HER HAPPINESS

Darkness. A door opens swiftly. Light from outsideshows a woman entering. She is covered by a largecape, but the gleam of hair and brow indicates beauty.She closes the door behind her. Darkness.

The Woman

Paul! Paul! Are you here, Paul?

A Voice

Yes, Elizabeth, I am here.

The Woman

Oh thank God! You are here! I felt so strange—Ithought ... Oh, I cannot tell you what I havebeen thinking! Turn on the light, Paul.

The Voice

You are troubled, dear. Let the darkness stay amoment. It will calm you. Sit down, Elizabeth.

The Woman

Yes.... I am so faint! Ihad to come, Paul! Ihad tosee you, to know that you were.... I knowI promised not to, but I was going mad! Just totouch you, to hold you ... but it's all rightnow.

The Voice

It is all right now, Elizabeth.

The Woman

I thought I could stand it, dear, I thought I couldstand it. It wasn't myself—I swear to you it wasn't—norhim. I, I can stand allthat, now. It wassomething else, something that came over me all atonce. I saw—Oh Paul! the thing I saw! But it'sall rightnow....

The Voice

It is all right, Elizabeth, because ours is love, lovethat is made of light, and not merely blind desire.

The Woman

Ours is love. Weare love!

The Voice

So that even if we are separated—even if you cannotcome to me yet, we shall not lose conviction norjoy.

The Woman

Yes, Paul. I will not make it harder for you. Iknow it is hard, and that it was for my sake youcould bring yourself to bind me not to see you again.

The Voice

Loveis, world without end. That is all we need toknow.

The Woman

World without end, amen.

The Voice

And because I knew the power and truth of love inyou I put this separation upon us.

The Woman

For my sake. I know it now, Paul! And trust me!Youcan trust me, Paul! Not time, nor distance,nor trouble nor change shall move me from theheights of love where I dwell.

The Voice

And because I knew the happiness of love could notendure in deceit, nor the wine give life if we drank itin a cup that was stained, I put you from me—in theworld's sight we meet no more.

The Woman

In the world's sight ... and in the sight of Godand man shall I be faithful to him from now on, inthought and deed and word, as a heart may be. Yes,Paul ... even that can I endure for your sake.For I know that hereafter—

The Voice

For love there is neither here nor hereafter, but therealization of love is ever according to his triumph.This has come to me suddenly, a light in the darkness,and I have won the truth by supreme pain.

The Woman

That, too, Paul.Pain.... I have been weak. Igave way to my nerves, but now in your presence Iam strong again, and I shall not fail you.

The Voice

My presence is where your love is, and as your loveso my nearness. Love me as I love you now, and Ishall be more real to you than your hands and youreyes.

The Woman

Bone of one bone, and flesh of one flesh....

The Voice

Spirit of one spirit! The flesh we have put away.

The Woman

That, too, Paul. Oh the glory of it! So be myhappiness that I shall not wish it changed, even beforethe Throne!

The Voice

I have given you happiness?

The Woman

Perfect happiness, Paul. I am happy, happier thanI ever was before. But before I go home from herefor the last time, turn on the light, Paul, that wemay be to each other always as the wonder of thismoment. For the last time, Paul. Paul?... Paul?Where are you? Why don't you answer?...Paul! (She turns on the light. It is a studio. Atthe piano, fallen forward upon the keys, sits thebody of a man. There is a revolver on the floor besidehim.) Paul!...As I saw him! Isthis myhappiness. Oh God,must I?

A MODERN PRODIGAL

The scene shows Uncle Richard's library, a massiveand expensive interior suggesting prosperity ratherthan meditation. It is obviously new, and in the wholeroom there is only one intimate and human note, aquaint little oil painting of a boy with bright eyes—UncleRichard at the age of eleven.

Richard walks about, waiting for his uncle, and examinesthe appointments with more curiosity than reverence.Stopping by the mantle for a moment he notices,with a start of surprise, his own photograph. He turnsaway with a shrug just as his uncle hurriedly enters.

Uncle Richard

Dick! Richard! At last! How are you? You receivedmy letter?

Richard

I am very well, uncle. Yes, I received your letter.It was forwarded from Florence.

Uncle Richard

Good! Sit down, Richard, sit down.

Richard

I did not receive it until a few days ago, in New York.I came on as soon as possible. But I had engagements—businessengagements—that delayed me.

Uncle Richard

Business? I am very glad, Richard, that you havegiven up your art. Not that art isn't entirely commendable,but in times like these, you know....

Richard

Don't misunderstand me, uncle. My business wasconnected with art. I haven't given up painting. Inever shall.

Uncle Richard

In my letter—

Richard

Yes. Cousin Anne wrote me about Aunt Ethel'sdeath, but I did not realize how changed everythinghere was until I read that letter from you. And now(glancing about) it is even clearer. It must havebeen a bitter shock to you, Uncle Richard. Youhad both come to the point where you could havedone so much with life. But you are quite well, UncleRichard?

Uncle Richard

I am never unwell. I don't believe in it. Yes, everythingwas ready here. In its larger issue, my lifehas not been unsuccessful.... But your business,Richard, it came out well, I hope?

Richard

Quite. You see after graduating I borrowed a certainsum to go abroad with a classmate. We had aplan for doing a book on modern Italy, he writingthe text and I making illustrations. We had quitea new idea about it all. It was good fun besides.Well, the work has been placed, and now after repayingthe loan I have enough to take a studio andbegin painting in earnest.

Uncle Richard

Hum.

Richard

I believe I have a copy of one of the sketches withme. (He tears a sheet from a note book and handsit to Uncle Richard.)

Uncle Richard (looking at it wrong side up)

A sketch. I see. Of course it is unfinished?

Richard

Yes. But then, no painting should be what you call"finished." A work of art can only be finished bythe mental effort of appreciation on the part of thespectator. Photographs and chromos arefinished—that'swhy they are dead.

Uncle Richard

I was not aware of the fact. But ... you will remember,Richard, that in my letter I asked you tovisit me?

Richard

Of course. And I shall be very pleased to stay fora few days. Very kind of you to ask me.

Uncle Richard

Not at all, Richard, not at all! I—

Richard

On Monday I must return to New York and look fora studio. With the book coming out I feel I shallhave no trouble selling my work.

Uncle Richard

Studio? Isn't that—hem! ratherBohemian, Richard?

Richard

Good gracious, uncle, you haven't been readingGeorge Moore, have you?

Uncle Richard

But Richard, did you not understand that I wantedyou to stay here longer than that?

Richard

Why no. How long did you mean?

Uncle Richard

Er—I hadn't thought, exactly. I mean that I wantedyou to bring your things here—bring your thingshere and just live on with me.

Richard

I had no idea you meantthat. Anyhow, as I couldn'tpaint here, it's impossible. But, of course, if youcare to have me stay a few days longer—

Uncle Richard

But I have everything arranged for you here. Yourroom—everything.

Richard

But you see, uncle, my work—

Uncle Richard

I hope you will give up your art, but if you mustpaint I will provide you a room for it. Do you knowhow many rooms there are in this house, Richard?

Richard

Really, Uncle Richard, I thank you, but—

Uncle Richard

Don't mention it. And of course you can see to itsproper arrangement yourself.

Richard

I had no idea of this when I came and—but you see,it's not only the studio an artist requires, it's atmosphere,the atmosphere of enthusiasm and feeling.You might as well give a business man a brand newoffice equipment and turn him loose on the Saharadesert as to shut a painter up in a town like this andexpect him to create. Artists need atmosphere justas business men need banks. It's the meeting of likeforces that makes anything really go.

Uncle Richard

But we are not wholly barbarous here, Richard.This,for example, and no first-class New England citylacks culture.

Richard

I suppose there's no use explaining, but what first-classNew England cities regard asculture your realartist avoids as he would avoid poison.

Uncle Richard

Well, well. But circumstances—really, Richard,don't you think it yourduty to stay?

Richard

Why?

Uncle Richard

Must I explain? We are met, after a long separation,in circumstances personally sorrowful to me,and I trust, to some extent, to you as well. We....

Richard

Yes, along separation.

Uncle Richard

I admit, Richard, that from your point of view myattitude has not always been as—as considerate, perhaps,as you might have expected. But I have beena very busy man, and—

Richard

As far as I am concerned, uncle, I have nothing toblame you for; but my mother....

Uncle Richard

Your mother? Surely, Richard, your mother nevercriticised me to you? She was much too fine awoman. Besides, I helped her in many ways youmay know nothing about.

Richard

No, mother said nothing. She wouldn't have, anyhow—andas far as your helping her is concerned,I can only judge of that by results.

Uncle Richard

Results? What do you mean? I have no desire tocatalogue the things I have done for one who wasnear to me, but—

Richard

That's all very well, uncle, and I have no criticismto make. What's over is over. But when you speakof my duty to you, I think of how mother died soyoung, and how I found out afterward her affairswere so difficult. I had no idea—she sacrificed herselffor me so long that I took it for granted. ButI think that you, as a business man, must haveknown.

Uncle Richard

You found that everything was mortgaged? Well,Richard, it pains me to recall these things. Yourfather, unfortunately, was a poor business man. Asfor the mortgage, Richard, I held that myself.

Richard

You did!

Uncle Richard

Yes. Even your mother did not know. I actedthrough an agent, and the interest was two per cent.

Richard

But—

Uncle Richard

A nominal rate. Your mother was so proud—

Richard

Well, but there were other matters, long ago, that Ihave only lately heard about. You and father oncestarted in business together....

Uncle Richard

We did. And I advised him to sell out when I did,but he thought better to hold on.

Richard

Poor father. You made—he lost....

Uncle Richard

But if he had followed my advice—. All this is painfulto me, Richard, and leads nowhere. As for yourself,I have always been interested in you, more sothan you realize, and now—

Richard

Now?

Uncle Richard

I cannot feel at fault for anything that has happened.Your father was unsuited for modern life.By the ordinary standards he was bound to fail.Still, it gives me great satisfaction that at the presenttime, Richard, I can offer you a home. Yes,Richard, ahome.

Richard

It's difficult to decide.... You see, my studio—

Uncle Richard

Well! I confess I can't understand all this uncertainty!

Richard

For three years I have worked as hard as anybodycould to make a position allowing me to paint. Ihave succeeded. I no longer need help!

Uncle Richard

Of course not! I don't question your ability to getalong. At the same time, your attitude now is ratherquixotic. Besides, as far as your painting is concerned,you can always go about where you require.It isn't slavery I am planning for you here, Richard!

Richard

Well ... but then, as I must live by my sales andcommissions, I'd cut a poor figure in surroundingslike these.

Uncle Richard

Ha! Very quaint that, Richard, very quaint! Isuppose artistsare like that.... Richard, I seeyou do not yet understand. I shall be most happyto provide for you in every way. Yes. I have consideredthe whole matter carefully, and for sometime have only waited an opportunity to explain toyou in person. Consider, then, that you shall havean income of your own. You see, Richard?

Richard

No, I don't.

Uncle Richard

Why, it's simple enough!

Richard

Yes, the facts are, but I don't understand—an income,a home. Why, I never dreamed of such athing!

Uncle Richard

And why not, my boy, why not? We haven't seenenough of each other, Richard. Perhaps I have beenat fault there, not to show more clearly the interestI have always taken in you. Yes, indeed, a warminterest, Richard!

Richard

Why not, Uncle Richard? Three years ago youmight have asked me that question. Now I ask youwhy?

Uncle Richard

Why? How strange! How could that questionarise between a man and his own nephew?

Richard

Three years ago, before Aunt Ethel died, I spentThanksgiving with you. It was during the recess,my second year at Harvard. I came here practicallyfrom my mother's funeral. I had just learnedthe truth about our affairs—not a thing of oursreally ours, not a penny left. How mother had keptthe truth from me, I don't know. But suddenlyeverything changed. The ground I had been standingon gave way—my hands grasped everywhere forsupport. I had never lacked, never thought aboutmoney either way. I took it for granted that familieslike ours were provided with a decent living bysome law of Providence.... I came here. I thoughtof course you would help me. I didn't think so consciously—Iturned to you and Aunt Ethel from blindinstinct.

We spent Thanksgiving together. It was veryquiet, very sad. You both talked about mother andthe old days. At breakfast the next morning youwished me good luck and went off to your office.Afterward Aunt Ethel and I talked in the living roomwhile I waited for the train. She seemed ill at ease.She alluded to your affairs once or twice, saying thatyou were quite embarrassed by the state of politics,and how sad it was that people couldn't do all theywanted to in this world for others.

Uncle Richard, when Joseph came with the carriage,Aunt Ethel kissed me, cried, and gave me—a twentydollar bill. Good God! and I thanked her for it.Twenty dollars—carfare and a week's board! I leftthe house completely dazed: it seemed like a baddream....

Uncle Richard

There, there, Richard! We never imagined for amoment. I thought your college course all providedfor—and your Aunt Ethel never understood business.She doubtless exaggerated my difficulty. Ifeither of us had dreamed you were so worried! Asif I should have grudged you money!

Richard

That's what I thought at first, and I hated you forit, but afterward I realized it was not that—it wasworse.

Uncle Richard

Worse!

Richard

Yes. It wasn't that you grudged the money, it wasthat you simply didn'tthink of it. You felt thatsomething had to be done, because I made you feeluncomfortable, but you didn't know exactly what,and you were both relieved to see me go. I hadspoiled your Thanksgiving dinner—that was thedepth of your realization.

Uncle Richard

No, no, Richard! You were so cold, so silent. Youmade it impossible for us to help you.

Richard

I suppose I did seem cold. That's the instinct ofinexperienced natures when they are desperate. Butit would have been so easy to break through withone kind word or act.

Uncle Richard

There, there! How glad I am that conditions arechanged!

Richard

Changed, yes, but it was I who changed them! Theshock of poverty was terrible at first, not becauseI set too much value on money, nor because I wasunwilling to work, but because I felt I had no powerof attack. My nature was introspective, I lived inan epic of my own creation. My strength and mycourage were wrapped up in dreams, and seemed tohave no relation to the practical world. I could havefaced the devil himself for an ideal, but to make myown living—that was the nightmare!...

That was why I was so cold, so silent. If you hadsaid one human thing, straight from your heart tomine, I should have been comforted. In a case likethat, as I now know, it is not money a man wants,even if he himself thinks it is. No. It is just sympathy,the right word that renews his courage andarms him against the new circumstances by makinghim feel he doesn't stand alone. If you had foundthat word, or even tried to find it, I should have lovedyou like a son. My heart was ready—you did notwant it!

Uncle Richard

But you finished at college, Richard....

Richard

Yes, I finished. And do you know how? I spent thatfirst night all alone in my room, thinking. In themorning I called on a classmate, a poor man whowas working his way. I said: "Here, I haven't acent. Advise me."

We talked it all over. He helped me sell my furniture,he sublet my room. And he gave me a job.

Uncle Richard

A—

Richard

A job. Collecting and delivering laundry. That'show I finished at college. I'm ashamed to admit itnow, but at first that work hurt me like a knife. Icouldn't see any relation between that and my ambitionfor art. But it wore off. I grew tougher, Ilearned the real meaning of things. And now I amglad it happened.

Uncle Richard

Admirable, admirable! Really, Richard, I am morethan ever convinced that I have decided rightly.Richard, youmust make this your home!

Richard

Are you still talking about myduty?

Uncle Richard

Richard, a man begins by working for himself alone,then he works for the woman he marries, but eventhat is not enough. One by one I have seen everymotive that ever impelled or guided me grow insufficientand have to be replaced. Ambition and love,once satisfied, point forward. We must always havea future before us, Richard, unless we are willing tobecome machines of habit. At one point or anothermost men do become machines. Thank heaven, I nevercould. In these last few months I have begun torealize.... It was your Aunt Ethel's tragedy thatshe had no children. I wonder now whether it is noteven more my own.

Richard, I have made you my heir.

Richard

Your heir!

Uncle Richard

My heir. And that is why, Richard—of course youcould not realize it at the time—that is why I allowedmyself to use the word "duty" as having reference tothe future if not to the past.

For the future, Richard, is ours to enjoy, withoutmisunderstanding, without disharmony, I at the endof my labours, you at the beginning of yours. Youhave revealed qualities I confess I had not suspected,qualities fitting you for responsibility and administration.With the position you will henceforth occupy,Richard, you should enter public life. Nothingmore honorable for a responsible citizen.... Nothingmore essential to the welfare of our beloved republicat its present critical state. We need the Englishtradition over here, Richard—solid, responsiblemen to administer public affairs. I have often feltthe need of an efficient aristocracy in our social andindustrial life. And nothing would please me morethan to see you rise to authority by the leverage ofmy wealth. Nothing would please me more—why,Richard, I should consider it the prolongation of myown life!

Richard

No. No you don't, Uncle Richard. Never!

Uncle Richard

What on earth do you mean?

Richard

I won't be your heir!

Uncle Richard

Wh—what? Good heavens! Are youmad?

Richard

I hope so. Yes, I hope that from your point of viewI am quite mad. You won't understand me, becauseyou don't understand what I most love and what Imost hate. Oh you self-made Americans! When Ireally needed your helping hand you didn't think ofme. You had the American idea that every tub muststand on its own bottom, that every young fellowmust makegood—that is, make money. You buy"art" at a certain stage in your development just asyou buy motor cars, and you think you can buyartists the same way. You don't know that to buydead art is to starve live artists.

Well, I made good. I can stand alone. Are youoffering me money now to help me in my work? Nota bit! Rich men haven't changed since the firsttribal chief ordered his bow and arrows, his wivesand servants, to be buried with him.

Uncle Richard

You conceited young rascal! I needn't leave you acent!

Richard

I haven't asked you to. I never thought about yourmoney. I can get along very well without it. Butcan you take it with you?

Uncle Richard

Of course not! But I can leave it to whom I please.

Richard

Why don't you leave it to Joseph?

Uncle Richard

To Joseph—my coachman? Are you joking?

Richard

Not at all. Didn't he save your life in the Civil War?And what have I ever done for you?

Uncle Richard

I have remembered Joseph very handsomely, but tomake him myheir—why, that isn't the same thing atall!

Richard

Well, to a university then?

Uncle Richard

No.

Richard

A church?

Uncle Richard

No!

Richard

A cat hospital?

Uncle Richard

Damn cats! There's been enough of them sick in myown house!

Richard

Well, I give it up.

Uncle Richard

You young fool! You don't know what you are saying!Joseph! Church! Cat Hospital! What goodwould I get out of that? Is that what I have beenworking for all my life? No indeed!

Richard, you shall be my heir!

Richard

I won't! You are only interested in me because Ibear your name. If I were John Smith, though tentimes the better man, you would never waste athought upon me. My name is an accident—I carenothing for that. My real self is my art, for whichyou care even less. All you want is to establish adynasty—the last infirmity of successful men.

No, I won't be your heir!

Uncle Richard

Madness, madness! What kind of a world are wecoming to?

Richard

Listen. One day when I was walking outside SienaI came to a fine old villa with a wonderful garden.A row of cypresses ran along the wall inside, andI wanted to paint it. The gardener let me in for atip. While I sat there working, he watching me—eventhe peasants have a feeling for paint over there—weheard a tap on the window. It was thepadrona. I saw that she wanted to speak to me, andI went in. She was an old, crippled woman, holdingto life by sheer will, sitting all day by the firein one room. She spoke French, so we could talk.To my surprise she was very much interested in me—askedquestions about my work, my family, and soon. I couldn't understand why. But when I leftshe began crying and told me that I reminded herof her grandson who had been killed in Tripoli, andthat there was no one of the family name left, butthat she had to leave the property either to a cousinwhom she detested, or to the Church. And she saidjust what you have: that this wasn't thesame thing.She had nothing to live for, she said, now the heir wasdead, except keep the place out of others' hands.There she was, a prisoner in that beautiful villa, enjoyingnothing, where an artist would have been inparadise. I see her yet, bent over the fire in a blacklace shawl, crying.

On my way back to town I happened to think of mylast visit with you, and my state of mind returned,my feeling of dependence and the gloomy Thanksgivingdinner. The shock of contrast between myold and my new self stopped me short in the road.In a flash I saw the lying materialism on which theworld is based, the curse of dollar worship that keepsopportunity away from the young, at the same timeit keeps the old in a prison of loneliness and suspicion.If we worshipped life instead of metal disks,we would see that the young are not really the heirsof the old, but the old are heirs of the young. Thenand there I vowed to keep myself clear of the wholewretched tangle, even if I had to carry laundry allmy life, so that if any one ever tried to fetter meI could fling his words back in his face! (UncleRichard's nerves are all on edge. A terrific stormof overbearing temper visibly gathers during thisspeech, and the Colonel's long habit of successfuldomination seems about to assert itself in an explosion.But at the last moment another power, deeperthan habit, older than character, represses his wrath,and when Uncle Richard speaks again it is with anearnest gentleness almost plaintive.)

Uncle Richard

Richard, for heaven's sake let us stop this quarreling!Let us forget what has been said and done onboth sides and begin anew. I offer you a home hereduring my life time, and all that I own after I amdead. Ido care for you, my boy, I know it now asI know my own name. Surely, Richard, you neednot take this offer amiss?

Richard

Well, but you see, Uncle Richard....

Uncle Richard

Do you prefer poverty for its own sake?

Richard

Of course not. But I prefer it to hypocrisy andcompromise.

Uncle Richard

Well then. You will accept, Richard? For my sake,Richard?

Richard

Well....

Uncle Richard

It is the only pleasure left to me, Richard, thinkingof the old name going down honourably in you. Andas for the past, my mistakes were due to not havinga son of my own. You have no idea what a differenceit makes. It's my dream, Richard, don't destroyit!

Richard

If you really mean it that way—

Uncle Richard

My dear Richard! My dear boy! Why—now Iknow why we have been quarreling, Richard!

Richard

Why?

Uncle Richard

Because we are so much alike. At your age I wasthe same self-willed beggar you are. Richard, you aremore like me than you are like your own father!

Richard

Le roi est morte, vive le roi.But (and he thumpsthe table with great emphasis) but there's one thingunderstood—I'm going to paintmasterpieces!

Uncle Richard

Of course you are, my boy, of course you are! Infact, I alwaysknew you would, Richard!

THE INCOMPATIBLES

A corner table in a Broadway restaurant, at evening.Between the man and woman who have just taken seatsis a bouquet of red roses.

Marian

No, I don't want any oysters or clams. I ate enoughsea food in Atlantic City to last a season. I wantsome—Oh, what gorgeous flowers! Umm! I lovethe smell of roses! Especially out of season. Why,the other tables haven't any! Fred, did you—?

Fred

Sure I did, Marian. I knew you'd like 'em.

Marian

I do. But you mustn't be a silly boy any longer,Fred!

Fred

I will, too. It isn't silly, to giveyou flowers.

Marian

That's all right, Fred. Goodness knows I like theflowers. But I'm not a young idiot who expects herhoneymoon to last forever. I've had one experience,you know.

Fred

Yes, but you mustn't judge all men byhim.

Marian

I don't. I knew well enough you're different, or I'dnever have married you. But at the same time—

Fred

Well, I'm going to show you that areal man don'tget over the fun of being married to a peach like youin just two weeks. You don't want me to, do you?

Marian

Course not, Fred! Didn't I say you were different?But I don't want you to set a pace you can't keepup. You'd hate me in no time if I did.

Fred

I couldn't hateyou, girlie! Besides, isn't this ourfirst night back in the old town? We shan't be havingdinner out like this every day.

Marian

Well, only I don't want to have you flop all of a sudden,likehe did. What'll you have, a cocktail?

Fred

Let's see.... What's the matter, Marian?

Marian

Sh! Don't turn round!

Fred

What's up?

Marian

Him!

Fred

Him who?

Marian

George!

Fred

Good Lord! Well, don't mindhim. He hasn't gotanything on you now. You'remine.

Marian

Sure I am. He isn't looking. He's with a woman.By jingo! It's that millinery kid!

Fred

What millinery kid? Besides, what difference doesit make? Let him have a hundred, if he wants 'em.We're happy.

Marian

The nerve of him! I knew it was her right along.He tried to throw a bluff it was some swell. I'll bethe paid good for those clothes!

Fred

Oh, come on! What'll you have? Besides, she mighthave made the clothes herself.

Marian

Made 'em herself! Say, a fine lot you know aboutladies' gowns! That came from the Avenue, straight.

Fred

Well, what if it did? I'll get you a better one, youjust wait.

Marian

Sh! He's looking over here!

Fred

Hm! Look at me and you won't see him.

Marian

The nerve!

Fred

What's he done?

Marian

He smiled right over like nothing had ever happened.I'll bet he's going to say something mean about me.Oh!

Fred

Let's change our seats. I'm hungry!

Marian

Change nothing! Catch me giving him a laugh likethat! I could tell her things, the young—There,nowshe's looking!

Fred

What if she is? Say, look here—

Marian

He's getting up! Well, of all the brass!

Fred

What?

Marian

He's coming over here!

Fred

He is! Don't you say a word. I'll takehim on!

Marian

If he dares—

George

Hello, Marian!

Marian

Hm!

George

What, got a grouch on your honeymoon? That's abad sign, Marian!

Marian

No, I haven't got any grouch! Don'tyou worry!You're the only grouch I ever had, thank the Lord!

George

Well then. It isn't every woman gets rid of an incompatiblehusband and gets hold of a compatibleone, all in same season.

Fred

Look here!

Marian

That's just like him! Coming over here with a grinon like a kid with a new toy. Well, we don't wantanything to do withyou. See?

George

Sure. Excuse me for butting in. I just wanted tomake a little announcement.

Marian

Oh, you did! Well, I'm surprised! I didn't thinkshe was the kind you had to marry.

George

Huh! I knew you'd have your little knife out forher. But why you should have to be jealousnow Ican't see.

Marian

I'm not jealous!

George

What you worrying about, then?

Marian

I'm not worrying! I'm only sore because you buttedin when we were so happy together here without you.

George

Oh,excuse me! As a matter of fact, I didn't comeover to make any announcement. It's too late forthat. I—

Marian

Married already! Anybody'd think you might waita little while for common decency!

George

I waited a day longer than you did, anyhow.

Marian

That's different.

Fred

Ibeg your pardon! We were just ordering dinner.If you didn't come to make any announcement, why—

Marian

Yes, what did you butt in for?

George

Why, I got a letter from your friend Grace, and—

Marian

Grace? What did she have to say toyou?

George

She said she was sorry I had to get a divorce, but Itold her—

Marian

Sorryyou had to get a divorce! Well, if I don't fixher!

George

Oh, she's getting married, too.

Marian

Who to?

George

That fellow, what's his name, that's got the garageover on Seventh Avenue.

Marian

Snider! Sohe's the one! Well! And I supposeshe'll be all over town in a new car.

George

Sure. Saw him to-day. A big yellow one. I alwaystold you she was out for money. And you thoughtshe was in love with Jackson!

Marian

Hypocrite! She was. Or she told me so. Cried allover me. Have you seen Jackson?

George

Yes. He's as blue as your old kimono. He said—

Fred

Look here, Marian! I'm not going to wait all nightfor my dinner!

Marian

Order your old dinner! What did Jackson say,George?

THE GENIUS

The front porch of a small farmhouse in New England.Stone flags lead to the road; the yard is a careless,comfortable lawn with two or three old maples.It is autumn.

A boy of sixteen or so, carrying a paper parcel, stopshesitatingly, looks in a moment and then walks to theporch. As he stands there a man comes out of thehouse. The man is in his early forties, he stoops a little,but not from weakness; his expression is one of deepcalm.

The Man

I wonder if you have seen my dog? I was going fora walk, but Rex seems to have grown tired of waiting.

The Boy

Your dog? No, sir, I haven't seen him. Shall Igo look?

The Man

No, never mind. He'll come back. Rex and I understandeach other. He has his little moods, likeme.

The Boy

If you were going for a walk—?

The Man

It doesn't matter at all. I can go any time. Youdon't live in this country?

The Boy

No, sir. I live in New York. I wish I did. It'sbeautiful here, isn't it?

The Man

It's very beautiful to me. I love it. You may havecome a long road this morning, let's sit down.

The Boy

Thank you. I'm not interfering with anything?

The Man

Bless your heart! No indeed. What is there to interferewith? All we have is life, and this is part ofit.

The Boy

I like to sit under these trees. It makes me think ofthe Old Testament.

The Man

That's interesting. How?

The Boy

Well, maybe I'm wrong, but whenever I think of theOld Testament I see an old man under a tree—

The Man

Yes?

The Boy

A man who has lived it all through, you know, andfound out something real about it; and he sits therecalm and strong, something like a tree himself; andevery once in a while somebody comes along—a boy,you know,—and the boy talks to him all about himself,just as we imagine we'd like to with our fathers,if they weren't so busy, or our teachers, if theydidn't depend so much upon books, or our ministers,if we thought they would really understand,—andthe old man doesn't say much maybe, but the boygoes away much stronger and happier....

The Man

Yes, yes, I understand. The Old Testament....Theydid get hold of things, didn't they?

The Boy

What I can't understand is how nowadays peopleseem more grown up and competent than those menwere, in a way, and we do such wonderful things—skyscrapersand aeroplanes—and yet we aren't halfso wonderful as they were in the Old Testament withtheir jugs and their wooden plows. I mean, we aren'tnear so big as the things we do, while those old fellowswere so much bigger. We smile at them, butif some day one of our machines fell over on us whatwould we do about it?

The Man

I wonder.

The Boy

I went through a big factory just last week. Oneof my friends' father is the manager, and all I couldthink of was what could a fellow do who didn't likeit, who didn't fit in.... Nowadays most everybodyseems competent about factories or business or somethinglike that—you know—and they've got hold ofeverything, so a fellow's got to do the same thingor where is he?

The Man

That's the first question, certainly: where is he? Butwhere is he if he does do the same thing?

The Boy

Why, he's with the rest. Andthey don't ask thatquestion....

The Man

I'm afraid they don't. It would be interesting to bethere if they should begin to ask it, wouldn't it?

The Boy

Yes.... I'd like to be there when someI know askthemselves! But they never will. Why should they?

The Man

Don't you mean howcan they?

The Boy

Yes, of course. They don't ask the question becausethe big thing they are doing seems to be the answerbeforehand. But it isn't! Not compared with theOld Testament. So we have to ask it for ourselves.And that's why I came here....

The Man

Oh. You want to know wherethey are, with theirpower, or whereyou will be without it?

The Boy

Where I'll be. I hate it! But what else is there to-day?

The Man

Why, there's you.

The Boy

But that's just it! What am I for if I can't joinin? I came to you.... You don't mind my talking,do you?

The Man

On the contrary.

The Boy

Well, everybody I know is a part of it, so how couldthey tell me what to do outside of it? I've beenwondering about that for a year. Before then, whenI was just a boy, the world seemed full of everything,but now it seems to have only one thing. Thator nothing. Then one day I saw a photograph somebodyhad cut out of a Sunday paper, and I thoughtto myself there's a man who seems outside, entirelyoutside, and yet he has something. It wasn't all ornothing for him ... and I wondered who it was.Then I found your book, with the same picture in it.You bet I read it right off! It was the first time inmy life I had ever felt power as great as skyscrapersand railroads and yet apart from them. Outside ofall they mean. Like the Old Testament. Thosepoems!

The Man

You liked them?

The Boy

It was more than that. How can a fellowlike theocean, or a snow storm?

The Man

Is that what you thought they were like?

The Boy

Why, they went off like a fourteen inch gun! Nota whine about life in them—not a single regret foranything. They were wonderful! They seemed topick up mountains and cities and toss them all aboutlike toys. They made me feel that what I was lookingfor was able to conquer what I didn't like....I said to myself I don't care if he does laugh at me,I'll go and ask him where all that power is! Andso I came....

The Man

There's Rex now—over across the road. He's wonderingwho you are. He sees we are friends, andhe's pretending to be jealous. Dogs are funny,aren't they? But you were speaking about my poems.It's odd that their first criticism should come fromyou like this. You must be about the same age Iwas when I began writing—when I wanted aboveanything to write a book like that, and when such abook seemed the most impossible thing I could do.Like trying to swim the Atlantic, or live forever.

The Boy

It seemed impossible? I should think it would be themost natural thing in the world, foryou—like eatingdinner.

The Man

That's the wonderful thing—not the book, but thatI should have come to write it!

The Boy

But who else could write it?

The Man

At your age I thought anybody could—anybody andeverybody except myself.

The Boy

Really?

The Man

Really and truly. You've no idea what a uselessmisfit I was.

The Boy

But I read somewhere you had always been brilliant,even as a boy.

The Man

Unfortunately ... yes. That was what made it sohard for me. Shall I tell you about it?

The Boy

I wish you would!

The Man

Brilliance—I'll tell you what that was, at least forme. I wrote several things that people called "brilliant."One in particular, a little play of decadentepigram. It was acted by amateurs before an admiring"select" audience. That was when I wastwenty-one. From about sixteen on I had beenacutely miserable—physically miserable. I neverknew when I wouldn't actually cave in. I felt like abankrupt living on borrowed money. Of course, it'splain enough now—the revolt of starved nerves. Icared only for my mind, grew only in that, and therest of me withered up like a stalk in dry soil. Sothe flower drooped too—in decadent epigram. Butnobody pointed out the truth of it all to me, and Iscorned to give my body a thought. People predicteda brilliant future—for me, crying inside! ThenI married. I married the girl who had taken thestar part in the play. According to the logic of thesituation, it was inevitable. Everybody remarkedhow inevitable it was. A decorative girl, you know.She wanted to be the wife of a great man.... Well,we didn't get along. There was an honest streak inme somewhere which hated deception. I couldn'tplay the part of "brilliant" young poet with anysuccess. She was at me all the while to write moreof the same thing. And I didn't want to. The differencebetween the "great" man I was supposed tobe and the sick child I really was, began to torture.I knew I oughtn't to go on any further if I wantedto do anything real. Then one night we had an"artistic" dinner. My wife had gotten hold of a famousEnglish poet, and through him a publisher. Thepublisher was her real game. I drank champagne beforedinner so as to be "brilliant." I was. And beforeI realized it, Norah had secured a promise from thepublisher to bring out a book of plays. I remembershe said it was practically finished. But it wasn't,only the one, and I hated that. But I sat down conscientiouslyto write the book that she, and apparentlyall the world that counted, expected me towrite. Well, I couldn't write it. Not a blessed word!Something inside me refused to work. And there Iwas. In a month or so she began to ask about it.Norah thought I ought to turn them out while shewaited. I walked up and down the park one afternoonwondering what to tell her.... And when Irealized that either she would never understand orwould despise me, I grew desperate. I wrote her anote, full of fine phrases about "incompatibility,"her "unapproachable ideals," the "soul's need of freedom"—thingsshewould understand and wear aheroic attitude about—and fled. I came here....

The Boy

Of course. But didn't she follow you? Didn't theybother you?

The Man

Not a bit. Norah preferred her lonely heroism. Ina few months I was quite forgotten. That was oneof the healthful things I learned. Well, I was awreck when I came here, I wanted only to lie downunder a tree.... And there it was, under that treeyonder, my salvation came.

The Boy

Your salvation?

The Man

Hunger. That was my salvation. Simple, elemental,unescapable appetite. You see I had no servant,no one at all. So I had to get up and workto prepare my food.... It was very strange.Compared with this life, my life before had been likeliving in a locked box. Some one to do everythingfor me except think, and consequently I thought toomuch. But here the very fact of life was broughthome to me. I spent weeks working about the houseand grounds on the common necessities. By the timewinter came on the place was fit to live in—and Iwas enjoying life. All the "brilliance" had fadedaway; I was as simple as a blade of grass.

For a year I didn't write a word. I had the courageto wait for the real thing, nobody pestering me tobe a "genius"! Some day you may read that firstbook. People said I had re-discovered the virtue ofhumility. I had.

The Boy

I will read it! And how much more it will mean tome now!

The Man

I suppose you know the theory about vibrations—howif a little push is given a bridge, and repeatedoften enough at the right intervals, the bridge willfall?

The Boy

Yes.

The Man

Well, that's the whole secret of what you have beenlooking for—what you found in my poems.

The Boy

I don't understand.

The Man

A man's life is a rhythm. Eating, sleeping, working,playing, loving, thinking—everything. Andwhen we live so that each activity comes at the rightinterval, we gain power. When one interrupts another,we lose. Weakness is merely the thrust of oneimpulse against another, instead of their combinedthrust against the world. When I came here, feelinglike a criminal, I was obeying the one right instinctin a welter of emotions. It was like the faintest ofheart beats in a sick body. I listened to that. ThenI learned physical hunger, then sleep, and so on.It's incredible how stupid I was about the elementalart of living! I had to begin all over from the beginning,as if no one had ever lived before.

The Boy

That's what you meant in your poems about religion.

The Man

Exactly! I learned that "good" is the rhythm ofthe man's personal nature, and that "evil" is merelythe confusion of the same impulses. As time wenton it became instinctive to live for and by the rhythm.Everything about my life here was caught up andused in the vision of power—drawing water, cuttingwood, digging in the garden, dawn. It was all marvelous—Icouldn't help writing those poems. Theyare the natural joys and sorrows of ten years. As amatter of fact, though, I grew to care less and lessabout writing, as living became fuller and richer.People write too much. They would write less ifthey had to make the fire in the morning.

The Boy

The first impulse ... I see. Oh, life might be sosimple!

The Man

Why not? The animals have it. Men have it attimes, but we make each other forget. If we couldonly be each other's reminders instead of forgetters!

The Boy

Yes! But I see the only thing to do is to go away,like you.

The Man

Not necessarily, I was merely a bad case, and requireda desperate remedy, earth and air and freedomfrom others' will. I need the country, but thenext man might require the city as passionately.Don't imagine that only the hermits, like me, liveinstinctively. It can be done in New York, too, onlyone mustn't be so sensitive to others.... After all,friend, we were wrong in saying that this power liesoutside the world of skyscrapers and business. Itdoesn't lie outside nor inside. It cuts across everything.Do you see? For it's all a matter of theman's own soul.

The Boy

Then?

The Man

We can't live in a vacuum. The more you feel theforce, the more you must act. The more you canact. And in the long run it doesn't matter what youdo, if you do what your own instinct bids.

The Boy

Then Icould stay right in the midst of it?

The Man

Yes. And if you were thinking of writing poetry,it might even be better to stay in the midst of it.Drama, you know ... and it's time for a newdrama.

The Boy

It isn't that, with me. I can't write.... I had onesplendid teacher. He used to talk about thingsright in class. He said that most educated peoplethink that intellect is a matter of making finedistinctions—of seeing as two separate points what theunintelligent would believe was one point; but thatthis idea wasfinicky. He wanted us to see that intelligencemight also be a matter of seeing the connectionbetween two things so far apart that mostpeople would think they were always separate. Ilike that. It made educationmean something, becauseit made it depend on imagination instead ofgrubbing. And then he told us about the history ofour subject—grammar. How it began as poetry, whenevery word was an original creation; and then becamephilosophy, as people had to arrange speechwith thought; and then science, with more or lessexact, laws. I couldsee it—the thing became alive.And he said all knowledge passed through the samestages, and there isn't anything that can't eventuallybe made scientific. That made me think a good deal.I wondered if somebody couldn't work out a way ofpreventing anybody from being poor. It seems sounnecessary, with so much work being done. That'swhat I want to do. Thanks to you, I—

The Man

Here's Rex! Rex, know my good friend. I know youwill like him. Rex always cares for the people I do,don't you, Rex?

The Boy

Of course, I see one thing: it's the people nearestone that make the most difference. Mother, now, shewill understand.... You don't believe in marrying,though, do you?

The Man

I certainly do!

The Boy

But I thought—

The Man

You thought because I left one woman and hadn'tfound another that I didn't care for women? Othersbelieve that, too, but it isn't so. On the contrary.You see, I didn't so much leave her as get away frommy own failure. Of course, there is such a thing asthe wrong woman. She makes a man a fraction.The better she is in herself, the less she leaves himto live by. One twentieth is less than one half. Butthe right woman! She multiplies a man....

The Boy

Oh!

The Man

Why, you might have told from my poems how Ibelieve in love.

The Boy

I don't remember any love poems.

The Man

Bless your heart! Every one of them was a lovepoem. Not the old-fashioned kind, about fadingroses and tender hearts.... I sent that book outas a cry for the mate. It is charged with the fulnessof love. That's why I could write about trees andstorms.

The Boy

I suppose if I had been older....

The Man

It isn't one's age but one's need.She will understand.Look, the sun has gone round the corner ofthe house. Is that lunch you have in the parcel?

The Boy

Yes.

The Man

Would you like to make it a picnic? I'll get somethingfrom the house, and then we can walk to thewoods.

The Boy

I'd love to!

The Man

All right, I'll be ready in no time. Come, Rex!

SURVIVAL

The garden of a home in the suburbs. A man is walkingup and down alone at dusk, occasionally stoppingto water a plant, but more often falling into deepthought, unconscious of his surroundings. About theplace there is an air of newness and prosperity.

A young woman enters the garden from the lawnnext door.

Margaret

Look here, Roger, you can't keep this up!

Roger

No, I can't keep this up. Besides, it's going to rainto-morrow.

Margaret

What do you mean?

Roger

Watering the plants. Isn't that what you meant?

Margaret

You aren't watering the plants. I've been watchingyou for half an hour. If you only would! But youkeep forgetting what you are at.

Roger

I wish it were only forgetting—it's remembering.

Margaret

Oh Roger, don't I know? But you mustn't!

Roger

I suppose not. I suppose not.

Margaret

I knew all along, and I kept away. How you felt, Imean. I ought to have come over a week ago. Youhaven't anybody to talk to—that's the trouble,Roger, really. I know. Now let's have the wholething out. Come. And don't be afraid of me. Why,I could tie you all up in bandages if you needed it.And not flinch.

Roger

Yes, I guess you could.... It's, it's absurd howwell I keep!

Margaret

Hm. Isn't it? You ought to be wilting away like arose. But no, you keep your splendid strength andgo on with two or three men's work! What wouldyour mother think if she heard you talking like that?Don't you know that you couldn't please her betterthan by going on as you are?

Roger

That's so. Of course. But that really isn't what Iwas thinking of. I was thinking how queer this wholebusiness is. Take our family. As far back as Iknow we were always struggling along with manychildren and few means. I am the first one who couldreally make money. And just when I could makemother comfortable and easy ... besides, I'm allalone.

Margaret

Ah, Roger, of course you feel that way! But youdon't really appreciate that wonderful mother ofyours. Do you think her happiness depended onhaving a new house, and a car?

Roger

No....

Margaret

Didn't she round out her life beautifully? Wasn'tshe repaid for her struggles by seeing you succeed?Didn't she pass away as quietly as going to sleep?And wasn't her marriage happy? You don't knowhow much a woman will meet with, if she's happy!

Roger

That part of it I can face all right, though I supposeit's hard for the ordinary selfish man to realizethat love like mother's is its own reward. But towardthe end she suffered—she worried....

Margaret

I know she did. She told me.

Roger

She told you? I didn't know that.

Margaret

We were good friends, your mother and I—andwomen. That's why she told me. And I think Ireassured her.

Roger

Oh! She did seem to get mightily comforted, just atthe last. I never understood why.

Margaret

I thank heaven I really did that!—And when I lookedout the window and saw you standing here, I hadto come over. I knew it wasn't your mother's deaththat was hurting you, but—but your brother's.

Roger

Arthur ... I'm glad the accident happened aftershe died.

Margaret

Yes. But there's something else. Something thathurts. You've got to tell me. Everything. Don'tbe afraid. Face it.

Roger

I have faced it. I—I've made up my mind.

Margaret

There's still pain somewhere. Is it in the way youhave made up your mind?

Roger

How could that be?

Margaret

It depends. But tell me what you thought—I meanduring this last year or so. It didn't come to youall at once.

Roger

Well.... Of course, I always took it for grantedabout his music. He seemed to be wonderful at that.And mother believed so in him. It really began whenhe left college, I found he had debts.

Margaret

Debts?

Roger

Yes. Not just clothes and living—other things. Ipaid up, but I didn't like it. I didn't like the things.But I thought it was just a boy's foolishness. Ithought he would be all right after that, but—hewasn't.

Margaret

He wasn't....

Roger

No. After a couple of years I had to straighten itout again. I came down on him flat. He promisedto cut it.

Margaret

But he was doing such wonderful work!

Roger

Yes, everybody began to say so. If he had only beenthat alone, the musician! But—

Margaret

But afterward?

Roger

Well, a year ago I began to hear things said again.And then I found letters and bills. It was the samething all over. He hadn't kept his word.

Margaret

But what didhe say?

Roger

I let it go for weeks, hoping he would say something.But never a word.

Margaret

He loved you so. How he must have suffered!

Roger

Yes, I suppose he did suffer. But if he cared so forme why did he try to keep it hidden, the one thingI would hate most?

Margaret

That was his way. It made him ashamed.

Roger

Well, he couldn't keep it dark forever. Mother almostfound out.

Margaret

Almost found out?

Roger

Yes. So of course I stepped in. We had a frightfulrow.

Margaret

When was that?

Roger

Six months ago. I got him clear. It was hard—thistime the woman almost got him.

Margaret

Oh!

Roger

I helped him. But I did it on one condition—thathe go to work.

Margaret

Work? What about his music?

Roger

That's what he said. But I asked him if he hadthought about his music when he got into thesescrapes. He couldn't say a word. So it was all arrangedfor him to go into my office, right under myeye, when mother was taken sick. Then she wantedhim to stay near her, so.... And then she died.And the accident. Well I don't see what more Icould have done.

Margaret

No.... Of course, it wasn't as if you turnedagainst him. And the office—he was to pay youback that way?

Roger

Pay me back? Why, if he could, naturally; but thatwasn't my idea, that was only incidental. My ideawas to get him into the habit of hard work.

Margaret

But he alwaysdid work!

Roger

Oh, he worked hard enough. At least he turned outa good deal. But that was spasmodic—night andday for weeks, and then loafing for weeks more.That's how he always got into trouble: loafing inbetween.

Margaret

Don't you remember how splendid he was the dayhe had just finished something? He seemed to havepassed out of himself into a shining humility. Itwas said of Shelley:"Sun-treader!"... Don't youremember?

Roger

Yes.... Oh hang it! Why couldn't he have beenonly that! Yes, I remember. I hoped that sixmonths or so at the office—but no. Anyhow, it's allover now.

Margaret

What were you going to say?

Roger

I suppose I might as well say it: I don't believe theoffice would have changed him, after all. That is,permanently. He'd have done his best for a while,and then—. No, nothing could help him.

Margaret

Is that what you have made up your mind about?

Roger

Oh, that. Yes, that's what started me thinking.Everybody has difficulties, troubles, and I believe inhelping a fellow every time. Life piles up too highagainst one sometimes, but a little shove from theother side will move it away. I never believed in thedevil take the hindmost, at all. But this was different.

Margaret

Different, how? What do you mean?

Roger

I mean that as long as a fellow's difficulties are outsidehim you can help him, because as soon as theyare removed he's himself again; but when they areinside, part of the man himself, there's nothing youcan do. Nothing. You can save a person from theworld, but not from himself. That's where the devilcomes in. I see it now. I believe in the devil.

Margaret

Oh! ButArthur....

Roger

I know you think I'm a brute for speaking of Arthurin connection with the devil, but it wasn't the old-fashioneddevil I meant. I meant the devil of unfitness.Arthur wasn'tfit. He had every chance. Wecan't get away from what life is. Life shoves peopleto the wall every day. I've had to fight hard myself.I admit things aren't fair all round, but Arthurhad his chance, two or three chances, and he just—droppedout. He couldn'tsurvive. And it seemsto me that for those who loved him it may be a goodthing after all that he didn't have to go on.

Margaret

Roger! You shan't say that! You shan't!

Roger

I don't want to, Margaret, but that's what life itselfsays. We can't get behind life. We can't beat evolutionand the law of survival.

Margaret

But his talent, his fine talent—and his exquisitenature!

Roger

I know. But there it is. It's kinder in the long runto be cruel, if the truth is cruel. We've got to betrue to things as they are.

Margaret

But take things as they are! He wasn't viciousabout—about women, he was like a child. Of coursethey got his money, but even so, they weren't all mereschemers. Some of them were very decent. Why,one of them—

Roger

What the deuce doyou know about them? Whatabout one of them?

Margaret

She cried. She said she knew it wasn't right, thathe couldn't marry her, but she did like him, and shehad children of her own.... I'm sure she was verytender to him.

Roger

Who told you? Where did you see her?

Margaret

There.

Roger

There! In my own house?

Margaret

Yes.

Roger

How didshe get there?

Margaret

Your mother sent for her.

Roger

My mother sent for her? Then she knew?

Margaret

Yes. She knew everything.

Roger

How?

Margaret

He told her—Arthur did.

Roger

Good Lord! I never heard a word of it.

Margaret

No. They were afraid—afraid you wouldn't understand.

Roger

AfraidI wouldn't understand? Why,I understoodonly too well. It was mother that wouldn't have understood.I'd have cut my hand off rather than tellher.

Margaret

Well, she did understand. She understood betterthan you did. She understood that part of himhadn't grown up. He was like a boy. He just walkedinto things....

Roger

How did he ever come to tellher?

Margaret

Once when he was sick. Your mother was takingcare of him. He blurted it all out, like a homesickboy.

Roger

Andshe understood? Didn't break her heart, and allthat?

Margaret

Oh, it was a shock, naturally. But they talked itall over, and your mother sent for this woman. Iknew. Arthur knew I knew....

Roger

And mother packed her away without telling me?

Margaret

Oh, she didn't pack her away. That is, right off.

Roger

He kept on seeing her? With mother's knowledge?

Margaret

Yes. Your mother liked her.

Roger

Well, if women aren't the strangest things!

Margaret

Yes, they are. Some of them. Fortunately. Butyou see how wrong you were, Roger?

Roger

How was I wrong?

Margaret

About this unfitness—this survival.

Roger

On the contrary. It only proves it.

Margaret

No, it doesn't. I've been thinking, too ... aboutsaving people from themselves, and all that. Yousay it's the law of life, and we can't go beyond life.

Roger

No, we can't. I still say it.

Margaret

Then what about your mother? What about allwomen who—

Roger

About mother?

Margaret

Yes. Wasn't her love a part of life? And didn't shekeep on loving him in spite of everything? Is thatlove blind and foolish—something for your old evolutionto get rid of?

Roger

I never thought of it. No, of course we don't wantto get rid ofthat—but even so, she didn't save him.

Margaret

She didn't know about it until lately—thanks to you.If she had known sooner—and anyhow, you don'tknow—Of course, she couldn't have saved himdirectly. But indirectly ... through anotherwoman—

Roger

Through another woman?

Margaret

I mean, supposing there was another woman wholoved him—one who could be to him all he needed,who would understand, and who was all right. Onehe could marry.

Roger

Yes, but—

Margaret

And supposing this other woman had heard thingsabout Arthur, and was terribly hurt, and Arthurknew she was, and that's why he kept away; but yourmother talked with her for a long while, and made herunderstand. Even sent forthat woman—you know.And then this woman, the right one, did understand,and was ready to marry Arthur....

Roger

Margaret, are you crying? Are you crying, Margaret?Margaret, was it you?

THE TELEGRAM

Perron, a stout, middle-aged figure, is seated in frontof his watchmaker's establishment near the Place St.Sulpice. The awning sags, and the shop wears an airof sober discouragement. Whatever expression theyears have left Perron's round face capable of is concentratedupon the changing scenes cinematographed tohis mind's eye by some strong and unusual emotion.Alexandre, a tall, stooped man, with a flowing black tie,bows in passing with old-fashioned punctiliousness toPerron, who apparently is unaware of his presence.Suddenly Perron starts, rubs his eyes, and glares about.

Perron

Alexandre! Alexandre!

Alexandre

Good day, my friend. You seem distraught.

Perron

Distraught! It was the strangest thing! But sithere with me. Do. I have something to tell you.

Alexandre

I regret exceedingly, but a stupid engagement....Later, perhaps—

Perron

No! No! I insist! Only a great mind like yourscan explain the strange thing which has happened.

Alexandre

Ah, in that case—what is a mere business affair comparedwith divine philosophy? Far from beingpressé, friend Perron, I have an eternity at yourservice.

Perron

First of all, tell me the exact date!

Alexandre

That I can do, and not on my own authority, whichin such details is often unreliable. This morning myconcierge announced with great delicacy and feelingthat to-day is Friday, the fifteenth July, and my rentis once more due. My rent, which—

Perron

Friday the fifteenth! Impossible!

Alexandre

Alas. My concierge is of a precision the mostmeticulous. For all legal, financial and militaryaffairs, throughout the French Republic at least, to-dayis Friday the fifteenth. But why should thisseem impossible to you, a scientist and a watchmaker?

Perron

Only listen, and you will understand why I amtempted to doubt the calendar of the Church itself.Two weeks ago my wife announced to me that shehad reason to expect the due arrival of a son. Shesaid there could be no question it will be a son becausein her mother's family for three generations ithas been the same, three daughters followed by ason.

Eh bien, although I have always desired a son to followme in this honorable and scientific profession,nevertheless I received the news with a certain consternation.In short, my affairs have not gone toowell of late, and without my wife's assistance by herneedle....

That evening I thought much how I might increasemy funds, and so for two weeks—two weeks, monami—I have omitted my customary café afterdejeuner, which all these years I have not failed totake with a serious group of friends at the TroisArts, and even have I smoked no cigarettes. True,this has not added much to our wealth, though ithas been some satisfaction to realize I have done mypossible. My health has suffered somewhat—I havegrown absent-minded, and in the morning my headfeels strange. However, that may not be due entirelyto my unnatural abstinence.

However, on Friday the fifteenth July, at threeo'clock precisely, as I sat here in meditation havingfinished a small work, I saw a telegraph boy hurrytoward me down the street. Then had I a premonition.My heart beat as it has not these twenty years.In an instant I was reading the message: my brother,who long ago ran away on adventure to Indo-China,had just died and left me a fortune in tea.

That was on Friday the fifteenth. And do you knowwhat has happened since? I have lived two separatelives. Yes, two existences have unrolled before me.In one I saw myself as I would have been without thetelegram. My business fell away; my son was borna daughter, to my wife's indignation and my owndismay; and having sold my little shop I sought workin a cursed factory. Ah me, it was terrible! Butthe other picture. With my brother's fortune I madeaggrandisements and eventually moved to the Rue dela Paix. My scientific genius was at last appreciated,and my watches and clocks became the prideof the haute monde. My son grew into a fine man,much resembling myself, and after learning the professionopened a branch office at Buenos Ayres. Iwon the ribbon. In short, nothing lacked to makelife agreeable and meritorious.

But then it was, just at that point, I came to myselfand looking up recognized my friend the philosopher.Years seemed to have passed—two separate lifetimes—and startled at finding myself seated in thesame chair and wearing the same clothes, I demandedof you what day it was. And you answered Fridaythe fifteenth. How can such a thing be possible?

Alexandre

To think that you, a watchmaker and a petit bourgeois,should experience what many a saint has diedwithout realizing! I salute you, mystic, descendentof prophets and seers!

Perron

But what was it then?

Alexandre

What was it? A mystical experience, an experienceof the highest order, like unto Saint Therese, thoughin symbols of mundane things. But that is the faultof the age more than yourself. With more practiseyour mind will exhibit even greater power. Youmust continue in the path. Who knows what youcould do after years of self-denial, when a mere twoweeks without cigarettes have brought you thisvision?

Perron

And without coffee. Don't forget the café! Andnow that I am rich I shall never go without it again.No, on the contrary, I shall have at least two, andon a silver tray.

Alexandre

Do you mean to say you really believe?—But itdoesn't matter. Whether or not the telegram came,the important fact is that you had the vision. Itis for this you must be grateful.

Perron

Can a philosopher really be such a fool? Of coursethe telegram came! And I am grateful!

Alexandre

No. You are the most ungrateful of men. But whymention the telegram? What matters is whether yourvision arose from seeing the telegram or seeing thetelegraph boy? The philosophic truth is the same.

Perron

Mon dieu! What difference does it make? But Iswear I have the telegram, and it reads just as Itold you!

Alexandre

But no! You are ungrateful, and for that I despiseyou!

Perron

But yes! And after reading it four times I lockedit in my safe. Do I notknow I entered my shop andlocked it up?

Alexandre

Yes, and do you not know also that you moved tothe Rue de la Paix?

Perron

Oh! Could it have been—Then I am ruined, and mybrother is the most selfish of men!

Alexandre

But it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter. In the pathshall you grow steadfast and contented.

Perron

It doesn't matter!

Alexandre

Not at all. And when you have become reasonableand grateful, I shall return and speak further withyou. I shall devise for you such sacrifice as shallmake the saints but as little children. Au revoir.

(He turns away. The clock of St. Sulpice tones thehalf hour. The watchmaker listens to it with openmouth, and trembling violently, darts through thedoor of his shop.)

RAIN

PERSONS

The scene shows a hotel "parlor" in the White Mountains.Beneath the flashy ugliness of its modern wallpaper and upholstery, a certain refinement persistsfrom an older generation. The room itself is well proportioned,with a very good hearth. The parlor mightonce have been the ball room in a squire's mansion.

It is about seven o'clock of an August evening, theroom feebly lighted by a flickering acetylene burner.One feels the commencement of rain. A door to therear opens and the Everitts enter, the younger childrenfirst.

Harold

She didn't give me any toast. I want some toast!

Walter

A rotten supper!

Mrs. Everitt

Never mind, Harold, you had two cups of that beautifulmilk.

Alice

Of course it was rotten. Everything's second ratehere. Ugh! what a musty smell!

Walter

I told father we ought to go ahead. The car couldhave done another six miles easily. And we'd havereached the Mountain Inn.

Alice

I'm sure there's a dance there to-night!

Everitt

The car couldnot have done the six miles. We werelucky to make that last hill. You might have had towalk the whole way.

Alice

Well, we always start too soon or too late. Forgoodness sake let's atleast have some light. There'sno use having it as dark inside as out. (Everitt goesabout lighting all the burners)

Harold

Hear the rain, rain, rain!

Walter

Itis coming down. I never heard it make so muchnoise.

Mrs. Everitt

That's because city people never have a roof overtheir heads!

Alice

Why, mother, the rain makes your voice vibratelike—

Walter

Like a fire engine. I stood right by one, once.

Mrs. Everitt

Come, Harold, sit on my lap.

Everitt

Shall I close the blinds?

Alice

Yes.

Mrs. Everitt

No, don't. Nobody's about on a night like this.

Harold

Wish I could see rain. What it like?

Everitt

What's what like?

Harold

Rain—rain.

Alice

Like shower baths.

Harold

Oh. Mother, tell me story about rain. Ilike rain!(Everitt feels about for his cigar case. A letter fallsfrom his pocket which he picks up hurriedly)

Everitt

I'm going for a cigar.

Walter

It's like being in a submarine!

Harold

Mother, tell me story!

Mrs. Everitt

Once upon a time—

Walter

I'm going out for a minute.

Alice

I wish....

Harold

Once on a time!

Mrs. Everitt

Oh, yes. Once there was a little girl who lived in thecountry.

Harold

What country?

Mrs. Everitt

A country something like this. She and her motherlived in a little house beside a brook. The little girlloved to listen to the brook outside her window atnight. One day she asked her mother where thebrook went to. She didn't wanther brook to runaway. And what do you suppose her mother said?

Harold

What her mother say?

Mrs. Everitt

She said the brook didn't really run away, when itgot out of sight across the fields it turned into rain.So then the little girl was glad whenever it rained,because she knew it was the little brook coming backto her.

Harold

Oh. And isthis rain the brook coming back? Thelittle girl's brook?

Mrs. Everitt

The little girl grew up and went away. But it'ssomelittle girl's brook. (Walter comes in with sticks)

Walter

I thought we'd have a fire.

Alice

Good! Make a big one.

Mrs. Everitt

Now, Harold, mother is going to put you in a nicebed, right under the roof where the rain-drops whisperand sing. (She takes Harold out)

Alice

Where'd father go?

Walter

He said he wanted a cigar.

Alice

He's been a long time.

Walter

Perhaps he's gone to look at the engine.

Alice

Walter, what's the matter with them? Lastnight....

Walter

I don't know. I heard them, too. It isn't the firsttime they have quarreled.

Alice

It's terrible!

Walter

Father's got a rotten temper, lately.

Alice

I thought she wanted him—

Walter

She did, but he had no business to get so angry aboutit.

Alice

But why did she want to change our plans at thelast minute and go into Connecticut? Everythingwas arranged to come here.

Walter.

She said he had arranged it without speaking to her.She said—there's something about it I don't understand.

Alice

I don't either. I—(Mrs. Everitt enters)

Walter

Did he go to sleep?

Mrs. Everitt

No. He is talking to the rain. I never heard himsay such odd things. I hated to leave him. It seemedas if he heard voices....

Walter

Sit down, mother. It's very jolly here.

Mrs. Everitt

Thank you, Walter. How many years since I've enjoyeda real fire, like this!

Walter

Oh, there isn't enough wood. Just a minute—(Hegoes out)

Alice

You look tired.

Mrs. Everitt

I'm all right, dear.

Alice

No you're not. Why won't you tell me?

Mrs. Everitt

But Alice, there's nothing to tell. I do feel a littletired, but then, I shall be all right in the morning.

Alice

I wish—(Walter enters with more wood)

Walter

Well, Alice, are you still thinking about that dance?

Alice

Why no, I'd forgotten all about it. Who coulddance in such a rain? It would make the music seemartificial. I'm getting tired of boys, too. Theydon't reallyfeel things—like rain, and fire.

Mrs. Everitt

What's that noise,—Harold?

Walter

No. It's the men in the bar room.

Mrs. Everitt

I'm sure it's Harold.

Alice

I'll go see. (She goes out)

Walter

Mother.

Mrs. Everitt

What, Walter?

Walter

I must be an awful coward—

Mrs. Everitt

Why, what do you mean?

Walter

I mean that when I really want something, and oughtto say so, I go along without saying it. I don't meanthat I'mreally afraid to say it, but I always feelsomehow that other people ought to know what Iwant, and save me the trouble of asking it. No, nottrouble exactly—but you know what I mean.

Mrs. Everitt

Yes, Walter, I'm afraid I know exactly what youmean. Lots of us are cursed with the same instinct.I am, and sometimes I believe your father is, too. Itought to be that when one sees a thing clearly in hisown mind, and knows it is best, others—at least thosenear to him—should somehow be aware of it. Butthey usually are not.

Walter

No. And it's those nearest one that it's hardest tosay things to. But to-night, somehow, I don't feelthat way.

Mrs. Everitt

Tell me.

Walter

It's this architecture. You remember when I usedto play with water colors all the while, and say Iwas going to be an artist?

Mrs. Everitt

Yes, but—

Walter

Father always said I would get over it. But whenI didn't, then it occurred to him that if I learnedarchitecture I could help him in his building.... Ithought architecture would be the same. But it isn't.I can't see any art in it at all—it's nothing but engineering.

Mrs. Everitt

But Walter, you haven't gone far enough in it. Theart will come later.

Walter

No it won't! At least not with father. He neverbuilds anything that lets meimagine. You don'tknow how I hate those blue prints. I've been worryingalong so far because I didn't want to disappointfather, though every day I hoped he would see whatI really felt. But to-night I know I can't go on anylonger without having it out. If he will let me followmy own idea he will be better pleased in the endthan if I stick at this business of his. It will requireone good fight, and then I shall be free to show whatI can do.

Mrs. Everitt

But Walter, what is it exactly you want to do?

Walter.

I suppose I ought to say that I want to be an artistrather than a builder's draughtsman, but that isn'treally it. I mean that behind the brain I think withevery day there is another brain, bigger and wiser,that keeps asking the chance to show the rest of mewhat and how to act. In ordinary things the everydaymind gets along by itself all right, but I feel theother self there all the while, wanting me to beginsomething different, something to let it escape fromdreaming to doing. And it keeps threatening thatsome day it will he too late. Only begin, begin!...Yes, I have worried along so far, but just to-night,for some reason or other, I seem to be standing onthe brink. I won't go another step. It's in the rainnow—I hear it. Oh, the pictures I could paint ifwe lived in the country!

Mrs. Everitt

In the country!

Walter

Yes. It comes over me here how much these hillsmean. Oh! and there's another thing, mother....I thought I was born in New York, I thought wealways lived there, but just a while ago I ran ontoyour old family Bible, and it had the records in it.I—

Mrs. Everitt

Oh, Walter!

Walter

It seems queer that neither of you said anythingabout it, if I was really born in this very town....I might never have thought much about it, but to-nighteverything seems to be stirred up. Tell me,mother—

Mrs. Everitt

We lived here only a little while. We didn't like it,so your father sold his farm and we went away toNew York.

Walter

Yes, but why wasn't something said about it whenwe came here this afternoon? It seems funny, not to.

Mrs. Everitt

Dear, there was a little family trouble, long ago,which is best forgotten.

Walter

Oh.

Alice (entering)

It wasn't Harold, after all, but I just had to stayand listen to him. He tried over and over to tellme something. I couldn't make out what it was untilhe showed me with his hands—you know that funnylittle way he has—and what do you suppose it was?

Mrs. Everitt

The dear child. What was it?

Alice

Why, he remembered the big drum he saw once in aparade, and he was trying to explain that he wasinside a drum. The rain, you know.

Everitt (entering)

We had to jack up the car. The barn is floodingwith water.

Mrs. Everitt

Is that where you were?

Everitt

Yes.... How strange you look in that light, Alice!I never saw you look like that before. (He kissesher)

Alice

Oh!

Mrs. Everitt

What is it, Alice?

Alice

Why ... I thought his cigar was going to burn me.

Mrs. Everitt

Oh.

Everitt

Alice, you jumped because you didn't like my breath.I'm sorry, I did take a drink, and I shouldn't havekissed you, only....

Walter

Only what?

Everitt

She looked just as Mary did when I first knew her.It startled me.

Alice

Do I?

Mrs. Everitt

Was I like that?

Everitt

Of course you were.

Alice

Oh, I'm glad!

Mrs. Everitt

Thank you, dear, but you're not half so glad as I am.

Everitt

It's queer, there used to be a fine old stock up inthis country. It seems to have died out. The peoplehere don't half appreciate the place.

Mrs. Everitt

But you haven't seen many of them, have you?

Everitt

No, I talked with some in the bar room.

Alice

Oh, the bar room?

Everitt

Yes, I know. One can't judge from that. A filthyplace—it made me ashamed of drinking. I only wentin hoping to see some of the people I used to know.

Mrs. Everitt

Oh!

Walter

Where's my portfolio?

Mrs. Everitt

In the office, with those hand bags we decided not toopen.

Walter

I'm going to get it. I just had an idea.... (Hegoes out)

Everitt

It's only ten o'clock, but it seems like midnight.

Alice

So it does. Are we going on to-morrow? Will thecar be all right?

Everitt

George says so. To-morrow? I suppose so.

Alice

Well, I'm going to bed.

Mrs. Everitt

I hope Harold is asleep. Good night, dear.

Everitt

Good night, Mary.

Alice

You said "Mary."

Everitt

Did I? Well, you might be, for all that.

Alice (leaving)

Good night.

Everitt

If she had on that blue dress you used to wear, yourown mother couldn't tell you apart.

Mrs. Everitt

Charles.

Everitt

What?

Mrs. Everitt

Walter knows he was born here. He wants to knowwhy we didn't mention it to-day.

Everitt

So do I! So do I want to know why we didn't mentionit! It's been between us all these years!(Walter enters with his portfolio. He stands unnoticedat the door)

Mrs. Everitt

You want to know? You know very well yourself!It's I who ought to ask what the matter is!

Everitt

You? Good heavens! Wasn't it you who suddenlymade up your mind we had to leave this town, andinsisted and insisted until I sold the house? Didn'tI do that to please you, because you went into hystericsabout it, and I had to think of Walter? Ididn't want to go. It isn't every man who wouldchange his whole life for a woman's unreasonablewhim!

Mrs. Everitt

Whim! It isn't every wife who—Oh! Oh!

Everitt

Yes whim! And haven't I stayed away all these yearsfrom my people because you wouldn't hear to ourcoming back even for a visit?

Mrs. Everitt

No you didn't stay away! You sneaked up herethe very next year when you made that trip to Boston.And you can't deny it, because Janet Richardsonwrote me.

Everitt

Sneaked up here! Deny it! Are you mad? Theonly reason I didn't mention it was because I neverunderstood your positive hatred for the place. Whatharm was there in coming back for a day or two?On every other subject you are all right, but wheneverwe get within a mile of mentioning this town Ifeel your hysteria, so I have kept still. But if there'sanything you can say to explain yourself, for goodnesssake say it! This nightmare has been betweenus long enough.

Mrs. Everitt

Yes, it has! Too long! And I like your way of sayingyou had to think of Walter! It was I had tothink of my baby! If it hadn't been for Walter, Iwouldn't have lived with you another day! I kepton at first so that he might be born with a father tolook out for him, and then I kept on so that heneedn't grow up in the shame of a divorce. But oh,the pain of it! To keep silent, year after year!

Everitt

Look here, are we both crazy? Out with it!

Mrs. Everitt

Annie Pratt!

Everitt

What? Who?

Mrs. Everitt

Annie Pratt!

Everitt

Who the devil's Annie Pratt? What's she got to dowith it?

Mrs. Everitt

Ha! Not faithful even to her! Or are you tryingto lie out of it? You can't,because I've still got theletter.

Everitt

What letter? I'm not going to stand these hystericsany longer!

Mrs. Everitt

You needn't. But you've got to stand the truth,do you hear me? I found the letter in your pocket.We hadn't been married a year. I was so happy!Oh! Oh!

Everitt

So was I happy, Oh! Oh!

Mrs. Everitt

Hypocrite! "Dearest Charlie: You said it is I whoam your wife really, because it's I who make youhappy." Vile cat!

Everitt

Annie Pratt, Annie Pratt. I remember her....

Mrs. Everitt

I should think you would! But any man who will—

Everitt

Look here! I've got the whole thing! You foundthat letter in my pocket?

Mrs. Everitt

Yes I did.

Everitt

Well, do you remember my quarrel with CharlieFisher?

Mrs. Everitt

Yes. Why?

Everitt

Because, you poor child, that letter was written tohim.

Mrs. Everitt

To him!

Everitt

Yes, Charlie Fisher. I found that he was going withAnnie Pratt and I had it out with him one day in thebarn. I told him if he didn't quit his foolishness I'dtell his people. We nearly came to blows—he wasdrinking too much, too—and I found that letter onthe floor afterwards. I meant to burn it up, but Iforgot it. And you thought I was the Charlie!

Mrs. Everitt

God forgive me!

Everitt

But why on earth didn't you come right out with it?

Mrs. Everitt

Oh! You can't realize how crushed I felt. I wantedonly to run away, like a wounded animal.... Andthen I couldn't bear to quarrel, for the sake of Walter.So it's been festering in me all this time.

Everitt

So that's it. Well, thank heaven! (He starts toembrace her)

Mrs. Everitt

But that letter you picked up so quickly to-night—wasthat from somebody else?

Everitt

Lord, I'd almost forgotten it.

Mrs. Everitt

There! And I was almost happy!

Everitt

For goodness sake, read it!

Mrs. Everitt

From your bank.... I don't understand it.

Everitt

It's simple enough. They won't make me anotherloan.

Mrs. Everitt

Well?

Everitt

Between the unions and the new inspection—well, Ican't finish the Broadway contract on time, and I'mdone.

Mrs. Everitt

Done?

Everitt

Done. Smashed. I might save ten thousand dollars,that's all. My life's work....

Mrs. Everitt

You mean money?

Everitt

I mean the lack of it.

Mrs. Everitt

Is that all? Thank heaven!

Everitt

All! But do you realize it means giving up thehouse, and beginning all over again on ten thousanddollars?

Mrs. Everitt

I don't care. I was never happy there anyhow. Andnow I could be happy doing my own work in a tenement.

Everitt

I think I could be happy as a carpenter again bythe day. But the children. It's going to be hard forthem. Walter's architecture.

Walter

Father!

Everitt

Good gracious! Where did you come from?

Walter

I came back from the office.... I heard what youwere saying. So that's all right. But you needn'tworry about my architecture. I was telling motherto-night. I don't like it—it isn't my work. I onlywanted you to feel as I do about it. Just feel thatI really want to paint—to be an artist. Even if Ihave to work at something else for a long time, I'llfeel easier, knowing you realize what I want. I lovecolor so. And I want to let my imaginationgo. I'llhelp in any way I can, naturally. I'm glad too. Imean, I had rather live in the country like this thanin New York.

Everitt

Good Lord! (Alice appears in the doorway holdingHarold)

Walter

It seems to me that none of us has been really satisfied,so it isn't so bad after all. We can begin onsomething real to us all. Mother said she would behappy in a tenement. Well, maybe she would, butwhy not come up here?

Mrs. Everitt

Oh,Charles!

Everitt

Well ... but Alice.

Alice

Mother.

Mrs. Everitt

You, too! What is it? What's the matter withHarold?

Alice

Nothing. He wouldn't go to sleep, and wouldn't.He said he wanted to sit in your lap. I never sawhim so. I had to bring him.

Mrs. Everitt

Give him to me, dear.

Alice

And I knew something was going on down here...I couldfeel it. I don't know what it was, but there'sone thing I do know.

Mrs. Everitt

What?

Alice

Why, ever since father said I looked as you used toI've been thinking about what you must have beenlike as a girl, and it came over me howuseless I am.I've never done anything. And you must have donea lot.

Everitt

I should say she did!

Walter

There! Say, Alice, how'd you like to live in thatwhite house we passed, the one with the orchard?

Alice

Really? Anddo things?

Mrs. Everitt

Charles!

Everitt

This is the most extraordinary night I ever heard of.Here I was, feeling like a condemned criminal becauseI'd lost my business, afraid to tell Mary and youchildren, and now you all seem positively glad of it.I expected all kinds of trouble, and all at once....What the deuce is it?

Harold

Rain—rain.... Mother, why can't the brook comeback to thesame little girl?

PICTURES

A studio on the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs. Thereis a small entrance hall, kitchenette, and a balcony beforewhich curtains are drawn. It is a winter afternoon,and a young man is busy at an easel placed closebeside the north light. A young woman arranges teathings on the table.

Silvia

Joe.

Joe

Um.

Silvia

Joe!

Joe

Um—um!(She walks over, draws his watch fromhis pocket and shows him the time)

Silvia

It's nearly four o'clock.

Joe

Just a minute—the light's fine, and I want to finish.

Silvia

Yes, I know, but he may be here any minute.

Joe

Tea on?

Silvia

Yes.

Joe

Well, that'll keep him while I get ready. That'smostly what they came for, anyhow.

Silvia

But he's different. He isn't a Cook's tourist—

Joe

No, he's a relative!

Silvia

You wouldn't say that if one ofyour family droppedin. Besides, I've never even seen him. And he'ssomething of a collector, Joe. Hebuys pictures.

Joe

So I hear. The last thing he bought was a Bougereau!

Silvia

Well, he's arelative ... and when he sees your lastthings!

Joe

Um.... There, it's all done.

Silvia

I'm crazy to see it, Joe, but run up and get ready.Sh! (A knock at the door. Joe runs upstairs tothe balcony. Silvia opens the door and admits Mr.Wentworth, rather stout and with gold spectacles)

Mr. Wentworth

Mrs. Carson?

Silvia

Yes. This is Mr. Wentworth? Joe and I have beenexpecting you. Let me take your coat. The studio'srather upset just now—

Mr. Wentworth

Delightful! How I love the atmosphere of work in astudio! I used to paint a bit myself, you know.

Silvia

Did you? Father never mentioned that.

Mr. Wentworth

Oh, I guess everybody has forgotten it by now. Anearly adventure with life! Goodness only knows whatmight have happened, though, if the business hadn'tfallen on me to look out for. I might have been agreat artist. Ha!

Silvia

I'm sure you would, Mr. Wentworth. You've alwaysbeen interested in art, haven't you?

Mr. Wentworth

Yes indeed. Of course I have been very busy, untillately. But I always followed the best Englishmagazines.

Silvia

My husband's upstairs getting the paint off hishands. He will be down in a minute. Then we'llhave some tea.

Mr. Wentworth

You don't paint, do you, Silvia? I may call youSilvia, may I not?

Silvia

Of course. No, I don't paint. I just fly aroundamongst the artists and see what's going on. Areyou staying in Paris very long?

Mr. Wentworth

A couple of weeks more, at least. I am revelling inthe galleries and museums here.

Silvia

Here comes Joe. Joe, I want you to meet my cousin,Mr. Wentworth. Mr. Wentworth—Mr. Carson.

Joe

Very glad to meet you, Mr. Wentworth.

Mr. Wentworth

It's a great pleasure for me to meet a real artist,Mr. Carson.

Silvia

Excuse me a moment. I'll bring on the tea.

Joe

Oh, as for that—I'm working along. Sometimes Ihit it—

Mr. Wentworth

Ars longa, vita brevis you know! I want to see yourpictures very much. I was just telling Silvia how Idelight in the Louvre. I go there with a class forlectures every morning. I suppose you often copythe old masters?

Joe

Copy the old masters? I should say not. I'm notout to be a camera. It's all I can do to work out myown impressions.

Mr. Wentworth

Oh, I see. But—

Silvia

The tea's ready. Joe, bring up that chair for Mr.Wentworth. Mr. Wentworth, do you take creamand sugar?

Mr. WentworthIf you please. Yes, two lumps. There's nothing likethe atmosphere of a studio, is there? I love it. Ifeel I have missed so much. Still, the instinct forbeauty, fragile as it is, does persist.... I was surprisedto feel so many of my old emotions awake oncoming to Paris. So much that hasn't been real tome for years! I have gained much inspiration forplanning my new house.

Silvia

You are building a new house? I have heard fathertalk about your collection of Japanese prints.

Mr. Wentworth

A really delightful thing, Japanese prints. Yes, Iintend building on Long Island. And my new interestin pictures ... I shall have a gallery especiallyfor them.

Joe

Americans haven't done any too much for art so far.

Mr. Wentworth

Oh, I assure you! I know many men who are continuallybuying the best on the market.

Joe

Oh,that....

Silvia

Another cup, Mr. Wentworth? Joe, pass the cake.

Mr. Wentworth

No, thank you, Silvia. Yes, the cake if you please.Why, it's real English plumcake!

Silvia

English things are getting very popular over here.Joe, won't you show us the new picture? He finishedit just before you came, Mr. Wentworth.

Mr. Wentworth

Indeed! I should like to see it very much.

Joe

There isn't very much light.

Silvia

No, the light is poor. But even so—and your colorswill stand out, Joe.

Mr. Wentworth

Really, Mr. Carson, I counted on seeing some of yourwork. I have heard, nice things about you.

Joe

There. If you stand just here....

Silvia

Oh,Joe!

Joe

What?

Silvia

It's our little cottage! I'm so glad! That's wherewe lived last summer, Mr. Wentworth. I alwayswanted Joe to paint it. Joe, it's splendid! Don'tyou think so, Mr. Wentworth?

Mr. Wentworth

Yes.... Yes.Very interesting....

Silvia

Don't you love the bright colors and the firm, flowinglines?

Mr. Wentworth

Of course, it isn't exactly what I have been accustomedto.... I have heard that some of the youngerFrenchmen and Russians are painting in a newway, but—

Silvia

Joe, it's soalive! Ifeel it, every inch of it! You'veno idea, Mr. Wentworth, how Joe's painting haschanged me. I used to be such a little New Englander,afraid of life, but now—

Joe

It isn't only what you call the "younger Frenchmenand Russians" who are learning how to paint—themodern movement has spread all over.

Mr. Wentworth

Of course, I don't pretend to be an artist myself, butI have always studied and loved pictures, and whenyou say "learninghow to paint"—

Joe

That's exactly what it is. Learninghow to paint.Learning what art is. Gettinglife into it instead ofabstract ideas.

Mr. Wentworth

Art? But art is beauty! Eternal beauty. Youcan't change art over night, like a fashion!

Silvia

But that picture's beautiful!

Joe

Art changes as life changes. Art has alwayschanged. If it didn't, why isn't your Japanese artjust like Greek art? And Greek art like the Italian?

Mr. Wentworth

Oh, in that way, of course. But all the great mastersobey the eternal laws of beauty!

Joe

There aren't any eternallaws of beauty! There'sonly the eternal impulse to create. Every artist hasto express himself in his own way. What you callthe "eternal laws" are merely the particular expressionsyour own favorite painters happened to workout in their time. If they had lived in another time—

Mr. Wentworth

A master would always be a master. There's nochange possible in the vision of the soul.

Silvia

You see, Mr. Wentworth, what I have learned theselast two years from living among artists is that thepainter with an original vision is always opposed bythe schools. That is, at first. But when he winsout, then the schools merely take over his technicand use it as a club to put down the next creator.And so it goes.

Mr. Wentworth

Naturally, the great artist suffers hardship. But ifwe once admit there are nolaws, where are we?Anarchy!

Joe

The laws are contained in the impulses themselves.They comewith the vision, not before it! If anyone thinks this modern art is just an easy way ofpainting—

Silvia

Indeed it isn't! Joe works much harder than thestudents who go to the schools. Of course, he doesn'tpaint by the clock.

Mr. Wentworth

But the Louvre! All those beautiful pictures, thosepriceless treasures! What about the Louvre?

Joe

The Louvre? It's amuseum.

Mr. Wentworth

What do you mean by "it's amuseum"?

Joe

I mean that it's the place to put pictures in whenthey are dead.

Mr. Wentworth

Dead? A great masterpiecedead?

Joe

Of course. No man lives forever. Nobody that wasever born was useful enough to live forever. Thebigger a man is the longer his influence is creative, inart and everything else, but the time always comeswhen his value is spent. When the world needs anew influence.

Silvia

It's really wonderful, Mr. Wentworth, how knowingthe truth about art shows one the truth aboutother things. When I remember what I used to believe!

Mr. Wentworth

But see here, young man, you wouldn't do away withtheLouvre, would you? Why, what would happenif these ideas were carried out....

Joe

No, I wouldn't do away with it. Why should I? Ifto burn it down would wake people up tolife, I'd doit in a minute. But it wouldn't. They would onlysanctify the superstition and make it immortal. No,leave the Louvre as it is. It's really quite useful.

Mr. Wentworth

But good gracious!Useful?

Joe

Yes. Like history. To do away with the Louvrewould be to destroy a part of history. There's nogood doing that. We need history—it cranks uplife—but we've got to recognize that after all it isonly history, not life itself—not art.

Mr. Wentworth

But whatis art, if the Louvreisn't?

Silvia

Don't you see, Mr. Wentworth? If you could onlyget for a moment into the stream of experience whereJoe and the others brought me! A picture is art aslong as it's alive—as long as it can give back thefresh, first-hand impulses that were put into it. Afterthat—when life has flowed on and set up new impulsesrequiring a different expression—then a picturedrops back upon a lower level. What Joe callshistory.

Joe

Like everything else.

Mr. Wentworth

But you put art on the same plane as invention. Animproved motor car scraps the old model. But youcan'timprove art!

Joe

No, certainly not. We don't try to. We just doour best. Werecover art.

Mr. Wentworth

Recover it?

Silvia

Yes—discover it all over again. It gets lost, lost inhard and fast rules or sentimentality, then a geniuscomes along and digs down to the buried city—creation.Art isn't like invention. It's more like religion.

Mr. Wentworth

There you are!

Joe

There we are! Isn't there a struggle going on all thetime to free religion, thespirit of religion, from hardand fast rules and from false emotions? It's exactlythe same thing.

Mr. Wentworth

Ah, but rules are necessary to maintain order. That'swhat I insist about art. Wemust have rules!

Silvia

I know exactly what you mean, Mr. Wentworth. Youmean that if fanatics tore down all the churches onthe street corners, and there weren't any more Sundaymorning sermons, everybody would run wild.But there again it's the same thing as with art: theman who has the spirit of the thing in him feels thatthe spirit itself is a far better control than heaps ofstones and sermons. It's all a matter ofliving.Imagine asking one of the Apostles which church hewent to!

Mr. Wentworth

Wait! We are getting art mixed up with too muchelse. Didn't you say, Mr. Carson, that pictures diedwhen they no longer gave out impulses of beauty?

Joe

Yes.

Mr. Wentworth

Well! I admit there are dead pictures, too manyof them, but they are the canvasses that were still-born.The masterpieces in the Louvrestill give outimpulses—beautiful impulses—to many of us, thankheaven!

Silvia

But that's just it! The impulses you mean aren'tthose of art at all. They—

Joe

Those pictures don't give out impulses to theartist.The impulses they do give out are only the emotionsthat satisfy the student who has learned some rulesand then sees the rules worked out. The artist producedthe rules as a side issue, but you are trying tomake the rules produce the artist. That's the difficultywhen people as a whole lose the creative sense.They are satisfied with things at second-hand. Second-handexpressions of life, and second-hand philosophiesto justify the expressions. It's a kind ofconspiracy in which everybody works against everybodyelse. Only the few real artists in any generationbreak through it into the light.

Silvia

The light of the sun!

Mr. Wentworth

I fear we are hopelessly at odds in this question.Well, as the Romans said, there's no disputing abouttastes. Every one to his own taste.

Joe

No!

Mr. Wentworth

What do you mean?

Joe

I mean that it's a disgrace that Americans only studyand only buy old masters. It's a burning shame thatall they know about art is what they have been taughtin books. They let their own artists starve—theymake them come over here—while they bid up aRaphael like a block of shares. What good does itdo Raphael? He had his day. And look how it holdsback our own possible Raphaels!

Mr. Wentworth

Raphael? Ah, you are still very young. You don'tunderstand the attitude of the majority, Mr. Carson.Raphael is one of our great inspirers of beauty.

Joe

You mean culture!

Silvia

Oh, it's getting quite dark. Joe, light the light.

Mr. Wentworth

Dear me, so it is! What time is it? It must be gettinglate—Good gracious! I have an engagement.

Silvia

You can't stay for a little dinner with us in the Quarter,Mr. Wentworth? Afterward we could go to oneof the cafés.

Mr. Wentworth

I'm afraid I can't, Silvia. It's been a great pleasureto meet you both, I assure you. These little differencesof opinion....

Silvia

Oh, that's all right. We argue art and religion everyday, don't we, Joe? Of course, though, wedo feelstrongly about the young artists—the young Americanartists. They come over here, and then theyhave to burn their bridges ... and we see how wonderfulAmerica could be if they were given things todo instead of being neglected....

Joe

Here's your coat, Mr. Wentworth.

Mr. Wentworth

Thank you. Thank you for the delicious tea, Silvia.If I weren't leaving town so soon.... Good night.

Sylvia

Good night. The stairs are rather dark.... (Hegoes out)

Joe

Damn!

Sylvia

Yes, I know, Joe. It's discouraging....

Joe

Discouraging? It's immoral! Oh, these smug peoplewho have been taught what to admire! Theseunborn souls who want to shut us all up in the dark!I suppose he went away thinking I put myself uphigher than Raphael. Who are we painting for?They don't want it—wouldn't take it for a gift. Andhere we are, a poor little group, standing amazedbefore the glory of the sun, and painting it—for theblind!

Silvia

Some day, Joe....

Joe

Some day—yes, when the life has oozed out of all ourbright canvasses, when only the "rules" are left. Andwe won't be able to rise from our graves and cursethem!

Silvia

Now, Joe!

Joe

I guess I let you in for a hard time, Silvia. I wishsometimes I could really paint the kind of thing thatgoes with stupid people's dining rooms. They withtheirLong Island Louvres!

Silvia

If you did, Joe, I'd put it in the stove. Don't thinkyou are having all the fun of being a pioneer. It'sexciting to be within a mile of it!

Joe

Good girl. Ugh! Let's go to Boudet's and havedinner. I want to get the bad taste out of mymouth!

HIS LUCK

The living room in a small flat in Beekman Place.Two women, one of them in mourning, sit beside theremains of tea.

Vera

But Jean, where are you going, when you pack uphere?

Jean

I'm not leaving here. I'm staying on.

Vera

Oh. But I thought that now ... you were talkingabout being free for your own work at last....

Jean

If I have any work to do, I can do it here. Youdon't understand, quite. All these years I have beenliving from whirlpool to whirlpool, never settled,alwaysderaciné—the thought of getting accustomedto another place makes me shudder.

Vera

I can imagine, now, how it has been, Jean. But canyou find any peace here? With all these thingsabout? You are so sensitive—lamps, and pictures,and rugs—these aren't justfurniture to you, theyare images of the past. Won't they be, too—real?Too personal? Won't you feel more at liberty withyourself if you create your own atmosphere?

Jean

Ah, they are real enough! That table is a winter inMunich; the samovar is Warsaw one night in May;the lucerna is Rome ... and all that those placesmean to me. I never realized howthings could bealive—be personal—until I was left all alone in themidst of these.

Vera

There, don't you see? They're sodominating. Iknew you before all this.... I wish you would getaway—beyourself.

Jean

No. I shall stay here. As close as possible.

Vera

But really, Jean! I'm thinking of your work. Perhapsyou don't appreciate what an insidious drugmemory can be. Especially the memory of unhappiness.Let's be frank, Jean, for the sake of yourfuture. Youhave been unhappy.

Jean

Unhappy? Yes, I have been outrageously unhappy!Years of it! Sharp arrows and poisoned wine. Iwanted to die....

Vera

Jean!

Jean

You read a play by Strindberg, and you say it'svery strong, very artistic, but all the while you believeit is only the nightmare of a diseased mind.It's just aplay—you shut the book and return to"real" life, thankfully. Well, the Strindberg playhas been my real life, and real life my play, my impossibledream. You can't imagine how terrifyingit is to feel the situation develop around you. Twobodies caught naked in an endless wilderness ofthorns. Every movement one makes to free the otheronly wounds him the more. Two souls, each innocentand aspiring, bound together by serpents, likethe Laocoon.... It is one of those things that areabsolutely impossible ... and yettrue.

Vera

I'll help you pack. Now. Youmust!

Jean

We had the deepest respect and admiration for oneanother, but somehow we never walked in step. Hisemotion repressed mine, my emotion repressed his.Sometimes one was the slave, sometimes the other.We couldn't both be free at the same time. Therewas always something to hide, to be afraid of....Not words nor acts, but moods. It passed over fromone soul to the other like invisible rays. And wecouldn't separate. That was part of it. We justwent on and on....

Vera

People wondered. The first time I met Paul—

Jean

What do you feel?

Vera

I wondered, afterward, what it really was. Heseemed to impress me like a powerful motor carstalled in a muddy road.

Jean

Ah. I know!

Vera

Poor child.

Jean

No. You don't understand, Iwas unhappy, in theordinary sense, unbelievably so. But that wasn'tall. I was alive! I lived as the man lives who faintsin the dark mine underground, and I lived as theaviator lives, thrilling against the sun, and as thebeliever in a world of infidels. That was whathedid for me. And slowly, as I learned how deeplythe very pain was making me live, I put my unhappinessby. It was there, but it no longer seemed important.It was the lingering complaint of my oldcommonplace soul standing fearfully on the brink ofgreater things and hating the situation that led itthere.

Vera

You are a big woman, Jean.

Jean

No, I am a small woman in front of a big thing.One of the biggest, genius. And the force of it, relentlessas nature, made me what I am.Paul. Oh,Vera, when I think of his music, tempestuous as thesea, healing as spring.... And now where is it?He had what all the world wants most,flight, andthe world stalled him in its own mud. You saw it....That's why I shall stay here. It's the onlyplace withhis atmosphere. All these things arehe.I face them here in silence, and I bare my breast tothe arrow. Here I am, the only one who knows Paul'smusic in its possibility. To the rest, it is a heap ofstones by the roadside. The architect is dead.

Vera

But didn't he ever ... why didn't he...?

Jean

You ask it, of course. You have the right. SometimesI ask it, too, why Paul neversucceeded. Whilewe were struggling along, the things that held himback seemed only details. Only now do I see themas a whole.

In the first place, Paul never aimed directly at success.He was all-round. If it had been merely aquestion of exploiting his talent, sticking to the oneidea day in, day out, never letting an opportunityslip by of meeting the right people and getting tothe right places ... that would have been easy.He had tremendous energy. I used to grudge hisinterest in other things. I hated to see him lose thechances and let them be snapped up by littler men.He seemed to waste himself, right and left, prodigally.But it wasn't that, it wasn't waste. It wasall as much a part of him as his music. He detestedthe stupidity of wealth and poverty, he rebelledagainst laws that aren't laws, but only interests enforcedby authority, he fought against the sheerdeadness of prejudice. How he hated all that! Andwhy not? You see, Vera, he was sensitive to it notonly as a thinker, but as a musician, too. It was alla part of the discord, and what I used to think hiswasting himself was really an effort to create alarger harmony. He used to say that the beauty ofmusic is only the image of beauty in life, and thatlife must come first. He couldn't endure discordsanywhere. Paul despised the musicians who screamat a flattedf but hunger for the flesh pots after theperformance. No, he was neverthat. And peopleresented it. The very people who ought to haveunderstood.

Vera

But he didn't neglect his music, that is...?

Jean

No. He made enormous efforts to get his violin beforethe public. And several times he was "discovered"by men who could have made him famous overnight.We all believe that genius will out, despiteanything, but it doesn't always. Musicians respectedhim, but they were afraid of him, too. Hecriticized them for their shortcomings in otherthings, just as he criticized others for their shortcomingsin art. He wouldn't accept any talent, nomatter how fine, if it went with anything small ordestructive. You can imagine the china shops heleft in fragments! Just think! Once in Berlin itwas all arranged for him to have a recital—he wasworking furiously on his program and I was dancingon air—when just at the last moment he heard thedirector make some light remark or other aboutwomen. Paul was raging! He threw the words backin the fellow's teeth, and made him apologize, butthere we were. They called off the recital, naturally.And I couldn't blame Paul. I was just beginningto understand. Another time ... no, he never hadluck. Paul had bad luck. I often think of the Greektragedies.

Vera

Another time?

Jean

Another time—it was in Warsaw—we had gone witha letter of introduction to Sbarovitch—

VeraThe Sbarovitch?

Jean

Yes. It was a chance in ten thousand. We pawnedstuff to get there. Well, Paul played like a god.Sbarovitch was quite overcome. He swore he wouldcompose something especially for Paul. We hadvisions of playing before the Czar.

Vera

But what happened?

Jean

What happened? One night a woman called on Paulat the hotel. He went down, not knowing who itwas or anything about her. He said afterward thatshe started in flattering him and asking him to playfor her some time.... Then Sbarovitch rushed in,seizing the woman and cursing Paul with mouthfulsof Slavic hate. Sothat dream ended!

Vera

But why? Was it Sbarovitch's wife?

Jean

No, worse luck—it was his mistress. Ah, you can'timagine the re-action from such disappointments!The long, slow warming to the full possibility of theoccasion, until the artist's mind and body becomeone leaping flame—and then the sudden fall into icywater. It takes months to work up to the same pitchagain.... And then Rome.

Vera

What, again?

Jean

Oh, yes. Again. This time—for a wonder everythingwent smoothly. I had watched over him likea cat, to save him from others' stupidity and his ownimpetuousness. It came the very moment when hehad to go to the theatre. He asked me if I wereready, I wasn't.I didn't want to go.

Vera

You didn't want to go?

Jean

No. It's difficult to explain, but somehow by thenI had grown aware that the long series of little obstacles,each one accidental and temporary, seemedto express something unseen, something impersonal,a kind of fate ... as if the verdict had gone forthfrom the lords of things that Paul wasnot to succeed.And everything seemed to hang in the balancethat night. I thought that the fact I was aware ofPaul's bad luck made me all the likelier instrumentfor it to work through. So I told him I had a headache....He must have felt something in my voice.He dropped his violin and demanded I tell him whyI didn'twant to go. His intuition told him it was amatter of will with me. I hadn't thought to have astory ready. Besides, I was so worn out that I wason the verge of hysteria. He stormed, and I satstaring at him without a word, wondering only whyhe didn't forget poor insignificant me and go forthto his glory. I despised him for considering me atsuch a moment. I didn't understand.My opinion,my feeling, was more important to Paul than therest of the world. So, after all, Iwas the instrument.

Vera

But why didn't you just get up and go?

Jean

As soon as I saw how much it meant to Paul, I triedto. But it was too late.... We sat there arguinguntil three in the morning. An orgy of tears andself-immolation for us both.... I suppose he mighthave explained to the director afterward and arrangedanother concert, but those things are neverthe same the second time. Well, I forced myself toget rid of that feeling about his bad luck. How Iever succeeded I don't know, for Paul caught mymood and began to believe it himself. But somehowI did. And then I made him give up his violin andbegin composing. Of course we had to have moneyfor that. I wrote a relative and demanded, pointblank, shamelessly, two thousand dollars. I felt itwas my restitution to Paul. I received the money.What the relative thought, I don't know. I supposehe paid it to avoid getting another such letter fromme. I don't blame him.

So we came over here and Paul started at work. Iwas fighting for him and with him every moment.How he worked! Six months, like a coal heaver.Then he finished and played it over. He tore it allup. Every note.

Vera

Why?

Jean

He said it was written in an old-fashioned style. Itwas curious—in his playing he appreciated the mostadvanced technic, but when be came to compose hefound himself imitating the things he had admiredwhen he was eighteen. It had to be worked out ofhis mind. Well, he did it all through again. Thistime he said he was only about two years behind.Tore it up again. But now he was convinced hecould succeed. And he was magnificent! I wouldhave shared him with the world gladly, but I knewit was best for him to do this work. The hours thisroom has seen! Well, he made a few notes, stoppeda few days to take breath, and then caught the coldthat wore him out. Over there, in that drawer, arethe notes, a few scraps of paper. The rest of it—theexperience of a strong life, a visioning life, arewith the mind that is dumb. Sometimes when I sithere I hear it all played, an orchestra ... new harmonies,pure emotion.... The wonder and then thepain of it are almost unbearable.

Vera

Ah, Jean, I begin to understand.

Jean

Over in London there are half a dozen men andwomen who caught a glimpse of Paul as he reallywas. In Munich there are half a dozen more. Hewas at his best in a studio among friends with a congenialatmosphere.They knew... but what isthat?

I tell you, Vera, the only way I can explain it all isby seeing two forces, two moralities; the moralityof God and the morality of nature. Perhaps in somepeople they both work together for the same end,but they don't always.... In the sight of heaven,Paul was an apostle of harmony. In the sight ofnature, he was the seed too many on the tree, thebird wrongly colored in the forest. I sit amongthese things, the fast-ebbing beats of his memory,thinking of what he might have been for others as hewas to me, and my heart breaks. Our unhappiness?A cloud passing before the sun—nothing more. Andduring this past year I have come to love him allover again, not as mate but as mother.

Vera

Ah, Jean, with all his bad luck, he had you! Whoknows what might have happened if you had not beenthere?

Jean

He hadme? No, he never had me—hemade me....And that's why I sit all alone with the thingsthat are Paul,—Paul, the flame that was never lit onthe altar, the sword that was never drawn from thescabbard.... We talk together, Vera. Paul andI. We talk together, and I wait for him to tell mewhat to do.