msfsm THE WILDERNESS AN AMERICAN PLAY ■Ml Class fo '5^ L ^ Book_l4li£^ C»opightN°- y/ ^ COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. NOTE ON TYPOGRAPHY, PAPER, AND COMMON HONESTY In two particulars, typography and paper, this book is honest. It would have been easy to spread out the printed matter so that the number of pages would have been increased by at least a quarter. The use of paper such as that upon which this note is printed, would have doubled the thickness of the book, witli- out adding appreciably to the manufacturing cost. These two ancient fakes would have made it easier for the simple purchaser to give up his good money : he would have been getting a larger book. But it may be questioned whether they would have added to any intrinsic value that may be discoverable in the text. The brown paper in this book represents, not an attempt to be "artistic", but an attempt to be honest. Practically all books, except the most expensive, are now printed on wood-pulp paper, which is neither strong nor durable. Most of the books published nowadays will disintegrate and disappear in dust be- fore the world is much older. While this is a merci- ful dispensation for posterity, it is annoying to a few cranks who, being out of sympathy with our social and our industrial order, prefer to pay their money for real things rather than for cunning imi- tations of real things. The punk upon which this note is printed is an example of the cheap book-paper, simulating ele- gance, now commonly used. Brown wrapping paper is the only cheap, fibrous, strong, and durable paper to be found in New York City. The price of it by the pound is the same as the price of this white paper. The purchaser of this book will acquire at least a few cents' worth of real paper, however frothy and unreal he may find the rest of the con- tents. The writers will not resent the suggestion, which will occur to the judicious reader, that the more perishable vehicle would have been more ap- propriate. / THE WILDERNESS AN AMERICAN PLAT ADAPTED BY FLOYD JENKINS AND RICHARD PUTNAM DARROW Compilers (with Donald McGraw) of "Dolls and Toy Balloons** BROADWAY PUBLISHING CO. NEW YORK BALTIMORE ATLANTA 1912 'II Copyright, 1912, By Broadway Publishing Co. ENTERED AT STATIQNEr's HALL, LONDON. All rights reserved. SCI.A305712 INTRODUCTION CONTAINING OBSERVATIONS ABOUT VULGARITY — PLAY-MAKING — CHAIRS— FASH^ ION— HUMAN NATURE— AUTOMOBILES— PLAY- MONGERING— COMIC RELIEF— GEORGE BER- NARD SHAW — ROSES — CARRION — PEOPLE — MUD— ART— LIFE— NEAR-IBSENS— HUMAN BE- INGS — SLAP-STICKS — HUMAN UNNATURE — DEATH — GOOD FORM — ACTORS — MANNERS —PLAY-ACTING— FOLKS— CLOTHES— HEROES — DONKEYS AND MANY OTHER PERSONS AND THINGS CONSTITUTING AN EPITOME OF THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE DRAMA . AND A COMPLETE GUIDE TO, THE TECHNIQUE OF PLAY-WRIGHTING 111 NOTE TO INTRODUCTION Tzvo or three representatives of our great Theatrical Syndicate have taken exception somezvhat violently to the tone of the introduction. They seem to find it nn- sympathetic. Fortunately for the writers, zuho are of mild disposition and sedentary habit, the police have an eye on these gentlemen. It zvill be practically im- possible, therefore, for them to resort to any other lethal zveapon than the pen. They may be expected to use that zveapon zvith deadly effect. Who 's first f The editors of Punch, or the Loudon Charivari, zvere to have prepared explanatory diagrams for the use of devotees of that comic, but alzvays refined, sheet zvho might be betrayed into reading the introduction. But upon reading it, titey threzv up their hands, and the job, and They said it left them all at sea, and made them quite sick. Only zvhen deeply moved, zvould an editor of Punch use language as coarse and fibrous as that. IV INTRODUCTION No one shall read this introduction, and warning then complain that his sufferings were caused by wilful misrepresentation involved in the use of the above title. No one has to readmit who has not been condemned to do so by a police magistrate. Most of it was written as a discourse on the modern drama, to be de- livered before the inmates of a seminary of polite learning for young ladies. But, some- how, the Tady principal was never able to set a date for the lecture. But she paid up, after looking over the manuscript, and said that she did so thankfully. These are facts : ?ng^ facts ' 1. This introduction has practically noth- ing to do with the play — or with anything else. 2. Probably it is the most slovenly and un- literary, if not illiterate, writing 6ver set up by or for a respectable publishing house. The stark American language stalks through these pages in its shirt-sleeves. 3. If it has any point at all, the point will be taken only by loose-living newspaper men. vi The Wilderness disappointed writers of plays, writers of dis- appointing plays, prize-fighters w^ho will never come back, and actors whose genius has not been recognized. There are a great many of all these classes. 4. It will shock some people. 5. It will please none. '6. It is too coarse for the refined, too re- fined for the vulgar; too flippant for the seri- ous, too serious for the flippant; too plain for the virtuous, too goody-goody for the vicious; too hard for the soft, too sentimental for the hard ; too dull for the clever, too clever for the dull; too mature for infants, too un- formed for the mature; too obscure for the simple, too obvious for the sophisticated; too much something for everybody, not enough anything for anybody; and altogether impos- sible for the few who wish to conform, suc- ceed, and become (because none of us is either respectable or fashionable by nature or in infancy) respectable or fashionable. 7. It is not for the young. 8. It is too profane for your pastor. And perhaps 9. It is not profane enough for you. 10. No one will agree with it, and it will disagree with many. Introduction vii 11. The aged and the prematurely old will find it foolish. It is too wise for the imma- ture and the prematurely young. 12. The reader must furnish the ideas: the writers contribute only the words. 13. It is printed here, only for the purpose a r , • •, 111- ■ u ■ COMMON of makmg it possible, by increasing its size, fake to sell the book for more than it is w^orth. 14. If you have any finer feelings, they will be outraged. 15. Some people will call it desultory. Now if you read it, the result be upon your own head. It is impossible to say where we shall be- adrift gin, whither we shall drift, or where we shall fetch up. We are at sea without compass or rudder. Syntax and Style have walked the plank, and the black flag of the- vernacular floats at the peak. Vulgarity and coarseness, now\ This play vulgarity has a lot of one or the other. It depends on coarseness the point of view. Some people can't distin- guish between them. It is n't of the least im- portance that these people should. And some, in their laudable efforts to side-step the one, run their heads bung into the other. Unfor- tunately, this seldom puts them out for good, Vlll The Wilderness HENRY JAMES THE COOING DOVE ONE GEM Henry James is a right good fellow; but he works too hard, and he makes other folks work too hard. The unintellectual say that the sublime self-unconsciousness of his limpid [Perhaps it is lymphed: ask your doctor.] style is forced. Anyway, when you have read one of his literary orchids four or five times, your agony is but begun. It is pleasant to be assured that he has found so ready a market for his crimes that he will be buried decently when his time comes. It is to be hoped that he will not have to atone for all the suffering he has caused to many innocent people who think that the beauty and strength of the in- ner meaning must be in direct proportion to the difficulty of finding the meaning. But the truly cultured know that this is art. Did you ever read his Cooing Dove in the Pla<:e Where the China Washhand Basin Did Not Perhaps? Wonderful! Well, in the long-drawn rhetorical agony of this mystic bit, there is one gem — the simple phrase, "the saving grace of coarseness." It means much to some of us. It is the only thing that some of us can remember after a lifetime devoted to the study of the works of the master, the subtle influence of whose knurly style may be detected in every line of this. Introduction ix Mr. James is scarcely a typical American man of letters, although it is believed that his parents infringed his English copyright by producing him in this country. But there 's Richard Harding Davis, — Dick, as he used to be known [It is to be wished that you ^'^^j^,^?. newspaper boys [You all know the magic and da vis softening influence of that word.] would re- member that the correct form is "as he used to be known as," which is impossible.] among smart young men who were not content to remain in the obscurity for which Nature and their parents had designed them. He is, or was, American all right, — and a downright good fellow. Is he written out? or has he made a noise like a balloon floating away through the empyrean? or what? He 's the lad to write the American play, which will not be found in the collected writings of Mr. Belasco, or of Mr. , for all their knowl- edge of the conventions of society and of the stage. They ought to collaborate : it would be a corker, — a crackajack. There you are. ^ crack- AJACK That 's your illustration: "crackerjack" (the modern newspaper form) is vulgar; cracka- jack is good old slang, it is coarse, but Mr. Davis used to be pretty handy with his fists. Let us therefore pass lightly oyer his The Wilderness A CROWDED CANVAS MR. DOOLEY AND GEORGE ADE many failings as an author, and leave him to the mercies of his own conscience. What it will do to him will be plenty. He and all the other amiable gentlemen with whose figures our canvas is becoming somewhat crowded must understand that no one is responsible for this. The cat has mixed it up with the sticky fly-paper, and anyone in the house is liable to get scratched. All these people must remember, not only that they are public property, but also that they are be- fore us now only as^ intellectual entities, like strenuosity or race suicide, and that, there- fore, as mere persons, they can't resent the kindly examination from which even the reader and the highest in the land are not exempt. But let us be careful : within the memory of men now living there were, and there may be again, clubs, — Liars' Clubs, Big Sticks, etc. There are two other literary parties who have not been altogether forgotten, — Mr. Dooley and George Ade. They shared a se- cret hidden from duller people, and they made money out of it. This secret, which they probably discovered by searching their ow^n black hearts, is that w^e all enjoy ridicule of those weaknesses of human nature which Introduction xi we understand because Instinct puts her finger on them in our own breasts, — although we think it is only because we are such keen observers. The speculative philosopher won- ders how funny they would be without their respective dialects, — their slap-sticks. Are they knock-about artists, or comedians, or tra- gedians, or only walking gentlemen? How inspiringly suggestive is the terminology of Jl^i^'p^^i^E the stage, — walking gentlemen, low^ come- stage dians, leading ladies [In some cases this means leading exemplary lives.], comic re- lief! The man looking through this atmos- phere sees life, — its beauty, its meaning, its chiaroscuro. Here 's a dare for them. Let them publish editions of their famous works in the English language. This dare is for H. James, too. Then we '11 find out. But there is an artist who writes in Eng- ||g5^RD lish, George Bernard Shaw. How about him? shaw We shall have to pass him up, — at this time. The rapier of this irresponsible Irishman's wit is too ready for us raw Americans, whose only edged weapon is the scalping knife. Still, we may pause, tp recognize our debt to him. He has had a perfectly corking time in getting all the matinee girls and other in- tellectual leaders over here all mixed up, until Xll The Wilderness BLACK-BEAN SOUP AND COCKTAILS SUPERMAN they do n't know their moral and intellectual head from their ditto heels. Reverence and irreverence, brutality and finesse, good, bad, and indifferent, black-bean soup and cock- tails, — all these and all other things he has so jumbled together in their poor brains that they do n't know whether their hats are on straight. But we have men like Mr. Shaw in this country. When your Indian gtiide says, ''Mebbeso termor rer we work erlong the Sun- set Trail over erlong the big barren," you do n't know whether he is thinking that he wants a caribou steak, or that he would like to see you mired up to your waist in a bit of humorous ground to which he means to lure you, or that you would look well with your throat cut, so that he would n't have to divide your whiskey with you. Some people ought to be able to get lots of fun out of their repu- tation for inscrutability. Then Mr. Shaw in- vented a household pet which answers to the name of Superman. In the play the title role is taken by the leading man : Mr. Shaw loves a paradox. This cute little elemental has caused pleasant shivers of things that she w^ould not like to talk about with her pastor to run down the spine of many-a respectable New York woman who oueht to have been Introduction xiii buying socks for the little ones at Macy's bargain counter. Sometimes the path of duty runs right under our own clothesline; and even the primrose path may run through our back yard, if we have planted the primroses there, and if the children have been careful about watering them. Some day this man will get w^hat's coming to him. Every modern play that will live as a work near-ibsens -^ ^ , -^ . AND LOUD of art makes a noise like putrefaction. But odors many gentle souls are in error in believing that because a play makes a noise like putre- faction, it will live as a work of art.- Even dramatists should try to be logical now and then. The inspiring fragrance of the charnel- house, which now ravishes our nostrils, ema- nates from the works of the near-disciples of the master Ibsen. The only way to attain moral sublimity and true art is to devote our- selves to the study of pathology. Health comes only through contemplation of disease. The fouler and more revolting the disease, the more abounding the health attained. Study of paranoia and neurasthenia arouses the ARTISTIC the finest powers of the artistic soul, however soul and ^ PARANOIA unspeakable the prosaic physician may know^ the ultimate cause of these little weaknesses to be. Only decaying wood is phosphores- XIV The Wilderness PORK CHOPS OLYMPIAN HEIGHTS cent. This is the whole of art, and nervous indigestion is the only inspiration. But fox- wood glows only in the dark: in broad day- light it seems to be only rotten wood, — often, to be sure, colored very delicately. If the home of art is not in the hospital, it is surely in the morgue. Edible pork chops are unin- teresting, unpicturesque, — they are dead. But in the carcass of the victim of hog cholera rot- ting in the manure heap, we can study life. It is full of life: it breeds maggots by the thousand. Some people do n't like to eat it. Some of the above parties, being clever, may make the obvious retort that this screed is n't in the English language either. Quite true; but "You 're another " is not recognized as an unanswerable argument so far from the Bowery as the Olympian Heights where they dwell, and whither other folks are trying to follow them. This is a suburb that is not yet over-crowded, and where rents are still mod- erate. An Olympian Heights realty company W'Ould soon be bankrupt. But enough of this. Let us remember, in common humanity, that of making many books about books there is no end. Why read books, when innumerable books about books Introduction xv tell us more about books than we could ever learn by reading the books? Bill does not appear in our second act. He comes to life in the third, in which he endeav- Ir's" h'umor ors to oblige by iteration of those formulas of speech which us literary men know consti- tute the grim, unsmiling, sometimes deadly, humor of the old-time western gun-fighter. It 's easy. Anybody can do it. A great many people have done it. Some-shore-podner- stranger-hitting the high places-sitting in the game, etc., etc. Now you can all go off, work along the Cafe Trail to the D. T. Carry, eat a little opium, and write plays that are really about the wilderness, — tours de force, in which the atmosphere of the big outdoors will hang in luscious srohs from the scenery. It is bet- gobs of ^ -^ ATMOSPHERE ter not to expect too much of the actors. The best of them are little more than human. The stage carpenter is a very successful author these days. We may suppose that when our second act unbroken opens. Bill has taken a job as pastry cook wilderness to a party of campers in the unbroken, al- though slightly damaged, wilderness of the Adirondacks. Nature is sometimes almost smothered when her reservations are opened to her devotees. Bill's duties include the care XVI The Wilderness A FOREST IDYL NATURE AND HER WORSHIPERS and the packing of the folding camp stove, of the supply of coal for the same, of the supply of canned goods (very necessary in this wil- derness, as they average about eighty per cent, water, and the native water supply there is mostly contaminated with sewage), the pneu- matic beds (quite essential in the wild, and only eighteen pounds each), the hat boxes of the ladies of the party, etc., etc. He may be seen engaged in sparking the maid of one of the ladies, who, having dressed her mistress's hair, has' leisure to row with him on the lake. The oars are pinned to the boat, so that Bill, careless fellow, can't let them go adrift, and so that he will not have to strain his brain by trying to remember to feather. Or perhaps, he (Bill, yo.u know) is busy clearing ground for the site of a new camp. This he finds hard work. Hours of unremit- ting toil are required to collect and bury out of sight the paper collars, old rubber boots, discarded tooth-brushes, -and other offerings with which worshipers of Nature have deco- rated their goddess. Bill is untouched by the sentiment of it. Not being restrained by the presence of Betty, he expresses his crude Introduction xvii feelings in language that would not be set up by any religious, or even respectable^ printing establishment. He can swear in case of real feelings necessity; but he does not believe in wasting good profanity. It is to be feared that he is not religious : he only tries to be square, with himself and with others. And he has in his dull, untutored mind a prejudice against many of those well-established principles and practices without which society, certainly our best society, could not exist. Bill is real foolish. But he can follow a trail. The imagmary of mud rumor that heJost the trail somewhere in the Racquette Lake region, where there are so many commodious and tasty camps, with rus- tic work, and sanitary plumbing, and things, and wandered into a < swamp, which grew softer and softer as he advanced, until, find- ing the mud running into his mouth and ears, he began, too late, to think that he might have missed the trail, and so perished miserably, — this rumor has no foundation in fact. But there are people like that. Quite some time ago there was a man who knew a perfectly lovely and refined lady who had a second cousin of that kind. He is dead now, — the xvin The Wilderness AUTOMOBILES AND FASHION JUSTICE TO THE MINOR CHARACTERS second cousin. It is not always pure accident. Sometimes it is quite impure. And some people like mud, anyway. The fact that an aeroplane, or at least a motor-car, is not one of the characters in our play, demands an apology. But, really, human beings were invented first. Sometimes we forget this. But it can be proved. This paragraph is written with the humane pur- pose of at least ringing in the words. Be- sides, this makes it more probable that the seal of fashion will be set upon this play, if it is ever produced. We are too prpne to forget that we can do but little in this world or in the next without that approval. It is awfully hard for some of us to get it; and there are wretches in human form who never do. One of these worried along without it for a time; but he soon died of shame. His form was so bad that he was 1iump-backed. Curse him! Ordinary good feeling requires that some- thing should be said here about some of the rninor characters who do n't get a fair show in the play. It is not possible to give every- one a fat part. And it will not do to leave anyone in the world with the false impression that he does not figure somewhere here. Introduction xix The chairs in the second act are important, ^^ chairs and any competent stage manager will see the necessity of casting some of his best material for these parts. It will be hard; but it can be done. These chairs must stand about with an expression as human as they are able to assume. Much depends on the point of view. The reader or the spectator may not be hard, to please : some, fortunately for their families, are not. The point of view, by the way, is a funny the point thing. The police commissioner sees the flat- tering statistics of arrests and the two thou- sand additional patrolmen that he can't get; the dull-witted burgher sees a number of fat men, who can neither run nor fight, and who must therefore club, and frequently does not see his silverware. The street cleaning com- missioner sees the number of loads of refuse removed ; the man in the street sees, and smells, and tastes only the wing-ed filth upon which he and his children are nourished. And he blithely contributes to the common weal by THE sweeping his own filth into the street, know- common ing that the police are too dignified and too busy with more important matters to stop him, and that the street cleaning department will remove the filth in a few years. We have WEAL The Wilderness OTHER MINOR CHARACTERS THE HOTEL CLERK reduced our civilization to a science; and the free American citizen will spit to windward, if he likes. The other fellow- must look out for himself. From time to time in the second act per- sons, of the human species [It is almost as un- important as it is in real life w^hether they are really of the human species : it is only essen- tial that they should fool us.] pass through the hotel office, some of them pausing to hold communion with oneanother, or w-ith the clerk, who is behind his desk, and w^ho is care- ful, as any man of right feeling Avould be, in his position, not .to give ofifenee to his patrons or to the audience. As the exigencies of a play require that these communications should be inaudible out front, it is useless for the audience to try to pry into the secrets of these dummy characters. They all mean well; but there is reason to fear that the process of in- tellectual development w-as arrested in some of them at an early age : we all have friends' like that. These characters are really of very little interest except to the anthropologist. The hotel clerk deserves a w^ord. He is very polite. The parties who had to get this play out of their systems, or, as Bill says, ''blow-up," have had the honor of his acquain- Introduction ^^^ tance for some years, and are glad to embrace this opportunity to vouch for his character. He is a model son, a loving husband, and a devoted father, as so many of us are after we are dead. The clerk is a better man. He always passes the plate at divme worship m Sharacter the village church Sunday evening; and he seldom, indeed, fails to turn in seventy-five per cent of the collection. He needs the money, as many of us short-change men, big and little, do. But it will not do to dwell upon his manifold virtues, lest attention be diverted from the play. Of course this makes it almost impossible to cast for this part an actor with a sufficiently virtuous-looking face, but that can't be helped. • ^ As the curtain goes up on the second act, malefactor Mrs. Davis, wife, and spender of Thomas Y. wealth Davis the notorious captain of industry, is sweeping through the hotel office.* It does XXll The \Vi liter NESS CLOTHES AND GOOD FORM THINGS ESSENTIAL not matter much how she is dressed. If she is a respectable woman, she will have to read her lines in such raiment as her salary will warrant. But it is suggested that neither a bathing-suit nor a nightgown would be the thing, although quite as appropriate as the clothes, and more especially the shoes, that we often pay our good money to see on the stage. Mrs. Davis realizes that the fact that the local newspaper once rang her in as *'a prominent society belle" in 'her native town, does not qualify her for the metropolitan han- dicap. She is a little raw, and has not learned to wear her frocks [Or is gowns now the smarter word? These things are important.] with the glad unconsciousness and native grace of Fortune's favorites who really be- long. These things are not merely important: they are of the essence. Why, there was once a man who, in a moment of madness, took off his hat in a London club. The building col- lapsed ; and three men, four younger sons of noble families, and a number of French counts the highly trained audience of to-day. The dramatist who would succeed must address himself to the intel- }ect, as well as to the heart. Such simple characters as Beatrix and Bill are good only for one-night stands, except perhaps as chasers in a vawd'vil programme. Introduction xxiii were killed, — dead. These counts had come over to recover from scratches received in en- counters on the field of honor. They were hardy fellows. Very few of them had fought much in the West, and none of them had ever hardy FELLOWS happened to meet Bill when he was feeling real peevish. They and their titles were sin- cerely mourned by an aggregate of nearly eighty millions of good American dollars; and one of our raciest newspapers w^as com- pelled to suspend publication. It was a sad affair, and occasioned some unfavorable com- ment at the time. Mrs. Davis is still self-conscious, and can clothes AND THE not understand that the truly fashionable real thing women of our finest American culture wear their sartorial creations solely for their own gratification. You may learn much by watch- ing them. But 'do n't let them catch you at it. Their sensitive, high-bred natures shrink from any approach to publicity. This compels us to admire the nerve and the cruel ingenuity of our ablest editors in securing and publishing so many photographs of them and their clothes. How do these men dare to do it without the consent, or at least the conni- vance, of their beautifully gowned victims, whose agony of soul we can imagine when XXIV The Wilderness FEMININE REFINEMENT PREDATORY WEALTH A PLAIN WOMAN they find themselves thus made pubHc prop- erty, — treated as if they were Hke those orna- ments of Broadway culture who frankly dress to hit you in the eye? These ornaments can not understand the point of view of their really refined sisters. They are unable to com- prehend that some people are so primitive that they think that the perfect flower of vulgarity is the woman who is manifestly conscious of her clothes, her hat, her coiffure. Bill is not the only foolish person. Mrs. Davis's manners and enunciation, not less than her costume, should express, as well as possible, that blending of costly elegance and inappropriateness which typifies the too hasty effort to assimilate predatory wealth. Some folks die, one way or another, of indi- gestion. Her culture may be rated at about forty-three per cent. pure. This will not be found in Bradstreet, and is, therefore, exclu- sive information. Somehow (but this is the stage-manager's business), as the second act opens, this per- fect lady must be made to drift near the small flat-top desk that stands in the hotel oflice. At this opportune moment (for without this meeting the play could not go on) Beatrix emerges. We had better not trifle with her. Introduction xxv But she will not resent the statement that she -4- is dressed mostly in clothes. She is looking pretty intelligent for her. She does not wear the gems by which we can often distinguish the star, even when the dramatist has made stars ' ^ AND GEMS her lot the lowliest. Betty's dress is of the simplest and most appropriate. It always is. We can rely upon her taste. She would not cause a flutter in a lunch club of lady type- writers, where she would see many swell dressers ; but she is so stuck up that she would not care. Her friends think that with her the woman, and not the clothes, is the thing. The reader is requested to try to believe that there are women like that. She does not dress her hair. She always wears it, and in such fashion that it might be regarded as a minor index to her character. Her hats are some similar. She has been heard to say that a real milliners hat has a certain structural quality, that all architects milliners ought to study architecture, and that some architects ought to be milliners. Betty will have her own way about these things. If everybody was a playwright [A wright ment'^for^' is one w^ho works with his hands or feet, — ^i3^^^-°"^^ same root as wrought.], the number of plays wrights submitted would not be much larger, but more people would starve to death. In the hope of XXVI The Wilderness accomplishing this result, the publisher has consented to the insertion of the following- free list of titles for plays. It is to be re- gretted that death by starvation is conipara- mpoRTANCE tively painless. A strong, suggestive title is half of the play. It is the whole of some very successful plays, and the inspiration ^f some of the finest dramatic art. Here is the list: OF THE TITLE OF A PLAY The Old Watchmaker Storm and Stress Far from Home The Formula On the Trail The Home Pasture His Friend's Wife The Pudding Stick The Bottom of the Well The Well and the Pitcher When the Time Comes The Throttle Millstones White Water Off Soundings The Gulf Stream In the Forefront The Old Sawmill Opposite Poles Dawn Backwater Incense Drumbeats Grist Their Past Aftermath Kindred The Furnace On the Peek Clay Feet Verity Geared Up The Equation Off the Trail The Woodpile The Cloud-Eaters Introduction XXV u Out of the Frying-pan The Stable Door Unsatisfied Timber Wolves Coyotes In the Rapids On the Rocks The Ice Pack Cobwebs There She Blows The Inframan The Laverock The Retreat Outcasts The Flume Her Past Fireflies Tares The Open Road The Peak Peckers and Pikers Blood and Water The Bull's Eye Both Ends Against the Middle The Trail The Back Trail Too Late Enough is Plenty The Buzz Saw False Alarms Both Sides of the Counter The Village Store Out of a Job Ocean Currents Breakers Ahead The Wolf Pack Obsession The Winds of Heaven Twilight At the Flood The Rearguard Smoldering Fires Hearts Aflame His Past Afterglow Banked Fires The Breath of the North Among the Peaks The Lamp The Long Lane The Early Worm Back of the WoodshedA Driving Finish XXVlll The Wilderness The Dead Centre The Flywheel The Roof tree Out .^f the Void The Limit The Diver Damaged Goods The Hearthstone The Joint in his Armorlnto the Night Naughty Neurasthenia The Walking Delegate The Spanish Coil Dei Gratia The Yap Locomotor Taxi Angels and Fools The Tiderip The Stinkpot Hot Dogs and Warm Babies Up Against It The Password The Test Tube The Blot The Strap-hangers Flotsam The Long Trail The Cyclone The Chaperone Faint Hearts The Idolater Too Much is Enough Easy Money In Flood On the Bleachers Builded on Sand The Yawp The Craftsman Storm Signals The Bell Wether The Crucible The Grouch The Sooner Outposts Once upon a Time Three Strikes Star Drift The Blizzard Lasses and Lushers None so Blind The Bouncer . Dead to Rights The Rack The Frame-Up She Saw Him First Introduction XXIX The Beachcomber The Long Night Two-Edged Candles Queen Queerinia The Driven Well The Ambassador The Cloudburst Getting His Settled out of Court The Indian Sign The Handigraftsman The Tote Road His Own Petard A Cold Proposition In the Balance The Fulness of Time Shades The Bolt The Big Noise The Derelict The Deluge On the Job Time The Failure The Cataract The Thumbscrew _The Summons The Last Straw The Dreamer Deliverance The Cavern Loaded Dice On the Snaffle^ Milestones The Talking Wire The Battle Joined Mummies and Mame- lukes Vulgar Fractions The Paladin Wild Oats and Prim- roses The Abyss The Glad Hand Guess Again The Freebooters The Anvil Forget It All In And Yet The Smugglers The Double Cross Spooks A Sordid Boon The Has Been The Wisdom of Fools XXX The Wilderness When the Waters are Moved The Glacier The Last Stand The Dial The Caravan The Craven Shoving the Queer The Rocket The Chrysalis The Devil Wagon The Tables Turned Unchained By Their Fruits The Weathercock The Abbess Dotty's Duty The Scorpion The Torch Cut Off Four of a Kind Ace High At Last But Even So Cormorants Cakes and Ale It Happens Some- times The Viper Playing the Game Everyone Knows Daughters and Dollars Footprints The Middle Watch H-alf Tide Half Tied Graven Images Harpies Sunset Bubbles The Northern Light The Turntable Heat Lightning Garnered Chaff Wayfarers Bangles and Bingles The Handout A Gold Brick The Touch Thunderheads The Bluff Princess Paranoia Please Remit If The Scarib Whiffs IntrodUctiok XXXI What Do You Know About That? Vapor In the Valley The Coast of Destiny Sons and Simoleons Skundolater Skinks Aphrodite The Wreckers Undertones The Blessed 'isle How Jones Did It An Avuncular Avia- tor The Bankrupt As the Sands of the Sea Playthings of Fate A Peak in Darien A Peek at Mary Ann On the Ponies Keep the Change Turst Tickleiminy Off the Range Back to the Farm Sharks and Suckers Twice Two is Five The Keystone Karook Kanikity Mirage Nobody's Nothing Old, Forgotten, Far- off Things O Mommer Bacteria Brannigan Blue Roses The Mercy of the Cruel An Incubator Baby Julliny Quimper and Then Some A Beautiful Night- mare Pussywillow The Flagellants Pieces of Eight Bachelors' Buttons Hard Sledding The Harvest Persiflagiston Long Odds As by Fire Ploggs's Paltomany The Flowering Rod The Falling Star Salponica XXXll The Wilderness Play Ball When the Lid is On The Rail Fence A Scotch Verdict Docks and Drakes Hot Ploughshares The Hornets' Nest The Sundial The Spring Drive The Heir Apparent The Sanctuary His Good Money - Noriska Nostugea Too Often Profaned He Rode Alone Many Thunders The County Fair Fatty's Fortune Once Too Often A Farmodic Fantasy Wide Open Uncle Abijah The Peony The Cold Gray Dawn The Folks Back Home The Weakest Link Who Tagged Him? Just as Easy Penelope's Pleasance The Pleached Alley The Key Log The Gargoyle The Cinch Half a Loaf The Whaslin Whoffer The Golden Ass The Daydreamer The Pillars of the Temple The Falid Faxtol In God's Country A Sporting Proposi- tion When Roses Bloom Less Than Kin Sackcloth and Terra- pin A Merry Morgue The Dilettante The Guerdon Boobs and Boomerangs Quaravinta Quaroon The .Necromancer He Who Reads May From First to Last Run Introduction XXXlll The Good Old Demon The Lion's Skin The Warwhoop Looking Ahead The Lash Cinders The Jonglers The West Gable Goblins The Vortex The Parent Stem The Harbor of Refuge The Lee Shore Back Bearings Besieged Flames Root and Branch The Leash The Passer-up The Janglers The Barn-Stormers The Brain-Stormers Hoboes and Hobgob- lins Against the Current East and West His Own People On the Battlements Under Full Sail As the Sparks Fly Upward The Mine Glowworms Ashes Wolves and Watch- dogs The Kiss Jig The Flop Kiss Kisses and Cusses The Kiss That Failed Parthian Kisses Mostly Kisses The Kinetic Kiss Caramels and Kisses But the foreman of the composing room says that this must stop. He is a man with- out soul. In fact, he is on his spiritual uppers. The above titles are expressly exempted generous from the copyright of this book. Anyone can o'^'^^R xxxiv The Wilderness use them. More : ten dollars reward will be paid to anyone who has the nerve to use one of them for a play that is really put on in New York. Plays that are put off, no matter how long, do n't count. Managers are more leary. They have been caught too often. A reward of twenty-five dollars w^ill be paid to the man- ager in such a case, and he will receive a ticket to a box seat in the Hall of Fame. There he will find some really excellent people. Do n't crowed. You can have as many more of these titles as you want, after this list has been used up. A full line of effective situations, some of them slightly shopworn, is also on hand, and wall be disposed of at bargain-counter BROKEN prices. Staoe business in broken lots, at ruin- LOTS ^ ^ ^ . ous prices, — by the pound, yard, or firkni. Every day is bargain day. Our doors are always open. Any professional humorist will know that the proper way to wind up this is with an exhortation to come early and avoid the crush. Experience has taught us all that this- is funny. Our playwrights have learned that old jests and japes are the safest; and familiarity is the fertilizer of the jester's gar- den. To some people this old friend wall be the only funny thing in all this amorphous production. Introduction xxxv With the same end in view, the writers ^'r^ght's'*'' give away some of the secrets of the craft, note- book Everyone should try to be esoteric. The prin- cipal part of the equipment of the mechan — of the wright is his note-book. In this in- spired volume he sets down all the good things that are revealed or conveyed to him, and all the spontaneous epigrams and effective situa- tions that afflict his over-trained imagination. When he has enough of these, he is ready. The divine afflatus is backed up in his system. The play springs into life under the magic touch of his o:enius, — coherent, homo2:eneous, a work convincing, verisimilitudinous, a miniature of life, glowing with inspiration, reeking with atmosphere, vital with that sublimated reality which is the height of art and the acme of poetry. This process precludes all danger of a mechanical result. If a friend says a par- ticularly goo^ thing, it may be -necessary to kill him, in order that the gem may not be spoiled by handling before it is presented in its proper setting. Most of us will sacrifice anything for art. And we all have friends who have lived too long, anyway. It is true that the spider spins his web, however intri- cate and beautiful, from his own insides. But we must not be misled by a mere simile. No OF GENIUS XXXVl The Wilderness PREDATORY INSECT BRILLIANT TACITURNITY A DISCOURAG- ING VIEW Spider ever built a successful play. This is a sufficient answer to those perfectionists who profess to believe that this misguided insect is the prototype of the dramatist as distinguished from the playwright. And even the spider is predatory. The successful dramatist is necessarily a dull companion. He is constrained to file in the secret drawers of his mind, for professional use, the sparkling phrases and repartehes which he is constantly formulating. Were he, inadvertently, to let one of them escape, some fellow craftsman, getting away with it, would snatch the terrapin from the mouths of the luckless originator and his press agent. If, then, you think of making a play, remember that a brilliant utterance is nearly always a combination of words; that, the number of words being limited, the number of possible combinations is finite; that only a small pro- portion of the possible combinations can be expected to approach the playwright's standard of unforced effulgence; and that the available supply of this residuum is suffering diminu- tion daily. You can't be blamed if you are discouraged : perhaps you will deserve heart- felt commendation. Perhaps the most important question for the Introduction xxxvli dramatist is, ''What will the public stand for?" It can not be hard for the public to sit through anything it will stand for. It will stand for anything you can make people be- lieve to be the vehicle of a Great Moral Les- son. Pasteurized plays do n't pay. A Lofty lofty Purpose will float the garbage-can on the and'^the stream of success every time. It is not neces- can^^^^' sary to dramatize the Lofty Purpose, or even to persuade very many of its reality. But it must be made easy for anyone who sees the play four or five times to make his friends believe that he believes that they believe that the Great Moral Lesson and the Lofty Pur- pose are what get him. This is not difficult, for in the theatre people love to inhale a stench the horse-powder of which just fails to lift them out of their seats. Therefore, get your money of down on Uplift, — uplift of the mind, of the heart, or (safest of all) of the stomach. It is a wise manager that knows the limit. ^^^ ^,g^ Some managers do n't know anything else : ivianager they do n't have to. Of course, the broadest culture and the mo.st catholic taste can find beauty where those not so w^ell endowed per- ceive only putridity. But with these unfortu- nates, the fear that they will be called pro- vincial, that they will be thought to be the XXXVlll The Wilderness OF ROSES AND FERTILIZERS OF ACTION victims of parochial prejudice, will serve very well the purpose of the ambitious playwright^ If you really understand these things, a sample of the manure with which they were fertilized will accompany the roses you send to your best girl. When you get her pretty well educated, you may omit the roses. If she does n't like this, she is too narrow-minded and intolerant to be taken seriously: she will never learn that all true beauty has its roots in corruption, and that therefore corruption is the truest beauty. Do n't forget that you must have action, and then some. Something must be doing every minute, — on the stage, you understand. Do n't try to be a playwright and a psychologist. Your business is to provide visible and audible action. Nothing is action, in the technical sense, that is not intensely visible or audible. You are not concerned with what may happen in the minds of your audience, if you only avoid the dangers spoken of above. Just give 'em action. You can be reasonably certain that the eyes and the ears down front are in w^orking order : you have no assurance as to the brains. Somehow this fails to explain why those actors of the past whose names survive were not acrobats. Not long ago an actor Introduction xxxix won imperishable fame by the way in w^hich he fell over a precipice or out of an airship, with a knife between his teeth, or his ribs, or some of his bony parts. He had Macready, a famous and Kean, and Booth.^and Salvini, and Coque- lin, and Alarcelline beat a mile, — horizontally, and vertically, and every way. Wliat was his name ? Sometimes it is better to concentrate most a big of the action in one big scene. Studied dull- ness in all that goes before will prepare the visuance * for this climax. This will suggest to the thoughtless that what they have some- times taken for the stupidity of successful plays was really the height of art. The first play to contain a realistic motor-car race will be a record-breaker. Thousands will come T'lFB.r^rr«^ quite a number of miles, and will sit cheer- fully through the rubbish of which the first three acts will, of course, be composed, if the play-builder understands his trade, to experi- ence the thrill of that Great Scene. If the smell of garbage is mingled in due proportion * This word merely recognizes the fact that the ap- peal of the up-to-date drama is to the eye rather than to the ear. The individual units in the audience, so- called, are spectators, and the Cfuestion is, "Have you seen The Mark of the Beast ?" — not "Have you heard," etc. xl The Wilderness- with that of the garage, any manager who is on his job will jump at the play, unless, yield- ing to the force of habit, he jumps on it. It should be possible to stage it nicely for a hun- dred and sixty-five thousand dollars, and to make the public believe it cost three hundred thousand. The play may be entitled "The Joy- Riders." And after the smash-up (one of the near-Great Scenes), the funny man, pointing to the driver, who has crawled unhurt from the wreck of the noble car, will say to the 'mil- lionaire : 'Ts that all you have to chauffer your fifteen thousand dollars?" This wall re- lieve the tension, the funny man being regu- larly depewted to perform this sad office. And everyone will know that this is funny, because ^^NCTK)N^^ the funny man says it. A clear understanding COMEDIAN Qf j;jjg function saves the audience much men- tal effort. The complete scenario of this great drama, with one doz. ass't'd jsts, for the f. m., quite up to the standard of those above, and working plans from which a journeyman car- penter can build, will be furnished to any man- ager for seven dollars and a half, forty per cent, off for cash. Any of his hired men can fill in the w'ords. If the playwright will fur- nish the agony, the dialogue will take care of itself. As an able and successful manager Introduction xli has said: '^Anyone can write the dialogue." Words are more or less necessary in a play, reading •' . PLAYS AND but they are mere adjuncts to the essentials. ^^Tlfl^ Perhaps it was otherwise before the discovery that ability to speak English is not a necessary qualification of the factory-made American star. At best, words can only convey ideas; and a play is not ideas : it is action, — action and scenery and business. Hence the well- recognized distinction between ''reading plays" and ''acting plays." The reading play is addressed to the mind : the acting play is addressed to eyes and ears. The reading play, being words, sometimes expressing ideas, can't be acted : the acting; play, beins: action & i ^ ' o YOUR and scenery, can't be read. As literature, the butcher's manuscript of an acting play is comparable to your butcher's bill. This explains why our modern dramatic masterpieces are not always among the best sellers. The actor can get over with fine effect many-a quip that would perish in the galley of the compositor. If your maternal aunt can read your play with- out going to sleep, you may know that it will not do for the stage. Unfortunately, the con- verse is not always true : Auntie may nod over your play, and so may the audience. The fact that anything that can't be presented by hu- xliv I'liE Wilderness HEADED ^'^' Another thing (and this begins to look like MONSTER giving away the whole snap) : always write with one eye on your typewriter (if it, or she, is pretty) and one on your audience. This may give you mental, moral, and social strab- ismus, but it W'ill lead to the production of a successful play. Never forget the box-office. It is easy to provide cues for the players, but CUES AND the queue in the lobby is the only one that the manager will respond to. Remember, then, that the audience is dull, brutal, sordid, illogi- cal, — a cave-man in intellect, an infant in rea- son, a ruffian in instinct, a schoolgirl in senti- ment. It has been trained to understand cer- tain labels and symbols of the dramatic art. Our popular playwrights never forget this : they know that if they did, they w^ould soon be w^earing fringes on their pants. If you do violence to the audience in any of the above characters, it will turn and rend you. And if any fool dramatic critic thinks that the good people have been hasty or mistaken, he will be afraid to say so. , HEADs'^oF^ To write' ''over the heads of the audience" AUDIENCE is the crowning error of the fool, although many very earnest and eminently unsuccessful dramatists have attributed their failure to this' noble fault. Dazzled by the bitter sincerity Introduction xlv of their own souls, they can not always per- ceive that although the play with a Purpose may be the only play worth while, a mixture of ninety per cent, of Purpose with ten per cent, of play does n't give many people what they want in the theatre. You must under- stand that plays are written for the lads and the lasses whose idea of poetic fancy is epi- tomized in the phrase, ''the lobster palaces of the Great White Way," They are the public of the dramatist who would not court an early frost. Yet it may be questioned whether anyone, gi^^cERiTY however heavily charged with a Message, has ever succeeded in waiting a play (not an es- say, or a sermon, or a lecture, or a debate, in dialogue; for something more than an earn- est purpose and a limber typewriter is needed for the construction of a plaf) that was over the heads of the people. By all means, believe, if you can, what you are trying to say: the professors who know so much about plays that they never try to write one, tell us that sin- cerity is the backbone of the drama. But the human appeal of the untrimmed backbone is g^cK-BONES somewhat limited. One play is enough for one audience, — sometimes too much; but every play needs a number of audiences, and the xlvi The Wilderness principal constituent of an audience is the peo- ple in it. In sizing up the popular taste from the plays that people go to see, our brightest and brainiest managers are prone to overlook the p*robable fact that very few elect to .go to see plays that are not produced. The point of view obtrudes itself again: the rag-picker overhauling his stock in the cellar can't see above the feet of the passing multitude. Yet some of these people have heads at the other end. CRmcs"'^ The big stick that some of these newspaper fellows own hangs, covered with cobwebs, in a forgotten corner of the attic. They fear that if they were to hit a few^ swipes with it, they jwould knock dramatic art clean out of the box. It is easier and safer for them to yell them- selves hoarse over every safety bunt than to get thin by thinking of the old days of home runs. Nobody wants to live without eating; and every newspaper is owned by someone. This explains many things. that^do'nh-^ Occasionally some of these newspaper boys, COME OFF laying aside their mordant pens, get together in a sound-proof beer-cellar, and make modern iRome howl, — in their minds. Then they some- ,times say what they think they really think. Then they bewail their double bondage,-^to Introduction xlvii what they vulgarly and ungratefully call iDas- tard art, without which they could n't live, and to despotic capital, without which they would either starve or have to learn to live without eating. Then they give full sway to the intel- lectual, artistic, and social independence which characterizes us New Yorkers. They are true reformers, and they are in office. W^e all know what a sobering, not to say sedative, effect that has. But let all these parties take couras^e. Some dawn of a ... . . NEW ERA of our most prominent citizens with binfuls of the most prominent money are making a deter- mined effort to stand the pyramid on its apex.* What can not money do to — no, with art? And what can art do without money? They have endowed a real theatre with real money, and are beginning to learn what art can do to money. This sumptuous structure will be the home and temple of the real thing. yhe^rIal'^ Only real plays with real actors will be shown thing there. Already the scenery has compelled the admiration of all the critics. Some of the easy drinkers" in the newspaper crowd have sug- gested, flippantly enough, that as real plays and real actors flourish in our metropolitan * This paragraph was written long before half a mil- lion dollars' worth of experience had demonstrated sev- eral more or less obvious truths. 1 The Wilderness she makes a thousand revolutions a minute. She is asserting, quite as if it and she were worth while, her individuality, — her congested ego. By fonfiing, and particularly by vocif- erating, her determination to live her own life, she easily becomes the most important thing in the world. Here, then, are all the essentials of great drama. The little vulgar boy in the gallery may express his appreciation in his pretty, childish fashion, by singing out, "Her to the funny house." But after we have read the critiques, we know that we have witnessed a great performance of a great play. Then we are content, for we learn, on the best authority, that we have had . our -money's OUR WOMEN worth; althoue^h we have been made sadly FOLKS ° . . . -^ aware of the emotional deficiencies of the women folks who darn our socks. One good warm importation will show you more emo- tion in one Big Scene than all our women showed from Bull Run to Gettysburg. Then you perceive that tragedy is, not in what hap- pens to you, but in the way you take it. That art is the finest which makes the deepest trag- edy out of the shallowest characters. The svelt person is acting. The women of the North and the women of the South were only Introduction ^i In writing for the stage, then, it is neces- human^ ^^^ sary to understand that folks go to the theatre the stage to see what they never have seen, never will see, and never could see, in their tabid lives. Hence, if you put too much human nature into your play, you obscure the dramatic art of it. Our skilled playwrights understand this. They have too much respect for their art to fall into this fatal error, and they have too much respect for human nature to desecrate it by displaying it carelessly upon the stage. They are men of fine feeling,— and sometimes funny. If they are clever (and how clever they all are!), we should be satisfied. And they depict such perfect ladies and gents of such good form. And humor— my! but they 're funny. They have to be, even if they can't. And even the least brilliant of them knows that the regular stock pair of cub loy- gotfmNATioN ers and a line of thoroughly seasoned comic relief make a combination that always tickles the thoughtful play-goer almost to death. Why, there was once a dramaturge,— an ^^rl^T^MENT^ awfully nice fellow, with five toes on his left foot. He was born so: he could n't help it. He confided to his admirers that he had a call to reform the modern drama; but certain ill- natured playwrights whose work had been re- lii The Wilderness jected of the managers insisted that he had heard some other noise. His masterpiece was the finest ever, — a very model of dramatur- gidity. It was full of the most beautiful senti- ment ; but it lacked comic relief, — very neces- sary; a play must have it, you understand. This poetic party [His neckties were perfect dreams.] was so full of fine, not to say tenu- ous, feeling, that he seldom took a joke, al- though, as, like all us geniuses, he was often hard up, his friends sometimes missed other little articles. His belfry w^as so full of bats FRIENDS that his ladifriends just.knew he was the goods. Anyhow, his characters could n't have been funny. That would not have done. They w^ere the vehicles of real sentiment and feel- ing. Where would Abraham Lincoln be as an heroic figure, if he had ever dared to make a joke? HUMOR AND Ou the othcr hand, such are the paradoxes ANCIENT . , HEROES that we mortals are up against, some of the heroes of ancient history sometimes made themselves ridiculous, because they had no sense of humor, subjective or objective, which-, we must understand, is either a disease, or an abnormal development, of the sense of pro- portion. RELIEF ^" ^^^ drama, as in life, comic relief is a Introduction liii necessary ingredient. Often the untimely laugh affords the only escape from insupport- able woe. Some things are so serious that they would kill us if we could n't laugh at them. It is better to laugh than to die. Per- haps we sometimes fail to realize that only the opportune administration of the play- wright's favorite counter-irritant has saved us from a horrible death at two dollars a seat. We should be thankful for the dose, even if it is forced down our throats by main strength. The playwright, he know^s. If he has no hu- mor, he will get some. But usually he has an inexhaustible store of it in his note-book. It is very important not to o-et these thins^s the impor- t rr 1 , • , -r • TANCE OF mixed, if the herome, who typines sentnnent not getting ' -^^ THINGS and all the tender emotions, or the hero, whose mixed job is to be a real noble feller, were to make a joke, they would find themselves playing to an audience of corpses; and this would make it uninteresting on both sides of the footlights. Of course the funny man (who will always have a job, since the process of perfecting the dramatic art has been brought to a triumphant conclusion) may be allowed to say something tinged with true sentiment, along toward the end. This is very effective. Well, this playwright had a friend, who, The Wilderness coMi^^"^ ^^ being- seldom sober, was wonderfully clever, and a master of persiflahaha-age ; and he sug- gested a great idea to the wright. So they w^orked on it together, and polished it up. The result was seen when the play was put on, * and the w^onderful sentiment of it had reduced to tears the orchestra leader, and the head usher, who is cynical and hard to move, and the fireman in thg wings, and all the marriage- able girls in the audience, and even some of the paper in the back row^s. In a sentimental sense, it was a knock-out punch. All these folks were groggy, — they w^ere taking a walk down Queer Street. But for the lovely inci- 'musk?'^"'''^^ dental music, these parties would have passed away in ecstatic agony. The music saved them. It mercifully took their minds off the fatal poesy of the play, and they, survived. At this psychological moment, suddenly, down the steps of the chateau [The piece was an inter- national romance.] came four flunkeys in the livery of the noble house of the hero [He was real light-complected.], bearing in their stal- wart arms (of all things!) a donkey, a real, live donkey. Of course, this gave immediate * The writers wanted to speak of this as the premiere of the play, thus, "when the play had its premiere But they find that only dramatic critics are licensed to use this knowing and super-elegant word. Tntrodlktiox Iv relief. But that was not all. They carried the donkey upside down. This was more un- expected still. And every competent play- \ 1 / ESSENCE w right knows that unexpectedness (or some- of^ humor times repetition) is the essence of humor. If vou hear a thino- said nine or ten times in a play, you may be almost sure it is funny. Do n't forget this. In fact, for the drama, repetition may be said to be the soul of wit. Well, when the audience had recovered from the burst of merriment that rocked the house from pit to dome, it came out that this seem- ingly improbable and irrelevant occurrence came about in the most natural way. The donkey was a household pet, as he is in many estimable families. He was kept chained to his kennel in the back yard of the chateau. He was perfectly devoted to bones, and usually he was plentifully supplied. But the cook [See how natural this is.] had been drunk the night before, and had forgotten him. He became uneasy [We all feel that way sometimes. ] , and broke his chain, in which [Not a detail necessary to verisimilitude was overlooked.] there was a defective lin"k. In his search for bones, he got, unobserved, into the chateau. He crept softly up the back stairs, and got into the spare room (guest PET DONKEYS :V1 The Wilderness THE GUEST CHAMBER UNREASON- ABLE CHAR- ACTERS A COSTUME PLAY A SOCIETY DRAMA chamber to people with incomes over three hundred thousand), which happened to be oc- cupied by a very thin, spare guest. So the don- key, feeling tired (again, as we all feel some- times), with the contrariety of his kind, jumped up on the bed, curled up, and, purring contentedly, went to sleep on a three-thousand- franc down quilt. So you see how naturally it all came about, and how convincingly the epi- sode was woven into the fabric of the play. It takes ingenuity to write plays. When this play was in preparation, the writers had many anxious conferences with the three principal characters. These people were very hard to manage. It was first proposed to make a costume play, — much the safest kind, as only the mod- ern thinkless actor is needed. Beatrix said it did n't interest her, and she guessed she 'd go home to the boys. And this was the woman of the combination! Hopeless! A modern society drama seemed almost equally alluring. There are so many excellent people to whom the theatre affords the only opportunity to get next to really smart society. Us dramatists owe a duty to these people, and on the whole we discharge it pretty conscien- tiously. Of course, this play was to be all Introduction Ivii right, — something a seasoned matinee girl could take her own mother to, — not indecent, oh! no; the characters not to wade in the slime, unless they wore hip-boots, but only to navi- gate their frail craft on its iridescent surface in such fashion that the audience should expect to seejhem fall overboard at any moment. But something saves them. This is where the heart interest comes in. Then there w^as to be one Very Strono- Scene, which, as every .a very . STRONG schoolboy now knows, is all that a play needs, scene Bill said the Very Strong Scene was some stronger 'n his stomick, w^'ich it was li'ble ter buck jump, ef it was loaded with -any thin' stronger 'n tea thet lied b'en b'iled fer half an hour. He 'd see the writers plumb ter hell before he 'd go through four acts an' three very fine climixes holdin' his nose like the woods was full er polecats, an' breathin' the stink through his mouth. Ef he ke'ched one er them cunnin' little wood-pussies rubbin' up of wood- . . . , PUSSIES ag'in him, he 'd hev its hide off it an' nailed ter the side er the shack before it c'd bat an eye. He cal'ated it 'd look some prettier without even the clo'es it was born in. No clo'es was the on'y clo'es thet 'd fit it reel well. That settled that. A comedy of manners was voted to be out Iviii The Wilderness COMEDY OF ^^^ ^^^^ question, a large part of the equipment MANNERS q{ the modern actor being ignorance of com- edy and innocence of manners. Fosdick de- clared his belief that good manners were al- most as rare upon the stage as in the best Sun- day-newspaper society. Bill said that as he did n't know nuthin' erbout manners, he would n't set in no sich a game. Beatrix re- fused to appear in any play in which Bill would not feel at home, and added that, any- how, Bill's manners were too good for a com- edy of present-day manners. A DRAMA OF It was then suggested that the demi-monde ' was a mine from which many dramatic gems had been taken, but in which, if you '11 watch the automobiles, many large and brilliant ones remained. Fosdick put his foot on that; and although he wore shoepacks at the time, he busted the idea. Until that moment the writers had thought him a man ; but this re- vealed him as the hopeless lay figure of a prig that he was. How pitiably inadequate is his A PITIFUL equipment for his part, is revealed in the fourth act, in which he presents the impossi- ble spectacle of a hero meekly holding up his hands because he fears that if he lowers them, he will be catching bullets on the fly. This weak-minded display of common sense pro- Introduction lix claims Fosclick's ignorance of the first princi- ples of stage heroics. He does not even know that no gun-fighter was ever yet quick enough on the draw to hold up a real stage hero, that in the drama only the villain is sufficiently in- telligent to know when the real thing has got the drop on him, and that the most popular of matinee idols could never survive the humilia- tion to which he submits as a matter of course. He could never qualify as a karnegero, al- though he would just love to wear the medal * }55f ji'li: modestly in his necktie, and to show to the reporters affidavits establishing his heroism. We were up against it. In each case it was * These medals take their name from that of the eminent person whose good money pays for them, and after whom most things are now named. You can't be _- a hero — that is a certified karnegero, without adequate proof of your heroism. The would-be hero and a num- ber of responsible persons must make affidavit to cir- cumstances which establish conclusively the applicant's heroism. And the standard is high : the affidavits must be good and strong. It is best to employ counsel fa- miliar with hero practice ; for it is humiliating to have one's just claims denied. No one likes to be told that he is no hero. The successful applicant is rewarded by receiving the medal, by a number of good press notices, for which a skilled press agent should be employed, and by having a fine capital K branded on his fagade. Thus the whole hero business has been standardized in the most satisfactory manner, and taken out of the realm of mere romance and fiction. Undoubtedly this is one of the greatest boons ever conferred upon mankind. Too often unaided humanity has tagged the wrong hero. PRECEPTS PLAYERS AND AMA- ev;d.n that the two others .ere ^ith the oh- .of "oSeT ;r :;n: , ^^- ^•^-e Peop,e '"<-tedthe°st:„7;:^~-^ ers;— ^ Precepts tor pJay- whoh^,:;;'rrh:t:r.'^^'"^^-^-- or:;o„;trCa:e"de^°"^'r"^^'^-' uses; and vnu .r. , ''^™^ ^°'" other used nitehClvV-ln ''"'■* P^'-'^-'"<^h, ofco„,„.r;t-t;^^';:;-- e^en have hrains ^''"'^^ P^^P'e deeper the fee „/ the , ' '''^' "■"'^- ^he ^'--ds;a,:i?he rdtX^tr-^^ your being are those nf '''^P^'* '" "ot those^of th d ,ona?r TT ^°"^"^' suggested to his love hat 1 I Z^" ^^'^^ ;-^ through, on cer:,,:re;to°t"f^"'''^ thme gates of Paradise "'"■^"- ^ Introduction Ixi Real emotion is in your insicles : yon do n't turn handsprings. 4. If the writer has not provided you with of°silIncI lines that seem to you worth while under the circumstances, say nothing. You may bust up the play, but you will save your self-respect. There may be more virtue, even more elo- quence, in silence than in all the things that some respectable people of ninety have said in all their lives, compressed into two minutes. We have been trained not to waste our wind. 5. Take your time. If you 're soon enough, you '11 not be too late. To be too soon never does any good. 6. Go on strike, if they cast you in a play Ir'^^ctI'^^ in which the slap-stick has a leading part. If we all went to college for thirty or forty years (a hundred for some), the face-makers and slap-stick artists would all be playing to empty benches in a better world, and they would n't get a hand. 7. Remember that love-making is some dif- ^ng^nd*^" ferent from catch-as-catch-can wrestling. It wrestling seems so to us; but we are plain people. We bar the strangle hold. The love of upper Broadway, both on and off the stage, is an- other matter. We know nothing of these subtler things of life that are as familiar to Ixii The Wilderness leading play-makers, actors, and managers, as the clothes they owe their tailors for. Some folks are so foolish that they think even their minds are involved in their loving. Some have no minds. They are often good wres- tlers. 8. Do n't try to measure the excellence of your performance in terms of foot-tons. The things you make your audience think you could do are likely to be more effective than the things you do. 9. We '11 be satisfied if, and only if, we can keep our audience interested. Action is a good dog, but Interest is a better. If you can not make your stage character interesting, battle, murder, and sudden death, pistols and poison, dope and disease, atavism and adul- tery, and all the accepted aids to agony, will not put you in right. 10. Unless your contribution to your part is far greater than the playwright's, you are not an actor. He supplies the words: it is your job to furnish, to create, the person- ality. THE ART OF II. Trv to listcu. It is more than half of LISTENING •: , 1 1 • conversation, and, properly done, is more than a quarter of good acting. .A cheerful listener may be welcome when a brilliant and Introduction Ixiii previous talker would be a bore. Unspoken flattery is one of the corner-stones of society. 12. If you have any brains, use them. If the playwright or the stage-manager won't let you, hunt another job. * 13. It is better fun to think about your lines, if you are anything but clothes, than to be wondering whether your make-up is right. It will also please the audience more. 14. Play to the best part of your audience. It is ea-sier to make people accept what is too good for them than to persuade them that they like what they know is not good enough for them. A flattered intelligence is tamer than an insulted intelligence. IK. Never foreet that the best part of a the actor's BEST ALLY play should be enacted in the minds of the audience. There is a limit to your vocal and muscular activities : some things have no as- signable-limit. If you go to the limit in dic- tion, action, and shouting, you leave nothing to the imagination, and so lose your best ally. To complicate the situation further, Fos- a walking ^ GENTLEMAN dick said, with a hardness in his eye that be- lied the soft weakness of the imitation stage hero that he is, that if any writer tried to make a walking gentleman out of him. with nothing in the world to do but to come on Ixiv The Wilderness ■ when e\'ery two-year-old in the audience knew he would come, and to go off when every rounder knew he would have to go, he would take that party over his knee, and fix him so that he would have to dine at a lunch-counter for a week. Fosdick said he could whittle a hetter man out of hasswood. He said he was a busy man. BEmG^A ^^ Beatrix said that, for her part, she would WOMAN (^Iq ^g gi^g lll^gd when the time came. Bill's habit of what she would flatter him by .calling thought, even his manner of giving expres- sion to it, was so woven into her nature that she could n't get shet of it. She did n't want to. She had never tried to be a perfect lady, and she was n't going to begin at her age. The job of being a woman kept her busy. RELIEF "'^^^^ seemed to excite Bill, who thereupon took up his parable to the effect that ef said party cast him fer sich a fool part ez ol' Comic Relief, they 'd be doin's prompt thet would n't be no ways comic, not fer some folks. AND^^^ Thus these well-meaning but clumsy people, rushing in where very few angels without the price have trodden lately, strove to butt down with their silly heads the pillars of the shrine of dramatic art, scantified by the heart's blood of loose women, dope fiends, reformed rakes, FOOLS Introduction Ixv and unfaithful wives, who work so hard nightly up and down Broadway, in plays burst- ing with heart interest, to show us ordinary mortals what life really is, and to bring' home to us those great moral lessons which they and their creators are so well qualified to teach. What was to be done? These three, with their crazy code, had barred every element es-^ sential to a play. Nothing remained but to turn them loose, and let them do their worst. That was done. This adaptation from the French is the result. Obviously it can't be a play.* * The designation "play" is used in the introduction, merely as a matter of convenience. But no writing which consistently violates the rules and the traditions of our best dramatic art can properly be called a play. Even the stage directions in the following pages are not couched in those terms to depart from which makes a writing not a play. Could the presumption of ig- norance further go? Bill and Beatrix, with the help of Fosdick, have made a hopeless mess of it. Imagine a spot-light actress's appearing in the first act before the audience has been prepared in the customary manner for her entrance. IMPORTANT NOTE Some people who are far from dull have found it difficult to imagine Beatrix and Bill in the en- vironment in which they are placed. It is but kind, therefore, to state the following facts, for the benefit of those who are either so clever as to knov.', or so dull as to suppose, that our friends could not have been where we find them : John Walton was a rich man, who -had suc- ceeded in large undertakings in the western coun- try. His interests embraced mines, railways, tim- ber lands; and probably cattle ranches. New York City is as yet the financial centre of this country, and in the not far distant past the West depended upon eastern capital. Such activities as those in which Walton had toiled and won his way are not independent of the financial centre. As a matter of fact, much of the capital associated with Wal- ton's had its home in New York City, and some of it even touched Boston. Men associated with him in business had the misfortune to live in the East. It happened, therefore., that his affairs sometimes Ixx The Wilderness been a potent factor in the elevation of the Amer- ican drama to its present proud eminence. We must find his excuse in the fact that he did not foresee that she would ever be cast for that part. Beatrix is now in Maine because, ( i ) applying- to the boys the ideas which her father applied to her, she has had the boys at school in Massachu- setts; (2) she does not want to be, as yet, in the region most intimately associated in her mind with the father whom she has not ceased to mourn; (3) she wishes not to lose sight of Herbert; (4) she has a super-constitutional right to be in any state to w^hich she can afford to buy a railway ticket ; (5) she has money enough to enable her to be where she wants to be, and to make her independent of the scene-painter; (6) she means to have her own way in this, as in some other things. As for Bill, if what follows does not make it clear that he will be found where Beatrix is, and why he will be found there, it is not the writers' fault. A very interesting dialogue between these two, which was nicely designed to save the reader from brain-fag,* and in which these and other obscure points were explained w^ith sufficient sprightliness, was ruthlessly cut by them. They * The compositor whose Monday morning take included the Important Note, had this "brain-fog" ; but for this chronic and sometimes congenital malady, even psycho-therapeutics has not discovered a remedy. Important Note Ixxi protested that they were iinal)le to deHver it in any but the most spiritless manner, and Betty per- sisted in yawning- in the middle of the most illu- minating historical and genealogical utterances that had been assigned to Bill. They were willing to present themselves; they refused to explain them- selves. Fosdick's presence at the summer hotel has also been a stumbling-block to the man from Missouri. Some people of unimpeachable taste have thought that he was n't in the picture. The most superficial study of the contemporaneous drama would con- vince these doubters that mere artistic necessity affords a sufficient reason for anyone's presence anywhere at any time. In Fosdick's case, however, there are other and more commonplace reasons. The w^idow of his paternal uncle, Ezra Q. Fos- dick, having an income sufficient for the indulgence of her tastes and the cultivation of her talents, finds occupation and recreation in the exploitation of several genteel maladies, which are her only defence against constitutional ennui. Somewhat to his discomfiture, she is fond of Robert Fosdick. Thinking that she needed his advice as to her in- vestment in the Four Flush Mine, she summoned him to the Maine coast, where, at the Bay Head Hotel, she was combating insomnia in a most in- teresting form. He meant to stay there only three Ixx The Wilderness been a potent factor in the elevation of the Amer- ican drama to its present proud eminence. We must find his excuse in the fact that he did not foresee that she would ever be cast for that part. Beatrix is now in Maine because, ( i ) applying- to the boys the ideas which her father applied to her, she has had the boys at school in Massachu- setts; (2) she does not want to be, as yet, in the region most intimately associated in her mind with the father whom she has not ceased to mourn; (3) she wishes not to lose sight of Herbert; (4) she has a super-constitutional right to be in any state to which she can afford to buy a railway ticket; (5) she has money enough to enable her to be where she wants to be, and to make her independent of the scene-painter; (6) she means to have her own way in this, as in some other things. As for Bill, if wiiat follows does not make it clear that he will be found where Beatrix is, and why he will be found there, it is not the writers' fault. A very interesting dialogue between these two, which was nicely designed to save the reader from brain-fag,* and in which these and other obscure points were explained w^ith sufficient sprightliness, was ruthlessly cut by them. They * The compositor whose Monday morning take included the Important Note, had this "hrain-fog" ; but for this chronic and sometimes congenital malady, even psycho-therapeutics has not discovered a remedy. Important Note Ixxi IHpprotested that they were unable to deHver it in " any but the most spiritless manner, and Betty per- sisted in yawning in the middle of the most illu- minating historical and genealogical utterances that had been assigned to Bill. They were willing to present themselves; they refused to explain them- selves. Fosdick's presence at the summer hotel has also been a stumbling-block to the man from Missouri. Some people of unimpeachable taste have thought that he was n't in the picture. The most superficial study of the contemporaneous drama would con- vince these doubters that m^re artistic necessity affords a sufificient reason for anyone's presence anywdiere at any time. In Fosdick's case, however, there are other and more commonplace reasons. The widow of his paternal uncle, Ezra Q. Fos- dick, having an income sufificient for the indulgence of her tastes and the cultivation of her talents, finds occupation and recreation in the exploitation of several genteel maladies, which are her only defence against constitutional ennui. Somewhat to his discomfiture, she is fond of Robert Fosdick. Thinking that she needed his advice as to her in- vestment in the Four Flush Mine, she summoned him to the Maine coast, where, at the Bay Head Hotel, she was combating insomnia in a most in- teresting form. He meant to stay there only three Ixxii The Wilderness days. But after he had dictated a number of let- ters, he decided that the work which he had un- , derway could be done best in the invigorating \ air in the immediate vicinity of Farewell Be i\ Eight days after his arrival his Aunt Rachel wa j driven to the mountains by the recurrence of her hay fever, which was perhaps the choicest piece in her collection. Further explanations are refused. If playwrights were compelled to explain reasonably all the ab- surdities, the incongruities, the improbabilities, the inconsistencies, and the impossibilities of their plays, the task would exhaust their ingenuity, they would not have any invention left for serious work, and we should have no more drama. If you want to enjoy a play, you must accept it. It is best to leave your critical and analytical faculties at home, in the ice-box. THE WILDERNESS AN AMERICAN PLAY PERSONS IN THE PLAY The Spirit of John Walton. Beatrix Walton, daughter of John Walton. Bill Herrold. Robert Fosdick. Herbert Walton, son of John Walton. Jack Walton ) j- t i ur i^ younger sons of John Walton, Dick Walton F. Bosworth Masterson. Red McShane. Mrs. Thomas Y. Davis. ACT I. Boat-float on the shore of the Waltons' island on the coast of Maine. ACT 11. Office of the Bay head Hotel on the shore of Fare- well Bay on the coast of Maine. ACTS III, IV., V. On the shore of Farewell Bay. I f THE WILDERNESS ACT I. [The hoat-iioat on the shore of the Walt oris' island on the coast of Maine. The season is mid- summer. On the float lie a dory, resting on its bot- tom, and a canvas canoe, bottom up. Tzvo ronf-boats float alongside. Oars, paddles, lobster-pots, and boat-gear are disposed upon the float, in a more or less orderly fashion. The shore of the island, zvith zMch the float is connected by a gang-plank ivipi a hand-rail on each side, is rocky and n^ooded zvith birch, pine, spruce, and hemlock trees. The similar shores of points, and of other islands, zvith channels and reaches betiveen, are seen in the middle distance and beyond, and far on the horizon are misty blue mountains. Upon the further side of the float. Bill Herrold kneels, steadying zt'ith both hands a birch- bark canoe, in the bozv of zMch Beatrix Walton kneels. ' Upon the float beside her lies the bozv pad- dle, its blade still zuet. The stern paddle lies by Bill. 3 The Wilderness She rises and steps lightly front the canoe, without assistance. She zi'cars a plain, brozvn, soft felt hat, zcifhout adornment, gray flannel shirt, a brozcn silk neckerchief, an old leather belt, brozvn khaki skirt, the hem of zvhich is at a point half zmy betzjueen knee and ankle, gray woollen stockings, and plain, unbeaded moccasins. Bill is not dressed at all, — that is, he is garbed after the manner of his kind. He also wears moccasins, or shoepacks. ■ Each of them taking an end of the canoe, they lift it, drip- ping, to the float, and set it dozvn upon its bottom. Bill takes an old zmistcoat from the stern of the canoe, where he has been^ kneeling upon it, zvhile Beatrix lifts and throzvs upon the float the small canvas cushion upon which she has been kneeling.^ Beatrix [feeling the side of the canoe]. The sun will be hot to-day, Bill. This gum is soft now. You had better tote the birch up into the shade. [Bill tosses the canoe upon his shoulders, walks up the gang-plank, and disappears in the woods. He then returns. In the mean time, Beatrix has been stretching and zvorking her arms, legs^ and fingers, to take the stiffness out of them.] Beatrix. That was something like old times, Bill. We rather made her smoke the last three or four miles. We left the boys hull down. They can almost hold us now for a mile in the light canoe ; but when it comes to real work, they ain't in it with Act I 5 us old hands yet. Ouch! I 've got a cramp in that forearm: I told you you were holding me too long on the left side. [She holds out her right arm, the fingers con- tracted with cramp. Bill turns up her sleeve, and rubs, pinches, and slaps her forearm with, muck vigor, her fingers relaxing under this treatment.'] ^Beatrix. I wish you would n!t chatter so. You make rational conversation quite impossible. [Bill sits upon the gunzmle of the dory, takes pipe and tobacco pouch from his pocket, and pre- pares for a smoke, Beatrix standing and gazing dreamily into the distance. When his pipe is ready. Bill takes a sulphur match from his hat-band. Beatrix goes to him, takes the match, lights it man- fashion, and holds it zvhile he lights his pipe.] Beatrix. What 's the matter with you, anyway? Bill. Nuthin'. * Beatrix. Perhaps you think I da n't know every- thing that goes on in the agglomeration of matter which I suppose you call your brain. You 've got an uncommon fine article of grouch because of what I said to you a spell. back. But you see, Bill, I 'm bound to break out of the corral. I can't help it: I 'm uneasy. I must go, — anywhere, over yonder, beyond something. What kind of a country do you suppose there is, now, the far side er them mount- ings? I want to see things, — and things. You The Wilderness know that I can find my way in the tall timber ; and I guess you know that when John Walton's daugh- ter has made up her mind, she 's going to come pretty near having her own w^ay. [She sits on the gunzmle of the dory.] Bill [plaintiz'ely, to an imaginary auditor]. Ain't it ridic'lous? Here 's this ornery leetle gal, thet I 've dry-nussed ever sence she wa' n't no big- ger 'n my gun [Feeling for the gun that is not there.] I hed her so 's she 'd eat outer my hand. An' now she goes plumb locoed. An' w'at kin I do? My nerve is busted ; I 'm gittin' old an' wore out. I do n't doubt but w'at a broken-down pack mule could heave me over his head. I s'pose she calls it a declaration er inerpendence. [To Beatrix.] I calls it downright, damn foolishness. Beatrix. You 've got a touch of the sun; or per- haps you are only in your dotage. I do n't know, though, that you were ever a master hand to read the mind of a woman. Bill. I dunno. I dunno. Ye 're a sight more like yer dad then ever any of the boys '11 be. Beatrix. Am I really so much like father? Bill [angrily]. W'y, Gal, do ye s'pose ef ye hed n't er b'en, I 'd 've turned myself inter a lop- eared sheep dawg an' follered ye ter thisyer gawd- fersaken kentry, w'ere all the water 's alkaline Act 1 [Waving his hand toivard the zmitcr.'\, an' a man can't take a drink without stickin' his elber inter another feller's eye? Like him! Beatrix. But, Bill, you do n't drink. Bill. Not w'en I 'm on my job, I do n't; an' you ain't give me a minute's rest ner peace fer nigh outer three year now. I guess it 's erbout time fer me ter pull my freight. The job hez got so ez ter be too big fer me. I ain't no more use here. ^Beatrix [turning aside and speaking zvith much miotion^. We 've b'en on the trail tergether fer quite some years, — you an' me. I hed hoped ye might be with me at the end of it. \_A pause. She turns to him, and speaks with chastened sadness.] I have had a premonition of this. For some days your innumerable good points have been much in my mind, and something that I feared was an obit- uary notice has been taking shape in my head. There is some relief in discovering that it must have been a letter of recommendation. [Rising and walking tozvard the gang-plank.] I '11 go up and re- duce it to typewriting, so that your departure may not be delayed. [She walks up the gang-plank, turns before reaching the upper end of it, comes part zmy dozim the plank, and sits upon one of the hand-rails.] Perhaps I can give you an idea of what I think of saying. I should like your approval. 8 The Wilderness [Her face assumes a thoughtful expression, and her hrozv becomes slightly puckered.'] Something like this :— To Whom it may Concern : Mr. WilHam Herrold [That 's you, Bill.] has been in my service for eighteen years in the capacity of nursery governess to a girl whose age has varied constantly during that time. He has given entire satisfaction, — to himself; and leaves my employ- ment now only — only because he has imparted to his youthful and engaging charge (me, Bill) — youthful charge, all that he knows, and many other useful and agreeable accomplishments. Under his able, although not always humane, — tutelage, • she has learned to follow a trail, blazed or unblazed ; to ride almost anything on three or four fegs, except — except a grand piano; to shoot very melodiously upon several kinds of firearms; to walk further and pack more than any but the most brutal would — ■ would ever require of an unarmed girl ; to remember that the panic in the human head seldom communi- cates itself to the compass — except in the season of blue moons; to tell by the use of the unaided human eye (and brain) which w^ay is up-stream; to go softly, carry a big stick, and keep to the right on a trail that is crowded with grizzly bears; never to get out and walk when taking a canoe down white Act I 9 water; to keep her matches dry; to catch, clean, cook, and eat muskrats, mushrooms, beetles, black flies, plug tobacco, and the other delicacies of the wilder- ness ; to guard the point of the jaw ; and otherwise to comport herself in a refined and ladylike manner. [Bill, I 'm shore gittin' some interested in this.] Perhaps Mr. Herrold's most graceful accomplish- ment is drawing. He has been recognized as a leading exponent of this branch of the graphic art by the critics of the ranches and mining camps of California, Wyoming, and Arizona. The quickness and sureness of his touch have been much admired, and in this particular he has not been excelled by any of his contemporaries. In his earlier days — in his earlier days he participated in many competi- tions, — and always with success. He is living evi- dence of this. It is believed, such is the sensitive- ness of his nature, that he could not have survived failure. ^ His work has been frequently exhibited ; and he has always been held in such respect by hang- ing committees that he has never been skied. [I do n't mean that, Bill.] At one time he gave great promise as a painter in monochrome; but the art emporiums of New Mexico, where he was then pursuing, and frequently overtaking, his studies, were unable to supply the voracious demands of his palette. It is known, how- ever, that two of these studies in his earlier manner lo The Wilderness were hung on the Hne in the art gallery at Toad Valley. It is understood that they are now buried in one of the smaller collections of the great South- west, but, it is feared, not in a good state of preser- vation. Mr. Herrold's age is anywhere from five to fifty- five years. He is often sober, industrious, if well bossed by a person of iron will and perfect indif- ference to danger, as honest as — he knows how to be, and fully competent for any job — job that is well within his capacity. His only failings are an entire lack of sense of humor, and a constant ten- dency to fits of peevishness, in which, however, he seldom kills anyone, unless he forgets himself. I can not, therefore, recommend him too highly [The fine ambiguity of this is probably lost on you.] — too highly, as — as companion to a nervous invalid, or as preceptor to any healthy and thoroughly cour- ageous child whose fighting weight is not less than a hundred and ninety pounds, and who — and who carries a knockout punch in either hand. There, Bill, I feel better already. I knew there was something inside of me trying to work out. Of course, that 's just a rough draft. But something along those lines ought to insure you pretty con- stant occupation in the more peaceful parts of Mas- sachusetts or Rhode Island. Act I II [During this recital, Bill has sat smoking stol- idly: he laughs hut tzvice, and does not smile, during our acquaintance imth him. Beatrix goes to him, seizes him by the collar with both hands, and shakes him roughly.] Beatrix. Now, you ornery ol' grizzly, I calls yer bluff. Wen ye goin' ? Bill. Now, Betty Gal, ye knows mighty well thet w'en yer dad passed in- his checks, erway out nigh ter the head waters er the Yaller Gravel, with his head a-layin' on my knee, I promised him I 'd never let no harm come nigh ye, not ef I c'd help it. Beatrix. I know it, Bill, dear. [She kisses him softly upon the forehead, and then zmlks slozdy up the gang-plank. Bill surrepti- tiously puts one hand upon the spot that she has kissed, and then looks reverently at the hand. As she ncars the upper end of the plank, he speaks.] Bill [saz^agely] . Wen ye goin' ? Beatrix [turning to face Bill]. On Thurs- day. I 've got everything ready. You know what I mean to do with the boys. You '11 stay here and hold down the ranch until you hear from me. [She turns shoreward.] Bill [partly aside]. Like hell, I will. Beatrix ^ [turning and coming tozvard him]. What ? I thougfht I heard a kinder foolish noise. T2 The Wilderness Bill. Niithin'. I was talkin' in my sleep. It 's growed on me. It 's got so now I talk in my sleep sometimes w'en I 'm awake. Beatrix. I tell you. Bill, it is n't fair. Father began without a cent, and fought his way up. He saw life. And here am I, with all the other and better things that he gave me, as you never tire of telling me, and as I never tire of hear- ing, weighed down by a pile of silly money. But I will not be held down. I 'm going up against the world for a while. I 'm going to see that country over beyond the mountains. I 'm going to put to practical use some of the things that Father made me learn, and learn well, — some of the things I used to do for him. He had to earn his living. I 'm go- ing to see whether I can earn my living, or whether I 'm a mere [Jack and Dick come dozvn the gang-plank. They are dressed rather carelessly in trousers and flannel shirts of neutral tints, zmth old felt hats and moccasins. Their gray zvoollen socks are drazim up over their trousers. They carry paddles.] Bill. Good evenin'. *Ef I was you, I 'd hev one er these yere leetle mechanical polecats put inter my canoe, so 's I c'd keep up with the gals. Jack. We got hung up on the Shark's Fin, and the darn old canoe got to leaking so that we had to leave her on the far side of the island. Act I 13 Beatrix [at temp ting to embrace the fzi^o boys]. My boys, my boys! [Jack avoids her, and she em- braces Dick, zvho hugs her affectionately.'] Saved, saved from a watery sepulchre ! [ With one arm about Dick, she addresses Bill.] Do you suppose I can ever teach these innocent darlings to find their way about alone? D 'ye figger they c'd f oiler the trairerlong the right er way from White Water ter Bull Pup Sidin', ef they was tethered ter the slow freight ? Bill. They might : they might, on a clear day, — ef the rail's was w^hitewashed good, — an' the wind did n't blow so 's ter take their mind off the blazes. Beatrix. I thought they had the bearings of that reef down pat. I 've shown them on the water, and I 've shown them on the chart; and if they 've seen me do it once, they 've seen me go clear of the easterly end of the Shark's Fin by the thickness of the skin of a birch-bark a hundred and four times. [Releasing Dick, and addressing the boys unth sad precision of utterance.] You can do it every time, at this stage of the tide, on the blasted pine ranging with the sou' westerly corner of the cook shack until you just open the point of Seal Pup Island. Then you Oh! what "s the use? You children ought to be where you would have nice fat policemen to carry you over the crossings. Then you could travel without having to use your brains. 14 The Wilderness Jack [with great dignity]. That will be about all of that, Beatrix. I 've something to say to you. Beatrix [taking shelter behind. Bill]. Please do n't begin by scaring me to death. Jack. I wish to know Bill. Haw! haw! haw! He wishes some ter know. Beatrix. Quit your yapping, Bill. I do n't like the poor child's looks. I fear his health is suffer- ing. Bill. He does look reel feverish. Jack. What 's all this rot you 've been talking to Dick? He says you 've got it all framed up to herd us into a summer camp school with a bunch of pale- faces that probably could n't get across Central Park without a guide. Beatrix [z'ery sweetly]. Or go clear of the Shark's Fin without a tow line from their sister's canoe. [Pompously.] Yes, John, my affairs com- pel me to absent myself for a considerable period 'from that family of which, until this fatal moment, I have been permitted to consider myself at least the titular head. While I do this with much regret, as you can understand, I am not at all certain that the incidental advantages of the plan that I have perfected with the expenditure of many hours of anxious thought, will not far more than outweigh the inevitable pain which must attend even the tem- Act I 15 porary sundering of those domestic ties which are recognized as sacred by all the nations of the earth which have the smallest pretension to civilization. For myself Jack. I won't stand for it. It 's the wrong dope. You want to guess again. I 'm getting to be a man. Yon can't treat me like a mommer's darling. I '11 appeal to Herbert. Dick [looking for a line of retreat, and edging toward the gang-plank, a symptom zMch leads Bill to saunter over to the lozver end of the 'plank, n'here he stands]. That 's the stuff, Jack. Stick to it. I 'm right with you. Beatrix [su'eetly, to Dick]. You 're right with him ? Dick. Sure. Beatrix [more szveetly]. You want to be right with brother, do n't you ? Dick [doubtfully]. Yes. Beatrix. Fine. We '11 try to fix it that way. [To Jack.] Did you ever notice that Herbert had his bridle on me? You do n't even know where he is, somewhere along the coast, in someone's steam yacht, learning from willing teachers how to spend the money that he never worked for. Herbert had got too far before I found myself. But I '11 make men of you two, if I have to cripple you all up to do it. This family conclave is drawing to a close. The Wilderness To me, it is, indeed, a sad occasion. It is a terrible thing for one who has enjoyed power which may justly be described as autocratic, to feel that the reins — no, the sceptre is slipping from his nerve- less grasp, that his brief term of glory is verging to its close. [Her voice shaking with eniotioiL] John, my lad, you have spoken brave w^ords. [During this harangue, the boys have drawn to- gether, as if for mutual protection.] Dick [aside to Jack]. You want to look out -for her when she talks like that. Beatrix. I have read in the Bible, — or was it in Shakespeare ? — that words are good when backed by deeds, and only so. We have had the words, — fine words, grand words. [Bearing down threateningly upon Jack.] We will now proceed to have doings. Jack [backing azvay as Beatrix advances]. You let me be. I do n't want to have to hit a girl. [He looks desperately toward the gang-plank, zi'hich he sees covered by Bill. Beatrix draws him with a feint, and he lunges at her, not seeming to know whether he means to strike or to seize her. She grasps with both hands the wrist of his ex- tended arm, passes his arm over her shoulder, turns her back to him, and, leaning quickly forward, throws hintj with a "flying mare," into the water. Dick tries to dodge up the gang-plank, but is caught and held by Bill. As Beatrix advances slowly Act I 17 ■upon him, she signals to Bill^ who then lets Dick slip from his grasp. As she rushes upon him, Dick dives from the float.] Beatrix. You are sure the most harmless look- ing pair of bad men I ever saw. I do n't believe you '11 even frighten the cunners. Swim ashore, now, and run up to the shack. Sister will be up in a minute to tell you what she has decided to do with you. That was good team work, Bill. We do have fun with the kids. [With real feeling.] I hate to leave the little dears. END OF act I 1 8 The Wilderness 11 1 1; ACT IT [Office of the Bay head Hotel on the shore of Farewell Bay on the coast of Maine. The hotel is obviously a large zi'ooden structure, with all the beauty and dignity which commonly characterize the architecture of such havens of rest. A zvide door, standing open at the back, gives on a zvide piazza, beyond zvhich the ground slopes sharply to the shore of the bay. The rugged zvesterly shore of the bay is seen stretching azmy to the southzvard. It is zuooded, and runs out to a bold point, zvith a light*, house on the end. The office is a thoroughfare, with an entrance on each side. At the left and near the back is the desk of the clerk, zvhere that functionary and his assistant are seen from time to time busy zvith their labors. During the act people pass through the office, sometimes stopping to speak zvith oneanother or zmth the clerk. What they say is interesting, but must be inaudible to the audience. If any of them are very tired, they may sit for a few minutes in the chairs zvhich stand about in rich profusion.' A^o upholstery is visible to the naked eye. The only adornments are a few colored maps, two or three coast survey charts, and some steam- Act II 19 boat posters, displayed upon the zvalls. On the right and near the front is a door, npon vjhich is the leg- end ''STENOGRAPHY AND TYPEWRITINGS Near this door stands a small flat-top desk. Mrs. Davis sweeps through the office. As she passes near this door, the door opens, and Beatrix emerges. '\ Beatrix. Mrs. Davis, may I speak with you a moment ? Mrs. Davis. W'y cert'nly, Miss Wilber. Beatrix. Your little boy tells me you say that I am rich. What does that mean ? Mrs. Davis. Well, now, I had n't intended to say a word to anyone. I thought 'f I 'd discovered a secret, I ought to keep it to muself. I on'y gave z. hint to dear little. Neddie, because I thought he might annoy you with his high spurits, 'f he thought you was on'y a common typewriter. Beatrix. Please tell me what you think you have discovered. Mrs. Davis. Well, I ain't perf'ctly cert'n; but two years ago I saw Beatrix Walton, the great heir- ess, in Noo-York, an' I think you 're her. Beatrix. You flatter me. Mrs. Davis. No : I do n't think so. Of course, your secret is quite safe with me. You 're too pretty, mu dear, to be doin' this. But I 'm glad to see you 're wise enough to do your business with 20 The Wilderness the men out here. You ought to have a chaperone. llien you c'd join in the gay life here, and take 'the position that — that Beatrix. That my wealth would entitle me to, — supposing me to be Beatrix Walton. Let us have an understanding. If I am not Miss Walton, you are only wasting your time, and Mrs. Davis. Oh ! but, mu dear Beatrix. Pardon me, Mrs. Davis. I sought this interview, because I had something to say to you. I find it difficult to make myself quite clear to one who is adept in the graceful art of talking and listening at the same time. As it is my idea that I am seeking to convey, perhaps you willjfii me put it in my own way. Mrs. Davis. Certunly: w'y, of course. I on'y Beatrix. Mrs. Davis, if I am not Miss Walton, you are wasting your time, and would only make yourself ridiculous by imparting your suspicions to others. If I am Miss Walton, it is quite evident that I do not wish my identity to be known, and that anyone revealing it without warrant would not be in the good graces of the great heiress,— might even incur her enmity. Mrs. Davis. I understand perfuctly. You know you can rely on my discretion. Beatrix. I know nothing about you. If I am Act II 21 Miss Walton, of course I can not prove to you that I am not. If I am not Miss Walton, I am a poor typewriter, who is too much flattered to be in a hurry to correct your mistake. Vou must excuse me. I have work to do. [Beatrix passes oiif through the door of her room.] Mrs. Davis. I wish I was perf'ctly sure. But I guess there ain't much doubt. [Mrs. Davis goes out by door at back. Fos- DicK enters, and knocks at the door of Beatrix's room. She opens the door, and comes out, zidth pencil and note-book in hand.] Beatrix. Good morning, Mr. Fosdick. FosDiCK. Good mohiing. Miss Wilber. [Beatrix sits at her desk, opens her note-book, and prepares to zvrite.] Fosdick [standing], better to Mr. Morton. You have his name and address. \^He dictates rap- idly and zvith little hesitation.] Dear sir, Your let- ter of the sixteenth instant reaches me this morn- ing. I can not see that another conference now is necessary or even desirable. It will take me at least a week to finish my report, to which I am giving all the time possible. My field notes are voluminous, and here and there, because of the roughness of the country and of the weather in which they are made, hard to decipher. I can not ;1 22 The Wilderness answer very definitely your inquiry about young* i IMasterson. I only remember hearing that his gen eral reputation is that of a professional little brother of the rich, with all that that implies as to brains and principles, and that the paltry allowance of ten thousand dollars, made him by a rich father, hardly suffices for his simple needs. Whether he can in- fluence English capital, as you suggest, through his noble brother-in-law, I do not know. You will un- derstand that I am not prepared to advise you as to the wisdom of your associating him w^ith you in" your Catamount Mountain enterprise. Yours very truly, I '11 be back for that in ten minutes. [FosDicK goes out, Beatrix enters her room. Mrs. Davis and Masterson stroll in by door at back.] Mrs. Davis. So you have n't made much prog- ress? Masterson. No. Perhaps it 's my own fault. The girl is too damned ugly. Now% what 's the meaning of your telegram? Why did you order me here? Mrs. Davis. Mu dear boy, do n't say that, jus' because I 've lent you a few thousan'. Masterson. Well, why did you request me to attend you here? Mrs. Davis. Because I think we 've got the reel Act II 23 thing this time, — wealth, distinction, beauty. The other one is n't a circumstance. Masterson [sitting dozm]. That sounds rather good. What 's the name? Mrs. Davis [sitting dozvn]. Now, look a-here, Freddie, this is so good I wan' to be sure we under- stan' this thing. I have n't made any breaks, so far. I 'm at this hotel because there are some people here that it may be worth w'ile to know jus' at first, an' none that '11 bother me in the least, 'f I reelly get started. I mus' keep away from the reelly smart people till we 're ready. Masterson. That 's right enough. You could n't touch them without help, or not without a campaign that I rather think you 're not up to. Mrs. Davis. Now, you 're a man of the world. Let 's take all the how-d'ye-do, an' after-you, an' not-at-all sort of thing fer granted. Let 's be plain. You need money : you 've got to have it. I wan' to be a figger in reel Noo York society. I 've got the money, — plenty of it. Mr. D. '11 let me have all I want fer this. All he c'n do is to get it : he 's fergott'n how to spend it. With your help, I c'n get w'at I want without havin' to wait too long. Without it, I prob'ly can't get it at all. You 're as big a swell as any of 'em ; an' your sister, the duch- ess, — w'en she comes over nex' winter, can soon 24 The Wilderness be the makin' of me, with your help. You say, an' I beHeve, from w'at I 've heard, that she '11 do it, 'f i you say so. The money you 've got to have you \ can't get anyw'eres else, or cert'nly not half as easy -*! as you can from me. I 've advanced you twenty thousan', w'ich you say is about gone. I '11 give you a check fer ten tomorrer. Wen you've had a hun- dred thousan' from me, my part of the bargain is complete. Masterson. Oh! if you put it, that way, yes. j Yes; that 's it. - . 1 Mrs. Davis. An' if you marry a forchoone within two years of the first of las' month, I 've done my part without any more paymunts, because without my money you could n't even go w'ere you 'd see an heiress. Masterson. Yes. Oh ! I agree. That 's what it amounts to. Mrs. Davis. Now see how I trust you. The forchoone is Beatrix Walton. I 've got nuthin' but your bare word. Masterson. What! that wild girl? I 've un- derstood that she knew no one east of Cheyenne, that she was more of an Indian squaw than a white woman, and that when she was in the East she lived in a wigwam somewhere in the woods, and ate nothing but roots and raw fish. I 'd rather given her up as quite impossible. There are some Act II 25 things a gentleman can't do. But she is rich. Old Walton certainly gathered in the shekels. The best line I 've been able to get on her makes her about ^ve million. T suppose she is as good as anything in sight just now. Mrs. Davis. Do n't you worry: even you would n't be ashamed of her. I 've heard her quoted as high as twelve. Well, I 've been able to put this girl under obligation to me, an' she reco'- nizes it. It 's jus' possible she 's comin' here soon. I '11 say she's pretty cert'n to be here soon ; an' I 'm the on'y person in this part of the world that could intredoose you to her. I heard from her on'y this mornin', an' I will be in constant communication with her. I can't tell you all I know, but I advise you to stay here three or four days, anyway. She might be here as soon as that. You '11 find it dull enough. Of course, there are some pretty girls. They 're all off on picnics an' things now. By the way, about the prettiest girl here is the hotel stenographer. She 's quite the lady, an' has n't shown any int'rust in the men. You might be poHte to her. But be care- ful. I know w'at a gay, reckless feller you are; an' that won't do with her. Be reel nice to her. Come, an' let me show you your way about. Your room is all attended to, an' one fer your man nex' to it. They have n't got any reg'lar servants' quar- ters. 26 The Wilderness \ [Mrs. Davis and Masterson stroll out by door\ at back. Fosdick comes in. He knocks a Beatrix's door. She enters, and hands him his let ter with an envelope stamped and addressed. H sits at the desk to sign the letter. As he rises, afte signing, folding, and sealing the letter, she speaks.] Beatrix. You were wondering about youl stamps. [Looking at her note-book.] You have thirty-seven of the tw-o hundred left. Fosdick. I 've written a lot of letters, have n'f I? Beatrix [zmth some surprise]. Why, yes. Fosdick. But then, we 've sent off some rather heavy reports and things like that. Beatrix [about to enter her room]. Oh! yes. Fosdick. Miss Wilber, you seemed surprised at an obvious statement of mine a moment ago. Beatrix. I know I did. I did not mean to be rude. Fosdick. You were not rude. You know why you were surprised ? Beatrix. Why, of course. Fosdick. Why? You do n't mind telling me? Beatrix. No, although I do n't see what you are driving at. It was because, although I have worked for you almost daily for three weeks, that was the first thing you had said to me not strictly in the line of business. Act II 27 FosDiCK. You have noticed that ? r. Beatrix. Honestly, I do n't think I had. But when you did step just outside that Hne, it gave me a sort of a Httle shock. FosDicK. And now I 'm over the line with both feet. Beatrix. Mr. Fosdick, I have work to do. [She puts her hand upon the knob of her door.] Fosdick. Give me two minutes. I won' t let you begin by misunderstanding me. Beatrix. Is n't the word a little large ? Fosdick. Because I used a bit of slang, you be- gan [I hope I do n't flatter myself by saying be- gan.] to have your doubts? Beatrix. Slang? Oh! both feet. No, no. [She laughs, taking her hand from the knob of the door.] You should hear the boys, — the office boys. Fosdick. Good. Now, you never worked for any man a quarter as much as you have for me without having an appreciable amount of talk with him that was less rigidly confined within the limits of business than all our talk has been. Beatrix. Suppose that is so, what of it? Fosdick. Your definition of a gentleman is good enough for me. I like Thackeray's, but Beatrix. Thackeray's is mine. Fosdick. Then you '11 not misunderstand my asking you to give me in a lump the non-business 28 The Wilderness talk I have been saving up until I have a credit balance of about two hours, and that 's at the rate of only five minutes a day. Beatrix. You are ingenious, — perhaps too in- genious. Have you been practising this curious system of temporal bookkeeping from the first? FosDicK. No. For the first week or so, it was entirely out of respect to your attitude. Then this idea did occur to me. And now, can't you give me my balance outside of business hours? Beatrix. I hardly think so. Not that I have any particular objection to talking with you. But there are reasons why I want to make my life here as colorless as possible. FosDicK. Colorless ? Beatrix. Yes, and particularly not tinged with the nauseating color of the petty gossip that runs riot in this place. The air here hums with the ceaseless vibration of many tongues. What they say, and what their owners, or those w^ho are owned by them, think, matters to me, essentially, as little as the social and intellectual activities of the no- see-ums on the beach. But I have seen times when I was mighty careful not to stir up the no-see-ums. This, as the boys wt)uld say, is one of them times. [She turns to the door, and puts her hand on the knob.] FosDicK. You are from the West. [Beatrix Act II 29 pauses, with her hand on the door-knob.] Some- times, when I have been dictating to you about the West, I have been unable not to see that your heart was in that country. [She turns tozcard him, tak- ing her hand from the door-knob.] I 've seen your eyes glisten — Forgive me : I have not meant to spy upon you. You were there before me. Could I — I am confessing all my sins. Sometimes your eyes grew moist, particularly when you heard certain names ; and I have affected to hesitate and stumble, because it seemed to me that your spirit was out there in the big stillness which is never silent. I know it, too. Here is my worst offence. Some- times,- when I w^as doubtful whether you had met an old friend, I tried the name a second time : I did not often have to try a third. Here are some of -those that I am sure of. [Taking a memoran- dum from his letter-case.] Shall I read them? Beatrix. I do n't know. Yes. FosDicK. One Pan Creek. Crutches Pass. Bitter Water Pond. Three Cache Carry. White Water. Bull Pup Siding. Now we are getting down to civilization. Led Horse Pass. Big Wind Gulch. Quick Water Ford. And there are others that I meant to try. Big Pine Canyon. Marmot Ridge. The Big Elk Trail. The Yellow Gravel. The Low [Beatrix passes quickly into her room. Fos- 30 The Wilderness DICK walks slozvly out. Mrs. Davis and Masterson stroll in.] Mrs. Davis. So that 's all there is to the place. Freddie. I 'm goin' upstairs to mu poor boy. He 's in bed. I think he mus' 've et somethin' that did n't agree with him. [She goes out.'] Masterson. ''Et something that did n't agree with him." If he ate as many things as he used to, they did n't agree with oneanother. [Noticing the sign on the door of Beatrixes room, he goes to the door and opens it. Beatrix comes forzvard, and stands in the door.] Masterson. Are you the typist? Beatrix. The ? Masterson. Typist. That 's what they call 'em in England.' Beatrix. No: I am only a plain American stenographer and typewriter. Have you work for me? Masterson. Well, now, do you know I would n't say plain, if Beatrix. Do you wish to dictate something? Masterson. Yes. I want to write to my tailor. [Beatrix sits at the desk, and prepares to take notes. Masterson moves a chair to a position from which he can observe her at short range, and sits down.] Act II 31 Masterson. This is a letter to Mr. Thomas Turner, Fifth Avenue, near Thirty-second Street, New York. You may begin by saying, My dear Turner, About those suits we were talking about, I have something that I particularly want to im- press on you about them — not the ones you were to have ready for Lenox, because I am not at all sure whether when the time comes, it will be really nec- essary [Pauses and stares at Beatrix.] Beatrix. Really necessary. Masterson. Oh, hang it ! Where was I ? Beatrix. Really necessary. Masterson. I know, but have n't I lost the thread, somehow? Beatrix. I do n't know. Masterson. Well, write that out, like a good girl ; and I '11 go over it, and put it in proper form to be written finally. Oh ! you might add this : I 've seen about all the girls in this hotel, and there is n't one I 'd look at a second time. I mean, of course, among those who are here for pleasure, and [Mrs. Davis comes in, glances at Beatrix and Masterson^ and speaks aside with the clerk at his desk.] Beatrix. Pardon me. I find that sometimes, when their minds are occupied with important mat- 32 The Wilderness ters, my customers get things mixed. It occurred to me that you had undoubtedly forgotten that you were writing to your tailor. Masterson. By Jove ! you know : I believe I did. You need n't write out that last. Beatrix. You '11 find the other at the clerk's desk. What is the number of your room? Masterson. I do n't know. Beatrix [rising]. Your name? Masterson. Masterson, — F. Bosworth Master- son. Do you know Beatrix. Have you any more dictation? [Mrs. Davis turns from the clerk's desk, and looks at Beatrix and Masterson.] Masterson. No, but I 'm sure I 've seen you somewhere. I can't think Beatrix. You must excuse me. I have a great deal of work; and I can talk only business in busi- ness hours. [She enters her room.] Mrs. Davis [coming forzmrd,- as Masterson rises]. The doctor mus' see that dear child as soon as he comes in. He 's got a temp'rachoore of a hundred an' one, I think. He bit the end off the thermometer. He 's so high-spurited. [Nodding toward the door of, Beatrix's room.] You 've been follerin' my .suggestion, eh, Freddie? Masterson. F've been dictating a business let- ter, if that 's what you mean. I '11 not deny that I Act II 33 find the girl snappy; and I like 'em that way. Thinks she 's above her station, and all that. She was embarrassed : probably she 's only used to busi- ness men. But outside of business hours, — that 's it. You heard her. I can take a hint from a pretty girl. Mrs. Davis. Jus' you be careful. You wan' to have a good reputation, you know. Well, I mus' go back to mu baby. I '11 see you at dinner. Din- ner at one o'clock! [She goes out.] [As Masterson goes to the clerk's desk, zchere he speaks aside zvith the clerk, Fosdick comes in. Beatrix comes from her room, and takes some papers from her desk. Fosdick passes near her, and she speaks.] Beatrix. Mr. Fosdick, I owe you an apology. Fosdick. Please do n't. And I am sure I need not apologize for calling to your mind things that are dear to you, even if a little sad. Beatrix. I must either ignore the no-see-ums or defy them. Thus far I have ignored them : now I mean to defy them. The East is far from new to me; but of late my wires to the West have all been down, and perhaps I am a little homesick. The -temptation to talk with one who knows my country is too much for me. The early morning is the only time that I can ever be sure of having free. If you will meet me here tomorrow morning at six, we 34 The Wilderness can walk down to the shore, and reduce your credit balance. FosDicK [as Beatrix is about to enter her room]. At six to-morrow morning. [Masterson, as he goes out with the assistant elerk, unobserved by Beatrix and Fosdick, looks sharply at Fosdick.] END OF ACT II Act III 35 ACT III {_A little plateau on the shore of Farezvell Bay. To the right and half way across the back is the rocky edge of a bank, or bluff, zvhich may be sup- posed to fall sharply twelve or fifteen feet from the level of the plateau to the beach below. The beach is invisible, the line of the bluff's edge cutting the waters of the bay beyond. Upon the left and at the back is a large rock, or small cliff, of Maine granite, rising sheer fifteen or sixteen feet. Its face is irregular and fissured and covered with lich- ens. Here and there in the crevices upon its face grozif ferns, and these grow more luxuriantly along its base. In fissures near the top of the cliff, two stunted, wind-blown cedars find root. They are straining seazmrd under the influence of the north- east storms of many-a winter. Above and beyond the rock, only sky and water, except that in the mid- dle distance a rocky, wooded point makes out from behind the cliff, with a lighthouse on the end. Be- yond the point, the open Atlantic and the horizon, where sky and ocean meet. Broken pieces of rock at the base of the cliff afford convenient seats. 36 The Wilderness The time is half-past six in the morning of the day foUozving that of Act II. Beatrix and Fosdick are seated. He smokes a pipe. Masterson appears at the right of the cliff. After peering cautiously at Beatrix and Fosdick, he ivithdraivs.'] Beatrix. Mr. Fosdick, out West our manners are sometimes rough, but our etiquette, as you must know, is very strict, setting its face particularly against the smallest display of curiosity about the affairs of a casual acquaintance. You must not try to find out my origin, my history, my ambitions, hopes, or fears. I know that such things are prob- ably the stock in trade of the summer girl. You will find plenty of them in our happy family yon- der. I am a working woman. Fosdick. You do me an injustice, — not inten- tionally, I am sure, for you seem to me (and I '11 say this, if it does offend you, because it is the bare truth) — you seem to me to be the very goddess of justice. Therefore you shall not charge me with meanness of which I have not been guilty. I re- sent it from you, as I should from a man. What I said meant that I should like to know all that you would willingly tell me about yourself, and no more, — not another thing. If you think me capable of prying, our acquaintance becomes, I am sure, Act III 37 impossible to you : my self-respect makes it impos- sible to me. Beatrix. Perhaps I have been unfair. No: let me just talk straight. It seems to be harder here than in my own country. I have been unfair. I apologize. Enough of this. Let us go West again. FosDiCK. One other thing. You must believe that I am incapable of presuming on your conde- scension in any degree. You have made it clear that my part is that of a live wire between you and the things out there. I shall not forget my part. I am content with it. Beatrix. Condescension! [Sinilmg.] That is truly funny. Here is a young man w^ith all the out- ward signs of comparative freedom from imbecility; successful beyond his years, as I have learned in my business capacity, although I know nothing as a talking animal ; interested in big things, worth do- ing, that will bring him wealth, and perhaps a kind of fame, within five years; safe, quite safe, from immediate danger of starvation; without serious physical deformity, so far as I have observed; richly endowed by a prodigal Nature with sight, hearing, and an excellent imitation of the power of speech, — and this young man talks about the condescen- sion of a stenographer to whom [^Consulting note- 38 The Wilderness book.] he now owes a balance of fourteen dollars and seventeen cents. Thirty-three two cent stamps, sixty-six cents. Net balance, thirteen dollars and fifty-one cents. FosDicK. I 'm sure flattered a w^hole lot. I think you have a nice appreciation of shades of meaning in language : your education in that respect has evi- dently been catholic. When I said condescension, I used precisely the right word, — or it would be precisely right but for the fact that you came out to meet the West, and not to meet me. Beatrix. Yes : the West. [After a pause, she speaks very gently, looking into the distance.] My father was a western man, — a kind of pioneer, a natural explorer, a rolling stone. He always was for finding out what w^as beyond the next ridge, and beyond that w^re ridges and ridges. He was my best friend. He taught me to cruise the woods by course and distance. He taught me many other things. From him I get a spirit of exploration that leads me sometimes into regions where a com- pass is of little use. Without much education him- self, he was determined that I should be learning every minute; and his idea of education was not bounded by the books. ■ [A moment before she finishes speaking, Fos- DiCK lights a match, his pipe hazing gone out. As she finishes, she takes the burning match from him, Act III 39 and holds it zvhile he lights his pipe. She blows out the match, hut continues to hold it, holding dreamily at it. Then she throws it azvay, and looks lip.] Beatrix [ivith a little start of surprise] . Why ! I must have been three thousand miles away: I used to do that for my father, — always. FosDicK. I understand: Beatrix. You must have seen some of the big" men in the West, — some of the men who did things. FosQiCK. Yes : I have worked for some of them. [After a pause.] I remember once when I was running lines for Walton in the foot-hills of the Sierras Beatrix. John Walton of Wyoming? FosDicK. Yes. Beatrix. Everybody out there worked for him sooner or later. I have copied contracts in which his name occurred. FosDicK. Wh Beatrix [after a little pause]. You knew him? FosDiCK. As a rhan on the verge of his system, as one of his innumerable antennae. I spent two summers for him in the foot-hills of the Sierras, and once I was for two weeks in his office, work- ing up my field notes into a report. I used to see him then. 40 The Wilderness Beatrix. Of course all western people knew about him. Our trail crossed his sometimes. He must have been an interesting character, but a hard, implacable man. FosDiCK. So, many people thought. But I grew to admire him; and I think that after a time I should have grown to love him. He was the strongest man I ever knew. Beatrix. Tell me about him. A strong man always interests me. FosDicK. Hard and implacable, I know he was considered. But in those two weeks, and even more in ten days that I spent with him in the open, for sooner or later he saw everything for himself, I got to km)w"him better than the world knew him. He loved a fight, and he was implacable to those he believed to be his 'enemies. But he always fought fair. He always had what he believed to be good reason for his enmity. Beatrix. I have understood that he was unedu- cated. FosDicK. I wish I had half his education. In the ordinary sense, he was not an educated or a re- fined man ; but he had learned more in the hard school of life than some men would learn in a thousand years. Perhaps he learned as much in Nature's school. Not that he was a naturalist, fur- ther than any good woodsman is a naturalist; and Act III 41 a better woodsman never stepped in moccasins. No : I could not understand it. I do n't believe he understood it himself: he was not introspective. But in the wilderness his spirit seemed to expand and at the same time to grow more massive. Beatrix. And with all his great affairs, had he time for picnics in the woods ? FosDiCK. Picnics ! Have I made you under- stand the man so ill that you can talk of picnics and John Walton? I think some of the best work of his brain was done on the trail and in quick water. Have I not said that he seemed to draw inspiration from the woods? I am very sure, at least, that from them he drew much of that strength which was his even in the cities. [After a pause.] His brain seemed to be geared so that it always worked true, — not brilliantly, perhaps, or always rapidly, but with a kind of inevitableness that was like the tide of the ocean. Beatrix. You have said that he fought fair. Was he a square sort of man? FosDicK. He had hewed out for himself a sys- tem of philosophy and a code of honor; and, unlike many of us, he tried mightily to live up to them. I shall never go to a better school than that of which he was teacher; and he never knew that he was teaching.. I can see him now by the light of our camp-fire, almost above timber line in the Sweet 42 The Wilderness Water Mountains. And then he would talk, — remi- niscences, prophecies, speculation, anecdotes, — not comic-paper anecdotes, but things out of his own experience. He had a deep, pathetic vein of humor, the existence of which, T think, most people never suspected. It always seemed to me to lie near tlie source of tears. Beatrix [ivith suppressed emotion]. I have heard one or two other men express a kind of loy- alty to him. FosDicK. His men were always loyal. I began to understand thdt in those "days. I was pretty young then; and I think that if he had told me to walk under a falling sequoia, I should have done it quite as a matter of course. Yet he would set traps to test his men, — dead-falls and bear-traps, right in the trail; and if they were caught, they heard from him. Oh! but he could make his meaning clear. His grammar was of a somewhat undress variety, but he never failed to convey the precise shade of thought. I have wondered sometimes whether with more education he w^ould have been even more effective, or w^hether mere book-learning w^ould have robbed him of the rugged strength that carried him so far. I would not have changed him : I like to remember him as he was. Beatrix [speaking unth difHeiilty']. Did you say that he was not all or always hard ? Act hi 43 FosDicK. Miss Wilber, I am at a loss. Here is the most intelligent woman I have ever known, the bravest, if I am a judge of the courage in the hu- man eye, the most sympathetic, the Beatrix Irising]. Mr. Fosdick, you must not. I did not think it of you. And after your profes- sions ! Fosdick [rising]. You do n't understand. I 'm going to make you understand. Because, if, when I 'm done, you wish to know me only as a talking machine, it will be because you are not the woman I — the woman I 've taken you to be. This . is a test, if you please. You do not fear a test. Beatrix \_dpazmig her head up proudly]. Well? Fosdick. Here is this woman, being what she is. She has professed an interest in my poor at- tempt to give her some idea of the finest man, body and mind, that ever trod the western wilderness. And at the end, when I have laid bare my — I can almost say love, — veneration for him, she asks a question that seems to show — to show that she has n't heard a word. Beatrix [turning aivay from him]. Let me [Choking.] — Perhaps I can explain. Fosdick. No. You shall not come down from the height where I — Nature has set you, to explain to any man. How did we lead up to Walton ? Let me take the back trail. 44 Tpie Wilderness [He stajids zcitJi Jiis Junuls bcliind his hack, look- ing upon the ground. She turns and looks at him. He looks up.] F'osDicK. I — [Aside.] Her eyes are wet. Like a clear pool. How clear! [To her, after a pause, speaking very gently.] I have been wrong. I have been blind. But now I see. We talked of the West : your heart went out to it. You spoke of your father : your spirit followed. And then, like the self-satisfied ape that I am, I could not — Miss Wil- ber, I lay my submission at your feet, — gladly, — gladly and most humbly. Beatrix [looking away, and speaking with dif- ficulty]. You can not know — I [A pause.] What is in my heart I have always spoken. [Turn- ing to him, and speaking with slight vehemence.] Do you think that I am blind to the courage in the human eye, that — that [She zmlks away a few steps, and stands looking out over the zvater. In. a minute she turns, and speaks while moving sloidy tozmrd him.] Beatrix. I have been thinking how to make amends. I know of no better way than this : I have always liked to talk, I have talked so much, with [Emphasising the zi'ord slightly.] men. Your sub- mission I accept gladly, — gladly and proudly, in the form of an answer to my question. Did you say that he was not altogether hard ? Act III 45 FosDicK. Let me see. Yes : I remember. One day when we were on the trail together, he fell into talk about his daughter, — quite a little girl, I should think, and, as I learned afterward from a prospector who had been in with them, rather a masculine little savage. He was so big and simple, for all his shrewdness, that I do n't think he knew how he was laying bare his heart to me. Perhaps he did not care. Yet he must have believed that I should understand. I can not forget that. Beatrix. Did — did he seem to think a good deal of her? FosDiCK. Think a good deal of her? I felt awed, as one might feel in a great cathedral. I had never known what a father's love could be. Beatrix [sobbing a little]. I — I lost my father not very long ago ; and I loved him, I hope, as much as John Walton loved his little savage. [FosDicK leaves her, zmlking inland, and disap- pearing at the left of the rock. Beatrix stands looking seaivard. Masterson comes from the right of the rock, unseen by Beatrix. He n'alks in the direction in z^'Jiich Fosdick has gone, and looks after him.] Masterson. He 's gone, right enough. Now, if they 've had a lovers' quarrel, this is my chance. [To Beatrix, approaching her.] Good morning. There are n't many things that would bring me out 46 The Wilderness at this ungodly hour; but a little bird whispered to me that I should find you here. Beatrix [zcho has given him only one contemp- tuous glance over her shoulder^. I prefer to be alone. Masterson. Are you sure? It is n't easy for you to be alone. And office hours have n't begun yet. [Beatrix turns as if to go in the direction of the hotel. Masterson is in the path.] Beatrix. I wish to go back to the hotel. Will you let me pass ? Masterson. Do you know, you are superb when you are angry. Beatrix. I find it hard to make you understand. Perhaps you can not understand,^ — anything. I do \ } not want to forget that I am a woman. . Masterson. No fear : I '11 not let you forget. Beatrix. Every word you speak to a woman is an insult, unless she is of your kind. You are to \ let me pass, you are not to speak to me again, lest ) I forget I am a woman. Masterson. Well, what a row-de-dow! You should have been an actress. You do — Hah ! That 's it. I 've got it now. Do you remember the Stone Image ? 'T was a great show. Your part was small enough, my dear; but you did it damned well. [As he speaks, an expression of determination Act LI I 47 grows in her face, her brozi' becomes slightly puck- ered, and a cold Ham e rises in her eyes.] Masterson. Naturally, I did n't know you, dressed this way, and on this vacation job. But, I say, I 'm glad to find you. I do n't mind waiting for the Walton girl — with you. [He advances, a step. Beatrix falls back a step, zi'ifh a repellent gesture.] Beatrix. The Walton girl! Masterson. Now do n't be jealous, dear. The rich young western savage. I mean to marry her, but only for her money. You know who has my heart. Beatrix [her face becoming set]. No woman could give you what you need. A man's way is the only way. [As she speaks, she advances two paces toward him, and stands lightly and firmly, her right foot a few inches behind her left, her body inclined slightly forward, her right hand clenched at her side.] Masterson. Very fine. But drop the heroics. I 'm tired of them. I know a woman who can give me exactly what I need. You ought to' go in for tragedy. But there '11 be no tragedy for you and me, sweet little spitfire, when we get a few of the dol- lars of that low-lived old pirate. ^Beatrix throzvs back her head, with a gasping indake of the breath.] Come, let's sit down. 48 The Wilderness [He goes fozvard her, reaches out his right hand, and lays it upon her ami. Szi'inging her body upon the hips, she brings her clenched right hand crash- ing against his chin zcifh all her strength, expelling her breath zmth something like a sob as the blow goes home. She springs back instantly, and stands poised for further action. Masterson's hands drop to his sides, his chin falls upon his chest, his knees give zvay slozuiy, and he falls forzvard, and lies still. She looks off, starts, quickly changes her position, and stands still. Bill saunters in, pant- ing Jiard.] Beatrix. Hev ye lost somethin' p'raps, pard- ner? Bill. I on'y come out for a little pasear. Beatrix [trying to stand so that Bill zvill not see Masterson]. I thought ye might be locrk- in' fer yer wind. ■ Bill. Who 's the corpse? Friend er yours? Beatrix [turning tozvard Masterson]. Oh! It 's Mr. Masterson. He must have one of his faint turns. He 's delicate. Bill. So I sh'd jedge. I know them kind er faintin' spells. They 's on'y one cure fer 'em; an' thet 's for the onfortnit victim ter take a reg'Iar course er them. — one every fifteen minutes fer er- bout two days, er in desprit cases, three. Act III 49 [Masterson moves slozdy and sits up. Bill shozvs a disposition to get at him, but Beatrix steadily interposes.] Beatrix. Now, Bill, he does n't need your kind help. Bill. I do n't like his looks none w'atever ; but I think he 'd look interestin' a whole lot with his face kind er moved over an' erbout four of his ribs busted in. Beatrix [To Masterson]. You had bet- ter go. [Sternly.] Leave this place quickly. I think that this extraordinary person saw your un- fortunate accident. He seems to be very excitable. [Aside to BiLJ^] I had to say that. [To Mas- terson]. He has been talking most violently. I may not be able to restrain him. [Masterson rises, and zvalks azvay unsteadily.] Beatrix. Perhaps you are still of some use, Bill. If you will be good, I shall be glad to have you near me. What brought you here? The boys Bill. Was all right by last accounts. I jes' nat'ly broke down in my nerves ter the islant, with nuthin' ter do but ride herd on the lopster-pots. So I cached all the duffle, an' jumped the reservation. I thought I 'd go up ag'in' the world fer a spell, ter "see w'ether I was anythin' but a mere no account — 50 The Wilderness W'y did ir t ye wait f er me ? I do n't see thet I was any use thet time. Beatrix [sitting dozen.] Do n't say that. I think you did a good deal to put life into the poor gentleman. Bill, [sitting down.] Poor — w'at? Ef — W'y did n't ye wait fer me? Beatrix. You are getting beyond :ne. Or am I outgrowing you? I do'n't understand you. Per- haps our separation has estranged our minds, — once, I thought, rather sympathetic. All my life I have learned from, you, and your best years have been given to teaching me, to stand on my own two feet, at the same time not forgetting other extreme portions of the body, designed by nature for trifling functions that the feet can not perform. I knov/, and try not to forget, that the hand, rather than the foot, should be used in tossing a flapjack, the eye in picking up a blaze, and the brain in reading it. Sometimes I have thought that you [A slight pause, in which the suggestion of a dreamy smile passes over her face.] set me too much upon .a height, — expected too much of me. [After a silence of several seconds.] If we were riding together along the trail, and a sequoia four hundred and fifty feet high came toppling upon us to its fall, you w^ould expect me, as a matter of course, to leap lightly from my saddle, and help you push the tree Act III '51 the other way, lest it should block the trail. Yet when I find in the trail a toad, reeking — [Hiding her face in her hands for a moment] God, how it reeked! with all uncleanness, and it will not move, and I must turn back or set my heel upon it, and I do what I must do, — when I do this, you come and say, *'Why did you do it ? Why did you not wait for me?" You would not have me false to your teach- ing — and my father's. And this thing that I had to touch defiled me so that I thought I should never again be clean. [A pause.] Then down through the gulch, from the mountains, came a wind. It did not blow very hard (yet, Bill, I never knew wind blow harder). In it was the tonic of the pines, — the smell of the wild flowers. It wrapped me all about, and washed me clean. The noisome vapors that were stifling me were swept away [Throwing up her head, and taking two or three deep breaths,] by the wind. The unclean thing was gone. [A pause. A far-azvay look comes into her eyes. She speaks musingly.] He said like a great cathedral. [A pause.] Have I been talking in my sleep? I must hev ketched it off you. All my bad habits, as well as most of my polite accom- plishments, I get from you. I fear I am hopelessly dominated by your arrogant and brutal nature. What were we talking about ? Oh ! yes, about your following me about the country. If we were peo- 52 The Wilderness pie of the smallest pretension to social position, your conduct would certainly excite remark. Now that you have followed me, what am I to do with you, — you great, clumsy, dear old timber wolf? [As she says this, she shakes him gently, holding his coat collar with both hands.] Bill. Follered 'er ! Jes' w'en I 'm beginnin' ter git a leetle peace! An' I starts out fer a change er air, w'ich all my doctors allows I needs it bad, and the fust thing — Follered 'er! Beatrix. Did n't I order you to stay by the island ? Bill. Ye never give me an order in yer life, an* ye know I would n't take none from ye. Beatrix. William, you are perfectly impossible. I can not, in deference to my own self-respect, con- tinue to employ a person with so little conception of what is becoming to his position. You are dis- charged. Bill. Betty Gal, w^hat 's come ter ye in this ' Beatrix. No, Bill. I '11 give you one more chance. Sometimes I have had a faint suspicion, — surmise, — call it what you will, that somewhere in the wind-swept caverns of your vast and gloomy nature, one who was not too stern a worshiper of truth might say that he suspected that he saw faint traces of something that seemed to resemble a very Act III 53 tenuous vein of humor. But I speak with diffi- .dence. Certainly where I am concerned you seem sometimes to be c[uite impervious. I should not even try to discharge you, because I know that you would certainly miss fire. Bill. I ain't goin' ter bother ye none. I 've took a job down ter the liv'ry stable; the bosses is more human then the lopster-pots. An' I '11 be on hand ef wanted. Beatrix. Now listen hard. I 'm Miss Wilber here, and you are positively not to tell anyone dif- ferent. This is an order. Savvy? Bill [savagely]. You — [Humbly.] Yes, Betty. Beatrix. You had better not try to see me un- til you get word from me, and be sure not to let anyone know that you know me. Bill. I '11 stick ter my job down with the cayuses ez clost ez I kin ; but I ain't goin' ter take no arter-dinner naps. Did n't I take notice of an- other gent eroun' these parts before the party with the faints passed erway ? Beatrix. It may be; there was one here. Bill. Is he needin' my cure fer the faints any? Beatrix. No, Bill. He 's one of us. He 's an eastern man, I think ; but he knows our country. I think he loves it. BiLL; Knows it, does he? I 'd soon find out ef 54 The Wilderness he knowed it. How kin a he'pless leetle gal like you tell? Beatrix. He did work for Father, — surveying and that sort of thing. His name is Fosdick. Bill. Fosdick? Seems ter me I heard tell — Like ez not, he 's one er these yer play-actors stuff - in' ye full er lies. Knows it? They ain't nobody on this hull watershed knows anythin'. Beatrix [rising]. Well, for all I know he 's around here yet. P'r'aps ef ye was ter lay down here in the trail, he 'd come an' fall over ye. But I do n't want to see him again now, or to be seen talking with such a disreputable party as you. [She goes off, tozvard the hotel.] - Bill [rising]. So long, Gal. [Looking after Beatrix.] Don't want ter meet him ag'in now. I onct hed a kind er dream she 's not li'ble ter meet this knowin' party fer quite a spell. - [He sits dozim, and prepares his pipe for a smoke. After he has taken a fezv zvhiffs, Fosdick comes in.] Fosdick. Excuse me: have you seen a young -lady here ? Bill [very deliberately and with pauses]. I seen somethin' thet looked like a leetle mite of a gal, er a burro er some sich a thing, hittin' the high places erway over yander. Fosdick. Are n't you from the West? Act III 55 Bill. Not ez I knows on. The Fosdicks was all foaled an' branded in Aroostock County, State er Maine. I ain't never b'en ter college, but I was brought up proper. I 'm nat'ly all et up with curiosity, but [Rising and approaching Fosdick, who slozvly assumes the attitude which Beatrix assumed at the end of her interznew with Master- son.] not wishin' ter die sudden^ I most gin'ly asts questions arter they b'en answered. Fosdick. I beg your pardon. I 've been away so long from the country where they raise men, that I 've sure forgot my manners. [Bill slaps his thigh with delight, and Fosdick relaxes his attitude.] Bill [affecting to pick something from the spot that he has slapped]. I never see no sich man-eatin' hoss-flies ez they raise in thisyer kentry. Fosdick. I apologize for taking you for a w^estern man. [Bill makes a slight motion as if to drazv' a gun.] I can't imagine what misled me. Bill [looking fixedly at Fosdick, and speak- ing more slozdy]. P'raps it 's because up in Aroos- took County we lives mostly on western canned tongue. Fosdick. As you seem to have taken the job of bell mule, I '11 confine myself to following your trail. My name is Fosdick; but [Speaking delib- erately and zmth slightly increased emphasis.] that 56 The Wilderness ain't my fault. [A pause] And I always go West when I want to take a full breath without busting" some bric-a-brac. Bill [aside]. He'll do. FosDicK, You '11 excuse my being personal. I ain't heeled. It would please me a whole lot to meet you the other side of the divide; for in spite of your eastern birth and training, the air from the Pacific would be downright becoming to you. So long. Bill. So long, stranger. FosDicK [aside, as he moves azmy]. This ruffian's name is n't Fosdick. I tried him on that. Bill [aside]. I shore likes the way his head is screwed on. END OF ACT III Act IV 57 ACT IV [The scene is the same as that of Act III. The time is tzvo zireeks later. Beatrix is seated. Bill comes in.'] Beatrix. Well, Bill, I had to send for you. You 're late. I might hev b'en et ter death by a bear. \ Bill. It 's a wonder ye was n't tore ter pieces by one er these yere wild chipmunks. They 're layin' constant fer unpertected females. A bunch er bosses come in from the West, an' I bed ter show them farmers how ter han'le 'em. Beatrix. I 'm glad enough to see your sunny smile again. Bill. B'en reel lonesome, hev ye? Beatrix. I do n't know that I can say that, but I 've sure been longing for some of my own folks to talk to. Bill [sitting dozvn]. Ye might hev Herbert. I see a piece in the paper w'ere 'he 's livin' erboard some party's yacht thet put inter Portland with a busted rudder. Beatrix. Herbert is n't here, and I do n't know — No: you are the appointed victim; and if 58 The Wilderness you '11 give me a chance to get a word in edgewise, I '11 address my remarks to your inattentive ear. [A pause] What did you say? Bill. Nuthin'. Beatrix. I feared I had not quite understood what you did n't say. ^ Did you ever feel a kind of gladness all over you, like heat-lightning? Did you ever feel that the sunshine was striking right through to your diaphragm, and that you 'd have to hold fast to a picket-rope to keep from floating aw^ay every time you took a full breath? Did you ever feel like that, Bill ? Bill. Not thet I remember of. I was struck onct by lightnin', an' it took the soles clean off er both my boots ; but it did n't feel like thet none. Beatrix. If. you had ever been truly happy, you w^ould have felt like that. Bill. Is thet the way you feel? Beatrix. Yes, yes. Bill. You ain't b'en shook no way ? You ain't fell on yer head ner nuthin' sence ye hit the trail ? Beatrix. No. No. My head is sound; but I have been hit hard. Bill. Hit! Show me Beatrix. I never really felt the need of a woman before. Father, and you, and the boys, — I have n't needed any other. But now I want a woman to talk to, and there is n't any. [Languish- Act IV 59 ing upon Jiis shoulder.] O sweet friend, kind nurse, you will have to be-my blushing confidant. Bill. You go right off to a docter. You ain't well. BiEATRix. No, Bill : I ain't well. I 'm in love. , Bill. I knowed they 'd be hell ter pay, ef ye onct got off the range. In love ? With a man ? Beatrix. Did you think perhaps with a prairie dog? Yes, Bill, with a man. Bill [after a pause]. Do ye happen ter know w'ere thet maverick thet 's troubled with the faints is located at present speakin' ? Beatrix. William, I think I said with a man. Bill. Ef ye call me William ag'in, I '11 — I '11 Beatrix. What, good William, wnll you do? Bill. Well now, who 's thisyer short horn thet 's b'en campin' on yer trail ? How do ye know he ain't arter yer money, and r Beatrix. Stop. There are some things that I will not take even from you. [After a pause.] You do n't deserve to be told that he does n't know my name, that he thinks I 'm poor, that he was one of Father's men, but is his own man now, and mine, that Bill. \Miat, him? This yer Fosdick?- Beatrix. Bob Fosdick. Bill. Hell ! W' 'y he 's a man, he is. 6o The Wilderness Beatrix [taking off her hat]. That was the impression that I tried to convey to you by the mere use of spoken language. I do n't know v/hat other medium of communication to try with you. I sup- pose you are not conversant with the deaf and dumb sign language, are you ? Bill. But I did n't never think he 'd git soft er- bout a gal. Beatrix. I do assure you, he can get most amazin' soft. Bill. Well, ye want ter wa'ch out not ter go an' sp'ile him. P'raps he do n't know I see him w'en he thought I was goin' ter pull a gun on him. Beatrix. Bill, what do you mean? When were you going to pull your gun on him? I do n't believe you have your gun here. [Bill shozvs her his gun.] Beatrix. Gents do n't pack guns in this country. What do you expect to do with yours ? Bill. You 'd oughter know I do n't never travel ter furrin parts without her. I thought she might come in handy. I 've knowed her to. Beatrix. And did you think I should prefer Robert after you had trimmed him to your taste with this? Bill. Now, Betty Gal, it was right erway arter I met thet party with the faints, an' I shore felt thet somebody hed oughter be shot up. Act IV 6i Beatrix. So you thought you 'd begin with the man I 'm going to marry. Bill. But ye was n't goin' ter marry him then. Beatrix. Yes, I was. Bill. Wat ! Beatrix. But I did n't know it. Bill. No, ye did n't know it,- — no more 'n Cape Horn Red McShane knowed [They was two on 'em, t'other one was Arizona Red.] — no more 'n Red McShane knowed thet — Fosdick! thet 's it. Last time I seen thet son of a sea-goin' hoss-thief he was cussin' out a party name er Fosdick. I would n't want no better recommend. It might er b'en him. They was talkin' er runnin' thisyer Red out er the kentry. He was plenty mean. Le' me tell ye. Beatrix [sitting up quickly, and looking at her zvatch.] There is n't time now. Git, Bill. He '11 be here in five minutes. He 's never late. You made me forget. Bill [rising]. So long. ■^^ [Bill zvalks azvay, not fozvard the hotel. Bea- trix sits smiling a little for several seconds. Fos- dick comes in, goes to her, and, taking her head hetzveen his hands, kisses her hair tenderly. 1 Fosdick. If that barbarian is going to cross your trail, you '11 have to be careful. 62 The Wilder nes ss [He sits oil a .^tonc, and Beatrix sits on the ground, leaning against him.] Beatrix. Why? Have you met him? FosDiCK. I had a Httle casual chat with him some tiine ago. As I had n't seen him since, I sup- posed he 'd gone. He does n't compose well with the landscape here. Beatrix. No; he 's evidently a western man. He came moseying along here; and when he hegan to speak his native language, I rather encouraged him to linger. His talk made me feel quite at home. FosDiCK. You 'd better not encourage him. Probably he 's harmless, but I think he '11 bear watching. Beatrix. Why do you say that? I 'm sure he would n't hurt me. FosDicK. He says he w^as born and raised in Aroostook County. [Beatrix laughs.] Which statement does not help me to accept with child-like confidence his further statement that his name is Fosdick. Beatrix. What! [She shakes her fist siirrep- iitiously in the direction in which Bill has gone.] Fosdick. As I proved to my satisfaction it is not. When a gentleman who evidently is accus- tomed to wear a gun as part of full dress, even if he has n't one on him this minute, turns up at a peace- Act IV 63 ful New England summer resort, takes my name in vain to my face, and tries to put me through my paces in real western style, I naturally sit up and take notice. But I do n't want to make you nerv- ous. Beatrix. You do n't make me in the least nervous. I 'm quite used to jiis kind. I believe that even if he meant you harm, I could protect you, FosDiCK. Bless your sweet eyes, I know you would, — if you could, — with your life. Beatrix. I think that would be very easy. [They sit silent for some seconds.] Beatrix. Tell me again, Robert, that we under- stand, — that you are content to wait. FosDicK. I am content to wait, and I can't wait a minute. _ Beatrix. As you will understand when there are no more secrets between us, all this has for me a flavor that is sweet beyond all words. It is sweet to you. Bob, is n't it? FosDicK. Yes, dear; you know it is, — beyond all words. Beatrix. And to me, — and the knowledge that it is so makes me feel selfish sometimes, — to me it has all that, and besides an added, a more poignant sweetness that you can not understand now. But that too you will share with me, — soon now. [After a pause.] I think sometimes, lately I have 64 The Wilderness been thinking often, it will be the last thing I shall know before I die. [He kisses her.] FosDicK. To think that all the tritest things that ever lover said are true for me! Sometimes it seems to me that you are no mere woman, but rather the spirit incarnate of that country which is my only rival, — of its beauty, oh! always of its beauty, of its calmness, its quiet strength, its eternal rightness. The small, the mean, the least unclean- ness can not come near you, can not live near you, nor near anyone that you inspire. Betty, you have purified me as with a flame, but a flame that does not consume. Beatrix. Call me Betty Gal. FosDiCK. That 's it, — Betty Gal. For now I see that you are all human, and no mere goddess. After all, it is the woman that I love. It is the woman that can make me laugh, — how she can make me laugh! And it is the w^oman that could make me weep, but never will. How can you be so calm, so strong, and yet so delicate, so whimsi- cal, so fanciful? Even prosaic me you do inspire (or is it some black art of yours?) with visions. Beatrix. Tell me. ' FosDiCK. I remember a pool on the Yellow Gravel. Beatrix. Yes. Act IV 65 FosDiCK. I have seen many like it; but this one pool has always lain in my mind as the perfect ex- pression of that magic of forest and waters which we of the West (for your country is mine now) feel in our blood. This pool was different. Per- haps it was the evening light. After a shower the sun was shining through the misty air, which yet was very cl^ar, with that peculiar, tempered, dying radiance which always seems to me to express, al- most to be, peace, — peace and regret perhaps in equal parts. Beatrix. I know. FosDicK. The forest opened to the west, and this light streamed in, — upon and all about the pool. In some of your innumerable moods you are that pool, — as calm, as sweet, as clear, — the loveliest — Oh ! I give it up. Beatrix. It 's a nice game. I like you when you try to be a poet. I like you rather well then. FosDiCK. I remember we passed that way again on the back trail, and the pool had changed. The sun was high and burning hot. The surface of the pool was hard and glittering. But it was as clear as ever. All the soft beauty of the pool was gone. Indians had camped there. The litter of their camp was all about. The ashes of their burnt- out fires lay where forest mould and carpeting of moss had been before. The undergrowth had been 66 ' The Wilderness chopped and trampled down. But there were the same trees with their mighty boles rising far above us, — the same essential elements. Only the small- er, finer things had been destroyed. The unclean had been there, but was gone. [After a little pause.] Betty, I believe the pool was like John Walton then. Dear, your eyes are wet. Beatrix. Oh ! I am homesick. Even with you, I am homesick. FosDicK. We will go back. Dear heart, we will go back to that very pool. Nature has given it back its beauty; I am sure. Beatrix. . Robert. FosDiCK. Yes, Betty Gal. Beatrix. I need not tell you how happy I am, and I can not, — I have tried. But I a.m not sure that I am doing right. I never deceived anyone; and now, in a way, I am deceiving you, — of all the world, you! But I have promised. And I never broke a promise, either. I have promised you that w^hen I have left this place, you shall know all. But I have promised myself that I will not tell you un- til I have left this place. That promise weighs on me. I do n't know why it should. I have never, as far as I have had strength, been false to myself yet. I think that to be false to myself now would be the worst treachery to you. I can't get it out pf my head that, somehow, we are being tested. I Act IV 67 am not so disloyal as to think of testing you. I know you. .-FosDiCK. And I know you, thank God. Beatrix.- Then, Robert, why do I feel like that? See now, I have never been afraid. My father taught me never to be afraid. . And I have n't been weak, have I ? FosDiCK. It is the simple truth that you are the strongest-hearted woman I have ever known, — that I have never known anyone as strong as you, — unless it was John Walton. [He takes pipe and tobacco pouch from his pocket, and prepares for a smoke. He hands a sul- phur match to Beatrix,, zvho lights it, and holds it for him while he lights his pipe.] Beatrix. And do you think I would ever break a promise ? FosDicK. You could not. Beatrix. To myself? FosDicK. To yourself least of all. Beatrix. There is perfect trust between us, Robert. FosDicK. Perfect trust. Beatrix. Nothing could shake it. FosDicK. Nothing. Beatrix. Nothing that you could imagine. ' FosDiCK. Nothing that I could imagine. 68 The Wilderness Beatrix. Promises can't help us, then. FosDicK. We do not need them. Beatrix. No; we do n't need them. ISitfing up sharply after a brief silenee, she seices his coat- collar ziith both hands, and shakes him.] You Bob, ain't ye got nuthin' in all this busy, bustlin' world ter do but ter set here with a half-witted summer gal thet do n't do nuthin' but whimper, an' whine, an' see things, — most prob'ly because she 's et some fried cakes er doughnuts ter thet there hotel that do n't agree with her? Can't I never git no sense inter ye nohow ? FosDiCK. Most prob'ly not. I guess my wits is wind-broke fer good. [Rising and zcalking a fezv steps toziurd the zvater, leaving his tobacco pouch lying on the stone upon zvhich he zms sitting.] Here cdmes a boat from the steam yacht that came in last night. I believe they 're going to land on the beach. The man in the stern sheets seems to find us interesting. If those glasses were loaded, we should be in danger. Beatrix [rising and coming tozvard him]. Robert, I am not going to run away. FosDicK. I shore won't bite ye. Beatrix. No, no. I 'm serious. I know this man who is coming ashore now. He is Herbert Walton, John Walton's son. He is coming here to speak to me. It will be hard. Act IV 69 FosDicK. In God's name, Betty, what does this mean ? Beatrix. I can not tell you now. FosDicK. But — but Beatrix. You do not doubt me ? FosDiCK. How can I doubt you? Beatrix. That is enough. Whatever happens ? FosDiCK. Whatever happens. I '11 leave you, Beatrix. Yes, please. [FosDicK leaves her, zvalking inland/ After an interval, Herbert Walton comes up from the beach. He is slightly hut obviously intoxicated. He carries a pair of marine glasses.^ Herbert. Who 's that? Beatrix. Party name of Fosdick. Herbert. I 'm not Bill Harrold. Keep your elegant brand of western talk for those that like it. Fosdick brought me here. Beatrix. I did not suppose that you even knew I w^as here. Herbert. Well, I did : and I know more. I 'm the head of this family ; and I 'm not going to have you masquerading all over the place, and carrying on with the first miserable pup that makes eyes at you. If this is the Fosdick one of the men on- board tells about, we '11 soon send him about his business. The Wilderness Beatrix. Herbert, I 'd much rather talk with you this evening. You have been drinking, — probably to- give yourself courage to face me. If you 've come here to fight, you '11 need more courage than whiskey can give you. As for Robert Fosdick, you will speak of him with at least the form of respect,, as I am going to marry him. Herbert. Why in hell did n't Mrs. Davis warn me of this? Beatrix. Did you say Mrs. Davis? Herbert. Yes, since I Ve let it out. She very kindly wTote to w^arn me that you were making a fool of yourself with — Mr. Fosdick. I 'm in her debt, if I am too late to prevent all the mischief. Beatrix. You are too late to prevent any of the mischief, as you call it. Herbert. We '11 see about that. I forbid you to marry him. I forbid you to see him, — a pov- erty-stricken loafer who 's only after your money. Beatrix. I decline to listen to you while you are in this condition. But one thing you are to understand. Robert does not know who I am. He does not know my name. I am Betty Wilber to him. You are not to tell him. Herbert. Tell him ! I should rather think not. But do n't you suppose he knows your name? This woman knew it. He 's lying to you. [Beatrix turns to walk an^ay.] You stay here. Act IV 71 [He runs after her. She turns, and faces him.] Beatrix. Herbert, you are not sober, and you are all out of condition. You can't look me in the eye. Your hand is n't steady. I think you know that when I am white-hot with anger, as you have made me now, you are not man enough to stop me. This evening at the hotel. Get sober, and do n't talk. [Beatrix goes toward the hotel, and "Herbert over the hank to the beach. After an interval Fos- DicK returns, and recovers his tobacco-pouch. Look- ing oif at the boat, he fills his pipe. Bill comes in, unseen by Fosdick, whom he regards attentively before speaking.] Bill. Mornin', stranger. Fosdick. Good morning. Bill. Them parties erboard the steam yacht must hev the hell of a good time. Fosdick. I 'd rather be on the deck of a birch- bark. [Walks toward the hotel.] Bill. They seem ter be makin' a kind er crooked trail. Fosdick [pausing and looking over the zuater]. I have seen straighter steering. [A pause.] Bill [looking sharply at Fosdick]. Looks like the trail Red — Shea made w'en he 's sufferin' from an over-dose er red-eye. y2 The Wilderness \^A pause] FosDicK. I believe they 're turning. Are they going- to put back? [A hail comes from the water.] I think they 're haiHng us. Perhaps Mr. Walton wants to speak to me. Bill [pulling his hat brim dozvn so that he can just see the boat under it]. Party a friend er yours ? W'at 's his given name ? FosDiCK [looking sharply at Bill]. Why, I Bill [speaking faster than is his wont"]. Not thet I give a damn. But I allers was dre'f'l inter- ested in given names. They was a party name er Eleazer Carr, an' I got so plumb interested inter thet there name, Eleazer, thet I could n't never set ter my victuals without sayin' it over twenty-one times. Then they was Herbert FosDiCK. That 's it. Bill. W'at? Were? FosDiCK. Herbert, — Herbert Walton. Bill. Oh ! I plumb forgot. [After an interval, during zvhich Bill places himself so that he can not he observed from the zmters edge.] Say, stranger, you ain't the on'y one thet 's got friends erboard. The red-headed party thet 's pullin' bow hez shore got a back thet 's some familiar ter me, an' I would n't wonder a mite ef his face was n't eroun' t' other side of him. He was makin' his brags frequent erbout his sailorin'. I ain't pleased Act IV 73 ter death ter see him, but I ain't supprised none at all. I knowed he could n't last out — could n't last w'ere he was. His manners is some similar ter a rattlesnake, an' he 's li'ble ter say things thet 'd make me talk back reel onchristian. An' me feelin' thet soft I 'd cry ef I hed ter hurt a horned toad. I '11 pull my freight ; but I 'd shore admire ter wa'ch thet cute little critter a-playin' in the sand. Ye want ter wa'ch out fer him. [Walks azvay.] [Voices are heard on the beach below, and Herbert Walton comes over the bank.] Herbert. Now then, see here, you Fosdick. FosDicK. Mr. Walton? Herbert. That 's my name, — son of John Walton, and just as hell-bent on having my own way as ever the old man was. I want you to leave my — this Wilber girl alone. HI 've been neglect- ing her, I mean to look after her now. Fosdick. You '11 have to explain this. Herbert. I '11 explain nothing. Either you 're mixing up in things you know nothing about, or you 're a damned sneaking rascal. Fosdick. Mr. Walton, let us take the evil names for granted. I '11 be obliged to you, if you '11 tell me what this all means. Herbert. What it means, is none of your busi- ness. Now, will you go away from this place, or shall I have to make you go? If you know what 74 The Wilderness kind of a man John Walton was, you '11 be careful how you cross me. FosDicK. I will not go away until Miss Wilber tells me to go. Herbert. Is that your last word? FosDicK. It is, — until you are sober. [FosDiCK begins to move off. Herbert rushes at him. FosDiCK side-steps, and avoids Herbert^ who stumbles and falls to his knees. He rises, and rushes again with greater fury. Again Fosdick avoids him. Herbert^ finding nothing where he had expected to meet the resistance of Fosdick's body, goes dozvn with his own impetus, striking his head upon a stone, and lies still. Fosdick stoops over him, and turns him upon his back.] Fosdick. I think he is only stunned. [Four sailors rush up from the beach. One of them, Red McShane, aims a murderous blow at Fosdick zvith a boat stretcher. Fosdick rises just in time to dodge the blow, at the same time doubling up one of the other men with a body blozv. Fosdick's hat falls to tfie ground. As the men press upon him, he falls back to the cliff. The men hang back.] McShane. Spread out a leetle now, boys. We 've got him, — the pizen reptyle. Take yer time. He ain't li'ble ter git erway. Ef he gits through Act IV 75 you, I 'm layin' fer him with thisyer stre'cher. Wait now FosDicK [looking hard at McShane, and speaking slozvly'\. Who 's the party [Shifting his intent gace from McShane to a point behind and at one side of McShane, and speaking quickly and exeitedly.] h^hmd you with the gun? [As the men turn to look behind McShane, FosDiCK stoops, and picks up in each hand a stone somewhat smaller than a man's fist. When McShane and the other men look back at him, he is standing erect with a stone concealed in each hand.] FosDiCK. That 's sure one on you, stranger. You must be losing your nerve. Next play 's yours. Do you guess you 're smart enough to get a rise out of me before I cash in? McShane. Wait now. I 've got somethin' ter say ter him erbout old times. Wa'ch him clost. He kin run, I know; but ef he 's like he uster be, he 'd ruther fight. Thet 's his on'y virtue. FosDicK. I 'm proud not to be able to remember the gentleman from Aroostook County, to whose remarks I have listened with very little interest. I beg to remind him that time is passing. If he came her-e to talk, I should like to know it. We might save ourselves a whole lot of trouble and some pain- ful moments. If he came here to fight, why do n't y6 The Wilderness you naval heroes get to work? Are you waiting for re-inforcements? McShane \funously'\. We won't keep ye waitin' on'y jes' long ernough ter let ye see the lay er the land. He 's the most onrighteous cattle- thief an' man-killer that ever pizened the air. {The other men draw back a little.] He crossed my trail twict out west, an' both times I seen the muzzle of his gun, w'en I was goin' peaceable erbout my busi- ness. An' now I 've got him. He was killin' Mr. Walton. We all seen him. They ain't no other witnesses. You all know me. Ye '11 stick ter thet story. Now, boys, go in an' git him. [The three men begin to advance upon Fos- DiCK very cautiously. He advances his left foot, szmngs back his right hand to the position for throzving, and rapidly threatens them in turn unth the stone, zvhich he nozif let them see, in his right hand. Bill zi^alks on slozvly, unseen by the men, and zvith his gun leveled at McShane.] Bill. Ye could n't never speak the truth, Red: They 's another witness. [All look at him, McShane's hands instantly shooting above his head at fidl stretch. Fosdick drops the stones.] Drop thet stick. [McShane drops the stretcher.] Ef I was reel pertic'ler, I 'd say two. They kin both speak straight. Ye 're list'nin' ter one on 'em right now, an' t'other one — [Fosdick stoops to pick up Act IV "jj his hat, zvith his back to Bill.] Hands up, ev'ry last one er ye. \_He szveeps his gun tozvard the other men and then hack to McShane. Fosdick's hands shoot above his head, and he stands facing the cliff and with his back to Bill. The others put their hands up more sloidy.'] One of the Sailors. Who the — [^He stops short, as Bill brings the gun to bear upon him.] [In the instant zvhen he is uncovered McShane shows a disposition to make a break.] Bill {^covering McShane]. Easy, Red. I 'm settin' in thisye^ game. I shore Hkes settin' in a man's game thisaway ag'in. Now I 'd appreciate yer kindness a whole lot, ef ye 'd all kind er stand up ag'in thisyer rock. Move. [They all move up against the rock.] Backs out. Clost ag'in' the rock. [They obey. Bill lets the hand in zvhich he holds the gun drop to his side.] It allers did make me some nervous ter hold up more 'n three parties onless 'n I c'd see their backs. Do n't ye look eroun' none w'atever : I 'm li'ble ter shoot, ef ye scare me. [Plaintively.] Were w^as you kiotes raised? Ain't ye never b'en learned thet it ain't reel perlite ter stop ter ast fool questions w'en ye 're gittin' held up? I 'm at the talkin' end er this gun. Higher thar, Red. Ye might pick some reel pretty posies, ef ye was ter stre'ch yerself. One of the Sailors. Say, McShane, I thought 78 The Wilderness you was a man-eater. Are five of us goin' ter stand here like a row of belayin'-pins w'ile this ol' hobo speaks pieces at you ? McShane. Thet 's jes' the precise exact thing we 're goin' ter do, Bud. There ain't nuthin' else ter do w'en a gun-fighter fer shore gits the drop on ye. An' ef ye knowed him like I do, ye 'd be more civil spoken. Bill. Thank ye, Red, fer them few kind words. They ain't nuthin' the matter with your manners; but ye must 've took notice they 're some free in the East. These other polecats do n't know no better. We '11 hev ter excuse 'em. They ain't hed your bringin'-up. McShane. Ye allers was some humersome, Bill Herrold. But I find these yere remarks er yours consid'ble tiresome. W'at ye goin' ter do with us? Ef I 'd on'y er hed my gun. Bill. Red, ye shore makes me cry. Ye 've dis- app'inted me a whole lot. Ef ye *d on'y er had yer gun ter make a play w^ith, yer lovin' friends 'd be pickin' posies fer ye right now. But it 's got so in this ongawdly eastern kentry thet ye can't kill yer friend, — not yer oldest an' best friend — onless he kills you fust. I never did like yer face. Red. It do n't fit ye. I 've got so soft a-livin' East thet ef I sees it sudden, my gun 's li'ble ter go ofif before I c'n stiddy my nerves. So ye want ter hit the trail fer Act IV 79 the bad lands, ef I turn ye loose; an' do n't ye never stop ontel ye git thar. Oh ! I 'm feelin' reel talka- tive. This is right w'ere I live. I 'm enj'yin' FosDiCK [plaintively]. I never wished before that Ihad been born deaf. It seems to me that the few able remarks of Mr. Red Bill Iz'ery fiercely]. Here, you Bob Fosdick, come here. [Fosdick begins to back toz^^ard Bill.] Turn 'roun'. [Fosdick turns.] Quick. [Fosdick adz'ances quickly, zvith hands still np.] Lower yer hands. Take thisyer gun. [Fosdick takes the gun.] You hold 'em. I 'm goin' ter blow up. Fosdick [holding on McShane]. I 've got ye again, Red. [Bill slams his hat to the ground, doubles up as if in great pain, emits a fezv choking sounds, and bursts into yells of laughter. In a compara- tively silent interval, McShane speaks.] McShane. Won't somebody put a muzzle on thet crazy critter? He 's li'ble ter bite us, an' give us all the hyderphoby. Bill [suddenly recovering his equanimity, and picking up and donning his hat]. I 'm feelin' so goodnat'red now, Mack, I 'm erbout ready ter let ye go back ter the bad lands, an' tell thisyer joke ter yer friends out thetaway. Tell 'em. ye see Bill Herrold, er might er seed him, ef ye 'd b'en cross- 8o The Wilderness eyed in the back er yer head, a-holdin' up his pard- ner an' best friend, Bob Fosdick. Did n't I tell ye, Bob, thet' I was gittin' old an' no-account? You a-standin' a-smellin' er thet there rock, an' me so plumb interested in thisyer glad meetin' er ol' friends I could n't think er nuthin' but thet I was a-holdin' up the hull, entire outfit. Bob, ye won't hev no hard f eelin's ? Fosdick [not taking his eyes from Mc- Shane]'. Bill, where 's Mr. Walton? I thought he was only stunned. Has n't he come to yet? Bill. I shore fergot him, too. [He goes hastily to Herbert, and makes a hurried exami- nation.] No. He 's hurted bad, Bob. My Gawd! I 've seen too many men — [Rising.] Here, turn them kiotes loose. Fosdick. Git, Red. Hands down. [McShane and the other sailors lower their hands, and move slozvly toward the beach.] I begin to remember something about you; and I should not lose any sleep, if I had to kill you. Back to your vessel, and do n't show your face ashore again. Bill and I will both go heeled. [Indicating one of the sailors.] Leave that young hero here. Git. [McShane and tzvo of the men disappear in the direction of the beach. One of the sailors re- mains. Fosdick returns the gun to Bill. Fosdick and Bill stoop over Herbert.] Act IV 8 1 FosDicK [to the sailor]. You wait. Good God! Bill, this man is in a bad way. See this — IRising and turning to the sailor.] Listen; listen hard. Do n't start until you understand. Then run as hard as you can run. Find Miss Wilber — Wilber at the hotel. Tell her three things. One: Mr. Walton is up here with a sprained ankle, — very badly sprained. Two : She must send a wagon — wagon (three) with a doctor — doctor as quick as possible. If she is not there, tell the hotel clerk a man is dying here from a blow on the head, and a doctor must be rushed. Do you understand ? The Sailor. Yes, sir. Sprained ankle — Wilber — wagon — doctor — quick — clerk. FosDicK. Good. Now run — like hell. [The sailor runs toward the hotel.] We can do nothing for him, Bill : this is beyond us. Bring some water. [Bill goes over the bank. Fosdick kneels over Herbert^ and loosens his collar. Bill returns zvith water in his hat, which he lays by Herbert. Bill sits on the ground, and lifts Herbert^s head to his knee. After bathing Herbert's brozv and throat, Fosdick rises. While Bill speaks, Fosdick paces to and fro, stooping now and then over Herbert to bathe his brozv or to feel his pulse.] Bill. Not wishin' ter persume none w'atever, Bob, but bein' nat'ly some interested inter ye, I 'd 82 Tpie Wilderness take it mighty kind ef ye was ter see fit, w'en ye 're good an' read}^, ter tell me ez much ez ye think I 'd ought ter know erbout this yere. [Takes off his coat, folds it, and puts it under Herbert's head.] FosDicK. Not now : I can't talk now. Later I '11 tell you all about it. [A silent interval.] Bill [rising]. Bob, I wants ter tell ye w'at I seen. I never went back on my pardner yit, an' I shore ain't goin' back on you. I was standin' over yander a piece : I did n't come reel nigh tel thisyer Red starts ter make his play. I see ye start ter go erway. Then I see thisyer Mr. Walton kind er move on ye. Then he went down. I could n't see ez ye hit him none. I do n't know. He jumped right up, an' went fer ye ag'in; an' then I thought I see ye hit him. Leastways he fell, an' laid right w'ere he is now. I do n't rightly know : I ain't cert'in shore. The bushes bothered me. FosDiCK. Thank you, Bill. That 's near enough for the present. [A pause.] Do n't ask me to tell you now. Later, I promise. Bill. I did n't ast no questions, an' I do n't want no promises. FosDiCK. I know it, pardner, I know it for sure. [A pause.] I 've a good deal on my mind now, ^ Act IV 83 Bill. Where 's that wagon? Go down to the turn in the trail, and see if they 're not coming. [Bill disappears toivard the hotel, and returns in a few seconds.'] Bill. They 're comin' ! They 're fight here. They '11 hev ter leave the wagon down here a piece. [Beatrix runs in.] - ^ Beatrix. Where is he? Herbert. \_Going to him.] What 's this? [She stoops over him.] They said it was a sprained ankle. [Kneeling over him.] God in Heaven! He is not dead? [The doctor, the sailor, and the driver come in. FosDiCK speaks to the doctor aside. The doctor kneels, and examines Herbert's head, Beatrix kneeling by him, zmth her hands clasped. The doctor speaks to her. They rise. Under the doc- tor s direction, and zvith his help, the other men, ex- cept FosDicK, bear Herbert aivay. Beatrix is about to follow.] FosDicK. Betty. Beatrix. No. No. I must go with him. FosDiCK. Give me a minute — one minute. He spoke as if he — as if you had some claim on him. [A brief interval.] You knew him in the West? Beatrix. Yes. FosDicK. You knew him well? Beatrix. Yes. 84 The Wilderness FosDicK. And long? Beatrix. And long. No more. He may be dying now. They say there was a struggle. I pray God that if you have killed him, I may have strength to forget you. Go. Go. END OF ACT IV Act V 85 ACT V [The scene is that of Act IV. Beatrix and Bill are seated as Beatrix and Fosdick were seated in that act. Her attitude expresses the relaxa- tion of utter fatigue.] Beatrix. No one but you in all the world will ever know about all this. Do you suppose, Bill dear, our souls must go under the harrow before we can understand a little, — understand anything? [After a pause.] Why did he go away without a word? Did he fear that he had killed Herbert? But no ; he is not a coward. Bill. He shore ain't. Beatrix. Thtn, Bill, how could he go, if he trusted me? [After a pause.] I was so strong, so confident, so young. Strong I shall be again perhaps, but never again confident or very young. How long is it since I left the island? Bill [testily]. W'y do ye pester me with yer fool questions? [Very gently.] It 's nigh onter two months, Betty Gal. Beatrix. Nigh onter two months. Bill? No: I think it 's nigh onter ten years. And five years ago Herbert was hurt. But he began to get better 86 The Wilderness six days ago. That I can understand ; for then my big brother came back to me, — I hope to stay. Sometimes now it seems that we must be back in the okl days : we live them over and over together, as much as the nurse will let us. I almost think I am happy then; then I can forget. [After a pause] And then sometimes, out here with you, I know that if I were not so strong, or if I were stronger, — I do n't know which, I should sure- ly die. It does not really matter now whether I live or die. It does n't seem to me to be of the least importance. And all the time I know how silly it is to feel like that, because there are Herbert, and you, and the boys. Bill; Betty, ye '11 hev me plumb locoed,^ — you an' yer dyin' : Ain't ye ez good a man ez ever ye was ? Ye ain't lost no limbs, — not ez I 've tuk notice on. Ye c'n pick up a blaze ez fur ez ever ye could; an' I do n't doubt but w'at, ef ye tuk the notion, ye c'd han'le both the kids ez easy ez ever ye could. Ye want ter git up on yer hind laigs an' make a bluff, ef ye can't do no better. I never see ye before w'en ye could n't git no fire, even ef the woods was drippin' from a three days' rain. [After a pause.] Termorrer you, an' me, an' the kids goes ter a pawnd I 've heard tell erbout a piece up kentry here. She 's called the Wi'ches' Mirror, er some sich a fool name. She 's built outer reel sweet ^ Act V 87 water thet a w'ite man c'n drink. An' she 's plumb full er islants, — islets, ez I onct heard a towerist lady call 'em. — not properly knowin'- w'ether she was makin' oration erbout the beauties er natur' er the mysterious mysteries of a lady's t'ilet, — ain't thet it? WqW now, they hev shallops [Thet 's w'at the towerist lady called them little old scows they hed on Stinkin' Water Pawnd.] — they hev these yere shallops on this lake I 'm tellin' ye erbout ; an' they look most oncommon like birch canoes, made outer reel birch bark : ain't it wonderful ? An' on still nights, w'en the moon is erbout three quarters full, ye c'n paddle eroun' this lake er mine in them shallops, an' listen ter the trouts, w'ich at them times they climbs the trees, an' sings most oncom- mon sweet. An' the shores er thisyer pawnd is plumb picturesque an' pleasin', bein' mostly secon' growth hard wood. An' they air full er playful critters, w'ich they come out an' play in the moon- light w'en the trouts is singin', — jack rabbits, an' field mice, an' marmots, an' porkerpines, an' pole- cats. Beatrix. O Bill, that 's like old times too. The fairy tales you used to tell ! The most wonderful fairy tales that any little girl ever heard, — all about the trees, and the critters, and the birds, and the fish. Did n't you ever use to sprain that marvellous imagination of yours? 88 The Wilderness Bill. Not ez I 've noticed. I ain't never hed no cramps in it. Beatrix. Yes : I '11 go with you and the boys to- morrow. [After a pause.] Has any woman ever told you what a darling you are? Bill. Not ef I hed time ter draw fust. No: I ain't b'en nobody's darlin', not fer quite a spell back. Beatrix. [After a pause]. You know Herbert can't remember how he was hurt, and nobody else will tell me. Tell me, Bill. Bill. W'y, it wa' n't nuthin'. He was jes' hurted, like I allers tol' ye. Beatrix. But there was a struggle. Bill. Not ter say w'at ye 'd call struggle. They was a round up of a few parties thet hed n't met up tergether fer quite some time. Beatrix. What happened ? Bill. Well, some on 'em — Now, looker here, you Betty Gal, I do n't doubt but w'at ye '11 pull the gizzard Outer me, ef ye keep on. You leave my in- nards be. I need 'em. Beatrix [zmth a zvan sniile]. Did you ever go to a pink tea ? I think you might work quite an ex- traordinary change in the prevailing tint. [After a pause.] You think I did right, do n't you? Bill. Ye could n't hev done no diff'rent. Beatrix. If I had not deceived him — But I could n't go back on my word ? Act V 89 Bill. No. Beatrix. Not even my word to myself. Bill. No more 'n yer dad could. Beatrix. That 's so, Bill, — whatever happened. But I do n't understand everything ; and I 'm going to understand. [Sitting up,] It ain't like me, is it, to leave a trail that I 've started to follow to the end? Bill. Ye ain't never done it yit, — no more 'n yer dad did. Beatrix. That 's it, — no more than my dad did. Bill. W'y the old man 'd be plumb ershamed er ye, — layin' here an' whimp'rin' like a kiote w'en the dawgs sets their teeth inter it, 'stid er holdin' yer yap, an' humpin' yer ba'ck, an' fightin' like a wounded timber wolf. Hev ye clean give up? Ain't ye no account w'atever? [Risings and icitli- drazving his support from her soniczvhat roughly.'] I tells ye plain, I 'm done with thisyer baby talk er yours. Was ye cal'atin' a man growed 'd want ter spend the rest er his wuthless days a-list'nin' ter you bawlin' like a baby grizzly tuk erway from his ma ? Beatrix. You 're cruel, to talk — [After a pause she rises to her feet, and speaks standing, with her head throiim hack and her hands clenched at her sides.] No: you 're dead right. Was I allowin' I was beat? I must have forgotten that I was my father's daughter. Wait: let me think. [A pause.] 90 The Wilderness You must help me, Bill. He wrote to me. [Tak- ing a letter from the bosom of her dress.'] I could not answer. I thought he had killed Herbert. Even now you can not tell me that if Herbert had died — And later what could I say? He only asked that I should see him. Perhaps when all this — No : I must do something now. What shall I do, Bill? Bill. Do? I know w'at I 'd do. He lef ye: thet 'd be ernough for me. Thet 's how I feel ; but I do n't know ez thet 's the way I think. I 've knowed quite some skunks, Betty Gal; an' I 've knowed a few parties thet was square an' game. Thet 's him. He did n't never kill no party he did n't hev no right ter kill. Jes' ye set dow^n onct, an' talk it over slow an' easy like with him. You won't tell him no lies; ner he won't tell you none. I seen his eye. Beatrix. If he had not lost his faith! He did not trust me. Bill. An' ain't you b'en mistrustin' him? I think likely ef I 'd er b'en him, my trust inter ye would hev b'en some spraint,-— leastways fer a spell. An' w'at did ye say ter him the last thing? Beatrix. I hardly know: I was thinking only of Herbert. Bill. W'ich most likely he seen ye was n't Act V 91 thinkin' er nuthin' on'y Herbert. Was ye figgerin' thet was li'ble ter make him feel reel j'yful? I do n't doubt but w'at his wits was millin' like a bunch er crazy steers. All Bob Fosdick wants is a square deal. I 'm backin' his game. The air from the Pacific, says he, 'd be reel becomin' ter me. Beatrix. Perhaps you are right. Oh! I think you are. But love without faith, — that can never be. Bill. Who 's this a-lopin' up this way? Beatrix [thrusting the letter into the bosom of her dress]. Bill, Bill, it 's Robert. What shall I do? Bill. Ye 're the docter, Betty Gal; an' most prob'ly this is the chanst ye 've b'en prayin' fer. [Turns to go.] Beatrix [laying her hand on Bill's arm]. Do n't go. Bill : do n't go yet. [She takes tzuo or three heaving breaths; and then stands very upright, with one hand on Bill's arm, the other clenched at her side. Fosdick conies in.] Fosdick. Betty! [In a whisper.] Betty! Beatrix [speaking firmly]. Why have you come back? Fosdick. I had to see this spot again. I could not' — But you, why are you here? I knew from 92 The Wilderness the papers that Walton's sister had come, and his two younger brothers, — that he would recover. But you ? Beatrix. I could not leave him. FosDicK. You love him? Beatrix. Yes. FosDicK. You have loved him long? Beatrix. Yes. FosDicK. I do not see that more can be said. [FosDicK turns to go. Beatrix takes her hand from Bill's ann, and advances a step toward Fos-^ DICK. Bill walks off.] Beatrix. Robert. [FosDiCK stops and turns toward her. They stand gating into one another's eyes. Fosdick advances slozvly until he stands four or fiz^e feet from her.] FosDicK. I thought my faith was dead. How should it not be ? But you are the same Betty. We said, "Whatever happens." Beatrix. Whatever happens. Fosdick. You loved me? Beatrix. Yes. Fosdick. I do not [She extends her arm straight and stiff toward him] the fingers of her hand together, the palm down. As she speaks, she sivings this arm and her body azi'ay from him until she faces to the front. Act V 93 Holding her arm so, she advances three paces, zvhile speaking, and stands in mid-step. She drops her arm, and holds both arms at her sides, strained a little back, uith the hands clenched: Her brow be- comes puckered. Her chin is thrust forward, her head throzvn back, her eyes partly closed. She is peering dozmi a dim forest trail.] Beatrix. Wait. I have set my feet upon the trail again. Let me pick up the blazes. [After a pause.] You said a flame. Do you remember? FosDicK. The flame that does not consume. Beatrix. But there is a fire that does con- sume, — destroy, — the smoldering fire of doubt. FosDiCK. Sometimes, I think, it strengthens, — after it has passed. Beatrix. Perfect love, I thought you had. It seemed so to me. I could not take less. Yet per- fect love means perfect faith. You went away from me. FosDicK. You told me to go. Beatrix. I do n't remember. FosDicK. And when you told me to go, and when I saw how you loved him Beatrix. You would have been more than human, if you had not doubted? It may be so. I thought our love divine. Perhaps it was only human. Human love and human faith, — these are enough, if they are perfect. I could not take less. 94 The Wilderness FosDicK. Let me see your eyes. [She turns to him.'] The same clear pool. Nothing false, I said, nothing unworthy Beatrix. Robert, do you think I could have found the trail again, if I had really left it? FosDiCK. The trail? Beatrix. I only lay down to rest. I was very tired. But now I am strong again. FosDiCK. You were never weak. Beatrix. For a time I was. The trail to your heart. FosDicK. Betty, how can I look into your eyes — Whatever happens. And then my faith failed. But now I know Jack [calling zinthoitf]. Sis, O Sis. [He comes in, ziith Dick.] Where 's Bill? As sure as my name 's — Oh ! Excuse me. FosDicK, Who are these boys? Walton's two brothers are here. Beatrix. They are his brothers. FosDicK. And Beatrix. And my brothers, too. FosDicK [turning to go]. God forgive me. [The boys go off.] Beatrix. Robert. Bob. FosDiCK [turning to her]. It is not possible that you forgive me ? Beatrix. I onlv love vou. Act V 95 -' [She goes to hint, and he takes her in his anus.] FosDiCK. My faith was coming back. Beatrix. It had come back. FosDicK [looking into her eyes]. The pool is as clear as ever. Bill [eoming in]. Did I hear ye callin', Betty Gal? Here, you Bob! Fosdick! Beatrix. Bill, Bill, I have followed the trail to the very end. [She goes to Bill, throws her arms about his neck, and buries her face on his shoulder. Sup- porting her with his left arm, he reaches his right hand to Fosdick, who grasps it.] THE END one copy del. to Oat. Div. 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