi- 
 bilities. I persuade him write zee kind of music zee public 
 want. I make him populaire. I buy him respectable clothes. 
 I rent him zee little studio and furnish it wiz whatever he 
 want. Zee great artist must have comfort and leisure. 
 
 CONSTANCE — But many of the great composers have 
 triumphed in spite of poverty and pain. 
 
 MARIANNE — Ah, but it is so absurd to zink such zings 
 are necessaire — to zink zat a masterpiece cannot be pro- 
 duced wizout suffering. If zat were so, Mademoiselle, zee 
 hospital ought to produce many geniuses. But who ever 
 heard of zee great work of art coming out of zee hospital. 
 (She laughs aloud.) Zee hospitals are so scientific ; every- 
 zing must be measured and timed so accurately ; zere is no 
 abandon ; everyzing is under restraint ; everywhere in zee 
 halls one sees Silence, Silence, Silence. (She points to 
 various places on the zuall of the room where she imagines 
 she sees the signs.) Zere is no freedom ; zee liberty which 
 every artist need is lacking. It is zat what worry me, 
 Mademoiselle ; even if Monsieur Lindenfels is out of physi- 
 cal danger, zee ezer and zis environnement may affect his 
 mind — zee memory of what he has been doing; I mean his 
 composing. Zee artist is not ordinaire ; non. Zat which is 
 a trifling experience to zee common man may be desastreux 
 to zee genius. Comprenez-vous, Mademoiselle? Je suis 
 superstitieuse. It is such a bad day for zee operation. 
 (There is thunder.) 
 
 CONSTANCE — When the sun shines this is a most 
 cheerful room. 
 
 MARIANNE — (rising and walking to the large window) 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 19 
 
 When zee sun shine? It look as zough zee dear sun will 
 never shine again. (She returns from the window.) Ugh, 
 zee grey walls — zey cold grey walls ! To gaze at zem morn- 
 ing, noon and night ! It must be maddening. 
 
 CONSTANCE— They are very restful. 
 
 MARIANNE — (emphatically) But I have told you Mon- 
 sieur Lindenfels must not see zee restful zings. I have 
 adorned zee walls of zee studio wiz bright pictures — wiz 
 pictures of zee dancing women — so. (She whirls about, 
 waving her arms, her bracelets jingling.) Zee bare dancing 
 women — ah, zat is art. But zee bare grey walls and zee 
 Silence, Silence, Silence — zat ruin art; zat make zee mine! 
 blank. 
 
 CONSTANCE — A rest from his work may do him good. 
 
 MARIANNE — (dropping into the Morris chair again 
 hopelessly, and then suddenly continuing her lecture) Ah, 
 Mademoiselle, vous ne comprenez pas. Zee artist is not 
 ordinaire. He need excitement. He need a different kind 
 of nurse to keep him wake. Monsieur Lindenfels — he not 
 sleep much, non, jamais. Try to keep him awake, Made- 
 moiselle, but keep zee door closed so he will not hear zee 
 ozer patients moaning and groaning. (She pronounces these 
 words descriptively.) But keep zee windows open so he 
 can hear zee laughing girls on zee street and zee motor cars, 
 and keep zee window shades up so he can see zee sky — if 
 it ever turn blue again, instead of grey. He must see some- 
 zing more zan zee grey walls, and he must hear somezing 
 more zan Silence, Silence, Silence. I will send him flowers 
 for inspiration, and Mademoiselle will put zem on zee table, 
 on zee chiffonier, on zee windows, everywhere. He must see 
 zee bright flowers when he wake. (She rises and walks to 
 the bed.) Ah, if only he would soon wake, open his eyes 
 and move his arms like when he conduct orchestre ! (She 
 imitates him, waving her arms, her bracelets jingling.) 
 I suppose it is time for zee rehearsal. (She looks at the 
 watch in her hand.) Onze heures moins un quart. I must 
 be at zee theatre at eleven. We are rehearsing Monsieur 
 
20 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 Lindenfels's new opera which is to produce next fall. It is 
 called "Zee Great Reliever," Mademoiselle. Ah, it is mag- 
 nifique, but it is not yet finished. (She gazes at the bed, 
 shaking her head.) Non, il n'est pas encore fini. Oh ! Je 
 craindre ; je craindre. Ah, if only I could stay until he 
 wake, and stay to keep him wake — but I must go. (She 
 crosses to the dresser and puts on her raincoat.) I will come 
 often, Mademoiselle, but I must go now. (Constance rises 
 to take her hand, leaving her knitting on the chair.) I will 
 stop at zee fleuriste and order zee flowers ; I will stop zere 
 on zee way to zee theatre. (She walks to the window again.) 
 Ah, zere is Henri wiz zee limousine ! (She comes forward 
 again nervously.) Remember, Mademoiselle Wakefield ; see 
 zat Monsieur get everyzing he desire. Here is my card ; 
 have everyzing charged to me — to Marianne Le Grand. I 
 will send his pajamas zis afternoon. Oh, if he had only 
 come out of zee ezer before I leave. He is still green — 
 look so cadavereux like zee dead soldier wiz a wound in 
 zee side — looks like he has forget his opera — and me. Je 
 craindre; je craindre. Here, Mademoiselle, give him zee 
 watch as soon as he wake and show him my picture. (She 
 hands her the watch.) Comprenez-vous ? 
 
 CONSTANCE— Yes, I will. 
 
 MARIANNE — Zank you— and Mademoiselle, could he 
 have private telephone? 
 
 CONSTANCE — Yes, he may have one at his bedside. 
 
 MARIANNE — Have it put zere at once, so I can call 
 him up when I get to zee theatre. What will zee nombre 
 be? 
 
 CONSTANCE— Pavillion Bl, Room 13. 
 
 MARIANNE — (jotting it down in the notebook she has 
 taken from her handbag) Pavillion Bl, chambre le treizieme 
 — oh, what an unlucky nombre ! Je craindre ; je craindre. 
 (She walks to the door, taking up her umbrella.) Au re- 
 voir, Mademoiselle. Keep Monsieur in zee best of spirits. 
 
 (Marianne leaves. Constance opens the watch, examines 
 the picture critically, shakes her head, then places the 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 21 
 
 watch under her patient's pillow. An open umbrella is 
 seen bobbing up and down at the window.) 
 
 MARIANNE— (outside) Mademoiselle Wakefield! 
 
 CONSTANCE — (walking to the window) Yes, Miss Le- 
 Grand. 
 
 MARIANNE— Is he wake? 
 
 CONSTANCE— Not yet. 
 
 MARIANNE — If he wake before I phone, zen you phone 
 to me. My nombre is on zee card. 
 
 CONSTANCE— Very well. 
 
 (There are three loud honks of an automobile horn, fol- 
 lowed by a peaceful silence. Constance again takes the 
 thermometer from the solution and places it under the 
 patient's tongue. She carries the chair back to its 
 former position in the alcove and places her knitting on 
 the window sill. Then she removes the thermometer 
 and is recording the temperature on the chart just as 
 Harbison Caldwell enters the room. 
 
 Caldwell is a young physician about thirty-five years old, 
 wearing the usual white linen suit of an interne. There 
 is a rosebud on the lapel of his coat, which is unbut- 
 toned disclosing a blue-and-white-striped shirt. He is 
 a man of average height with virile physique, square 
 broad shoulders, high chest, round well-proportioned 
 thighs, luxuriant but not coarse hair trimmed thin 
 about his finely shaped ears and his spotless neck, which, 
 together with a low, loose collar and short coat sleeves, 
 gives him a cool, clean, comfortable appearance. His 
 face is smpoth, complexion ruddy, eyes clear, nose 
 prominent, teeth glistening between substantial lips. 
 His hands are plump but firm; his nails, zvell-de fined 
 and immaculate. His light, buoyant step is rendered 
 noiseless by the rubber heels on his white shoes. 
 
 He walks to the far side of the bed to feel the patient's 
 pulse.) 
 
 CONSTANCE— (approaching the foot of the bed) His 
 temperature is 101, Doctor. 
 
22 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 CALDWELL — (facing the nurse but still holding the 
 patient's hand.) When he comes out of the anesthetic, I 
 think you will find him quite delirious and probably diffi- 
 cult to manage. Lindenfels is a young composer — artistic 
 temperament, excitable, no self-control. I doubt if you 
 have ever nursed a similar case. If you need help, don't 
 feel reluctant about summoning me. 
 
 CONSTANCE— Thank you, Doctor; but I think I shall 
 be able to handle him. 
 
 CALDWELL — Lindenfels, above all other patients, must 
 be kept very quiet. He is in poor condition physically — too 
 much wine and liquor, too many cigarettes, extreme sexual 
 dissipation. He has a very low resistance. He must re- 
 main in bed at least two weeks. His flesh isn't the healthy 
 kind that heals readily. 
 
 CONSTANCE— No venereal disease? 
 
 CALDWELL— Yes. 
 
 CONSTANCE— I should be careful then? 
 
 CALDWELL — Always, Constance; always. (There is 
 a noticeable silence during which she feels azvare of the 
 fact that he is gazincf { at her, although she herself is looking 
 at the patient. She starts to walk away from the bed.) You 
 look tired. 
 
 CONSTANCE — (stopping but not turning about) My 
 last case was a severe one. 
 
 CALDWELL— Not enough sleep? 
 
 CONSTANCE— Very little, Doctor. (She walks to the 
 dresser and pretends to be occupied reading the chart.) 
 
 CALDWELL — (following her) If Lindenfels is too 
 hard on you, we shall try to find another nurse for night- 
 turn, but the war has made nurses mighty scarce. You 
 need a rest. (He stands near to her with one elbow on the 
 dresser and one knee on the chair.) You need not only a 
 good night's rest but several week's rest, (earnestly) You 
 need a change, Constance — a big change — a trip somewhere. 
 
 CON STANCE — I have been contemplating a visit home 
 — that is, to as much as there is left of my home. My mother 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 23 
 
 is dead, and both of my brothers have enlisted. 
 
 CALDWELL — I suppose you are proud of them. 
 
 CONSTANCE — Could I feel otherwise when my coun- 
 try stands in such urgent need of defenders — when there is 
 no telling at what moment a bomb may drop out of a 
 clear sky on my dear old daddy's head. The defense of our 
 country and of our little cottage, just a mile or two out of 
 London, may cost my brothers their lives. They are two 
 such good, clean boys, Doctor. I don't know that either one 
 of them could ever set the world on fire with his accom- 
 plishments, but I do not like to think of their firm healthy 
 bodies bleeding out there under a starless sky without the 
 aid of a physician. (She walks to the window, takes up her 
 knitting from the sill, but continues to gaze out into the 
 gloomy street.) 
 
 CALDWELL — You are referring to the scarcity of phy- 
 sicians in England — to the report that so many doctors have 
 lost their lives at the front. 
 
 CONSTANCE— Yes ; that is why she is calling to the 
 young physicians of America to come to the aid of her 
 wounded. 
 
 CALDWELL — I noticed that call in the paper a few 
 days ago. 
 
 CONSTANCE — Have you given it any thought, Doctor? 
 
 CALDWELL — Yes. (a very noticeable pause) I had 
 decided not to enlist. 
 
 (There are soft rolls of thunder like the roaring of dis- 
 tant cannon; the rainfall increases. Neither one of 
 them speak for some time. Constance walks to the 
 Morris chair, sits down and begins to knit, gazing sadly 
 at her needles. His eyes have followed her, but he has 
 not changed his position.) 
 
 CONSTANCE— Won't you enlist to relieve the Ameri- 
 can soldiers either, when they go to France, Doctor? 
 
 (He walks to the foot of the bed, leans with his back 
 against it, folds his arms and faces her.) 
 
 CALDWELL — I suppose you will think me neither a 
 
24 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 patriot nor a Christian, but I should like to say a few words 
 before you judge me. In these days few persons have the 
 courage to speak out in public the things that are on their 
 minds, because our Government prohibits it. But here in 
 the seclusion of this room, there is surely nothing to pro- 
 hibit my views from passing between us. Generally speak- 
 ing, I cannot see why the United States has entered the 
 war. Many seemingly good reasons have been given I 
 know, but they have all frothed out of a rather hollow inci- 
 dent like toadstools on the trunk of a decayed tree. That 
 incident was the sinking of a ship on which American citi- 
 zens were warned not to travel. Now, if this is a war 
 for humanity as we are told (the German people being in- 
 cluded under that head, as we are likewise told), then I 
 ask which does more for humanity : the ammunition which 
 would shatter the lives of thousands of German fathers 
 and brothers and sons, or the torpedo which sends that am- 
 munition, together with a shipful of death-courting people, 
 to the bottom of the sea? Humanity is humanity, irre- 
 spective of nationality, and since we are striving for de- 
 mocracy, number naturally comes before wealth. But we 
 Americans — we who are supposed to be so intensely human 
 and so reasonable a race — we seek to avenge a murder, 
 incidental on the part of the murderer and voluntary on the 
 part of the murdered, by sending half a million of our best 
 young men to France to meet perhaps a similar fate. If 
 Germany had invaded us as she had invaded England, then 
 I should say it were necessary not only for half a million 
 but for all of us to defend our country ; but the cold fact is 
 that Germany has not fired a single shot toward our shores 
 and has not molested us elsewhere except in doing what 
 she could not avoid doing in order to destroy not our people 
 but the shells which our people had made to destroy her 
 people — that is, in order to defend herself. Yet we peace- 
 loving Americans, since out country is not in need of defense, 
 must embark for French soil to fight for and defend some- 
 thing; so we have selected the interests of our munition 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 25 
 
 plants and called it our honor. If Germany has attacked 
 England without cause, then surely, we are attacking Ger- 
 many likewise. The crafty intellect may invent a score of 
 bombastic reasons to justify our entry into the conflict, but 
 the human heart sends one and only one message through- 
 out the whole constitution, and that is that those of the 
 half million American boys who are going to be wounded 
 or killed are going to be needlessly mangled or murdered. 
 To all physicians the human body, despite its imperfections, 
 its limitations and its ultimate degeneration, is wonderful. 
 To me, in particular, it has always appeared so much so as 
 to win not only my utmost respect but even my undivided 
 reverence. Each time I see this masterpiece of flesh about 
 to be marred by the surgeon's knife, I suffer something more 
 terrible than the pangs of the patient, and it is only the 
 thought that the latter is going to be relieved that prevents 
 me from knocking the knife from the surgeon's hand. I 
 learned my profession, Constance, that I might help preserve 
 these bodies from premature death and that I might bring 
 aid and relief to those unfortunate beings whose wounds, 
 fractures and diseases seem unavoidable. But I tell you 
 plainly that I did not become a physician merely to follow 
 in the path of bloody butchers and barbarians, irrespective 
 of their nationality, to repair, in a reckless and wholesale 
 way, scores of formerly perfect human bodies which have 
 been needlessly exposed to disease and torn by bayonets 
 and poison shells. Now you will understand why I have de- 
 cided not to go across with the American soldiers. 
 
 CONSTANCE — If you do not care to take relief to the 
 soldiers of your own country, it is easy to understand why 
 you had decided not to take it to the soldiers of England. 
 
 CALDWELL — You have missed the point of my argu- 
 ment. I would rather take relief to the English soldiers than 
 to the American, because the English soldiers are fighting in 
 self-defense ; their wounds are not being unnecessarily in- 
 flicted. I tried to make it clear that I consider it my duty 
 and that it is my desire to relieve all suffering unavoidable 
 
26 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 on the part of the sufferer. 
 
 CONSTANCE — Then why had you decided not to answer 
 the call of England for American physicians? Surely there 
 is more unavoidable suffering among the English soldiers 
 than there is here at this hospital. 
 
 CALDWELL — There is another reason which, though it 
 does not concern only myself, does not, on the other hand, 
 obtain in the case of all physicians. The open discussion of 
 it seems also to be more or less prohibited, but surely not 
 between two of our profession. The appeal from England 
 shows that the physician at the front runs almost as great 
 a risk of losing his life as the soldier. It is not that I am 
 afraid to die, Constance, but that I am not ready to die. The 
 plain truth is that I have not yet lived — not as I wish to 
 live, whereas most of these soldiers have. But they have not 
 lived as I would live, possibly because they do not know what 
 I know, probably because they do not care. They have had 
 no respect for their bodies. The fact that they have, with- 
 out thought or without reluctance, exposed and subjected 
 themselves to venereal disease explains why so many of them 
 are willing and even anxious to sacrifice their bodies on the 
 battlefield. This most marvelous function of the flesh is not 
 a thing that I look back upon as dirty, beast-like and ruinous, 
 but a thing which I look forward to as clean, manly and 
 productive. I look forward to it as the sweetest and greatest 
 thing in life, not only because it affords intense yet momen- 
 tary pleasure, but because of the lasting happiness afforded 
 by its significance and its sequence. I have denied myself 
 this pleasure and happiness because I have been waiting to 
 come by it purely and righteously. To my mind, the greater 
 service is performed not by dying and by killing but by 
 living and by bringing others to life and by keeping them 
 alive and well. That is the main purpose of my profession, 
 Constance. It is a beautiful and altruistic work ; and yet I 
 feel that I who am constantly bringing relief and gladness 
 to others should not fail to bring some of it to myself. No 
 other person on this earth has so happily relieved and come 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 27 
 
 so near to realizing the only essential pains of a pure mar- 
 riage, without experiencing any of its pleasures and its joys, 
 as myself. Every time I have labored over somebody's loved 
 one helping with the delivery of her babe, I have felt the 
 longing to become a husband and a father. There must be 
 no greater joy in life than that of seeing the product of the 
 loving union of one's own clean flesh with the clean flesh 
 of another. 
 
 CONSTANCE — (dropping her knitting for the first time 
 and gazing off in another direction) It is also a great joy 
 for me, Doctor, to see these babies smile up into my eyes 
 when I hold them in my arms. 
 
 CALDWELL — (coming forzvard and taking her hand 
 tenderly in his) And think how much sweeter and greater 
 the joy if the babe were your own ! 
 
 CONSTANCE — (with hidden emotion) Sweeter perhaps, 
 but selfish ; for in that case I would feel I were giving my 
 attention to a part of myself. (She rises, her knitting falling 
 to the floor.) But I must not think of myself ; not now — 
 now when my brothers are over there, when, like my patient 
 here on the bed, their bodies may be cut or torn apart, but 
 when, unlike my patient, they have no physician to sew and 
 bind their wounds. (Caldwell drops her hand and walks 
 sadly to the bedside where he stands with bowed head watch- 
 ing the face on the pillow.) You have helped to save his 
 life, Doctor; if he had a sister, think how much she would 
 love you for having done it ! 
 
 CALDWELL — (slowly, his back still turned) Think how 
 much his sister would love me for having brought relief to 
 her brother? 
 
 CONSTANCE — Of course, Mr. Lindenfels has not been 
 wounded in battle. 
 
 CALDWELL — (slowly turning his face toward her) As 
 your brothers may be . . . 
 
 CONSTANCE— Do not think I value the soldier's life 
 above all others ; there are men in all walks of life who are 
 fighting for great ends, but the soldier's life, when his cause 
 
28 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 is worthy, is surely just as precious as theirs. To me all 
 lives are sacred, and all killing is sin. I believe one can fight 
 nobly without bloodshed. I would that all the munitions in 
 the world were forever sent to the ocean's bottom. I know 
 it is wrong that my country has been drawn into so bloody 
 a whirlpool; everybody knows it. I agree with you in 
 saying it is wrong that your country has been likewise en- 
 snared. But whether it is right or wrong, even though God 
 Himself resents and abhors it, it is here and will be here for 
 some time ; and there will be untold suffering which, though 
 it seems beyond prevention, may be in great part relieved. 
 It is not only to my brothers that I would send relief, but to 
 the brothers of all — to all the brothers of England, of France, 
 of America ; to all the brothers of Germany as well. We 
 must send relief ; if the American physicians do not respond, 
 then I, for one, shall go in their stead. I shall become A 
 Great Reliever, even though I run the risk of losing my own 
 life. 
 
 CALDWELL — (rushing toward her, seizing her hand and 
 falling on both knees) Constance ! 
 
 (There is a rap on the door; they do not hear it.) 
 
 CONSTANCE— (sitting in the Morris chair) I shall 
 never forget the day, the hour, the moment I placed my cool 
 hand on the forehead of my dying mother. So. (She lays 
 her hand across his forehead; the expression on his face 
 changes immediately from one of suffering to one of relief.) 
 I shall never forget the light that shone in her eyes, — the 
 same light that is now shining in yours, — and I shall never 
 forget the smile that played on her trembling lips, — the same 
 smile that now trembles on yours, — when, just before closing 
 forever, they murmured : (Her voice wavers.) "Constance, 
 your hand is so soothing ; you should make it your life's 
 work to relieve the sick and console the dying." (The tears 
 come to her eyes; she holds her handkerchief to them.) 
 
 CALDWELL — And haven't you been true to your 
 promise ever since? Your mother did not mean that you 
 should risk your life by nursing; she was thinking not of 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 29 
 
 war but of peace. She was thinking of those whose sick- 
 ness and death come about unavoidably as did her own. 
 
 CONSTANCE — Perhaps so ; but I can't believe that she 
 was excluding her own sons from my care, and I know she 
 held equally dear the lives of the thousands of sons, who, with 
 parched lips, are now stretching out their arms for relief. 
 
 CALDWELL — (holding out his arms) And do those arms 
 mean more to you than these? 
 
 CONSTANCE — They are the arms of the suffering and 
 the starving. 
 
 CALDWELL — (passionately) These too, are the arms of 
 one who suffers and starves — yes, Constance, starves ! Why 
 should I not confess it? I am starving — starving for you. 
 (She rises slowly as though afraid.) I am starving the big, 
 clean, glowing, throbbing life-force which refuses to die 
 within me. (He rises from his knees.) I am starving for 
 that from which my body would shrink as it would from 
 poison were it offered me by any woman other than you. 
 (He drazvs her fiercely to him, his arms quivering.) Con- 
 stance ! nourish me — relieve me ! 
 
 (There is a second knock at the door; they do not hear it.) 
 
 CO'NSTANCE— Doctor ! Doctor! Please let go of me. 
 (There is a tremor in her voice.) You are forgetting — for- 
 getting. 
 
 (He releases her from his strong embrace and sinks down 
 on his knees again, his arm on the arm of the chair, 
 his face hidden in the sleeve of his coat. She walks to 
 the bedside, places her hand on her patient's forehead, 
 gently pushing back the blonde hair.) 
 
 CONSTANCE — A little while ago you told me my patient 
 would have no self-control, and that I should call for your 
 help if I needed it. I can easily understand how one whose 
 flesh is aflame with burning wounds might not be able to 
 control his craving for relief ; but a man — a man whose 
 body and mind remain intact — one who has never . . . 
 
 (She stops reprimanding him because he has begun to sob 
 very audibly, his broad back convulsing. She is moved ; 
 
30 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 she approaches him silently and slowly, and places her 
 hand courageously and consolingly on his shoulder. He 
 reaches for it, his face still hidden; then holding it ten- 
 derly in his own, he rises gently, turning his face away 
 from hers.) 
 
 CALDWELL — Please do not hate me for what I have 
 said or done. If my actions have repelled you — if I have 
 proven myself unmanly and no longer worthy of your pres- 
 ence, you surely will at least pity me — pity me for having 
 made such a fool of myself by revealing my secret so sud- 
 denly, so restraintlessly — the secret I have kept locked up 
 here in my heart ever since I have come to know you. But 
 if I am ashamed of the suddenness and the manner in which 
 I have revealed this secret, I should not be ashamed — no, I 
 must not be ashamed (He suddenly turns his head and 
 looks straight into her eyes, the tears rolling down his cheeks.) 
 of the secret itself. I would be even a bigger fool to be 
 ashamed of the big desire which has been awakened and 
 aroused in me by so tender and wonderful a woman as you 
 and over which I had, for a moment, lost my control. There's 
 at least this to say in my defense : You are differently con- 
 stituted because you are a woman. 
 
 CONSTANCE— (bravely) We are not all the cold, pas- 
 sionless creatures we are supposed to be. Convention has 
 decreed that we shall appear very proper. Unlike men, we 
 would run the risk of permanent disgrace were we to dare 
 breathe the fact that similar desires sometimes possess us. 
 We, too, feel a natural attraction toward those of the oppo- 
 site sex who are clean and strong; we, too, experience a 
 sense of starvation at times. If your revelation has em- 
 barrassed you, I shall relieve you by revealing my secret : 
 that I also long gently for the embrace with one whom I, too, 
 have . . . 
 
 CALDWELL — (gradually letting go of her hand) Oh, 
 then there is some one you love also. 
 
 CONSTANCE — As ardently as you love me, Doctor. 
 
 CALDWELL — It is queer that this never occurred to me. 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 31 
 
 I wonder would it be asking too much to know if you have 
 ever revealed this secret to the fortunate one? 
 
 CONSTANCE — I never revealed it to him because I 
 knew full well the consequences would be such as, during 
 such times as these, had better be prevented. 
 
 CALDWELL — But if your love for him was as ardent as 
 mine for you, Nature would have forced you to reveal it. 
 
 CONSTANCE — Nature has her way only after we lose 
 our self-control ; she cannot force us to lose our self-control 
 — not if we first lose ourselves in others by relieving the suf- 
 fering which is deeper and more real than our own. 
 
 CALDWELL — Deeper and more real? You would have 
 me think of man's sexual desire as a trivial thing? 
 
 CONSTANCE— After all, Doctor, it is what his thoughts 
 make of it. 
 
 CALDWELL — Of course our thinking of it acts as a 
 stimulus, and forgetting about it tends toward suppression, 
 but nevertheless it is fundamentally and primarily a thing 
 of the flesh. The most intense mental concentration is of 
 no avail to the unfortunate one who is impotent. 
 
 CONSTANCE — But the gash made by a saber is also 
 fundamentally a thing of the flesh. Yet one's thoughts 
 cannot so easily shorten that gash or suppress the pain caused 
 thereby ; it requires medical aid. 
 
 CALDWELL — I understand. You would have me sup- 
 press my desire by relieving instead the deeper suffering of 
 your bleeding brothers. 
 
 (He walks to the large windoiv, rests his elbows on the 
 sill and covers his eyes with the palms of his hands. 
 Constance lifts her yarn and needles from the floor, sits 
 in the Morris chair and resumes her knitting. The dis- 
 tant thunder seems a trifle louder. After some time, 
 Caldwell comes forward, his eyes filled with tears.) 
 
 CONSTANCE — You have made a decision? 
 
 CALDWELL — I have decided that there is this difference 
 between lusting after a woman and loving her : in the first 
 case, a man cares only for the gratification of his own desire ; 
 
32 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 in the second case, he wants the gratification to be mutual. 
 If mutual gratification is denied him, then his next highest 
 means of attaining happiness is to do all he can to bring 
 about the mutual gratification of the one he loves and the 
 one she loves. Since the suffering of your brothers stands 
 in the way of your desire for love and child, I have decided 
 to help relieve that suffering. 
 
 CONSTANCE — (rising to take his hand) You are going 
 to enlist? 
 
 CALDWELL— Yes ; with the Red Cross in France. 
 
 CONSTANCE — (triumphantly) You will be doing such a 
 wonderfully big unselfish thing. (She places her knitting 
 on the chair, dries the tears from his eyes with her own 
 handkerchief and, without hesitation, kisses his cheek like a 
 sister.) Now that I have found some one to serve in my 
 stead, — some one who would not have served otherwise, — 
 I shall return to my dear old daddy in England. (She claps 
 her hands together suddenly.) Why there's no reason why 
 we shouldn't sail together on the same ship! Is there? 
 
 CALDWELL — It would be a great treat to see you im- 
 proving day by day, Constance, resting undisturbed in your 
 steamer-chair and drinking in oceans of that invigorating 
 sea-breeze. How the color would come blooming back into 
 your cheeks ! 
 
 CONSTANCE — And there's another reason why I want 
 you on my ship. I have always felt that this man — this man 
 I love — is just as clean as yourself, but there's nothing like 
 being absolutely certain. You see he will be with us, and 
 I thought you would be sufficiently interested to examine him 
 for me. Of course you will have to approach him in a 
 very delicate way. 
 
 CALDWELL — A mere glance will serve as a diagnosis, 
 and, believe me, Constance, if I have the faintest doubt, the 
 approach will not be very delicate. I'll throw him over- 
 board. 
 
 CONSTANCE— O Doctor! 
 
 CALDWELL — Although I'm not going to be the leading 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 33 
 
 man on this trip, you can feel assured that the role I shall 
 play will not be an insignificant one. I intend to make this 
 fellow dance pretty much the way I whistle. For your 
 sake, Constance. For your sake ; not for mine. I don't 
 know that I'll feel very much like whistling, and I'm quite 
 sure that I won't get any pleasure out of seeing him dance 
 — in particular, with you. 
 
 CONSTANCE — (taking up her yarn and needles) We'll 
 see about that when the time comes. 
 
 CALDWELL— When will that be? 
 
 CONSTANCE — (walking to the bed) Just as soon as my 
 patient here has convalesced sufficiently, we will prepare to 
 embark. 
 
 CALDWELL — Your patient ! You don't mean to tell me 
 that — that Lindenfels is my rival. 
 
 CONSTANCE— Now, Doctor ! Haven't you already told 
 me about his past ? 
 
 CALDWELL— Indeed I have. 
 
 CONSTANCE — Then how could he cut you out? — as 
 they say here in America. 
 
 CALDWELL — That's right ; we've already cut him out — 
 in part. 
 
 CONSTANCE— Poor Mr. Lindenfels! (She places her 
 hand on her patient's wrist to take his pulse, while Caldwell 
 sits down in the Morris chair.) Think of the nice long rest 
 you also will get on the way over ! The great rest that will 
 precede the greater service. 
 
 CALDWELL — And precede the greater rest, too ! 
 
 CONSTANCE— You are referring to Death? Don't 
 worry, Doctor; you won't be shot. Now you just watch 
 and see if I'm not right about that. (She walks to the 
 dresser and places her knitting in one of the drawers.) 
 
 CALDWELL — Well, in case, there may be a shell waiting 
 for me, even though I shall never have lived happily, I shall 
 at least have died happy by enabling you to enjoy what to 
 me would have . . . 
 
 CONSTANCE — (coming up behind the chair and strok- 
 
34 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 ing his hair with the palm of her hand) But you shall not 
 have died without having lived happily! 
 
 CALDWELL — Do you suppose I could find any real 
 happiness in these diseased women who hang around mili- 
 tary camps? A lonely death would be sweeter by far than 
 such a companionship. Yes, Constance, I shall have died with- 
 out having lived. I could not live happily with any woman 
 other than you, and if I may not live happily and purely, 
 then I do not care to live at all. 
 
 CONSTANjCE — (coming forward and sitting on the 
 arm of the chair) But you will live ! You will live ! 
 
 CALDWELL — You're referring now to that glorious 
 life-after-death stuff that the ministers are pulling over the 
 eyes of the conscripts so they won't see the truth until the 
 truth has, in less than a moment, deprived them of every- 
 thing — of their own bodies and of the soft tender hands 
 like this (He reaches for her hand.) which they have held 
 and pressed so lovingly, of the gentle arms which have en- 
 circled their necks, of the lips trembling with happiness which 
 have so often met theirs and promised them a home with 
 its big joys and its little ones — the joys which will all be 
 yours. 
 
 CONSTANCE— The joys that will all be mine? (She 
 rises.) Do you suppose I could be so selfish a creature as 
 to ask you to sacrifice your own desires only that similar 
 ones of mine might be fulfilled. Selfishness was the one 
 flaw I had observed in your character. Your views on the 
 sinking of the Lusitania and your views on the real purpose 
 of the medical profession, logical as they were — were they 
 not spoken primarily in order to camouflage your main 
 reason for not enlisting: your selfish longing for me. But 
 now that you have consented to abandon that selfish pleas- 
 ure (not only with me but with other women, showing how 
 loyally you must love me), and now that in its stead you 
 have decided to do a big impersonal work of service — now — 
 well — well I told you, Doctor, there was one I loved as 
 ardently as you love me, but now (She sinks down on her 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 35 
 
 knees before him.) — now with that selfish flaw eliminated 
 from his character — now (She places her arms about his 
 neck.) I love him ever so much the more. 
 
 CALDWELL — (incredulously and motionless) Then you 
 have been fooling me all the time? 
 
 CONSTANCE — It is queer how the truth may be made 
 to take on the color of a lie. That wedding-trip to France 
 is to be our wedding-trip : Yours and mine ! (She draws 
 him slightly forward.) Why don't you respond? 
 
 CALDWELL— I— I can't believe it's true ; and, further- 
 more, it's hard for me to forget your attitude toward my first 
 embrace. 
 
 CONSTANCE — It wasn't you who embraced me then. 
 
 CALDWELL — Are you sure it's me now ? {He very cau- 
 tiously places the palms of his hands under her uplifted 
 arms to hold her.) 
 
 CONSTANCE— Yes, Doctor. 
 
 CALDWELL— (kissing her hair) When I told you I 
 wanted to enjoy the greatest thing in the world, I did not 
 mean that I wanted to enjoy it gluttonously without end. 
 I wanted to feel that I was closer to you than to any other 
 woman. However painful a death may be awaiting me on 
 the field, — but for some reason or other the probability of 
 that death has now vanished, — I assure you that the memory 
 of the voyage preceding it will bring me infinite relief ; for 
 life with you, dear, however short, will be oh so sweet ! 
 As sweet as — (He reaches for the rosebud on the lapel of 
 his coat. He observes that she herself has unfastened it 
 with her teeth, holding it between her lips. She takes it in 
 her hand, places it to his nostrils, then to her own, as she 
 sinks to the floor.) I wanted to give you that rosebud as a 
 symbol — as something which, under your nourishing affec- 
 tion, will swell and open gradually, bloom fragrantly and dis- 
 charge its fertile seed — a symbol of our love. And when the 
 day which I may never see — the day which will bless you 
 with a little son who will grow up to love and protect you 
 in your dear old daddy's cottage — when that day comes . . . 
 
36 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 CONSTANCE — It will be the day of your reincarnation, 
 for his life shall not be mine but the continuation of yours ; 
 and because of that, it will be impossible for you to die on 
 the battlefield. 
 
 (He kisses her very gently first on one cheek, then on 
 the other, finally taking her tenderly in his arms but 
 gradually increasing the intensity of his embrace and 
 slowly lifting her body up to his own. 
 An Errand Boy, in a black rubber coat, enters the room 
 without rapping. He carries four large cardboard boxes 
 under his arm. His coat glistens with rain; the boxes 
 too appear very wet. 
 When the Boy speaks, Caldwell and Constance separate 
 
 and rise quickly.) 
 BOY— Flowers for Mr. Lindenf els ! 
 CALDWELL — Young fellow, you ought to know better 
 than to enter the private rooms in a hospital without knock- 
 ing ; the persons in them are usually very sick. 
 
 BOY — I believe that, sir; but I did knock I don't know 
 how many times, and then I got up nerve enough to come 
 in. It seems I'd been standin' out there over an hour, and 
 I thought if I'd stand much longer the flowers would wilt, — 
 but I guess the weather has saved them. 
 
 (Caldwell leaves the room, the Boy's eyes following him 
 
 suspiciously.) 
 CONSTANCE — Just leave the flowers here on the chair. 
 BOY — (placing the boxes across the arms of the Morris 
 chair) Say, Miss; I noticed all them Silence signs out there 
 in the hall, but do you suppose that important guy who just 
 now went back on duty would object to your answerin' a 
 question of mine? 
 
 CONSTANCE — (fastening the rosebud to her uniform) 
 That would depend on the question. What is it? 
 BOY — What in the devil has happened to Lindy? 
 CONSTANCE— Who is Lindy? 
 
 BOY — Hully gee ! Don't you know Lindy — Lindenf els, 
 the crack composer? 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 37 
 
 CONSTANCE — Mr. Lindenfels underwent an opera- 
 tion. 
 
 BOY— And died? 
 
 CONSTANCE— No. 
 
 BOY — Then why in the heck are they sendin' him so 
 many flowers? You see I know Lindy pretty well. I've 
 carried many a bouquet from him to the stage door, — 'but 
 this is the first time the chorus girls has sent posies to 
 Lindy. I thought, maybe, they was fur his funeral. 
 
 CONSTANCE — (laughing) He will soon be well again. 
 Do you care to see him? Here he is on the bed. 
 
 BOY — (approaching the bed with her) Hully gee ! he 
 sure does look like a stiff; don't he? Have you heard his 
 latest hit? 
 
 (Constance shakes her head indicating: No.) 
 
 BOY — Well, it's a crackerjack! I'd whistle it fur you, if 
 it wasn't fur them signs out in the hall. Music's my religion. 
 That new tune of Lindy's is my mornin' hymn ; it goes right 
 to my feet and carries me through my day's work. There 
 are lots of people in this town who couldn't live without 
 Lindy's music. He's sort of a saviour to them, don't you 
 know, so please take good care of him. (He starts for the 
 door.) 
 
 CONSTANCE— I shall give him all my attention. 
 
 BOY — (with his hand on the doorknob) I'm not so dead 
 sure of that; the other guy was surely gettin' his share. 
 
 (The Boy leaves, whistling. 
 
 Constance, smiling, rings the call-bell. Then she opens 
 the upper box of flowers, removing a huge cluster of 
 dark red peonies. Miss Williams enters.) 
 
 CONSTANCE— Miss Le Grand asked me to have a pri- 
 vate telephone placed at Mr. Lindenfels's bed. 
 
 MISS WILLIAMS— I shall get one, Miss Wakefield. 
 
 (Miss Williams leaves. Constance puts the peonies back 
 into the box and places it on the table in the alcove. 
 She opens a second box — a bunch of vivid orange 
 poppies. Miss Williams returns with the telephone.) 
 
38 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 CONSTANCE — Will you connect it, please? 
 (Miss Williams obeys, placing it on the small table beside 
 the bed. While she is doing so, Constance takes the 
 pitcher from the cabinet into the bathroom, and returns 
 with it, filled with water, just as Miss Williams is about 
 to leave again.) 
 CONSTANCE— Miss Williams, I wonder if you could 
 find a few jars or receptacles of some kind for these flowers. 
 MISS WILLIAMS— Here are two vases on the dresser. 
 CONSTANCE— Yes, I know, but I shall need more. 
 There are four boxes of flowers in all. 
 
 MISS WILLIAMS— I believe there are some wilted 
 flowers in the sun-parlor; I shall throw them out and bring 
 you the empty jars. 
 
 CONSTANCE— Thank you. I would get them myself, 
 but Mr. Linden f els may come out of the anesthetic any mo- 
 ment now, and Doctor Caldwell does not want him to be 
 left alone. 
 
 MISS WILLIAMS— (leaving) Yes, Miss Wakefield. 
 (Constance pours water from the pitcher into one of the 
 glass vases and arranges the peonies therein, placing 
 the vase in the center of the dresser. She fills the other 
 vase, places the poppies in it and stands than on the 
 large windowsill. She is opening the third box, filled 
 with purple iris, just as Miss Williams enters with a 
 large stone jar.) 
 CONSTANCE— Set it on the window sill if you don't 
 mind. 
 
 MISS WILLIAMS — (obeying) These poppies have such 
 a giddy color — and such a rank odor, too ! I would never 
 think of sending such things to a sickroom ; they're enough 
 to make even a healthy person croak. 
 
 CONSTANCE — You could spare only one vase? 
 MISS WILLIAMS— Yes. 
 
 CONSTANCE— Well, I shall have to put two kinds of 
 flowers together. 
 
 MISS WILLIAMS— Whatever you do, don't mix any 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 39 
 
 others in with these poppies; they would sure become in- 
 fected. (She comes forward.) Shall I take the empty 
 boxes with me? 
 
 CONSTANCE— Yes; do. 
 
 MISS WILLIAMS— (looking through the box from 
 which the iris has been taken.) Here is a note. 
 
 CONSTANCE — (taking the note and reading aloud:) 
 Dear Mademoiselle Wakefield : — Be sure to put the iris in 
 the same vase with the poppies. Signed, Marianne Le Grand. 
 MISS WILLIAMS}— Heavens! What a combination! 
 But it's just like her. You'd better do as she says, however. 
 Lord help the members of her troupe down at The Lyric 
 if they don't do as she commands ! I've got a girl friend in 
 the cast; she says when it comes to running the universe, 
 the Kaiser has nothing on Miss Le Grand. Will you need 
 anything else, Miss Wakefield? 
 
 CONSTANCE— Not at present, Miss Williams. 
 MISS WILLIAMS — I hope the weather clears up; it is 
 my afternoon off. 
 
 CONSTANCE — It has stopped raining now; I think the 
 sun will come out shortly. 
 
 (Miss Williams leaves with three empty boxes. Con- 
 stance fills the high stone jar with water and places 
 it on the large window sill, putting both iris and poppies 
 therein. She carries the empty glass vase to the smaller 
 window, folds up the screen which is standing there 
 so that the light falls across the bed. Then she opens 
 the fourth box of flowers — a large bouquet of pink 
 roses. She lifts them to her nostrils to breathe their 
 fragrance. Then she lowers them and takes a longer, 
 deeper breath of the rosebud on her uniform, pressing 
 it to her lips again and again. Finally she carries the 
 bouquet to the smaller windowsill. Just as she reaches 
 the bed, Lindenfels stirs and utters a peculiar cry. The 
 telephone rings. At the same moment, the sun, breaking 
 through the clouds, sends a ray of its golden shine across 
 her face and through the roses which she holds to her 
 
40 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 nostrils. She places the flowers on the counterpane over 
 his chest and quickly moistens a small cloth with ice 
 zvater, pressing it against his parched lips. The tele- 
 phone rings again. He lifts his arms, at first feebly; 
 then, as his strength returns, he places them about her 
 neck, still uttering the peculiar childish cry, indicating 
 intermingled pain and joy. By this time the sun has 
 come out fully, illuminating her face and flooding the 
 whole room with golden light. From a piano on the 
 other side of the street come the strains of Robert 
 Schumann's "Warum?" The telephone continues to 
 ring unanswered.) 
 
 Curtain 
 
ACT II 
 
ACT II. 
 
 SCENE — The same as in Act One. 
 
 It is late in the afternoon of the third day. There are 
 several unwrapped packages on the dresser. The pop- 
 pies and iris have been removed from the windowsill. 
 The pink roses have been placed on the little white iron 
 table beside the bed. 
 
 Karl Lindenfels is still lying in bed on the flat of his back. 
 He wears a pair of pale blue pajamas. His beard has 
 grown considerably. 
 
 Constance, still wearing her rosebud, sits in the alcove 
 knitting peacefully. 
 
 KARL — (awaking) Miss Vakefielt. 
 
 CONSTANCE — (rising, placing her knitting on the sill) 
 Yes, Mr. Lindenfels. 
 
 KARL — Oh, it vasn't necessary for you to get up. I just 
 vantet to know if you vere here. I can't see you ven you 
 sit ofer t'ere in t'e corner, ant I alvays t'ink I shou't see you 
 efery time I avaken just ass I saw you ven I came out off 
 t'e anest'etic. 
 
 CONSTANCE — (standing on the far side of the bed and 
 placing her hand on his forehead) You are perspiring. Shall 
 I remove the blanket ? 
 
 KARL — If you pleace. 
 
 (Constance draws back the counterpane, removes the 
 blanket and straightens the counterpane again.) 
 
 CONSTANCE — (folding the blanket as she walks to the 
 dresser) You had a nice little sleep. 
 
 KARL— Hat I? 
 
 CONSTANCE— Yes; and you needed it. You didn't 
 sleep very much last night ; did you ? 
 
 KARL — I supposse I kept you avake. I trite not too. 
 Ven I vantet vater I reach't for it myself so ass not to tish- 
 
44 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 turp you, Miss Vakefielt. 
 
 CONSTANCE — (placing the blanket in the dresser 
 drawer) You must not hesitate to awaken me whenever you 
 wish anything ; that's what I am here for. Don't feel reluc- 
 tant about calling me at any time — in particular, when you 
 are awake. 
 
 KARL — T'en I to call you in my shleep? 
 
 CONSTANCE— Often, Mr. Lindenfels. 
 
 KARL — (anxiously) Ant vat to I say? 
 
 CONSTANCE — (coming forward and leaning over the 
 foot of the bed) Oh, you say all sorts of things. It's delirium 
 — you don't know what you are saying, so I don't pay any 
 attention to it. 
 
 KARL — I supposse I shpeak off t'e t'ings I am treaming 
 apout. I he'rt such vonterf ul musik in my tream last night ; 
 I pelief it vas Schumann's "Warum?" 
 
 CONSTANCE — Yes ; I heard it also. There is somebody 
 in one of those houses across the street who plays such 
 good music and plays it so well. (She walks to the large 
 window.) I believe it comes from the yellow brick build- 
 ing. (She takes up her knitting from the sill and comes for- 
 ward to sit in the Morris chair.) 
 
 KARL — Are you font off musik, Miss Vakefielt? 
 
 CONSTANCE— Of good music? I love it. I have two 
 brothers : one plays the piano ; the other, the violin. I used 
 to sit for hours listening to them playing "Die Lieder ohne 
 Worte" and Schumann's "Warum?" also. 
 
 KARL — (fluently and pensively) Die Lieder ohne Worte? 
 
 CONSTANCE — Genuine music needs no words to convey 
 its significance ; does it ? Music expresses so many beautiful 
 ideas that seem common-place when one tries to put them 
 in language. 
 
 KARL — Musik tuss not alvays exshpress vat is pe'utiful? 
 
 CONSTANCE — It does if the composer of it has led a 
 pure life — if his works are naturally inspired and not the 
 dictations of a diseased brain that has been excited by nico- 
 tine and wine. 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 45 
 
 KARL — Putt if impurity ant consciousness off self naff 
 ruin't hiss apility to exshpress pe'utiful iteas musikally, 
 may he not shtill haff pe'utiful t'oughts vich he can ex- 
 shpress py langwitch ven hiss life iss more unconscious — 
 more shpiritu'l? 
 
 CONSTANCE— Perhaps. 
 
 KARL — Ven you retire tonight, Miss Vakefielt, vou't 
 you mint putting a pat off paper ant a pencil unter your 
 pillow? 
 
 CONSTANCE— Why, Mr. Lindenfels? 
 
 KARL — I vant you to recort vat I say in my shleep. 
 (There is a noticeable pause.) Do you supposse I vill shleep 
 tonight ? 
 
 CONSTANCE — Doctor Caldwell will give you some- 
 thing to induce sleep. 
 
 KARL — Toctor Caltvell comes to see me quite often ; 
 tussn't he? 
 
 CONSTANCE— Yes. 
 
 KARL — Tuss he come to see all off hiss patients ass fre- 
 quently ass he sees me? 
 
 CONSTANCE — He has always called on my patients 
 very frequently. 
 
 KARL — I am so glat I am your patient. 
 
 CONSTANCE— You must like Doctor Caldwell. 
 
 KARL — Yes ; he's such a clean-looking man, and he hass 
 such vonterf ully clear eyes. I like to look into t'em ; ton't 
 you? 
 
 CONSTANCE— Eveybody likes Doctor Caldwell. 
 
 (There is a noticeable silence, during which Constance 
 continues to knit energetically.) 
 
 KARL — Haffn't t'ese roses a vonterful otor, Miss Vake- 
 fielt? 
 
 CONSTANCE — They are very fragrant. 
 
 KARL — V'y ton't you vear vone off t'ese inshte't off t'at 
 stinchy little rosebut? 
 
 CONSTANCE— They are all open too far; the petals 
 would fall off. This bud has lasted two days, and it will 
 
46 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 last much longer. I put it in fresh water every night. 
 
 KARL — I like to shmell t'ese roses at night ven I can't 
 shleep. T'e first night — night pefore last — ven you gafe me 
 t'e hypotermic, it te'ten't my pain, putt I vas shtill avake ; 
 ant I vile't avay t'e time py shmelling t'ese roses, taking each 
 vone separately, returning it to t'e fase — ant t'en peginning 
 all ofer again. Vone hass to to somet'ing to pass time. 
 Vonce I push't t'e trinking tupe off t'e taple — py accitent. 
 It fell on t'e tile floor, putt t'e noise tit not avaken you; so 
 I kept on shmelling t'e roses. All night long I t'ought I vas 
 in a rose garten somev'ere among t'e clouts, ant t'e air vas 
 so fragrant, ant t'ere vas musik ; t'at same song vitout vorts — 
 Schumann's "Warum?" Ant t'ere vas an ainchel all in vite 
 mooring apout from push to push, pulling t'e roses ant 
 hanting t'em to me vone py vone. 
 
 CONSTANCE— That was the effect of the morphine. 
 Now you understand why some persons take it all the time 
 and become fiends. But you have no more pain ; have you, 
 Mr. Lindenfels? 
 
 KARL — No continual pain, putt efery vonce in a vile I 
 exshperience t'e sensation off a colt knife plunching into 
 my site. 
 
 CONSTANCE— That's due to the ice-cap. 
 
 KARL — Putt my site is shtill sore. 
 
 CONSTANCE— It will be for some time. But you don't 
 notice the soreness unless you move ; do you ? 
 
 KARL — No ; putt I get f ery ti'ert lying on vone shpot so 
 long. 
 
 CONSTANCE— Shall I relieve the tension in your 
 muscles by placing a pillow under your knees ? 
 
 KARL — If you pleace, Miss Vakefielt. 
 
 (She goes to the dresser, places her knitting on it, opens 
 one of the drawers to obtain the extra pillow, returns 
 to the bed, lifts the covers and pushes the pillow gently 
 under his legs.) 
 
 CONSTANCE— Does that feel better? 
 
 KARL— Much petter ; t'ank you. 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 47 
 
 CONSTANCE — Would you like a drink of fresh water? 
 
 KARL — Not just now, Miss Vakefielt. 
 
 (She returns to the dresser, takes up her knitting and then 
 places it down again when she observes the packages.) 
 
 CONTANCE — I forgot to tell you that several pack- 
 ages came this afternoon. Do you wish me to open them? 
 
 KARL— If you vill. 
 
 CONSTANCE — (unwrapping the first one) A large box 
 of kisses ! 
 
 KARL — From whom? 
 
 CONSTANCE — (carrying an envelope to the bed) This 
 note came with them. (He opens the envelope and reads 
 while she is returning to the dresser.) Of course you 
 shouldn't have a kiss just yet ; your stomach isn't ready for 
 it. 
 
 KARL — I ton't vish any anyhow ; Gwentolyn's mout' iss 
 so crooket — in particular, ven she sings. (He drops the 
 note on the floor.) 
 
 CONSTANCE — And here is a fine box of salted nuts. 
 
 KARL — From whom? 
 
 CONSTANCE— The card says : Maybelle McConnelle— 
 M-a-y-b-e-double-1-e. 
 
 KARL — Yes; Mapel tussn't know how to shpell. T'ey 
 took her into t'e chorus pecausse she iss so goot-looking. I 
 use't to t'ink she vas, putt she really issn't. She hass a nose 
 like a mousetrap ant an ear like a clam. 
 
 CONSTANCE— Poor Maybelle! (She opens the third 
 package.) And here is a box of big red cherries — and a 
 card. 
 
 KARL — Reat it, pleace. 
 
 CONSTANCE — (reading) Take one every ten minutes, 
 and if you are still lonely for me, then swallow the whole — 
 (She stops reading suddenly and carries the card to the bed.) 
 I think you had better read this for yourself. 
 
 KARL — Ant if you are shtill lonely for me, t'en shwallow 
 t'e whole tamn pox. Your little hell cat : Taisy Montana. 
 
 CONSTANCE — Do you think it is safe for me to open 
 
48 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 any more, Mr. Lindenfels? 
 
 KARL — Are you afrait you'll fint a pox of bomb-bombs? 
 
 CONSTANCE — It's the language I am referring to. 
 
 KARL — Oh I see; veil, supposse you reat each cart to 
 yourself first, and if you t'ink it vill shock me, ton't reat it 
 out lout. I supposse a sick man ought to naff a censor. Putt 
 Taisy iss really t'e only memper of t'e chorus who shvares 
 real fluently. 
 
 CONSTANCE— Here is a basket of fruit "with love from 
 Carmen Caillaux." (She reads:) Dear Karl : — Hurry up 
 and get well ; without you life is pepless. 
 
 KARL — Vitout Carmen life iss pestless. 
 
 CONSTANCE — Would you like one of her peaches? 
 
 KARL — No ; it iss too near meal-time ; anyhow her peaches 
 vou't pe ass sour ass Carmen. 
 
 CONSTANCE— A box of candy from Violet Remington. 
 
 KARL — Poor Fiolet ! She hass a f oice like a typewriter. 
 How many more packages are t'ere, Miss Vakefielt? 
 
 CONSTANCE— Four boxes and three baskets. 
 
 KARL — Veil, ton't mint opening any more. Giff t'em 
 to your frients — to t'e nurse who iss caring for t'e olt man 
 vit cancer, to t'e nurse who iss attenting to t'e girl vit a 
 goitre, to t'e nurse who iss vaiting on t'e young voman who 
 vas inchert py her trunken husspant, to t'e nurse who iss 
 vatching ofer t'at chilt who vas porn vit so many teformi- 
 ties on account off her tiseas't vat'er ; to all t'ose frients off 
 yours who are nursing all t'ose unfortunate tefils you tolt 
 me apout. Giff my canty to t'em, and t'en Gwentolyn ant 
 Mapel ant Taisy ant Carmen ant Fiolet vill haff ton a goot 
 ting for vonce in t'eir lives. 
 
 CONSTANCE — (throwing the wrapping papers into the 
 wastebasket) You must have lots of friends, Mr. Lindenfels. 
 
 KARL — T'ey use't to pe my frients, putt now t'ey seem 
 like phantoms, ant I feel like running avay from t'em. I 
 feel ass t'ough I nefer vant to see t'em again. T'eir canty 
 vou't leaf a fery pat taste in my mout\ 
 
 (Miss Williams enters with a tray of food. She carries 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 49 
 
 it toward the bed and places it on the small windozv- 
 sill. After clearing the small table of the telephone, 
 ice-water and roses by placing them on the sill, she 
 places the tray from the sill on the table.) 
 
 KARL — To you like canty, Miss Villiams? 
 
 MISS WILLIAMS— Passionately, Mr. Lindenfels. 
 
 KARL — T'en take a pox vit you from f e tresser. 
 
 MISS WILLIAMS (pretending obedience) We are not 
 allowed to accept presents from the patients. There are 
 the rules on the back of the door. 
 
 KARL — I'm not giffing fe canty avay; I'm t'rowing it 
 avay. 
 
 MISS WILLIAMS— Oh, that's different. 
 
 (She takes a box of candy from the dresser on the way 
 out, winking at Constance who is approaching the bed.) 
 
 CONSTANCE — (taking the napkin from the tray and 
 spreading it across Karl's chest) Doctor Caldwell has allowed 
 you a soft-boiled egg tonight — your first solid food. 
 
 KARL— No more prof, T'ank Got ! 
 
 CONSTANCE— (opening the egg) Shall I break up the 
 toast in the egg? 
 
 KARL — If you pleace, Miss Vakefielt. 
 
 CONSTANCE — From what you said, it seems you are 
 tired of consomme. 
 
 KARL — It must pe t'at class tupe t'at makes it taste 
 alvays like meticine. 
 
 CONSTANCE— Well, after this I shall feed it to you 
 with a spoon. 
 
 KARL — Cou't you raice my he't a little higher vit anot'er 
 pillow ? 
 
 CONSTANCE — Yes ; I shall use this one which is under 
 your knees. 
 
 (She removes the pillow carefully, shakes it, passes her 
 left arm under his neck, lifts his head and places the 
 pillow under it.) 
 
 KARL— T'ank you; fat's much petter. 
 
 CONSTANCE — (after giving him the first spoonful of 
 
50 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 egg) Does it taste good ? (He nods his head.) That's right ; 
 don't try to speak. You may choke on it, and if you have 
 to cough, it will hurt your side. (Pause) Is the egg sea- 
 soned enough? 
 
 KARL — Yes ; let me naff some more quick. 
 
 CONSTANCE — (giving him a second spoonful) The 
 eggs served here are always nice and fresh. 
 
 KARL — T'e finest egg I haff ef er tasted ! 
 
 (Constance gases out of the window, and Karl gases up 
 into her face. When she places the third spoonful to 
 his mouth, he is still dreaming.) 
 
 CONSTANCE — Oh, I am so sorry, but you forgot to 
 open your mouth. That's why I spilled the egg all over your 
 chin. (She uses the napkin.) 
 
 KARL — I neet a shafe; ton't I. My peart is he'fy 
 enough to pore a hole t'rough t'e pillow. 
 
 CONSTANCE — I shall have the .barber stop in tomor- 
 row morning. (She gives him a fourth spoonful and then 
 glances out the window again.) 
 
 KARL — I am re'ty for more, Miss Vakefielt. 
 
 (As she continues to feed him, Marianne Le Grand enters 
 dressed in an elaborately beaded gown with hat and 
 shoes to match, carrying a fancy handbag and a bunch 
 of silk flowers of the same shade as her dress.) 
 
 MARIANNE — (leaving her bag on the Morris chair and 
 approaching the bed) Bonjour, Monsieur Karl ; comment 
 allez-vous ? 
 
 KARL — Tres bien. 
 
 MARIANNE — Qa me fait beaucoup de plasir d'entendre 
 ca. (to Constance,) It is so fine to see him eat again. Soon 
 he will be back to his composing. Let me see what zey feed 
 to mon petit genie. (She stands on tiptoe to observe the tray 
 on the other side of the bed.) Des oeufs a la coque, de la 
 rotie au beurre, du consomme — ah, if only he could have 
 zee lobster and champagne ! But soon we will eat an old 
 time dinner togezer. 
 
 CONSTANCE — If you wish to have dinner here with 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 51 
 
 Mr. Lindenfels now, I shall get you a tray. 
 
 MARIANNE— Zat would be fine, Mademoiselle; and 
 I shall feed mon cher Karl till you come back. (She re- 
 moves her gloves.) 
 
 CONSTANCE — (leaving) Very well, if you care to do 
 so — but I shall be back directly. 
 
 MARIANNE — (standing before the tray on the far side 
 of the bed) Ah ! it is great plasir to wait on mon cher Karl. 
 Que preferez-vous ? Un peu plus de oeuf ? 
 
 KARL — Non ; consomme. 
 
 MARIANNE — And how do you drink zee consomme? 
 
 KARL — T'rough t'at tamn class tupe. 
 
 MARIANNE — Oh, je comprends. Like zrough zee 
 straw — eh ! Ah, zat make you zink of zee Creme de Menthe. 
 I am glad zere is somezing about zee hospital to remind mon 
 cher Karl of zee life he is missing. (She places the tube 
 to his lips.) 
 
 KARL — (angrily) You haff pour't half off it town my 
 neck. 
 
 MARIANNE — Pardonez moi. Come; I do better zis 
 time. 
 
 KARL — No more. It iss rotten — oh, so rotten ! 
 
 MARIANNE — I shall have to see. (She sips some of it.) 
 Ugh ! you are right. It taste like zee dishwater. 
 
 KARL — Tishvater! How to you know vat tishvater 
 tastes like ven you haff nefer seen t'e insite off a kitchen? 
 You ton't eefen know how to make tishvater. You ton't 
 know how to make anyt'ing — not eefen a pet. You shou't 
 see Miss Vakefielt make my pet — make it vile I am shtill in 
 it. It iss vonterf ul ! 
 
 MARIANNE — (with jealousy) Yes. Mademoiselle 
 Wakefield can do such zings — but she cannot sing — like me. 
 
 KARL — Perhaps not; putt she makes me fery comfort- 
 aple. 
 
 MARIANNE — Ah, she make baby of mon cher Karl 
 always feeding him wiz zee spoon. Monsieur should have 
 had man-nurse. (She walks to the Morris chair, sits on the 
 
52 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 arm of it and swings her foot.) 
 
 KARL — A man-nurse ? Go vay ! A man-nurse vou't 
 hantle me so rough t'at efery time he vou't giff me a trink 
 off vater it vou't open my vount. Miss Vakefielt iss ass 
 gentle ass an ainchel. 
 
 MARIANNE— An angel ! Oh, I hate angels. 
 
 KARL — Off course you to ; you luff vicketness — you al- 
 vays tit. You hate gootness in any vone. 
 
 MARIANNE— Goodness ! Ha ha ha . . Goodness! 
 (She crosses her legs and continues to swing her foot.) 
 Mademoiselle Wakefield and Monsieur Lindenfels in zis 
 room all alone all night long — Goodness ! 
 
 KARL — For Got's sake, Marianne, ton't insult Miss 
 Vakefielt by putting her in your class. She iss a voman ; not 
 a prima tonna. 
 
 MARIANNE— Monsieur ! 
 
 ^Constance enters with another tray. No one speaks. 
 She rests it on the small table in the alcove and theyt 
 carries the table forward, placing it near the foot of the 
 bed. She also brings forward the small chair, placing it 
 beside the table so that the guest may face the patient. 
 Marianne sits down at the table and spreads the napkin 
 across her lap.) 
 
 MARIANNE— (coldly) Merci, Mademoiselle. 
 
 CONSTANCE — (lifting the silk flowers from the Morris 
 chair) Did you wish these placed in water? 
 
 MARIANNE — (sniggering) Non non, Mademoiselle; you 
 are so stupid. Zey are artificiel — a part of my dress. (She 
 glances at the flowers on the sill.) Where are zee poppies 
 and zee iris? Did you not get my note in zee box? 
 
 CONSTANCE— Yes, Miss Le Grand. 
 
 KARL — I told Miss Vakefielt to put t'e poppies in t'e 
 sun-parlor so t'at t'e ot'er patients coul't see t'e bright colors. 
 
 MARIANNE — But, Mon cher Karl, I sent zem to you. 
 Zey are . 
 
 KARL — I t'ought k vou't not hurt to giff a little off your 
 luff to t'e ot'er patients — to olt Mr. Collingvoot, for example, 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 53 
 
 whose nurse rolls him t'rough t'e hall efery morning past my 
 tore. He has cancer, Marianne — incuraple cancer. He 
 hass peen here for almost t'ree years ; in anot'er year fey 
 vill put him in a hole in t'e grount. You surely ton't mint 
 if Miss Vakefielt places t'e poppies v'ere t'at poor olt tefil can 
 see t'em. 
 
 MARIANNE — Ah, vous ne comprenez pas, Monsieur 
 Karl. I will gladly send some flowers to zis Monsieur Col- 
 lingwood's room, but zee poppies and zee iris — non. Zey 
 must be where mon cher Karl can see zem. Zey have zee 
 same coleurs as Marianne's costume in zee last act of zee 
 opera when she sing la belle chanson which mon petit genie 
 has not yet finished. Mon cher Karl — he must not forget 
 zee opera. Bring in zee poppies and zee iris, Mademoiselle. 
 
 (Constance leaves the room.) 
 
 MARIANNE — Ah, mon cher Karl, you are lose interest 
 in zee opera. You are begin to pity zee sick peoples and zee 
 old man wiz zee cancer who is already half dead. Mon cher 
 Karl must zink of brighter zings, of living peoples, of life, 
 of youth, of laughter, of song, of danse, of musique, of me. 
 
 (Constance returns with the jar of flowers.) 
 
 MARIANNE — See how zee poor poppies are fading and 
 wilting because mon cher Karl will not look at zem. Put 
 zem at zee window beside his bed, Mademoiselle, and take 
 zee pink roses to zee sun-parlor. Let zee poor old man wiz 
 zee nasty cancer have zee nice pink roses. 
 
 (Constance leaves the room with the roses.) 
 
 MARIANNE — So. Now mon petit genie will zink of his 
 opera. Could you not work on zee manuscript, mon cher 
 Karl, if you would sit up in bed? 
 
 KARL — I must lie on my pack until t'e sefenth tay. 
 
 MARIANNE — Oh, how I hate zee fixed rules of zee hos- 
 pital. (She takes up the salt cellar and seasons her lamb 
 chop.) No meat until zee fifth day. (She puts down the 
 salt with a bang and takes up the pepper.) No sit up until 
 zee seventh day. (She puts down the pepper with a similar 
 bang.) It is all so absurd. It is well enough for zee man 
 
54 • THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 ordinaire, but zee genius must know no laws. (She seizes 
 her knife and attacks the chop.) 
 
 KARL — Ton't try to run t'e hospital, Marianne. For 
 Got's sake, shut your mout' ant eat. 
 (Constance appears again.) 
 
 CONSTANCE — Do you wish anything more, Mr. Lin- 
 denfels? 
 
 KARL — A little plack coffee, pleace. 
 CONSTANCE — (going to the tray) I suppose it's cold 
 by this time. 
 
 MARIANNE— Here is my pot, Mademoiselle. I not 
 drink coffee; it ruin zee complexion. 
 
 (Constance takes the little silver pot from Marianne and 
 
 pours some coffee into his cup.) 
 KARL— Must I take it t'rough t'at awful tupe, Miss 
 Vakefielt ? 
 
 CONSTANCE — No, I shall raise your head and then you 
 can drink it from the cup. 
 
 (She places her left arm under his neck, lifts his head 
 and places the cup to his lips. Marianne drops her knife 
 and fork and watches enviously what she mistakes for 
 a display of affection.) 
 CONSTANCE— Is it too hot? 
 
 KARL — It iss just right — fery, fery goot, Miss Vake- 
 fielt. T'at vill be enough ; t'ank you. 
 
 (Constance places the cup on the tray, removes the nap- 
 kin and carries the tray toward the door.) 
 CONSTANCE — (at the door) I am going for dinner now, 
 Mr. Lindenfels. If you want anything, just ring. 
 KARL — Ton't forget to take some canty vit you. 
 (Constance rests the tray on the dresser, places several 
 boxes of candy upon it while Marianne is craning her 
 neck to watch her. The nurse leaves.) 
 MARIANNE — Ah, you buy candy for Mademoiselle! 
 Three boxes ! Why did you not ask me to give you zee 
 coffee? I could put my arm around mon cher Karl's neck 
 just as well as Mademoiselle Wakefield. 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 55 
 
 KARL — V'y ton't you eat? Your lampchop vill be colt. 
 
 MARIANNE— Ah, elle est exquis ! 
 
 KARL — I can shmell it ofer here — shmell it all t'e petter 
 pecausse I haff not shmell't meat for t'ree tays. 
 
 MARIANNE — (carrying a bite to him on her fork) Mon 
 cher Karl, zey are starving you. (She holds the meat to his 
 mouth.) 
 
 KARL — No, Marianne ; Toctor Caltvell says I am not 
 allow't to eat meat yet, and if I tit, poor Miss Vakefielt vou't 
 get t'e plame. 
 
 MARIANNE — (walking away from the bed and throw- 
 ing the fork down on the tray) I hate Monsieur le docteur ; 
 I hate zis Mademoiselle Wakefield ; I hate zee whole damn 
 hospital. (She ties her napkin in a knot and fires it down on 
 the tray.) 
 
 KARL — (laughing) Ha ha ha . . (holding his side) 
 Ouch ! Ha ha ha . . . Ouch ! Ha ha ha . . Ouch ! 
 
 MARIANNE— (mockingly) Ha ha ha . . . Ouch! 
 Ha ha ha . . . Ouch ! 
 
 KARL — Ton't make me laugh, Marianne; it hurts ven I 
 laugh. 
 
 MARIANNE — It hurt me too when you laugh. Mon 
 cher Karl no more love Marianne. (She sinks into the Mor- 
 ris chair, weeping aloud and using her handkerchief — very 
 carefully.) 
 
 KARL — (holding out his arms to her comically) Je vous 
 atore ! Je vous atore ! 
 
 MARIANNE — You lie; you make fool of Marianne 
 after she has so much done for you. Oh, zee ingratitude — 
 zee ingratitude ! (She dries her eyes, and uses the powder 
 and mirror from her handbag.) I sing his songs as no one 
 else could sing zem ; I bring him before zee public ; I make 
 him famous. Zen he forsake me for zis ordinaire femme 
 de chambre — zis Mademoiselle Wakefield. Any woman 
 could do what she do for you. Zere are five hundred like 
 her in zee city; zeir names are all in zee directory. Five 
 hundred, Monsieur ! Five hundred ! But zere is only one 
 
56 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 Marianne Le Grand who want to make you great man — who 
 want to make whole world worship you. Ah, mon cher 
 Karl, you must forget zis Mademoiselle, zis hospital, zis 
 everyzing. And I have brought somezing zat will make you 
 forget too. (She produces a bottle of wine from her hand- 
 bag.) Zis ! Zis ! I know Monsieur le docteur not want you 
 drink wine ; mais il ne comprend pas. He not know zat you 
 are a great genius who can violate laws and still survive — 
 who must violate all zee rules to survive. Zat is why I 
 have smuggled in zee wine ; I have already drawn zee cork 
 so zat no one would hear. (She pours some wine into the 
 cup on her tray.) Ah, zee good wine ! (She carries it to 
 the far side of the bed.) Come let Marianne put arms around 
 your neck like nurse ; let Marianne lift your head. (She 
 imitates the nurse's method.) Come, mon cher Karl, drink 
 a little wine for zee inspiration. 
 
 KARL — Marianne you must not tempt me like t'is ; you 
 know my appetite for vine ; you know how it makes my plutt 
 poil — how it excites me. I neet rest, Marianne. I must not 
 trink ; I vill not trink ! 
 
 MARIANNE — (rubbing her cheek against his) Ah, mon 
 cher Karl — mon petit genie — take not much — only one sip — 
 one little sip. (She places the cup to his lips.) 
 
 KARL — (pushing the cup away angrily) I tell you no ! 
 Tamn it, no ! If I took it, Miss Vakefielt vou't be tishcharg't. 
 
 MARIANNE— (ferociously) Miss Wakefield! Miss 
 Wakefield! Tou jours! Tou jours! Tou jours! (She with- 
 drazvs her arm suddenly, letting his head fall back on the 
 pillow.) Oh how I (sarcastically) love zis Miss Wakefield ! 
 (She returns to the table and fills the cup to the brim.) I will 
 drink to you, Mademoiselle Wakefield. A votre sante? 
 (then with vicious contempt) Non ! Non ! Non ! Not to 
 your health, but to your damnation! (She drains the cup 
 and then dashes it down on the tray.) Bonsoir, Monsieur 
 Lindenfels. (She takes up her flozvers and her handbag, 
 struts to the door, then turns suddenly to throw him a kiss.) 
 Bonsoir ! 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 57 
 
 (She leaves the room. Karl reaches for the call-bell, rings 
 it three times, pausing long between each ring. Miss 
 Williams enters quickly.) 
 
 MISS WILLIAMS— Miss Wakefield is at dinner; she 
 has asked me to answer your calls. 
 
 KARL — Pleace take t'ese rotten, foul-shmelling poppies 
 avay. T'row t'em in t'e carbitch can, ant pring me t'e pink 
 roses from t'e sun-parlor. 
 
 (Miss Williams seems to understand. Holding the flowers 
 at arm's length with one hand and holding her nose 
 with the other, she staggers from the room. 
 
 It is gradually growing dark out-of-doors. 
 
 Karl pulls on the light at the head of his bed, then reaches 
 under his pillozv for his zvatch and opens it.) 
 
 KARL — Marianne, you poisonous olt shnake ! To t'ink 
 t'at I naff carrie't your picture in my vatch next to my 
 heart ! I vant no more to see you. No more ! No more ! 
 (He dashes the watch on the tile floor.) 
 
 fMiss Williams enters with the roses.) 
 
 MISS WILLIAMS— Where shall I put them Mr. Lin- 
 denfels? 
 
 KARL — Here on t'e taple pesite me, pleace. 
 
 MISS WILLIAMS — (obeying) Is there anything else I 
 can do for you? 
 
 KARL — Yes; pleace remoof t'at tray — ant cover up t'e 
 pottle. 
 
 MISS WILLIAMS— (sternly) Have you been drinking, 
 sir? 
 
 KARL— V'y to you ask? 
 
 MISS WILLIAMS— Because Doctor Caldwell forbids 
 you to. 
 
 KARL — Veil, you're not going to tell him ; are you ? 
 
 MISS WILLIAMS — (holding the tray over her shoulder) 
 I am supposed to. 
 
 KARL — You are also supposse't not to take canty. Pleace 
 take ano'ter pox on t'e vay out. 
 
 (She walks to the dresser, puts a box of candy on the 
 
58 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 tray and then leaves the room — almost colliding with 
 Tony as he enters. He waves his hand after her and 
 throws her a few kisses as she marches down the hall. 
 Tony has a violin-case in his hand and a small package 
 under his arm. He is a handsome Italian with devilish 
 eyes, red cheeks and lips, and a black mustache. He 
 wears a soft green felt hat at a rakish angle, and does 
 not remove it — for he is a reckless musician absolutely 
 devoid of manners. He deposits his case and package 
 on the Morris chair and rushes to the bed, falling across 
 it.) 
 TONY— Oh, Mista Carlo! Mista Carlo! Me glad! Me 
 glad! 
 
 KARL— Ouch ! 
 
 TONY — Oh, me f or-ged ; me f or-ged. When dey tella me 
 dey cuda you open, me sleepa nod a wink; and when me 
 playa da violin, tremolo. . . tremolo . . tremolo. Bud 
 now you live again, and Tony play again. (He opens his 
 violin-case and takes out the instrument and the bow.) 
 Yes. Listen, Mista Carlo ; Tony — he play again. (He 
 draws the bow across the strings, producing beautiful legato 
 strains.) 
 
 KARL — Yes, Tony ; I can hear t'at you are petter again. 
 TONY — Bud Mista Carlo — he nod yed bedder. Da eyes — 
 dey looga far bag ; and he needa da shave. 
 KARL — T'e parper's coming to-morrow. 
 TONY — Den Mista Carlo looga nize. (He pinches 
 Karl's cheeks affectionately.) Den Mista Carlo looga like 
 selve. Now Mista Carlo looga like — like — 
 KARL— Like hell? 
 
 TONY — No ; he looga more like Chrized. 
 KARL — I haffn't suffer't so much ass t'at, Tony. 
 TONY — Telia me: when dey stiga da knive in da bell, 
 mucha pain? 
 
 KARL — You ton't feel any off it, Tony. 
 
 TONY — Nod till you wega up? 
 
 KARL— T'e vaking up! T'at iss vonterful; t'at iss t'e 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 59 
 
 crantest t'ing I haff efer exshperience't. Sit town, Tony; 
 I vill tell you apout it. (Tony perches on the near side of 
 the bed. The room is almost dark now save for the light 
 from the reading-lamp, which falls only on the pillows and 
 the counterpane.) You seem to pe up among t'e clouts, 
 ant you hear sveet musik. Play somet'ing, Tony : play 
 some Schumann. (Tony places the violin under his chin 
 and, by chance, starts and continues the "Warum?" with 
 much feeling and expression.) T'ere iss a haze — a golten 
 mist pefore your eyes, and t'rough t'e mist you pegin to see 
 a lot off pink roses ; ant t'e roses open viter ant viter ant 
 pecome pinker ant pinker — ant among t'em you gratually see 
 an ainchel. An ainchel, Tony ! An ainchel — all in vite. 
 Oh, such a luffly ainchel vit such luffly eyes ! Ant she pents 
 ofer you ant kisses your lips vit cool vater. 
 
 TONY — (stopping the music abruptly) Wid cool wader? 
 No ; me like-a da wine on da angel lip ! 
 
 KARL — No, Tony; t'ere iss no vine to make your plutt 
 hot. Your lips are alre'ty hot, ant t'e ainchel kisses t'em vit 
 cool vater. Ant oh, how she reliefs you ! 
 
 TONY — (jumping from the bed) No. Mista Carlo — he 
 dream; dis nod real. 
 
 KARL — It iss real, Tony. See here are t'e roses. Come 
 ant shmell t'em. How fine ! (He reaches over and lifts the 
 roses from the table.) 
 
 TONY — Me nod like-a smell roses; me like-a smell niza 
 cigar, (He places his violin on the chair and opens the 
 package.) Me foringa Mista Carlo niza box cigars. 
 
 KARL — I am not allow't to shmoke, Tony. (He re- 
 turns the roses.) 
 
 TONY — (opening the box and offering it) Mista Carlo 
 smoke-a one — jusda one wid Tony. 
 
 KARL — No, Tony ; t'e ainchel tussn't vant me to shmoke. 
 
 TONY — (exasperated) Dis angel mega me sick. Dis 
 angel nod like-a cigaredd like-a Carmen, like-a Daisy, like-a 
 Maybelle, like-a Gwendolyn — eh, Mista Carlo? (He pokes 
 his finger playfully into Karl's ribs.) 
 
60 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 KARL— Ouch ! 
 
 TONY — Oh, me for-ged; me for-ged. (He takes a cigar 
 from the box and returns the box to the chair. He strikes 
 a match on his trousers and lights his cigar.) 
 
 KARL — Taisy ant Mapel — t'ey are not'ing compar't to 
 t'is ainchel. 
 
 TONY — Where is dis angel? Me looga for dis angel. 
 (With his match still burning, he gets down on his knees 
 and crawls part way under the bed.) Whad dis ? (He pulls 
 the cot out part way.) 
 
 KARL — T'at's t'e ainchel's pet. 
 
 TONY — Whad? Dis angel crawla between here to 
 sleep ? 
 
 KARL — No ; she pulls it out first. 
 
 TONY— Oh ! (He finds the watch.) Looga, Mista Carlo ; 
 me finda dis angel's alarm clog. See ! here is da angel's 
 pigdure inside. 
 
 KARL— No, Tony; t'at's t'e tevil's picture. 
 
 TONY — (holding the picture in the Ught) Dis Marianne 
 Le Grand. 
 
 KARL — Yes ; you giff her t'e vatch tonight at rehearsal. 
 Tell her I sent it to her ; tell her it von't go no more. 
 
 TONY — You wanda Marianne to fixa wadge ? 
 
 KARL — She can't haff it mentet ; it iss proken for ef er — 
 for efer. 
 
 TONY — (rising quickly from his knees) Whad ! Mista 
 Carlo — he no more love-a Marianne? 
 
 KARL — I nefer tit luff Marianne. I nefer knew vat luff 
 vas until I saw t'e ainchel — t'e ainchel who kiss't my lips 
 vit cool vaiter. 
 
 TONY — (laughing) Oh, Mista Carlo — he soon wega 
 up ; he nod love-a dis angel long — angel and cool wader and 
 Schumann. He soon wanda Marianne again and Carmen 
 and Maybelle; he soon wanda real woman — woman and 
 wine. And Mista Carlo will sing again whad he singa always : 
 (playing his accompaniment, holding bow and cigar in the 
 same hand) 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 61 
 
 "Wer liebt nicht Weib, Wein und Gesang, 
 Er blei'bt ein Narr sein Leben lang." 
 
 KARL — No, Tony ; I am t'rough vit girls who haff vine 
 ant rootch on t'eir lips ant vildfire in t'eir feins ant eyes. I 
 hafT seen t'e ainchel now, ant I luff her. (He repeats it 
 with an emotional tremor.) I luff her; Ich Hebe wie ich 
 noch nie geliebt ! T'ere's such a kint soft, pe'utiful light 
 in her eyes — Lieibeslicht ! Ant her hant makes me feel so 
 goot ven she touches my forehe't. I am so happy ven she 
 iss near me, Tony, I fint it hart to shpeak. T'at's real luff, 
 Tony : ven a man iss af rait to tell a voman how much he 
 atores her — ven he hass to pretent he iss ashleep pefore he 
 hass t'e courritch to shpeak vat iss on hiss heart. 
 
 TONY — (walking away from the bed, shaking his head) 
 Mista Carlo — he mucha sick; mucha sick. 
 
 KARL — (more forcibly) Oh, I know vat lust iss, Tony ; 
 I know vat you enchoy ant pelief in : Sitting up late at 
 night ofer your vine pottles, trinking to t'e purning eyes 
 across t'e taple — trinking until your he't feels pig ant varm 
 — until your whole poty feels pig ant varm — ant t'en empty- 
 ing yourself out again ant again until you are vorn out ant 
 veak — until t'e last trop of fitality hass peen shot out off your 
 system. (He shakes his head.) No more off t'at for me, 
 Tony. I vill haff not'ing more to to vit vimmen who haff 
 not'ing putt poties. I vant a voman vit a soul — like t'e 
 ainchel. 
 
 TONY — Mista Carlo — he become saind ; me said he looga 
 like Chrized. Mista Carlo musd geda shave quig and come-a 
 bag to Marianne, to Maybelle, to Daisy. Herr Schmedder- 
 ling — he nod condugd like Mista Carlo — no abandono — no 
 pep ! Maybelle, Carmen, Gwendolyn — nod able to dance : 
 Miss Le Grand nod able to sing; orchesdra nod able to play. 
 Mista Carlo nod condugd rehearsal, den rehearsal go-a rotten 
 — rotten — rotten . 
 
 KARL — I vill nefer return again, Tony. I am going to 
 giff up t'at life ant liff a new vone. 
 
 TONY — (with vehemence) No, no, no, Mista Carlo ; no 
 
62 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 no, no. (He paces the floor, scratching furiously on his 
 violin.) 
 
 KARL — (with determination) Yes, yes, yes, Mister Tony; 
 yes, yes, yes. Tell Marianne, tell Schmetterling, tell Guil- 
 bert, tell all of t'em I nef er vant to see t'em again. Nefer ! 
 TONY — You tawga nonsense. (He approaches the bed 
 with a leap and thrusts his bow into Karl's side as though it 
 were a poinard.) God damn it ! Weg up ! 
 KARL— Ouch ! Ouch ! 
 
 TONY — (scratching his head )Oh, me for-ged; me for-ged. 
 But Mista Carlo — he noda ride in da head ; he tawga like sick 
 monkey. No smoke ! No Wine ! No Maybelle ! He no more 
 man. Dis angel — she mega angel of Mista Carlo too. 
 
 KARL — She hass made a new man off him, Tony — t'e 
 kint of man a pure voman hass alvays peen villing to lift" 
 vit putt nefer aple to fint. A fellow hass got to cut out more 
 t'an hiss appentix if he vishes to afoit pain ant misery; he 
 hass got to cut out t'e hapits t'at ruin hiss mint ant poty; 
 he hass got to come to voman ass pure ant untaintet ass t'e 
 ainchel hass come to me. 
 
 TONY — (throwing his violin into the case) Dis angel — 
 she mega Mista Carlo crazy in da nud. (He snatches up the 
 violin-case.) Gooda nide ; me lade for overture. Me wisha 
 dis angel in hell ! 
 
 KARL — She iss in hell, Tony; she iss here in t'is hospi- 
 tal vich iss fill't vit croaning sinners ant innocent vimmen 
 ant chiltern who are t'e consequences off intemperance ant 
 proshtitution. She iss an ainchel in hell, Tony, trying to 
 trife out t'e tefil ant pring relief to t'ose whom he hass 
 lure't into hiss vays. 
 
 (Tony rushes to the door and finds himself face to face 
 with Constance, zvho has just opened it. She remains 
 standing on the threshold, the light from the hall falling 
 on her white uniform and causing it to stand out 
 brightly in contrast with the darkness of the room. 
 Tony, for the first time since his entrance, removes his 
 hat and passes her with bowed head. Constance enters 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 63 
 
 the room and closes the door softly. She lights the 
 bracket-lamp between the door and the dresser. J 
 CONSTANCE— Another friend of yours, Mr. Linden- 
 fels? 
 
 KARL — Yes ; vone off t'e players in t'e orchestra. 
 CONSTANCE — (carrying the small chair back to its 
 place in the alcove) You have had lots of visitors and pres- 
 ents this afternoon. 
 
 KARL — Tit you giff t'e canty to t'e nurses ? 
 CONSTANCE — Oh, yes; while they were at dinner. 
 They all asked me to thank you ever so much, and they all 
 wish you a speedy recovery. 
 KARL— Got pless t'em. 
 
 CONSTANCE — (carrying the small table back to its 
 place in the alcove) Aren't you tired after having so much 
 company ? 
 
 KARL — Yes; vat time iss it? 
 CONSTANCE— Has your watch stopped? 
 KARL — It fell on t'e floor ant proke. 
 CONSTANCE— Ah. 
 KARL— I gafe it to Tony. 
 
 CONSTANCE— And he will have it all fixed up. Well, 
 its almost bedtime. See. (She holds her hand under his 
 light that he might use the watch on her wrist.) 
 KARL — It is alvays pet-time vit me. 
 CONSTANCE— That's true; I should have said sleep- 
 time. I shall try to make you very comfortable so that you 
 will have a good night's rest. 
 
 (She removes the ice-water, glass tube and telephone from 
 the windowsill, placing them on the white iron table 
 with the roses. She unfolds the screen before the win- 
 dow. Then she walks around the foot of the bed to 
 the little cabinet, takes the metal pitcher from it and 
 carries it into the bathroom. She turns on the lamp in 
 the bathroom; a patch of light falls on the wall in Karl's 
 room. One can hear the water running from the faucet 
 into the pitcher. She returns with the pitcher and with 
 
64 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 washcloth, soap and towel, placing them on the cabinet 
 and drawing the cabinet closer to the bed. She pours 
 some water into the bowl and, standing on the near side 
 of the bed, washes and dries his face and hands in 
 silence.) 
 
 CONSTANCE— Does that feel better now, Mr. Linden- 
 fels? 
 
 KARL— Much petter ; t'ank you. 
 
 CONSTANCE — Isn't your iback tired and hot from lying 
 so long? 
 
 KARL — Yes ; it iss. 
 
 CONSTANCE — I shall rub it with alcohol to harden and 
 cool the skin. 
 
 (She carefully removes his left arm from the coat of his 
 pajamas and then helps him to turn over slowly on his 
 right side. The light from the reading-lamp shines down 
 on his bare frail back. She takes a bottle from the inside 
 of the cabinet, pours some of the contents into the palm 
 of her hand and rubs well his shoulders and his spine. 
 She smooths the wrinkles out of the sheet and helps 
 him place his arm back in the sleeve.) 
 
 CONSTANCE— Now turn slowly. (He does so.) It's 
 much cooler this evening. Shall I put the blanket on? 
 
 KARL— Pleace. 
 
 (She walks to the dresser and gets the blanket from the 
 drawer; she also brings the thermometer with her. She 
 places the latter under his tongue. Then she turns 
 back the counterpane, straightens out the upper sheet, 
 puts on the blanket and spreads the counterpane over 
 it. She takes his pulse, then removes the thermometer 
 from his mouth, observing the reading.) 
 
 CONSTANCE — (walking to the dresser to record her 
 observation) Your pulse and temperature are normal to- 
 night. (She returns to the bed.) Shall I remove the extra 
 pillow ? 
 
 KARL— Pleace. 
 
 (As usual she places her arm behind his neck, lifts his 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 65 
 
 head, removes both pillows, lowers his head gently, 
 shakes one of the pillows and places it under his head 
 again.) 
 KARL— Tank you. 
 
 CONSTANCE — (carrying the extra pillow to the dresser 
 drawer) You ought to sleep well tonight. Doctor Caldwell 
 will be here any moment with the capsules. 
 
 (She moves the cabinet back to its correct position against 
 
 the wall, pulls the cot out from under the bed so that 
 
 it is separated from it by a distance of about two feet. 
 
 She turns back the white counterpane on the cot, then 
 
 walks to the dresser, takes the chart and a pencil, returns 
 
 to the cot and places them under her pillow.) 
 
 CONSTANCE — You see, Mr. Lindenfels, I am prepared 
 
 to record what you say in your sleep. (There is a rap on 
 
 the door.) Come in. 
 
 (Caldwell enters with his medicine case.) 
 CALDWELL — Well, how is my patient tonight? 
 CONSTANCE — He is ready to take the capsules, Doctor. 
 I shall get him a glass of hot milk, — and while I am out I 
 might as well get you a pitcher of fresh water, Mr. Linden- 
 fels. (She goes to the far side of the bed to get the glass 
 pitcher from the table.) Is your ice-cap still cold ? 
 KARL— No. 
 
 CONSTANCE— I'll refill that also. (She reaches for the 
 cap under the covers, removes the cloth which is wrapped 
 about it, places the cloth on the foot of the bed and then 
 leaves with the cap and the pitcher.) 
 
 KARL— V'y iss it I ton't shleep, Toctor ? 
 CALDWELL — (sitting down amicably on the side of the 
 cot nearest the bed) I suppose it's due to the general shock 
 which the operation has given to your whole system. 
 KARL — You are certain it iss tue to t'at ? 
 CALDWELL — I don't know what else it could be unless 
 you are worrying about being drafted into the army. To- 
 morrow is Registration Day, you know. 
 
 KARL — To tell you t'e trut', Toctor, I hat forgotten all 
 
66 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 apout t'e war. Are you going to enlist ? 
 
 CALDWELL — I have already registered with The Red 
 Cross. 
 
 KARL — I supposse t'ey vill neet lots of physicians, putt 
 t'ey surely cou'tn't giff each vountet soltier ass much atten- 
 tion ass you are giffing me ? 
 
 CALDWELL — I suppose most attention is given where 
 there is chance of a speedy recovery. If a soldier has re- 
 ceived a very large and serious injury, he would be of no 
 further use as a fighter. 
 
 KARL— Ant vat vou't t'ey to vit him? 
 
 CALDWELL — It's a question. Unless he had a close 
 friend to hunt him out, he might be left behind to die. 
 
 KARL — T'at issn't a fery pleasant t'ought — iss it? — unless 
 vone peliefs in life after te'th. I supposse you t'ink it non- 
 sense to pelief t'at, Toctor ? 
 
 CALDWELL — I could never believe it, Lindenfels, even 
 if I wanted to. Of course a man's influence on others often 
 lives after the man himself has died, and they will continue 
 to think and speak of him as though he were still alive ; but 
 as to the man's own consciousness as to what the living are 
 still saying and doing — that is all bosh. Now understand 
 that while this is my view I have no desire to impose it on 
 others. If, for example, it makes a mother happier to believe 
 that her son, killed outright in battle and buried in France, 
 is still living, breathing, walking, clasping her hand, why 
 should any one try to dispel the illusion and make her miser- 
 able by preaching that the boy is teetotally dead — dead as 
 a door nail — gone forever and forever. Amen. 
 
 KARL — I use't to t'ink so too, Toctor; but now I t'ink 
 tifferently. 
 
 CALDWELL — Maybe you would like to convert me? 
 
 KARL — Veil, you see ven I hat my acute attack of ap- 
 penticitus, t'e effect vas t'e same ass t'ough I hat peen shtruck 
 vit a shell. (He snaps his fingers.) T'at quick eferyt'ing 
 grew plack pefore me, ant I fell town like te't. Ant titn't 
 I remain unconscious? Vasn't I ass goot ass te't vile I 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 67 
 
 vas unter t'e influence off et'er? Ant, my Got, haff I not 
 vaken't up into a new life t'at iss certainly he'fenly compar't 
 to the vone I vas liffing on eart' ? 
 
 CALDWELL — But to be under the influence of the 
 anesthetic is not the unconsciousness of death. Your heart 
 continues to beat and you still breathe. In other words, you 
 are still alive. 
 
 KARL — Yes; putt it iss tifferent from ortinary life. 
 
 CALDWELL — It is the same as the unconsciousness of 
 sleep. 
 
 KARL — No, Toctor ; it iss f ery tifferent from shleep : 
 Ven I am ashleep I vake up tamn quick if somevone shticks 
 a knife in my pelly. 
 
 CALDWELL — That's true ; it is different from sleep. 
 
 KARL — I tell you it iss a shtate petween t'e life vich 
 preceets te'th ant t'e life vich follows it. It is like t'e vone 
 pecausse my heart shtill peats, ant it iss like t'e ot'er pecausse 
 it iss impossiple to causse me any physical pain eefen t'ough 
 you cut me to pieces. 
 
 CALDWELL— Yes ; that's true. Go on. 
 
 KARL — Now you say t'at ven a man iss te't, he tuss not 
 hear vat ot'ers are saying apout him. 
 
 CALDWELL — No ; of course not. He is deprived of all 
 his senses — not only feeling. 
 
 KARL — Yet ven I vas in t'at te't contition — te't in t'at I 
 cou't feel no physical pain — I he'rt some t'ings I vas not 
 supposse't to hear. 
 
 CALDWELL — Impossible. What did you hear? See if 
 I can verify it. I remember everything that was said over 
 the operating table. 
 
 KARL — I ton't recall just vat I he'rt; I just recall harring 
 he'rt somet'ng. I recall hafring he'rt your foice, alt'ough I 
 cou't not see you. 
 
 CALDWELL — You just imagine now that you actually 
 heard me then. 
 
 KARL — Later I may pe aple to tell you not t'e exact 
 vorts putt t'e t'ing you vere talking apout. T'en you vill 
 
68 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 pelief me. But t'ere's anot'er t'ing, Toctor : Now t'at I am 
 out of t'e anest'etic, my life iss more like life after te'th t'an 
 life pefore te'th. 
 
 CALDWELL— In what way? 
 
 KARL — I am shtill lifting alt'ough I haff lost a part off 
 my poty — my appentix. Issn't t'at t'e peginning of shpirit- 
 uality? 
 
 CALDWELL — The appendix is not important; it has no 
 office whatever. 
 
 KARL — T'at may pe true enough, putt it iss a first shtep ; 
 ant you know t'at a man can lifT ven more important organs 
 t'an his appentix are remoof't? 
 
 CALDWELL — Yes ; he can live without teeth, without 
 eyes, with only a part of his intestines, with only one lung 
 or one kidney ; and he can live without his sexual organs. 
 
 KARL — Vitout hiss sexual orkans ? Issn't t'at vonterf ul ? 
 
 CALDWELL — But you must not forget that it is a 
 most abnormal, unsatisfactory, miserable way of living; and 
 you must remember that there are limitations here also ; 
 there are certain organs without which one cannot even live 
 abnormally and miserably — without which one must in- 
 evitably die. 
 
 KARL — I am not so shure off t'at, Toctor. Ass a result 
 my own exshperience ant off vat you haff tolt me, I pelief 
 t'e tay vill come ven I can t'row avay efery part of t'is whole 
 peastly, tissipatet ant tiseas't poty off mine ant shtill liff — 
 liff vitout t'inking off tisease — liff vitout t'inking off sex — 
 liff in shpirit alone. By Got, Toctor, I pelief it vit all my 
 heart ant soul. 
 
 CALDWELL— With all your heart? (He laughs.) You 
 still need your heart in order to believe it. Well, Linden- 
 fels, if you care to think in that way, I won't encourage you 
 any more than I would encourage that unfortunate mother 
 to think otherwise. 
 
 KARL — Tell me, Toctor ; are you ass happy now ass 
 you efer exshpect to pe? 
 
 CALDWELL — I can't say that I am ; but I hope to reach. 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 69 
 
 that state before and not after death. 
 
 KARL— Ven? 
 
 CALDWELL — When I am a married man. 
 
 KARL — You mean to infer t'at marritch vill pring you a 
 pleasure vich you haff nefer pefore exshperienced ? 
 
 CALDWELL— Exactly, Mr. Lindenfels. 
 
 KARL — You are vone in a t'ousant! 
 
 CALDWELL — My religion is morality. I don't see why 
 any one should desire life after death unless one has made a 
 botch of the life which precedes it. An immoral, diseased 
 man, for example, may want a second chance to live right- 
 eously without a body after he has discovered that he can't 
 do so and still possess one. But to a moral man, the temp- 
 tations of the flesh enrich existence : for the sorrow through 
 resistance and the joy in anticipation are the very elements 
 that make his life sweet. To have an untainted body and 
 to know that the functions of its organs shall ultimately be 
 purely and properly discharged in union with another— this, 
 to me, is the acme of happiness. I desire no further happi- 
 ness in anything so chimerical as the spirit. 
 
 KARL — Off course you vill vant no ot'er man to haff 
 luff't your vife pefore you marry her? 
 
 CALDWELL— Love her in the flesh? Decidedly not, 
 Mr. Lindenfels. 
 
 KARL — Putt in shpirit? 
 
 CALDWELL — Just what do you mean by that? 
 
 KARL — Veil ; supposse your vife vou't tie. Vou't you 
 shtill opject to anot'er man luffing her t'en? 
 
 CALDWELL — How could I? If by loving a woman 
 you mean simply thinking how lovely she is, well — how 
 could any one prevent that in any man and why would any 
 one want to prevent it — in particular, if the woman were 
 dead — when divorce would no longer be possible? 
 
 KARL — If you t'ink it iss impossiple to tiforce t'e shpirit 
 off a voman from t'e poty off a man, t'en surely it iss more 
 impossiple to tiforce two shpirits — t'e shpirit off a voman 
 from t'e shpirit off t'e man who luffs it. I am assuming now 
 
70 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 t'at t'e man who luffs your vife iss, ass you say, also t'et. 
 
 CALDWELL — (rising) Lindenfels, to me this is all torn- 
 myrot and insanity, but let me tell you for a third time that 
 I will discourage no man from the belief that Spirituality is 
 The Great Reliever. If a man who hasn't found the right 
 mate in the flesh is relieved by the belief that he shall do so 
 in the spirit, — whatever that may mean, — I am perfectly 
 willing to let him believe so — even if he has an eye on the 
 spirit of the woman who is to become my own wife. 
 
 KARL — You vill shake hants on t'at, Toctor? 
 
 CALDWELL — (reaching for Karl's extended hand and 
 pressing it firmly) Yes, if it will help to make you feel better. 
 (then anxious to change the subject of conversation) What 
 wonderful roses you ha\e over there! 
 
 KARL — Yes; I must tell you apout t'ose roses, Toctor. 
 Ven I came out off t'e anest'etic t'e first t'ing I saw vas. . . 
 
 (Constance enters.) 
 
 CALDWELL — Now let me see ; you wanted something 
 to make you sleep tonight ; didn't you ? 
 
 KARL— Yes, Toctor. 
 
 CALDWELL— Well, I shall leave two capsules with Miss 
 Wakefield. 
 
 (Constance places the ice-cap, the hot milk and the ice- 
 water on the dresser to take the medicine which the doc- 
 tor holds out as he approaches her.) 
 
 CALDWELL— May I see Mr. Lindenfels's chart? 
 
 CONSTANCE — (first glancing over the articles on the 
 dresser) Oh yes ; I had forgotten. I have placed it under 
 my pillow. (She walks to the cot to get it.) 
 
 CALDWELL — That's a new place for it. 
 
 CONSTANCE— Well you see, Doctor, Mr. Lindenfels is 
 accustomed to talking in his sleep, and he asked me to record 
 what he might say tonight. I thought I would keep the 
 chart handy and write on the back of it. 
 
 CALDWELL— Oh, I understand. 
 
 (She hands him the chart. He sits under the light near 
 the door to read it. She carries the capsules and the 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 71 
 
 hot milk to the far side of the bed, holds up her patient's 
 head with her left arm, as usual, and gives him the medi- 
 cine. Caldwell, although pretending to read, watches 
 her. She returns to the dresser for the ice-cap and the 
 water-pitcher to find him still reading the chart with 
 unusual interest, it seems. She walks back to the bed, 
 places the water on the table, wraps the cloth about the 
 ice-cap and places it over her patient's incision.) 
 
 CONSTANCE — Will you have a sip of cool water, Mr. 
 Lindenfels? 
 
 KARL— Pleace. 
 
 (She pours out some water and gives it to him through the 
 tube. Caldwell rises and approaches the bed to hand her 
 the chart.) 
 
 CALDWELL— Good night. 
 
 KARL— Goot night, Toctor. 
 
 (Caldwell turns about and walks slowly to the door. Con- 
 stance places the chart under her pillow. He passes out 
 into the hall, closing the door very slowly and reluc- 
 tantly behind him. She extinguishes the bracket-lamp 
 at the dresser, returns to the bed, takes the towel, cloth 
 and bowl from the cabinet into the bathroom, closing 
 the door behind her and thus causing the patch of light 
 to disappear on the wall. 
 
 A short silence. 
 
 Karl extinguishes the reading-lamp on his bed by pulling 
 the small chain. Aside from the moon shining faintly 
 through the windows, the room is now very dark. An- 
 other silence. The clock in the church-steeple announces 
 the hour slowly : nine strokes with seemingly long inter- 
 vals between them. Another silence. The curtains sway 
 back and forth in the moonlight and the breeze, which 
 blows in through the windows bearing the strains of 
 Schumann's "W arum?" from the piano across the street. 
 
 The song without words ends. Another silence. The 
 drinking tube falls to the tile floor. Another silence. 
 The chain of the lamp over the bed is pulled to the first 
 
72 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 notch, producing an almost imperceptible glow on the 
 counterpane ; in a short while it is extinguished again. 
 The lamp is one which is capable of emitting four dif- 
 ferent intensities of light. The chain is pulled again to 
 the first notch. Pause. Then to the second notch. 
 Pause. Then the light is completely extinguished again. 
 Pause. First notch. Pause. Second notch. Pause. 
 Third notch. Then complete extinction. Pause. First 
 notch. Pause. Second notch. Pause. Third notch. 
 Pause. Fourth notch. Linden f els is then plainly visible, 
 as is also Constance, who lies sleeping on the cot in a 
 dark blue kimono, partly covered by the counterpane. 
 Her face is turned away from the bed. He turns over 
 slowly and carefully on his right side and reaches out 
 his arms to her in silence. Then he turns back again 
 and extinguishes the lamp. 
 
 There is another silence.) 
 
 KARL— (softly) Miss Vakefielt. 
 
 (No response.) 
 
 KARL — (not quite so softly as before) Miss Vakefielt. 
 
 (No response.) 
 
 KARL — (very distinctly) Miss Vakefielt. 
 
 CONSTANCE— (sleepily) Yes, Mr. Linclenfels. 
 
 (One can hear her rising from the cot. She lights the 
 lamp over his bed. He continues to call, his eyes closed. 
 She decides he is talking in his sleep. She gets the chart 
 from under her pillow, prepares to write as she sits on 
 the edge of the cot with a braid of hair hanging down 
 either side of her neck.) 
 
 KARL— Miss Vakefiek. I— I— I— vant— I vant to tell 
 you — t'at — t'at you naff chainch't t'e course off my life — 
 chainch't it from eefil to goot — ant I vish you to know t'at I — 
 I — luff you. (The curtain is descending slowly.) I luff 
 you for toing it — luff you — luff you vit all my soul. 
 
ACT III 
 
ACT III. 
 
 SCENE — The same as in Act I. 
 
 The next morning ; bright, sunshiny; about 10 :30. 
 
 The vase on the dresser which contained the peonies is 
 empty. The pink roses, somewhat faded and wilted, 
 are still on the table beside the bed. The screen has 
 been removed from the smaller window, and the baskets 
 of fruit and boxes of candy and cigars have all been 
 placed on the window-sill near the patient. 
 
 Lindenfels has had his bath and his shave and is, as usual, 
 lying in bed. 
 
 Constance, as usual, is knitting as she sits in the Mor- 
 ris chair. 
 
 KARL — Miss Vakefielt, vat iss it you are alvays knitting? 
 
 CONSTANCE— Socks, Mr. Lindenfels. 
 
 KARL — Putt such he'fy voolen-looking vones! 
 
 CONSTANCE— Well, fancy silk ones wouldn't last if a 
 soldier had to march in them all day long. 
 
 KARL — Oh, you are knitting socks for soldiers? 
 
 CONSTANCE— Yes ; didn't you hear the church bells 
 ringing and the cannons booming this morning? 
 
 KARL — Toctor Caltvell remintet me last night t'at t'is 
 vas Registration Tay. He t'ought t'at vas t'e reasson v'y 
 I vas not aple to shleep ; he t'ought I vas af rait to go to t'e 
 front ant tie, Miss Vakefielt. Putt ven I t'ink off t'e tissolute 
 life I haff let, I t'ink t'e pattlefielt vou't pe a fine place to ent 
 it — ant shtart a new vone. I vou't not haff to tisgrace my 
 name py committing suicite ; I vou't honor it py tying like a 
 hero, and I vou't also pe making a hero off t'e man who 
 vou't shoot me. No, Miss Vakefielt, I vou'tn't vant to kill 
 any vone putt I vou'tn't mint in t'e least if somevone vou't 
 kill me — or if I shou't kill myself. I am not a cowart; I 
 am not af rait to tie like some men. No ; it iss not t'e t'ought 
 
76 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 off tying t'at keeps me from shleeping. 
 
 CONSTANCE — That keeps you from sleeping? Why 
 you slept very soundly last night; you even snored a little. 
 
 KARL — Tit my shnoring vaken you ? I am so sorry. Putt 
 are you shure I vas shnoring? Perhaps I vas talking in my 
 shleep. 
 
 CONSTANCE — No; you didn't speak a word in your 
 sleep all night long. 
 
 KARL— Honestly, Miss Vakefielt ; titn't I ? 
 
 CONSTANCE— No, Mr. Lindenfels— none that I heard. 
 
 KARL — (thoughtlessly) I t'ought I saw you get up vonce 
 ant write somet'ing on t'e chart ? 
 
 CONSTANCE — And the fact that you saw me proves 
 that you were awake at the time. You asked me to record 
 what you said in your sleep — not what you said while you 
 were awake. 
 
 (Karl is silent; Constance continues to knit.) 
 
 KARL — T'en you t'ink I am not sincere ; you t'ink my 
 intention in toing t'is vas a pase vone. 
 
 CONSTANCE — Whatever it was, you hadn't the courage 
 to tell me openly. 
 
 KARL — I know I hatn't. How cou't any man vit a past 
 like mine haff t'e courritch to look into eyes ass pure ass 
 yours ant tell you t'at he luff't you. Putt now t'at I haff 
 tolt you t'at vit half-close't eyes, it iss easier to repeat it vit 
 open't vones. (emphatically) Ant vet'er you pelief me or 
 not, I to atore you, Miss Vakefielt — I luff you vit all my 
 soul for t'e kintness you haff shown tovart me. I supposse 
 you vill shtill t'ink t'at I am lying ; you vill t'ink my interest 
 in you iss no teeper t'an my interest in t'e paintet freaks who 
 haff sent me t'eir pitter sveets. You t'ink it vou't pe impos- 
 siple for me efer to pecome cleanly attach't to a voman. 
 Veil, you are right, I supposse ; toctors and nurses ought to 
 know. But it iss pecause I haff nefer known a pure, un- 
 selfish voman like yourself. Putt now I know tifferent, for 
 I haff exshperience't for t'e first time not t'e momentary 
 pleasure putt t'e lasting happiness a man may fint in t'e com- 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 77 
 
 panionship off a true soul — not t'e excitement putt t'e 
 peace ant comfort she may pring him. (with emotion) You 
 haff chainch't my whole life, Miss Vakefielt ; you naff help't 
 me to fint my petter self. 
 
 (Constance continues to knit.) 
 
 KARL— Miss Vakefielt. 
 
 CONSTANCE— Yes, Mr. Lindenfels. 
 
 KARL — Pleace pring me a hantkerchief from t'e tresser. 
 
 (She leaves her knitting on the chair, walks to the dresser, 
 obtains the handkerchief from a drawer and goes to the 
 far side of the bed to give it to him.) 
 
 KARL — To you pelief me now, Miss Vakefielt, or to you 
 shtill t'ink I am lying to you ass you t'ought last night ? 
 
 CONSTANCE— I believe you, Mr. Lindenfels, and I am 
 glad you have been converted. 
 
 KARL — (placing the handkerchief to his eyes) You vill 
 excusse me if I veep a little ; I can't help it — I can't help it. 
 I feel so much petter. You are not aple to realize vat a crate 
 torture it hass peen to lie here tay ant night vit you so near, 
 my eyes afrait to meet yours, my lips afrait to moof for fear 
 I might refeal vat my soul vas crafing to exshpress ant for 
 fear you vou't mishtake t'e exshpression off my cratitute for 
 t'e exshpression off a cheap tesire. T'e agony off such a 
 situation vas more painful t'an t'is vount in my site. You 
 von't pelief vat a purten hass peen liftet from my mint — 
 now t'at you unterstant. 
 
 CONSTANCE — (returning- to the Morris chair) I am 
 glad you feel relieved, Mr. Lindenfels ; I am very glad. 
 
 KARL — T'ank you. Putt I vant you to feel relief't also. 
 Miss Vakefielt, for I pelief you are also carrying a secret in 
 your heart. (Constance, about to sit down, remains standing 
 on these words.) Hass not your minute care off me inti- 
 catet t'at you also t'ink somet'ing off me? 
 
 CONSTANCE — (taking up her needles and knitting as 
 she stands, her back turned) I have always given similar aid 
 and attention to all my patients, Mr. Lindenfels. I am always 
 happy to bring relief to any one. I would treat all men with 
 
78 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 the same kindness and gentleness with which I would handle 
 my own brothers if they were wounded in battle. 
 
 KARL — T'en t'ere iss no ot'er meaning in t'e comfort 
 you naff affortet me? 
 
 CONSTANCE — No other meaning than there will be in 
 the comfort which these socks will afford some soldier whom 
 I shall never know and who will never know me. 
 
 KARL — Ant you haff felt not a trifle tifferent tovart me 
 t'an you haff felt tovart t'e many you haff nurs't in t'e past? 
 
 CONSTANCE— I shall frankly say that I have never 
 before nursed a man who has helped so to reduce the un- 
 pleasant part of my work to a minimum or who has treated 
 me with quite so much respect. 
 
 KARL— I t'ank you, Miss Vakefielt. I haff alvays felt 
 t'at it vas vit reluctance t'at you bathe't me; I haff alvays 
 t'ought you vere t'inking t'en off my immoral relations vit 
 unclean vimmen. Haff I peen right in t'inking so ? 
 
 CONSTANCE — (reluctantly) Sometimes, perhaps. 
 
 KARL — Are you repell't eefen py t'e touch off my hant? 
 
 CONSTANCE — (dropping her knitting on the chair and 
 walking to the near side of the bed) Why of course not, Mr. 
 Lindenfels. (He holds out his hand, and she takes it.) 
 
 KARL — I tesire no closer contact t'an t'is vit any pure vo- 
 man ; sexual luff vou't eefen pe repugnant to me since I haff 
 so tefile't ant apuse't it. Putt t'ere can pe happiness vitout 
 t'at; can t'ere not, Miss Vakefielt? (She does not answer 
 but turns her head away.) Perhaps I am shpeaking too 
 plainly. You vill excusse me. (He drops her hand.) 
 
 CONSTANCE — (returning slowly to the chair) There 
 should be no embarrassment in speaking plainly — if one 
 also speaks properly. 
 
 KARL — I vou't not pe shpeaking off t'is at all, Miss 
 Vakefielt — not eefen properly, hat you not vonce sait some- 
 t'ing apout it to me. 
 
 CONSTANCE— (knitting more rapidly than usual) 
 When, Mr. Lindenfels? 
 
 KARL — Oh, it vasn't in your shleep. You ton't talk in 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 79 
 
 your shleep like I to. Putt it vas in my shleep t'at you sait 
 it — ven I vas not supposse't to hear it, ant I tit not hear it 
 tistinctly, putt t'e sense off it now comes pack to me : it 
 vas somet'ing apout sexual starfation — t'at you exsh- 
 perience't it sometimes. Tit you not say fat vile I vas shtill 
 unter t'e anest'etic from t'e operating room ? 
 
 CONSTANCE — (dropping her needles into the chair) 
 I believe I did, Mr. Lindenfels. 
 
 KARL — Ant you vere saying it to me? 
 
 CONSTANCE — (approaching the bed again) To any one 
 who cared to hear it, Mr. Lindenfels, and even now, when 
 you are wide awake, I will say that I see nothing shameful 
 in purified sexual love ; I do not wish to hide my desire for 
 it. It is a desire to be controlled rather than concealed. I 
 believe that the purified and cultured intercourse of the sexes 
 is a thing that would uplift men and women rather than 
 degrade them. 
 
 KARL — Oh, it must pe a vonterful t'ing ven it uplifts ! 
 To pegin life all of er again vit a voman off your fiews ! 
 (He extends his hand again; she takes it tenderly.) Putt I 
 must not t'ink off such t'ings ant, t'ank Got, it iss fery easy 
 for me to forget t'em. Putt it iss for your sake — for your 
 sake only — for vone who iss starfing — t'at I vish in Got's 
 name t'at I vere ass clean ass I vonce use't to pe. 
 
 CONSTANCE— (still holding his hand) Mr. Lindenfels, 
 between us, under no conditions whatever, could there be 
 anything more than the love of brother and sister. A love 
 beyond that is not mine to accept from any other than him 
 to whom I am betrothed. 
 
 KARL — (gradually letting go of her hand) You are pe- 
 trot! You haff promis't yourself to anot'er? 
 
 CONSTANCE— Yes. 
 
 KARL — (sadly) T'en I shall alvays pe lonely. 
 
 CONSTANCE — You can return to your art; a great 
 artist must be much alone. Miss Le Grand believes your 
 operation will exempt you from being drafted, and therefore 
 your genius, your visions, your ideas and inspirations will 
 
80 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 not perish on the field of battle. 
 
 KARL — T'e fisions ant iteas vich she hass in mint haff al- 
 re'ty perish't. In a sense I haff peen vountet ; it seems ass 
 t'ough mortal life ant tesire haff peen ripp't from my poty. 
 
 CONSTANCE — (bringing the chair from the alcove to 
 his bedside and seating herself) You have been reborn — re- 
 born with a newer, nobler desire. In a few weeks you will 
 be up and strong again — mentally strong. The ether has 
 purged your mind, and though you may not be able to fight 
 with gun and sword, you will be able to fight valiantly with 
 your pen, sending a great message to the people of the world 
 through your music — not the old music but the new. 
 
 KARL — T'e new musik ! You tolt me yestertay, Miss 
 Vakefielt, t'at art vich tuss not exshpress vat iss pe'utiful iss 
 merely t'e tictaitions off a tiseas't mint. It iss my poty t'at 
 hass tiseas't my mint ; my musik hass peen passionate rup- 
 pish. How can I write t'e new musik ass long ass I haff a 
 poty vich vill nefer pe clean again. 
 
 CONSTANCE — By transforming the old passion into a 
 new and higher one. It was Ruskin, I believe, who said that 
 true music is (the natural expression of a lofty passion for a 
 right cause. 
 
 KARL — Ruskin vas an Inklishman. 
 
 CONSTANCE — Yes; one of my own countrymen. 
 
 KARL— Oh! you are Inklish, Miss Vakefielt? 
 
 CONSTANCE— Yes, Mr. Lindenfels. 
 
 KARL — Veil t'e fact t'at I am Cherman means t'at my 
 musik vill pe curs't in Amerika. 
 
 CONSTANCE— Miss Le Grand and the boy who de- 
 livered your flowers told me your music is very popular. 
 
 KARL — Yes ; my trash ant passionate ruppish iss popu- 
 lar, putt I mean my serious musik vou't pe curs't py t'ose 
 Amerikans who really know vat musik iss. 
 
 CONSTANCE— No; to be of German descent is a great 
 advantage to a musician ; after all, the real music of the world 
 has been handed down to us from Germany. Of course we 
 have rightly despised and will continue to despise some Ger- 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 81 
 
 man music — that of Wagner and Strauss which expresses 
 a low — not a lofty — passion, and which is symbolic of war 
 and domination and licentiousness; but we always have 
 loved and always will love Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Mozart, 
 Schumann, Schubert, Handel, Haydn and Brahms — heroes 
 who fought for something higher than world-supremacy 
 but gained the latter in doing so — heroes who fought for 
 the same thing that England, France, Russia and America 
 and even Germany herself, though unknowingly, are fight- 
 ing for today : harmony and peace. 
 
 KARL — You seem to know so much apout musik — apout 
 goot musik, Miss Vakefielt. Can you sing t'ese Cherman 
 songs you mention? 
 
 CONSTANCE— I studied them until my mother died, 
 and then, at her request, I became a nurse. 
 
 KARL — (dreaming) I haff just peen t'inking how vonter- 
 f ul it vou't naff peen hat I known you ven you vere a singer, 
 and yet if you hat not pecome a nurse I vou't nefer haff 
 known you at all. Fate iss a queer t'ing. 
 
 CONSTANCE — Music and nursing have much in com- 
 mon. 
 
 KARL — Yes ; I haff exshperience't how t'e musik of t'e 
 crate masters can pring peace ant relief to a suffering soul. 
 
 CONSTANCE — And it was because the great masters 
 suffered and fought that they were able to write such master- 
 pieces; those masterpieces grew out of their sorrows. That 
 is why their songs without words console us. 
 
 KARL — Mendelssohn's ''Consolation." 
 
 CONSTANCE— And Schumann's "Warum?" He wrote 
 it to console himself but he has consoled thousands of others 
 by doing so. 
 
 KARL — Ant you vish me likevise to console myself pe- 
 causse I haff peen tenite your luff — console myself py writing 
 musik. You t'ink my art vill haff peen purifite py haffing 
 pass't t'rough so crate a sorrow. You vant me to fight for 
 consolation ant peace using musik ass a ve'pon. I unter- 
 shtant ; I untershtant. 
 
82 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 CONSTANCE — (rising and carrying the small chair back 
 to the alcove) I am so glad you understand, Mr. Lindenfels. 
 We shall often think of each other 'because we shall be doing 
 the same work : you bringing relief to wounded souls, I to 
 wounded bodies — to the bodies of those who have fought for 
 the same peace toward which you will be striving. 
 
 KARL — You mean you are going to t'e front vit T'e Ret 
 Cross ? 
 
 CONSTANCE— Yes. 
 
 KARL — Toctor Caltvell tolt me he vas also going. 
 
 CONSTANCE— Oh! did he? 
 
 KARL — You are going toget'er — perhaps? 
 
 CONSTANCE— Yes. 
 
 KARL — Maype it iss to Toctor Caltvell t'at you are 
 petrot ? 
 
 CONSTANCE — (taking up her needles and yarn from 
 the Morris chair, and knitting as she sits on the arm) Yes, 
 Mr. Lindenfels. 
 
 KARL — Veil t'at makes me fery happy, Miss Vakefielt, 
 for two reassons. Vone iss pecausse Toctor Caltvell iss such 
 a fine clean man. He tolt me he vas clean, ant I also he'rt 
 him tell you. I he'rt him tell you many t'ings just pefore I 
 came out of t'e anest'etic. Last night I tolt him t'at I 
 he'rt hiss foice at t'at time, ant he vas fery anxious to know 
 vat it vas he sait. I tolt him I vou't tell him some time later 
 ven I vas more certain. It vas all fery fague t'en ; putt 
 it iss fery clear now. Tell him for me t'at it iss true t'at 
 ven vone iss supposse't to pe sort off te't, vone iss somevat 
 conscious off vat iss happening on eart'. Perhaps ven vone 
 iss altoget'er te't, vone vill not only know exactly putt vill 
 eef en know more off vat iss happening on eart' t'an t'ose who 
 are shtill lifting in t'e flesh are capaple off knowing. 
 
 CONSTANCE— Very well, Mr. Lindenfels; I will tell 
 him this for you. 
 
 KARL — Putt t'e ot'er reasson v'y I am happy — t'e pigger 
 reasson — iss t'at he vants you ass a mate only in t'e flesh ; he 
 tolt me so — he tolt me so ! Your shpirit vill some tay be 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER S3 
 
 free. Free ! Ah, t'at makes me feel so happy. So happy ! 
 
 (There is a short silence, during which Constance con- 
 tinues to knit rather pensively.) 
 
 KARL— Miss Vakefiek. 
 
 CONSTANCE — (rising and leaving her knitting on the 
 chair.) Yes, Mr. Lindenfels. 
 
 KARL — You von't mint if I shleep a little now? 
 
 CONSTANCE— No, Mr. Lindenfels. Your eyes are all 
 swollen and red from weeping; I shall bathe them with cool 
 water. 
 
 (The strains of Schumann's "Warum?" come stealing 
 softly through the window. Constance, standing on the 
 far side of the bed, bathes his eyes with a small cloth, 
 moistened with cool water. He falls asleep while she 
 is doing so. She darkens the room by pulling all the 
 shades down part way. 
 
 Caldwell slowly and noiselessly opens the door and 
 enters with a large cardboard box under his arm. She 
 motions to him not to speak, placing her finger to her 
 lips. While he is writing a card with his fountain-pen 
 at the dresser, she fills the empty glass vase on the 
 dresser with fresh water from the pitcher on the cabi- 
 net, then opens the cardboard box, takes out a large 
 fresh bouquet of pink roses and places it in the vase. 
 She carries the flowers to the little white iron table. He 
 tiptoes to the bed and hands her the card. She reads it 
 in silence and smiles. She unfastens a piece of narrow 
 ribbon from the handle of one of the fruit baskets on 
 the sill and uses it to tie the card to the roses. Cald- 
 well places his own hand gently and sympathetically on 
 Karl's, as though saying good bye. Constance carries 
 the vase of wilted roses and stagnant water to the bath- 
 room. Caldwell tiptoes to the dresser, takes up the 
 chart, turns it over and reads what Karl has said in his 
 "sleep." Constance returns from the bathroom with a 
 small satchel. She stops at the Morris chair, places her 
 knitting in the satchel and then carries it to the door. 
 
84 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 Stealing up behind Caldwell, she places her arms around 
 his waist and glances over his shoulder at the words she 
 has written. He returns the chart to the dresser, walks 
 to the door with his arm about her and picks up her 
 satchel. They leave the room. 
 The strains of "Warum?" continue mournfully. 
 After the music ceases, Marianne LeGrand enters the 
 room cautiously with Maurice Guilbert. She wears a 
 long black silk cloak which completely conceals the 
 costume beneath it; she carries a roll of manuscript 
 under her arm. Guilbert is a statuesque man wearing 
 a high black hat, a black cutaway coat and grey striped 
 trousers, and carrying a cane with a gold knob. He is 
 extremely handsome — a waxen complexion, large 
 dreamy eyes and a long black mustache which he curls 
 incessantly on the ends of his jeweled tapering fingers.) 
 MARIANNE— (with her finger to her lips) Sh! (She 
 goes to the bedside to assure herself that Karl is asleep; then 
 she returns to Guilbert who has remained near the door curl- 
 ing his mustache.) Good ! he is sound asleep, and she is 
 out. It will work fine. It is for you, mon cher Maurice, 
 zat I have planned all zis. Zink of zee money you would 
 lose if zee production would fall zrough — if he (indicating 
 Karl by a twirl of her head) would not finish zee opera. 
 
 GUILBERT — I will not believe that he will not finish 
 it — not until I hear it from Lindenfels himself. He has 
 been writing operas for me for the last four years, and we 
 have never had a quarrel or a failure ; we have become such 
 good friends that contracts have become little more than 
 red tape. 
 
 MARIANNE — (drawing him by the arm into the alcove 
 so that Karl may not see or hear them if he wakes) It is 
 because zere has never been a woman to influence him until 
 now. 
 
 GUILBERT — Nonsense. Lindenfels has had affairs 
 with scores of women ; he has lost his head over every good- 
 looking girl I have ever engaged for the chorus. 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 85 
 
 MARIANNE — Ah, Maurice, zey were fickle affaires; 
 he enjoy wiz zee chorus girls zee sensual plasir which zee 
 artist need to inflame and inspire him — but Monsieur Karl 
 never loved zee girls — non, jamais. 
 
 GUILBERT — (sitting astride the small chair and light- 
 ing a cigarette) Just what do you mean by love, Marianne? 
 
 MARIANNE — Ah, Maurice, if we were in true love, 
 we would be perfectly worzless man and woman. (She 
 perches herself on the window-sill.) Donnez-moi une ciga- 
 rette. (He holds out his silver cigarette-case. She takes one, 
 places it between her lips and bends over to light it fronts 
 his. After taking a puff or two, she resumes her definition.) 
 Love is not a zing zat excites one, zat spurs zee man on to 
 zee great accomplishment. Non, non. Love quiets and 
 kills ; it ruin zee art and zee artist's career. It is slobber — 
 se conduire d'une maniere idiote — zat is what love is, Mau- 
 rice. It is zee gentleness, zee tenderness, zee sweetness, zee 
 softness — zee damn foolishness ! Zat is what love is. (She 
 takes another puff of her cigarette.) Mademoiselle Wake- 
 field — she has been oh so gentle wiz Monsieur Karl, so sweet 
 and so tender — like zee mozer feeding zee baby from zee 
 nipple or zee spoon. It is zat what has ruin Monsieur Karl. 
 (She removes the ashes from her cigarette.) He is zinking 
 of a home ; he speak to me of bedmaking and dishwashing, 
 Maurice. I believe he want a baby to jump up and down 
 on his knee — oh, zeze Germans ! zey can be just as senti- 
 mental as zey are atrocious. How could Monsieur Karl 
 compose musique wiz a nasty dirty baby squealing and 
 squaking in his ears? Oh how I hate zese women who are 
 nozing more zan breeders, who smozer zee artistic instinct in 
 men wiz zeir slobber and who turn zee artist away from art 
 to zee work ordinaire to earn money to feed zee slobbering 
 infants ! I wish all zee slobbering mozers and babies would 
 starve like zee mozers and babies in Belgium ; zen zee artists 
 would have zeir freedom. 
 
 GUILBERT — (crossing his arms on the back of the chair) 
 You think Lindenfels wants to marry his nurse? 
 
86 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 MARIANNE — Cela va sans dire; j'en suis certain. He 
 tell Tony, and Tony tell me. 
 
 GUILBERT — Is she a pretty thing, Marianne? 
 
 MARIANNE — Oui, Maurice — wiz soft white hands. 
 
 GUILBERT — We should have got him an ugly nurse — 
 one with warts on her nose. 
 
 MARIANNE — But I never dreamed Monsieur Karl 
 would fall in love ; I zought he was wise man. 
 
 GUILBERT — Well, what are we going to do about it? 
 (He rises and paces up and down the floor.) 
 
 MARIANNE — (half closing her eyes) We can not do 
 anyzing until we get Mademoiselle out of zee way. 
 
 GUILBERT— Have her discharged? 
 
 MARIANNE— Oui, Maurice. 
 
 GUILBERT— For what reason? 
 
 MARIANNE — For good raison — for raison zat will dis- 
 grace her. 
 
 GUILBERT — You don't wish to disgrace an innocent 
 woman ? 
 
 MARIANNE — Innocent! Ha ha ha . . Zee boy at 
 zee flower-shop where I pay zee bill for zee flowers which 
 I send to Monsieur Karl — zat boy tell me when he bring 
 zee flowers here in zis room he not find Mademoiselle Wake- 
 field on duty at all but in a position wiz Monsieur le doc- 
 teur which make zee poor flower-boy blush ; and even before 
 zee flower-boy come in zee room, he hear zem talk togezer 
 of zee most wicked zings — zey even defend zee sinking of 
 zee Lusitania. Ah, Maurice; zis Mademoiselle is not zee 
 angel Monsieur Karl zink she is. 
 
 GUILBERT — You are surely not going to believe every- 
 thing that idiot of a boy has told you? 
 
 MARIANNE — Ah, Maurice, I have seen too wiz my 
 own eyes. I have seen her put arms around Monsieur Karl's 
 neck — and zen when I am not here she give him nice bath 
 and sleep zere on zee cot beside him here in zis room all 
 night alone. She is wicked woman like zee rest of us; she 
 only make him zink she is angel. Zere is no woman has so 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 87 
 
 many opportunities as zee trained nurse. She can defend 
 every affectionate act as belonging to her profession and, 
 wiz her knowledge of prevention and such zings — ah, she can 
 cover up all evidence, Maurice. 
 
 GUILBERT — Now come, Marianne, don't invent any- 
 thing nasty to say about her; wait until you are absolutely 
 sure of the charge. 
 
 MARIANNE — (jumping from the sill) Ah, mon cher 
 Maurice, I will do anyzing — anyzing — anyzing at all to get 
 her out of way so Monsieur Karl will finish zee opera for 
 you — for you! It is for you zat I will do zee nasty zing — 
 for you, mon cher Maurice. (She throws her arm about his 
 neck, her cloak falling off part way and exposing her bare 
 shoulder.) It is not zat I am jealous of Mademoiselle Wake- 
 field. Non! Non! What care I for Monsieur Karl aside 
 from his musique? He is a mere boy — a playzing zat has 
 run down. You, Maurice, are a man — a big, strong, hand- 
 some, satisfying man. It is for you zat I will do zee nasty 
 zing. 
 
 (He pats her bare shoulder, and then leaves her quickly, 
 walking to the dresser where he chances to see the chart; 
 he picks it up.) 
 
 GUILBERT— (reading) "I want to tell you that you 
 have changed the course of my life — changed it from evil 
 to good ; and I wish you to know that I love you — love you 
 for doing it- — love you with all my soul." 
 
 MARIANNE — Yes ; zat is zee slobber zat Monsieur Karl 
 write to his nurse. 
 
 GUILBERT — This is not Lindenfels's hand-writing; I 
 know that too well to be deceived. 
 
 MARIANNE — Non? (She snatches the chart from his 
 hand, glances at the writing and then turns it over.) It is 
 like zee writing on zee ozer side of zee chart ; it must be 
 Mademoiselle's writing. (She turns the chart over again 
 and reads.) "I want to tell you zat you have changed zee 
 course of my life — changed it from evil to good." (She 
 muses.) From evil to good ; from evil — to good. Why, 
 
88 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 mon dher Maurice, she admits herself zat she was a bad 
 woman : "from evil — to good." She was ashamed to speak it 
 to Monsieur Karl's face ; she had to write it. I am glad she 
 had to write it; Need I invent anyzing to say about her, 
 Maurice? Is not zis evidence enough? Why has he changed 
 zee course of her life? Because she tried to do evil wiz him 
 like wiz Monsieur le docteur — ha ha ha ha ha — and he tell 
 her no and give her a lecture on morality because he love 
 her. Zink of it, mon cher Maurice : A trained nurse trying 
 to ruin sick man ! Her own patient ! I will publish ziz — 
 her own condemnation — in zee newspaper wiz a big red 
 headline. I will go to zee hospital-office at once wiz zis 
 note and have her discharged and disgraced. (She walks 
 happily to the door, but turns suddenly before leaving the 
 room.) While I am gone, mon cher Maurice, you can ar- 
 range zee chorus girls around Monsieur Karl's bed; I will 
 tell zem to come in quietly ; zey are waiting in zee sun-parlor. 
 GUILBERT — Marianne, this is absurd; the hospital au- 
 thorities will not permit singing here; it will disturb the 
 patients. 
 
 MARIANNE — Zee auzorities know nozing of it. Gwen- 
 dolyn, Daisy, Maybelle — zey all have coats over zeir pretty 
 costumes. Nobody know zey are chorus girls. Zee auzori- 
 ties may stop zem from singing after zey once begin, — but 
 after zey have sung a few bars of Monsieur Karl's musique, 
 zat will be enough to wake him out of his crazy trance and 
 bring him back to his opera. 
 
 (She leaves the room, Guilbert walks to the bed and 
 watches Karl as he sleeps peacefully on the pillow. The 
 members of the chorus enter silently, one by one, each 
 removing his or her cloak and dropping it on the floor 
 at the door. Their costumes are spectacular, fantastic, 
 grotesque, vivid in color and immodest and suggestive 
 in design. There are both men and girls including 
 Gwendolyn, Maybelle, Daisy, Violet and Carmen. They 
 tiptoe noiselessly about the room as Guilbert arranges 
 them with whispers and gestures in an effective group 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 89 
 
 about the composer's bed. Herr Schmetterling, a rest- 
 less conductor, round as a ball, his face puffy and scar- 
 let, his handkerchief continually mopping it, stands on 
 the Morris chair ready to flourish his baton. Tony 
 stands beside him with his violin. 
 Marianne returns and beckons to Guilbert, who approaches 
 
 the door to meet her.) 
 MARIANNE — (in a whisper) Zey tell me she has al- 
 ready left zee hospital ; she was so wicked and ashamed zat 
 she could not face any one, so she is going to sail for France 
 wiz zee Red Cross. 
 
 GUILBERT — Then you ought to be happy ; she has saved 
 you a lot of dirty work. 
 
 MARIANNE — Ah, I would have enjoyed see dirty work; 
 I would have enjoyed seeing her disgraced. She will pollute 
 all zee soldiers of my native country. Before she land in 
 la belle France, I hope she get a German bullet zrough her 
 heart. 
 
 GUILBERT — Come ; Lindenfels may wake up before 
 we start singing, and that would spoil the whole effect. 
 (Marianne quickly discards her cloak, disclosing her sen- 
 sational poppy-colored costume. She takes her place 
 before the chorus and gives Herr Schmetterling the 
 signal to begin. Tony sounds the key-note on his violin. 
 Schmetterling lifts his arms and then begins to beat 
 time comically. The chorus sing entirely off the key. 
 Marianne trills and dances. Tony scratches his violin 
 frantically. Guilbert raises the window shades to admit 
 the sunlight in lieu of the calcium.) 
 Karl awakens, and Marianne rushes to him.) 
 MARIANNE — Ah, mon cher Karl — mon petit genie! 
 It is your own beautiful musique zat has awake you from 
 your trance to zee old existence ! 
 
 KARL — Pe'utiful Musik? It iss rotten, rotten, rotten! 
 It iss like so many howling togs ant squealing cats. (The 
 members of the chorus mumble among themselves.) No 
 more off it! Not ano'ter note! 
 
90 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 MARIANNE — It is because mon cher Karl is not con- 
 ducting it himself. Herr Schmaeterlinck know not how to 
 conduct it right ; n'est ce pas, Monsieur Schmaeterlinck ? 
 
 SCHMETTERLING — (jumping from the Morris chair 
 like a squirrel and approaching the bed in Small leaps) Ach, 
 Herr Lindenf els, es geht nicht ; es geht nicht. Ohne dicli 
 ist alles f reudenlos. Kein' Lebendigkeit ! 
 
 KARL — (without restraint) Gen' mir weg, du kleine Ro- 
 teriibe; halt's Maul! 
 
 (The little conductor quickly makes his way, in small 
 leaps, back to the Morris chair, where he perches on one 
 arm with his feet on the seat, alternately shaking his 
 head lento and mopping his face presto.) 
 
 MARIANNE — It is not bad musique, mon cher Karl ; 
 zee public will go crazy when zey hear it. 
 
 KARL — To hear it iss enough to make any vone crazy ! 
 
 MARIANNE — It is because it is not yet complet, mon 
 cher Karl. I brought zee manuscript from your studio so 
 zat you could finish it. 
 
 KARL — (gruffly snatching the manuscript from her hand) 
 Finish it ? Finish it ? T'is iss how I vill finish it ! (He 
 tears it to pieces and tosses it into the air over his bed.) 
 
 GUILBERT — (on the far side of the bed) But my dear 
 Lindenfels, you are under contract to finsh this opera, and 
 what is more : I have paid you an advance royalty. 
 
 KARL — (sitting up in bed for the first time) Vat to I 
 care for your contract or royalties? Vat meaning has con- 
 tract and law to you ? (He points to Guilbert. ) To you who 
 liffs so illegitimately wit her ! (He points to Marianne J 
 Ta't poisonous serpent ! Ant ass for royalties — t'at money 
 iss also poison, ant you shall hafr* it pack; I ton't vant it. 
 I vill hart not'ing more to to vit men ant vimmen who naff 
 no reshpect for purity; I vill haff not'ing more to to vit 
 people who can't sing ant act ant tance ant play unless t'eir 
 poties are inflame't vit trink ant passion. Ton't shpeak to 
 me again apout my opera; it iss not'ing putt a fehicle for 
 dishplaying immorality ant for amusing immoral people. It 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 91 
 
 iss so much trash; it iss an unhe'lt'y, tegenerate t'ing — just 
 like I vas pefore I avaken't to t'e new life from t'e life into 
 vich t'is shnake off a voman charm't me. I mean you, 
 Marianne ; I mean you ! 
 
 MARIANNE — Ah, mon cher Karl, if it was not for 
 Marianne, you would still be zee unknown artist, starving, 
 dying. It was I who discover mon petit genie. 
 
 KARL — Putt it vas not my petter self t'at you tiscovert. 
 It vas your tamnaple magic t'at trans form't my petter self 
 into a mere inshtrument to satisfy your filt'y tesires ant to 
 hoist you to t'e top of t'e rotten latter off fame. You tit 
 not lafish your money to tefelop my genius putt to proshti- 
 tute it — to make it a trunken tiseas't organ to grint out un- 
 musikal accompaniments for your peastly foice. No; it vas 
 not my art you vanted to tefelop ant pring pefore t'e puplic; 
 it vas t'rough my art t'at you vantet to pring yourself pefore 
 t'e puplic; putt not pefore you twisted ant tiseas't my art, 
 ant my poty also, to fit yourself, yourself, yourself ! You 
 haff not tone t'at much (He snaps his fingers.) for me ; vat 
 you haff tone hass peen all for Marianne Le Crant. You to 
 not know vat it means to to anyt'ing for ot'ers ; your self iss 
 your Got, ant a pollutet Got too. I vish I hat nefer seen 
 your paintet, poisonous lips ant your lying, lustful eyes. I 
 vish I hat peen left to shtruggle in poferty ant opscurity; 
 t'en I might haff achief't somet'ing vorth vile. Perhaps it 
 iss not too late to pegin all ofer again. T'at iss vat I vill 
 try to to, ant I vill shtart py saying goot-pye to you ant to 
 your Maurice ant all your miseraple associates who earn t'eir 
 lining t'rough t'e contortions off t'eir foul poties — who to 
 not eefen know t'at they haff a prain ant a soul. 
 
 TONY — (stepping before the bewildered chorus and turn- 
 ing his back to the bed) Ladies and gendlemen : Mista Carlo 
 — he mad ; he knowa nod whad he say ; you musda nod listen ; 
 he crazy (his finger to his forehead) in da nud; we musda 
 waid — waid till he geda bedder; he now mucha sick — sick 
 monkey. Sick monkey! 
 
 KARL — (reaching for the box of cigars on the window- 
 
92 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 sill) Tony, it iss pecausse you are ass foul ant file as t'e rest 
 off t'em t'at you are tefenting t'em. I nefer vant to see you 
 again, Tony. Out off my sight! Here, take your rotten 
 cigars vit you ! (He throws one handful of cigars after the 
 other at the violinist. The men of the chorus pick them up 
 from the floor, and then start to leave the room.) Out off 
 my sight ! Out off my sight ! 
 
 GWENDOLYN — (coming forward) You will not send 
 your Gwendolyn away after she has sent you such a nice box- 
 ful of kisses? 
 
 MAYBELLE — (taking her position beside Gwendolyn) 
 And you are not going to put me out when I sent you the 
 nuts? 
 
 DAISY — (stepping up beside Maybelle) And you ain't 
 goin' to harm your little hellcat who sent you the damn 
 pretty red cherries that growed on her lips? Mein Karl; 
 Ish Hebe dish! 
 
 CARMEN — (statuesque and singing her greeting in a 
 deep contralto to the motif of the Habanera) Don Carlo, 
 come back to Carmen who has sent you all the pears and 
 plums. 
 
 VIOLET — (in a squeaky voice) Dear Karl, little Violet 
 thinks you look sweet enough to eat. 
 
 (They are standing in a semicircle around his bed.) 
 
 KARL — Out off my sight ! Out off my sight — all off you ! 
 I haff hat enough off your canty ant your fruit ant your 
 luff-making. I vish no more off it ; it vou't pe ass poisonous 
 to my lips ass your looks are to my eyes ant your f oices to my 
 ears. Here ; take it avay vit you. Pegone ! Pegone ! (He 
 reaches for the boxes and baskets on the window-sill, and 
 throws the candy and the fruit in their midst; they rush away 
 screaming, leaving their capes and coats on the floor.) Out 
 off my sight ! Pegone ! Fipers ! Sirens ! 
 
 MARIANNE— II est f ou— f ou a Her ! 
 
 (He throws several plums at her.) 
 
 GUILBERT — We can do nothing with him until he is 
 well again. 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 93 
 
 (He fires a large orange at Guilbert's high black hat.) 
 KARL — You, too — all of you — pegone ! Get out off my 
 sight ! Fools ! Togs ! Cats ! Geese ! Shvine ! Hussies ! Prosh- 
 titutes ! Liars ! Impeciles ! Itiots ! Asses ! Vine-pellies ! Get 
 out ! Get out ! Out off my sight ! 
 
 (He continues to rave and rant, tossing about madly on 
 his bed, and hurling a handful of fruit at them with 
 each exclamation of contempt. He does not cease until 
 he has thrown everything he can lay hands on — his pil- 
 low, his drinking-glass, his reading-lamp — until the last 
 one of them has fled from the room. The he falls back 
 on the bed exhausted; reaching nervously for the call- 
 bell, he rings it frantically as though the building were 
 in flames. 
 After waiting a short time that seems like a century of 
 agony to him, he sees Abigail Strong enter the room. 
 She is a huge, awkward, homely, mannish woman in an 
 ill-fitting nurse's uniform.) 
 ABIGAIL— Good God! What's happened here? 
 KARL — (gasping and writhing) I vant Miss Vakefielt! 
 I vant Miss Vakefielt! 
 
 ABIGAIL — Miss Wakefield has left the hospital, sir. 
 KARL — Left so soon ? Left alre'ty ? 
 
 ABIGAIL — Yes ; and I am to take you in charge from 
 now on. It looks like a mighty big task, but I reckon I can 
 manage it. (She pushes back her sleeves, takes a few steps 
 forward, kicking the oranges and apples and coats out of 
 her way as she does so, and strikes a pose, her hands on her 
 hips.) My name is Strong. 
 
 KARL — (breathing heavily) V'y titn't you come arount a 
 little sooner? T'ere shou't haff peen a policeman here to trive 
 t'ose itiots out. 
 
 ABIGAIL — (taking two steps forward) A policeman ! 
 KARL — Yes ; I trite to pe vone ass veil ass I cou't. 
 ABIGAIL — You've been very disobedient, sir. Weren't 
 you told to lie still ? You'll suffer for having done this ! 
 (She walks authoritatively to the bedside, and points to the 
 
94 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 counterpane with her long finger.) Do you see that? 
 
 KARL— Vat? 
 
 ABIGAIL — The blood oozing through tine bedclothes ! 
 You've broken the stitches and opened your wound — that's 
 what you've done. And the Lord only knows what internal 
 injuries have resulted! I shouldn't be surprised if you've 
 tied your guts in a knot. I shall have to summon Doctor 
 Caldwell at once. Lie still — lie absolutely still, until I re- 
 turn. (She turns about and marches toward the door, 
 kicking the boxes and fruit from right to left; she stops 
 abruptly and looks back.) Don't move a particle, sir; don't 
 even breathe. 
 
 (She walks through the door colliding with a Clerk, who 
 holds a pad in his left hand and a fountain-pen in his 
 right.) 
 
 CLERK — Pardon me. Is this Mr. Lindenfels's room? 
 
 ABIGAIL — Yes; but it's in an awful shape, and so is he. 
 
 CLERK — I must speak with him nevertheless. How old 
 are you, Mr. Lindenfels? 
 
 KARL — (moaning) Tventy-sefen. 
 
 CLERK — Then you'll have to fill out one of these blanks 
 for Conscription. 
 
 ABIGAIL — He'll never be able to go to war; he'll be an 
 invalid for the rest of 'his life. (She leaves the room.) 
 
 CLERK — That makes no difference ; he must fill out his 
 registration-card for the Government. (He walks to the 
 bedside.) What is your name in full, sir? 
 
 KARL — (groaning with pain) Karl Lindenfels. 
 
 CLERK — (writing on the pad) And you said you were 
 twenty-seven ? 
 
 JKARL — Yes, sir; tventy-sefen. 
 
 CLERK— Your address ? 
 
 KARL — Charch Vashinkton Apartments. 
 
 CLERK— And the date of your birth? 
 
 KARL — Chune t'e fourteenth, (in pain) I can't t'ink off 
 t'e year. 
 
 CLERK — 1890 according to your age. Were you born 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 95 
 
 in the United States? 
 
 KARL — No; in Chermany, sir — at Dusseldorf. 
 
 CLERK — Have you been naturalized ? 
 
 KARL — Yes, I haft peen in Amerika for six years. 
 
 CLERK — What is your present occupation? 
 
 KARL — I am a composer, sir. 
 
 CLERK — Have you a father or a mother solely depend- 
 ent on you ? 
 
 KARL — My parents are poth in t'e olt country. I ton't 
 eefen know if t'ey are lifting. I haff not he'rt from t'em 
 since — since — (He sobs.) 
 
 CLERK — Are you married or single? 
 
 KARL — I vish to Got I vere. 
 
 CLERK— Which? 
 
 KARL— Marrie't. 
 
 CLERK — Then you wish to God you were single ? eh ? 
 
 KARL — No ; my Got, can't you untershtant ? I am sinkle 
 unfortunately. 
 
 CLERK — I get you ; I understand. Any children under 
 twelve to support? 
 
 KARL — You are making a fool off me ; I tell you I am 
 sinkle. 
 
 CLERK — I know ; but unmarried men sometimes have 
 children to support. 
 
 KARL— Veil, I haff none t'at J know off. 
 
 CLERK — No brother or sister under twelve to support? 
 
 KARL — I haff vone brot'er in Chermany — olter t'an my- 
 self. 
 
 CLERK — Have you had any military experience? 
 
 KARL — I serf't for vone year in t'e Cherman Infantry. 
 I hatet it — hatet t'e vay I vas orter't apout like a tog, ant I 
 tespise't t'e conceit of t'e officers. I hat alvays vanted to 
 write musik — goot musik like Schumann ant Mendelssohn. 
 My vat'er helt a very high commission in t'e Cherman Army ; 
 he riticule't my musik ant sait t'at his sons must eit'er pecome 
 officers or outcasts. T'e lack off freetom ant t'e shtrict tisci- 
 pline ant tomination in army life ant home vas repugnant to 
 
96 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 my genius. I refoltet : in a moment off matness I shtole 
 enough money from my mot'er's trunk; bought a ticket vit 
 my brot'er's passport ant sail't to Amerika — to Amerika 
 vere men are free — free ! If I hat met t'ere t'e right voman 
 who vou't haff untershtoot t'e shpiritu'l appeal in true musik 
 and in true luff, I vou't not pe sinkle ; I vou't haff marrie't 
 ant vou't haff hat a crate career. Putt crowing veary of 
 failure ant t'e lack off attention vich shou't haff inshpire't 
 me to vork t'e harter to improof my art, I fell prey to para- 
 sitic recognition ant cheap success vit all its false comforts 
 ant tegrating luxshuries. Ant t'en came t'e reaction off t'e 
 merciless oppression off militarism : I pecame too free ; vere 
 t'ere shou't haff peen reassonaple restraint, t'ere vas only 
 lawlessness ant licentiousness until — until — veil, you may 
 lift up t'e petclo'es ant see for yourself. 
 
 CLERK — Do you claim exemption from the draft in the 
 United States ? 
 
 KARL — (tossing about restlessly on the bed) No; for 
 Got's sake, no ! Let me fight ! Let me fight vit all my heart 
 ant soul ! Let me fight for Righteousness — for Righteous- 
 ness Eferlasting! 
 
 CLERK — Sign your name here, please. 
 (The Clerk hands him the blank and the pen. The strains 
 of "The Star Spangled Banner" burst suddenly and 
 grandly through the open windows. A brass band, fol- 
 lowed by American soldiers in khaki with Old Glory 
 waving triumphantly above them, marches up the street. 
 The Clerk walks to the large window and waves his 
 handkerchief. Abigail Strong, returning unaccompanied 
 by the doctor, dances awkwardly in tempo with the 
 music to the window beside the bed, eagerly watching 
 the parade and ignoring her patient.) 
 ABIGAIL — (shouting) Doesn't Doctor Caldwell look 
 stunning in a uniform? And just see how he's smiling! 
 (Karl Lindenfels, writhing and groaning in agony, is trying 
 to sign his name, the crimson blood spreading over the 
 white counterpane.) 
 
ACT IV 
 
ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE — The Roof Garden of the Hospital. 
 
 A few weeks later. 
 
 A row of four white pillars, equally spaced, extends from 
 the left front of the stage to the back center. Between 
 the two central pillars there are double doors through 
 which one passes from the covered part of the roof 
 (behind the pillars) to the uncovered part (before the 
 pillars); these doors open out. Between the first and 
 second pillars and between the third and fourth, there 
 are double windows on hinges, the windows opening in. 
 Before each window stands a box of plants with bril- 
 liant vermilion blossoms. There are two awnings, 
 striped in ultramarine -blue and white, one over each 
 double window. The awnings are drawn halfway up, 
 and the windows and doors are open to make the covered 
 part of the roof as light and cool as possible. Through 
 the windows one sees tables and chairs. An iron rail- 
 ing extends from the farthest pillar to the right front 
 of the stage, so that the part of the uncovered roof on 
 the stage is triangular in shape. The roof however 
 extends several feet beyond this railing. There are 
 benches, plain chairs and rolling- chairs placed here and 
 there on this triangular space. The view from the roof 
 is characteristic of that seen from elevated places. Near 
 by there are tree-tops and a church-steeple with a spire ; 
 in the distance, along the horizon, there are silhouettes 
 of tall office buildings, many of which are surmounted 
 by the frameworks of gigantic electric signs. The 
 western sky is aflame with a gorgeous sunset; above 
 all there is an expanse of turquoise blue. 
 
 Several of the chairs and benches are occupied by invalids, 
 men, women and children, some with and some without 
 uniformed nurses in attendance. 
 
100 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 In a roller-chair near the right front of the stage, sits a 
 young woman wrapped in a white blanket from the 
 waist down. Her face is pale and thin and sad, but her 
 features strongly resemble those of Constance Wake- 
 field. A young man in khaki sits on the bench beside her, 
 holding her hand. In face and figure he reminds one 
 very much of Harbison Caldwell. The crimson sun- 
 shine falls across his forehead revealing an expression 
 of profound grief. 
 
 In a roller-chair near the left front of the stage sits Mrs. 
 Chandler — a loquacious old lady of seventy some years; 
 her hair is not grey however, although her head shakes 
 continually and her cheeks are withered and wrinkled. 
 She is also zvrapped in a blanket, but nevertheless makes 
 frequent use of the palm-leaf fan she holds in her bony 
 hand. Her nurse, Miss Stafford, sits before her, knit- 
 ting. 
 
 There are several invalids leaning against the railing, 
 watching the changing colors of the sky. In the center, 
 gazing pensively into the very heart of the sunset, with 
 no one very close to him on either side, stands Karl Lin- 
 denfels. This is the first view we have had of him 
 standing. He is not so tall as Harbison Caldwell al- 
 though his emaciated flesh and flabby muscles still cling 
 to a framework which at one time must have held up a 
 sturdy well-developed body; his crutches are leaning 
 against the railing beside him. He wears a brown vel- 
 vet jacket, light flannel trousers and a pair of comfort- 
 able slippers; he is bare-headed, his blonde hair tousled 
 by the breeze. The mask of dissipation has for the 
 greater part disappeared from his face, and there is a 
 pathetic, somewhat ethereal, look about his sunken eyes.) 
 
 MRS. CHANDLER — (in a high-pitched wavering voice) 
 Can you tell me what's wrong with this young woman in the 
 roller-chair across from me, Miss Stafford? 
 
 MISS STAFFORD— A maternity case, Mrs. Chandler; 
 her child was born here at the hospital — a perfectly wonder- 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 101 
 
 ful baby boy. 
 
 MRS. CHANDLER — And the young man in uniform is 
 the father I reckon ? 
 
 MISS STAFFORD— Yes ; and he is going to sail for 
 France tomorrow ; he has come to bid his wife and baby 
 farewell. 
 
 MRS. CHANDLER— Oh, it's so sad; isn't it? It almost 
 breaks my poor old 'heart to look in that direction. My grand- 
 son, George, came to the hospital this morning to say good- 
 bye to me ; but his parting didn't seem nearly so pathetic to 
 me as this one — and yet I had always hoped to see him a 
 father like that boy over there in the uniform. George is a 
 great big strong fellow with brown cheeks and curly reddish 
 hair — and he was clean as a whistle, Miss Stafford. He had 
 never tasted liquor and he was almost afraid to look at a 
 girl, but he had the biggest, kindest heart that ever beat in 
 a human bosom. I have often thought what a fine husband 
 he would make for some dear soul of a girl, and I've often 
 thought what wonderful healthy, happy children he might 
 help to bring into the world and what a service he would be 
 performing for his country by doing so. It had been the 
 one thing I had looked forward to all my life : to see that boy 
 married and to feel the pride in being the great grandmother 
 to a future president of the United States — perhaps. Each 
 year I had watched for the sweet passion to develop in his 
 strong clean body; I've been lying in wait to see some dear 
 girl come along who would just win dear George's big, kind 
 heart all of a sudden. But I've been disappointed. The 
 passion came all right, but it wasn't the sweet passion I had 
 hoped for; it was a mad desire to wipe Germany off the 
 face of the earth. I would never have thought it in George 
 who has always been so quiet and gentle. But he began to 
 read the patriotic stuff in the daily papers, and it seemed the 
 devil took hold of him and lured him into one of those train- 
 ing camps. He stayed there for several months, and when 
 he came home, there was whiskey on his breath — and I don't 
 doubt in the least but that he has been initiated into other 
 
102 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 low habits as well ; you know the kind of women who loiter 
 about such places. When he kissed me good-bye it wasn't 
 the pure, pleasing kiss he used to give me, and the look in 
 his eyes was so nasty and bloody. That's why his parting 
 didn't seem pathetic to me. May the good Lord forgive me 
 for saying it, but for some reason or other I was not so 
 sorry to see him going : for it didn't seem to be George at all 
 who was leaving me, but a type of man without whom the 
 world would be a whole lot better off. Isn't it terrible how 
 young men are transformed and ruined by liquor and prosti- 
 tutes and war? 
 
 MISS STAFFORD— Indeed it is, Mrs. Chandler. 
 
 (The young soldier wheels his wife through the double 
 doors.) 
 
 MRS. CHANDLER — (twisting her neck to follow him 
 with her eyes) That young husband's face looks familiar, 
 but I suppose it's because I can't see so very well. Think of 
 this fine strong fellow just at the height of his manhood ! 
 Within a month his splendid body may be blown to atoms. 
 And it is only the physically fit — only the best of human 
 flesh and bone that War demands for cannon-fodder. When 
 I think of this young husband and of thousands of other 
 boys who are going to give up their promising young lives, 
 while I — a worthless old granny — am left here at home to 
 live, it makes me furious ; it really does, Miss Stafford. I 
 am not so self-depreciative as to believe that I have never 
 done a service for my country — for I have borne and raised 
 eight children ; but I do candidly admit that my days of 
 productiveness and usefulness are past. I've out-lived my 
 husband by twenty years, and the only thing I'm fit for is to 
 die. But it seems nothing will or can kill me. I've had every 
 ill under the sun, and I've been in three railway accidents and 
 two runaways, and now, at the age of seventy-three, my 
 body was actually cut to pieces under the surgeon's knife — 
 and yet I live! I believe if I were to be struck by one of 
 those German torpedoes, I'd still survive. But these fine 
 young men who would be of such great use to the country 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 103 
 
 in the future — they are going to France to be shot down 
 like dogs. And they will probably die — die without aid per- 
 haps — while I — a worthless old granny — I continue to live 
 surrounded by nurses and physicians whose constant and 
 excessive attention is enough to kill an ordinary being. Why 
 do they keep on experimenting, trying to preserve me like 
 one of those curious and rare but perfectly worthless 
 skeletons one sees in a museum? Why don't they turn all 
 their attention to our boys over there and let my light go 
 out? 
 
 (The invalids are now leaving the roof one by one to re- 
 turn to their rooms; only a few remain.) 
 
 MISS STAFFORD— The American boys who are 
 wounded in France will be well taken care of, Mrs. Chandler. 
 
 MRS. CHANDLER— Oh I know our Red Cross is a 
 very wonderful and reliable organization : I just gave them 
 five-hundred dollars myself. 
 
 MISS STAFFORD— I realize that the public have con- 
 tributed very generously and that a large financial endow- 
 ment is essential ; but it will be from the hundreds of nurses 
 and doctors who have offered actual service that our boys 
 will get the direct attention they deserve. 
 
 MRS. CHANDLER— Yes, my dear, but modern warfare 
 is so treacherous and so far-reaching that even those who are 
 sent to relieve the wounded are often wounded more seri- 
 ously themselves. 
 
 MISS STAFFORD— It's true: one can never tell just 
 when or where something is going to explode even before 
 one reaches the field of battle. Think of that terrible acci- 
 dent that happened a week or so ago — that accident that oc- 
 curred during gun practice on one of the ships carrying our 
 soldiers to France. 
 
 MRS. CHANDLER— Yes ; I do recall something about 
 that. Just what was it, Miss Stafford? 
 
 MISS STAFFORD — Two very close friends of mine 
 sailed on that same ship : Constance Wakefield, a trained 
 nurse who practiced here at the hospital up to a few days 
 
104 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 before she sailed — and Doctor Caldwell who was interned 
 here. 
 
 (By this time all of the invalids except Lin den f els have 
 left the roof. He remains motionless in his former posi- 
 tion, gazing into the sunset the colors of which are 
 gradually beginning to fade.) 
 
 MRS. CHANDLER— Oh yes, I remember Doctor Cald- 
 well. He used to drop into my room almost every evening 
 to tell me a story and then bid me good night. Bless his 
 sweet soul! He's just the picture of my John at the time 
 we were on our honeymoon. But you aren't going to tell 
 me the dear fellow was shot? 
 
 MISS STAFFORD— No; he wasn't shot, but— Miss 
 Wakefield was — instantly killed. 
 
 MRS. CHANDLER— (dropping her fan) Instantly 
 killed ! 
 
 MISS STAFFORD — (placing her handkerchief to her 
 eyes) Yes — and to think it was their — their wedding trip ! 
 
 MRS. CHANDLER— Their wedding trip ! Oh, how pa- 
 thetic! The poor dear Doctor. To think of him losing his 
 wife when he was just beginning to live ! After all, I sup- 
 pose it's a greater sorrow for a man to lose his bride than 
 for a young mother to lose her husband. You see a young 
 mother has a future in her child and knows how to make a 
 home for herself, and her former passion for her husband 
 has relaxed and changed in part into maternal affection ; — but 
 it's different with a man : God never intended that he should 
 live alone. Poor Doctor Caldwell ! I wonder if he had a 
 religion that will console and save him and help him to be- 
 lieve that they shall meet again hereafter. How my heart 
 aches for him ! If only the good Lord had taken me in her 
 stead — me — a worthless old granny — who has outlived her 
 husband by twenty years. If only those twenty years could 
 have been added to Mrs. Caldwell's life ! To think how 
 happy he made my lonely old soul by coming to my room 
 each evening to bid me good night ! To think that I who 
 would have been willing to give my life to make him happy 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 105 
 
 am unable <to speak a single word of cheer to relieve him in 
 his present sorrow and loneliness ! 
 
 MISS STAFFORD — You are trembling, Dearie; are you 
 cold? (She rises.) 
 
 MRS. CHANDLER— I believe I am. Wait till I take 
 out my thermometer and see. (She opens the front of her 
 dressing-sack to get at the little thermometer she wears 
 about her neck; she holds it up very close to her eyes.) Yes ; 
 I am very cold. The air is getting rather damp and chilly. 
 You had better take me down to my room. (She glances 
 about the roof.) I notice that all the younger invalids have 
 turned in for the night — all but The Insane Composer. 
 (The nurse wheels her off the stage as she continues to talk.) 
 Do you suppose 'he's been disappointed in love, Miss Staf- 
 ford? Or is he brooding over some plot to blow up the 
 hospital? German blood, you know. 
 
 (Lindenfels is left alone, unaware of the fact that all the 
 others have departed. He continues to gaze blankly at 
 the last streak of dying color in the west. The light from 
 the lamps in the covered part of the roof shines notice- 
 ably through the doors and windows. The electric signs 
 on the distant buildings now light up, one by one. 
 Marianne Le Grand appears in the doorway. She wears 
 high white shoes and a long purple cape shimmering 
 with spangles; her large black hat is trimmed with 
 brightly colored flowers. She carries a hand-bag and a 
 large cardboard box. She places the box on one of the 
 chairs.) 
 MARIANNE— (softly) Mon cher Karl. 
 (There is no response.) 
 
 MARIANNE — (coming a step closer) Mon cher Karl. 
 (He neither responds nor moves.) 
 
 MARIANNE — (louder and still closer) Mon cher Karl ! 
 (He turns his eyes_ away from the sky and stares at her 
 
 strangely.) 
 MARIANNE — It is Marianne; she has once more come 
 to her petit genie. (He continues to stare at her in silence ; 
 
106 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 she sits down on one of the benches.) So you are still here 
 at zee hospital dreaming, dreaming, dreaming . . 
 
 KARL — (remaining motionless) Ant you haff come again 
 to tishturp my tream — 'my tream off happiness ? 
 
 MARIANNE — Yes, I have come again, and I will con- 
 tinue to come again and again and again and again until mon 
 oher Karl stop dreaming. Do you know what zey call you — 
 zee nurses — zee docteurs — zee patients — everybody? Zey 
 call you Zee Insane Composer. 
 
 KARL — Vat to I care vat t'ey call me ! (He slowly turns 
 his head away and again gazes across the tree-tops.) 
 
 MARIANNE — But you must care. You must prove zat 
 you have greater mind zan anyone of zem : you must come 
 back and finish zee opera : "Zee Great Reliever." I say you 
 must finish it, for Marianne will keep on coming until you 
 do. 
 
 KARL — You vill not let me rest? 
 
 MARIANNE— Non, non. 
 
 KARL — You vill not let me try — 'try vit all my heart ant 
 soul — to pecome a goot man again? 
 
 MARIANNE — Non, non; you must give up zis struggle 
 to become good man. It is not naturelle for mon cher Karl 
 to become good man ; it would not be good for zee world 
 for mon cher Karl to become good man. Mon cher Karl, 
 good man? Ha ha ha . . . Zat sound so funny — so 
 silly. 
 
 KARL — It sounts funny to a vicket person ; not to a 
 goot vone. 
 
 MARIANNE — (tormentingly) Not to Mademoiselle 
 Wakefield— eh? _ 
 
 KARL — (with a shudder) Ton't preat' her name; your 
 lips vill contaminate it. 
 
 MARIANNE — Ah, mon cher Karl ; you still zink Made- 
 moiselle was an angel. (She opens her handbag and produces 
 a folded paper.) Zen you never saw zis which she left in 
 your room zee day she went away ; she had not zee courage 
 to say it while you were wake ; she had to write it on zee 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 107 
 
 back of zee docteur's chart while you sleep. I have saved it 
 for mon cher Karl so he can see what kind of woman Made- 
 moiselle Wakefield was. (She rises, walks to him, holding 
 out the paper ; he does not turn about, but reaches for the 
 paper slowly and, without unfolding it, places it in the] 
 pocket of his jacket.) Ah well, if it make you feel bad to 
 read it now ; keep it till sometime again when I am not near. 
 It is all you have to remember her ; she left you nozing more. 
 (She returns to the bench.) If only she had give you her 
 latest photographic But zat is now impossible : Poor Made- 
 moiselle ! it is too bad zat nasty gun blow off her pretty face 
 and her soft white hand. 
 
 (He sinks down on his knees, groaning and clinging' to 
 the railing.) 
 
 MARIANNE — (rushing to him) Ah, mon cher Karl is 
 still weak from zee operation. Come let Marianne help you 
 to a chair. 
 
 KARL — (In a loud whisper) Ton't touch me ! Ton't 
 touch me ! (With the aid of the railing, he gets on his feet 
 again and, using his crutches, he manages to drag himself to 
 the bench on which he sinks with a heavy sigh.) 
 
 MARIANNE — (standing behind the bench and stroking 
 his hair) Why you not want Marianne to touch you ? Made- 
 moiselle Wakefield no longer have nice soft hand. She must 
 have been zinking of mon cher Karl wiz her hand over her 
 eyes, when zee nasty gun shoot zee zought out of her head. 
 You must let Marianne pat you now zat Mademoiselle is 
 gone forever. 
 
 KARL — V'y iss she gone for-efer? 
 
 MARIANNE — Why, mon cher Karl ; because she is dead 
 — L very much dead. 
 
 KARL — T'ere may pe a life after te'th — a lite vkout sin. 
 
 MARIANNE — (coming from behind the bench and sit- 
 ting in one of the chairs facing him) A life wizout sin! 
 Jamais. Sin is each day become more and more necessaire 
 for life. What is zee biggest sin? It is to kill. But killing 
 is zee grand occupation — zee occupation comme il faut of 
 
108 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 today. Zey no longer say : "Zou shalt not kill." Non ; cela 
 est tres passe. Zee Christianity is out of date. In Europe 
 zey are blowing up all zee churches and cazedrals, and in 
 America zey are hanging flags on zee pulpits and putting 
 zee musket on zee shoulder of Christ telling him to shoot — 
 and kill. Non, mon cher Karl ; killing is no longer sin ; and 
 when zee big sin is no longer sin, zen zee little sins is no sins 
 too. Zee soldier who go to France to kill, he say: "Before 
 I commit zee big sin for zee good of my country I will com- 
 mit lots of little sins for zee joy of myself, for after I die, 
 I have no more plasir wiz my body." So he take any pretty 
 girl he find anywhere and sin a little. 
 
 KARL — How can you say such t'ings, Marianne? 
 
 MARIANNE — Because I am not afraid to speak zee 
 truth, and you, who are artist and know it should not be 
 afraid to portray it. Zee man who has not sinned has not 
 lived; zee man who stops sinning is dead. 
 
 KARL — You are fery wrong, Marianne. True life iss 
 moral ant t'at iss t'e life I vish to portray vit my art from 
 now on. It iss a new kint of musik I vish to write — t'e kint 
 I hat alvays intentet to write — t'e kint of musik for vich 
 I left my home ant my country — t'e kint off musik I hat suc- 
 ceetet in writing until I met you — until you ruin't my genius 
 maype for-efer. (With his elbows resting on his knees, he 
 buries his face in his hands, and sobs.) 
 
 MARIANNE — (triumphantly) Forever, mon cher Karl? 
 
 KARL — Yes, maype for-efer. I sit townshtairs in my 
 room efery morning trying to write pigger, petter musik for 
 a right cause. I try; I try. Oh, how I try! Putt your 
 influence hass spoil't eferyt'ing for me. It vou't haff peen 
 tifferent if she hat liff't — if she hat liff't. 
 
 MARIANNE — (rising and standing behind the bench 
 again.) But she is gone forever, and now zere is only one 
 kind of music zat mon cher Karl can write. It is zee opera 
 which Marianne will sing. You will finish zat opera, mon 
 cher Karl ; you will finish it for me. (She throws her arms 
 about his neck almost strangling him.) 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 109 
 
 KARL — (gasping for breath, unlocking her arms and 
 throwing them back) No, no, no ! How often must I tell 
 you I vill nefer nefer finish t'at opera? 
 
 MARIANNE — You will never finish it as long as you 
 stay here cooped up in zis house of gloom and dispair wiz 
 so many cripples and invalids. You must come to ozer roof- 
 gardens where zee orchestre play zee musique which mon 
 cher Karl has already composed. 
 
 KARL — It iss on t'is roof vere her shpirit linkers; it vas 
 here vere she use't to come ant rest after her tay's vork. 
 
 MARIANNE — Perhaps she will come tonight. Perhaps 
 zat is why you have been waiting here — for anozer Made- 
 moiselle Wakefield. (She removes her hat, placing it on one 
 of the chairs; she takes a nurse's cap from her handbag and 
 pins it to her hair ; she opens the cardboard box and removes 
 a large bouquet of pink roses, holding them in her arms.) 
 
 KARL — (knowing nothing of what is taking place be- 
 hind him) No, Marianne ; t'ere iss only vone Miss Vakefielt ; 
 t'ere can nefer pe anot'er. She iss t'e only vone I vill efer 
 luff. 
 
 MARIANNE — Ah, mon cher Karl, so say Riccardo in 
 mon cher Karl's opera when Rosalie find out he is wicked 
 and drown herself in zee ocean to make Riccardo lonely and 
 sad. But when Hortense, zee wicked woman, come to him 
 dressed like Rosalie and singing zee big song: "Sin, Sin, 
 Sin — is zee greatest reliever to man ? Sin, Sin, Sin . . . 
 
 (She throws off her long purple cape and stands before 
 him in a nurse's uniform.) 
 
 KARL — (temporarily bewildered) Miss Vakefielt ! It iss 
 your shpirit I see ! (He rises suddenly and then sinks down 
 on to the bench again.) No ; it iss an illusion ; it iss Marianne. 
 
 MARIANNE — Ah, mon petit genie, it has always been 
 an illusion. It has always been Marianne from the begin- 
 ning. (She sits beside him.) It was Marianne who found 
 you on zee floor of zee studio ; it was Marianne who sent you 
 to zee hospital ; at zee hospital zey wounded you — wounded 
 you very carefully, and when you come out of zee aneszetic 
 
110 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 you see zee pink roses which Marianne send you ; it was 
 Marianne who nursed mon cher Karl, but when he see her all 
 in white, he call her Miss Wakefield and zink she is an angel ; 
 but it was always Marianne. As Miss Wakefield she not 
 excite mon cher Karl but nurse him tenderly like an angel 
 until his wound is healed again, but now his body is strong 
 and his manhood is come back, and Miss Wakefield again 
 become Marianne, and Marianne now want Karl to love 
 her as before. (She sinks back on his thighs, placing one arm 
 about his neck and holding the roses up to his nose.) She 
 want him to love her to his body's content, and she want him 
 to finish zee opera which his love for her inspire. 
 
 KARL — (taking the roses in his arms) Marianne you 
 are using your magic on me again ; you are trying to confuse 
 me — to get yourself ant Miss Vakefielt so interminkelt in 
 my mint t'at I von't pe aple to tistinquish petween goot ant 
 eefil ; you are trying to run t'ern toget'er so I can not tell 
 t'em apart. 
 
 MARIANNE — Ah, mon cher Karl, zere is no distinction. 
 Love itself is sin, and we shall love eachozer. You must 
 come wiz me over zere. (She points to the electric-light 
 signs on the horizon.) Over zere where zee lights are gleam- 
 ing ! On zose roof gardens zey are playing mon cher Karl's 
 musique, and zerefore everybody is gay and happy; on zis 
 roof garden mon cher Karl's musique has been forgot, and 
 zerefore all zee peoples are sick and gloomy. You will come 
 away from here wiz Marianne. (She rises and approaches 
 the railing.) See, down zere — oh ! it make me dizzy to look 
 — down zere is Marianne's limousine standing near zee side- 
 walk. In it we will go togezer away from zis lonely place, 
 and we will drink absinthe and smoke cigarette and enjoy 
 all ze plasir zee body of man and woman can afford; for 
 once zee body is gone, zere will be no more plasir. Zee life 
 of zee spirit? Ah, mon cher Karl, zat is an illusion. 
 
 KARL — (all the while fondling and smelling the roses) 
 Toctor Calitvell t 'ought so too ; I vonder if he shtill t'inks so. 
 
 MARIANNE — Of course he does; he is sensible, im- 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 111 
 
 moral man, mon cher Karl. 
 
 KARL — (angrily) He iss not immoral, Marianne. 
 
 MARIANNE — He had immoral relations wiz Made- 
 moiselle Wakefield. 
 
 KARL — You lie Marianne ; he vas marrie't to her. 
 
 MARIANNE — Married! And mon cher Karl love mar- 
 ried woman? I tell you all love is immoral and sin. 
 
 KARL — I luff her shpirit only. 
 
 MARIANNE — But her spirit also belong to Monsieur 
 le docteur. 
 
 KARL — Toctor Caltvell vill not eefen haff her shpirit; 
 he hass giffen her shpirit to me. (He reaches into his jacket- 
 pocket and produces a card with a ribbon fastened to it.) 
 T'e pink roses fatet ant viltet, putt after Miss Vakefielt vent 
 avay t'ey peeame fresher ant more fragrant t'an pefore, ant 
 I fount t'is cart tite to t'em. I can not see to reat it now, 
 putt I know vat iss on it : "T'ese roses — a sympol off t'e 
 shpirit off my vife (Constance Vakefielt) — t'ese roses to 
 Karl Lindenfels from Harpison Caltvell." I t'ought t'e roses 
 hat fatet ant viltet again, Marianne, putt I see t'ey are 
 fresher t'an ever. (He ties the card to the new bunch of 
 roses.) It iss queer how her shpirit only seems to fate ant 
 vilt ant t'en come pack to me alvays finer t'an pefore ; it 
 shows t'at t'e shpirit nef er ties. Nef er ! 
 
 MARIANNE — So mon cher Karl have zee spirit of 
 Constance to love and zee body of Marianne — a spiritual 
 and a material wife like Maeterlinck! But zink of poor 
 Monsieur le docteur ! he not even have a spirit to put his 
 arm around. Zink how Monsieur le docteur wish he could 
 patch up his wife's body like he patch up mon cher Karl's 
 body after zee surgeon kill him a little, so Monsieur le doc- 
 teur could enjoy it again like mon cher Karl can now en- 
 joy his wiz Marianne — enjoy zee great relief and zee great 
 plasir which inspire zee great art. Yes ; Marianne save 
 mon cher Karl's body and wiz it she will save his art. She 
 will come to him again and again and again and again until 
 she succeed separating his body and his art from his insane 
 
112 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 spirit which belong to Madame Caldwell. 
 
 KARL — You vill come again and again and again until 
 you succeet in separating my shpirit from my poty? 
 
 MARIANNE— Oui, mon cher Karl. 
 
 KARL — You neet not come again, Marianne; you vill 
 succeet tonight. 
 
 MARIANNE— Tonight ! (She cuddles up to him on the 
 bench.) Ah, I knew I would win you back, mon cher Karl, 
 even zough you did hit poor Marianne in zee eye wiz a plum. 
 Nasty boy. 
 
 KARL — Yes, Marianne; you naff peen fictorious. My 
 poty iss yours ; it vill come town to your limousine on t'e 
 skevalk, and you can haul it avay ant fill it vit vine ant haff 
 all t'e pleasure you vish vit it, ant out off its orkans you can 
 grint your operas py t'e score. 
 
 MARIANNE — (triumphantly) And your crazy insane 
 spirit — you will leave it up here on the roof garden forever 
 wiz zee pink roses? 
 
 KARL — Yes; I shall leaf it here on t'e roof garten for- 
 efer — for-efer — wiz t'e shpirit of Constance. 
 
 MARIANNE — (rising quickly and putting on her cape) 
 Ah mon cher Karl ! mon petit genie ! 
 
 KARL — Putt you must leaf me here a few moments 
 alone, Marianne, pefore my poty comes town to your limou- 
 sine. 
 
 MARIANNE — Oui, mon cher Karl; I will leave you 
 here alone so your body can say good-bye to zee angel who 
 will fly down from zee sky to kiss you wiz her cool wings 
 and take your spirit away wiz hers forever — forever. Oh, 
 how glad I will be when your body is rid of zat crazy spirit ! 
 But mon cher Karl must stay not too long wiz zee angel ? 
 
 KARL — No, Marianne; only a few moments. 
 
 MARIANNE — And if mon cher Karl stay longer zan zat, 
 I will tell Henri to blow zee horn of zee limousine to 
 remind him. Zree times he will blow. Zree times — loud and 
 long! 
 
 KARL — I vill pe listening, Marianne, ant my poty vill 
 
THE GREAT RELIEVER 113 
 
 come town. I promise you — promise you fait' fully : my poty 
 vill come town to your limousine on t'e sitevalk ass soon ass 
 you plow your horn. 
 
 MARIANNE — Ah, to zink zat you will no longer be 
 Zee Insane Composer! (She takes up her handbag.) Re- 
 member, mon cher Karl : zree times — loud and long ! I will 
 pack your clothes ; Henri will carry zem to zee car. 
 KARL — T'ree times ; lout ant long. 
 (In her excitement she rushes off without her hat, still 
 
 wearing the nurse's cap on her head. 
 After a short and peaceful silence, during which Karl 
 continues to smell the fragrant roses, the clock in the 
 church-steeple strikes the hour: nine resounding clangs 
 with seemingly long intervals between them. 
 After the last stroke a drunken Janitor, with rather un- 
 certain steps, appears in the double doorway with a 
 sprinkling can. He waters the plants in the boxes in 
 front of the windows all the while whistling "Coming 
 through the Rye/' stopping here and there at the most 
 unexpected places in the melody and then, after a hic- 
 cough, continuing from the place where he left off. 
 He pulls up the awnings. Karl is unaware of the 
 Janitor's presence, and the Janitor does not see Karl 
 since the bench is turned away from him. However, in 
 glancing quickly about to make sure that no one is going 
 to be locked out, the Janitor does spy Marianne's hat; 
 he examines it very closely, and then, taking up the 
 watering can, he showers copiously the artificial flowers 
 with which the hat is trimmed and, satisfied, returns the 
 hat to the chair. Then he closes the double doors, bolt- 
 ing them noisily from within. Next he closes the win- 
 dows and latches them noisily. Then he extinguishes 
 the inside lights one by one, after which his whistling 
 grows fainter and fainter. 
 The roof is now very dark. The color in the west ha$ 
 faded away entirely, but a large star has appeared, seem- 
 ingly at the very pinnacle of the spire on the church- 
 
114 THE GREAT RELIEVER 
 
 steeple. The star is growing brighter and brighter. 
 Karl places the roses on the bench and removes the 
 folded paper from his pocket. He unfolds it and holds 
 it up to his eyes; the star emits a shaft of diverging rays 
 of light which illumine the paper.) 
 KARL — (reading aloud and slowly) I vant — I vant to 
 tell you — t'at — t'at you naff chainch't t'e course off my life — 
 chainch't it from eefil to goot — ant I vish you to know t'at I 
 luff you — luff you for toing it — luff you vit all my soul. 
 (He lifts the paper to his lips, then folds it and places it 
 in the pocket of his jacket next to his heart. He picks 
 up the roses again, taking a long deep breath of their 
 fragrance and then placing them on the bench. As he 
 looks up, he sees the star for the first time ; he lifts his 
 arms to it as its light falls about him. 
 From the street far below, the horn of a limousine sounds 
 three times: the first horn is rather loud; the second one, 
 much softer; the third one, scarcely audible. 
 He rises from the bench and, using his crutches, walks to 
 the railing. Leaning his crutches against the railing, he 
 crawls through it slowly and carefully, the star all the 
 while lighting the way. Standing on the outside of the 
 roof with his back against the railing, he throws one of 
 the crutches: it seems to float silently through the air 
 and keeps on floating, for one does not hear it strike the 
 earth. He throws the second crutch; there is likewise 
 no sound. The stained glass window in the church- 
 tower becomes illuminated from within, and strains of 
 music — a paraphrase of Schumann's "Warum?" — come 
 softly from the far-away organ. With outstretched arms 
 and with lighted face lifted ever upward to the guiding 
 star, Karl Lindenfels slowly approaches the edge of the 
 roof, the curtain descending and screening the picture.) 
 
 The End 
 
Literary, 
 
 Musical 
 
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 Scientific 
 
 WORKS 
 
 by 
 
 George 
 Frederick 
 
 GUNDELFINGER 
 
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 THE NEW FRATERNITY 
 
 Sewickley, 
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