PRESENTED BY 
 
 \S^Oa-, 
 
■k. 
 
MASKS 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE MIDDLETON 
 
 AND OTHER 
 ONE-ACT PLAYS 
 
 SAMUEL FRENCH, 25 West 45th St., New York 
 
MRS. PARTRIDGE PRESENTS 
 
 Comedy in 3 acts. By Mary Kennedy and Euth Ilaw- 
 thorne. 6 males, 6 females. Modern costumes. 2 interiors. 
 Plays 2 14 hours. 
 
 The characters, scenes and situations are thoroughly up-to- 
 date in this altogether delightful American comedy. The heroine 
 is a woman of tremendous energy, who manages a business — as 
 ehe manages everything — with great success, and at home pre- 
 sides over the destinies of a growing son and daughter. Her 
 struggle to give the children the opportunities she herself had 
 missed, and the children's ultimate revolt against her well-meant 
 management — that is the basis of the plot. The son who is cast 
 for the part of artist and the daughter who is to go on the stage 
 offer numerous opportunities for the development of the comic 
 possibilities in the theme. 
 
 The play is one of the most delightful, yet thought-provoking 
 American comedies of recent years, and is warmly recommended 
 to all amateur groups, (Eoyalty ou application.) Price, 75 Cer.tsc 
 
 IN THE NEXT ROOM 
 
 Melodrama in 3 acts. By Eleanor Eobson and Harriet 
 Pord. 8 males, 3 females. 2 interiors. Modern costumes. 
 Plays 214 hours. 
 
 "Philip Vantine has bought a rare copy of an original Boulei 
 cabinet and ordered it shipped to his New York home from Paris, 
 When it arrives it is found to be the original itself, the pos- 
 session of which is desired by many strange people. Before tho 
 mystery concerned with the cabinet's shipment can be cleared 
 up, two persons meet mysterious death fooling with it and tha 
 happiness of many otherwise happy actors is threatened" (Burns 
 Mantle). A first-rate mystery play, comprising all the elements 
 of suspense, curiosity, comedy and drama. "In the Next Room" 
 is quite easy to stage. It can be unreservedly recommended to 
 high schools and coUegeSi (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.) 
 
 Price, 75 Cents. 
 
 SAMUEL FEENOH, 25 West 45th Street, New York CTity 
 New and Explicit SescriptlTe Catalogue Mailed Fre« on Sequest 
 
i- 
 
 MASKS ^ 
 
 With 
 
 JIM'S BEAST, TIDES, AMONG THE LIONS, 
 THE REASON, THE HOUSE 
 
 One-Act Plays of Contemporary Life 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE MIDDLETON 
 
 "We all wear many masks" 
 
 Copyright, 1920, by George Middletoh 
 
 ALL^ RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 CAUTION. — Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that 
 "Masks," "Jim's Beast," "Tides," "Among the Lions," "The 
 Reason," and "The House," being fully protected under the 
 copyright laws of the United States of Americaj the British 
 Empire, including the Dominion of Canada, and the other 
 countries of the Copyright Union, is subject to a royalty, and 
 anyone presenting the play without the consent of the owner 
 or his authorized agents will be liable to the penalties of the law 
 provided. Applications for the professional and amateur acting 
 rights must be made to Samuel French, 25 West 45th Street, 
 New York, N. Y- 
 
 New York 
 SAMUEL FRENCH 
 
 PHBLISHEB 
 
 25 WEST 45th STREET 
 
 London 
 
 SAMUEL FRENCH, Ltd. 
 
 26 Southampton Street 
 
 STRAND 
 
MASKS ^C-?,^'^WV* 
 
 Jim's Beast, Tides, Among the Lions, The Reason, 
 The House 
 
 One- Act Plays of Contemporary Life 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 Especial notice should be taken that the possession of 
 this book without a valid contract for production first 
 having been obtained from the publisher, confers no 
 right or license to professionals or amateurs to produce 
 the play publicly or in private for gain or charity. 
 
 In their present form these plays are dedicated to the 
 reading public only, and no performance, representation, 
 production, recitation, or public reading, or radio broad- 
 casting may be given except by special arrangement with 
 Samuel French, 25 West 4Sth Street, New York. 
 
 These plays may be presented by amateurs upon pay- 
 ment of a royalty of Ten Dollars per performance, pay- 
 able to Samuel French, 25 West 45th Street, New York, 
 one week before the date when the play is given. 
 
 Professional royalty quoted on application to Samuel 
 French, 25 West 45th Street, New York, N. Y. 
 
 Whenever the play is produced the following notice 
 must appear on all programs, printing and advertising 
 for the play : "Produced by special arrangement with 
 Samuel French of New York." 
 
 Attention is called to the penalty provided by law for 
 any infringement of the author's rights, as follows: 
 
 "Section 4966: — Any person publicly performing or 
 representing any dramatic or musical composition* for 
 which copyright has been obtained, without the consent 
 of the proprietor of said dramatic or musical composi- 
 tion, or his heirs and assigns, shall be liable for damages 
 thereof, such damages, in all cases to be assessed at 
 such sum, not less than one hundred dollars for the first 
 and fifty dollars for every subsequent performance, as 
 to the court shall appear to be just. If the unlawful 
 performance and representation be wilful and for profit, 
 such person or persons shall be guilty of a misdemeanor, 
 and upon conviction shall be imprisoned for a period not 
 exceeding one year."— U. S. Revised Statutes: Title 60, 
 Chap. 3. gipf 
 
 PUBilSMER 
 
 APR 16 77 . ; 
 
GARDNER and MARICE 
 
 SOUVENIR OF HAPPY DAYS IN THE FOREST 
 WHERE MUCH OF THIS WAS WRITTEN 
 
In the prefaces to my five previous volumes I have 
 sufficiently explained my reason for play publication — 
 not as a substitute for production but as an alternative 
 sometimes compelled by the exigencies of a highly com- 
 mercialized theater. Further, I have stated in other 
 places why I have so frequently turned to the one- 
 act form. 
 
 The present volume is dedicated to no thesis, though 
 perhaps the title may offer some hint of the underlying 
 motive which has prompted this series. 
 
 G. M. 
 
 December 23, 1919. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Preface v 
 
 Masks 3 
 
 Jim's Beast 67 
 
 Tides .113 
 
 Among the Lions 149 
 
 The Reason 181 
 
 The House 211 
 
MASKS 
 
THE PEOPLE 
 
 Grant Williams, a dramatist. 
 Jerry, his wife. 
 
 Tom Robinson, a great painter. 
 Marie Case, formerly Tom's wife. 
 
 Characters in 
 his unproduced 
 drama " The 
 Lonely Way." 
 
 SCENE 
 
 In the Williams' flat, New York City, rfter the 
 second performance of Grant Williams' first great 
 success. The Sand Bar, produced at the National 
 Theater. 
 
MASKS * 
 
 ^ M iHE doorway from the public stairs opens im- 
 m mediately upon the living-room without the 
 
 •^ intervening privacy of a small hallway. The 
 
 room was, no doubt, more formally pretentious in the 
 early days of the Williams' marriage; but the 
 relics of that time — some rigid mahogany chairs 
 and stray pieces of staid furniture — have been ruth- 
 lessly pushed against the walls, so that one perceives a 
 " parlor " transformed into a miscellaneous room upon 
 which the flat's overflow has gradually crept. And 
 with this has come Grant Williams' plain wooden 
 work-table, bearing now a writer's accessories, a desk 
 lamp, and a mass of manuscripts ; one of which is his 
 unproduced drama. The Lonely Way^ bound in 
 the conventional blue linen cover. His well-worn 
 typewriter is perched on the end of the table, in easy 
 reach of his work-chair with its sofa cushions crushed 
 and shaped to his form. Another chair is near by, so 
 that it also may catch the flood of light which comes 
 from the conventional electric bunch-light above. There 
 is a small black kerosene heater to be used in those 
 emergencies of temperature which landlords create. 
 Not far from it, a child's collapsible go-cart is propped. 
 On the walls, above some over-flowing bookshelves, are 
 
 * Copyright by George Middleton. See back of title page. 
 
4 MASKS 
 
 several tastefully selected etchings. A window in back, 
 which hides an airshaftj is partly concealed by heavy 
 curtains that hang tired and limp. There is another 
 doorway, directly opposite the entrance, which leads 
 to the other rooms of a characteristically compressed 
 city flat. 
 
 Yet the room is not forbidding : it merely suggests 
 forced economies that have not quite fringed poverty: 
 continual adaptation, as it were, to the financial con- 
 tingencies of a marriage that has just managed to make 
 both ends meet. 
 
 When the curtain rises Jerry Williams is seated 
 in the cozy chair reading a number of newspaper clip- 
 pings. 
 
 Jerry is an attractive woman in her thirties. Ex- 
 ternally, there is nothing particularly striking about 
 her: if there be such a thing as an average wife Jerry 
 personifies it. She has loved her husband and kept 
 house for him without a spoken protest; for she has 
 had no advanced ideas or theories. Yet she has had 
 her fears and little concealments and dreams — like any 
 married woman. She has been sustained through the 
 ten years of hard sledding by the belief in her hus- 
 band's ultimate financial success. And as she reads the 
 criticisms of his play. The Sand Bar, produced the 
 night before, she realizes it has come at last. She is 
 now completely happy and calm in the thought of her 
 rewards. 
 
 She looks at the cheap watch lying on the desk and 
 indicates it is late. She closes the window, walks over 
 to the doorway and looks in, apparently to see if the 
 
MASKS 5 
 
 child is still asleep. Then she closes the door and 
 stands there, with just a suspicion of impatience. 
 
 Several minutes pass. Then she gives a little cry of 
 joy as she hears the key turn in the lock and she sees 
 the hall door open slowly — admitting her husband. 
 
 Grant Williams is a more striking personality than 
 his wife; about forty, with a tinge of iron gray on his 
 temples, he has a strong virile face not ivithout traces of 
 idealism. His whole appearance is normal and devoid 
 of any conscious affectation of dress. But a very close 
 inspection might reveal that his suit, though carefully 
 pressed, is well worn — as is the overcoat which covers 
 it. Grant happens to be a man of cultivation and 
 breeding, with a spark of genius, who has strayed into 
 strange pastures. At present there lurks an unexpected 
 depression back of his mood; perhaps it is only the 
 normal reaction which conies to every artist when suc- 
 cess is won and the critical sense within mocks the 
 achievement so beneath the dream. Perhaps with 
 Grant Williams it is something else. 
 
 Jerry 
 Oh, Grant, I thought you'd never come home. 
 
 Grant 
 Best, the house manager, detained me. 
 
 Jerry 
 {Detecting his mood) 
 There's nothing the matter with the play? 
 
6 MASKS 
 
 Grant 
 
 Nothing; except it's an enormous success. (She 
 smiles again j and he wants to keep her smiling.) We 
 were sold out to-night. The second night! Think of 
 that! I had to stand myself. 
 
 Jerry 
 Well, I don't see why you should be blue about it. 
 There were always plenty of empty seats at your other 
 plays. I knew The Sand Bar couldn't fail. 
 
 Grant 
 
 {Throwing coat carelessly over chair) 
 You felt the same about the others. 
 
 Jerry 
 {Trying to cheer him) 
 They didn't fail — artistically. 
 
 Grant 
 
 You mean nobody came to see them — except on 
 
 passes. But The Sand Bar! That's different! 
 
 {With a tinge of sarcasm throughout.) You ought 
 
 to have seen the way the mob at the National ate it up. 
 
 Jerry 
 I wanted to go but I couldn't ask Mrs. Hale to 
 take care of the baby again. Besides, I was anxious to 
 read all the notices over quietly by myself and . . . 
 
MASKS 7 
 
 Grant 
 
 {Picking them up and glancing through them) 
 Great, aren't they ? Not a " roast " among them. 
 
 Jerry 
 Not one. I couldn't find Arthur Black's review : he 
 was always so kind to your other plays, too. 
 
 Grant 
 {Evasively) 
 I forgot to bring In the Gazette. Best says he never 
 saw such " money " notices. ( Glances at one.) Doran 
 outdid himself. {Reading the critic s notice with a 
 touch of theatrical exaggeration.) " The perception of 
 human nature evinced by Grant Williams in his pro- 
 foundly moving drama The Sand Bar places him in 
 the front rank of American dramatists ! " 
 
 Jerry 
 Just where you belong. 
 
 Grant 
 
 {Skipping) 
 " His hero, Tom Robinson, the artist, who deliber- 
 ately deserts his highest ideals because his wife's happi- 
 ness is of more value than his own egoistic self- 
 expression, is a new angle on the much abused artistic 
 temperament." {With a wise smile.) That "twist " 
 seems to have got them. {Reading) " Marie, his wife, 
 who is willing to risk her honor to test his love and 
 thus awaken him to a sense of his human responsibility, 
 
8 MASKS 
 
 is a character which will appeal to every married 
 woman." 
 
 Jerry 
 {She nods in approval, without his seeing her) 
 But read the last paragraph, dear. 
 
 Grant 
 " In fact, all the characters are true to themselves, 
 never once being bent lay the playwright for dramatic 
 effect out of the inevitable and resistless momentum of 
 their individual psychologies." And Doran used to 
 report prizefights ! 
 
 Jerry 
 I hope he doesn't go back to it. He writes beauti- 
 fully. 
 
 Grant 
 
 By the way, I haven't told you the crowning achieve- 
 ment of my ten years of writing. Trebaro — the great 
 Trebaro who would never even read my plays before 
 — asked me in the lobby to-night to write him a curtain 
 raiser ! 
 
 Jerry 
 {Happily) 
 That's splendid! 
 
 Grant 
 
 I've promised to get it done in ten days. His new 
 play is going to run short. He's got to have something 
 to lengthen the evening. 
 
MASKS 9 
 
 Jerry 
 Have you an idea? 
 
 Grant 
 No; not yet. But he doesn't like anything with 
 ideas in it. 
 
 Jerry 
 (As she sees him go to his typewriter to remove cover) 
 But, dear, you're not going to begin it to-night! 
 {Significantly stopping him.) To-night belongs to me 
 — not to your work. {Nestling close beside him.) 
 Dearest. . . . 
 
 Grant 
 All right, Jerry. I've only got a few paragraphs of 
 personal stuff to bang off. Then I'll be with you. The 
 Times wants it for a Sunday story — with my photo. 
 {As her face brightens again.) You see, Mrs. Grant 
 Williams, your husband is now in the limelight. 
 
 Jerry 
 I'm so glad success has come to you at last. 
 
 Grant 
 Better at last than at first. I'm told it's bad for 
 your character to be too successful when you're young. 
 So providence nearly starved us a bit, eh? 
 
 Jerry 
 You thought it was going to be so easy when we 
 were first married. It's been hard for you, dear. I 
 
10 MASKS 
 
 know. Writing and writing and seeing other fellows 
 make money. But now you've won out. You ought 
 to be very happy, as I am. 
 
 Grant 
 You are happy, aren't you? (He takes her hands 
 affectionately, then looks at them, turning them over.) 
 The only hard thing, Jerry, was to see these hands of 
 yours grow red and rough with the work here. 
 
 Jerry 
 Maybe that's the only way they could help you. 
 
 Grant 
 {Enigmatically ) 
 It's because of them and only because of them that 
 I've done it. 
 
 Jerry 
 Done what? 
 
 Grant 
 
 Oh, nothing. {He puts paper in the machine.) 
 How about a glass of milk? 
 
 Jerry 
 I'll get it while the great man reveals himself to an 
 anxious public. 
 
 Grant 
 And some crackers. {Sitting at machine.) They 
 want something on: "How I Make My Characters 
 
MASKS II 
 
 Live." (She laughs suddenly: he starts.) Oh; it's 
 you? 
 
 Jerry 
 Yes. I was thinking how funny it was to celebrate 
 a success in milk. 
 
 Grant 
 Yes. But the greatest joke of all is that The Sand 
 Bar is a success — a real financial success. 
 
 Jerry 
 It's a very good joke. 
 
 {She goes out happily. Then a cynical look 
 creeps into his face. He reads as he types.) 
 
 Grant 
 " How I Made My Characters in The Sand Bar 
 
 Live." 
 
 {He pauses a second, smiling cynically. Then, 
 as he apparently hears something, he rises and 
 goes over to the hall door which he opens 
 quickly. He looks out and apparently sees a 
 neighbor entering the apartment opposite. A 
 bibulous "good night" is heard. He closes the 
 door, turns the key, tests the door and sees it is 
 locked. As he stands there puzzled, Jerry 
 enters, with a bottle of milk, some crackers, and 
 an apple on a small tray.) 
 You'll have to get over this habit of waiting on 
 
 me now. 
 
12 MASKS 
 
 Jerry 
 Don't ask the impossible. 
 
 Grant 
 But we shall have servants now ; plenty of them. 
 
 Jerry 
 Plenty of them? Why how much money are you 
 going to make out of The Sand Bar? 
 
 Grant 
 Nearly a thousand dollars a week. 
 
 Jerry 
 {Almost inaudibly as she nearly drops the tray) 
 My God! 
 
 Grant 
 
 {As he puts tray on table) 
 It will run forty weeks at the National. Then three 
 road companies next year: " stock " and the " movies " 
 after that. I'm going to make as much money in two 
 weeks now as I ever made before in one year — turning 
 out hack stuff and book reviews. And all I've got to 
 do is to sit back and let it work for me! 
 
 Jerry 
 It doesn't seem honest. 
 
 Grant 
 
 Ma}'be it isn't, Jerry. {As he eats.) But when 
 the public is pleased it pays to be pleased. 
 
MASKS 13 
 
 Jerry 
 
 (Venturing) 
 The first thing I want is some new clothes. 
 
 Grant 
 ( Grandiloquently ) 
 My first week's royalty is yours. 
 
 Jerry 
 Really? 
 
 Grant 
 Throw away everything that's darned and patched. 
 I'm sick of seeing them. 
 
 Jerry 
 
 I was always so ashamed, too. Just think what 
 people w^ould have said if I'd been run over or killed 
 in an accident. 
 
 Grant 
 
 Now you'll do the running over— in our new car. 
 
 Jerry 
 (Hardly believing her ears) 
 A car! 
 
 Grant 
 
 Every successful playwright has a car. 
 
 Jerry 
 (Joyfully) 
 Then we'll have to move from here to live up to 
 the car? 
 
14 MASKS 
 
 Grant 
 We've got to move. It's more important to look 
 like a success than to be one. {Glancing about flat.) 
 And the Lord knows this doesn't look like success. 
 
 Jerry 
 I'm so glad. I've grown to hate these five stuffy 
 rooms without sunlight. 
 
 Grant 
 
 Nothing to light them up these ten years but the 
 glow of my genius, eh? Now I'll have a big house to 
 shine in. 
 
 Jerry 
 I've always dreamed of you having a room off by 
 yourself. 
 
 Grant 
 Where you could really dream without the sound 
 of my typewriter waking you and the baby ? 
 
 Jerry 
 But it will be splendid for you, too. I don't see how 
 you ever wrote here with me always fussing in and out. 
 
 Grant 
 Washing the eternal dish and cooking the eternal 
 chop. 
 
 Jerry 
 I don't ever want to look another gas stove in the 
 face. 
 
MASKS 15 
 
 i 
 
 Grant 
 
 You've cooked your last chop. 
 
 Jerry 
 Oh, Grant; my dreams have come true. 
 
 Grant 
 
 {Enigmatically again) 
 Yes. Success or failure : it's all a matter of how you 
 dream. {She looks up puzzled: he is silent a moment 
 and then goes to machine again.) But I'll never get 
 this done. 
 
 Jerry 
 I'll put on my old wrapper, for the last time, and 
 wait up for you. I'm going to get a real negligee to- 
 morrow. Your favorite color. 
 
 Grant 
 I won't be long. This is an awful bore and I'm 
 tired. 
 
 {He begins to pound out something on his 
 machine. Jerry goes over to hang up his coat, 
 and as she does so, a newspaper clipping falls 
 out of his pocket, on the floor. She picks it up 
 unnoticed by Grant. She glances at it; starts 
 angrily to speak to Grant about it; but seeing 
 he is absorbed, hesitates and then conceals it. 
 She hangs up the coat, comes around back of 
 him as though to speak — but changes her mind. 
 She kisses him. As she passes the table, she 
 knocks off the manuscript of a play. She picks 
 it up.) 
 
> 
 
 MASKS 
 
 
 Grant 
 
 What's that? 
 
 
 Jerry 
 The manuscript of The Lonely Way. {He looks 
 over at itjtzoith a cynical smile.) You've learned a lot 
 about playwrighting since you wrote that, haven't you, 
 dear? 
 
 Grant 
 Yes — a lot. 
 
 Jerry 
 
 ( Tentatively ) 
 You used to say it wz.% the best thing you ever did. 
 
 Grant 
 How did you happen to come across it? 
 
 Jerry 
 I found it behind the chest when I was cleaning. 
 
 Grant 
 Oh, yes; I remember. I threw it there the day of 
 my great decision: The day I made up my mind to 
 rewrite it and call it The Sand Bar. 
 
 Jerry 
 {As she glances over the pages) 
 Grant. I'm not going to lose you now that you're 
 a success? 
 
MASKS 17 
 
 Grant 
 What ever put such a foolish idea in your head ? 
 
 Jerry 
 You remember the Tom Robinson you drew in this 
 play? All you made him think of was his art; he 
 even threw away his wife to make a success of it. 
 
 Grant 
 That was because his wife didn't understand. Be- 
 sides, dear, you know how much I altered my original 
 conception of their characters and completely changed 
 the plot. Look how different it all is in The Sand 
 Bar. 
 
 Jerry 
 
 And you think your changes made the play truer to 
 life? In real life a Tom Robinson wouldn't have got 
 rid of her? 
 
 Grant 
 I don't think anything's ever going to come between 
 us, if that's what you mean. 
 
 Jerry 
 Of course not. {Putting the manuscript on table, 
 relieved, as she sees him resume his typing.) But I 
 felt so sure of you when we were poor. Perhaps it was 
 because you couldn't afford to be wild. 
 
 {She turns off the switch and goes out. The 
 room is lighted only by the desk lamp, casting 
 
i8 MASKS 
 
 its shadows into the corners of the room. He 
 takes a cigarette from the box on the table, and 
 as he smokes he reads half to himself what he 
 has written.) 
 
 Grant 
 "An author's characters grow into life out of his 
 observation and experience. Once they are conceived 
 by these two parents their first heart beats are the 
 taps of the author's typewriter." Good. " Gradually 
 they grow into living men and women. They live with 
 him, yet with a life of their own. In writing The 
 Sand Bar I . . . I . . . 
 
 {This makes him hesitate to continue. He 
 glances toward the manuscript of The Lonely 
 Way. He rises slowly and picks it up cyni- 
 cally. Then, as though fascinated, he gradually 
 settles in the cozy chair by his table. He begins 
 to become absorbed as he reads his earlier play. 
 He puts his hand over his eyes, he lowers the 
 manuscript, gives a sigh as though lost in the 
 thoughts it calls up. The door, which he has 
 locked, opens noiselessly, and closes as Grant 
 looks up in surprise and sees a man enter. 
 
 Grant immediately discovers there is some- 
 thing extraordinary about his unexpected visitor. 
 As he directs the light upon him. Grant per- 
 ceives the mans power which lies both in his 
 frame and impressive personality. His eyes have 
 a relentless coldness when they narrow. His 
 mouth is firm but cruel, with a sarcastic droop 
 
MASKS 19 
 
 pulling down the corners. In spite of an occa- 
 sional uncouth manner of spasmodically blurt- 
 ing out his words. Grant soon realizes how 
 keen is the intruder s penetration when it is 
 sharpened to the one point which vitally con- 
 cerns him — his art. For this man of fifty-five 
 ■ winters, is a great artist. Grant is too amazed 
 and puzzled to recognize it is one of his own 
 creations: ToM Robinson. 
 
 The latter comes over to the dramatist and 
 places a hand on his shoulder.) 
 
 Tom 
 You and I have some scores to settle. 
 
 Grant 
 
 {Moving away) 
 Who are you? 
 
 Tom 
 
 So you don't recognize me? 
 
 Grant 
 Your manners are familiar. 
 
 Tom 
 So Whistler once said. Look at me closely. 
 
 Grant 
 Is this a dare? 
 
2o: MASKS 
 
 Tom 
 (Shaking his head slowly) 
 An author's brain is indeed a store-house of mixed 
 impressions: a strange asylum for me to have escaped 
 from. 
 
 Grant 
 {Starting toward door) 
 Possibly the police may be able to lead you safely 
 home. 
 
 Tom 
 I am at home with you. 
 
 Grant 
 Don't get excited. Keep perfectly cool. 
 
 Tom 
 I am cool because my intention is. (Grant gives him 
 a look as Tom goes over to the machine and glances at 
 the heading of the article.) " How I Make My 
 Characters Live! " You certainly do — some of us. 
 
 (Grant suddenly crosses to the door, tries it 
 and realizes it is still locked. He turns, be- 
 wildered, to Tom.) 
 
 Grant 
 How did you get in here? 
 
 Tom 
 Why shouldn't I? As your fellow-craftsman once 
 remarked : " I am a trifle light as air." 
 
MASKS 21 
 
 Grant 
 I can't say you look it. 
 
 Tom 
 (Eyeing him as he lights one of Grant's cigarettes) 
 Since you don't recognize me perhaps you didn't do 
 what you did to me — deliberately. 
 
 Grant 
 
 But I've never done a thing to you. 
 
 Tom 
 Are. we so soon forgot? {Puffing) Yet how remi- 
 niscent the odor of this cigarette. I notice you still 
 smoke the same cheap brand. 
 
 Grant 
 I must say I admire your nerve. 
 
 Tom 
 You ought to admire it. You gave, it to me. 
 
 Grant 
 I never gave you anything. 
 
 Tom 
 {Bluntly) 
 Liar ! You gave me life ! 
 
 Grant 
 Gave you life? 
 
22 MASKS 
 
 Tom 
 Yes; I am your child. 
 
 Grant 
 My child? {He laughs.) 
 
 Tom 
 Many a man before you has tried to deny paternity 
 with a laugh. 
 
 Grant 
 But you're old enough to ^^ my father. Are you 
 accusing me of improving on Nature? 
 
 Tom 
 All artists do. {Picking up manuscript of The 
 Lonely Way.) Here's how you described me. 
 {Reading) "... his eyes have a relentless cold- 
 ness when they narrow . . . mouth firm but cruel. 
 i.i .. . Not attractive but impressive." There I am. 
 Read it for yourself. 
 
 Grant 
 Then you are — ? 
 
 Tom 
 
 {Sarcastically) 
 
 Your child. Your once dearly beloved brain baby. 
 
 Grant 
 {Awed) 
 Tom Robinson! 
 
MASKS 23 
 
 Tom 
 As you originally conceived him here in The 
 
 Lonely Way. 
 Well, I'm damned. 
 
 Grant 
 
 Tom 
 
 I suspect you are. That's what I'm here to see. 
 {Ominously) And then if . . . {Suddenly casual) 
 But sit down and we'll talk it over calmly first. 
 (Grant sits down astonished. Tom sits also.) Thanks. 
 
 Grant 
 Go on. 
 
 Tom 
 Look at me. Here I am, as you drew me. Tom 
 Robinson. Your greatest creation! 
 
 Grant 
 I recognize the egotism. 
 
 Tom 
 
 {Blurting) 
 I am what my egotism made me. Your egotism also 
 made you dare to^ conceive me, here at this very desk, 
 out of your brain, in the puffs of your cheap cigarettes. 
 The taps on your typewriter were my first heart beats. 
 Your birth pains were my own cries of life. 
 
 Grant 
 You certainly gave me a lot of trouble. 
 
24 MASKS 
 
 Tom 
 But you never suffered in having me as I did last 
 night when I went with you to The Sand Bar and 
 saw what you'd done to Tom Robinson ! 
 
 Grant 
 {More and more amused at what seems to be the 
 childish petulance of an admittedly great man) 
 You must have had quite a shock. 
 
 Tom 
 
 Shock? I was disgusted! Why, the actor who's 
 interpreting me isn't even bad looking. 
 
 Grant 
 No. He couldn't be. He's a star. 
 
 Tom 
 
 But / was your original conception. Why did you 
 alter me into a good-looking fashion plate with charm ? 
 There never was anything charming about me; never. 
 
 Grant 
 
 {Glancing towards his wife's door) 
 Please not so loud. I made you unpleasant, I know ; 
 but don't pile it on, Tom. 
 
 Tom 
 {With dignity) 
 Robinson to you. 
 
MASKS 25 
 
 Grant 
 {Smilinff) 
 I beg your pardon. 
 
 Tom 
 Why you authors feel you can take liberties with 
 your characters is beyond me. I, for one, shall be 
 treated with respect. {His eyes narrow.) Unless 
 you have lost your capacity to respect a work of art 
 like me. 
 
 Grant 
 Come, come. I'm afraid it's you who have lost your 
 sense of humor. 
 
 Tom 
 (Sarcastically) 
 Perhaps you didn't give me as much humor as you 
 thought. 
 
 Grant 
 But can't we talk over the object of your visit in a 
 friendly spirit? {With a smile.) Say, as father to 
 son? 
 
 Tom 
 You'll take me seriously before I'm through. I'll 
 remind you that I was a force in The Lonely Way 
 though in The Sand Bar Tom Robinson is merely 
 a figure. One suit a year was good enough for me. 
 You make him change his every act. 
 
26 MASKS 
 
 Grant 
 
 (More at ease) 
 I'm afraid you don't understand the demands of the 
 modern theater. 
 
 Tom 
 What have I — a great character — to do with the 
 modern theater? 
 
 Grant 
 Nothing. That's why I revised you. 
 
 Tom 
 (Bitterly) 
 Then why did you give me life at all? 
 
 Grant 
 Because then I was fool enough to think the modern 
 theater was a place for great creations. I recognize the 
 conditions better now. 
 
 Tom 
 But in The Lonely Way you didn't consider me 
 a fool when / continued to paint great pictures — in 
 spite of conditions. 
 
 Grant 
 You were a great artist in that play. 
 
 Tom 
 And when you drew me you were a great dramatist. 
 (Sadly) Now I see you are only a playwright. 
 
MASKS 27 
 
 Grant 
 And at the National Tom Robinson has become only 
 a painter of pot-boilers. {Mockingly) You've cer- 
 tainly come down in the world. 
 
 Tom 
 I don't need your pity; but I want you to realize 
 that what you did to me you also did to yourself. 
 When you made me fall, I brought you down with 
 me. {He shakes the manuscript before him.) Look! 
 I had life there in a powerful play. 
 
 Grant 
 I won't dispute that. It was fine: beautifully articu- 
 lated in its subtlety. 
 
 Tom 
 That just describes it. It was nearly as fine as my 
 Sumatra Sunlight or even my Russian Nocturne. 
 
 Grant 
 
 Which you never sold. 
 
 Tom 
 But what is painted lives for the future. 
 
 Grant 
 Don't be sensitive: my Lonely Way is still here. 
 Nobody would produce it. 
 
 Tom 
 Yet you cared for nobody when you made me live 
 in it — perfect as the frame that held me. The strength 
 
28 MASKS 
 
 you gave me in my own relentlessness was also yours. 
 You glowed when you wrote it ; as you made me glow 
 when I painted. You felt the joy which only a creator 
 knows when beauty and perfection slowly struggle 
 out of his inner vision. 
 
 Grant 
 But, my dear fellow . . . 
 
 Tom 
 Wait. Contrast this play with The Sand Bar! 
 With your skill as a builder you turned what was a 
 lonely palace on a peak — aflame with my art — into a 
 scrambly suburban residence where miserable ordinary 
 people function. You produced a miserable makeshift 
 of a play and made Tom Robinson a miserable make- 
 shift of a man. {Accusing him.) But when you 
 played tricks on me you played tricks on yourself. 
 That's what you did when you took from Tom Robin- 
 son his genius and made him paint pot-boilers at the 
 National. Pot-boilers! Pot-boilers! Me!! Good 
 God, man, did you know what you were doing when 
 you rewrote this play? 
 
 Grant 
 {Slowly) 
 I knew exactly what I was doing. I was turning it 
 into a popular success. 
 
 Tom 
 {Outraged) 
 You had not even the excuse of self-deception? 
 
MASKS 29 
 
 Grant 
 
 No. 
 
 Tom 
 (Eyeing him strangely) 
 Then you are worse off than we thought! 
 
 Grant 
 
 Wef 
 
 Tom 
 I wonder how far you have fallen! I shall be 
 patient till we see the depths of your artistic degrada- 
 tion. 
 
 Grant 
 
 You said "we"? 
 
 A Woman's Voice 
 (Outside) 
 
 Yes. We. 
 
 (Grant gives a start towards the door, think- 
 ing the voice has come from his wife's room.) 
 
 Tom 
 Oh, that isn't your wife. 
 
 Grant 
 
 Then if you've some friend concealed about your 
 person, hadn't you better produce her ? 
 
30 MASKS 
 
 Tom 
 That isn't my friend; that's my wife. 
 
 Grant 
 Your humor isn't inspiring. I've heard that bril- 
 liant retort before. 
 
 Tom 
 Certainly. You wrote it yourself; but you stole it 
 from Moliere. If I had your memory I'd be witty, 
 too. 
 
 Grant 
 
 {Looking about) 
 I don't seem to see Mrs. Robinson very clearly. 
 
 Tom 
 She says you never did. Come to think of it, she's no 
 longer Mrs. Robinson. 
 
 Grant 
 Oh, I forgot. In The Lonely Way you divorced 
 her. 
 
 Tom 
 Marie and I haven't been on speaking terms since; 
 but after she saw The Sand Bar she simply insisted 
 on coming here. 
 
 Grant 
 Well, I'll be happy to hear her grievance, too. 
 
MASKS 31 
 
 Tom 
 (Ominously) 
 You won't think us so amusing when we are through 
 with you. 
 
 Grant 
 As a dramatist, I admire your talent for suspense. 
 {Calling) Come in, Mrs. Robinson. 
 
 Tom 
 {Correcting him) 
 Case. Mrs. Pendleton Case. You've also forgotten 
 that in The Lonely Way you made her marry him. 
 
 Grant 
 To be sure. But in The Sand Bar I made her 
 stay with you. 
 
 Tom 
 Yes. That's one of her grievances. 
 
 Grant 
 Come in, Mrs. Case. 
 
 (Grant watches Marie come slowly from be- 
 hind the curtains, into the light. Then he sees 
 a handsome woman of thirty-five, bien soignee 
 to the last degree. Yet somehow to Grant 
 her manner is an assumption she has acquired 
 and not inherited. Beneath her vivid personal- 
 ity, her unrestrained moods glitter with force if 
 not heat. But now she eyes him steadily with 
 
32 MASKS 
 
 the greatest contempt. She wears a magnifi- 
 cent opera cloak, clutched close to her. She 
 carries a small hand hag. 
 
 Though Marie and Tom are aware of each 
 other's presence, they never address each other; 
 they speak to each other through Grant as 
 though they existed only in him.) 
 
 Grant 
 
 Do sit down. > 
 
 Tom 
 
 Oh, Marie will sit down. Don't worry. 
 
 {Before she sits she carelessly throws her cloak 
 over the same chair that Grant had previously 
 thrown his coat. She stands revealed in a 
 beautiful evening gown. It seems to proclaim 
 to Grant her daring and contempt for con- 
 ventions. ) 
 
 Marie 
 After what I've just heard I don't know whether 
 it's worth while to waste words on a creature like you. 
 
 Grant 
 
 {Very politely throughout) 
 Your husband seems to have succeeded in doing it. 
 
 Tom 
 Her husband? Don't try to saddle her off on me. 
 Once was enough. 
 
MASKS 33 
 
 Marie 
 It's only our contempt for you, Mr. Williams, that 
 finds us two together. 
 
 Grant 
 To be sure. I keep forgetting. 
 
 (Marie takes a cigarette out of the hand bag; 
 Grant offers her a light.) 
 Permit me. 
 
 {She glares at him and refuses it. As she 
 searches her hand bag for a match, a small 
 pistol accidentally falls to the floor. Grant 
 quickly picks it up and hands it to her. She 
 replaces it. He offers her another light, which 
 she sullenly accepts.) 
 
 Marie 
 I wouldn't accept anything from you, only, in my 
 haste, I forgot my matches. (She crosses one knee 
 over the other and puffs.) Brr — it's cold here. 
 
 Tom 
 {Bluntly) 
 She wants a drink. 
 
 Grant 
 Will she accept it from me? 
 
 Tom 
 She'll take it from anybody. 
 
34 MASKS 
 
 Grant 
 Oh, yes, I remember. I beg your pardon. 
 
 Marie 
 {Seeing him lift up the milk bottle) 
 Milk! 
 
 Grant 
 {Apologetically) 
 When I gave you your fondness for alcohol in Thb 
 Lonely Way, we didn't have prohibition. 
 
 Marie 
 Was that the reason you took it away from Marie 
 when you changed her in The Sand Bar? 
 
 Grant 
 Not exactly. You see no leading lady can ever have 
 a real thirst. I'm sorry if you're cold. 
 
 Tom 
 Oh, Mrs. Case will warm up when she remembers 
 what you've done to her. She had a wonderful temper 
 when she lived with me. 
 
 Marie 
 I had to have. And you also took that away from 
 me. 
 
 Grant 
 
 I'm very sorry, Mrs. Case; the leading lady didn't 
 like your temper either. 
 
MASKS 35 
 
 Marie 
 But / liked it. It was part of my character, as you 
 originally conceived me. 
 
 Grant 
 Yes; a character touch. It was the only comedy 
 relief in my play. 
 
 Tom 
 It may have been comedy to you but it was no relief 
 to me. 
 
 Marie 
 
 {Emotionally) 
 
 My temper was my defense and my attack. It 
 
 aroused fear and respect. Through it I got what I 
 
 wanted out of life. It was mine! Mine! And you 
 
 took it away from me! Oh! 
 
 {She rushes angrily towards the milk bottle 
 and lifts it above her as though to smash it; 
 but Grant stops her.) 
 
 Tom 
 {As he lights another cigarette) 
 There you see. Every time she thinks of what a 
 temper she has she loses it. 
 
 Grant * 
 
 {Still holding the bottle with her) 
 I concede your temper. I always had a hard time 
 to control it. {Taking it from her courteously.) It 
 was one of your most unpleasant traits. 
 
36 MASKS 
 
 Marie 
 (Sullenly) 
 Then why did you change me? 
 
 Grant 
 It's a professional secret, Mrs. Case. The leading 
 lady hasn't the capacity to reach the heights your won- 
 derful temper demanded. Besides, her specialty is cute 
 ingenue stuff. She's a great popular favorite, you 
 know, and is consequently afraid to lose her following 
 by playing any part which lacks charm. 
 
 Tom 
 (Bitterly) 
 Charm! Charm! There it is again, Williams. 
 You hadn't a bit of respect forTVlrs. Case's true char- 
 acter so you made her charming. 
 
 Marie 
 But you gave me a charm all my own before I mar- 
 ried Tom. 
 
 Tom 
 She kept it to herself ; I never suspected it after we 
 were married. 
 
 Marie 
 But, Mr. Williams, you knew no one could live with 
 Tom Robinson and not lose her charm. All he really 
 wanted of me was to cook his chops and wash his 
 dishes. 
 
MASKS 37 
 
 Tom 
 She seems to forget she was my wife and that I was 
 a genius. She wanted me to get my precious fingers 
 red and rough in a dish pan. 
 
 Marie 
 {Flaring) 
 No. I wanted him to be a human being, not an 
 artist. 
 
 Grant 
 
 {Who has been trying to speak throughout) 
 Please. Please. Remember you two are no longer 
 married. 
 
 Tom 
 You see: she's warming up. 
 
 Marie 
 {Bitterly) 
 How like old times. 
 
 Grant 
 By Jove. I remember now. {Opening manuscript.) 
 I remember everything about you. 
 
 Marie 
 Don't be humorous. There's lots about your own 
 characters you authors never know. 
 
 Tom 
 That's what critics are for. 
 
38 MASKS 
 
 Marie 
 So don't try to make my temper seem trivial, Mr. 
 Williams. I valued it. It gave me a chance to assert 
 myself. It kept me alive as an individua'1. In The 
 Lonely Way, while I was his wife, you made my 
 whole fight to keep from being swamped by his person- 
 ality. 
 
 Tom 
 As a married man yourself, Williams, you know 
 damn well that women have got to capitulate in mar- 
 riage. We husbands have got to close the door on 
 them when they don't understand us. 
 
 Marie 
 ( Contemptuously ) 
 And in The Sand Bar, Marie didn't have the 
 courage to take the things of life that lay outside the 
 door! She didn't dare, like me, because you'd changed 
 her into a sweet simpering woman who loved her 
 husband. 
 
 Tom 
 But the Tom Robinson she loved there isn't the Tom 
 Robinson you see here. 
 
 Marie 
 No. The other is a hero! He's a halo on legs. 
 
 Grant 
 Your ignorance of theatrical conditions is appalling. 
 The Sand Bar had to have a happy ending. If I 
 
MASKS 39 
 
 hadn't made you both charming the public wouldn't 
 have believed in your ultimate happiness together. 
 
 Tom 
 {Bringing his hand down on the table) 
 Now we're getting at it. Why the devil did you 
 bring us together? 
 
 Grant 
 
 {Trying to explain elementally) 
 Because I'd turned you into the hero and you into 
 the heroine. They must always come together for 
 the final curtain. 
 
 Marie 
 But I wasn't a heroine. 
 
 Tom 
 
 No. She's right there. 
 
 Marie 
 {Emotionally) 
 I was a bitter, disillusionized woman. I saw how 
 Tom Robinson succeeded in getting out of life what 
 he wanted by being relentless. I, too, became relent- 
 less and married Pendleton Case because he could give 
 me what / most wanted. 
 
 Grant 
 
 {Beginning from now on to lose his patience) 
 Yes; but that was too unsympathetic a motive to 
 
40 MASKS 
 
 use in a popular play. So I had to make Pendleton 
 Case a villain who took advantage of your trust in him. 
 
 Marie 
 But Penny was only a poor gullible^fool consumed 
 by my egotism. Why were you so unfair to him? 
 Why did you make him a villain? 
 
 Tom 
 Yes. I want to know why you gave him all my 
 
 vices ? 
 
 Grant 
 If Case hadn't had all your vices, Marie wouldn't 
 have had all the sympathy. 
 
 Marie 
 I didn't want sympathy; I wanted clothes! 
 
 Grant 
 
 ( Confused) 
 But the leading lady has to have sympathy even 
 without clothes. I mean 
 
 Tom 
 {Quickly) 
 Do you mean that the reason you made me sacrifice 
 my art in The Sand Bar and rescue her from Case 
 was because she had to have sympathy? 
 
MASKS 41 
 
 Grant 
 Exactly. And, besides, how was an audience going 
 to know you were a hero unless you sacrificed some- 
 thing ? 
 
 Tom 
 But I'm not a hero: I'm an artist. You know the 
 real reason I got rid of her was because she stood in 
 the way of my art; because I wouldn't let a single 
 human responsibility weaken the vision within me. 
 
 Marie 
 Wasn't that reason enough why I should leave him ? 
 
 Grant 
 But that was too abstract an idea for the audience 
 to get. 
 
 Marie 
 So you turned an abstraction into a villain ! 
 
 Grant 
 Can't you see your husband couldn't rescue you 
 from an abstraction? 
 
 Marie 
 But I didn't want to be rescued. I wanted to 
 marry Penny! 
 
 Tom 
 And I was tickled to death to get rid of her. 
 
42 MASKS 
 
 Marie 
 Yes. It meant release for us both to be ourselves. 
 
 Grant 
 But, Robinson, you had to rescue her. She was the 
 leading lady. The manager pays her five hundred 
 dollars a week to marry the star. 
 
 Marie 
 Well, she earns it. 
 
 Grant 
 She earns it because she draws. 
 
 Tom 
 {Surprised) 
 Does she paint, too? 
 
 Grant 
 She draws that much money into the box office. 
 
 Tom 
 Money, money! How that runs through your talk. 
 
 Marie 
 {Referring to Tom) 
 I wish to heaven it had run through his. 
 
 Tom 
 {Lifting his voice angrily) 
 I was above such things. I am an artist. Money! 
 Money! I see red when I hear that word. Money! 
 Money! The curse of true art. 
 
MASKS 43 
 
 Grant 
 
 {Pointing to his wife's door) 
 Please, please; not so loud. You'll wake the baby. 
 
 Marie 
 {With a poignant cry) 
 Oh! 
 
 Grant 
 What's the matter with you ? 
 
 Marie 
 I forgot all about that. You also took my baby 
 away from me in The Sand Bar. 
 
 Tom 
 So far as I was concerned that was the only decent 
 thing you did. I had to make money for the child. 
 
 Marie 
 Have you forgotten that was the other reason I left 
 him ? He didn't love our child : it was in his way. 
 
 Tom 
 Love a mewling, puking child ? Not much. 
 
 Grant 
 
 {Trying to calm her as she walks up and down) 
 Sh! Control yourself. 
 
44 MASKS 
 
 Marie 
 My love for the child was the only decent thing 
 about me. 
 
 Grant 
 But I gave you other virtues. I made you love your 
 husband. 
 
 Marie 
 If I had to love my husband in your revised version 
 couldn't I at least have kept my child? 
 
 Grant 
 Don't be unreasonable. No leading lady wants a 
 child. 
 
 Marie 
 So you took it away to please the leading lady! 
 
 Grant 
 Can't you understand if I'd given her a child it 
 would have complicated matters? 
 
 Tom 
 You're right. It certainly complicated matters for 
 me. 
 
 Grant 
 {Trying to explain) 
 I wanted the struggle to be a simple one between 
 two men and a woman. A child would have been 
 a side-issue. 
 
MASKS 45 
 
 Marie 
 You call my child a side-issue! (Looking at Tom.) 
 Hasn't his father anything to say to that? 
 
 Tom 
 {To Grant) 
 She can't get me excited about that brat. It stood 
 in my way. I'd have killed it myself if necessary. 
 
 Marie 
 {To Grant) 
 But you killed it instead. 
 
 Grant 
 {Losing patience) 
 Yes. I killed it for the same reason he would have: 
 because it would have stood in the way of the play's 
 success. Are you a couple of fools? Can't you both 
 get into your heads I was writing a play to make 
 money ? 
 
 Tom 
 Money! Money again! 
 
 Marie 
 {Astonished as she comes to Grant) 
 So you killed it for money? 
 
 Grant 
 Yes. Just as I changed you both for money. 
 
46 MASKS 
 
 Tom 
 If you'd killed it for art I would have understood. 
 But to kill a creature for money! You are a mur- 
 derer ! 
 
 Marie 
 {Sneering) 
 And how much blood money will you get for what 
 you have done? 
 
 Grant 
 
 A thousand dollars a week! 
 
 Marie 
 {Overcome) 
 My God! 
 
 Tom 
 {Awed) 
 How much did you say? 
 
 Grant 
 A thousand a week. 
 
 Marie 
 You're going to get that much for putting me into 
 a popular success? 
 
 Grant 
 Yes. 
 
MASKS 47 
 
 Tom 
 
 She isn't worth it. 
 
 Grant 
 
 {Determined to have it out with them) 
 It was worth it to me. Think of the exquisite joy 
 I had in revising my problem drama. Think of how 
 I turned two hectic, distorted, twisted, selfish, miser- 
 able, little-souled characters into two self-sacrificing, 
 sugar-coated, lovable beings! 
 
 Tom 
 You are not only a murderer but a hypocrite: you 
 distorted life to win sympathy for us. 
 
 Grant 
 
 The theater no longer has anything to do with life. 
 It's a palace of personality. 
 
 Tom 
 Well, what's the matter with my personality? 
 
 Marie 
 Leaving him aside, what about me? 
 
 Grant 
 
 You wouldn't draw a cent. There wasn't a dollar 
 in either of you. 
 
 Marie 
 Is that my fault? You made us what we are. 
 
48 MASKS 
 
 Grant 
 Yes; before I learned that the public pays to be 
 pleased. Do you think there's anything pleasing about 
 either of you? Why, you couldn't even be happy to- 
 gether. 
 
 Tom 
 This is getting damned personal. 
 
 Marie 
 What right has the public got to be so proud of 
 itself? There's many a woman in the audience worse 
 than I am. 
 
 Grant 
 
 But they want to be flattered into believing they are 
 as much like heroes and heroines as you are not. The 
 successful playwright, like the fashionable portrait 
 painter, flatters and never reveals. 
 
 Tom 
 
 While true artists like me starve? 
 
 Grant 
 
 And dramatists who write " Lonely Ways " also 
 starve. What are you two kicking so about ? Because 
 I've raade you respectable, wealthy and happy? Do 
 you think the general public cares a whoop in Hades 
 what / think of life, of my peculiar slant on the motives 
 that mess up the characters that happen to interest mef 
 No : all they want is what they want life to be. 
 
MASKS 49 
 
 Tom 
 How little you know of human nature. If we'd had 
 a chance to be our true selves we would have been 
 appreciated. 
 
 Grant 
 
 By whom, pray? A few professional soul lovers. 
 And they'd get into the theater on passes. No. You 
 are caviar; most of the world lives on mush. So I 
 mixed you in mush, sentimental glue, anything you 
 want to call it. 
 
 Tom 
 
 You disgust me. 
 
 Marie 
 But I see hope for you. At heart you despise the 
 crowd, as I did its smug conventions. 
 
 Grant 
 {Bitterly) 
 I hate what it has made me suffer. 
 
 Tom 
 Every great artist has despised them. I despise 
 them. 
 
 Grant 
 
 {More seriously) 
 Only I think the public has its rights. They have 
 the right to laugh, to watch virtue triumph, to behold 
 
50 MASKS 
 
 success, to feel love win out, to see what they think is 
 happiness. They have that right because their own 
 lives are so full of the other things. And maybe they 
 like to dream a little, too. 
 
 Marie 
 Who's mushy now? 
 
 Grant 
 Don't sneer at a popular success. It's sometimes 
 more difficult to perform a trick than climb a mountain 
 peak. 
 
 Tom 
 Have we artists no rights? 
 
 Grant 
 ( Wearily ) 
 Only the right to dream and starve. 
 
 Marie 
 But I'm not an artist: I'm one of your creations. 
 Have / no rights? Must I be turned into a trained 
 poodle and do tricks for money ? 
 
 Grant 
 You are only a phantom, a projection, a figment. 
 
 Marie 
 {With great indignation) 
 You call me a figment? 
 
MASKS 51 
 
 Tom 
 {Rising ominously) 
 I'm tired of hearing you insult your own flesh and 
 blood. 
 
 Grant 
 I disowned you both when I rewrote you. I was 
 thinking then of only one thing: the public. 
 
 Tom 
 Liar! Ydu did deceive yourself! You were think- 
 iing of your wife and child. 
 
 Marie 
 {Seeing Grant is startled) 
 That gets you. You did this to us for them. 
 
 Grant 
 {Himself serious now throughout) 
 Yes. I was thinking of them most of all. 
 
 Marie 
 Yet when you created Tom Robinson in The 
 Lonely Way you did not let him think of his wife 
 and child. 
 
 Tom 
 That's where I was bigger than you, Grant 
 Williams ! 
 
 Grant 
 You mean more brutal. 
 
52 MASKS 
 
 Tom 
 Mush. Mush. You can't hide behind that. {Im- 
 pressively.) I am you! I could never have lived had 
 I not been a wish hidden in yourself. I am what you 
 would have been if you had dared! 
 
 Grant 
 How dare you say a thing like that? I made you. 
 I knew you inside and out. 
 
 Tom 
 But you didn't know yourself. / knew when you 
 wrote me that you wanted to be as relentless as you 
 made me. 
 
 Grant 
 I hated you. I hated every bone beneath your 
 miserable hide! 
 
 Tom 
 
 {With a triumphant smile) 
 That only proves it! You were afraid to be your- 
 self; so you created me! 
 
 Grant 
 {Shrinking back) 
 No . . . No . . . 
 
 Tom 
 You forget people have made gods and devils out of 
 their own dreams to worship and hate. Look at me, 
 through the mask you gave me, and see yourself! I 
 
MASKS 53 
 
 was the worst of what was human in you — the devil 
 side of you: I was the best of what was the artist in 
 you — the God within you! 
 
 Grant 
 (Js though stunned by the thought) 
 God and devil. No . . . No . . . 
 
 Marie 
 (Seriously) 
 Now I see how / came into being. I was your 
 wife, as part of you saw her! (He protests.) She was 
 in your way, as I was in his way. You made Tom 
 close the door on me because, deep in your soul, you 
 wished to close it on her. She never understood. 
 
 Grant 
 Stop. You shan't go any further. She stood by me 
 through all these years of poverty. She loves me and 
 understands. 
 
 Marie 
 
 (Relentlessly) 
 But you thought her a fool for loving you. You 
 really thought she ought to go. You wanted her to 
 go, I tell you. You wanted her to see that your art 
 meant more to you than her love. But you didn't have 
 the courage to do to her what you made him do to me ! 
 
 Grant 
 (To Tom) 
 Take her away! I won't let her say these things. 
 I did what I did to you for Jerry's sake. I wanted to 
 
54 MASKS 
 
 make money so she would be happy. I couldn't stand 
 it to see her hands grow rough ... 
 
 Tom 
 
 {Contemptuously) 
 
 Bosh! Art denies all human responsibility. You 
 
 made me face that truth with my wife, and when I 
 
 threw her out I was your own inner answer to that 
 
 eternal question! 
 
 Grant 
 I tell you my love for her is greater than for my art. 
 
 Marie 
 Mush. Mush. It's time to think of punishment. 
 
 Grant 
 Punishment? {Triumphantly) I have a thousand 
 a week. She will have clothes and comfort. And you 
 talk of punishment! 
 
 Marie 
 {Drawing a pistol and pointing it at him) 
 What you did to us means your death. 
 
 Tom 
 {Stopping her) 
 No. You cannot be killed, Grant Williams. You 
 are dead already. 
 
MASKS 55 
 
 Marie 
 {About to shoot) 
 I think I'll make sure. 
 
 Tom 
 
 (As Grant stares at him spellbound) 
 
 When you turned your soul into money you died. 
 
 There is a greater punishment. We'll let what remains 
 
 of you live, as we shall live to haunt you in your 
 
 dreams. 
 
 Grant 
 
 {Laughing hysterically) 
 But you can't live. I killed you. You're dead, too. 
 And the dead cannot dream. 
 
 Tom 
 We are your dreams. We will outlast you. 
 
 Marie 
 We live. We shall go on living. Yes. That is a 
 greater revenge. We'll haunt you every time you are 
 alone. ... 
 
 Grant 
 You can't. You can't ... 
 
 Tom 
 Whenever you smoke and think in your new 
 house . . . 
 
56 MASKS 
 
 Marie 
 Or walk by the sands, you will see only our hands 
 beckon you from the living waters of the sea . . . 
 
 Grant 
 
 (Frantically) 
 I'll drown you like rats. I'll keep you under till 
 you are dead. You shan't come back . . . ever 
 . . . ever . . . (They both laugh.) Get out. 
 You phantoms . . . I'll kill you again . . . 
 
 Tom 
 Mush . . . Mush . . :., 
 
 Grant 
 I'll kill you forever now. {He picks up the manu- 
 script of The Lonely Way and savagely tears it 
 up.) Die. Die forever . . . Die . . . 
 
 {They laugh loudly and mockingly at him.) 
 
 Tom 
 You see we still live ! 
 
 Grant 
 Ah. ril kill you yet. I'll kill you! 
 
 {He rushes towards them and overturns the 
 lamp. They laugh mockingly farther off in the 
 complete darkness.) 
 rU kill you! I'll kill you! 
 
MASKS 57 
 
 Jerry 
 
 {As she enters) 
 Grant!! What is the matter? 
 
 {She turns on the switch by the door. The 
 other lights flare up. She is dressed in a kimono, 
 with her hair in braids. He rushes towards 
 her.) 
 
 Grant 
 I'll kill you! 
 
 Jerry 
 Grant! 
 
 {He holds her arms, suddenly realizing who she 
 is and that they are alone.) 
 
 Grant 
 You are real, aren't you ? You are flesh and blood ? 
 
 Jerry 
 Silly boy. What on earth is the matter with you? 
 I go out of the room for a moment and I come back 
 to find you yelling and wanting to kill me. 
 
 Grant 
 {Still dazed) 
 No. It wasn't true : I don't want to get rid of you. 
 I . . . 
 
 Jerry 
 {In a matter-of-fact tone) 
 I do wish you'd gei over the habit of acting all 
 your plays out. The neighbors will think you and I 
 
58 MASKS 
 
 aren't happy. You'd better come to bed and get some 
 rest. 
 
 Grant 
 I — I couldn't sleep just now. 
 
 {He goes over to the table and sees the manu- 
 script of The Lonely Way untouched. He 
 stands trying to collect himself.) 
 
 Jerry 
 It's upset you, reading over The Lonely Way? 
 
 Grant 
 {Half to himself) 
 That's strange. 
 
 Jerry 
 Then what is the matter? 
 
 Grant 
 
 {Evasively as he sits down wearily) 
 I — I was reading over the notices. 
 
 Jerry 
 I should have thought they'd soothe you, not get 
 you so excited. Though there is one that put me in a 
 terrible temper. {He looks at her quickly.) Why 
 did you conceal the Gazette notice from me? {Smil- 
 ing, she shows it to him: he takes it.) Did you think 
 this would worry me because Arthur Black said The 
 Sand Bar didn't live up to the promise of your other 
 plays? 
 
MASKS 59 
 
 Grant 
 {Half to himself) 
 And he was the only one who liked the others that 
 failed. 
 
 Jerry 
 But it is outrageous of him to say you'd deserted 
 your ideals. I have half a mind to write to the Editor. 
 
 Grant 
 {With a thought) 
 Would it mean so very much to you if it were true ? 
 
 Jerry 
 Of course it would. 
 
 Grant 
 
 {Defensively) 
 But, after all, Jerry, does it make any difference to 
 anybody but the artist whether he sells out or not? 
 
 Jerry 
 But, dear, / think you've just begun to reach your 
 ideals. 
 
 Grant 
 Just begun? 
 
 Jerry 
 Yes. I never told you before because I didn't want 
 to discourage you when we were so hard up. But, 
 
6o MASKS 
 
 Grant dear, I never liked all those other plays — 
 especially The Lonely Way. They seemed un- 
 worthy of you. The Sand Bar is the first play 
 that really seems true to life. 
 
 Grant 
 {Staring at her) 
 Really true to life? 
 
 Jerry 
 Yes. And I hope from now on you'll go on writing 
 the plays that will make people feel happier and . . . 
 
 Grant 
 
 {Suddenly bursting out in an ironic laugh) 
 I've got it. I've got it. 
 
 Jerry 
 What? 
 
 Grant 
 The curtain raiser Trebaro wants. I'll call it The 
 Mask. No. Masks! That's the title. I'll show 
 them whether I'm dead or not. 
 
 Jerry 
 What are you talking of? 
 
 Grant 
 
 The theme of my play: that so long as an artist 
 knows what he is doing with his art he is alive: that 
 the only thing which can kill him is self-deception. 
 
MASKS 6i 
 
 Jerry 
 Dear me, you're going to write another play nobody 
 will understand? 
 
 Grant 
 {Contemptuously) 
 Why should I care whether anybody will under- 
 stand it? 
 
 Jerry 
 But Trebaro won't produce it, dear. 
 
 Grant 
 Oh yes, he will: he said he'd produce anything I 
 wrote no matter how good it was. 
 
 Jerry 
 {Seeing him eagerly go to his typewriter) 
 You're going to begin it now? 
 
 Grant 
 Yes. Now. I can write it off at a sitting. 
 
 Jerry 
 To-night — of all nights? 
 
 Grant 
 Yes. As Tom said: while the "glow" is here. 
 Now that I'm free. I'll show them whether I'm dead 
 or not. I'll use their very words. I'll make it bite. 
 
62 MASKS 
 
 Jerry 
 {Completely lost) 
 I don't understand you or what you are talking 
 about. 
 
 Grant 
 (Gives her a look) 
 You don't need to understand now, Jerry; The 
 Sand Bar has released you. 
 
 Jerry 
 {Hurt) 
 I never heard you talk like this before. You're 
 unkind. 
 
 Grant 
 {Putting paper in machine) 
 I don't mean to be, dear ; only my nerves are on edge. 
 
 Jerry 
 
 {Begins to cry) 
 
 I can see that. You've no regard for my feelings. 
 
 Grant 
 I have my work , . . 
 
 Jerry 
 You seem so far off all of a sudden. To-night of all 
 nights ! Just when you've made your first real success ! 
 
MASKS 63 
 
 Grant 
 {More testily) 
 Please. Please, Jerry. I won't be able to write this 
 if I have to think of anything else. 
 
 (He begins to write. He looks about the room 
 showing he is describing it.) 
 " The scene is the living-room in a flat. The doorway 
 from the public stairs opens immediately upon it with- 
 out the intervening privacy of a small hallway ..." 
 (He murmurs as he goes on, striking the keys 
 very rapidly. She stands looking at him — hurt 
 and wondering what it means: but he is ab- 
 sorbed. Then she slowly goes to the kerosene 
 heater and lights it. She looks at him a mo- 
 ment.) 
 
 Jerry 
 I guess I won't wait up for you to-night. I'm cold. 
 {She goes out, hardly controlling herself. He 
 continues for a moment. Then he gets up, still 
 absorbed, and closes the door after her. He 
 resumes his work with the glow of intense crea- 
 tion on his face.) 
 
 ;[Curtain] 
 
JIM'S BEAST 
 
THE PEOPLE 
 
 Brontosaurus, a fossil. 
 Sarah, a scrubwoman. 
 Professor Pohl, a curator. 
 Robert Hood, a member of the Legislature. 
 Elizabeth Livingston, a seeker of sensations. 
 Mrs. Cornelius Van Dyke, a social leader, 
 Mrs. James Morrow, a wealthy woman. 
 Robert Livingston, a good citizen. 
 Larry Anderson, a doughboy. 
 
 SCENE 
 
 A corner in the Hall of Paleontology of a Public 
 Museum; late one afternoon. 
 
JIM'S BEAST* 
 
 fjr^WO arched passageways are in back, and he- 
 rn tween them, on the wall, is a large dark plaster 
 -^ cast which may be a replica of the famous Dino- 
 
 saur footprints in Brownstone. Beneath this is a low 
 bench. At the extreme right, as one enters from back, 
 there are two cases, just visible, in which are fossil bones 
 and casts. There is a bench near them and an aisle be- 
 tween which leads off to the windozus beyond, suggested 
 by the soft streams of sunlight which shoot over the tops 
 of the cases to the Brontosaurus opposite. Only the 
 dull-colored flat skull and a portion of the neck of this 
 venerable fossil are to be seen, projecting about a 
 yard or two. It stands seven feet above its low plat- 
 form, which is surrounded by a railing. On this is 
 a slanted sign which describes it. Its size, its grimness 
 and the light which rests upon it make it dominate 
 everything. The remainder of the huge dinosaur is 
 masked by a high screen at its left, upon which hangs 
 a map indicating by its varied horizontal shades of 
 color, the various geological strata and periods. 
 
 When the curtain slowly lifts, Sarah, a scrubwoman, 
 is on her knees, mopping the floor with long practised 
 sweeps. 
 
 She is fifty, heavy, with a dull tired face lined by 
 
 • Copyright by George Middleton. See back of title page. 
 
68 JIM'S BEAST 
 
 years of physical toil. Though her hair is tightly drawn 
 back and tied in a knot, several long wisps fall across 
 her eyes as she leans forward over her work; and she 
 continually pushes these back with her arm, since her 
 hands are wet and soapy. 
 
 As she wrings her rag savagely she mumbles to 
 herself in a rich Irish brogue. 
 
 Sarah 
 Scrub. Mop. Scrub. {She looks up at the 
 
 Brontosaurus.) Keepin' watch on me, too, ye dirty 
 
 heathen. Grinnin' there every day at me a-scrubbin' 
 
 and moppin'. 
 
 {She raises the rag, in momentary revolt, as 
 though she were about to throw it at the skull. 
 But she stops sullenly as she mechanically re- 
 sumes her work.) 
 
 Ye dirty heathen ... me a-scrubbin' . . . 
 
 {As she finds a hairpin and sticks it in her hair. 
 Prof. Pohl enters, carrying a small plaster 
 cast in which is embedded the outlines of a fossil. 
 
 Prof. Pohl, the curator, is a short, round- 
 shouldered man nearing sixty. He is absorbed 
 in his scientific interest, devoid of conscious 
 humor and fundamentally inclined to be im- 
 patient with anything that has not been dead 
 for at least several million years.) 
 
 Professor 
 Good afternoon, Sarah. 
 
JIM'S BEAST 69 
 
 Sarah 
 (Mumbling half to herself resentfully ^ as he walks over 
 where she has just mopped) 
 And I was just after a-moppin' up that place. 
 
 Professor 
 You're cleaning up earlier than usual. 
 
 Sarah 
 Wipe 'em up as they comes, says I: it's easier in the 
 end. 
 
 Professor 
 But I'm expecting over two hundred soldiers here 
 this afternoon. 
 
 Sarah 
 {Astonished) 
 Here? What's the matter with 'em? 
 
 Professor 
 They're slightly wounded. 
 
 Sarah 
 Shure: that explains it. 
 
 Professor 
 All the theaters are entertaining them so I've in- 
 vited them here. I thought the soldiers might enjoy 
 having me personally show them through the paleonto- 
 logical section. Dr. Taylor has volunteered to explain 
 the mummies. 
 
70 JIM'S BEAST 
 
 Sarah 
 What between these dead 'uns and them ould ladies 
 the boys'll be havin' a folne time, all roight. 
 
 Professor 
 I thought it might be edif5'ing, too. 
 
 Sarah 
 {As she resumes her mopping) 
 They'll be a-makin' more work for me; but foot- 
 prints is footprints no matter who makes 'em. 
 
 Professor 
 {Looking in case at the right) 
 Now where's that card? 
 
 {He tries to get key out of pocket to open case 
 but he is afraid of breaking the cast.) 
 Sarah, will you assist me? 
 
 Sarah 
 Me! Touch one of them dead corpses? 
 
 Professor 
 No; no. That's so; you'd get them wet. 
 
 {She watches him as he goes to bench and lays 
 the cast down carefully on the handkerchief he 
 has spread for it. Then he goes over to case, 
 opens it with a key, returns for cast and puts 
 it with care and affection in the case.) 
 
 Sarah 
 Ye'd be a-thinkin' it was a baby ye was puttin' to bed. 
 
JIM'S BEAST 71 
 
 Professor 
 {Admiring them) 
 All these are my children, Sarah. 
 
 Sarah 
 
 {Mumbling as she looks up at the Brontosaurus) 
 
 I'd see a doctor about it if I was their mother. 
 
 Professor 
 There. {He closes the case.) That's a very rare 
 Pterodactyl. {She is somehow not impressed.) I've 
 reconstructed it from five tiny bones found in Oregon. 
 
 Sarah 
 {Wringing mop with a contemptuous look at him) 
 Why go to all that trouble? 
 
 Professor 
 I'm afraid you wouldn't understand. I study fossils, 
 Sarah, because it is my profession — just as scrubbing is 
 yours. 
 
 Sarah 
 Do ye have to do it? 
 
 Professor 
 No; I chose it. I'm very happy In it. 
 
 Sarah 
 What I'd loike to know is why I've got to scrub and 
 mop all the day? / don't do it for pleasure. 
 
72 JIM'S BEAST 
 
 Professor 
 {Failing to see the human analogy) 
 Somebody's got to keep the Museum clean. 
 
 Sarah 
 
 {Seeing him blow off some clay from bench) 
 
 Yes. Some o' us is born to wipe up other people's 
 
 dirt, and some's born to make it. {Wiping it.) Why 
 
 can't everybody clean up his own dirt, says I ? Maybe 
 
 they wouldn't be makin' so much. 
 
 Professor 
 I daresay you're right. {Over by the Bronto- 
 SAURUS.) You've forgotten to run your rag over this 
 platform. 
 
 Sarah 
 {Rebelliously) 
 Ye don't git me inside th' rail with that dirty 
 heathen. 
 
 Professor 
 The superintendent tells me he's had to remind you 
 every day. 
 
 Sarah 
 
 {Her revolt rises) 
 
 If I've got to go inside there alone ye can tell 'im 
 
 I'm through. There's plenty of dirty places in the 
 
 world what needs cleanin' and if I've got to mop I'm 
 
 going to do me own pickin' of dirt an' places. 
 
JIM'S BEAST 73 
 
 Professor 
 (Firmly) 
 But you forget you're paid for this. 
 
 Sarah 
 If ye'll pardon my saying so I ain't paid to go 
 rubbin' agin' the slats of that dirty heathen loike you. 
 I'm paid me two an' a quarter a day to wash up 
 people's tracks. Two an' a quarter a day, mind ye, 
 by this place what owns jewels and things they wraps 
 up in satins and laces what honest people could git 
 some comfort out of — and the cost of livin' mountin' 
 high as St. Peter himself. 
 
 Professor 
 (Impatiently) 
 If you won't keep it clean, there are plenty of scrub- 
 women who will. 
 
 Sarah 
 Ye care more for the looks of that dirty heathen 
 than ye do for my feelin's. 
 
 Professor 
 (Outraged) 
 Sarah! You forget there are only a few fossils like 
 this in existence! I don't want to have to report you 
 for lack of respect. 
 
 Sarah 
 Shure, it's not ye I'm not respectin' — it's that other 
 inhuman beast. 
 
74 JIM'S BEAST 
 
 Professor 
 Now be a sensible girl and run your rag over it. 
 
 Sarah 
 (Sullenly as her revolt subsides) 
 Oh, all roight. It's seein' it in me sleep I am as it is. 
 (She slowly picks up the mop and pail and goes 
 under the rail, cautiously rubbing the platform 
 with wide stretched arms.) 
 
 Professor 
 Around the feet, Sarah. 
 
 Sarah 
 They're so big it's glad I am they've put a brass rail 
 around 'im so he can't be prowlin' about at night track- 
 in' the place up. It's bad enough some of the people 
 what come here to see him. 
 
 Professor 
 But you have less to clean up than some of the other 
 girls. (Sighing.) So few people wander in this out 
 of the way section. 
 
 Sarah 
 Ye don't think anyone would be fool enough to look 
 at these corpses for pleasure, do ye? 
 
 Professor 
 I suppose not. 
 
JIM'S BEAST 75 
 
 Sarah 
 Even though it means more work to my poor back, 
 I'm goin' to ask to be put over where the cases of 
 butterflies are. When I was a-scrubbin' around them 
 I could be thinkin' that I was out among the daisies, 
 instead of hangin' 'round a morgue. 
 
 Professor 
 That's much better, Sarah. {Gazing in admiration 
 at the fossil.) Wonderful specimen — ^wonderful! 
 
 (Robert Hood enters. He is a well set-up, 
 attractive young man about thirty. As he 
 glances impatiently at his watch, it is evident 
 he is ill at ease and under the stress of an un- 
 usual emotion. Though he carries a Museum 
 catalogue it is soon apparent he has come for a 
 rendezvous. 
 
 Sarah soon disappears from view — scrub- 
 bing.) 
 
 Hood 
 
 I beg your pardon. Is this where the Brontosaurus 
 lives? 
 
 Professor 
 Yes. {Proudly) This is the Brontosaurus. 
 
 Hood 
 
 {Indifferently) 
 Oh, is it? Thanks. 
 
76 JIM'S BEAST 
 
 Professor 
 Are you interested in fossils? 
 
 Hood 
 Fossils? — Oh, yes; but only the living ones. 
 
 Professor 
 Oh, then you've come to see the Hoatzins ? 
 
 Hood 
 {Impatiently) 
 Not especially. 
 
 Professor 
 They're in the ornithological section. Curious, isn't 
 it, when people think fossils are so remote, that to-day 
 in the thorn bushes along the Berbice River there 
 should be a small living bird who swims, creeps, climbs, 
 dives and can duplicate within a few minutes the 
 processes of evolution through the centuries. Mr. 
 Beebe calls them *' living fossils " ; so when you 
 said . . . 
 
 Hood 
 {Affain looking at his watch) 
 It's very interesting. 
 
 Professor 
 ' Their wing formation somewhat resembles the 
 Archaeopteryx. We have a cast of the Solenhofen 
 specimen, if you . . . 
 
JIM'S BEAST 77 
 
 Hood 
 I have a catalogue. I'd like to study them myself, 
 quietly at first, if you don't mind. 
 
 {He sits down on the bench at back and opens 
 the catalogue. The Professor is offended, 
 gives him a look and goes out. The minute he 
 has gone, HoOD arises, takes several steps about 
 as though looking for someone. Sarah has 
 entered with her pail and watches him. She 
 stands there, a worn and abject figure. HoOD 
 takes out his watch again.) 
 
 Sarah 
 I beg ye pardon ? 
 
 Hood 
 {Startled a moment) 
 Eh? 
 
 Sarah 
 Do ye be havin' the toime about ye? 
 
 Hood 
 My watch says four. But I think it must be fast. 
 
 Sarah 
 {As she wearily crosses) 
 Thank ye, sir. 
 
 Hood 
 {A bit anxiously) 
 When does the Museum close? 
 
78 JIM'S BEAST 
 
 Sarah 
 For ye or for me? 
 
 Hood 
 Why, for me; of course. 
 
 Sarah 
 Ye'll hear the bell in a half -hour; it's not long after 
 that I'll be a-pullin' up these shades. 
 
 Hood 
 Thanks. 
 
 Sarah 
 {Pointedly as she begins to wash up his footsteps) 
 If ye need more toime to look at the animals ye may 
 be doin' it, as the Professor is expectin' a whole regi- 
 ment of soldiers. 
 
 Hood 
 
 {Vexed) 
 
 Coming here? I thought nobody ever came here? 
 
 Sarah 
 Ye mustn't be surprised at anythin' in a museum. 
 All the strange animals ain't behind the railin's. 
 
 {She gives him a knowing look and finally 
 goes out of sight, mopping down the aisle. 
 He takes a step impatiently and then sits in 
 back and opens catalogue aimlessly as he sees 
 Mrs. Cornelius Van Dyke and Mrs. James 
 
JIM'S BEAST 79 
 
 Morrow enter from back. They do not notice 
 him at first. 
 
 Mrs. Van Dyke is a harmless middle- 
 aged woman who throughout life has comfort- 
 ably relied on her blood instead of her brains. 
 She hides the absence of the latter by a calm and 
 superior imperturbability. 
 
 Her companion, Mrs. James Morrow, is 
 younger; obviously nouveau riche, she has 
 achieved a successful manner, most of which is 
 dexterously expressed in her lorgnette. 
 
 Both women are handsomely gowned and 
 proclaim to the observer flaunting wealth.) 
 
 Mrs. Van Dyke 
 I'm sure we've lost our way. 
 
 Mrs. Morrow 
 The attendant said keep turning to the right. 
 
 Mrs. Van Dyke 
 I can't say it's my idea of ancient jewelry. 
 
 Mrs. Morrow 
 No. But if we dressed up at Mrs. Bilton's ball like 
 some of these animals, we'd certainly make a hit. 
 
 Mrs. Van Dyke 
 It might suit you, dear; but I think I'll wear at 
 least some jewelry. I'm sure there must be wonderful 
 
8o JIM'S BEAST 
 
 old pieces in the museum I can get Tiffany to copy 
 in time. I must find something original. 
 
 Mrs. Morrow 
 
 {Looking absently at Hood through her lorgnette) 
 
 Dear me, this is a terrible place — full of monsters. 
 
 Mrs. Van Dyke 
 I can't say they're very showy. {Glancing at the 
 Brontosaurus.) What an ugly animal! What 
 is it? 
 
 Mrs. Morrow 
 {Reading sign) 
 It's a Bron — {Not able to pronounce it and turn- 
 ing away) I left my reading-glasses at home. You 
 try. 
 
 Mrs. Van Dyke 
 {After studying it a moment) 
 Oh, yes: I've heard of them. {More closely.) 
 Why, that looks like your husband . . . 
 
 Mrs. Morrow 
 {Interrupting, as she turns quickly to the fossil) 
 My husband? That? 
 
 Mrs. Van Dyke 
 {Looking more closely) 
 Yes. It is your husband's name. {Reading) 
 " Donated by James Morrow." 
 
JIM'S BEAST 8i 
 
 Mrs. Morrow 
 Why this must be Jim's beast! 
 
 Mrs. Van Dyke 
 Jim's beast? 
 
 (Hood covertly shows a bit of interest in spite 
 of his more pressing impatience over their 
 presence.) 
 
 Mrs. Morrow 
 I knew there was something here Jim wanted me to 
 see. He donated $250,000 to the museum last year. 
 He said they'd bought some old animal with it. 
 
 Mrs. Van Dyke 
 I can't say I admire his taste. I thought he went 
 in for horses. 
 
 Mrs. Morrow 
 Of course, it's Jim's own money; but it does seem 
 a bit extravagant to turn all that money into old bones. 
 
 Mrs. Van Dyke 
 Yes; when he might buy so many nicer things you 
 could wear. 
 
 Mrs. Morrow 
 
 Jim's been awfully generous to me; though, of 
 
 course, now that the war's over we've got to hold in 
 
 a bit. He hasn't any more army contracts, you know. 
 
 {Sighing) It certainly was wonderful while it lasted. 
 
83 JIM'S BEAST 
 
 Mrs. Van Dyke 
 I shouldn't worry about ft if I were you. Why, even 
 this beast would look like a piece of bric-a-brac in that 
 new house he gave you. 
 
 Mrs. Morrow 
 {The hand of Sarah mopping in the aisle is 
 seen. Mrs. Morrow is startled.) 
 What's that? 
 
 Mrs. Van Dyke 
 Oh, it's only an old scrubwoman. 
 
 Mrs. Morrow 
 They might wait till the museum closed before they 
 splash about spoiling our gowns. 
 
 Mrs. Van Dyke 
 Well, if we're ever going to see that ancient jewelry 
 before we're as old as it is, I suppose we'd better try 
 and find it. 
 
 Mrs. Morrow 
 But I'll have to tell Jim I came especially to see his 
 beast: he'll want to know what it looks like, the poor 
 dear! 
 
 (Elizabeth Livingston enters. She is a 
 woman of such an indefinite age that she must be 
 past her early thirties. Handsome, well-groomed 
 and yet a hit hectic, her secret is that she is d 
 born intriguante and likes to see men feverish. 
 
JIM'S BEAST 83 
 
 She sees Hood: he sees her: the two women 
 catch this exchange of glances, though Hood 
 instantly resumes reading and Bess goes quickly 
 to the case opposite not to betray she is there 
 to meet HoOD. 
 
 The two women exchange significant glances. 
 Hood looks up and catches Mrs. Morrow eye- 
 ing him through her lorgnette. He rises in 
 question.) 
 
 Mrs. Morrow 
 ( To cover it) 
 I beg pardon. Do you happen to know where they 
 keep the ancient jewelry? 
 
 Hood 
 {Politely) 
 I think it's to the right. 
 
 Mrs. Van Dyke 
 But that's what the other man said. 
 
 Hood 
 Have you tried the long hall? 
 
 Mrs. Morrow 
 But which hall ? 
 
 Hood 
 
 {Obviously trying to get rid of them) 
 The very furthest hall. 
 
84 JIM'S BEAST 
 
 Mrs. Morrow 
 Oh . . . (She turns to Mrs. Van Dyke.) The 
 very furthest hall, he said. (Aside to her as they turn) 
 Vm afraid we're de trop. I'm sure it's . . . 
 
 Mrs. Van Dyke 
 I thought so, too; and with a different tame robin 
 this time. (As she turns and looks at the Bronto- 
 SAURUS.) I'm glad I won't look like Jim's beast 
 when I'm dead. 
 
 Mrs. Morrow 
 Well, dear, we'll never be found in a museum at 
 any rate. 
 
 Mrs. Van Dyke 
 (As they go up) 
 I don't know. I'm most dead already. 
 
 (Mrs. Morrow gives a look at Bess through 
 her lorgnette. They go out obviously gossiping 
 about her. 
 
 Hood takes a step to see they have gone. 
 Then he turns tensely.) 
 
 Hood 
 Bess! 
 
 Bess 
 Oh, Bob! 
 
JIM'S BEAST 85 
 
 Hood 
 
 Dearest ! 
 
 Bess 
 Be careful. Somebody may see us. I'm sure those 
 women . . . 
 
 Hood 
 (With extravagant expression) 
 I'd like the whole world to see us. I can't stand 
 this much longer. Bess, I want you. 
 
 Bess 
 I know. Sh! 
 
 (Sarah comes from out of aisle, goes out of 
 sight, obviously to clean another aisle. But 
 she has seen them and gives a knowing smile 
 as though such rendezvous were not unusual.) 
 
 Hood 
 It can't go on like this. 
 
 Bess 
 Aren't you satisfied with what we've already had? 
 
 Hood 
 {Unconsciously playing up to the situation) 
 I want all or nothing — the you all the world has, 
 too. I . . . 
 
 Bess 
 Yes? Say it. I like to hear you say it. 
 
86 JIM'S BEAST 
 
 Hood 
 I want you to be my wife. (Intensely) Bess! 
 Bess! Will you? 
 
 Bess 
 Give me time to think. 
 
 Hood 
 But it can't go on like this . . . having me meet 
 you in strange places . . . always being afraid. 
 Bess, you love me, don't you ? 
 
 Bess 
 Oh, Bob! 
 
 Hood 
 You've never loved anybody before as you love me? 
 
 Bess 
 Oh, no; you're so fine and strong and . . . 
 
 Hood 
 Then why are you afraid ? 
 
 Bess 
 The world . . . my world . . . your world . . . 
 
 Hood 
 But you wouldn't be the first who ... 
 
 Bess 
 Don't drive me to the wall! 
 
JIM'S BEAST 87 
 
 Hood 
 You must decide. 
 
 Bess 
 
 I'm thinking of you. I'm older than you. In time, 
 perhaps, you . . . 
 
 Hood 
 
 Never. 
 
 Bess 
 How you say it! 
 
 Hood 
 I love you. I've never loved any woman before. 
 I'll never love any woman again. 
 
 Bess 
 My dear boy! I must go now. I just wanted to 
 see you, to hear you say you love me» 
 
 Hood 
 And I came because I wanted a definite answer. 
 
 Bess 
 Wait. In time. Don't drive me to the wall. 
 
 Hood 
 {Heroically) 
 I tell you I'll kill myself if . . . 
 
88 JIM'S BEAST 
 
 Bess 
 Bob! Do you care as much as that? 
 
 Hood 
 Yes. Nothing else matters. 
 
 Bess 
 But your career — your position ? 
 
 Hood 
 You are more than all that. What will you give up 
 for me? 
 
 Bess 
 
 Sh! Somebody's coming. (In a different tone, mis- 
 tress of herself.) It must have taken a good many 
 years to collect these specimens. 
 
 (Ray Livingston has come in on this, walking 
 slowly down with eyes that glitter for a moment 
 on seeing them. 
 
 He is about sixty. The tightly drawn skin 
 on his face clearly reveals the bones beneath. 
 He is an aristocratic, calm, collected man: the 
 essence of deliberate politeness. When he comes 
 to them he acts as though he were surprised.) 
 
 Livingston 
 Bess, This is a surprise. 
 
JIM'S BEAST 89 
 
 Bess 
 Ray? 
 
 Livingston 
 Do you come here often ? 
 
 Bess 
 I was just strolling through to look at some ancient 
 jewelry when I happened to meet Mr. Hood.— This 
 is my husband. Mr. Hood. 
 
 {As Livingston crosses slowly and shakes his 
 hand with cold studied courtesy. Hood gives 
 him a sickly smile, ill at ease in an unaccus- 
 tomed situation.) 
 
 Livingston 
 I'm charmed to meet you. I've heard Mrs. Liv- 
 ingston speak of you. Let me see, where was it? 
 
 Bess 
 {Casually, mistress of herself) 
 Perhaps it was after I first met him at Judge 
 Wilton's. Mr. Hood is in the Legislature, you know, 
 
 Livingston 
 To be sure. I remember your photograph in all the 
 newspapers. {Half playfully) But you're rather a 
 young man for such a conspicuous and responsible office. 
 
 Hood 
 {Trying to be at ease) 
 One soon grows older up there. 
 
go JIM'S BEAST 
 
 Livingston 
 
 {Pleasantly) 
 I hope that means wiser; for wisdom, I'm told, is 
 only a matter of perspective, and its secret is finding 
 the relative importance of things. {With a smile.) 
 But, of course, everything must seem vitally important 
 at the beginning. Just as each moment of life was 
 once the most important thing to these animals. {Be- 
 fore Hood can answer.) Are you interested in fossils? 
 
 Hood 
 {Eyes him) 
 I'm trying to understand their meaning and signifi- 
 cance. 
 
 Livingston 
 Do you find it difficult ? I see you have a catalogue. 
 Do you come here to study them? 
 
 Bess 
 
 {Trying with her skill to relieve the situation) 
 Mr. Hood was just telling me he was planning to 
 
 introduce a bill in the Legislature to — to extend the 
 
 wings. 
 
 Livingston 
 To extend the wings ? What of ? 
 
 Bess 
 Of the Museum, of <:ourse. 
 
JIM'S BEAST 91 
 
 Livingston 
 
 Indeed ? 
 
 Hood 
 {Lying in spite of himself) 
 Yes. 
 
 Bess 
 {With a reassuring smile) 
 He thinks it's a bit cramped here. 
 
 Livingston 
 I quite approve. Space is what is needed. But you'll 
 find it difficult to get money from the Legislature for 
 such purposes. I've tried myself. 
 
 Hood 
 Oh, are you interested in museums? 
 
 Livingston 
 Didn't you tell him, Bess, about the museum I had 
 planned ? 
 
 Bess 
 
 {Beginning to detect his intention) 
 No; it slipped my mind. 
 
 Livingston 
 {Playfully reproving her) 
 And I had such a personal interest in it, too. 
 
92 JIM'S BEAST 
 
 Hood 
 Was it a museum for fossils? 
 
 Livingston 
 It was to prevent people from becoming fossils be- 
 fore their time. It was a museum of safety appliances. 
 
 Hood 
 Industrial ? 
 
 Livingston 
 No: domestic. From a very long life, I'd observed 
 that in the world and in the home, most everybody, 
 through lack of a little precaution, makes a fool of 
 himself or herself once or twice in a life. 
 
 Bess 
 ( Suavely ) 
 I thought the average was higher; didn't you, Mr. 
 Hood? 
 
 Livingston 
 Perhaps the nasty messy mangling is. I'm not sure 
 of the mortalities. You see, Mr. Hood — if you are 
 interested ? 
 
 Hood 
 (With a start) 
 Very. 
 
 Livingston 
 What I mean is that people cut off a useful hand 
 or limb — metaphorically, of course — because they go 
 
JIM'S BEAST 93 
 
 a little too near the machinery : the machinery of what 
 we call the hard facts of life. 
 
 Hood 
 And what was your exhibit intended for? 
 
 Livingston 
 (Pointedly) 
 To have them read the danger signs first. It was 
 my plan to indicate how signs should be put up over 
 "certain places, like stores and homes and . . . 
 
 Bess 
 
 (Calmly) 
 How interesting. What sort of signs were they to 
 be, dear? 
 
 Hood 
 " Don't Handle," " Watch Your Step." You know 
 the sort. You see, I have a theory that if these signs 
 were placed about in enough places people would soon 
 grow accustomed to carrying them in their mind's 
 eye, as it were. (Pointedly) Do you get my mean- 
 ing? 
 
 Bess 
 But, dear; there are so many signs now. Look at 
 these about here for instance. I'm sure people would 
 never get anything out of these by carrying them about 
 in their heads. 
 
94 JIM'S BEAST 
 
 Livingston 
 It's merely a matter of how much intelligence and 
 imagination you bring to signs — otherwise they are 
 only words. 
 
 {As Livingston crosses to read sign under the 
 Brontosaurus, Hood makes a movement as 
 though to speak, but Bess^ who has sat on the 
 bench, stops him with an imploring gesture. ) 
 Um — highly suggestive, this. {Reading) " Great 
 Amphibious Dinosaur Brontosaurus . . . Jurassic 
 Period . . . Donated by James Morrow. . . . 
 The Brontosaurus lived several million years 
 ago. ..." You see {To them) James Morrow and 
 the animal have clasped hands over the centuries. Um. 
 From this sign, can't you picture the love and devo- 
 tion to science that prompted such a gift ? 
 
 Hood 
 
 {Now smiling for the first time) 
 
 As it happens he didn't even know what his money 
 
 was for. While I was waiting here I heard Mrs. 
 
 Morrow say . . . {He stops short as Livingston 
 
 gives him a sharp look.) 
 
 Bess 
 
 {Quickly) 
 
 You see, dear, you were mistaken in that sign. 
 
 Livingston 
 ( Casually ) 
 Perhaps. Curious though how much information 
 a man picks up while he waits about. {He crosses over 
 
JIM'S BEAST 95 
 
 to the case opposite.) I wonder what this one will 
 reveal. 
 
 (Hood sees he has been caught in a slip. It 
 spurs him into a mood of retaliation. He over- 
 comes a momentary hesitation and then shows 
 he resolves to tell Livingston everything.) 
 
 Hood 
 {With hoarse nervous intensity) 
 Mr. Livingston! 
 
 Bob! 
 
 Yes? 
 
 Bess 
 
 {Under her breath to him) 
 
 Livingston 
 {Not turning) 
 
 {For a second Hood is about to speak, but he. 
 is halted by Bess's look and voices, as the Pro. 
 FESSOR, followed by Larry Anderson, enters. 
 
 Larry is a fine strapping doughboy in his 
 uniform, on which are two gold service stripes 
 and several decorations for bravery. His hand 
 is bandaged. They come down. 
 
 As Livingston gives no indication of leaving, 
 Bess still sits there while Hood keeps his eyes 
 on her husband's back. His silence holds them 
 there.) 
 
96 JIM'S BEAST 
 
 Professor 
 But I was expecting at least two hundred. 
 
 Larry 
 They got lost on the way. 
 
 Professor 
 Lost? 
 
 Larry 
 Yes. I left them at the Follies. But I'd heard my 
 uncle speak of this place. 
 
 Professor 
 (Briffhtens) 
 Is your uncle interested in fossils? 
 
 Larry 
 Yes. He's a queer bug. He told me to be sure and 
 not miss the Chamber of Horrors. You know, where 
 all the Kings and Queens and statesmen are embalmed 
 in wax? 
 
 Professor 
 But, my dear friend, they tore down the Eden Musee 
 several years ago. 
 
 Larry 
 They did? Why didn't they wait till I got back? 
 Haven't you any Chamber of Horrors here? 
 
JIM'S BEAST 97 
 
 Professor 
 No; this is the Paleontological section. 
 
 Larry 
 
 {Looking about) 
 Well, now that I'm here maybe this will do as well. 
 (Livingston now turns, leaning against the 
 case, much interested in the two men. As he 
 shows no intention of moving, Bess sits there, 
 twisting her handkerchief nervously in her 
 hand. Hood is embarrassed and undecided.) 
 Trot 'em out, so I can tell uncle I've seen 'em. 
 
 Professor 
 {Pointing to Brontosaurus) 
 This is a major Dinosaur. 
 
 Larry 
 
 Major what? 
 
 Professor 
 The more popular name is the Brontosaurus. 
 
 Larry 
 Is that so? {Looking at it.) Some bird! 
 
 Professor 
 It's a reptile: its name means Thunder Lizard be- 
 cause its mighty tread shook the earth. 
 
 Larry 
 Where did it grow? 
 
98 JIM'S BEAST 
 
 Professor 
 From other bones we have found I should say it 
 roamed all over the world. This specimen was dug 
 up in Wyoming. 
 
 Larry 
 What was it doing in Wyoming? 
 
 Professor 
 
 (On his dignity) 
 
 It was possibly overtaken there by an earthquake. 
 
 Larry 
 Must have been some earthquake. 
 
 Professor 
 Since it was thus buried in silica away from the 
 decomposing air and moisture, it was preserved for 
 centuries — till we happened to discover it with a pick. 
 
 Larry 
 You don't say so! {He looks at it a bit awed.) 
 When we were digging trenches in No Man's Land 
 we used to find . . . 
 
 Professor 
 
 What? 
 
 Larry 
 
 Not that sort of bones. 
 
JIM'S BEAST 99 
 
 Professor 
 This was in an excellent state of preservation. It 
 is sixty feet long and must have weighed when alive 
 forty tons. It took seven years to dig it out and mount 
 it. We had to be very careful not to break its marvel- 
 ous tail. If you'll walk to the other end you'll get an 
 idea of its length. We found ninety-seven perfect 
 vertebrae. 
 
 Larry 
 
 Ninety-seven ? You don't say so ? 
 
 Professor 
 You can count them and see. 
 
 Larry 
 Ninety-seven what you call 'ems! Think of that. 
 (As he goes up.) And you say it came from Wyo- 
 ming? 
 
 Professor 
 Yes. 
 
 Larry 
 
 (Proudly) 
 That's my state, too. 
 
 (Larry wanders off out of sight looking at the 
 fossil. As the Professor starts to folloWj 
 Livingston, who has been watching his wife 
 and Hood, stops him.) 
 
loo JIM'S BEAST 
 
 Livingston 
 I beg your pardon. I hope you won't mind our 
 being interested in what you were saying; but we were 
 wondering about the animal ourselves. 
 
 (Hood looks at Bess quickly not knowing what 
 Livingston is driving at.) 
 
 Professor 
 {Brightening) 
 Indeed? I'm afraid our young friend is a bit ir- 
 reverent. 
 
 Livingston 
 May I ask what is known of its domestic habits? 
 
 Professor 
 It was hardly a domestic animal. Its family life 
 probably extended only during the infancy of its young. 
 
 Livingston 
 Was this a female, by chance? 
 
 Professor 
 Yes: the large pelvic development . . . 
 
 Livingston 
 This one undoubtedly had young, too? 
 
 Professor 
 Of course. But we have never found any of its 
 eggs. It was a reptile, you know. 
 
JIM'S BEAST loi 
 
 Livingston 
 But while they were dependent it undoubtedly 
 fought to protect its young — like other animals ? 
 
 Professor 
 With very few exceptions all the female animals at 
 least do that; even those of low intelligence. 
 
 Livingston 
 This one couldn't by any chance have been wooed 
 away from that obligation by romantic notions? 
 
 Professor 
 (Suspiciously) 
 This — romantic ? 
 
 Livingston 
 But you said it roamed in search of adventure? 
 
 Professor 
 (A bit on his dignity) 
 Romance lies in the field of the emotions: I am a 
 scientist. 
 
 Livingston 
 What I mean is : was she faithful to one or promis- 
 cuous ? 
 
 Professor 
 (Embarrassed) 
 Undoubtedly promiscuous. 
 
102 JIM'S BEAST 
 
 Livingston 
 Of course. — ^You see, Bess, the lady existed before 
 man made his conventions. 
 
 Professor 
 Yes. She could follow all her natural instincts. 
 
 Livingston 
 Which were? 
 
 Professor 
 Food and fighting. You will observe her large 
 maw and small brain. Her main weapon of defense 
 was her long powerfully muscled tail. From the teeth, 
 we deduce she was mainly herbivorous. 
 
 Livingston 
 What did she feed on? 
 
 Professor 
 Everything she could pick up. 
 
 Livingston 
 
 {Significantly) 
 Think of that, Hood — " everything she could pick 
 up." 
 
 Professor 
 Young weeds, tender grass and the like. 
 
JIM'S BEAST 103 
 
 Livingston 
 Young weeds — ah, yes, of course. Yet in spite of her 
 diet, there is something quite impressive about dead 
 things, isn't there? 
 
 Professor 
 {Eyeing it) 
 They have a dynamic power. 
 
 Livingston 
 Exactl}-. You see, Mr. Hood, a dead tree, that has 
 in its time given shelter and substance, fights to be 
 left standing. It resists the alien ax. Its roots go as 
 deep as when they flowed with sap. They also fight 
 to prevent themselves from being torn up. They don't 
 like to be disturbed — any more than this animal did 
 in its cold clayey comfort. {To Professor) You say 
 it took seven years? 
 
 Professor 
 {Not understanding) 
 Yes. We were afraid of hurting it if we were 
 careless. 
 
 Livingston 
 You were right to be careful: one shouldn't hurt the 
 dead. What is its scientific significance? 
 
 Professor 
 Nothing but a further proof of the slow processes 
 of evolution. 
 
104 JIM'S BEAST 
 
 Livingston 
 (With a smile) 
 I am a utilitarian. I see another significance. Pos- 
 sibly she was dug up, a thousand centuries after she 
 died, just to give you an occupation. 
 
 Professor 
 I can't accept that as a working hypothesis. 
 
 Livingston 
 Just think, Hood. Several million years dead! 
 There it stands for man to look upon ! Possibly that 
 was why it existed, after all: for us three to look 
 upon. {He glances pointedly at them.) Mr. Hood 
 is thinking of introducing a bill in the Legislature to 
 increase the wings of the Museum. 
 
 Professor 
 That's very kind of him. We have many boxes still 
 unpacked in the cellar for lack of room. But, un- 
 fortunately, this museum is under the control of the 
 city, not the state. 
 
 Livingston 
 {Smiling at Hood) 
 
 Indeed ? 
 
 Bess 
 {Rising impatiently) 
 It's getting late. 
 
JIM'S BEAST 105 
 
 Larry 
 
 (Re-enterinff) 
 I only counted sixty-three. 
 
 Professor 
 (Emphatically) 
 But there are ninety-seven. 
 
 Larry 
 All right. I won't argue it. 
 
 Professor 
 If you'll come with me, I'll show you the Tyran- 
 nosaurus. They were carnivorous and the greatest 
 fighters of them all. 
 
 Larry 
 Say, this is a fine place to be showing a fellow who's 
 just back from France. 
 
 Bess 
 
 (Sweetly) 
 Young man, I'd like to shake your hand. I see you 
 have all sorts of lovely decorations. May I ask how 
 you got them? 
 
 Larry 
 (Embarrassed) 
 Oh, I was careless and they pinned a rose on me by 
 mistake. 
 
io6 JIM'S BEAST 
 
 Bess 
 
 You must be very proud of them? 
 
 Larry 
 Sure I am. {Looking at the Brontosaurus.) 
 But that lizard kinder takes the pride out of a fellow. 
 
 Bess 
 But / admire bravery — ^whenever I see it. I'd like 
 to hear about how you really got those decorations. 
 
 Larry 
 Would you? 
 
 {The gong in the distance rings.) 
 
 Professor 
 {In back) 
 If you want to see the Tyrannosaurus before we 
 close . . . 
 
 Larry 
 Oh, all right. {To others) Gee, I'll be glad to get 
 out among the live ones. 
 
 Bess 
 {Smiling at him) 
 So will I. 
 
 Livingston 
 
 {Coldly) 
 
 You should have gone to the Follies, young man. 
 
JIM'S BEAST 107 
 
 Larry 
 
 Oh, I might have sprained an ankle going to my 
 seat. 
 
 {He goes out after the Professor as Bess 
 looks after him. Sarah comes in back and 
 then goes off. The rear of room darkens, indi- 
 cating she has pulled the curtain up. Living- 
 ston glances at HoOD who is gazing at Bess 
 with a strange enlightenment.) 
 
 Livingston 
 I think you're right, Bess : w^e'd better be going. We 
 might stop and take the children for a spin before 
 it's dark. 
 
 Bess 
 Yes. 
 
 Livingston 
 {To Hood) 
 Are you going our way? 
 
 Hood 
 
 No. 
 
 Bess 
 You're sure we can't drop you somewhere? 
 
 Hood 
 No. Thank you. 
 
io8 JIM'S BEAST 
 
 Livingston 
 I'm delighted to have met you, Mr. Hood. {Shak- 
 ing hands.) I shall follow your work in the Legisla- 
 ture with great interest. 
 
 Hood 
 Perhaps I may be able to help you with your 
 museum. 
 
 Livingston 
 Just talking to you has encouraged me greatly. 
 Good-bye. There is a big political future waiting a 
 young man these days — if he keeps his head. 
 
 Bess 
 {Shaking his hand) 
 I'm sure my husband is right. 
 
 Hood 
 {Looking at her) 
 So am I. Quite sure. 
 
 {She turns away, as she sees what his tone of 
 finality implies, and looks up at the Bronto- 
 SAURUS with a start.) 
 
 Livingston 
 What is it, dear? 
 
 Bess 
 Nothing. Only it seems to be smiling at us. 
 
JIM'S BEAST 109 
 
 Livingston 
 All skulls grin : it's the eternal laughter of the dead. 
 
 Bess 
 Come. (As she starts.) Dear, don't you think it 
 might be a good idea to rescue that fine strong good- 
 looking young soldier? He must be so lonely and we 
 might take him for a drive. 
 
 Livingston 
 (A bit wearily at what he sees ahead) 
 Oh, yes; if you wish. But I'm sure he should have 
 gone to the Follies. 
 
 (He offers her his arm^she takes it. Hood 
 watches them as they walk out without turn- 
 ing back. He stands there a moment, with a 
 cynical smile creeping over his lips. He throws 
 the catalogue on the seat. Then he goes to the 
 sign before the Brontosaurus.) 
 
 Hood 
 (Reading and thinking) 
 " Mainly Herbivorous." " Anything she can pick 
 up." " Several million years "... 
 
 (As he gazes there, Sarah enters and goes 
 out to pull up the other curtain. She 
 apparently does so for some red rays slowly 
 gather about the fossil. The room is darker. 
 She re-enters and stands there looking at him. 
 Hood gives a sigh of relief, and determination : 
 he puts on his hat, and, with hands in his 
 pockets, goes off whistling. 
 
no JIM'S BEAST 
 
 Sarah stands there as the room darkens. 
 Then she goes over near the seat and begins 
 to mop.) 
 
 Sarah 
 Moppin' and scrubbin' . . . moppin' . . . 
 
 {She pauses and gives a glance at the Bronto- 
 SAURUS on whose skull are now centered the 
 rays of the setting sun.) 
 
 Holy Mother of Saints! What are you grinnin' at, 
 
 ye dirty heathen? 
 
 {She lifts her arm again in revolt as though to 
 throw the mop at it. Then she puts it down 
 with a sense of futility. She picks up her 
 things and goes off slowly. 
 
 The place is now dark save for the faint light 
 on the skull; and even that fades after a little 
 while.) 
 
 [Curtain] 
 
TIDES 
 
THE PEOPLE 
 
 William White, a famous Internationalist. 
 HiLDA^ his wife. 
 Wallace, their son. 
 
 SCENE 
 At the Whites; spring, 19 17. 
 
TIDES* 
 
 ^ SIMPLY furnished study. The walls are 
 yi lined with bookshelves, indicating, by their 
 ■^ "^ improvised quality, that they have been in- 
 .creased as occasion demanded. On these are stacked, 
 in addition to the books themselves, many files of papers, 
 magazines and " reports." The large work-table, upon 
 which rests a double student lamp and a telephone, is 
 conspicuous. A leather couch with pillows is opposite, 
 pointing towards a doorway which leads into the living- 
 room. There is also a doorway in back, which ap-> 
 parently opens on the hallway beyond. The room is 
 comfortable in spite of its general disorder: it is essen- 
 tially the work-shop of a busy man of public affairs. 
 The strong sunlight of a spring day comes in through 
 the window, flooding the table. 
 
 William White is standing by the window, smok- 
 ing a pipe. He is about fifty, of striking appearance : 
 the visual incarnation of the popular conception of a 
 leader of men. There is authority and strength in the 
 lines of his face; his whole personality is commanding ; 
 his voice: has all the modulations of a well-trained 
 orator; his gestures are sweeping — for, even in private 
 conversation, he is habitually conscious of an audience. 
 
 * Copyright by George Middleton. See back of title page. ' 
 
114 TIDES 
 
 Otherwise J he is simple and engaging, with some indi- 
 cation of his humble origin. 
 
 On the sofa opposite, with a letter in her hand, 
 Hilda White, his wife, is seated. She is somewhat 
 younger in fact, though in appearance she is as one who 
 has been worn a bit by the struggle of many years. Her 
 manner contrasts with her husband's: her inheritance of 
 delicate refinement is ever present in her soft voice and 
 gentle gesture. Yet she, too, suggests strength — the 
 sort which will endure all for a fixed intention. 
 
 It is obvious throughout that she and her husband 
 have been happy comrades in their life together and that 
 a deep fundamental bond has united thent in spite of 
 the different social spheres from which each has sprung. 
 
 White 
 {Seeing she has paused) 
 Go on, dear; go on. Let's hear all of it. 
 
 Hilda 
 Oh, what's the use, Will? You know how dif- 
 ferently he feels about the war. 
 
 White 
 ( With quiet sarcasm ) 
 But it's been so many years since your respectable 
 brother has honored me even with the slightest allu- 
 sion . . . 
 
 Hilda 
 If you care for what he says — {Continuing to read 
 the letter) -^'^ Remember, Hilda, you are an American. 
 
TIDES 115 
 
 I don't suppose your husband considers that an honor; 
 but I do." 
 
 White 
 
 {Interrupting) 
 
 And what kind of an American has he been in times 
 
 of peace? He's wrung forty per cent profit out of his 
 
 factory and fought every effort of the workers to 
 
 organize. Ah, these smug hypocrites! 
 
 Hilda 
 {Reading) 
 " His violent opposition to America going in has been 
 disgrace enough " 
 
 White 
 But his war profits were all right. Oh, yes. 
 
 Hilda 
 Let me finish, dear, since you want it. {Reading) 
 " — been disgrace enough. But now that we're in, I'm 
 writing in the faint hope, if you are not too much under 
 his influence, that you will persuade him to keep his 
 mouth shut. This country will tolerate no difference 
 of opinion now. You radicals had better get on board 
 the band wagon. It's prison or acceptance." {She 
 stops reading.) He's right, dear. There will be 
 nothing more intolerant than a so-called democracy at 
 war. 
 
ii6 TIDES 
 
 White 
 By God! It's superb! Silence for twenty years and 
 now he writes his poor misguided sister for fear she 
 will be further disgraced by her radical husband. 
 
 Hilda 
 We mustn't descend to his bitterness. 
 
 White 
 No: I suppose I should resuscitate the forgotten 
 doctrine of forgiving my enemies. 
 
 Hilda 
 He's not your enemy; he merely looks at it all dif- 
 ferently. 
 
 White 
 I was thinking of his calm contempt for m.e these 
 twenty years — ever since you married me — " out of 
 your class," as he called it. 
 
 Hilda 
 Oh, hush, Will, I've been so happy with you I 
 can bear him no ill will. Besides, doesn't his attitude 
 seem natural ? You mustn't forget that no man in this 
 country has fought his class more than you. That 
 hurts — especially coming from an acquired relative. 
 
 White 
 Yes; that aggravates the offense. And I'll tell you 
 something you may not know: {Bitterly) Whenever 
 
TIDES 117 
 
 I've spoken against privilege and wealth it's been his 
 pudgy, comfortable face I've shaken my fist at. He's 
 been so damned comfortable all his life. 
 
 Hilda 
 (She looks at him in surprise) 
 Why, Will, you surely don't envy him his comfort, 
 do you ? I can't make you out. What's come over you 
 these last weeks? You've always been above such 
 personal bitterness; even when you were most con- 
 demned and ridiculed. If it were anybody but you 
 I'd think you had done something you were ashamed of. 
 
 White 
 What do you mean? 
 
 Hilda 
 Haven't you sometimes noticed that is what bitter- 
 ness to another means: a failure within oneself? (He 
 goes over to chair and sits without answering.) I can 
 think of you beaten by outside things — that sort of 
 failure we all meet; but somehow I can never think 
 of you failing yourself. You've been so brave and self- 
 reliant : you've fought so hard for the truth. 
 
 White 
 {Tapping letter) 
 But he thinks he knows the truth, too. 
 
 Hilda 
 He's also an intense nature. 
 
ii8 TIDES 
 
 White 
 {Thoughtfully after a pause) 
 Yet there is some truth in what he says. 
 
 Hilda 
 
 {Smiling) 
 But you didn't like it — coming from him? 
 
 White 
 It will be different with you and me now that 
 America's gone in. 
 
 Hilda 
 Yes. It will be harder for us here; for hate is 
 always furthest from the trenches. But you and I are 
 not the sort who would compromise to escape the perse- 
 cution which is the resource of the non-combatant. 
 {The phone rings: he looks at his watch.) 
 
 White 
 That's for me. 
 
 Hilda 
 Let me. {She goes.) It may be Wallace. {At 
 phone.) Yes: this is ii6 Chelsea. Long Distance? 
 {He starts as she says to him) It must be our 
 boy. {At phone.) Who? Oh — ^Mr. William White ? 
 Yes: he'll be here. {She hangs up receiver.) She'll 
 ring when she gets the connection through. 
 
 White 
 {Turning away) 
 It takes so long these days. 
 
TIDES 119 
 
 Hilda 
 Funny he didn't ask for me. 
 
 White 
 What made you think it was Wallace? 
 
 Hilda 
 I took it for granted. He must be having a hard 
 time at college with all the boys full of war fever. 
 
 White 
 And a father with my record. 
 
 Hilda 
 He should be proud of the example. He has more 
 than other boys to cling to these days when everybody 
 is losing his head as the band plays and the flag is 
 waved. He won't be carried away by it. He'll re- 
 member all we taught him. Ah, Will, when I think 
 we now have conscription — as they have in Germany 
 — I thank God every night our boy is too young for the 
 draft. 
 
 White 
 But when his time comes what will he do? 
 
 Hilda 
 ( Calmly ) 
 He will do it with courage. 
 
 White 
 {Referring to her brother s letter) 
 Either prison or acceptance! 
 
I20 TIDES 
 
 Hilda 
 I would rather have my son in prison than have him 
 do what he felt was wrong. Wouldn't you? 
 
 White 
 (Evasively) 
 We won't have to face that problem for two years. 
 
 Hilda 
 And when it comes — if he falters — I'll give him 
 these notes of that wonderful speech you made at the 
 International Conference in igio. {Picking it up.) 
 I was looking through it only this morning. 
 
 White 
 ( Troubled) 
 Oh, that speech. 
 
 Hilda 
 {Glancing through it with enthusiasm) 
 " All wars are imperialistic in origin. Do away 
 with overseas investments, trade routes, private control 
 of ammunition factories, secret diplomacy ..." 
 
 White 
 Don't you see that's all dead wood? 
 
 Hilda 
 (Not heeding him) 
 This part gave me new strength when I thought 
 of Wallace. {Reading with eloquence.) " War will 
 
TIDES 121 
 
 stop when young men put Internationalism above Na- 
 tionality, the law of God above the dictates of states- 
 men, the law of love above the law of hate, the law of 
 self-sacrifice above the law of profit. There must be 
 no boundaries in man's thought. Let the young men 
 of the world once throw down their arms, let them 
 once refuse to point their guns at human hearts, and 
 all the boundaries of the world will melt away and 
 peace will find a resting-place in the hearts of men ! " 
 
 White 
 {Taking it from her) 
 And I made you believe it! What silly prophets 
 we radicals were. (He tears it up.) Mere scraps of 
 paper, dear ; scraps of paper, now. 
 
 Hilda 
 But it was the truth ; it still is the truth. 
 
 White 
 Hilda, there's something I want to talk over very 
 very seriously with you. I've been putting it off. 
 
 Hilda 
 Yes, dear? (The outer door is heard to bang.) 
 Listen: wasn't that the front door? 
 
 White 
 Perhaps it's the maid? 
 
 Hilda 
 {A bit nervously) 
 No: she's upstairs. No one rang. Please see. 
 
122 TIDES 
 
 White 
 {Smiling) 
 Now don't worry! It can't possibly be the Secret 
 Service. 
 
 Hilda 
 One never knows in war times what to expect. I 
 sometimes feel I am in a foreign country. 
 
 (White goes slowly to the door in back and 
 opens it. Wallace, their son, with valise in 
 hand, is standing there, as though he had hesi- 
 tated to enter. 
 
 He is a fine clean-cut young fellow, with his 
 father s physical endowment and his mother's 
 spiritual intensity. The essential note he strikes 
 is that of honesty. It is apparent he is under 
 the pressure of a momentous decision which has 
 brought him unexpectedly home from college.) 
 
 Wallace ! 
 
 Hello! Dad. 
 
 White 
 
 Wallace 
 {Shaking hands) 
 
 Hilda 
 
 Wallace! My boy! 
 
 (Wallace drops valise and goes to his mother* s 
 arms. ) 
 
TIDES 123 
 
 Wallace 
 {With deep feeling) 
 Mother! 
 
 White 
 {After a pause) 
 Well, boy ; this is unexpected. We were just talking 
 of you. 
 
 Wallace 
 Were you? 
 
 Hilda 
 I'm so glad to see you, so glad. 
 
 Wallace 
 Yes . . yes . . but . . . 
 
 White 
 There's nothing the matter? 
 
 Hilda 
 You've had trouble at college? 
 
 Wallace 
 Not exactly. But I couldn't stand it there. I've 
 left — for good. 
 
 White 
 I was sure that would happen. 
 
124 TIDES 
 
 Hilda 
 Tell us. You know we'll understand. 
 
 Wallace 
 Dad, if you don't mind, I'd like to talk it over with 
 mother first. 
 
 White 
 Of course, old fellow, that's right. She'll stand by 
 you just as she's always stood by me — all these years. 
 {He kisses her.) I . . I ... 
 
 {He smooths her hair gently, looking into her 
 eyes as she smiles up at him.) 
 We mustn't let this war hurt all we've had together 
 — you and I 
 
 Hilda 
 {Smiling and turning towards her son) 
 And Wallace. 
 
 White 
 And Wallace. Yes. (Wallace looks away guilt- 
 ily.) Let me know when the phone comes. 
 
 {He goes out hastily. She closes the door 
 after him and then comes to Wallace, who 
 has sat down, indicating he is troubled.) 
 
 Hilda 
 They made it hard for you at college? 
 
 Wallace 
 I don't know how to tell you. 
 
TIDES 125 
 
 Hilda 
 I understand. The flag waving, the patriotic 
 speeches, the billboards advertising the glory of war, 
 the call of adventure offered to youth, the pressure 
 of your friends — all made it hard for you to be called 
 a slacker. 
 
 Wallace 
 No, mother. I wasn't afraid of what they could 
 call me. That was easy. 
 
 Hilda 
 {Proudly) 
 You are your father's son ! 
 
 Wallace 
 Mother, I can't stand the thought of killing, you 
 know that. And I couldn't forget all you've told me. 
 That's why I've had to think this out all these months 
 alone; why I've hesitated longer than most fellows. 
 The only thing I was really afraid of was being wrong. 
 But now I know I'm right and I'm going clean through 
 to the limit. 
 
 Hilda 
 As your father said I'll stand by you — whatever it is 
 — if only you feel it's right. 
 
 Wallace 
 Will you? Will you, mother? No matter what 
 happens? {She nods.) I knew you would. {Taking 
 her hand.) Then mother, listen. I've volunteered. 
 
126 TIDES 
 
 Hilda 
 
 {Shocked) 
 Volunteered ! 
 
 Wallace 
 Yesi I leave for training-camp to-night. 
 
 Hilda 
 To-night? 
 
 Wallace 
 Yes, mother. Once I made up my mind I couldn't 
 wait to be drafted. I wanted to offer myself. I didn't 
 want to be made to go, 
 
 Hilda 
 {Hardly grasping it) 
 But you are too young. 
 
 Wallace 
 I lied about my age. You and father can stop me 
 if you tell the truth. That's why I've come back. I 
 want you to promise you won't tell. 
 
 Hilda 
 You ask me to aid you in what I don't believe ? 
 
 Wallace 
 But you said you'd stick by me if / thought it was 
 right. 
 
 Hilda 
 But . . . 
 
TIDES 127 
 
 Wallace 
 {With fervor) 
 And I tell you, mother, I do feel it was right for 
 America to go in. I see now we ought to have declared 
 war when they crushed Belgium. Yes; we ought to 
 have gone in when the Lusitania was sunk. But we've 
 been patient. The President tried to keep us out of 
 it until we had to go in to save our self-respect. We 
 had to go in to show we were men of honor, not pussy 
 cats. We had to go in to show the world the Stars 
 and Stripes wasn't a dishrag on which the Germans 
 could dry their bloody hands! 
 
 Hilda 
 {Gazing at him incredulously) 
 You hate them as much as that? 
 
 Wallace 
 Hate? No, mother, no. {As though questioning 
 himself.) I really haven't any hate for the German 
 people. People are just people everywhere, I suppose, 
 and they're tricked and fooled by their rotten govern- 
 ment, as the President says. 
 
 Hilda 
 Then why fight them? 
 
 Wallace 
 Because they're standing back of their government, 
 doing what it says. And they've got to be licked to 
 show them what kind of a government they have. 
 
128 TIDES 
 
 Hilda 
 At least you have no hate in your heart — that's 
 something. 
 
 Wallace 
 Oh, yes, I have, mother. But it isn't for the poor 
 devils I've got to shoot. It's for the stay-at-home 
 fellow here in America who sits in a comfortable arm- 
 chair, who applauds patriotic sentiment, cheers the 
 flag and does nothing for his country but hate and hate 
 — while we fight for him. That's the fellow I'll hate 
 all right when I sit in the trenches. And that's why 
 I couldn't look myself in the face if I stayed out a day 
 longer; why, I've got to go in; why, I'm going to die 
 if I must, because everybody ought to be willing to die 
 for what he believes. 
 
 Hilda 
 You are my son, too! For I would willingly have 
 died if it could have kept us out of this war. 
 
 Wallace 
 Yes. I am your son, too. And that's why you 
 wouldn't respect me if I didn't go through. 
 
 Hilda 
 No. I wouldn't have respected you. But . . . 
 but . . . {She breaks a bit, then controls herself.) 
 You are quite sure you're doing what's right? 
 
 Wallace 
 
 ( Tenderly ) 
 
 Would I have been willing to hurt you like this? 
 
TIDES 129 
 
 Hilda 
 {Holding him close to her) 
 My boy; my boy! 
 
 Wallace 
 It'll be all right, mother. 
 
 Hilda 
 Ah, yes. It will be all right. Nothing matters in 
 time: it's only the moments that hurt. 
 
 Wallace 
 {After a pause) 
 Then you won't tell my real age, or interfere? 
 
 Hilda 
 I respect your right to decide your own life. 
 
 Wallace 
 {Joyed) 
 Mother ! 
 
 Hilda 
 I respect your dedication ; your willingness to sacri- 
 fice for your beliefs. Why, Wallace, it would be a 
 crime for me to stand in your way — even with my 
 mother's love. {He kisses her.) Do it all as cleanly 
 as you can. I'll hope and pray that you'll come back 
 to me. {Half breaking down and taking him in her 
 arms.) Oh, my boy; my boy. Let me hold you. 
 You'll never know how hard it is for a mother. 
 
I30 TIDES 
 
 Wallace 
 {Gently) 
 But other mothers send their boys. 
 
 Hilda 
 Most of them believe in what their sons are fighting 
 for. Mothers have got to believe in it; or else how 
 could they stand the thought of bayonets stuck into the 
 bodies they brought forth in their own blood ? ( There 
 is a pause till she controls herself.) I'll help you get 
 your things together. 
 
 And father? 
 
 He will be angry. 
 
 Wallace 
 
 Hilda 
 
 Wallace 
 But you will make him understand? 
 
 Hilda 
 I'll try. Yet you must be patient with him if he 
 doesn't understand. Don't ever forget his long fight 
 against all kinds of Prussianism when 'you hear him 
 reviled by those who have always hated his radicalism 
 and who, now, under the guise of patriotism, are 
 trying to render him useless for further attacks on 
 them after the war. He's been persecuted so by them 
 — even back in the days when our press was praising 
 Germany and our distinguished citizens were dining at 
 
TIDES 131 
 
 the Emperor's table. Don't forget all this, my boy. 
 These days are hard for him — and me — harder perhaps 
 than for you who go out to die in glorj'^ and praise. 
 There are no flags for us, no music that stirs, no ap- 
 plause; but we too suffer in silence for what we believe. 
 And it is only the strongest who can survive. — Now 
 call your father. 
 
 Wallace 
 {Goes to door) 
 Dad! (He leaves door open and turns to his 
 mother.) I'll be getting my things together. {There 
 is a pause. White enters.) Dad, mother has some- 
 thing to ask you. {He looks from father to mother.) 
 Thanks, little mother. 
 
 {He kisses her and goes out taking the valise. 
 His father and mother stand facing each other.) 
 
 Hilda 
 Wallace has volunteered. {He looks at her keenly.) 
 He has lied about his age. He wants us to let him go. 
 
 White 
 Volunteered ? 
 
 Hilda 
 Yes; he leaves to-night. 
 
 White 
 {After a pause) 
 And what have you told him? 
 
132 
 
 
 TIDES 
 
 That he 
 
 must go. 
 
 Hilda 
 
 You can 
 
 say that? 
 
 White 
 
 It is the 
 
 Hilda 
 way he sees it. 
 
 Hilda. 
 
 {Going to 
 
 White 
 
 her sympathetically) 
 
 Hilda 
 {Looking up at him tenderly) 
 Oh, Will, do you remember when he was born? 
 {He soothes her.) And all we nursed him through 
 afterwards; and all we taught him; all we tried to 
 show him about war. {With a shrug of her shoul- 
 ders.) None of it has mattered. 
 
 White 
 War is stronger than all that. 
 
 Hilda 
 So we mustn't blame him. You won't blame him ? 
 
 White 
 He fears I will? 
 
TIDES 133 
 
 Hilda 
 He has always feared you a little though he loves 
 you deeply. You mustn't oppose him, dear. You 
 won't ? 
 
 White 
 (Wearily) 
 Is there any use opposing anybody or anything these 
 days? 
 
 Hilda 
 We must wait till the storm passes. 
 
 White 
 That's never been my way. 
 
 Hilda 
 No. You've fought all your life. But now we 
 must sit silent together and wait; wait for our boy to 
 come back. Will, think of it; we are going to have 
 a boy " over there," too. 
 
 White 
 Hilda, hasn't it ever struck you that we may have 
 been all wrong? (She looks at him, as she holds his 
 hand.) What could these frail hands do? How 
 could we poor little King Canutes halt this tide that 
 has swept over the world ? Isn't it better, after all, that 
 men should fight themselves out; bring such desolation 
 upon themselves that they will be forced to see the 
 futility of war? May it not become so terrible that 
 men — the workers, I mean — will throw down their 
 
134 TIDES 
 
 worn-out weapons of their own accord ? Won't perma- 
 nent peace come through bitter experience rather than 
 
 talk — talk — talk ? 
 
 Hilda 
 
 {Touching the torn pages of his speech and smiling) 
 Here is your answer to your own question. 
 
 White 
 Oh, that was all theory. We're in now. You say 
 yourself we can't oppose it. Isn't it better if we try to 
 direct the current to our own ends rather than sink by 
 trying to swim against it? 
 
 Hilda 
 Oh, yes; it would be easier for one who could com- 
 promise. 
 
 White 
 But haven't we radicals been too intolerant of com- 
 promise ? 
 
 Hilda 
 That has been your strength. And it is your 
 strength I'm relying on now that Wallace . . . 
 Shall I call him? 
 
 White 
 {Significantly) 
 No; wait. 
 
TIDES 135 
 
 Hilda 
 
 {Apprehensive at his turn) 
 Oh, yes. Before he came you said there was some- 
 thing . . . ? ( The phone rings. They both look 
 at it.) That's for you. 
 
 White 
 {Not moving) 
 
 Yes. 
 
 Hilda 
 {Hardly believing his attitude) 
 Is — is it private? 
 
 White 
 No. Perhaps it will be easier this way. {He hesi- 
 tates, then goes to phone as she stands expectant.) Yes. 
 Yes. Long Distance? Washington? {Her lips re- 
 peat the word.) Yes. This is William White. Hello. 
 Yes. Is this the Secretary speaking? Oh, I appreciate 
 the honor of having you confirm it personally. Sena- 
 tor Bough is chairman? At his request? Ah, yes; 
 war makes strange bedfellows. Yes. The passport 
 and credentials? Oh, I'll be ready. Yes. Good-bye. 
 {He hangs up the receiver and looks at her.) 
 
 Hilda 
 You, too! 
 
 White 
 I've been trying to tell you these last weeks; but 
 I couldn't somehow. 
 
136 TIDES 
 
 Hilda 
 You were ashamed? 
 
 White 
 No, dear; only I knew it would hurt you. 
 
 Hilda 
 I'm not thinking of myself but of you. You are 
 going to be part of this war ? 
 
 White 
 I'm going to do what I can to help finish it. 
 
 Hilda 
 By compromising with the beliefs of a lifetime? 
 
 White 
 No, dear; not that. I've accepted the appointment 
 on this commission because I'm going to accept facts. 
 
 Hilda 
 Have the facts of war changed or is it you? 
 
 White 
 Neither has changed; but I'm going to act differ- 
 ently. I'm going to be part of it. Yes. I'm going to 
 help direct the current. 
 
 Hilda 
 I can't believe what I am hearing. Is it you, 
 William White, speaking? You who, for twenty 
 years, have stood against all war ! 
 
TIDES 137 
 
 White 
 
 Yes. 
 
 Hilda 
 And now when the test comes you are going to lend 
 yourself to it! You of all men! 
 
 White 
 Hilda, dear; I didn't expect you to accept it easily; 
 but I think I can make you see if you will let me. 
 
 Hilda 
 {Poignantly) 
 If I will let you! Why, Will, I must understand; 
 I must. 
 
 White 
 Perhaps it will be difficult at first — with your 
 standards. 
 
 Hilda 
 
 But my standards were yours, Will. You gave 
 them to me. You taught me. You took a young girl 
 who loved you. You showed her the truth, and she 
 followed you and has followed you gladly through 
 hard years of struggle and poverty because of those 
 ideals. And now you talk of my standards! Will, 
 don't you see, I must understand ? 
 
 White 
 Dear, standards are relative things; they differ with 
 circumstance. 
 
138 TIDES 
 
 Hilda 
 Have your ideals only been old clothes you change 
 to suit the weather? 
 
 White 
 It's the end we must keep in mind. / haven't 
 changed or compromised one bit in that. I'm work- 
 ing in changed conditions, that's all ; working with all 
 my heart to do away with all war. 
 
 Hilda 
 By fighting one? 
 
 White 
 (With eloquence) 
 Yes. Because it is necessary. I've come to see we 
 can't argue war out of the world with words. We've 
 got to beat it out of the world. It can't be done with 
 our hands lifted up in prayer; it can only be done 
 with iron hands crushing it down. War is the mood 
 of the world. Well, I'm going to fight in my fashion. 
 And when it is over I'm going to keep on fighting; for 
 the next war will be greater than this. It will be 
 economic revolution. It will be the war of capital 
 and labor. And I mean to be ready. 
 
 Hilda 
 {Listening incredulously) 
 And to get ready you are willing to link arms now 
 with Senator Bough — a man you once called the lackey 
 
TIDES 139 
 
 of Wall Street — a man who has always opposed every 
 democratic principle . . . 
 
 White 
 Yes. Don't you see the Government is beginning 
 to realize they can't do without us ? Don't you see my 
 appointment is an acknowledgment of the rising tide 
 of radicalism in the world? Don't you see, with the 
 prestige that will come to me from this appointment, 
 I will have greater power after the war; power to 
 bring about the realization of all our dreams; power 
 to demand — even at the Peace table itself, perhaps — 
 that all wars must end ? 
 
 Hilda 
 Do you actually believe you will have any power 
 with your own people when you have compromised 
 them for a temporary expediency? 
 
 White 
 {With a gesture) 
 The leader must be wiser than the people who 
 follow. 
 
 Hilda 
 
 So, contempt for your people is the first thing your 
 new power has brought you! {He makes a gesture of 
 denial.) You feel you are above them — not of them. 
 Do you believe for a moment that Senator Bough has 
 anything but contempt for you, too? 
 
I40 TIDES 
 
 White 
 {Confidently) 
 He needs me. 
 
 Hilda 
 Needs you ? Don't you understand why he had you 
 appointed on that committee? He wanted to get you 
 out of the way. 
 
 White 
 Isn't that an acknowledgment of my power ? 
 
 Hilda 
 Yes. You're a great asset now. You're a " re- 
 formed " radical. Why, Will, he'll use you in the 
 capitals of Europe to advertise his liberalism; just as 
 the prohibitionist exhibits a reformed drunkard. 
 
 White 
 And I tell you, Hilda, after the war I shall be 
 stronger than he is, stronger than any of them. 
 
 Hilda 
 No man is strong unless he does what he feels is 
 right. No, no. Will; you've convicted yourself with 
 your own eloquence. You've wanted to do this for 
 some reason. But it isn't the one you've told me. 
 No; no. 
 
 White 
 {Angrily) 
 You doubt my sincerity? 
 
TIDES 141 
 
 Hilda 
 
 No; only the way you have read yourself. 
 
 White 
 Well, if you think I've tried to make it easy for my- 
 self you are mistaken. Is it easy to pull out of the 
 rut and habit of years? Easy to know my friends will 
 jeer and say I've sold out? Easy to have you mis- 
 understand? {Goes to her.) Hilda, I'm doing this 
 for their good. I'm doing it — just as Wallace is — 
 because I feel it's right. 
 
 Hilda 
 No ; you shouldn't say that. You are not doing this 
 for the same reason Wallace is. He believes in this 
 war. He has accepted it all simply without a ques- 
 tion. If you had seen the look in his eyes, you would 
 have known he was a dedicated spirit; there was no 
 shadow, no doubt; it was pure flame. But you! You 
 believe differently! You can't hush the mind that for 
 twenty years has thought no war ever could henceforth 
 be justified. You can't give yourself to this war with- 
 out tricking yourself with phrases. You see power in it 
 and profit for yourself. {He protests.) That's j^our 
 own confession. You are only doing what is expedient 
 — not what is right. Oh, Will, don't compare your 
 motives with those of our son. I sent him forth, with- 
 out a word of protest, because he wishes to die for his 
 own ideals: you are killing your own ideals for the 
 ideals of others! {She turns away.) Oh, Will, that's 
 
142 TIDES 
 
 what hurts. If you were only like him, I — I could 
 stand it. 
 
 White 
 {Quietly, after a pause) 
 I can't be angry at you — even when you say such 
 things. You've been too much a part of my life, and 
 work, and I love you, Hilda. You know that, don't 
 you, dear? {He sits beside her and takes her hand.) 
 I knew it would be difficult to make you understand. 
 Only once have I lacked courage and that was when 
 I felt myself being drawn into this and they offered me 
 the appointment. For then I saw I must tell you. 
 You know I never have wanted to cause you pain. 
 But when you asked me to let Wallace go, I thought 
 you would understand my going, too. — Oh, perhaps 
 our motives are different; he is young: war has caught 
 his imagination ; but, I, too, see a duty, a way to accom- 
 plish my ideals. 
 
 Hilda 
 Let's leave ideals out of this now. It's like bitter 
 enemies praying to the same God as they kill each 
 other. 
 
 White 
 Yes. War is full of ironies. I see that: Wallace 
 can't. It's so full of mixed motives, good and bad. 
 Yes. I'll grant all that. Only America has gone in. 
 The whole tide was against us, dear. It is sweeping 
 over the world : a brown tide of khaki sweeping every- 
 
TIDES 143 
 
 thing before it. All my life I've fought against the 
 current. (Wearily) And now that I've gone in, too, 
 my arms seem less tired. Yes ; and except for the pain 
 I've caused you, I've never in all my life felt so — so 
 happy. 
 
 (Then she understands. She slowly turns to 
 
 him, with tenderness in her eyes.) 
 
 Hilda 
 Oh, now. Will, I do understand. Now I see the 
 real reason for what you've done. 
 
 White 
 (Defensively) 
 I've given the real reason. 
 
 Hilda 
 (Her heart going out to him) 
 You poor tired man. My dear one. Forgive me, 
 if I made it difficult for you ; if I said cruel words. I 
 ought to have guessed ; ought to have seen what life has 
 done to you. (He looks up, not understanding her 
 words.) Those hands of yours first dug a living out 
 of the ground. Then they built houses and grew 
 strong because you were a workman — a man of the 
 people. You saw injustice and all your life you fought 
 against those who had the power to inflict it : the press ; 
 the comfortable respectables, like my brother; and 
 even those of your own group who opposed you — ^you 
 fought them all. And they look at you as an outsider, 
 an alien in your own country. Oh, Will, I know how 
 
144 TIDES 
 
 hard it has been for you, to be always on the de- 
 fensive, against the majority. It is hard to live alone 
 away from the herd. It does tire one to the bone and 
 make one envious of the comfort and security they 
 find by being together. 
 
 White 
 Yes . . but . . . 
 
 Hilda 
 Now the war comes and with it a chance to get 
 back; to be part of the majority; to be welcomed with 
 open arms by those who have fought you ; to go back 
 with honor and praise. And, yes, to have the warmth 
 and comfort of the crowd. That's the real reason 
 you're going in. You're tired and worn out with the 
 fight. I know. I understand now. 
 
 White 
 (^Earnestly) 
 If I thought it was that, I'd kill myself. 
 
 Hilda 
 There's been enough killing already. I have to 
 understand it somehow to accept it at all. 
 
 {He stares at her, wondering at her words. 
 She smiles. He goes to a chair and sits down, 
 gazing before him. The music of " Over 
 There" is now heard outside in the street, 
 approaching nearer and nearer. It is a military 
 hand. Wallace excitedly rushes in dressed in 
 khaki.) 
 
TIDES " 145 
 
 Wallace 
 Mother, mother. The boys are coming down the 
 street. {Sees father.) Dad! Mother has told you? 
 
 Hilda 
 {Calmly) 
 Yes; I've told him. 
 
 Wallace 
 And you're going to let me go, Dad? 
 
 Hilda 
 Yes. 
 
 Wallace 
 Oh, thanks, Dad. {Grasping his hand.) I knew 
 mother would make you see. {Music nearer.) 
 Listen! Isn't that a great tune? Lifts you up on 
 your feet and carries you over there. Gee, it just gets 
 into a fellow and makes him want to run for his gun 
 and charge over the top. {He goes to balcony.) Look! 
 They're nearing here ; all ready to sail with the morn- 
 ing tide. They've got their helmets on. You can't 
 see the end of them coming down the avenue. Oh, 
 thank God, I'm going to be one of them soon. Thank 
 God ! I'm going to fight for Uncle Sam and the Stars 
 and Stripes. {Calls off.) Hurrah! {To them.) Oh, 
 I wish I had a flag. Why haven't we got a flag here — 
 Hurrah ! ! 
 
 {As he goes out on the balcony the music plays 
 louder. Hilda has gone to White during this. 
 
[46 TIDES 
 
 arid stands behind him, with her arms down his 
 arms, as he sits there, gazing before him.) 
 
 Hilda 
 {Fervently) 
 Oh, Will, if I could only feel it as he does ! ! 
 
 {The music begins to trail off as White ten- 
 derly takes hold of her hands.) 
 
 [Curtain] 
 
AMONG THE LIONS 
 
THE PEOPLE 
 
 Patricia Tenner, a popular " star." 
 
 Mrs. Emily Frowde, " a lion-hunter" 
 
 Miss Eva Stannard, about whom there has been talk. 
 
 The Brown One, ] 
 
 The Blue One, V as they appear to Patricia. 
 
 The Green One, J 
 
 M. Mavosky, an artist " who's all the rage." 
 
 George Silverton, a musician; an old friend of 
 
 Patricia. 
 Other Guests. 
 
 SCENE 
 
 Drawing-room at Mrs. Frowde's during a small 
 reception given to Patricia Tenner. A late afternoon. 
 
AMONG THE LIONS* 
 
 y^iV elaborate drawing-room is disclosed, with 
 
 >^W bare high-paneled walls, relieved only by 
 attractive candle-clusters and a stretch of 
 tapestry. At back is an alcove effect in which a piano 
 is seen, with' the usual decorations of a music-room 
 suggested beyond. There are two openings which lead 
 to the hallways and street doors without. Opposite 
 these is a stone-built fireplace with a smoldering log 
 blaze and attractive " British Soldier " andirons. By 
 this rests a deep chair which tones with the other 
 furnishings. A tea-table, resplendent with silver, stands 
 obliquely in the center, with lighted candles. Appro- 
 priate ferns and flowers rest in likely places. 
 
 George Silverton is playing a Chopin etude in the 
 music-room; about the opening are grouped Patricia 
 Tenner, Mrs. Frowde, The Brown One, The 
 Green One, The Blue One and others. They are 
 listening, duly impressed by the touch of an expert. 
 
 Mavosky, the artist, is standing off alone by the tea- 
 table complacently munching a macaroon and eyeing 
 Patricia. 
 
 Mavosky is about forty, tall, with large eyes and a 
 pointed beard. There is a slight Russian accent in his 
 speech and his manners have the studied spontaneity of 
 
 * Copyright by George Middleton. See back of title page. 
 
I50 AMONG THE LIONS 
 
 a professional foreigner exploiting a new field. As he 
 continues to watch. Patricia with a cynical smile, she 
 leaves the group unobserved by the others and moves 
 towards the low, deep chair near the fireplace. 
 
 Patricia has the large features of a stage-beauty, 
 which enhance her appearance before the footlights. 
 Her hair is parted and coiled low on her neck. She is 
 elegantly gowned, and carries a long, elaborate scarf 
 which is hung across her back and held by each arm. 
 She uses this continually to increase her instinctive 
 plasticity. As she turns there is a serious expression 
 upon her face, as though, for once she had been her true 
 self. 
 
 Patricia 
 {Almost inaudibly) 
 George Silverton. Poor George! 
 
 (She seems to feel Mavosky's eyes; but again 
 mistress of herself, turns, and smiles invitingly. 
 Then she drapes herself artistically in the chair. 
 Mavosky comes with the plate of macaroons, 
 which she declines with a pretty gesture. He 
 replaces them on the table, and, seeing no one 
 is watching, returns to her, speaking softly at 
 the music continues.) 
 
 Mavosky 
 Quel charmef 
 
 Patricia 
 The ffown or the pose? 
 
AMONG THE LIONS 151 
 
 Mavosky 
 Mademoiselle Tenner, in your profession they are 
 inseparable. 
 
 Patricia 
 We actresses belong only to each moment we act. 
 It is your profession which fastens us as we should be 
 in the memory of others. ^ 
 
 Mavosky 
 Perhaps that is why my portraits please. 
 
 Patricia 
 ( Ban tering charm ingly ) 
 And you only take celebrities, Monsieur Mavosky. 
 
 Mavosky 
 I wish to go to posterity on the hem of their 
 garments. 
 
 Patricia 
 
 {Smiling) 
 Some day / may wear a gown that pleases you, eh? 
 {He starts to answer, but the music stops and 
 the others applaud in perfect taste. He offers 
 his hand in parting, as she seems to invite it.) 
 
 Mavosky 
 Au revoir. 
 
152 AMONG THE LIONS 
 
 Patricia 
 {With a fascinating smile) 
 Deja? 
 
 {He bows far over her hand and their eyes meet 
 with interest. As he turns away, while the 
 others come into the room, Patricia gives a 
 secret smile of satisfaction, as though she had 
 obtained her intention. Then she sighs wearily, 
 bored, as she glances at the others. 
 
 Mrs. Frowde, the hostess is about fifty, look- 
 ing forty; rather large and as self-contained as 
 possible in her loose black tea-gown. She is a 
 nervous woman with an apparent seriousness in 
 her social undertakings. Her eyes are continu- 
 ally criticizing and her hands correcting. She 
 has a gracious voice, and towards Patricia, at 
 least, a possessive protectiveness. 
 
 The Brown One has a good profile from 
 her chin up, but otherwise, in spite of lacing, is 
 stout. Her tan gown makes up in elegance 
 what it lacks in outline. 
 
 The clinging gown of The Blue One ac- 
 centuates the languid manner she affects. There 
 is a satisfied, set smile upon her aquiline face and 
 her voice maintains a gentle, persistent tremolo. 
 
 The Green One is younger than the others 
 and in general indefiniteness of bearing and ap- 
 pearance merely suggests money. Her olive- 
 
AMONG THE LIONS I53 
 
 trimmed gown is very simple, but is caught by a 
 conspicuous jade belt. 
 
 These, with the other guests who gradually 
 depart, suggest the atmosphere of a conventional 
 tea.) 
 
 Omnes 
 {Enthusiastically to Silverton) 
 How delightful ! How wonderful! 
 
 (George Silverton is medium-sized, in the 
 late thirties, with a fine, sensitive face and short- 
 cropped hair. He is retiring in manner and 
 seems ill at ease in the present company. 
 Towards Patricia, however, this disappears 
 and it is evident he has known her well.) 
 
 The Brown One 
 
 {Shrugging her shoulders, and splashing each sentence 
 
 with jerky gestures throughout.) 
 
 He has such a je-ne-sais-quoi. Don't you think? 
 
 The Blue One 
 {In a shocked tone) 
 I'd hardly put it that way. 
 
 Silverton 
 
 ( To The Brown One) 
 
 You compliment me. , :' 
 
154 AMONG THE LIONS 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 Didn't Pachmann play that at the Philharmonic 
 Friday ? 
 
 The Green One 
 How should I know? 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 I wish they'd announce what they play as an encore 
 so I can recognize it. 
 
 The Brown One 
 We need a Chopin in this country. Do you compose, 
 Mr. Silverton? 
 
 The Blue One 
 {Who has come down to Patricia) 
 It must be splendid to be a real artist, Miss Tenner, 
 instead of just having money. We have to be so 
 careful. 
 
 (Patricia smiles and nods understandingly 
 throughout. SiLVERTON, apparently ill at ease, 
 comes beside Patricia as Mavosky is speaking 
 to Mrs. Frowde and the others at the table.) 
 Oh, Mr. Silverton, your playing made me so — so — 
 {at a loss for words) don't you know? 
 
 Silverton 
 
 {Stiffly) 
 Music is the only mental adventure in good and evil 
 which some of us ever have. 
 
AMONG THE LIONS i55 
 
 The Blue One 
 How clever of you ! I wonder if that's why I adore 
 Tristan? You will come to my next Thursday and 
 play for me? / need adventure. (She laughs, tremu- 
 lously) I'll have some people there if I may tell them 
 you are coming. 
 
 SiLVERTON 
 
 {Hiding his displeasure) 
 Charmed. 
 
 The Blue One 
 {To Patricia) 
 You have a beastly rehearsal then, haven't you ? So 
 sorry. 
 
 (Patricia smiles as though regretful, and the 
 three continue talking.) 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 {By the table, shaking Mavosky's hand) 
 
 Must you go? 
 
 Mavosky 
 Only till luncheon Tuesday. 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 
 {Aside to him) 
 
 It was good of you to meet her. 
 
 Mavosky 
 {Looking across to Patricia) 
 Miss Tenner is a poem in pose. 
 
156 AMONG THE LIONS 
 
 The Brown One 
 (Who has been manceuvering to be in his line of de- 
 parture, as Mrs. Frowde turns to give The Green 
 One a cup of tea.) 
 
 M. Mavosky, I've heard if you wait at Port Said 
 you'll sooner or later meet everyone you know. Here, 
 at Mrs. Frowde's, one only meets those one wishes, 
 nest-ce pas? 
 
 Mavosky 
 {Gallantly) 
 You American women! 
 
 The Brown One 
 I'll bring my husband to see your portraits. May I? 
 
 Mavosky 
 {Bowing) 
 You speak for his taste. 
 
 The Brown One 
 
 {Pleased) 
 He actually threatens to have one of me, and wishes 
 the very best that can possibly be painted. 
 
 {They exchange pleasantries , and as Mavosky 
 passes out he glances towards Patricia, who has 
 been watching him, while Silverton has en- 
 gaged The Blue One^ zuho by now has joined 
 The Green One and The Brown One and 
 Mrs. Frowde at the table. They laugh as 
 Silverton and Patricia find a chance to 
 snatch a few words unheard.) 
 
AMONG THE LIONS 157 
 
 SiLVERTON 
 
 {Referring to The Blue One) 
 Who is she that I must pay for my tea by playing 
 for her Thursday? 
 
 Patricia 
 {Flippantly) 
 Her name begins with T. Her husband owns Th3 
 Star. It's been good to me. I call her The Blue 
 One; I no longer remember names. People are color 
 to me. See the stout one — like an overfed question 
 mark? She seems brown all through. Have you 
 heard her talk? With her {imitating and shrugging 
 shoulders) " je-ne-sais-quois " ? No one who is fat 
 should speak French. And The Green One — ugh! — 
 with the jade life-belt! 
 
 SiLVERTON 
 
 {Seriously) 
 Pat, why do you still come to these stupid affairs? 
 
 Patricia 
 There are still things / may want, too. 
 
 SiLVERTON 
 
 Mavosky ? 
 
 Patricia 
 A portrait by him in my new role. Yes. Mrs. 
 Frowde knew him. Voila. 
 
158 AMONG THE LIONS 
 
 SiLVERTON 
 
 I see: that's how you still get things. 
 
 Patricia 
 Mrs. Frowde is the greatest " lion-hunter " in cap- 
 tivity. She is happy to-day; she's caught three of us: 
 a star, a painter, and a promising musician. That's 
 why you're here, isn't it? {He nods.) You've finally 
 decided to follow the advice I gave you when we first 
 came East 
 
 SiLVERTON 
 
 Yes: how different it was then 
 
 Patricia 
 (Reminiscently) 
 Yes — how different! 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 (Gentiy restraining The Brown One^ who has 
 started towards Patricia and Silverton) 
 I've heard they had quite a romance once. 
 
 The Brown One 
 How romantic! I wish my husband played a piano. 
 {They talk.) 
 
 Patricia 
 {Quietly to Silverton) 
 Funny, George, while you were playing I was think- 
 ing of when I hadn't a job and you were copying for a 
 
AMONG THE LIONS 159 
 
 living. Your music actually made me want to throw 
 off all my insincerities here just for once and see what 
 would happen. 
 
 SiLVERTON 
 
 They'd be shocked- 
 And I'd be chilly. 
 
 Patricia 
 
 SiLVERTON 
 
 But / couldn't be of any use to you — then. 
 
 Patricia 
 No ; my " art " wasn't big enough to succeed by 
 itself alone. I had to play the game — get influence — 
 {He protests.) Oh, I know myself, George; I was 
 cruel to you and all the others. Some day, just to 
 square myself in my own eyes, I'll tell people like these 
 here about my life and how I have always used them 
 to get what I wanted. 
 
 SiLVERTON 
 
 {Surprised) 
 What is the matter, Pat? You're not yourself. 
 
 Patricia 
 {Smiling) 
 I'm having a rush of sincerity to my lips. 
 
 SiLVERTON 
 
 {Looking over toward the others) 
 
 I wonder what they would say if it slipped out? 
 
i6o AMONG THE LIONS 
 
 Patricia 
 Perhaps they'd say it was " temperament." I've 
 affected it so much I actually believe I've got it. 
 
 Mrs. Frov^'de 
 {Laughing with others) 
 Mavosky is so clever ; he said in America passion was 
 only sentiment waving a red flag! 
 
 The Green One 
 He told me art had no morals and I understood 
 him. He's so subtle. 
 
 Silverton 
 {To Patricia) 
 If I could but make phrases. 
 
 Patricia 
 {Rising, wearily) 
 I don't have to; I smile them. 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 {Coming down anxiously) 
 Surely, you're not going yet, Patricia? 
 
 The Green One 
 {To The Brown One) 
 She calls her Patricia! 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 {Offering Patricia a cup) 
 I've fixed it the way you like it — no lemon. 
 
AMONG THE LIONS i6i 
 
 Patricia 
 
 {Declining) 
 You are so thoughtful, dear Emily. 
 
 The Green One 
 {To The Brown One) 
 
 Emily! 
 
 The Blue One 
 {Coming to Patricia) 
 I'm just dying to see your Rosalind. 
 
 Patricia 
 {Beautifully covering with an air of sincerity her 
 mockery which SiLVERTON alone detects) 
 You may before you do. 
 
 The Green One 
 
 {In surprise) 
 But the papers say 
 
 Patricia 
 You mustn't believe all you see there. My press 
 agent has imagination. 
 
 The Blue One 
 {Cozily to the others) 
 Isn't it splendid to be taken into her confidence. 
 (Patricia darts a humorous glance at SiLVER- 
 
 TON.) 
 
i62 AMONG THE LIONS 
 
 The Brown One 
 I should think you'd be tired going out so much. 
 
 Patricia 
 Mrs. Frowde's friends are always interesting and 
 proper — a rare combination. {Smiling.) Her idea of 
 a tragedy would be a social mishap — that way. 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 {Protectively) 
 I warn her against overtaxing herself — and with that 
 trying part to play every night. 
 
 Patricia 
 Whenever it gets trying to me I think of the 
 audience. 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 {As the others laugh) 
 I always said one must have a sense of humor off 
 the stage to play the parts you do. 
 
 Patricia 
 I get my inspiration from my friends; a cup of tea, 
 and brilliant conversation before the horrid time to go 
 and " make up." 
 
AMONG THE LIONS 163 
 
 The Green One 
 Doesn't all the make-up hurt the complexion ? 
 
 Patricia 
 
 (Sweetly) 
 I always use cold cream first — don't you? 
 
 (An abrupt halt in the laughter comes as MiSS 
 Eva Stannard enters and pauses momentarily 
 in the doorway. 
 
 Miss Stannard is about twenty-nine^ tall, 
 vibrant and almost imperious in bearing. Her 
 forehead is high, her eyes keen and her mouth 
 thin and tense. She is gowned in gray. 
 
 Patricia is immediately interested in her and 
 in the constrained attitude of the others. 
 
 Miss Stannard slowly comes to Mrs. 
 Frowde^ bowing graciously, as she passes, to the 
 others, who return it with sickly smiles, ex- 
 changing secret looks of surprise and indigna- 
 tion. Mrs. Frowde in her obvious embarrass- 
 ment, instead of offering her hand, proffers the 
 tea-cup, which Miss Stannard smilingly de- 
 clines. The Blue One, with rare presence 
 of mind, coughs, and the others all laugh nerv- 
 ously, as though to cover the silence which has 
 ensued. 
 
 Patricia slowly sits again, with Silverton 
 standing by her chair, intensely interested and 
 curious.) 
 
i64 AMONG THE LIONS 
 
 Miss Stannard 
 
 (Sweetly) 
 I had no idea, Mrs. Frowde, you were receiving 
 formally to-day. 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 (Constrained throughout) 
 I only sent out a few special cards to meet Miss 
 Tenner. But now that you've come, let me present you 
 to her. Miss Stannard. 
 
 Patricia 
 
 (More cordial than ever) 
 Miss Eva Stannard? (Miss Stannard nods.) Oh; 
 I'm indeed glad to meet you. 
 
 Miss Stannard 
 (Formally and a bit puzzled) 
 Thanks. 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 You know the others? 
 
 Miss Stannard 
 ( Cordially ) 
 
 Oh, yes 
 
 (The others laugh a little nervously, nod 
 mechanically, with ill-concealed rudeness.) 
 
AMONG THE LIONS 165 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 (Nervously) 
 Do have another cup of tea. (Pause.) What lovely 
 weather we are having! (They all agree.) I almost 
 hate to go to Florida this winter; but it saves fuel. 
 
 (Miss Stannard declines again and Silver- 
 ton takes the cup from Mrs. Frowde to the 
 table, returning to Patricia. There is another 
 embarrassing silence in which they all look at 
 one another. Finally The Brown One comes 
 to say good-bye to Mrs. Frowde^ whose dis- 
 comfort increases throughout.) 
 Must you really go so soon? 
 
 The Brown One 
 (Pointedly) 
 Yes; I — I had expected to stay longer, but I've just 
 remembered a most important engagement. 
 
 The Blue One 
 Can't I drop you on the way ? My car's waiting. 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 (Distressed) 
 Must you, too? But Mr. Silverton has promised 
 to play again. 
 
 Silverton 
 
 (Significantly) 
 
 An improvisation — prompted by the occasion. 
 
i66 AMONG THE LIONS 
 
 The Blue One 
 I'm to hear it Thursday — remember. 
 
 {As The Blue One and The Brown One 
 say good-bye to Miss Stannard, The Green 
 One goes to Mrs. Frowde. Miss Stannard 
 being left alone, shows her struggle at self-con- 
 trol and sits in a chair unasked. The Brown 
 One and The Blue One with heads together 
 go out the upper opening.) 
 
 The Green One 
 It's getting late. I've had such a pleasant after- 
 noon. You won't forget bridge next Monday ? 
 
 (Mrs. Frowde responds limply and as The 
 Green One turns. Miss Stannard rises and 
 halts her with a look.) 
 
 Miss Stannard 
 Good afternoon. 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 Must you? 
 
 The Green One 
 Yes, I'm going to Cartier's for the prizes. {To 
 Patricia) Good afternoon. {After a moment's hesita- 
 tion.) Good afternoon, Miss Stannard. 
 
 (The Green One goes out as Miss Stan- 
 nard eyes Mrs. Frowde in silence while Pa- 
 tricia and SiLVERTON speak unheard.) 
 
AMONG THE LIONS 167 
 
 Patricia 
 Leave me here alone, George : this Is real. I've heard 
 about her. 
 
 SiLVERTON 
 
 What are you going to do? 
 
 Patricia 
 The cats! There's something inside me wants to 
 speak. Run along. I'm feeling that rush of sincerity 
 I spoke of. 
 
 SiLVERTON 
 
 Mrs. Frowde, I leave only because — (as Miss 
 Stannard catches his eye) Miss Stannard, I'm sorry 
 they did not wait for that improvisation. But I'm 
 afraid they wouldn't have understood the motif. 
 
 (SiLVERTON goes out. Patricia leans forward 
 watching the two, as Mrs. Frowde faces Miss 
 Stannard. There is an embarrassing pause.) 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 Really, I don't know what to say. I hardly thought 
 you would come — under the circumstances. 
 
 Miss Stannard 
 {Fencing carefully throughout) 
 I'm dreadfully sorry. I did not know it was a select 
 affair. I thought you were always at home to your 
 friends. 
 
i68 AMONG THE LIONS 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 {Pointedly) 
 
 Friends — yes. 
 
 Miss Stannard 
 (Sweetly) 
 Then Fm forgiven? 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 I think you must have seen my friends did not re- 
 main after you arrived. 
 
 Miss Stannard 
 I'm very sorry; but it is they you should criticize for 
 being so frightfully inconsiderate of you. {With a 
 sudden firmness) And now Mrs. Frowde, don't you 
 think you owe me an explanation? 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 {Controlling herself with difficulty) 
 I feel a strong desire to give it, only I hardly think 
 you would like me to speak before 
 
 Miss Stannard 
 {Sarcastically) 
 Strangers? The resentment was shown before Miss 
 Tenner, why not the explanation? 
 
 Patricia 
 {Appealing with the usual success to their intimacy.) 
 Emily, dear, you forget you have already spoken to 
 me of Miss Stannard. (Miss Stannard stiffens.) 
 
AMONG THE LIONS 169 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 Wouldn't it be better if I simply asked you not to 
 call again? 
 
 Miss Stannard 
 (With a note of challenge) 
 I must insist that you tell me frankly the reason. 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 You insist? 
 
 Miss Stannard 
 Yes. 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 {Bluntly) 
 There has been too much talk about you. Surely 
 
 you must have realized your name is on every tongue. 
 
 You know the world : women can't do what you have 
 
 done. You must have been mad — and with a married 
 
 man at that! 
 
 (Patricia eyes her keenly. Miss Stannard 
 tosses her head defiantly; but as Mrs. Frowde 
 eyes her piercingly she seems to lose all her con- 
 trol, begins to tremble, totters, clutching the 
 back of a chair and finally sinks with an hysteri- 
 cal sob upon the sofa, burying her face in her 
 hands. Her vanity-case rattles to the floor. 
 Patricia rises instinctively to go to her but sits 
 again as Mrs. Frowde motions her back and 
 approaches MiSS Stannard less harshly.) 
 
I70 AMONG THE LIONS 
 
 I'm very sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you like 
 this. Only one must protect one's self — one's friends. 
 I couldn't have you come here. (Slowly) Oh, well, 
 I'm sure you will see one must draw the line some- 
 where. 
 
 Patricia 
 (Impressively) 
 Yes> Emily, one must draw the line somewhere. 
 Why didn't you begin with me? 
 
 (Mrs. Frowde sits in astonishment as Pa- 
 tricia leans forward. There is a long pause 
 till Miss Stannard looks up slowly in wonder 
 and curiosity.) 
 I really don't see why you discriminate. 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 But 
 
 Patricia 
 If you and your friends are so shocked by Miss 
 Stannard's presence, why should you tolerate me ? No 
 one gives us stage people the right to privacy. Every- 
 body makes it their business to retail our lives. We're 
 public property; so surely you and your friends have 
 heard my story, too. Now, really, haven't you? 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 (Confused) 
 Yes, but — my dear . . . 
 
 Patricia 
 And what have you heard about me? Let's see if 
 it is correct. My name? It isn't my own. My real 
 
AMONG THE LIONS 171 
 
 one wouldn't look well on the advertising. Besides, 
 my father hadn't given me any reason to be proud 
 of it. My mother may have been a good soul 
 if I had ever really known her. I've always thought 
 I was an unwanted child: I hate children so myself. 
 But mother couldn't have been the sort who'd drink 
 with ease out of your frail tea-cups, and I'll warrant 
 no amount of coaching would have kept the yeneer 
 from peeling when she spoke. I grew up somehow 
 among "beer and skittles," as Trilby would say; 
 didn't know what pictures and teas and things were 
 till I came East. And do you know how I came? 
 He seemed so handsome, too, in those days. 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 {Moving uneasily as she sees a grim smile come to 
 Miss Stannard) 
 But, dear, you were young and 
 
 Patricia 
 Oh, I knew better ; but I was bored — bored out there 
 and I wanted a chance to live. We didn't get along 
 very well — he and I ; partly my fault. He couldn't be 
 happy with a woman who also had a spark of creation 
 tucked away in her soul. Then, besides, I had made 
 up my mind I'd do something because I had to keep 
 alive. I turned to the stage — most of us poor fools do. 
 But I happened to have a way with me and a pair of 
 shoulders that were proud of my face. {Sarcastically.) 
 The critics called it personality. {Quickly) I wonder 
 if you also know I lived in a five-dollar-a-week board- 
 ing-house with circus acrobats on the floor above, a sad 
 
172 AMONG THE LIONS 
 
 soprano in a closet next to mine and a smell of cooking 
 all over so I wouldn't be lonely? {Almost uncon- 
 sciously her voice at times betrays an unexpected com- 
 monness.) How I hated it! How I wanted these 
 feathers and gilt! And every time I made up my 
 face in that tu^o-by-four part I had, I determined to 
 succeed somehow — anyhow. I deserve every bit of 
 success I've got, for I worked hard getting the burrs 
 out of my speech and some grammar into it. (Mrs. 
 Frowde moves uncomfortably again.) That's the 
 truth. People suspected I had a brain and I had; but 
 I wasn't wasting it on books — I was studying the hearts 
 and souls of the sort of people I needed to get along. 
 ( With increasing relish at the effect of her revelations. ) 
 And I saw to succeed in my life I had to grow hard 
 inside and soft out. So I affected my husky voice and 
 my sad smile; sadness gave me a touch of mystery and 
 encouraged curiosity. I knew I'd have to keep my 
 face smooth, too; so I stopped feeling for others and 
 thought only of myself. Suffering isn't good for 
 the complexion. But I helped everybody in con- 
 venient ways, because I knew I could make them 
 help me in greater. And as I began to get along I 
 went out more to teas and the like so I could meet the 
 people I could use. 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 But, my dear . . . 
 
 Patricia 
 Oh, I'm not ungrateful for their kindness, but I 
 owe them nothing, for I repaid them, by letting them 
 
AMONG THE LIONS i73 
 
 do things for me. Yes, it flattered them to have me 
 about and to say they knew me " intimately." I was 
 a good asset to their affairs because I was a success. 
 Then I picked up a lot of cant phrases about art and 
 the like, so I could prattle; and I even signed articles 
 which somebody else wrote lamenting the decline of 
 the stage, when I knew in my heart I was glad things 
 were as they were because I could make more money 
 with a dramatized novel or a tailor-made part than 
 in my much advertised and never intended appearance 
 in Shakespeare. {Acting as with apparent conviction.) 
 And back of this, life was calling me. So I did other 
 things to get along. My eyes were open and so it seems 
 were those of the world. It envied me my freedom be- 
 cause I was a success. All of us don't do it, but I did 
 and it wasn't always for love. (Miss Stannard's 
 quick breath halts her for a moment; then she adds 
 dramatically) Yes, Mrs. Frowde, if you're going to 
 draw the line somewhere at your teas, why don't you 
 begin with me? 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 {Floundering) 
 But — but you forget, dear, you — you are a great 
 creative artist. 
 
 Patricia 
 
 No, I don't. Everybody's tolerance of my whims, 
 
 my moods, my morals would never let me forget it. 
 
 But what has that to do with the right and wrong of 
 
 it? That's what you are wondering, Miss Stannard. 
 
174 AMONG THE LIONS 
 
 (Miss Stannard gazes at her.) I don't ask any less 
 charity for myself because my " temperament " has 
 made me live my life my own way; though I don't 
 need charity now I'm on top. {Surging along effec- 
 tively.) But why shouldn't you and your friends ex- 
 tend that same charity to the rest of the sinners? 
 (Patricia does not detect Miss Stannard's change of 
 manner so intent is she in her own words.) You give 
 it to me because I am a creative artist. Everybody has 
 a bit of the artist in them. Some of us use it to make 
 bread; others use it to make trouble. All the nice 
 sinners of the world have the creative spirit, too. Sin 
 is the creating of the actual out of the imagined. 
 It's falling over the fence in a desire to see what is on 
 the other side. (Consciously shaping her words and 
 manner to a climax.) But the more so are the sins 
 one does for love. Love is the most creative of all 
 impulses. If you forgive me because I'm an artist, as 
 you say ; if you can ask me to sit beside your lily-faced 
 daughters and stubby-chinned sons; if you can kiss my 
 lips — I, who have openly violated all your standards 
 — ^why do you turn against this woman, who has done 
 what she has for the noblest of motives — love — the love 
 of a man? 
 
 Miss Stannard 
 (She has risen tensely and speaks with a biting bitter- 
 ness) 
 I suppose you meant very well. Miss Tenner; you 
 said it just as though it were a scene in some play — 
 with the proper emphasis and pause and nice phrases. 
 
AMONG THE LIONS I75 
 
 But believe me, Mrs. Frowde is right: we can't judge 
 people by the same standards. {Contemptuously) 
 There is a difference between you and me. I feel it 
 myself. When I need forgiveness I shall only want 
 it of my own class. {Scornfully) The tolerance of 
 yours means nothing to me. {Very quietly) I am 
 sorry, Mrs. Frowde. I'll not call again till he and I 
 are married. Then, of course, it will be all right. 
 Good-bye. 
 
 (Miss Stannard goes out quickly leaving 
 Patricia dumb at her mis-reading of the situa- 
 tion. 
 
 Mrs. Frowde^ who has been too confused 
 throughout to speaks now vents her anger on 
 Miss Stannard.) 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 The brazen hussy! You see what she is — to insult 
 you so after your splendid defense of her! 
 
 She was right. 
 
 Patricia 
 
 {Slowly) 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 Not at all. She doesn't understand the difference 
 with a lady of temperament. 
 
 Patricia 
 Temperament — oh, yes. {She smiles sarcastically 
 and then looks surprised at Mrs. Frowde.) And you 
 are not angry with me? 
 
176 AMONG THE LIONS 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 
 (Affectionately) 
 At you, my dear friend? Indeed not. I know you 
 didn't mean me. And besides I would have understood 
 you if you had. 
 
 Patricia 
 {Eyeing her with undetected cynicism) 
 Yes, yes. You would have understood. 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 {Impulsively) 
 Won't you stay and have a bite to eat with me — 
 all alone? I can drive you to the theater. 
 
 Patricia 
 I have an interview. 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 {As they walk to the door) 
 Too bad they misquote so. 
 
 Patricia 
 Yes, isn't it? I've had such a dear afternoon. 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 {Embracing her affectionately) 
 And you'll come to lunch Tuesday? 
 
 Patricia 
 {As though wishing to escape) 
 No . . I . . . 
 
AMONG THE LIONS 177 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 
 (Solicitously) 
 But Mavosky will be here and he's taken quite 
 fancy to you. Thinks you'd make a splendid study. 
 
 Patricia 
 
 (Recalling) 
 Mavosky! Oh, yes. I thought you said Wednes- 
 day ; that's matinee day. Tuesday is all right. 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 Say at two? 
 
 Patricia 
 I may be a moment late. 
 
 Mrs. Frowde 
 We'll wait for you. (As they are walking out) I 
 hope you'll forget what she said. 
 
 Patricia 
 Oh, Miss Stannard hasn't any temperament. And 
 it does make a difference, doesn't it? 
 
 ( They go out leaving the room empty, with the 
 candles on the table winking in their sockets.) 
 
 [Curtain] 
 
THE REASON 
 
THE PEOPLE 
 
 LocKSLEY Randolph, a retired merchant. 
 
 Paula, his daughter. 
 
 Tom Sabine, his secretary. 
 
 Mary Sabine, his secretary's wife. 
 
 SCENE 
 
 Sitting-room at the Randolph home in a suburb of 
 the city; an early winter night. 
 
THE REASON* 
 
 HANDSOMELY furnished sitting-room, 
 the general entrance of which from the floor 
 below is at the right. Beyond this a broad 
 window is seen as the moonlight faintly filters through 
 the trees outside. Directly opposite, some smoldering 
 logs betray a fireplace, near which is another door open- 
 ing into Paula's apartments. Large double doors in 
 the center open into a hallway leading to library. A 
 telephone is on a large writing-table, upon which a 
 light, with a luxurious shade suspended above, casts a 
 strong yellow glow. The furnishings show signs of 
 tasteless wealth and are devoid of any feminine touch. 
 
 Sabine and Randolph are bending over some docu- 
 ments. 
 
 Sabine is about thirty-three, clean-shaven with 
 shrewd eyes and a conspicuously insinuating smile. The 
 manner with which he feels for his luords and his 
 studied coolness suggest a deep and significant interest 
 in the developments. 
 
 Randolph is fifty, well-preserved and possessing the 
 assurance of permanent prosperity: he is apparently 
 without illusions as the lines about his slightly pro- 
 truding eyes and thick lips indicate a dissipated life. 
 
 Though the two men are obviously considerate, there 
 
 * Copyright by George Middleton. See back of title page. 
 
i82 THE REASON 
 
 is concealed an instinctive mistrust. They are silent a 
 long while until Randolph looks up from the papers. 
 
 Sabine 
 Anything else? 
 
 Randolph 
 How long will those compilations take ? 
 
 Sabine 
 Same as the others. 
 
 Randolph 
 A month each, eh? You've done . . . let's 
 see . . . 
 
 Sabine 
 I've been your secretary for three months. 
 
 Randolph 
 And you've been at these every evening — ever since 
 I took you in. 
 
 Sabine 
 I wouldn't put it that way. 
 
 Randolph 
 You are sure you can still find all you need in my 
 own library here? 
 
 Sabine 
 All I need — behind the closed doors. 
 
THE REASON 183 
 
 Randolph 
 (Casually) 
 I shall see that my orders not to disturb you are 
 continued. 
 
 Sabine 
 I've noticed you never even come yourself. 
 
 Randolph 
 I like to think of young genius being left alone. 
 
 Sabine 
 {Mock seriously) 
 And out of harm's way ? 
 
 Randolph 
 Exactly — at night. (Half to himself.) Another 
 month will about finish it. 
 
 Sabine 
 (Significantly) 
 Mr. Randolph, you are paying rather high fo r 
 
 Randolph 
 (Eyeing him quickly) 
 For what? 
 
 Sabine 
 (Turning the pages casually) 
 Unremunerative work. 
 
i84 THE REASON 
 
 Randolph 
 One never pays too high for what one wants. 
 
 Sabine 
 Not at the time. 
 
 {They look at each other: Sabine slowly 
 gathers the papers together and glances towards 
 Randolph who is coolly staring before him. 
 There is a quiet pause. Then Sabine opens 
 the library door and casually steps back.) 
 
 Your daughter. (Calmly to Paula) Your father is 
 
 here, Miss Randolph. 
 
 (Paula enters with a book in hand. She is 
 twenty-three and charming, with a sweet inno- 
 cent air which suggests a hedged-in life. She 
 is dressed in a simple tea-gown and her manner 
 throughout is calm and unsophisticated.) 
 
 Paula 
 Good evening, Mr. Sabine. 
 
 Randolph 
 Where have you been, Paula? 
 
 Paula 
 
 Getting a book. 
 
 Randolph 
 You mustn't read so much. 
 
 Sabine 
 Anything further, Mr. Randolph, before you go out? 
 
THE REASON 185 
 
 Randolph 
 No. But — but I don't remember mentioning that 
 I was going out. 
 
 Sabine 
 I thought you did. Good evening. 
 
 Paula 
 ( Good-naturedly) 
 Is Mrs. Sabine well? 
 
 Sabine 
 Not exactly. 
 
 Randolph 
 Indeed ? 
 
 Sabine 
 {Smiling) 
 My wife seems upset about something. 
 
 Randolph 
 {Casually) 
 Why, she seemed well when she was here last, didn't 
 she, Paula? 
 
 Paula 
 
 Yes, and so happy. 
 
 Randolph 
 What's the trouble? 
 
i86 THE REASON 
 
 Sabine 
 Fm not quite sure — yet. 
 
 Randolph 
 Perhaps she needs a change. 
 
 Sabine 
 I'll tell her you asked after her, Mr. Randolph. 
 
 Randolph 
 Certainly. Do. But it was Miss Randolph who 
 inquired. 
 
 Sabine 
 I thought it was you. {He smiles.) The air in the 
 library has affected me. {He smiles.) Good evening. 
 {He leaves the room, slowly closing the door. 
 There is a pause as Paula looks curiously be- 
 fore her, while Randolph, somewhat puzzled, 
 goes up to door and sees that Sabine has gone 
 into the library beyond.) 
 
 Paula 
 
 I hope it's nothing serious. 
 
 WKat? 
 
 Mrs. Sabine. 
 
 Randolph 
 
 Paula 
 
THE REASON 187 
 
 Randolph 
 Nothing, of course. 
 
 Paula 
 Hasn't she told you? 
 
 Randolph 
 Me? 
 
 Paula 
 You're such good friends. 
 
 Randolph 
 My dear, women with attractive husbands never 
 confide in outsiders. 
 
 Paula 
 {Innocently) 
 Don't they? 
 
 Randolph 
 
 {Laughing) 
 You know so little of life. (Paula sighs in agree- 
 ment.) And I wish you to keep your sweetness until 
 you are married. 
 
 Paula 
 Doesn't one need it then? 
 
 Randolph 
 You'll understand when the time comes, child. 
 
i88 THE REASON 
 
 Paula 
 ( Enigmatically ) 
 And one mustn't before ! 
 
 Randolph 
 Children don't realize how they unconsciously hold 
 parents to higher things: it's because of you, for in- 
 stance, more than anything else since your dear mother 
 died, that I've tried to keep my life an example. 
 
 Paula 
 I've always had it before me, father. {Coming 
 closer.) I'm deeply grateful for showing me what I, 
 too, should be. 
 
 Randolph 
 Yes, yes. {Patting her.) Now, dear, run along to 
 bedi your eyes are tired. 
 
 Paula 
 {Glancing at book) 
 I'm fond of reading. 
 
 Randolph 
 {Humoring her throughout) 
 What do you like best? 
 
 Paula 
 {Cheerfully) 
 Adventure. 
 
THE REASON 189 
 
 Randolph 
 With real heroes? 
 
 Paula 
 {Referring to book) 
 I love those who keep cool in times of danger. 
 
 Randolph 
 You're only a child, after all, eh? {He pats her 
 tenderly as she notices him glancing at his watch.) 
 
 Paula 
 ( Casually ) 
 You are going out? 
 
 Randolph 
 Yes: some business. 
 
 Paula 
 Will you be late? 
 
 Randolph 
 Do I disturb you? 
 
 Paula 
 I can generally hear the machine from my room, be- 
 fore you turn up the path. 
 
 Randolph 
 It's easy nowadays to go fast in the dark. 
 
I90 THE REASON 
 
 Paula 
 You will always toot the horn? (Reprovingly) 
 Think of the danger to others. 
 
 Randolph 
 Foolish girl! There's no danger about here. 
 
 Paula 
 No; of course not. (Goes to him.) Good night. 
 
 Randolph 
 Dear, dear girl. (Looking at her.) It's good to 
 have such a daughter. 
 
 Paula 
 And such a father. ( They kiss; the telephone 
 rings.) Oh, let me. (She goes to phone.) Good 
 evening, Mrs. Sabine. (Randolph starts a bit, un- 
 noticed.) I thought you were ill. Mr. Sabine was 
 telling father. I believe he's in the library. Father 
 will take the message: he's here. Do take care of 
 yourself: just think what Mr. Sabine would do if you 
 were ill. Good night. 
 
 (She hands receiver to father, who half pauses, 
 thinking she will leave the room; but she lingers 
 over her book.) 
 
 Randolph 
 Good evening. (Half pointedly) Yes, my 
 daughter is here. Anything I can do? Do you want 
 my advice? Oh, whatever is wisest. Of course I'll 
 
THE REASON 191 
 
 tell Mr. Sabine. I hope it's nothing serious. {He 
 hangs up receiverj concealing from Paula his dis- 
 pleasure.) 
 
 Paula 
 She seemed excited. 
 
 Randolph 
 Woman's nerves. 
 
 Paula 
 Funny I never have them. 
 
 Randolph 
 You're not married. 
 
 Paula 
 You're going to see her? 
 
 Randolph 
 She's on her way here. 
 
 Paula 
 Here? Then you will tell Mr. Sabine she's coming? 
 
 Randolph 
 Yes. But you're tired, dear. 
 
 Paula 
 I'll feel better with my things off. Good night. 
 {She pauses at her door.) Father; she and Mr. Sabine 
 are happily married, aren't they? 
 
192 THE REASON 
 
 Randolph 
 Of course, of course. 
 
 Paula 
 I'm glad to hear so. 
 
 Randolph 
 Why? 
 
 Paula 
 
 {Glancing at him) 
 Then it couldn't be about that. 
 
 {She closes the door softly. Randolph looks 
 after her puzzled, then walks up and down 
 alone very much irritated. He takes out his 
 check book, glancing through the stubs cyni- 
 cally. Then he throws it back into the table 
 drawer. Finally he picks up the phone, ob- 
 viously switching it.) 
 
 Randolph 
 Is that you, Sabine? You've found what you want? 
 Vou won't need me any more ? Well, stick close to it. 
 I just wished to see. Good night. {He switches it 
 off again and impatiently waits.) Is that you. Brooks? 
 Tell Toder to have the car ready. I may need it later. 
 No, the closed car — it's chilly. Oh, by the way, {try- 
 ing to be casual), in case / should be out, Mr. Sabine is 
 expecting Mrs. Sabine. Let her come right up to the 
 library. What's that? Better see who it is. {Show- 
 ing displeasure.) I'll tell Mr. Sabine myself. Yes; if 
 
THE REASON 193 
 
 you're sure it's Mrs. Sabine, better let her come up 
 
 here. That'll be all for to-night. 
 
 {He hangs up the receiver, walks up and down 
 again and finally opens the hall door. There is 
 quite a pause as he stands, smoking a cigarette, 
 awaiting her. Finally, Mrs. Sabine enters, 
 leaving the door open. 
 
 She is in her late twenties, of rather restless 
 beauty, which under her shifting expression be- 
 comes hard and cynical. She apparently has 
 little resistance and suggests a love of excitement 
 and sensation. Her manner is flighty though 
 worldly. She is handsomely dressed, with 
 beautiful furs upon her sensuous shoulders.) 
 
 Randolph 
 {Abruptly) 
 What the devil does this mean ? 
 
 We're alone? 
 
 Naturally. 
 
 Mrs. Sabine 
 
 Randolph 
 
 Mrs. Sabine 
 {Half flippantly) 
 I had to see you. 
 
 Randolph 
 
 Why here? 
 
194 THE REASON 
 
 Mrs. Sabine 
 I couldn't wait till you came to me. 
 
 Randolph 
 {With strained jocularity) 
 Feather brain; what's the trouble? 
 
 Mrs. Sabine 
 Nothing — only my husband knows. 
 
 Randolph 
 ( Quickly ) 
 About us? 
 
 Mrs. Sabine 
 He's known for some time. 
 
 Randolph 
 And he only spoke ? 
 
 Mrs. Sabine 
 To-day. 
 
 Randolph 
 The devil! {Slowly) What's the reason? 
 
 Mrs. Sabine 
 Why he kept silent? {Shrugging shoulders) You 
 men always have reasons. 
 
 Randolph 
 What did he say? 
 
THE REASON 195 
 
 Mrs. Sabine 
 
 {^Laughing cynically) 
 
 He smiled. It was so funny and so unexpected. 
 
 Randolph 
 {Incredulously) 
 He didn't make a scene? 
 
 Mrs. Sabine 
 No. And I'd been rehearsing for weeks what I 
 should say. 
 
 Randolph 
 But didn't he ? 
 
 Mrs. Sabine 
 {Bitterly) 
 I tell you he didn't even insult me ! 
 
 Randolph 
 Sh! 
 
 {He looks towards his daughter s room and 
 then crosses and closes the door through which 
 Mrs. Sabine has entered.) 
 
 Mrs. Sabine 
 {After she has watched him) 
 Hasn't he spoken to you? 
 
 Randolph 
 Not yet. 
 
196 THE REASON 
 
 Mrs. Sabine 
 That's like him. He said he'd wait till I broke the 
 news to you. 
 
 Randolph 
 
 And then ? 
 
 Mrs. Sabine 
 Then he said you would want to see him and 
 (ominously) he'd do some talking. 
 
 Randolph 
 (Recalling) 
 So that's why he smiled just now. — Didn't he say 
 anything? 
 
 Mrs. Sabine 
 He merely put his hands on your furs. I thought 
 he'd believe I'd saved enough to buy them myself. 
 He stroked them once or twice slowly — and smiled. 
 But he said nothing. Then he led me to the window 
 and pointed to your car — the extra one you forced 
 upon us — ^when you began. He smiled ; but he said 
 nothing. He picked up a book: the work in the 
 library was interesting; it kept him safe in the long 
 winter evenings. I tell you he said it all in his smiles 
 and never a word. (Violently) He disappointed me 
 so! I'd be sorry for him a little if he'd only struck 
 me. God! I hate men who only smile when they are 
 angry. (Randolph trying to quiet her.) Oh, I hate 
 him with his penny a 5^ear. I hate him for asking me 
 
THE REASON 197 
 
 to marry him, and then not even striking me when he 
 found out what I was! 
 
 Randolph 
 But didn't you even try to deny it? 
 
 Mrs. Sabine 
 {Defiantly) 
 Why should I deny it? 
 
 Randolph 
 {Cynically) 
 Of course not. Sooner or later, a woman always 
 confesses to someone. 
 
 Mrs. Sabine 
 {Quickly) 
 What did you want me to do? Think of you? I 
 was sick of him. When I saw he wasn't going to 
 make a fuss, I didn't think your well-known reputa- 
 tion would suffer; so I didn't care about protecting 
 m3^self. What's the difference, anyhow? He can't 
 give me what I want: you can. If we can only keep 
 it quiet, nobody need know — and it wouldn't even 
 reach your daughter's ears. 
 
 Randolph 
 {Angrily) 
 We'll not discuss her. 
 
 Mrs. Sabine 
 No. She's a good woman — with her lily hands and 
 her thin eyebrows. What does she know of life: the 
 
198 THE REASON 
 
 sordid soapy hours ending with the snore of a husband 
 you hate. Ugh! {He walks up and down, irritated.) 
 Well, then, what are we going to do to keep it from 
 her? 
 
 Randolph 
 That will depend on your husband and whether he'll 
 be sensible. {He goes to phone, switching it.) 
 
 Mrs. Sabine 
 {Looking before her) 
 You did it beautifully, Randolph; with such knowl- 
 edge of me and my kind. But don't take too much 
 credit. I'd have done it with any man who offered me 
 what you did — if he'd come at the right time, as you 
 did, and found me at the end of a trolley line like this. 
 
 Randolph 
 
 {At phone) 
 Step here a moment, Sabine. Yes : your wife is here. 
 {Cynically) She said you'd be expecting her. {He 
 hangs up the receiver.) You could almost hear him 
 smile. 
 
 Mrs. Sabine 
 {Without self-delusion) 
 He couldn't hold me: he was too poor. 
 
 Randolph 
 No: you're the sort that needs a diamond-studded 
 clasp to keep her morals fastened on. 
 
THE REASON 199 
 
 Mrs. Sabine 
 And they're your specialty. 
 
 Randolph 
 I think Sabine and I can make some arrangement. 
 
 Mrs. Sabine 
 Let's be comfortable, that's all I say. I'm so tired of 
 making my lies fit. I'm willing to keep on with it. 
 Why not? It's all so easy with a woman once she's 
 slipped. Lots of us would be what I am if they could 
 find a man to go through the marriage ceremony with 
 them first. 
 
 {A knock is heard at the door — it seems almost 
 sarcastic, as it waits for a reply.) 
 
 Randolph 
 Come in. 
 
 {The door opens softly and Sabine enters 
 slowly and comes down to them with the same 
 smile. There is a pause. Mrs. Sabine re- 
 mains tense and seated.) 
 Have a cigarette? 
 
 Sabine 
 {They eye each other as they light up ) 
 Thanks. 
 
 Randolph 
 {Coming to the point) 
 You know. 
 
200 THE REASON 
 
 Sabine 
 {Puffing throughout) 
 Yes. 
 
 Randolph 
 Well? 
 
 Sabine 
 I repeat the word — well ? 
 
 Randolph 
 You will come to an understanding? 
 
 Sabine 
 Which means? 
 
 Randolph 
 You are — shall I say agreeable? 
 
 Sabine 
 You love my wife? 
 
 Randolph 
 {Courteously) 
 Naturally. 
 
 Sabine 
 And you, Mary? 
 
 Mrs. Sabine 
 Would a woman do what I've done without love? 
 
THE REASON aoi 
 
 Sabine 
 Never. 
 
 Randolph 
 Well, say something. 
 
 Sabine 
 (Calmly) 
 It seems very simple. 
 
 Randolph 
 Which means? 
 
 Sabine 
 That I'd still like to complete the compilations in 
 your library. 
 
 Mrs. Sabine 
 {Rising, astonished) 
 You're even willing to stay here? 
 
 Randolph 
 {Quickly) 
 And live ostensibly at home — ^with your wife? 
 
 Sabine 
 {Calmly) 
 Why not ? I have no place else to go and she merely 
 wishes to be comfortable. 
 
 Randolph 
 {Relieved) 
 You will not make a fuss? 
 
202 THE REASON 
 
 Sabine 
 I'm sorry to disappoint my wife. 
 
 Randolph 
 You will not let my daughter discover? 
 
 Sabine 
 No. I consider your position embarrassing enough. 
 
 Randolph 
 {Eyeing him) 
 So your wife is worth nothing to you? 
 
 Sabine 
 {Quickly) 
 You're mistaken there. 
 
 Mrs. Sabine 
 Thanks. But how? 
 
 Sabine 
 Protection. 
 
 Mrs. Sabine 
 Against what? 
 
 Sabine 
 Against Mr. Randolph. 
 
 Randolph 
 Me? 
 
THE REASON 203 
 
 Sabine 
 Exactly. 
 
 Randolph 
 What the devil are you driving at? 
 
 Sabine 
 Perhaps if I take it kindly now, you will not blame 
 me — in the future. 
 
 Mrs. Sabine 
 Oh, I know we'll get tired of each other if that's 
 what you're suggesting. 
 
 Sabine 
 {Detecting an agreeing look in Randolph's face) 
 That may be what I mean. {Eyeing Randolph 
 
 keenly as he sees her bite her lips.) If that's all, I'll 
 
 return to the library. 
 
 Randolph 
 Have you no suggestions? 
 
 Sabine 
 
 {Coldly) 
 
 Be careful not to make a fool of me — in public 
 
 Mrs. Sabine 
 There speaks the man. 
 
 Randolph 
 Then you'll be silent? 
 
204 THE REASON 
 
 Sabine 
 Until 
 
 Randolph 
 Until? 
 
 Sabine 
 Until you get your deserts. 
 
 Randolph 
 A threat? 
 
 Sabine 
 (Smiling) 
 No. Only I know my wife. 
 
 Mrs. Sabine 
 And that's the sort of man I married. (To Sabine) 
 Do you blame me for throwing you over? 
 
 Sabine 
 Havel? 
 
 Mrs. Sabine 
 (Indignantly) 
 How dared you open me to this? 
 
 Randolph 
 Don't blame him, Mary. 
 
 Mrs. Sabine 
 (Indignantly) 
 You knew, and you let him steal your wife. 
 
THE REASON 205 
 
 Sabine 
 Some men like their women that way. 
 
 Mrs. Sabine 
 Isn't it funny! It's losing its romance — being 
 handed over like some food at supper. Isn't it funny 
 — and disappointing. 
 
 Randolph 
 I can't say I admire you, Sabine. 
 
 Sabine 
 No, you can't. But you will when you know my 
 wife better. 
 
 Mrs. Sabine 
 {Losing control) 
 I'm more ashamed of you than I am of myself. Why 
 didn't you stop me if you knew? What's the reason? 
 Why didn't you strike me? Why didn't you, so I 
 could feel you and I were quits? Why didn't you — 
 like that and that. {She strikes him furiously with her 
 gloves once or twice, but he continues smiling.) 
 
 Randolph 
 Mary, don't let's have a scene. Sh! 
 
 Mrs. Sabine 
 I wanted a scene! And to think I wasn't even worth 
 insulting ! 
 
 {She goes out quickly, leaving the hall door 
 open. She has dropped her glove and as Ran- 
 
2o6 THE REASON 
 
 DOLPH^ with a resigned, half-bored air, starts 
 to follow her, Sabine stoops, picks up the 
 glove and, smiling, halts Randolph.) 
 
 Sabine 
 My wife dropped her glove. Will you take it to 
 her? I have my work, and, as you remarked, another 
 month will about finish it. 
 
 Randolph 
 {Smiling in spite of himself) 
 Life would be so much simpler if all husbands were 
 so considerate. 
 
 Sabine 
 The spice would be gone. 
 
 Randolph 
 I suppose she is waiting 
 
 Sabine 
 — for the glove. {Offering it to him.) 
 
 Randolph 
 {Taking it) 
 Yes: for her glove. 
 
 Sabine 
 I'm glad you will drive in the closed car. 
 
 Randolph 
 {At the door) 
 Our reputations must be protected. 
 
THE REASON 207 
 
 Sabine 
 No man likes to be made a fool of. 
 
 Randolph 
 {Slowly ) 
 After all, she's only a woman and they're all alike, 
 eh? 
 
 Sabine 
 (Slozvly) 
 All alike. Yes. 
 
 Randolph 
 ( Casually ) 
 You'll find the cigarettes on the table. 
 
 Sabine 
 Thanks. 
 
 (Randolph goes out, closing the door. 
 Sabine stands a moment, then turns to the win- 
 dow and looks off till he sees the car has driven 
 away. He turns down the light and then cross- 
 ing eagerly, he knocks on Paula's door. He 
 repeats this.) 
 Paula! Paula!! 
 
 {He stands wmting.) 
 
 [Curtain] 
 
THE HOUSE 
 
THE PEOPLE 
 
 Charles Ray, a professor of philosophy. 
 Elizabeth, his wife. 
 
 SCENE 
 A room in an apartment hotel suite. One evening. 
 
THE HOUSE* 
 
 PROFESSOR AND MRS. RAY are at the little 
 table finishing their coffee. In the center there 
 is a white-robed birthday cake with three golden 
 candles sending a gentle light on them. A myriad of 
 faint wrinkles on the Professor's kindly face might 
 betray his age, though his thin body, in spite of its 
 slight stoop, belies his seventy years. As he sits there 
 precisely dressed in his evening clothes, he is the person- 
 ification of fine breeding, the incarnation of all that 
 blood and culture can produce. And through it all, 
 there glows an alluring whimsy which one has no right 
 to expect in a professor of philosophy. 
 
 Mrs. Ray, gowned also for the ceremony they are 
 celebrating, is ten years younger; soft and gentle, too, 
 yet sadder somehow, as though, in spite of her effort to 
 live in his enthusiasms, it has become a bit difficult to 
 sustain his mood of happiness. 
 
 But as they sip their coffee alone in the hotel suite 
 with its conventional furnishings of a stereotyped com- 
 fort, graced only by a large bunch of white roses, owe 
 senses the deep and abiding affection which has warmed 
 their long life together. 
 
 * Copyright by George Middleton. See back of title page. 
 
212 THE HOUSE 
 
 Professor 
 (With a sigh of contentment) 
 Ah! 
 
 {He sees she is thoughtful : he reaches over and 
 takes from behind the table the quart bottle of 
 champagne. He pours a little in her glass.) 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 Oh, dear; I'm afraid I've had enough. 
 
 Professor 
 Nonsense. 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 But I'm beginning to feel it. 
 
 Professor 
 That's the intention. {Filling his glass.) There. 
 Now a toast. {Standing with the greatest gallantry.) 
 Here's to my comrade of forty years: may we have as 
 many more together. 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 Oh, Charles, I'm afraid that's asking too much of 
 Providence. 
 
 Professor 
 We should ask much and be satisfied with less. 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 
 {Raising her glass) 
 To my friend and husband. 
 
THE HOUSE 213 
 
 Professor 
 You make a distinction ? 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 The world does. 
 
 Professor 
 What is the world doing here on our wedding anni- 
 versary? (Seriously) Let's drink to each other — and 
 the children. 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 {Wistfully looking at the candles) 
 And the children. 
 
 {They sip: he shows he enjoys it; she sits 
 thoughtfully while he takes out his cigarette 
 case. He starts to take one, and then, with 
 a twinkle in his eyes, offers her the case.) 
 
 Professor 
 Cigarette, dear? 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 
 {Smiling) 
 No : thank you. I shan't begin at my time of life. 
 
 Professor 
 Cato learned Greek at eighty. The minute people 
 cease to learn — even a vice — they have begun to grow 
 old. So beware. 
 
214 THE HOUSE 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 {Striking a match) 
 Let me light it for you. 
 
 Professor 
 {Slyly) 
 Which illustrates a woman's part in life: encourag- 
 ing vice in men, eh? {He lights it and puffs in en- 
 joyment.) I must say I like my idea about the cake 
 and the candles. 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 It's lovely, dear. Who but you would have thought 
 of having a birthday cake on our wedding anniversary. 
 
 Professor 
 I started to put forty candles : one for each year ; but 
 there was no room left for the cake. 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 I like the idea of three — ^just three. 
 
 Professor 
 Yes ; three birthdays that meant so much in our time 
 together: Teddy, Mary and Paul. 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 
 Forty years! 
 
 Professor 
 It's a long while to be married, dear. Speaks well 
 for our patience, eh? 
 
THE HOUSE 215 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 And not a word to-night from our three children. 
 
 Professor 
 {Waving it aside) 
 After all, our marriage didn't concern them — at the 
 time. 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 And we never forget their anniversaries. 
 
 Professor 
 But think how important those have always been 
 from the beginning: each one the start of a great ad- 
 venture for us. 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 And more responsibility. 
 
 Professor 
 Certainly. Isn't that the way we have broadened 
 our lives? Think, dear, of how many times we have 
 been young — once with our own youth and three times 
 with our candles. 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 {She rises and goes to the roses which she inhales) 
 And our hair is white. 
 
 Professor 
 {Gallantly rising also) 
 That can't be blamed on the children. White hair 
 doesn't indicate marriage — always. It's a matter of 
 pigment, I'm told, and afFects bachelors equally. 
 
2i6 THE HOUSE 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 You're right, of course, dear. We have kept young 
 through having our children; only 
 
 Professor 
 {Coming to her) 
 Only what ? Surely there isn't a regret as you look 
 back? 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 Oh, no, not regret ; only so many of our dreams have 
 never been realized. 
 
 Professor 
 {As he breaks off a rose and gives it to her) 
 But we have dreamed; that's the important thing, 
 isn't it? 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 {Looking at rose) 
 I suppose so. 
 
 Professor 
 Of course it is, dear. And we have dreamed more 
 than most because we have been young four times. 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 
 {As she crosses to the sofa) 
 
 But it's always been through others — for others. 
 
 Professor 
 But now it is for ourselves. 
 
THE HOUSE 217 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 {Smiling) 
 You mean our house? 
 
 Professor 
 Yes. Now that they've retired me with a pension 
 and our children no longer need our help, we can 
 build our house. 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 
 {Wearily, as she sits) 
 We have built so many houses. 
 
 Professor 
 
 Yes. Life's an experiment. Remember the first 
 
 little cottage where Teddy was born? It didn't leave 
 
 us much margin even though it was small. Come to 
 
 think of it, dear, we've built three houses, haven't we? 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 It's the fourth we've really thought of most — and 
 that hasn't been built yet. 
 
 Professor 
 That's to be ours — all ours; with room for the 
 children if they want to come back. 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 Oh, that's it: they won't come back now. Our house 
 won't suit them. 
 
2i8 THE HOUSE 
 
 Professor 
 {Taking a chair over near her) 
 How can we expect them to come into a house that 
 isn't even built? You know our modern children are 
 very peculiar. They get that from you. 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 Nonsense. It's you who are peculiar. Just look at 
 the kind of house you want. 
 
 Professor 
 (Doubtfully) 
 It is different from yours, I'll admit. 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 I don't object to the architecture. It's the surround- 
 ings you insist on. 
 
 Professor 
 You want the city and I want the forest. 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 
 {Shaking her head) 
 We'll never agree. 
 
 Professor 
 {As though with an inspiration) 
 I have a solution. I'll live in your city house, if 
 you'll have my forest around it. 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 I'm afraid, dear, that is a bit impractical at present 
 prices. 
 
THE HOUSE 219 
 
 Professor 
 {With a whimsical smile) 
 But we certainly can't have the city you love around 
 my house in the woods! I'm afraid of the streets. 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 Any friendly policeman would help you across them. 
 
 Professor 
 Think of me walking arm in arm with a policeman ! 
 I must consider my reputation, even though I am 
 seventy. No. {With a twinkle.) I can't seem to 
 visualize the house, can you, dear? 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 It isn't like your dream or mine. 
 
 Professor 
 No. I'd have a hard time finding my birch trees in 
 the moonlight. Have you ever noticed how lovely 
 they are when the leaves have all gone ? 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 Somehow they are no more lovely than the sense 
 of life in the tall ugly buildings man has built with 
 his own hands. 
 
 Professor 
 But trees are eternal. 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 That's where we differ. I live in to-day : you live in 
 all time. 
 
220 THE HOUSE 
 
 Professor 
 That's my profession. You lose count of time when 
 you are a philosopher. 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 And I am a woman of the world. 
 
 Professor 
 (As he goes to light another cigarette from the candles) 
 I'd hardly describe you that way, my dear; that 
 sounds so naughty. 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 I mean I love every minute that passes and every- 
 thing the moment brings. I love the people who are 
 of that moment. 
 
 Professor 
 You still dream of having a salon of celebrities? 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 
 {Smiling) 
 It's no worse than the museum of antiquities on your 
 book shelves. But I keep forgetting you want your 
 house in the forest so you can write about the dead. 
 
 Professor 
 And you want your house in the city for the living. 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 I wish we could compromise somehow. 
 
THE HOUSE 221 
 
 Professor 
 If we only had more money I could do away with 
 the wilderness and content myself with a few wooded 
 acres, I suppose. Only it must be roomy where the 
 winds can speak. And I must have some wild things 
 about. Though perhaps I could compromise on a pet 
 squirrel, if necessary. {He smiles.) And if I met 
 you that far do you think you would be willing to live 
 an hour or so from the city? 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 Why, of course. But haven't we been looking for 
 that sort of place for years; even when we weren't free 
 to live where we wished? 
 
 Professor 
 I can't see why money is always getting in the way 
 of our dreams. I often wonder what scoundrel it was 
 who first invented money. 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 And yet we might now be able to have what we 
 wished if 
 
 Professor 
 If? The eternal if? 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 
 {She has gone to the table, placing rose there) 
 
 I was thinking of all we gave up for our children. 
 
222 THE HOUSE 
 
 Professor 
 Wasn't it jolly? 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 While we still dreamed of the house we two would 
 build for ourselves. 
 
 Professor 
 With rooms for them, don't forget that. 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 And now where are our children? 
 
 Professor 
 Living — maybe dreaming a bit of our dreams and 
 not knowing it is ours. That's the lovely thing about 
 dreams: I like to think they are never lost. 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 Yet here we sit alone on our anniversary and they 
 have forgotten. 
 
 Professor 
 The young have so many things to remember. 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 And we can never build our house now. 
 
 Professor 
 Nonsense. We can go on building it just as though 
 it were really possible. Come, little mother, let's be 
 
THE HOUSE 223 
 
 young together to the end. I'll have to throw another 
 log on this make-believe open fire in my house. {He 
 pulls the sofa around so it faces the radiator which he 
 eyes dubiously.) Hm! That won't stimulate the 
 imagination. Wait! I know. 
 
 {He goes over to the table and smiling quaintly 
 he lifts up the cake with its three burning 
 candles and carefully places it on the low radia- 
 tor. Then he presses a switch on wall nearby 
 and the lights overhead go out, leaving only the 
 candles, a desk lamp and the moonlight through 
 the window to give the shadows life. He laughs 
 and warms his hands before the candles as he 
 would before a fire.) 
 Come, dear, before my fire! By the way, is there a 
 log fire in your dream-house, dear? 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 {Smiling and fitting in with his fancy) 
 If you are to be with me, of course. 
 
 Professor 
 Well then we have a blazing fire in both our houses, 
 eh? {He sits beside her on sofa and they gaze at 
 candles. ) And how economical fuel is when you dream 
 about it. I've got a whole forest waiting to be cut by 
 me, to-morrow, after I've worked all morning on my 
 new book. 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 And I've been to the musicale at the BiltmQre. 
 
224 THE HOUSE 
 
 Professor 
 What did you do this afternoon, dear? 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 {Tapping his arm) 
 Oh, I had a brilliant reception. 
 
 Professor 
 Receptions are always brilliant. 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 But this one really was. I had Andre Gidet and 
 Arsene Tailleur there. They are those clever new 
 writers all Paris is talking about. 
 
 Professor 
 You didn't enjoy their witticisms more than I did a 
 pesky little bluejay that made fun of me as I fished in 
 my emerald lake. 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 But surely even you would have envied me my dinner 
 when the celebrated Mary Mevin explained her new 
 symphony. 
 
 Professor 
 Nonsense, dear. Think of grilled trout caught by 
 my own hand! And then the long lazy silent hours 
 afterwards with Aristotle. Nice chap, Aristotle: knew 
 a heap about men and things, though he lived in an 
 age when there wasn't so much to remember as there 
 
THE HOUSE 225 
 
 is now. Then afterwards I confess I yawned with 
 the comfort of it all; good, deep-reaching yawns, as 
 Nature intended. I went out to see my friends the 
 stars. Best friends a man ever had: a bit cold and 
 distant, perhaps; but always there behind the clouds. 
 (She has risen and gone to the candles. There is a 
 pause. Then she snuffs them out.) And I suppose 
 at the same time you were trjang in vain to find them 
 out j^our city window? {Sees she is sobbing very 
 quietly: the candles are out.) Why, dear! What's 
 the trouble? 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 Oh, I can't pretend any more. Our log fire isn't 
 real. Here we are all alone in a hotel apartment 
 — before an old steam radiator and electric light. 
 (Presses the switch again.) 
 
 Professor 
 {Tenderly and seriously) 
 I know. You left all that which might have been 
 yours .. if ... if you hadn't married me. 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 
 And you — without me and the children — you might 
 have had your dream now. 
 
 Professor 
 {Very seriously) 
 No, dear. One never can realize them: that's why 
 they are called dreams. 
 
226 THE HOUSE 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 (Goes to him looking up into his face) 
 You know, I wouldn't have given up one hour of my 
 life with you. 
 
 Professor 
 {Stroking her hair tenderly) 
 We have been very happy. 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 Yet why is there something we both feel we have 
 missed ? 
 
 Professor 
 Because even the happy must be incomplete or else 
 they would cease to be happy. Isn't happiness hope as 
 much as realization ? We have realized — not ourselves 
 completely — yet through each other. We have been 
 what the other sought. But only the very wise know 
 that there is an inner life no one can be part of: a 
 lonely place where even the dearest can not enter, be- 
 cause it is a lonely place. 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 Yes. I think that is the way it is with me, dear. 
 
 Professor 
 And the way it is with our house we shall never 
 build. We can't enter it together. 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 {Looking before her) 
 Yet I can still see my house. 
 
THE HOUSE 227 
 
 Professor 
 As clearly as I do mine. {Looking whimsically over 
 at the smoking candles.) Even though our own log 
 fire is burned out. 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 {Smiling) 
 It's changed somewhat these forty years. 
 
 Professor 
 Yes. That's the way dream-houses have. {Taking 
 her hand.) And, dear one, when we each think of 
 our houses we can never build, let's — let's always go on 
 holding each other's hand, eh? 
 
 Mrs. Ray 
 Dearest . . . 
 
 Professor 
 So many people lose each other when they dream. 
 {He kisses her tenderly.) 
 
 [Curtain] 
 
ON THE HIRING LINE 
 
 Comedy in 3 acts, by Harvey O'Higgins and Harriet 
 Pord. 5 males, 4 females. Interior throughout. Costumes, 
 modern* Plays 2% hours. 
 
 Sherman Fessenden, unable to induce servants to remain for 
 any reasonable length of time at his home, hits upon the novel 
 expedient of engaging detectives to serve as domestics. 
 
 His second wife, an actress, weary of the country and longing 
 lor Broadway, has succeeded in discouraging every other cook and 
 kutler against remaining long at the house, believing that by so 
 doing she will win her husband to her theory that country life 
 is dead. So she is deeply disappointed when she finds she cannot 
 discourage the new servants. 
 
 The sleuths, believing they had been called to report on the 
 Actions of those living with the Fessendens, proceeded to warn 
 Mr. Fessenden that his wife has been receiving love-notes from, 
 Steve Mark, an actor friend, and that his daughter has been 
 planning to elope with a thief. 
 
 One sleuth causes an uproar in the house, making a mess of 
 the situations he has witnessed. Mr. Fessenden, however, haa 
 learned a lesson and is quite willing to leave the servant problem 
 to Lis wife thereafter. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.) 
 
 Price, 75 Cents. 
 
 A FULL HOUSE 
 
 A farcical comedy in 3 acts. By Fred Jackson. 7 male^ 
 7 females. One interior scene. Modern costumes. Time, 
 2y2 hours. 
 
 Imagine a reckless and wealthy youth who writes ardent 
 love letters to a designing chorus girl, an attorney brother- 
 in-law who steals the letters and then gets his hand-bag mixed 
 up with the grip of a burglar who has just stolen a valuable 
 necklace from the mother of the indiscreet youth, and the 
 efforts of the crook to recover his plunder, as incidents in 
 the story of a play in which the swiftness of the action 
 never halts for an instant. Not only are the situations scream- 
 ingly funny but the lines themselves hold a fund of humor at 
 all times. This newest and cleverest of all farces was written 
 by Fred Jackson, the well-known short-story writer, and i^ 
 backed up by the prestige of an impressive New York success 
 and the promise of unlimited fun presented in the most attrac- 
 tive form. A cleaner, cleverer farce has not been seen for many 
 a long day. "A Full House" is a house full of laughs. (Royalty, 
 twenty-five dollars.) Price, 75 Cents. 
 
 SAMUEL FRENCH, 25 West 45th Street, Ne'W York City 
 IS0V and SspUcit Descr^tive OaUloguo Mailed Tree on Bequest 
 
NOT SO LONG AGO 
 
 Comedy in a Prologue, 3 acts, and Epilogue. By Aitliuf 
 Eiehman. 5 males, 7 females. 2 interiors, 1 exterior. 
 Costumes, 1876. Plays a full evening. 
 
 Arthur Riclinian has constructed his play around the Cinderella 
 legend. The playwright has shown great wisdom in his choice 
 of material, for he has cleverly crossed the Cinderella theme 
 with a strain of Eomeo and Juliet. Mr. Bichman places hia 
 young lovers in the picturesque New York of forty years ago. 
 This time Cinderella is a seamstress in the home of a sociaL 
 climber, who may have teen the first of her kind, though wo 
 doubt it. She is interested sentimentally in the son of this house. 
 Her father, learning of her infatuation for the young man without 
 learning also that it is imaginary on the young girl's part, starts 
 out to discover his intentions. He is a poor inventor. The 
 mother of the youth, ambitious chiefly for her children, shud- 
 ders at the thought of marriage for her son with a sewing-girl. 
 But the Prince contrives to put the slipper on the right foot, and 
 the end is happiness. The play is quaint and agreeable and the 
 three acts are rich in the charm of love and youth. (Royalty, 
 twenty-five dollars.) Price, 75 Cents. 
 
 THE LOTTERY MAN 
 
 Comedy in 3 acts, by Eida Johnson Young. 4 males, 
 6 females. 3 easy interiors. Costumes, modern. Playa 
 2% hours. 
 
 In "The Lottery Man" Rida Johnson Young has seized upoa 
 a custom of some newspapers to increase their circulation by 
 clever schemes. Mrs Young has made the central figure in her 
 famous comedy a newspaper reporter, Jack Wright. Wright owes 
 his employer money, and he agrees to turn in one of the most 
 sensational scoops the paper has e^rer known. His idea is to 
 conduct a lottery, with himself as the prize. The lottery is an- 
 nounced. Thousands of old maids buy coupons. Meantime Wright 
 falls in love with a charming girl. Naturally he fears that he 
 may be won by someone else and starts to get as many tickets 
 as his limited means will permit. Finally the last day is an- 
 nounced. The winning number is 1323, and is held by Lizzie, 
 an old maid, in the household of the newspaper owner. Lizzie 
 refuses to give up. It is discovered, however, that she has Btolen 
 the ticket. With this clue, the reporter threatens her with arrest. 
 Of course the coupon is surrendered and Wright gets the girl of 
 his choice. Produced at the Bijou Theater, New York, with 
 great success. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.) Price, 75 Cents. 
 
 SAMTJEL FEENCH, 25 West 45th Street, New York City 
 New and Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed Free on Reijuest 
 
POLLYANNA 
 
 "The glad play," in 3 acts. By Catherine Chisholm 
 Cushing. Based on the novel by Eleanor H. Porter. 5 
 males, 6 females. 2 interiors. Costumes, modern. Plays 
 2^ hours. 
 
 The story has to do with the experiences of an orphan girl 
 •who is thrust, unwelcome, into the home of a maiden aunt. In 
 spite of the tribulations that beset her life she manages to find 
 something to be glad about, and brings light into sunless lives. 
 Finally, Pollyanna straightens out the love affairs of her elders, 
 and last, but not least, finds happiness for herself in the heart 
 of Jimmy. "Pollyanna" is a glad play and one vchich is bound 
 to give one a better appreciation of people and the world. It 
 reflects the humor, tenderness and humanity that gave the story 
 such wonderful popularity among young and old. 
 
 Produced at the Hudson Theatre, New York, and for two sea- 
 sons on tour, by George 0. Tyler, with Helen Hayes in the part 
 of "Pollyanna." (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.) Price, 75 Cents, 
 
 THE CHARM SCHOOL 
 
 'A comedy in 3 acts. By Alice Duer Miller and Eobert 
 Milton. 6 males, 10 females (may be playei by 5 males 
 and 8 females). Any number of school girls may be used 
 in the ensembles. Scenes, 2 interiors. Modern costumes. 
 Plays 2% hours, s-i;; 
 
 The story of "The Charm School" is familiar to Mrs. Miller's 
 readers. It relates the adventures of a handsome young auto- 
 mobile salesman, scarcely out of his 'teens, who, upon inheriting 
 a girls* boarding-school from a maiden aunt, insists on running it 
 himself, according to his own ideas, chief of which is, by the 
 way, that the dominant feature in the education of the young 
 girls of to-day should be CHARM. The situations that arise are 
 teeming with humor — clean, wholesome humor. In the end the 
 young man gives up the school, and promises to wait until the 
 most precocious of his pupils reaches a marriageable age. The 
 play has the freshness of youth, the inspiration of an extravagant 
 but novel idea, the charm of originality, and the promise of whole- 
 some, sanely amusing, pleasant entertainment. We strongly rec- 
 ommend it for high school production. It was first produced at 
 the Bijou Theatre, New York, tken toured the country. Two 
 companies are now playing it in England. (Royalty, twenty-five 
 dollars.) Price, 75 Cents. 
 
 SAMUEL JTBENCH, 25 West 45tli Street, New York Olty 
 New and Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed Free on BeanesD 
 
KICK IN 
 
 Play in 4 acts. B7 Willard Mack. 7 males, 5 females. 
 2 interiors. Modern costumes. Plays 2^^ hours. 
 
 "Kick In" is the latest of the very few available mystery 
 plays. Like "Within the Law," "Seven Keys to Baldpate," 
 "The Thirteenth Chair," and "In the Next Room," it is one 
 of those thrillers which are accurately described ff,s "not having 
 a dull moment in it from beginning to end." It is a play with 
 all the ingredients of popularity, not at all difficult to set or to 
 «ct; the plot carries it along, and the situations are built with, 
 •that skill and knowledge of the theatre for which Willard Mack 
 is known. An ideal mystery melodrama, for high schools and 
 colleges. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.) Price, 75 Cents, 
 
 TILLY OF BLOOMSBURY 
 
 ("Happy-Go-Lueky.") A comedy in 3 acts. By lari 
 Hay. 9 males, 7 females. 2 interior scenes. Modem 
 dress. Plays a full evening. 
 
 Into an aristocratic family comes Tilly, lovable and youthful, 
 with ideas and manners which greatly upset the circle. Tilly 
 is so frankly honest that she makes no secret of her tre- 
 mendous affection for the young son of the family; this brings her 
 into many difficulties. But her troubles have a joyous end in 
 charmingly blended scenes of sentiment and humor. This comedy 
 presents an opportunity for fine acting, handsome stage settings, 
 •nd beautiful costuming. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.) 
 
 Price, 75 Cents., 
 
 BILLY 
 
 Parce-eomedy in 3 acts. By George Cameron. 10 malea^ 
 5 females. (A few minor male parts can be doubled, mak- 
 ing the cast 7 males, 5 females.) 1 exterior. Costumes, 
 modern. Plays 2^ hours. 
 
 The action of the play takes place on the S. S. "Florida,'* 
 bound for Havana. The story has to do with the disappearance of 
 a set of false teeth, which creates endless complications among 
 passengers and crew, and furnishes two and a quarter hours of 
 4he heartiest laughter. One of the funniest comedies produced in. 
 the last dozen years on the American stage is "Billy" (some- 
 times called "Billy's Tombstones"), in which the la.te Sidney 
 Drew achieved a hit in New York and later toured the country 
 several times. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.) Price, 75 Cents, 
 
 SAMUEL FRENCH, 25 West 45th Street, New Tort City 
 Kew and BspUcit DesciipUve C^talo^ue SlaUed Tree on Seaaea* 
 
TWEEDLES 
 
 Comedy in 3 acts, by Booth TarMngton and Hany Leon 
 Wilson. 5 males, 4 females. 1 interior. Costumes, modern. 
 Plays 2^ hours. 
 
 Julian, scion of the blue-blooded Castleburys, falls in love witll 
 Winsora Tweedle, daughter of the oldest family in a Maine village. 
 The Tweedles esteem the name because it has been rooted in 
 the community for 200 years, and they look down on "summer 
 people" with the vigor that only "summer boarder" communities 
 know. 
 
 The Castleburys are aghast at the possibility of a match, and 
 tall on the Tweedles to urge how impossible such an alliance would 
 be. Mr. Castlebury laboriously explains the barrier of social 
 caste, and the elder Tweedle takes it that these unimportant 
 eummer folk are terrified at the social eminence of the Tweedles. 
 
 Tweedle generously agrees to co-operate with the Castleburys 
 to prevent the match. But Winsora brings her father to realize 
 that in reality the Castleburys look upon them as inferiors. The 
 old man is infuriated, and threatens vengeance, but is checkmated 
 when Julian unearths a number of family skeletons and argues 
 that father isn't a Tweedle, since the blood has been so diluted 
 that little remains. Also, Winsora takes the matter into her own 
 hands and outfaces the old man. So the youngsters go forth 
 triumphant. "Tweedles" is Booth Tarkington at his best. 
 (Boyalty, twenty-five dollars.) Price, 75 Cents, 
 
 JUST SUPPOSE 
 
 A whimsieal comedy in 3 acts, by A. E. Thomas, author 
 of "Her Husband's Wife," "Come Out of the Kitchen," 
 etc. 6 males, 2 females. 1 interior, 1 exterior. Costumes, 
 modern. Plays 2% hours. 
 
 It was rumored that during his last visit the Prince of Wales 
 appeared for a brief spell under an assumed name somewhere in 
 Virginia. It is on this story that A. E. Thomas based "Just 
 Suppose." The theme is handled in an original manner. Linda 
 Lee Stafford meets one George Shipley (in reality is the Prince 
 of Wales). It is a case of love at first sight, but, alas, princes 
 cannot select their mates and thereby hangs a tale which Mr, 
 Thomas has woven with infinite charm. The atmosphere of the 
 South with its chivalry dominates the story, touching in its 
 fientiment and lightened here and there with delightful comedy. 
 "Just Suppose" scored a big hit at the Henry Miller Theatre, 
 New York, with Patricia Collinge. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.) 
 
 Price, 75 Cents. 
 
 SAMUEL rEENCH, 25 West 45tli Street, New York City 
 Kav and Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed Tiea on Beqaea^ 
 
 i-RBJL'27 
 
ARE YOU A MASON? 
 
 Farce in 3 acts. By Leo Ditrichstein. 7 males, 7 fe- 
 males. Modern costumes. Plays 2^ hours. 1 interior. 
 
 "Are You a Mason?" is one of those delightful farces like 
 "Charley's Aunt" that are always fresh. "A mother and a 
 daughter," says the critic of the New York Herald, "had hus- 
 bands who account for absences from the joint household on 
 frequent evenings, falsely pretending to be Masons. The men 
 do not know each other's duplicity, and each tells his wife of 
 having advanced to leadership in his lodge. The older woman 
 •was 60 well pleased with her husband's supposed distinction in 
 the order that she made him promise to put up the name of a 
 visiting friend for membership. Turther perplexity over the 
 principal liar arose when a suitor for his second daughter's' hand 
 proved to be a real Mason. , . . To tell the story of the play 
 would require volumes, its complications are so numerous. It is 
 a house of cards. One card wrongly placed and the whole thing 
 would collapse. But it stands, an example of remarkable in- 
 genuity. You wonder at the end of the first act how the fun 
 can be kept up on such a slender foundation. But it continues 
 and grows to the last curtain." One of the most hilariously 
 amusing farces ever written, especially suited to schools and. 
 Masonic Lodges. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.) Price, 75 Cents, 
 
 KEMPY 
 
 'A delightful comedy in 3 acts. By J". C. Nugent and 
 Elliott Nugent. 4 males, 4 females. 1 interior throughout. 
 Costumes, modern. Plays 2^4 hours. 
 
 No wonder "Kempy" has been such a tremendous hit in Ne^^ 
 York, Chicago — ^wherever it has played. It snaps with wit and 
 humor of the most delightful kind. It's electric. It's small- 
 town folk perfectly pictured. Full of types of varied sorts, each 
 one done to a turn and served with zestful sauce. An ideal 
 entertainment for amusement purposes. The story is about a high- 
 falutin' daughter who in a fit of pique marries the young plumber- 
 architect, who comes to fix the water pipes, just because ha 
 "understands" her, having read her book and having sworn to 
 marry the authoress. But in that story lies all the humor that 
 kept the audience laughing every second of every act. Of course 
 there are lots of ramifications, each of which bears its own brand 
 of laughter-making potentials. But the plot and the story are 
 not the main things. There is, for instance, the work of the 
 company. The fun growing out of this family mixup is lively and 
 clean, (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.) Price, 75 Cents, 
 
 SAMUEL FBENCH, 26 West 45tli Street, New York Olty 
 VTew and Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed Free on Request 
 
y 
 
 FRENCH'S 
 
 Standard Library Edition 
 
 Clyde Fitch 
 
 William Gillette 
 
 Augustus Thomas 
 
 George Broadhurst 
 
 Edward E. Kidder 
 
 Percy MacKaye 
 
 Sir Arthur Conan Doyle 
 
 Louis N. Parker 
 
 R. C. Carton 
 
 Alfred Sutro 
 
 Richard Harding Davis 
 
 Sir Arthur W. Pinero 
 
 Anthony Hope 
 
 Oscar Wilde 
 
 Haddon Cham^bers 
 
 Jerome K. Jerome 
 
 Cosmo Gordon Lennox 
 
 H. V. Esmond 
 
 Mark Swan 
 
 Grace L. Fumiss 
 
 Marguerite Merrington 
 
 Hermann Sudermann 
 
 Rida Johnson Young 
 
 Arthur Law 
 
 Rachel Crothers 
 
 Martha Morton 
 
 H. A. Du Souchet 
 
 W. W. Jacobs 
 
 Madeleine Lucette Ryley 
 
 Includes Pla5rs by 
 
 Booth Tarkington 
 J. Hartley Manners 
 James Forbes 
 James Montgomery 
 Wm. C. de Mille 
 Roi Cooper Megrue 
 Edward E. Rose 
 Israel Zangwill 
 Henry Bernstein 
 Harold Brighouse 
 Channing Pollock 
 Harry Durant 
 Winchell Smith 
 Margaret Mayo 
 Edward Peple 
 A. E. W. Mason 
 Charles Klein 
 Henry Arthur Jones 
 A. E. Thomas 
 Fred. Ballard 
 C3rril Harcourt 
 Carlisle Moore 
 Ernest Denny 
 Laurence Housman 
 Harry James Smith 
 Edgar Selw3m 
 Augustin McHugh 
 Robert Housiun 
 Charles Kcnyon 
 C. M. S. McLellan 
 
 French's International Copyrighted Edition con- 
 tains plays, comedies and farces of international 
 reputation; also recent professional successes by 
 famous American and English Authors. 
 Send a four-cent stamp for our new catalogue 
 describing thousands of plays. 
 
 SAMUEL FRENCH 
 
 Oldest Play Publisher in the World 
 25 West 4JSth Street, NEW YORK CITY 
 
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