Chapter II: Part 2

_Annabelle, dropping the wings on the hearth, stares at him, in speechless anger_.

THE ANGEL. Sir! Do you refer in these vulgar and insulting terms to the companion of my soul, the desire of my heart, the perfect lover whose lips have kindled my dull senses to ecstasy?

JIMMY. I do. Remember that I know her better than you do, young man. Take my advice and leave her alone. Even now it is not too late! Save yourself from this folly while there is still time!

THE ANGEL. Never!

JIMMY. Then take these tickets--and I hope that I never see either of you again! _He holds out the tickets. Annabelle, after a pause, steps forward and takes them_.

ANNABELLE. That is really sweet of you, Jimmy! The blast of an auto-horn is heard outside.

JIMMY. (_bitterly_) And there's my taxi. Take that, too.

THE ANGEL. Farewell!

_He opens the door. Annabelle, at his side, turns and blows Jimmy a kiss. Stonily, Jimmy watches them go out. Then he picks up his suitcase and goes, with an air of complete finality, into the other room_.

_There is a moment's silence, and then the door opens softly, and the Angel looks in, enters surreptitiously, seizes up the wings, and with them safely clasped to his bosom, vanishes again through the door_.

LEGEND

A ROMANCE

TO KIRAH MARKHAM

"Legend" was first produced, under the title, "My Lady's Mirror," at the Liberal Club, in 1915, with the following cast:

He ............... Clement Wood She............... Kirah Markham

_A small room with a little table in the centre, and a chair on either side of it. At the back is the embrasure of a French window opening on a balcony. In another wall is the outer door. The room is lighted by tall candles. There is an image of the Virgin in a niche in the corner_.

HE. (_a cloaked figure, standing with hat and stick in one hand and holding in the other a large square parcel_) First of all, I have a present for you.

SHE. (_where she has just risen when he entered_) A present! Oh, thank you, Luciano!

HE. It is not me you have to thank for this present! (_He puts it on the table_.) It is some one else. I am only the bearer.

SHE. Who can it be? Who would send me a present?

HE. What a question, Donna Violante! Not a man in Seville, not a man in Spain, but would send you gifts if he dared. It is not "Who would?" but "Who could?"

SHE. No man, as you know, Luciano, has that right.

HE. Have you so soon forgotten your husband, Violante? He, surely, has that right! And it is thoughtful of him, too, to pause in the midst of his antiquarian researches in Rome, to think of his young wife and send her a gift. He appreciates you more than I imagined. Under his grizzled and scientific exterior, he is a human being. I respect him for it.

_He puts down his hat and stick_.

SHE. My husband! But why, then, do _you_ bring it?

HE. I was commissioned by him to do so. I received the package, this morning, with a letter. Shall I read it to you?

_He takes out the letter_.

SHE. Yes.... But why should he not send it direct to _me_?

HE. Your husband is a man of curious and perverse mind, Violante, and, in spite of his interest in dead things, not without some insight into the living soul. I think it gave him an obscure pleasure to think of _me_ the bearer of _his_ gift. But shall we let him speak for himself?

_He opens the envelope_.

SHE. Yes. Read the letter.

_She sits down to listen_.

HE. (_reading_) "My dear young friend: I am sending you a package, which I beg you, as a favour, to deliver to Donna Violante, my wife. It contains a gift of an unusual sort, which you as well as she will appreciate. As you know, it is the unusual which interests me--the unusual and the old. And yet, antiquarian though I am, I flatter myself that I understand the mind of a beautiful young woman, especially when that young woman is my wife. I have found her a mirror. Yes, a mirror! Under this name it seems commonplace enough, but when you have seen it I do not think you will say so. It is not the kind of mirror that is ordinarily found in a lady's boudoir. Yet it will give to her a faithful reflection of her loveliness as it is in truth. I found it-- this will interest you--in the Catacombs. You would not think the early Christians had so much vanity! Yet it was a mirror into which the virgin-martyrs-to-be of the time of Nero looked each day. As they looked, let Donna Violante look. Say to her from me--'Look long and well into this mirror, and profit by what you see.'--Humbly your friend, Don Vincenzio." . . . Is not that a pleasant letter?

_He restores the letter to his pocket_.

SHE. There is something in it that makes me shiver.... Let us look.

_She takes the paper from the box and is about to open it when he stops her_.

HE. No. Not now. I want to talk to you.

SHE (_lapsing into a hostile coldness_) Yes.

HE. You know what I have to say. I have said it so often. I shall say it once more.

SHE. (_appealingly_) Luciano!

HE. No, let me speak. You are not happy. You do not love your husband. And you are too young and beautiful to live without love.

SHE. Please!

HE. I love you. And you love me. Why do you not surrender yourself to love?

SHE. Why do you say such things? They hurt me.

HE. They are reality. Does reality hurt you? Are you living in a shadow-world, that you should flinch from the hard touch of truth? I say it again. I love you.

SHE. Before you started to talk like that, we were so happy together.

HE. Before I spoke out the truth of my own heart and yours. You didn't want it spoken out. You didn't want to be told you were in love. It was a thing too harsh and sweet. It frightened you to think of. You wanted us to sit for ever, like two lovers painted on a fan, fixed in an everlasting and innocuous bliss.

SHE. Well, you have succeeded in spoiling that. You have made me unhappy, if that gives you any pleasure.

HE. It was not I who have spoiled your shadow-world. It is love, coming like the dawn on wings of flame, and shattering the shadows with spears of gold. It is love that has made you unhappy. You tremble at its coming, and try to flee. But the day of love has come for you.

SHE. Ah, if it had only come before--before....

HE. Before you married that perverse old man. If it had come while you were still a maiden, free, with a right to give yourself up to it! Ah, you would have given yourself gloriously! It is beautiful--but it is a dream, and the time calls for a deed. We love each other. We can take our happiness now. Will you do it? Will you come away with me?

SHE. No.

HE. Then I if you cannot take your happiness, give me mine. If you cannot be a woman, be an angel, and lean down from your dream heaven to slake my earthly thirst.

SHE. No.

HE. No angel? Then a goddess! You want to be worshipped. You want to be adored. I will worship you, but not from afar, I will adore you in my own fashion. I will praise you without words, and you shall be the answer to my prayer. Will you?

SHE. No.

HE. "No." "No." "No." How did your lips learn to say that word so easily? They are not made to say such a word. They are too young, too red, to say "No" to Life. When you say that word, the world grows black. The stars go out, the leaves wither, the heart stops beating. It is a word that kills. It is the word of Death. Dare you say it again? Answer me, do we love each other? . . . Silence.

SHE. I think . . . I am going . . . to cry.

HE. And tears. Tears are a slave's answer. Speak. Defend yourself. Why do you stay here? Why do you deny yourself happiness? Why won't you come with me?

SHE. I cannot.

HE. Always the same phrase that means nothing. Ah, Violante, lady of few words, you know how to baffle argument. If I could only make you speak! If I could only see what the thoughts are that darken your will!

SHE. Don't.

HE. By God! I wonder that I don't hate you instead of love you. There is something ignobly feminine about you. You are incapable of action-- almost incapable of speech. Your lips are shut tight against kisses, and when they open to speak, all that they say is "Don't."

SHE. What do you expect to gain by scolding me?

HE. I gain the satisfaction of telling you the truth--that you have the most cowardly soul that was ever belied by a glorious body. Who would think to look at you that you were afraid?

SHE. It's no use bullying me.

HE. I know that, Violante. It's the poorest way to woo a woman. But I have tried every other way. I have pleaded, and been answered with silence. I have wooed you with caresses, and been answered with tears.

SHE. I am sorry, Luciano.

HE. I want you to be glad.

SHE. I am glad--glad of you--in spite of everything.

HE. Gladness is something fiercer than that. You are too tame. Oh, if I could reach and rouse your soul!

SHE. My soul is yours already....

HE. And your body...?

SHE. It is impossible.

HE. No. It isn't impossible. But I'll tell you what is impossible. This--for me to go on loving you and despising you.... I came here today to make one last appeal to you. I don't mean it as a threat. But I am going away tonight for ever--with you, or without you. You must decide.

SHE. (_rising_) But--I don't want you to go, Luciano!

HE. You will miss me, I know. But don't think too much of that. You will find a new friend--if you decide against me.

SHE. And I must decide now?

HE. Yes--now.

SHE. But how can I? Oh, Luciano!

HE. I know it is hard. But I will not make it harder. Violante: I have sought to appeal to your emotion when my appeal to your will was in vain. But tonight I will leave you to make your own decision. You must come to me freely or not at all. There must be no regrets.

SHE. I cannot do it.

HE. If you say that when I return I will accept it as a final answer. I am going out on the balcony--for a long minute. And while I am gone you must decide what to do. Will you?

SHE. Yes.

HE. (_turning at the window_) And if while I am gone you wish to recall my arguments to your mind--(_he points to the box on the table_)--look in your mirror there. Your beauty will plead for me. As Don Vincenzio said: Look long and well into that mirror, lady, and profit by what you see.

_He goes out. . . . She looks after him, and when he is gone holds out her arms towards the door. She makes a step towards it, and then stops, her hands falling to her sides. Her head droops for a moment or two, and then is slowly lifted. Her eyes sweep the room imploringly, and rest on the image of the Virgin. She goes over to it and kneels_.

SHE. Mary, Mother of God, give me a sign. I do not know what to do. Help me. I must decide. Love has entered my heart, and it may be that I cannot be a good woman any longer. You will be kind to me, and pity me, and send me a sign. Perhaps you will let me have my lover, for you are kind.

_She crosses herself, rises, and looks around. She sees the box on the table, and puts her hand to her face with a gesture of sudden thought. She smiles_.

Perhaps that is the sign!

_She goes to the box and touches it_.

He said it would plead for him. . . .

_She opens it--and starts back with a gesture and a cry_.

It _is_ the sign!

_With one hand over her heart she approaches it again. She takes out of the box and puts on the table a skull. . . . She stares at it a long while, and then turns with a shiver_.

How cold it is here! Where are the lights?

_She is compelled to look again_.

I had never thought of death. My heart is cold, too. The chill of the grave is on me. Was I ever in love? It seems strange to remember. What is his name? I almost have forgotten. And he is waiting for me. I will show him this. We should have looked at it together. . . .

_A silence, as her mood changes_.

So _he_ had planned it! He wanted to cast the chill of the grave upon our love. He saw it all as though he had been here. He sent us-- this! How well he knew me--better than I knew myself. An old man's cunning! To stop my pulses throbbing with love, and put out the fever in my eyes. A trick! Yes, but it suffices. One look into the eyeless face of Death turns me to ashes. I am no longer fit for love. . . .

_She turns to the door_.

Why does he not come for his answer?

_She looks for a lingering moment toward the door, and then turns back again to the table. Her mood changes again_.

A present from a husband to a wife!

_She takes it up in her hands_.

A lady's mirror! What was it that he said? "Look long and well into this mirror, and profit by what you see," My mirror from the Catacombs!

_She sinks into a chair, holding it between her hands as it rests on the table. Her tone is trance-like_.

I look. I see the end of all things. I see that nothing matters. Is that your message? Why do you grin at me? You laugh to think that my face is like your face--or will be soon--in a few years-tomorrow. You mock at me for thinking I am alive. I am dead, you say. Dead, like you. Am I?

_She rises_.

No. Not yet. For a moment--a little lifetime--I have life, I Have lips and eyelids made for kisses. I have hands that burn to give caresses, and breasts that ache to take them. I have a body made to suffer the deep stings of love. This flesh of mine shall be a golden web woven of pain and joy.

_She takes up the skull again_.

You were alive once, and a virgin-martyr? You denied yourself love? You sent away your lover? No wonder you speak so plainly to me now. Back, girl, to your coffin!

_She puts the skull in the box, and closes the lid softly. She turns to the door and waits. At last he enters_.

HE. (_dejected_) You have--decided?

SHE. Yes. I have decided.

HE. I knew. It is no use. I will go.

_He turns to the door_.

SHE. Wait! (_He turns back incredulously_.) I have decided to go with you. (_He stands stock-still_.) Don't you understand? Take me. I am yours. Don't you believe it?

HE. Violante!

SHE. It is hard to believe, isn't it. I have been a child. Now I am a woman. And shall I tell you how I became a woman? (_She points to the box on the table_.) I looked in my mirror there. I saw that I was beautiful--and alive. Tell me, am I not beautiful--and alive?

HE. There is something terrible about you at this moment. I am almost afraid of you.

SHE. Kiss me, Luciano!

SWEET-AND-TWENTY

A COMEDY

To EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

"Sweet-and-Twenty" was first produced by the Provincetown Players, New York City, in 1918, with the following cast:

The Young Woman ........ Edna St. Vincent Millay The Young Man ... Ordway Tead The Agent .............. Otto Liveright The Guard .............. Louis Ell

The cherry-orchard scene was effectively produced on a small stage by a blue-green back-drop with a single conventionalized cherry-branch painted across it, and two three-leaved screens masking the wings, painted in blue-green with a spray of cherry blossoms.

_A corner of the cherry orchard on the country place of the late Mr. Boggley, now on sale and open for inspection to prospective buyers. The cherry orchard, now in full bloom, is a very pleasant place. There is a green-painted rustic bench beside the path. . . .

A young woman, dressed in a light summer frock and carrying a parasol, drifts in from the back. She sees the bench, comes over to it and sits down with an air of petulant weariness.

A handsome young man enters from the right. He stops short in surprise on seeing the charming stranger who lolls upon the bench. He takes off his hat_.

HE. Oh, I beg your pardon!

SHE. Oh, you needn't! I've no right to be here, either.

HE. (_coming over to her_) Now what do you mean by that?

SHE. I thought perhaps you were playing truant, as I am.

HE. Playing truant?

SHE. I was looking at the house, you know. And I got tired and ran away.

HE. Well, to tell the truth, so did I. It's dull work, isn't it?

SHE. I've been upstairs and down for two hours. That family portrait gallery finished me. It was so old and gloomy and dead that I felt as if I were dead myself. I just had to do something. I wanted to jab my parasol through the window-pane. I understood just how the suffragettes felt. But I was afraid of shocking the agent. He is such a meek little man, and he seemed to think so well of me. If I had broken the window I would have shattered his ideals of womanhood, too, I'm afraid. So I just slipped away quietly and came here.

HE. I've only been there half an hour and we--I've only been in the basement. That's why our tours of inspection didn't bring us together sooner. I've been cross-examining the furnace. Do you understand furnaces? (_He sits down beside her_) I don't.

SHE. Do you like family portraits? I hate 'em!

HE. What! Do the family portraits go with the house?

SHE. No, thank heaven. They've been bequeathed to some museum, I am told. They're valuable historically--early colonial governors and all that sort of stuff. But there is some one with me who--who takes a deep interest in such things.

HE. (_frowning at a sudden memory_) Hm. Didn't I see you at that real estate office in New York yesterday?

SHE. Yes. _He_ was with me then.

HE. (_compassionately_) I--I thought I remembered seeing you with--with him.

SHE. (_cheerfully_) Isn't he _just_ the sort of man who would be interested in family portraits?

HE. (_confused_) Well--since you ask me--

SHE. Oh, that's all right. Tubby's a dear, in spite of his funny old ideas. I like him very much.

HE. (_gulping the pill_) Yes....

SHE. He's so anxious to please me in buying this house. I suppose it's all right to have a house, but I'd like to become acquainted with it gradually. I'd like to feel that there was always some corner left to explore--some mystery saved up for a rainy day. Tubby can't understand that. He drags me everywhere, explaining how we'll keep this and change that--dormer windows here and perhaps a new wing there.... I suppose you've been rebuilding the house, too?

HE. No. Merely decided to turn that sunny south room into a study. It would make a very pleasant place to work. But if you really want the place, I'd hate to take it away from you.

SHE. I was just going to say that if _you_ really wanted it, _I'd_ withdraw. It was Tubby's idea to buy it, you know--not mine. You _do_ want it, don't you?

HE. I can't say that I do. It's so infernally big. But Maria thinks I ought to have it. (_Explanatorily_)--Maria is--

SHE. (_gently_) She's--the one who is interested in furnaces. I understand. I saw her with you at the real-estate office yesterday. Well--furnaces are necessary, I suppose. (_There is a pause, which she breaks suddenly_.) Do you see that bee?

HE. A bee?

_He follows her gaze up to a cluster of blossoms_.

SHE. Yes--there! (_Affectionately_)--The rascal! There he goes.

_Their eyes follow the flight of the bee across the orchard. There is a silence. Alone together beneath the blossoms, a spell seems to have fallen upon them. She tries to think of something to say--and at last succeeds_.

SHE. Have you heard the story of the people who used to live here?

HE. No; why?

SHE. The agent was telling us. It's quite romantic--and rather sad. You see, the man that built this house was in love with a girl. He was building it for her--as a surprise. But he had neglected to mention to her that he was in love with her. And so, in pique, she married another man, though she was really in love with him. The news came just when he had finished the house. He shut it up for a year or two, but eventually married some one else, and they lived I here for ten years--most unhappily. Then they went abroad, and the house was sold. It was bought, curiously enough, by the husband of the girl he had been in love with. They lived here till they died-hating each other to the end, the agent says.

HE. It gives me the shivers. To think of that house, haunted by the memories of wasted love! Which of us, I wonder, will have to live in it? I don't want to.

SHE. (_prosaically_) Oh, don't take it so seriously as all that. If one can't live in a house where there's been an unhappy marriage, why, good heavens, where is one going to live? Most marriages, I fancy, are unhappy.

HE. A bitter philosophy for one so young and--

SHE. Nonsense! But listen to the rest of the story. The most interesting part is about this very orchard.

HE. Really!

SHE. Yes. This orchard, it seems, was here before the house was. It was part of an old farm where he and she--the unhappy lovers, you know-- stopped one day, while they were out driving, and asked for something to eat. The farmer's wife was busy, but she gave them each a glass of milk, and told them they could eat all the cherries they wanted. So they picked a hatful of cherries, and ate them, sitting on a bench like this one. And then he fell in love with her. . . .

HE. And . . . didn't tell her so. . . .

_She glances at him in alarm. His self-possession has vanished. He is pale and frightened, but there is a desperate look in his eyes, as if some unknown power were forcing him to do something very rash. In short, he seems like a young man who has just fallen in love_.

SHE. (_hastily_) So you see this orchard is haunted, too!

HE. I feel it. I seem to hear the ghost of that old-time lover whispering to me. . . .

SHE. (_provocatively_) Indeed! What does he say?

HE. He says: "I was a coward; you must be bold. I was silent; you must speak out."

SHE. (_mischievously_) That's very curious--because that old lover isn't dead at all. He's a Congressman or Senator or something, the Agent says.

HE. (_earnestly_) It's all the same. His youth is dead; and it is his youth that speaks to me.

SHE. _quickly_ You mustn't believe all that ghosts tell you.

HE. Oh, but I must. For they know the folly of silence--the bitterness of cowardice.

SHE. The circumstances were--slightly--different, weren't they?

HE. (_stubbornly_) I don't care!

SHE. (_soberly_) You know perfectly well it's no use.

HE. I can't help that!

SHE. Please! You simply mustn't! It's disgraceful!

HE. What's disgraceful?

SHE. (_confused_) What you are going to say.

HE. (_simply_) Only that I love you. What is there disgraceful about that? It's beautiful!

SHE. It's wrong.

HE. It's inevitable.

SHE. Why inevitable? Can't you talk with a girl in an orchard for half an hour without falling in love with her?

HE. Not if the girl is you.

SHE. But why especially _me_?

HE. I don't know. Love--is a mystery. I only know that I was destined to love you.

SHE. How can you be so sure?

HE. Because you have changed the world for me. It's as though I had been groping about in the dark, and then--sunrise! And there's a queer feeling here. (_He puts his hand on his heart_.) To tell the honest truth, there's a still queerer feeling in the pit of my stomach. It's a gone feeling, if you must know. And my knees are weak. I know now why men used to fall on their knees when they told a girl they loved her; it was because they couldn't stand up. And there's a feeling in my feet as though I were walking on air. And--

SHE. (_faintly_) That's enough!

HE. And I could die for you and be glad of the chance. It's perfectly absurd, but it's absolutely true. I've never spoken to you before, and heaven knows I may never get a chance to speak to you again, but I'd never forgive myself if I didn't say this to you now. I love you! love you! love you! Now tell me I'm a fool. Tell me to go. Anything--I've said my say. . . . Why don't you speak?

SHE. I--I've nothing to say--except--except that I--well--(_almost inaudibly_) I feel some of those symptoms myself.

ME. (_triumphantly_) You love me!

SHE. I--don't know. Yes. Perhaps.

HE. Then kiss me!

SHE. (_doubtfully_) No. . . .

HE. Kiss me!

SHE. (_tormentedly_) Oh, what's the use?

HE. I don't know. I don't care. I only know that we love each other.

SHE. (_after a moment's hesitation, desperately_) I don't care, either! I do want to kiss you.

_She does. . . . He is the first to awake from the ecstasy_.

HE. It is wrong--

SHE. (_absently_) Is it?

HE. But, oh heaven! kiss me again! (_She does_.)

SHE. Darling!

HE. Do you suppose any one is likely to come this way?

SHE. No.

HE. (_speculatively_) Your husband is probably still in the portrait gallery....

SHE. My husband! (_Drawing away_) What do you mean? (_Thoroughly awake now_) You didn't think--? (_She jumps up and laughs convulsively_.) You thought poor old Tubby was my husband?

HE. (_staring up at her bewildered_) Why, isn't he your husband?

SHE. (_scornfully_) No!! He's my uncle!

HE. Your unc--

SHE. Yes, of course! (_Indignantly_) Do you suppose I would be married to a man that's fat and bald and forty years old?

HE. (_distressed_) I--I beg your pardon. I did think so.

SHE. Just because you saw me with him? How ridiculous!

HE. It was a silly mistake. But--the things you said! You spoke so-- realistically--about marriage.

SHE. It was your marriage I was speaking about. (_With hasty compunction_) Oh, I beg your--

HE. My marriage! (_He rises_.) Good heavens! And to whom, pray, did you think I was married? (_A light dawning_) To Maria? Why, Maria is my aunt!

SHE. Yes--of course. How stupid of me.

HE. Let's get this straight. Are you married to _anybody_?

SHE. Certainly not. As if I would let myself be made love to, if I were a married woman!

HE. Now don't put on airs. You did something quite as improper. You made love to a married man.

SHE. I didn't.

HE. It's the same thing. You thought I was married.

SHE. But you aren't.

HE. No. I'm not married. And--and--_you're_ not married. (_The logic of the situation striking him all of a sudden_) In fact--! _He pauses, rather alarmed_.

SHE. Yes?

HE. In fact--well--there's no reason in the world why we _shouldn't_ make love to each other!

SHE. (_equally startled_) Why--that's so!

HE. Then--then--shall we?

SHE. (_sitting down and looking demurely at her toes_) Oh, not if you don't want to!

HE. (_adjusting himself to the situation_) Well--under the circumstances--I suppose I ought to begin by asking you to marry me. .

SHE. (_languidly, with a provoking glance_) You don't seem very anxious to.

HE. (_feeling at a disadvantage_) It isn't that--but--well--

SHE. (_lightly_) Well what?

HE. Dash it all, I don't know your name!

SHE. (_looking at him with mild curiosity_) That didn't seem to stop you a while ago....

HE. (_doggedly_) Well, then--will you marry me?

SHE. (_promptly_) No.

HE. (_surprised_) No! Why do you say that?

SHE. (_coolly_) Why should I marry you? I know nothing about you. I've known you for less than an hour.

HE. (_sardonically_) That fact didn't seem to keep you from kissing me.

SHE. Besides--I don't like the way you go about it. If you'd propose the same way you made love to me, maybe I'd accept you.

HE. All right. (_Dropping on one knee before her_) Beloved! (_An awkward pause_) No, I can't do it. (_He gets up and distractedly dusts off his knees with his handkerchief_.) I'm very sorry.

SHE. (_with calm inquiry_) Perhaps it's because you don't love me any more?

HE. (_fretfully_) Of course I love you!

SHE. (_coldly_) But you don't want to marry me.... I see.

HE. Not at all! I do want to marry you. But--

SHE. Well?

HE. Marriage is a serious matter. Now don't take offense! I only meant that-well--(_He starts again_.) We _are_ in love with each other, and that's the important thing. But, as you said, we don't know each other. I've no doubt that when we get acquainted we will like each other better still. But we've got to get acquainted first.

SHE. (_rising_) You're just like Tubby buying a house. You want to know all about it. Well! I warn you that you'll never know all about me. So you needn't try.

HE. (_apologetically_) It was _your_ suggestion.

SHE. (_impatiently_) Oh, all right! Go ahead and cross-examine me if you like. I'll tell you to begin with that I'm perfectly healthy, and that there's no T. B., insanity, or Socialism in my family. What else do you want to know?

HE.(_hesitantly_) Why did you put in Socialism, along with insanity and T. B.?

SHE. Oh, just for fun. You aren't a Socialist, are you?

HE. Yes. (_Earnestly_) Do you know what Socialism is?

SHE. (_innocently_) It's the same thing as Anarchy, isn't it?

HE. (_gently_) No. At least not my kind. I believe in municipal ownership of street cars, and all that sort of thing. I'll give you some books to read.

SHE. Well, I never ride in street cars, so I don't care whether they're municipally owned or not. By the way, do you dance?

HE. No.

SHE. You must learn right away. I can't bother to teach you myself, but I know where you can get private lessons and become really good in a month. It is stupid not to be able to dance.

HE. (_as if he had tasted quinine_) I can see myself doing the tango! Grr!

SHE. The tango went out long ago, my dear.

HE. (_with great decision_) Well--I _won't_ learn to dance. You might as well know that to begin with.

SHE. And I won't read your old books on Socialism. You might as well know that to begin with!

HE. Come, come! This will never do. You see, my dear, it's simply that I _can't_ dance, and there's no use for me to try to learn.

SHE. Anybody can learn. I've made expert dancers out of the awkwardest men!

HE. But, you see, I've no inclination toward dancing. It's out of my world.

SHE. And I've no inclination toward municipal ownership. _It's_ out of _my_ world!

HE. It ought not to be out of the world of any intelligent person.

SHE. (_turning her back on him_) All right--if you want to call me stupid!

HE. (_turning and looking away meditatively_) It appears that we have very few tastes in common.

SHE. (_tapping her foot_) So it seems.

HE. If we married we might be happy for a month--

SHE. Perhaps.

_They remain with their backs to each other_.

HE. And then--the old story. Quarrels. . . .

SHE. I never could bear quarrels. . . .

HE. An unhappy marriage. . . .

SHE. (_realizing it_) Oh!

HE. (_hopelessly turning toward her_) I can't marry you.

SHE. (_recovering quickly and facing him with a smile_) Nobody asked you, sir!

HE. (_with a gesture of finality_) Well--there seems to be no more to say.

SHE. (_sweetly_) Except good-bye.

HE. (_firmly_) Good-by, then.

_He holds out his hand_.

SHE. (_taking it_) Good-bye!

HE. (_taking her other hand--after a pause, helplessly_) Good-bye!

SHE. (_drowning in his eyes_) Good-bye!

_They cling to each other, and are presently lost in a passionate embrace. He breaks loose and stamps away, then turns to her_.

HE. Damn it all, we _do_ love each other!

SHE. (_wiping her eyes_) What a pity that is the only taste we have in common!

HE. Do you suppose that is enough?

SHE. I wish it were!

HE. A month of happiness--

SHE. Yes!

HE. And then--wretchedness,

SHE. No--never!

HE. We mustn't do it.

SHE. I suppose not.

HE. Come, let us control ourselves.

SHE. Yes, let's (_They take hands again_.)

HE. (_with an effort_) I wish you happiness. I--I'll go to Europe for a year. Try to forget me.

SHE. I shall be married when you get back--perhaps.

HE. I hope it's somebody that's not bald and fat and forty. Otherwise--!

SHE. And you--for goodness sake! marry a girl that's very young and very, very pretty. That will help.

HE. We mustn't prolong this. If we stay together another minute--

SHE. Then go!

HE. I can't go!

SHE. You must, darling! You must!

HE. Oh, if somebody would only come along!

_They are leaning toward each other, dizzy upon the brink of another kiss, when somebody does come--a short, mild-looking man in a derby hat. There is an odd gleam in his eyes_.

THE INTRUDER. (_startled_) Excuse me!

_They turn and stare at him, but their hands cling fast to each other_.

SHE. (_faintly_) The Agent!

THE AGENT. (_in despairing accents_) Too late! Too late!

THE YOUNG MAN. No! Just in time!

THE AGENT. Too late, I say! I will go.

_He turns away_.

THE YOUNG MAN. No! Stay!

THE AGENT. What's the use? It has already begun. What good can I do now?

THE YOUNG MAN. I'll show you what good you can do now. Come here! (_The Agent approaches_.), Can you unloose my hands from those of this young woman?

THE YOUNG WOMAN. (_haughtily, releasing herself and walking away_) You needn't trouble! I can do it myself.

THE YOUNG MAN. Thank you. It was utterly beyond my power. (_To the Agent_)--Will you kindly take hold of me and move me over there? (_The Agent propels him away from the girl_.) Thank you. At this distance I can perhaps say farewell in a seemly and innocuous manner.

THE AGENT. Young man, you will not say farewell to that young lady for ten days-and perhaps never!

THE YOUNG WOMAN. What!

THE AGENT. They have arranged it all.

THE YOUNG MAN. _Who_ have arranged _what_?

THE AGENT. Your aunt, Miss Brooke--and (_to the young woman_) your uncle, Mr. Egerton--

_The young people turn and stare at each other in amazement_.

THE YOUNG MAN. Egerton! Are you Helen Egerton?

HELEN. And are you George Brooke?

THE AGENT. Your aunt and uncle have just discovered each other up at the house, and they have arranged for you all to take dinner together tonight, and then go to a ten-day house-party at Mr. Egerton's place on Long Island. (_Grimly_) The reason of all this will be plain to you. They want you two to get married.

GEORGE. Then we're done for! We'll have to get married now whether we want to or not!

HELEN. What! Just to please _them_? I shan't do it!

GEORGE. (_gloomily_) You don't know my Aunt Maria.

HELEN. And Tubby will try to bully me, I suppose. But I won't do it--no matter what he says!

THE AGENT. Pardon what may seem an impertinence, Miss; but is it really true that you don't want to marry this young man?

HELEN. (_flaming_) I suppose because you saw me in his arms--! Oh, I want to, all right, but--

THE AGENT. (_mildly_) Then what seems to be the trouble?

HELEN. I--oh, you explain to him, George.

_She goes to the bench and sits down_.

GEORGE. Well, it's this way. As you may have deduced from what you saw, we are madly in love with each other--

HELEN. (_from the bench_) But I'm not madly in love with municipal ownership. That's the chief difficulty.

GEORGE. No, the chief difficulty is that I refuse to entertain even a platonic affection for the tango.

HELEN. (_irritably_) I told you the tango had gone out long ago!

GEORGE. Well, then, the maxixe.

HELEN. Stupid!

GEORGE. And there you have it! No doubt it seems ridiculous to you.

THE AGENT. (_gravely_) Not at all, my boy. I've known marriage to go to smash on far less than that. When you come to think of it, a taste for dancing and a taste for municipal ownership stand at the two ends of the earth away from each other. They represent two different ways of taking life. And if two people who live in the same house can't agree on those two things, they'd disagree on a hundred things that came up every day. And what's the use for two different kinds of beings to try to live together? It doesn't work, no matter how much, love there is between them.

GEORGE. (_rushing up to him in surprise and gratification, and shaking his hand warmly_) Then you're on our side! You'll help us not to get married!

THE AGENT. Your aunt is very set on it--and your uncle, too, Miss!

HELEN. We must find some way to get out of it, or they'll have us cooped up together in that house before we know it. (_Rising and coming over to the Agent_) Can't you think up some scheme?

THE AGENT. Perhaps I can, and perhaps I can't. I'm a bachelor myself, Miss, and that means that I've thought up many a scheme to get out of marriage myself.

HELEN. (_outraged_) You old scoundrel!

THE AGENT. Oh, it's not so bad as you may think, Miss. I've always gone through the marriage ceremony to please them. But that's not what I call marriage.

GEORGE. Then what _do_ you call marriage?

HELEN. Yes, I'd like to know!

THE AGENT. Marriage, my young friends, is an iniquitous arrangement devised by the Devil himself for driving all the love out of the hearts of lovers. They start out as much in love with each other as you two are today, and they end by being as sick of the sight of each other as you two will be five years hence if I don't find a way of saving you alive out of the Devil's own trap. It's not lack of love that's the trouble with marriage--it's marriage itself. And when I say marriage, I don't mean promising to love, honour, and obey, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health till death do you part--that's only human nature to wish and to attempt. And it might be done if it weren't for the iniquitous arrangement of marriage.

GEORGE. (_puzzled_) But what is the iniquitous arrangement?

THE AGENT. Ah, that's the trouble! If I tell you, you won't believe me. You'll go ahead and try it out, and find out what all the unhappy ones have found out before you. Listen to me, my children. Did you ever go on a picnic? (_He looks from one to the other--they stand astonished and silent_.) Of course you have. Every one has. There is an instinct in us which makes us go back to the ways of our savage ancestors--to gather about a fire in the forest, to cook meat on a pointed stick, and eat it with our fingers. But how many books would you write, young man, if you had to go back to the campfire every day for your lunch? And how many new dances would _you_ invent if you lived eternally in the picnic stage of civilization? No! the picnic is incompatible with everyday living. As incompatible as marriage.

GEORGE. But--

HELEN. But--

THE AGENT. Marriage is the nest-building instinct, turned by the Devil himself into an institution to hold the human soul in chains. The whole story of marriage is told in the old riddle: "Why do birds in their nests agree? Because if they don't, they'll fall out." That's it. Marriage is a nest so small that there is no room in it for disagreement. Now it may be all right for birds to agree, but human beings are not built that way. They disagree, and home becomes a little hell. Or else they do agree, at the expense of the soul's freedom stifled in one or both.

HELEN. Yes, but tell me--

GEORGE. Ssh!

THE AGENT. Yet there _is_ the nest-building instinct. You feel it, both of you. If you don't now, you will as soon as you are married. If you are fools, you will try to live all your lives in a love-nest; and you will imprison your souls within it, and the Devil will laugh.

HELEN. (_to George_) I am beginning to be afraid of him.

GEORGE. So am I.

THE AGENT. If you are wise, you will build yourselves a little nest secretly in the woods, away from civilization, and you will run away together to that nest whenever you are in the mood. A nest so small that it will hold only two beings and one thought--the thought of love. And then you will come back refreshed to civilization, where every soul is different from every other soul--you will let each other alone, forget each other, and do your own work in peace. Do you understand?

HELEN. He means we should occupy separate sides of the house, I think. Or else that we should live apart and only see each other on week-ends. I'm not sure which.

THE AGENT. (_passionately_) I mean that you should not stifle love with civilization, nor encumber civilization with love. What have they to do with each other? You think you want a fellow student of economics. You are wrong. _You_ think you want a dancing partner. You are mistaken. You want a revelation of the glory of the universe.

HELEN. (_to George, confidentially_) It's blithering nonsense, of course. But it _was_ something like that--a while ago.

GEORGE. (_bewilderedly_) Yes; when we knew it was our first kiss and thought it was to be our last.

THE AGENT. (_fiercely_) A kiss is always the first kiss and the last--or it is nothing.

HELEN. (_conclusively_) He's quite mad.

GEORGE. Absolutely.

THE AGENT. Mad? Of course I am mad. But--

_He turns suddenly, and subsides as a man in a, guard's uniform enters_.

THE GUARD. Ah, here you are! Thought you'd given us the slip, did you? (_To the others_) Escaped from the Asylum, he did, a week ago, and got a job here. We've been huntin' him high and low. Come along now!

GEORGE. (_recovering with difficulty the power of speech_) What--what's the matter with him?

THE GUARD. Matter with him? He went crazy, he did, readin' the works of Bernard Shaw. And if he wasn't in the insane asylum he'd be in jail. He's a bigamist, he is. He married fourteen women. But none of 'em would go on the witness stand against him. Said he was an ideal husband, they did. Fourteen of 'em! But otherwise he's perfectly harmless.

THE AGENT. (_pleasantly_) Perfectly harmless! Yes, perfectly harmless!

_He is led out_.

HELEN. That explains it all!

GEORGE. Yes--and yet I feel there was something in what he was saying.

HELEN. Well--are we going to get married or not? We've got to decide that before we face my uncle and your aunt.

GEORGE. Of course we'll get married. You have your work and I mine, and--

HELEN. Well, if we do, then you can't have that sunny south room for a study. I want it for the nursery.

GEORGE. The nursery!

HELEN. Yes; babies, you know!

GEORGE. Good heavens!

A LONG TIME AGO

A TRAGIC FANTASY

TO BROR NORDFELDT

"A Long Time Ago" was first produced by the Provincetown Players, New York City, in 1917, with the following cast:

The Old Woman .............. Miriam Kiper The Fool.................... Duncan MacDougal The Queen................... Ida Rauh The Sailor.................. George Cram Cook The Prince.................. Pendleton King

_The courtyard of a palace. On one side, broad steps, and a door, leading to the palace. On the other, steps leading downward. At the back, a rose-arbour, and in front of it a wide seat.

On the steps before the door a fool is sitting, plucking at a musical instrument. On the lower steps stands an old woman, richly dressed_.

THE OLD WOMAN. Why do you sit there, fool, and twang at that harp? There's no occasion for making music. Nobody has been winning any battles. How long has it been since a great fight was heard of?

THE FOOL. If there had been a battle, old woman, they would have had to get some one besides myself to celebrate the winning of it. I do not like fighting.

THE OLD WOMAN. What does a scrawny little weakling like you know of fighting, and why should you have an opinion?

THE FOOL. The days of fighting are over, and a good thing it is, too. Four kingdoms we have about us, that in the bloody old days we would be for ever marching against, and they against us, killing and burning and destroying the crops till a quiet man would be sick to think of it. But that's all past. Twenty years we have been at peace with them, and that's ever since the young queen was born, and I hope it may last as long as she lives.

THE OLD WOMAN. There's no stopping a fool when he starts to talk. But it is right you are that the good old days are gone. Those were the days of great heroes, like the father of her that is now Queen. They were fine men that stood beside him, and one was my own man. I said to him, "This is the time a brave man is sure to be killed. If you come back to me, I'll always think you were a coward." He died along with a thousand of the best men in the kingdom fighting around the King. That was a great day. Four kingdoms at once we fought, and beat them to their knees. Glad enough they were to make peace with the child of that dead king.

THE FOOL. Spare me, woman. I've heard that old story often enough. What do you suppose all that fighting was for, if it wasn't to put an end to quarrelling for all time? If the old King was alive now, he'd sit in his palace and drink his ale and listen to music, and when he saw the young men giving kisses to the young women under the trees he'd be glad enough. But you still go cawing for blood, like an old crow.

THE OLD WOMAN. I'll not talk to such a one. You can see with your own eyes that our enemies are strong and prosperous. We let them into the kingdom with their silks and their satins and their jewels to sell. They walk about the city here and laugh to themselves, thinking how they will spoil and destroy everything soon. It may be this year, it may be next year. If the old King were alive, he'd never have let them get half so strong. He would have kept them in fear of us, and trained up a fine band of heroes, too, making raids on them once in a while. There's the city that shoves itself right up against our borders--I can see our men coming home from the spoiling of it, all red with spilt wine and blood. . . .

THE FOOL. You're a disgusting old woman. If I hear any more of that talk, I'm likely to slap the face of you, even if you are the Queen's nurse. Go away before you spoil my afternoon.

THE OLD WOMAN. I could speak to the Queen and have you beaten, do you know that?

THE FOOL. Woman, go away. I do not want to be bothered by the old and the garrulous. I am composing a love-song.

THE OLD WOMAN. Has any one ever loved you, I would like to know? Now if it were that young prince who is staying with us, he would have some right to make love-songs--if what they say is true, that every woman he meets on his journey falls in love with him. Even our own Queen, I am thinking. But only three days does he stay in any place, and then he is up and gone on his long journey that nobody understands the reason or the end of, from the east to the west. He is too wise to be held by such toys as love.

THE FOOL. Then he is more a fool than I.

THE OLD WOMAN. Who should know about love, if not a man who has been loved by many women and by great queens? But you, what do you know about it?

THE FOOL. The trouble with the old is that they forget so many things. I am sorry for you, woman. You think yourself wise, but the fool that sits at the Queen's doorstep and looks at her as she passes, and she never seeing him at all, is wiser than you.

THE OLD WOMAN. I have wasted enough words with you. I will go away and sit in the sun and think of the days when there were heroes.

_She goes_.

THE FOOL. And I will make a song about love. I will make a song about the love that is too high for pride and too deep for shame.

_The door has opened, and the young Queen stands looking down at him_.

THE QUEEN. What is that, fool? What are the words you are saying?

THE FOOL. (_kneeling_) I was speaking of a love that is too high for pride and too deep for shame.

THE QUEEN. And whose love is that, fool?

THE FOOL. It is the love of all who really love, and it is the only love worth making a song about.

THE QUEEN. (_smiling_) And how do you come to be so wise as to know about such things?

THE FOOL. I know because I am a fool.

THE QUEEN. I am well answered. And you are not the only fool in the world, I am thinking. But tell me, fool, have you seen any of the Prince's men here?

THE FOOL. No, but I have heard that the ship is being got ready for sailing. . . .

THE QUEEN. (_rebukingly_) I did not ask you that. (_She is about to go, but turns back, and gives him a piece of money_.) This is for you to buy wine with and get drunken. You are not amusing when you are sober. (_She starts to go, but turns again_.) Fool, do you believe in magic?

THE FOOL. I have heard that the old wizard who lives in a cave down by the shore is able to rouse storms and keep vessels from sailing.....

THE QUEEN. (_looking at him, for a moment fixedly_) I have a great mind to have you poisoned. Here, take this, and remember that I said to be drunken.

_She gives him another piece of money, and goes off by way of the rose-trellised passage-way. A sailor comes up the steps_.

THE SAILOR. Fool, where is the Prince?

THE FOOL. I do not know, sailor, but I can tell you what I think.

THE SAILOR. What difference does it make what you think? I have a message to deliver to him.

THE FOOL. I think that the Queen has sung him to sleep, and that he has not yet awakened.

THE SAILOR. It is likely enough. But I have been sent by the captain, and I must see him.

THE FOOL. You look hot.