CORNELL UNIVERSITY •LIBRARY BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND GIVEN IN 189I BY HENRY WILLIAMS SAGE _ Cornell University Library PS 634. W31 Washington square plays: 1. The clod, b' 3 1924 022 111 946 Cornell University Library The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022111946 WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYS VOLUME XX The Drama League Series of Playt VOLUMES IN THE DRAMA LEAGUE SERIES OF PLAYS ffaikintUm Sqtiari Plays I. — Kindling By Charles Kenyan n. — ^A Thousand Years Ago By Percy MacKaye in. — The Great Galeoto . . By Joai Echegaray IV. — ^The Sunken Bell . . By Gerhart Hauptmann V. — ^Mart Gobs First . By Henry Arthur Jones VI.— Heb Husband's Wife . . By A. E. Thomas VII. — Change By J.O. Francis Vm. — Marta of the Lowlands . By Angel Guimerd IX. — ^Patrie! By Victorien Sardou X. — The Thief By Henry Bernstein XI. — ^Mt Ladt's Dress . , .By Edward Knoblauch Xn. — The Trail of the Torch . By Paul Hervieu Xni. — ^A Woman's Wat . .By Thompson Buchanan XIV. — Hobson's Choice . . By Harold Brighouse XV. — The Apostle . . By Paul Hyaeinthe Loyson XVI.— Youth By Max HaWe XVn. — A False Saint . ... By Frangois de Curd XVin. — The Mothers . ... By Georg Hirschfeld XIX. — Malvaloca . . By S. and J. Alvarez Quintera XX. — Washington Square Plats . By Four Authors Other Volumes in Preparation Washington Square Plays 1. The Clod . . . . 2. Eugenically Speaking 3. Overtones . . . . 4. Helena's Husband By Lewis Beach By Edward Goodman By Alice Gerstenherg . By Philip MoeUer WITH AN INTBODnCrriOlC BT , WALTER PRICHARD EATON PBEFACE BT EDWARD GOODMAN Dirulor of tht Wathinglon Square Playrt Garden Citt New Yosk DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 1919 4+ Copyright, 1916, by DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY the clod. coptbight, 1814, bt emmet lewis beach bttgenicallt speaking. coptbight, 1914, by ed ward goodman ovebtone8. coptbight, 1918, bt alice gerstenbebg Helena's husband, copteight, 1915, by philip moelleh In its present form these plays are dedicated to the reading public only, and no performance of them may be given. Any piracy or infringement will be prosecuted in accordance with the penalties provided by the United States Statutes: Section 28. That any person who willfully and for profit shall in- fringe any copyrightaecured by this Act, or who shall knowingly and willfully aid or abet such infringement, shall be deemed guilty of a misdemeanor, and upon conviction thereof shall be punished by imprisonment for not exceeding one year or by a fine of not leas than one hundred dollars nor more than one thousand dollars or both, in the discretion of the court. SectioN'29. That any person, who with fraudulent intent, shall insert or impress any notice' of copyright required by this Act, or words of the same purport, in or upon any imcopyrighted article, or with fraudulent intent shall remove or alter the copyright notice upon any article duly copyrighted shall be guilty of a misdemeanor, punishable by a fine of not less than one hundred dollars and not more than one thousand dollars. Acl of March 4, 1909. INTRODUCTION T he rigid conventionali t y of the theatre has been fre quently remarked upon. Why the world should ever fear a radical, indeed, is hard to see, since he has against him the whole dead weight of society; but least of all need the radical be dreaded in the theatre. When the average person pays money for his amusements, he is little inclined to be pleased with something which doesn't amuse him : and what amuses him, nine times out of ten, is what has amused him. That is why changes in the theatre are rela- tively slow, and customs long prevail, even till it »eems they may corrupt the theatrical world. For many generations in our playhouse it was th« custom to follow the long play of the evening with an "afterpiece," generally in one act, but always brief, and almost always gay, if not farcical. Audi- ences, which in the early days assembled before seven o'clock, had to be sent home happy. After the tragedy, the slap-stick or the loud guffaw; after "Romeo and Juliet," Gibber's "Hob in the Well"; [V] INTRODUCTION after "King Lear," "The Irish Widow." (These two illustrations are taken at random from the pro- grams of the Charleston theatre in 1773.) This custom persisted until comparatively recent times. The fathers and mothers of the present generation can remember when William Warren, at the Boston Museum, would turn of an evening from such a part as his deep-hearted Sir Peter Teazle to the loud and empty vociferations of a Morton farce. The entertainment in those days would hardly have been considered complete without the "afterpiece," or, as time went on, sometimes the "curtain raiser." It is by no means certain that theatre seats were al- ways cheaper than to-day. In some cases, certainly, they were relatively quite as high. But it is certain that you got more for your money. You frequently saw your favorite actor in two contrasted r6les, two contrasted styles of acting perhaps, and you saw him from early evening till a decently late hom*. You didn't get to the theatre at 8.30, wait for the curtain to rise on a thin-spun drawing-room comedy at 8.45, and begin hunting for your wraps at 10.35. One hates to think, in fact, what would have happened to a manager fifty years ago who didn't give more than that for the price of a ticket. Our fathers and [vi] INTRODUCTION mothers watched their pennies more sharply than we do. For various reasons, one of them no doubt being the growth of cheaper forms of amusement and the consequent desertion from the traditional playhouse of a considerable body of those who least like, and can least afford, to spend money irrespective of re- turns, the "afterpiece" and "curtain raiser" have practically vanished from our stage. They have so completely vanished, in fact, that theatre goers ha\5p lost not only the habit of expecting them, but the imaginative flexibiUty to enjoy them. If you should play "Romeo and Juliet" to-day and then follow it with a one-act farce, your audience would be un- comfortably bewildered. They would be unable to make the necessary adjustment of mood. If you focus your vision rapidly from a near to a far ob- ject, you probably suffer from eye-strain. Similarly, the jump from one play to the other in the theatre gives a modern audience mind- or mood-strain. It is largely a matter of habit. We, to-day, have lost the trick through lack of practice. The old custom is dead; we are fixed in a new one. If Maude Adams, for instance, should follow "The Little Minister" with a roaring farce, or Sothern should turn on the [vii] INTRODUCTION same evening from "If I Were King" to "Box and Cox," we should feel that some artistic unity had been rudely violated; nor am I at all sure, being a product of this generation, but that we should be quite right. Matters standing as they do, then, it seems to me that the talk we frequently hear about reviving "the art of the one-act play " by restoring the curtain raisers or afterpieces to the programs of our theatres is reactionary and futile. All recent attempts to pad out a slim play with an additional short one have failed to meet with approval, even when the short piece was so masterly a work as Barrie's "The Will," splendidly acted by John Drew, or the same author's "Twelve Pound Look," acted by Miss Barrymore. Nor is it at all certain that the one-act plays of our parents and grandparents and great- grandparents, the names of which you may read by the thousands on ancient playbills, added any- thing to the store of dramatic literature. Some of them are decently entombed in the catacombs of Lacy's British Drama, or still available for amateurs in French's library. Did you ever try to read one? Of course, there was "Box and Cox," but it is doubt- ful if there will be any great celebration at the ter- [ viii ] INTRODUCTION centenary of Morton's death. For the most part, those ancient afterpieces were frankly padding, con- ventional farces to fill up the bill and send the audiences home happy. To the real art of the drama or the development of the one-act play as a form of serious Uterary expression, they made precious little contribution. They were a theatrical tradition, a convention. But the one-act play, nonetheless, has an obvious right to existence, as much as the short story, and there are plentiful proofs that it can be as terse, vivid, and significant. Most novelists don't tack on a short story at the end of their books for full measure, but issue their contes either in collections or in the pages of the magazines. What similar chances are there, or can there be, for the one-act play, the dramatic short story? An obvious chance is ofPered by vaudeville. The vaudeville audience is in the mood for rapid altera- tions of attention; it has the habit of variety. This is just as much a convention of vaudeville as the single play is now a convention of the traditional theatre. Indeed, anything longer than a one-act play in vaudeville would be frowned upon. Any one wishing to push the, analogy can find more than one [ix] INTRODUCTION correspondence between a vaudeville program and the contents of a "popular" magazine; each, cer- tainly, is the present refuge of short fiction. Yet vaudeville can hardly be considered an ideal cradle for a serious dramatic art. (Shall we say that the analogy to the "popular" magazine still holds?) The average "playlet" — atrocious word — in the variety theatres is a dreadful thing, crude, obvious, often sensational or sentimental, usually very badly acted at least in the minor r6les, and still more a frank padding, a thing of the footlights, than the afterpiece of our parents. It has been frequently said by those optimists who are forever discovering the birth of the arts in popular amusements that vaudeville audiences will appreciate and applaud the best. This is only in part true. They will ap- preciate the best juggler, the cleverest trained dog, the most appealing ballad singer such as Chevalier or Harry Lauder. But they will no more appreciate those subtleties of dramatic art which must have free play in the serious development of the one-act play than the readers of a "popular" magazine in America (or England either) would appreciate Kip- ling's "They," or George Moore's "The Wild Goose," or de Maupassant's "La Ficelle." To ex- INTRODUCTION pect them to Is silly; and to expect that because the supreme, vivid example of any form is comprehensi- ble to all classes and all mixtures of classes, therefore the supreme example is going to be developed out of the commonplace stuff such mixed audiences daily enjoy, is equally to misunderstand the evolution of an art product in our complex modern world. But, indeed, the matter scarce calls for argument. Vaude- ville itself furnishes the answer. Where are its one-act plays which can be called dramatic litera- ture? It is a hopeful sign, perhaps, that certain of the plays in this volume have percolated into the varieties ! But they were not cradled there. "If the traditional theatre, then, is now in a rut which affords no room for the one-act play, and if vaudeville is an empty cradle for this branch of dramatic art, where shall we turn? The one-act play to-day has found refuge and en- couragement in the experimental theatres, and among the amateurs. The best one-act plays so far written in English have come out of Ireland, chiefly from the Abbey Theatre in Dublin where they were first acted by a company recruited from ama- teur players. Synge's "Riders to the Sea," Yeats'* "The Hour Glass," the comedies of Lady Gregory [xi] INTRODUCTION and others of that school, have not only proved the power of this form to carry the sense of reality, but its power as well to reach tragic intensity or high poetic beauty. The sombre loveliness and cleansing reality of Synge's masterpiece are almost unrivaled in our short-play literature. Not from the Abbey Theatre, but from the pen of an Irishman, Lord Dunsany, have come such short fantasies as "The Gods of the Mountain" and "The Ghttering Gate," which the so-called "commercial" theatre has quite ignored, but which have been played extensively by amateurs and experimental theatres throughout America; and the latter piece, especially, has prob- ably been provocative of more experimental stage- craft and a greater stimulation of poetic fancy among amateur producers than any drama, short or Ipng, written in recent years. When the Washington Square Players, for the most part amateurs of the theatre, began their ex- periment in the spring of 1915, they began with a bill of one-act plays. With but two exceptions, all their succeeding productions have been composed of one-act plays, usually in groups of four, the last one for the evening sometimes being a pantomime.. (It should be noted that a program of four one-act plays [xii] INTRODUCTION has the unity of a collection. A short play following a long one is overbalanced and the program seems to most of us awry.) The reason for this choice wa; not entirely a devotion to the art of the one-aci play. When players are inexperienced, it is fa: easier to present a group of plays of one act thai it is to sustain a single set of characters for an entir( evening. The action moves more rapidly, the tal« is told before the monotony of the actors becomes toe apparent. Moreover, the difference between th< plays helps to furnish that variety which the players themselves cannot supply by their impersonations Still again, it was no doubt easier for the Washing ton Square Players to find novelties within their ca pacity in the one-act form than in the longer medium At any rate, they did produce one-act plays, anc are still producing them. Four of these plays are presented in this book, f oui which won approval first on the stage of the Band box Theatre and later, acted by other players, ii various other theatres. One of them, "Overtones,' is a theatrical novelty which if prolonged beyond the one-act form would become monotonous. Another "Helena's Husband," is a bantering satire, an intel lectual "skit," which would equally suffer by pro [xiii] INTRODUCTION longation. "Eugenically Speaking" could certainly bear no further extension, unless its mood were deep- ened into seriousness. Finally, "The Clod" ap- proaches the true episodic roundness of the one-act drama, or the short story, in its best estate. Here is a single episode of reality, taken from its context and set apart for contemplation. It begins at the proper moment for understanding, it ends when the tale is told. There is here more than a hint of the art of Guy de Maupassant. And the episode is theatrically exciting — a prime requisite for practical performance, and spiritually significant — a prime requisite for the serious consideration of intelligent spectators. In these four plays, then, written for the Washington Square Players, the one-act form demonstrates its right to our attention and cultiva^ tion, for it takes interesting ideas or situations which are incapable of expansion into longer dramas and makes intelUgant entertainment of what otherwise would be lost. Because such organizations as the Abbey Theatre have demonstrated the value of the one-act play in portraying Jocal life, in stimulating a local stage literature; because such organizations in America as the Washington Square Players have demon- [xiv] INTRODUCTION strated the superior value of the one-act play as a weapon with which to win recognition and build up the histrionic capacity to tackle longer works; and, finally, because the one-act play offers such obvious advantages to amateurs, it seems fairly certain that in the immediate future, at least, the one-act play in America, as a serious art form, will he cultivated by the experimental theatres, the so-called "Little Theatre s," and by Ujejoorg^ ambitious and talejited- ^ja mateurs j. As our experimental theatres increase in number — and they are increasing — it will probably play its part, and perhaps no insignificant a part, in the development of a national drama through the development of a local drama, and the cultivation of a taste for self-expression in various communities. It is only when these experimental theatres are suf- ficient in number, and the amateur spirit has been sufficiently aroused in various communities, that the commercial theatre of tradition will be seriously influenced. When that time comes^-if Jt does»e»me- — one ofthe resjilts will undoubtedly be a more, flexible theatre, the growth o f repe rtoir e companies, the expansion of the activities of popular players. In a more flexible theatre, where repertoire Is a rule rather than a strange and dreaded experiment, and [XV] INTRODUCTION where actors pride themselves on versatility and the public honors them for it, the one-act play will again have its place, but not then as a curtain raiser or afterpiece, to pad out an evening or "send the sub- urbs home happy," but as a serious branch of dra-r matic art. In that happy day Barrie will not be the only first-class talent in the commercial play- house daring the one-act form, or at least able to induce a commercial manager to produce his work in that form. But that time is not yet. The one-act play in our country to-day is an ally of the amateurs and the innovators. For that very reasorfT perhaps, it is the form which wilnSeax tEemost watching for signs of imagination and for flashes of insight and inter- pretative significance. Walter Prichard Eatow. Stockbridge, Massachusetts. [xvi] PREFACE TO THE PLAYS If fools did not rush in where theatrical angels fear to tread, this Preface would never have been written. Two years back the Washington Square Players were called, by many who had theatrical experience, fools. . Now some term us pioneers. The future may write us fools again, or something better — the conclusion being that the difference between the fool and the pioneer lies in the outcome; the secret, that the motive power behind both is enthusiasm. Without enthusiasm the Washington Square Players could never have come into existence, nor survived. From the first, when we had barely enough money for rent and none for the costumes and properties we borrowed and disguised, ours was an enthusiasm strong in quantity as well as quality. The theatre is a peculiar art. Both in production and reception it requires numbers and an enduring faith. Many a similar attempt has failed because its experimentation and expression have been re- ftricted by a single point of view. Many have not [xvii] PREFACE TO THE PLAYS continued because the desire has waned in the face «£_the hardships and sacrifices entailed. But the Players jpightly had a_£luraljiame. We were, and are, a collection of many individuals — actors, authors, artists, and art-lovers — all fired with the sincere desire to give to playgoers something they nad not been able previously to find on the Amer- ican stage. / And our desire has been strong enough to face and fight, and to continue to face and fight, the ever-growing, ever-changing problems of finance, art, and human inter-relations, which are the ines- capable factors of the theatre. We believed in the democracy of the drama. But we understand democracy to mean, not the grati- fication of the taste of the many to the exclusion of that of the few, but the satisfaction of all tastes. We had no quarrel with the stage as it was, save that there wasn't enough of it. We felt there was a pubHc that warited something other than it could, get — as evidenced by the rise of such institutions as the Drama League — and that that public was large enough to support what_it_wanted^ once it learned where ~to^ find, J±. The problem was to bridge the gap of waiting. And it was met by the sacrifices of all those who worked at first for nothing, [ xviii ] PREFACE TO THE PLAYS and then for little more, so thajtthej fall into debt in the process of reaching an audience. As an able New York dramatic critic stated, the establishment of the Washington Square Players was merely one more proof that in America, as elsewhere, joy was a greater incentive to work than mojiey. This enthusiasm among the workers, both in quality and quantity, was generously shared by the spectators. The public which looked for plays, act- ing and producing different from what it could find on the regular stage, proved us right in believing that it was suflSciently large and interested to warrant our experiment. Critics and patrons gave us from the first, and we hope will continue to give us, that personal interest and sympathetic appreciation which have been among the most vital factors con- tributing to our growth. So far we have produced thirty-two plays, of one-act and greater Igggth, and of these twenty have been American. \The emphasis of our interest has been placed on the American playwright, because we feel thj^ no American theatie^Ean be really successful un- less itdeipdop&anative drama to present and i nterpr et those emotions, ideas, characters, and conditions with which we, as Americans, are primarily concerned, [xix]- PREFACE TO THE PLAYS Of these twenty American plays the Drama League has selected fom: for this volume of its series. Excluding comment on my farce — for an author is notoriously unfit to judge his own work — I think it may be said thajt. these represent a fair example of the success the Players have met with in trying to encourage the writing of American plays with "fresh- ness and sincerity of theme and development; skilful delineation of character ; non-didactic presenta- tion of an idea; and dramatic and esthetic effective- ness without theatricalism." They- are-4iie_^ar^ products of a new moveEttgnt inJlieLAmeHGaffl-theatre of which we are happy to be a part, and if their pub- lication meets with the sympathetic, appreciative reception that has been accorded their production, we feel and hope that not only these authors, not only the Washington Square Players, but all of the workers in this new movement will be encouraged and stimulated to a further effort, a greater mastery, and a bigger achievement. Edward Goodman, Director of the Washington Square Players. Comedy Theatre, New York, 1916. [«] I THE CLOD A One-Act Play by LEWIS BEACH, Cojiyrigkt, 19H, hy Emma Lim» Beaak, Jr. THE CLOD A One-Act Play by LEWIS BEACH (Note — The author acknowledges indebtedness to " The Least of These, " by Donal Hamilton Haines, a short story which suggested the play.) "The Clod" was produced by the Washington Square Players, under the direction of Holland Hudson, at the Bandbox Theatre, New York City, be^nning January 10, 1916. In the cast, in the order of their appearance, were the following: MaryTrask .... Josephine A. Meyer Thaddeus Trask . . John King A Northern Soldier . Glenn Hunter A Southern Sergeant Robert Strange A Southern Private . Spalding Hall [3] WASmNGTON SQUARE PLAYS The Scene was designed by John King. "The Clod" was subsequently revived by the Washington Square Players at the Comedy Theatre, New York City, beginning June 5, 1916. In this production Mary Morris played the part of Mary Traak. Later it was presented in -vaudeville by Martin Beck, opening at the Palace Theatre, New York City, August 21, 1916, with the following cast: MaryTrask . Thaddeus Tbask . A Northern Soldier A Southern Sergeant A Southern Private Sarah Padden John Cameron Glenn Hunter Thomas Hamilton Gordon Gunnis "The Clod" was first produced by the Harvard Dramatic Club, in March, 1914, with the cast as fol- lows: Mary Trask . Thaddeus Trask . A Northern Soldier . A Southern Sergeant Dick Christine Hayes Norman B. Clark Dale Kennedy James W. D. Seymour Richard Southgate [4] THE CLOD CHARACTERS Thaddeus Tkask Mart Trask A Northern Soldier A Southern Sergeant Dick Scene: The kitchen of a farmhouse on tlie border- line between the Southern and Northern states. Time : Ten o'clock in the evening, September, 1863. The back wall is broken at stage left by the pro- jection at right angles of a partially enclosed staircase, four steps of which, leading to the landing, are visible to the audience. Underneath the enclosed stairway is a cubby-hole with a door; in front of the door stands a small table. To the left of this table is a kitchen chair. A door leading to the yard is in the centre of the unbroken wall back; to th? right of the door, a cupboard, to the left, a stove. In the wall right are two windows. Between them is a bench, on which there are a pail and a dipper; above the bench a towel hanging on a nail, and above the towel a double-barrelled shot-gun suspended on two pegs. [5] WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYS In the wall left, and well down stage, is a closed door leading to another room. In the centre of the kitchen stands a large table; to the right and left of this, two straight-backed chairs. The walls are roughly plastered. The stage is lighted by the moon, which shines into ilie room through the windows, and a candle on table centre. When the door back is opened, a glimpse of a desolate farmyard is seen in the moonlight. When the curtain rises, Thaddeus Tbask, a man of fifty or sixty years of age, sliort and thick set, slow in speech and movement, yet in perfect health, sits lazily smoking his pipe in a chair at the right of the centre table. After a moment, Mary Teask, a tired, emaciated woman, whose years equal her husband's, enters from the yard, carrying a pail of water and a lantern. She puts the pail on the bench and hangs the lantern above it; then crosses to the stove. Maby. Ain't got wood 'nough fer breakfast, Thad. Thaddeus. I'm too tired to go out now; wait till mornin'. [Pause. Mary lays the fire in the stove.] [6] THE CLOD Did I tell ye that old man Reed saw three Southern troopers pass his house this mornin'? Maky [takes coffee pot from stove, crosses to bench, fills pot with water]. I wish them soldiers would git out o' the neighborhood. Whenever I see 'em passin', I have t' steady myself 'gainst somethin' or I'd fall. I couldn't hardly breathe yesterday when the Southerners came after fodder. I'd die if they spoke t' me. Thaddeus. Ye needn't be afraid of Northern soldiers. Maky [puts coffee pot on stove]. I hate 'em all — Union or Southern. I can't make head or tail t' what all this fightin's 'bout. An' I don't care who wins, so long as they git through, an' them soldiers stop stealin' our corn an' potatoes. Thaddeus. Ye can't hardly blame 'em if they're hungry, ken ye? Mary. It ain't right that they should steal from us poor folk. [Lifts a huge gunny sack of potatoes from the table and begins setting the table for breakfast, getting knives, forks, spoons, plates, cups, and saucers — two of each — from the cupboard.] We have hard 'nough times t' make things meet now. I ain't set down onct to-day, 'cept fer meals; an' when I [7] WASHINSTON SQUARE PLAYS think o' the work I got t' do t'morrow, I ought t' been in bed hours ago. TiiADDEUs. I'd help if I could, but it ain't my fault if the Lord see'd fit t' lay me up, so I'm always ailin*. [Rises lazily.] Ye better try an' take things easy t'morrow. Mary. It's well 'nough t' say, but them apples got t' be picked an' the rest o' the potatoes sorted. If I could sleep at night it'd be all right, but with them soldiers 'bout, I can't. Thaddeus [crosses to right; fondly handles his double-barrelled shot-gun]. Jolly, wish I'd see a flock o' birds. Maby [shonnng nervousness]. I'd rather go with- out than hear ye fire. I wish ye didn't keep it loaded. Thaddeus. Ye know I ain't got time t' stop an' load when I see the birds. They don't wait fer ye. [Hangs gun on wall, drops into his chair, de- jectedly.] Them pigs has got to be butchered. Maby. Wait till I git a chance t' go t' sister's. I can't stand it t' hear 'em squeal. Thaddeus [pulling off his boots, grunting mean- while]. Best go soon then, 'cause they's fat as they'll ever be, an' there ain't no use in wastin' t8] THE CLOD feed on 'em. [Pause, rises.] Ain't ye most ready fer bed? Mary. Go on up. [Thaddeus takes candle in one hand, boots in other; moves toward stairs.] An', Thad, try not t' snore to-night. Thaddeus [reaching the landing]. Hit me if I do. [Disappears from view.] [Mart fills the kettle vriih water and puts it on the stove; closes the door hack; takes the lantern from the wail, tries twice before she succeeds in blowing it out. Puts the lantern on the table before the cubby-hole. Drags herself up the stairs, pausing a moment on the top step for breath before she disappears from sight. There is a silence. Then the door back is opened a trifle and a man's hand is seen. Cautiously the door is opened vnde, and a young NoBTHEBN Soldier is silhouetted on the threshold. He wears a dirty uniform and has a bloody bandage tied about his head. He is wounded, sick, and exhausted. He stands at the door a moment, listening in- tently; then hastily crosses to the centre table looking for food. He bumps against the chair [9] WASfflNGTON SQUARE PLAYS and mutters an oath. Finding nothing on the tabU, he moves toward the cupboard. Suddenly the galloping of horses is heard in the distance. The Northerner starts; then rushes to the window nearer the audience. ■ Far a moment the sound ceases, then it begins again, growing gradually louder and louder. The Northerner hurries through thedoorUft. Horses and voices are heard in the yard, and almost immediately heavy thundering knocks sound on the door back. A racket is heard above stairs. The knockers on the door grow impatient, and push the door open. A large, powerful Southern Sergeant and a smaller, more youthful Trooper of the same army enter. At the same time, Thaddeus appear* on the stairs, carrying a candle.] Sergeant [to Thaddeus; not unkindly]. Sorry, my friend, but you were so darn slow 'bout openin' the door, that we had to walk in. Has there been a Northern soldier round here to-day? Thaddeus [timidly]. I ain't seed one. Sb;bgbant. Have you been here all day? Thaddeus. I ain't stirred from the place. Sergeant. Call the rest of your family down. [10] THE CLOD Thaddeds. My wife's all there is. [Goes to foot of stairs, and calls loudly and excitedly.] Mary! Mary ! Come down right off. Sergeant. You better not lie to me or it'll go tough with you. Thaddeus. I swear I ain't seed no one. [Makt comes downstairs slowly. She is all atremble.] Thaddeus. Say, Mary, you was h Sergeant. You keep still, man. I'll question her myself. [To Mary.] You werehere at the house all day? [Mary is very fearful and embarrassed, but after a moment manages to nod her head slowly.] You didn't take a trip down to the store? [Mary shakes her head slowly.] Haven't you got a tongue? Mary [vnth difficulty]. Y-e-s. Sergeant. Then use it. The Northern soldier who came here a while ago was pretty badly woimded, wasn't he? Mary. I — ^I — no one's been here. Sbbgeant. Come, come, woman, don't lie. [Mary shows a slight sign of anger.] [11] WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYS He had a bad cut in his forehead, and you felt sorry for him, and gave him a bite to eat. Mary [haltingly]. No one's been near the house to-day. Sergeant [trying a different tone]. We're not going to hurt him, woman. He's a friend of ours< We want to find him, and put him in a hospital, don't we, Dick? [Turning to his companion.] Dick. He's sick and needs to go to bed for a while. Mary. He ain't here. Sergeant. What do you want to lie for? Maby [quickly]. I ain't lyin'. I ain't seed no soldier. Thaddeub. No, one could 'a' come without her seein' 'em. Sergeant. I suppose you know what'U happen to you if you are hidin' the man? [Mary stands rooted to the spot where she stopped when she came downstairs. Her eyes are fixed on the Sergeant.] Thaddeus. There ain't no one here. We both been here all day, an' there couldn't no one come without our knowin' it. What would they want round here anyway? Sergeant. We'll search the place. [12J THE CLOD Maby [quickly]. Ye ain't got no- Sergeant [sharply]. What's that, woman? Mart. There ain't no one here, an' ye're keepin' us from our sleep. Sergeant. Your sleep? This is an affair of life and death. Get us a lantern. [Thaddeus moves to the table which stands in front of the cubby-hole, and lights the lantern from the candle which he holds in his hand. He hands the lantern to the Sergeant.] Sergeant [seeing the door to the cubby-hole]. Ha! Tryin' to hide the door are you, by puttin' a table in front of it. You can't fool me. [To Thaddeus.] Pull the table away and let's see what's behind the door. Thaddeus. It's a cubby-hole an' ain't been op- ened in years. Sergeant [sternly and emphatically]. I said to open the door. [Thaddeus sets the candle on the larger table, moves the smaller table to the right, and opens the door to the cubby-hole. Anger is seen on Mary's face. The Sergeant takes a long- barrelled revolver from his belt, and peers into the cubby-hole. H« sees nothing.] [IS] WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYS Sebgeant [returning his revolver to his belt]. We're goin' to tear this place to pieces till we find him. You might just as well hand him over now. Mary. There ain't no one here. Sebgeant. All right. Now we'll see. Dick, you stand guard at the door. [Dick goes to the door back, and stands gazing out into the night — his back to the audience.] Sebgeant [to Thaddeus]. Come along, man. I'll have a look at the upstairs. [To Maby.] You sit down in that chair [points to the chair at right of table, and feeling for a sufficiently strong threat]. Don't you stir or I'll — ^I'U set fire to your house. [To Thaddeus.] Go on ahead. [Thaddeus and the Sebgeant go upstairs. Maby sinks almost lifelessly into the chair. She is the picture of fear. She sits facing left. Suddenly she leans forward. The door left is being opened. She opens her eyes wide and draws her breath sharply. She opens her mouth as though she would scream, but makes no sound. The Nobth- ERNEB comes slowly and cautiously through the door. (Dick cannot see him because of the jog in the wall.) Maby only stares in [14] THE CLOD hemlderment at the Northerner, as the man, vnth eyes fixed appealingly on her, opens the door to the cubby-hole and crawls inside.] Dick. Woman! Maby [almost with a cry — thinking that Dick has seen the Northerner]. Yes. Dick. Have you got an apple handy? I'm starved. [Mart moves to the cupboard to get the apple for Dick. The Sergeant and Thaddeus come downstairs. The Sergeant, seeing that Mart is not where he left her, looks about quickly and discovers her ai the cup- board.] Sergeant. Here, what'd I tell you I'd do if you moved from that chair? Mary [with great fear]. Oh, I didn't — I only — he wanted Dick. It's all right, Sergeant. I asked her to get me an apple. Sergeant. Dick, take this lantern and search the barn. [Dick takes the lantern from the Sergeant and goes out ba^k,] [15] WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYS [7*0 Thaddeus.] Come in here with me. [Takes the candle Jrom centre table.] [The Sergeant and Thaddeus move toward the door l^t. As though in a stupor, Mary starts to follow.] Sit down! [Mary JaUs into the chair at the right of the centre table. The Sergeant and Thad- deus go into the room at left. They can be heard moving furniture about. Mary's eyes fall on a pin on the floor. She bends over, picks it up, and fastens it in her belt. The Sergeant and Thaddeus return.] Sergeant. If I find him now, after all the trouble you've given me, you know what'll happen. There's likely to be two dead men and a woman, instead of only the Yankee. Dick [bounding into the room]. Sergeant! Sergeant. What is it.' [Dick hurries to the Sergeant and says some- thing in a low voice to him. Satisfaction shows on the latter' s face.] Sergeant. Now my good people, how did that horse get here? Thaddeus. What horse? [16] THE CLOD Dick. There's a horse in the barn with a saddle on his back. I swear he's been ridden lately. Thaddeus [amazed]. There is.? Sergeant. You know it. [To Mart.] Come, woman, who drove that horse here? Maky [silent for a moment — her eyes on the floor]. I don't know. I didn't hear nothin'. Thaddeus [moving in the direction of the door back]. Let me go an' see. Sergeant [pushing Thaddeus back]. No, you don't. You two have done enough to jiistify the harshest measures. Show us the man's hiding- place. Thaddeus. If there's anybody here, he's come in the night without our knowin' it. I tell ye I didn't see anybody, an' she didn't, an' Sergeant [has been watching Mary]. Where is he? [The Sergeant's tone makes Thaddeus jump. There is a pause, during which Mary seems trying to compose herself. Then slowly, she lifts her eyes and looks at the Sergeant.] Mary. There ain't nobody in the house 'cept us two. Sergeant [to Dick]. Did you search all the out- buildings? [17] WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYS Dick. Yes. There's not a trace of him except the horse. Sergeant [wiping the perspiration from his face; speaks with apparent deliberation at first, hut increases to great strength and emphasis]. He didn't have much of a start of us, and I think he was wounded. A farmer down the road said he heard hoof-beats. The man the other side of you heard nothing, and the horse is in your barn, [Slowly draws revolver, and points it at Thaddeus.] There are ways of making people confess. Thaddeus [covering his face with his hands]. For God's sake, don't. I know that horse looks bad — but as I live I ain't heard a sound, or seen anybody. I'd give the man up in a minute if he was here. Sergeant [lowering his gun]. Yes, I guess you would. You wouldn't want me to hand you and yoiu" wife over to our army to be shot down like dogs. [Mary shivers.] [Swings round sharply, and points the gun at Mart.] Your wife knows where he's hid. Mary [breaking out in irritating, rasping voice]. I'm sure I wish I did. An' I'd tell ye quick, an' git ye out of here. 'Tain't no fun fer me to have ye prowlin' all over my house. Ye ain't got no right 1181 THE CIX3D t' torment me like this. Lord knows how I'll git my day's work done, if I can't have my sleep. Sergeant [has been gazing at her in astonishment; lowers his gun]. Good God, what a clod! Nothing but her own petty existence. [In different voice to Mary.] I'll have to ask you to get us something to eat. We're famished. [With relief, but showing some anger, Mary turns to the stove. She lights the fire, and puts more coffee in the pot.] Sergeant. Come, Dick, we better give our poor horses some water. They're all tired out. [In lower voice.] The man isn't here. If he were, he couldn't get away while we're in the yard. [To Thaddeus.] Get us a pail to give the horses some water. [Sees the pails on the bench. Picks one of them up and moves toward the door.] Mary. That ain't the horses' pail. Sergeant [to Thaddeus]. Come along, you can help. Mary [louder]. That's the drinkin' water pail. Sergeant. That's all right. [The Sergeant, Dick, and Thaddeus go out back. Mary needs more wood for the fire, so she follows them in a moment. When shs [19] WASHINGTON SQUAEE PLAYS has disappeared, the Northebneb drags himself Jrom the cubby-hole. He looks as though he would fall with exhaustion. Maby returns with an armful of wood.] Mart [sees the Nobthebner. Shows no sympathy for the man in this speech, nor during the entire scene]. Ye git back! Them soldiers'll see ye. Nobthebner. Some water. Quick. [Falls into chair at left of table.] It was so hot in there. Mary [gives him water in the dipper], Don t ye faint here. If them soldiers git ye, they'll kill me an' Thad. Hustle an' git back in the cubby-hole. [Mart turns quickly to the stove. The Nor- therner drinks the water; puts dipper on table, then, summoning all his strength, rises and crosses to Mary. He touches her on the shoulder. Mart is so startled, that sht jumps and utters a faint cry.] Northerner. Be still, or they'll hear you. How are you going to get me out of this? M-ARY [angrily]. Ye git out. Why did ye come here, a bringin' me all this extra work, an* maybe death? Northebneb. I couldn't go any farther. My horse and I were both near dropping. Won't you help me? [20] THE CLOD Maby. No, I won't. I don't know who ye are or nothin' 'bout ye, 'cept that them men want t' ketch ye. [In a changed tone of curiosity.] Did ye steal somethin' from 'em? Northerner. Don't you understand.' Those men belong to the Confederacy, and I'm a Nor- therner. They've been chasing me all day. [Pulling a hit of crumbled paper from his breast.] They want this paper. If they get it before to-morrow morning it will mean the greatest disaster that's ever come to the Union army. Mary [vdth frank curiosity]. Was it ye rode by yesterday.'' Northerner. Don't you see what you can do? Get me out of here and away from those men, and you'll have done more than any soldier could do for the country — ^for your country. Mary. I ain't got no country. Me an' Thad's only got this farm. Thad's ailin', an' I do most the work, an' Northerner. The lives of thirty thousand men hang by a thread. I must save them. And you must help me. Mary. I don't know nothin' 'bout ye, an' I don't know what ye're talkin' 'bout. [21] WASmNGTON SQUARE PLAYS Northerner. Only help me get away. Mart [angrily]. No one ever helped me or Thad, I lift no finger in this business. Why ye come here in the first place is beyond me — sneakin' round our house, spoilin' our well-earned sleep. If them soldiers ketch ye, they'll kill me an' Thad. Maybe ye didn't know that. Northerner. What's your life and your hus- band's compared to thirty thousand! I haven't any money or I'd give it to you. Mart. I don't want yer money. Northerner. What do you want? Mart. I want ye t' git away. I don't care what happens t' ye. Only git out of here. Northerner. I can't with the Southerners in the yard. They'd shoot me like a dog. Besides, I've got to have my horse. Mart [with naive curiosity]. What kind o' lookin' horse is it? Northerner [dropping into chair at left of centre table in disgust and despair]. O God! If I'd only turned in at the other farm. I might have found people with red blood. [Pulls out his gun, and hope- lessly opens the empty chamber.] Mart [alarmed]. Whatye goin' t' dowiththatgun? [22] THE CLOD Northerner. Don't be afraid. It's not load- Mary. I'd call 'em in, if I wasn't Northerner [baping to the wall left and bracing himself against it]. Go call them in. Save your poor skin and your husband's if you can. Call them in. You can't save yourself. [Laughs hyster- ically.] You can't save your miserable skin. Cause if they get me, and don't shoot you, I will. Maky [leans against left side of centre table for support; in agony]. Oh! Northerner. You see, you've got to help me whether you want to or not. Mary [feeling absolutely caught]. I ain't done nothin'. I don't see why ye an' them others come here a threatenin' t' shoot me. I don't want nothin'. I don't want t' do nothin'. I jest want ye all t' git out a here an' leave me an' Thad t' go t' sleep. Oh, I don't know what t' do. Ye got me in a corner where I can't move. [Passes her hand bach along the table. Touches the dipper accidentally, and it falls to the floor. Screams at the sound.] Northerner [leaping toward her]. Now you've done it. They'll be here in a minute. You can't give me up. They'll shoot you if you do. They'll shoot. [Hurries upthe stairs, and disappears from sight.] [23] WASHINGTON SQUABE PLAYS [Maby stands beside the table, trembling terribly. The Sergeant, Dick, and Thad- DEUS come running in.] Sergeant. What did you yell for? [No answer.] [Seizing her by the arm.] Answer! Mary. I knocked the dipper off the table. It scared me. Sergeant [dropping wearily into chair at left of centre table]. Well, don't drop our breakfast. Put it on the table. We're ready. Mary [stands gazing at him]. It ain't finished. Officer [worn out by his day's work and Mary's stupidity, from now on absolutely brutish]. You've had time to cook a dozen meals. You're as slow as a snail. What did you do all the time we were in the barn? Mary. I didn't do nothin'. Sergeant. You lazy female. Now get a move on, and give us something fit to eat. Don't try to get rid of any left-overs on us. If you do, you'll suffer for it. [Mary stands looking at him.] Don't you know anything, you brainless farm- drudge? Hurry, I said. [24] THE CLOD [Mary turns to the stove. Thaddeus sits in chair at left of smaller table.] Dick. What a night. My stomach's as hollow as these people's heads. [Takes towel which hangs above the bench and wipes the barrel of his gun with it.\ Makt [sees Dick]. That's one of my best towels. Dick. Can't help it. Sergeant. 'Tend to the breakfast. That's enough for you to do at one time. [Dick puts his gun on the smaller table, and sits at right of centre table.] Sergeant [quietly to Dick]. I don't see how he gave us the slip. Dick. He knew we were after him, and drove his horse in here, and went on afoot. Clever scheme, I must admit. Thaddeus [endeavoring to get them into conversa- tion]. Have ye rid far to-night, misters? Dick [shoiily]. Far enough. Thaddeus. Twenty miles or so? Dick. Perhaps. Thaddeus. How long ye been chasin' the critter? Sergeant. Shut up, man! Don't you see we don't want to talk to you. Take hold and hurry, woman. My patience's at an end. [25] WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYS [Mahy puts a loaf of bread, some fried eggs, and a coffee pot on the table.] Mary. There! I hope ye're satisfied. [The Sehgbant and Dick puU their chairs to the table, and begin to eat.] Sehgeant. Is this all we get? Come, it won't do you any good to be stingy. [Obviously, from now on, everything the Ser- geant says drives Mary nearer mad- ness.] Maky. It's all I got. Sergeant. It isn't a mouthful for a chickadee! Give us some butter. Mary. There ain't none. Sergeant. No butter on a farm? God, the way you lie! Mary. I .■->,.< Sergeant. Shut up ! ^ Dick. Have you got any cider? Sergeant. Don't ask. She and the man probably drank themselves stupid on it. [Throws fork on flocrr.] I never struck such a place in my life. Get me another fork. How do you expect me to eat with that bent thing? [Mary stoops vnih difficulty and picks up the [26] THE CLOD forh. Gets another from the cupboard and gives it to the Sergeant.] Sergeant. Now give us some salt. Don't you know that folks eat it on eggs? [Mary crosses to the cupboard; mistakes the pepper for the salt, and puts it on the table.] Sergeant [sprinJcles pepper on his food]. I said salt, woman! [Spelling.] S-A-L-T. Salt! Salt! [Mary goes to the cupboard; returns to the table with the salt. Almost ready to drop, she drags herself to the window nearer back, and leans against it, watching the South- erners like a hunted animul. Thaddetjs sits nodding in the comer. The Sergeant and Dick go on devouring the food. The Sergeant pours the coffee. Puts his cup to his lips, takes one swallow; then, jumping to his feet and upsetting his chair as he does so, he hurls his cup to the floor. The crash of china stirs Thaddeus. Mary shakes in terror.] Sergeant [bellovnng and pointing to the fluid trickling on the floor]. Have you tried to poison us, you God danm hag? [Mary screams, and the faces of the men turn [27 J WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYS white. It is like the cry of the animal goaded beyond endurance.] Mary [screeching]. Call my coffee poison, will ye? Call me a hag? I'll learn ye! I'm a woman, and ye're drivin' me crazy. [Snatches the gun from tlie wall, points it at the Sergeant, and fires. Keeps on screeching. The Sergeant falls to the floor. Dick rushes for his gun.] Thaddbus. Mary! Mary! Mary [aiming at Dick, and firing]. I ain't a hag, I'm a woman, but ye're killin' me. [Dick falls just as he reaches his gun. Thad- DEUS is in the comer with his hands over his ears. The Northerner stands on the stairs. Mary continues to pull the trigger of the empty gun. The Northerner is motionless far a moment; then he goes to Thaddeus, and shakes him.] Northerner. Go get my horse, quick! [Thaddeus obeys. The Northerner turns to Mary. She gazes at him, but does not understand a word he says.] Northerner {with great fervor]. I'm ashamed of what I said. The whole country will hear of this, and you. [Takes her hand, and presses it to his lips; [28] THE CLOD then turns and hurries ovi of the house. Mart still holds the gun in her hand. She pushes a strand of gray hair back from her face, and begins to pick up the fragments of the broken coffee cup.] Mart [in dead, fled tone]. I'll have to drink out the tin cup now. [The hoof -beats of the Northerner's horse arg heard.] Curtain, l)»l n EUGENICALLY SPEAKING A One-Ad Play By EDWARD GOODMAN Copyright, 1914, by EdtDurd Ooodmua 1^ r!^ 11 EUGENICALLY SPEAKING By EDWARD GOODMAN "Eugenically Speaking" was produced by the Washington Square Players, under the direction of PhiUp Moeller, as part of their first program at the Bandbox Theatre, New York City, beginning February 19, 1915. In the cast, in the order of their appearance, were the following: Una Bhaithewaite . . . Florence Enright Geohge Coxet .... Karl Karsten Mb. Bhaithewaite . . . George C. Somnea Jabvis a manservant . . Ralph Boeder The scene was designed by Engelbert Gminska and Miss Enright's costume by Mrs. Edward Flam- mer. "Eugenically Speaking" was subsequently revived [33] WASHINGTON SQUAEE PLAYS by the Washington Square Players at the Comedy Theatre, New York City, beginning August 30, 1916. In this production Arthur Hohl played the part of George Coxey; Robert Strange, Wm. Braithe- waite; and Spalding Hall, Jarvis. CHARACTERS Una A girl George Coxey A conductor Mr. Braithewaite . ... A financier Jarvis . , A butler Time: Between to-day and to-morrow. Scene: A room in the Braithewaite mansion, richly but tastefully furnished. Among these furnishings it is necessary for the play to note, besides the door at the back, only the table that stands a little to the right of the centre of the room, with a statue on it, and three chairs which stand, on* to the right, one to the left, and one in the middle. It is a winter afternoon, and the room is illumi- nated by invisible lights. Enter Una, followed by George Coxey. Una is a charming, fashionable girl of twenty with o [34] EUGENICALLY SPEAKING suave blend of will and poise. George Coxbt is a handsome, well-built, magnetic-looking youth of about twenty-five. He is dressed in the garb of a street-car conduxstor and carries the cap in his hand. Although somewhat inconvenienced and preoccupied with the novelty of his surroundings and his situa- tion, he remains, in the main, in excellent self- possession, an occasional tunnkle in his eye shoteing thai he is even quietly alive to a certain humor in tht adventure. Above all, his attitude is that rare one, which we like to feel typical of American youth, of facing an unusual situation firmly, and seeing and grasping its possibilities quickly. He stands near the door, waiting, examining the room and warming his hands, while Una goes to the bell and rings it and then proceeds to the mirror to primp a little. When she is finished she turns and notices him. Una. Why, my dear man, sit down. [She points to a chair at the right.] George. Thanks, after you. Una [laughs]. Oh! Excuse me. I forgot. You're a car conductor. Naturally you're polite. George. Not naturally. Miss. But I've learned. [35] WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYS Una. An apt pupil, too. Let me teach you then that the ruder you are to a woman, the more she'll hate you — or love you. [She goes up to him and in- vites him with a gesture.] Sit down. [George remains immobile.] The polite are not only bourgeois, they're boring. George. When I know I'm right, I stick to it. Una. But you must grow tired of standing. George. If I did, I'd lose my job. Una. You have already. Sit down. George [firmly]. After you. Una [taking the chair, centre, and sitting on it]. You're splendid. Now! [George sits in the offered chair a little stiffly.] Una. Isn't that better than ringing up fares? George [smiling at his attempt at a pun]. Fairly. Una [rising, perturbed]. No! You mustn't do that. That's vulgar. George [rising in alarm]. What have I done? Una [vexed again]. Sit down. You mustn't jump up when I do. [He remains standing. Vexed but smiling she sits.] Well, there! [He sits down.] [36] EUGENICALLY SPEAKING You punned ! You mustn't. We all like puns, but it's good form to call them bad taste. [Enter Jabvis the Butler.] Jakvis [starts slightly at perceiving the aiiuation, hid controls himself]. Did you ring for me. Miss? Una, Yes. Please tell my father that I'd like to see him at once. [Jabvis goes out. Una. Do you know the reason that you are here? Geohge. The hundred dollars you gave me. Una. No George. Yes. I wouldn't have left my job if you hadn't given me that. Una. I suppose not. But I mean, do you know why I brought you here? Geobge. I'm waiting to see. Una [enthusiastically]. I wonder if you'll like it. George. Your father? Una. No. Dad's a dear. That is, he is when he sees you mean business. [Enter Mr. Braithewaite. He is a well- preserved man near sixty, almost always com- pletely master oj himself. On seeing CoxBrhe, too, gives a little start and then controls himself.] [37] WASfflNGTON SQUARE PLAYS Bratthewaite. Una, dear? Una [jumping up in excitement]. Oh, Daddy! I'm so glad you were in. [To George who has risen, too.] Keep your seat. Draw up a chair. Dad — I've done it. Braithewaite. Done what? Una [bringing up a chair and placing it to her right]. Do sit down. Dad. He's so delicious. He won't sit down till we do — and you know how much they have to stand. Braithewaite [looks at George and Una and then sits in the chair allotted to him, whereupon Una sits in hers and then George sits down]. Now, dear, what is it you have done? Una. Selected a husband. [George moves a little uneasily. Braithe- waite loolcs at George and then speaks to Una.] Braithewaite. You mean? Una [pointing to George]. Him ! [George rises in discomfiture.] Do sit down. We're all sitting now, you see. [George brings himself to sit down again.] Braithewaite. But, my dear Una. Now don't say a word until you hear the [38] EUGENICALLY SPEAKING whole story. You read that article by Shaw In the Metropolitan, didn't you? I did. You remem- ber what he wrote.'' '"The best eugenic guide is the sex attraction — the Voice of Nature." He thinks the trouble is at present that we dare not marry out of our own sphere. But I'll show you exactly what he says. [She fusses in her handbag and pulls out a sheet of a magazine which she unfolds as she says:] I always carry the article with me. It's so stimulating. Bbaithewaite [protesting]. You're not going to read me a whole Shaw article, are you? It's five o'clock now and we've a dinner date at eight, dear. Una. It's a Shaw article, not a Shaw preface. However, I'll only read the passage I've marked. Listen. [She reads.] "I do not believe you will ever have any improvement in the human race until you greatly widen the area of possible sexual selection; until you make It as wide as the numbers of the community make it. Just consider what occurs at the present time. I walk down Oxford Street, let me say, as a young man." He might just as well have said, "young woman," you know. Bhaithewaite. And? Una [continues reading]. "I see a woman who [39] WASHINGTON SQtAEE PLAYS takes my fancy." With me it would be a man, of course. Braithewaitk. For your purpose, of course. Una [continuing again]. "I fall in love with her. It would seem very sensible in an intelligent com- munity that I should take off my hat and say to this lady: 'Will you excuse me; but you attract me strongly, and if you are not already engaged, would you mind taking my name and address and con- sidering whether you would care to marry me?' [Bbaithewaite looks uncomfortably at George whx) looks uncomfortable, though amused, him- self.] Now I have no such chance at present." Bbaithewaite. Exactly. You see, he admits it. Una. Yes, but why shouldn't I have the chance? That set me thinking. I decided he was right. I am intelligent, am I not? Braithewaite. I refuse to commit myself, dear, until I hear all your story. Una. Well, I decided I'd make the chance. You see, I — I've been led to think recently that I ought to be getting married. Braithewaite. May I ask why? Una. Yes, dear, but I'd rather not answer. [40] EUGENICALLY SPEAKING Bkaithewaitb. I beg pardon. Una. And when I looked about me for the •ossibilities in my own set, I — [she makes a face] — rell, I wasn't attracted. Braithewaite. I admit, in society, as a rule, he women grow stronger and the men weaker. Una. Exactly. And I knew you wanted to be a rroud grandfather. Braithewaite. You're mistaken, dear. I had- I't given the subject any thought; so I had no [esires. Una. Well, I have . . . [Braithewaite «%Mj; kmos that he is perhaps shocked. Una notices thia ',nd cordimies in explanation] given the subject a ;ood deal of thought. I've spent days buying econd-hand clothing to give away at the missions ad lodging houses in order to have a look. Braithewaite. At least there was charity in hat. Una. Yes. You see I didn't want charity to lave to begin at my home. Self-preservation is the irst law of Nature. Braithewaite. And self -propagation, I su;ppose, he second. Una. Well— the missions were no good. Thejr [41] WASmNGTON SQUARE PLAYS were all so starved and pinched-looking there I couldn't tell what they'd be like if they got proper nourishment. And I didn't want to take a chance. So I went to some coal yards. Bbaithewaite. To find the devil not so black as painted? Una [with a grimace]. Blacker! I couldn't see what they looked like. Of course if I could have asked them to wash their faces. Bbaithewaite [looking at George]. Considering what you have done, I don't see Una. I did ask one, but he made some vulgar remark about black dirt and red paint. Sc I left him. Bbaithewaite. And then? Una. I spent all to-day riding up and down town in street cars. It's very fascinating. Dad. All you can see for a nickel! I never realized what s public benefactor you were. Bbaithewaite [modestly]. Oh, I am amply re- paid. Una [in explanation yantly]. Venus has smiled on me. Menelaus. In there beyond the library you will find a room with a bath. Wait there till I call you. Paris. Is this some.trick to catch me? [100] HELENA'S HUSBAND MENELAts. A Spartan cannot lie. Pabis. What will happen to you if the King hears of this? Menelaijs. I will answer for the king. Go [Paris exits into the library. Analttikos [rubbing his hands]. Shall I order the boiling oil? Menelatjs [surprised]. Oil? Analytikos. Now that he is being cleaned fOT the sacrifice. Menelaus. His torture will be greater than being boiled alive. Analttikos [eagerly]. You'll have him hurled from the walls of the palace to a forest of waiting spears below? Menelatjs. None is so blind as he who sees too much. Analttikos. Your Majesty is subtle in his cruelty. Menelaus. Haven't the years taught you the cheapness of revenge? Analttikos [mystified]. You do not intend to alter destiny. Menelaus. Never before has destiny been so clear to me. [101] WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYS Analytikos. Then the boy must die. Menelaus [with slow determination]. No! He has been sent by the Gods to save me ! Analytikos. Your majesty! [He is trembling loith apprehension.] Menelaus [with unbudgeable conviction]. Helena must elope with him ! Analytikos [falling into a seat]. Ye Gods ! Menelaus [quickly]. I couldn't divorce the Queen. That would set a bad example. Analytikos. Yes, very. Menelaus. I. couldn't desert her. That would be beneath my honor. Analytikos [deeply]. Was there no other way? Menelaus [pompously]. The King can do no wrong, and besides I hate the smell of blood. Are you a prophet as well as a scholar.'' Will she go? Analytikos. To-night I will read the stars. Menelaus [meaningfully]. By to-night I'll not need you to tell me. [Analytikos sits deep in thought.] WeU? Analytikos. Ethics cite no precedent. Menelaus. Do you mean to say I'm not justi- fied? [102] HELENA'S HUSBAND Analytikos [cogitating]. Who can establish th« punctilious ratio between necessity and desire? Menelaus [beginning to fume]. This is no time for language. Just put yourself in my place. Analytikos. Being you, how can I judge as I? Menelaus [losing control]. May you choke on your dialectics! Zeus himself could have stood it no longer. Analytikos. Have you given her soul a chance to grow? Menelaus. Her soul, indeed! It's shut in her rouge pot. [He has been strutting about. Suddenly he sits down crushing a roll of papyrus. He takes it up and in utter disgust reads.] "The perfect hip, its development and permanence." Bah! [He flings it to the floor.] I've done what I had to do, and Goda grant the bait may be sweet enough to catch the Queen. Analytikos. If you had diverted yourself with a war or two you might have forgotten your troubles at home. Menelaus [frightened], I detest dissension of any kind — my dream was perpetual peace in com- fortable domesticity with a womanly woman to warm my sandals. [103] WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYS Analytikos. Is not the Queen — — ? Menelaus. No! No! The whole world is but her mirror. And I'm expected to face that woman every morning at breakfast for the rest of my life, and by Venus that's more than even a King can bear! Analytikos. Even a King cannot alter destiny. I warn you, whom the Gods have joined together Menelaus [in an outburst]. Is for man to break asunder! Analytikos [deeply shocked]. You talk like an atheist. MsNELAtrs. I never allow religion to Interfere with life. Go call the victim and see that he be left alone with the Queen. [Menelaus exits and An- alytikos goes over to the door of the library and sum- mons Paris, who enters clad in a gorgeous robe.] Pabis. I found this in there. It looks rather well, doesn't it? Ah! So you're alone. I sup- pose that stupid friend of yours has gone to tell the King. When do I see the Queen.'' Analytikos. At once. [He goes to the door of the Queen's apartment and claps his hand. Tsumu en- ters and at the sight of her Pakis recoils the full length of the room.] Paris. I thought the Queen was a blonde ! [104] HELENA'S HUSBAND Analytikos. Tell Her Majesty a stranger awaits her here. [TsuMU exits, her eyes wide on Pabis. You should thank the Gods for this moment. Paris {his eyes on the door]. You do it for me. I can never remember all their names. [Helena enters dad in her Sicily blue, crowned with a garland of golden flowers. She and Paris stand riveted, looking at each other. Their attitude might be described as fatalistic. Analytikos watches them for a Tuoment and then with hands and head lifted to heaven he goes into the library.] Paris [quivering with emotion]. I have the most strange sensation of having seen you before. Some- thing I can't explain Helena [quite practically]. Please don't bother about all sorts of fine distinctions. Under the in- fluence of Analytikos and my husband, life has be- come a mess of indecision. I'm a simple, direct woman and I expect you to say just what you think. Paris. Do you? Very well, then [Eecomes a step nearer to her.] Fate is impelling me toward you. Helena. Yes. That's much better. So you're [105] WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYS a fatalist. It's very Greek. I don't see what our dramatists would do without it. Paris. In my country there are no dramatists. We are too busy with reality. Helena. Your people must be uncivilized bar- barians. Paris. My people are a genuine people. There is but one thing we worship. Helena. Don't tell me it's money. Paris. It's Helena. Analytikos says if there weren't any money, there wouldn't be any of those ridiculous sociahsts. Paris. It isn't money. It's sincerity. Helena. I, too, believe in sincerity. It's the loveliest thing in the world. Paris. And the most dangerous. Helena. The truth is never dangerous. Paris. Except when told. Helena [making room on the couch for him to sit next to her]. You mustn't say wicked things to me. Paris. Can your theories survive a test? Helena [beautifully]. Truth is eternal and sur- vives all tests. [106] HELENA'S HUSBAND Pabis. No. Perhaps, after all, your soul is not ready for the supremest heights. Helena. Do you mean to say I'm not religious? Religion teaches the meaning of love. Paris. Has it taught you to love your husband? Helena [starting up and immediately sitting down again\. How dare you speak to me like that? Paris. You see. I was right. [He goes toward the balcony. \ Helena [stoprping him]. Whatever made you think so? Paris. I've heard people talk of the King. You could never love a man like that. Helena [beautifully]. A woman's first duty is to love her husband. Paris. There is a higher right than duty. Helena [vnth conviction]. Right is right. Paris [with admiration]. The world has libelled you. Helena. Me! The Queen? Paris. You are as wise as you are beautiful. , Helena [smiling coyly]. Why, you hardly know me. \ Paris. I know you! I, better than all men. Helena. You? [107] WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYS Paris [rapturously]. Human law has given you to Menelaus, but divine law makes you mine. Helena [in amazement]. What! Pahis. I alone appreciate your beauty. I alone can reach your soul. Helena. Ah ! Paris. You hate your husband! Helena [dravdng back]. Why do you look at me like that? Paris. To see if there's one woman in the world who dares tell the truth, Helena. My husband doesn't understand me. Paris [mth conviction]. I knew you detested him. Helena. He never listens to my aspirations. Paris. Egoist. Helena [assuming an irresistible pose]. I'm tired of being only lovely. He doesn't realize the mean- ing of spiritual intercourse, of soul communion. Paris. Fool! Helena. You dare call Moo Moo a fool? Paris. Has he not been too blind to see that your soul outshines your beauty? [Then, very dramati- cally.] You're stifling! Helena [clearing her throat]. I — I Paris. He has made you sit upon your wingi> [108] HELENA'S HUSBAND [Helena, jumping up, tkifU h§r potition.] You are groping in the darkness. Helena. Don't be silly. It's very light in here. Pabis [undisturbed]. You are stumbling, and I have come to lead you. [Re steps toward her.] Helena. Stop right there! [Paris stops.] No man but the King can come within ten feet of me. It's a court tradition. Paris. Necessity knows no tradition. [He falls on his knees before her.] I shall come close to you, though the flame of your beauty consume me. Helena. You'd better be careful what you say to me. Remember I'm the Queen. Paris. No man weighs his words who has but a moment to live. Helena. You said that exactly lik^ an actor. [He leans very close to her.] What are you doing now? Paris. I am looking into you. You are the clear glass in which I read the secret of the universe. Helena. The secret of the universe. Ah! Per- haps you could understand me. Paris. First you must understand yourself. Helena [inttincHvely taking up a mirror]. How? [109] WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYS Paris. You must break with all this prose. [With an unconscious gesture he sweeps a tray of toilet articles from the table. Helena emits a little shriek.] Helena. The ointment! Paris [rushing to the window and pointing to the distance]. And climb to infinite poesie! Helena [catching his enthusiasm, says very blandly]. There is nothing in the world like poetry. Paris [lyrically]. Have you ever heard the poig- nant breathing of the stars.? Helena. No. I don't beUeve in astrology. Paris. Have you ever smelt the powdery mists of the sun? Helena. I should sneeze myself to death. Paris. Have you ever listened to the sapphire soul of the sea? Helena. Has the sea a soul? But please don't stop talking. You do it so beautifully. Paris. Deeds are sweeter than words. Shall we go hand in hand to meet eternity? Helena [not comprehending him]. That's very pretty. Say it again. Paris [passionately]. There's but a moment of life left me. I shall stifle it in ecstasy. Helena, Helena, I adore you! [110] HELENA'S HUSBAND Helena [jumping up in high surprise]. You're not making love to me, you naughty boy? Paris. Helena! Helena. You've spoken to me so little, and already you dare to do that. Paris [impetuously], I am a lover of life, I skip the inessentials. Helena, Remember who I am. Paris. I have not forgotten. Daughter of Heaven. [Sudd^y he leaps to his feet.] Listen! Helena. Shhh! That's the King and Analyti- kos in the library, Paris. No! No! Don't you hear the flutter of wings? Helena, Wings? Paris [ecstatically]. Venus, mother of Love! Helena [alarmed]. What is it? Paris, She has sent her messenger. I hear the patter of little feet. Helena. Those little feet are the soldiers below in the courtyard. [A trumpet sounds.] Paris [the truth of the situation breaking through his emotion]. In a moment I shall be killed. Helena. Killed? Paris. Save me and save yourself! [Ill] WASmNGTON SQUARE PLAYS Helena. Myself? Paris. I shall rescue you and lead you on to life. Helena. No one has ever spoken to me like that before. Pabis. This is the first time your ears have heard the truth. Helena. Was it of you I've been dreaming.' Pabis. Your dream was but your unrealized desire. Helena. Menelaus has never made me feel like this. [And then with a tudden shriek.] Oh! I'm a wicked woman! Paris. No! No! Helena. For years I've been living with a man I didn't love. Paris. Yes! Yes! Helena. I'm lost! Paris M a fo«s]. No! Yes! Yes! No! Helena. It was a profanation of the most holy. Paris. The holiest awaits you, Helena! Our love will lighten the Plutonian realms. Helena. Menelaus never spoke to me like that. Paris. 'Tis but the first whisper of my adora- tion. Helena. I can't face him every morning rt [112] HELENA'S HUSBAND breakfast for the rest of my life. That's even more than a Queen can bear. Paris. I am waiting to release you. Helena. I've stood it for seven years. Paris. I've been coming to you since the begin- ning of time. Helena. There is something urging me to go with you, something I do not understand. Paris. Quick! There is but a moment left us. [He takes her rapturously in his arms. There is a passionate embrace in the midst of which Tsumu enters.] TsxJMU. The chiropodist has come. Helena. Bring me my outer garment and my purse. [Tsumu exits, her eyes wide on Paris. Paris. Helena! Helena! [Helena looks about her and takes up tht papyrus that Menelaus has flung to tht floor.] Helena. A last word to the King. [She looks at the papyrus.] No, this won't do; I shall have to take this with me. Paris. What is it? JBelena. Maskanda's discourse on the hip. [US] WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYS [A trumpet sounds below in the courtyard.] Paris [excitedly]. Leave it — or your hip may cost me my head. We haven't a minute to spare. Hurry ! Hurry ! [Helena takes up an eyebrow pencil and writes on the back of the papyrus. She looks for a place to put it and -seeing the shield she smears it with some of the ointment and sticks the papyrus to it.] Paris [waiching her in ecstasy]. You are the fairest of all fair women and your name will blaze as a symbol throughout eternity. [TsuMU enters with the purse and the Queen's outer robe.] Helena [tossing the purse to Paris]. Here, we may need this. Paris [throwing it back to TauMu]. This for your silence, daughter of darkness. A prince has no heed of purses. TsDMTJ [looking at him]. A prince! Helena [gloriously]. My prince of poetry. My deliverer! Paris [divinely]. My queen of love! [They go out, TauMU looking after them in speechless amazement. Suddenly she see* [ 114 ] HELENA'S HUSBAND {he papyrus on the shield, runs over and reads it and then rushes to the door of the library.] TstTMtr [calling]. Analytikos. [She hides the purse in her bosom. Analytikos enters, scroll in hand.] Analytikos. Has the Queen summoned me? TsxjMXJ [mysteriously], A terrible thing has hap- pened. Analytikos. What's the matter? TsuMU. Where's the King? Analytikos. In the library. TstiMXJ. I have news more precious than the gold of Midas. Analytikos [giving her a purse]. Well! What i«it? TsuMU [speaking very dramatically and watching the effect of her words]. The Queen has desertsd Menelaus. Analytikos [receiving the shock philosophicatty]. Swift are the ways of Nature. The Gods have smiled upon him. TsuMtT. The Gods have forsaken the Tiding to smile upon a prince. Analytikos. What? [116] WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYS TsuMU. He was a prince. Analytikos [apprehensively]. Why do you say that? TsuMD [clutching her bosom]. I have a good rea- son to know. [There is a sound of voices below in the court- yard. Menelaus rushes in expectantly. TsvMV falls prostrate before him.] Oh, King, in thy bottomless agony blame not a blameless negress. The Queen has fled ! Menelaus [in his delight forgetting himself and flinging her a purse]. Is it true? TsuMU. Woe! Woe is me! Menelaus [storming]. Out of my sight, you eyeless Argus ! Analytikos [to TsuMu]. Quick, send a messen- ger. Find out who he was. [TsuMU sticks the third purse in her bosom and runs out.] Menelaus [with radiant hapjnness, kneeling be- fore the bust of Zeus]. Ye Gods, I thank ye. Peace and a happy life at last. [The shouts in the courtyard grow louder.] Analytikos. The news has spread through the palace. [116] HELENA'S HUSBAND Menelaus [in trepidation, springing up]. No one would dare stop the progress of the Queen. TsuMU [rushes in and prostrates herself before the King]. Woe is me! They have gone by the road to the harbor. Menelaus [anxiottsij/]. Yes! Yes! TsTTMU. By the King's orders no man has dared gaze upon Her Majesty. They all fell prostrate before her. Menelaus. Good! Good! [Attempting to cover his delight.] Go! Go! You garrulous dog. [Tsxnau gets up and points to shield. An- ALYTiKos and the King look toward it. Analytikos tears off the papyrus and brings it to Menelaus. Tsumu, watching them, exits.] Menelaus [reading]. "I am not a bad woman. I did what I had to do." How Greek to blame fate for what one wants to do. [Tsumu again comes tumbling in.] Tsumu [again prostrate before the King]. A rumor flies through the city. He — he Analytikos [anxiously]. Well? Well? Tsumu. He — ^he Menelaus [furiously to Analytikos], Rid me of this croaking raven. [117] WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYS TsuMU. Evil has fallen on Sparta. He Analytikos. Yes — ^yes Menelaus [in a rage]. Out of my sight, perfidious Nubian. [Sounds of confusion in the cowtyard. Svd^ denly she springs to her feet and yells at the top of her voice.] TsuMU. He was Paris, Prince of Troy ! [They all start back. Analytikos stumbles into a seat. Menelaus turns pale. TsuMU leers like a black Nemesis.] Analytikos [very ominously]. Who can read the secret of the Fates.? Menelaus [frightened]. What do you mean? Analytikos. He is the son of Priam, King of Troy. TsuMU [adding fuel]. And of Hecuba, Queen of the Trojans. [She rushes out to spread the news.] Analytikos. That makes the matter int«r- national. Menelaus [quickly]. But we have treaties with Troy. Analytikos. Circumstances alter treaties. They will mean nothing. Menelaus. Nothing? [118] HELENA'S HUSBAND Analttikos. No more than a scrap of papyrus. Sparta will fight to regain her Queen. Mbnelaus. But I don't want her back. Analytikos. Can you tell that to Sparta? Remember, the King can do no wrong. Last night I dreamed of war. Menelaus. No! No! Don't say that. After the scandal I can't be expected to fight to get her back. Analttikos. Sparta will see with the eyes of chivalry. Menelaus [fuming]. But I don't beUeve in war. Analttikos [still obdurate]. Have you forgotten the oath pledged of old, with Ulysses and Agamem- non? They have sworn, if ever the time came, to fight and defend the Queen. Menelaus [bitterly]. I didn't 'think of the triple alliance. Analttikos. Can Sparta ask less of her King? Menelaus. Let's hear the other side. We can perhaps arbitrate. Peace at any price. Analttikos. Some bargains are too cheap. Menelaus [hopelessly]. But I am a pacifist. Analttikos. You are Menelaus of Sparta, and Sparta's a nation of soldiers. 1118] WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYS Menelaus [desperately]. I am too proud to fight! Analytikos. Here, put on your shield. [A great clamor comes up from the courtyard. Analytikos steps out on the balcony and is greeted vnth shouts of " The King! The King!" Addressing the croicd.] People of Sparta, this calamity has been forced upon us. [Menelaus winces.] We are a peaceful people. But thanks to our unparal- leled efficiency, the military system of Sparta is the most powerful in all Greece and we can mobilize in half an howc. [Loud acclaims from the people. Menelaus, the papyrus still in hand, crawls over and attempts to stop Analytikos.] Analytikos [not noticing him]. In the midst of connubial and communal peace the thunderbolt has fallen on the King. [Menelaus tugs at Analytikos' robe.] Broken in spirit as he is, he is already pawing the ground like a battle steed. Never will we lay down our arms! We and Jupiter! [Cheers.] Never until the Queen is restored to Menelaus. Never, even if it takes ten years. [Menelaus squirms. A loud cheer.] [ 180] HELENA'S HUSBAND Even now the King fs buckling on his shield. [More cheers. Analttikos steps farther forward and then vnth bursting eloquence.] One hate we have and one alone! [Yells from below.] Hate by water and hate by land. Hate of the head and hate of the hand. Hate of Paris and hate of Troy That has broken the Queen for a moment's toy. [The yells grow fiercer.] Zeus' thunder will shatter the Trojan thron«. We have one hate and one alone! [Menelatjs sits on the floor dejectedly- looking at the papyrus. A thunder of voices from the people.] We have one hate and one alone. Troy I Troy ! [Helmets and swords are thrown into the air. The cheers grow tumuttuous, trumpets are blovm, and the curtain falls.] [1«1J THE COUNTRY LOE PK£SS OABDEN CITT, N. T.