CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY THE ANNA S. GURLEY MEMORIAL BOOK FUND FOR THE PURCHASE OF BOOKS IN THE FIELD OF THE DRAMA THE GIFT OF William F. E. Gurley CLASS OF 1877 1935 Cornell University Library PS 3529.D27R3 Red bud womenjfour dramatic e pisodes.Wlt 3 1924 021 652 536 Cornell University Library The original of tliis book 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/cu31924021652536 Red Bud Women FOUR DRAMATIC EPISODES By MARK O'DEA With a foreword by PIERRE LOVING CINCINNATI STEWART KIDD COMPANY PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHT, 1922 STEWART KIDD COMPANY All rights reserved No amateur or professional use permitted of Red Bud Women without first obtaining written autliorization from Stewart Kidd Company, Cincinnati, O. Printed in tlie United States of America The Caxton Press "Everybody for Books." This is one of the Interlaken Library TO Theodore Ballou Hinckley CONTENTS Page Foreword ------.-.-. -_vii The Song of Solomon ---.---._ i Shivaree ------..----.-27 Miss Myrtle Says "Yes'" -------53 Not in the Lessons ----.---.89 FOREWORD Some months ago in the course of a half-loung- ing trip, partly on foot, through the states of Kansas, Missouri and Arkansas, I came rather abruptly (with a sharp awareness!) upon that in- carnate ghost which occasionally, but only oc- casionally, haunts the mind of the cynical analyst of our national organism. I refer, of course, to the American peasant. Previous to this, I must confess, I had to a very large extent viewed the rural population of the United States, like so many other hit-or-miss generalizers, from the nar- row, remote rookeries of the cities. Thus, for me, it fell away neatly and compactly into the quite prehensible categories of farmer, miner, road- mender, and migratory harvest hand. Unhur- ried contact, however, with members of the widely scattered farming peoples of these and other states, with enough leisure to weigh what was heard, felt, and seen, brought home to me vividly, in no equivocal fashion, that an American peas- antry of a sort — vastly diverse, to be sure, from any other kind in the world — actually exists and toils among us. When I say that our rural classes distinctly part ways with all others, I do not mean to lend currency to the impression that their roots do not firmly grip soil and subsoil as else- where. In the old world there is a strange dark bond that rivets human beings to the soil they plough vii FOREWORD up, which their fathers have ploughed up and cul- tivated before them. This bond or kinship bears with it a dusky sentiency; it is of a psychical reciprocity, close and warrn and intimate, like one's own breath, indrawn and- outgiven. Some- times — Thomas Hardy's Egdon Heath is deeply illustrative — it wins a grim, elemental, half-human sway over the minor destinies of the people who dwell upon or around it. It is the stimulus, at moments, of passionate crime, stark and brutal, as a fell blow from behind, from ambush, leaving a rust-color upon the earth itself, for legend or poetry or fiction to use later on. The American farmer does grasp the soil tensely, if only for the reason that, before the blazing onset of the pioneer, the earth was harsh and stony and overgrown with thick timber and weed and rank prairie grass. By dint of well-nigh super- human effort, of hardship incredible, the forest and prairie blossomed in a gentle tilth, bore in good time rich fruit of corn and wheat and misty orchard. Yet when I try to probe the thoughts that animate those apparently intelligent critics who refer with contempt to the inhabitants of our so-called cornbelt in such terms as "hick," "yokel," "hayseed," "chawbacon," and so on, I find myself in no little perplexity. Palpably these sobriquets, too lightly flung out by the rather tired humorist, do not in the least suffice to fill in the canvas for us, to frame a concrete or re- vealing image, or to foreshadow, as we have every right to expect from criticism, a bare tithe of the problem, the complex of pressures, continually viii FOREWORD braved by small lonely communities drawing sus- tenance straight from the soil. In one sense the European peasant may be said to be naively at peace with himself and his acres. Sleepily content at heart; hard-working and thrifty; at times bestially gross: so he lives on, essentially unawakened — even by the shock of the late war — harboring no troubling aims beyond the satis- faction, if what is soon sated can be called trouble- some, of a few simple needs and appetites. Of the sombre ferment underlying repressed aspirations to soar above and beyond his inherited lot, there is little or no trace.' Moreover, when we study the foreign peasant closer, we see that such insurgen- cies and bridlings as stir up the industrial classes to red rages everywhere convulse him not at all. In Russia today, for example, when he has been dealt with, or merely holds he has been dealt with, unjustly, he simply resorts to clandestine sabotage. On the other hand he does not, like the members of the middle estates, make peaceable hut sturdy in- roads into a higher social level. In Europe we have seen, of course, how a sudden revolution or an un- settling war may bring about overnight a complete realignment of the definite social zones; but this phenomenon, whenever it occurs, is chiefly re- stricted to the larger industrial centres, while the peasant, by reason of that obscure blood-kinship of which I have already spoken, remains immovably clenched to the land, as if to la vraie veritL In short, the tiller of the soil in Europe rarely evinces an active hankering to change his lot, to foist himself upon another stratum. When ix FOREWORD the earth proves to be obstinate, he may choose merely to migrate; but even to this step he is signally averse. Knut Hamsum's Growth of the Soil is, if we turn to it with the right temper of mind, the finely detailed saga of just this brooding, rock-rooted attachment to the eternal verity of the land. In the United States, where farm-tenure is com- paratively recent, we are faced with other con- ditions. Our type of commonwealth tends even in normal times to set by their heads all factions in the social and economic order; to cause them, despite their surface complacency, to be disgruntled and to chafe as at a bit. An unslackening winter of discontent rigidly grips our whole political and economic superstructure; and by this, I do not refer to labour troubles alone, or to the just plaint made by the farmed touching prohibitive freight rates. The nerves of the nation, to change the figure, are being rawly prodded, as they were prodded long before the war, by the fatal knife of our own dominant fixed ideas. And these ideas, amounting pretty nearly to a creed, grew out of the hard conditions encountered by the fipst pioneers. In those days, if we read the chron- icle of the pioneer aright, human conduct and per- sonality were judged by the kind of effort put forth by the individual, his perseverance and single-mindedness, and the air of worldly compe- tence with which he bore himself. These loomed up everywhere as noble and enviable traits. The unambitious, in a worldly sense, and the unpush- ing were accounted, as indeed they are now, spine- FOREWORD less creatures, queer, feckless fellows, not worthy to be admitted into the hearty fellowship of the virile "go-getters" of that day and age. In certain states we have coined a term of deep opprobrium, as meaty to us as the older word "pariah" was to an older people, for this invertebrate or shiftless class; we call it — do we not? — "poor white". What has been the direct effect on the farmer of this, our national drift toward an acquisitive civili- zation? To begin with, it has made him restive. No longer is it possible for him to view the nearby speculator with calm unruffled visage. And pro- founder evils, raw and sharp and subversive of his rumored sanity and level poise, have crept in- sidiously into his life. If he ever loved the soil, he no longer today regards it as anything more than an investment, a field for rigorous exploita- tion. But did he ever love it with the glowing loyalty the European feels for his paternal acres ? It is extremely doubtful. Nowadays the American farmer does not enjoy the land; he has also lost sight of the niceties and spiritual delicacies of life: the comely vision of good living and sweet- ness and beauty in dwelling close to the earth. But have the women lost this keen zest for sweet- ness and beauty? Hardly. It is they who keep the flickering flame burning. Thus we see that a huge segment of the rural population is nowise resigned to abide rural. It purposes, with a well-nigh vengeful doggedness accredited as praiseworthy in our tenor and type of civilization, to lift itself by hook or crook, by main contending force, into the blissful state of — xi FOREWORD God save the mark! — the petty bourgeoisie. Of that vigorous foreign element scattered throughout the countryside in lumber camps, mines, and farms, Httle need be said here, for it is not quite germane to our argument. One-hundred-per-cent Ameri- cans, I daresay, are not always prone to concede that they are the new doughty pioneers. But what of that? Ask the poets! Always, every- where, they flaunt a bit of rough earth-colour and so, in no slender degree, serve to enliven the drab peering interstices in the spread-out fabric of the American scene. Their quaint old-world customs are frequently seizable, as so many of our indigenous poets have long ago found out, as the pungent stuff of poetry. Notably Carl Sand- burg, among others, with a newer moving rhythm has made lovely songs out of their winey dreams, their dim nostalgia, their uncouth dramas of the pick-and-shovel. Mark O'Dea in Shivaree has vividly drawn for us an inimitable portrait of a daughter of these people, although he does not give himself on this occasion to their poignant clashes with the new world, the alien environment. In the following plays Mark O'Dea has gone elsewhere for his raw material: to those dull communities, desolate and mean and bare as a rain-washed wooden fence, which uncover no token of what we are pleased to call the cultural life; no theatres, no art museums, no amusements, indeed, save the dingy ice-cream parlor with its strident nickelodeon. For the older women, what remains outside of the clinging drudgery of house- hold duties.'' Their spare hours, if they can xii FOREWORD contrive somehow to filch any from the exactions of the ox-like grindj afe almost' wholly given over to vain chaperonage of the yt)ung, and the coy sibilance of backyard innuendo and scandal. What lonely spiritual wastes these small towns and town- ships are! What sterile ponds coated over with the opaque scum of ingrown desires and cadav- erous hopes! Take our charted landscape from seaboard to seaboard; let the hand fall where it may. It will, nay, it is bound to alight upon some such example of spiritual decay. For the moment, as it happens, Mark O'Dea's locale is an imaginary small town in Iowa. Any cornbelt village of approximately the same size and subject to the same general living conditions is, inevitably, Red Bud. And what, precisely, does Red Bud stand for among us today? It stands for the stark empty lives of American farm women; but for Mark O'Dea it stands also for an awakening dimly astir in the consciousness of these women. They reach out for new light; they grope and totter and fall, half blinded by the dazzle of the sudden sunshine; they seek to become disinterested and gaze at life with but . lately opened eyes, searching for the beauty they have hitherto so poignantly missed. They shudder away from that vagueness of self which has been so overwhelmingly their lot. But Red Bud, and the world, to boot, thrusts them back, wounded, fatally hurt, outlined stabbingly against the sur- rounding bleakness. Those women of Red Bud — Mrs. Sykes, Miss Myrtle, Miss Pansy, Ethelyn and^ above all, xili FOREWORD Hulda — gather within themselves-, within their hungry or aroused or tormented souls, all the visionary escapements and sun-touched day- dreams of half the women of present-day America. Here, beyond the outer rim of what we like to style the benefits of civilization, irradiated by not so much as a casual Chautauqua, one does not, it seems, even encounter the garrulous frou-frou of the culture or reading club. Meanwhile we are concerned, as Mark O'Dea so finely indicates, with the naked essentials of human existence, with the luminous end-of-the-road beckoning always and the balked will and the frustrate dream. A short while ago in a magazine article, Mr. Joseph Hergesheimer advanced the thesis that women were in large part answerable for the wide- spread depraved or lush taste in reading to be found almost everywhere in the United States. I question the accuracy of this assertion. We might, if we chose, urge the very converse and come off just as triumphantly, if not beyond rebuttal. The real fault, if Mark O'Dea is to be believed, rests upon the shoulders of the men and is, in a sense — in a very large part, in fact — inherent in the curriu- lative factors' that condition their lives. Of these soul-starved lives, we, whp rush past in trains, can know but little. Yet we can get some slight idea of the devastating loneliness of the men and women who dwell in frontier settlements, where the pioneer with his Conestoga wagon camped, it seems, but yesterday, by evoking, by figuring to ourselves, the immense joy, as of the throwing up of a magic window, brought into these unlovely xiv FOREWORD houses by the bulky catalogue of a celebrated mail-order house in Chicago. This pin-stitched tome, containing several thousand pages brim- ming with descriptive matter and illustrations, sheds a little of the glamour that surrounds the well-housed and well-clad dweller in big cities. It may be granted Mr. Hergesheimer that the woman on these farms, if she can get the leisure to read at all, probably soaks up uncritically the "glad books" of such authors as Harold Bell Wright, Ethel M. Dell, and Gene Stratton Porter. Mr. Hergesheimer, I need hardly point out, is manifestly wrong when he puts the onus updn the woman. Granted, too, her pliant softness for roseate daydreams and the tailor-made hero of the screen drama. The fault, if fault it is, goes deeper into the tissue of the American organism. And here O'Dea aids us considerably in putting the question forthrightly. If no other species of creative writing is capable of reaching and awakening these women; if they can get no emotional and esthetic purge from anything except sugared bonbons and mawkish drivel, where are we to fix the blame? Is it the environ- ment, the prevailing atmosphere? Do the men on the farms devote to the women half enough thought? According to these plays, O'Dea holds both the environment and the men to be chargeable. For a number of years O'Dea lived amongst the people he etches with such an unsparing hand in his cycle of one-act plays. He has watched closely their daily collision with the obdurate forces hemming them about. But he is at bottom XV FOREWORD a sympathetic familiar, not a cold, aloof, clinical analyst, of the half-sweet, half-bitter overtones of their existence. To him their hopes, their aspira- tions brim over with a childlike innocence and appeal. Why should it be so difficult to make this plain to certain dissectors of the American scene? Are they perhaps inveterate misogynists? And have they veiled their eyes so that they cannot see the truth for the jet filaments? When I try to picture these women of Red Bud; Mrs. Sykes, who set her heart so desperately and so penetratingly on an electric lighting system; Miss Pansy, who seized the first available man as a husband; Miss Myrtle, who had vowed eternal hardness and whose spirit collapsed under the ironic pressure of events; Ethelyn, who groped for beauty in exaggerated cinema gestures and for whom "spooning" was an intriguing escapade; and finally the deliberate, embittered Hulda, who wed by way of protest — when, as I say, I try to picture these I behold numb aching faces behind the outward masks, faces athirst. Here are, if I mistake not, the pure contours of truth. If O'Dea is a bit surgical, it will also be ob- served that he is essentially humane. If he were, on the other hand, a feminist special pleader — which he is not — it would have been a relatively simple matter to have painted the men villain- ously black. Carl Fishback and Solomon Sykes are hard men, gnarled, unwinning, but not unsym- pathetically portrayed. O'Dea is, or he chooses wisely to be, the artist rather than the propa- gandist. While he rarely departs from fidelity xvi FOREWORD in character drawing, he strivesi I suspect, for the epical, the broad-sweeping outline. And so it hardly astonishes us to find him not altogether committed to psychological detail, to an intense absorption in subconscious motives as is, for ex- ample, Sherwood Anderson. He is, however, somewhat allured by the emphasis and point of sheer situation. Perhaps he remembers his Flaubert and his Maupassant. In any case, sheer human situation may still claim its rightful pre- rogative today, especially with us in America. O'Dea has deliberately chosen the one-act play as his medium. And wisely', I believe. Since he was at the outset drawn to dramatic form, this medium is most expedient since it exacts fewer concessions in the shaping and reshaping of original material. I shall be told, no doubt, by so- called students of the theatre that the one-act play is more demanding than the three- or four-act play and, eventually, rather futile. No greater absurdity was ever spoken! The whole trend of the modern theatre is toward strictest simplifica- tion and, what is more, toward a rather loose ex- tension of the brief single act mould. For witness, we need but point to the recent work of Eugene O'Neill, George Kaiser, and Walter Hasenclever. If O'Dea continues to work in this form, he is bound, ultimately, to achieve self-integration. And this is the highest goal of all creative spirits, who seek to give us observed reality after it has been steeped in the solution of fluid personal vision. And for this purpose the one-act play, or some such form of it, as let us say. The Hairy Ape, 2 xvii FOREWORD commends itself as at once superior to the graver architectonic formulary of three or four acts. The drama, along with other literary and esthetic forms, is becoming more and more personal in its expression, as spontaneously personal, I had almost said, as the concise lyric. This tendency is visible in O'Dea's work. Thus it is that, while he is always realistic, he has not flung ofF a series of Zolaesques against the American backdrop. The plays are not starkly veristic, for all their fidelity to the matter in hand, in the sense in which, say, the Sicilian, Giovanni Verga, who also wrote about peasant life (another brand of peasant life, to be sure!) is commonly taken to be so. They are not chaotic; there is a sane regard for translation into dramatic effect; for unity of emotion is, clearly, the due end sought. On laying down the present book the reader may perhaps conclude that the problem of modern America is inter tangled with the problem of the American woman. And to a large extent this is true. The foreigner who pays us a flying visit usually insists that the average American wife and "flapper" are pampered and petted beyond belief and reason. H. L. Mencken, nearer home, also firmly holds that women occupy an ascendant position among us; that we are, in fact, wilting under a fragrant assault of petticoat government in public and domestic life. Here and there, amongst our leisure classes, this may be substan- tiated. But is it tenable about even half of our feminine population? Is it true regarding the women of such places as Red Bud? xviii FOREWORD Mr. Mencken goes on to say: "Nowhere in the world have women more leisure and freedom to im- prove their minds and nowhere else do they show a higher level of intelligence or take part more effec- tively in affairs of first importance." Obviously, no matter what we think of the "intelligence" of American women, this pronouncement does not apply to the womenfolk on our outpost farms. Mr. W. L. George is, I believe, far closer to the mark when he asserts that Europe does not as yet com- prehend the status of the American woman. It is naturally prone to draw summary conclusions from the well-to-do examples who tour Europe once a year for pleasure. It knows nothing of the archaic conditions which surround those who are compelled to live on solitary farms. Is the Ameri- can woman sybaritic, preying, and idle? For the reader who is, it may be, still mazed in doubt, Mark O'Dea in the present cycle of one-act plays volun- teers a hint of the final, irrefutable answer. Pierre Loving. San Francisco, Calif. April, 1922. XIX THE SONG OF SOLOMON PERSONS IN THE PLAY Solomon Sykes, a Farmer Mary Sykes, his JVife Mrs. Smithers, ) Mrs. Bamberger, } ^^'^^^"^-^ Mr. Kerns, the Minister Th« Song of Solomon wai presented for the first time by the Arts Club of Chicago, November g, 1920. THE SONG OF SOLOMON There is one farm just outside of Red Bud which always commands the admiration of passers-by. Beyond the well-kept fencing, past the produc- tive fields, the eye wanders to the unusually fine buildings. The barn is particularly large, really monu- mental, with towering silos. There are numerous buildings, all spick and span, grouped around this "show" barn. An estate, one surmises. And one looks for a handsome house, rising midst the small grove of trees. Were one to wander into the lane that stretches quite a distance from the highway and approach this group of buildings, one would be disappointed in not finding a palatial home. For the house is a low, built-on affair that has just grown from a tiny cottage into a larger. It is conspicuously inappropriate midst the grandeur of its surroundings. Yet it is not a hovel. It is a comfortable enough old house, possibly not such a misfit on the average farm, but long since en^ tirely inadequate for such a place as this. For years this farm has been "a steady earner." Its owner, Solomon Sykes, is rated as one of the richest farmers in the community. Year after year he has improved it, yet he has always banked a portion of each year's yield. In this way he has built up a secondary income — his banker has recommended farm mortgages, and many farms in 3 RED BUD WOMEN the county, and beyond, pay interest to Mr. Sykes. But people say that he i,s "a hard man to get along with." He has always been "mighty tight- mouthed." Nobody knows his resources, not even his family. He is not altogether a miser, but the years of hard work in developing this farm have made him extremely cautious, and, having always been dependent upon self, he is as thrifty as he is industrious. He is proud of his farm. He is proud of his position in the community. He is proud of having "riz his family right" and of having set up his sons on neighboring farms. . But he is strangely negligent as to personal comforts. He has forgotten to build a home, or he has just been putting it off year after year. A new house has always been "next year" for a long, long time. For every year there has been something else, and always that something else has meant more acreage, or finer cattle, or addi- tional machinery, or tiling, or anything but a house. Until now. . . therearejusttwoof them,Mr. and Mrs. Sykes, and they are getting along in years and the old house has sheltered a bigger family when the children were at home. And it is a "sorta comfortable-like" place. And its a big job "to up and build a new house with all these new- fangled idees." "But I'd think," says Mrs. Smithers to Mrs. Bamberger, "that Sol Sykes would be ashamed of such an old rattle-trap." They are walking 4 SONG OF SOLOMON down the lane toward the house on this hot July morning. "And so would I," agrees Mrs. Bam- berger, " 'cause he's so proud and highty-tighty." As they approach the house, their conversation becomes more quiet and confidential. As they come around the side of the house to the rear, we again pick up the thread of their gossip. The back porch and the yard are not very well kept; in fact, this is the worst part of the farm, the greatest contrast. Through the back porch we can see into the kitchen, a big, old-fashioned room with a large range. Out in the yard, on one side of the porch, are a wash-bench, with tubs on it and an old washing-machine. Opposite are an old grind- stone, a rickety bench, and a discarded milk stool. There is also a dilapidated, weather-beaten rock- ing-chair. There is little grass — the yard is worn down to the bare earth around the porch. But the spot is shady and inviting on such a hot morning, and Mrs. Smithers and Mrs. Bamberger have planned to make it an oasis on their journey over to the harvesting. They are middle-aged farm women, dressed in their everyday clothes of wash-goods. Mrs. Smithers is rather sour and peppery, while Mrs. Bamberger is motherly and genial. As they- come round the house, Mrs. Smithers is telling Mrs. Bamberger "the latest." MRS. SMITHERS Well, I heard that Mis' Jones said that she wouldn't let her daughter marry him, even if he did come back. 5 RED BUD WOMEN MRS. BAMBERGER My goodness! Has he skipped out? MRS. SMITHERS Yes, didn't you hear that? Well, I'll tell you what I heard Mis' Mclntire say — you know she knows his sister. Well, she said he'd be willin' to marry her if — s-sh, I'll tell you later. {They reach the back of the house and come into view.) I wonder where Mis' Sykes is. I'll jest look in her kitchen. No, she ain't there — mebbe she's upstairs. Oh, I'm so hot, ain't you? Let's set down a minute and cool off. {They go over to the bench and sit down. Mrs. Smithers leans over confidentially.) Have you noticed anything queer about Mis' Sykes? MRS. BAMBERGER Queer? No, nothin' particular. Have you? MRS. SMITHERS Well, no, can't say as, I have. But people — well, some are sorta wonderin' — you know she don't come to church any more. MRS. BAMBERGER She ain't been very well lately. Sorta porely-like. MRS. SMITHERS Yes, I know, but — MRS. BAMBERGER She's alius readin' her Bible, ain't she, even if she don't go to meetin's. MRS. SMITHERS Yes, but — RS. BA Well MRS. BAMBERGER SONG OF SOLOMON MRS, SMITHERS I didn't mean to tell you — but don't you tell nobody — ^now. MRS. BAMBERGER No, I won't. MRS. SMITHERS Well, she has been sorta queer-like lately. MRS. BAMBERGER You mean more'n usual for a woman that's growin' on 60? MRS. SMITHERS Yes, some one told me. Oh, I don't know whether I should repeat it or not. MRS. BAMBERGER I promised not to tell. MRS. SMITHERS Well, this is what I heard. Folks as has been passin' by say Mis' Sykes has been screamin' something terrible — right in the middle of the day — ^when she was all alone here — when the men folks were in the field. Oh, such awful screams — like as if she was bein' murdered. MRS. BAMBERGER Does Sol Sykes know it? MRS. SMITHERS No. MRS. BAMBERGER How do you know? MRS. SMITHERS Folks have sorta hinted to him, askin* if she was well, and the likes. He alius says she is the same as ever. 7 RED BUD WOMEN MRS. BAMBERGER Well, that ain't proof that he don't know. MRS. SMITHERS If he knows, he's keepin' it a secret. But I'm sure he don't know. Men are so wrapped up in farmin' — you know how it is. They don't pay any 'tention to such things — like as not if he heered it in the distance, as he comes up to the house, he'd think it singin'. And she'd be keerful to stop when she saw him comin'. MRS. BAMBERGER Well, if that's all there is to it, he'll find out sooner or later. Howsoever, I don't believe there's a word of truth in it, do you? She's jest the same as ever, so far as I know. I never seen her do anything queer. And I like Mis' Sykes; she's been a mighty good neighbor for all these years. Why, when I had Jessie, and that doctor was away gallivantin' in the next county, it was Mis' Sykes as come right in and took his place. I'll never fergit that to my dyin' day. MRS. SMITHERS Yes, she's a mighty good Methodist. MRS. BAMBERGER Methodist? What's that gotta do with her takin' care of me and my baby? MRS. SMITHERS Well, I jest meant that she was kind to every- body. MRS. BAMBERGER You bet she is. And if anybody says to me that she's actin' queer-like, I know what I'll say to them, the busybodies! And you stop such 8 SONG OF SOLOMON talk — now won't you. Mis' Smithers, please do. It ain't right. MRS. SMITHERS Well, I don't know whether to believe it or not. It seems so strange. MRS. BAMBERGER ^ I wonder where she is. Mebbe I'd better cali- ber or go into — {Mrs. Sykes^s voice is heard as she comes to the kitchen door. She comes to the edge of the porch with the Bible in her hand, reading. She does not see her visitors at first. They sit, transfixed in astonishment. She is a person of sixty, a little thin woman, with tightly-combed white hair. She is in a calico wrapper, with an apron. She epi- tomizes at a glance her sixty years of work on the farm, her privations, her drudgery. There is infinite sadness in her face, immeasurable pathos. What she reads, however, is not in her natural tone. It seems strangely reminiscent of youth. It is only after finishing it that one is struck with its unnaturalness, as she lapses into her everyday life.) MRS. SYKES "My beloved is white and ruddy, the chiefest among ten thousand. His head is as the most fine gold, his locks are bushy and black as a raven. His eyes are as the eyes of doves by the rivers of water, washed with milk, and fitly set. His cheeks are as a bed of spices, as sweet flowers. 9 RED BUD WOMEN His lips like lilies, dropping with sweet myrrh. His hands are as gold rings set with the beryl; his . . ." MRS. SMiTHERS (in a whisper) The Song of Solomon! (Mrs. Sykes stops. She has heard the whisper and glances around as in a trance, until she suddenly sees her visitors. She is embarrassed, hiding her Bible under her apron, not knowing, just what to do or say. She is as a person caught in the act of doing something wrong.) lyiRS. SYKES Why — why — I never knew you were here! I —well, I— MRS. BAMBERGER Oh, we jest was goin' over to the threshin' to help at the cook wagon, gettin' dinner .... and we got so hot we jest thought we'd drop in fer a minute and see you. We jest come. MRS. SYKES You jest come? MRS. SMITHERS Yes, jest this minute. MRS. SYKES I must git you a glass of water. MRS. BAMBERGER Now, don't. Mis' Sykes, don't bother. Jest set down here with us a bit. How are you these days? The heat's perty bad, ain't it. Mis' Sykes ? lO SONG OF SOLOMON MRS. SMITHERS I think the dust is worse, and the flies. I said to Mr. Smithers — MRS. SYKES I keep pretty well. You know I'm never sick. Just bilious-like onct in a while. But not much lately. {To Mrs. Smithers.) Are you bilious, Mis' Smithers? Sody's good. MRS. SMITHERS Well, I ain't exactly bilious. But I got some- thing like it. Seems I alius got somethin' or other. I'm mighty porely, you know. I jest git so tired takin all that medicine; it never seems to do any good. 'Pears to me like I've sampled 'em all in the drug-store. Somebody said I orta take up Christian Science. {This revolutionary thought creates astonishment.) MRS. BAMBERGER Why, Mis' Smithers, what an idee! MRS. SYKES Christian Science? You? Such a good Meth- odist? MRS. SMITHERS Well, I jest said somebody said I orta. That's no sign I am. MRS. BAMBERGER '^ But how kin you even mention it? It gives decent folks such a start. {Just then the Bible falls from under Mrs. Sykes's apron, right on the ground in front of them all. She picks it up hurriedly, in confusion.) If you'd read your Bible, like Mis' Sykes, you'd be better off. II RED BUD WOMEN MRS. SMiTHERS (cattishly) Readin' what she reads? {Mrs. Bcmberger glares at her. Mrs. Sykes looks questioningly at the two women as if she must say something to justify the reading of The Song of Solomon.) MRS. SYKES Maybe you don't understand. MRS. BAMBERGER Understand? Why, you don't have to explain, Mis' Sykes. {Mrs. Smithers gives a disdainful grunt.) MRS. SYKES Maybe you want to know, Mis' Smithers, why I'm readin' The Song of Solomon? MRS. SMITHERS {rather sourly) Well, it strikes me as a peculiar part to be readin'. MRS. SYKES Peculiar? Why, it's the loveliest part of the Bible! {This is indeed scandalous^ as the looks of the two visitors show.) I read it every anni- versary! MRS. BAMBERGER AND MRS. SMITHERS Anniversary ? MRS. SYKES Yes. To-day's our weddin' anniversary. Sol and me's been married now forty-three years — forty-three years — forty-three years. {This she repeats slowly, as though the whole pano- rama of the past were flashing by. The visitors 12 SONG OF SOLOMON watch her as she gazes off into space, rather trance- like.) MRS. SMiTHERS {addressing Mrs. Bamberger) I don't see the point, do you ? MRS. SYKES {as if coming back to consciousness of her surroundings) I don't mind telling you, sence you're such old friends. Some folks wouldn't understand. But you will. MRS. BAMBERGER {gently) Sure, we will. Mis' Sykes. You jest tell us all about your weddin' anniversary and The Song of Solomon. MRS. SMITHERS / would certainly like to know, bein' as we all belong to the same congregation. MRS. SYKES Well, the church is got a lot to do with it. Not our new church. But the one that stood in its place forty-three years ago — so long ago— so long ago. Why, I was seventeen, then, and it was jest such a day as this, a beautiful day. It was a Sunday mornin', jest about this hour. . , . {Mrs, Sykes gains in spirit,becomingmore alert, less tired looking. A stray sun-shaft pierces the shadows and il'umines her face, somewhat enlivening her ashen complexion. She looks years younger^ I had known the Sykes since I was a child. One of the boys had alius been sorta nice to me, but it never meant nothin' to me. I didn't un- derstand. Our family and the Sykes family RED BUD WOMEN were at church that mornin'. One of the Sykes boys sat next to me. I liked him that mornin' as we sat there, listenin' to the sermon. Then came the long, silent prayer. They used to be longer than they are now. And we prayed on our knees, too. Jest when we got ready to pray — the awfulest thing happened! That Sykes boy opened a Bible and put it down right in front of me. He pointed to it, so friendly-like. It was The Song of Solomon. And it was Solomon Sykes that handed me that Bible. Of course, I should have closed it and gone on prayin'. But somethin' within me — > some sort of spirit — glued my eyes to the pages. I read on. I read on. It was a revelation. I grew from a girl to a woman there in that church, with my head bowed down as if in prayer. I dared not look up. I couldn't. I felt as if I wanted to walk out of that church with my eyes shut, and go to some place all by myself and think — and think. When the prayer was over, I sat -there as in a trance. I never heard another word of the services. At the end I got up, hopin' to get out easily, but knowin* that Sol was watchin' me every minute. When we got to the door, he came to me — there with my family around — and asked, jest as polite-like as if nothin' had happened, if he could see me home in his buggy. And I went. We rode off in silence — nary a word. But we didn't go_far. We came to the walnut grove — long sence cut down. We got out — I seemed to obey as if some power controlled me. We went and set down 14 SONG OF SOLOMON there in the woods. Then he popped the ques- tion right there. And I said I'd be his wife. I can't tell you all about it — that I will keep my own secret — maybe it wasn't so different from other proposals, but it alius seemed so to me. Because we talked about The Song of Solomon, He said it was as if writ for us. And so we were married — forty-three years ago. And every an- niversary I read The Song of Solomon. It takes me back over this long, long happiness; it brings back all that God has give me. He is good. He has been so good to me. And to my Sol and to my children. And to everybody. {Mrs. Bamberger is crying. Mrs. Smithers is in a nervous quandary^ Oh, friends, let us pray — let us pray. MRS. SMITHERS Not here in the yard, surely? MRS. SYKES Why not? All is God. God is all. MRS. SMITHERS {fidgeting) I think we'd better be goin'. Don't you. Mis' Bamberger? {JA.f^ Sykes gazes abstractedly into space, as if her mind has again gone back to that Sunday morning so many years ago. Mrs. Bamberger sits subdued, wiping her tears away. She then rises and goes over to Mrs. Sykes, putting her arm around her shoulder^ MRS. BAMBERGER , I understand, Mis' Sykes, / understand. {Mrs. Sykes looks at her appreciatively, realiz- es RED BUD WOMEN ing that here is a friend indeed^ a friend who un- derstands.) MRS. SYK.ES You understand? MRS. BAMBERGER Yes, yes, I understand. You arid me will talk about it again some time. But now, we must be goin'. {Mrs. Sykes comes out of her reminiscent mood quickly, becoming the solicitous hostess again.) MRS SYKES. I must get you a drink. Jest a minute. I'll fetch some. MRS. BAMBERGER No. Let me. {Mrs. Bamberger goes into kitchen, and returning with pail and tin cup, passes a drink to each.) MRS. SMITHERS Heared Mr. Sykes was gonna buy a tractor. MRS. SYKES {surprised) A tractor? Oh, no, that's a mistake. He ain't gonria buy one. Why, they cost over a thou- sand dollars. Besides, we got all those horses which we gotta have for cultivatin'. Tractor's mostly for plowin'. We couldn't have the horses standin' 'round eatin their heads off most of the year, jest to do the cultivatin' and odd jobs. A tractor ain't like horses. Ain't handy enough. Jest good for plowin'. MRS. SMITHERS Well, I heered my husband tell one of the hands i6 SONG OF SOLOMON that the salesman told him that Mr. Sykes had been talkin' pretty seriously. MRS. BAMBERGER (ttoiing Mrs. Sykes's worry) Oh, it's jest probably talk, nothin' else. Mis' Sykes orta know. MRS, SYKES I'd rather have a 'lectric lightin' plant, one of them new riggins. They don't cost as much, neither. Only about four hundred dollars. MRS. SMITHERS Yes, but that ain't a/i. The salesman told my husband that the wirin' cost a lot. And Mr. Smithers says to me, he says: "Well, even that ain't all. If I bought one of those rigs I'd have to put in a bathroom and all the plumbin'. I'd have to buy a 'lectric washin' machine/' he says. "And a 'lectric iron. And rig it up with a tank so's to have running water right in the house. And a sink in the kitchen. Well," my husband says, "It would be jest like livin' in the city." And I jest kept at him, so now he's gonna buy one right after harvest. No more lamps ! No more trapesin' outa doors in all kinds of weather to the pump. Runnin' water! And a bathtub ! And lights out in the yard! And at the barn! I tell you, it's great! {During this oration Mrs. Sykes listens eagerly, like a child thrilled at some marvelous descrip- tion of a coming circus.) MRS. SYKES Oh, it must be wonderful! 17 RED BUD WOMEN MRS, SMITHERS Yes, and I'd think you^d be the first to have one. Why, they're puttin' 'em in all over the coun- try. Here, you've got the finest farm in the neighborhood, fine fencin' and barns and cattle and an ottamobile and everything else. I say to Mrs. Smithers that I want to enjoy things as I go along. Shrouds ain't got no pockets. We can't take our money with us when we pass on. Why, I was readin' one of them advertisements, and it was headed: "Free Yourself From Household Drudgery." And it showed pitch- ers of how a 'lectric plant eased a body's work. And it's jest a little gasoline engine and some 'lectrical fixin's, all sorta small, an' it goes right in the cellar and runs itself. I think it's jest like magic. MRS. BAMBERGER We must be gittin' along. MRS. SMITHERS It makes me mad that city wimmen's got all sech and think nothin' of it. I tell you if them suffragettes that go paradin' around would jest spend their time and money helpin' their sisters on the farm, it would do more for us than votes ever can. We don't need to be trained to vote as much as our men folks need to be trained how to loosen up a little around the house. Why, the hoUse is always the very last thing — everything else comes first with the men. One gits in a livable house jest about when one's gittin' ready to lay down in a i8 SONG OF SOLOMON coffin. It ain't right! I says to Mr. Smithers, I says — MRS. BAMBERGER We must go, Mis' Smithers. MRS. SMITHERS Yes, we must go. " Good-bye, Mis' Sykes. You must come over an' see me. I want to tell you what / said to Mr. Smithers when he said to me that — MRS. BAMBERGER Good-bye, Mis' Sykes. I'm comin' in to see you again soon. Many happy returns 'of the day. Come, Mis' Smithers. MRS. SMITHERS Oh, I fergot. Yes, many happy returns of the day. Mis' Sykes. Good-bye. MRS. SYKES Good-bye, Mis' Bamberger. Good-bye, Mis' Smithers. Come again. {Mrs. Sykes sits down in the weather-beaten rock- ing-chair and rocks back and forth with a happy ex- pression. One doesn't know whether she is think- ing about The Song of Solomon or the electric plant. Finally she opens the Bible and begins reading again.) MRS. SYKES "Set me as a seal upon thine heart, and as a seal upon thine arm, for love is strong as death. My beloved is — " 19 RED BUD WOMEN (Mr. Sykes comes around the corner of the house with the mail. He is a little, old man, bent with years of labor. He is in work clothes.) MR. SYKES Hello, Mary, here's the mail. Not much. No letters from the children. Is dinner ready? {He notes the open Bible on her lap/) Ain't you readin' the Bible an awful lot lately, Mary? How do you find time? MRS. SYKES Dinner? Is it time? {She pauses.) Yes, I got it cookin'. Some things bilin'. {But she does not get up. She merely sits, while he looks over the mail, opening a newspaper.) Sol, do you know what day this is? MR. SYKES Friday, ain't it? MRS. SYKES Oh, I don't mean that. MR. SYKES {examining the date-line of the paper) Well, it's the ninth, then. MRS. SYKES Sol — Sol — have you fergot what day this is? MR. SYKES What's the matter? What do you mean ? MRS. SYKES This is our weddin' anniversary ! M^. SYKES Oh, that's what you mean. {Goes on reading the paper.) MRS. SYKES {wistfully) You didn't fergit, did you, Sol? (// dawns 20 SONG OF SOLOMON on her that he has forgotten, as he shows his lack of interest, his refuge in the newspaper. There is an air of futility, of helpless hopes, of resigna- tion. She shakes her head, folds her hands, and rocks, as Sol stolidly resists any sentimental ap- peal.) Sol — Sol — MR. SYKES {somewhat petulantly) Well — well, what is it now? MRS. SYKES You ain't gonna buy a tractor, are you? MR. SYKES Mebbe. MRS. SYKES Instead of a 'lectric-lightin' plant? MR. SYKES Yes, mebbe I am. MRS. SYKES Oh, Sol, we don't need a tractor like as we need the 'lectric plant. We orta have more home comforts now, while we're livin*. We ain't gotta make more money. We got all we need. Jest for us two. The children's all taken care of. MR. SYKES Them new-fangled notions ain't to my likin'. MRS. SYKES A 'lectric plant's no more new-fangled than a tractor. And the tractor costs three times as much as the 'lectric plant, and won't bring us half as. much comfort. We're gittin old, Sol. My heart is set on havin' some comforts before we pass on. We've — I can't go on this way — I jest can't. I ain't got the strength any more. 21 RED BUD WOMEN MR. SYKES We could get the 'lectric plant after we git the tractor. MRS. SYKES It's alius after, alius after. Seems I've heard that all my life. Alius after. And after ain't come yit. MR. SYKES Well, I've ordered the tractor: {This is a terrific surprise, a bitter disappoint- ment. It dashes the final hope to pieces. It recalls all its precedents. Mrs. Sykes is moved beyond words.) MRS. SYKES {chokingly) Sol— Sol— {He reads, knowing that he has ended his talk, secure in his brutality. Mrs. Sykes walks into the house in a daze — reeling somewhat, as if faint. As she enters the kitchen, restrained, choking sobs are heard. Around the comer of the house appears Rev. Kerns, the Red Bud shepherd of the Methodist floik. He is a pompous, oratorical person of about thirty-five, though rather direct and business-like.) MR. KERNS How'd do, Brother Sykes, how'd do? MR. SYKES Good mornin', Mr. Kerns. MR. KERNS I just met Sister Smithers — a fine woman, a real Christian soul. And . Sister Smithers said 22 SONG OF SOLOMON (unctuously) that this was your wedding an- niversary. MR. SYKES Yes, it is. MR. KERNS Well, that's fine. My congratulations. Brother Sykes, my congratulations. How many years is it now that you and Sister Sykes have been mated in the holy bonds of matrimony? MR. SYKES {embarrassed, for he does not know) Well, it's been a long time. Now let me see — you know I ain't good at figgers — let me see-:— my wife alius knows — well, I guess it's bin at least forty-five years. Or is it forty-four? MR. KERNS You have been an example to the community. Brother Sykes — you and Sister Sykes. We're proud of you. Yes, people look up to you. You have set a good example of how a man and wife should live. How satisfied you must feel, how — . . . MR. SYKES {flattered) Well, I alius believed in livin' accordin' to the Holy Writ. I— MR. KERNS If all our folks set an example like you — MR, SYKES I believe in old-fashioned religion and the Ten Commandments. I believe . . . {Unseen by the men, Mrs. Sykes comes to the door, and overhears the conversation.) MR. KERNS Yes, I know your beliefs, Mr. Sykes. But what 23 RED BUD WOMEN I wanted to see you about this morning in par- ticular — in addition to congratulating you — was the improvements on the church. I came to you first of all the deacons, knowing that you'd set an example. Your share, according to your standing, is about five hundred dollars. And I know you'll want to give it, as a sort of anniversary offering. MR. SYKES Five hundred dollars! Ain't that purty steep? MR. KERNS No, not for you. Think how it will impress the others. It will make them liberal, too. {Mrs. Sykes comes out into the yard, and to their notice^ Why, how'd do, Sister Sykes, congratu- lations! {She is pleased, looking at Mr. Sykes, thinking he hasJold the minister.) Sister Smithers just told me. {Mrs. Sykes is thoroughly dis- appointed.) MRS. SYKES Thanks ! MR. KERNS Brother Sykes has just promised — or as well as promised — I mean he has practically agreed — to give the church five hundred dollars for the improvements. And I said this was a happy day to do it — sort of an anniversary offering. MRS. SYKES Sol, kin you afford it? MR. SYKES {proudly) Yes, I kin afford it. I'll do it. {To the minister.) An' you make the others give, too. Let's make the church finer than ever. I believe in 24 SONG OF SOLOMON a house of worship as is a credit to the com- munity. And I donate this five hundred dol- lars in honor of our weddin' anniversary. {This afterthought he directs to his wifcy ex- pecting her to be thrilled by it and forget her other ideas. In his mind it justifies the selection of the tractor.) MR. KERNS Oh, thank you, Brother Sykes. Thank you. Sister Sykes. It is a noble spirit. That is true love. How happy it must make you, Sister Sykes, to have such a fine husband — such a true mate. Thank you, thank you. I must spread the good news. I must hasten to the others. Thank you again. And now, good-bye, my friends. Good-bye. You have done a good deed to-day. And God is with you. Good-bye. MR. SYKES Good-bye, Mr. Kerns. {To Mrs. Sykes, who has sunk into the chair.) Say "Good-bye," Mary. MRS. SYKES {sadly, monotonously) Good-bye, good-bye. {Mr. Kerns goes out.) MR. SYKES Ain't you proud of my anniversary present, Mary? MRS. SYKES {meditatively, but not in reply) The five hundred dollars to the church — the thousand dollars for the tractor — nothin', riothin' for me. No, I ain't proud. I alius come after everything else. And I'm feared after 25 RED BUD WOMEN is too late — too late. Every time I git robbed. Somethin' comes along and takes things away from me jest as I am gittin' ready for them. MR. SYKES {disappointed and cranky) I can't understand you, Mary. Are you still thinkin' about that 'lectric-lightin' plant and all the fixin's for the hous^.^' Might as well put it ofF'n your mind, fer we can't do all that this year. Mebbe next. {Mrs. Sykes sits rocking nervously in her chair. She pulls her Bible out from underneath her apron. She acts as if jhe is about to read it. But in- decision is in control. She looks helplessly about, even frantically. Her eyes wander crazily hither and thither. Mr. Sykes, giving a gesture of "What's the use?" goes into the house. Mrs. Sykes' s face twitches and her paleness seems to turn a gray- green. Some sun-shaft or reflection silhouettes her shrunken face and faded hair in ghastly hid- eousness. Her slow rocking becomes faster, then diminishes. Slowly she crumples and shrinks in the chair; seeming to collapse. Suddenly there is a low, chuckling, fiendish gurgle, a silly laugh — a horrible, inarticulate, sputtering sound. As if electrocuted, her body stiffens, hurls itself up, spins around. A blood-curdling scream — that age- old announcement of departing reason. A pene- trating, marrow-freezing scream, ending in the choking gurgle. She falls to her knees, then to her elbows. She beats the ground as she moans. Her thin hair falls over her scrawny neck.) Curtain 26 SHIVAREE PERSONS IN THE PLAY John, the Groom HuLDA, the Bride Sim I Sbivaree was presented for the first time at the Cameo Theatre, Chicago, February 23, 1922. SHIVAREE It is a soft, June night on an Iowa farm. Earlier in the evening there has been a wedding in the neighborhood. Many a June has passed since such an im- portant marriage. The parents of the bride and groom own the largest farms in the county — farms which, through years of labor and thrift, have been developed from the clearings of pioneers into the highly productive acreages of today, the showplaces of Red Bud township. As if it were a royal match, uniting two vast domains, John PofF's father — ^John is the groom — has always felt that such a marriage was advanta- geous. He has seen to it that the land he has helped John to buy adjoins a rich "eighty" owned by Hulda's father. In fact, John's father has super- vised personally the amorous adventures of his son, reducing them to a safe minimum which would msure John's inevitable selection of the desirable Hulda. John has inherited much of this canniness and has grown to manhood rather more practical than romantic. Yet this spirit of father and son is no different from that of their neighbors, an inheritance passed on through generations of struggle with the soil and with the capricious ele- ments of nature. Hulda's father, too, has wel- comed the idea of such an alliance. He knows that John is a first-rate farmer, one who will be 29 RED BUD WOMEN interested always in a growing bank account rather than anything else. John has built the new farmhouse — a square, boxlike structure, devoid of architectural grace. He and Hulda have furnished it, but they have depended largely upon the wedding gifts of parents, relatives, and friends, which accounts for the hodge-podge of interior adornment. Throughout the preparation of this future home, John's chief interest has been concentrated on barns and machinery, fields and stock. He has been perfectly willing to let "the wimmen-folks" fuss with the interior decoration of the house. The furniture is mostly Golden Oak, which stands out glowingly against the white plastered walls, later, when soiled, to be papered with some of that "pretty rose design, to match the carpet," as Hulda has suggested. There is a stark barrenness about the room-s, due partly to the glaring walls and partly to the lack of curtains, which will not be put up until fall, "because they ketch the dust so," The green shades stand out boldly. However, the bedroom is cosier, for it is decked in flowers. Had there been any "set pieces," one might have mistaken the elaborate display as belonging to a funeral, flowers being usually more plentiful in Red Bud when folks are "laid away" than when they are married. The bedroom boasts a massive brass bed, and the dresser has a "swell front," according to the description in a prominent mail-order catalogue. On a table is an acetylene lamp with a shade of. 30 SHIVAREE pressed red glass, to resemble a rose — though of cabbage-size proportion. Outside, noise and din are heard, a typical countryside charivari — the culmination of nuptial ceremonies near Red Bud. The bedroom evidently has an entrance door from the outside, for it opens with a crash, as the bride and groom enter, he first. The crowd surges to the door. John slams it shut and locks it. The noise increases and continues, as the revellers bring their cele- bration to a climax. John is rather small, rather thin, rather leathery in complexion, with none of the brilliant coloring noted in Hulda. He wears the "conventional black," with a narrow, white bow-knot tie. His hair is carefully plastered down. In fact, John might easily be mistaken for other than an Iowa farmer. One can almost imagine him as a prim bookkeeper in the big city, until he identifies himself with the soil by his speech. Then one notes his large hands and his slight stoop and ambling stride, and one pictures him following the plow and plodding along over the soft furrows. His face has little expression. He is endeavoring nobly to rise to the occasion, but it is difficult. He wishes the "whole durned thing" were over, for he has lost several precious days from the fields. Hulda is gowned in wedding splendor— a strap- ping woman, heroic in figure, with dangling hands. She walks like a giantess, swinging her awkward arms. She is much taller than John— a big woman in every way. 31 RED BUD WOMEN Strangely, she has none of the calm that usually accompanies such a figure. She is flushed with excitement, but the situation — the escape from the celebration — seems to quiet her. She assumes a questioning look however, gazing around the room and glancing nervously at her new husband. She is perplexed. The safety of the crowded day is past. As though she had forgotten to pre- pare for such an occasion as this, she apparently does not know what to do next. Furthermore, she is exhausted. She would like to sit down and take off her shoes — they are so tight. She has suffered all day, shifting her weight first to one foot, then to the other, yearning, even during the ceremony, for the time when she could test her aching feet. Such a very large woman and such a very little man offer a strange contrast as they stand there for a moment, listening to the "shivaree," em- barrassed, hesitant, confused. JOHN {jubilantly) Wow, but that was a humdinger! I thought I'd die laughin' the way they carried on. HULDA {slowly, solemnly) I wish they'd go. JOHN What fer? {He flits around the room, thoroughly excited by the events of the evening. Hulda goes to a chair and sits down stiffly, as though she were a caller in a strange house. She glantes surreptitiously 32 SHIVAREE around the room — but most of the time gazes into space.) JOHN . Why, that was the gol-durndest shivaree — gosh, did you ever hear such noise? And the way the boys cut up! I tell you, Huldie, we orta be mighty proud. I never seen the likes. Didn't you think it was grand.'' HULDA No, I don't like shivarees. JOHN {surprised) Don't like shivarees! What do you mean? The finest ever given in Red Bud County ? Aw, you're jest done up. HULDA That ain't it. I don't like 'em. JOHN Why not? HULDA I'm feared you wouldn't understand, but — {Just then some of the merrymakers came to the window and play rat-a-tat-tat. Hulda starts up "nervously J leaving her seat to walk about. A ges- ture of dislike is apparent as she shuts out the noise by putting her hands over her ears. John stalks proudly to the window and pulls down the shade. Then the other shades. He laughs and is delighted with this demonstration. From now on the charivari party is heard to depart in its caravan of flivvers, with noises and clatter grad- ually diminishing. Hulda takes her seat again. John comes over and stands in front of her.) 33 RED BUD WOMEN HULDA Well— JOHN Well— {There is silly confusion as Hulda hesitates to continue talking about the charivari. She rises and they divert themselves by walking around and examining the furniture, which in reality they know intimately, having chosen it so carefully. John ventures to whistle an air from some ancient tune. He removes his coat. Hulda looks at herself in the mirror of the dresser^ HULDA Well— JOHN Well— HULDA Lizzie Smith made me so mad, I cud'ave kilt her! The very idee! Her givin' me that little, puny canary in a cage as a weddin' present !- The idee ! And her sayin' that birdie represented me and I could be happy like it and sing all the time. That pore little bird! JOHN Well — {He is embarrassed and stammers?) Ain't you my little honey bird? HULDA {changing from her thoughtful attitude) Fer the lands sakes, John, do I look like a canary? Don't you see that she was jest tryin' to hurt my feelin's? {She sniffles and is on the verge of crying^ I know I'm big, but T don't 34 SHIVAREE want no one to be rubbin' it in all the time. I'll git even with her, you jest wait. JOHN Aw, fergit it, Huldie. Come an' give me a kiss. {He goes over near her. Hulda now weeps loudly and convulsively^ What's the matter? HULDA J-J-John,- 1 gotta — Oh, golly, I'm so miserable. I gotta tell you somethin'. JOHN Tell me somethin'? Now? (fle backs away surprised and eyes her with in- increasing wonder and, later, fear, as he drops into a chair.) HULDA Yes, I gotta say it now — and it's gonna make you mad ! {She stops sobbing suddenly and crosses over to John to tower above him as a mighty and violent female, outraged and abused, coming into full consciousness and power for the first time.) You runt! You sawed-ofF runt, you! Think you've got me, don't you? Well, you ain't. I ain't your wife, and never will be. I ain't gonna be no canary. I know your trick, you. I know jest the kinda man you are. And my father. And your father. You're all a bunch of cattle-breeders, you are. And women breeders. But you ain't gonna catch me' Well, I've fooled all of you. All you slick men. All you tricky Holstein fellers. And all these women gossips. Thdy said I'd never marry— that no 3S RED BUD WOMEN man 'ud have me. I've showed 'em. But, Lordie, look what I got! JOHN (rising from his chair and trying to placate her^ yet keeping at a distance) Now, Huldicj now, Huldie — HULDA {apparently not paying the least attention to him) This is as much my farm as it is yourn. Oh, I know how you men got together — I know what Paw promised you. What you wanted was this piece of land worth |200 per, not me. That's the way every girl around here is kinda auctioned off. Look upon me as a prize head of cattle, don't you ? Sorta thrown in with the land. Thought I was gonna be meek and tickled to death to jest get a man, didn't you? Well, I've saw what happened to my Maw and my sister and every woman around here. You men! You git out in the barnyard and talkHolsteins and wimmen over at the same time. The wonder is, since you gotta association for your cattle, you ain't gotta association for your wimmen. I ain't gonna be no prize breeder! {She has reached a declamatory effect^ and with the last sentence has come to the center of the stage, where she stands in stark grandeur, arms raised high over her head, fists clenched — an avenging rural goddess. Though we do not appreciate it at first, she commences here an evolutionary process in composure and even in appearance, emerging from yokel awkwardness into a vi- vacious, passionate, militant Modern; yet she 36 SHIVAREE makes the transformation with such gradual and careful steps that we are hardly aware of defi- nite changes.) JOHN Why, Huldie— Why, Huldie— that ain't re- spectable! (Hulda still ignores him. She goes over to the bird cage and gazes at the canary.) HULDA {tenderly) No wonder you're happy, little birdie. You ain't a human b^in'. You ain't got all these miseries. Why, you're freer'n me. You ain't gotta worry. There's nothin' to break your heart. You don't have to think and think until you nearly go mad. Folks are kind to you. Just look 'ut us wimmen! Nary one of us is shut up in a cage like yourn — but it's a cage all the same, a bigger, crueler cage — one that kills just as surely. A livin' death! We have hearts and brains — we have to think, and we have these awful heart feelin's. You can be happy. And I'm gonna make you happier than you've ever bin. I'm gonna let you out — let you go free— you can fly all over everywhere, jest as you please. The idee of folks cagin' up you pretty little birds that God made for out- doors ! {She opens the little cage door and reaches , in to bring out the canary. She fondles it and holds it up close to her face. Then she changes her mind and puts it back into the cage.) No, no, not tonight. I'll let you stay here in your 37 RED BUD WOMEN little home 'til mornin'. You might be skeered o' the dark. But in the mornin', I'll let you out and you can fly away. (John, in the meantime, has been drawing nearer, his curiosity aroused by her taking the bird out of the cage. He looks at her grinning/y as she pets the bird, thinking that she has softened, and that her fit of heroics was merely a bridal nervousness. He figures that she will quiet down now. He drapes his arm on her shoulder. She stands motionless. Then she calmly strides away, leaving his flexed and suspended arm to flop down ungracefully^ JOHN Now, Huldie, ain't you tired."* Ain't you gonna stop gittin' mad ? I ain't mad at what you said. I fergive you, knowin' as how excitin' it's all bin. Gee, warn't that a whizz-bang shivaree? And I betcha Sim is gonna pop the question to Milly tonight. I jest betcha. HULDA Pore Milly! An' I jest betcha she's willin', the pore fool, to be a slave. But I ain't. Come here, John. Set down! Let's talk quietly. I ain't mad. I never was mad at you in particular; it's jest all you men. It ain't your fault you're in the fancy stock business. Your father is. It sorta runs in this part of loway. Now let's talk. " {^hey are seated in two adjoining chairs, rather stiffly posed. John is in a quandary. It is hardly his idea of his wedding night. Before he sits 38 SHIVAREE down, he goes over and turns down the lamp a bit, all in a rather sheepish manner; he draws his chair closer.) HULDA Now, John — {A long pause.) JOHN Well, Huldie— {A flivver approaches. The motor is turned off. A knock is heard at the door, to their surprise. Both arise; Hulda turns up the lamp. Going to the door, John asks, "Who is there}" He opens the door at the muffled reply. He admits Sim and Milly, both of whom are grinning and simpering and holding hands. Sim is tall, like Hulda. Milly is short, like John. Milly leads Sim over to Hulda and pipes forth in a shrill voice.) MILLY He's popped! {Both Sim and Milly titter. John is embarrassed, not knowing what Hulda will say. But he grins, too. All three watch Hulda, who reverts suddenly to her "company" front.) HULDA He's popped? Why, Sim! JOHN Hurray! {Hulda puts her arm around John, much to his surprise, and they enact a lovey-dovey, spoony companionship, such as expected of any Red Bud couple on this momentous occasion. John, en- 39 RED BUD WOMEN couragedy becomes braver and gives her a resoundj ing kiss. And Sim, not to be outdone, does like- wise with Milly.) JOHN You got a mighty fine gal. An' she's healthy- like, same as Huldie. Didja ask her during the shivaree? SIM Yes, and she was so tickled. You know, folks alius said Milly was sorta romantic-like — she's alius readin' them novels. I don't think it's good fer a woman to git so many queer idees, but mebbe until she's married and sorta settled down, a woman's gotta go through that spell, jest like a young colt friskin' about. MILLY Why, Sim! Comparin' me to a colt! HULDA Aw, don't mind him, Milly, he didn't mean nothin'. MILLY Well, 'pears to me that he's suddenly awful serious-like. SIM Now that courtship's over, we gotta commence to think serious-like, ain't we? MILLY Oh, Simmie, how can you say that. I ain't been engaged but a hour! {Milly is rather put out and inclined to pout. She goes over to Hulda, while John and Sim edge ojff toward the kitchen.) 40 SHIVAREE JOHN {addressing Sim) I got somethin' to show you, Sim. {Winks at Sim, indicates the flask in his pocket, and ushers him out. Milly gives a furtive glance at the disappearing men, and comes over close to Hulda and asks in a hushed voice.) MILLY Skairt? HULDA No — are you? {Hulda says the "No" with an air of defiance, as Milly glances at the kitchen door. The "Are you}" comes with less feeling.) MILLY No, seein' as you're not. 'Course, it ain't my weddin' night — ^like yourn. But I remember how skeered Mame was on her weddin' night. Most girls are, ain't they? And do you remem- ber Grace Brown, how queer-like she acted, fer days and days ? HULDA Well, Milly, don't you be feared, now. {As to herself, in a vehement manner.) It ain't right fer men to skeer women that way. MILLY Why, Huldie, how you talk! HULDA Oh, don't pay any attention to me. Be skeered, if you wanta. It'd be more natural — most wimmen like to be sorta skairdish — that's why Sim compared you to a colt. 41 RED BUD WOMEN MiLLY {in a confidential tone) Huldie, I wouldn't talk about bein' skeered,but I walked under a ladder this very mornin', and you know what bad luck that is. I jest made up my mind this mornin' that Sim would never ask me, and I'd be an old maid. I jest worried and worried all day. You know as- how Jim Fuller died, right after walkin' under a ladder. I tell you, Huldie, it's a bad sign!' Jest as bad as meetin' a funeral. HULDA No worse'n hearin' bells toll all the time in your head, when there ain't no bells ringin'. MILLY I never beared of that. Is it such a bad sign ? And who's ever beared 'em ? {She notes Hulda's nervousness.) Not you, Hulda? {Before Hulda can answer, John and Sim enter from the kitchen, as Sim hands a flask back to John, who puts it in his pocket. Both smack their lips. They are laughing and talking as they enter ^ JOHN Sure, I'm gonna go to the sale tomorrow. I want two more draught mares. SIM Stop by for me, won't you, John ? JOHN Yes, I'll be passin' by about ten. {Sim goes over to Milly and flippantly chucks her under the chin.) 42 SHIVAREE SIM {toMilly) Ain't mad, are you? MILLY Now, Sim, don't keep carrin' on. 'Course I ain't mad. Not on sech a night as this. A girl ain't engaged but onct. HULDA {sharply) Not hereabouts, at least. JOHN Now, Huldie— SIM Gee, Hulda, you're sharp with your tongue. You're alius puttin' idees in people's minds. I'd jest like to ast you if girls get engaged and un- engaged, time and time agin, in other parts. I think that 'ud be wicked — keepin' men guessin' all the time. I think a feller'd oughta know, else how's he gonna be sure of a woman as 'ud stick by him? MILLY Now don't you git mad. 'Pears to me we're actin' sorta strange-like tonight, gettin' in all these arguments. {She soothes Sim, caressing him and leading him to a chair and getting him to sit down.) Now, let's all talk nice. Let's talk about marriage! HULDA Let's talk about somethin' else. MILLY Why? Why not? {To John.) ^You wanti. don't you, John? JOHN- No. What's there to talk about marriage? 43 RED BUD WOMEN Hulda and me is hitched — now it's up to Sim and you. The less talkin' about it, 'pears to me, the better. I say {addressing Sim), let the wimmen-folks talk about marriage 'mong theirselves — but even that takes time away from their work. It ain't a decent subject to talk about, jest among folks, as though one was talkin' about the weather, er crops, er cattle, er the county fair, er ottamobiles, er the Scrip- ture. SIM That's the way I feel about it, too, John. Wimmen, as are busy, ain't got time fer all that sorta talk about marriage. Anyhow, it's between a man and his wife — nobody else. {Milly is assenting to this talk, taking it meekly, as is the custom among her kind, but Hulda, sitting at the back of the group, shows defiant disgust at such preachment.) MILLY Now, you're serious again. I don't know what's come over us — we were havin' sech a good time durin' the shivaree — an' now we git so serious- like every time we start to talk. HULDA Well, wouldn't you like somethin' to eat? I think there's some cake in the kitchen. Shall I git some.^ SIM Oh, no, we can't stay. We jest snuck back from the shivareers, seein' the light still burnin'. And thinkin' you'd wanta know. 44 SHIVAREE {But they suddenly fotget Hulda and John and commence to spoon in rural ardor. Whenever they glance at John and Hulda, they find the latter in- dulging in the same fervid -pastime. But when they are not looking, Hulda sits stiff as a statue^ MiLLY {as Sim gives her such iz squeeze of violence that she gasps and chokes) Why, Sim! Simmiel {This creates such a commotion that she rises and gives him a playful slap and then rushes to the door, as he flutters after her. They stop at the door and grin and inspecfthe nuptial chamber meaningly. Milly runs to Hulda and surprises her with a kiss. Sim fishes out a baby's rattle from his pocket and gives it to John with a hearty slap on the back and a loud guffaw. Then Milly and Sim leave. Hulda pushes John away with vigor and stalks around the room, lioness-like.) HULDA She's jest a plumb damn fool — and there's millions like her. Lettin' some man, jest be- cause he is a man, fool her Jnto thinkin' she's won a prize. Wish't I'd had the nerve to tell her to go onna strike! Like as I am. If all us farm wimmen got together and organized, we'd make men-folks treat us decent. The idee ! No woman orta have twelve children. Those city wimmen are right. .Men can't fool them. Men jest eat outa their hands. But around here, it's jest t'other way. {She goes over to John, who has sunk down in a chair from ex- 6 45 RED BUD WOMEN haustion and surprise at this new onslaught. She shakes her fist in the face of this apparently harmless little man.) You brute ! (He makes a move of withdrawal and shrinkage from this furious female, while she stalks back and forth with clenched fists and in fighting attitude. He slips out the flask of booze from his pocket and takes a big gulp. This he repeats during the next few minutes, as opportunity presents itself.) The time's comin' when men like you and Sim and the rest are all gonna meet yer equals — marriage ain't gonna be so lop-sided. Farm wimmen ain't gonna be dumb anima!ls no more'n city wimmen. JOHN Now, Huldie, I can't stand all this — you're goin' too fer — what's come over you so suddent. I never knew you had sech spells. I — HULDA You shut up, you! I'm gonna do the talkin'. You done all the tafFyin' you're ever gonna do with me. I'm gonna boss this shebang. You watch me. I — JOHN {timidly) You're not! HULDA {furiously) I am! JOHN Ain't / your lawful husband? Didn't you promise during the ceremony to obey? You act as if you don't know a wife's duties. You ain't meek. HULDA Obey? Meek? Obey you} 'Course I'm not — 46 SHIVAREE ain't I makin' it clear? Then I'll say it agin: I'm gonna be the boss of this farm — you've done all the bossin* you'll ever do with me. I'm boss now. JOHN {more bravely) You're notl HULDA I ami {With final decision, as if closing the sub- ject.) JOHN Then I'll leave you. I ain't gonna be run by no woman, by God! I|ULDA Then ^t out, if you wanta. The sooner, the better. I guess I can run this farm, without the like o' you. JOHN {pratorically) But what'U people say? {This strikes Hulda at first as a terrible blow. She falters in her militant striding — she looks at him horror-stricken. Andy triumphantly, he notes the efiect. His liquor has made him braver, more loquacious. Hulda sinks in a chair.) Yes, what'U people say? If I up and leaves you on our bridal night? What'U folks think about you — what 'udyou think of a bride whose man up and left her softa mysterious-like — never sayin' a word. For I'd never tell what's wrong with you. I'd never tell about this here spell of yourn. Whatta you think people'd say about you? HULDA I know. All the mean, lyin' people. I know. And you know. 47 RED BUD WOMEN JOHN Well, they wouldn't blame me. HULDA No, you'd be a hero. I'd be the prize leper around here — this here farm'd be a leper's island — no one would come near me. The union of mothers would be agin me. The union of Holstein breeders would be agin me. I'd be called crazy. And I tell you it's all wrong — all wrong. It's slavery. I'm caged in a prison of gossiping tongues — shootin' out at me like poison snakes JOHN Now you're talkin' sense. You'd better think of what folks'd say. Some 'ud think you had a pheezical disease. You know what folks say. {Hulda rises and throws off the pall of this situ- uation — regaining controL) HULDA Well, I don't care. I don't give a dern what folks say — all the people in this country — all the people in the world. Or the minister. You can't skeer me no more, John. Fer a minnut, you nearly got me — but, pshaw, let gossips talk. Tongues wag anyhow. JOHN You mean you don't care what folks say about you or me? HULDA {decisively) No! 48 SHIVAREE (John recognizes the sudden turn against him. The liquor has given him courage.) JOHN Then, by God, I'll tame you another way! {He takes a revolver from a bureau drawer and goes over to Hulda and places it at her head. She does not move an inch — but stands like a martyr, ready for execution.) Now, we'll have an end to this craziness. You damned trouble-maker, you — you — I'll show you who's boss here. All you're gabbin's gotta stop. All your suffra- gittin.' HULDA {soothingly) Now, John — JOHN' Shut up! I ain't foolin'. HULDA I ^as. That was all put on. {John relaxes from his melodramatic posture. She becomes kittenish and appealing, a farm siren.) JOHN Then you never meant none of it? HULDA Nope, was jest foolin'. I didn't know what else to do. I'm jest so embarrassed, JOHN And you'll love and obey me? HULDA Sure. I think you're grand. 49 RED BUD WOMEN JOHN Then let's fergit it all. Let's make up. Come, give me a kiss. {They apparently make up with great gusto. Dur- ing the embrace Hulda sniffs as though she had just detected the alcoholic perfume, and feels the flask, as if she had discovered it for the first time.) HULDA What's that? Whiskey? Go on — have some more. Ain't you been havin' some all evenin'? Let me have a drop. I'm so tired — jest plumb done up. {John takes a big swig. He shows that his earlier drinks have had their effect. Hulda makes believe at imbibing. She urges him to take more. He becomes very maudlin, hanging on to Hulda. Strangely enough he still carries the revolver, bandying it in his limp hand. During the gyra- tions of affection, it suddenly goes off, at a harmless angle. Hulda faints in his arms and sinks to the floor — a vast human lump, flat on her back. John takes a big drink, then another. He is thoroughly drunk.) JOHN Oh, my God, I've gone and killed her! {He stoops down and lays his head on her breast and weeps in inebriated alarm.) My poor little Hul- die! {He feels her heart — her chest — to be certain that she is really dead.) She's dead! {He works her arms up and down, as though she had been drowned.) God, what a loss ! Jest like the time that bull died 50 SHIVAREE on me. Oh, what kin I do? Who can I marry now? Now — I'll be hanged fer killin' her! I might jest as well die, too. {He lies down beside her, resting his head carefully on her outstretched arm. He lets the pistol thump to the floor. He wipes the tears from his face. He shuts his eyes.) {A bell tolls far off — so faintly that one barely catches its sound. Hulda recovers slowly from her faint, then sits up suddenly. John^s head slides to the floor; he is dead drunk. Hulda looks at him pityingly — the nasty thing — she edges away from him quietly. She crawls over to the dresser — takes out an everyday dress. She re- moves her wedding dress, laying it lengthwise on one side of the bed. She puts on her everyday dress. All the time she eyes John in his drunken and snoring slumber. When preparations for depar- ture are complete, she goes over and drags him to the bed — lifts him onto it — beside the wedding dress. Then she goes quickly to the door, ready to escape, giving John a final glance. Exultant in her free- dom, she opens the door — but suddenly runs back across the room, snatches the bird cage with the surprised occupant — and rushes out.) (Curtain) 51 MISS MYRTLE SAYS "YES" PERSONS IN THE PLAY Miss Myrtle, the Village Milliner Pansy, her Younger Sister Mrs. Upjohn, a Gossip Mr. Fishback, a Farmer Miss Mvrtle Says "Yes" was presented for the first time at the Cameo Theatre, Chicago, February 23, 1922. MISS MYRTLE SAYS "YES" It is always a particularly trying time in any millinery shop just before the "Easter Opening." The stock gets so low. Only the unpopular hats remain, pathetic mementos of rejection. Everything seems so dreary. There is always a lull in business while everyone waits for the new styles. The Bon Ton in Red Bud was going through this annual period of depression — the Easter crates had not even arrived yet. Miss Pansy, who with her sister, is the arbiter of Red Bud fashion, always thrills at the coming of the crates and revels in opening them. As she stands there beside a table, listening intently to Mrs. Upjohn, a faithful customer, who pauses at the door, one imagines that Miss Pansy is very anxious to enliven the drab table displays with the fresher offerings which will ar- rive soon. Winter still lingers in Red Bud, but spring has not been delayed in Pansy's heart. This is evi- denced by her costume. Although her old, brown serge skirt is reminiscent of the passing season, she has on a new waist. It is decorated with much cheap lace. Her toilette is accented further by a necklace of gaudy glass beads. She has just read in a fashion journal that beads are the vogue. The wall-cases are as uninteresting as the table displays. Even the window trim proclaims that 55 RED BUD WOMEN neither of the sisters has bestowed much at- tention upon it for several weeks. Miss Pansy realizes that a "spring cleaning" , is due. It always precedes the coming of the Easter shipment. The bell over the door, which tinkles the arrival of a customer, is so very dusty. And the furniture needs polishing. It would not be a bad idea to have the walls papered, if it doesn't cost too much. The rear wall, particularly, needs attention — over the door leading to the rear workroom the paper has been peeling off all winter. Miss Pansy has been itemizing mentally the routine of "spring cleaning" while listening to Mrs. Upjohn, who glances from Pansy to the street, intent both on interesting P9,nsy with the latest gossip and keeping an eye on the passers-by. Mrs. Upjohn is the village gossip. She is here on one of her frequent visits, dispensing and gath- ering the latest "grape-vine" news. She is tall and gaunt — kittenish, however, and ever attempt- ing to maintain her girlish charm. One must listen to Mrs. Upjohn, for she gives forth daily what the "Star" never dares to print, even weekly. She is ably assisted as a sort of later- day town-crier by her husband. Will Upjohn, the proprietor of The Elite Tonsorial Parlor, which is just down the street from The Bon Ton. Mrs. Upjohn is on her way there now with the daily supply of fresh towels — a journey that per- mits of many way-stations, for she goes down one strfeet, then around the square, then home by another street. S6 MISS MYRTLE SAYS "YES" As she hovers near the door, one realizes that she is paying "more attention to Pansy than usual and less to the events of the street. She has long been expecting something roman- tic of Pansy, who, now thirty and on the verge of spinsterhood, has so far provided no juicy tid- bit, for this village newsmonger. "Those Clark sisters," Mrs. Upjohn would say, "certainly orta get married," and while women would agree with her sympathetically, no man seemed to be interested. Miss Myrtle, of course, was really not considered any longer, having sunk into the touch-me-not category of "old maid," but Miss Pansy had long been a candidate for a match. Mrs. Upjohn had hoped that Fred Snellenberger could be in- terested, and Miss Pansy had been invited to several "socials" by the Upjohns, in the hope that Fred could be paired off with Pansy — but some- how or other nothing ever came of it. On this particular morning, Mrs. Upjohn has been relating a strange, story to Miss Pansy, who apparently would rather not hear it. MRS. UPJOHN {confidentially, while Miss Pansy listens tensely) . . . and the sexton saw a light out in the cemetery — it was jest after dark, and he went out there to the Pierson's lot and he nearly caught 'em right there. The man musta bin smokin'. That gave them away. The sexton wasn't quick enough — he couldn't tell exactly who they were. {Miss Pansy relaxes her tensity, 57 RED BUD WOMEN though it is quickly roused again.) But folks sorta have an idea who the couple was. {Looking closely at Miss Pansy, as ij expecting to find a sign of guilt.) MISS PANSY {with nervous nonchalance) Well, there ain't no park in Red Bud. MRS. UPJOHN {tartly) That don't make it right. MISS PANSY A girl as works at the hotel, waitin' on tables, ain't got no place to take her beau, except to the cemetery or the deppo. MRS. UPJOHN Who said it was a girl from the hotel ? MISS PANSY Well, I was just guessin'. Seems like waitin' on table's the only way to meet a man. — here in Red Bud. MRS. UPJOHN {horrified) But drummers? Most of 'em ain't nice. Mr. Upjohn says — MISS PANSY I'd make 'em nice. MRS. UPJOHN Well, I don't know what things are comin' to. Seems to me the young folks are jest broke loose. Have you heard about that Burber girl and that travelin' man? They say she was gonna elope with him, but her mother found it out and sicked the Jedge on her darter — you know Mrs. Burber works at the Jedge's — and he druv the travelin' man out of town. And it 58 MISS MYRTLE SAYS "YES" got all around — you know ho>v people will gos- sip — I tell you drummers are terrible men. Everything is terrible nowadays. Why, t'other night Mr. Upjohn and me went to the movies and I saw one of them vampires squirming around — oh, it was positively awful — I think them pitchers oughtn't be shown. Think of the example! Some of the boys put their arms right on the backs of the girl's seats, right there at the theatre, something terrible. I jest felt so embarrassed. Why, when I was a little younger, if a young man went so far as that — well, I tell you things are jest ^ttin' worse and worse. Now I — MISS PANSY Don't you jest love the movies? MRS. UPJOHN Yes, but I tell you them actors and actresses live terrible lives. Why, I read in the papers about-,one actress that — But we're gittin' ofF'n the subject. {With searching directness.) Where was you on the night of that cemetery affair? {Miss Pansy is startled and embarrassed.) {The door from the rear room opens. Miss Myrtle enters. She is considerably older than her sister — in_ facty she ii forty, which is very old in Red Bud for a "maiden lady." She is thin, a frail icicle — tall, spare, and angular. Her features are sharp and her face has lost what kindliness it may have once possessed. Her expres- 59 RED BUD WOMEN sion is acid. Her voice is nasal, chill, and stac- cato. Of late years Miss Myrtle has retired to the workroom almost completely, leaving Miss Pansy to deal with the customers. Also, Miss Myrtle has been burdened with the financial responsi- bilities of the little establishment, finding it in- creasingly difficult each year to make ends meet. Her hair is gray and thin. Her costume is an ancient wool dress of simple and nondescript cut. She carries a hat which she has been working on and deposits it on a tabled MRS. UPJOHN Howdy, Miss Myrtle. MISS MYRTLE How'd do, Mrs. Upjohn. MRS. UPJOHN I was just tellin* your sister I must run along. I jest dropped in to ask when the spring things are comin' in. Easter openin' purty soon? MISS MYRTLE Well, any time now. Yes, soon. I expect a shipment this week. {She takes up a hat and looks it over, then car- ries it to the rear room.) MRS. UPJOHN As I was saying, you mustn't keep puttin' ofF gittin' married. You're thirty, now, ain't you! I tell you, I'd rather be Mrs., Upjohn, even if he is sorta rheumatic, than be called an old 60 MISS MYRTLE SAYS "YES" maid! Now, Pansy, you mustn't wait like your sister. You're too pretty. Jest make your mind up not to be an old maid, and the man will come along. You orta land a good man — say, don't these millinery drummers sorta shine up to you ? I know there ain't many men here in Red Bud. And most' of them are lookin' for regular farm hands. But you jest get busy — find your man. {Confidentially.) Ain't I seen you talkin' to Mr. Fishback? MISS PANSY {frightened, lest her sister hear) Ss-s-shj be careful! MRS. UPJOHN Well, he's not to be sneezed at, even if he is a widower. I can remember the day when your sister thought he was purty nice. If you can hook him — I say, do it. It's better'n waitin' and waitin'. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, you know. And if you don't want to have folks alius sorta wonderin' if you're gonna be an old maid like your sister, I say, sorta edge up to him. MISS PANSY Please let's not talk about it now — with my sister in the next room. Some other time. Please not now. MRS. UPJOHN Well, she .oughtn't to be jealous. She oughtn't to stand in your way. 'Pears to me, she's al- ways been skeerin' your men off. {Miss Myrtle enters.) 6 6i RED BUD WOMEN MRS. UPJOHN Well, I really must go. What you say about •the new styles is most interestin'. Miss Pansy. I'll be in to your spring openin'. {She bustles towards the door.) Good-bye. MISS MYRTLE Good-bye. MISS PANSY {who acts frightened and as if she must talk further with Mrs. Upjohn) Oh, wait, Mrs. Upjohn, I'll walk up your way. I have to go to the post-office to get our mail. Wait just a minute. {She puts on her things quickly, while Mrs. Upjohn lingers at the door.) Anything fer me to git. Myrtle? MISS MYRTLE No, riothin' I can think of. MISS PANSY I'll be right back. {She and Mrs. Upjohn leave.) MISS MYRTLE What a miserable old trouble-maker. I wish she'd leave Pansy alone. {She sits down, sewing on a hat. She hums "Old Hundred." The clock strikes a slow and monoton- ous twelve. Enter Mr. Fishback, dressed in his Sunday-best. He is a ruddy, well-built man, not as old at forty as many farmers. He is in apologetic, hesitant mood. Miss Myrtle looks up with surprise^ Mr, Fishback! 62 MISS MYRTLE SAYS "YES" MR. FISHBACK They sent me here, MISS MYRTLE They? MR. FISHBACK Yes, the bank. MISS MYRTLE Well? MR. FISHBACK They said you — you had bought the mortgage. MISS MYRTLE Well, what of it? MR. FISHBACK Yes, but — MISS MYRTLE Ain't a person got a right to make an invest- ment? MR. FISHBACK But the mortgage on my farm. MISS MYRTLE Same as any to me. MR. FISHBACK Now, Myrtle— MISS MYRTLE Don't "Myrtle" me. That day's passed years ago. MR. FISHBACK Then you did it to get even ? MISS MYRTL^ No, six per cent. MR. FISHBACK {utlCtUOUSly) Did you do it because of old-times' sakes? 62 RED BUD WOMEN MISS MYRTLE I said "six per cent." MR. FISHBACK Well, I can't take it up. I know it's due. But I can't take it up. That's why I went to the bank to-day. MISS MYRTLE What's that got to do with me? MR. FISHBACK You'd not foreclose? Miss MYRTLE Yes. MR. FISHBACK You'd Hrive me and the children ofF'n the farm? Where I've worked all these years? Jest be- cause I can't meet the payment? That ain't Christianlike. Miss MYRTLE {fiercely) The likes of you needn't be tellin' me what's Christianlike. MR. FISHBACK {meekly) I didn't mean nothin'. But I thought you wouldn't be so hard. Can'tr old times sorta soften you ? MISS MYRTLE You know the day I became a hard woman. And I've never softened up yet — and never wjU. You ditched me. Now take the consequences. And don't be whinin' around here. Customers is likely to come in. Besides, I've made lip my mind. It's purely a business proposition. I'm too old for sentiment. I'm a good deal older 64 MISS MYRTLE SAYS "YES" — and you know it — than when we were — engaged. MR. FISHBACK You ain't hated me all these years? MISS MYRTLE I have. MR. FISHBACK You ain't sorry for me, now I have had all this trouble — my wife dyin', crops poor, money scarce ? MISS MYRTLE Not a bit. MR. FISHBACK My, you're hard. MISS MYRTLE Harder than you know. MR. FISHBACK Do you mean you've been slavin' and savin' all these years jest to git even with me? MISS MYRTLE Think what you please. MR. FISHBACK You act as though I ruined your life. MISS MYRTLE Well, you came very near — MR. FISHBACK Why, I— MISS MYRTLE I thought you had for a while — but I saw you ruin another woman's life. MR. FISHBACK You mean yoti hate me — not because I didn't marry you — but jest on general principles? 65 RED BUD WOMEN MISS MYRTLE That's it. I think you're a — MR. FISHBACK You mean you'd take it out on me just out of pity for the woman I married instead of you ? I don't believe that. MISS MYRTLE Oh, let's Stop talkin'. It does no good. I don't care what you think. I don't care to tell you what I think. You came on business — MR. FISHBACK Well, I can't pay the mortgage. MISS MYRTLE Then we're through. MR. FISHBACK Do you mean it? MISS MYRTLE Certainly. MR. FISHBACK I must get the money, or you'll foreclose? MISS MYRTLE Yes. MR. FISHBACK But I can't get the money. MISS MYRTLE That's your affair. MR. FISHBACK But what will become of me and the children? MISS MYRTLE That doesn't worry me. MR. FISHBACK My, but you're a hard woman. 66 MISS MYRTLE SAYS "YES" MISS MYRTLE You're repeatin' yourself. You'd better be spendin' the time rustlin' the money. MR. FISHBACK You'll be sorry. MISS MYRTLE Don't you think it. I don't know what it is to be sorry. You can't do anything to hurt me— I've got you where I want you. MR. FISHBACK Now, Myrtle — if we could talk everything over MISS MYRTLE Good-day, Mr. Fishback. (He sees the helplessness of the situation and leaves, whipped?) MISS MYRTLE {to hevself.) Ugh, I'm glad that's over. {She sits and sews, rocking and humming. The whole monotony of her life is typified here for a moment or two, in a longer than usual tableau. It makes even the audience fidget at such futility. Enter Miss Pansy. She removes her coat and hat and bustles around the room, collecting things to work upon.) MISS PANSY I must get that hat ready for the Baumgart funeral to-morrow. Where is the crape? {She pulls it out of a box.) Oh, here it is. {Looking at her sister curiously.) What makes you so quiet to-day. Myrtle? You hardly spoke to Mrs. Upjohn. 67 RED BUD WOMEN MISS MYRTLE {tartly) Busy people ain't got time to gas. {Miss Pansy sits in a rocker, too, and both rock back and forth. Miss Myrtle slowly. Miss Pansy jerkily^ MISS PANSY Well, you needn't think I enjoy this gloom every day. Sometimes I feel like screaming. Your rocking and humming makes me nervous. And when spring comes, I feel all cooped up. {Med- itatively and to herself^ I must get away ! Miss MYRTLE [startled) ' Get away? What's Mrs. Upjohn been putting in your head. What do you mean. Pansy? Miss PANSY {surprised at having said out loud what she had been saying so constantly to herself) Well, I might as well tell you I'm getting des- perate. I ain't going on here making hats for life. I hate hats. I hate all this skimping — liv- ing like we're waiting only to die. I'd think you^d go crazy. Miss MYRTLE Why, Pansy, what's come over you? You've been actin' lately as if you ain't feelin' well. Mebbe you'd better lay down for a spell. Miss PANSY No, I ain't sick like you think. It's another kind of sickness. {There is a pause, and the continuous, but slower, rocking) 68 MISS MYRTLE SAYS "YES" MISS PANSY {impatiently.) Oh! Myrtle, I don't want to argue again and go over the thing that's always stood between us — but I can't go on — I can't stand this. {Indicating the room.) I want to live like other women — / want to get married! {She throws down her work and walks around the shop.) Miss MYRTLE {rather sneeringly) Pooh. You want trouble! MISS PANSY Well, then, I want trouble. Anything — any- thing — anything but this, this — {She is in- articulate in gesturing her loathing of the scene.) Miss MYRTLE Well, you're old enough to know what you want, yet you're a fool. Miss PANSY Then I want to be a bigger fool. I want to be the kind of a great big fool every married woman is. MISS MYRTLE Where's- any man around here you're gonna get? MISS PANSY He's here, or he's somewhere. MISS MYRTLE You gonna start out and find him? Where's the money coming from for all that gallivan- tin'? MISS PANSY I don't know. But I know I'd rather be a bad woman than an old maid. 69 RED BUD WOMEN MISS MYRTLE That's insulting me. MISS PANSY I don't mean it that way. But I don't care. I'm not going to be an old maid, and I think your life is a failure. So there. That's said. The trouble with us is that we never talk right out — you seem afraid to let vourself go. You act so hard. MISS MYRTLE {startled by the word) Hard? A hard woman .'' MISS PANSY Well, you know what I think now. Ain't you going to help me, or are you going to be hard with me, and hinder me, as you always have ? MISS MYRTLE No, I cannot help you, or any woman, find a man. I hate men. I have found my salvation in being single. I will never marry. And I tell you, you are looking for trouble. Miss PANSY You mean to deny me my kind of happiness because of your own experience. You're selfish. For years you've kept me like a prisoner. {Miss Pansy stops in front of her sister, who looks up at her defiantly.) Well, I am going to tell you everything — and right now. We might as well have it out once and for all. You and I are different, and you can't make me an old maid ' — never, I am going to marry Mr. Fishback! 70 MISS MYRTLE SAYS "YES" {Miss Myrtle rises, overcome with surprise. She seizes her sister by the shoulders, looking her squarely in the face.) MISS MYRTLE No! Never! Never Fishback! Never that man! MISS PANSY Let go. You're hurting me. MISS MYRTLE You can't marry him! MISS PANSY Can't? Why not? You'd say that about any man, I suppose. It's part of your game, is it? MISS MYRTLE He's a widower. MISS PANSY He's the man I've looked for — my man. MISS MYRTLE He's no man. MISS PANSY What is he? MISS MYRTLE He — he — he is a murderer! MISS PANSY ' A murderer ! {Her first surprise ebbs as she thinks it is a mere bluff to dissuade her.) Oh, that's part of your game. I believe you'd go any lengths to keep me an old maid. Who'd he ever kill? MISS MYRTLE Me. MISS PANSY You? What do you mean? 71 RED BUD WOMEN MISS MYRTLE He's the man that made me a hard woman. MISS PANSY I don't understand. MISS MYRTLE ,We was engaged — years ago. He left me in the lurch, marrying that Eckhart girl, because her folks had land. MISS PANSY You were engaged? MISS MYRTLE {lookwg uwaj, embarrassed) Yes — he was my — my lover. MISS PANSY {sympathetically) O, Myrtle! {It is evidently a blow, but she conceals it from her sister.) MISS MYRTLE You know now. And you know the kind of a life his wife led — he drove her to the grave. But I don't hate him for that. I hate him for what he did to me. MISS PANSY Then you didn't want to be an old maid? MISS MYRTLE {vigorously) No, I didn't. What woman — {Catches herself in time and freezes up.) I learned my lesson. All men are mean. And Carl Fishback is meaner than the meanest. He spoilt my life. But I figger I am better oiF. {A pause, as they think over the situation.) I guess that cooks his goose with you, don't 72 MISS MYRTLE SAYS "YES" it. You'd never marry him now, would you? A man as ruined your sister. MISS PANSY {slowly and deliberately) I don't care. I can't judge you and him. I don't know all that happened. I've got my own life to live. I've freed myself from you, now. {She walks about restlessly.) Yes, I'll marry him anyways! MISS MYRTLE Pansy! MISS PANSY I want him. At first, I didn't care what man. Any man, so as to escape all this. Then, when I got to know Mr. Fishback I was glad — and I'm going to marry him. I don't care if people say he's no good — every woman wants her man, and / think he is good. But even if he wasn't, I'd marry him. MISS MYRTLE Why, that's wicked. MISS PANSY Well, I may be a wicked woman. I don't know. But I do know I'm lonesome. And you and I have never got along very well. You've skairt away every beau I ever had. So I just made up my mind — MISS MYRTLE Why, what do you mean ? MISS PANSY This: As a wife, with my children and my hus- band, my family, my home — I'd rather fight and scrap, and make up, and go through troubles, than look forward to'sewing and sewing 73 RED BUD WOMEN and se'^ving. I'm old enough to know that mar- riage ain't heaven on earth, but this store is worse — it's just like a penitentiary. MISS MYRTLE You hate me? MISS PANSY No, I don't hate you, but — but — I wasn^t made to live with a woman. MISS MYRTLE You'd break off with me forever, just to marry that Fishback? MISS PANSY If that's your price-. MISS MYRTLE Well, he can't marry you. MISS PANSY {in fresh surprise) First you say / can't marry him. Now you say he can't marry me. Why not ? MISS MYRTLE He's broke. Ain't got a cent. In debt. And two children. And he's over forty. MISS PANSY, Well, if he ain't a good farmer, he's a pretty good handy man and he can work fgr wages. MISS MYRTLE Work? He's no worker. That's why he's taken up auctioneering on the side. He's all mouth. MISS PANSY I wouldn't care if he was a day laborer, working on the tracks. I wouldn't care if he was a dago in a box car. We've been goin' together on the quiet — we've an understanding, and I've said 74 MISS MYRTLE SAYS "YES" "Yes." I won't wait until I lose my chance. And it's too late now for you to stop us — we kept it a secret. I was afraid of you. But I ain't now. MISS MYRTLE You're engaged! MISS PANSY He — ^we have an understanding. MISS MYRTLE Why, his wife's not been dead a year! MISS PANSY Well? MISS MYRTLE But what'U people say? MISS PANSY I don't care. The married women will under- stand, and the old maids will be jealous. You might as well give into it, Myrtle. MISS MYRTLE You'll have to support him, I bet. MISS PANSY What if I do? Won't be any harder than the work I'm doing now. Anyway, how do you know he won't work? You try to make him out the very worst. I like him. Folks like him. He's popular. You're the only one that hates him. He's jolly and always happy. He's kind. He may have made a mistake in turning you down — but we all make mistakes. You should have got another man. You can't blame Carl Fishback altogether. Miss MYRTLE Well, the next woman he marries will either 75 RED BUD WOMEN run him or he'll run her into an early grave. You ain't the one to conquer him. He'd make life miserable for you. MISS PANSY I'm willing to take the chance. {Miss Myrtle gets up from her chair suddenly as if an inspiration had flashed across her mind. She makes a gesture of determination — unseen by Pansy — and shows plainly that she is going to take the situation into her own hands.) MISS MYRTLE We won't talk about it any more. We'll think it over. I'll tell you some more about him — after while. MISS PANSY It is no use. I've made up my mind. It is all settled. {Miss Myrtle is putting on her cloak and hat.) MISS MYRTLE We will talk abo'ut it later. I must traipse over to the bank now, before the cashier goes to dinner. {Miss Myrtle goes out. The door has hardly slammed, when she comes back, holds it open for a moment, and says dramatically) There's one thing for you to think over — and that is: You'll never marry Carl Fishback! {Then she departs?) {Miss Pansy shrugs her shoulders, does not an- swer, but picks up her work and sews for a min- ute. "I will, T must," she says with determina- 76 MISS MYRTLE SAYS "YES" tion to the absent Myrtle. Then she leans back in her chair in contemplative mood. The silence is complete. Enter Mrs. Upjohn^ cautiously, so quietly that Miss Pansy does not hear her at' first, but is startled by the. voiced MRS. UPJOHN {excited and out of breath) Why, why your sister walked right out of here, right down to the corner — and — and she's talking to Mr. Fishback! MISS PANSY She is ! {She jumps out of her chair and goes to the door.) MRS. UPJOHN The first time in years! MISS PANSY Where? MRS. UPJOHN Right there at the- corner. {She gets her breath.) Right in front of the bank. Where he was stand- ing. People are just staring at them. I couldn't get here fast enough to tell you. I knewj'oa'^ want to know. MISS PANSY I? MRS. UPJOHN {kittenishly) Now, don't piit on so. Folks are talking about you and him. You're not so foxy. MISS PANSY Talking about us? MRS. UPJOHN Yes, and I suppose he's asking Miss Myrtle to say "yes" to your marrying him. 7 77 RED BUD WOMEN MISS PANSV Why, Mrs. Upjohn! MRS. UPJOHN Well, he'd have to make up to her, wouldn't he — and sorta smooth things over, if you and him was married. You know they ain't spoke for nearly twenty years, and everybody knows it. And there they are, standing right out in front of everybody, talking quiet-like, jest as if they were friends. They were so puzzlin', though. / couldn't tell whether they were making up or quarreling. I jest wonder. {Point blank.) Are you and him engaged? MISS PANSY Well— no. MRS. UPJOHN Folks say so. But what about the mortgage ? MISS PANSY {in astonishment) The mortgage! MRS. UPJOHN Yes. Your sister jest about owns everything ofhis'n. Didn't you know that.'' Miss PANSY No. MRS. UPJOHN {in surprise) Oh! Fer land's sakes. {Then nodding know- ingly.) I see. Then your sister never knew that you and him was goin' together ? ? MISS^PANSY She knows now. MRS. UPJOHN {knowingly, as if she were piecing facts together) I see. So that's how the land lays. {She 78 MISS MYRTLE SAYS "YES" fidgets around, goes to the door, holds it open as she looks up the street.) I'll see if they are still standing there. Yes, still talking. No, now they're leaving! — together! — coming this way — why, I believe they're coming here\ I must be goin'. They are coming here! What do you think of that. Him and her walkin' down Main Street. And coming here. She's ■ likely said "Yes" to your marryin' him. And they're made up. I'll bet you're glad. I must go. {She bustles out.) {Miss Pansy is in a quandary. She flurries about the room in consternation, not knowing what to do. Then she hurries to the back room, closing the door.) {Enter Miss Myrtle, followed by Mr. Fishback. They look about carefully, particularly at the door to the rear room. Miss Myrtle is mistress of the situation. Mr. Fishback is crushed and meek.) Miss MYRTLE She's not here. She's gone out to get lunch ready. MR. FISHBACK But-what'U we say to her? MISS MYRTLE Well, you'd better let me do most of the talkin*. I can't trust you. MR. FISHBACK But — won't you listen — Imust tell you — MISS MYRTLE You ain't set no weddin' date? 79 RED BUD WOMEN MR. FISHBACK No, but — I MISS MYRTLE {constantly interrupting him) Talk fast — she may come in. MR. FISHBACK But we got a sorta understanding. {Hopelessly.) I didn't know I was gonna get in such a mess. I always have. I always will. {Rather de- fiantly.) You are forcin' this trouble — you won't listen to what — MISS MYRTLE Don't talk about me. It's her I'm tryin' to save. MR. FISHBACK. But you won't let me tell you — MISF MYRTLE No, but I don't want any more of your whining. You better dry up. I'll soon be through with you. But if you give it away, you know what I'll do. MR. FISHBACK Can't I say — MISS MYRTLE No, nothin'. I will give you the extension on the note providin' you do as I told you. You've got to give her up. We've talked it over. It's a bargain. You keep pretty mum. I'll do the talkin'. MR. FISHBACK You're making a mistake. Miss MYRTLE We'll just make her believe that you've changed your mind — that you and me, after all these 80 MISS MYRTLE SAYS "YES" years, has made up. That it's me you want to marry, not her. She'll see what a rattlesnake you are. {Mr. Fishback, by this time, has sunk into a chairy seeing the impossiblity of reasoning with her.) But remember, you don't dare to give it away. If you do I'll make you a bankruot. MR. FISHBACK If you'd only listen and let me tell you — {The door opens, silencing them. Enter Miss Pansy, stopping as if surprised.) MISS PANSY Myrtle.? Mr. Fishback? MISS MYRTLE Yes, we have come — together. MISS PANSY Together? MISS MYRTLE To see you. To talk to you. To tell you some- thing. {Mr. Fishback has risen. But he does not look Pansy in the face. He has a hangdog, guilty expression. It is an awkward situation. All seem hesitant, all nervous. Pansy looks at both inquiringly.) MISS PANSY To tell me something? MISS MYRTLE Yes, I might as well say it right out. Mr. Fishback and me has talked things over. In 8i RED BUD WOMEN fact, we've made up. I've consented — that is, I— I've said '-Yes" to Mr. Fishback— {Miss Pansy is greatly embarrassed and is in a sort of silly fluster, thinking her sister has con- sented to her marriage with Mr. Fishback^ MISS PANSY Oh, Myrtle! (fuming eagerly to Mr. Fishback who is looking away.) MISS MYRTLE I — I — I am going to marry Mr. Fishback. He's asked me. MISS PANSY {dazed and reeling) You are going to marry Mr. Fishback? {She looks at him appealingly.) MISS MYRTLE Yes. MISS PANSY You and him ? MISS MYRTLE Yes. {Miss Pansy, clutching a table, is about to faint. Mr. Fishback makes a move toward her, but hesi- tates at a warning from Miss Myrtle.) MISS PANSY {gaining control) I thought you meant — I — you — why didn't you tell me that a while ago.' MISS MYRTLE I didn't know it then. MR. FISHBACK I'm sorry — I "am always making mistakes. I think 82 MISS MYRTLE SAYS "YES" {Miss Myrtle silences him with a glance.) MISS MYRTLE Why, Pansy, don't act so surprised. You know he and me — for all these years — I was mistaken this morning — you, I — you are younger than me — you can find someone else. {Miss Pansy continues her appealing glances at Mr. Fishback, who drops his head and stands as a condemned man receiving his sentence^ I didn't mean to take him away from you. {Forlornly^ But — well, you see this is the way it turned out. (Mw Pansy gains more control of herself. But she speaks as if her mind is far off, and with a crisis past, is planning what to do.) Miss PANSY {first appraising Mr. Fishback com- pletely and finding him a most miserable and dis- gusting specimen of manhood) You can have him. MISS MYRTLE You don't hate him? MISS PANSY {rather wildly) I am thinking of myself, not him, nor you. MISS MYRTLE You're not mad at me? MISS PANSY {slowly) No. I ain't mad — I don't know what to do. MISS MYRTLE But you talk so strange. {Miss Myrtle begins to sniffle.) MR. FISHBACK Now, Miss Myrtle— 83 RED BUD WOMEN {Miss Myrtle now weepSy but without human fervor. Miss Pansy becomes more natural. She has still greater control now. She looks pityingly at Mr. Fishback, then goes to Miss Myrtle, takes her in her arms and kisses her, but it is mere formality. They both sob. Mr. Fishback sits, disconsolately.) MISS PANSY There, there. Myrtle, don't cry. Maybe it'll turn out for the best. Somehow, I'm younger than you — I can take care of myself. -You can have him. If he can repay you — Don't cry, now. {She motions Mr. Fishback to come over, and to his surprise she transfers Miss Myrtle to him. Awkwardly, he tries to soothe her, but Miss Myrtle releases herself, somewhat embarrassed^ MISS MYRTLE You're so good. Pansy. So Christianlike. MR. FISHBACK Yes, you're — {He shrivels up at the contemp- tuous look he sees in Pansy's face.) MISS PANSY Lunch is ready out there. Why don't you in- vite Mr. Fishback to set down and have a bite with you ? {She is putting on her coat and hat. From now on, Mr. Fishback becomes much more distressed and nervous. He starts to interrupt and stops. He twists his hat and shows other signs of anguish.) 84 MISS MYRTLE SAYS "YES" MISS MYRTLE But where are you going? kiss PANSY To the hotel. MISS MYRTLE AND MR. FISHBACK {(litonished) To the hotel? MISS PANSY Yes. MISS MYRTLE But why? You can have the store, now that I'm going to the farm to live, I thought you understood that. MISS PANSY I am going to the hotel. MISS MYRTLE Tell me why. MISS PANSY To get a job. MISS MYRTLE AND MR. FISHBACK A job! MISS PANSY Yes, waiting on table. {Softly.) Maybe I'll meet — a drummer. {Miss Myrtle and Mr. Fishback look at each other in astonishment at the turn of affairs. Miss Pansy is at the door. She opens it, starts to step out, when Mr. Fishback, losing control, suddenly dashes forward^ MR. FISHBACK No, by God! She can't go. She's bluffing. I'll tell the secret. {But he is suddenly hesitant after this explosion. He looks at Pansy, who stands 85 RED BUD WOMEN now^ with her head down, in his former pose of guilt.) She — I — we — MISS MYRTLE Speak, man ! MR. FISHBACK Pansy, you — {He turns imploringly to Miss Myrtle.) Now, Miss Myrtle, please— {He pulls out his handkerchief, wiping off the per- spiration.) MISS MYRTLE Don't be a booby. What's that secret? MR. FISHBACK {hesitatingly) Well — we — we gotfa get married! {Miss Myrtle hesitates, stunned by this terrific blow. Then she rushes at him, with clawing hands, as if to choke him, hut turns violently on Pansy, who clutches droopingly at the door jamb.) MISS MYRTLE Pansy, is it true? {To Mr. Fishback.) You liar! {Miss Pansy does not answer, but sobs, conveying that ancient confession. Miss Myrtle goes to her and puts her arms about her gently and leads her to a chair.) Tell me. Pansy — quick! {Miss Pansy, midst great sobbing, whispers the confirmation in her ear. Miss Myrtle backs away, aghast.) MISS MYRTLE Oh, my God! You too? {Realizing the truth, she again rushes at Mr. Fishback, in fury. He sits in a collapsed lump, 86 MISS MYRTLE SAYS "YES" his head in his hands. He does not look up at her. She acts as if she were going to tear him to pieces. But she suddenly stops, expresses futility, gains control, stands as a stony statue. He looks up. She points him to the door. He arises and goes toward it, hesitating a minute, then turns timidly to face her.) MISS MYRTLE {once more her usual self, speaks with- her natural frigidity) Then get the license. Curtain 87 NOT IN THE LESSONS PERSONS IN THE PLAY Ethelyn, the Village "Vamp" Amanda Lumm, a Teacher Fred Snellenberg, a Hesitant Beau Mr. Leroy, a Mysterious Stranger NOT IN THE LESSONS Of course, there is a boarding house in Red Bud, as there is in every countryside village in darkest Iowa. And, of course, the sitting-room at Mrs. Smith's boarding house is not unlike thousands of others. It is cheaply furnished — not sparsely, but in a cosy combination of Early Pullman and Late Premium. There are the usual strange and fancy chairs, and the tidies, tables, and wall-desk that become old, but never antique, before their time. Matisse or C6zanne would have revelled in the utter disregard of clashing colors — the carpet is an arsenical green, the wall-paper is of an unfor- tunate shade of red — far brighter than Mrs. Smith had expected from the sample. And the pictures! "A Yard of Pansies," "The Stag at Eve," and "The Horse Fair" mingle riotously with family groups and crayon enlarge- ments of the departed. There is a phonograph of the horn variety. And an upright piano. And an old-fashioned walnut pier mirror. Altogether, it is just such a room as clutching climbers in metropolitan society who are "nearly there" often remember distastefully as their hab- itat of earlier years, before they came to the city and made their money — the sort of a room that such people never, never confess. One long side wall opens out on the front porch. 91 RED BUD WOMEN It is an early evening in May and the screen door is already placed. There is a window, too, on this wall, and through it we see that Mrs. Smith has brought out the porch chairs. Another wall reveals a door leading to the kitchen. On the opposite side of the room are two doors, one leading to the parlor bedroom, the other to the hall. Supper is over, but the boarders have not lin- gered indoors. However, there are two occupants of the room — Amanda Lumm and Mrs. Smith's daughter, Ethelyn. Ethelyn, recently plain Ethel, is the village "vamp." She is about eighteen years old — old enough to know better. But she is an inveterate admirer of the movies, and has become infatuated with the vampire queens of the screen. She affects their snaky poses. ' She is gowned in a tight, black dress— her con- ception of a tragedienne's costume. She has large, black earrings and a pretentious, imitation pearl necklace. Her dress is cut lower than usual in Red Bud. She wears high-heeled pumps. Her hair is marvelously coifFed, with an enormous "bun" over each ear, and the usual void at the back of her head. She is "made up" to an ex- treme. Unfortunately, though, her figure is a little too plump for a slithering vampire. Unfortunately, her hair is too light. One imagines that, to be the real thing, she would need a strict and sour diet and much hair-dye. Furthermore, in moments of 92 NOT IN THE LESSONS inactivity, her face beams a kindly, rural friendli- ness. Alas, it is difficult for her to make herself wicked! She continually "acts." She strives for effects. She watches herself in the mirror, admiring her poses. She attempts constantly to approximate the seductive charms of the most noted vampires of the celluloid drama. In contrast, Amanda Lumm, the high-school teacher boarding at Mrs. Smith's, is conservative and inconspicuous in her attire. She wears a simple tailored dress. She is about twenty-five years old. One imagines that she tones "down" while Ethelyn tones "up," Her prim restraint is more typical of Red Bud, but one is puzzled by her and inclined to speculate. For instance, one might imagine her a far better "vamp" than Ethelyn. Her hg,ir is jet black and there is plenty of it. She has a pallor that might be considered stagey. She is thin and might be sinuous. She has a musical, throaty voice. But as a high-school teacher, unmarried, living at a boarding house, she has always set an ex- ample of maidenly reserve. Amanda and Ethelyn are in the midst of a con- versation. Amanda is rather bored and lays aside her book with reluctance, while Ethelyn forces upon her the latest examples of her art, as it is developing under the postal tutelage of the World-wide Photo Drama College. ETHELYN Next I'll give you that scene from "Visions of « 93 RED BUD WOMEN Cleopatra." It's in Lesson Ten. You can just imagine the scene. {Picking up a booklet and reading from it.) "Cleopatra is lying on a gorgeous divan with slaves fanning her. She is alluringly gowned in greenish gauze and spangles, and laden with precious jewels." You'll have to Imagine the costume, too. And how it would all look in the film. This is the way the lesson says to do it. (She goes over and lies down on the sofa in her interpretation of luxurious abandon. She mo- tions to an imaginary slave, whispers in his ear, and then, in an ' imperious manner, directs him to depart. She then ends the scene and sits up quite naturally^ ETHELYN That's just when Cleopatra sends for Anthony. You know, this is the part Theda Bara played. That's my lesson this week. Last week I did Sappho. AMANDA {stifling a yawn) You did Sappho? ETHELYN Yes. Ain't correspondence courses wonderful! I know I'm a born movie actress, and I expect to get my diploma earlier than'usual. -They say one should go slow. They say it should take two years to finish the course. But / think that is for the people who ain't got talent, who ain't as artistic as me. {Looking inquiringly at Amanda, as if for confirmation^ 94 NOT IN THE LESSONS AMANDA Well, I don't know much about it — you see, I — ETHELYN Oh, I know you are simply dippy over your books. You read such queer things, too. What do you see in them .' Now / like novels. AMANDA As I was going to say, I don't know much about acting — and I've hardly got over your ambitions to be a musician. This movie course you are taking up came so suddenly — I was just getting used to your practicing, when you gave up that zither course. ETHELYN {disdainfully) Oh, that! I should have took up the ukulele, anyhow. The zither is going out of fashion. {Reminiscenily.) But music — I don't take to it like art. It wasn't nearly as interesting as that course in china painting. AMANDA Is it hard — learning to act by mail? ETHELYN Well, for some people — but / don't find it hard. It just seems to come to me naturally. The lessons say that some people are just natural- born actresses, and I think I — well, I just live in a trance lately. I just can't wait to finish the course! I'm just crazy to go to a studio and show the director what I can do. Just think of the big salaries! And the star's jewelry! And her limousine! Her clothes! Her maids! 95 RED BUD WOMEN {A muffled voice, that of Ethelyn's mother, is heard from the next room. The call is yodled.) VOICE Ethel. Ethel. {Ethelyn opens the door to the kitchen.) ETHELYN Yes, Mom. What is it. Mom? {To Amanda.) She «;/'// call me Ethel instead of Ethelyn. VOICE Come, wipe the supper dishes. ETHELYN Oh, Mom, didn't you know Miss Lumm was down irt the parlor? VOICE Well, she won't mind settin*^ there a bit. ETHELYN (pOUting) Now, Mom — VOICE I bet you're jest gassin', anyways. ETHELYN (whining) But Mom— VOICE Well, let it go this time. I'll do it. But you gotta empty the — (Ethelyn slams the door in haste, covering her ears and affecting dramatic disgust.) ETHELYN (looking appealingly at Amanda) You see how it is, Amanda. How my artistic temperment is crushed. I am held down — I can't devote enough time to my art. I tell you 96 NOT IN THE LESSONS people will be sorry some day, when I become a famous actress, that they didn't help instead of hinder me. Now, there's Mom — she's terrible. Mothers never understand their daughters. AMANDA , The new minister said last Sunday that daugh- ters never understood their mothers. ETHELYN Fudge on him. He's an old mossback, even if he is young. AMANDA Mrs. Upjohn said he was interested in you. He keeps looking at you all the time. ETHELYN {momentarily flattered) He does? (But changing her mind.) No, he doesn't like me. He speaks against the stage. He doesn't understand me. Few people un- derstand me. Artists are never understood, are they ? But you, you seem to understand me more than anyone else in Red Bud. And it's funny, too. Ever since you got back from the U and began teaching, you've been so sort of strange — read- ing all those queer books, paying no attention to men, and going your own way. {Picking up Amanda's book and reading the title, "The Woman of Tomorrow") What's it all about? Tell me, why is it that every girl that goes over to the State U always comes back so changed? {The telephone rings. Ethelyn answers it.) Hullo. Yes. This is Ethelyn. {Pause.) No. Who? Oh, yes, Charlie Menk. {With more reserve.) No, I have a date. Yes. Tonight and tomorrow night. {Making faces at him 97 RED BUD WOMEN over the telephone for Amanda's benefit.) What? What did you say? Why Mr. Menk! {Regis- ters horror and embarrassment to Amanda.) Oh, I see. I thought you meant it the other way. {Pause, then sudden af ability.) Well, I might take a little, teensy-weensy ride with you to- night, if we go right away. I gotta date at . eight-thirty. I gotta get back. {Pause.) Oh, that will be fine. Yes. Yes. Bye-bye. {Leaves the telephone.) {To Amanda.) That was Charlie Menk. Ain't he grand? But so fough! What he learned in France was a-plenty. You oughta heafd what he said to me! And I just bet them tele- phone operators listen in. AMANDA What did he say? ETHELYN {coquettishly) I can't repeat it — it was the way .\i& said it. He wants me to go autoing with him. And he called it a "spoony-moon" trip. And said — oh, he's just a terrible spooner. AMANDA The girls say he isn't quite nice any more. ETHELYN That's because they ain't got temperment. A little spooning ain't gonna hurt. For me, it's just practice. So I encourage 'em. And I think you oughta loosen up a little, Amanda — you're so kinda distant. You'll be an old maid sure, if you ain't careful. AMANDA But I don't see what you mean by, going out 98 NOT IN THE LESSONS this way with Charlie Menk, when, if you wanted to, you could get engaged to Fred Snell- enberger. And he's the one, isn't he, who's coming this evening? ETHELYN Yes, it's him. And he'll be so jealous. If he comes while I'm gone, you talk to him, won't you? You and him went tathe U at the same time, and he's sorta fond of books. Maybe you could keep him interested talking about the latest novels. He ain't hard to entertain — he's so shy. {Kittenishly, and as though she considered it a great joke.) But don't vamp him, Amanda, now — will you? -- AMANDA {amused but profes,sing surprise) Why, Ethelyn! I vamp Fred? How can you be so silly? ETHELYN Well, I may want him and I may not. But I want to keep him guessing. With my career ahead of me I may not want to marry soon. In Lesson Four it says, "No great actress can afford to be tied down by conventions." AMANDA Those lessons sound terrible. I'd never want to be an actress. I'm afraid I'm too conventional. ETHELYN Do you know of a great actress tied down ? They divorce their husbands. Why, before I'm through, I may have a half-dozen husbands. They all do. AMANDA That's scandalous. 99 RED BUD WOMEN ETHELYN {dramatkally) A soul like mine is above the sordid things. I yearn for the mountain tops of sujccess, with millions at my feet worshipping the very ground I walk on. {The muffled and yodling voice of her mother is heard in the next room.) VOICE Ethel. Ethel. {Ethelyn opens the door in disgust.) ETHELYN Yes, Mom. What is it now? VOICE Come and empty the slop out to the chickens. ETHELYN {in a petulant rage) Oh, fudge! Excuse me, Amanda, I'll go out and get it over with. {She flounces out.) {Enter Mr. Leroy from his parlor bedroom. He is a tony dresser, in grey and white checked suit, loud vest, etc. He carries a pearl-grey derby. His manner^ however, is dour and funereal.) MR. LEROY Good evening, Miss Lumm. AMANDA Good evening, Mr. Leroy. {He looks at the mail on the table, sorts it, picks out a letter and opens it. Reads it. Puts it in his pocket.) I GO NOT IN THE LESSONS AMANDA Ahem! Ahem! Do you like Red Bud, Mr. Leroy? MR. LEROY {who ts about to explode with laughter at this question) Like it! {But he catches himself in time and re- verts to his funereal attitude^ Yes, I like it. AMANDA After Chicago? MR. LEROY Well — you see — Chicago — I — Miss Lumm, there is something I want to say to you — {Enter Ethelyn^ to his disgust.) Good evening, Miss Smith. ETHELYN {beaming and vampirish) Same to you, Mr. Leroy. Won't you set down ? We like to have the boarders use the parlor when they feel Idnesome. MR. LEROY {sliding away towards the entrance door) Thank you. Miss Smith, not now. I was just going for a walk. {He opens the door and leaves hastily.) ETHELYN Ain't he queer? AMANDA Who is this Mr. Leroy? ETHELYN Mom don't know. Once in a while we have a stray boarder like him, who don't stay at the hotel. He paid for a week in advance. This is his fourth day. AMANDA Is he going to be here long? IQI RED BUD WOMEN ETHELYN Don't know. But ain't he a swell dresser? ( The honk-honk of an automobile is heard.) That's Charlie. {Putting on her hat.) You keep Fred' waiting for me. _ I'll be right back, sure. {She goes out.) {Miss Lumm takes up her book and reads, but looks up as if her mind was not quite settled on its contents. She lays it aside for a moment, goes and appraises herself in the mirror. Then goes back, sits down, is contemplative for a mo- ment, shrugs her shoulders, and indicates throw- ing off the subject that she is thinking about. She picks up the book and reads again, settling down cosily for a comfortable session. But hardly has she read a bit, when Fred Snellen- berger comes to the door, looks in, knocks. Miss Lumm calls "Come in." He enters. He is a husky young fellow, about twenty-five, athletically set up. His suit and collar are somewhat tight as though he had found his "civvies" a trifle small.) FRED Hello, Amanda. AMANDA Hello, Fred. FkED Is Ethelyn here? AMANDA She will be here in a little while. She said for you to make yourself at home. And for us to talk together until she came. 1 02 NOT IN THE LESSONS FRED Where is she? AMANDA Oh, she'll be back shortly. FRED It's a wonderful spring evening, isn't it? AMANDA Yes; isn't it lovely! FRED Sort of reminds me of those days over at the U, particularly the two of us sitting together^ — and you always with your books. {He examines one of her books, noting the title, "The Riddle of the Universe") Haeckel, eh? You still keep up, don't you? AMANDA Yes, and you should, too, Fred. Surely going into your father's store hasn't ended everything for you, has it? FRED Well, the War — oh, I've never been the same since I got back. I think everything seems to be hopeless. I'm sort of a fatalist now, you know. AMANDA But do you try to — why, Fred, you were one of the smartest men in our class. FRED Yes, I know, but things are far different now. I just live from day to day. I don't plan like I used to. 103 RED BUD WOMEN AMANDA Seems to me you have been planning one thing, at least. FRED What? AMANDA Getting married. You are determinedj aren't you? FRED {flushing and surprised) Why, Amanda! AMANDA Well, now, let's talk like we used to. That is what's the matter with you lately, isn't it? Rushing one girl after another. It couldn't be anything else. Do you mind talking frankly like we did at the U? FRED I don't know how to take you, Amanda. AMANDA It'll come back to you. And somebody must set you right. I've watched you right along, since you got back home, and I know just how you feel — this May madness — it makes one desperate. FRED Now, Amanda, I never did any girl any harm, and you know it. AMANDA Oh, I'm not saying you have — not at all, I wasn't thinking of that. Probably you haven't. But I figure you are suffering from suppressed desire. 104 NOT IN THE LESSONS FRED From what? AMANDA Not that I mind it in the least. It is perfectly natural, perfectly normal. Girls have it, too. FRED Well, I'm not ailing. I came back from France altogether shipshape. AMANDA It isn't that you're sickjike we know it around here. Nor like shell-shock and things men got in the war. It's something else — this May madness. FRED Something out of your books? AMANDA Why don't you cure yourself at once? Why don't you pick out the girl and get her. FRED You've never talked to me like this before, Amanda. You talk so different than when we were at the U. AMANDA I say, marry her! FRED Her? What her? AMANDA Any her. FRED But maybe she won't have me. Maybe she isn't the right one. AMANDA Afraid? And you with the Croix de Guerre? 105 RED BUD WOMEN FRED Well, you know how it is — AMANDA You can make any girl have you. And make any one the right one. Don't you understand? A woman still wants a man to steal her. FRED You mean to elope? AMANDA Oh, not that exactly. But elope, if you want to. I mean, you men wait and wait always until a woman grabs you. When all the time she wants you to take her. Or to feel that you have, even if she has pulled the strings a tiny bit. FRED But I'm not romantic like the heroes in those books. AMANDA I don't read hero books. FRED Well, then, those psychology books you've been reading ever since I can remember. AMANDA What I'm trying to get you into thinking about is not romance, but just an ordinary fact. A fact that every woman — well, it's instinct with her — while you men make it so complex. fr;ed So you think marrying a girl is pretty ordinary? AMANDA Yes, and you will, too, a while after you're married. Not that I want to destroy all your illusions. 1 06 NOT IN THE LESSONS FRED Illusions ? AMANDA Yes, all the fuss and feathers about finding your right mate. That's poppycock. Tommyrot. It's a physical thing, a mental thing, not a soul thing. This soul-mate drivel — don't you see that love is not so much what it is, as what you make it? FRED What about marriages being made in heaven? AMANDA {laughing) The idea of heaven being connected with you and Ethelyn is — well, I'm afraid I've shocked you enough. Come, do you want Ethelyn? FRED Well, I can't say. I'm not decided. I — AMANDA You've got her on a sort of trial? FRED Well, this play-acting — now, what do you think about it? Do you think she will go into the movies ? AMANDA Do you ask that seriously? FRED Yes — seriously. AMANDA That is a joke. I don't say it to hurt your feel- ings, but to help you — when you are so juvenile. She will never leave Red Bud, probably. She will never go on the stage. Can't you see that her life is — as a wife? 107 RED BUD WOMEN FRED But what about her artistic career — she's al- ways talking about it. AMANDA Her most artistic career will be having about a half-dozen babies. FRED Why, Amanda! AMANDA Oh, I might just as well talk it out with you — you poor, benighted boy. Can't you see? Can't you understand her sudden desire to be- come an actress? Don't you remember her spell when she was going to become a great mu- sician? Before that it was painting. Before that — welli that was before I came here to board. She has one craze after another. One spasm of effort after another. She's suffering from the same thing you're suffering. FRED But I'm not — AMANDA Oh, yes you are. You've made up you're mind that you must get married, now haven't you? You're on pins and needles until you do. You can't resist it. You just must. That's the way with her. What she wants is to be captured. But with all you men just rushing her and nothing else — none of you marrying her — she's got to blow off steam some other way. She doesn't take all your parlor-petting seriously. What she needs is a baby instead of lessons in acting. io8 NOT IN THE LESSONS FRED But why pick on me} AMANDA Well, do you know anybody else you'd rather have as the mother of your children ? FRED Of course I like her. I am very fond of her. But I can't decide whether she'd settle down. And in the meantime-^ AMANDA You could settle her pretty quick. And she'd be the most natural sort of a meek little mother in a year or two that you ever saw. FRED You think I could do anything with any woman ? AMANDA Oh, don't flatter yourself so. The woman usually arranges it. It's a woman's natural instinct to parade domesticity before her little world. FRED But you} And all those suffragettes? All those advanced thinkers? AMANDA They're just the few unsexed. Or oversexed. FRED And you? AMANDA {slightly disconcerted at his manner) We're talking about you and Ethelyn. FRED But I've been liking you all this time, too. But you're always big-sistering me. » 109 RED BUD WOMEN AMANDA Now don't start anything like that. You're just temporarily overcome by what you think is a flow of logic. Don't be misled. You're not looking for logic. What you're looking for is something else. And you won't be happy until you have it. (Mr. Leroy appears at the porch window — visible to the audience^ but not to Amanda and Fred.) FRED Why, we've known each other all these years — * through school — through the U — then since. Do you think you might like me enough to — some day — AMANDA You are getting silly. I don't want you to practice on me. I want you to practice on Eth- elyn. Rush her off her feet. Marry her at once. Wind her around your little finger. Give her a lot of children. Submerge her. Pet her. Stunt her. Dominate her. And she'll love you till your dying day. {She turns away from him, going over to sit down on the sofa. He stands behind her. He throws his shoulders back and stands at attention in a mili- tary manner for a moment. Then he transforms into the primitive hunter, sneaks stealthily upon her, and before she knows it, he is beside h»r, clasping her to him in frenzied embrace, cover- ing her with kisser. She strives to release her- IIO NOT IN THE LESSONS self, even fights. But his strength is too much. There is a fury in his abandon and a wildness in his conquering affections. Finally she pushes him aside, as they leap up, facing each other in battle:) AMANDA {^flushing and righting her hair) What madness ! FRED Something came over me — AMANDA May madness! FRED I just couldn't help it — I did what you said — you know now — AMANDA You scared me. FRED I love you. AMANDA No, you don't. You love love. FRED I love you. AMANDA Oh, you're hopeless. Utterly mistaken. The idea — here in this room — with Ethelyn due any minute. And some of the other boarders might have come in. FRED Will you marry me? Will you elope with me to Chicago? Tonight? {Pleading) Don't you like the idea ? Just a little— just enough ? Ill RED BUD WOMEN AMANDA No; it's a crazy idea. Take my advice and marry Ethelyn — quick! For your own sake. I am going to my room — you've mussed me all up. FRED {forlornly) I don't want to see Ethelyn, now. AMANDA Now? What do you mean? You don't think that I have taken you seriously? Sit down and cool off. Then try it on Ethelyn. She'll like it. You did very well. Really — very well. {But Fred suddenly clasps her again, holding her taut. She struggles — not so wildly as before. There is a faint hint of acquiescence and response. Mr. Leroy is seen at the door. He coughs warn- ingly, then enters. They hear him. Fred re- leases Amanda quickly, as they stand, embar- rassed.) MR. LEROY Great! {He claps his hands.) What a wonderful fade-out! FRED {belligerently) What do you mean? It's none of your busi- ness. Say another word and I'll knock your block off, you Peeping Tom. MR. LEROY {suavely) Now keep your hat on! No harm's meant. {He goes over to Amanda and addresses her in his brisk, brusque manner, holding -out a paper and fountain pen) Yes, $ioo a week for you. Sign here. A new movie actress discovered. A new queen of Hollywood. 112 NOT IN THE LESSONS AMANDA What are you talking about? I never heard such chatter. {To Fred.) Is he insane, or are we? FRED Yes, explain yourself, or get out. MR. LEROY Simple. I offer Miss Lumm Jioo a week. As a movie actress she'll shoot better than Theda. I am a character scout for the Inter-Constel- lation Photo Play Corporation. I tour the country looking for talent. Miss Lumm has been under my observation for four days. She is a born knock-out — or, as the director would say: "beautiful, graceful, emotional, correct facial ex- pressions, eyes that register well, the right com- plexion, wonderful hair." With a little train- ing — a very little — she will shove 'em all off the pedestal. She'll make Mary Pickford and Theda Bara and Olga Petrova and all of 'em sit up and take notice. Why, the country'U go mad over her. AMANDA {dazed) Fifty dollars a month now. Why, one hundred dollars a week sounds like a dream. FRED Sounds like a fake to me. MR. LEROY I blew in here looking for characters for a new series of rural farces — boob stuff. I was directed to Red Bud by a friend, the manager of a movie- acting correspondence school. He said the young lady living here. Miss Smith, is a pupil. 113 RED BUD WOMEN Her lessons and correspondence were such a scream that my pal says to me: "Scoot out there and give her the once over — she might be a com- edian and not know it." {To Amanda.) But you, you're some tragedy queen! AMANDA Ethelyn — a scream — a comedian ? FRED {to Mr. Leroy) Don't be insulting. MR. LEROY {to Fred) And you, young man, I ain't got your name, but we can certainly find a place for you — as a lover,, you're a bear — take it from me. All' the dames ought to be crazy about you. You make a regular he-man idol, I'll tell the world. FRED That's darned nonsense. {To Amanda.) Sounds bug-house to me. MR. LEROY Say, I want you to shoot that clutch over again. I didn't get the beginning very well. It was all so sudden. AMANDA Mr. Leroy! Don't you understand? We're not amateur actors. It's Miss Smith that's in- terested in the movies. MR. LEROY {surprised) Oh, it was real then. {Confidentially.) Well, I gotta hand it to you. I thought it was pretty - natural. And you can act in the movies to- gether, when you're married. {He smirks.) AMANDA Married? We have no such intention, 114 NOT IN THE LESSONS MR. LEROY {with an intimate smile) All right — if that is the way you feel about it. I understand. I thought — but we never in- quire into the personal relationships of our casts. If there is a reason for this soul stuff — we just wink. FRED {again belligerent) Say, you'd better be careful with your tongue. If you make any more insinuations, I'll put you out. Mr. LEROY {soothingly) My friend, let's get down to the dotted line. I make you people this offer — AMANDA I'd never consider it. You've made a mistake. {To Fred.) Oh, Fred, it seems like I'm drowning — grasping at straws — tell me I'm not dreaming — save me — send him away. MR. LEROY Oh, cheese the sob-stuff and thi:nk of your career! Think of the fortune you'd make. Think of the millions who'd admire you. Think of leaving this jay burg. Think of everybody turning to look at you on the street. Why, you'd make a famous vamp. AMANDA Vamp? I? Why, I'm not the type. Ethelyn — MR. LEROY If you mention her name again, I'll go nuts. There's a million — a billion — a trillion, like her. But you — you are one of the few, the rare birds. Now, /think it over, this proposition. You at one hundred dollars a week, your gentleman "5 RED BUD WOMEN friend here at — well, we'll take care of him. He can be with you. {With a meaning smile.) I'm going to my room to write headquarters that I've discovered a new darling of the screen. AMANDA Do nothing of the sort. You see {looking shyly at Fred) I might have other interests — more alluring. FRED {to Mr. Leroy) Yes, hold your horses. You're in too much of a hurry. MR. LEROY Oh, I'm sure you'll agree. Think it over. Think it over. {He goes to his room, turning at the door to address them.) But for goodness' sakes, don't tell that — that student who I am. {They sit down, both flabbergasted, overcome by all the recent happenings. A momentary paused AMANDA Ethelyn — will — be here — soon. I'm going. FRED Please don't go. AMANDA I cannot stay. FRED If you must leave me, think about my idea. Tonight. Chicago. I'm going — you come with me — I mean it. I meant everything. It's you — AMANDA Fred — you owe it to Ethelyn. She — ii6 NOT IN THE LESSONS {In dashes Ethelyn, impersonating her idea of a tragedy role.) ETHELYN ' So here you are. I've caught you, haven't I? {She comes over to them.) I just met Mrs. Upjohn, who had been here to call and stood right there on the porch and was so shocked she didn't knock. She said "Don't g6 in there and interrupt them turtle-doves." So, Amanda, you are trying to steal him, are you? Trying to rob me of him? Right here in my own home. Trying to vamp him, eh, while I'm away. And I thought you were my friend! Oh, what can a woman do when another sets out to steal her man! AMANDA Why, Ethelyn— I— ETHELYN Don't — don't deny. I know it is true. > I know. I'm psychic. You have tried to win him awav from me. FRED Nothing of the sort. I was the-^ ETHELYN {to Fred) Of course, men are never to blame. I know you never turned your hand, Fred. It is the woman who pursues. Only I didn't pursue hard enough. I know you weren't the one to blame, for I know how hard it is for you to spoon. Now, Charlie Menk, he is — 117 RED BUD WOMEN AMANDA You must stop this. I won't stand for it. I never — oh, it is all so ridiculous. I — ETHELYN Don't deny. I know I am a real psychic. I just felt this would happen. And I am going to take up a course in spiritualism. I know I could be a medium. I must write for cata- logues tomorrow of the spiritualistic schools. I know I can learn it by mail. AMANDA {disgusted and about to leave the room by door at front right) Tell her, Fred, if you can get her to listen. {To Ethilyn.) Fred wants to have a talk with you. FRED {rushing over to Amanda as she leaves') Think over that idea, Amanda, won't you? {Amanda leaves as Fred looks at her a'ppealingly, unseen by Ethelyn.) ETHELYN Well? FRED {in a rather contemplative mood) I wonder — I wonder if you do care for me? If we reially are engaged ? I can't tell. I want to know. Now. You've said a lot of things — did you mean them? You wrote such letters when I was in the army — and everything. And when I got back — I wonder — I wonder what's to prove whether we're engaged. {JVith a sud- den inspiration^ Mrs. Upjohn fibbed! ETHELYN {surprised) That makes no difference. Where's smoke, n8 NOT IN THE LESSONS there's flame. I guess you were both embar- rassed enough to give it away. FRED {lying glibly) Merely at the way you were acting. I tell you there's nothing to it. You're mistaken. Let's make up. ETHELYN Do you really — well, you've proposed so many times. But without that divine — divine — oh, I forget what Lesson Six says. Now, Charlie Menk, he — you are always so cold. FRED You think so? ETHELYN Anyhow, I'm going into the movies. {She is sitting on the sofa and Fred moves be- hind a distance and the scene duplicates that be- tween him and Amanda. He appraises Ethelyn questioningly for a moment, then shows decision. He lunges forward and captures her in his arms and covers her with impassioned kisses. It is identically the way he treated Amanda. But Ethelyn takes it all calmly, making no protests, no struggles. She takes it for granted. So it ends with Fredas dropping her on the sofa, releasing himself, and standing of as she calmly rights her hair. He is disgusted and shows it plainly, unconsciously wiping of his coat sleeves. It was a failure. The disillusionment is complete. He backs away, thoroughly uncomfortable^ 119 RED BUD WOMEN ETHELYN You're improving. A little more practice and I might accept a ring. - But it was pretty crude. Now I like refinement. Charlie Menk is so — wellj you're not of an emotional temperment. FRED You thought I was practicing? ETHELYN Well, what's a beau for? FRED You know how long we've been sort of engaged — long before I went into the army. That is, if you think we are engaged. I'm commencing to have my doubts. I must know — tonight. ETHELYN Tonight? What's the hurry? FRED Why can't we cut out all this guflf" and get married right away. {He looks at her anxiously^ ETHELYN But my career! {Jle is relieved.) FRED Oh, damn, I mean, durn your career. What you need is a husband, and a — a b-baby. ETHELYN {in a tragedy pose as if he had struck her) Why, Fred. A baby! Don't you think it! I got my career to consider. FRED You've said you loved me. You wrote those let- ters. And I don't want to wait and keep on waiting. "Love isn't so much what it is, as what I20 NOT IN THE LESSONS you make it." {He goes over to her and faces her in a final test. Tensely.) Would you elopie with me tonight? {As she turns away flippantly, he shows delight — the test is ended, he knows that he has won his freedom from the superficial but conventional tie between them. He relaxes.) ETHELYN Why, Fredj that's really dramatic! FRED {slowly) Well, I guess we're through. I see you take nothing seriously. This has been our test. You don't want me. It's all been a mistake, {rem- iniscently) all May madness, this engagement of ours. I'm sorry. I know now I never could be happy with you. Nor you with me. We had to find out — and it's better now than later. We're misfits. {Mr. Leroy's door opens softly. He sticks his head out inquiringly, but withdraws quickly, leaving the door ajar. He is eavesdropping.) ETHELYN {undramatically, as any village girl might act in such a crisis) Don't you dare talk to me that way. Just after trying to — to — vamp me. FRED {laughing kindly) Why, my dear child, I'd as soon try to win a hitching-post. There was a time when I thought I wanted you to marry me. I thought you'd get over those wild ideas. Now I wouldn't try 121 RED BUD WOMEN to "vamp you," as you say, if this were the Garden of Eden. ETHELYN {whining) I'm going to call Mom. FRED Call her. I'm going. Then, when she comes, give her a dose of your Camille. {He puts on his hat and goes toward the door, turning to address her further, as she drops limply into a chair, acting the part of a deserted and for- lorn woman. Her position is well in front of the stage. She is facing the audience, so that the subsequent action takes place behind her. Amanda, at this moment — with Fred seeing her, but not Ethelyn — slips out of the hall into the parlor, gowned and hatted in a travelling costume and carrying a small bag. She comes across to Fred, ignoring Ethelyn, who continues to sit in a stolid pose, somewhat concealed in her big chair. Fred looks eagerly at Amanda, holding out his arms to her. She comes to him, smiling.) AMANDA {demurely) I rather like your idea, Fred. Much more than Mr. Leroy's. What time does the train leave? {Ethelyn starts at the voice, but does not turn, around.) You're sure you meant it — all? {He kisses her softly and reverentially.) FRED I've felt it all along. But I know now! AMANDA {playfully) But you're so limid! All of a sudden. 122 NOT IN THE LESSONS {He gives her a real hug, then they depart, quickly. Ethelyn, who sits with a stupid stare, seems afraid to look around. At this moment, and unheard by Ethelyn, Mr. Leroy, dressed for departure, and carrying his suitcase, tip-toes stealthily out of his room, drops a check on the table, opens the door and rushes out to follow the elopers.) ETHELYN (slowly "coming to" and attempting a piteous wail that turns out to be a real burlesque^ But this was — not in the lessons! {She looks around the room for the first time and at the door. Her daze is completely ended by a familiar yodle.) VOICE Ethel— Ethel— Ethel. ETHELYN Yes, Mom. VOICE Have you set the breakfast dishes? Curtain 123