CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 Joseph Whitmore Barry 
 dramatic library 
 
 THE GIFT 01 
 TWO FRIENDS 
 
 OF Cornell University 
 1934 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR 6045.E26E7 
 
 Esau & The beacon; five plays. 
 
 3 1924 013 237 197 
 
A Cornell University 
 y Library 
 
 The original of tliis bool< is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013237197 
 
ESAU AND THE BEACON 
 
:^^G^^HM*liK2bJ?^ 
 
ESAU Sf THE BEACON 
 
 FIVE PLAYS 
 
 BY 
 
 KENNETH WEEKS 
 
 AUTHOR OF ~ 
 "THE VICTORY OF SEDAN," 
 "DRIFTWOOD," ETC. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 GEORGE ALLEN & COMPANY, LTD. 
 
 44 & 45 RATHBONE PLACE 
 1912 
 
 [All rights reserved] 
 
Printed by Ballantvnk, Hanson Sr" Co. 
 At the BalUntyne Pren, Edinburgh 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 SARA I 
 
 ESAU 35 
 
 CARDOR'S DUEL 131 
 
 THE BEACON 153 
 
 PH^LYSMORT 247 
 
SARA 
 
 A TRAGEDY FOR MUSIC 
 IN ONE ACT 
 
 TO 
 BROUSSAIS C. BECK 
 
PERSONAGES 
 
 Clement, a Priest. 
 
 Veran, a Fisherman. 
 
 Sara, a Bohemian Princess. 
 
 Ph^lyo, an Old Man. 
 
 Three Fishermen and a Bohemian. 
 
 A Choir and Three Boys. 
 
 Bohemians, Fishermen, Peasants, &c. 
 
 Commencement of the Thirteenth Century: Easier Day. 
 
 The interior of the church at Les Saintes-Maries de la Mer, 
 showing the apse, choir, and two bays of the nave. On the 
 right a door, with a basin for holy water, and near the steps 
 a well surrounded by an iron grille. In the apse there is an 
 altar on three steps which bears an enormous cross, a reli- 
 quary, and two rows of candelabra. Near the opening for 
 the staircase to the crypt, and directly over the door to the 
 latter, is a platform approached by several steps which is 
 covered with a heavy cloth of purple and gold. Along the 
 walls of the choir are benches, and in the nave chairs. The 
 modern grille about the stairs, the relics, galleries, &c., are 
 removed. Before the altar the Host burns feebly. 
 
ERRATA 
 
 P. 19, 1. II from top, "to world" should be "the world." 
 P. 24, 1. 9 from top, " pridres " should be " priferes." 
 P. 54, 1. 13 from top, " Acturas " should be " Arcturus." 
 P. 168, last line but one from foot, " Louis VI." should be 
 "Louis XVI." 
 
 EsoM and the Beacon. 
 
SARA 
 
 A TRAGEDY FOR MUSIC 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 The curtain rises heavily and the stage remains 
 in silence for a moment. Then the door opens, 
 a grey light from the clouds -penetrates, and 
 waves are heard breaking along the shore. An 
 Old Man comes in, who crosses himself, ascends 
 the steps, and proceeds to pull a rope that is 
 hung in the choir near the wall. A bell tolls 
 slowly and dismally, continuing by its own 
 weight to strike after the Old Man ceases to 
 move it. He then kneels before the altar, lifting 
 his hands in pffayer. 
 
 Old Man. Salom^ ! Mary Salome ! And thou, 
 sweet Mary, blessed Madeleine, Mother of Charity ! 
 And thou fair Mary Jacobs, thrice blessed in holi- 
 ness ! O Holy Trinity of Truth, which knew no 
 death though cast upon fierce seas to die ! And 
 Sara, thou exiled servitor of such fearful grace ! I 
 beseech you to hear me, I supplicate your awful 
 wisdom, I entreat you to hearken to the words of 
 one among your children ! I ask for but a simple 
 gift, a gift ungiven by human hands. I see the 
 
4 SARA 
 
 dead lie sleeping by the sea, beaten by the winds, 
 and whitened by the foam. I hear the wildness of 
 the sea, I hear the waves that sing slow songs, and I 
 long to flee far from the wild sea which sings. I 
 long to pass far from men, for they do not tell me 
 why they live, nor why is life. O Saintes-Maries, 
 for what is life ? Why is it ? I do not know ; no 
 one knows. [^ pause. 
 
 Surely I hear strange sounds ! The beating of 
 wings approaches me, the wings of angels pure and 
 white ! 'Tis they ! 'tis they ! The Saintes-Maries 
 descend, they come, the heavens open ! I see a 
 glow like a sword of flame ! I hear sweet music, 
 and I smell the perfumes of Paradise ! It is more 
 beautiful than beauty ! The saints are bathed in 
 light, each with a lily, one red, one yellow, one 
 white ! I see doves in the air whose feet are dragons 
 which breathe forth flame ! The air is a storm of 
 rosy mist hung full of stars ! There are sounds 
 like the wind singing in a cavern of ice, breaking 
 the icicles ! They speak ! I hear you, holy Saints ! 
 Speak unto me ! 
 
 Voice {from above). Oh timid man, who ques- 
 tions life ! Life is for love, and aU its pain is love. 
 Look upon life and you will see. Look upon life 
 and judge. [A silence. 
 
 Old Man. I am weak. I hear the wilderness of 
 the sea. 
 
 [He rises, staggers, and falls in a corner with his 
 back against the wall facing the scene. 
 
SARA 5 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 There is a -pause, and then steps are heard on 
 the sands outside. Three Fishermen and a 
 Bohemian enter, hearing on their shoulders an 
 improvised stretcher resembling a table. Upon 
 it is the body of '2w.ii.YO, apparently drowned. 
 
 Old Man. Phelyo ! My daughter ! 
 \The Fishermen advance slowly, leaving the table 
 before the staircase to the crypt in the centre of 
 the stage. 
 
 1ST Fisherman. They were like two stars trem- 
 bling in the vastness of hollow heaven, never 
 approaching, never speaking, yet vibrating with 
 silent love and autumnal passion. 
 
 2ND Fisherman. They were like frozen flowers 
 in the night of life. 
 
 Bohemian. They die upon the day when life 
 re-lives. 
 
 1ST Fisherman. They say the sea thirsts for men's 
 bodies, and possesses them with more passion than 
 do women. The Saints do not struggle any longer 
 against the sea. 
 
 2ND Fisherman. They have no more love for 
 men. The passion of their spirit has burnt away. 
 
 3RD Fisherman. The sea loves cruelly with a 
 hunger inconsiderate in its satiation. 
 
 2ND Fisherman. The love of the Saints has no 
 end other than to sacrifice. 
 
6 SARA 
 
 Bohemian. Such love men cannot experience. 
 It is not love when the body is forgotten. It is 
 something more noble, more perfect, more precious. 
 
 1ST Fisherman. That alone is love ; the other is 
 appetite, but men can have but appetite until they 
 lose their bodies. Then they will be god. 
 
 3RD Fisherman. I shall never be god. I could 
 not exist without my body. 
 
 1ST Fisherman. You are god. 
 
 2ND Fisherman. As for me, if I am god, I am 
 not the god of heaven. 
 
 Bohemian. Our children will be a god more 
 powerful than we. No thing is real. \The Bohemian 
 and two of the Fishermen descend into the cry ft. 
 The third finds two candles behind the altar, lights 
 them, and -places them at the head o/THiLYO.] 
 
 3RD Fisherman. You were not like the sea ! 
 \He goes down into the crypt and the church remains 
 silent. 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 The waves are heard continually upon the beach 
 and the flames balance uncertainly. Suddenly 
 Veran appears at the door. He puts his hands 
 to his eyes, pauses a moment on the sill, and 
 then hurries forward towards PniLYO. 
 
 Veran. Ph^lyo ! Phelyo ! Thou ! Thou ! It is 
 thou ! Not dead ! Speak to me ! Open your 
 
SARA 7 
 
 eyes ! Say that you are living ! God ! O God ! 
 I am alone, alone, alone ! 
 
 [He throws himself on his knees, falls upon the 
 
 drowned girl, lifts her head in frenzy, kissing 
 
 it madly, and breaking into tears rests with 
 
 his arms about her body. Then suddenly he 
 
 rises in fury, beats his head with his hands, and 
 
 stretches them towards the vault. 
 
 Cursed be the Saintes-Maries ! Cursed be God ! 
 
 Cursed be the sea ! I hate it, hate it, hate it ! 
 
 I hate God ! There is nothing that has the right 
 
 to take Phelyo from me, to steal Phelyo, to leave me 
 
 alone. Phelyo, my soul, my life ! I hate God with 
 
 all the hatred of my life ! 
 
 \He rests motionless with his eyes closed and his 
 
 arms outstretched. Then with childish sobbing 
 
 he falls across Phelyo and weep -passionately. 
 
 Little by little he quiets himself, exhausted by 
 
 his passion, and at last he half sits up. 
 
 Phelyo, my Phelyo ! Like a flashing fish of gold 
 
 against the waves, struggling to reach the sapphire 
 
 depths, dying at last upon the hard and saffron 
 
 sands, a blur of vermilion on a silken veil ! I 
 
 hear the roarings of a thousand voices from the sea, 
 
 of a thousand fearful voices. {A pause.) The sun 
 
 has fallen, and now the starless night comes forth to 
 
 take me. Yes, it has already taken me, for I no 
 
 longer see the way, and I bruise myself against the 
 
 trees. Night lessens aU the pains of life and gives 
 
 to the lover the soul of his beloved — as to me. 
 
8 SARA 
 
 The last time this I meet you. How different 
 from the first ! The passionate sun then fell along 
 the plains and made them fruitful ; the stallions, 
 proud and free, raced across Camargue to join their 
 mates, and all the world was singing at its work. 
 On the sands the emerald sea broke into crystals, 
 while the mistral blew across the marshes fresh and 
 pure. The village clung about the fortress church 
 with flashing walls ; the unpaved streets sunk into 
 the sand, and all along the dyke black nets were 
 hung to dry. Beneath them ancient women and 
 time-used men with little children mixed, watched 
 how the fishers parted from the shore ; and on the 
 beach dogs fled with anxious wails, their voices torn 
 by the wind. What gaiety, what wealth of joy ! 
 The cloudless air let pass the sun unhindered, and 
 a so brilliant colour, a so vivid atmosphere, abounded, 
 that one floated free from earth, head lost. 
 
 I saw the boats pushed each by four strong men 
 whose legs were green across the limpid water ; I 
 saw them pull with shortened strokes against the 
 waves, while the fishermen at the stern passed out 
 the nets across the rail. They made a semicircle, 
 landing on the shore a quarter mile away, dragged 
 back the boat to earth, and drew in the nets until 
 at length the fish shone madly leaping on the sand. 
 They washed the nets, which you, Phelyo, you, 
 brought back upon your shoulders to the wall. 
 
 I saw you, and my heart lost motion. I weakened, 
 I closed my eyes, I fell, and when I woke again 
 
SARA 9 
 
 your eyes were gazing into mine, your arms were 
 passed beneath my head. " We were alone. Before 
 us a gentle grove of hawthorn rose fantastically 
 against the sty from which the sun had but now 
 fled, while red, emerald, and blue, the clouds held 
 between the blackened lace of twigs a star, resem- 
 bling a flower of Paradou. The sea whispered to 
 itself, and the sands were warm with a warmth 
 almost divine. Afar, the sounds of supper rose, 
 lights cast their bands across the streets, and deep- 
 mouthed bells rang vespers. 
 
 I imprisoned you with my arms, I drew your 
 head to mine, I closed my eyes, and during an 
 eternity your lips lay burning mine. 
 
 SCENE IV 
 
 The Bohemian comes up the crypt and goes to 
 the hell-rope, which he tolls slowly. The hell 
 rings during the rest of Veran's speech. 
 
 Veran. Later the hawthorn and the heaven 
 melted into black, and overhead the stars made up 
 a company of diamonds like drops of water on a net 
 hung out to dry, through which the sun poured 
 liquid light. Then your fireside warm and gay, 
 with benches underneath the hood, and a swollen 
 copper kettle, on whose sides the flames watched 
 themselves dance. Within, the steam sung a 
 melody in accompaniment, and impatient, escaped 
 to dance itself with sparks and smoke in the gloomy 
 
10 SARA 
 
 waste of chimney. I see the colour of those flames. 
 They were green and blue, for they had been once 
 scattered on the shores where they were filled with 
 salty copper from the boats. The sable cat looked 
 on with eyes wide drawn in which a rounded weU 
 forced back the green, and he purred in violence to 
 the silent night. I see the pale curtains at the 
 stealthy windows lighted by the twilight of the 
 flames, and you before me, your eyes sunk into 
 mine and reflecting the fire's rhythm, clear as the 
 polished marbles of Rome. 
 
 When we stole out, the moon was like a whitened 
 rose, half-frozen in a bowl of lapis-lazuli. A ring, 
 balanced on the earth, embraced it. It was like a 
 golden staircase by which young souls might climb. 
 It was like a wall to defend entrance to the over- 
 loving stars, forbidding them even to see the chastity 
 of the moon. I remember that a star leapt sud- 
 denly over the circle to vanish in the mists above 
 her. The mice danced upon the sands in half- 
 diluted light, and we watched the sea, cheek against 
 cheek, hand held in hand, in a peace unbroken, a 
 peace more pure than the light about us. (fle 
 looks far away unseeingly.) I feel faint ; some weight 
 lies crushing on my heart. {He looks about him and 
 sees the well.) A well ? {He rises hastily, remem- 
 bering where he is.) You are not more than iU ? 
 Phelyo, you are not dead ? Speak, speak, look at me ! 
 [He rubs Ph^lyo's hands and then bends over her 
 in an excess of grief unconscious. The 
 
SARA n 
 
 Bohemian ceases ringing the hell and goes 
 down into the crypt, 
 
 SCENE V 
 
 Suddenly a square of sunlight falls through the door 
 across the pavement, bathing Ph^lyo and 
 Veran, who lie in its path, hut not illuminating 
 the church. A shadow appears in it, and on 
 the sill Sara halts motionless. She looks about 
 her half -fiercely, and seeing Veran, moves 
 towards him. She does not look at PniiLYO, 
 but rests before Veran with her hands clasped 
 behind her back. 
 
 Sara. He is like a young horse, he is like the 
 autumn sun floating in the smoke of burning leaves. 
 His cheeks are fresh as the petals of a rose, they are 
 warm and soft, and his lips are red, so red, that 
 there is nothing in the world so red. He is proud 
 and strong ! Oh ! I am sure he is fiercely passionate, 
 but he is pure, because he is too beautiful to love 
 the daughters of the sea. I wish to touch him, 
 but I am afraid. I must touch him — ^yes, I ought 
 to touch him. How beautiful he is ! He re- 
 sembles a cabridelle which the wind has broken 
 and which sleeps among the grasses. He is like 
 a group of purple grapes on the slopes of the 
 Cevennes. I wish to touch him. Why does he 
 sleep ? He ought not to sleep ! Awake, Veran ! 
 [Veran half sits up and looks at Sara for several 
 moments without speaking. 
 
12 SARA 
 
 Veran. Go away ! I want to be alone. 
 
 Sara. How wonderful he is ! I have never seen 
 a man more beautiful. His eyes are like the eyes 
 of a young panther, with a lake of blue inside. I 
 can see myself in them. 
 
 Veran. Go ! Who are you ? Do not speak to 
 me like that ! I wish to be alone. It is not right 
 that you should talk to me like that. 
 
 Sara. His hair is black, more black than the 
 bottom of a well. It is of the silk of worms which 
 make cocoons, and seeking the sun fly away to burn 
 themselves. His hair is a crown which clasps his 
 head and fades away in little waves along his neck. 
 The wind kisses it when he works. I should like 
 to kiss his hair. 
 
 Veran. Bohemian ! Silence ! I do not love you. 
 I hate you, you, and all your race. 
 
 Sara. His voice rings clear as bronze ! I heard 
 an organ at Aries which resembled his voice. Speak 
 again, Veran, speak to me ! Tell me what you wish 
 and it shall be done. Command, and I will obey, 
 unless it be to leave you. (Veran is silent.) He is 
 deaf ! Speak ! Speak, and teU me what must be 
 done. (A pause.) He is more supple than a panther, 
 but as nervous as a stallion. I should like to see 
 him standing on the sands with the sea kissing his 
 feet. His feet are like two eagles. I should like 
 to be the sea, and I should drown him. I should 
 take him to the caverns where pale light falls on 
 beds of fern and on lines of pearls, on pink and 
 
SARA 13 
 
 faded pearls. But no ! I should rather be the 
 wind to play among his curls, to swing about his 
 neck, and to enter into his open mouth. I could 
 flow between his knees and pour over all his body 
 as a stream pours over wallowing rocks. Then I 
 should take him with me to the clouds, the red and 
 purple clouds, which mingle in globes like the skins 
 of dampened grapes, the clouds which gather in 
 little troops and sail the heavens together, always 
 together. There I should lay him on a couch of 
 mist, and we should always be together. Everything 
 I own I would give to him, and I would bring them 
 to him on my knees along a tree-lined avenue. I 
 want to touch him ! i^A pause.) I should like to 
 buy him. {A pause.) I have horses, twelve stallions 
 and twelve mares. They are yours if you wish 
 them. 
 
 Veran. Go ! 
 
 Sara. I have pearls that were stolen from 
 travellers, pearls as large as cherries, which have a 
 priceless value. They came from China long ago. 
 Do you wish them ? 
 
 Veran. Why should I want pearls ? 
 
 Sara. I have an emerald that they found in a 
 crown which a dead king lost. See, it is yours ! 
 
 Veran. I do not want it. Leave me with 
 Ph%o. 
 
 [He sinks to the -floor, his cheek against Ph£lyo's 
 hand, and closes his eyes. 
 
 Sara. He would be superb upon a horse. You 
 
14 SARA 
 
 would be happy on a horse, Veran. No law, no 
 master, free to go where you wish, to visit Baux 
 and the tombs at St. Remy, where hides the cabro 
 d'or. We could seek the treasure with its red star 
 rubies, its golden cups, and its silver platters. We 
 could see St. Gilles' new church with its three 
 carved gates which resemble coast-strewn rocks half- 
 eaten by the sea like woven coral. And I know the 
 cave where died your Mary Madeleine. There we 
 might live among the pines in liberty ! The sun is 
 always warm, life always joyful, and you might be 
 king, the possessor of unknown treasure. (J pause.) 
 I will touch his hair. (She touches his head timidly 
 and draws back.) His hair is as soft as the silk of a 
 thistle. My fingers touched it ! I have touched 
 him — ^but I am afraid. It pains me to touch him. 
 I am thirsty. (She goes to the well and drinks some 
 water. Then she lies on the tiles before Veran, 
 where from time to time she lifts her arms towards 
 him) Like a kitten's are his eyes ! His skin is more 
 beautiful than the evening sky where the sun leaves 
 scarlet mist melting into saffron, and his eyes are 
 two stars beneath black clouds. His skin clings 
 gently and is like the bloom of a gardenia, yet 
 more rich in heavy perfume. It is warm, and I 
 can see the veins upon his neck rising and falling 
 like the branches of a tree which is cradled by the 
 wind. 
 
 One night I found a marble head half-buried 
 in the fields, and I kissed its lips in fear because, 
 
SARA IS 
 
 perhaps, there was some spirit in them. It was your 
 spirit that was in them, Veran. Your nose is finely- 
 delicate yet strong, and your nostrils quiver with 
 fierce sensitiveness. I saw a fountain in a grove 
 which lay so clearly quiet that it seemed substantial. 
 Within it the leaves of autumn showed their green 
 and russet colours as clearly as through a crystal 
 bowl, and in the obscurity of the forest a faded light 
 played on its surface. Suddenly a vermilion flash 
 shot out, and I saw an orchid balanced on the edge 
 which burnt the quiet water. Your mouth 
 drunkens me. 
 
 I love your ears, Veran. I want to touch your 
 body ! I wish to feel it aU along my own ! I 
 wish to be crushed by its weight, and to confound 
 myself with it. {She drags herself over the tiles and 
 lies curving about him. After a moment she caresses 
 him without touching him, and af-proaches her mouth 
 to his hut without kissing him.) Your breath ! 
 
 [She lies at his feet motionless. 
 
 Veran. One day she found a ring among the nets, 
 a ring of gold with figures and a hole where once 
 had been a stone. She gave it to me and I saw her 
 teeth glinting as she smiled. Later we passed far 
 from the village and played among the trees. I 
 remember a lizard which we caught and left captive 
 in a prison of sand. I bought it for three green 
 leaves. 
 
 Sara. I touch his feet. 
 
 Veran. I hung her room with silks that my father 
 
i6 SARA 
 
 found in Africa, Yellow silks with arabesques in 
 rose. 
 
 Sara. He is like a God of Egypt, so motionless, 
 looking always far away. Why does he look before 
 him ? I do not know why he does so. He ought 
 to look at me. 
 
 Veran. She said that happiness passed by with 
 the wind. She said the sea desired her, and I did 
 not hear the tumult of sad voices then. 
 
 Sara. I do not understand this man. I must 
 touch him or he will not see me. I wish that he 
 should see me. I must touch him with my hands. 
 {She touches his knee with her hand.) It pains me 
 to touch him, but he must see me. (Veran does 
 not look at her.) If I touch his hand I shall die. 
 I faint, I do not see, I see nothing but his lips. 
 {She touches his hand.) I die ! 
 
 Veran. Phelyo ! {He looks at Sara and starts up 
 violently.) Away, Bohemian ! Leave me ! 
 
 Sara. He sees me ! His eyes are like a flower 
 floating on a cup of wine, a sapphire flower on a 
 branch of copper in a temple at Carthage. 
 
 \She drags herself towards him and encircles his 
 legs with her arms. He casts her of. She 
 rises and moves about him, -finally approach- 
 ing him and taking his arm. Half fainting, 
 she draws him to her until his lips nearly 
 touch hers, hut then he sees her and struggles 
 to free himself as she clings lifelessly about 
 his neck. 
 
SARA 17 
 
 SCENE VI 
 
 As they struggle the door suddenly opens. Sara falls 
 to the ground, and Clement a-p-pears on the 
 sill in the sunlight. The four men come up 
 from the crypt, take the table and candles, and 
 carry them below, followed by Sara. Veran 
 wavers an instant and then falls on his knees 
 before Clement. Clement lifts him to his 
 feet. 
 
 Clement. Veran, my friend ! Speak, tell me 
 what must be done. I have always been your 
 friend, but you were far from me. You thought 
 only of her, and I was silent. Speak to me. 
 
 Veran. What good f Why speak ? I am 
 broken. I wish to be alone to die. Yes, I wish 
 to die. 
 
 Clement. I wish to be a thing of beauty in your 
 life, Veran. I wish to give you a perfect friend- 
 ship. Be my friend, Veran, and let me comfort 
 you. 
 
 Veran. Oh, do not speak to me. I want no 
 more of friends. I shall bury myself in a brother- 
 hood where I can forget if I must live. {Pause.) 
 Yet now it is too true. You must lead me, for I 
 can no longer think nor act. Pity me ! I am 
 helpless, and a wall arises before me. Command, 
 for I can no more decide. 
 
 Clement. Go to my house, and before the 
 
1 8 SARA 
 
 ceremony I shall see you. Veran, believe me, I am 
 your friend. 
 
 \He kisses him on the forehead, and Veran goes out 
 blindly. 
 
 SCENE VII 
 
 Clement walks slowly toward the staircase to the 
 crypt from which the four men appear. Ihey 
 go out of the church. Then Sara comes up 
 and stands motionless on the top step. She 
 commences to go toward the door, hut Clement, 
 who has been overcome by her sight, retreats 
 step by step, until, arriving at the door, he 
 closes and locks it. He leans against it. 
 
 Sara. I wish to go out. (Clement continues to 
 gaze at her.) I wish to go out ! 
 
 \She looks at him, turns and goes slowly to the left. 
 
 Clement. Who is she ? I have never seen that 
 woman. I do not know why I closed the door. It 
 is strange that I watch her, for I have never watched 
 a woman before. Am I mad ? I burn, and my 
 knees weaken. The walls fall toward me. I stifle. 
 It is not good to watch her. \He goes toward her. 
 
 Sara. What do you want ? 
 
 Clement. I do not know. I want to drink. Do 
 you want to drink ? 
 
 Sara. No, I do not want to drink. 
 
 Clement. Who are you ? 
 
 Sara. Sara. 
 
SARA 19 
 
 Clement. You come for the ceremony ? 
 
 Sara. Do not look at me. You are the priest. 
 You ought not to look at me, and I do not like it. 
 Let me go out. 
 
 Clement. Wait ! I do not know what possesses 
 me. 
 
 Sara. Open the door ! 
 
 Clement. I am not master of myself. Some- 
 thing goads me on. {fie goes to the altar ani falls 
 on his knees.) O Saintes-Maries, I gave my life, I 
 closed my eyes and fled to world, worshipping you 
 from afar. I was a lily, not thinking of things 
 impure. Take me, take me and keep me ! {A -pause.) 
 I wish to give my life and soul without a blemish 
 to the Saints, take me ! {A pause, then he rises and 
 looks at Sara.) They do not take me ! I am burn- 
 ing. {Suddenly he takes her in his arms and kisses 
 her.) Do not resist. I am strong. I have power, 
 and I am burning. Give, or I will kiU you ! I am 
 mad ! [Sara throws him off and retreats in horror. 
 
 Sara. Madman ! I could ruin you if I told. 
 
 Clement. They would not believe you. You 
 are Bohemian, I am God's priest. They would 
 not believe you. 
 
 \He kneels on the tiles and hides his head on his 
 hands. Sara goes toward the door, stops, and 
 then turning sharply approaches him. 
 
 Sara. What do you want of me ? (Clement 
 does not answer) Say, what do you want of me ? 
 {She draws nearer to him) I will do your bidding 
 
20 SARA 
 
 if you promise to give me one thing, one little 
 thing. 
 
 Clement. I will give you all the world. 
 
 Sara. I do not want the world. I wish for a very 
 little thing. 
 
 Clement. If it is mine I will give it to you. 
 
 Sara. Promise before the Cross. 
 
 [She leads him before the altar. 
 
 Clement. I promise to give you what you wish. 
 
 Sara. It is done. 
 
 Clement. What do you wish ? 
 
 Sara. I wish you to choose Veran and me for the 
 ceremony to-day. 
 
 Clement. Veran and you ? Impossible. He is 
 a Christian. He is my friend. Besides — no, no, 
 do not think of it. 
 
 Sara. You promised before the Cross. 
 
 Clement. Another thing, not that. 
 
 Sara. You promised. 
 
 Clement. Give a friend for your wish ? {He 
 
 hesitates) But yet it is not giving, for it might 
 
 not trouble him. He will obey me in everything, I 
 
 am sure. Perhaps he will be happy to do it. It 
 
 is true that I swore before the Cross. Yes, I 
 
 promised. {A pause) I will do it. Yes, I can do it. 
 
 [Sara looks at him with scorn, turns the key and 
 
 goes out quickly. Clement follows slowly 
 
 with his hands at his head. 
 
SARA 21 
 
 SCENE VIII 
 
 Old Man. Look upon life and judge ! 
 
 [He remains in the corner in silence. 
 
 SCENE IX 
 
 The church is lighted by sunlight and remains 
 quiet for a moment. Then the notes of an 
 organ are heard of some one flaying hymns, and 
 Three Young Boys enter carrying baskets of 
 ftozoers, garlands, a ladder, ijc. 
 
 1ST Boy. The priest seemed ill. I have never 
 seen the priest like that. 
 
 2ND Boy. And the daughter of the Bohemian 
 king ! I am afraid of her eyes, for they look at one 
 evilly. 
 
 1ST Boy. Perhaps she is afraid that she will be 
 chosen. It would be amusing to be chosen. I 
 think that I should like to be. 
 
 3RD Boy. But who is it that was drowned this 
 morning ? I do not see her here. 
 
 2ND Boy. It was Phelyo. They have left her in 
 the crypt before the pagan altar. That is why it 
 is necessary to have the ceremony in the choir. 
 
 1ST Boy. Veran's friend ? He is too proud, and 
 thinks he is better than we. He lives always alone. 
 
 3RD Boy. I cannot imagine a nature like his. 
 
 2ND Boy. Phelyo and he were always together. 
 
22 SARA 
 
 3RD Boy. Have you ever seen the ceremony 
 before ? 
 
 2ND Boy. No, because they always gave it in 
 the crypt where no one was admitted. 
 1ST Boy. But why do they have it ? 
 3RD Boy. In order to procure the King of the 
 Bohemians. They choose a young man and a 
 young girl remarkable for their beauty, whose 
 child is brought up to be the King. 
 
 1ST Boy. Hurry ! We must decorate the church, 
 and there only remains a very little time. 
 
 \7hey take the -flowers and, the ladder and com- 
 mence to hang up the garlands about the 
 church. 
 3RD Boy. I do not know why, but I am afraid of 
 her, and the priest also. He is so good ! Perhaps 
 she has annoyed him. He is very sensitive to evil. 
 \They light all the candles on the altar, which 
 radiate a brilliant light in the afse. They 
 set in order the chairs in the nave, and then^ 
 when they have finished distributing the flowers, 
 they go away, carrying the ladder with them. 
 
 SCENE X 
 
 A crowd of Bohemians, fishermen, women, l^c, come 
 slowly in, taking the chairs to right and left. 
 The music recommences, and then the choir 
 enters two by two. And after them come 
 
SARA 23 
 
 four young Bohemians who carry a white 
 canofy suf'portei hy four black poles above 
 their heads. They are followed by four 
 Bohemian girls who carry each a lighted 
 candle. Clement -preceded by his assistants 
 closes the procession. A crowd blocks the door. 
 The priest mounts to the right and goes to the 
 altar followed by the acolytes, where he prays, 
 while the choir divides in two rows, the one 
 going to the benches at the right, the other to 
 those on the left. The four Bohemians ap- 
 proach the platform and cover it with the 
 canopy, each holding a pole at one of the 
 corners. The Bohemian girls leave their 
 candles by the steps and kneel by them. 
 While entering, and during the procession, 
 the choir sings the following hymn : — 
 
 Pange, lingua, gloriosi corporis mysterium, 
 Sanguinisque pretiosi, quern in mundi pretium 
 Fructus ventris generosi Rex effudit gentium. 
 Nobis datus, nobus natus ex intacta Virgine, 
 Et in mundo conversatus, sparso verbi semine, 
 Sui moras incolatus miro clausit ordine. 
 In supremae nocte coenae recumbens cum fratribus, 
 Observata lege plene cibis in legalibus, 
 Cibum turbae duodenae se dat suis manibus. 
 Verbum caro, panem varum verbo carnem efScit, 
 Fitque sanguis Christi merum, etsi sensus deficit : 
 Ad firmandum cor sincerum sola fides sufficit. 
 Tantum ergo Sacramentum veneremur cernui : 
 Et antiquum documentum novo cedat ritui : 
 
24 SARA 
 
 Praestet fides supplementura sensuum defectui. 
 Genitori, Genitoque laus et jubilatio, 
 Salus, honor, virtus quoque sit et benedictio : 
 Procedenti ab utroque compar sit laudatio. 
 
 After this, the -priest at the altar. 
 
 Clement. Seigneur J^sus-Christ, qui avez dit : 
 Demandez, et vous recevrez ; cherchez, et vous 
 trouverez ; frappez, et I'on vous ouvrira ; accordez, 
 s'il vous platt, ^ mes pri^res, la grace de vous aimer, 
 de telle sorte que nos d6sirs, nos paroles et nos 
 actions, ne respirent que votre divin amour, et que 
 nous ne cessions jamais de vous louer, de vous 
 adorer. Vous qui vivez et regnez dans tous les 
 siecles des sifecles. Ainsi soit-il. 
 
 The choir sings next a song of -praise. 
 
 Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia, 
 O Filii et Filiae, 
 Rex coelestis, Rex Gloriae, 
 Morte surrexit bodie. 
 
 Alleluia. 
 Et Marie Magdaleine et Jacobe et Salom^, 
 Venerunt corpus ungere. 
 
 Alleluia. 
 A Magdaleine moniti, ad ostium monumenti 
 Duo currunt discipuli. 
 
 Alleluia. 
 Sed Joannes apostalus concurrit Petro cinus, 
 Ad sepulchrum venit prius. 
 
 Alleluia. 
 Halbis sidens Angelus respondit mulieribus, 
 Quia surrexit Dominus. 
 
 Alleluia, 
 
SARA 25 
 
 Discipulis adstantibus in medio statit Christus, 
 Discens : Fax vobis omnibus. 
 
 Alleluia. 
 Postquam audevit Didymus quia surrexit Jesus, 
 Remanset fide dubius, 
 
 Alleluia. 
 Vide Thomas, vide latus, vide pedes, vide manus ; 
 Noli esse incredulus. 
 
 Alleluia. 
 Quando Thomas Christi latus, Pedes videt atque manus, 
 Dixit : Tu as Deus meus. 
 
 Alleluia. 
 Beati qui non viderunt, et firmituri crediderunt : 
 Vitam alternam habebunt, 
 
 Alleluia. 
 In hoc feste sanctissimo sit laus et jubilatio : 
 Benedicamus Domino, 
 
 Alleluia. 
 De quibus nos humillimas devotas atque debitas, 
 Deo dicamus gratias, 
 
 Alleluia. 
 
 [During this hymn Veran and Sara are led into 
 the church by two Bohemians. They are 
 veiled and clothed in white. They a^p'proach 
 the -platform, the one from the right, the other 
 from the left, kneeling before entering, and 
 then they disappear beneath the canopy. The 
 Bohemians retire. The hymn ceases, and the 
 priest at the foot of the altar makes the sign 
 of the cross. 
 
 Clement. Je m'approcherais de I'autel de Dieu. 
 R. Du Dieu qui r6jouit ma jeunesse. 
 
26 SARA 
 
 Clement. Notre secours est dans le nom du 
 Seigneur. 
 
 R. Qui a fait le ciel et la terre. 
 Clement. Je me confesse a Dieu tout-puissant, k la 
 bienheureuse Marie, toujours vierge, k Saint-Michel 
 Archange, k Saint-Jean Baptiste, aux Ap6tres Saint- 
 Pierre et Saint-Paul, k tous les saints, et a vous mon 
 Pfere,que j'ai beaucoup pgche, par pensee, par paroles, 
 et par action ; c'est ma faute, c'est ma faute, c'est 
 ma trfes-grande faute. C'est pourquoi je supplie 
 la bienheureuse Marie, toujours Vierge, Saint- 
 Michel Archange, Saint-Jean Baptiste, les Apotres 
 Saint-Pierre et Saint-Paul, tous les Saints et vous 
 mon Pfire, de prier pour moi le Seigneur notre 
 Dieu. 
 
 R. Que le Dieu tout puissant vous fasse miseri- 
 corde, et qu'apres avoir pardonne vos pgch^s, il vous 
 conduise k la vie 6ternelle. Ainsi soit-il. 
 
 Clement. Que le Seigneur tout-puissant et 
 misericordieux nous accorde le pardon, I'absolution 
 de nos pSches. 
 
 R. Ainsi soit-il. 
 Clement. O Dieu, venez, et vous nous donnerez 
 la vie. 
 
 Bohemian. Blood ! ! ! 
 [Tzao spots of blood are seen on the white canopy, 
 one of the Bohemians lets his pole fall, the choir 
 and the organ stop short, and the crowd stands up 
 horror-stricken. The canopy is removed, and 
 on the platform Veran is discovered lying on 
 
SARA 27 
 
 his back with a dagger in his heart. Sara 
 lies beside him. There is an astonished silence, 
 and then Clement, lifting his arm, -points at 
 the door. 
 Clement. Go out all ! 
 
 \The crowd goes out slowly followed by the choir, 
 
 and -finally the church is empty except for 
 
 Clement, Veran, and Sara. The door closes, 
 
 shutting out the sunlight and leaving the church 
 
 illuminated only by the candles. Clement 
 
 leans against the altar. 
 
 Sara. Thy lips, Veran, I crush thy lips, and they 
 
 are warm. They are soft as the bloom, of a budding 
 
 willow, and they lie abandoned in a voluptuous 
 
 abandonment. Your teeth are as white as the seed 
 
 of an almond, and your neck no longer moves with 
 
 the pulsations of your heart like the branches of a 
 
 tree in the wind, but it is tender, Veran, and I tear 
 
 it. It tastes of the taste of death. \A pause. 
 
 Your eyes gaze at me softly. They are black 
 
 now, and I can see into the bottom of your soul, 
 
 because there is nothing there but a profound 
 
 abyss. In the water at the bottom there are 
 
 dancing a mad company of stars which dance a 
 
 bacchanale. You did not wish me to look into your 
 
 eyes, but I have looked. Your eyes are no longer 
 
 yours, but mine. 
 
 Your cheeks are also more pale, yet still more 
 lovely, resembling the pure texture of the moon. 
 They are like the reflection of a red rose upon the 
 
28 SARA 
 
 back of a white dove. Your body is more firm 
 than the sands which waves have moulded into 
 hardened forms, but it is strangely soft. Are you 
 cold ? I am burning like a desert without water. 
 Give me to drink from your lips. 
 
 [She lies silently. 
 
 Your blood is red and heavy. I was sure it would 
 be because your lips were red. They say that love 
 is hea.vy, but who knows ! I touch your hair, your 
 ears, your hands. Your hands are two horses racing 
 across a plain; and your ears are two butterflies, 
 two little butterflies buffeted by the wind. You 
 are my own. To take you is not to possess you, 
 but to kill you is utter possession. You are mine, 
 and I am happy although I am sad. Sleep, Veran, 
 let us sleep. 
 
 [Clement does not stir, but remains watching her. 
 The waves swee-p along the beach monotonously. 
 
 You are cold, and your blood flows in little 
 spurts. A purple veil trembles between us, a veil 
 of purple and gold. It is like the autumn air filled 
 with hmpid light, with opaque haze, and with 
 mottled leaves. You are beautiful across it ! The 
 moon is not more terrible. Your head resembles 
 an orchid in a twilight of faded mist which cowers 
 close to earth. A wheel of stars is hung about it, 
 which balances like the fireflies on a marsh. I no 
 longer see you. You are heavy ! I did not know 
 you were so heavy. I kiss your hand ; see, I bury a 
 kiss within it. Do not lose it. 
 
SARA 29 
 
 Oh ! Veran, Veran, I love you, I possess you ! 
 [During a silence Clement comes down and walks 
 about her. 
 
 Clement. Sara ! Do not delay, for they may 
 enter, and it is late. Come, let us escape, and we 
 may flee. 
 
 Sara. Your lips are more moist than the mosses 
 in a forest, but they are perfumed with sweet 
 incense. Life is a sweet incense, which fades, but 
 while it hangs upon the air it kills men with its 
 frenzy. Love is the perfume of a flower, and man 
 is a flower of sweet imagery. You are like a frozen 
 lily which a god let fall upon the snow. 
 
 Clement. Enough of this horrible madness ! 
 Come, fly, escape, or we shall both be killed. 
 
 Sara. Your lips are the colour of hoUy fruit. I 
 faint. A crepusculum of silver bums my eyes, yet 
 I am happy, for the mists spread in to silver flowers. 
 
 Clement. Sara ! Quit this loathsome fury and 
 fly ! They will murder us. I am afraid. Come ! 
 
 Sara. Your feet are like two sable panthers 
 drinking at the border of a lake. 
 
 Clement. I am afraid ! I fear some fearful evil. 
 Come, it is horrible, your love. I do not want it ! 
 I loathe you, Sara. 
 
 Sara. The dull vapour burns my eyes. How 
 wonderful it is, like oil on water, like the flames of 
 a tulip, but I no longer see you. In the dusk 
 there is a garden with a glowing waU and gloomy 
 trees which bend over long sheets of water. On 
 
30 SARA 
 
 the water floats a swan, and a man bathes himself 
 on the white sand. His legs are green through the 
 water, but the rest of him is a mingling of russet 
 and of red. He resembles an apple beside a cup of 
 wine. A woman with a veil draws near and kisses 
 him upon the neck. The veils vanish as they 
 dampen against her body. The garden is full of 
 nightingales, Veran, and the clouds are like a flock 
 of dusty moon-moths. They are seated at the base 
 of an ancient tree upon the moss, but as she sleeps 
 he goes away in the dim light, and she awakening 
 casts herself into the lake where the swan flees from 
 the spreading circles. I would have followed him, 
 but I shall never be alone, because you are by me. 
 
 Clement. It is not good to talk so. Come, you 
 are horrible. Come, I am afraid. 
 
 [He goes to the altar and, leans against it as if for 
 -protection. 
 
 Sara. If you had touched me you would have 
 loved me ! Why did you not touch me ? I do 
 not know. I wish to be torn by your hands, I 
 wish to be strangled by your arms, I wish to be 
 crushed by your weight ! I do not like you dead, 
 Veran, I wish to feel the hotness of your breath. 
 You are hideous dead ; you do not move, and your 
 cheeks are pale. Why are you dead ? I did not 
 command that you should die. Your eyes are 
 glazed, your mouth hangs open, and your hair is like 
 seaweed wet with slime. You are like a scorpion ! 
 
 \A pause. 
 
SARA 31 
 
 Veran ! Speak to me, my beloved. I love your 
 lips, and they are torn because I have torn them. 
 You did not wish it, but I have kissed them. 
 
 [A pause. 
 I am thirsty ! I burn ! I cannot sit still. I shall 
 dance for you — ^yes, I shall dance for you, because 
 you do not see me. 
 
 \She drinks at the well, stands motionless an instant, 
 and then commences the following dance. 
 
 THE DANCE OF SARA 
 1ST Part 
 
 The music and the dance represent the dawn of 
 life. They should be simple, joyful, and clear ; 
 full of light, of hope and of optimism ; expressing 
 above all innocence and enthusiasm. It is a state 
 where introspection and experience have no place. 
 It must not be morbid. 
 
 2ND Part 
 
 The tragedy of life and of evolution is now dis- 
 covered with the realisation of the insignificance of 
 individuality. Too much is known to allow happi- 
 ness, and not enough to give contentment. The 
 isolation of the soul assumes an exaggerated posi- 
 tion, and the lack of belief in any end for life makes 
 the latter impossible. Discontent, blindness, and 
 
32 SARA 
 
 sadness bring about the destruction of love and 
 religion, together with the loss of youth. 
 
 3RD Part 
 
 A resolve is made to find or to make happiness. A 
 joy in the symbolism of life and of ideas is founded 
 upon things which are well known to be untrue. 
 There is a reaction against knowledge and science 
 which strangles thought with its realities. All joy 
 is in the present, and it is based upon a despair 
 which seizes on nothing but images. Nevertheless 
 it is a happiness, civilised, complicated, and full of 
 rich experience. It is the gaiety of ball. 
 
 4TH Part 
 
 The arrival of old age with the discovery that 
 one has been blinded by visions, and that one has 
 nothing in religion, ideals, nor philosophy to make 
 life possible. There is no hope, no reality, no 
 emotion left to taste. Then the results of a life 
 lived for pleasure in a debauchment of the senses 
 and the spirit, come in the body and the brain to 
 give rise to diseases which torture to the point of 
 madness and which destroy. But one dies slowly, 
 struggling against these avenging judges as against 
 a python. The struggle is desperate, but finally 
 death wins the victory. 
 
 [Jt the end, Sara falls across the body of Veran, 
 unconscious. Clement, who has watched her 
 
SARA 33 
 
 during the dance, leaning against the altar, 
 comes down, and approaching Sara touches 
 her. Then he moves her, and finally, turning 
 her over, looks closely at her. 
 Clement. Dead ! Dead ! ! 
 
 \He puts his hand to his head. 
 Veran ! My friend ! 
 
 \He looks at Veran, and rushes blindly to the altar, 
 where he seizes the reliquary of Saint Sara and 
 throws it with a crash upon the pavement. 
 The cross topples over beside him, but he is 
 not aware of it, for from the door of the 
 crypt a pale figure appears, which ascends the 
 staircase slowly. It pauses on the top step, and 
 is seen to be Ph£lyo, who has returned to life, 
 not having been completely drowned. She looks 
 about her, mounts the staircase, and stands 
 looking at Veran. 
 
 [Through her semi-consciousness she realises the 
 cause of his death and Clement's culpability. 
 She draws out the dagger, and perceiving the 
 priest moves toward him. He fiees from her 
 about the church, but finally cowers paralysed 
 at the foot of the altar. She strikes him and 
 he sinks. Then she drops the dagger, approaches 
 the platform where Veran and Sara lie, and 
 standing over them laughs brokenly in a mad 
 gaiety. A tumult is heard outside, the door 
 opens suddenly, a ray of sunlight falls upon 
 the group, and the crowd enters in disorder. 
 
 c 
 
34 SARA 
 
 Then the Old Man arises from his corner and 
 totters towards Ph£lyo. 
 Old Man. Vh&lyo ! They say that life is for 
 love. Why then is love ? 
 
 [Ph^lyo continues to laugh madly. 
 
 THE CURTAIN FALLS QUICKLY. 
 
ESAU 
 
 A PIECE IN THREE ACTS 
 
 TO 
 JAMES FOX MACDONALD 
 
PERSONS IN THE PLAY 
 
 ovan dorath. 
 Lebaran Morvran. 
 Joanne Morvran, his wife. 
 Malcolm Morvran, their son. 
 GiOYA Cabot, their daughter. 
 Cecil Cabot, her husband. 
 Percival Grey, Joanne's brother. 
 Mrs. Whitney. 
 
 Cintra Whitney, her daughter. 
 Rev. Guy Nottinghill. 
 Small. 
 A Doctor. 
 
 Act I. — The Colonnade of Lebaran Morvran's house at 
 
 Beverly Farms. 
 Act II. — Music Room of the same. 
 Act III. — ^The Library of Morvran's house in Boston. 
 
 Time of Action — the Present. 
 
 TTie incidents occur between 8 dchck in t/ie evening 
 and 8 o'clock the next morning. 
 
ESAU 
 
 A PIECE IN THREE ACTS 
 ACT I 
 
 It is midsummer at 8 o'clock in the evening, and the sun 
 is setting over the sea, the surface of which lies before the 
 colonnade of Lebaran Morvran's house beyond a terraced 
 garden. Black conifers conflict with the gaudy sky and water 
 in sharp silhouettes, while in the garden, statues, basins and 
 vases offer a pale contrast. The fountains are playing, cool 
 air rises from the ocean, and at times a bell-buoy tolls 
 gloomily over the waves which serge among the rocks. 
 Framing this scene four columns of rose-coloured marble rise 
 lightly to bear an entablature of white stone. The colonnade 
 lies between two arched entrances to the house, one at either 
 side of the stage, and the nearer row of columns is omitted. 
 The architecture is of a style of renaissance due to Mansard, 
 and in the centre of the marble pavement there stands a 
 fountain. The colonnade is approached from the gardens by 
 a flight of steps. To the left a number of wicker chairs stand 
 about a table, and from the ceiling hang two alabaster basins 
 for lights. 
 
 The music for the overture and the two entr'actes is Claude 
 Debussy's "La Mer." "De I'aube k midi sur la mer" is to 
 be played as an overture, but with the curtain raised; " Jeux 
 de vagues " and " Dialogue du vent et de la mer " are to be 
 played respectively between the first and second and the 
 second and third Acts as ordinary entr'actes. 
 
 37 
 
38 ESAU 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 After the termination of the music Small comes 
 out from the door on the left with a silver tray, 
 on which are a coffee-foi and cufs. He places 
 it on the table and serves Gioya, Percival, 
 and Cecil, who saunter out after him. 
 
 Cecil. I say, Gioya, your father is unbearably 
 tiresome since these manifestations commenced in 
 Boston. From one end of the dinner to the other 
 he talked of nothing but facts. It is shockingly 
 vulgar. 
 
 Gioya. Father is growing old, Cecil. He is fifty, 
 you know, and amusing ideas are easily exiled at 
 his age. 
 
 Percival. Don't say ideas, it is not artistic. 
 Only uncultivated people have ideas. 
 
 Cecil. He even mentioned the poor, and repeated 
 the name of that dreadful person Dorath, whom 
 Malcolm persists in seeing. Your father must be 
 spoken to. 
 
 [Small goes out. They sit down and light their 
 cigarettes. 
 
 Gioya. I am afraid so. He tends to come out 
 of the background too often, and unless the family 
 remains in the background, what good is it ? As 
 Cintra says, families are beastly old-fashioned, 
 middle-class affairs described by Dickens, and only 
 to be tolerated as satellites symbolic of position. 
 
ESAU 39 
 
 Percival. She has been reading that Westerner's 
 books. 
 
 GiOYA. No, no, she had a father. 
 
 Cecil. Happily in the past tense. Lebaran is 
 good, but that is the danger. Unless fathers are 
 tyrants they invariably lose their minds and sud- 
 denly take to collecting things after years of proud 
 exhibition by their children. 
 
 Percival. What nonsense your generation talks ! 
 If you thought more of life and less of living you 
 would be wiser. 
 
 GiOYA. Oh, Cecil does not live. He rotates on 
 an axis of formality and calls it fulfilling destiny. 
 Silly Cecil ! [She embraces him enthusiastically. 
 
 Cecil. By the way, somebody said Malcolm was 
 bringing Dorath here this evening. Is it true ? 
 
 GiOYA. Yes, it is true, I think. It will be so 
 amusing ! I am so bored, that even my new Matis 
 does not startle me. They say he is alarming. 
 
 Percival. What will Joanne permit next ! Why, 
 he is not received anywhere ! 
 
 GiOYA. I suppose he is a slouchy, ill-kept person, 
 with uncut hair and no waistcoat. All Westerners 
 are, you know. 
 
 Cecil. He has too much enthusiasm to be well 
 bred — a Radical, no tact, takes life as seriously as 
 a boy of eighteen — and I never heard the name 
 before. Irish, I suppose ? 
 
 Percival. No, a Welsh name, but quite extinct 
 apart from the Mabinogion. He is a revolutionary 
 
40 ESAU 
 
 pervert, with no style ; a pretender to letters, with 
 no control over them. I shall go upstairs and read 
 Sade. 
 
 Cecil. As more moral ? 
 
 Percival. As more beautiful. Amusement, 
 Gioya, is like absinthe ; it kills intelligence. 
 
 GiOYA. Intelligent women feed on amusement. 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 Mrs. Whitney and Doctor Nottinghill come out 
 in heated argument. Gioya and Percival rise 
 to ofer them cofee. 
 
 Mrs. Whitney. Abandon ritual, and your power 
 is lost. Deny the dramatic passion to the people, 
 and the Church falls. 
 
 Dr. Nottinghill. Ah ! very possibly so in the 
 past, Mrs. Whitney, but we desire rather to aid 
 the people than to make them pray. 
 
 Mrs. W. Intellectual religion is above them. 
 
 Dr. N. Will you give them emotional ? 
 
 Gioya. Coffee, Mrs. Whitney ? 
 
 Mrs. W. That they need, all else is words. 
 Thank you, Gioya. 
 
 Dr. N. Mrs. Whitney argues that my ideas on 
 religion are for a class and not for humanity. 
 
 Mrs. W. Humanitomtity, He is full of Dorathian 
 modernity. \She laughs, and they seat themselves. 
 
 Dr. N. Hardly Dorathian, I think. Dorath 
 holds that the Church is a puppet-show where 
 
ESAU 41 
 
 nondescript faith is ofEered to crutch-broken spirits, 
 and that true religion is a matter of scientific 
 reason, not of sugar-plums and poultices. I believe 
 that worship is less necessary than action myself, 
 and that material or spiritual strengthening are 
 more valuable than incense and the Gsmmunion. 
 Hence our parish house and charities as well as my 
 classes in spiritual exercise. 
 
 Cecil. If church were not fashionable like the 
 symphony orchestra, few would attend it. Re- 
 ligiousness is snobbism among the rich. 
 
 GiOYA. Who is Dorath, Uncle Percival ? You 
 all speak of him in every line, but never acknow- 
 ledge him. 
 
 Percival. Ovan Dorath is nobody in regard to 
 family and position, but a Westerner. Who is he ? 
 The answer is a personal description, not a parsing. 
 I have never seen him, but they say he is thirty-five, 
 large, dark, undoubtedly a rough diamond if of any 
 but base metal. He has no principles, a passion for 
 progress, and is relentless in his antipathy to tradi- 
 tion, formalities, and social distinctions. In fact he 
 is a vulgar socialist, using this sensational method, 
 no doubt, to force his way into our houses, with ill 
 enough success. At least there seems no other 
 reason for his being in Boston, although he poses 
 as a public champion and writes absurd books. 
 
 Cecil. He comes from Seattle. Malcolm says 
 he went to Harvard and Oxford, but no one ever 
 heard of him if he did. 
 
42 ESAU 
 
 GiOYA. He sounds most ordinary. I hoped he 
 chewed tobacco at least. 
 
 Cecil. Impossible person altogether. I never 
 want to see him. 
 
 Mrs. W. So you never, any of you, read his 
 books ? The man personally may be unbearable, 
 but I always read the latest books and study the 
 latest philosophies. 
 
 Cecil. But you enjoy fads, Mrs. Whitney. I am 
 surprised that you disagree with Dr. NottinghUl. 
 
 Percival. I never read modern books. I have 
 not finished the classics yet. 
 
 Mrs. W. Never read modern books ? But the 
 best classics are modern ! 
 
 Percival. The best moderns, however, are not 
 classic. Force of style carries everything before it. 
 
 Dr. N. Even intelligence ? 
 
 Mrs. W. But depth of feeling and of thought 
 necessitate force of style. 
 
 Percival. Oh, I shall come to the modern writers 
 in time. 
 
 Mrs. W. When they are no longer modern. 
 
 Percival. The best will have survived. 
 
 Mrs. W. But the best are not the most active 
 in effect. The temporary ones fall, having done 
 their work, and the survivors are built on them. 
 
 Percival. I trust time's verdict and profit by 
 others' experiences. 
 
 Dr. N. Can one grow on other people's experi- 
 ences ? 
 
ESAU 43 
 
 Mrs. W. One's ideas must be common and out 
 of date in such a system. It is surprising what non- 
 chalance I have gained since reading Dorath's books. 
 I could preach Christian Science to the Pope. 
 
 Percival. a man with no reverence for the 
 English language — Dorath, I mean, of course. 
 There are certain things one demands of even the 
 
 most heroic identities — otherwise 
 
 [He shrugs his shoulders. 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 Joanne, Lebaran, and Cintra appear 
 at the doorway. 
 
 Joanne. Have you seen anything of a biplane ? 
 It is growing dark, and Malcolm ought to arrive at 
 any moment. I dislike to have him out so late. 
 
 Lebaran. I dislike to have him out in a flying- 
 machine at any time. This feverish thirst for 
 novelties will be paid for. Will no one do for 
 aeronautics what Ruskin tried to do for railroads ? 
 
 Joanne. What nonsense, Lebaran ! 
 
 Percival. We constantly do things faster and 
 less well. 
 
 Mrs. W. All great things are done rapidly. As 
 for that, surely engineering and science were never 
 more perfect than to-day. 
 
 Dr. N. Our fault is not haste, but shallowness, 
 Mr. Morvran. Suar^s says that love of life in deep 
 
44 ESAU 
 
 natures, which are born for suffering, is beyond our 
 comprehension, carrying them to every excess, even 
 to what we call crime. There are deeper inven- 
 tions possible than those for speed. 
 
 Joanne. New Englanders have no heritage of 
 pain and no overshadowing tragedy. They have 
 never suffered, and do not know the true love of 
 life. They are too brutally fond of lying automata 
 which work by springs of fruitless agitation and 
 sterile morality. 
 
 Lebaran. My dear Joanne ! You speak like a 
 Latin. 
 
 Mrs. W. You are quite right, my dear. I 
 wonder if the Latin races are so abandoned. 
 
 Dr. N. Their struggle with life is so profound 
 that I have never been able to understand them. 
 
 Percival. You are all reeking with Dorath's 
 phrases. What is the cause ? It is shocking. We 
 commenced by wondering where Malcolm was, and 
 finish with the character of the Latin races. That 
 is just the way that he rambles on. I am tired of 
 Dorath; we have spoken, eaten, and breathed his 
 ideas all the evening. 
 
 GioYA. You do not mind my smoking. Dr. 
 Nottinghill ? 
 
 Dr. N. Certainly not, my dear child, only pardon 
 me, for I do not enjoy it. 
 
 [GiOYA, Joanne and Mrs. W. light their 
 cigarettes. 
 
 Mrs. W. No smoke, Cintra ? 
 
ESAU 45 
 
 CiNTRA. Oh, not those ! I smoke a pipe ; 
 cigarettes are becoming so awfully eflFeminate. 
 
 [She -produces a small fife and fills it. 
 
 Cecil. Well, by Jove, you are a ripper ! 
 
 CiNTRA. Oh, don't swear, Cecil. [Laughter. 
 
 Cecil. Why don't you be masculine in spiritual 
 character rather than in habits, dear Cintra ? I 
 should prefer to be as much like every one else 
 on the outside and as unlike on the inside as possible. 
 
 Lebaran. Well said, my boy ! \^hey laugh. 
 
 GiOYA. Come, Cecil, let us leave these silly 
 people and go to see the new fountain. 
 
 \She leads Cecil away towards the stefs. 
 
 Joanne. But, Gioya, don't leave. I haven't 
 seen you all day ! Lebaran, ask them to stay ! 
 
 Lebaran. You will be married all your life, Cecil. 
 You won't be with us always. 
 
 GiOYA. Oh, Cecil and I mean to divorce some 
 day ; besides, we will come back when it grows dark. 
 
 Joanne. Please, Gioya, stay with me, dear. 
 
 Cecil. What silly rot ! Come, Gioya. 
 [They disaffear into the gardens and Joanne sits 
 down wearily. 
 
 SCENE IV 
 
 Joanne. Gioya leaves me alone all day now. 
 You see we were inseparable before she married, 
 and I am quite lost. 
 
46 ESAU 
 
 Percival. a generation devoid of respect or 
 tradition. 
 
 CiNTRA. Tradition, Mr. Grey, would keep us in 
 the nursery all our life. What would happen if we 
 did not at some time lose our reverence for the 
 bottle ? Or at least change its character ? 
 
 [Laughter. 
 
 Dr. N. Patience, Mrs. Morvran. Holidays in 
 marriage are few, and she will need you soon enough 
 when her own duties begin. 
 
 Lebaran. I wish Malcolm would come, for I 
 want to know what has been going on in town. 
 
 Dr. N. It must have been exceedingly hot to- 
 day. 
 
 CiNTRA. 103 degrees I think I heard. This makes 
 the fourth day of heat. 
 
 Dr. N. And the condition is still less favourable 
 in regard to food. No ice of course, and I believe 
 milk went up again this morning. 
 
 Lebaran. The manifestations must be crippled 
 before long. People cannot parade nOr be violent 
 in such weather without killing themselves. Per- 
 haps it is just as well. 
 
 Joanne. How can you speak so, Lebaran ? 
 
 Lebaran. Do you care to see riots and ravage 
 without result ? The people are mad, I say. They 
 object to high prices, and then demand higher 
 wages, which force the prices up again. 
 
 Mrs. W. But there must always be a fixed pro- 
 portion between wages and expenses for necessities. 
 
ESAU 47 
 
 If they cannot afford to buy meat that proportion 
 is disturbed, and it is the provisioner who has 
 acted first. 
 
 Lebaran. And why ? Because the government 
 elected by the people necessitates it. Their Presi- 
 dent attacks the Trusts and turns the stock markets 
 upside down. He renovates the tariffs and sets 
 commerce in a panic. Naturally prices must rise 
 to ensure a profit somewhere. They make the 
 government, and the government plunges ignorantly 
 through all the machinery of trade, besides changing 
 hands every four years, which cripples activity at 
 the time. It is the fault of the people if they set 
 tyrants over themselves. 
 
 Percival. They have no idea of how to vote. 
 
 Mrs. W. How can they ? They are manoeuvred 
 by sly politicians on the outlook for gain, and do 
 not know the difference between one man and 
 another. 
 
 Joanne. Well, even if it is their fault, which 
 matters very little, the conditions are not to be 
 solved by words. 
 
 Lebaran. They are better paid than labourers 
 in any other country. 
 
 Dr. N. Which means nothing at all. 
 
 Lebaran. And they go about righting their 
 trouble like children. 
 
 Joanne. Are they not children, Lebaran ? And 
 ought not the wiser classes to father them ? 
 
 Lebaran. What can we do ? Think of their 
 
48 ESAU 
 
 number. Why do they show temper when poliqr 
 would win sooner ? 
 
 Dr. N. Because they cannot buy meat or milk, 
 Mr. Morvran. Policy is a hard course on an empty 
 stomach. I think too that these manifestations are 
 older than a week. Words and warning preceded 
 them, and the hot weather has precipitated action. 
 
 Lebaran. Well, they will gain nothing by mani- 
 festations. Let them organise a committee or 
 strike systematically, but shouting will not frighten 
 those who are not guilty. 
 
 Joanne. You are impractical, Lebaran. Idealism 
 is out of the question. We must consider the 
 facts. They are manifesting. What is going to be 
 done ? Suppose there is a revolution, think of the 
 mixture of races ! 
 
 Percival. How can a republic revolt against 
 itself ? 
 
 Joannes. It is rioting already. They are mad 
 and irrepressible. 
 
 Lebaran. What did France do against her dis- 
 turbances ? 
 
 Mrs. W. France has a standing army to police 
 herself, and even with its aid there was great 
 trouble, danger and damage. It would be much 
 more serious here where there is no army and a 
 mingling of races. 
 
 Lebaran. Oh, there is no danger of that. 
 
 Joanne. Conditions are much more painful than 
 they were in France last summer. 
 
ESAU 49 
 
 Lebaran. Well, all is being done that can be 
 done to untangle the difficulty. They must wait. 
 These are national problems, to be solved slowly by 
 experience. The nation must suffer, and they are 
 of the nation. 
 
 Dr. N. And you ? 
 
 Lebaran. Am I not suffering ? The market is 
 driving me mad ! 
 
 Mrs. W. For a week they have held meetings and 
 parades, threatened shopkeepers, and decried all 
 classes. 
 
 Percival. I saw some oratorical pamphlets full 
 of polysyllables which contained no truths. 
 
 Joanne. But does it all consist in speeches and 
 parades ? Are they doing nothing effective ? 
 
 Mrs. W. What can they do ? They cannot 
 being prices down, they cannot raise wages, and it 
 is not the time for elections. 
 
 Lebaran. The affair will calm down by itself. 
 Let us not talk of it any longer. 
 
 CiNTRA. What is Ovan Dorath doing ? I should 
 think he would be in his element now trying to 
 set everything to rights. 
 
 Percival. Ranting Westerners cannot cope with 
 European problems. 
 
 CiNTRA. Still he might use the opportixnity to 
 put himself in a powerful position. 
 
 Lebaran. It would be like him, too, by Jove ! 
 Don't suggest more complications. 
 
 Mrs. W. You are prejudiced. 
 
50 ESAU 
 
 Percival. Oh, you know nothing of him, Mrs. 
 Whitney ; accept our word for him. 
 
 Dr. N. He is, I am afraid, a revolutionist. 
 
 Joanne. But you have not read his books. 
 
 Lebaran. What a man does is more demon- 
 strative than what he writes. He attacks all our 
 essential customs even in his books. He was in- 
 sulting about the Winterset Club — wouldn't allow 
 his name to be proposed — and he has helped to 
 stir up this high price of living business, I am sure. 
 He has no thought for public welfare nor private 
 dignity, and is a socialist. 
 
 Joanne. Well, even so — ^the French Revolution 
 did not further enslave France. 
 
 Percival. But at what a price ! 
 
 Joanne. You applaud the price of Morocco and 
 of the Transvaal ? 
 
 Percival. It is useless to talk with women ! 
 
 [An aeroplane wheels into the darkening sky. 
 
 Joanne. Oh, there is Malcolm at last ! Mr. 
 Dorath is with him you all know — a freak of Mal- 
 colm's to make an acquaintance of him, but you 
 must be civil to him. 
 
 Percival. Extraordinary thing ! You are too 
 tolerant, Joanne. 
 
 Lebaran. I do not like it at all; it is un- 
 dignified. 
 
 Mrs. W. Let us go down to the field to meet 
 them, Joanne. 
 
 Joanne. Don't let me keep you ; I have a 
 
ESAU 51 
 
 headache and shall remain here. Do go down to 
 meet them, Lebaran. 
 
 CiNTRA {rising). I am going, if only to meet 
 Malcolm. 
 
 Mrs. W. Yes, yes, go to meet Malcolm. 
 
 [They all stand up. 
 
 I should enjoy a short excursion myself. May I 
 
 have your support, Lebaran ? 
 
 Lebaran. For ever ! 
 
 [He offers her his arm and they walk down the steps 
 
 into the garden, followed by Percival and 
 
 CiNTRA. 
 
 Dr. N. Will you not come, Mrs. Morvran ? Or 
 shall I stay with you here ? 
 
 Joanne. No, no, go with them. Dr. Nottinghill. 
 I shall enjoy being alone. 
 
 Dr. N. I shall return directly, then. 
 
 {He bows and follows the others into the garden. 
 
 SCENE V 
 
 Joanne gazes sadly after the others, drops her 
 hands in despair, and sitting down in an arm- 
 chair relaxes wearily. Presently she sobs and 
 bites her lips to control herself, but in vain, for 
 tears follow. As she cries footsteps crunch on 
 the gravel and Dr. Nottinghill appears. 
 He stands on the top of the steps looking at her. 
 She does not see him, and approaching her, he 
 takes her hand. 
 
52 ESAU 
 
 Dr. N. Tell me 
 
 [She starts up nervously and dries her eyes. 
 
 Joanne. Oh, it is nothing. Mere weakness, no- 
 thing at all — ^really, I am ashamed to be found so 
 weak. 
 
 Dr. N. My dear, weariness is not weakness. You 
 are not happy ; my whole sympathy responds when 
 people are unhappy. Tell me. 
 
 Joanne. Please — I shall lose all my dignity if 
 you allow me to. Don't. 
 
 Dr. N. Tears are the expression of sublime love 
 and profound humility. There is nothing more 
 proud than a woman who weeps. 
 
 Joanne. I have no reason — I am very foolish. 
 
 Dr. N. You are beginning to live when you cry, 
 and there must be a reason for it. Tell me. 
 
 Joanne. Oh ! (sobbing. I simply am not happy; 
 you see how absurd it is. I have no more courage. 
 I am very tired. 
 
 \_She bows her head on his shoulder and weeps con- 
 strainedly. 
 
 Dr. N. My dear child ! You are not alone ; I am 
 as desolate as you^and yet one is never alone. That 
 is the only thing to base courage upon, for human 
 strength is not great enough to live alone. 
 
 Joanne. I think I am always alone, and always 
 will be alone. [She lifts her head. 
 
 Dr. N, But your husband and your children ? 
 Where are your friends ? 
 
 Joanne. They do not need me ; nobody needs me, 
 
ESAU 53 
 
 and unless one is leaned upon there is no hope in 
 life — for a woman. 
 
 Dr. N. Sit down and be still a moment. There ! 
 
 IHe leads her to a chair and, walks slowly to the 
 
 ste-pSy where he -pauses, while Joanne closes her 
 
 eyes and calms herself. Then he returns and 
 
 sits down near her. 
 
 I am waiting. [A pause. 
 
 Joanne. Well, it all began so long ago that I 
 have become another sort of woman than that I 
 was before I married. As a girl I was spoiled. I 
 was selfish and cruel, bent more on conquest of 
 the world than of living in it. I was eager to im- 
 press people with my personality as well as with 
 my intelligence, and I had an ambition to be a 
 great artist, for my voice was then much admired, 
 whether for my good looks or my power I do not 
 know. Still, I sang very well, and looked forward 
 to governing the entire world. For a proud, quick- 
 raced girl this meant a heartlessness too indiscrimi- 
 nate to allow greatness of soul, and the pettiness 
 of my own soon appeared in the cruel way I left 
 my mother, who was ill, to study in Munich. 
 While I was there she died, and the shock was so 
 great to me that I gave up my lessons. On re- 
 turning to Boston I fell in love with Lebaran and 
 we were married. I was mad in my devotion to 
 him, and the children only tripled it, so that my life 
 during the past twenty-five years has been one 
 constant sacrifice of myself to them. I have lived 
 
54 ESAU 
 
 for them night and day, until I only know how to 
 sacrifice — can only be a support for them. I know 
 or enjoy nothing else. [^ fause. 
 
 Dr. N. But is not this the greatest joy in life ? 
 
 Joanne. Yes, unhappily. 
 
 Dr. N. Why unhappily ? 
 
 Joanne. Because it is no longer granted to me, 
 and I am cast out alone without a means of sus- 
 tenance. 
 
 Dr. N. How so ? Mr. Morvran is here. You 
 see Gioya and Malcolm often. 
 
 Joanne. Gioya is as far removed from me as 
 Acturas, and Malcolm seldom comes home. It is 
 hard to see one's children grow up and go away 
 however much one may be prepared for it. 
 
 Dr. N. Yet with them departed to build their 
 own lives and found their own families ; Lebaran is 
 always yours, my dear. 
 
 Joanne. Ah! He does not need me. Dr. No tting- 
 hill. I have not made him dependent enough upon 
 me, and he is so engrossed by his work, that I am 
 no more than a piece of household furniture. He 
 does not need me, and he does not love me. How 
 can I be happy when I can give him nothing ? 
 
 Dr. N. Why, you are indispensable to him ! You 
 do not see clearly your value to him. 
 
 Joanne. So are of value his motors and his 
 stables. I am more than these. The old fierce 
 desire to create and to govern is re-born in me, and 
 I long to use my voice. I could still be a good 
 
ESAU 55 
 
 singer, Dr. Nottlnghill, yet Lebaran forbids me to 
 work at it, and so I must allow my voice to decay. 
 
 Dr. N. I shaU speak of it to him. There is no 
 reason why you should not amuse yourself with 
 your voice. 
 
 Joanne. He hates the idea of my doing anything 
 so professional. He is an unflinching conservative, 
 and would consider it poor taste to work seriously, 
 even on music. I am not a true Bostonian, for I 
 enjoy the informality of artistic life so long as it 
 be genuine. Far from posing as an eccentric, I 
 still prefer the simplicity of life to its conven- 
 tionality. 
 
 Dr. N. I am sure Lebaran will applaud your 
 desires if he knows their depth. 
 
 Joanne. No ; I have tried, and he knows my early 
 character. It is useless. I must submit. 
 
 l^She bites her lip and looks down. 
 
 Dr. N. Does settlement work interest you ? 
 Would you not like to work among the poor ? 
 
 Joanne. No, no, that is not my work. Dr. 
 Nottinghill. I must expend all my charity and 
 help among those personally dependent upon me. 
 It means nothing to me to give money blindly or 
 to stroke heads indiscriminately. 
 
 Dr. N. Have you studied the theories of spiritual 
 dominion now current ? 
 
 Joanne. They do not interest me. They are all 
 words. I have had to live too much to foster 
 curiosity about life's reason. I am very human. 
 
56 ESAU 
 
 Perhaps I am only a quiet animal ; I never thought 
 myself intellectual. 
 
 Dr. N. Then travel, interest yourself in some 
 amusement, and come back to see it all from a 
 different point of view. Don't become discouraged 
 now ; you are nervously exhausted with Gioya's 
 wedding and the excitement of these manifesta- 
 tions in Boston. 
 
 Joanne. Lebaran would never understand my 
 desire to go away without him. You see I cannot 
 travel. I am a part of the household machinery, 
 replaceable only by revolutions. How could I 
 amuse myself ? I dislike entertaining on a large 
 scale, as does Lebaran, and yachting or riding I 
 have outgrown. A woman absorbed by her family 
 has little time to cultivate hobbies, and there is 
 really nothing but my music possible to me. 
 
 Dr. N. He could not be so selfish as to make 
 you unhappy for so small a thing. 
 
 Joanne. A man so conventional and regular as he 
 is sees everything over large which does not fit into 
 the wheel. It would torture him to hear me 
 practise, and irritate him to have me work assidu- 
 ously. I could not do it by halves. 
 
 Dr. N. There seems then to be no alternative 
 than to make Mr. Morvran more dependent upon 
 you. That is the wisest course. 
 
 Joanne. Could I win back the same love ? 
 
 Dr. N. If not, perhaps a finer one ! [J pause. 
 
 Joanne. Yes, you are right. You see how absurd 
 
ESAU 57 
 
 I am now ! I have been so selfish. Do forgive me 
 for my outbreak and this deluge of confessions, for 
 I have never done so before. It has helped me, 
 although I am thoroughly ashamed of my tears. 
 
 Dr. N. I am hurt to be of so little value to you. 
 
 Joanne. Why ? Besides being a patient con- 
 fessor you have shown me the path, and I am very 
 grateful to you. You see I am normal now. {She 
 laughs^ It must have been some effect of the heat, 
 for I am not neurasthenic. 
 
 \The others are heard coming up the garden. It has 
 grown dark, and so Joanne lights the lights 
 which are hung in the marble basins. 
 
 Dr. N. I shall not forget to speak about the 
 music. 
 
 Joanne. Thank you, but do not be too per- 
 sistent. 
 
 Dr. N. If only for my pleasure then. 
 
 SCENE VI 
 
 Lebaran, Mrs. Whitney, Cintra, Gioya, Cecil, 
 Percival, Malcolm, and Ovan come up the 
 steps. Joanne goes to meet them. 
 
 Joanne. Malcolm ? 
 
 Malcolm. Hallo, mother ! 
 
 Joanne. How are you, dear ? 
 
 Malcolm (gunning up the steps and kissing her). 
 Jolly well. We had a splendid ride, and I brought 
 Ovan, you know — where are you, Ovan ? — and the 
 
58 ESAU 
 
 motor works splendidly. I always said a Gnome 
 was best. (Ovan comes up with the others.) Here 
 is Mr. Dorath, mother. Ovan, my mother. 
 
 [Joanne holds out her hand cordially. 
 
 Joanne. I am very pleased to see you here, Mr. 
 Dorath. Malcolm has been so enthusiastic about 
 you. 
 
 Ovan {taking her hand and looking into her eyes). 
 The boy does not know the diflference between 
 personality and character, Mrs. Morvran. My 
 welcome, then, must rest on the former. 
 
 Malcolm. Nonsense, Ovan, you are all character. 
 
 Ovan. Then you truly underestimate me, for all 
 character means no understanding. 
 
 Joanne. Do leave him a heart and traditional 
 human weakness. It is immodest to bare him of 
 those ! 
 
 Lebaran. Have you met Dr. Nottinghill, Mr. 
 Dorath ? \He introduces him. 
 
 Ovan. Only cerebrally, I think. I follow your 
 movement with interest, and it is gratifying to 
 materialise you, Dr. Nottinghill. 
 
 Dr. N. Ah ! Then you have attended my 
 classes, Mr. Dorath ? 
 
 Ovan. Only twice, I am afraid ; but my secretary 
 goes regularly, and informs me of your progress. 
 
 Dr. N. I am delighted to meet you, I am sure. 
 Ah ! I — ^your books have been sent me. All of 
 them. 
 
 Ovan. Do not say you agree with any of my 
 
ESAU 59 
 
 ideas ! I shall be obliged to cloak them Sweden- 
 borgianly if they are accepted already. Nothing' 
 kills an idea sooner than ready acceptance. 
 
 Dr. N. No — that is — I have not studied them 
 closely enough, I fear. They are all in my library. 
 
 Joanne. My dear doctor, you are inconsiderate. 
 I am sure Mr. Dorath has not dined. 
 
 OvAN. Yes — at least we ate before we came. 
 
 Lebaran. Will you not have some supper now ? 
 
 OvAN. Oh no, thank you ! The evening air is 
 satiating. 
 
 Dr. N. {aside to Lebaran). He is admirable ! 
 
 Lebaran {aside). A fine type of man surely. 
 
 [They sit down, but Percival, Gioya, and Cecil 
 
 remain aloof and do not join in the conversation. 
 
 CiNTRA. I envy you the trip with Malcolm, Mr. 
 Dorath. 
 
 Malcolm. Miss Whitney is my messmate, Ovan. 
 She is as good a fellow as the best, and more true. 
 
 OvAN. You are lucky both of you — and very 
 modern. 
 
 Mrs. W. Plato you see is practical to-day — too 
 practical, I am afraid. Camaraderie is very agree- 
 able — but 
 
 \She sighs and looks 'pointedly at Ovan. 
 
 Cintra. If I weren't master of the hounds I'd 
 be up in a machine every day, but horses wiU 
 always be ahead of machinery for me. You can't 
 love nuts and bolts. 
 
 Malcolm. Oh yes, you can, only you must be 
 
6o ESAU 
 
 alone with them to hear their patient breathing 
 across mile after mile of emptiness. 
 
 OvAN. Machinery is so steeped with human life, 
 Miss Whitney, that its motion is human and its 
 semi-personification breeds sympathy. I have wept 
 over a motor cycle. 
 
 Lebaran. None of these inventions shall claim 
 me however human they are, and I have only used 
 motors for a year. As to Malcolm, his life is his 
 own. 
 
 Joanne. I should as willingly risk the life of my 
 children for the intellectual advance of their 
 country as for its preservation. 
 
 Mrs. W. Is flying intellectual ? 
 
 OvAN. It is a demonstration of man's power, and 
 science or its application is his supreme power. 
 
 Joanne. Then what position do you give to art ? 
 
 OvAN. Art, as you define it, is a thing of the 
 past. It is a dead language, but as out of Latin 
 has come French, so out of that art has come a 
 new. We do not want to paint, or carve, or write 
 as did Ferrari or Leochares or Fielding. We have 
 different things to say, and must say them differently. 
 
 Mrs. W. Suppose we have nothing to say ? 
 
 OvAN. We never had more ; but as art is the 
 expression of the spirit, when the spirit develops 
 art must develop. Hence in the thirteenth cen- 
 tury religious faith governed art ; to-day science 
 does so, and art must be more scientific. We want 
 engineering more than statuettes — such assimilative 
 
ESAU 6i 
 
 beauty is less serviceable. The intellect is not so 
 allegorical, it is practical, and our strength more 
 productive. The telephone is a greater work of art 
 than the Chimes of Perugia, and the comparison 
 is just, for one is artistic as is the other. 
 
 Mrs. W. It is simply instinctive appreciation of 
 beauty posed against that of reason — our dissent I 
 mean. 
 
 OvAN. Yes, our art — genuine art it is — ^is that of 
 railroads and machinery. There is nothing more 
 beautiful in Paris than the Eiffel Tower, while the 
 proof of our having no organs for the functions of 
 classic art lies in the rotten decadents who feed on 
 nuances, debauch their senses in colour and form, 
 and abandon the reason of their art in technique. 
 The Aesthetes of Oscar Wilde are poisonous weeds, 
 amusing but not religious. Wireless telegraphy, on 
 the other hand, is religious. We may build upon 
 the past but not imitate it. The critic is an 
 iarchseologist, not an architect. 
 
 Mrs. W. But the Eiffel Tower contains assimila- 
 tive beauty ! It resembles the deep sea protistes 
 or radiolaires. Natural beauty in art has exhausted 
 but a small province of nature. 
 
 OvAN. Yet the beauty we create is natural, for 
 are we not the head of nature ? Let the mind 
 create and it will create beauty, whether it resemble 
 nature or the classics. If the soul is emotional or 
 religious the art will be likewise ; if intellectual, the 
 art will be intellectual ; and as the intellect is the 
 
62 ESAU 
 
 greatest power in man, such art will be his greatest 
 art. It is not a question of how other men express 
 other things ; the art of progressive science is the 
 true one. 
 
 Lebaran. But an aeroplane is not beautiful ! 
 
 OvAN. There are few things more so. There, 
 Mr. Morvran, is where tradition wounds you. You 
 see beauty in such things alone as your ancestors 
 saw beauty in without allowing reason to assist 
 you, the fault of all those who criticise art without 
 creating it. Beauty is not a matter of taste but 
 of thought. Thank heaven I have no tastes. 
 
 Malcolm. I always said an aeroplane was beau- 
 tiful, father. 
 
 Lebaran. Then you consider a locomotive 
 Jjeautiful ? 
 
 OvAN. Unquestionably so. The greater the con- 
 ception of the mind, and the more full its service, 
 so much the greater the art, whether of canvas or 
 of iron. Aeronautics is perhaps the most moral 
 field of activity to-day. Do not imagine that 
 France would allow her army and her treasury to 
 encourage it if it were not. The French are a 
 thoroughly moral race. 
 
 Lebaran. Well, the old comforts are more satis- 
 fying to me. 
 
 OvAN. Progress, change — there's life. You are 
 half extinct. 
 
 CiNTRA. Enough ! I never heard so many 
 opinions ! I hate opinions ; everybody has them. 
 
ESAU 63 
 
 It would be so much nicer if people thought instead 
 of having opinions. 
 
 Malcolm. Why don't you do something without 
 thinking ? After all, the simple men, like me, do 
 the work. 
 
 OvAN. Simplicity, dear Malcolm, has become a 
 profession nowadays. The conscious mastery of 
 Wagner who bent the arts without being enslaved to 
 them is far greater than the blinded ecstasy with which 
 Verdi carried himself off his feet. You have taken 
 up aeroplanes for snobbism, because they are new. 
 
 Malcolm. Oh rot ! 
 
 CiNTRA. He is right, Malcolm ; you take naturally 
 to nothing but football. 
 
 Mrs. W. I imagine he is always right. I shall 
 have to re-read his books. Mr. Grey ! you are 
 wasting time. Mr. Dorath is reforming us all. 
 
 Percival {turning to theni). We have been dis- 
 cussing the difference in style noticeable between 
 Clarissa and Peregrine Pickle. 
 
 Mrs. W. Wasted time, I assure you. 
 [Small enters with a letter on a salver which he 
 ■presents to Joanne. He goes out. 
 
 Joanne. Here's a letter for you, Mr. Dorath. 
 
 OvAN. Oh, thank you ! From my secretary. 
 May I read it ? I believe it is important. 
 
 Joanne. Do so by all means. 
 
 OvAN. Pardon me. 
 \H.e opens the letter, walks aside to the step and 
 reads it. 
 
64 ESAU 
 
 Mrs. W. (in a whisfer). I am mad about him ! 
 
 Malcolm. Of course. 
 
 CiNTRA. He is splendid. 
 
 Dr. N. Most promising young man, and so 
 broad. 
 
 Joanne. I am glad you brought him, Malcolm. 
 
 Lebaran. He is rather radical, but strong, I 
 admit. 
 
 Percival (joining them). How can you listen to 
 such language ? 
 
 Malcolm. You make me tired, Uncle Percival, 
 even if you did write Was Bacon Shakespeare ? 
 
 Ovan (returning. It has been a bad day in 
 Boston, Mr. Morvran. My secretary sends me the 
 report of a speech made by the agitator of the 
 manifestations. He says that this morning a mob 
 gathered about Faneuil Hall and destroyed the 
 market almost completely. 
 
 Joanne. The great markets ! Gioya, Mr. Dorath 
 says the mob has destroyed the markets. Not 
 Faneuil Hall too ? 
 
 Lebaran {shrugging his shoulders). They will 
 gain nothing that way. What an outrage. Is that 
 all they did ? 
 
 OvAN. No, later they moved through the city 
 visiting all the other provisioners and forcing them 
 to close. It is impossible to buy anything now at 
 any of the meat or dairy shops. Pierce's, Rhodes, 
 and even the street fruit-sellers are doing no business 
 at all. 
 
ESAU 6s 
 
 Lebaran. Efficient to remedy prices, but where 
 do they get their food ? They must eat. 
 
 OvAN. They have arranged freights to bring it 
 from Canada — an expensive move, but costing less, 
 and practical for a time. 
 
 Mrs. W. What shall we do ? All the supplies 
 come from Boston, do they not ? 
 
 Joanne. All but our vegetables, miUc, and eggs, 
 which we raise ourselves. 
 
 Lebaran. We suffer who are not responsible, 
 while they can go as long as they like. Where are 
 the police ? 
 
 OvAN. They can do nothing against so large a 
 body, with whom besides they are in sympathy. 
 
 Lebaran. And the militia ? 
 
 OvAN. Away on manoeuvres, and disorganised at 
 that. 
 
 Lebaran. The government is doing nothing to 
 stop these extravagances ? 
 
 OvAN. No ; there was talk of sending for troops 
 to neighbouring States, but that was abandoned. 
 Mayor Flannagan is in Europe looking up improve- 
 ments in civic decoration, and the aldermen being 
 afraid have fled. City Hall and the State House 
 are deserted. 
 
 . Lebaran. What a rotten government ! Oh, it is 
 maddening ! 
 
 OvAN. A disordered gathering marched up 
 Commonwealth Avenue and held a meeting at 
 which speeches were heatedly received, but it 
 
 E 
 
66 ESAU 
 
 dispersed at noon leaving business crippled, the streets 
 empty, and an air of general ill-omen everywhere. 
 
 Lebaran. Why ill-omen ? They have gained 
 their ends in closing the shops. Nothing worse 
 can follow. 
 
 OvAN. The feeling is not so easily calmed, Mr. 
 Morvran, for the people have paid the expenses of 
 this campaign. 
 
 Lebaran. Well, we can go as long as they with 
 closed shops. I have paid my share already for 
 their humbug in the stock market. Do not let us 
 talk about it. 
 
 Cecil. It is a bore, you know, a jolly bore. 
 
 \He yawns. 
 
 Malcolm. It is so unnecessary, 
 
 Percival. I thought such things only occurred 
 in the West. 
 
 Mrs. W. Never in the classics ? 
 
 Lebaran. Come, let us drop this subject. 
 
 Dr. N. WiU you not sing for us, Mrs. Morvran ? 
 Mr. Morvran, ask her to sing for us. It is 
 perfect a such at time. 
 
 Lebaran. If she wishes to — ^but the night air 
 
 Joanne. I should love to sing — ^if Lebaran 
 
 Lebaran. Oh sing, sing. 
 
 Joanne. Will you come into the music-room, 
 Mrs. Whitney ? Gioya ? 
 
 [She goes in, followed by Cintra, Gioya, Mrs. W., 
 and. Dr. Nottinghill. 
 
ESAU e^ 
 
 SCENE VII 
 
 Lebaran. It is a mere amusement for her; do 
 not expect too much. 
 
 Joanne ( off). What shall I sing ? 
 
 OvAN (calling). Sing a Beaudelaire. (To Mal- 
 colm.) Strauss or Schumann is incongruous in 
 summer. 
 
 [Joanne sings " Le Jet £eau " of Debussy, and the 
 men sit silently for a moment after she has 
 finished. Then Ovan stands up and walks 
 hack and forth slowly; Joanne remains 
 at the piano, but without singing. 
 
 Ovan. That is the voice of New England, aim- 
 less, without heritage, and sad. There is no illusion 
 in it, nor any enthusiasm, but a courageless query- 
 as to life. 
 
 Lebaran. It is sad music. 
 
 Ovan. It is more than sad, it is tragic, for it 
 represents the soul facing obliteration. It is the 
 last, echo of a fallen empire. 
 
 Percival. I do not understand ; do you mean the 
 Empire of perfection ? 
 
 Ovan. I mean that of Rulers, of the aristocracy. 
 
 Cecil. Our aristocracy is not dead. 
 
 Ovan. You do not know what an aristocracy is, 
 Mr. Cabot. You may copy the vices and luxury 
 of Louis Quatorze, but you have not remembered 
 
68 ESAU 
 
 that he was an active administrator. An aristo- 
 cracy must govern as well as amuse itself. 
 
 Percival. How could we govern ourselves 
 better ? 
 
 OvAN. Not only yourselves, but your children 
 and your people. You speak of your lineage, 
 ancestors, and genealogy upon every possible occa- 
 sion ; you boast of it and rely upon it, but are you 
 worthy of illustrious forefathers ? Is it ennobling 
 yourselves to raise the comparison ? 
 
 Cecil. My ancestors were the first to colonise 
 in New England. Mr. Morvran's were nearly as 
 early. Is it not a thing to be proud of ? 
 
 OvAN. Certainly if you have retained their 
 qualities. Degeneration refers to genealogy for 
 justification. {A pause.) Nearly three hundred 
 years ago your forefathers fled from England for 
 reasons of spiritual oppression. You are exerting 
 Such an oppression now yourselves, but it was the 
 reverse then. They came to a country where 
 climate and nature, animal and savage, rendered 
 life a primitive combat. They were not prepared 
 for such practical action, for they had been pros- 
 perous gentry at home, or else they would never 
 have become involved so deeply in religious prin- 
 ciples, yet they endured the climate, dominated 
 nature, and conquered the savages. They did this, 
 and they founded a colony upon blood-stained 
 hearths. They governed and developed their 
 colony, they fought a war to liberate it, they made 
 
ESAU 69 
 
 it beautiful with the pride which adorned Athens, 
 and jthey became a recognised State among the 
 empires of history. Their children moulded intel- 
 lectual kingdoms rivalling those of Europe, pro- 
 ducing a society as brilliant and a commerce as 
 ^ucpessful. 
 
 / Gf this ancestorship you may well be proud, for 
 it is virile and clean, young and impatient ; it is 
 based on the test of natural endurance, and contains 
 not a drop of poor blood. It is the type of the 
 true ruling aristocracy. 
 
 But let your pride stop there. You have no 
 part in either that foundation or this result, 
 which is the displacement of that old ruling aristo- 
 cracy by incapable plebs of foreign rejection. You, 
 Mr. Morvran, you, Mr. Grey, who are the de- 
 scendants of that regime, have become useless 
 organs, and your functions have been usurped by 
 the rabble. Within the last seventy-five years this 
 has come about because of intellectual and social 
 snobbishness, laziness, and an incomprehensible in- 
 capability. 
 
 All which France holds most high, that for 
 which she has shed the blood of her children and 
 torn the bread from her mouth, these things you 
 have lost, assuming rather the character of eunuchs 
 than of men. La Patrie, the essence of the race, 
 the hearth, which means life and individuality to 
 men of France, means nothing to you. What your 
 fathers built you suffer to be destroyed with the de- 
 
70 ESAU 
 
 struction of your identity, and the aristocracy, which 
 is the race, be it labourer or prince, has crumbled. 
 Men of proud blood in Greece would hold the 
 motive forces of their life more dear than life it- 
 self. " Afrh Moi" although perfect enough to be 
 played on the national stage of France, was banished 
 because of popular antagonism to the reception of 
 a Jew among Frenchmen. Zola is forbidden to the 
 soldier and shunned by the civilian because he too 
 boldly unbared the weaknesses of his country. This 
 sense of national identity which claims the soul 
 and body of the individual unquestioningly as its 
 own has completely vanished among you. Your 
 history may not be so long as that of France, your 
 glory not so great, but all the more necessity to 
 carry these things higher, than to shame it. 
 
 \A -pause. 
 To-day all the intelligence of New England is 
 idle and uncreative, the true race is degraded, the 
 inherent rulers are replaced by untrained servants 
 or scheming impostors, and the field of commerce 
 is tilled by the nobles. The government, art, and 
 science of a country must be developed by the 
 finest of her subjects, and the business of ruling is 
 one needing not only long training but also in- 
 herited genius. Kings are not elected ; they are 
 bom and cultivated. A peasant is incapable of 
 governing. But you have shirked the duty, and 
 peasants are blundering in the dark over your corn- 
 fields instead of ploughing them by daylight. This 
 
ESAU 71 
 
 is the actual state. The nobility is not writing, 
 painting, building or carving ; it is not thinking 
 except about the past : hence no art. It is not 
 learning or inventing : hence the professions are 
 fed by outsiders. It is not governing, and so you 
 are ruled by foreigners. What is it doing ? If it 
 is not idle, it is devoting itself to commerce. You 
 are a banker, Mr. Morvran. You amass doUars or 
 make a trade of them, a business which the Athenian 
 left to slaves or foreigners^ who occupied Piraeus, 
 and he scorned trade. The State fell when he 
 sought it. In the Middle Ages no noble traded, 
 nor even in the Renaissance, while still to-day in 
 Europe the tradition has clung. Why ? Because 
 it is the duty of the noble to protect the country, 
 to do its thinking and its administrating, leaving the 
 machinery of it to machines. You, Mr. Morvran, 
 are comparable to a sixteenth-century Venetian Jew 
 and have lost your caste; Mr. Grey is a spiritual 
 snob, killing advance by immoral criticism ; and Mr. 
 Cabot is a social parricide. Malcolm alone of you, 
 in spite of his athletic excesses, is doing something 
 for his country with machinery. 
 
 There is a picture of New England blood, while 
 O'Flynn, Casey, and Oberinski sit in the Senate. 
 Your peers are keeping greengrocers' shops, and the 
 greengrocers are playing at Parliament. 
 
 Esau sold his birthright for a mess of pottage, 
 but you have thrown yours away. You have built 
 a house without any doors to close, retreating to 
 
72 ESAU 
 
 the attic before invading tramps whom you do not 
 keep as servants as you might have done, but whom 
 you pay to mismanage the estate. You are stewards 
 in your father's house, and your snobbishness is that 
 of stewards. 
 
 If there were no evil consequences this would be 
 well enough, for vanity matters little, but the estate 
 is suflFering by it more than you. False govern- 
 ments, powerless to legislate or to rule actively, 
 cannot foresee or forestall. The poor do not want 
 to vote, they want to be squarely ruled, and the 
 demands of their work forbid them knowledge of 
 how. to obtain this. Hence experimental elections 
 year after year, high prices and unemployed men. 
 It is your duty to intelligently assume the leader- 
 ship. The present manifestations are a resiilt of 
 fear, and you as well will suffer by it. A gentleman 
 cannot pollute himself with politics. Banking is 
 more vulgar. 
 
 Esau was at least hungry, but you have not eaten. 
 {He stops and wipes his forehead. There is a long 
 pause.) It is childish — my positiveness — ^pardon me, 
 I am over-concentrated at times. 
 
 Percival. a most interesting theory. Is it your 
 own ? 
 
 Lebaran. But it is impractical, Mr. Dorath ! It 
 may be true, yet changes come slowly. You are 
 too much of an idealist, and, after all, it is we who 
 have raised the tone of commerce the world over and 
 are developing the resources of our fathers' estate. 
 
ESAU 73 
 
 OvAN. I think realism will confirm me ; wait. 
 
 Malcolm. The manifestations are real enough, 
 father. 
 
 Lebaran. History works itself out inevitably. I 
 admit that I am more or less of a fatalist. 
 
 OvAN. It does so in books, but the framing of 
 our Constitution was intelligent however, and not 
 spontaneous. 
 
 SCENE VIII 
 
 A glow has appeared and been increasing on the 
 horizon for some time and now assumes larger 
 proportions. Joanne comes out from the music- 
 room.. 
 
 Joanne. How patient you are without us ! 
 Lebaran, what is that glow in the sky ? We have 
 been wondering about it in there. 
 
 \They all turn to look at it. 
 
 Lebaran. It is the lights in Boston. Sometimes 
 the smoke reflects it that way. 
 
 Joanne. But it is too brilliant. See, it flares and 
 changes. 
 
 Lebaran. It can be nothing but the lights, Joanne. 
 
 Percival. It is extraordinarily light, Lebaran. 
 
 Lebaran. Tut-tut ! fog — I say. 
 
 Malcolm. I bet it's a fire ; I'll go and telephone. 
 
 Joanne. It is out of order, you know. 
 
 Lebaran. How absurd ! I have often seen it 
 like that. 
 
74 ESAU 
 
 [Js they watch it Small enters suidenlyy followed 
 by Mrs. Whitney, Dr. N., Gioya, and 
 
 CiNTRA. 
 
 Small. Mrs. Morvran — ^please — madam — ^William 
 has come in the motor from Boston and says the 
 mobs have set fire to the Back Bay ! 
 
 Curtain falls rapidly. 
 
 END OF ACT I. 
 
ACT II 
 
 The Music-room at Morvran's house at Beverly Farms. 
 It is of a severe Louis Quatorze design in white paint and 
 gold, but with no colour. In the middle of the right wall a 
 double door opens into the entrance-hall. A veneered cabinet 
 stands next to it, and in the corner beyond that a piano juts 
 out into the room. There are three glazed doors in the rear 
 wall, separated by panels. On the left wall, in the middle, is 
 a fireplace of Nero antico marble. Beyond it is an arched 
 door leading to the colonnade of the previous Act. Before 
 it, near the centre of the room, is a sofa beside a marble- 
 topped gold-supported table, on which are writing materials 
 and two bronze lamps. In the left corner is a tall buhl clock. 
 Before the cabinet on the right is an armchair, another is 
 before the table, and still another before the fireplace. A 
 crystal lustre hangs from the centre of the ceiling, but except 
 for a vase on the mantelpiece there are no ornaments what- 
 ever. There are no hangings nor rugs. All the doors are 
 open and the lights lit, while from the windows is still 
 perceptible the glow in the sky, for only ten minutes have 
 passed since the end of the first Act. 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 Lebaran is seated at the desk, and Ovan is 
 standing beside it. 
 
 Lebaran. I shall do nothing at all. This event 
 is unprecedented, and I shall not move a finger. 
 What a blow to civilisation ! 
 
 75 
 
76 ESAU 
 
 OvAN. Indignation may be dignified, but does it 
 justify the loss of your property ? You are suicidal, 
 Mr. Morvran. It is not brute force, nor trained 
 armies, which I counsel you, but simply your pen 
 or your words. That is the height of civilisation. 
 
 Lebaran. Are we to be guillotined ? Nothing 
 will make me bend to the folly of these heathen. 
 The first Morvran crushed, and if I am the last, I 
 shall crush rather than be bullied into compromise. 
 I am opposed, Mr. Dorath, and opposition fires 
 every drop of persistence in me. Nothing, I say, 
 nothing will make me recognise the cause of these 
 people now that they have insulted me. We are 
 enemies. They have declared war — I should not 
 have — ^but I shall now defend myself. Let them 
 ransack my house — it is a clumsy method of war- 
 fare, for I shall crush them to pulp at my leisure 
 by more subtle means. I can afford to be idle 
 now while they exhaust themselves on physical 
 tactics. 
 
 OvAN. Such conflict will destroy them and you 
 as well, for you cannot live without them. Does 
 your superior intelligence not tell you the moral 
 way to act ? Would you degrade yourself by re- 
 solving slow extermination to a child ? Where 
 is your manhood — ^gone with your rule ? Re- 
 member the legend of the evacuation of Rome by 
 the plebs and the argument a noble used to bring 
 them back. Had he listened to passion Rome 
 would have fallen, but reason is greater than 
 
ESAU ^^ 
 
 passion. It is surprising to meet it dominating in 
 a New Englander. 
 
 Lebaran. I am not moved by passion but by 
 principle. I could do nothing honourably in speak- 
 ing to these rebels or in offering cakes of com- 
 promise. They would stone me instead of respect- 
 ing my strong hand. No, I shall wait until they 
 are ready to see reason themselves before I offer it 
 to them. I have a supreme contempt for them. 
 
 OvAN. You are courting disaster. 
 
 Lebaran. It is too late now to avoid it. 
 
 OvAN. It can go further if not checked. A mob 
 incites itself to excesses undreamed of by indi- 
 viduals. It takes two dogs to kill a cat. 
 
 Lebaran. They would not dare to threaten my 
 life, nor can they injure my estate. The house in 
 town is fully insured. 
 
 OvAN. The insurance companies will call such an 
 accident an act of God and pay with great un- 
 willingness. 
 
 Lebaran. The greater then my revenge. 
 
 OvAN. So you will stand idle while your library 
 is pillaged ? 
 
 Lebaran. Mr. Dorath, I pay perhaps the largest 
 taxes in Boston, for which I expect the city to be 
 kept clean, lighted, and directed. Also, I am pro- 
 mised protection for myself and my property against 
 criminals. I pay the city and state for these things, 
 and I owe nothing to the city or state otherwise. 
 If I were to transgress I should be punished. Hence 
 
78 ESAU 
 
 if the city does not fulfil its part of the contract 
 I am not going to double the amount of my tax. 
 It is a business matter, and I cannot allow sentiment 
 to enter into business. Mrs. Morvran also pays 
 large taxes to the city, although she has no voice in 
 the municipal government, so that it is the city 
 which is indebted to us rather than we to the city. 
 I am a practical citizen, not a patriotic romancer. 
 
 OvAN. You cannot look upon the family as a 
 business affair nor upon the city as such, which is 
 a family. 
 
 Lebaran. It resembles a family in no way. My 
 children do not pay me taxes, and they do not 
 vote. You cannot found a republic on the family 
 unit, for the family is a monarchy. A city is a 
 business agreement, and I demand fairness. I 
 cannot command the police to act, the firemen to 
 work, nor the militia to fight ; I pay the state to 
 do so for me as I pay the government to do state 
 housekeeping. Ruling is not a duty of nobles ; it 
 is for servants. 
 
 OvAN. No servants are capable of it, and the 
 result is riot. You are not practical. Lay aside 
 your theories and act for future good by no matter 
 what means. A catastrophe has arrived, the middle- 
 class administration has deserted the helm, you 
 taking the woman's part are inactive, the causes 
 remain unchanged, and there is left but one dis- 
 graceful alternative which will make you the laugh- 
 ing-stock of the world. An outsider, a stranger^, 
 
ESAU 79 
 
 must bring order and salvation into your houses, 
 you can never lift your heads in pride after such an 
 event, and you will for a second time sell your 
 birthright. The opportunity is still possible to 
 assert yourself in all your racial nobility by un- 
 ravelling this aflEair, or else to disgrace yourself 
 permanently. What are you going to do ? 
 
 Lebaran. I have spoken. I shall not stir a finger 
 until the moment arrives to do so as I will. I shall 
 unravel this affair, as you call it, my own way, and I 
 can afford to wait. 
 
 OvAN. I do not think so. You do not realise 
 the true depth of this riot, Mr. Morvran, as I do 
 who have studied its causes. It will not stop at 
 incendiarism; it will go further, and you will be 
 unable to strike upon cool metal, being engulfed in 
 molten; again, will you speak or write or go to 
 Boston ? 
 
 Lebaran. No, I shall stay here.- 
 
 OvAN. Then will you promise to back me up if 
 I interview the leaders in Boston and arrive at an 
 agreement honourable to you ? 
 
 Lebaran. I shall have to see what proposition 
 you call honourable. 
 
 Ovan. My honour is a man's. I count on you. 
 I shall go with assurance, for if you fail there is no 
 hope. 
 
 Lebaran. I have not promised ; it depends on 
 your agreement. 
 
 Ovan. You will agree to it. Where is Malcolm ? 
 
8o ESAU 
 
 He can take me up. Will you find him while I 
 write some letters ? 
 
 Lebaran. Nothing extravagant, {fie moves to- 
 wards the door. Ovan sits down and begins to tarite.) 
 I shall use my judgment, you know. 
 
 [He goes out. Ovan lights the desk lamps and 
 resumes writing hastily. 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 Mrs. Whitney enters from the left, and seeing Ovan 
 stofs. She then goes to the sofa and sits 
 down, hut he has not noticed her. She coughs. 
 He looks up. 
 
 Mrs. W. Do not let me intrude, Mr. Dorath ; I 
 pray you to continue. 
 
 Ovan. If you do not mind, Mrs. Whitney, I am 
 very busy. 
 
 [He continues writing. She taps her foot nervously. 
 
 Mrs. W. You are from Seattle, are you not ? 
 
 Ovan {^ot stopping. Yes. [A pause. 
 
 Mrs. W. Your family is from Wales ? 
 
 Ovan. Yes ; from Carnarvon. 
 
 Mrs. W. How many generations ago ? 
 
 Ovan. Nine. The family went to Virginia first. 
 
 Mrs. W. Oh ! (A pause.) And your father ? 
 
 Ovan. He is living in the old manor at Car- 
 narvon. 
 
 Mrs. W. Oh ! (^he produces a notebook and pencil.) 
 You have an estate in Seattle ? 
 
ESAU 8i 
 
 OvAN [distractedly). Yes. I own Viceiiza Park, 
 
 Mrs. W. (writing). Vicenza Park — ^how many 
 acres ? Wooded ? 
 
 OvAN (trying to write). Seven hundred acres, 
 giant redwood. 
 
 Mrs. W. Seven hundred — I suppose your capital 
 is in government investments. 
 
 OvAN. Partly in New York and Seattle real 
 estate. 
 
 Mrs. W. Say $100,000 a year ? 
 
 OvAN {staring at her). I am sure I don't know. 
 I'll ask my secretary. [Resumes writing. 
 
 Mrs. W. Who was your mother ? 
 
 OvAN. Mother ? She was a WiUiams 
 
 Mrs. W. {excitedly). Not a Barrett-Williams ? 
 
 OvAN. Yes. 
 
 Mrs. W. {rising and going to his chair). Of 
 Culpepper ? 
 
 OvAN. Virginia. 
 
 Mrs. W. {throwing her arms about him). My cousin ! 
 
 OvAN {extracting himself). Cousin ? Why, what 
 do you mean ? 
 
 Mrs. W. My mother's aunt was a Williams. We 
 are cousins ! Oh ! I am so relieved, for I was 
 afraid Cintra would be too hasty. 
 
 OvAN. Cintra ? And what is she going to do ? 
 
 Mrs. W. Why, marry you of course ! 
 
 OvAN. Marry me ? \He rises in alarm. 
 
 Mrs. W. Mr. Dorath, I am a practical mother. 
 I am intellectual but I am worldly, and I do not 
 
82 ESAU 
 
 tolerate middle-class conventionality. Marriage is 
 not to be gone at by indirect methods, and as soon 
 as I saw you I knew you were the man I wanted for 
 my daughter. But I restrained myself until I knew 
 more about you. Now, however, there can be no 
 barrier to your suit. 
 
 OvAN. But I thought Malcolm — ^he said you 
 wanted him to marry Cintra. 
 
 Mrs. W. That is a whim of hers, my dear ; you 
 are to be considered first now. A cousin ! I pre- 
 dict you will be President or a great philosopher 
 some day. 
 
 OvAN. Mrs. Whitney, you know that I could 
 never marry Cintra, knowing you to be free. 
 
 Mrs. W. Nonsense, Ovan. I am not to be 
 flattered. Let me see — ^family, fortune — oh clubs, 
 you went to Harvard, of course ? 
 
 Ovan. And Oxford — ^Union, County, Atheneum, 
 and Algonquin. I assure you though that Malcolm 
 loves Cintra. 
 
 Mrs. W. It is only right that you should know 
 that Cintra has $10,000 a year of her own, and that 
 we are cousins to the Greys. The rest you can 
 find out from any one. I should prefer, of course, 
 that you live in Boston — but that is a minor desire, 
 and for form you ought to be with Cintra several 
 months in the year. These sentimental marriages, 
 such as Gioya's, are in poor taste and do not succeed. 
 Marriage is a matter of business. However, we can 
 discuss this in full to-morrow. 
 
ESAU 83 
 
 OvAN. Considering it then as a matter of business, 
 Mrs. Whitney, I cannot allow myself to undertake 
 it as it would interfere with other schemes I have 
 on foot ; besides Malcolm 
 
 Mrs. W. Tut — tut ! Must I say you do not know 
 your own mind. Say nothing until to-morrow. 
 Cintra, of course, thinks as I do. 
 
 OvAN. I am tremendously pleased by your in- 
 tention, but do you think it would be a good 
 marriage for Cintra ? I am not popular in Boston. 
 
 Mrs. W. Popularity is dictatorial, and if I re- 
 ceive you, every one else will. You can have my 
 town house from November to April as I am in 
 Paris every winter. 
 
 [A motor horn is heard blowing, and Small enters 
 from the right. 
 
 Small. Mr. Dorath, Mr. Morvran is waiting for 
 you at the shed. 
 
 OvAN. Thank you. I shall go immediately. 
 
 [Small withdraws. 
 
 Mrs. W. Why is he waiting ? 
 
 OvAN. To take me to Boston. I must hurry. 
 Do overlook my rudeness — to-morrow ? 
 
 Mrs. W. Boston ? (Ovan goes towards the colon- 
 nade door.) Be careful and find time to think over 
 this affair. Until to-morrow ? 
 
 \She follows him. 
 
 OvAN. Yes, awfully undignified my running off 
 this way. 
 
 Mrs. W. I had no idea that you were busy or I 
 
84 ESAU 
 
 should have waited. Still it is said. {She takes his 
 hand and embraces him.) My cousin ! {She kisses 
 him.) My son ! 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 As Mrs. W. kisses Ovan, Percival, Dr. Notting- 
 HiLL, GiOYA, Cecil, and Cintra come in by 
 the opposite door talking loudly. They halt in 
 amazement, and Ovan, freeing himself, hastily 
 disappears. 
 
 Cintra. Mother ! 
 
 GiOYA. Oh ! \The others laugh. 
 
 Mrs. W. I see nothing to laugh at. 
 
 Percival. I am shocked. 
 
 Mrs. W. Even in Boston one may kiss one's own 
 cousin. 
 
 Cintra. Cousin ? What are you saying ? 
 
 Cecil. Too much Chateau Yquem for dinner. 
 
 GiOYA. Stop, Cecil, you are vulgar. 
 
 Mrs. W. Yes, Cintra, Ovan is related to us. 
 
 Percival. She calls him Ovan. 
 
 Cintra. Related ? How ? 
 
 Mrs. W. {hysterically). His mother was d. 
 Barrett-Williams ! 
 
 Percival. Calm yourself, Mrs. Whitney. It 
 might have been nearer. 
 
 Cintra. I thought he was a Westerner. 
 
 Mrs. W. His family came from Carnarvon, where 
 they owned a Castle nineteen generations ago. . • . 
 
ESAU 8s 
 
 Dr. N. Nineteen, Mrs. Whitney ? 
 
 Mrs. W. Well, perhaps nine — and they lived in 
 Virginia — Culpepper — ^now I remember, a Dorath 
 was Governor in the twenties, and Ovan owns a 
 huge park in Seattle and real estate in New York, 
 and he belongs to everything, and I have agreed to 
 consider his proposal to marry Cintra. 
 
 CiNTRA. Marry me ? 
 
 Mrs. W. Yes, my dear, he has a very large in- 
 come. 
 
 Cintra. But I am going to marry Malcolm. 
 
 Cecil. Never mind, he does not know it. 
 
 Cintra. You are going too far, mother. Of 
 course I shall not marry him. 
 
 Cecil. Oh, be philosophical, Cintra. 
 . Percival. Philosophy is conceived after catas- 
 trophes and not before. 
 
 Mrs. W. You are romantic, my child. However, 
 you can settle the affair yourself. I have told Ovan 
 to go ahead. I am with him. Let us walk in the 
 gardens and talk it over. 
 
 Mrs. W. (taking Cintra's arm and walking 
 toward the colonnade with her). Town house — quite 
 free — ^brilliant. 
 
 Cintra. You bore me, mother. \They disappear. 
 
 SCENE IV 
 
 Percival. You have all gone mad about this man. 
 As for me, he is quite as dreadful as I expected. 
 
86 ESAU 
 
 Dr. N. He is splendid, Mr. Grey, so brilliant and 
 so broad. 
 
 Cecil. He has a jolly good family, you know. I 
 did not know that before. 
 
 Dr. N. Then think of his income, and his posi- 
 tion, besides his physique and character. 
 
 Percival. He is too unreserved and barbarously 
 free. He knows all sorts of awful people, the 
 leaders of this strike, for instance, whom he is 
 going now to see — no doubt to further instigate 
 them against us. He stops at nothing in his curi- 
 osity about humanity. 
 
 GioYA. Knowledge of life is so vulgar. Uncle 
 Percival, it must be quite injurious to style. 
 
 Percival. He likes the lower classes. 
 
 Dr. N. There are no lower classes, Mr. Grey. 
 There is only the middle class, which is sur- 
 rounded by genuine humanity as by a shell. The 
 middle class is a sort of potential in which real 
 human beings take root and by which they are 
 nourished. 
 
 GioYA. I think it is noble of him to go into the 
 arena to bother about this business. Mother is 
 very funny about him. I do not think she likes him. 
 
 Percival. She is a Grey. 
 [A muffled explosion is heard and a lurid flare 
 lightens the sky. 
 
 GiOYA. Good heavens ! What is that ? 
 
 [Malcolm af pears hurriedly. 
 
 Malcolm. Where is Ovan ? Have you seen 
 
ESAU 87 
 
 him ? A gas tank has just exploded— I am ready- 
 to go. Father said he was here. 
 
 Percival. No, he is not here. 
 
 Malcolm. Well, will you help me to look for 
 him ? Don't stand about like imbeciles. There is 
 no time to lose. You look in the garden, Gioya 
 and Cecil; Uncle Percival, Dr. Nottinghill, will 
 you help me in the house ? 
 
 Dr. N. With pleasure. 
 
 Gioya. We will go to the shed if we find him. 
 
 Malcolm. Hurry. 
 [He and Percival and Dr. N. go out to the right, 
 Gioya and Cecil to the left. 
 
 SCENE V 
 
 OvAN comes in from the hall with his motor coat 
 and sits down to write at the table. Joanne 
 apfears in the middle door in the rear and 
 stands watching him. He lifts his head and 
 sees her. 
 
 OvAN. Mrs. Morvran ! What can you think of 
 my manners ? I seem to have appropriated your 
 entire estate. 
 
 Joanne. You are at liberty to do anything. 
 Where are you going now ? 
 
 Ovan. To Boston. It has always been my role 
 to act. 
 
 Joanne. I am more concerned for the moral side 
 
88 ESAU 
 
 of this struggle than for its material. Things mean 
 very little to me. 
 
 OvAN. Because you have always had them. 
 
 Joanne. I am not alarmed. Can I do anything 
 for you ? [She comes into the room. 
 
 OvAN. I should like to find Malcolm. He is to 
 take me in the biplane. 
 
 Joanne. Malcolm ? I should rather not have 
 him go, especially not in the biplane. Why must 
 he go to Boston ? 
 
 OvAN. His presence will aid me. My influence 
 is strong there, and I have Mr. Morvran's authority 
 to offer a solution for the unrest ; but unless I 
 leave at once it may be too late. 
 
 Joanne. I do not want Malcolm to go. It is 
 too dangerous. No, no, he must not go. 
 
 OvAN. Do not fear for him, Mrs. Morvran ; I shall 
 send him safely away on errands. 
 
 Joanne. But it is folly to go in the aeroplane at 
 night. 
 
 Ovan. Not with the new search-light. One can 
 see perfectly; it is a calm night, and the fire will 
 guide us. 
 
 Joanne. I cannot let Malcolm go in the aero- 
 plane. There is no reason why he should go ; you 
 can take a motor. 
 
 Ovan. Do not raise fresh opposition in my path, 
 Mrs. Morvran. I have the entire world to fight 
 against, and just at present the details are almost 
 too great a burden for me. A man whose moral 
 
ESAU 89 
 
 code differs from every one else's is doomed to 
 eternal and bitter suffering. I need help, not re- 
 striction. There are greater matters at stake than 
 your wishes, and you must understand. I am at a 
 disadvantage, being your guest and a stranger. 
 
 Joanne (drawing near to hini). Then you are 
 human and can tire ? I thought you were a sort 
 of machine, incapable of suffering or need, and 
 ignorant of despair. 
 
 OvAN. That is simply a fagade. I really am too 
 dispirited at present to care to live, but my vitality 
 keeps me plunging daily through fresh trials. Weak 
 men, who have no nerves, can die, but strong ones 
 cannot die even when the nervous system is crushed 
 flat. 
 
 Joanne. Do you know that no one loves a strong 
 man ? In disclosing your suffering, you draw me 
 nearer to you than any conquest could. 
 
 OvAN. So you are bent by my abandonment of 
 pride to like me ? 
 
 Joanne. Not bent, I do not resist. Simply, there 
 was nothing to like in you before ; there was much 
 to admire and to praise, but nothing sympathetic. 
 
 OvAN. Thank you. I did not realise how cold 
 I was. {A pause!) I really have no confidence in 
 myself ; resistance fires me, and I am encouraged 
 by the flattery of inferior minds, but I have no real 
 self-assurance, and unless I retreat within a shell I 
 am quickly reduced to discouragement and thoughts 
 of suicide. 
 
90 ESAU 
 
 Joanne. Why ? 
 
 OvAN. Because I am not sure if I am right in 
 my fundamental theories. 
 
 Joanne. My poor boy, until science proves the 
 origin and end of the universe no one can know. 
 Why let that depress you ? I am sorry for you, 
 for you are strung dangerously high in vibration, 
 an octave where men are divine, or being crushed 
 by it become mad. You are strong enough to be 
 divine. Although I had doubted it, there is all 
 the humility of deities in your spirit. I should 
 understand anything you were to do, for so com- 
 plete a personality as yours is capable of all. 
 
 OvAN. I have learned to lie. My eyes, my face 
 belie me. No one could say that my eyes had 
 wept, yet they do so — too often. My mouth is 
 cold, but it shields a burning heart. 
 
 Joanne. It is joy to meet a breath of genuine- 
 ness in these false settings. You are an individual 
 where only casts exist. 
 
 OvAN. Where have you learned this understand- 
 ing ? How I need a companion to help me to 
 build my pyramid ! I really need help in every- 
 thing ; I need some one who loves me to manage 
 my practical life, so that I can concentrate on the 
 theoretical. But one never finds that. I am 
 selfish, am I not ? 
 
 Joanne. Let us talk of it ; can you wait for 
 that ? 
 
 OvAN. Until Malcolm comes to me. 
 
ESAU 91 
 
 Joanne. Sit down. (^Ihey both seat themselves.) 
 How do you mean ? 
 
 OvAN. I am an idealist, Mrs. Morvran. That 
 means that I seldom leave my head unless to gather 
 lessons from my body. What I think, I write and try 
 to put into practice. In order to do this work at 
 all, I must be left alone without any distractions ; 
 when I am hungry, I want to be fed ; when tired, 
 I must sleep. But the worries of cash accounts, 
 housekeeping, and other worldly directions drive me 
 mad. 
 
 Joanne. Why not have a secretary and maitre 
 d' hotel ? 
 
 OvAN. They always need attention — ^they do not 
 love me. I wish some one would realise that I am 
 a child in this regard and look after me as if I were 
 helpless, leaving me free to live with my brain. 
 
 Joanne. I understand. It really is a life-work 
 to keep one's accounts straight, one's wardrobe in 
 order, and one's house running. 
 
 OvAN. I am sometimes in despair when I am 
 writing and the lawyer, the tax-collector, the cook 
 and the gardener assail me. Writing is not like 
 other businesses ; it demands every moment to be 
 linked to every other in continuous thought. Then 
 my papers, my dictation even — I need help so 
 badly. Mother is gone; no man can replace her, 
 and no woman will, (^he clock strikes. He jumfs 
 up.) Where is Malcolm ? It is growing very late. 
 I don't know why I should have told you all this. 
 
92 ESAU 
 
 except that you seemed so kind and my mind has 
 been full of it. 
 
 Joanne. Mr. Dorath, will you take me seriously 
 in what I am saying ? I do not want Malcolm to 
 go to Boston 
 
 OvAN. Some one must be there to help me. 
 
 Joanne. I will go instead. 
 
 OvAN. You ! To Boston ? How can you ? 
 What could you do ? My errands will not be 
 afternoon visits. 
 
 Joanne. I am not so feminine as to be useless. 
 Can you not try me ? 
 
 OvAN. What will Mr. Morvran say ? 
 
 Joanne. I do not care. 
 
 OvAN. Malcolm would be more practical, and 
 certainly if he would be in danger, you would be 
 in greater. 
 
 Joanne. I am not thinking of them at present. 
 I wish to aid you to-night in a very small way, but 
 if you desire, I will supply that place in your life 
 which you just said you so painfully lacked. I will 
 be your mother, my dear boy, and I am a good 
 mother. You are astounded at what must appear 
 so casual an offer ; it has been preceded by months 
 of misery. 
 
 Ovan. I have been insane to talk as I have. I 
 could not take so much from you, and I had no idea 
 of asking it. You are making fun of me. 
 
 Joanne. No, I have decided. You need me, and 
 I need you. It is not a distorted point of view — 
 
ESAU 93 
 
 unhappily realities do not change with the weather, 
 and I must be sincere. The narrowness of Boston 
 is stifling me ; alone, I should be happy — do you 
 understand ? But 
 
 OvAN. Yet could we help each other that way ? 
 Would not the scandal ruin everything for us ? 
 You are too young. 
 
 Joanne. I am not too young, and after aU, your 
 private life cannot sway your public one; your 
 works are one thing, your life another. 
 
 OvAN. It would be monstrously selfish of me to 
 permit you to do this. Besides, I am not sure of 
 myself. You are not at all like my mother; — ^you 
 see — that is — ^well, I couldn't help loving you. 
 . Joanne. I should not want you to hate me. 
 
 OvAN. Yes, but don't you see ? 
 
 Joanne. My dear Ovan, a good woman's love is 
 always maternal, and a wife is more her husband's 
 mother than is his real one. It is you who do not 
 see. I shall not marry you, do not fear, and the 
 world must accept even what it cannot comprehend. 
 As for your hesitation, it must be based on the 
 extent, of your need for me, not on doubt as to 
 your temperament. You cannot regard me as a 
 bird of prey, and you cannot love me except ideally. 
 You are too intelligent to confuse our relations. 
 And if in the change of time our affections change, 
 they can always be accommodated by separation. 
 You can find a wife elsewhere — I suppose my part 
 will be through when you do., 
 
94 ESAU 
 
 OvAN. You will suffer. 
 
 Joanne. I have never suffered. I have only been 
 unhappy, and I should like to suffer. 
 
 OvAN. I cannot let you go without your knowing 
 my feelings for you. 
 
 Joanne. I do not believe them ! You are simply 
 trying to be the traditional, instinctive man, and I 
 hate you for it. Come ! exert your intelligence 
 and cease to be led by habit. You know that we 
 could never love each other in that way ; you wish 
 to find everything in one person. 
 
 OvAN. You are always one step ahead of me. 
 
 Joanne. I know you better than you do. You 
 are not a man — I mean, that you are without sex — 
 you are not formed by your body. You are able 
 to take what I offer without even desiring more. 
 
 OvAN. Then you would not believe me if I said 
 I loved you ? 
 
 Joanne. No, I should not. 
 
 OvAN. I do. 
 
 Joanne. You have never loved in your life, Ovan 
 Dorath, and you never will, because you will never 
 find what you seek. Do not waste time on me ; I 
 am not it, and I do not intend to be tested and 
 thrown aside. 
 
 Ovan. You are astounding in your perceptions. 
 
 Joanne. No, I have gone through this all myself. 
 
 Ovan. Are we the only ones who have ? I feel 
 it decreed that we shall always be together. 
 
 Joanne. Then I may go with you ? 
 
ESAU 95 
 
 OvAN. I do not love you. 
 
 Joanne. How lovely ! (^hey embrace each other 
 in laughter) I was so disappointed to think that 
 you had not comprehended. 
 
 OvAN. We must be serious now. In the first 
 place, honour. Mr. MorArran and Malcolm are my 
 friends. 
 
 Joanne. I intend to divorce Lebaran if he de- 
 sires it. 
 
 OvAN. Will you not be very much talked about ? 
 
 Joanne. I shall no longer meet the world that 
 will talk of me. As to your society, I shall be 
 invisible. 
 
 OvAN. Not at all ; my world will be able tp under- 
 stand. Are you not the mother of my friend ? 
 There is no fear of scandal from any point but 
 Boston, and no matter what we did, Boston would 
 create a scandal. 
 
 Joanne. We will leave it for ever — if you wish. 
 
 OvAN. I do. 
 
 Joanne. Boston will never understand, so there 
 is no need of respecting her. I shall always be the 
 disreputable Mrs. Morvran, and Lebaran will be 
 eulogised. 
 
 OvAN. Puritans can only see one object in going 
 away with a man, or in remaining with a husband. 
 
 Joanne. I must gather together a few things. 
 We can take my motor. I will order it. 
 
 OvAN. I will be here. 
 
 Joanne. In five minutes. 
 
96 ESAU 
 
 SCENE VI 
 
 Stefs are heard, in the garden. Ovan 'presses 
 Joanne's hand and they hurriedly disappear, 
 he to the right, she to the left. Malcolm 
 comes in from the rear, followed by Cintra. 
 
 Malcolm. Well, the biplane is ready whenever 
 he is. He can come for me, I am tired of looking 
 for him. (fle sits down in the chair before the desk. 
 Cintra pushes the things aside and sits on the table.) 
 Oh, by jove ! father would have apoplexy if he 
 saw you on that table. It belonged to Charlemagne 
 or Josephine, or some French chap. 
 
 Cintra. No, it was Louis Quatorze. 
 
 Malcolm. Yes, that's it. He made all this 
 furniture. 
 
 Cintra. What do you think ? Mother wants me 
 to marry Dorath ! 
 
 Malcolm. You marry ? Why, you are too much 
 of a man to marry. 
 
 Cintra. Don't be a fool, Malcolm. 
 
 Malcolm. I never imagined you married. You're 
 like one of us — ^you hunt, play polo, swim, every- 
 thing a fellow does, and you dress just like one. I 
 wish I could drink as much as you do. 
 
 Cintra. It's silly to be a doll; what do you 
 want ? 
 
 Malcolm. I'm satisfied. Only I never could 
 
ESAU 97 
 
 think of marrying you. It would be unnatural. I 
 don't see why you didn't go to College like the rest 
 of us. 
 
 CiNTRA. I am a girl, worse luck 1 
 
 Malcolm. Well, your feet are as large as mine. 
 What does it matter ? We are just as good friends. 
 Let's have a drink. 
 
 CiNTRA. Scotch for me. 
 
 Malcolm (pressing a button on the table). The 
 same. 
 
 CiNTRA. Cigarette ? [Offering him one. 
 
 Malcolm. Thanks. (He lights it silently after 
 her. Small enters.) Two highballs. Small. 
 
 Small. Very well, sir. 
 [He goes out. Malcolm puts his feet on the table. 
 
 CiNTRA. Mother is serious, you know. 
 
 Malcolm. What of it ? You can do as you like. 
 
 CiNTRA. Can I ? 
 
 Malcolm. Why not ? 
 
 CiNTRA. It depends on you. 
 
 Malcolm. On me ? How ? 
 
 CiNTRA. To do what I like. 
 
 Malcolm. Well, what can I do ? 
 
 CiNTRA. Marry me yourself. 
 [Malcolm takes out his cigarette, puts his feet on 
 the floor, and stares at her. Enter Small. 
 
 Small. The highballs, sir. 
 
 \He places them on the table and goes out. 
 
 Malcolm. That is an idea ! What made you 
 think of it ? 
 
98 ESAU 
 
 CiNTRA. That Smythe-Robinson girl — you've 
 been silly about her for a month. You always lose 
 your friends when you marry, and so I thought it 
 was time to interfere. If you marry me things 
 will go on just the same, only without danger of 
 losing you. 
 
 Malcolm. You are a sport ! But why marry ? 
 There's nothing to be gained if I don't marry 
 Smythe-Robinson. 
 
 CiNTRA. But you will; I know her. Think of 
 her with the rest of us ; it would spoil everything. 
 
 Malcolm. You're right. Still I never had 
 thought of marrying you. I would as soon marry 
 Bill Townsend. 
 
 CiNTRA. Here's to our marriage ! 
 
 \They dink glasses and drink deeply. 
 
 Malcolm. Well, I suppose it might as well be 
 (sighing). Silly custom though. 
 
 [He drinks again. 
 
 CiNTRA. Mother treats me as if I were a de- 
 butante looking for a husband. 
 
 Malcolm. Your mother thinks of nothing but 
 grandchildren. Not one for us — ^not of any sort, 
 you know. 
 
 CiNTRA. Well, don't accuse me. Who spoke of 
 them ? 
 
 Malcolm. You suggested it — all this marriage 
 business. 
 
 CiNTRA. I'd as soon enter a convent. 
 
 Malcolm. Not even a baby ! 
 
ESAU 99 
 
 CiNTRA (slipping off the table and blowing smoke in 
 his faci). Not if all the horses disappeared from the 
 face of the earth, (^he leans down and kisses him.) 
 There's our nuptial kiss. 
 
 Malcolm (jumping up). Oh, I say 1 That's not 
 fair ! It's not done. 
 
 CiNTRA. We must keep up appearances ! Sup- 
 pose they knew,, they wouldn't let us marry. 
 
 Malcolm. Why ? 
 
 CiNTRA. They would call it immoral. Before 
 people you know — ^here for practice. 
 
 [^She takes his arm and lifts her face. 
 
 Malcolm. I didn't realise there was so much 
 detail. I don't want to Hss you. 
 
 CiNTRA. One must respect the conventionalities. 
 Hurry ! 
 
 Malcolm. Oh ! \B.e kisses her. 
 
 CiNTRA. To the devil with Ovan ! Come on to 
 Boston ! 
 
 \flhey go out arm in arm, whistling. 
 
 SCENE VII 
 
 A few minutes later Joanne enters carrying a small 
 leather case and dressed in a suit of dark 
 mauve with a lace blouse i she wears a motor 
 hat. Ovan appears almost immediately. 
 
 Joanne. The motor is waiting at the gate. Are 
 you ready ? We must hurry now. 
 
100 ESAU 
 
 OvAN. Let us go down through the garden. 
 [They move toward the door in the rear and are 
 conffonted by Lebaran, who enters by it from 
 the garden. 
 
 Lebaran. Joanne ! Where are you going ? Why 
 your box ? 
 
 Joanne. I am going to Boston. 
 
 Lebaran {angrily). You are mad. It is danger- 
 ous. What do you mean ? 
 
 Joanne {calmly). I mean that I am going to 
 Boston, and that I am not coming back. I can 
 never explain ; I am going away. 
 
 Lebaran. Away ? Where ? I don't like this 
 way of acting. It is impossible for you to go away 
 to-night. And you, sir ? {turning to Ovan). What 
 do you mean by offering to accommodate such an 
 absurd whim ? 
 
 Ovan. It is more than a whim, Morvran. I am 
 bowing to necessity. I love your wife, and I intend 
 to give her a little of that happiness which you deny 
 her. 
 
 Joanne. I am going, Lebaran, because you do not 
 need me. Do not insult or revenge yourself upon 
 Mr. Dorath. It is my wish. Let us be civilised 
 at least. 
 
 [Lebaran stares after them as they go out in 
 •powerless astonishment. 
 
 The Curtain falls rapidly. 
 
 END OF ACT II, 
 
ACT III 
 
 The library of Morvran's house on Beacon Street. In the 
 centre of the rear wall is a broad arched door which opens 
 on to a stone balcony and overlooks the river. Below is a 
 garden accessible by steps from above. The Charles Street 
 bridge, with its towers, is seen in the distance. In the middle 
 of the left wall a double door communicates with the hall, 
 and opposite to it, in the r^ht wall, is a fireplace. The 
 remaining wall space is occupied by glazed bookcases to 
 within one-third the distance to the ceiling. The woodwork 
 is dark oak delicately carved, and the walls above the book- 
 cases are covered with a rich florentine brocade in green and 
 gold. The ceiling is beamed. As the house has been closed, 
 the hangings, rugs, and smaller objects have been put away. 
 It is seven o'clock in the morning following the preceding Act. 
 The mob has visited the house and wrecked it during the 
 night. The glass doors are shattered, the books are cast on 
 all sides, and the paintings which hung over the fireplace or 
 along the walls are pulled down, torn or broken. The clock 
 and candelabra in their cotton covers lie on the floor, as do 
 similar objects from the tops of the bookcases. The furniture 
 is overturned and mutilated with axe cuts, as is the woodwork. 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 Small is looking gloomily at a table which he has 
 sf read for breakfast in the midst of the dSbris. 
 Mrs. Whitney, Percival, Gioya, and Cecil 
 
102 ESAU 
 
 are heard, coming downstairs. Small gazes 
 dismally about and disappears by the balcony. 
 The others come in. 
 
 Percival. Look at this library ! First editions, 
 priceless bindings ! 
 
 Cecil. Well, no one ever read them. They are 
 too handsome. 
 
 Mrs. W. But the paintings ! Oh, it is horrible ! 
 
 Cecil. This sort of thing could only happen in 
 America. 
 
 Percival. Boston is not in America. 
 
 GiOYA. Never mind, Uncle Percival, where it is. 
 It is much more important to find out where mother 
 and father are. 
 
 Mrs. W. And Cintra. Good heavens! I shall 
 go mad. [Cecil and Percival sit down unhappily. 
 
 Cecil. Ought we not to go back ? It's no fun 
 here. 
 
 Gioya. No, I am going to wait for mother. 
 
 Mrs. W. And I must find Cintra. 
 
 \They sit down also. Gioya pours the cofee. 
 
 Mrs. W. I think it is time we knew what has 
 really happened. Can't you find a newspaper, 
 Cecil ? 
 
 Cecil. I never read the papers. 
 
 Mrs. W. Oh, nonsense! At a time like, this — 
 you are a crystallised habit. Percival, go and find 
 a paper. 
 
 Percival. I don't think there are any. 
 
ESAU 103 
 
 Mrs. W. Think ? Can't you ask ? Here we 
 have sat up all night and come to town at daybreak 
 to find out what has happened, and now you don't 
 think there are any papers. I shall go myself. 
 
 Cecil. They will come. It is only a little after 
 seven. 
 
 Mrs. W. Have you no nerves ? You can see 
 your father and mother disappear during a revolu- 
 tion and yet sit about placidly for a paper. I 
 want to know whether the worst is done, or if we 
 are to be guillotined. I must find Cintra. Oh 
 dear ! oh dear ! (She bursts into hysterical tears, 
 and GiOYA tries to calm her) You men nowadays 
 are bovine. 
 
 Percival. The secret of life, Mrs. Whitney, is 
 not to resist. The regular results will come of all 
 causes, whether we oppose them or not. 
 
 Mrs. W. I am sure Lamballe never suffered more 
 than I. Oh dear, where is my daughter ? 
 
 Cecil. Well, let's finish this breakfast, I say. We 
 can't go finding your daughter on an empty stomach. 
 
 Mrs. W. Oh, Cecil, you are impossible. No one 
 but you could say such things. 
 
 GiOYA. There, sit down and calm yourself. Do 
 you want my salts ? 
 
 Mrs. W. No, no, do send Small for a paper. 
 We must know how much damage has been done, 
 and how much more may be. I don't see what 
 there is to put an end to it. Did you see Ovan go ? 
 
 Cecil. Is he really a cousin ? 
 
ro4 ESAU 
 
 Mrs. W. Yes ; I woiild not believe it at first, 
 but he was so emphatic about it. 
 
 Percival. I hope he has been cooked and spitted 
 by the heathen overnight. 
 
 Mrs. W. You ogre ! He is my son-in-law. 
 
 Cecil. Not if Cintra has eloped. 
 
 Mrs. W. Eloped ? What are you talHng about ? 
 Qntra has always been independent ; she need never 
 elope. Oh, I wish the paper would come. 
 
 Cecil. She may be kidnapped. 
 
 Mrs. W. (bursting into tears). I am going to 
 find her. (She gets up.) I must find Cintra. 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 Mrs. Whitney hurries to the door and runs 
 into the arms o/Dk. Nottinghill. 
 
 Mrs. W. Oh, Dr. Nottinghill, where is Cintra ? 
 
 Dr. N. Cintra is safe ; she will be here directly. 
 
 Mrs. W. Where has she been ? 
 
 Dr. N. You must ask her that. 
 
 Percival. Perhaps Dr. Nottinghill can tell us the 
 news, Mrs. Whitney, if you permit. 
 
 Mrs. W. I am sure news of Cintra is of first 
 importance. 
 
 Percival. Have you found out what the state of 
 affairs is this morning, doctor ? 
 
 [Dr. N. seats himself near the table, and Gioya 
 fours him a cup of cofee. 
 
ESAU 105 
 
 Dr. N. Everything is quiet now. The shops are 
 opened, and business is to go on as before. I do 
 not know the details, but it is due to Dorath in 
 some way. He made a speech last night to the 
 rioters which satisfied them. I believe they lost 
 their heads with enthusiasm over him. 
 
 Percival. He will make himself king some day. 
 
 Mrs. W. You do not know what he said ? 
 
 Dr. N. No, nor what he proposed. But the 
 mischief is over. Thank heaven, the heat has gone 
 away ! 
 
 Cecil. I don't see what Dorath could have pro- 
 posed to a practical assembly of men to meet their 
 wants. He has no power to promise anything. 
 
 Dr. N. I may be mistaken about him. Some one 
 interviewed the leaders however, and later addressed 
 the mobs on the common. 
 
 Cecil. Well, why couldn't some one have made 
 the speech before the riots instead of after ? It 
 seems so unnecessary. 
 
 GiOYA. How much damage has been done. Dr. 
 Nottinghill ? 
 
 Dr. N. Of that to trade and to banking I can- 
 not say. Commonwealth Avenue from Arlington 
 Street to Exeter Street is burnt down, as are 
 Newbury and Marlborough Streets, and another 
 fire laid waste Bay State Road and Upper Beacon 
 Street. 
 
 Percival. Now is the time to call in the troops 
 and to punish the murderers. 
 
io6 ESAU 
 
 Mrs. W. Were the churches and museums 
 harmed ? The library is not damaged, is it ? 
 
 Dr. N. No, they did not touch public buildings 
 at all. They had a good object in mind, and were 
 not so mad as you think. 
 
 GiOYA. By the way, Dr. Nottinghill, have you 
 seen anything of mother and father ? 
 
 Dr. N. Malcolm is with Cintra, and I heard 
 that Mr. Morvran came up alone in his motor, but 
 of your mother I know nothing. 
 
 GiOYA. Father alone ? Then where can mother 
 be? 
 
 Percival. Perhaps with Dorath. 
 
 GiOYA. If he made a speech and all that sort of 
 thing, mother could not have been with him. 
 Cecil, something must have happened to mother. 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 Lebaran is heard in loud altercation on the balcony. 
 He enters in evident ill-humour wearing a 
 coat very much torn. He is dusty, and has 
 lost his cap. 
 
 Lebaran. Joanne ! Where is Joanne ? Isn't she 
 here ? 
 
 Gioya. No, father, I thought she was with you. 
 
 Lebaran. You see I had an accident, and so 
 Dorath took her. 
 
 Mrs. W. Oh, dear me, where is Cintra ? 
 
ESAU 107 
 
 GiOYA. And so mother was with Dorath during 
 all that speech-making and interviewing of Irish 
 politicians ? Oh, father, how could you let her go 
 there ? What sort of an accident did you have ? 
 
 Lebaran. It is outrageous ! It is unheard of ! 
 I started at half-past ten and arrived without any 
 trouble at Cambridge. Well, when I came to 
 Massachusetts Avenue I was stopped by a gang of 
 ruffians, who cut the tyres and would not let me 
 pass. 
 
 GiOYA. And mother ? 
 
 Lebaran. Dorath took her. They carried me 
 away by force ; think of that ! I thought I was 
 going to be murdered, but they only took me to a 
 shed and locked me in. I have been there all night. 
 
 GiOYA. How did you get out ? 
 
 Lebaran. A little boy opened the door for me. 
 I found the car just where it was, except that the 
 lamps were gone. It is there now. I walked in. 
 
 Gioya. Poor father ! I shall send a mechanic to 
 bring it in. Have you eaten anything ? 
 
 Lebaran. No. {He looks around, and for the first 
 time notices the disorder) Good Lord ! Look at 
 my library ! Is the whole house like this ? 
 
 Mrs. W. Every room of it. 
 
 Lebaran. Oh my Cruikshanks ! And La Fon- 
 taine ! 
 
 Gioya. Here is your coffee, father. Sit down, 
 dear, and don't think about it. 
 
 [jHe sits down gloomily. 
 
io8 ESAU 
 
 Mrs. W. I wish Cintra would come. 
 
 Lebaran (finishing his coffee and standing up). 
 Ah ! I must go ! I want to see if the office is all 
 right. 
 
 Dr. N. I assure you the business section is quite 
 undamaged. 
 
 Lebaran. There may be news for me from New 
 York. I mean to set about a reparation of this 
 destruction to-day. The brutes shall pay for it — 
 every penny of it. Oh ! Gioya, you can send for 
 the servants and put the house in order a little. 
 The things must be picked up before the workmen 
 can come. [He goes out to the left. 
 
 SCENE IV 
 
 GioYA. Father is out of his head with all this 
 excitement. I wish he had not let mother go away 
 that way. 
 
 Cecil. Would you have had her in the shed all 
 night ? 
 
 Percival. He is shockingly undignified in that 
 torn coat and without a cap. He ought to have 
 changed them. 
 
 GioYA. Never mind polish this morning, Uncle 
 Percival. I think I shall call Small and go up to 
 put the gallery straight. Will you help me ? 
 
 Dr. N. If you will pardon me, my dear, I think 
 I must attend to the needs of my own family, and 
 
ESAU 109 
 
 see what is to be done at the church. I shall join 
 you later if you will. 
 
 GiOYA. By all means. Come, Cecil. 
 
 [She goes out into the hall. 
 Dr. N. Good-bye, Mrs. Whitney, until later. 
 \He goes out by the balcony and the others by the 
 door to the left. 
 
 SCENE V 
 
 A few minutes later Ovan and Lebaran 
 come in from the hall. 
 
 Lebaran. No time to speak of Mrs. Morvran I 
 What do you mean ? How do you dare come to 
 my house ? Where is she ? 
 
 Ovan. Mrs. Morvran is perfectly accessible, but 
 before I say anything on personal matters, I insist 
 upon discussing public ones. Are you willing to 
 sit down calmly and listen to me ? 
 
 Lebaran. Never has a man been so coolly in- 
 sulted ! You carry off my wife, and then ask me 
 to sit down, sweetly, in the wreck of my own house, 
 to hear Heaven knows what — a death sentence, no 
 doubt. It is too much. 
 
 Ovan. If you will put aside your private griev- 
 ances for an instant, they will adjust themselves in 
 the arranging of national ones. I have come to 
 speak of the proposition that I made on your behalf 
 to the rioters last night. I expect you to stand by 
 your word and to carry it through. 
 
no ESAU 
 
 Lebaran. I authorised nothing. 
 
 OvAN. Even short of that, I think you will see 
 the policy of seconding my promises. 
 
 Lebaran. Promises ? Did you promise them 
 anything ? 
 
 OvAN. Could I give them anything else? One 
 cannot soothe a mob with lectures on public morals 
 or discourses on the history of revolutions. 
 
 Lebaran. Did you soothe them at all ? Why 
 couldn't you have done so before they pillaged my 
 house and burnt down the houses of my friends ? 
 
 OvAN. If I had not soothed them I don't know 
 where you would be now, Mr. Morvran. As it is, 
 the city is in perfect order, and everything is going 
 on happily, even your stock exchange. It is fortu- 
 nate that my word is valuable enough to hold 
 your population in check, but unless it is materialised 
 the people will resume hostilities with impatience. 
 From now on the responsibility is in your hands. I 
 can do no more. 
 
 Lebaran. In my hands ? What can I do ? 
 
 OvAN. I have no power here ; I am an outsider, 
 who, seeing the cause of unrest, points out the 
 remedy. I cannot give it. It is up to you. 
 Lebaran. What have you done ? [He sits dozon. 
 OvAN. Last night on arriving in town I went 
 directly to see Moore and Lagrange, who are the 
 most important factors in this ajffair. 
 Lebaran. What did you do with Joanne ? 
 OvAN. She went with me. 
 
ESAU III 
 
 Lebaran. She is mad. 
 
 OvAN. She had a tremendous eflFect in corro- 
 borating my word. 
 
 Lebaran. What word ? 
 
 OvAN. I talked with them for an hour, and then 
 we argued with the rest of the party until they 
 were won over and accompanied me to the common, 
 where I spoke to the people under their patronage. 
 
 Lebaran. Always with Joanne ? 
 
 OvAN. She did not leave us. She spoke after I 
 had finished. 
 
 Lebaran. It is an outrage. 
 
 OvAN. She won the battle for us. 
 
 Lebaran. Well, what did you say, by all this 
 talking ? 
 
 OvAN (standing before Lebaran). That you would 
 accept the office of Mayor if it were offered to you. 
 
 Lebaran {starting up). Mayor ? I ? Oh, what 
 will be done next ? I Mayor ? This is really too 
 much — ^you are a puppy, Dorath. (Ovan shrugs his 
 shoulders and walks to the door, where he stands look- 
 ing out) What is the meaning of all this ? Out of 
 curiosity I ask what earthly reason there is for me 
 to give up my banking business to become Mayor ? 
 How can that possibly readjust the disturbances ? 
 I really do not understand anything about this 
 matter. \He sits down. 
 
 Ovan {turning around). If you had not been 
 blind, you would. {He walks over to Lebaran.) 
 The immediate cause of suffering was removed by 
 
112 ESAU 
 
 the people themselves in procuring their supplies 
 from Canada, but this is only a temporary respite. 
 They have their minds on the future, which did not 
 promise any amelioration of conditions by ordinary 
 events. They awaited an extracwrdinary one, which 
 not arriving, they committed a first themselves in 
 order to initiate another. Hence the riots and, as 
 a result, the awakening of aristocratic servants to a 
 sense of duty, aided by constant prodding from an 
 outsider. It may seem strange to you, Morvran, 
 but these people are serious. They realise that 
 their life of labour or of machinery forbids their 
 successfully undertaking the direction of the state 
 even if they were capable of it, and in order to work 
 happily they want efficient overseers to concern 
 themselves about their wants and needs. Division 
 of labour is the basis of civilisation, and the brain 
 should guide the body. Here you, the brain, ought 
 to do the brain's work — ^you should be legislating 
 for the body, protecting the body and directing it, 
 not enriching yourself at its expense. If you did 
 so, the body could perform its duties doubly well. 
 The people want to be ruled by intelligent men, 
 who can devote themselves to ruling ; they don't 
 want to be bothered about it outside of voting, 
 and they are exasperated when the intelligent 
 citizens shirk their duties, making it necessary for 
 them to undertake the entire machinery of the 
 state. It is not fair. They make a mess of it. 
 
ESAU 113 
 
 they suffer, and naturally revolt. Moore and 
 Lagrange saw that the only way to unravel, the 
 problem was by legislation and by putting the 
 proper men at the wheel. The people know who 
 are the proper men. I announced your readiness 
 to candidacy, Mrs. Morvran seconded it, and they 
 were satisfied — ^not only satisfied, but wild with 
 enthusiasm. There is a proof of their integrity. 
 They know that bloodshed will not bring prices 
 down, and, happily, there has been no opposing 
 power strong enough to necessitate it. 
 
 There is my promise. The present calm rests 
 upon it, the future upon its completion. You 
 see the entire matter is in your hands. You can 
 choose. I am done with it, and am going to 
 Europe to-night. 
 
 \He walks to the balcony. Lebaran sits stolidly 
 in thought. 
 
 Lebaran. My business — some one else can be 
 Mayor — Charles Weld, he does nothing at all, and 
 is more clever than I. 
 
 OvAN. It is done ; I have promised. 
 
 Lebaran {angrily). And do you intend to make 
 my firm fail ? 
 
 OvAN. Some one else can run your business for 
 you. No one else can assume the other duty. 
 People are paid to manage firms. 
 
 Lebaran. It takes a master to handle such a 
 concern as mine. 
 
114 ESAU 
 
 OvAN. Not now that it is solidly established. Your 
 occasional supervision is all that is really needed now. 
 
 Lebaran. Hum ! You suppose that ? 
 
 OvAN. I am sure of it. 
 
 Lebaran. Well, it may be so. Perhaps so ; there 
 is Peter Low — ^he has been there since I started, 
 and could do the ordinary managing as well as I 
 if I kept an eye on him. Still, the whole thing is 
 unheard of. 
 
 Ovan. Don't you believe that a fresh hand will 
 improve the business ? You have been at it for 
 years without a rest, and must be tired. You 
 know how often old men obstinately retain their 
 activity when they have lost their judgment, and so 
 sacrifice all they have toiled for by one false step. 
 You are not old, Morvran, but you can afford to 
 hire some one to tiU your field now, while you sit 
 in the house of parliament. Yours is the age of 
 Senators. 
 
 Lebaran. I should enjoy a change of work. 
 (Ovan goes towards the balcony.) Yet it must be 
 done slowly and carefully. I am no longer a young 
 man. 
 
 Ovan. Morvran, what are all those men out 
 there ? See, there is a crowd gathering on the 
 embankment. 
 
 Lebaran. I don't know. Do they mean harm ? 
 
 Ovan. Wait. 
 [Lebaran walks back and forth and then goes up 
 to Ovan. They both look out over the balcony. 
 
ESAU IIS 
 
 , Lebaran. They seem to be comijig here. They 
 are looking at my house. 
 
 OvAN. I think they want you. 
 Lebaran. What for ? 
 
 OvAN. I don't know. They are coming over here. 
 I have done all I can, you know, and the rest is for 
 you to manage. They probably want to see you, and 
 now that you have discovered your role you must 
 interpret it independently. Yes, they are coming 
 into the garden ; they want you to speak to them. 
 Lebaran. I am not ready. Why can't they 
 wait ? My ideas are not settled. 
 
 OvAN. Never mind, they want to see you. Come, 
 save the situation once for all. 
 
 [OvAN goes out on to the balcony, cheers are heard, 
 from below. 
 Lebaran. What shall I say ? I hardly know what 
 I think. Do they really want me ? 
 
 OvAN {turning. Yes, come out to them. 
 \The cheers redouble, Morvran's name is heard. 
 OvAN comes back into the room and takes 
 Lebaran's hand. 
 OvAN. My dear fellow, these men are going to 
 love you. Come out to them. You will be wor- 
 shipped by them. You do not know how beautifully 
 a crowd of rough men can love when they kneel 
 at the feet of an idol. 
 
 [Morvran's name is called repeatedly. He looks 
 at OvAN, and he is suddenly struck with a new 
 emotion. Tears come to his eyes. 
 
ii6 ESAU 
 
 OvAN. They want you to go out and speak to 
 them. Come, do anything they ask of you. 
 
 \The excitement increases. Lebaran suddenly is 
 overwhelmed with the meaning of spiritual 
 socialism, and for the first time in his life his 
 heart wells with understanding and love for the 
 race. He goes out on to the balcony, and taking 
 Dorath's hand expresses the intensity of his 
 feeling by a virile shake amidst violent ap- 
 plause. Then he goes down into the garden, 
 and Ovan watches him being carried of in a 
 motor by the crowd. 
 
 SCENE VI 
 
 Joanne comes in from the hall and sees 
 Ovan on the balcony. 
 
 Joanne. Ovan ! 
 
 Ovan. Joanne, why have you come here ? 
 
 Joanne. I could not wait, you were so long. 
 Have you not finished with this matter ? 
 
 Ovan. Yes ; come, let us go. 
 
 Joanne. I am too tired to go at once ; let me run 
 upstairs for a little while to rest. 
 
 Ovan. You have not changed ? You do not 
 wish to remain ? 
 
 Joanne. No, no ! Only the tumult last night 
 has tired me. 
 
ESAU ■ 117 
 
 OvAN. There will be no more tumult. It was 
 my destiny to do what I did last night. 
 
 Joanne. You are very powerful ; you play with 
 men, and I venerate the child I protect, but I am 
 afraid of your power. 
 
 OvAN. You are doubling it. 
 
 Joanne. You have succeeded as well as you 
 hoped ? 
 
 OvAN. Quite. You are tired, my dear. I am 
 sorry. 
 
 Joanne. And Lebaran will be Mayor ? 
 
 OvAN. He has been carried away in triumph by 
 the people. 
 
 Joanne. How changed everything is ! You are 
 a Titan, Ovan. 
 
 Ovan. Before it is too late, I want you to be 
 direct and think again what this decision means to 
 you. You are sure that the night has not shaken 
 your resolution. 
 
 Joanne. You saw Lebaran ? 
 
 Ovan. Yes. 
 
 Joanne. And he said nothing of me ? 
 
 Ovan. At first, but he was so confused by my 
 news that he forgot you. 
 
 Joanne. You see how little Tmean to him. It 
 is really only fair to have decided as I have. Yes, 
 it is a decision. I have not loosened in my desire 
 to help you. I am less desperate than last night, 
 but circumstances are strengthening me, and I am 
 as sincere as I was before. 
 
ii8 ESAU 
 
 OvAN. It would hurt me immensely if you were 
 to withdraw yourself now. I have built a whole 
 life upon it since last night, and it is the realisation 
 of so much to me. It would really kill me if you 
 go from me. 
 
 Joanne, I shall not. You need me. When you 
 no longer do I shall disappear, but my life is in living 
 for others. 
 
 OvAN. We will go to Spalato to bask among 
 marble columns and dip our feet into green 
 pools. 
 
 Joanne. I cannot do more than give you liberty 
 to live, Ovan. Do not ask me to enter life with 
 you. You are too exotic for my comprehension, 
 you are not one of us blind mortals of New England. 
 It is as if I had lifted my hand to gather a cluster 
 of purple grapes and had found them to be clouds 
 balanced a mile above my head. I shall never 
 reach you. 
 
 OvAN. Shall I melt into rain and pour down ? 
 
 Joanne. No, I must not allow you to dream and 
 become lost in words. Oh, I shall be a severe 
 guardian. You must succeed, Ovan, arrive, before 
 you can write what you want to. You must be 
 practical. Write for money at first, then for fame. 
 
 Ovan. I shall if you promise to keep your tradi- 
 tions unconscious. 
 
 Joanne. How ? 
 
 Ovan. You have not killed your Puritan inherit- 
 ance. It may revive some day to frighten us. 
 
ESAU 119 
 
 . Joanne. It will never revive, because it was never 
 real. Cultivated inheritances are feeble. 
 
 OvAN. Perhaps Dalmatia will end them. Come, 
 let us leave at once. 
 
 Joanne. Then let me pack a box before I go. 
 
 OvAN. I feel the power to work as I never have 
 before. It is only a question of time and strength, 
 for my mind is without exhaustion. Like Bach ! — 
 A wall or a cuflE receives my ideas if nothing else 
 offers. 
 
 Joanne. You make me very happy. 
 [She goes out, and Ovan strolls toward the balcony. 
 
 SCENE VII 
 
 Percival, Mrs. Whitney, Gioya, and Cecil 
 come down from upstairs. 
 
 Gioya. Well, there's one room in order any- 
 way. We will wait for the servants before tackling 
 the others. 
 
 Mrs. W. (seeing Ovan). Oh, what a surprise; 
 there's my cousin Ovan ! My dear ! 
 
 [He turns and comes into the room. 
 
 Ovan. Good morning ! How early you are to 
 arrive in town. 
 
 Mrs. W. (running up to kiss him). Cintra will be 
 here directly. Oh, I am so happy — dear Ovan. 
 
 Gioya. Would you like some coffee, Mr. Dorath. 
 If you have not breakfasted, sit down and then tell 
 us of the events of the night. 
 
120 ESAU 
 
 OvAN. I am not hungry, thank you, Mrs. Cabot. 
 Do you insist on knowing all that has happened ? 
 
 GioYA. Not all. My character is not strong 
 enough. 
 
 Cecil. We must know what you did to bring 
 about peace, if it is really true. 
 
 OvAN. To be exceedingly abrupt, it is because 
 Mr. Morvran has offered himself as the Mayor for 
 the city. 
 
 GiOYA. My father ! 
 
 Cecil. You speak figuratively, of course. 
 
 OvAN. Not at all. In fact, he has just been 
 carried off by enthusiastic admirers. 
 
 Percival. He must be insane. One cannot change 
 life like that. 
 
 Cecil. But how could his being Mayor adjust the 
 difficulties ? 
 
 OvAN. The people want him to legislate for them, 
 and they have confidence in him. 
 
 Cecil. In that case we will probably be pushing 
 fruit carts in a few years. Are you really in 
 earnest ? 
 
 OvAN. Quite. Also the names of Mr. Percival 
 Grey and Malcolm Morvran have been proposed 
 for other public offices. 
 
 Percival {dropping into a chair). Who ? 
 
 Cecil (laughing). Ha ! One on you, Uncle 
 Percy. 
 
 OvAN. You and Malcolm. 
 
 Percival. This is ghastly ! How could you be 
 
ESAU 121 
 
 so presumptuous ! Nothing will force me into the 
 maelstrom. 
 
 OvAN. Even the position of Director of Fine 
 Arts ? That is an office highly esteemed in Paris. 
 You see some one is needed to encourage the arts 
 in Boston. 
 
 Cecil. Encourage ? They never had the courage 
 to put foot in Boston. 
 
 OvAN. You, Mr. Grey, with your perfect know- 
 ledge of what the arts have been, will know the 
 way to guide them into fruitfulness. Any one else 
 would be either too conservative or too modern. 
 The principles of art are an inheritance as are all 
 our powers, but it depends upon circumstance to 
 decide how they should be developed. You are 
 well aware that out of the past work must grow 
 the future, neither denying nor copying. In- 
 stinctive criticism is unnatural, and a true New 
 Englander dislikes the unnatural. 
 
 Percival. Director of Fine Arts ? Is it a figure- 
 head or an active power this office ? 
 
 OvAN. It is despotic, Mr. Grey. 
 
 Percival. It is of no value in Boston, I assure 
 you. The arts need no protection. 
 
 Mrs. W. But they need introductions ; no 
 one has even a bowing acquaintance with them 
 here. 
 
 Percival. I think true genius will assert itself 
 quite spontaneously. 
 
 OvAN. There is no such thing as true genius. It 
 
122 ESAU 
 
 is intelligence furnished with tools, and as it is, there 
 are no tools here. 
 
 GioYA. They only teach in Boston — ^they don't 
 educate. You might offer power instead of skill, 
 Uncle Percy. 
 
 Percival. I^ think it is a barren function, Mr. 
 Dorath. However, we shall see. Of course I should 
 want to be quite free to do as I saw best. In fact, it 
 would be well to give no salary so that I could be 
 unbound. 
 
 OvAN. With a revenue, however, to carry out 
 your ideas ? 
 
 Percival. Exactly. Would my bureau be in the 
 City Hall ? 
 
 OvAN. No, no, in the Art Museum or a special 
 building. 
 
 Percival. Of course. Well, I shall consider it — 
 no doubt I shall have assistants. 
 
 OvAN. As you like. 
 
 Percival. A good opportunity to carry out my 
 Bacon-Shakespeare theory. By all means — ^yes, you 
 may count on me, Mr. Dorath. I think I shall 
 be able to accept the offer. There is nothing of 
 course in the Cypher Theory. 
 
 OvAN. Which ? 
 
 Percival. Bacon's. 
 
 OvAN. Oh no, I never thought so. 
 
 Mrs. W. Now, Ovan, come away from this 
 serious matter and let us talk about Cintra. 
 
 Percival. W. H. could not have been William 
 
ESAU 123 
 
 Herbert, for if you study the tenth sonnet you will 
 see that they were all ostensibly written to a man 
 with a profession. Now 
 
 OvAN. Who then could it have been ? 
 
 Percival. Who else than " William Himself " ? 
 It is known that Shakespeare was very conceited^ 
 and I shall show you by my lectures on the Sonnets 
 how this theory is corroborated in each one. He 
 wrote them to himself. 
 
 OvAN. That is a shrewd and new theory, Mr» 
 Grey. I have never thought of it. 
 
 Cecil. Oh, I say, don't get started on that sub- 
 ject ; it lasts all night. 
 
 GiOYA. You have won the last enemy, Mr. 
 Dorath; when Uncle Percival begins on Shake- 
 speare, you may count him as a friend for life. It 
 is too sacred a subject for him to retail to strangers. 
 
 Percival. I am sure I have always had a very high, 
 opinion of Mr. Dorath. I do not see what you 
 mean, Gioya. 
 
 Mrs. W. Well, he is my cousin ; of course he has 
 no enemies here. 
 
 Cecil. As long as he has not given me a Govern- 
 ment position I'll stand by him. 
 
 OvAN. Wouldn't you like to enter the Embassy 
 at Paris, Mr. Cabot ? 
 
 GiOYA. Oh, Cecil, of course. 
 
 OvAN. Very little to do and opportunities to go 
 anywhere in Paris. To meet any one. It is mostly 
 a social affair. 
 
124 ESAU 
 
 GiOYA. How splendid ! Oh, Cecil, I have always 
 wanted to live in Paris. 
 
 Cecil. You are so impetuous, Gioya. I'll think 
 about it. 
 
 Mrs. W. Now, Cousin Ovan, let us talk about 
 Cintra. 
 
 Ovan. I must go to write some letters, my dear 
 Mrs. Whitney. Another time — you see I am sail- 
 ing for Cherbourg to-morrow. 
 
 Mrs. W. Going to Europe ? How surprised 
 Cintra will be ! But it is so soon. Can't you 
 allow more time ? 
 
 Ovan. Unfortunately not. Will you excuse my 
 deserting you to go upstairs to write. 
 
 GiOYA. If you must. There is ink in the study ; 
 we will be here. 
 
 Ovan. Thank you. [He goes out. 
 
 SCENE VIII 
 
 Gioya. Cecil ! I think it is jolly of Ovan to 
 suggest that. Lots of men go into the diplomatic 
 service simply for fun. 
 
 Cecil. I have said I shall think it over, Gioya. 
 It will be rather a nuisance. 
 
 Mrs. W. Be sure to take off the duty on modern 
 painting, Mr. Grey. I have an apartment full of 
 Cubists and Futurists in Paris that I want to bring 
 over here. 
 
 Percival. What financial competition can there be 
 
ESAU 125 
 
 where art is concerned ? It is a matter of work 
 and not of protection. 
 
 [Malcolm, Cintra, and Dr. Nottinghill come 
 in from the balcony. 
 
 Mrs. W. Cintra ! Thank heaven — ^where have 
 you been ? 
 
 Malcolm. Oh, we might as well tell her, Cintra. 
 
 Mrs. W. Tell me ? You have a secret ? Oh, 
 Cintra, you have been to some awful place among 
 those ruffians. Will you never learn that you are 
 not a man ? 
 
 Cecil. By jove, I know I You have been to 
 New York in the aeroplane. 
 
 Malcolm. No. 
 
 Gioya. You watched the riot ? 
 
 Cintra. No — ^well, part of the time. 
 
 Mrs. W. Come, tell me at once. What have 
 you two been up to ? 
 
 Malcolm. We have been married. 
 [Mrs. W. falls hack in a faint, the others except 
 Dr. N. are affected hy surprise or mirth, while 
 GiOYA throws water in Mrs. W.'s face. . She 
 revives. 
 
 Mrs. W. Married ? You — ^you monster ! Ovan 
 Dorath was dying to have you, and he is a much 
 better match than Malcolm. Oh, Malcolm 
 Morvran ! You pagan ! 
 
 Malcolm. Well, I might have fallen in love 
 with her if I hadn't married her, which would have 
 been much worse. 
 
126 ESAU 
 
 Dr. N. Ah ! Mrs. Whitney, it is I who am to 
 blame for a slight irregularity. I could not resist 
 the devil. 
 
 Mrs. W. This is the result of abandoning ritual 
 in the Church. You court immorality, Doctor. 
 
 Percival. You did quite rightly, dear Cintra. 
 One cannot marry foreigners. 
 
 Mrs. W. I firmly intend to become Catholic. I 
 shall become Catholic. 
 
 [She produces a handkerchief and, is about to faint 
 again when a disturbance is heard at the door 
 and she revives. 
 
 SCENE IX 
 
 Lebaran is half carried in by Small and a Doctor, 
 who lead him to a low armchair. His hands 
 and arms are done up in bandages and hung 
 about his neck by supports. The others press 
 about him with exclamations of horror. 
 
 GiOYA. Father ! Father ! What has happened 
 to you ? What is the matter ? 
 
 \He is seized with an attack of dizziness and leans 
 back without speaking. 
 
 Malcolm (to the Doctor). What is it ? Is he 
 seriously hurt ? How did it happen ? 
 
 Doctor. I am afraid it is very serious. His 
 hands are crushed, and I believe will have to be 
 amputated. Have you some brandy ? 
 
ESAU 127 
 
 Malcolm. Yes, here. 
 [He gives him a flask, and the Doctor fours some 
 brandy into Lebaran's mouth. 
 
 GioYA. Oh, dear father ! Tell us how did it 
 happen ? What must be done ? 
 
 Doctor. Nothing more can be done until my 
 assistants arrive with the necessary material. Is 
 there a room upstairs that I can work in ? 
 
 GioYA. Yes. Small, prepare the Blue Room and 
 heat some water — plenty of it. See that every- 
 thing is clean. [Exit Small. 
 
 Doctor. Thank you. I will go up and help. 
 
 Mrs. W. But do tell us how it occurred ? 
 
 Doctor. He was making a speech on the common 
 upon a hastily constructed stand, which, having too 
 many people on it, suddenly collapsed. His hands 
 were caught between two beams and crushed as it 
 fell. I doubt if they can ever be made to knit. 
 
 GiOYA. Will our misfortunes ever come to an 
 end ? Dear father ! 
 
 [She kneels beside him and he opens his eyes. 
 
 Lebaran. Where is Joanne ? 
 
 GiOYA. She is coming ; she has not arrived yet. 
 
 Lebaran. She has gone. [He closes his eyes again. 
 
 Doctor. Do not bother him. I am going up- 
 stairs. If he wants anything, let me know. 
 
 GiOYA. Malcolm, show the doctor where the 
 room is. 
 
 Doctor. When my assistants come please notify 
 me. [He follows Malcolm out to the left. 
 
128 ESAU 
 
 SCENE X 
 
 GioYA. Father ! 
 
 \He sits wp and looks at Gioya. 
 Lebaran. Hasn't she come yet ? 
 Gioya. In an instant ; I am expecting her. 
 Lebaran. She said she was coming ? 
 Gioya. Be patient, dear. Do you want any- 
 thing ? 
 
 Lebaran. No. {He leans back) I do not suffer. 
 Stand away from me — ^so — ^give me air. 
 
 [They move away from him and there is a fause. 
 The bells of a church clock are heard striking. 
 
 SCENE XI 
 
 OvAN and Malcolm come in. Ovan a-pfroaches 
 Lebaran, who looks at him fixedly. 
 
 Lebaran. That you, Dorath ? You see you have 
 won the battle against Esau. {He smiles.) But 
 you have not taken his birthright from him. Lack 
 of hands does not iriean lack of power. 
 
 Ovan. I am sorry, Morvran. 
 
 Lebaran. For an accident ? That is not your 
 fault or mine. As soon as it is finished things will 
 continue as before. I mean still to be Mayor. 
 The rest of the spoils I leave to you. 
 
 \He looks at him significantly. 
 
ESAU 129 
 
 GiOYA. You will still offer yourself for Mayor, 
 father ? 
 
 Lebaran. Certainly. It would break my spirit 
 if I could not. I am happy for the first time with 
 the feeling that I am a part of the human race and 
 am not alone. 
 
 Percival. Of course I have accepted the office of 
 Director of Fine Arts. 
 
 Lebaran. Let me rest. [He closes his eyes. 
 
 SCENE XII 
 
 As he lies silently, with Ovan standing watching 
 him, Joanne comes in hastily, and stops in 
 astonishment. 
 
 Joanne. What is it ? What is the matter ? 
 Why do you look so ? Tell me. (She looks at 
 Ovan, and then seeing Lebaran, she runs to him and, 
 falling on her knees beside his chair, takes his head in 
 her hands.) Lebaran, Lebaran ! 
 
 [Lebaran of ens his eyes and looks at her question- 
 ingly. 
 Lebaran. You have not gone ? 
 Joanne. No, no, I have not gone, and I shall 
 never go. 
 
 Lebaran. I need you. 
 Joanne. You shall not lack me. 
 [Ovan, undergoing a bitter struggle with himself, 
 turns and steals quietly to the door. 
 
130 ESAU 
 
 Mrs. W. Ovan ! Where are you going ? 
 [He halts. Joanne looks up, and meeting his eyes, 
 they gaze at each other. She rises slowly and, 
 going toward him, holds out her hand. 
 Joanne. Ovan. ' {She hesitates.) Good-bye ! 
 
 [He takes her hand and kisses it. 
 
 Ovan. Good-bye — Mrs. Morvran. {fle turns 
 
 quickly, and stops again at the door) For a mess of 
 
 pottage ! [He disappears. 
 
 Mrs. W. {starting forward). Ovan! 
 
 Curtain drops. 
 
 END OF ACT III. 
 
CARDOR'S DUEL 
 
 A COMEDY FOR MUSIC 
 IN ONE ACT 
 
 TO 
 FRANCES TRUMBULL LEA 
 
FEJRSONS IN THE PLAY 
 
 DoRiA Cardok. 
 
 Sir George Panzart, Baronet. 
 
 Stimson. 
 
 Time of action : the present. 
 
 Doria Cardor's library in his apartment on Curzon Street. 
 It is wainscoted in black walnut of Queen Anne period, and 
 the hangings are black with a design in gold thread. The 
 furniture is lacquered in gold, black, and red. There is a 
 richly carved fireplace in the centre of the rear wall, and on 
 the right are two glazed doors opening on to a balcony. On 
 the left a door leads into the hall, and another on the left 
 of the rear wall gives access to the kitchen, upper floor, &c. 
 
 The walls are lined with glazed bookcases, and to the left 
 of the fireplace, in the middle of the floor, stands a large table 
 desk. Opposite it, to the right of the fireplace, is a sofa. 
 Lounging chairs, &c., occupy the other available spaces. 
 
 The light comes from an Egyptian alabaster urn, and a fire 
 burns in the grate. 
 
CARDOR'S DUEL 
 
 A COMEDY FOR MUSIC 
 
 SCENE 
 
 DoRiA Cardor is discovered standing before a 
 bookcase, with a volume of The Faerie 
 Queene in his hand. Stimson is busy 
 arranging a swpfer-table before the fire. He 
 lays the cloth, silver, and glass, lighting a 
 shaded candelabra, and -places a silver cham- 
 pagne cooler on the floor. 
 
 DORIA. 
 
 " So as they traveild, lo ! they gan espy 
 An armed knight towards them gallop fast, 
 That seemed from some feared foe to fly, 
 Or other griesly thing that him aghast. 
 Still as he fled his eye was backward cast. 
 As if his feare still followed him behynd : 
 Als flew his steed as he his bandes had brast, 
 And with his winged heeles did tread the wynd, 
 As he had beene a fole of Pegasus his kynd." 
 
 \He lays the book on the table. 
 
 Do you listen, Stimson ? 
 
 Stimson. It says nothing to me, sir. Poetry has 
 
 gone out. 
 
 133 
 
134 CARDOR'S DUEL 
 
 DoRiA. I do not write poetry ; any one can write 
 it, but few can read it. I read very well. 
 
 Stimson. It sounds pretty, sir. 
 
 DoRiA. That is the purpose of verse, Stimson. 
 Leave sense and teaching to text-books, but attain 
 colour and nuances in poetry or it is lost. Even 
 then it is semi-potential, as it were, depending, as 
 does music, upon the interpreter for the beauty of 
 its phrasing. No matter what you say, if you say 
 it well. 
 
 Stimson. Like acrobats, sir. They do nothing 
 worth whUe, but they do it marvellously. 
 
 DoRiA. Ah yes, yes — the age of technique, of 
 course. Oh, by the way — ^you ordered the motor 
 for twelve ? 
 
 Stimson. I did, sir. 
 
 DoRiA. Half-past ten. We will have supper at 
 half-past eleven. There are some oyster cocktails, 
 are there not, which were not served at dinner ? 
 
 Stimson. Yes, sir. 
 
 DoRiA. Let me see them. 
 
 Stimson. Certainly, sir. 
 [He goes out and comes back presently with a cock- 
 tail on a tray. Doria tastes it and eats half 
 of it. 
 
 Doria. Hum ! A little more paprika, Stimson. 
 However, not bad. (He eats the other half) And 
 the champagne — ^what champagne will you give us ? 
 
 Stimson. The Pommery, sir ? 
 
 Doria. Ah, yes. Father's Pommery. You know, 
 
CARDOR'S DUEL 135 
 
 Stimson, fathers always have good taste in cham- 
 pagne, although they seldom have the taste to 
 leave any in their cellars when they die. I think 
 they must consume nothing but champagne toward 
 the last. However, it makes them human while 
 living and sanctifies them when dead. Champagne 
 is the only thing that is effective for the treatment 
 of fathers. 
 
 Stimson. Yes, sir ; home would have been 
 different if champagne hadn't been so high. You 
 see my father 
 
 DoRiA. That will do, Stimson. I don't think I 
 care about your family life. Realism is the death of 
 all art, especially that of living. You may gene- 
 ralise on such matters, but never state facts. 
 
 Stimson. Quite so, sir. You will not be too 
 early at Lady Granwith's, will you, sir ? It is your 
 first invitation there. 
 
 DoRiA. Did you accept Lady Granwith's ? I 
 seldom accept first invitations, you know, it is so 
 ■parvenu. Will any of the family be there ? 
 
 Stimson. No, sir. At least James, the second 
 butler, said no. 
 
 DoRiA. I really cannot know persons who are 
 present at their own entertainments. People are 
 so intrusive nowadays. One never knows where one 
 will meet them. 
 
 Stimson. Political socialism grows, sir. 
 
 DoRiA. Political, yes, but not spiritual. But, for 
 the supper. You may serve some ceufs Benedict 
 
136 CARDOR'S DUEL 
 
 and some ices at half-past eleven. I am in only to 
 Sir George, Stimson ; you know I am never in 
 after luncheon. That is all for the present. 
 
 Stimson. Very good, sir. 
 
 [Stimson goes out. Doria fulls out his watch. 
 
 DoRiA. Why the devil is he so long ? He prob- 
 ably stopped at the Club, man-like. Women have 
 a cause to be late, if only to assert their right of 
 homage, but it is merely rudeness in a man, not a 
 sign of social stability. George treats time as if it 
 were eternal. He has no idea of the sensitiveness 
 of a nervous system or its horror of disappointment. 
 (A bell rings) At last ! Never mind, Stimson ! 
 {He goes to the door and opens it.) You are jolly late, 
 George. [George enters. 
 
 George. I came in a motor as fast as is fashion- 
 able. \He removes his hat and coat. 
 
 Doria. A cigarette ? Cigars are so vulgar. 
 
 George. Thank you. I wanted to come early 
 before supper, because I have a little business to 
 propose to you, my dear Doria. 
 
 DoRiA. Your jokes are ghastly, George. You 
 gloat morbidly on such things. You need a cock- 
 tail. One thing America has done for Europe is 
 the cocktail, which justifies her independence. 
 
 George. Nothing to drink, thank you. At least 
 not now. But I have business ; would you like to 
 go with us for the month to our place in Scotland ? 
 Jolly place, jolly people, jolly sport. What do you 
 say ? Do come ! You can leave if you are bored. 
 
CARDOR'S DUEL 137 
 
 DoRlA. I shall have to ask Stimson. 
 
 George. What ? Stimson ? Why Stimson ? 
 
 DoRiA. You see, he keeps my engagement book 
 and tells me every morning what I have to do 
 during the day. He sends out my invitations and 
 answers those I receive ; he advises me whom to 
 cut ofiE my lists and whom to add to them. He 
 can tell me anything about anybody, for he reads 
 the papers, studies the peerage, and has served in 
 the best places. I quite rely on him, my dear. 
 He is a manager on whom I half depend for my 
 success. I may tell you, George, he has scruples 
 about you, you know. 
 
 George. Extraordinary ! And why ? 
 
 DoRiA. You are a little too capable, too prac- 
 tical, you savour of affairs at times. The middle 
 classes cannot endure that. 
 
 George. The middle classes scorn the lower for 
 their genuineness and intelligence, while worship- 
 ping the upper for their vices and heartlessness. 
 
 Doria. True. A wardrobe and no manners 
 carry all before them. Sympathy in black goes 
 begging for either respect or love. However, I 
 am passionately sympathetic myself. 
 
 George. You silly animal. 
 
 Doria. On the contrary, I am a nice animal. I 
 love the helpless, weak, and oppressed of all classes, 
 but above all the simple nature of the soldier. 
 
 George. Speaking of love, Doria, with whom are 
 you in love at present ? May I ask ? 
 
138 CARDOR'S DUEL 
 
 DoRiA. Why, if you put it so impertinently, I 
 will tell you ! I love Gioya, I love your wife. 
 
 George. By Heaven ! That's the manliest thing 
 you ever said. You really have race, you know. 
 
 DoRiA. And your understanding of it is more 
 manly. You are almost modern, George. 
 
 George. Oh, jealousy is as bad as patriotism or 
 religion. One can never possess anything, so why 
 endeavour to ? Life is lonely enough as it is. 
 
 [j^ bell rings and Stimson enters with a salver. 
 
 Stimson. Two gentlemen called, sir, but I said 
 you were out. They left this letter for you. 
 
 DoRiA. Bring it to me. {fie takes the letter. 
 Stimson goes out.) May I read it, George ? 
 
 George. Of course, of course. 
 [DoRiA opens the letter and reads it ; then he 
 stands a moment with a dazed expression on 
 his face and breaks into a nervous laugh. 
 
 George. What is it, Doria ? 
 
 DoRiA. Oh, simply a letter. Why do people 
 write in German ? A dead language is better than 
 a deformed one. 
 
 George. I suppose Germans know no other. 
 What is it ? Are you ill, Doria ? You look ill. 
 
 DoRiA. Oh, no. (fle laughs.) I am very well, 
 but I have a new game for you to play, that's all. 
 
 George. I hate games. They are-the occupation 
 of the mentally unemployed. There is something 
 more serious, tell me immediately. Why are you 
 so nervous and abstracted ? 
 
CARDOR'S DUEL 139 
 
 DoRiA. Am I nervous ? {He laughs^ I feel 
 quite collected. {A fause) There is something 
 serious, George, and I want your advice. 
 
 George. In regard to what ? I am at your dis- 
 posal, what there is of me. 
 
 DoRiA. Do you know anything about duels ? 
 Have you ever fought one ? 
 
 George. I never fought one, but I know about 
 them. Why ? 
 
 DoRiA. I think I shall tell you what has happened, 
 and then I shall ask my questions and your advice 
 afterwards. 
 
 George. Happened ? A duel ? 
 
 DoRiA. Not yet, wait. You will see. (Doria 
 sits silently for a moment^ This afternoon I had 
 luncheon with Gioya, and at about three o'clock we 
 went for a short walk in the gardens. We were 
 just coming over the bridge across the Serpentine 
 and were talking about some charities, when a man 
 went by, running into me as he did so. I was 
 about to apologise, of course, when he swore at me 
 in German, and taking out a card, handed it to me 
 in a very insulting manner. I simply tore it up, 
 George. I threw it on the ground and we walked 
 away. But he followed us, and I turned to look 
 for a constable. There were none. The fellow 
 continued his insolence, and so I knocked him down. 
 A taxi went by at the same time, which I took to 
 get Gioya away. I imagined the man drunk and 
 that that was the end of it. 
 
140 CARDOR'S DUEL 
 
 George. Was there more ? 
 
 DoRiA. Yes ; he must have followed us, or else 
 he knew who I was, for this letter is from his 
 seconds, a letter desiring me to appoint mine to- 
 night. Here it is. {He gives the letter to George, 
 who reads it while Doria soliloquises.) It seems so 
 absurd that the calm current of my daily life should 
 contain such a thing as this. People die, houses 
 burn, incomes are lost ; all these things I am sub- 
 consciously prepared for and would accept without 
 hesitation or fear, but a duel ! It is utterly foreign 
 to my tradition, it is opposed to all my principles ; 
 it is incongruous in my existence, a fact deluding 
 subjection and deriding comprehension. It would 
 be different if I had provoked the thing, for one 
 has money in one's purse when one orders wine. I 
 feel as if I had eaten a dinner at a restaurant and 
 had forgotten my pocket-book. Such mad events 
 are only met by madness. 
 
 George. Hum ! Wictinghoff, Baron Wicting- 
 hoff. You know who he is, Doria ? 
 
 Doria. No, but the name sounds familiar. 
 
 George. He owns the largest hunt in Germany, 
 and is the most notorious fighter in Europe. I 
 don't know how many men he has killed. This is 
 a bad business, Doria. 
 
 Doria. I cannot fight him, George, There must 
 be some way to avoid it. 
 
 George. I don't see how you can ignore him, my 
 dear chap. You may be sure he will publish your 
 
CARDOR'S DUEL 141 
 
 refusal as cowardice, and people will be only too 
 happy to believe what he says of one who has been 
 so successful as you. 
 
 DoRiA. After I had knocked him down ? 
 
 George. No one will know that, and you cannot 
 do it every time you meet him. 
 
 DoRiA. I am not so afraid of fighting him as I am of 
 being connected with such a thing. There must be 
 some way out of it. Duels are vulgar, middle class 
 and unmanly ; I should be diclassi immediately, a 
 thing which I cannot afford. Besides, my whole 
 nature despises it. I am too civilised, too sympa- 
 thetic to duel. I am not a child, George. 
 
 George. You are not a Teuton, my friend. The 
 Teuton intelligence feeds on duelling. All lower 
 orders of nature enjoy destruction as they enjoy 
 eating. Their survival is in the balance, and when 
 elemental force, be it a thunderstorm or mere 
 muscle, combats with the unprepared spirit, it 
 conquers. 
 
 DoRiA. It is a disgrace to duel. It is a bestial 
 passion, more immoral than murder, for it seldom 
 has an honourable cause, and never a beneficial 
 result. A man who provokes a duel is not decent 
 enough to honour with personal attention, for if 
 he insult true manhood it is a lese-majesti un- 
 necessary to revenge, punished by its own char- 
 acter. 
 
 George. You have your honour to defend. 
 
 DoRiA. Would it be an affair of honour if all the 
 
142 CARDOR'S DUEL 
 
 world took it into their heads to fight me ? I 
 could not spend my entire life fighting duels. One 
 must draw the line somewhere. 
 
 George. You make an awfully big affair of this 
 matter, Doria, even if it is disagreeable. Why not 
 make up your mind to do it ? It would not be 
 very difficult. 
 
 DoRiA. Do you suppose I want to do the easiest 
 thing all my life ? I do not believe in duels, I 
 will not have anything to do with them, nothing 
 at all. I am not an animal. I am an intellect, 
 and I scorn the barbarism of physical combat as 
 much as I scorn two dogs quarrelling over a bone. 
 More so, in fact, because they at least have a moral 
 instigation to fight. Why should men sink to 
 bodily murder ? The struggle of evolution is in 
 the spirit now, not in the body. It is in brain, 
 capability and invention, not in tooth nor knife, 
 and to resort to these is without the rules of the 
 game. Food and land, all the necessities, are to be 
 won by intelligence and not by war. It is immoral, 
 degenerate, and undeveloped to turn to the latter. 
 Only the lower orders of evolution still do so. All 
 physical fighters are self-proclaimed unfit, and will 
 eventually be exterminated, while those who de- 
 velop the spirit by contest will survive. 
 
 George. Then electrocution of an army by 
 hidden wires is moral ? 
 
 Doria. It is. It is a false sentimentality and 
 mistaken standard which condemns it. 
 
CARDOR'S DUEL 143 
 
 George. I don't contradict you, for, of course, 
 you are right, Doria, but where would idealism 
 bring us in this age ? We are in advance of the 
 day, you and I. 
 
 Doria. I suppose we must be the reviled martyrs, 
 George. 
 
 George. It is true that war is a degenerate, not 
 a virile thing, yet while we follow the flag of truth 
 some ignoble beast is sure to strike a knife in our 
 backs. It is our duty to exterminate the knife 
 before we can carry our spiritual growth higher. 
 Is this being more developed than the other ? 
 
 Doria. There is no reason why one rotten branch 
 should kill the tree. It should be cut off. 
 
 George. Then you have two alien principles at 
 war and come down to the original struggle. No, 
 Doria, spiritual survival depends firstly on physical 
 fitness. Until this is established the spirit cannot 
 scorn the cruder tool. ' You are theoretically right, 
 but we are still in the dark ages, and it is not wise 
 to hurry too fast. In course of time war and duel- 
 ling will disappear by themselves. It is only the 
 rotten limbs which continue these abominations, 
 but until there are no more rotten limbs they must 
 be met with their own weapons. When one country 
 renounces military force, the others may, but until 
 then the growth of humanity will be deformed. It 
 is a canker not to be cured by oblivion or scorn. 
 
 Doria. When will civilisation wipe out such 
 barbarity ? It would be better if Italy imported 
 
144 CARDOR'S DUEL 
 
 this commodity into some parts of Europe rather 
 than into Africa, allying herself to Turks in prefer- 
 ence to Teutons. 
 
 George. The realist may answer these questions, 
 not I. Idealism points out the way and realism 
 prepares it. Neither is omnipotent in itself. But 
 to return, realism declares a war on you, and idealism 
 will not defend you. No matter how base your 
 attack, a reply of like sort is necessary. You are 
 bound to fight the man and defeat him. You are 
 finer in all ways than he, and so ought to have more 
 confidence, which, even if you are not so efficient 
 as he in parrying, will still give you an advantage. 
 You have the right with you ; you will win. 
 
 DoRiA. Oh, I am too intelligent to fight, George. 
 
 George. Intelligence based on over-niceness wiU 
 not avail anything. Superiority needs proof, and as 
 food is necessary to the brain, so remedy is neces- 
 sary for a disease. Look upon this thing as a 
 disease. You are not too intelligent to combat it, 
 my dear, however loathsome it might be. Some 
 day there will be no disease if it is combated now. 
 
 DoRiA. Then you advise me to meet him ? To- 
 morrow morning at eight ? 
 
 George. I should advise it under ordinary con- 
 ditions, but I have an idea. Perhaps our superior 
 intelligence may devise a weapon of its own to 
 defend you in a different way. I think by tact I 
 can simply talk this man out of the way. Men of 
 his order subsist entirely on bluff, and will evaporate 
 
CARDOR'S DUEL 145 
 
 if they see a convenient element in which to dis- 
 solve. I shall offer such an element. I shall go 
 directly to call upon Baron Wictinghoff's seconds, 
 and perhaps will put an end to his reception in 
 England. Trust me, Doria ; I am your ideal 
 friend so far as devotion is concerned. 
 
 Doria. You are genuine, George. I trust you. 
 I already owe you a great deal in our friendship. 
 
 George. Purely selfish, Doria — brutally selfish. 
 It pleases me. 
 
 Doria. Selfish people are the only ones who are 
 unselfish, for they never hurt others. 
 
 George. Universal love is the noblest human 
 quality. I hope you can guard yours from injury. 
 Ah ! I must hurry, or our friend will escape us. 
 
 Doria. You must come back here as soon as you 
 settle the matter, in time for supper. 
 
 George. We can go together to Lady Granwith's 
 afterwards. You intend going, do you not ? 
 
 \Takes his hat and coat. 
 
 Doria. I suppose so. \Ofens the door. 
 
 George. A tout h. I'heure. 
 
 Doria. Good-bye. I shall leave the door un- 
 locked. 
 
 George. Then I need not ring when I come back. 
 Good-bye. 
 
 [Doria closes the door and lights a cigarette. 
 [Stimson enters and busies himself with the fire. 
 
 Doria. Stimson, did you ever fight a duel ? You 
 have been in Germany. Did you ever fight a 
 
 K 
 
146 CARDOR'S DUEL 
 
 duel ? Tell me, did they kill each other ? Did 
 they really hurt each other ? 
 
 Stimson. I boxed their ears, sir, when they tried 
 to duel me, but I have seen them cut lips and 
 noses oflE like wax, and then sit around to be sewed 
 up without a sign of pain. 
 
 DoRiA {covering his face). How horrible ! How 
 perfectly horrible, Stimson. But it is generally a 
 mere formality, is it not, at least aside from the 
 students ? 
 
 Stimson. Oh no, sir, not at all. The old ones 
 are the worst. 
 
 DoRiA. What would you do if you had to fight 
 a duel ? 
 
 Stimson. There is no law to make me use any- 
 thing but my fists, sir. They are good enough 
 for me. 
 
 DoRiA. But to defend your honour, your name 
 
 Stimson. Men that have them, sir, do not need 
 to defend them. 
 
 DoRiA. Suppose you were insulted in writing, 
 would you ignore it ? 
 
 Stimson. I'd tear the letters up until the gentle- 
 man came himself, then I'd show him the door in 
 such a way he'd never come again. You've not 
 been bothered by one of them, have you, sir ? If 
 you have, I'll . . . 
 
 DoRiA. No, no, Stimson, only my imagination. 
 I was reading about some such thing in the news- 
 paper. I do not feel very well to-night. 
 
CARDOR'S DUEL 147 
 
 Stimson. Don't go out to-night, sir ; go to bed 
 early. 
 
 DoRiA. It's all right. One can't take social holi- 
 days more often than military ones, and I have 
 stayed at home one night this week already. That's 
 all, Stimson, you may go. 
 
 [Stimson goes totaard the door. 
 
 DoRiA. 1 Stimson ! 
 
 Stimson. You called me, sir ? 
 
 DoRiA. No. Yes, Stimson. Some one has 
 bothered me, I am going to fight a duel to-morrow 
 morning. 
 
 Stimson. Mr. Cardor, sir ! What reason ? 
 
 DoRiA. No reason. There is no reason except 
 that I have to be rid of the man. 
 
 Stimson. Arrest him. 
 
 DoRiA. Impossible. He will not even be satis- 
 fied with a horse-whipping. 
 
 Stimson. But it is dangerous. 
 
 DoRiA. I know it. I'm horribly afraid, Stimson. 
 I do not want to fight. I am sure I will be killed 
 because I have no anger to strengthen me. I could 
 not hurt the man because I do not hate him, and I 
 shall thrust awkwardly. If he had insulted some 
 one else, or had he really injured me, I would fight 
 him to the end with no other feeling than a desire 
 for revenge. I am not a coward. 
 
 Stimson. Hardly that, sir. I remember the 
 time . . . 
 
 DoRiA. Oh, don't talk about the past. I have 
 
148 CARDOR'S DUEL 
 
 no fear, nor have I an evil imagination^ And I am 
 so happy just now, so well, so successful. I feel 
 panic-stricken, as if I were surrounded by fire. I 
 must not think of it. I shall go mad. 
 
 Stimson. Why, it's soon ended, sir. There is 
 nothing so terrible about it after all, except the 
 disgrace of duelling. 
 
 DoRiA. But it is not fair. I am like a peaceable 
 animal, honestly at work, which some one has put 
 into a box with a scorpion. The scorpion is not 
 molested, but it attacks the other from malice and 
 kills it, Stimson — strikes it again and again with its 
 poisoned tail until the other, who has sat blinking 
 in incomprehension because it has no weapons to 
 retaliate with, is paralysed. It is not fair. There 
 is nothing more cruel than such a game ; it is 
 cruel, terribly cruel. 
 
 Stimson. You have weapons, Mr. Cardor; you 
 are a good swordsman. 
 
 DoRiA. The sword alone is not a weapon; it 
 needs faith and passion to direct it. 
 
 Stimson. But you will feel calmer in the morning. 
 You are tired and nervous to-night. Take a long 
 sleep instead of going to Lady Granwith's. 
 
 DoRiA. To wake up and digest the whole thing 
 over again ? No, I shall sit up all night to prepare 
 myself for it. 
 
 Stimson. You can frighten men by coolness. 
 Don't weaken yourself by morbidly dwelling upon 
 this. 
 
CARDOR'S DUEL 149 
 
 DoRiA. I could not sleep, Stimson. (J pause.) 
 You may serve supper at half-past eleven. Sir 
 George will return by then, and I shall not ring 
 for you. 
 
 Stimson. At half-past eleven, sir. 
 [He pits out all the lights except the candelabra 
 and then goes out. Doria walks back and forth. 
 
 DoRiA. George implied that superiority depends 
 not on being different but in being more powerful 
 along similar lines. If that is so, I am simply an 
 unessential embranchment leading nowhere, for my 
 only merit lies in possessing the extremest develop- 
 ment of thought without any background. The 
 normal brute is at least laying a foundation for 
 advance, while I wither away without any seed. I 
 am barren, I am a parasite on the intellectual as 
 well as on the material world, and I have no right 
 to all the happiness which has been lavished on me. 
 Think what I have ! Money, an absorbing occupa- 
 tion, love, health, and the respect of my fellows if 
 not their praise. What do I give in return ? A 
 few abstract ideas involved in a great deal of brilliant 
 but senseless phrasing. The contemptible selfish- 
 ness of it ! I ought to model my life after a prac- 
 tical form, but can I ? Am I strong enough ? I 
 am so tired of being a poor wheel in the social 
 system. Oh, it is not fair ; it is not fair ! I am 
 so tired ! {He leans his head on his hand against the 
 mantelpiece and waits silently. The clock ticks 
 aggressively. A newsboy is heard outside^ In eight 
 
ISO CARDOR'S DUEL 
 
 hours I shall stand at Richmond in a field where 
 mists still float, tramping on the damp grass. 
 Wictinghoff will try his sword at arm's length. 
 Then we will salute, parry and thrust ; I shall 
 wound him and see his blood. He will cut my face. 
 I shall make a careless guard, and he will fall more 
 heavily than he intended on me. I shall be badly 
 wounded, if not killed. 
 
 [He shudders and walks nervously up and down the 
 floor. As he passes the table he sees the book 
 which he was reading, and he opens it at 
 random. 
 
 " Who travailes by the wearie wandring way, 
 To come unto his wished home in haste, 
 And meetes a flood that doth his passage stay, 
 Is not great grace to helpe him over past, 
 Or free his feet that in the myre sticke fast ? 
 Most envious man, that grieves at neighbours good ; 
 And fond, that joyest in the woe thou hast ! 
 Why wilt not let him passe, that long hath stood 
 Upon the bancke, yet wilt thy selfe not pas the flood ? 
 
 He there does now enjoy eternall rest 
 
 And happy ease, which thou doest want and crave, 
 
 And further from it daily wanderest : 
 
 What is some little payne the passage have, 
 
 That makes frayle flesh to feare the bitter wave, 
 
 Is not short payne well borne, that bringes long ease, 
 
 And layes the soule to sleepe in quiet grave ? 
 
 Sleepe after toyle, port after stormie seas, 
 
 Ease after warre, death after life, does greatly please." 
 
 \He closes the book carelessly and resumes his pacing. 
 
CARDOR'S DUEL 151 
 
 Port after stormy seas ! Ease after war ! Sleep 
 after toil ! 
 
 [He makes a tour of the bookcases, as if in deep 
 interest, inspecting several volumes ; comes 
 before the clock, which marks within a few 
 minutes of half-past eleven ; and, nervously 
 turns over a pile of papers on the desk, as if in 
 search of one. As he passes the table the light 
 strikes on a bit of silver, and having passed, 
 he stops suddenly without turning, standing 
 motionless for a moment. Then he turns slowly, 
 goes back to the table and picks up a sharply 
 pointed knife. A noise outside makes him 
 move to the window, where he beats a tattoo on 
 the panes, but he returns to the table and again 
 picks up the knife. He is gazing at it when 
 the clock strikes half-past eleven. Footsteps 
 are heard on the stairs. He looks hastily at 
 the door, and then without hesitation strikes 
 himself with the knife. As he falls he knocks 
 over the candelabra, leaving the room in dark- 
 ness, except for the glow of the fire in the path 
 of which he lies, hidden from sight of the door 
 by the desk. The door opens and George 
 enters. He takes of his coat, talking as he 
 does so. 
 George. Doria ! (fie mistakes a low groan for an 
 answer, thinking Doria asleep^ It's all right, old 
 chap ! WictinghoflF mistook you for a German and 
 apologises. There will be no duel, {fie walks 
 
152 CARDOR'S DUEL 
 
 around the desk.) Doria ! {He falls on his knees 
 beside Cardor.) My God ! Stimson ! 
 
 [Stimson enters with a tray. 
 Stimson. Supper is served, sir. 
 
 THE END. 
 
THE BEACON 
 
 A PLAY IN THREE ACTS 
 
 TO 
 FRANCELU LEONARD 
 
PERSONS IN THE PLAY 
 
 CoMTE Serge Le Wrey. 
 
 Baldwin Northwyke. 
 
 Hope Northwyke, his wife. 
 
 Sylvia Northwyke, their daughter. 
 
 Rosamond Guigon. 
 
 Cyril Weston. 
 
 An Officer. 
 
 Cadets and Soldiers. 
 
 Act I. — The hall of Hope Northwyke's house at Fair- 
 haven. 
 Act II. — The gate of the Northwykes' place at Lenox. 
 Act III. — The hall in the house of the same. 
 
 The Htm of action is contemporaneous, and extends through 
 one day. 
 
THE BEACON 
 
 A PLAY IN THREE ACTS 
 ACT I 
 
 The setting represents the hall of one of those few remaining 
 monuments of New England's manhood left standing in her 
 decadence. It is a colonial hall, two stories in height, the 
 upper floor being served by a gallery which runs along the 
 right and rear walls to meet a staircase that descends on the 
 left. Under this gallery, which is supported by columns, in 
 the rear wall, are three great arches whose glazed doors lead 
 to a brick-paved terrace. In the right wall is a fireplace, and 
 beyond it a doorway. Before the staircase, on the left, is 
 another door; those above being, one at the head of the 
 stairs in the left wall and one at each side of the right. In 
 the middle of the gallery in the rear is a broad, arched 
 window, flanked by two smaller square ones. The furniture 
 is pure Georgian. A sofa and a large round table stand to 
 the right of the stairs, and in the same position, to the left 
 of the fireplace, are a screen, an armchair, and a sewing 
 table. To the right of the fireplace is another large chair. 
 Between the arches in the rear wall are two secretaires, in the 
 gallery there hang portraits, and at the head of the stairs is a 
 tall clock. The hall is entirely wainscoted in white, with 
 stair rails of mahogany and dark oak floors. The hangings 
 are of mauve and green damask, the rugs of braided cotton. 
 
156 THE BEACON 
 
 The table bears a lamp and some books, the mantelpiece a 
 clock, and the secretaires litters of papers, but the room is 
 devoid of useless ornament. From the open doors can be 
 seen an old-fashioned garden containing hollyhocks and 
 bounded by a brick wall. In the distance lies the Achusnet 
 River and Buzzards Bay leading to the sea. It is a warm 
 summer morning, with heavy sunlight which falls over the 
 dark ocean and floods the room. 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 Hope Northwyke and Sylvia are discovered stand- 
 ing at the middle door with field-glasses looking 
 out to sea. 
 
 Sylvia. One, two, three. Three big ones and 
 some smaller ones. Can you see more, mother ? 
 
 Hope. I think there are more in the distance, 
 beyond the Elizabeth Islands. That smoke cannot 
 be from coasting vessels. 
 
 Sylvia. Do you suppose they came from Charles- 
 town ? 
 
 Hope. If they are going to the Pacific they would 
 not put into port so near Boston. 
 
 Sylvia. Perhaps they could not find enough coal 
 at the navy yard. 
 
 Hope. Perhaps so. It is quite like the mancEUvres 
 last year. I hope there will be no noise. 
 
 Sylvia. I should think that they ought to have 
 saluted. 
 
 Hope. Will they ? Let us not watch them, 
 
THE BEACON 157 
 
 Sybie. They are beautiful, but I cannot forget 
 that they are made to kill men. 
 
 [She moves away from the door, followed by Sylvia, 
 and discloses to view a fleet of battleships 
 entering the harbour. Guns are heard at Fort 
 Robinson. 
 Sylvia. That, of course, is the salute. 
 Hope. How barbarous intelligent murder is ! 
 War is so devoid of passion to-day that it has be- 
 come criminal. 
 
 Sylvia. I hate war ; why do we think of it ? 
 Tell me, dear, did you sleep last night ? 
 
 Hope. In the bath-room again, on the floor. I 
 am beginning to lose courage, Sylvia. Do marry 
 before anything happens to me. 
 
 Sylvia. This cannot go on any longer, mother. 
 I am going to take you away to-morrow. 
 
 SCENE n 
 
 Serge comes in from the garden with a basket of 
 water-lilies. 
 
 Serge (giving Sylvia the lilies). Good morning, 
 Sybie ! How can you be so traditional as to have 
 missed the garden before sin blighted it ? 
 
 Sylvia. I thought you were asleep. {Drawing a 
 string of pearls from the basket.) Serge, look at 
 this ! I found them in the lilies ! 
 
 Serge. There is a history to them. I shall tell 
 it to you later. Please keep them. 
 
158 THE BEACON 
 
 Sylvia (embracing him and kissing him). You need 
 not command that ! Ought I to take them, mother ? 
 
 Hope. Why not, if he wishes ? 
 
 Sylvia. You are an angel then, Serge ! 
 
 Serge. Oh, by the way, I have the papers. 
 There is more or less news. 
 
 [He draws them out from his focket. 
 
 Hope. About the war ? 
 
 Serge. Yes, shall I read it ? " Fighting at Oak- 
 land near the Stanford University." 
 
 Hope. Tell us about it. 
 
 Serge {sitting down on the sofa with Sylvia). 
 Here is what the Evening Trancept says : " Skir- 
 mishes at Oakland. Twenty Japanese kUled. 
 American forces advance from the hills." " In spite 
 of the efforts being made to adjust misunderstand- 
 ings between our government and that of Japan 
 by arbitration, active campaigns are still being 
 pushed on both sides. When Mexico ceded Magde- 
 lena Bay in Southern California to the Japanese, 
 the protest of the United States, based on the 
 Monroe doctrine, was met by satisfactory restric- 
 tions. Since then, however, the settlement has 
 been increased alarmingly and has now become a 
 powerful seat of action for Japan. Using the 
 magnificent harbour as a shelter for her fleet, this 
 country was so bold as to parade her ships along the 
 coast of California, with the intention, it was 
 affirmed, of protecting her citizens in that State, 
 but finding San Francisco defenceless, she entered 
 
THE BEACON 159 
 
 and occupied it on August 6. This was an open 
 declaration of war, not justified by the preceding 
 negotiations. Our troops are being rushed to the 
 scene of combat from all sides, while the Japanese, 
 instead of withdrawing, are reinforcing their men. 
 Their purpose is enigmatical, for the measures to 
 favour their citizens have been carried and other 
 reasons are lacking. Our army is now ready to 
 fight a decisive battle. In commercial and diplo- 
 matic circles little fear is held for the result, as the 
 move must necessarily be fruitless. Ambassador 
 Yukado continues to remain silent, feeling no 
 doubt the indignity of this misunderstanding. The 
 whole afEair lacks seriousness, and as soon as inter- 
 views can be put through, the presence of the 
 invaders will no longer be felt. Their superfluous 
 energy is puzzling," &c. &c. &c. 
 
 Hope. The entire aflEair is incomprehensible to 
 me. I cannot see why Japan should attack us. 
 
 Serge. Undoubtedly their intention was to pro- 
 tect their people in California. The Japanese have 
 not been well treated. 
 
 Sylvia. But why go so far as to take San Fran- 
 cisco ? 
 
 Serge. Probably because they could not help it. 
 They must have intended to parade under your 
 noses in order to impress you, but finding this 
 ineffective, were forced to go further. They aimed 
 at a stone wall and struck cardboard. They will 
 withdraw eagerly enough. 
 
i6o THE BEACON 
 
 Hope. The idea of such a war is absurd. ■ 
 
 Serge. The idea of any war is absurd. Philo- 
 sophers and historians announce the impossiblKty 
 of war to-day and hail the reign of peace ; diplo- 
 matists tell one that war is a thing of the past, 
 and yet this year every Power in the world is em- 
 broiled in battle, China has her revolution, Egypt 
 her revolts, Persia her oppressions; Turkey and 
 Italy lay waste Tripoli and tread on the toes of 
 France and Germany, who dispute about Morocco 
 and the Congo to. the discomfort of Spain. This 
 country and Portugal are internally ill with the 
 church and shaky governments ; Russia and Austria 
 are alarmed at alliances, while England and Germany 
 have great labour difficulties. Except for Sweden, 
 Switzerland, and India, no part of the other hemi- 
 sphere is at rest, while in this one Mexico is torn 
 by war, Japan is attacking the United States, who 
 has her own social struggles, and South America, of 
 course, is in a state of revolution. There is intelli- 
 gent development of this planet ! Observe the 
 growth of our intellects. 
 
 Hope. I do not see how colonising and the 
 vulgarisation of governments can cause anything 
 but unrest. 
 
 Sylvia. It is one hundred and twenty years since 
 warships entered this harbour prepared for war. 
 Do you know why they are stopping now. Serge ? 
 
 Serge. I do not know, 
 
 Hope. I shall inquire as I go to meet Rosamond 
 
THE BEACON i6i 
 
 Guigon {looking at the clock). Good heavens ! I 
 must go now. I had no impression of its being so 
 late. Don't run away, Sylvia ; be here to receive 
 her. 
 
 Sylvia. I am so glad she is coming. You will 
 like her, Serge. 
 
 Hope. Yes, I never knew a more intelligent 
 woman.^ Good-bye, my dear. 
 
 \She goes out to the right. 
 
 SCENE HI 
 
 Serge. I am tired of intelligent people. They 
 are never happy, never calm, and they never see 
 nature. Health and spring kill intelligence with 
 realities ; winter and sickness develop it to meet 
 the absence of "things." Over-intelligence is a 
 disease that paralyses judgment. I hope Miss 
 Guigon is really only clever. 
 
 Sylvia. She is beautiful. 
 
 Serge. Then she accomplishes her ends by the 
 use of her instincts. Beautiful people are a part 
 of nature, not of man. I am glad that she is 
 beautiful. But, Sylvia, your mother looks un- 
 usually worn this morning. 
 
 Sylvia. It is becoming impossible for us to live 
 with father any longer, Serge. Mother was forced 
 to lock herself up in the bath-room again last night, 
 and something must be done. 
 
 Serge. If it becomes a matter of actual peril, 
 
 L 
 
i62 THE BEACON 
 
 there is no path but flight. That, though, is un- 
 desirable, because he appears so ideal to every one 
 else. 
 
 Sylvia. We must accept that. He is utterly- 
 insane in regard to us. I do not see how the 
 family can hold together any longer. 
 
 Serge. We must do our best to avoid such a 
 revolution. After all it is your mother's fault, for 
 if she had acted differently from the beginning 
 your father would not have developed into what he 
 has. He has always been a high-strung, nervous 
 man, and at an early age he enshrined those very 
 weaknesses, kneeling before them and expecting 
 every one else to do likewise. When the world did 
 not join in the worship of his sensitive feelings he 
 withdrew from it into himself, and hated it, while 
 increasing his vulnerableness. The next step was 
 to seek consolation for his suffering, which he found 
 in study, but also in stimulants, so that now he is 
 doubly nervous and tortured by the least detail. 
 Naturally it was your mother and you who were 
 nearest to him, and her lack of understanding, 
 together with your childish exuberance, drove him 
 mad. 
 
 Sylvia. You see how intelligent and well liked 
 he is. He has a lovely personality, only he is 
 utterly insane in regard to us, whom he believes 
 responsible for his life of misery. What can be 
 done ? His mania is only apparent to us. He 
 maligns us to his friends, and puts us in real danger. 
 
THE BEACON 163 
 
 Some of the stories he tells of me are horrible, and 
 he insults mother publicly, besides denying us all 
 consideration. Oh, we are suffering as well as he 
 for his life of selfishness. He should never have 
 married. 
 
 Serge. You are good to see both sides of this 
 matter, for both your mother and father think 
 themselves in the right. If your father was too 
 impatient in his revolt against pain, your mother 
 was too slow in seeing her unconscious trespass. 
 
 Sylvia. And I suffer for their guilt. I am tired 
 of father's resistance to our marriage, which, of 
 course, he justifies, as he does his every act, by a 
 noble purpose. I am tired of being gossiped about 
 through the stories he starts of me, and I am afraid 
 for mother's very life. She is becoming suicidal, 
 Serge. 
 
 Serge. Your father is, of course, the chief male- 
 factor, and so should pay for it accordingly. I 
 should not consider his point of view any longer, 
 but should act for your mother, who, after all, has 
 endured this cross for your sake. It is not a ques- 
 tion of who is guilty, but of who is most injured. 
 Baldwin may be excusable, he may be lovable, and 
 to those not concerned he may be a martyr, but 
 to you he is an oppressor, however explainable his 
 oppression may be, and if his insanity is dangerous, 
 you must protect yourself. 
 
 Sylvia. The world will always sympathise with 
 him because it can never know what his domestic 
 
i64 THE BEACON 
 
 character is. Don't you see what brutes mother 
 and I must seem to his friends ? 
 
 Serge. Never mind, he will treat the world as 
 he does you if you go away, and then it will under- 
 stand. I do not believe in the evil in man. He 
 only needs to be convinced in order to see the 
 flaws in his self-defence. Your father is not 
 criminal ; he is only short-sighted. 
 
 Sylvia. In order to readjust this problem I 
 think I must remove myself, and the sooner we 
 marry the better. Serge. I have been a large 
 factor in father's suffering, and possibly if I dis- 
 appear he will not be troubled by mother. 
 
 Serge. He does not want you to marry me simply 
 because I am French and have a title. He approves 
 of Cyril. 
 
 Sylvia. His prejudices are ridiculous. You are 
 the older branch of our own family, and even if 
 you told him your income he would acquiesce. 
 
 Serge. Then let us arrange to go to Normandy 
 this fall. 
 
 Sylvia. I wish it. Mother can then act freely 
 as to her own life and as to father. 
 
 Serge. I shall see him and arrange definitely 
 about it. 
 
 Sylvia. Good. {A fause.) I am very happy. 
 {She kisses him.) Tell me about these pearls, dear. 
 You said they had a history. 
 
 Serge. Now ? 
 
 Sylvia. Yes. 
 
THE BEACON 165 
 
 Serge. Well, I have never even spoken of this 
 before. I am afraid of hurting you. You really 
 wish it ? 
 
 Sylvia. You cannot hurt me by the past. 
 
 Serge (slowly). Those pearls, then, Sylvia, be- 
 longed to another woman. She was my wife. 
 
 Sylvia {after a pause). Tell me about her, 
 Serge. Was she beautiful ? 
 
 Serge. She had a fearful scar on her face from 
 an accident when she was little, but her body was 
 superb, and she was a woman of intelligence, such 
 intelligence as only men have. She possessed the 
 best of masculine intellect, but without masculine 
 equilibrium, and her feminine body gave her alarm- 
 ing inconsistencies. At first we became steeped in 
 each other's minds until we became indispensable 
 to each other, utterly esteeming and comprehend- 
 ing each other. She built up a practical moral 
 code in me, and I made more scientific her reason- 
 ing ; then came a love as irresistible as the sea, 
 and we lived in a world alone, living for each other. 
 I think such love comes seldom to any man, but I 
 was obliterated, Sylvia — ^imagine me dominated to 
 the point of effacement ! That love was the epi- 
 tome of love. It nearly killed me. 
 
 [He pauses, with his hands to his eyes. 
 
 Sylvia. She loved you ? 
 
 Serge. As I loved her, madly, utterly, her only 
 life. We married. Those pearls were her wedding 
 present from my mother. We passed a week of — 
 
i66 THE BEACON 
 
 oil, I cannot think of it, Sylvia ! I cannot think 
 of it ! {fie sobs, and Sylvia pit her arms ahoiti 
 him.) One week of living, containing a lifetimcj 
 each second crowded with experience, and each 
 second branded into my memory with a deathless 
 souvenir. One day — ^we were at Versailles — ^we 
 were in the fields beyond the park — I remember 
 picking wild onions — she fainted — ^her arms turned 
 icy cold, I thought her dead. I carried her running 
 through the forest, past the fountains, and they 
 drew her back to life, but never again to living. 
 She had lost her mind and remained without intelli- 
 gence or reason. She was no longer the woman I 
 had worshipped, but a fearful relic of her glory, a 
 broken setting, and I loved her still, but it was 
 crucifixion. I loved her, yet it was a love of agony, 
 cherishing what had been. 
 
 Sylvia. Where is she now ? 
 
 Serge. Dead. In a glimmer of understanding 
 she realised her tragedy and my despair. She left 
 a little note, saying I could not owe her my love, 
 and then she killed herself. She thought my de- 
 votion was given from duty. Poor Rosamond ! It 
 was not the same love, but it was true. She felt 
 her change had ended all, and she refused to sacri- 
 fice me as she thought she would. {A pause.) 
 There is the history of the pearls. I wanted to 
 leave them in the pool, because I have found happi- 
 ness here, a happiness of a different sort, more calm 
 and broad. I can never love again as I did then. 
 
THE BEACON 167 
 
 Sylvia. Because you will never find your dupli- 
 cate again. I am your opposite, Serge. We shall 
 always wear, for I am everything you lack, and our 
 love can never die. 
 
 Serge. You understand. I love you because you 
 accept and complete me. 
 
 Sylvia. Our love is based on mutual support 
 and not on emotional desire. 
 
 Serge. Then we will go to my place in Nor- 
 mandy this fall. . . . Tell me, who is Rosamond 
 Guigon ? 
 
 Sylvia. An actress, a very popular actress. She 
 has won success in such plays as Wilde, Pinero, and 
 Shaw write, although this last winter she played 
 Ibsen well. She is very beautiful, very intelligent, 
 and very much courted, but no one knows exactly 
 who she is. Father says awful things about her 
 and so does Cyril, yet she is unhurt and triumphant. 
 Every one says she is a woman of intelligence, and 
 her career has certainly been meteoric. 
 
 Serge. Women of intelligence do not exist. Who 
 ever saw one ? Women often conquer by intuition, 
 but never by reason. I wager she is only gifted 
 with magnetism. 
 
 Sylvia. I do not know. I do not care. 
 
 [Serge takes her hand and kisses it. 
 
i68 THE BEACON 
 
 SCENE IV 
 
 Hope and Rosamond come in from the terrace. 
 
 Hope. What did I predict. Miss Guigon ? There 
 they are, inseparable. 
 
 [Serge and Sylvia rise. Rosamond hesitates a 
 moment, and then, with exaggerated^ humour, 
 laughs. 
 
 Rosamond. A pose for Rodin ! 
 
 Hope. This, Miss Guigon, is le Comte Le Wrey. 
 Serge, you must have seen Miss Guigon on the 
 stage. 
 
 Serge (vacantly, and looking fixedly at Rosamond). 
 No, I have never seen her act, yet your face is not 
 strange to me. I am happy to know you, Miss 
 Guigon. 
 
 Rosamond (gaily). You need not be frightened 
 of me ; all Frenchmen are frightened of me. 
 
 Hope. It is the women who should be. 
 
 Serge (resuming his self-fossession). Excuse me, 
 you resemble some one I once knew in an extra- 
 ordinary manner. Pardon my surprise. 
 
 Rosamond. What a defeat ! You see I have no 
 chance to rob you, Miss Northwyke. 
 
 Hope. See those lovely pearls. Miss Guigon, that 
 Serge gave Sylvia this morning. 
 
 Rosamond (calmly). They are remarkable, are 
 they not ? The clasp is Louis VI . 
 
 Serge (taith difficulty)^ Yes. 
 
THE BEACON 169 
 
 Rosamond. I am very fond of pearls. I never 
 had any. 
 
 Hope. Can I trust you to entertain Miss Guigon, 
 Serge, while Sylvia and I attend to household 
 affairs ? I am very sorry not to be able to take you 
 to your room, Miss Guigon, but the one you like 
 is not quite ready. In ten minutes. 
 
 Rosamond. Oh, do not bother, any room. 
 
 Hope. It is no bother. You have no excuse to 
 disappear after so shor;t a ride. 
 
 Serge. Do not leave me. Miss Guigon. I should 
 never conquer my fear for you later. 
 
 Rosamond. Very well, let us fight it out. 
 
 HoTE (going out zoith Sylvia). Be gentle with 
 him. 
 
 SCENE V 
 
 Rosamond removes her hat and sits down in the 
 chair before the screen. Serge fulls up a 
 small chair and -places himself near her. 
 
 Rosamond. I am curious to know why you, a 
 Frenchman, should have come to America. Will 
 you tell me, or am I too presumptuous ? I cannot 
 imagine leaving France voluntarily. 
 
 Serge. It is very simple. The Northwykes are a 
 branch of my family which left Normandy with 
 William the Conqueror, and being given the terri- 
 tory of Northwyke, assumed its name. They came 
 to New England in 1635 from Devonshire. My 
 
lyo THE BEACON 
 
 ancestors continued to stay in the old chateau which 
 I now own, but the family connection has never 
 been broken. I am here, therefore, on a visit and 
 not to escape France. 
 
 Rosamond. How did you learn English so per- 
 fectly ? You speak it better than Bostonians ! 
 
 Serge. Oh, nearly all my acquaintances in Paris 
 speak English as well as I. Tell me, you have 
 never lived in France ? 
 
 Rosamond. No ; I am a Southerner. 
 
 Serge, It is extraordinary how you resemble a 
 woman I once knew there. Even your name is the 
 same. 
 
 Rosamond. Oh no, I have always been here. 
 
 Serge. She had a fearful scar on her cheeks, 
 which you have not, but she carried herself as do 
 you, and spoke similarly. 
 
 Rosamond. Let us not talk of her. Don't you 
 think it unfair to me ? You are engaged, are you 
 not, to Sylvia Northwyke ? 
 
 Serge. Yes. Those pearls belonged to the other 
 Rosamond. 
 
 Rosamond. I think Mrs. Northwyke told me you 
 wrote ? 
 
 Serge. Yes, but it is only a year since I finished 
 my military service. I was a lieutenant of Cuir- 
 assiers. I find it astonishing that the men here are 
 undeveloped and degenerate. I had an idea of 
 American manhood which has been cruelly de- 
 storyed. I was told that it was clean, pure, and 
 
THE BEACON 171 
 
 vigorous ; I find it unnatural, intemperate, and 
 weak. The physique of New England's men is 
 either exaggerated, to the detriment of intelli- 
 gence, or undermined by vice and nerves. There 
 is no array of virility to be found here such as exists 
 in our army, and their bodies are like gardens gone 
 to seed. Ours may not be so extensive, but they 
 are cultivated and kept under control. 
 
 Rosamond. The American conception of French 
 people is based upon servants or on that decadent 
 class which exists in America more largely than in 
 France, as it does in England and Germany. 
 
 Serge. And the French conception of Americans 
 is founded on prize-fighters or sightseers. 
 
 Rosamond. However, I prefer the Frenchman 
 to the American in point of view of morals and 
 physique. As to intelligence, there is no question. 
 I hate New Englanders. 
 
 Serge. As do I, yet I have found here the indi- 
 vidual I need most in life. 
 
 Rosamond. Sylvia ? I should not think she could 
 understand you. 
 
 Serge. That is why I love her. Intelligent 
 people cannot live together. I once thought that 
 I could only be happy with those who were of my 
 own theories and understanding, but I have com- 
 pletely changed in that idea. 
 
 Rosamond. How did that happen ? 
 
 Serge. I once met an identity which utterly 
 comprehended me, or as utterly as is possible. 
 
172 THE BEACON 
 
 More sides of my character were open to her thaii 
 to any one else. She was a woman of surprising 
 perceptions. I thought that I had found the only 
 love possible in my life. 
 
 Rosamond. Do you mean you had not ? How 
 can one love those who are strangers ? 
 
 Serge. In this way : a truly intelligent person is 
 an individual so marked that his own mental de- 
 velopment must go on alone, aided and fed by 
 others but not in any way possessed by others to 
 such a point that foreign influence becomes stronger 
 than the inner constructive power. No genius has 
 ever been dominated or put together by a master. 
 They form themselves by the aid of circumstances. 
 For this reason one intelligent person will be 
 antagonistic to another, while they are drawn to- 
 gether by ties of sympathy, for one will inevitably 
 attempt to dominate the other. Therefore, in- 
 telligent people cannot love durably, but pass ever 
 on in search of the ideal. I went through this. 
 Rosamond and I equally dominated and were 
 dominated, but I realised that if she had lived, the 
 time would have come when each of us would have 
 needed liberty to grow. 
 
 Rosamond. I see. It is like racial antagonism* 
 One must be the master. 
 
 Serge. Exactly ; for a lifelong love, each must 
 struggle for different things. Sylvia does not re- 
 spond to my mind, but she is a perfect companion. 
 I am not alone with her, yet I am free to live un- 
 
THE BEACON 173 
 
 noted intellectually. It is a splendid liberty, backed 
 by the best of human fondness. 
 
 Rosamond. After all, the mind and its ideas are 
 laboratory subjects, unfit to bring into human 
 relations. 
 
 Serge. You say it perfectly. Idealism and 
 thought belong to art and science, not to love. 
 The music of Puccini is a thing of blood, not of 
 religion. I like to pass my days alone in my cell,. 
 Hying in my head ; but when night comes, then 
 that is over and I must go out to walk among people, 
 alive in my feelings and in my heart. I never take 
 my head into society. 
 
 Rosamond. Then you think that the intellect is 
 a business ? 
 
 Serge. Like banking. One should not bother 
 one's friends with it. To give ideas or opinions is 
 as poor taste as to discuss stocks. Therefore, when 
 I marry, I do not care to marry a business partner. 
 I want a human being, a simple, natural personality 
 which can give me love. I secrete my brain with 
 Sylvia and am happy in finding the rest of me so 
 agreeable to be with. 
 
 Rosamond. I understand you, but I cannot 
 articulate my personality so clearly. I do not know 
 where my brain stops and my feelings begin. I am 
 all in one piece. I can only love as a unit, and so I 
 must find everything in one person. 
 
 Serge. I rely on a hundred. Once I was like 
 you, though. 
 
174 THE BEACON 
 
 Rosamond (laughing). We have been terribly- 
 unreserved. 
 
 Serge. I have quite made you my confidante. 
 That is because we vibrate equally in our minds. 
 Did you not feel it instantly ? 
 
 Rosamond (sadly). Instantly. We are not like 
 those who offer themselves to everybody. Spiritual 
 prostitution is to me more reprehensible than 
 physical. 
 
 Serge. I am very happy. I hope you will not 
 go away now. You and Sylvia, I think, could 
 compose the whole vital world for me. 
 
 Rosamond. I cannot stay. I must go to-morrow. 
 
 Serge. Oh, do not ! After I have just found 
 you. 
 
 Rosamond (starting). What do you mean ? 
 
 Serge. Your cerebral identity. 
 
 Rosamond. Oh no, I must go. I cannot stay. 
 [She gets up and walks to the table with a sigh. 
 
 Serge. I want you to help me. I am about to 
 fight a battle. 
 
 Rosamond. A duel ? 
 
 Serge. Not an ordinary one. I am going to pull 
 the quills from a porcupine. 
 
 Rosamond. Explain yourself ! 
 
 Serge. Have you ever seen The Mollusc ? 
 
 Rosamond. Yes. 
 
 Serge. Instead of a mollusc there is a porcupine 
 in this house. 
 
 Rosamond. Heavens ! Where ? 
 
THE BEACON 175 
 
 Serge. The lord and master. Not only is there 
 one here, but the entire population of New England 
 consists of porcupines. 
 
 Rosamond. How unpleasant ! 
 
 Serge. Touch one of those beasts and see him 
 hump up his back, stick his nose into his belly, and 
 in this retired state poke quills at every one. Here 
 is Baldwin Northwyke. His feelings being very 
 sensitive, he curled up at an early age, hated every- 
 thing and threw darts. I am going to pull his 
 quills. Do help me. 
 
 Rosamond. I should love to, but I really must go 
 to-morrow. He is a typical New Englander, a last 
 flicker of the beacon. 
 
 Serge. You are always a step ahead of me in 
 defining things. (He stands up.) What is your 
 opinion of the moral and physical degeneration of 
 New England ? 
 
 SCENE VI 
 
 Baldwin and Cyril enter. 
 
 Cyril. How do you do. Miss Guigon ? Hello, 
 Le Wrey. 
 
 Baldwin. Good morning. 
 
 [He bows affably to Rosamond. 
 
 Rosamond. Good morning. Do you know any- 
 thing about porcupines, Mr. Northwyke ? 
 
 Baldwin. No, I collect moths. 
 
176 THE BEACON 
 
 Rosamond. Oh, I thought they might have some- 
 thing to do with each other. {She smiles at Serge.) 
 Forgive my speaking of them before thanking you 
 for your invitation to visit. It was very welcome. 
 
 Baldwin. It is our honour, Miss Guigon.. 
 
 Cyril.. I say, will you run down to the yacht 
 a moment with me. Serge ? I want to ask about 
 the rigging. The race is for to-morrow, you know. 
 
 Serge. If Miss Guigon will excuse me. 
 
 Rosamond. Of course. Only don't be too long. 
 
 Cyril. Only a few minutes. Come on, Serge. 
 
 Serge. WiU you begin quilling for me, Miss 
 Guigon ? 
 
 Rosamond. If I can. 
 
 Cyril. What do you mean ? [^hey go out. 
 
 SCENE VII 
 Rosamond sits down. 
 
 Rosamond. What a splendid son-in-law you 
 will have, Mr. Northwyke. 
 
 Baldwin. Le Wrey ? Oh, I shall never allow 
 that. 
 
 Rosamond. Why ? 
 
 Baldwin. A foreigner, a noble ; no sort for 
 Sylvia. She ought to marry Cyril. 
 
 Rosamond. They love each other. You must 
 not oppose them. Can I not influence you ? 
 
 Baldwin. I am afraid not. I have certain prin- 
 ciples and traditions, even yet. 
 
THE BEACON 177 
 
 Rosamond. I am especially anxious to see them 
 happy. Le Wrey is really exceptional. 
 
 Baldwin. Cyril is just as well off, and much more 
 suitable. 
 
 Rosamond. I think you will make a mistake in 
 refusing Le Wrey. 
 
 Baldwin. I do not care to discuss it. 
 
 Rosamond. Then will you pardon me for coming 
 down to my own affairs immediately ? I must 
 leave to-morrow. 
 
 Baldwin. I am sorry you cannot stay longer. 
 What is there wrong with your affairs ? Hasn't 
 that investment succeeded ? 
 
 Rosamond. Yes ; but I want to find work. 
 
 Baldwin. You ? Why, you are earning thousands 
 on the stage. 
 
 Rosamond. I must give it up. I am not strong 
 enough. I have fainted repeatedly during per- 
 formances, and the doctors have forbidden me to 
 go on with it. You do not know what a strain that 
 life is. They say another winter of it would Hll me. 
 
 Baldwin. How unfortunate. But have you not 
 enough to live on ? 
 
 Rosamond. Hardly a dollar. I have been repay- 
 ing the Guigons' heirs for their help in preparing 
 me for the stage. I have no income, and I am 
 obliged to find some sort of work. 
 
 Baldwin. It is especially difficult. You are not 
 fit for anything ordinary. 
 
 Rosamond. No, I really could not do office work. 
 
 m 
 
178 THE BEACON 
 
 Baldwin. No; yet one cannot be too scrupulous. 
 It does no harm to soil the hands if one has no 
 money. Why don't you marry ? 
 
 Rosamond. I cannot. 
 
 Baldwin. Why ? 
 
 RosAMdND. Because — ^well, because I am already 
 married. 
 
 Baldwin. You astound me. Why does your hus- 
 band not support you ? 
 
 Rosamond. He — I do not know where he is. 
 
 Baldwin. Is he alive ? 
 
 Rosamond. Yes. 
 
 Baldwin. Hum ! Well, I will think of something. 
 Could you do nursing — be a companion ? 
 
 Rosamond. I could not nurse. Oh, it is so 
 ridiculous this position. I am too proud to work 
 at sordid things. I should rather kill myself than 
 be humiliated. 
 
 Baldwin. I shall look for the extraordinary, but 
 I warn you that you must be prepared to accept 
 anything. 
 
 Rosamond. I cannot teach, I cannot sing, I 
 cannot write. I do not see what is going to become 
 of me. I really do not think I am fit for any- 
 thing. 
 
 Baldwin. No one is if they cannot adjust them- 
 selves to demands. 
 
 Rosamond. I would do anything if it were 
 simply a private renouncement, but I am too well 
 known to be able to quietly change my life. Think 
 
THE BEACON 179 
 
 of Rosamond Guigon taking orders from a floor- 
 walker ! Don't you. see ? I should rather die. 
 
 Baldwin. Well, what do you intend to do ? 
 
 Rosamond. If I cannot find suitable work I shall 
 commit suicide simply, and I must ask you or some 
 one to lend me money until I do. What do you 
 advise ? 
 
 Baldwin. Find your husband. 
 
 Rosamond. Impossible ! 
 
 Baldwin. If I lend you money, have you any 
 security to offer ? Don't you see the position I 
 should be in ? My reputation cannot afford it. 
 
 Rosamond. Do not be rude to me. I will do 
 anything I can to save you. [J pause. 
 
 Baldwin. Here, then, is my proposition. I will 
 advance you $5000 a year until you have fulfilled it. 
 Your husband, you say, is unfindable, probably dead ? 
 
 Rosamond. Yes — ^yes. 
 
 Baldwin. Then I will defend you if he should 
 ever appear to sue you. 
 
 Rosamond. What does that mean ? 
 
 Baldwin. This. That you marry Serge Le 
 Wrey. I will give you an income until you do. 
 
 Rosamond (rising hastily). You insult me, Mr. 
 Northwyke. I cannot sell myself. 
 
 Baldwin. You will not be doing so. That is a 
 conventional idea of marriage. 
 
 Rosamond. There are reasons why I cannot do 
 this. It is utterly impossible — ^utterly. I will not 
 hear of it. 
 
i8o THE BEACON 
 
 Baldwin. You are mad. Starvation, humilia- 
 tion, or suicide confronts you, and you refuse a 
 brilliant marriage. 
 
 Rosamond. 1 say it is not to be heard of, Mr. 
 Northwyke. There are deeper reasons than my 
 principles at stake. I cannot tell you them. Is 
 this all that you have to suggest to me ? 
 
 Baldwin. I am afraid so. I shall try to find 
 other work for you, but I cannot lend you money, 
 and it may be a long time before I find a suitable 
 occupation. 
 
 Rosamond. I am sorry. I am discouraged. 
 
 Baldwin. I cannot say that I sympathise with 
 you. Your pride and conceit harden me to you. 
 
 Rosamond. Never mind ; something will happen 
 soon. I think my role is nearly played in life. I 
 have lived it too fully and am worn down. 
 
 [She falls into a chair and closes her eyes. 
 Baldwin hurries to her and gives her a swallow 
 of whisky from a flask. She sits u-p. 
 
 Baldwin. What is it ? Your arms are like ice. 
 
 Rosamond. It often does that. {She smiles) lam 
 all right now. 
 
 Baldwin. Do you want anything ? Water, 
 salts ? 
 
 Rosamond (standing up). No. I am all right. 
 Thank you. 
 
 [She walks slowly out into the garden. 
 
THE BEACON i8i 
 
 SCENE VIII 
 Cyril comes in from the left. 
 
 Baldwin. Cyril, all women are insane. Would 
 you believe that that woman could refuse Le 
 Wrey ? 
 
 Cyril. Has he proposed to her ? 
 
 Baldwin. No ; but she could win him, and she 
 is in desperate circumstances. 
 
 Cyril. I thought actresses would do anything. 
 
 Baldwin. She is confoundedly proud — a mask, 
 no doubt. But you shall have Sylvia, in spite of 
 these foreigners and adventurous actresses. 
 
 Cyril. Isn't she married ? She wears a wedding 
 ring. 
 
 Baldwin. Yes, but he is not to be found. 
 
 Cyril. By Jove ! Serge said she was the glorified 
 image of some one he knew. Did she give any 
 reason for not marrying Serge ? 
 
 Baldwin. No, she said she could not tell me. 
 
 Cyril. Wait ! I have an idea. 
 
 SCENE IX 
 
 Hope and Sylvia come in. 
 
 Cyril. Later. 
 
 Hope. Those battleships seem endless. There 
 are dozens of them coming into the harbour. 
 Baldwin. What a childish parade ! 
 
1 82 THE BEACON 
 
 Sylvia. Where is Miss Guigon, father ? 
 
 Baldwin. She went out into the garden. 
 
 Hope. Alone ? 
 
 Baldwin. Yes. 
 
 Hope. Go out and find her, Sylvia. Cyril, go 
 too. Do help to amuse her for me. 
 
 Sylvia. I thought Serge was with her or I should 
 not so have neglected her. Come, Cyril. 
 
 Cyril (to Baldwin). I will be back to tell you 
 that idea presently. [Sylvia and Cyril go out. 
 
 SCENE X 
 
 Baldwin. I think you lie awake nights to plan 
 annoyances for me. Here you ask that actress 
 down, and she asks me to lend her money. 
 
 Hope. Why, you asked her yourself, Baldwin ! 
 
 Baldwin. No, I didn't, and she is no fit person 
 for Sylvia to know. She has been married, and her 
 husband deserted her. She is an adventuress, 
 giving up the stage without a sou to live upon. 
 Who does she think will support her ? I can't risk 
 my character. I suppose you would advise me to. 
 
 Hope. I know nothing of it. 
 
 Baldwin. I never had any say in my own house 
 anyway. I order a thing and you countermand it. 
 The servants have no respect for me even, and 
 Sylvia drives me mad with her singing, as she calls 
 it. I have no importance in my own family, you 
 see. 
 
THE BEACON 183 
 
 Hope. Why, Baldwin ! You have utter control. 
 
 Baldwin. How ? Who runs the stables, the 
 garage, the house ? You. If I suggest anything, 
 you pay no attention to me. Even in my office 
 I am pursued by your domineering. You have 
 brought Sylvia up according to your own ideas, in 
 a weak way, trying not to let me know, and now you 
 propose to throw her away on a foreigner, penniless 
 no doubt. Oh, you always think you*re right, but 
 I won't see my daughter's happiness in jeopardy. 
 
 Hope. No girl was ever better brought up nor 
 more protected than Sylvia. 
 
 Baldwin. You leave her alone with Le Wrey 
 constantly. 
 
 Hope. Spying would only suggest all sorts of 
 things to them. 
 
 Baldwin. You are sentimentaL 
 
 Hope. Baldwin ! 
 
 Baldwin. Oh, I have enough of your abuse. 
 You go to your friends and teU them how hard I 
 make life for you. You tell them I drink. If you 
 had my vexations, you would drink. 
 
 Hope. I never said such things. 
 
 Baldwin. Home is unbearable to me with your 
 hostiHty and the treachery I feel on aU sides. You 
 don't even respect my honour. Since before we 
 were married you have always brazenly flirted. 
 
 Hope. It is not true. 
 
 Baldwin. What about that time you went to 
 drive with Tom Stone ? 
 
1 84 THE BEACON 
 
 Hope. Why, that was before I met you. 
 
 Baldwin. Does that matter ? That is your 
 character. How do I know what you do now ? 
 You are not fit to protect Sylvia. 
 
 Hope. Don't. 
 
 Baldwin. You simply go against me under- 
 handedly in my every wish. I have enough of it. 
 I am a nonentity in your eyes, but, by Heaven, I 
 pay all the bills. You do not seem to consider 
 whether I have the comforts I want. 
 
 Hope. What shall I do, Baldwin ? 
 
 Baldwin. What shall you do ? How can I tell 
 you ? Don't try to lay raw my nerves in your 
 every act. That's all. You enjoy making me 
 suffer. 
 
 Hope. Baldwin, will you promise not to drink if 
 I go away with Sylvia ? 
 
 Baldwin. There you are ! You want to leave 
 me helpless now. Drink ? I don't drink. 
 
 Hope. Then what do you want me to do. Shall 
 I visit you I Will you run the place ? 
 
 Baldwin. Why do you rush to extremes ? How 
 could I run the place and my finances, too ? 
 
 Hope. You said I contradicted you in everything. 
 
 Baldwin. Yes, don't do it. But that is no 
 reason for pushing the whole burden on to my back. 
 You see you drive me crazy with your sweet self- 
 sacrifice. I'd rather you abused me openly. Oh 
 you are always right. You know better than I. I 
 am of no importance. 
 
THE BEACON 185 
 
 fiovE. I am very sorry for you, Baldwin. 
 
 Baldwin. Don't sympathise with me, that is too 
 brutal. How do you think I can look after my 
 estates when you goad me like that on every occa- 
 sion ? I make every sacrifice for you, and then you 
 amuse yourself that way. As to Sylvia, she de- 
 lights in insulting me on account of you, and I'm a 
 monster in the eyes of aU her friends. Do you 
 think I can stand that when I am wild with loneli- 
 ness ? No one sympathises with me, no one under- 
 stands me, no one cares about me, and you are the 
 first to show it ; but I won't be beaten, I won't 
 be bullied. Sylvia and you are both schemers. 
 Rob me if you will, but don't try to impose 
 upon me. 
 
 Hope. Dear ! 
 
 Baldwin. Of course you will plead not guilty^ 
 You always have noble motives. 
 
 Hope. Baldwin, I've endured your peculiar form 
 of insanity for twenty years in order to do my 
 duty by Sylvia. I have tried to do this thoroughly, 
 and I have curbed myself incessantly. If I have 
 harrowed you, as you say, it has been unconsciously, 
 and you ought to have known yourself well enough 
 not to have married me. We are antagonistic to 
 each other, but you are the more intelligent and 
 should have foreseen, or if not foreseen, been man 
 enough to take the consequences. I have done so. 
 If it had not been for Sylvia, I should have thrown 
 myself into the river years ago. You have exercised 
 
186 THE BEACON 
 
 no self-restraint or discipline since the beginning, 
 and have become a mass of live nerves. I have 
 grown stronger than you, but since you have 
 threatened me with revolvers and have become 
 dangerous in fits of frenzy, my system cannot bear 
 it, and I shall put an end to it., Sylvia is now old 
 enough to do as she likes. I shall urge her to 
 marry Le Wrey and shall then leave you to your 
 own selfish life. If I had been more deep-sighted 
 I should have held the family together, but it is 
 now too late. Either you will kill me, or I shall 
 kill myself, if we continue together, and I do not 
 want to die. If I did not pity you, I should hate 
 you, but I believe you insane. No one else will. 
 It is I who will suffer. 
 
 Baldwin. Insane ! You have ridden all over me 
 from the beginning. 
 
 Hope. I am sorry. I cannot hurt you in leavingyou. 
 
 Baldwin. Your confounded self-conceit never 
 leaves you. You will never acknowledge your mis* 
 takes. You think me insane ! Good God ! I can 
 now be happy. 
 
 Hope. Your weakness forbids you to profit by 
 your errors. I love you, Baldwin. You drive me 
 from you. 
 
 Baldwin (going out wildly). Love me ! You 
 hypocrite ! (Returning.) You want to live widi 
 Tom Stone ! Never darken my doors again until 
 you have lifted that cloud from your honour. .• 
 
 [He goes out. 
 
THE BEACON 187 
 
 SCENE XI 
 
 Serge and Sylvia come in. 
 
 Hope. It is done, Sylvia. {She sobs hysterically, 
 and hurries to Sylvia.) You must marry Serge 
 immediately. I have not the strength to bear any 
 more for you. 
 
 Sylvia. What have you done, mother ? Tell 
 me. Don't lose control of yourself. 
 
 Hope. I cannot live with Baldwin any longer, I 
 am going away, as soon as you marry. Otherwise 
 there wiU be a tragedy. I cannot go through 
 nervous prostration again. I have no religion to 
 help me. 
 
 Sylvia. Let us leave immediately. Oh, it is out- 
 rageous. This is only a detail of our daily life ! 
 You cannot imagine what horrible things father 
 says and does. It is diabolical, a:nd he covers it all 
 with a sweet fagade in public. There is no justice. 
 
 Hope. No, I will stay until you are married. 
 
 Serge. That need be no further off than to- 
 morrow, if you wish. 
 
 Hope. It must be conventional. I will give you 
 a month. 
 
 Sylvia. Come, you must lie down, dear. {She 
 leads her towards the stairs.) Serge, get father and 
 Miss Guigon off for the day, will you ? 
 
 Serge. I shall. Can I help you ? 
 
 Sylvia. No, thank you. {^She climbs the stairs 
 
i88 THE BEACON 
 
 slowly with Hope, who cries.) I shall not leave 
 mother. Be brave, dear ; every one knows what 
 you go through. 
 
 Hope. No, every one will pity your father. 
 [Thsy disappear by the door to the left in the 
 gallery. 
 
 SCENE xn 
 
 Cyril enters hastily from the garden. 
 
 Cyril. Oh, Le Wrey, is Northwyke here ? 
 
 Serge. No, let us find him. I want to arrange 
 for a motor trip to Newport. Will you look for 
 Miss Guigon ? Mrs. Northwyke is ill, and Sylvia 
 is to stay with her. 
 
 Cyril. Very well. . . . You intend to marry 
 Sylvia, do you not ? I should be sure to see if I 
 could. 
 
 Serge. Explain yourself. 
 
 Cyril. You are not free. 
 
 Serge. Nothing binds me. 
 
 Cyril. Rosamond Guigon is your wife. 
 
 Serge. You lie ! 
 
 Cyril. Be careful, Le Wrey. I have the proofs. 
 She was Rosamond Le Wrey, Countess Le Wrey. 
 She is still ! 
 
THE BEACON 189 
 
 SCENE XIII 
 
 Serge stands paralysed. Baldwin and Rosamond 
 hurry in. 
 
 Baldwin. For God's sake find Hope and Sylvia ! 
 The Japanese have landed and are going to sack 
 the city ! Those are their ships ! We are lost if 
 we do not flee ! 
 
 l/in explosion is heard in the harbour^ and the 
 curtain falls upon the bombardment of New 
 Bedford. 
 
 END OF ACT I. 
 
. ACT II 
 
 The entrance to the Northwykes' place at Lenox. In the 
 middle, at the back of the stage, is the gate, consisting of two 
 tall stone piers, topped by red tiles and bearing iron lanterns. 
 The grills are swung in, leaving the driveway open to a road 
 that runs along the farther side of the walls, which latter begin 
 at the piers and disappear to right and to left. They are 
 also of white stone, topped with a coping of red tiles. Within 
 them, on the left, is the gardener's cottage, a low building of 
 white stucco, with a red roof and an arched entrance closed 
 with a grill. The windows are placed under the eaves and 
 are longer than they are high. The driveway turns to the 
 right and enters the wings at an obtuse angle. Beyond the 
 road, without the wall, is a forest of pine trees, and there is a 
 grove of them between the driveway and the wall on the 
 right. Crimson ramblers are trained over the cottage; rhodo- 
 dendrons, laurels, and magnolias form rich clumps, and a lawn 
 spreads across the front of the stage. Upon it stand a wooden 
 table, a settee, and some chairs painted in pale green. It is 
 the afternoon following the morning of the first Act. In the 
 distance is heard an intermittent firing of rifles. 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 A motor ^ driven by Cyril, and occupied by Hope, 
 Sylvia, Rosamond, Serge, and Baldwin, 
 comes in and stops in the curve of the drive. 
 
 igo 
 
THE BEACON 191 
 
 It is encumbered with clumsy bundles and 
 numerous cases, The machine is covered with 
 dust. 
 
 Cyril. Jove ! I am dead tired. Will you get 
 out here, or shall I take you to the house ? 
 
 Hope. Let us stop here for tea. The house is 
 closed, but the gardener has everything here. 
 
 \She stands up. 
 
 Cyril. Then I shall leave the car until later. 
 Let me help you. 
 
 \They all descend from the motor, and leave their 
 packages about on the lawn. 
 
 Serge. It appears that all this talk about pro- 
 tecting the Japanese, in California was a foil to 
 deeper plans. Look at the settlement at Magda- 
 lena Bay. What commercial purpose could justify 
 such a colony ? The taking of San Francisco 
 assumes another light now. What the Japanese 
 have done is to send an enormous fleet around un- 
 noticed by the North-west Passage, to fall upon and 
 occupy New England ; hence their undecisive action 
 in California while awaiting for it to arrive here. 
 
 Hope. But what difference does that make to 
 them there ? 
 
 Serge. Why, don't you see ? The entire forces 
 of America are five thousand miles from here. 
 They are all in California, guarding that coast, and 
 the United States are unprotected at any other 
 point. While centring attention there, the Japanese 
 
192 THE BEACON 
 
 send their main army here, secretly, and meet no 
 resistance whatever. They land an apparently huge 
 force, and hasten by train, aeroplane, and road to 
 the west. In one day they reach Lenox. Your 
 amateur militia flies here and offers to meet them. 
 Listen to the skirmishing now. At the same time 
 the enemy in the west will fight a decisive battle, 
 and if they win, nothing is to prevent the two 
 divisions from marching to the centre and so 
 crippling the country that opposition were impos- 
 sible. New England is a good base of departure. 
 It is already theirs. 
 
 Rosamond. What do they want to conquer us 
 for ? 
 
 Serge. For a new empire. .Do you suppose the 
 nation that defeated Russia is content to be cooped 
 up on a tiny island ? They cannot take China. 
 
 Hope. Even if they are repulsed in California, 
 this division will hurry to their aid and surround 
 our army. 
 
 Cyril. Forces must be recruited in the east. 
 
 Serge. There is not time enough. 
 
 Baldwin. What is to prevent their burning down 
 my house ? This is a glorious country, by Heaven, 
 to leave her children unprotected. There is no- 
 thing for us to do but to see our parks ravaged and 
 our families murdered. 
 
 Serge. You sit about comfortably inside the 
 Monfoe doctrine and think what a Christian world 
 it is ! You believe in national disinterest because 
 
THE BEACON 193 
 
 you have been far from other countries, and you 
 imagine the negro problem the most superlative o£ 
 ' problems. 
 
 Cyril. The negroes will welcome Japanese con- 
 quest. There are allies for them in our midst, 
 and the Indians, too, will join them. 
 
 Serge. You can now realise why France has to 
 keep a standing army. As long as Germany and 
 Japan remain militant the world must guard itself. 
 
 Cyril. Well, if we must die, let us at least have 
 our tea before we do. 
 
 Hope {going to the cottage door). There is no one 
 here. I suppose he is in the grounds somewhere 
 with his wife. {She of ens the grill.) Come in and 
 help me to prepare the tea. 
 
 [Sylvia, Baldwin, and Cyril follow her into the 
 cottage. 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 Rosamond is about to do likewise when 
 Serge retains her. 
 
 Serge. Do not go. Let us sit here. There are 
 enough in there to make tea. 
 
 Rosamond. You are very lazy. 
 
 Serge. It is not that. Will you sit down I 
 
 Rosamond. As you like. {She sits down, and 
 Serge gazes at her.) How curious a change has 
 occurred in these few hours. One lives on in the 
 monstrous details of life, haggling over questions of 
 
 N 
 
194 THE BEACON 
 
 form, and convinced that any new experience is 
 impossible. Don't you feel that you will look on the 
 world with the same eyes at sixty as you do now ? 
 
 Serge. I am sure I shall, only with better sight. 
 I am of the same mind now as I was four years ago. 
 Rosamond. How dull that must be. I live in 
 sections of about three months each. At the 
 termination I square up the past and, giving it a 
 push, sail out into the new. One never slides over 
 into the other, and it is amusing to note my 
 changes. I am afraid I am empirical about my life 
 and ideas, for I like to count them, arrange them, 
 collect them. 
 
 Serge. A thoroughly American characteristic. 
 They collect souls and facts as systematically as 
 they see Europe. Americans never are possessed 
 by a thought. They cannot help analysing. That 
 is because they have no blood. 
 
 Rosamond. Or no suffering. One idea has no 
 tie of illusion to any other idea in New England. 
 They are all drily catalogued instead of being 
 grafted into one intricate whole which draws its 
 life from the heart. American inteUigence re- 
 sembles a string of beads — one discovery at a time 
 — ^no retrospection, no perspection. 
 
 Serge (leaning down more closely to her). It is 
 true — there can be no mistake ! 
 Rosamond. Of course not. 
 Serge {taking her hand). Rosamond. 
 Rosamond. Monsieur Le Wrey ! 
 
THE BEACON 195 
 
 Serge. It is you — my God, it is you, Rosamond ! 
 Where have you been ? What have you done ? 
 Why have you been silent ? 
 
 Rosamond. You are mistaken. What do you 
 mean ? I do not understand you. 
 
 Serge. You are my wife — ^you are the glorifica- 
 tion of my wife. You have returned ! 
 
 Rosamond. No ! You frighten me. I do not 
 know you. I never saw you before. 
 
 Serge (staring at her). You do not know me ? 
 You have forgotten me ? Is your memory de- 
 stroyed ? Remember — Normandy, the chateau, the 
 pearls, the fields at Versailles. Surely you must 
 remember. 
 
 Rosamond. You are mad. I never heard of 
 these things. Let me help them with the tea. 
 
 Serge. Wait. I think I am unbalanced. Yes, it 
 must be you. Your scars are gone, you are more 
 beautiful, but your mind is as clear and your per- 
 sonality as perfect as during that week of paradise. 
 Rosamond ! TeU me it is you. 
 
 Rosamond. You have been misinformed. I do 
 not know you. I have never been in France. 
 
 Serge. But Cyril said you were she. Your ring 
 — that is the one I gave you. You paled at the 
 sight of the pearls. Oh, I have watched you. 
 Your mannerisms are the same — the way you hold 
 your hands. 
 
 Rosamond. This is very unpleasant for me. 
 Monsieur Le Wrey. 
 
196 THE BEACON 
 
 Serge. Will you refuse to know me ? Do you 
 love some other man ? 
 
 Rosamond. Let me go. 
 
 Serge. I know it, I feel it ! Even if Cyril had 
 not told me, I should have known. You are not 
 deceiving me for a reason ? Say it, and I will not 
 bother you. I want you to do as you like. I will 
 not speak to you again if you wish to ignore me. 
 
 Rosamond. This is horrible ! 
 
 Serge. Then if Cyril lied to me — oh, he could 
 not have. Why should he ? I am sure it is you. 
 No one else could make me tremble. Tell me 
 
 Rosamond. On my honour, I say I am Rosamond 
 Guigon and not she whom you think me. I am 
 going. 
 
 Serge. I am sorry. I — I think I am deranged. 
 Pardon me. They told me you were she, and I 
 believed it was true. I believed it myself. I have 
 lived on this dream. It is a horrible mistake. 
 Cyril is to blame. But I cannot believe you are 
 not she. Do not deceive me. 
 
 Rosamond. This has been a very terrible ordeal. 
 I regret the occasion. 
 
 [She goes into the cottage. Serge falls on the 
 settee, and bowing his head on the table, sobs. 
 
 Serge. Rosamond ! Rosamond ! I love you ! 
 [Presently he stands up and walks about to control 
 himself. The shooting is heard nearer. 
 
THE BEACON 197 
 
 SCENE III 
 
 Baldwin and Sylvia come out, carrying 
 teacup, l^c. 
 
 Baldwin. This must be just like 1870. Detaille 
 should be here to paint it instead of designing 
 uniforms. Do you remember 1870, Le Wrey ? 
 
 Serge. No, I was not alive. I believe, though, 
 that the French did not drink tea in their chateaux 
 when the Prussians came— they fought ! 
 
 Baldwin. But their chateaux were not saved. 
 
 Serge. Their honour was. 
 
 Sylvia. Do not quarrel about that. Father is 
 as extreme as you, Serge, in regard to France and 
 Germany. All Americans love the French who 
 charged at Sedan. 
 
 Baldwin. Those were the real French. There 
 is a virile race ! 
 
 Serge. Did you ever study it ? 
 
 Baldwin. Bostonians study no race but their 
 own. 
 
 Sylvia. You did not know, did you. Serge, that 
 Bostonians were a race ? Oh yes, with all the 
 designations of skull, hair, and colour. However, 
 I'm going to leave you alone while I attend to tea. 
 Why don't you tell father our plans. Serge ? 
 
 Baldwin. Plans ? I have nothing to hear about 
 your plans. 
 
 Sylvia. You do not know them all. 
 
198 THE BEACON 
 
 Serge. I would rather choose a later hour, 
 Sylvia. 
 
 Sylvia. What better than this ? 
 
 Serge. I'm not very well. If Mr. Northwyke 
 will keep this evening free at some time for me. 
 There is too much to talk over here. 
 
 Sylvia. There is very little to discuss, especially 
 as father is in the humour. 
 
 Baldwin. I am in no humour. 
 
 Serge. Later, Sylvia. I could not now. 
 
 Sylvia. I do not understand you. 
 
 Serge. This evening, Sybie. Let me help your 
 mother now, I really wish it. 
 
 [He goes to the cottage. 
 
 Sylvia. You are hurting me. I do not see why 
 you should wait, especially after what you told 
 mother. 
 
 Serge. This really is not the time. I am in 
 earnest. Trust me, dear. \He goes in. 
 
 SCENE IV 
 
 Baldwin. You see, Sylvia, he isn't so eager as 
 you are to settle your marriage. He has a deeper 
 game in hand. 
 
 Sylvia. It is a mistake. He is not well. Some- 
 thing has happened. You will talk with him this 
 evening, won't you, father, and be unprejudiced ? 
 You ought to have no objections. 
 
THE BEACON 199 
 
 Baldwin. Objections ? What else have I ? You 
 can't marry a foreigner. Your mother thinks it's 
 so pretty and romantic, but she throws you into a 
 hundred dangers in spite of me. But I will not 
 see you lost ; I am too good a father. Your mother 
 has not even your practical interests in view. You 
 see, Sybie, I am a man who has lived among men 
 and I know them. Hope has no idea of the things 
 they do. I want you to be happy. You must 
 have the necessities of life. 
 
 Sylvia. Serge is one of the richest men in Paris. 
 His estates are enormous. 
 
 Baldwin. They are no doubt all in ruins. I 
 want you to be sensible and not be misled by 
 Hope. She has no judgment, and I sometimes think 
 she is quite insane. 
 
 Sylvia. Oh, father ! 
 
 Baldwin. Well, she must be, to think herself 
 always right. Emerson says that is genius : to be 
 convinced that what you think right is right for all 
 the world ; but I think it is madness, and if not, 
 one thinks as the world does. She has made a 
 thousand mistakes about you and me, but she 
 would not admit it. She runs to the church and 
 reads Fenelon, when it would be much nobler to 
 set about reforming and repairing the breaks she 
 has made in her blundering at home. 
 
 Sylvia {drily). This is all very plausible, and I 
 suppose you are much to be pitied, father ; but I 
 am not to be talked dizzy. You must remember 
 
200 THE BEACON 
 
 that I have been the object of your meanness, and I 
 have not forgotten. 
 
 Baldwin. You always have been an independent 
 and rebellious child. I spent years in trying to 
 help you in spite of your mother, but you are in- 
 subordinate and thankless. No man ever did more 
 for his daughter than I. 
 
 Sylvia. You have tried to do it in a too theoreti- 
 cal way. I am not to be tyrannised and bullied 
 into following your ideal wishes. Your ambitions 
 for me are not my own ; you do not consult me, 
 but coerce me, and call me treacherous if I protest. 
 You deny me all individuality, and plan for me as 
 if I were a puppet. I am not. I am as important 
 an identity as you, and you cannot encroach upon 
 my spirit. No law gives you the right to obliterate 
 that — not even fatherhood, and family relations do 
 not absorb a personality. 
 
 Baldwin. There is a pretty rebellion. 
 
 Sylvia. A father owes everything to his children 
 — everything. You brought me into the world, 
 aware of your responsibility, and I demand pro-- 
 tection instead of abuse. Thank heaven, people 
 are beginning to realise the truth about fathers. 
 There is a reform as necessary as that of marriage; 
 You have persistently neglected me until the time 
 came to oppress me when it was personally com- 
 placent to you. 
 
 Baldwin. You are all conspirators. 
 
 Sylvia. I mean to marry Serge, and you are not 
 
THE BEACON 201 
 
 to make it unpleasant for any one. If it becomes 
 necessary, I shall take mother away from you and 
 show the world the truth about you. It is time 
 some one acted decisively. 
 
 SCENE V 
 
 Hope comes out with a tray bearing the tea, followed 
 by Serge and Cyril, who carry -plates of bread. 
 Rosamond is behind them. 
 
 Serge. This is the most decadent scene I have 
 ever participated in. To drink tea in the 
 shadow of death is as depraved as was Petronius' 
 suicide. 
 
 Cyril. You would not have us starve, would 
 you ? After all, eating is the only real pleasure in 
 life. Everything else is fully paid for. 
 
 Serge. Yet the guillotine hushed minuets by the 
 sun on its blade. Do you call it bravery to play 
 the butterfly in the face of bombs ? 
 
 Cyril. No, not bravery — ^race. Dubarry screamed 
 as she was led to execution. A woman of race 
 would have been silent. 
 
 Serge. Men of race would have forestalled the 
 revolution. It was because they were degenerate 
 that they paid so dearly. You are about to atone 
 for the same crime. You have too much race. 
 
 Baldwin. How is that possible ? 
 
 Serge. You are so overbred and so inbred that 
 
202 THE BEACON 
 
 you are degenerate morally and physically. The 
 atonement is at your gates with fire and sword, 
 and before night you will have paid. 
 
 Baldwin. Do you mean that we wiU be killed ! 
 Oh, that cannot be. We are not participants in 
 the war. We are not armed. They could not 
 massacre us. 
 
 Serge, These are Oriental enemies, not European 
 ones. Their moral view is quite different from 
 ours in regard to death. 
 
 Cyril. We are overbred ! that is a phrase. 
 
 Serge. It is a reality, Cyril. Not only you, but 
 the whole of New England is overbred. These 
 States are burnt out, bloodless beacons, once set 
 to light the world, but now extinguished. The 
 colonists of 1620 set up along this coast a multi- 
 tude of beacons, beacons of morality which burned 
 keenly and threw their lights across to Europe. 
 The Puritans were the builders of these beacons, 
 and they poured their blood into them to keep them 
 burning. They may have been cold, narrow, cruel 
 flames, but that was forced by the soot which 
 stifled them before they were transplanted. Be- 
 lieve it, those beacons were moral in every sense 
 of the word so far as their immediate results were 
 concerned. Self-conquest, self-discipline, and un- 
 selfishness were their colours. They were perhaps 
 uneducated fires, not fit to heat civilised boudoirs, 
 and no doubt too rough for the courts of intel- 
 lectual society, but they were virile and spiritual, 
 and would have built cathedrals if they had not 
 
THE BEACON 203 
 
 been obliged to fashion homes. Their love was 
 too intelligent, too above enslavement to sensuality, 
 to play upon our sympathies, but it must be remem- 
 bered that thirst for fresh air wiU make men tear 
 down palaces. 
 
 In the next ' generation they began to wane. 
 Foreign ideas assembled, and the old colonists with- 
 drew more and more within themselves, shutting 
 out the world. Hence their narrowness and lack 
 of development. So great was the antagonism to 
 European morals that until to-day the same 
 standard has been kept by their descendants, who 
 have not accepted strangers into their homes. 
 
 New England shut herself off from all the world 
 on account of her moral obstinacy and let no new 
 blood come in. They raised enormous famihes, 
 intermarried on all sides, and, as a result, are not 
 only overbred, but are without any animal matter. 
 They are a handful of nerves rattling about a 
 brain — no flesh, no blood. The brain is feeding 
 on ancient brain because it has no body to develop 
 itself independently with, and as its mentaUty is of 
 the seventeenth century, so is its morality. Since 
 the day those beacons were lighted they have 
 never been fed, and the original oil is nearly gone. 
 
 AH New Englanders are mentally unbalanced be- 
 cause of this inbreeding and repression of the body. 
 What is the actual state ? There is nothing left 
 here but tradition, ceremony and form. There is 
 no energy except a sterile nervous one, and the 
 neurasthenic shell of what was once a living prin- 
 
204 THE BEACON 
 
 ciple now battles as stubbornly as before to assert 
 its rightness. But it is too late. The world smiles, 
 and New Englandism is a disease, not a philosophy. 
 The petty code of morals, gleaned from Puritan 
 days and fit only for the homestead, is still wielded 
 in the ballroom. You are the amusement and the 
 dread of all nations. None love you, none sympa- 
 thise with you, and all avoid you. 
 
 In the hills, in the fields and on the shores, the 
 race is " poor-white." Their morals are rotten, 
 their cruelty fearful, and their characters pulp. In 
 the small towns and cities, as well as in Boston, the 
 young are dissolute and the older have become, 
 curiously enough, prey to all the worst flails of 
 civilisation. The prude, the hypocrite, the critic, 
 the snob, the intolerant and cold Puritan — ^these 
 make up your society. Aesthetic and perverse de- 
 cadents, neurasthenic and idle parasites, join hands 
 with the pseudo-artist and debauched sport, and 
 the worst type of all, the sensual purist. You are 
 overrun with imbeciles, invalids, and the insane. I 
 tell you the beacon is going out, and simply because 
 you have not used that self-discipline which your 
 ancestors most venerated. Self-discipline is not 
 abnegation, chastisement, and continence ; it is love, 
 pure and simple. You, with your coldness, have 
 bred hatred, intolerance, and uncharitableniess. You 
 are about to be snuffed out by the world, which is 
 tired of your insolence. 
 
 Here is the practical result of your degeneration : 
 your people have not the moral strength to arm 
 
THE BEACON 205 
 
 themselves and to protect their homes. There is 
 more vice in your degeneration than in the palace 
 of Heliogabalus, for you have had no temptation. 
 The beacon is going out, and the sun is rising to 
 replace it. You have not known how to live. You 
 will therefore die. [J pause. 
 
 Baldwin (angrily). Do you want me to raise an 
 army alone. Why don't you gather one with 
 your superb French training ? 
 
 Serge. I have sent to West Point for the Cadets. 
 I can do nothing more. Isolation and stagnation 
 have undermined you. I would have done better 
 perhaps to compare you as a stagnant pool to the 
 fresh moving water that has fallen from the skies, 
 travelled over the earth and filtered through the 
 ground, which symbolises the rest of humanity. 
 You alone do not observe your own decomposition. 
 
 Cyril. What a perfect hour for a dissertation on 
 a history of New England's morals. Now, Lecky 
 
 Baldwin. Be dignified, Cyril. My ancestors 
 were obliged to submit to such slander yearly. I 
 am sorry, Le Wrey, that our atmosphere is too 
 foreign for your tastes. We thrive in it. 
 
 Hope. What is the use of discussing this ? It is 
 really very disagreeable to reveal truths at the tea- 
 table. 
 
 Serge. It is my fault, Mrs. Northwyke. Please 
 forgive me. I am not fit for society this afternoon. 
 I want to be alone for a few minutes. I shall be 
 back directly. 
 
 [He turns and goes out into the -parh 
 
2o6 THE BEACON 
 
 Baldwin. There is the type you want my 
 daughter to marry ! Not even well-bred. The 
 idea of a Frenchman calling a Bostonian degenerate. 
 
 Hope. He is a relative of yours, Baldwin. Be 
 tactful. {She gets up.) This tea has been too much 
 for me. Please excuse me. 
 
 [She goes into the cottage. 
 
 Baldwin. Sylvia, not another word to that man. 
 I am done with it. \He walks out irately. 
 
 Rosamond. I am going to your mother, dear. 
 Finish your tea. 
 
 Sylvia. It would be good of you to. Thank 
 you. She will only want some one with her. 
 
 [Rosamond goes into the cottage. 
 
 SCENE VI 
 
 Cyril. I think your father is quite right. It is 
 outrageous for an interloper to talk to us as he did. 
 
 Sylvia. Please remember, Cyril, that I am going 
 to marry Serge. You need not mention him to me. 
 If you persist in seconding father in everything, 
 you need not come to see me any more. 
 
 Cyril. Why do you wish to marry him ? 
 
 Sylvia. Because I love him. 
 
 Cyril. Suppose that I told you it were im- 
 possible to do so ? 
 
 Sylvia. Nothing could make me give him up. 
 Father may disown me, and you may abuse me, but 
 I would go through anything to marry Serge. 
 
THE BEACON 207 
 
 Cyril. It is impossible for you to marry him. 
 Why don't you accept me, Sylvia ? Your father 
 approves of my wishes. I am somebody here, I 
 am powerful. I want you to marry me. 
 
 Sylvia. What do you mean by saying that it is 
 impossible for me to marry him ? 
 
 Cyril. It is a wild idea to marry a foreigner. 
 What would you do in France ? You would be 
 nobody there, but here I could give you anything 
 you wanted. Be practical, Sylvia. 
 
 Sylvia. This is all nonsense. I want you to teU 
 me why it is impossible that I should marry Serge. 
 
 Cyril. Because he is already married. 
 
 Sylvia. She is dead. 
 
 Cyril. No, she is alive. She is here. 
 
 Sylvia. Serge told me that she killed herself ! 
 
 Cyril. She is alive. 
 
 Sylvia. Then why does she not claim him ? 
 You are trying to hurt me. 
 
 Cyril. Because she has her own reasons, I sup- 
 pose. Rosamond Guigon is Countess Le Wrey. 
 
 Cyril. Oh no, no, no ! She cannot have him. 
 She is not his. She would have spoken ! Cyril, I 
 do not believe it. You want to make me unhappy. 
 Oh, you are enough like father to do so. No, I 
 do not beUeve you. 
 
 Cyril. Serge will soon tell you himself. It is 
 none of my business. I thought you ought to 
 know, that is all. 
 
 Sylvia. Things do not happen like that, and 
 
2o8 THE BEACON 
 
 Serge told me she was dead. What if Rosamond 
 does look like her ? There is absolutely no sense 
 in this, Cyril, and I tell you you will not strengthen 
 your success with me by any underhand methods. 
 Your meanness is evident in the poor taste you 
 show in speaking of this to me. It is Serge's busi- 
 ness, not yours, and you wish to use it for your own 
 ends. Good-bye. We cease to be friends from 
 this moment. 
 
 [She goes out. Cyril whistles, and jumping into 
 the motor, drives off. 
 
 SCENE VII 
 
 Baldwin returns. Hope comes to the door 
 of the cottage. 
 
 Baldwin. Has he gone ? I don't care to have 
 that man here. He is dangerous to all our charac- 
 ters with his extravagant ideas on morals. Love ! 
 He said the only moral code was love. There's a 
 nice son-in-law for you. 
 
 Hope. Baldwin, I want to speak to you for a 
 moment. 
 
 Baldwin. You needn't try to excuse him. No- 
 thing will persuade me into a new set of principles. 
 I am a man of principle. The worst standards are 
 possible to cloak in fair words, but the acceptance 
 of them is the road downhill. Moral strength 
 consists in adhering to ideals, not to realities. 
 
THE BEACON 209 
 
 Hope. 1 do not want to speak of Serge. 
 Baldwin. So much the better. Cassinova was 
 moral from his point of view, but, by Heaven, mine 
 is different. I once had an office-boy who stole, and 
 since then I have lost faith in humanity. That is why 
 I never go to church. But my character is clear. 
 
 Hope. I want to ask you something. 
 
 Baldwin. Of course immorality can be given 
 plausible arguments. 
 
 Hope. Baldwin, I want you to forgive me. 
 
 Baldwin. Weak foreigners — you want to be for- 
 given ? What have you done ? 
 
 Hope. I was very wrong this morning. I did 
 not intend to say what I did, and I ask you to 
 forget it. 
 
 Baldwin; I don't remember what you said. 
 
 Hope. Then it is happier so. 
 
 Baldwin. What did you say ? 
 
 Hope. Never mind, it was nothing. 
 
 Baldwin. Now look here, if you said anything, 
 I have a right to know it. I don't remember now. 
 I was preoccupied this morning with that person 
 wanting money. I have no sympathy for weak 
 people. 
 
 Hope. Let us not think of it. 
 
 Baldwin. I insist upon knowing what you said. 
 Don't make up something else, because I know 
 when you lie. Tell me exactly what you said this 
 morning. 
 
 Hope. Why, Baldwin, it was nothing at all. 
 
 o 
 
210 THE BEACON 
 
 Baldwin. Then why did you ask to be forgiven ? 
 You said something you had no right to say. Tell 
 me. 
 
 Hope. I did not mean it. I was tired. 
 
 Baldwin. What was it ? 
 
 Hope. I said I was going away — ^no, no, I'm not. 
 I love you too much, Baldwin ! I did not mean it. 
 
 Baldwin. Run away ? Desert me ? I suppose 
 your religion and its wedding bonds tell you to do 
 that ? Just when I need you most, run down, 
 suffering, you go and leave me ! 
 
 Hope. No, I am not going, dear.. 
 
 Baldwin. Well, by Jove, you can go ! I don't 
 want you around to torture me with your fiendish 
 complacency. You delight in touching my most 
 sensitive nerves under pretence of doing me good, 
 and then when I leap in pain you call Heaven to 
 witness how self-sacrificing you are ! Oh, you 
 justify yourself of course, and consider me irre- 
 sponsible. No one else does. 
 
 Hope. Baldwin, don't ! I married you because 
 I loved you. I have stayed with you because I 
 loved you. If I have made life hard for you, it is 
 a bitter blow, because I have tried to make you 
 happy. I have studied your tastes, I have really 
 done my utmost, and now that I realise that I 
 have failed — ^worse than failed — I am desperate. 
 Give me another chance. I love you, dear. I have 
 been blind. I have not understood you. But now 
 I do, and I shall never pain you again. If I 
 
THE BEACON 211 
 
 antagonise you, let me go away by your own com- 
 mand. I live for your happiness. 
 
 Baldwin. You are of another race, another 
 language, another mentality than I. You can never 
 see things as I do. Art, thought, life, mean utterly 
 different things to us, and even when you sympathise, 
 I feel your ideas set in opposition to mine. They 
 are always there, and I am so sensitive to other 
 people's ideas of right, that I hate myself when 
 near you, because you hate me. 
 
 Hope. I do not hate you, Baldwin. 
 
 Baldwin. You hate my ideas, unconsciously. I 
 affirm them as much as ever, but it isolates me 
 from all the world, and I am too finely made to 
 endure alone. You can never appreciate me be- 
 cause you are not dominated by me. I have no 
 position here. I want to be loved in order to be 
 healthy, and your persistent individuality has ruined 
 my self-assurance. 
 
 Hope. Baldwin, Baldwin, do not say that. Oh, 
 you are too cruel, too cruel. See ! I have not 
 known how. It has not been my fault. I coxild 
 not reaKse how fine you were. You have always 
 called forth my weakness to defend me, only I 
 tried to make you happy. Believe me, I tried to 
 make you happy. 
 
 Baldwin. And now, seeing your ill-success, you 
 wish to go on with it. You see that you pain me 
 daily, and still you have the daring to try again to 
 make me happy when you have failed all your life. 
 
212 THE BEACON 
 
 It is useless. You said you were going this morn- 
 ing. Well, go ! 
 
 Hope. Baldwin, I love you ; I cannot leave you. 
 Please let me stay with you. I will not seem to be 
 here. I will never exist for you. But let me stay 
 near you. I love you, Baldwin ; do not send me away. 
 
 Baldwin. It is useless. We cannot live to- 
 gether. [Serge af -pears, unnoticed. 
 
 SCENE VIII 
 
 Hope. Oh, you arekUling me ! {She clings to his arm) 
 I have been evil, wicked, malignant, if you will, but 
 for God's sake forgive me and let me stay near you. 
 
 Baldwin. Ha ! You confess then to your char- 
 acter ? Wicked, evil, malignant ! You own it. 
 And now when I proclaim my strength your spirit 
 is cowed. That is an interesting psychological 
 study ! It is too late. I am free, and you, creep- 
 ing there like a vampire, have lost me. 
 
 \He throws her off. Serge comes forward, and 
 stands before him. 
 
 Serge. Pick her up. 
 
 Baldwin. You leave me alone. 
 
 Serge. When a woman lays claim to wickedness 
 not hers, it is the most despairing proof of love. 
 You are not fit to lift her. I shall defend her. 
 
 \H.e raises Hope and leads her into the cottage. 
 
 Baldwin. Two of a sort ! It is time I got out 
 of this atmosphere. \H.e goes down the avenue. 
 
THE BEACON 213 
 
 SCENE IX 
 
 The rifle shooting increases. Presently some soldiers 
 and an officer come running through the gate. 
 They go to the cottage. Serge comes out, and 
 Hope appears. Some of the soldiers are 
 wounded. 
 
 Hope. Here are the keys to the house. I will 
 go with you. Are there many wounded ? 
 
 Officer. There is no time to waste. The 
 mihtia is falling back on to this place and is going 
 to defend it. We have been unsuccessful. Here, 
 Lane, see that these men are looked after, and 
 hurry back. We will survey the grounds and plan 
 our resistance. 
 
 [Hope leads the soldiers down the driveway. 
 More run in, dragging light artillery, which 
 they set uf by the gate. The grills are swung 
 to, and a sentinel is flaced to guard the 
 entrance. The other soldiers disappear to 
 right and left. Rosamond comes out of the 
 cottage and meets Sylvia, who enters from the 
 left. 
 Sylvia. How petty our worries seem in com- 
 parison to this ! It requires blood and death to 
 show us how useless it is to bother about super- 
 ficialities. 
 
 Rosamond. War is a real thing. What are our 
 
214 THE BEACON 
 
 thoughts but words. After all, is duty, is sacrifice 
 real ? One never knows. 
 
 Sylvia. Why do you say that ? Are you torn 
 by duty or sacrifice ? 
 
 Rosamond. Oh no. I never knew what they 
 were. 
 
 Sylvia. You will pardon me if I tell you of an 
 annoyance that has occurred to me. It is absurd. 
 
 Rosamond. Tell me anything. 
 
 Sylvia. You will not be angry with me ? It has 
 to do with you. 
 
 Rosamond. I am curious ! 
 
 Sylvia. I think you ought to know. Some one 
 — a person I believe who is not disinterested, how- 
 ever, told me Serge was married. 
 
 Rosamond, Well, do you believe it ? 
 
 Sylvia. No, of course not, because he would 
 have been the first to speak of it if he had been. 
 Then, too, it is not as if she might exist unknown 
 to us. 
 
 Rosamond, You mean ? 
 
 Sylvia. That it was you who they said was his 
 wife. Don't be angry ! It is so ridiculous. Surely 
 you would be the first to claim him if you were 
 married to him. Forgive me. 
 
 Rosamond. There is nothing to forgive. I am 
 amused simply. Why was I given this honour ? 
 
 Sylvia (lightly). I do not know anything about 
 it. To annoy me, I suppose. You see. Serge said 
 that you resembled Countess Le Wrey, and it is 
 
THE BEACON 215 
 
 most likely that he who told me wanted to separate 
 us. Father, you know, does not approve of our 
 marriage, and he might have done this to break it 
 up. I bore you. 
 
 Rosamond. Not at all. It is an unfortunate 
 affair. 
 
 Sylvia. Very disagreeable. You — I am silly — 
 but I wish you would really say that you are not 
 Serge's wife. It would make me happier just to 
 hear it. 
 
 Rosamond. Is that necessary? You cannot be- 
 Ueve it. 
 
 Sylvia. No, but it does not matter to you, and 
 the words wotdd give me something to lean upon. 
 Please. 
 
 Rosamond. Syhriz, do not fear, my dear. I have 
 no right to claim him. He is yours. 
 
 Sylvia. But say " I am not Serge's wife." Do. 
 
 Rosamond. You tease me: Very well. I am not 
 Serge's wife. 
 
 Sylvia. It makes you sad. You see I am devoted 
 to him. I have never lived so as I have since I 
 knew him. May I confide in you ? You are so 
 sympathetic. I should die if Serge were taken 
 from me. I think he loves me, but I worship him. 
 I want you to be one of my bridesmaids. You 
 are not married. 
 
 Rosamond. Do not ask me to be a bridesmaid. 
 I am ridiculously old. 
 
 Sylvia. You silly. I want you to be happy in 
 
2i6 THE BEACON 
 
 my happiness. Are you not lonely living as you 
 do? 
 
 Rosamond. I am lonely, dear. 
 
 Sylvia. Then you shall always live with us. I 
 am going to confide aU my secrets to you. I am 
 so happy to find a friend in you. May I kiss you ? 
 
 Rosamond. You dear child ! Please kiss me. 
 
 [They kiss each other. 
 
 Sylvia. I was awfully worried about what Cyril 
 said, but now I am so happy to find it false. 
 
 Rosamond. Cyril told you that ? 
 
 Sylvia. I should not have said so. 
 
 Rosamond. I am glad you did. 
 
 Sylvia. Have I been indiscreet ? 
 
 Rosamond. On the contrary. Look, there is 
 your mother down the avenue. She probably 
 wants you to help her. Will you go to her ? 
 
 Sylvia. Yes. I am just a simple child, dear, but 
 I am very fond of you. Do not be angry with me. 
 
 Rosamond. Of course not. I wish every one 
 were as honest as you. 
 
 [Sylvia goes out. Rosamond stands looking after 
 her. 
 
 SCENE X 
 
 Cyril comes in with Serge. 
 
 Cyril. There is Miss Guigon now. You will see 
 whether I am right. (Rosamond starts to go away,) 
 Oh, wait a moment. Miss Guigon. 
 
THE BEACON 217 
 
 Rosamond. I must go to the house to help Mrs. 
 Northwyke. 
 
 CvRiL. But I want to see you a moment, please. 
 
 Rosamond. I am very sorry. There is nothing 
 you can say that will possibly interest me. 
 
 Serge. Let us settle this awful affair now. Why 
 drag it on ? 
 
 R0SAMON6. Very well. What have you to say ? 
 
 Cyril. Four years ago, in the month of Sep- 
 tember, some friends of mine were motoring in 
 Maine. One day, after having visited the Chateau 
 des Rochers, on returning to Vitre they discovered 
 a young woman lying near the road unconscious. 
 They took her to a doctor, who found that she 
 had poisoned herself, but was able to bring her back 
 to Ufe. No one knew who she was. She spoke 
 English, but was apparently unbalanced, and the 
 only name she gave was Rosamond. It was im- 
 possible to trace her identity further, yet as she 
 was evidently a person of importance, they adopted 
 her in the hope of finally solving the problem. 
 They had her treated by specialists, and she later 
 recovered her sanity, but not her memory — or at 
 least she pretended to remember nothing. At the 
 same time a scar on her face slowly disappeared, 
 and when my friends died, two years later, she had 
 gone on to the stage to support herself. No one 
 ever knew who you were, Miss Guigon, until cir- 
 cumstances brought you here. I guessed at your 
 identity through Le Wrey's account, and piecing 
 
2i8 THE BEACON 
 
 the dates and evidence together, was finally sure. 
 I was confirmed by an old letter which you dropped 
 in the garden, and which I now return to you. I 
 have not read it. Whether you remember Le Wrey 
 or not I do not know, and your plans are none 
 of my business, but I cannot have done wrong in 
 revealing this truth. That is all I have to say. 
 
 [Rosamond lowers her head, and Cykii, departs. 
 
 SCENE XI 
 
 Serge. I knew it ! Rosamond ! why have you 
 acted so strangely ? What is your idea ? 
 
 Rosamond. It has not been proved. 
 
 Serge. Nonsense, it is unquestionable. For 
 Heaven's sake, when our happiness is about to begin 
 again, why do you deny me ? You do not love 
 me any longer. 
 
 Rosamond. Stop ! Stop ! I shall go mad if you 
 talk so. 
 
 Serge. I did not seek you, because a woman was 
 found at Versailles who was supposed to be you, 
 and I did not look, for the body was mangled. For- 
 give me. You see it was not my fault. I really 
 thought you were dead. 
 
 Rosamond. I am. I shall not interfere in your 
 life, Serge. You have found happiness here. You 
 told me so yourself. Oh, you said that the love we 
 had had was too intellectual to be durable. You 
 told me that Sylvia — the dull, stupid background, 
 
THE BEACON 219 
 
 was what you needed. She loves you madly. You 
 love her. I am only a wreck of what I was in 
 spite of my mended features, for my strength has 
 been broken. I should not last long, and I cannot 
 ruin Sylvia's life as well as yours for a few selfish 
 years of exaction. No, I left you before because 
 you loved me from duty. I shall leave you again. 
 I had not claimed you. I cannot for a thousand 
 reasons. When I became well as I am, I knew 
 already your change, and I shall never ask anything 
 of you. You see you have changed in your char- 
 acter, Serge ; one can never do a thing twice. That 
 week can never be re-lived. No, forget me ; I shall 
 go away again. 
 
 Serge. But I love you, Rosamond ! I love you 
 more than Sylvia. I love you, I say. That other 
 is not love. It is affection. And I could never 
 love again if it were not you. You will glorify my 
 life instead of ruining it. I love you more, because 
 you are more perfect. 
 
 Rosamond. And Sylvia ? 
 
 Serge. That is not our fault. It is not right for 
 us to sacrifice so much. If I married her I could 
 not make her happy, knowing you to be alive. 
 
 Rosamond. I shall not be. 
 
 Serge. You are not serious. Surely you cannot 
 refuse. I have always loved you. I always will. I 
 drew near to Sylvia because I was alone without 
 you, and she comforted me. Our sort of love is a 
 closed room to her. She does not know what 
 
220 THE BEACON 
 
 suffering is. She could not suffer with her tem- 
 perament. One day of wild tears, and she would 
 rise strong as ever to live her life. We cannot 
 sacrifice ourselves for one day of tears ! Think ! 
 Do not be so egotistical. 
 
 Rosamond. No, Serge. We could never forget 
 that our happiness had been built on another's 
 suffering. I am thinking of the future, not of 
 duty. 
 
 Serge. But then she would marry Cyril. It 
 would keep the family together. It would be a 
 more practical marriage for her — and she knows 
 who you are. 
 
 Rosamond. No, she does not believe it. 
 
 Serge. I could never marry her after this, 
 Rosamond. If you go away I shall never marry 
 Sylvia. I should kill myself. 
 
 Rosamond. Serge, you could not kill yourself in 
 the healthy nervous condition you are in. I know 
 you. You will kill yourself when you are tired, 
 not when fate is against you. You are too much of 
 a man to desert Sylvia. Do not talk so unworthily 
 of yourself. 
 
 Serge. You do not love me any more or you 
 could not talk so coldly. No human being is strong 
 enough to pose reason against love. 
 
 Rosamond (laughing). Perhaps not ! It may be. 
 Suppose you are right ? I do not know, I may not 
 love you the way you imagine a woman loves. 
 
 Serge. Do not be so cruel. It is puritanical to 
 
THE BEACON 221 
 
 introduce principles into relations such as ours. I 
 cannot lose you again. Why will you murder me 
 in order to save a stranger a moment's pain ? It is 
 not logical, it is not noble ; you cannot love me, 
 and I will not desist unless you tell me you no 
 longer love me with your own lips. 
 
 Rosamond. I am going. Good-bye. You will 
 see my rightness when you have time to consider 
 and I am no longer before you. You are carried 
 off your feet by emotion, and will fall back again 
 into normal reason. I am going. (^She walks to the 
 grill.) Please let me out. 
 
 Serge. Oh, you are insane. You are not well. 
 You cannot go like that. Wait. Give me a 
 moment. Something may happen. Trust me ! I 
 wiU not try to influence you. You must not go 
 like that. 
 
 Rosamond {to the sentinel). Please open the griU 
 and let me out. 
 Serge. No, you shall not ! 
 Rosamond. It is too late. 
 \^he sentinel opens the gates, hut as Rosamond 
 is about to pass through a disordered body of 
 soldiers rushes in, forcing her back. A sharp 
 skirmish goes on without the walls. The stucco 
 of the cottage is chipped by bullets, and some 
 tiles fall to the ground. Then an officer runs 
 in with more soldiers. He gives orders to 
 his men to prepare the guns. Suddenly the 
 firing ceases, and in its place music in the 
 
222 THE BEACON 
 
 distance bursts out with " The Star-spangled 
 Banner" Presently the West Point Cadets 
 appear. They march through the gate in 
 perfect order, led by the music, and the curtain 
 falls upon their passing ranks. The music 
 dies out. 
 
 END OF ACT II. 
 
ACT III 
 
 The hall in Northwyke's house. It is a long room with a 
 floor tiled in deep red Spanish tiles and vaulted with a de- 
 pressed barrel vault. The walls are wainscoted with Californian 
 redwood, and are crowned by a richly carved moulding. In 
 the middle of the right wall is an enormous hooded fireplace 
 of white stone, into the shelf of which is set the skull and 
 antlers of a prehistoric elk. Florid iron fire-pieces of the 
 Spanish renaissance stand three feet high in the mouth of the 
 chimney. A brass seat is on the hearth. This monument is 
 flanked on either side by deeply-set leaded windows of small 
 dimensions. In the rear wall are four French windows, which 
 are also deeply set and spaced widely. On the left wall is a 
 door leading to the vestibule, the ancient grill and massive 
 oak portals of which are visible, as are the Moorish tiles which 
 line it. Against the first window on the left a Castilian chest 
 of flamboyant work is turned on end; against the second is 
 a cabinet of black wood deeply carved and very high. The 
 third window is unblocked, but the fourth is obstructed by a 
 tall desk of olive wood inlaid with ivory and ebony. Pushed 
 up against the fireplace is a Davenport sofa, and a massive 
 table of a decadent Spanish school lies overturned across the 
 centre of the hall. On either side of the door stand cabinets 
 inlaid with steel, mother-of-pearl, and turquoise in a minute 
 Moorish diaper work. A collection of old armchairs in 
 Spanish leather and oak is thrown into one corner ; a brass 
 brazier with a cover and a carved marble urn reinforce the 
 barricades. The hangings, of deep blue velvet bordered with 
 a Moorish design in red, are torn down. The paintings have 
 
224 THE BEACON 
 
 fallen from the walls, and the rugs are piled up in the corners. 
 The old iron lamps that are suspended from the vault are 
 lighted, as it is night. The house is being stormed. Cadets 
 and soldiers defend the openings. 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 Baldwin and. Cyril enter. 
 
 Baldwin. Did you tell Sylvia about Serge ? 
 
 Cyril. Yes, and she not only would not believe 
 it, but told me I was underhanded. 
 
 Baldwin. Hum ! 
 
 Cyril. Still, I have proved to Le Wrey and Miss 
 Guigpn the truth, and that is settled. It will be 
 difficult to make Sylvia listen to me, though. 
 
 Baldwin. She shall. Looi here, Cyril, it is one 
 thing to lose Le Wrey, but another to throw him 
 away. If he is shown to be dark, you will assume 
 brighter colours. 
 
 Cyril. How are you going to do that ? I never 
 saw him make a mistake. 
 
 Baldwin. He has. He insulted me. He inter- 
 fered between me and my wife, and it is safe for 
 me to beHeve that relations exist between those 
 two which I have never dreamed of. 
 
 Cyril. Ah ! that is very likely. I have often 
 seen them exchange glances of sympathy. 
 
 Baldwin. How long it has been going on I do 
 not know. Hope is able to carry on the most 
 curious affairs with a clear face ; and as for Le 
 
THE BEACON 225 
 
 Wrey, a man who says such extravagant things 
 against the very foundations of morality can only 
 be followed into his habits by analogy. Besides, he 
 is a Latin. They all excuse indulgences by depth 
 of spirit. Listen to this. (He -pulls out a -piece oj 
 paper from his pocket.) A letter to Hope from him. 
 I found it in a book of mine. " In New England, 
 civilisation is measured by the lack of expression 
 upon the features given to emotions which are 
 taking place in the soul. This continence is called 
 mastery, but for the most part they have no feel- 
 ings, and those they have they show directly : dis- 
 trust of others, hardness of heart, the brutality of 
 the Puritan spirit and the hatred of liberal customs 
 are dominant in their faces, and not a line of love 
 softens them. It is not to be supposed that be- 
 cause a man finds no richness in his own heart, 
 there exists none in others. If a miner found no 
 gold in his land, he would not venture to assert 
 that there was none in all the world. New 
 Englanders do." 
 
 i Cyril. It is simply the combat of like against 
 unUke. He can never convince us against our wills. 
 He may have depth of spirit if you will, but we 
 have purity of mind. 
 
 Baldwin. Then, further, he tries to treat passion 
 as insignificant so that its indulgence may appear 
 less vital. " It is only those who have never tasted 
 passion who suppose that it plays a large part in 
 life. The futility of it as a bond to others is known 
 
226 THE BEACON 
 
 only to those who have experienced much. It is 
 not passion but love which controls the world." 
 There is a fine set of morals ! Passion, we all know, 
 is a gigantic dragon to be beaten into its cave at 
 any cost. He has made a pet of it. 
 
 Cyril. That is the way they argue. He would 
 say that all humanity is unified, and that only one 
 comparison were possible. It does not occur to 
 him that our principles set us up entirely apart 
 from his race. 
 
 Baldwin. Here I am deceived and insulted, 
 while he and Hope carry on their schemes. Sylvia 
 shall know this, and then she will not sympathise 
 with her mother. She will see my side of the story 
 at last and will be grateful to you. 
 
 Cyril. But will she believe you ? 
 
 Baldwin. I have facts, my dear boy. They 
 cannot deny the scene we went through at the 
 cottage. He cannot contradict his words in this 
 letter. Sylvia is an honest girl, 
 
 Cyril. But you will suffer. 
 
 Baldwin. Not at all. I have already brokenoff 
 all relations with Hope, and she is about to go. I 
 shall now take an interest in my affairs, when there 
 is no one here to countermand my orders and to 
 criticise. The world will see how I have been 
 abused. Do not think of me, Cyril. No one 
 ever has. 
 
 Cyril. It is shameful to be treated as you are. 
 
 Baldwin. Oh, every one must suffer, I suppose, 
 
THE BEACON 227 
 
 in this life. I have had much, but I am not em-? 
 bittered. Even this does not make me hate 
 humanity. 
 
 Cyril. You have a lovely character. 
 
 Baldwin. You are my best friend. 
 
 [They go out arm in arm. 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 Rosamond enters with a flask and some bandages. 
 Serge appears. 
 
 Serge. You should not be here. It is dangerous. 
 They may be overcome at any moment. 
 
 Rosamond. I am not afraid. Do they mean to 
 destroy the house ? 
 
 Serge. I do not know. They are trying to make 
 these men waste their shot and strengtih, I think. 
 
 Rosamond. I hope that it wUl not go on all 
 night. It ought soon to be over, for the men 
 have little ammunition left. 
 
 Serge. There is nothing I can do. 
 
 Rosamond. You cannot join in this. You are a 
 Frenchman. 
 
 Serge. Do you think I care ? When things that 
 I love are being threatened, nationality is nothing. 
 
 Rosamond. This is the passing of the New Eng- 
 lander. As you said, the beacon is burnt out, and 
 even your life-blood could not rekindle it. 
 
 Serge. It might be relit if New Englanders could 
 cease to take themselves so seriously. I ought to 
 
228 THE BEACON 
 
 have laughed at their decadence instead of showing 
 my hatred of it in order to bring about their 
 convalescence. An attack is an over-estimation of 
 a thing's importance ; and feeling their character so 
 defined, they claim its rightness and fight for it. 
 
 Rosamond. Like the stubborn Southerners. 
 They prefer to be degraded rather than to admit 
 their failure. I do not pity New England. 
 
 Serge. Why should we be so drawn out of our- 
 selves to talk about this, when our own questions 
 remain unsolved ? This disembodiment of our 
 identities is not noble in the face of perplexity. 
 
 Rosamond. Can you never realise the importance 
 of forgetting one's self ? I think you are incapable 
 of concentration. Are you always conscious ? 
 When I look fixedly at a thing, everything else is 
 lost in blackness. 
 
 Serge. How can I be in control of myself when I 
 left you last about to fly ? 
 
 Rosamond. Do not let us talk of ourselves. 
 
 Serge. I will not be submitted to such brutal 
 resolutions. You have no right to treat my life so, 
 even if you do yours. You have not tike law of 
 any philosophy to sustain you. 
 
 Rosamond. I am no longer responsible for your 
 moods. Serge. 
 
 Serge. You are. It was you who, four years ago, 
 made me love you. I might have loved some one 
 else. I didn't. My blood is like that. And now, 
 because I love you, you owe me certain things*. 
 
THE BEACON 229 
 
 You have not the right to decide my fate in resolving 
 yours. I rebel. 
 
 Rosamond. I am trying to help you. I am not 
 happy. I am not giving you up easily, Serge, but 
 I want you to be happy. 
 
 Serge. Then why do you wound me ? 
 
 Rosamond. It is only for a moment. Better that 
 than a life of bitterness. 
 
 Serge. Where, where, is the bitterness to come 
 from ? I lose patience with you. I do not want 
 you to sacrifice for me. That would be the bitter- 
 ness in my life if you did. 
 
 Rosamond. I diought it would be so simple to 
 do, and I find it so complicated. I am all twisted 
 about. I do not know what I am doing, only there 
 seems to be some glimmer far ahead that I must 
 reach. I ought to have acted more quickly. It is 
 hard to hold on to my purpose against the rushing 
 of floods. 
 
 Serge. I love you when you weaken. I hate 
 .you when you try to be strong. Why do you try 
 to stand alone ? You cannot. 
 
 Rosamond. I know it. I am being broken. Let 
 me go. Serge, while I still am firm. What I do 
 when weakened will not be voluntary. 
 
 Serge. You poor child ! Such deeds are for 
 giants, not for children. You are permitting me 
 to love you again. Say it ! Tell me why you have 
 been so cruel? What was your purpose? Tell 
 me that it was not because you ceased to love me ! 
 
230 THE BEACON 
 
 No one can foresee the future so clearly as to be 
 able to seal two lives by it. Why should we die 
 now when life might offer living to us ? If we 
 must die, finding our life impossible in some future 
 time, let us die then, but not now. Nothing 
 presages such an event to us. Sylvia's sorrow could 
 not 'be posed against both our lives. You say you 
 have done this in fear of future tragedy, but why 
 incur an immediate one to prevent a future ? It 
 is suicide to forestall death by natural law. You 
 are quite mad, you see, or if you are sane, you no 
 longer love me. Tell me the truth. I can stand it. 
 
 Rosamond. Why do you talk so ? What truth ? 
 
 Serge. Have you ceased to love me ? I only 
 ask that. 
 
 Rosamond. It is not fair to ask me that. 
 
 Serge. If you do not answer, I shall know. 
 
 Rosamond. Oh, Serge, you have beaten me. I 
 have no courage. 
 
 Serge (seizing her hands). Tell me; you must 
 tell me. 
 
 Rosamond (drawing away). No, no, no. 
 
 Serge (tdking her in his arms and trying to lift 
 her head). It is true ! It is true, Rosamond ! You 
 have not changed. (She only nods her head, and 
 Serge, crushing her in his arms, kisses her.) Rosa- 
 mond ! Rosamond ! I have been dead. I have 
 been living in a tomb, and now the walls have 
 burst. I thought that life would always be a 
 penitence, but then you came again and blasted it 
 
THE BEACON 231 
 
 with the distance of your passage. I thought you 
 had gone, leaving my body burnt, and now you 
 come to bring me forth into the heat of heaven. 
 I am drunk with love of you ! You are doubled 
 in my love. It was puerile before. I am a man. 
 I love you, Rosamond. 
 
 \He holds her away to look at her. 
 
 Rosamond. I feared it would not be enough. 
 Your happiness is in your hands. I can do no 
 more than love you now. I love you. Serge. Let 
 me love you and be crushed by you ! 
 
 Serge. Could you do more ? I do not want 
 your life. All but your love is valueless to me. 
 
 Rosamond. I have tried to give you more. I 
 have been weak. I wanted to give you peace. I 
 thought you did not love me. You said you did 
 not, that you loved Sylvia, I knew when I was ill 
 that you could not love me as before. I simply 
 went out of your life and thought I had no right 
 to enter it again. I thought I was wiser than you, 
 and I did not want to ruin us all by selfishness. 
 It has been too much for me. I have suffered too 
 much. I have only loved you more desperately the 
 longer we were apart, and self-conquest has killed 
 me. I had faith in myself, even after the pearls. 
 I love you, Serge ! 
 
 \She falls against the table, and Serge suf ports 
 her in his arms. 
 
 Serge. Do not give in. Do not let yourself be 
 beaten. Everything is saved now. 
 
232 THE BEACON 
 
 Rosamond. I am very happy. I do not care now 
 how cruel or selfish I am. I could not give you up. 
 Serge. We have only been lost a day from each 
 other. 
 
 [They kiss each other passionately. The soldiers 
 have been busy firing, and now redouble the de- 
 fence. Sylvia comes in and sees Rosamond 
 and Serge in each other's arms. They da not 
 notice her. 
 Serge. Come, you must not stay here. 
 Rosamond. It is too horrible. \They see Sylvia. 
 Serge. Come ! come, Sylvia, you cannot stay here. 
 Sylvia. I will stay here. 
 Serge. It is fatal. 
 Sylvia. I do not care. 
 Serge. I shall come back for you. 
 
 [Ke and Rosamond hurry out. 
 
 SCENE III 
 Cyril enters. 
 
 Cyril. You saw, Sylvia ! What I told you is 
 true. 
 
 Sylvia. Then she deceived me. She did not 
 speak the truth. Why did she not tell me ? I 
 cannot beUeve it is true ; I could not stand it. 
 
 Cyril. You are only making the realisation 
 harder by putting it off. I tell you Rosamond 
 Guigon is Countess Le Wrey. 
 
THE BEACON 233 
 
 Sylvia. Then why did she deceive me? Why- 
 has Serge said nothing ? Cyril, I cannot believe 
 this ! There is some explanation for it all. 
 
 Cyril. If you think he loves you 
 
 Sylvia. He does love me ! He has told me so, 
 he has shown me that he does. If he acts strangely, 
 r will wait for his reason from his own lips, and I 
 will believe none but him. 
 
 Cyril. If he loves you, why does he act as he 
 does with your mother ? 
 
 Sylvia. What do you mean ? 
 
 Cyril. Why, he has such relations with her that 
 he can be so impudent as to protect her, as he calls 
 it, from your father, and thoroughly defy him. One 
 doesn't enter a family and cut it in two unless the 
 reward is equal to the consequences. You may 
 judge for yourself. 
 
 Sylvia. You are a cad. If you ever speak of my 
 mother again in such a way, I will have you put 
 out. 
 
 Cyril. Come now. Your father is convinced of 
 the thing to such a degree that he means to divorce 
 your mother and do Heaven knows what to Le 
 Wrey. Ask him. 
 
 Sylvia. You are just mean enough, Cyril, to egg 
 on father in his mania for your own ends. 
 
 Cyril. Not at all. I sympathise deeply with him. 
 
 Sylvia. Then restrict yourself to sympathy and 
 do not interfere in this family. You know very 
 well how hard it is for me and mother. 
 
234 THE BEACON 
 
 Cyril. If you don't act wisely it will be much 
 harder; If your father divorces Mrs. Northwyke,' 
 and you still hold a high hand about him, you wiU 
 have very little to live on, I know. As to your 
 honour, that is none of my affair. If you marry 
 me, I can patch up this affair. 
 
 Sylvia. If you wish to manipulate father for his 
 money, do so. He has many such parasites already 
 who are willing to sympathise for the good returns 
 it brings. I should not go so far as to encourage 
 him in hurting mother however, for that is a 
 responsibility I shall manage to punish. Knowing 
 your dependence upon father, I believe none of 
 your tales. You can now leave me. Go! 
 
 Cyril. My dear Sylvia, some day you will see 
 how you have abused me and will ask my pardon 
 for your ill-judged words. You are, of course, in 
 a very nervous condition about Serge, and so I 
 excuse you. In a moment of more reasonable 
 thought you may reconsider your decision, and in 
 that case I shall be very happy to welcome you into 
 my own home* 
 
 Sylvia. Your own home ! You never had a 
 penny that was not father's. Are you going ? 
 
 Cyril. You go a little too far, Sylvia. Do not 
 make me angry. 
 
 Sylvia. Don't you dare to threaten me. Leave 
 this room ! 
 
 Cyril. Mr. Northwyke will be very much dis-t 
 appointed. He had planned to leave us all his 
 
THE BEACON 235 
 
 estate. (Sylvia turns abruptly front hirn.) How- 
 ever, if you prefer disgrace, I can do nothing. 
 
 [He goes out. 
 
 SCENE IV 
 
 Hope enters. 
 
 Sylvia. Mother, what does all this talk mean 
 about you and Serge ? What relations exist be- 
 tween you ? 
 
 Hope. What relations could exist except those of 
 affection ? Is he not about to be my son ? Would 
 you wish me to snub him ? 
 
 Sylvia. No, no ; but Cyril has just told me father 
 is going to drive us out because Serge has come in 
 between you. Tell me what has happened ? If I 
 lose my confidence in you, I shall be helpless. 
 
 Hope. It must be that this afternoon, when 
 Baldwin insulted me. Serge, being there, took my 
 part, as any stranger would have. That is all I 
 can think of. 
 
 Sylvia. And so he has built all that on such a 
 detail ! 
 
 Hope. He could not divorce me, Sylvia, and if I 
 left him he would have to give me an allowance* 
 Don't be alarmed, dear. It is not the material side 
 of this that is so horrible. 
 
 Sylvia. If you pity father, well and good. But 
 do not love him ; how can you ? No bonds of blood 
 can make me love him or respect him. 
 
2s6 THE BEACON 
 
 - Hope. That is so easy for you to say, Sylvia, but 
 I do love Baldwin. 
 
 Sylvia. It is immoral ! 
 
 Hope. I cannot help it. I always hope, you 
 know, that something will happen to bring him 
 back to his old self. 
 
 Sylvia. I do not dare to marry Serge and leave 
 you alone with him. I have to keep you always 
 in sight now. 
 
 Hope. Oh, do not think of me. I can always go 
 if I wish. 
 
 Sylvia. I should not be surprised if father asked 
 Miss Guigon here especially to take Serge away. 
 
 Hope. It does not seem possible that he could 
 stoop to such a low thing, Sylvia. 
 • Sylvia. I hope not. I am very happy, mother. 
 Serge is so good to me. {They go out- 
 
 SCENE V 
 
 Serge comes back to find Sylvia. 
 
 Serge {calling. Sylvia ! [Baldwin enters. 
 
 Baldwin. You want Sylvia ? She just went up- 
 stairs with her mother. You have explained to her, 
 of course, your position. 
 
 Serge. No, I have said nothing to her yet about 
 it. I have not had an opportunity. 
 
 Baldwin. I should lose no time, for she has re- 
 fused to beUeve Cyril's word, even with my con- 
 firmation. You have successfully sown seeds of 
 
THE BEACON 237 
 
 sedition in my family. Until you came they were 
 reasonable, but now they openly revolt, and have 
 deeply wounded Cyril's feelings. I never forget. 
 I shall never forget your defiance of this afternoon. 
 By Jove ! you shall pay for it dearly. The beacon 
 is not so feeble as you imagine, sir. As to Hope, I 
 shall divorce her. 
 
 Serge. Mr. Northwyke, a Frenchman will allow 
 a stranger to go further than any one else in the 
 matter of honour. Once you overstep this limit, 
 the question will be settled without arms and with- 
 out law. 
 
 Baldwin. I am surprised that you would stoop 
 to such bestial methods. 
 
 Serge. Those methods are the only noble ones 
 for disagreements. Your lawyers are too adaptable 
 to money, and my reputation is not to be assailed 
 by any of your hangers-on. I shall always defend 
 a woman against abuse, whether she is right or 
 wrong. In this case I know and care nothing about 
 the cause of the affair, but if you again commit 
 such an outrage I shall again act as I did, in spite 
 of the rights that marriage gives you. As to my 
 relations with your wife, that is none of your busi- 
 ness. You can imagine them anything you like. I am, 
 of course, obliged to break off my engagement with 
 Sylvia, but that does not end my interest in her fate. 
 
 Baldwin. You are the most presumptuous person 
 I ever met. Sylvia is evidently endeavouring to 
 bury me in an oblivion which cannot exist, but she 
 
238 THE BEACON 
 
 shall marry Cyril, and that is all you shall know 
 about it. If she does not, she and Hope will leave 
 my doors for ever. I am tired of this nonsense. 
 
 Serge. I should not play such a magnificent hand, 
 Northwyke. 
 
 Baldwin. Please do not advise me, Le Wrey. I 
 have been constantly ignored in my own house ever 
 since I was married. 
 
 Serge. Possibly if you had acted sooner it might 
 have saved the situation, but I am intelligent 
 enough not to be deceived by your snarls. You 
 may be charming and brilliant in the outer worlds 
 but I know your character in the. family. You are 
 dangerous, and your type of insanity should be 
 recognised. It is rendered difficult to paint it, 
 because certain of your faculties are not affected 
 by it, and because you are cunning enough not to 
 show it in public. Oh, you have fought hard to 
 make yourself popular in society in order to have 
 the world with you in this struggle, a thing easily 
 gained because you have a large income, but hidden 
 from all except the victims, your true nature is 
 malignant, cruel, and selfish. Wait a minute — I 
 don't care how you have become so or what you 
 once were — ^that is no excuse, if it is an explana- 
 tion. You are insane, and I mean that it shall be 
 known, because you are unrecognised. 
 
 Baldwin (bursting with rage). You shall pay for 
 every word of what you have said ! Every word ! 
 
 Serge, Insanity lies in differing from the majority 
 
THE BEACON 239 
 
 of the world. Because you do not encroach on the 
 majority and concentrate upon two women is no 
 reason for your pardon. 
 
 Baldwin. Will you have done ? You shall suffer. 
 
 Serge. Laws shall be made to restrict your mania. 
 
 Baldwin. You force me to violence ! 
 [He lifts his hand to strike Serge, who arrests 
 him. 
 
 Serge. I think before you attack me it will be 
 well for you to know whether you are justified. 
 There is one path of retrievement possible to you, 
 Northwyke, which is more than most men have 
 who go wrong. I think that, as a national matter, 
 the race has gone too far to retrieve, but as an 
 individual you can still relight the beacon. You 
 can still mend your family wreck by being a good 
 husband and a good father. The New England 
 stock cannot arise from its physical and moral de- 
 generation, but you can. Hold up one thread of 
 the design a little longer. 
 
 Baldwin. You cannot safely speak to me so. I 
 am a powerful man. 
 
 Serge. You are not. 
 
 Baldwin. I have position. 
 
 Serge. You have not. 
 
 Baldwin. I am rich. 
 
 Serge. You are not. 
 
 Baldwin; I say that I am. 
 
 Serge. You were, but you no longer are. Your 
 entire source of income has been destroyed to-day 
 
240 THE BEACON 
 
 by the invasion. Your real estate is worthies^ 
 your shipping is destroyed, and your bonds are 
 valueless. You are ruined ! You have not a 
 penny ! 
 
 Baldwin (dazedly). I do not understand — I do 
 not understand. 
 
 [He sits on a broken chair and stares fixedly 
 before him without moving. 
 
 SCENE VI 
 
 Hope comes in. 
 
 Hope. Baldwin, what are you doing ? (fle does 
 not answer her.) Serge, what is the matter with 
 him ? 
 
 Serge. He is overcome by the meaning of the 
 war. You see, it has been definitely learned that 
 the Japanese are going to carry out the campaign 
 which I guessed at. They have landed an enormous 
 army all along the coast of New England and are 
 commencing to move west. The army in the west 
 has won a victory over your forces and is coming 
 east. They plan to fight their way to the centre. 
 Already an army is being levied in New York State 
 to oppose this division, but New England has been 
 paralysed and is doing nothing. Boston is destroyed, 
 together with the important cities along the coast. 
 The army has already gone past Lenox, and the 
 soldiers here are merely staying behind to destroy 
 this place. 
 
THE BEACON 241 
 
 Hope. Surely they cannot advance far into the 
 country. That is impossible. Other nations will 
 interfere. 
 
 Serge. Oh, of course, the country cannot be 
 taken and depopulated by Japan, but she might 
 demand New England and California, as Germany 
 demanded Alsace-Lorraine from us. It would 
 mean the absolute destruction of your people, 
 emigration, and the loss of your property. Even 
 now it is possible for the Japanese to retain the 
 territory that they have won, even if they fail to 
 gain more. It looks as if New England were 
 tottering on the edge of extinction after her decay. 
 Hope. Then we are ruined ! We have no 
 country, we have no home ! Oh that New Eng- 
 land should be reduced to this ! Why did we not 
 foresee our weakness ? Why have we been so 
 blinded by our complacent self-conceit ? 
 
 Serge. The only justification of eccentricity is 
 strength. New England tried to lead, but she did 
 not have the strength to allow herself first to be led. 
 Hope. Poor Baldwin ! Do not be so crushed, 
 dear. We can find some way to Uve. We shall 
 fight together, 
 
 [ji sadden attack is made. Serge seizes a 
 wounded marCs rifle and places himself at the 
 window. A soldier falls over. The upper 
 part of the window tumbles in and a piece of 
 vaulting crashes to the ground, hut the attack 
 is repulsed, and another pause occurs in the 
 
 Q 
 
242 THE BEACON 
 
 fifing. Through it all Baldwin has not 
 moved. Hope has crouched at his side. 
 Serge rises and, examining the soldier, shrugs 
 his shoulders. An officer says something to 
 him, and he affroaches Hope and Baldwin. 
 
 Serge. There are only two cartridges apiece left. 
 Another attack will be the last. If we do not 
 escape, let us die fighting, Baldwin. Hope, go to 
 the cellar and stay there with Rosamond. They 
 will not search the house. 
 
 Hope. Oh no, I shall stay here with you. I am 
 not afraid. 
 
 Serge. Baldwin, I have something to say to you. 
 Look at me. (Baldwin gazes at him stupidly.) If 
 this comes out all right, I want you to take charge 
 of the New York branch of my bank. It is a good 
 position, but one condition goes with it. 
 
 [Baldwin does not answer. 
 
 Hope. He is utterly broken, Serge. He is com- 
 pletely crushed. Do not exact too much of him. 
 
 Serge. That condition is, that you ask Hope's 
 pardon for the way you have treated her during the 
 last twenty years, and resolve not to continue it. 
 If I find you are not a kind husband to her, I shall 
 take back the position from you. 
 
 Hope. Serge ! You are too good. Why should 
 you save him who was your enemy i Do not do 
 so much for me alone. Baldwin, do you hear ? 
 
 Baldwin. That a Northwyke should take succour 
 from a Frenchman. 
 
THE BEACON 243 
 
 Serge. I am of your family, Baldwin, after all. 
 I owe you. this aid. 
 
 Baldwin. I am broken, you see. I ought to die. 
 
 Serge. Your beacon is being relit by the oil of 
 love and humility, Baldwin. Your real life lies 
 before you. You can still retract the words of 
 your old. Hope will forgive you. 
 
 Baldwin. I have been a brute, Hope. I did not 
 see. Pardon me. I have been wrong, and selfish, 
 and weak. 
 
 Hope. Do not say that, Baldwin. It is I who 
 have been too great a burden for you. But that is 
 past now. I see my mistakes, and we can start 
 again. 
 
 Baldwin. You can crow over my fall, Serge, if 
 you will. You have beaten me, and I accept your 
 offer. There is nothing else to be done. I shall 
 try to justify your choice, and — there is no need of 
 conditions. I shall be the first to speak if I find 
 myself returning to my old life. Believe me, I am 
 not the same man. 
 
 Hope. I love you, Baldwin, dear. 
 [She kisses him, and he looks at her half ashamed. 
 The officer again speaks to Serge. 
 
 Serge. Baldwin, is there no way that these men 
 can steal out of the house and fall upon the Japanese 
 from the rear ? Their ammunition is not enough 
 to justify sustaining another attack. 
 
 Baldwin (rising with sudden energy). Yes, they 
 can go out by the east wing, through the ice-house, 
 
244 THE BEACON 
 
 and so along the wood-shed into the woods. It is 
 sure to be deserted there. Then they can creep 
 around by the wall to the front of the house. Let 
 me show them. 
 
 Serge. Good, but some one must stay here to 
 guard the window until they have time to arrive. 
 Will you do that with me while Hope shows the 
 men where to go ? 
 
 Baldwin. Very well. But how do you know how 
 many Japanese there are, and how they are grouped ? 
 
 Serge. Their firing has been observed from the 
 roof and their number calculated. Evidently it is 
 only a handful left behind to exterminate these 
 soldiers, for otherwise they could have assailed the 
 house and taken it in one effort. We two can hold 
 the window until the soldiers get to the other side. 
 Are you ready ? 
 
 Baldwin. Give me a rifle. 
 
 [Serge and Baldwin are given rifles. 
 
 Serge {to the officer). Let Mrs. Northwyke direct 
 you. 
 
 [The officer gives orders to his men and. they 
 hurry out, following Hope, while Serge and 
 Baldwin take up their position at the window. 
 
 Serge. The whole house will be empty now. 
 Let them act quickly — that is aU. We can't de- 
 ceive the beasts very long. 
 
 [They prepare for an attack. 
 
THE BEACON 245 
 
 SCENE VII 
 
 Rosamond and Sylvia come in. 
 
 Sylvia. Serge, where are the soldiers ? Is it all 
 over ? 
 
 Serge. You must not disturb us. Be quiet. 
 They have gone to fall upon the rear of the 
 Japanese. 
 
 Rosamond. And left you alone to defend the 
 house f Oh, it is murder. Give me a gun. 
 
 [She runs forward and -picks up a rifles 
 Serge. Go away, you can do nothing. Go away ! 
 Rosamond. I can shoot as well as you. Leave 
 me alone. 
 
 \She places herself near Baldwin and Serge, 
 
 ready to fire ^ 
 Serge. I tell you to go. Obey me. 
 Rosamond. I will not. 
 [As they wait, ready for a surprise, in silence 
 Cyril comes into the room, hut seeing them 
 alone halts, and then turns about to flee, over- 
 come by fear. The next instant shots are 
 heard. For several moments the struggle rages 
 about the window in desperate fury. The 
 enemy seem to be on the point of pouring into 
 the room, and the defenders fight with their last 
 strength. As the struggle is about to terminate, 
 and as Baldwin and Serge are preparing to 
 give up firing in order to use their bayonets 
 
Zi6 THE BEACON 
 
 upon the inrushing Japanese, Rosamond sud- 
 denly falls along the tiles. As suddenly the 
 attack ceases, for the Japanese are assailed 
 from behind. A battle goes on between them 
 and the Cadets, who have surrounded them and 
 are forcing them to a final combat. Serge 
 turns about and perceives Rosamond. Re 
 falls beside her. 
 Serge. Rosamond ! Rosamond ! You cannot die, 
 you are not dead ! Open your lips. You are not 
 hurt ! I cannot have you taken from me ! Oh, my 
 Rosamond ! 
 
 \H.e sobs brokenly. The combat outside comes to 
 an end, and the Cadets, breaking through the 
 window, pour into the room, bearing a 
 Japanese flag. The curtain falls rapidly. 
 
 END OF ACT III. 
 
PH^LYSMORT 
 
 A TABLEAU FOR MUSIC 
 
 TO 
 
 MALCOLM VALENTINE MACDONALD 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 Fh£lysmort, a queen. 
 YuDE, her mother. 
 LuNNE, her nurse. 
 GoRLOis, a king. 
 RiENTZ, a knight. 
 Pellite, a priest. 
 Bladud, a warder. 
 Soldiers. 
 
PHjeLYSMORT 
 
 A TABLEAU FOR MUSIC 
 
 SCENE 
 
 A CIRCULAR chamber in a turret of GorloiV castle. A window, 
 heavily stained, pierces the centre of the wall. It is approached 
 by several steps, and a stone seat is set beneath it. On the 
 left a hooded fireplace contrasts its delicate masonry with 
 that of the walls, which are bare even of tapestries. On the 
 right is a heavy door spanned by a lintel. Beyond it, upon a 
 platform of two steps, is a bed. A table occupies the centre 
 of the room, a chair stands near it, and upon the floor 
 are strewn rushes. Through the coloured glass of the 
 window a faint light enters. 
 
 PniLYSMORT is seated in the window singing from a 
 roll of -parchment and accompanying herself 
 with a harp. 
 
 So as they journeyed, on the paling sky. 
 They mark'd three figures which resembled 
 Three towers in a plain when daylight faints, 
 And they approaching, thus they did appear : 
 Before, a woman dight in scarlet veils, 
 Fore-fled, and on her lips there lay a flame. 
 While in her hand she bore a golden sphere. 
 Her feet scarce for a moment tread the ground. 
 But floated as if held by curling mists, 
 
 S49 
 
250 PH]£LYSM0RT 
 
 And all about, her tarnished hair did flow, 
 
 As when a fire flares on altar stones. 
 
 So as she balanced o'er the course a youth, 
 
 All stripped of clothing and his flesh sore torn, 
 
 Endeavoured vainly to attain her hand 
 
 Which she held back, yet holding drew again. 
 
 His feet were bruised, his shoulders loose, his lips 
 
 Foam-parched, and as he wavered oft he fell. 
 
 Behind, there clung a vapour like a hag. 
 
 Yet radiant as a virgin through her mists, 
 
 Which goaded on the youth with praise of her 
 
 Who fled before. But as she urged, she beat 
 
 Him with a flail and caused his blood to pour 
 
 So that his strength was sapped. 
 
 Thus went uncherished man who longed for death. 
 
 Yet, slave to hope, was slave to memory. 
 
 And 'slaved, was forced to stagger over the plain. 
 
 While from the trees cruel shades came forth to shiver 
 
 At his love. 
 
 [The bolts of the door are sliffed noisily. Lunne 
 enters. 
 
 Lunne. Ah ! My lady, my gentle lady, dear 
 Phelysmort ! (She hurries to Ph£lysmort, and seat- 
 ing herself at her side takes her in her arms, rocking 
 her gently) My dear unhappy child ! What 
 wickedness is theirs ! 
 
 Ph]6lysmort. Where am I ? I do not know where 
 I am. 
 
 Lunne. In Lunne's arms. See ! lay your poor 
 head upon her heart. 
 
 PniiLY. Has the sun fallen ? Is it night ? 
 
 Lunne. It is noon. Spring surges at the gates of 
 Ufe. 
 
PH^LYSMORT 251 
 
 PHi:i,y. I see no light. 
 
 LuNNE. The walls cloud it, yet it is there. 
 
 Ph^ly. I am tired, I have no courage. Oh, 
 Lunne ! Why am I here ? Where is my youth ? 
 What reason keeps me here ? I am alone, and I 
 have no courage. 
 
 Lunne. Let your pride give you courage. Let 
 your nobility stimulate you. Have patience. 
 Within a week you shall have freedom. 
 
 PfliiLY. Do not trifle, Lunne. It must be years 
 since I came within these walls, not weeks, and 
 you talk of days. 
 
 Lunne. I do not trifle. It is now five months 
 since Gorlois took you prisoner into this castle. 
 
 PniiLY. Those months are longer than my life. 
 
 Lunne. But there is a knight, Phelysmort, who 
 hates Gorlois and plans his death. 
 
 PniiLY. What is his name ? 
 
 Lunne. Rientz. Gorlois' villainy killed his 
 brother, and in revenge he comes against your 
 tyrant. 
 
 Phj^ly. Dim hope for me, Lunne, to change one 
 victor for another. 
 
 Lunne. His honour is pure, and his will is re- 
 compense for past debts, not ravage to present 
 suffering. 
 
 PfliiLY. It is folly to attack this castle. He 
 cannot take it. It is folly. 
 
 Lunne. He has a plan to win the keep by strategy, 
 and so by force acquire the rest. 
 
252 PHfiLYSMORT 
 
 Ph^ily. Warn him, Lunne. I know Gorlois. He 
 takes no conquest. 
 
 Lunne. Will you marry Gorlois and so win 
 freedom ? 
 
 Ph^ily. Never ! He may kill me, he and his 
 priest, but I will not marry him. 
 
 Lunne. You shall not die, Phelysmort. 
 
 Ph^ly. There is no life for me. 
 
 Lunne. Gorlois will never yield, and Pellite is 
 cruel. You cannot prevent Rientz. 
 
 Ph^ly. I do not know ; I know nothing. I have 
 no hope, nor any understanding. 
 
 Lunne. Be brave and cherish hope. 
 
 Ph£ly. Why ? What is the use ? I see no reason. 
 
 Lunne. The past promises the future. You have 
 been happy, therefore you will again be happy. 
 
 Ph^ly. The past is bitterly beautiful now. I 
 dare not think of it. 
 
 Lunne. You shall not die here while Lunne still 
 lives, nor shall you suffer long in prison. 
 
 pHiLY. Dear Lunne. (She kisses her.) Where is 
 my mother ? 
 
 Lunne. Feasting with your conqueror. 
 
 Ph^ly. She has bowed to Gorlois' gods ? 
 
 Lunne. She is a Christian. 
 
 PniLY. Pellite — does he speak ? What is he ? 
 
 Lunne. He says nothing to me. 
 
 PniiLY. Tell me about his gods. 
 
 Lunne. I know nothing of them. 
 
 \An altercation is heard without^ 
 
PH^LYSMORT 253 
 
 PniiLY. Lunne, come to me soon again. 
 
 {The noise increases. 
 Lunne. I will not leave you ! 
 Ph^ly. Do not be mad ! It is wiser to win by- 
 wisdom — ^yet return, or else my hope will leave me. 
 Lunne. I shall, and in a week you shall be free. 
 I promise it. 
 
 Ph£ly. Oh, I have no faith, no courage. 
 \T^he door is burst open at length and GoRLois 
 rushes in, followed at a distance by Bladud. 
 GoRLois. Knave ! Where is she ? What have 
 you allowed to happen ? 
 
 [Lunne stands defiantly before PniLYSMORT. 
 Bladud. She struck me. 
 GoRLois. Enough ! Away, old woman ! 
 Lunne. This is a Christian — my lady ! 
 GoRLOis. Go ! Seize her, Bladud. 
 
 \He faces up and down. 
 Bladud (coaxingly). Come, Lunne. 
 Lunne. Pagan gods will punish your sins if 
 Christian ones approve them. 
 Bladud. Be good, Lunne. Come. 
 Lunne (fiercely). Silence ! (To Gorlois.) One 
 mark on her arm, one tear in her robes, and you shall 
 not live through another night. 
 
 GoRLOis. By Heaven ! Remove this mad woman, 
 I say. 
 
 [He approaches Lunne, who moves away 
 
 majestically. 
 Lunne. Beware ! 
 
254 PHELYSMORT 
 
 GoRLOi's (seizing her). Fool ! Be silent and be 
 gone ! 
 
 LuNNE (crying out). Away ! 
 [He retreats, and Lunne walks boldly out, followed 
 by Bladud ; GoRLoifs stands silently for 
 several minutes after the door closes. 
 
 GoRLois. Phelysmort ! (He draws nearer to her.) 
 Phelysmort ! What seest thou ? Where lies thy 
 gaze ? (He kneels on the steps of the window.) 
 Phelysmort ! Loosen my sorrows. 
 
 Ph^ly. There sways the smell of winter in the air. 
 
 GoRLOis. Look at me, Phelysmort ! Thy eyes 
 are the gates of immortality. 
 
 Ph^ily. Pale flames lie wavering in unfinished 
 forms. 
 
 GoRLOis. Turn to me, Phelysmort ! The hairs 
 of thy head are the number of my desires. 
 
 Ph^ly. I am alone, I came from far from here, I 
 am unseen. 
 
 GoRLois. Thy feet have crossed the portal of my 
 life and have walked upon my heart on which the 
 moon has poured its perfumes. 
 
 PniiLY. I do not know you. 
 
 GoRLOiis. I am a king, I am a man, and my hands 
 have broken brazen bands. How am I then a 
 stranger ? 
 
 PniiLY. I never heard of these things you tell 
 me. I do not see you. I see deep shades upon the 
 mountain crags where worlds arise like strengthless 
 snowbuds. 
 
PH]6LYSM0RT 255 
 
 GoRLOis. Thy eyes are like the dawn when night 
 sinks on the heather. 
 
 Ph^ily. Your love is death-shaped. 
 
 GoRLOis. Thy head is like an urn tipped to pour 
 thy spirit into mine. 
 
 PniLY. Oh Phelysmort ! Thy soul shall fade 
 alone. 
 
 GoRLOifs. Thy soul is like a naked man trembling 
 before a tomb, upon whose gliding skin fall fainting 
 leaves. 
 
 PnfiLY. You do not see my soul. 
 
 GoRLOis. Thy soul resembles lithe smoke, low 
 hanging in the hollow of a petal from a star-stained 
 rose at dusk. Thy lips are the entrance to a Persian 
 garden, whose flowers are watered by faint perfumes. 
 Thy teeth are like the crescent moon which lies 
 among vermilion clouds abandoned by the sun. 
 
 Ph£ly. You talk of things I never saw. 
 
 GoRLOifs. Thy teeth are watchers at an altar. 
 
 PniiLY. You are mad. Tell me about your god. 
 
 GoRLois. Thy ears are flames. 
 
 Ph£ly. The sun is setting. Tell me about 
 death. 
 
 GoRLOi's. Thy eyes are emeralds lying in the 
 heart of a magnolia blossom. 
 
 PniiLY. I am very tired, do not talk to me so. 
 
 GoRLOis. I love you. 
 
 PniiLY. You do not know me, you have not seen 
 me. 
 
 GoRLOis. Let me see you. 
 
2S6 PH^LYSMORT 
 
 PniiLY. I am not hidden. You are blind. I do 
 not love you ; let me go. 
 
 GoRLOls. Your neck resembles the petal of a 
 gardenia. 
 
 Ph£ly. Do not look at my body. I do not love 
 you. Where are you king ? 
 
 GoRLOis. Wherever you are absent. 
 
 PniiLY. How many are your people ? 
 
 GoRLois. As many as your heart-beats. 
 
 Ph^ly. Do you worship in the forests ? 
 
 GoRLOis. At your feet. 
 
 Ph^ly. Have you no thoughts ? Can your spirit 
 not speak ? 
 
 GoRLois. My spirit ? My spirit is yours. God 
 is my spirit. You are beautiful. What must I do 
 to make you love me ? 
 
 Ph^ly. Let me go ; give me my liberty. 
 
 GoRLOis. That is not love. Give me your love 
 for your liberty. 
 
 PnfiLY. I cannot give what I have not. I 
 never shall love you. Do not trouble me. 
 
 GoRLOis. Do not look so far away, Phelysmort. 
 If you saw me you would love me. Do not gaze, 
 Phelysmort, for it is night. Seek not a star, but 
 seize its light. 
 
 PniiLY. There is no light. 
 
 GoRLois. Then take my hand to save you from 
 the trees. 
 
 PniiLY. The trees protect me. 7 
 
 GoRLois. They do not feed you. 
 
PHELYSMORT 257 
 
 Ph^ly. I am not hungry. I wish for death ; 
 where is it ? 
 
 GoRLois. There is no death. Where is your 
 love ? 
 
 PniLY. Love finds but is not found. Do not 
 touch me ! Give me my freedom ; leave me ! 
 
 GoRLois. Love me, Phelysmort ! Two kingdoms 
 shall be yours. 
 
 Ph]6ly. I hear laughter and the ringing of frail 
 Bells. 
 
 GoRLo'is. Four castles, the revenues of twenty 
 counties, half my estates — ^these are yours, Phelys- 
 mort, if you will but marry me. 
 
 Ph^ly. Go ; let me die ! 
 
 GoRLois. You shall be ruler of an empire. Answer 
 me ! Listen to me ! Hear me ! Whom do you 
 love ? 
 
 PniLY. How can I love imprisoned ? 
 
 GoRLois. You are mad, Phelysmort ! 
 
 [Ph£lysmort arises with her har-p and sings. 
 GoRLOis gazes at her sadly. 
 
 Ph^ly. (singing). 
 
 Gaily the echoes of laughter resound, 
 
 But lately in dance I embraced her ; 
 
 Fair were the figures that turned to the sound, 
 
 Yet now wanton death has enlaced her. 
 
 \She stands with her eyes closed. 
 
 GoRLois. Phelysmort, give me your hand. I am 
 
 not happy. {He seizes her hand.) What madness ! 
 
 R 
 
258 PHfiLYSMORT 
 
 You are my slave ; you have no power ; you must 
 obey me. 
 
 Ph^ly. You cannot touch my spirit, you shall 
 not touch my body. [She draws away. 
 
 GoRLOis {following her). You shall — or else be 
 killed. Phelysmort, be reasonable ; see, I have been 
 kind, yield before me. 
 
 Ph£ly. Do not touch me ! 
 
 GoRLOis. I love you. (He seizes her.) You are 
 mine ; I love you, O Phelysmort. 
 
 PniLY. {fainting. I have no courage, I have no 
 courage. 
 
 \She slips to the floor, and Gorlo'is kneels weefing 
 over her. Presently the door opens silently and 
 YuDE appears with Pellite. They stand look- 
 ing at GoRLOits and Phelysmort. 
 
 Pellite. The pagan has not yielded. 
 
 YuDE. She has made no promises. 
 
 Pellite. My patience is gone. She must con- 
 sent to marry Gorlois now and be baptized a 
 Christian, or else give her life in exchange. 
 
 YuDE. All will be well if Gorlois marries her. I 
 am her mother. 
 
 Pellite. Then talk with her and persuade her. 
 It is the last occasion, for I am finished with mild 
 measures. 
 
 Yude. I shall do my best, (^he approaches 
 Gorlois and Ph^ilysmort.) My son, arise. 
 
 GoRLOis {staring at her). She is dead; I have 
 killed her. 
 
PH^LYSMORT 259 
 
 YuDE (lifting Ph£lysmort). She is not dead. 
 Phelysmort, it is I, your mother. Some water, 
 Gorlois. (She carries Ph^ilysmort to the bed with 
 Pellite's aid, while Gorlois brings water from a 
 bowl.) Go, Gorlois, leave me with her. Your work 
 has been poorly done. I hoped for quicker action 
 from our conqueror. [Gorlois goes out slowly. 
 
 Pellite. a man of war bereft of any intellect, a 
 conqueror, yet unable to govern what he conquers. 
 
 YuDE. It was he who killed my son-in-law ; you 
 who saved the rest by milder force. As for Phelys- 
 mort, she does not know herself. 
 
 Pellite. She must yield to-night. The serfs are 
 flocking back to pagan deities and the power of 
 Christ is losing hold. A Christian queen would for 
 ever establish my cause. To-night I planned a 
 miracle, which if it fail means a massacre of the 
 monastery, and on your daughter's conversion de- 
 pends the safety of my people. So double necessity 
 urges it : she refuses, and all is lost ; she agrees, and 
 all is gained. 
 
 YuDE. She shall be broken. My life as well as 
 hers hangs on her resolution, for what use am I 
 otherwise except as a servant ? She shall be 
 broken. 
 
 Pellite. I leave her to you. 
 \He bends towards her and then goes out. There 
 is a fause. 
 
 Yude. Phelysmort ! [Phelysmort stirs her head. 
 
 PhEly. Where are the leaves ? Can you see the 
 
26o PH^LYSMORT 
 
 sun ? I hear it calling in the gardens. I feel it 
 falling in the forests against black trees. 
 
 YuDE. That is the wind hanging among dry- 
 leaves. What do you wish, Phelysmort ? 
 
 Ph£ly. I long to hear still echoes over a sunken 
 pool. I wish to watch the sea ; I have never seen 
 the sea. It is strange ; I want to watch the sun 
 floating behind thin blades of water as the waves 
 rise foaming to embrace the shore. 
 
 YuDE. The sea lies far away beyond the forest, 
 Phelysmort. 
 
 PHi:LY. In the forest is a pool whose blackened 
 surface is shattered by a thin jet of water like a 
 plume. There is snow about it, and a circle of 
 white trees stand like altar candelabra at its border. 
 
 YuDE. Do not talk so, Phelysmort. You are not 
 well. 
 
 Ph^ly. No, I am very weary. [A pause. 
 
 YuDE. Phelysmort, say you have yielded. 
 
 Ph^ly. Yielded ? What should I yield ? 
 
 YuDE. Your promise. 
 
 PniLY. What promise ? 
 
 YuDE. To take Gorlois. 
 
 Ph^ly. I cannot take him. I do not love him; 
 
 YuDE. A tragedy will occur if you refuse. Accept 
 Gorlois and all is safe. Phelysmort, your mother 
 prays you. 
 
 PniLY. (laughing gently). Upon a pallid pool the 
 rain is setting heavens of stars, and two sad swans 
 He heavy on its lips. A marble terrace tumbles to 
 
PHfiLYSMORT 261 
 
 its feet, and slender columns bear above a sad 
 arcade ; far in the reeds a dying thrush calls out. 
 Gorlofe adores my body but he hates my soul, and 
 even if he saw me all, I should not love him. Why 
 should I take him for my lord ? 
 
 YuDE. To please him and to save our Hves ; to 
 help PelUte. 
 
 Ph^ly. But if I die the Christians will not suffer. 
 How can I please you by enslaving my pride ? 
 
 YuDE. You cannot die, Phelysmort. Gorlois is 
 firm, Pellite demands your faith, and I expect your 
 obedience. Come, be no more a rebel, but see how 
 your petty wilfulness is matched against the State, 
 a Church, and a man. For the sake of many people 
 your sacrifice is due. 
 
 Ph£ly. My life is all I can give, not my love, nor 
 my body. Remove me, and the course of policy 
 will flow undammed. Marry Gorlois yourself, 
 establish the Church, but let me go as a simple 
 fugitive in search of Hfe. Do not let me stand 
 against your hopes, but do not make me bow 
 beneath your will. I cannot marry Gorlois ; let me 
 escape. 
 
 YuDE. Impossible, my child. This castle, this 
 kingdom, is by rights yours. Ambition guides my 
 thoughts, not fear, nor mahce. What is a lord ? 
 A figure-head to pose against your enemies, a dog 
 to nourish in your kennels. I have lived, and know 
 that one can keep oneself intact in spite of privi- 
 lege in a lord. To marry does not mean to die. 
 
262 PH]^LYSMORT 
 
 Your soul is unattainable, your body is a weapon 
 to which no power of sin is given. A marriage is, 
 unless true love, a thing of policy, like sleep or war. 
 Come, take Gorlois. You lose nothing and gain 
 a thousand things. Yours the conquest, not his. 
 
 Ph^ly. What will be gained ? I prefer death, 
 and with my will the fate of others is unchanged. 
 Surely the choice is mine. 
 
 YuDE. You are a fool; my patience comes to 
 nothing. Will you, or wUl you not accept Gorlois ? 
 
 PHiiLY. I do not love him. 
 
 YuDE. No matter, will you take him ? 
 
 Ph^ly. I cannot love him. 
 
 YuDE. Then you may die and I will take the 
 powers held out to you. Mine the duty to save 
 the State, your death at PeUite's hands to save the 
 Church. I did not think so great a fool could be 
 my daughter. Pellite ! {She calls.) PeUite ! 
 
 [Pellite enters. 
 
 Pellite. She yields ? 
 
 YuDE. She dies. I give her over to your mercy. 
 
 Pellite. That self should counsel such a course ! 
 (fle seizes PniLYSMORT's arm.) The Lord will 
 punish such a sin more fitly in hell than I can 
 here. 
 
 YuDE. Be gentle, she is my daughter. 
 
 Pellite. She shall die to-night to save my 
 miracle. (He shakes his hand in her jace, lifts his 
 arms frantically, and laughs) If there is not a 
 Christian queen, there will be a pagan retribution. 
 
PH^LYSMORT 263 
 
 Come, Yude, she shall be a fitting proof of Christ's 
 power ! Come ! 
 
 Yude. Phelysmort ! I will come again — con- 
 sider at last your foUy. I am undone, I have no 
 power. I am a slave, but I hoped to win by tact. 
 Consider your folly again and let no scruple of 
 pride deter you. Life is life, but death is nothing. 
 Phelysmort, consider again. 
 
 Pellite. Come, Yude, it is useless, it is too late, 
 she shall die to-night. 
 
 [They go out and the door closes heavily. Phelys- 
 mort lies silently on the bed. It is very dark 
 and very quiet. The torpor of twilight falls 
 on the chamber, and Ph^ilysmort seems to have 
 lost consciousness. The silence continues heavily 
 for several moments. Then suddenly the win- 
 dow is struck in from the outside, falling 
 shattered with a crash over the seat and stefs, 
 and flooding the turret with a sea of sunlight 
 which arouses Phelysmort. In the window, 
 outlined by the glow of the setting sun, stands 
 RiENTZ clothed in flashing armour, as if the 
 Ugh t radiated from him. He comes down quickly, 
 allowing more sun to enter, and moves to the bed. 
 Ph]§;lysmort stands beside it motionless. 
 RiENTZ. Fly ! A ladder leads to liberty. Fly ! 
 (PnfiLYSMORT moves quickly to the window and mounts 
 the seat, while Rientz hurries to the door. She is 
 about to step through it, bathed in light, when Rientz 
 turns and sees her.) I shall seek you ! 
 
264 PH^LYSMORT 
 
 [Ph^lysmort fauses to look back. They stand 
 gazing at each other for a moment. Then 
 PHiLYSMORT covies down, they approach each 
 other, and drawing near .kiss each other on the 
 lips. In the meantime an uproar is heard, 
 which comes ever nearer. Still PHiLYSMORT 
 and RiENTZ stand embracing each other unable 
 to draw apart, lost in a kiss which is no longer 
 that of parting but that of meeting. The 
 tumult grows larger at every moment, and 
 finally the door is thrown open. Pellite, 
 GoRLois, Bladud, and a number of soldiers 
 rush in followed by Yude and Lunne. They 
 are about to fall upon Rientz and Ph^lys- 
 MORT, when they halt before the unexpected 
 sight and retreat. The dying sun throws an 
 aura about the lovers, who appear godlike. As 
 the curtain falls they move towards the window, 
 and when it rises again for an instant they 
 have gone, leaving Gorlois, Pellite, and 
 Yude in amazed inaction among their fol- 
 lowers. 
 
 Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson (Sh Co. 
 Edinburgh ^ London