Title: Strange Interlude (1928)
Author: Eugene O'Neill (1888-1953)
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A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook
Title: Strange Interlude (1928)
Author: Eugene O'Neill (1888-1953)
Text as published in the trade edition by Boni & Liveright, 1928
Characters
CHARLES MARSDEN
PROFESSOR HENRY LEEDS
NINA LEEDS, his daughter
EDMUND DARRELL
SAM EVANS
MRS. AMOS EVANS, Sam's mother
GORDON EVANS
MADELINE ARNOLD
Scenes
First Part
ACT ONE
Library, the Leeds' home in a small university town of New England--
an afternoon in late summer.
ACT TWO
The same. Fall of the following year. Night.
ACT THREE
Dining room of the Evans' homestead in northern New York state--
late spring of the next year. Morning.
ACT FOUR
The same as Acts One and Two. Fall of the same year. Evening.
ACT FIVE
Sitting room of small house Evans has rented in a seashore suburb
near New York. The following April. Morning.
Second Part
ACT SIX
The same. A little over a year later. Evening.
ACT SEVEN
Sitting room of the Evans' apartment on Park Avenue. Nearly eleven
years later. Early afternoon.
ACT EIGHT
Section of afterdeck of the Evans' cruiser anchored near the finish
line at Poughkeepsie. Ten years later. Afternoon.
ACT NINE
A terrace on the Evans' estate on Long Island. Several months
later. Late afternoon.
STRANGE INTERLUDE
FIRST PART
ACT ONE
SCENE--The library of Professor Leeds' home in a small university
town in New England. This room is at the front part of his house
with windows opening on the strip of lawn between the house and the
quiet residential street. It is a small room with a low ceiling.
The furniture has been selected with a love for old New England
pieces. The walls are lined almost to the ceiling with glassed-in
bookshelves. These are packed with books, principally editions,
many of them old and rare, of the ancient classics in the original
Greek and Latin, of the later classics in French and German and
Italian, of all the English authors who wrote while 's' was still
like an 'f' and a few since then, the most modern probably being
Thackeray. The atmosphere of the room is that of a cosy, cultured
retreat, sedulously built as a sanctuary where, secure with the
culture of the past at his back, a fugitive from reality can view
the present safely from a distance, as a superior with condescending
disdain, pity, and even amusement.
There is a fair-sized table, a heavy armchair, a rocker, and an old
bench made comfortable with cushions. The table, with the
Professor's armchair at its left, is arranged toward the left of
the room, the rocker is at center, the bench at right.
There is one entrance, a door in the right wall, rear.
It is late afternoon of a day in August. Sunshine, cooled and
dimmed in the shade of trees, fills the room with a soothing light.
The sound of a maid's voice--a middle-aged woman--explaining
familiarly but respectfully from the right, and Marsden enters. He
is a tall thin man of thirty-five, meticulously well-dressed in
tweeds of distinctly English tailoring, his appearance that of an
Anglicized New England gentleman. His face is too long for its
width, his nose is high and narrow, his forehead broad, his mild
blue eyes those of a dreamy self-analyst, his thin lips ironical
and a bit sad. There is an indefinable feminine quality about him,
but it is nothing apparent in either appearance or act. His manner
is cool and poised. He speaks with a careful ease as one who
listens to his own conversation. He has long fragile hands, and
the stoop to his shoulders of a man weak muscularly, who has never
liked athletics and has always been regarded as of delicate
constitution. The main point about his personality is a quiet
charm, a quality of appealing, inquisitive friendliness, always
willing to listen, eager to sympathize, to like and to be liked.
MARSDEN--(standing just inside the door, his tall, stooped figure
leaning back against the books--nodding back at the maid and
smiling kindly) I'll wait in here, Mary. (His eyes follow her for
a second, then return to gaze around the room slowly with an
appreciative relish for the familiar significance of the books. He
smiles affectionately and his amused voice recites the words with a
rhetorical resonance.) Sanctum Sanctorum! (His voice takes on a
monotonous musing quality, his eyes stare idly at his drifting
thoughts.)
How perfectly the Professor's unique haven! . . .
(He smiles.)
Primly classical . . . when New Englander meets Greek! . . .
(looking at the books now)
He hasn't added one book in years . . . how old was I when I
first came here? . . . six . . . with my father . . . father
. . . how dim his face has grown! . . . he wanted to speak to
me just before he died . . . the hospital . . . smell of
iodoform in the cool halls . . . hot summer . . . I bent down
. . . his voice had withdrawn so far away . . . I couldn't
understand him . . . what son can ever understand? . . .
always too near, too soon, too distant or too late! . . .
(His face has become sad with a memory of the bewildered suffering
of the adolescent boy he had been at the time of his father's
death. Then he shakes his head, flinging off his thoughts, and
makes himself walk about the room.)
What memories on such a smiling afternoon! . . . this pleasant
old town after three months . . . I won't go to Europe again
. . . couldn't write a line there . . . how answer the fierce
question of all those dead and maimed? . . . too big a job for
me! . . .
(He sighs--then self-mockingly)
But back here . . . it is the interlude that gently questions
. . . in this town dozing . . . decorous bodies moving with
circumspection through the afternoons . . . their habits
affectionately chronicled . . . an excuse for weaving amusing
words . . . my novels . . . not of cosmic importance,
hardly . . .
(then self-reassuringly)
but there is a public to cherish them, evidently . . . and I
can write! . . . more than one can say of these modern sex-
yahoos! . . . I must start work tomorrow . . . I'd like to use
the Professor in a novel sometime . . . and his wife . . .
seems impossible she's been dead six years . . . so
aggressively his wife! . . . poor Professor! now it's Nina who
bosses him . . . but that's different . . . she has bossed me,
too, ever since she was a baby . . . she's a woman now . . .
known love and death . . . Gordon brought down in flames . . .
two days before the armistice . . . what fiendish irony! . . .
his wonderful athlete's body . . . her lover . . . charred
bones in a cage of twisted steel . . . no wonder she broke
down . . . Mother said she's become quite queer lately . . .
Mother seemed jealous of my concern . . . why have I never
fallen in love with Nina? . . . could I? . . . that way . . .
used to dance her on my knee . . . sit her on my lap . . .
even now she'd never think anything about it . . . but
sometimes the scent of her hair and skin . . . like a dreamy
drug . . . dreamy! . . . there's the rub! . . . all dreams
with me! . . . my sex life among the phantoms! . . .
(He grins torturedly.)
Why? . . . oh, this digging in gets nowhere . . . to the devil
with sex! . . . our impotent pose of today to beat the loud
drum on fornication! . . . boasters . . . eunuchs parading
with the phallus! . . . giving themselves away . . . whom do
they fool? . . . not even themselves! . . .
(his face suddenly full of an intense pain and disgust)
Ugh! . . . always that memory! . . . why can't I ever forget?
. . . as sickeningly clear as if it were yesterday . . . prep
school . . . Easter vacation . . . Fatty Boggs and Jack Frazer
. . . that house of cheap vice. . . one dollar! . . . why did
I go? . . . Jack, the dead game sport . . . how I admired him!
. . . afraid of his taunts . . . he pointed to the Italian
girl . . . "Take her!" . . . daring me . . . I went . . .
miserably frightened . . . what a pig she was! . . . pretty
vicious face under caked powder and rouge . . . surly and
contemptuous . . . lumpy body . . . short legs and thick
ankles . . . slums of Naples . . . "What you gawkin' about?
Git a move on, kid" . . . kid! . . . I WAS only a kid! . . .
sixteen . . . test of manhood . . . ashamed to face Jack again
unless . . . fool! . . . I might have lied to him! . . . but I
honestly thought that wench would feel humiliated if I . . .
oh, stupid kid! . . . back at the hotel I waited till they
were asleep . . . then sobbed . . . thinking of Mother . . .
feeling I had defiled her . . . and myself . . . forever! . . .
(mocking bitterly)
"Nothing half so sweet in life as love's young dream,"
what? . . .
(He gets to his feet impatiently.)
Why does my mind always have to dwell on that? . . . too silly
. . . no importance really . . . an incident such as any boy
of my age . . .
(He hears someone coming quickly from the right and turns
expectantly. Professor Leeds enters, a pleased relieved expression
fighting the flurried worry on his face. He is a small, slender
man of fifty-five, his hair gray, the top of his head bald. His
face, prepossessing in spite of its too-small, over-refined
features, is that of a retiring, studious nature. He has
intelligent eyes and a smile that can be ironical. Temperamentally
timid, his defense is an assumption of his complacent, superior
manner of the classroom toward the world at large. This defense is
strengthened by a natural tendency toward a prim provincialism
where practical present-day considerations are concerned (though he
is most liberal--even radical--in his tolerant understanding of the
manners and morals of Greece and Imperial Rome!). This classroom
poise of his, however, he cannot quite carry off outside the
classroom. There is an unconvincing quality about it that leaves
his larger audience--and particularly the Professor himself--subtly
embarrassed. As Marsden is one of his old students, whom, in
addition, he has known from childhood, he is perfectly at ease with
him.)
MARSDEN--(holding out his hand--with unmistakable liking) Here I
am again, Professor!
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(shaking his hand and patting him on the back--
with genuine affection) So glad to see you, Charlie! A surprise,
too! We didn't expect you back so soon! (He sits in his chair on
the left of the table while Marsden sits in the rocker. Looking
away from Marsden a moment, his face now full of selfish relief as
he thinks)
Fortunate, his coming back . . . always calming influence on
Nina . . .
MARSDEN--And I never dreamed of returning so soon. But Europe,
Professor, is the big casualty they were afraid to set down on the
list.
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(his face clouding) Yes, I suppose you found
everything completely changed since before the war. (He thinks
resentfully)
The war . . . Gordon! . . .
MARSDEN--Europe has "gone west"--(he smiles whimsically) to
America, let's hope! (then frowningly) I couldn't stand it.
There were millions sitting up with the corpse already, who had a
family right to be there--(then matter-of-factly) I was wasting my
time, too. I couldn't write a line. (then gaily) But where's
Nina? I must see Nina!
PROFESSOR LEEDS--She'll be right in. She said she wanted to finish
thinking something out--You'll find Nina changed, Charlie, greatly
changed! (He sighs--thinking with a trace of guilty alarm)
The first thing she said at breakfast . . . "I dreamed of
Gordon" . . . as if she wanted to taunt me! . . . how absurd!
. . . her eyes positively glared! . . .
(suddenly blurting out resentfully) She dreams about Gordon.
MARSDEN--(looking at him with amused surprise) Well, I'd hardly
call that a change, would you?
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(thinking, oblivious to this remark)
But I must constantly bear in mind that she's not herself . . .
that she's a sick girl . . .
MARSDEN--(thinking)
The morning news of Gordon's death came . . . her face like
gray putty . . . beauty gone . . . no face can afford intense
grief . . . it's only later when sorrow . . .
(with concern) Just what do you mean by changed, Professor?
Before I left she seemed to be coming out of that horrible numbed
calm.
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(slowly and carefully) Yes, she has played a lot
of golf and tennis this summer, motored around with her friends,
and even danced a good deal. And she eats with a ravenous
appetite. (thinking frightenedly)
Breakfast . . . "dreamed of Gordon" . . . what a look of hate
for me in her eyes! . . .
MARSDEN--But that sounds splendid! When I left she wouldn't see
anyone or go anywhere. (thinking pityingly)
Wandering from room to room . . . her thin body and pale lost
face . . . gutted, love-abandoned eyes! . . .
PROFESSOR LEEDS--Well, now she's gone to the opposite extreme!
Sees everyone--bores, fools--as if she'd lost all discrimination or
wish to discriminate. And she talks interminably, Charlie--
intentional nonsense, one would say! Refuses to be serious! Jeers
at everything!
MARSDEN--(consolingly) Oh, that's all undoubtedly part of the
effort she's making to forget.
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(absent-mindedly) Yes. (arguing with himself)
Shall I tell him? . . . no . . . it might sound silly . . .
but it's terrible to be so alone in this . . . if Nina's
mother had lived . . . my wife . . . dead! . . . and for a
time I actually felt released! . . . wife! . . . helpmeet!
. . . now I need help! . . . no use! . . . she's gone! . . .
MARSDEN--(watching him--thinking with a condescending affection)
Good little man . . . he looks worried . . . always fussing
about something . . . he must get on Nina's nerves. . . .
(reassuringly) No girl could forget Gordon in a hurry, especially
after the shock of his tragic death.
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(irritably) I realize that. (thinking
resentfully)
Gordon . . . always Gordon with everyone! . . .
MARSDEN--By the way, I located the spot near Sedan where Gordon's
machine fell. Nina asked me to, you know.
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(irritated--expostulatingly) For heaven's sake,
don't remind her! Give her a chance to forget if you want to see
her well again. After all, Charlie, life must be lived and Nina
can't live with a corpse forever! (trying to control his
irritation and talk in an objective tone) You see, I'm trying to
see things through clearly and unsentimentally. If you'll
remember, I was as broken up as anyone over Gordon's death. I'd
become so reconciled to Nina's love for him--although, as you know,
I was opposed at first, and for fair reasons, I think, for the boy,
for all his good looks and prowess in sport and his courses, really
came of common people and had no money of his own except as he made
a career for himself.
MARSDEN--(a trifle defensively) I'm sure he would have had a
brilliant career.
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(impatiently) No doubt. Although you must
acknowledge, Charlie, that college heroes rarely shine brilliantly
in after life. Unfortunately, the tendency to spoil them in the
university is a poor training--
MARSDEN--But Gordon was absolutely unspoiled, I should say.
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(heatedly) Don't misunderstand me, Charlie! I'd
be the first to acknowledge--(a bit pathetically) It isn't Gordon,
Charlie. It's his memory, his ghost, you might call it, haunting
Nina, whose influence I have come to dread because of the terrible
change in her attitude toward me. (His face twitches as if he were
on the verge of tears--he thinks desperately)
I've got to tell him . . . he will see that I acted for the
best . . . that I was justified. . . .
(He hesitates--then blurts out) It may sound incredible, but Nina
has begun to act as if she hated me!
MARSDEN--(startled) Oh, come now!
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(insistently) Absolutely! I haven't wanted to
admit it. I've refused to believe it, until it's become too
appallingly obvious in her whole attitude toward me! (His voice
trembles.)
MARSDEN--(moved--expostulating) Oh, now you're becoming morbid!
Why, Nina has always idolized you! What possible reason--?
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(quickly) I can answer that, I think. She has a
reason. But why she should blame me when she must know I acted for
the best--You probably don't know, but just before he sailed for
the front Gordon wanted their marriage to take place, and Nina
consented. In fact, from the insinuations she lets drop now, she
must have been most eager, but at the time--However, I felt it was
ill-advised and I took Gordon aside and pointed out to him that
such a precipitate marriage would be unfair to Nina, and scarcely
honorable on his part.
MARSDEN--(staring at him wonderingly) You said that to Gordon?
(thinking cynically)
A shrewd move! . . . Gordon's proud spot, fairness and honor!
. . . but was it honorable of you? . . .
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(with a touch of asperity) Yes, I said it, and I
gave him my reason. There WAS the possibility he might be killed,
in the flying service rather more than a possibility, which
needless to say, I did not point out, but which Gordon undoubtedly
realized, poor boy! If he were killed, he would be leaving Nina a
widow, perhaps with a baby, with no resources, since he was
penniless, except what pension she might get from the government;
and all this while she was still at an age when a girl, especially
one of Nina's charm and beauty, should have all of life before her.
Decidedly, I told him, in justice to Nina, they must wait until he
had come back and begun to establish his position in the world.
That was the square thing. And Gordon was quick to agree with me!
MARSDEN--(thinking)
The square thing! . . . but we must all be crooks where
happiness is concerned! . . . steal or starve! . . .
(then rather ironically) And so Gordon told Nina he'd suddenly
realized it wouldn't be fair to her. But I gather he didn't tell
her it was your scruple originally?
PROFESSOR LEEDS--No, I asked him to keep what I said strictly
confidential.
MARSDEN--(thinking ironically)
Trusted to his honor again! . . . old fox! . . . poor
Gordon! . . .
But Nina suspects now that you--?
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(startled) Yes. That's exactly it. She knows in
some queer way. And she acts toward me exactly as if she thought I
had deliberately destroyed her happiness, that I had hoped for
Gordon's death and been secretly overjoyed when the news came!
(His voice is shaking with emotion.) And there you have it,
Charlie--the whole absurd mess! (thinking with a strident
accusation)
And it's true, you contemptible . . . !
(then miserably defending himself)
No! . . . I acted unselfishly . . . for her sake! . . .
MARSDEN--(wonderingly) You don't mean to tell me she has accused
you of all this?
PROFESSOR LEEDS--Oh, no, Charlie! Only by hints--looks--innuendos.
She knows she has no real grounds, but in the present state of her
mind the real and the unreal become confused--
MARSDEN--(thinking cynically)
As always in all minds . . . or how could men live? . . .
(soothingly) That's just what you ought to bear in your mind--the
state of hers--and not get so worked up over what I should say is a
combination of imagination on both your parts. (He gets to his
feet as he hears voices from the right.) Buck up! This must be
Nina coming. (The Professor gets to his feet, hastily composing
his features into his bland, cultured expression.)
MARSDEN--(thinking self mockingly but a bit worried about himself)
My heart pounding! . . . seeing Nina again! . . . how
sentimental . . . how she'd laugh if she knew! . . . and quite
rightly . . . absurd for me to react as if I loved . . . that
way . . . her dear old Charlie . . . ha! . . .
(He smiles with bitter self-mockery.)
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(thinking worriedly)
I hope she won't make a scene . . . she's seemed on the verge
all day . . . thank God, Charlie's like one of the family . . .
but what a life for me! . . . with the opening of the new
term only a few weeks off! . . . I can't do it . . . I'll have
to call in a nerve specialist . . . but the last one did her
no good . . . his outrageous fee . . . he can take it to court
. . . I absolutely refuse . . . but if he should bring suit?
. . . what a scandal . . . no, I'll have to pay . . . somehow
. . . borrow . . . he has me in a corner, the robber! . . .
NINA--(enters and stands just inside the doorway looking directly
at her father with defiant eyes, her face set in an expression of
stubborn resolve. She is twenty, tall with broad square shoulders,
slim strong hips and long beautifully developed legs--a fine
athletic girl of the swimmer, tennis player, golfer type. Her
straw-blond hair, framing her sunburned face, is bobbed. Her face
is striking, handsome rather than pretty, the bone structure
prominent, the forehead high, the lips of her rather large mouth
clearly modelled above the firm jaw. Her eyes are beautiful and
bewildering, extraordinarily large and a deep greenish blue. Since
Gordon's death they have a quality of continually shuddering before
some terrible enigma, of being wounded to their depths and made
defiant and resentful by their pain. Her whole manner, the charged
atmosphere she gives off, is totally at variance with her healthy
outdoor physique. It is strained, nerve-racked, hectic, a terrible
tension of will alone maintaining self-possession. She is dressed
in smart sport clothes. Too preoccupied with her resolve to
remember or see Marsden, she speaks directly to her father in a
voice tensely cold and calm.) I have made up my mind, Father.
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(thinking distractedly)
What does she mean? . . . oh, God help me! . . .
(flustered--hastily) Don't you see Charlie, Nina?
MARSDEN--(troubled--thinking)
She has changed . . . what has happened? . . .
(He comes forward toward her--a bit embarrassed but affectionately
using his pet name for her.) Hello, Nina Cara Nina! Are you
trying to cut me dead, young lady?
NINA--(turning her eyes to Marsden, holding out her hand for him to
shake, in her cool, preoccupied voice) Hello, Charlie. (Her eyes
immediately return to her father.) Listen, Father!
MARSDEN--(standing near her, concealing his chagrin)
That hurts! . . . I mean nothing! . . . but she's a sick girl
. . . I must make allowance . . .
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(thinking distractedly)
That look in her eyes! . . . hate! . . .
(with a silly giggle) Really, Nina, you're absolutely rude! What
has Charlie done?
NINA--(in her cool tone) Why, nothing. Nothing at all. (She goes
to him with a detached, friendly manner.) Did I seem rude,
Charlie? I didn't mean to be. (She kisses him with a cool,
friendly smile.) Welcome home. (thinking wearily)
What has Charlie done? . . . nothing . . . and never will
. . . Charlie sits beside the fierce river, immaculately timid,
cool and clothed, watching the burning, frozen naked swimmers
drown at last. . . .
MARSDEN--(thinking torturedly)
Cold lips . . . the kiss of contempt! . . . for dear old
Charlie! . . .
(forcing a good-natured laugh) Rude? Not a bit! (banteringly)
As I've often reminded you, what can I expect when the first word
you ever spoke in this world was an insult to me. "Dog" you said,
looking right at me--at the age of one! (He laughs. The Professor
laughs nervously. Nina smiles perfunctorily.)
NINA--(thinking wearily)
The fathers laugh at little daughter Nina . . . I must get
away! . . . nice Charlie doggy . . . faithful . . . fetch and
carry . . . bark softly in books at the deep night. . . .
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(thinking)
What is she thinking? . . . I can't stand living like
this! . . .
(giggle gone to a twitching grin) You are a cool one, Nina! You'd
think you'd just seen Charlie yesterday!
NINA--(slowly--coolly and reflectively) Well, the war is over.
Coming back safe from Europe isn't such an unusual feat now, is it?
MARSDEN--(thinking bitterly)
A taunt . . . I didn't fight . . . physically unfit . . . not
like Gordon . . . Gordon in flames . . . how she must resent
my living! . . . thinking of me, scribbling in press bureau
. . . louder and louder lies . . . drown the guns and the
screams . . . deafen the world with lies . . . hired choir of
liars! . . .
(forcing a joking tone) Little you know the deadly risks I ran,
Nina! If you'd eaten some of the food they gave me on my renovated
transport, you'd shower me with congratulations! (The Professor
forces a snicker.)
NINA--(coolly) Well, you're here, and that's that. (then suddenly
expanding in a sweet, genuinely affectionate smile) And I AM glad,
Charlie, always glad you're here! You know that.
MARSDEN--(delighted and embarrassed) I hope so, Nina!
NINA--(turning on her father--determinedly) I must finish what I
started to say, Father. I've thought it all out and decided that I
simply must get away from here at once--or go crazy! And I'm going
on the nine-forty tonight. (She turns to Marsden with a quick
smile.) You'll have to help me pack, Charlie! (thinking with
weary relief)
Now that's said . . . I'm going . . . never come back . . .
oh, how I loathe this room! . . .
MARSDEN--(thinking with alarm)
What's this? . . . going? . . . going to whom? . . .
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(thinking--terrified)
Going? . . . never come back to me? . . . no! . . .
(desperately putting on his prim severe manner toward an unruly
pupil) This is rather a sudden decision, isn't it? You haven't
mentioned before that you were considering--in fact, you've led me
to believe that you were quite contented here--that is, of course I
mean for the time being, and I really think--
MARSDEN--(looking at Nina--thinking with alarm)
Going away to whom? . . .
(then watching the Professor with a pitying shudder)
He's on the wrong tack with his professor's manner . . . her
eyes seeing cruelly through him . . . with what terrible
recognition! . . . God, never bless me with children! . . .
NINA--(thinking with weary scorn)
The Professor of Dead Languages is talking again . . . a dead
man lectures on the past of living . . . since I was born I
have been in his class, loving-attentive, pupil-daughter Nina
. . . my ears numb with spiritless messages from the dead
. . . dead words droning on . . . listening because he is my
cultured father . . . a little more inclined to deafness than
the rest (let me be just) because he is my father . . .
father? . . . what is father? . . .
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(thinking--terrified)
I must talk her out of it! . . . find the right words! . . .
oh, I know she won't hear me! . . . oh, wife, why did you
die, you would have talked to her, she would have listened
to you! . . .
(continuing in his professor's superior manner)--and I really
think, in justice to yourself above all, you ought to consider this
step with great care before you definitely commit yourself. First
and foremost, there is your health to be taken into consideration.
You've been very ill, Nina, how perilously so perhaps you're not
completely aware, but I assure you, and Charlie can corroborate my
statement, that six months ago the doctors thought it might be
years before--and yet, by staying home and resting and finding
healthy outdoor recreation among your old friends, and keeping your
mind occupied with the routine of managing the household--(he
forces a prim playful smile) and managing me, I might add!--you
have wonderfully improved and I think it most ill-advised in the
hottest part of August, while you're really still a convalescent--
NINA--(thinking)
Talking! . . . his voice like a fatiguing dying tune droned on
a beggar's organ . . . his words arising from the tomb of a
soul in puffs of ashes . . .
(torturedly)
Ashes! . . . oh, Gordon, my dear one! . . . oh, lips on my
lips, oh, strong arms around me, oh, spirit so brave and
generous and gay! . . . ashes dissolving into mud! . . . mud
and ashes! . . . that's all! . . . gone! . . . gone forever
from me! . . .
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(thinking angrily)
Her eyes . . . I know that look . . . tender, loving . . . not
for me . . . damn Gordon! . . . I'm glad he's dead! . . .
(a touch of asperity in his voice) And at a couple of hours'
notice to leave everything in the air, as it were--(then
judicially) No, Nina, frankly, I can't see it. You know I'd
gladly consent to anything in the world to benefit you, but--
surely, you can't have reflected!
NINA--(thinking torturedly)
Gordon darling, I must go away where I can think of you in
silence! . . .
(She turns on her father, her voice trembling with the effort to
keep it in control--icily) It's no use talking, Father. I HAVE
reflected and I am going!
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(with asperity) But I tell you it's quite
impossible! I don't like to bring up the money consideration but I
couldn't possibly afford--And how will you support yourself, if I
may ask? Two years in the University, I am sorry to say, won't be
much use to you when applying for a job. And even if you had
completely recovered from your nervous breakdown, which it's
obvious to anyone you haven't, then I most decidedly think you
should finish out your science course and take your degree before
you attempt--(thinking desperately)
No use! . . . she doesn't hear . . . thinking of Gordon . . .
she'll defy me . . .
NINA--(thinking desperately)
I must keep calm . . . I mustn't let go or I'll tell him
everything . . . and I mustn't tell him . . . he's my
father . . .
(with the same cold calculating finality) I've already had six
months' training for a nurse. I will finish my training. There's
a doctor I know at a sanitarium for crippled soldiers--a friend of
Gordon's. I wrote to him and he answered that he'll gladly arrange
it.
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(thinking furiously)
Gordon's friend . . . Gordon again! . . .
(severely) You seriously mean to tell me you, in your condition,
want to nurse in a soldiers' hospital! Absurd!
MARSDEN--(thinking with indignant revulsion)
Quite right, Professor! . . . her beauty . . . all those men
. . . in their beds . . . it's too revolting! . . .
(with a persuasive quizzing tone) Yes, I must say I can't see you
as a peace-time Florence Nightingale, Nina!
NINA--(coolly, struggling to keep control, ignoring these remarks)
So you see, Father, I've thought of everything and there's not the
slightest reason to worry about me. And I've been teaching Mary
how to take care of you. So you won't need me at all. You can go
along as if nothing had happened--and really, nothing will have
happened that hasn't already happened.
PROFESSOR LEEDS--Why, even the manner in which you address me--the
tone you take--proves conclusively that you're not yourself!
NINA--(her voice becoming a bit uncanny, her thoughts breaking
through) No, I'm not myself yet. That's just it. Not all myself.
But I've been becoming myself. And I must finish!
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(with angry significance--to Marsden) You hear
her, Charlie? She's a sick girl!
NINA--(slowly and strangely) I'm not sick. I'm too well. But
they are sick and I must give my health to help them to live on,
and to live on myself. (with a sudden intensity in her tone) I
must pay for my cowardly treachery to Gordon! You should
understand this, Father, you who--(She swallows hard, catching her
breath. Thinking desperately)
I'm beginning to tell him! . . . I mustn't! . . . he's my
father! . . .
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(in a panic of guilty fear, but defiantly) What
do you mean? I am afraid you're not responsible for what you're
saying.
NINA--(again with the strange intensity) I must pay! It's my
plain duty! Gordon is dead! What use is my life to me or anyone?
But I must make it of use--by giving it! (fiercely) I must learn
to give myself, do you hear--give and give until I can make that
gift of myself for a man's happiness without scruple, without fear,
without joy except in his joy! When I've accomplished this I'll
have found myself, I'll know how to start in living my own life
again! (appealing to them with a desperate impatience) Don't you
see? In the name of the commonest decency and honor, I owe it to
Gordon!
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(sharply) No, I can't see--nor anyone else!
(thinking savagely)
I hope Gordon is in hell! . . .
MARSDEN--(thinking)
Give herself? . . . can she mean her body? . . . beautiful
body . . . to cripples? . . . for Gordon's sake? . . . damn
Gordon! . . .
(coldly) What do you mean, you owe it to Gordon, Nina?
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(bitterly) Yes, how ridiculous! It seems to me
when you gave him your love, he got more than he could ever have
hoped--
NINA--(with fierce self-contempt) I gave him? What did I give
him? It's what I didn't give! That last night before he sailed--
in his arms until my body ached--kisses until my lips were numb--
knowing all that night--something in me knowing he would die, that
he would never kiss me again--knowing this so surely yet with my
cowardly brain lying, no, he'll come back and marry you, you'll be
happy ever after and feel his children at your breasts looking up
with eyes so much like his, possessing eyes so happy in possessing
you! (then violently) But Gordon never possessed me! I'm still
Gordon's silly virgin! And Gordon is muddy ashes! And I've lost
my happiness forever! All that last night I knew he wanted me. I
knew it was only the honorable code-bound Gordon, who kept
commanding from his brain, no, you mustn't, you must respect her,
you must wait till you have a marriage license! (She gives a
mocking laugh.)
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(shocked) Nina! This is really going too far!
MARSDEN--(repelled--with a superior sneer) Oh, come now, Nina!
You've been reading books. Those don't sound like your thoughts.
NINA--(without looking at him, her eyes on her father's--intensely)
Gordon wanted me! I wanted Gordon! I should have made him take
me! I knew he would die and I would have no children, that there
would be no big Gordon or little Gordon left to me, that happiness
was calling me, never to call again if I refused! And yet I did
refuse! I didn't make him take me! I lost him forever! And now I
am lonely and not pregnant with anything at all, but--but loathing!
(She hurls this last at her father--fiercely) Why did I refuse?
What was that cowardly something in me that cried, no, you mustn't,
what would your father say?
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(thinking--furiously)
What an animal! . . . and my daughter! . . . she doesn't get
it from me! . . . was her mother like that? . . .
(distractedly) Nina! I really can't listen!
NINA--(savagely) And that's exactly what my father did say! Wait,
he told Gordon! Wait for Nina till the war's over, and you've got
a good job and can afford a marriage license!
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(crumbling pitifully) Nina! I--!
MARSDEN--(flurriedly--going to him) Don't take her seriously,
Professor! (thinking with nervous repulsion)
Nina has changed . . . all flesh now . . . lust . . . who
would dream she was so sensual? . . . I wish I were out of
this! . . . I wish I hadn't come here today! . . .
NINA--(coldly and deliberately) Don't lie any more, Father! Today
I've made up my mind to face things. I know now why Gordon
suddenly dropped all idea of marriage before he left, how unfair to
me he suddenly decided it would be! Unfair to me! Oh, that's
humorous! To think I might have had happiness, Gordon, and now
Gordon's child--(then directly accusing him) You told him it'd be
unfair, you put him on his honor, didn't you?
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(collecting himself--woodenly) Yes. I did it for
your sake, Nina.
NINA--(in the same voice as before) It's too late for lies!
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(woodenly) Let us say then that I PERSUADED
myself it was for your sake. That may be true. You are young.
You think one can live with truth. Very well. It is also true I
was jealous of Gordon. I was alone and I wanted to keep your love.
I hated him as one hates a thief one may not accuse nor punish. I
did my best to prevent your marriage. I was glad when he died.
There. Is that what you wish me to say?
NINA--Yes. Now I begin to forget I've hated you. You were braver
than I, at least.
PROFESSOR LEEDS--I wanted to live comforted by your love until the
end. In short, I am a man who happens to be your father. (He
hides his face in his hands and weeps softly.) Forgive that man!
MARSDEN--(thinking timidly)
In short, forgive us our possessing as we forgive those who
possessed before us . . . Mother must be wondering what keeps
me so long . . . it's time for tea . . . I must go home . . .
NINA--(sadly) Oh, I forgive you. But do you understand now that I
must somehow find a way to give myself to Gordon still, that I must
pay my debt and learn to forgive myself?
PROFESSOR LEEDS--Yes.
NINA--Mary will look after you.
PROFESSOR LEEDS--Mary will do very well, I'm sure.
MARSDEN--(thinking)
Nina has changed . . . this is no place for me . . . Mother is
waiting tea. . . .
(then venturing on an uncertain tone of pleasantry) Quite so, you
two. But isn't this all nonsense? Nina will be back with us in a
month, Professor, what with the depressing heat and humidity, and
the more depressing halt and the lame!
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(sharply) She must stay away until she gets well.
This time I do speak for her sake.
NINA--I'll take the nine-forty. (turning to Marsden--with a sudden
girlishness) Come on upstairs, Charlie, and help me pack! (She
grabs him by the hand and starts to pull him away.)
MARSDEN--(shrugging his shoulders--confusedly) Well--I don't
understand this!
NINA--(with a strange smile) But some day I'll read it all in one
of your books, Charlie, and it'll be so simple and easy to
understand that I won't be able to recognize it, Charlie, let alone
understand it! (She laughs teasingly.) Dear old Charlie!
MARSDEN--(thinking in agony)
God damn in hell . . . dear old Charlie! . . .
(then with a genial grin) I'll have to propose, Nina, if you
continue to be my severest critic! I'm a stickler for these little
literary conventions, you know!
NINA--All right. Propose while we pack. (She leads him off,
right.)
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(blows his nose, wipes his eyes, sighs, clears his
throat, squares his shoulders, pulls his coat down in front, sets
his tie straight, and starts to take a brisk turn about the room.
His face is washed blandly clean of all emotion.)
Three weeks now . . . new term . . . I will have to be looking
over my notes. . . .
(He looks out of window, front.)
Grass parched in the middle . . . Tom forgotten the sprinkler
. . . careless . . . ah, there goes Mr. Davis of the bank
. . . bank . . . my salary will go farther now . . . books I
really need . . . all bosh two can live as cheaply as one
. . . there are worse things than being a trained nurse . . .
good background of discipline . . . she needs it . . . she may
meet rich fellow there . . . mature . . . only students here
for her . . . and their fathers never approve if they have
anything. . . .
(He sits down with a forced sigh of peace.)
I am glad we had it out . . . his ghost will be gone now . . .
no more Gordon, Gordon, Gordon, love and praise and tears, all
for Gordon! . . . Mary will do very well by me . . . I will
have more leisure and peace of mind . . . and Nina will come
back home . . . when she is well again . . . the old Nina!
. . . my little Nina! . . . she knows and she forgave me . . .
she said so . . . said! . . . but could she really? . . . don't
you imagine? . . . deep in her heart? . . . she still must
hate? . . . oh, God! . . . I feel cold! . . . alone! . . .
this home is abandoned! . . . the house is empty and full of
death! . . . there is a pain about my heart! . . .
(He calls hoarsely, getting to his feet) Nina!
NINA'S VOICE--(Her voice, fresh and girlish, calls from upstairs)
Yes, Father. Do you want me?
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(struggling with himself--goes to door and calls
with affectionate blandness) No. Never mind. Just wanted to
remind you to call for a taxi in good time.
NINA'S VOICE--I won't forget.
PROFESSOR LEEDS--(looks at his watch)
Five-thirty just . . . nine-forty, the train . . . then . . .
Nina no more! . . . four hours more . . . she'll be packing
. . . then good-bye . . . a kiss . . . nothing more ever to say
to each other . . . and I'll die in here some day . . . alone
. . . gasp, cry out for help . . . the president will speak at
the funeral . . . Nina will be here again . . . Nina in black
. . . too late! . . .
(He calls hoarsely) Nina! (There is no answer.)
In other room . . . doesn't hear . . . just as well . . .
(He turns to the bookcase and pulls out the first volume his hands
come on and opens it at random and begins to read aloud sonorously
like a child whistling to keep up his courage in the dark.)
"Stetit unus in arcem
Erectus capitis victorque ad sidera mittit
Sidereos oculos propiusque adspectat Olympum
Inquiritque Iovem;" . . .
(Curtain)
ACT TWO
SCENE--The same as Scene One, Professor Leeds' study. It is about
nine o'clock of a night in early fall, over a year later. The
appearance of the room is unchanged except that all the shades, of
the color of pale flesh, are drawn down, giving the windows a
suggestion of lifeless closed eyes and making the room seem more
withdrawn from life than before. The reading lamp on the table is
lit. Everything on the table, papers, pencils, pens, etc., is
arranged in meticulous order.
Marsden is seated on the chair at center. He is dressed carefully
in an English made suit of blue serge so dark as to seem black, and
which, combined with the gloomy brooding expression of his face,
strongly suggests one in mourning. His tall, thin body sags
wearily in the chair, his head is sunk forward, the chin almost
touching his chest, his eyes stare sadly at nothing.
MARSDEN--(his thoughts at ebb, without emphasis, sluggish and
melancholy)
Prophetic Professor! . . . I remember he once said . . .
shortly after Nina went away . . . "some day, in here, . . .
you'll find me" . . . did he foresee? . . . no . . .
everything in life is so contemptuously accidental! . . .
God's sneer at our self-importance! . . .
(smiling grimly)
Poor Professor! he was horribly lonely . . . tried to hide it
. . . always telling you how beneficial the training at the
hospital would be for her . . . poor old chap! . . .
(His voice grows husky and uncertain--he controls it--straightens
himself)
What time is it? . . .
(He takes out his watch mechanically and looks at it.)
Ten after nine. . . . Nina ought to be here. . . .
(then with sudden bitterness)
Will she feel any real grief over his death, I wonder? . . . I
doubt it! . . . but why am I so resentful? . . . the two times
I've visited the hospital she's been pleasant enough . . .
pleasantly evasive! . . . perhaps she thought her father had
sent me to spy on her . . . poor Professor! . . . at least she
answered his letters . . . he used to show them to me . . .
pathetically overjoyed . . . newsy, loveless scripts, telling
nothing whatever about herself . . . well, she won't have to
compose them any more . . . she never answered mine . . . she
might at least have acknowledged them. . . . Mother thinks
she's behaved quite inexcusably . . .
(then jealously)
I suppose every single damned inmate has fallen in love with
her! . . . her eyes seemed cynical . . . sick with men . . .
as though I'd looked into the eyes of a prostitute . . . not
that I ever have . . . except that once . . . the dollar house
. . . hers were like patent leather buttons in a saucer of
blue milk! . . .
(getting up with a movement of impatience)
The devil! . . . what beastly incidents our memories insist on
cherishing! . . . the ugly and disgusting . . . the beautiful
things we have to keep diaries to remember! . . .
(He smiles with a wry amusement for a second--then bitterly)
That last night Nina was here . . . she talked so brazenly
about giving herself . . . I wish I knew the truth of what
she's been doing in that house full of men . . . particularly
that self-important young ass of a doctor! . . . Gordon's
friend! . . .
(He frowns at himself, determinedly puts an end to his train of
thought and comes and sits down again in the chair--in sneering,
conversational tones as if he were this time actually addressing
another person)
Really, it's hardly a decent time, is it, for that kind of
speculation . . . with her father lying dead upstairs? . . .
(A silence as if he had respectably squelched himself--then he
pulls out his watch mechanically and stares at it. As he does so a
noise of a car is heard approaching, stopping at the curb beyond
the garden. He jumps to his feet and starts to go to door--then
hesitates confusedly.)
No, let Mary go . . . I wouldn't know what to do . . . take
her in my arms? . . . kiss her? . . . right now? . . . or wait
until she? . . .
(A bell rings insistently from the back of the house. From the
front voices are heard, first Nina's, then a man's. Marsden
starts, his face suddenly angry and dejected.)
Someone with her! . . . a man! . . . I thought she'd be
alone! . . .
(Mary is heard shuffling to the front door which is opened.
Immediately, as Mary sees Nina, she breaks down and there is the
sound of her uncontrolled sobbing and choking, incoherent words
drowning out Nina's voice, soothing her.)
NINA--(As Mary's grief subsides a trifle, her voice is heard, flat
and toneless.) Isn't Mr. Marsden here, Mary? (She calls)
Charlie!
MARSDEN--(confused--huskily) In here--I'm in the study, Nina. (He
moves uncertainly toward the door.)
NINA--(comes in and stands just inside the doorway. She is dressed
in a nurse's uniform with cap, a raglan coat over it. She appears
older than in the previous scene, her face is pale and much
thinner, her cheek bones stand out, her mouth is taut in hard lines
of a cynical scorn. Her eyes try to armor her wounded spirit with
a defensive stare of disillusionment. Her training has also tended
to coarsen her fiber a trifle, to make her insensitive to
suffering, to give her the nurse's professionally callous attitude.
In her fight to regain control of her nerves she has over-striven
after the cool and efficient poise, but she is really in a more
highly strung, disorganized state than ever, although she is now
more capable of suppressing and concealing it. She remains
strikingly handsome and her physical appeal is enhanced by her
pallor and the mysterious suggestion about her of hidden experience.
She stares at Marsden blankly and speaks in queer flat tones.)
Hello, Charlie. He's dead, Mary says.
MARSDEN--(nodding his head several times--stupidly) Yes.
NINA--(in same tones) It's too bad. I brought Doctor Darrell. I
thought there might be a chance. (She pauses and looks about the
room--thinking confusedly)
His books . . . his chair . . . he always sat there . . .
there's his table . . . little Nina was never allowed to touch
anything . . . she used to sit on his lap . . . cuddle against
him . . . dreaming into the dark beyond the windows . . . warm
in his arms before the fireplace . . . dreams like sparks
soaring up to die in the cold dark . . . warm in his love,
safe-drifting into sleep . . . "Daddy's girl, aren't you?" . . .
(She looks around and then up and down.)
His home . . . my home . . . he was my father . . . he's
dead . . .
(She shakes her head.)
Yes, I hear you, little Nina, but I don't understand one word
of it. . . .
(She smiles with a cynical self-contempt.)
I'm sorry, Father! . . . you see you've been dead for me a
long time . . . when Gordon died, all men died . . . what did
you feel for me then? . . . nothing . . . and now I feel
nothing . . . it's too bad . . .
MARSDEN--(thinking woundedly)
I hoped she would throw herself in my arms . . . weeping . . .
hide her face on my shoulder . . . "Oh, Charlie, you're all
I've got left in the world . . ."
(then angrily)
Why did she have to bring that Darrell with her?
NINA--(flatly) When I said good-bye that night I had a premonition
I'd never see him again.
MARSDEN--(glad of this opening for moral indignation) You've never
tried to see him, Nina! (then overcome by disgust with himself--
contritely) Forgive me! It was rotten of me to say that!
NINA--(shaking her head--flatly) I didn't want him to see what he
would have thought was me. (ironically) That's the other side of
it you couldn't dissect into words from here, Charlie! (then
suddenly asking a necessary question in her nurse's cool, efficient
tones) Is he upstairs? (Marsden nods stupidly.) I'll take Ned
up. I might as well. (She turns and walks out briskly.)
MARSDEN--(staring after her--dully)
That isn't Nina. . . .
(indignantly)
They've killed her soul down there! . . .
(Tears come to his eyes suddenly and he pulls out his handkerchief
and wipes them, muttering huskily)
Poor old Professor! . . .
(then suddenly jeering at himself)
For God's sake, stop acting! . . . it isn't the Professor!
. . . dear old Charlie is crying because she didn't weep on his
shoulder . . . as he had hoped! . . .
(He laughs harshly--then suddenly sees a man outside the doorway
and stares--then calls sharply) Who's that?
EVANS--(his voice embarrassed and hesitating comes from the hall)
It's all right. (He appears in the doorway, grinning bashfully.)
It's me--I, I mean--Miss Leeds told me to come in here. (He
stretches out his hand awkwardly.) Guess you don't remember me,
Mr. Marsden. Miss Leeds introduced us one day at the hospital.
You were leaving just as I came in. Evans is my name.
MARSDEN--(who has been regarding him with waning resentment, forces
a cordial smile and shakes hands) Oh, yes. At first I couldn't
place you.
EVANS--(awkwardly) I sort of feel I'm butting in.
MARSDEN--(beginning to be taken by his likable boyish quality) Not
at all. Sit down. (He sits in the rocker at center as Evans goes
to the bench at right. Evans sits uncomfortably hunched forward,
twiddling his hat in his hands. He is above the medium height,
very blond, with guileless, diffident blue eyes, his figure
inclined to immature lumbering outlines. His face is fresh and red-
cheeked, handsome in a boyish fashion. His manner is bashful with
women or older men, coltishly playful with his friends. There is a
lack of self confidence, a lost and strayed appealing air about
him, yet with a hint of some unawakened obstinate force beneath his
apparent weakness. Although he is twenty-five and has been out of
college three years, he still wears the latest in collegiate
clothes and as he looks younger than he is, he is always mistaken
for an undergraduate and likes to be. It keeps him placed in life
for himself.)
MARSDEN--(studying him keenly--amused)
This is certainly no giant intellect . . . overgrown boy . . .
likable quality though . . .
EVANS--(uneasy under Marsden's eyes)
Giving me the once-over . . . seems like good egg . . . Nina
says he is . . . suppose I ought to say something about his
books, but I can't even remember a title of one . . .
(He suddenly blurts out) You've known Nina--Miss Leeds--ever since
she was a kid, haven't you?
MARSDEN--(a bit shortly) Yes. How long have you known her?
EVANS--Well--really only since she's been at the hospital, although
I met her once years ago at a Prom with Gordon Shaw.
MARSDEN--(indifferently) Oh, you knew Gordon?
EVANS--(proudly) Sure thing! I was in his class! (with admiration
amounting to hero-worship) He sure was a wonder, wasn't he?
MARSDEN--(cynically)
Gordon über alles and forever! . . . I begin to appreciate the
Professor's viewpoint . . .
(casually) A fine boy! Did you know him well?
EVANS--No. The crowd he went with were mostly fellows who were
good at sports--and I always was a dud. (forcing a smile) I was
always one of the first to get bounced off the squad in any sport.
(then with a flash of humble pride) But I never quit trying,
anyway!
MARSDEN--(consolingly) Well, the sport hero usually doesn't star
after college.
EVANS--Gordon did! (eagerly--with intense admiration) In the war!
He was an ace! And he always fought just as cleanly as he'd played
football! Even the Huns respected him!
MARSDEN--(thinking cynically)
This Gordon worshipper must be the apple of Nina's eye! . . .
(casually) Were you in the army?
EVANS--(shamefacedly) Yes--infantry--but I never got to the front--
never saw anything exciting. (thinking glumly)
Won't tell him I tried for flying service . . . wanted to get
in Gordon's outfit . . . couldn't make the physical exam . . .
never made anything I wanted . . . suppose I'll lose out with
Nina, too . . .
(then rallying himself)
Hey, you! . . . what's the matter with you? . . . don't
quit! . . .
MARSDEN--(who has been staring at him inquisitively) How did you
happen to come out here tonight?
EVANS--I was calling on Nina when your wire came. Ned thought I
better come along, too--might be of some use.
MARSDEN--(frowning) You mean Doctor Darrell? (Evans nods.) Is he
a close friend of yours?
EVANS--(hesitatingly) Well, sort of. Roomed in the same dorm with
me at college. He was a senior when I was a freshman. Used to
help me along in lots of ways. Took pity on me, I was so green.
Then about a year ago when I went to the hospital to visit a fellow
who'd been in my outfit I ran into him again. (then with a grin)
But I wouldn't say Ned was close to anyone. He's a dyed-in-the-
wool doc. He's only close to whatever's the matter with you! (He
chuckles--then hastily) But don't get me wrong about him. He's
the best egg ever! You know him, don't you?
MARSDEN--(stiffly) Barely. Nina introduced us once. (thinking
bitterly)
He's upstairs alone with her . . . I hoped it would be I
who . . .
EVANS--
Don't want him to get the wrong idea of Ned . . . Ned's my
best friend . . . doing all he can to help me with Nina . . .
he thinks she'll marry me in the end . . . God, if she only
would! . . . I wouldn't expect her to love me at first . . .
be happy only to take care of her . . . cook her breakfast
. . . bring it up to her in bed . . . tuck the pillows behind
her . . . comb her hair for her . . . I'd be happy just to kiss
her hair! . . .
MARSDEN--(agitated--thinking suspiciously)
What are Darrell's relations with Nina? . . . close to what's
the matter with her? . . . damned thoughts! . . . why should I
care? . . . I'll ask this Evans . . . pump him while I have a
chance . . .
(with forced indifference) Is your friend, the Doctor, "close" to
Miss Leeds? She's had quite a lot the matter with her since her
breakdown, if that's what interests him! (He smiles casually.)
EVANS--(gives a start, awakening from his dream) Oh--er--yes.
He's always trying to bully her into taking better care of herself,
but she only laughs at him. (soberly) It'd be much better if
she'd take his advice.
MARSDEN--(suspiciously) No doubt.
EVANS--(pronounces with boyish solemnity) She isn't herself, Mr.
Marsden. And I think nursing all those poor guys keeps the war
before her when she ought to forget it. She ought to give up
nursing and be nursed for a change, that's my idea.
MARSDEN--(struck by this--eagerly) Exactly my opinion. (thinking)
If she'd settle down here . . . I could come over every day
. . . I'd nurse her . . . Mother home . . . Nina here . . . how
I could work then! . . .
EVANS--(thinking)
He certainly seems all for me . . . so far! . . .
(then in a sudden flurry)
Shall I tell him? . . . he'll be like her guardian now . . .
I've got to know how he stands . . .
(He starts with a solemn earnestness.) Mr. Marsden, I--there's
something I ought to tell you, I think. You see, Nina's talked a
lot about you. I know how much she thinks of you. And now her old
man--(He hesitates in confusion.) I mean, her father's dead--
MARSDEN--(in a sort of panic--thinking)
What's this? . . . proposal? . . . in form? . . . for her
hand? . . . to me? . . . Father Charlie now, eh? . . . ha!
. . . God, what a fool! . . . does he imagine she'd ever love
him? . . . but she might . . . not bad looking . . . likable,
innocent . . . something to mother . . .
EVANS--(blundering on regardless now) I know it's hardly the
proper time--
MARSDEN--(interrupting--dryly) Perhaps I can anticipate. You want
to tell me you're in love with Nina?
EVANS--Yes, sir, and I've asked her to marry me.
MARSDEN--What did she say?
EVANS--(sheepishly) Nothing. She just smiled.
MARSDEN--(with relief) Ah. (then harshly) Well, what could you
expect? Surely you must know she still loves Gordon?
EVANS--(manfully) Sure I know it--and I admire her for it! Most
girls forget too easily. She ought to love Gordon for a long time
yet. And I know I'm an awful wash-out compared to him--but I love
her as much as he did, or anyone could! And I'll work my way up
for her--I know I can!--so I can give her everything she wants.
And I wouldn't ask for anything in return except the right to take
care of her. (blurts out confusedly) I never think of her--that
way--she's too beautiful and wonderful--not that I don't hope she'd
come to love me in time--
MARSDEN--(sharply) And just what do you expect me to do about all
this?
EVANS--(taken aback) Why--er--nothing, sir. I just thought you
ought to know. (Sheepishly he glances up at ceiling, then down at
floor, twiddling his hat.)
MARSDEN--(thinking--at first with a grudging appreciation and envy)
He thinks he means that . . . pure love! . . . it's easy to
talk . . . he doesn't know life . . . but he might be good for
Nina . . . if she were married to this simpleton would she be
faithful? . . . and then I? . . . what a vile thought! . . . I
don't mean that! . . .
(then forcing a kindly tone) You see, there's really nothing I can
do about it. (with a smile) If Nina will, she will--and if she
won't, she won't. But I can wish you good luck.
EVANS--(immediately all boyish gratitude) Thanks! That's darn
fine of you, Mr. Marsden!
MARSDEN--But I think we'd better let the subject drop, don't you?
We're forgetting that her father--
EVANS--(guiltily embarrassed) Yes--sure--I'm a damn fool! Excuse
me! (There is the noise of steps from the hall and Doctor Edmund
Darrell enters. He is twenty-seven, short, dark, wiry, his
movements rapid and sure, his manner cool and observant, his dark
eyes analytical. His head is handsome and intelligent. There is a
quality about him, provoking and disturbing to women, of intense
passion which he has rigidly trained himself to control and set
free only for the objective satisfaction of studying his own and
their reactions; and so he has come to consider himself as immune
to love through his scientific understanding of its real sexual
nature. He sees Evans and Marsden, nods at Marsden silently, who
returns it coldly, goes to the table and taking a prescription pad
from his pocket, hastily scratches on it.)
MARSDEN--(thinking sneeringly)
Amusing, these young doctors! . . . perspire with the effort
to appear cool! . . . writing a prescription . . . cough
medicine for the corpse, perhaps! . . . good-looking? . . .
more or less . . . attractive to women, I dare say. . . .
DARRELL--(tears it off--hands it to Evans) Here, Sam. Run along
up the street and get this filled.
EVANS--(with relief) Sure. Glad of the chance for a walk. (He
goes out, rear.)
DARRELL--(turning to Marsden) It's for Nina. She's got to get
some sleep tonight. (He sits down abruptly in the chair at center.
Marsden unconsciously takes the Professor's place behind the table.
The two men stare at each other for a moment, Darrell with a frank
probing, examining look that ruffles Marsden and makes him all the
more resentful toward him.)
This Marsden doesn't like me . . . that's evident . . . but he
interests me . . . read his books . . . wanted to know his
bearing on Nina's case . . . his novels just well-written
surface . . . no depth, no digging underneath . . . why? . . .
has the talent but doesn't dare . . . afraid he'll meet
himself somewhere . . . one of those poor devils who spend
their lives trying not to discover which sex they belong
to! . . .
MARSDEN--
Giving me the fishy, diagnosing eye they practice at medical
school . . . like freshmen from Ioway cultivating broad A's at
Harvard! . . . what is his specialty? . . . neurologist, I
think . . . I hope not psychoanalyst . . . a lot to account
for, Herr Freud! . . . punishment to fit his crimes, be forced
to listen eternally during breakfast while innumerable plain
ones tell him dreams about snakes . . . pah, what an easy cure-
all! . . . sex the philosopher's stone . . . "O Oedipus, O my
king! The world is adopting you!" . . .
DARRELL--
Must pitch into him about Nina . . . have to have his help
. . . damn little time to convince him . . . he's the kind you
have to explode a bomb under to get them to move . . . but not
too big a bomb . . . they blow to pieces easily . . .
(brusquely) Nina's gone to pot again! Not that her father's death
is a shock in the usual sense of grief. I wish to God it were!
No, it's a shock because it's finally convinced her she can't feel
anything any more. That's what she's doing upstairs now--trying to
goad herself into feeling something!
MARSDEN--(resentfully) I think you're mistaken. She loved her
father--
DARRELL--(shortly and dryly) We can't waste time being sentimental,
Marsden! She'll be down any minute, and I've got a lot to talk over
with you. (as Marsden seems again about to protest) Nina has a
real affection for you and I imagine you have for her. Then you'll
want as much as I do to get her straightened out. She's a corking
girl. She ought to have every chance for a happy life. (then
sharply driving his words in) But the way she's conditioned now,
there's no chance. She's piled on too many destructive experiences.
A few more and she'll dive for the gutter just to get the security
that comes from knowing she's touched bottom and there's no farther
to go!
MARSDEN--(revolted and angry, half-springs to his feet) Look here,
Darrell, I'll be damned if I'll listen to such a ridiculous
statement!
DARRELL--(curtly--with authority) How do you know it's ridiculous?
What do you know of Nina since she left home? But she hadn't been
nursing with us three days before I saw she really ought to be a
patient; and ever since then I've studied her case. So I think
it's up to you to listen.
MARSDEN--(freezingly) I'm listening. (with apprehensive terror)
Gutter . . . has she . . . I wish he wouldn't tell me! . . .
DARRELL--(thinking)
How much need I tell him? . . . can't tell him the raw truth
about her promiscuity . . . he isn't built to face reality
. . . no writer is outside of his books . . . have to tone it
down for him . . . but not too much! . . .
Nina has been giving way more and more to a morbid longing for
martyrdom. The reason for it is obvious. Gordon went away without--
well, let's say marrying her. The war killed him. She was left
suspended. Then she began to blame herself and to want to
sacrifice herself and at the same time give happiness to various
fellow war-victims by pretending to love them. It's a pretty idea
but it hasn't worked out. Nina's a bad actress. She hasn't
convinced the men of her love--or herself of her good intentions.
And each experience of this kind has only left her more a prey to a
guilty conscience than before and more determined to punish
herself!
MARSDEN--(thinking)
What does he mean? . . . how far did she? . . . how many? . . .
(coldly and sneeringly) May I ask on what specific actions of hers
this theory of yours is based?
DARRELL--(coldly in turn) On her evident craving to make an
exhibition of kissing, necking, petting--whatever you call it--
spooning in general--with any patient in the institution who got a
case on her! (ironically--thinking)
Spooning! . . . rather a mild word for her affairs . . . but
strong enough for this ladylike soul. . . .
MARSDEN--(bitterly)
He's lying! . . . what's he trying to hide? . . . was he one
of them? . . . her lover? . . . I must get her away from him
. . . get her to marry Evans! . . .
(with authority) Then she mustn't go back to your hospital, that's
certain!
DARRELL--(quickly) You're quite right. And that brings me to what
I want you to urge her to do.
MARSDEN--(thinking suspiciously)
He doesn't want her back . . . I must have been wrong . . .
but there might be many reasons why he'd wish to get rid of
her . . .
(coldly) I think you exaggerate my influence.
DARRELL--(eagerly) Not a bit. You're the last link connecting her
with the girl she used to be before Gordon's death. You're closely
associated in her mind with that period of happy security, of
health and peace of mind. I know that from the way she talks about
you. You're the only person she still respects--and really loves.
(as Marsden starts guiltily and glances at him in confusion--with a
laugh) Oh, you needn't look frightened. I mean the sort of love
she'd feel for an uncle.
MARSDEN--(thinking in agony)
Frightened? . . . was I? . . . only person she loves . . . and
then he said "love she'd feel for an uncle" . . . Uncle
Charlie now! . . . God damn him! . . .
DARRELL--(eyeing him)
Looks damnably upset . . . wants to evade all responsibility
for her, I suppose . . . he's that kind . . . all the better!
. . . he'll be only too anxious to get her safely married. . . .
(bluntly) And that's why I've done all this talking. You've got
to help snap her out of this.
MARSDEN--(bitterly) And how, if I may ask?
DARRELL--There's only one way I can see. Get her to marry Sam
Evans.
MARSDEN--(astonished) Evans? (He makes a silly gesture toward the
door--thinking confusedly)
Wrong again . . . why does he want her married to . . . it's
some trick. . . .
DARRELL--Yes, Evans. He's in love with her. And it's one of those
unselfish loves you read about. And she is fond of him. In a
maternal way, of course--but that's just what she needs now,
someone she cares about to mother and boss and keep her occupied.
And still more important, this would give her a chance to have
children. She's got to find normal outlets for her craving for
sacrifice. She needs normal love objects for the emotional life
Gordon's death blocked up in her. Now marrying Sam ought to do the
trick. Ought to. Naturally, no one can say for certain. But I
think his unselfish love, combined with her real liking for him,
will gradually give her back a sense of security and a feeling of
being worth something to life again, and once she's got that,
she'll be saved! (He has spoken with persuasive feeling. He asks
anxiously) Doesn't that seem good sense to you?
MARSDEN--(suspicious--dryly non-committal) I'm sorry but I'm in no
position to say. I don't know anything about Evans, for one thing.
DARRELL--(emphatically) Well, I do. He's a fine healthy boy,
clean and unspoiled. You can take my word for that. And I'm
convinced he's got the right stuff in him to succeed, once he grows
up and buckles down to work. He's only a big kid now, but all he
needs is a little self-confidence and a sense of responsibility.
He's holding down a fair job, too, considering he's just started in
the advertising game--enough to keep them living. (with a slight
smile) I'm prescribing for Sam, too, when I boost this wedding.
MARSDEN--(his snobbery coming out) Do you know his family--what
sort of people?--
DARRELL--(bitingly) I'm not acquainted with their social
qualifications, if that's what you mean! They're upstate country
folks--fruit growers and farmers, well off, I believe. Simple,
healthy people, I'm sure of that although I've never met them.
MARSDEN--(a bit shamefacedly--changing the subject hastily) Have
you suggested this match to Nina?
DARRELL--Yes, a good many times lately in a half-joking way. If I
were serious she wouldn't listen, she'd say I was prescribing. But
I think what I've said has planted it in her mind as a possibility.
MARSDEN--(thinking suspiciously)
Is this Doctor her lover? . . . trying to pull the wool over
my eyes? . . . use me to arrange a convenient triangle for
him? . . .
(harshly--but trying to force a joking tone) Do you know what I'm
inclined to suspect, Doctor? That you may be in love with Nina
yourself!
DARRELL--(astonished) The deuce you do! What in the devil makes
you think that? Not that any man mightn't fall in love with Nina.
Most of them do. But I didn't happen to. And what's more I never
could. In my mind she always belongs to Gordon. It's probably a
reflection of her own silly fixed idea about him. (suddenly, dryly
and harshly) And I couldn't share a woman--even with a ghost!
(thinking cynically)
Not to mention the living who have had her! . . . Sam doesn't
know about them . . . and I'll bet he couldn't believe it of
her even if she confessed! . . .
MARSDEN--(thinking baffledly)
Wrong again! . . . he isn't lying . . . but I feel he's hiding
something . . . why does he speak so resentfully of Gordon's
memory? . . . why do I sympathize? . . .
(in a strange mocking ironic tone) I can quite appreciate your
feeling about Gordon. I wouldn't care to share with a ghost-lover
myself. That species of dead is so invulnerably alive! Even a
doctor couldn't kill one, eh? (He forces a laugh--then in a
friendly confidential tone) Gordon is too egregious for a ghost.
That was the way Nina's father felt about him, too. (suddenly
reminded of the dead man--in penitently sad tones), You didn't know
her father, did you? A charming old fellow!
DARRELL--(hearing a noise from the hall--warningly) Sstt! (Nina
enters slowly. She looks from one to the other with a queer,
quick, inquisitive stare, but her face is a pale expressionless
mask drained of all emotional response to human contacts. It is as
if her eyes were acting on their own account as restless, prying,
recording instruments. The two men have risen and stare at her
anxiously. Darrell moves back and to one side until he is standing
in relatively the same place as Marsden had occupied in the
previous scene while Marsden is in her father's place and she stops
where she had been. There is a pause. Then just as each of the
men is about to speak, she answers as if they had asked a
question.)
NINA--(in a queer flat voice) Yes, he's dead--my father--whose
passion created me--who began me--he is ended. There is only his
end living--his death. It lives now to draw nearer me, to draw me
nearer, to become my end! (then with a strange twisted smile) How
we poor monkeys hide from ourselves behind the sounds called words!
MARSDEN--(thinking frightenedly)
How terrible she is! . . . who is she? . . . not my Nina! . . .
(as if to reassure himself--timidly) Nina! (Darrell makes an
impatient gesture for him to let her go on. What she is saying
interests him and he feels talking it out will do her good. She
looks at Marsden for a moment startledly as if she couldn't
recognize him.)
NINA--What? (then placing him--with real affection that is like a
galling goad to him) Dear old Charlie!
MARSDEN--
Dear damned Charlie! . . . She loves to torture! . . .
(then forcing a smile--soothingly) Yes, Nina Cara Nina! Right
here!
NINA--(forcing a smile) You look frightened, Charlie. Do I seem
queer? It's because I've suddenly seen the lies in the sounds
called words. You know--grief, sorrow, love, father--those sounds
our lips make and our hands write. You ought to know what I mean.
You work with them. Have you written another novel lately? But,
stop to think, you're just the one who couldn't know what I mean.
With you the lies have become the only truthful things. And I
suppose that's the logical conclusion to the whole evasive mess,
isn't it? Do you understand me, Charlie? Say lie--(She says it,
drawing it out.) L-i-i-e! Now say life. L-i-i-f-e! You see!
Life is just a long drawn out lie with a sniffling sigh at the end!
(She laughs.)
MARSDEN--(in strange agony)
She's hard! . . . like a whore! . . . tearing your heart with
dirty finger nails! . . . my Nina! . . . cruel bitch! . . .
some day I won't bear it! . . . I'll scream out the truth
about every woman! . . . no kinder at heart than dollar
tarts! . . .
(then in a passion of remorse)
Forgive me, Mother! . . . I didn't mean all! . . .
DARRELL--(a bit worried himself now--persuasively) Why not sit
down, Nina, and let us two gentlemen sit down?
NINA--(smiling at him swiftly and mechanically) Oh, all right,
Ned. (She sits at center. He comes and sits on the bench.
Marsden sits by the table. She continues sarcastically.) Are you
prescribing for me again, Ned? This is my pet doctor, Charlie. He
couldn't be happy in heaven unless God called him in because He'd
caught something! Did you ever know a young scientist, Charlie?
He believes if you pick a lie to pieces, the pieces are the truth!
I like him because he's so inhuman. But once he kissed me--in a
moment of carnal weakness! I was as startled as if a mummy had
done it! And then he looked so disgusted with himself! I had to
laugh! (She smiles at him with a pitying scorn.)
DARRELL--(good-naturedly smiling) That's right! Rub it in!
(ruffled but amused in spite of it)
I'd forgotten about that kiss . . . I was sore at myself
afterwards . . . she was so damned indifferent! . . .
NINA--(wanderingly) Do you know what I was doing upstairs? I was
trying to pray. I tried hard to pray to the modern science God. I
thought of a million light years to a spiral nebula--one other
universe among innumerable others. But how could that God care
about our trifling misery of death-born-of-birth? I couldn't
believe in Him, and I wouldn't if I could! I'd rather imitate His
indifference and prove I had that one trait at least in common!
MARSDEN--(worriedly) Nina, why don't you lie down?
NINA--(jeeringly) Oh, let me talk, Charlie! They're only words,
remember! So many many words have jammed up into thoughts in my
poor head! You'd better let them overflow or they'll burst the
dam! I wanted to believe in any God at any price--a heap of
stones, a mud image, a drawing on a wall, a bird, a fish, a snake,
a baboon--or even a good man preaching the simple platitudes of
truth, those Gospel words we love the sound of but whose meaning we
pass on to spooks to live by!
MARSDEN--(again--half-rising--frightenedly) Nina! You ought to
stop talking. You'll work yourself into--(He glances angrily at
Darrell as if demanding that, as a doctor, he do something.)
NINA--(with bitter hopelessness) Oh, all right!
DARRELL--(answering his look--thinking)
You poor fool! . . . it'll do her good to talk this out of her
system . . . and then it'll be up to you to bring her around
to Sam . . .
(starts toward the door) Think I'll go out and stretch my legs.
MARSDEN--(thinking--in a panic)
I don't want to be alone with her! . . . I don't know her!
. . . I'm afraid! . . .
(protestingly) Well--but--hold on--I'm sure Nina would rather--
NINA--(dully) Let him go. I've said everything I can ever say--to
him. I want to talk to you, Charlie. (Darrell goes out
noiselessly with a meaning look at Marsden--a pause.)
MARSDEN--(thinking tremblingly)
Here . . . now . . . what I hoped . . . she and I alone . . .
she will cry . . . I will comfort her . . . why am I so
afraid? . . . whom do I fear? . . . is it she? . . . or I? . . .
NINA--(suddenly, with pity yet with scorn) Why have you always
been so timid, Charlie? Why are you always afraid? What are you
afraid of?
MARSDEN--(thinking in a panic)
She sneaked into my soul to spy! . . .
(then boldly)
Well then, a little truth for once in a way! . . .
(timidly) I'm afraid of--of life, Nina.
NINA--(nodding slowly) I know. (after a pause--queerly) The
mistake began when God was created in a male image. Of course,
women would see Him that way, but men should have been gentlemen
enough, remembering their mothers, to make God a woman! But the
God of Gods--the Boss--has always been a man. That makes life so
perverted, and death so unnatural. We should have imagined life as
created in the birth-pain of God the Mother. Then we would
understand why we, Her children, have inherited pain, for we would
know that our life's rhythm beats from Her great heart, torn with
the agony of love and birth. And we would feel that death meant
reunion with Her, a passing back into Her substance, blood of Her
blood again, peace of Her peace! (Marsden has been listening to
her fascinatedly. She gives a strange little laugh.) Now wouldn't
that be more logical and satisfying than having God a male whose
chest thunders with egotism and is too hard for tired heads and
thoroughly comfortless? Wouldn't it, Charlie?
MARSDEN--(with a strange passionate eagerness) Yes! It would,
indeed! It would, Nina!
NINA--(suddenly jumping to her feet and going to him--with a
horrible moaning desolation) Oh, God, Charlie, I want to believe
in something! I want to believe so I can feel! I want to feel
that he is dead--my father! And I can't feel anything, Charlie! I
can't feel anything at all! (She throws herself on her knees
beside him and hides her face in her hands on his knees and begins
to sob--stifled torn sounds.)
MARSDEN--(bends down, pats her head with trembling hands, soothes
her with uncertain trembling words) There--there--don't--Nina,
please--don't cry--you'll make yourself sick--come now--get up--do!
(His hands grasping her arms he half raises her to her feet, but,
her face still hidden in her hands, sobbing, she slips on to his
lap like a little girl and hides her face on his shoulder. His
expression becomes transported with a great happiness. In an
ecstatic whisper)
As I dreamed . . . with a deeper sweetness! . . .
(He kisses her hair with a great reverence.)
There . . . this is all my desire . . . I am this kind of
lover . . . this is my love . . . she is my girl . . . not
woman . . . my little girl . . . and I am brave because of her
little girl's pure love . . . and I am proud . . . no more
afraid . . . no more ashamed of being pure! . . .
(He kisses her hair again tenderly and smiles at himself. Then
soothingly with a teasing incongruous gaiety) This will never do,
Nina Cara Nina--never, never do, you know--I can't permit it!
NINA--(in a muffled voice, her sobbing beginning to ebb away into
sighs--in a young girl's voice) Oh, Charlie, you're so kind and
comforting! I've wanted you so!
MARSDEN--(immediately disturbed)
Wanted? . . . wanted? . . . not that kind of wanted . . . can
she mean? . . .
(questioning hesitatingly) You've wanted me, Nina?
NINA--Yes,--awfully! I've been so homesick. I've wanted to run
home and 'fess up, tell how bad I've been, and be punished! Oh,
I've got to be punished, Charlie, out of mercy for me, so I can
forgive myself! And now Father dead, there's only you. You will,
won't you--or tell me how to punish myself? You've simply got to,
if you love me!
MARSDEN--(thinking intensely)
If I love her! . . . oh, I do love her! . . .
(eagerly) Anything you wish, Nina--anything!
NINA--(with a comforted smile, closing her eyes and cuddling up
against him) I knew you would. Dear old Charlie! (as he gives a
wincing start) What is it? (She looks up into his face.)
MARSDEN--(forcing a smile--ironically) Twinge--rheumatics--getting
old, Nina. (thinking with wild agony)
Dear old Charlie! . . . descended again into hell! . . .
(then in a flat voice) What do you want to be punished for, Nina?
NINA--(in a strange, far-away tone, looking up not at him but at
the ceiling) For playing the silly slut, Charlie. For giving my
cool clean body to men with hot hands and greedy eyes which they
called love! Ugh! (A shiver runs over her body.)
MARSDEN--(thinking with sudden agony)
Then she did! . . . the little filth! . . .
(in his flat voice) You mean you--(then pleadingly) But not--
Darrell?
NINA--(with simple surprise) Ned? No, how could I? The war
hadn't maimed him. There would have been no point in that. But I
did with others--oh, four or five or six or seven men, Charlie. I
forget--and it doesn't matter. They were all the same. Count them
all as one, and that one a ghost of nothing. That is, to me. They
were important to themselves, if I remember rightly. But I forget.
MARSDEN--(thinking in agony)
But why? . . . the dirty little trollop! . . . why? . . .
(in his flat voice) Why did you do this, Nina?
NINA--(with a sad little laugh) God knows, Charlie! Perhaps I
knew at the time but I've forgotten. It's all mixed up. There was
a desire to be kind. But it's horribly hard to give anything, and
frightful to receive! And to give love--oneself--not in this
world! And men are difficult to please, Charlie. I seemed to feel
Gordon standing against a wall with eyes bandaged and these men
were a firing squad whose eyes were also bandaged--and only I could
see! No, I was the blindest! I would not see! I knew it was a
stupid, morbid business, that I was more maimed than they were,
really, that the war had blown my heart and insides out! And I
knew too that I was torturing these tortured men, morbidly super-
sensitive already, that they loathed the cruel mockery of my gift!
Yet I kept on, from one to one, like a stupid, driven animal until
one night not long ago I had a dream of Gordon diving down out of
the sky in flames and he looked at me with such sad burning eyes,
and all my poor maimed men, too, seemed staring out of his eyes
with a burning pain, and I woke up crying, my own eyes burning.
Then I saw what a fool I'd been--a guilty fool! So be kind and
punish me!
MARSDEN--(thinking with bitter confusion)
I wish she hadn't told me this . . . it has upset me terribly!
. . . I positively must run home at once . . . Mother is
waiting up . . . oh, how I'd love to hate this little whore!
. . . then I could punish! . . . I wish her father were alive
. . . "now he's dead there's only you," she said . . . "I've
wanted you," . . .
(with intense bitterness)
Dear old Father Charlie now! . . . ha! . . . that's how she
wants me! . . .
(then suddenly in a matter-of-fact tone that is mockingly like her
father's) Then, under the circumstances, having weighed the pros
and cons, so to speak, I should say that decidedly the most
desirable course--
NINA--(drowsily--her eyes shut) You sound so like Father, Charlie.
MARSDEN--(in the tone like her father's)--is for you to marry that
young Evans. He is a splendid chap, clean and boyish, with real
stuff in him, too, to make a career for himself if he finds a
helpmeet who will inspire him to his best efforts and bring his
latent ability to the surface.
NINA--(drowsily) Sam is a nice boy. Yes, it would be a career for
me to bring a career to his surface. I would be busy--surface life--
no more depths, please God! But I don't love him, Father.
MARSDEN--(blandly--in the tone like her father's) But you like
him, Nina. And he loves you devotedly. And it's time you were
having children--and when children come, love comes, you know.
NINA--(drowsily) I want children. I must become a mother so I can
give myself. I am sick of sickness.
MARSDEN--(briskly) Then it's all settled?
NINA--(drowsily) Yes. (very sleepily) Thank you, Father. You've
been so kind. You've let me off too easily. I don't feel as if
you'd punished me hardly at all. But I'll never, never do it
again, I promise--never, never!--(She falls asleep and gives a soft
little snore.)
MARSDEN--(still in her father's tones--very paternally--looking
down) She's had a hard day of it, poor child! I'll carry her up
to her room. (He rises to his feet with Nina sleeping peacefully
in his arms. At this moment Sam Evans enters from the right with
the package of medicine in his hand.)
EVANS--(grinning respectfully) Here's the--(as he sees Nina) Oh!
(then excitedly) Did she faint?
MARSDEN--(smiling kindly at Evans--still in her father's tones)
Sssh! She's asleep. She cried and then she fell asleep--like a
little girl. (then benignantly) But first we spoke a word about
you, Evans, and I'm sure you have every reason to hope.
EVANS--(overcome, his eyes on his shuffling feet and twiddling cap)
Thanks--I--I really don't know how to thank--
MARSDEN--(going to door--in his own voice now) I've got to go
home. My mother is waiting up for me. I'll just carry Nina
upstairs and put her on her bed and throw something over her.
EVANS--Can't I help you, Mr. Marsden?
MARSDEN--(dully) No. I cannot help myself. (As Evans looks
puzzled and startled he adds with an ironical, self-mocking
geniality) You'd better call me just Charlie after this. (He
smiles bitterly to himself as he goes out.)
EVANS--(looks after him for a moment--then cannot restrain a
joyful, coltish caper--gleefully) Good egg! Good old Charlie!
(As if he had heard or guessed, Marsden's bitter laugh comes back
from the end of the hallway.)
(Curtain)
ACT THREE
SCENE--Seven months or so later--the dining room of the Evans'
homestead in northern New York state--about nine o'clock in the
morning of a day in late spring of the following year.
The room is one of those big, misproportioned dining rooms that are
found in the large, jigsaw country houses scattered around the
country as a result of the rural taste for grandeur in the
eighties. There is a cumbersome hanging lamp suspended from chains
over the exact center of the ugly table with its set of straight-
backed chairs set back at spaced intervals against the walls. The
wall paper, a repulsive brown, is stained at the ceiling line with
damp blotches of mildew, and here and there has started to peel
back where the strips join. The floor is carpeted in a smeary
brown with a dark red design blurred into it. In the left wall is
one window with starched white curtains looking out on a covered
side porch, so that no sunlight ever gets to this room and the
light from the window, although it is a beautiful warm day in the
flower garden beyond the porch, is cheerless and sickly. There is
a door in the rear, to left of center, that leads to a hall opening
on the same porch. To the right of door a heavy sideboard, a part
of the set, displaying some "company" china and glassware. In the
right wall, a door leading to the kitchen.
Nina is seated at the foot of the table, her back to the window,
writing a letter. Her whole personality seems changed, her face
has a contented expression, there is an inner calm about her. And
her personal appearance has changed in kind, her face and figure
have filled out, she is prettier in a conventional way and less
striking and unusual; nothing remains of the strange fascination of
her face except her unchangeably mysterious eyes.
NINA--(reading what she has just written over to herself)
It's a queer house, Ned. There is something wrong with its
psyche, I'm sure. Therefore you'd simply adore it. It's a
hideous old place, a faded gingerbread with orange fixin's and
numerous lightning rods. Around it are acres and acres of
apple trees in full bloom, all white and pinkish and
beautiful, like brides just tripping out of church with the
bridegroom, Spring, by the arm.
Which reminds me, Ned, that it's over six months since Sam and
I were married and we haven't seen hide nor hair of you since
the ceremony. Do you think that is any nice way to act? You
might at least drop me a line. But I'm only joking. I know
how busy you must be now that you've got the chance you've
always wanted to do research work. Did you get our joint
letter of congratulation written after we read of your
appointment?
But to get back to this house. I feel it has lost its soul
and grown resigned to doing without it. It isn't haunted by
anything at all--and ghosts of some sort are the only normal
life a house has--like our minds, you know. So although last
evening when we got here at first I said "obviously haunted"
to myself, now that I've spent one night in it I know that
whatever spooks there may once have been have packed up their
manifestations a long time ago and drifted away over the
grass, wisps of mist between the apple trees, without one
backward glance of regret or recollection. It's incredible to
think Sam was born and spent his childhood here. I'm glad he
doesn't show it! We slept last night in the room he was born
in. Or rather he slept, I couldn't. I lay awake and found it
difficult to breathe, as if all the life in the air had long
since been exhausted in keeping the dying living a little
longer. It was hard to believe anyone had ever been born
alive there. I know you're saying crossly "She's still
morbid" but I'm not. I've never been more normal. I feel
contented and placid.
(looking up from the letter, thinking embarrassedly)
Should I have told him? . . . no . . . my own secret . . .
tell no one . . . not even Sam . . . why haven't I told Sam?
. . . it'd do him so much good . . . he'd feel so proud of
himself, poor dear . . . no . . . I want to keep it just my
baby . . . only mine . . . as long as I can . . . and it will
be time enough to let Ned know when I go to New York . . . he
can suggest a good obstetrician . . . how delighted he'll be
when he hears! . . . he always said it would be the best thing
for me . . . well, I do feel happy when I think . . . and I
love Sam now . . . in a way . . . it will be his baby too . . .
(then with a happy sigh, turns back to letter)
But speaking of Sam's birth, you really must meet his mother
sometime. It's amazing how little she is like him, a strange
woman from the bit I saw of her last night. She has been
writing Sam regularly once a week ever since she's known we
were married, the most urgent invitations to visit her. They
were really more like commands, or prayers. I suspect she is
terribly lonely all by herself in this big house. Sam's
feeling toward her puzzles me. I don't believe he ever
mentioned her until her letters began coming or that he'd ever
have come to see the poor woman if I hadn't insisted. His
attitude rather shocked me. It was just as though he'd
forgotten he had a mother. And yet as soon as he saw her he
was sweet enough. She seemed dreadfully upset to see Charlie
with us, until we'd explained it was thanks to his kindness
and in his car we were taking this deferred honeymoon.
Charlie's like a fussy old woman about his car, he's afraid to
let Sam or me drive it--
MARSDEN--(enters from the rear. He is spruce, dressed
immaculately, his face a bit tired and resigned, but smiling
kindly. He has a letter in his hand.) Good morning. (She gives a
start and instinctively covers the letter with her hand.)
NINA--Good morning. (thinking amusedly)
If he knew what I'd just written . . . poor old Charlie! . . .
(then indicating the letter he carries) I see you're an early
correspondent, too.
MARSDEN--(with sudden jealous suspicion)
Why did she cover it up like that? . . . whom is she writing
to? . . .
(coming toward her) Just a line to Mother to let her know we've
not all been murdered by rum-bandits. You know how she worries.
NINA--(thinking with a trace of pitying contempt)
Apron strings . . . still his devotion to her is touching
. . . I hope if mine is a boy he will love me as much . . .
oh, I hope it is a boy . . . healthy and strong and
beautiful . . . like Gordon! . . .
(then suddenly sensing Marsden's curiosity--perfunctorily) I'm
writing to Ned Darrell. I've owed him one for ages. (She folds it
up and puts it aside.)
MARSDEN--(thinking glumly)
I thought she'd forgotten him . . . still I suppose it's
just friendly . . . and it's none of my business now she's
married. . . .
(perfunctorily) How did you sleep?
NINA--Not a wink. I had the strangest feeling.
MARSDEN--Sleeping in a strange bed, I suppose. (jokingly) Did you
see any ghosts?
NINA--(with a sad smile) No, I got the feeling the ghosts had all
deserted the house and left it without a soul--as the dead so often
leave the living--(she forces a little laugh) if you get what I
mean.
MARSDEN--(thinking worriedly)
Slipping back into that morbid tone . . . first time in a long
while . . .
(teasingly) Hello! Do I hear graveyards yawning from their sleep--
and yet I observe it's a gorgeous morning without, the flowers are
flowering, the trees are treeing with one another, and you, if I
mistake not, are on your honeymoon!
NINA--(immediately gaily mocking) Oh, very well, old thing!
"God's in his heaven, all's right with the world!" And Pippa's
cured of the pip! (She dances up to him.)
MARSDEN--(gallantly) Pippa is certainly a pippin this morning!
NINA--(kisses him quickly) You deserve one for that! All I meant
was that ghosts remind me of men's smart crack about women, you
can't live with them and can't live without them. (stands still
and looks at him teasingly) But there you stand proving me a liar
by every breath you draw! You're ghostless and womanless--and as
sleek and satisfied as a pet seal! (She sticks out her tongue at
him and makes a face of superior scorn.) Bah! That for you,
'Fraid-cat Charlie, you slacker bachelor! (She runs to the kitchen
door.) I'm going to bum some more coffee! How about you?
MARSDEN--(with a forced smile) No, thank you. (She disappears
into the kitchen. Thinking with bitter pain)
Ghostless! . . . if she only knew . . . that joking tone hides
her real contempt! . . .
(self-mockingly)
"But when the girls began to play 'Fraid-cat Charlie ran
away!"
(then rallying himself)
Bosh! . . . I haven't had such thoughts . . . not since their
marriage . . . happy in her happiness . . . but is she happy?
. . . in the first few months she was obviously playing a part
. . . kissed him too much . . . as if she'd determined to make
herself a loving wife . . . and then all of a sudden she
became contented . . . her face filled out . . . her eyes
lazily examined peace . . . pregnant . . . yes, she must be
. . . I hope so . . . why? . . . for her sake . . . my own, too
. . . when she has a child I know I can entirely accept . . .
forget I have lost her . . . lost her? . . . silly ass! . . .
how can you lose what you never possessed? . . . except in
dreams! . . .
(shaking his head exasperatedly)
Round and round . . . thoughts . . . damn pests! . . .
mosquitoes of the soul . . . whine, sting, suck one's blood
. . . why did I invite Nina and Sam on this tour . . . it's a
business trip with me, really . . . I need a new setting for
my next novel . . . "Mr. Marsden departs a bit from his
familiar field" . . . well, there they were stuck in the
Professor's house . . . couldn't afford a vacation . . . never
had a honeymoon . . . I've pretended to be done up every night
so they could . . . I've gone to bed right after dinner so
they could be alone and . . . I wonder if she can really like
him . . . that way? . . .
(The sound of Evans' voice and his mother's is heard from the
garden. Marsden goes over and carefully peers out.)
Sam with his mother . . . peculiar woman . . . strong . . .
good character for a novel . . . no, she's too somber . . .
her eyes are the saddest . . . and, at the same time, the
grimmest . . . they're coming in . . . I'll drive around the
country a bit . . . give them a chance for a family conference
. . . discuss Nina's pregnancy, I suppose . . . does Sam know?
. . . he gives no indication . . . why do wives hide it from
their husbands? . . . ancient shame . . . guilty of continuing
life, of bringing fresh pain into the world . . .
(He goes out, rear. The outside door in the hall is heard being
opened and Evans and his mother evidently meet Marsden as he is
about to go out. Their voices, his voice explaining, are heard,
then the outer door being opened and shut again as Marsden departs.
A moment later Evans and his mother enter the dining room. Sam
looks timorously happy, as if he could not quite believe in his
good fortune and had constantly to reassure himself about it, yet
he is riding the crest of the wave, he radiates love and devotion
and boyish adoration. He is a charming-looking fresh boy now. He
wears a sweater and linen knickers, collegiate to the last degree.
His mother is a tiny woman with a frail figure, her head and face,
framed in iron-gray hair, seeming much too large for her body, so
that at first glance she gives one the impression of a wonderfully
made, lifelike doll. She is only about forty-five but she looks at
least sixty. Her face with its delicate features must have once
been of a romantic, tender, clinging-vine beauty, but what has
happened to her has compressed its defenseless curves into planes,
its mouth into the thin line around a locked door, its gentle chin
has been forced out aggressively by a long reliance on clenched
teeth. She is very pale. Her big dark eyes are grim with the
prisoner-pain of a walled-in soul. Yet a sweet loving-kindness,
the ghost of an old faith and trust in life's goodness, hovers
girlishly, fleetingly, about the corners of her mouth and softens
into deep sorrow the shadowy grimness of her eyes. Her voice jumps
startlingly in tone from a caressing gentleness to a blunted flat
assertiveness, as if what she said then was merely a voice on its
own without human emotion to inspire it.)
EVANS--(as they come in--rattling on in the cocksure boastful way
of a boy showing off his prowess before his mother, confident of
thrilled adulation) In a few years you won't have to worry one way
or another about the darned old apple crop. I'll be able to take
care of you then. Wait and see! Of course, I'm not making so much
now. I couldn't expect to. I've only just started. But I'm
making good, all right, all right--since I got married--and it's
only a question of time when--Why, to show you, Cole--he's the
manager and the best egg ever--called me into his office and told
me he'd had his eye on me, that my stuff was exactly what they
wanted, and he thought I had the makings of a real find. (proudly)
How's that? That's certainly fair enough, isn't it?
MRS. EVANS--(vaguely--she has evidently not heard much of what he
said) That's fine, Sammy. (thinking apprehensively)
I do hope I'm wrong! . . . but that old shiver of dread took
me the minute she stepped in the door! . . . I don't think
she's told Sammy but I got to make sure. . . .
EVANS--(seeing her preoccupation now--deeply hurt--testily) I'll
bet you didn't hear a word I said! Are you still worrying about
how the darn old apples are going to turn out?
MRS. EVANS--(with a guilty start--protestingly) Yes, I did hear
you, Sammy--every word! That's just what I was thinking about--how
proud I am you're doing so wonderful well!
EVANS--(mollified but still grumbling) You'd never guess it from
the gloomy way you looked! (but encouraged to go on) And Cole
asked me if I was married--seemed to take a real personal interest--
said he was glad to hear it because marriage was what put the
right kind of ambition into a fellow--unselfish ambition--working
for his wife and not just himself--(then embarrassedly) He even
asked me if we were expecting an addition to the family.
MRS. EVANS--(seeing this is her chance--quickly--forcing a smile)
I've been meaning to ask you that myself, Sammy. (blurts out
apprehensively) She--Nina--she isn't going to have a baby, is she?
EVANS--(with an indefinable guilty air--as if he were reluctant to
admit it) I--why--you mean, is she now? I don't think so, Mother.
(He strolls over to the window whistling with an exaggeratedly
casual air, and looks out.)
MRS. EVANS--(thinking with grim relief)
He don't know . . . there's that much to be thankful for,
anyway. . . .
EVANS--(thinking with intense longing)
If that'd only happen! . . . soon! . . . Nina's begun to love
me . . . a little . . . I've felt it the last two months . . .
God, it's made me happy! . . . before that she didn't . . .
only liked me . . . that was all I asked . . . never dared
hope she'd come to love me . . . even a little . . . so soon
. . . sometimes I feel it's too good to be true . . . don't
deserve it . . . and now . . . if that'd happen . . . then I'd
feel sure . . . it'd be there . . . half Nina, half me . . .
living proof! . . .
(then an apprehensive note creeping in)
And I know she wants a baby so much . . . one reason why she
married me . . . and I know she's felt right along that then
she'd love me . . . really love me . . .
(gloomily)
I wonder why . . . ought to have happened before this . . .
hope it's nothing wrong . . . with me! . . .
(He starts, flinging off this thought--then suddenly clutching at a
straw, turns hopefully to his mother.) Why did you ask me that,
Mother? D'you think--?
MRS. EVANS--(hastily) No, indeed! I don't think she is! I
wouldn't say so at all!
EVANS--(dejectedly) Oh--I thought perhaps--(then changing the
subject) I suppose I ought to go up and say hello to Aunt Bessie.
MRS. EVANS--(her face becoming defensive--in blunted tones, a
trifle pleadingly) I wouldn't, Sammy. She hasn't seen you since
you were eight. She wouldn't know you. And you're on your
honeymoon, and old age is always sad to young folks. Be happy
while you can! (then pushing him toward door) Look here! You
catch that friend, he's just getting his car out. You drive to
town with him, give me a chance to get to know my daughter-in-law,
and call her to account for how she's taking care of you! (She
laughs forcedly.)
EVANS--(bursting out passionately) Better than I deserve! She's
an angel, Mother! I know you'll love her!
MRS. EVANS--(gently) I do already, Sammy! She's so pretty and
sweet!
EVANS--(kisses her--joyously) I'll tell her that. I'm going out
this way and kiss her good-bye. (He runs out through the kitchen
door.)
MRS. EVANS--(looking after him--passionately)
He loves her! . . . he's happy! . . . that's all that counts!
. . . being happy! . . .
(thinking apprehensively)
If only she isn't going to have a baby . . . if only she
doesn't care so much about having one . . . I got to have it
out with her . . . got to! . . . no other way . . . in mercy
. . . in justice . . . this has got to end with my boy . . .
and he's got to live happy! . . .
(At the sound of steps from the kitchen she straightens up in her
chair stiffly.)
NINA--(comes in from the kitchen, a cup of coffee in her hand,
smiling happily) Good morning--(she hesitates--then shyly)
Mother. (She comes over and kisses her--slips down and sits on the
floor beside her.)
MRS. EVANS--(flusteredly--hurriedly) Good morning! It's a real
fine day, isn't it? I ought to have been here and got your
breakfast, but I was out gallivanting round the place with Sammy.
I hope you found everything you wanted.
NINA--Indeed I did! And I ate so much I'm ashamed of myself! (She
nods at the cup of coffee and laughs.) See. I'm still at it.
MRS. EVANS--Good for you!
NINA--I ought to apologize for coming down so late. Sam should
have called me. But I wasn't able to get to sleep until after
daylight somehow.
MRS. EVANS--(strangely) You couldn't sleep? Why? Did you feel
anything funny--about this house?
NINA--(struck by her tone--looks up) No. Why? (thinking)
How her face changes! . . . what sad eyes! . . .
MRS. EVANS--(thinking in an agony of apprehension)
Got to start in to tell her . . . got to . . .
NINA--(apprehensive herself now)
That sick dead feeling . . . when something is going to happen
. . . I felt it before I got the cable about Gordon . . .
(then taking a sip of coffee, and trying to be pleasantly casual)
Sam said you wanted to talk to me.
MRS. EVANS--(dully) Yes. You love my boy, don't you?
NINA--(startled--forcing a smile, quickly) Why, of course!
(reassuring herself)
No, it isn't a lie . . . I do love him . . . the father of my
baby . . .
MRS. EVANS--(blurts out) Are you going to have a baby, Nina?
NINA--(She presses Mrs. Evans' hand--simply) Yes, Mother.
MRS. EVANS--(in her blunt flat tones--with a mechanical rapidity to
her words) Don't you think it's too soon? Don't you think you
better wait until Sammy's making more money? Don't you think it'll
be a drag on him and you? Why don't you just go on being happy
together, just you two?
NINA--(thinking frightenedly)
What is behind what she's saying? . . . that feeling of death
again! . . .
(moving away from her--repulsed) No, I don't think any of those
things, Mrs. Evans. I want a baby--beyond everything! We both do!
MRS. EVANS--(hopelessly) I know. (then grimly) But you can't!
You've got to make up your mind you can't! (thinking fiercely--
even with satisfaction)
Tell her! . . . make her suffer what I was made to suffer!
. . . I've been too lonely! . . .
NINA--(thinking with terrified foreboding)
I knew it! . . . Out of a blue sky . . . black! . . .
(springing to her feet--bewilderedly) What do you mean? How can
you say a thing like that?
MRS. EVANS--(reaching out her hand tenderly, trying to touch Nina)
It's because I want Sammy--and you, too, child--to be happy. (then
as Nina shrinks away from her hand--in her blunted tones) You just
can't.
NINA--(defiantly) But I can! I have already! I mean--I am,
didn't you understand me?
MRS. EVANS--(gently) I know it's hard. (then inexorably) But you
can't go on!
NINA--(violently) I don't believe you know what you're saying!
It's too terrible for you--Sam's own mother--how would you have
felt if someone--when you were going to have Sam--came to you and
said--?
MRS. EVANS--(thinking fiercely)
Now's my chance! . . .
(tonelessly) They did say it! Sam's own father did--my husband!
And I said it to myself! And I did all I could, all my husband
could think of, so's I wouldn't--but we didn't know enough. And
right to the time the pains come on, I prayed Sammy'd be born dead,
and Sammy's father prayed, but Sammy was born healthy and smiling,
and we just had to love him, and live in fear. He doubled the
torment of fear we lived in. And that's what you'd be in for. And
Sammy, he'd go the way his father went. And your baby, you'd be
bringing it into torment. (a bit violently) I tell you it'd be a
crime--a crime worse than murder! (then recovering--commiseratingly)
So you just can't, Nina!
NINA--(who has been listening distractedly--thinking)
Don't listen to her! . . . feeling of death! . . . what is it?
. . . she's trying to kill my baby! . . . oh, I hate her! . . .
(hysterically resentful) What do you mean? Why don't you speak
plainly? (violently) I think you're horrible! Praying your baby
would be born dead! That's a lie! You couldn't!
MRS. EVANS--(thinking)
I know what she's doing now . . . just what I did . . . trying
not to believe . . .
(fiercely)
But I'll make her! . . . she's got to suffer, too! . . . I
been too lonely! . . . she's got to share and help me save my
Sammy! . . .
(with an even more blunted flat relentless tonelessness) I thought
I was plain, but I'll be plainer. Only remember it's a family
secret, and now you're one of the family. It's the curse on the
Evanses. My husband's mother--she was an only child--died in an
asylum and her father before her. I know that for a fact. And my
husband's sister, Sammy's aunt, she's out of her mind. She lives
on the top floor of this house, hasn't been out of her room in
years, I've taken care of her. She just sits, doesn't say a word,
but she's happy, she laughs to herself a lot, she hasn't a care in
the world. But I remember when she was all right, she was always
unhappy, she never got married, most people around here were afraid
of the Evanses in spite of their being rich for hereabouts. They
knew about the craziness going back, I guess, for heaven knows how
long. I didn't know about the Evanses until after I'd married my
husband. He came to the town I lived in, no one there knew about
the Evanses. He didn't tell me until after we were married. He
asked me to forgive him, he said he loved me so much he'd have gone
mad without me, said I was his only hope of salvation. So I
forgave him. I loved him an awful lot. I said to myself, I'll be
his salvation--and maybe I could have been if we hadn't had Sammy
born. My husband kept real well up to then. We'd swore we'd never
have children, we never forgot to be careful for two whole years.
Then one night we'd both gone to a dance, we'd both had a little
punch to drink, just enough--to forget--driving home in the
moonlight--that moonlight!--such little things at the back of big
things!
NINA--(in a dull moan) I don't believe you! I won't believe you!
MRS. EVANS--(drones on) My husband, Sammy's father, in spite of
all he and I fought against it, he finally gave in to it when Sammy
was only eight, he couldn't keep up any more living in fear for
Sammy, thinking any minute the curse might get him, every time he
was sick, or had a headache, or bumped his head, or started crying,
or had a nightmare and screamed, or said something queer like
children do naturally. (a bit stridently) Living like that with
that fear is awful torment! I know that! I went through it by his
side! It nearly drove me crazy, too--but I didn't have it in my
blood! And that's why I'm telling you! You got to see you can't,
Nina!
NINA--(suddenly breaking out--frenziedly) I don't believe you! I
don't believe Sam would ever have married me if he knew--
MRS. EVANS--(sharply) Who said Sammy knew? He don't know a single
thing about it! That's been the work of my life, keeping him from
knowing. When his father gave up and went off into it I sent Sammy
right off to boarding school. I told him his father was sick, and
a little while after I sent word his father was dead, and from then
on until his father did really die during Sammy's second year to
college, I kept him away at school in winter and camp in summers
and I went to see him, I never let him come home. (with a sigh)
It was hard, giving up Sammy, knowing I was making him forget he
had a mother. I was glad taking care of them two kept me so busy I
didn't get much chance to think then. But here's what I've come to
think since, Nina: I'm certain sure my husband might have kept his
mind with the help of my love if I hadn't had Sammy. And if I'd
never had Sammy I'd never have loved Sammy--or missed him, would I?--
and I'd have kept my husband.
NINA--(not heeding this last--with wild mockery) And I thought Sam
was so normal--so healthy and sane--not like me! I thought he'd
give me such healthy, happy children and I'd forget myself in them
and learn to love him!
MRS. EVANS--(horrified, jumping to her feet) Learn to? You told
me you did love Sammy!
NINA--No! Maybe I almost have--lately--but only when I thought of
his baby! Now I hate him! (She begins to weep hysterically. Mrs.
Evans goes to her and puts her arms around her. Nina sobs out)
Don't touch me! I hate you, too! Why didn't you tell him he must
never marry!
MRS. EVANS--What reason could I give, without telling him
everything? And I never heard about you till after you were
married. Then I wanted to write to you but I was scared he might
read it. And I couldn't leave her upstairs to come away to see
you. I kept writing Sammy to bring you here right off, although
having him come frightened me to death for fear he might get to
suspect something. You got to get him right away from here, Nina!
I just kept hoping you wouldn't want children right away--young
folks don't nowadays--until I'd seen you and told you everything.
And I thought you'd love him like I did his father, and be
satisfied with him alone.
NINA--(lifting her head--wildly) No! I don't! I won't! I'll
leave him!
MRS. EVANS--(shaking her, fiercely) You can't! He'd go crazy sure
then! You'd be a devil! Don't you see how he loves you?
NINA--(breaking away from her--harshly) Well, I don't love him! I
only married him because he needed me--and I needed children! And
now you tell me I've got to kill my--oh, yes, I see I've got to,
you needn't argue any more! I love it too much to make it run that
chance! And I hate it too, now, because it's sick, it's not my
baby, it's his! (with terrible ironic bitterness) And still you
can dare to tell me I can't even leave Sam!
MRS. EVANS--(very sadly and bitterly) You just said you married
him because he needed you. Don't he need you now--more'n ever?
But I can't tell you not to leave him, not if you don't love him.
But you oughtn't to have married him when you didn't love him. And
it'll be your fault, what'll happen.
NINA--(torturedly) What will happen?--what do you mean?--Sam will
be all right--just as he was before--and it's not my fault anyway!--
it's not my fault! (then thinking conscience-strickenly)
Poor Sam . . . she's right . . . it's not his fault . . . it's
mine . . . I wanted to use him to save myself . . . I acted
the coward again . . . as I did with Gordon . . .
MRS. EVANS--(grimly) You know what'll happen to him if you leave
him--after all I've told you! (then breaking into intense
pleading) Oh, I'd get down on my knees to you, don't make my boy
run that risk! You got to give one Evans, the last one, a chance
to live in this world! And you'll learn to love him, if you give
up enough for him! (then with a grim smile) Why, I even love that
idiot upstairs, I've taken care of her so many years, lived her
life for her with my life, you might say. You give your life to
Sammy, then you'll love him same as you love yourself. You'll have
to! That's sure as death! (She laughs a queer gentle laugh full
of amused bitterness.)
NINA--(with a sort of dull stupid wonderment) And you've found
peace?--
MRS. EVANS--(sardonically) There's peace in the green fields of
Eden, they say! You got to die to find out! (then proudly) But I
can say I feel proud of having lived fair to them that gave me love
and trusted in me!
NINA--(struck--confusedly) Yes--that's true, isn't it? (thinking
strangely)
Lived fair . . . pride . . . trust . . . play the game! . . .
who is speaking to me . . . Gordon! . . . oh, Gordon, do you
mean I must give Sam the life I didn't give you? . . . Sam
loved you too . . . he said, if we have a boy, we'll call him
Gordon in Gordon's honor . . . Gordon's honor! . . . what must
I do now in your honor, Gordon? . . . yes! . . . I know! . . .
(speaking mechanically in a dull voice) All right, Mother. I'll
stay with Sam. There's nothing else I can do, is there, when it
isn't his fault, poor boy! (then suddenly snapping and bursting
out in a despairing cry) But I'll be so lonely! I'll have lost my
baby! (She sinks down on her knees at Mrs. Evans' feet--piteously)
Oh, Mother, how can I keep on living?
MRS. EVANS--(thinking miserably)
Now she knows my suffering . . . now I got to help her . . . she's
got a right to have a baby . . . another baby . . . sometime . . .
somehow . . . she's giving her life to save my Sammy . . . I got to
save her! . . .
(stammeringly) Maybe, Nina--
NINA--(dully and resentfully again now) And how about Sam? You
want him to be happy, don't you? It's just as important for him as
it is for me that I should have a baby! If you know anything at
all about him, you ought to see that!
MRS. EVANS--(sadly) I know that. I see that in him, Nina.
(gropingly) There must be a way--somehow. I remember when I was
carrying Sam, sometimes I'd forget I was a wife, I'd only remember
the child in me. And then I used to wish I'd gone out deliberate
in our first year, without my husband knowing, and picked a man, a
healthy male to breed by, same's we do with stock, to give the man
I loved a healthy child. And if I didn't love that other man nor
him me where would be the harm? Then God would whisper: "It'd be
a sin, adultery, the worst sin!" But after He'd gone I'd argue
back again to myself, then we'd have a healthy child, I needn't be
afraid! And maybe my husband would feel without ever knowing how
he felt it, that I wasn't afraid and that child wasn't cursed and
so he needn't fear and I could save him. (then scornfully) But I
was too afraid of God then to have ever done it! (then very
simply) He loved children so, my poor husband did, and the way
they took to him, you never saw anything like it, he was a natural
born father. And Sammy's the same.
NINA--(as from a distance--strangely) Yes, Sammy's the same. But
I'm not the same as you. (defiantly) I don't believe in God the
Father!
MRS. EVANS--(strangely) Then it'd be easy for you. (with a grim
smile) And I don't believe in Him, neither, not any more. I used
to be a great one for worrying about what's God and what's devil,
but I got richly over it living here with poor folks that was being
punished for no sins of their own, and me being punished with them
for no sin but loving much. (with decision) Being happy, that's
the nearest we can ever come to knowing what's good! Being happy,
that's good! The rest is just talk! (She pauses--then with a
strange austere sternness) I love my boy, Sammy. I could see how
much he wants you to have a baby. Sammy's got to feel sure you
love him--to be happy. Whatever you can do to make him happy is
good--is good, Nina! I don't care what! You've got to have a
healthy baby--sometime--so's you can both be happy! It's your
rightful duty!
NINA--(confusedly--in a half-whisper) Yes, Mother. (thinking
longingly)
I want to be happy! . . . it's my right . . . and my duty! . . .
(then suddenly in guilty agony)
Oh, my baby . . . my poor baby . . . I'm forgetting you . . .
desiring another after you are dead! . . . I feel you beating
against my heart for mercy . . . oh! . . .
(She weeps with bitter anguish.)
MRS. EVANS--(gently and with deep sympathy) I know what you're
suffering. And I wouldn't say what I just said now only I know us
two mustn't see each other ever again. You and Sammy have got to
forget me. (as Nina makes a motion of protest--grimly and
inexorably) Oh, yes, you will--easy. People forget everything.
They got to, poor people! And I'm saying what I said about a
healthy baby so's you will remember it when you need to, after
you've forgotten--this one.
NINA--(sobbing pitifully) Don't! Please, Mother!
MRS. EVANS--(with sudden tenderness--gathering Nina up in her arms,
brokenly) You poor child! You're like the daughter of my sorrow!
You're closer to me now than ever Sammy could be! I want you to be
happy! (She begins to sob, too, kissing Nina's bowed head.)
(Curtain)
ACT FOUR
SCENE--An evening early in the following winter about seven months
later. The Professor's study again. The books in the cases have
never been touched, their austere array shows no gaps, but the
glass separating them from the world is gray with dust, giving them
a blurred ghostly quality. The table, although it is the same, is
no longer the Professor's table, just as the other furniture in the
room, by its disarrangement, betrays that the Professor's well-
ordered mind no longer trims it to his personality. The table has
become neurotic. Volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica mixed up
with popular treatises on Mind Training for Success, etc., looking
startlingly modern and disturbing against the background of
classics in the original, are slapped helter-skelter on top of each
other on it. The titles of these books face in all directions, no
one volume is placed with any relation to the one beneath it--the
effect is that they have no connected meaning. The rest of the
table is littered with an ink bottle, pens, pencils, erasers, a box
of typewriting paper, and a typewriter at the center before the
chair, which is pushed back, setting the rug askew. On the floor
beside the table are an overflowing wastepaper basket, a few sheets
of paper and the rubber cover for the typewriter like a collapsed
tent. The rocking chair is no longer at center but has been pulled
nearer the table, directly faces it with its back to the bench.
This bench in turn has been drawn much closer, but is now placed
more to the rear and half-faces front, its back squarely to the
door in the corner.
Evans is seated in the Professor's old chair. He has evidently
been typing, or is about to type, for a sheet of paper can be seen
in the machine. He smokes a pipe, which he is always relighting
whether it needs it or not, and which he bites and shifts about and
pulls in and out and puffs at nervously. His expression is
dispirited, his eyes shift about, his shoulders are collapsed
submissively. He seems much thinner, his face drawn and sallow.
The collegiate clothes are no longer natty, they need pressing and
look too big for him.
EVANS--(turns to his typewriter and pounds out a few words with a
sort of aimless desperation--then tears the sheet out of the
machine with an exclamation of disgust, crumples it up and throws
it violently on the floor, pushing his chair back and jumping to
his feet) Hell! (He begins pacing up and down the room, puffing
at his pipe, thinking tormentedly)
No use . . . can't think of a darn thing . . . well, who could
dope out a novel ad on another powdered milk, anyway? . . .
all the stuff been used already . . . Tartars conquering on
dried mare's milk . . . Metchnikoff, eminent scientist . . .
been done to death . . . but simply got to work out something
or . . . Cole said, what's been the matter with you lately?
. . . you started off so well . . . I thought you were a real
find, but your work's fallen off to nothing . . .
(He sits down on the edge of the bench nearby, his shoulders
hunched--despondently)
Couldn't deny it . . . been going stale ever since we came
back from that trip home . . . no ideas . . . I'll get fired
. . . sterile . . .
(with a guilty terror)
in more ways than one, I guess! . . .
(He springs to his feet as if this idea were a pin stuck in him--
lighting his already lighted pipe, walks up and down again, forcing
his thoughts into other channels.)
Bet the old man turns over in his grave at my writing ads in
his study . . . maybe that's why I can't . . . bum influence
. . . try tomorrow in my bedroom . . . sleeping alone . . .
since Nina got sick . . . some woman's sickness . . . wouldn't
tell me . . . too modest . . . still, there are some things a
husband has a right to know . . . especially when we haven't
. . . in five months . . . doctor told her she mustn't, she
said . . . what doctor? . . . she's never said . . . what the
hell's the matter with you, do you think Nina's lying? . . .
no . . . but . . .
(desperately)
If I was only sure it was because she's really sick . . . not
just sick of me! . . .
(He sinks down in the rocking chair despondently.)