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Title: Bill Porter
A drama of O. Henry in prison
Author: Upton Sinclair
Release date: December 29, 2024 [eBook #74989]
Language: English
Original publication: Pasadena, CA: self-published
Credits: Tim Lindell, Chris Hapka and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BILL PORTER ***
BILL PORTER
A Drama of O. Henry in Prison
BY
UPTON SINCLAIR
PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR
PASADENA, CALIFORNIA
------------------------------------------------------------------------
COPYRIGHT, 1925
BY UPTON SINCLAIR
All rights reserved in all countries including the Scandinavian
For rights of production address the Author
Printed in the United States of America
------------------------------------------------------------------------
FOREWORD
The central figure of this play is the writer of short stories known to
all the world as O. Henry. His name was William Sydney Porter; “Bill”
Porter to his intimates in the Ohio State Penitentiary, where, beginning
at the age of thirty-six, he served a sentence of three years and three
months for embezzlement of national bank funds.
This play follows, as literally as possible, the facts concerning “Bill”
Porter’s life and behavior in prison, as revealed in his letters and
other published records. The writer of the play has had the advantage of
much conversation with Al Jennings, who was Porter’s intimate both in
prison and previously in Central America, where they had sought refuge
from the law. Mr. Jennings, who appears as a character in this play, has
been good enough to go over the manuscript, and the author here pays
tribute to the kindness and genial spirit of an ex-train bandit,
ex-convict, ex-lawyer, ex-evangelist, and almost successful candidate
for governor of Oklahoma. Mr. Jennings has written a book, “Through the
Shadows with O. Henry,” published by the H. K. Fly Company, also by the
A. L. Burt Company.
This play deals with the soul of a creative artist, working despite ill
fortune. Throughout the play there has been employed a convention
additional to those customary on our stage. Whenever colored lighting is
used, the scenes beheld and the characters appearing are not real, but
are the children of “Bill” Porter’s brain. They may be persons who have
previously appeared as real, but they are now present in the thoughts of
the hero. In this form they change, they assume new personalities and
take on new roles, in the magic chemistry of art. Let no one be puzzled
because these artist imaginings mix up all times and places, the past
and the present, the living and the dead; for that is the way of the
imagination. The play tries to show a writer at work; how he takes the
experiences of his life, and revises and reshapes them according to his
temperament.
The stories of O. Henry alluded to in the play are as follows: Act I, “A
Municipal Report,” from the volume “Strictly Business”; Act II, “A
Retrieved Reformation,” from the volume “Roads of Destiny”—a story
better known by the title of the play which was made from it, “Alias
Jimmie Valentine”; Act III, “Holding up a Train,” “Makes the Whole World
Kin,” and “The Day We Celebrate,” from “Sixes and Sevens,” and “The
Fourth in Salvador,” from “Roads of Destiny”; Act IV, “The Guardian of
the Accolade,” from “Roads of Destiny,” and “An Unfinished Story,” from
“The Four Million.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
SCENE: State Penitentiary at Columbus, Ohio.
TIME: 1899.
Act. I: The drug-store of the prison hospital.
Act. II: The same.
Act. III: The postoffice of the prison.
Act. IV: The drug-store again.
CHARACTERS.
BIGGINS _pickpocket_
BILL PORTER _night drug-clerk of the prison hospital_
PURZON _swindler_
JOE _Negro trusty_
MARGARET _Porter’s little daughter_
ATHOL _Porter’s deceased wife_
ESPIRITU DE LA VINA _Porter’s temptation_
DR. WALTERS _night physician of the prison_
AL JENNINGS _train-bandit_
THE JUDGE _of “Bankers’ Row”_
DELACOUR _of the same_
JIMMIE VALENTINE _cracksman_
RAIDLER _the Oklahoma terror_
GENERAL DINGO _of the Salvador revolution_
DULCIE _the little shop-girl_
------------------------------------------------------------------------
BILL PORTER
ACT I.
SCENE: _The drug-store of the prison hospital._
_A long counter runs all the way across the stage, from right to left,
at the back part of the stage. On the far side of the counter, away from
the audience, the convicts file by, entering at the right and going off
at the left, having their orders for drugs filled by the clerk. On the
side of the counter nearest to the audience is the portion of the room
in which the drugs and supplies are kept, and in which the clerk works.
This portion has an entrance at right, to the hospital, and one at the
left, to a hall. At right center is a flat-topped desk, with a chair
facing left; another chair on the other side of the desk. All the way
under the counter, and along the walls at right and left, are rows of
shelves occupied by boxes and bottles large and small, as in an ordinary
drug-store. These shelves turn upon pivots, making possible a quick
change of the room, at the end of Act II and of Act IV, into a bank._
AT RISE: _Those convicts who have listed themselves as sick are getting
their evening supply of drugs. They file along from right to left,
hard-faced, desolate looking men both white and black, clad in the
old-fashioned black and white striped convict suits. They shove bits of
paper over the counter, and take their pills or powders, for the most
part silently, sometimes with a grunt or a growl. A guard stands by the
door, watching them, a club in his hand; the guard wearing blue uniform
with brass buttons._
_Bill Porter, the night drug-clerk on duty, takes the prescriptions and
fills them silently and swiftly; they are all standard prescriptions,
which he has ready mixed and measured, and for the most part all he does
is to shove out two or three pills, or a powder folded up in blue paper.
He is a smooth-shaven, fair-haired man of thirty-seven, not stout but
well filled out, benevolent, but reserved in manner. He wears a white
hospital costume, clean, but old and worn. The Negro, Joe, a trusty, is
puttering about the place, making a pretense at dusting off the contents
of the shelves with a rag. He wears a dingy grey uniform, with black
stripe down the trousers._
_Biggins_ (_next to the last man in the line; a lean, wiry street-rat
and pickpocket; he talks out of the corner of his mouth, so that the
guard will not detect him_): Say, Buddy, can’t yer give us somethin’
different from these here white pills?
_Porter_: I am filling your prescription.
_Biggins_: Well, can’t yer wait till yer make yer rounds, an give us
somethin’ else?
_Porter_: If you want me to prescribe for you, you’ll have to apply when
I’m making my rounds.
_Biggins_: Thanks, Buddy, fer the tip. The croaker’s been t’rowin’ dese
here white bullets down me troat fer a month now—
_Purzon_ (_the last convict in the line; a big man, broad, beefy-faced,
noisy, who has passed worthless checks by posing as a ranchman_): Cheer
up, kid, there’s nothin’ in ’em but a lump of dough. (_he hands over his
slip of paper, and receives a couple of pills_). Don’t I get a powder
too? The croaker said I should.
_Porter_: He didn’t write it down.
_Purzon_: Well, for God’s sake, what kind of a deal is that? He told me
I was to have digitalis.
_Porter_: There’s digitalis in one of those pills.
_Purzon_: Well, they look exactly alike! A fat lot they care what they
feed you in this joint—that bonehead croaker don’t take as much trouble
as if he was keepin’ dogs.
_Porter_ (_sternly_): Move along now. If you have any quarrel with the
doctor, say it to him.
_Purzon_ (_snarling_): Ah, you fat stool-pigeon!
_Porter_: Move on! I’ve never yet reported a man in this place, but I’m
not paid to listen to you abuse my chief.
(_The guard, noticing the talk, approaches and pokes Purzon roughly with
his stick; the last of the line moves off._)
_Joe_ (_coming forward, humbly; a large, athletic-looking black fellow,
in the thirties_): Please, suh, Misteh Porteh, could you gimme a little
tention befo you shuts up de boxes?
_Porter_: What is it?
_Joe_: Ah got what you might call a little inclination to de
constipulation, an Ah could use a couple of dem double-barrel shotgun
shells. (_as Porter shoves him a couple of pills_) Thankee, boss. (_he
resumes his pretense at dusting, and Porter puts the covers on his
boxes, and goes to his desk with a weary sigh_) Ah bet you is tahd when
you gets done wid dat line. (_silence_) Dey mussa been two hundred men
in dat line dis evenin. Dey keeps a comin an a comin, an it doan seem to
do em no good. (_he is inviting conversation, but Porter sits at his
desk lost in thought_) Misteh Porteh—
_Porter_: Well?
_Joe_: Dey sho is a lot of misery in dis place.
_Porter_: There is.
_Joe_: Dey sho is one _mountain_ of misery in dis place!
_Porter_ (_looks at papers on his desk, crumples them up into a ball,
and makes as if to throw them into a wire trash-basket, which stands at
the side of his desk nearest to the audience; he discovers that the
basket is full to overflowing_): See here, don’t you remember my saying
anything to you about keeping a little room at least on the _top_ of
this trash-basket?
_Joe_: Yes, boss, dasso. Ah’s powerful fogetful; but you does sho fill
up dat trash-basket! Seems like you spen de whole night writin paper an
tearin it up.
_Porter_: Have they made you custodian of the hospital stationery?
_Joe_: No, boss, Ah’s only de custodian of de hospital trash-baskets.
But if yo jes wouldn’t roll em up into balls, so dey fill up so much
room! If you wouldn’t tear em into little bits, so dey spill out through
de holes!
_Porter_: I don’t care to have my writings read in this place.
_Joe_: Yes, boss, Ah understan; but make yoself easy—Ah cant read a line
of his hyar hanwritin.
_Porter_: Well, save me the job of nagging.
_Joe_: Yes, boss, Ah sho try. But you know how it is, if Ah was a
first-class rememberin niggeh, I wouldn’t be doin a term in de Ohio
State penitentiary, Ah’d be a spick and span porteh in a Pullman car,
jing-jinglin de quartehs in mah pocket. (_imitating car porter_)
Nashville de nex stop, suh! Brush you off, suh?
_Porter_: Quit your chatter and get out of here!
(_Joe takes trash-basket and runs; Porter takes mail from pocket and
glances at letter; then sits in attitude of despair, his head in his
hands. Joe returns with empty basket, and begins to make a pretense of
sweeping the floor with a broom, at the same time peering at Porter,
trying to see his face._)
_Porter_ (_without looking up_): Wouldn’t it be possible for you to get
this room swept before I come on duty?
_Joe_: Misteh Porteh, you dunno how dey keep me on de jump in dis place—
_Porter_: They seem to turn you loose at this precise hour every
evening, so you can come in and fill my lungs with dust.
_Joe_: Ah’ll jes keep a sorteh circulatin roun wid dis broom, so de capn
think Ah’m workin if he comes, but Ah wont make dust enough to botheh
you. (_Porter continues to sit in attitude of dejection; Joe manifests
first curiosity, then sympathy; he tries to attract attention_) Ah-hum!
(_Porter does not look up_) Ah-hum!
_Porter_: What is it, Joe?
_Joe_: Misteh Porteh—
_Porter_: Well?
_Joe_: Ah’s got somethin else besides dis hyar constipulation.
_Porter_: What you got?
_Joe_: Ah’s got somethin—you might call it a sorteh constipulation of de
vocabulary.
_Porter_: How’s that?
_Joe_: Ah wuks roun dis hispital, an Ah keeps mah eyes open, an Ah sees
Misteh Porteh doan say much to nobody in dis place. Ah thinks it oveh,
an Ah thinks maybe he’d like it if Ah was to come up an say, right still
and quaht: Misteh Porteh, Ah’s jes a niggeh.
_Porter_: Indeed, Joe!
_Joe_: Dey got me in de penitentiary in de state of Ohio, Misteh Porteh,
but Ah was raised down in Tennessee, an Ah knows what a genleman is; so
Ah comes to you an says: Ah’s a niggeh.
_Porter_: Well, Joe, I’m glad you spoke. I won’t be so lonesome!
_Joe_: Ah wants you to know, Misteh Porteh, it warnt makin no trouble fo
white folks what got me in his place. It was a black man what Ah cut. Ah
had a little yellah gal, an dat niggeh hadnt no business to be foolin
wid her. Ah wouldn’t a done him no real harm, if it hadnt been dat he
come on me so quick, Ah didn’t have a chance to bend mah razor back. You
knows how it is wid razors?
_Porter_: No, Joe, I don’t think I ever fought with razors.
_Joe_: Well, you bends him back, all de way roun, an den you only got
bout a half inch of blade, an he doan cut so deep, you cant do no real
harm. But Ah mos cut dat black man’s neck through, so de jedge, he give
it to me hard. Ah says to him, Jedge, if you knowed what Ah knows bout
dat niggeh, you’d pay me fo service to de state of Ohio. But it was a
Yankee jedge, an he doan smile.
_Porter_: He gave you life?
_Joe_: Not dat bad—twenty years. Ah reckons to git six years an eight
months off fo good behavior—an den, Misteh Porteh, Ah’s goin back to de
good ole state of Tennessee. Dey got me up hyar to work in de steel
mills—Ah thought Ah’d make some money an buy me a tater patch an a mule;
but Ah’s goin back home, wha dey knows what a genleman is. You comes
from de South, Misteh Porteh?
_Porter_: North Carolina.
_Joe_: Ah knowed it! Dey was somethin in de way you looked at me. Mah
ole daddy belonged to de Jedge Adair famly. You ever heah of de Judge
Adair famly in Nashville? Ah lak to tell you bout dat famly, Misteh
Porteh, den you see Ah knows what a genleman is, an how to talk to em.
_Porter_: Sit down, Joe.
_Joe_: Naw, suh, Ah reckon Ah keep circulatin dis hyar broom roun jes a
bit—de capn he might come a driftin in hyar, an you knows how it is, Ah
doan take no littlest chance fo to lose mah job as trusty—Ah wants to
spend dem extra six years an eight months in de state of Tennessee, an
not in de state of Ohio. Well, de Jedge Adair famly was one of de
tip-top families, dey was sho nuff quality. But den de wah come, an you
know how de Yankees come to Nashville, an de slaves was free. Mah ole
daddy wanted to stick by de famly, but dey couldn’t keep him, dey didn’t
have enough to eat fo dem selves. De Jedge he died, an dey was only Miss
Azalea Adair lef, an dey was dis fine ole mansion all fallin in ruins,
an dis fine lady livin in it an not enough to eat. She done married a
man—he jes married her fo to live off what he thought she had, an when
she doan have no money he curse her an he strike her—yes, Misteh Porteh,
an you knows what would be goin on in de heart of an old slave what was
raised in de famly, an knowin things was goin on like dat, an Miss
Azalea Adair so proud, an hidin it all from de world. Well, mah ole
daddy he got out an work fo de Yankees and save up an buy him a hack an
a horse, an he drive, an make a little money, an when he know Miss
Azalea Adair not have anything to eat, he take her a dollar or two. An
den Major Caswell—dat’s de husban’s name—he find out she got dat money,
an he take it away from her, so he kin go down an show off in de
bar-room of de big hotel, struttin roun an treatin all de genlemen what
he know. You ever hear anything like dat in de South, Misteh Porteh?
_Porter_: No, I can’t say I ever did.
_Joe_: Well, Miss Azalea Adair she try all de time to find some way to
earn money. Dey had a great liberry in de house, an she read all dem
books, an got dem in her haid, an she begin to write. Of course, de
editors up Noth, day was glad to git what a great lady like Miss Azalea
Adair write, so dey sent a man down from New Yok fo to see her an pay
her money, an git her to sen some mo writin. An mah ole daddy, he was de
hackman what met dat Yankee man, an drove him to Miss Azalea Adair’s
home. It was a ole hack, de horse was so weak he could hardly
stagger—cause you see how it was, all de money what de fares brung in
had to go to keep Miss Azalea Adair alive. Well, dat Yankee man, he pay
Miss Azalea Adair fifty dollars fo what she write, an den he go away. An
Major Caswell—dat’s de husban—he find out she got dat money, an he grab
her by de wrist an twist it till she mos faint—she too proud to make a
soun, you know—an he take dat money an sneak off. Mah old daddy, he peek
through de do an he see dat happen. He take de kitchen knife an sneak
out an folleh de Major—it was in de night, an black dark—an he stab him
through an kill him an take de money. Yes, suh, he was a white man, too,
but dis ole niggeh slave, he kill him.
_Porter_: And did they catch him?
_Joe_: Mah old daddy? Naw, suh, boss, dey doan ketch him, he die in his
bed wid de preacher prayin oveh him an de angels a waitin fo his soul.
Maybe de police have some idea what happen, but dey wasn’t anbody care
much bout dat ornery Major Caswell. An Miss Azalea Adair course she doan
never speculate nothin, cause my ole man he doan take her dat fifty
dollars all to onst, he jes kinds string it out, one or two dollars when
he see day warnt nothin in de pantry.
_Porter_: What a story! What a story! And you say—by George! You say
that happened in Nashville?
_Joe_: Yes, Misteh Porteh.
_Porter_: Well, now, that’s a funny thing. I was reading the other
day—here, I think I have it in these magazines—here’s a fellow who says
you couldn’t tell an interesting story about Nashville, Tennessee!
_Joe_: What’s de matter wid Nashville?
_Porter_: He thinks it’s too slow, too old-fashioned. Here’s what he
says. (_reads_) “Fancy a novel about Chicago or Buffalo, let us say, or
Nashville, Tennessee! There are just three big cities in the United
States that are ‘story cities’—New York, of course, New Orleans, and,
best of the lot, San Francisco.”
_Joe_: Well, Ah doan know nothin bout books, Misteh Porteh—
_Porter_: I know a little, and hope to know more. I’m writing some
stories, and maybe some day I’ll write that story about Miss Azalea
Adair. Is she dead?
_Joe_: Yes, suh, dey all daid.
_Porter_: I’ll quote that fellow who says you couldn’t write about
Nashville, Tennessee. I tell you Joe, you can write about any place
where human beings live—provided you know how to get into their hearts
and report what’s going on there; it doesn’t matter who they are—white
or black—or where they are—in jail, or in Nashville. A story is a report
on human hearts. I’ll call this one “A Municipal Report”; quote the
statistics about Nashville—all the commonplace things, and then tell how
I go there, and run into the old hackman that was once a slave, and
drives his tumble-down old rig to earn a dollar, to buy food for his
starving mistress in the mansion! I can make them cry over that! (_a
pause_)
_Joe_: Misteh Porteh.
_Porter_: Well?
_Joe_: Somethin—Ah dunno if Ah’d ought to say it. Ah was in dis room las
night, when you got through wid sewin up dat feller wid de busted
haid—an you was all alone—leastways you thought you was, an Ah didn’t
like to make no noise. (_a pause_) Ah like to say dis, Misteh Porteh,
you doan have to feel shamed—dey’s lots o fellers cryin in dis place.
(_a pause_) Dey gits you locked up, an yo cell-mate’s snorin—oh, den de
tears come a runnin onto de pillow. You know, Misteh Porteh, dey was a
little kinky headed yalleh baby, de prettiest little thing you ever see;
Ah thinks what become of him, maybe he’s crying tonight cause he doan
get enough to eat—it jes seem like mo’n Ah can stan.
_Porter_: You were married, then?
_Joe_: Naw suh, we wasn zacly married—dis was a kindeh what you might
say engagement baby. (_grins_) But Ah guess Ah done loss dat yelleh gal
fo keeps now, she doan write to me, Ah reckon she got some new felleh.
(_a pause_) You got folks outside, Misteh Porteh?
_Porter_: I’ve got a little girl.
_Joe_: Sho nuff? Well, now! How ole dat little gal?
_Porter_: Eleven.
_Joe_: Her mammy daid?
_Porter_: Yes.
_Joe_: Dat’s hard! Dat’s sho nuff hard, Misteh Porteh! She got folks
takin care of her?
_Porter_: She lives with her grandparents.
_Joe_: Ah wondeh, is you got a picture of dat chile?
_Porter_: Yes, I have. (_he opens drawer of desk and hands a photograph
to Joe_)
_Joe_: Dat’s a pretty little gal! A sho nuff sweet chile! What dey call
her, Misteh Porteh?
_Porter_: Margaret’s her name.
_Joe_: Margaret. Dat’s a right nice-soundin name. Ah doan wondeh you
miss dat little lily. Do she know whah her pappy is?
_Porter_: She has no idea.
_Joe_: Oh, doan you let nobody tell her, Misteh Porteh!
_Porter_: Never until I tell her with my own lips.
_Joe_: Dat’s right, dat’s right! She’ll believe what her pappy tells
her. Ah bet it ain’t so bad as some folks made it look like.
_Porter_: That is a question I never discuss with anyone in this place.
_Joe_: Ah understan you, boss. Ah reckon you aint showed dis hyar
picture to many. But when a genleman from de South talk wid a niggeh,
it’s like he was a chile, talkin to his black mammy. Dat little Miss
Margaret got a ole mammy what take care of her?
_Porter_: Yes, Joe. (_he puts away photograph_) Every night I sit here
and write, and all the time I’m thinking of one thing, to get enough
money to send Margaret a present at Christmas. I didn’t have anything
for her birthday, and I’m sure not going to fail again! Miss Azalea
Adair will help me out.
_Joe_: She’d a liked dat first rate, Misteh Porteh.
_Porter_: What did she look like?
_Joe_: She had white hair, an her dresses was old, but de laundrin was
new; a little lady, hardly anything to her; gentle an quaht—you know
what dem Southern ladies is.
_Porter_: And your old daddy, tell me about him.
_Joe_: He was a big black man, big as me; proud feller, his grandaddy
was a king in de Congo. Yes, suh, Misteh Porteh, suh, you needn’t laugh,
dat’s a fact; dey was lots o great men captured an sold to be slaves.
Uncle Caesar, dey call him, an he wore a long coat like de ginrals in
Ginral Lee’s army. It was ole and patched, an de rain had washed it an
de sun had faded it, but you could see it was a ginral’s coat—gold lace
an tassels on it, an when dey was all gone, mah ole daddy he was boun to
show it was a ginral’s coat, so he had mah mammy sew on rope to make
loops an tassels an eppilets an things. An he would have to git himself
tied up in it wid twine, cause all de buttons was gone, only one las
button up near de top, a fine yelleh button, big as a half dollar. Yes
suh, dat was a sho fine coat—Ah reckon mah ole daddy he wear it befo de
throne of grace, cause dey done buried him in it. He stan by de do’ of
de hack, wid his whip in one han an a ole feather duster in de odder, an
he make like to dust off de seat of de hack, an he say: “Step right in,
suh; aint a speck of dust in it—jes got back from a funeral, suh. Kyar
you anywhere in de town fo fifty cents.” He sho knew how to git de money
out of genlemen.
_Porter_: I know, I’ve had them operate on me. I can see a whole mob of
them, lined up in front of a depot; they come charging at you—like a
race riot, a company of freedmen, or Arabs, or Zulus, armed with whips.
_Joe_: Jes so, boss; jes so!
_Porter_: Uncle Caesar, as you describe him, might be the old hackman
who drove me and Miss Athol Estes, that summer night when we ran away to
get married. I was afraid the old hack would fall to pieces at the next
bump. We hadn’t very far to go—for Miss Athol sang in the choir of the
Presbyterian church, and the minister was good enough to marry us. One
thing more; tell me what Major Caswell looked like.
_Joe_: De Major? He was one of dese fellers dat hunt roun in a hotel
lobby, like a starved dog lookin fo a bone. He would hit a spittoon wid
a squirt of tobacco juice farther’n any man in de place. He was always
fightin de war oveh—I heerd de Judge tell him once, he was one of dese
perfessional Southerners. He had a big face, kindeh red an pulpy-like,
an sleepy. I tell you who he look like, dat convict feller what was
cursin at de doctor jes now. You could take him fo de Major on a dark
night. (_a voice calling, off-stage right: “Joe!”_) Da’s de capn!
(_calls_) Yes, boss!
_Porter_: See here, you black-skinned rascal, if you tell anybody what
we’ve been talking about, I’ll take the ebony hide off you!
_Joe_ (_grins_): Naw, suh, Misteh Porteh, suh, Ah knows mah place. Us
Southerners got to stan together. You lemme be yo body-servant, Ah take
care of you like you belonged to de Jedge Adair famly! (_moves
reluctantly towards exit_) You was in de drug business befo you come
hyar, Misteh Porteh?
_Porter_: When I was a lad I worked five years in my uncle’s drug-store.
_Joe_: Ah bet you like to member dem days!
_Porter_: It was the little town of Greensboro. You know how it is down
South in the springtime, the sweet odor of the honeysuckle, and the
mocking-birds singing; this time in the evening there’s chairs in front
of the store, and the girls come in their white muslin dresses, and the
perfumes you sold them yesterday now make you kind of drunk while you’re
squirting out vanilla and strawberry flavors! And Babe Harmony, clerk to
the justice of the peace, has fetched his old guitar. (_faint sound of
music: “Carry me back to old Virginny.”_) He’s singing wha de cotton and
de golden taters grow—
_Joe_ (_waving his hands_): Oh, Misteh Porteh, doan tell me bout dem
things, you make me spen de whole night cryin! Ah got to hustle, boss,
Ah dassn linger, Ah doan want to spen dem extra six years an eight
months in de state of Ohio! (_runs off right; the music continues
faintly_)
_Porter_ (_sits at desk, in meditation_): A Municipal Report. Nashville,
Tennessee. What have I got about Nashville? That old atlas, perhaps!
(_digs out atlas from under a pile of books_) T-E—Tennessee—Nashville.
(_reading slowly_) “Nashville, a city, port of delivery, and the capital
of the State of Tennessee, is on the Cumberland River, and on the N. C.
& St. L. and the L. & N. railroads. This city is regarded as the most
important educational center in the South.” Umm‑m‑m‑. “Nashville
occupies a foremost place among the manufacturing centers of the
country. It is the fifth boot and shoe market in the United States, the
largest candy and cracker manufacturing city in the South, and does an
enormous wholesale drygoods, grocery and drug business.” That’s bully!
(_sits lost in thought; gradually the lights shift to pale violet
color_) Uncle Caesar! His grandaddy was a king in the Congo! (_Uncle
Caesar enters at right, silently, like a ghost. Music: “Old black Joe.”
He is Joe, the convict, made up in the role of his old father, with a
woolly grey wig, a dilapidated coachman’s hat, and the extraordinary
“ginral’s coat” previously described. He carries a coachman’s whip in
one hand, and a feather duster in the other._) He must have got that
coat from some Confederate officers. It was worn all through the war, it
has been in battles. And that one button, that yellow button, big as a
half a dollar, the last of the tribe, reminder of the dead glory. He
looks out for customers, he hunts them as his grandaddy used to hunt
heads in the Congo. He’s one of the crowd of hackmen—he storms down on
you like a race riot, a company of freedmen, or Arabs, or Zulus, armed
with whips!
(_Uncle Caesar looks about, with growing energy and excitement;
appearing to discover Porter, he stretches out the whip, crying_): Kyar
you anywhere in de town, boss, fo fifty cents! (_he dusts an imaginary
hack with his duster_) Step right in, suh; aint a speck of dust in
it—jes got back from a funeral.
_Porter_: Driver, take me to the home of Miss Azalea Adair.
_Uncle Caesar_ (_stretches out his arm, as if barring Porter’s way; an
expression of suspicion and enmity on his face_): What’s dat? (_then,
recovering himself, with blandishing air_) What you gwine da fo, boss?
_Porter_: What’s that to you?
_Uncle Caesar_: Nothin, suh, jes nuthin. Only it’s a lonesome kind of
part of town and few folks ever has business out dah. Step right in, de
seats is clean.
_Porter_: All right; if that old hack of yours don’t fall to pieces at
the next bump. (_a pause; Porter turns his eyes to the atlas, and
reads_). “The city has an area of 10 square miles; 181 miles of streets,
of which 137 are paved; a system of waterworks which cost $2,000,000,
with 77 miles of mains.” (_takes out his purse, rises, and offers Uncle
Caesar a half and a quarter dollar_) Here’s a quarter extra for you.
_Uncle Caesar_: It’s two dollars, suh.
_Porter_: How’s that? I plainly heard you call out: “Fifty cents to any
part of the town.”
_Uncle Caesar_: It’s two dollars, suh. It’s a long way from de hotel.
_Porter_: It’s within the city limits, and well within them. Don’t think
that you have picked up a greenhorn Yankee. Do you see those hills over
there in the East? Well, I was born on the other side, in North
Carolina. You old fool nigger, can’t you tell people from other people
when you see ’em?
_Uncle Caesar_ (_grins_): Is you from de South, suh? Ah reckon it was
dem shoes of yourn fooled me. Dey is somethin sharp on de toes fo a
Southern genleman to wear.
_Porter_: Then the charge is fifty cents, I suppose?
_Uncle Caesar_: Boss, fifty cents is right; but Ah needs two dollars,
suh; Ah’m _bleeged_ to have two dollars. Ah ain’t _demandin_ it now,
suh; after Ah knows whah you’s from; Ah’m jes sayin dat Ah _has_ to have
two dollars tonight, and business is mighty po.
_Porter_: (_reaches for his pocket_) You confounded old rascal, you
ought to be turned over to the police. But you know; you know; YOU KNOW!
_Uncle Caesar_: Yes, boss, Ah knows; Ah knows; AH KNOWS! (_bowing and
scraping, slides into the background_)
_Porter_ (_returns to study of the atlas; reads_): “In November, 1864,
the Confederate General Hood advanced against Nashville, where he shut
up a National force under General Thomas. The latter then sallied forth
and defeated the Confederates in a terrible conflict.” That’s the
history of it; but that wouldn’t satisfy Major Caswell. He’s a
professional Southerner. A good phrase! I know the type. When he bangs
the bar with his fist, the first gun at Fort Sumter re-echoes. When he
fires the last one at Appomattox, I begin to hope for a chance to get
away! (_Major Caswell enters right, silently; he is the convict Purzon,
made up as a Southern gentleman, with a string tie, a slouch hat and a
Prince Albert; he stands in shadow, barely visible; behind him is the
frail figure of a woman, still less visible_). But he twists the wrist
of a woman! The rat with the blabbing lip! (_the Major turns upon the
woman and enacts the role of twisting her wrist and taking some money
from her by force; she moans feebly_) But she’s too proud to make a
sound! She’s a Southern lady—God bless her—and she hides her grief from
the world! (_the woman sinks to the ground, invisible in the darkness;
the Major comes forward, holding the money in his hand; he counts it
with exultation_)
_The Major_: Fifty dollars! A real haul that time! I can live like a
gentleman fo once. Step up, suh, say the word, suh, the drinks are on
me. The South comes back to her own! The guns of Fort Sumter re-echo
again! The Confederate General Hood drives the damn Yankees in rout befo
him, and Nashville is free once mo, a place fit fo a gentleman to live
in. What’ll you have, Colonel?
(_Uncle Caesar has been crouching in the shadows, watching the scene. He
now steals out with a butcher knife in his hand and leaps upon the
Major, who turns and defends himself, trying to hold the Negro off. In
the struggle the Major tears the button from Uncle Caesar’s coat; as the
Negro stabs him, he falls, clutching the button in his hand. Uncle
Caesar takes the money from him, and then steals off_).
_Porter_ (_has been watching the drama with excitement, now and then
gesturing as if he were directing the actions of the players; he now
advances, gazing upon the body_): Stabbed him to the heart! A white man
he was, and the old Negro slave killed him! But he leaves a clue—see,
the Major has torn the one last button from the old Negro’s coat, and he
holds that button in his dead hand! That’s where I come upon the
scene—I’ll be the man from New York who brings the fifty dollars to Miss
Azalea Adair. I discover how Major Caswell robbed his wife; I know that
the Negro will take the money back to her; so I take that button out of
the Major’s hand—(_he stoops and takes the button_) So when the police
come and find the body, they don’t know what to make of it! (_two
policemen enter silently; they discover the body, make a swift
investigation, and then pick up the body and carry it off, right_) And
so the old Negro escapes, and dies in his bed with the preacher praying
over him, and the angels waiting for his soul. And something has
happened—(_exulting_)—a drama! A real story—in Nashville, Tennessee! (_a
pause_) Oh, they’ll have to take that story! That’s a masterpiece, and I
know it! I’ll get money for that—and buy Margaret a real present.
What’ll it be? A pony, perhaps! No, that would cost too much to keep.
It’ll be a doll, the most beautiful doll in the very fanciest shop in
New York. Margaret, dear, how would you like to have a doll—a big one in
a pink crepe dress, with pink ribbons in her hair—and when you lay her
down she closes her eyes, and when you squeeze her she says “Mamma!”
(_Margaret enters, at left, moving softly, in dream fashion; a frail,
sensitive, eager child, dressed in white muslin; she carries the big
doll as described, and gazes at it with ecstasy. Music._)
_Porter_: Do you like it, dear?
_Margaret_: Oh, Papa, she’s so sweet! Just listen! (_she squeezes the
doll, which says “Mamma!”_) She says “Mamma!” Oh, I wish Mamma could be
here to hear her! (_runs to Porter_) But you’re here. Papa! You’ve come
back to me. Have you come to stay?
_Porter_: Yes, sweetheart, never to go away.
_Margaret_: Oh, Papa, I’ve missed you so! Why did you stay so long?
_Porter_: That’s a sad story, dear.
_Margaret_: They wouldn’t tell me a thing about it—where you were or
what you were doing.
_Porter_: Listen, dear, it’s hard for me to tell you, but I have to tell
you some day. You’ll never doubt Papa, will you?
_Margaret_: Doubt you, Papa?
_Porter_: No, of course not. It’s something very cruel, and I hate to
make you unhappy, but you must know, you must! All those years—three and
more while Papa was away from you—they had put him in prison.
_Margaret_ (_horrified_): In prison!
_Porter_: Yes, dear. There were people who accused Papa of taking some
money that didn’t belong to him—money from a bank. But listen, Margaret,
dear, you’ll never doubt what Papa tells you—
_Margaret_ (_wide-eyed_): Why, of course not, Papa!
_Porter_: I want you to know that Papa never got that money. Other
people got it and they blamed it on him. They ran the bank carelessly,
and Papa was never a good hand to take care of money, you know. And
Mamma was ill, we had many dreadful troubles. When they accused Papa—oh,
it was cruel, with things about it in the newspapers, and Papa had to go
into court, and be charged with it, and have to tell things about other
people that he couldn’t bear to tell. I ought to have gone, Margaret,
dear, I ought to have faced it out and told everything. But I always
hated money so, and money matters—I was on my way to the trial, and I
fell into a sort of panic, I just couldn’t face it, I went to New
Orleans and took a steamer to Central America. You remember the first
time Papa was away, for half a year—you were young then—
_Margaret_: I remember it, Papa. Mamma and I packed up your overcoat,
and some good things to eat, and sent them to you.
_Porter_: I had been traveling all over Central America and South
America and Mexico. First I thought I could get some sort of little home
there, and have you and Mamma come; but I couldn’t earn a living there,
and I was so unhappy. Then I learned that Mamma was worse—at the very
time she packed that overcoat she was hardly able to move. So I got
desperate, I didn’t care what happened to me, I came back, and Mamma
died in my arms. And then I gave myself up, I let them take me and try
me in court. I sat and hardly knew what was happening to me; I didn’t
say a word that I might have said in my own defense. My heart was
breaking, dear, but I couldn’t let you know it—I had to pretend to be
happy, and make jokes, and tell you I’d be back soon—(_he sobs, and the
child with him_) I had to tell grandma and grandpa to hide from you
where I was, and wait until I came out. I wanted to tell you with my own
lips, so you would know Papa was innocent—
_Margaret_: Of course, Papa! Of course!
_Porter_: Oh, sweetheart, I can never tell you about that place, and
what I suffered there. Only one thing kept me alive—the thought that
some day I’d be with you again. All the time I was in the prison I used
to write stories—I was the night drug-clerk, I slept in the day-time and
was on duty at night, and I’d spend long hours writing stories. Some of
them were published—and do you know what I spent the money for? To send
presents to you! That lovely dolly—I spent hours thinking about that
dolly, and how happy it would make you. I used to sit at my desk and
imagine you with that dolly, all the sweet things you’d say to it—
_Margaret_ (_gazing enraptured at the doll_): Oh, such a sweet dolly!
Oh, Papa—did you know, when you lay her down she shuts her eyes, and
that makes it easy to play she’s asleep! And when you squeeze her she
says “Mamma!” Do you suppose I could teach her to say “Papa”?
_Porter_: Maybe I can find another that will say “Papa!”
_Margaret_: And a baby dolly, and a mammy dolly to take care of her! A
whole dolly family! Oh! Oh! (_claps her hands_) And Papa! Such a lovely
pink dress! I’m going to make her an every-day dress, because this is
too fine except for parties.
_Porter_: Do you know what that dress reminds me of, Margaret? The one
your Mamma wore the day we were married.
_Margaret_: Tell me about it!
_Porter_: Well, you see, grandma and grandpa didn’t want Mamma to marry,
because she wasn’t well, even in those young days. But we just loved
each other too much, so we ran away, and were married by the Reverend
Mr. Smoot of the Presbyterian church, where Mamma sang in the choir. It
was a day in the summertime—in Texas; I can see Mamma in the lovely pink
crepe dress, soft and fluffy—
(_Athol enters, right, as described, a frail delicate girl of eighteen,
wearing a pink dress to match that of the doll. Music: “Silver threads
among the gold.”_)
She was the loveliest thing in the whole wide state of Texas that
morning—and Texas is a wide state, I tell you! I was thinking about her
last night, and I wrote: (_he reads from manuscript, and meantime
Margaret slips back into the shadows, and Athol comes forward,
manifesting pleasure in the words_). “The Bride! Word of words in the
epiphany of life and love. The scent of the flowers, the booty of the
bee, the primal drip of spring waters, the overture of the lark, the
twist of lemon peel on the cocktail of creation—such is the bride. Holy
is the wife; revered the mother; galluptious is the summer girl—but the
bride is the certified check among the wedding presents that gods send
in when man is married to mortality.... Dear kind fairy, please cut out
those orders for money and 40 H. P. touring cars and fame and a new
growth of hair and the presidency of the boat club. Instead of any of
them turn backward—oh, turn backward and give us just a teeny-weeny bit
of our wedding trip over again. Just an hour, dear fairy, so we can
remember how the grass and poplar trees looked, and the bow of those
bonnet strings tied beneath her chin.”
_Porter_ (_rises and goes to Athol_): Dearest! You have come!
_Athol_: For always, Will.
_Porter_: For always, and for happiness.
_Athol_: You’re going to be good to me, Will?
_Porter_: With the goodness of a whole choir of angels, and the choir of
the First Presbyterian Church thrown in! The goodness of a case of the
finest old silk-velvet Kentucky Bourbon, with due accompaniments of
sugar, mint and ice—
_Athol_: Oh, Will, what a metaphor! You know what you promised me about
your fondness for Bourbon!
_Porter_: Let it be inscribed—a promissory note—on the back of our
marriage certificate.
_Athol_: It is inscribed on my heart, Will—
_Porter_: Where I shall read it most frequently! Marriages are laundered
in heaven, their promises sprinkled by the celestial water-wagon—
_Espiritu de la Vina_ (_enters left; a Spanish girl with vivid brunette
coloring, clad in scanty dancer’s costume of scarlet and orange. She
carries castanets, with which she emphasizes her mockery. She passes,
ogling Porter, and singing_)
A beber, a beber, a apurar
Las Copas de licor
Que el vino hara olvidar
Las penas del amor.
_Athol_: Will, who is that woman?
_Porter_: A Mexican girl I used to know—a long time ago, dear, when I
was ranching—
_Athol_: Why should you know such a woman?
_Porter_: It was before I met you, dearest. There was no disloyalty to
you.
_Athol_: But, Will—
_Porter_: Every man has a temptation, Athol; and she was mine. I have
resisted her; I shall always resist her—more easily with you by my side.
_Athol_: What is her name?
_Porter_: Espiritu, they call her—Espiritu de la Vina. She is gay, and
men flock to her—but I have chosen the water-wagon for my chariot to
heaven!
(_Espiritu dances off left, with a burst of mocking laughter_)
_Porter_ (_to Athol_): Dearest love, there is no one in the world for me
but you. We have a lifetime of bliss before us. (_he looks about
impatiently_) Where’s that old nigger hackman? He swore he’d be here on
time! (_shouts_) Hey, there, you good-for-nothing old grandson of a
bob-tailed monkey, what do you mean by being late when you know I’m
trying to elope with the sweetest girl in the whole wide state of Texas?
_Caesar_ (_runs on, right_): Yes, boss, here Ah is, Johnny on de spot!
(_makes as if to dust off the seat of a carriage_) Step right in, suh;
aint a speck of dust in it—jes got back from a funeral, suh. Kyar you
anywhere in de town fo fifty cents. Dis de young lady? She’s a sho nuff
sweet bride! Right dis way, Miss, de preacher is a-waiting! (_Music:
Lohengrin wedding march. The Negro offers her his arm, gallantly, and
leads her off, right, as if escorting her to the coach_) Dis way, ma’am,
dis way to de weddin festivities!
(_Porter stands gazing after them, yearningly. Gradually the white light
returns; a brisk step is heard_)
_Dr. Walters_ (_night physician of the prison, a young man, enters
left_): Well, Porter?
_Porter_: Good evening, doctor.
_Dr. Walters_: Everything all right?
_Porter_: A few men dying, as you know.
_Dr. Walters_: I hear that poor fellow, Jimmie Valentine, is laid up
again. Wonder how he hangs on.
_Porter_: It’s a poor place for his kind of trouble.
_Dr. Walters_: Yes, they all ought to be out in the sunshine. But then
they’d all run away. So what can you do?
_Porter_: I have no answer for that, doctor.
_Dr. Walters_: They say Jimmie Valentine was a first-class safe-cracker.
_Porter_: So he tells me.
_Dr. Walters_: Used to make a specialty of opening a safe in a few
seconds, they say—he had a trick all his own. Well, he’ll have a chance
to try his skill on the golden gates.
_Porter_: Doctor, I’m told Valentine has an old mother outside, and he’s
never been allowed to see her. Have you any idea of the reason?
_Dr. Walters_: I never have ideas on such subjects, Porter; I leave them
to the warden. I think you’d be well-advised to do the same.
_Porter_: Yes, sir; I understand you.
_Dr. Walters_: Have those medical supplies come?
_Porter_: Yes. They’ll be unpacked and on the shelves before morning.
_Dr. Walters_: Those aspirin tablets made up?
_Porter_: All ready.
_Dr. Walters_: You know, Porter, we can buy such things made up, if you
prefer.
_Porter_: No, sir, I’ve plenty of time—no complaint on that score. I was
brought up to percolate my own paregoric and roll my own pills.
_Dr. Walters_: By the way, Porter—this is serious—I’ve been looking into
the matter of that missing alcohol; there’s more of it gone.
_Porter_: Is that so, doctor?
_Dr. Walters_: Is there anybody you suspect?
_Porter_: Well, you know how it is in a prison, there are many men who
might take alcohol; but there’s no one I have any reason to name.
_Dr. Walters_: Well, it has certainly got to be stopped. I don’t like
the job of playing detective, but some one has to do it. I’ll slip a
little drug into the alcohol, and make somebody mighty sick.
_Porter_: I’ll do my best to watch, doctor; but you know I’m not here
all the time.
_Dr. Walters_: I have an interesting dissection to do this evening. If
there are any calls, you might go for me.
_Porter_: All right, doctor.
_Dr. Walters_: You’ve come to know our line of drugs about as well as I
do.
(_He goes off. Porter sits at desk, his head in his hands. The light
fades to red. Sound of guitar and castanets, rising louder. Espiritu de
la Vina enters, dancing seductively; she directs her attention to
Porter, who gradually looks up, gazing at her; she sings_)
A beber, a beber, a apurar
Las Copas de licor
Que el vino hara olvidar
Las penas del amor.
(_Porter watches her more and more intensely, half rising to join her.
She dances her way to a shelf of bottles, from which she takes down a
large square druggist’s bottle, labeled with a red letter “A.” She
carries it to him, and sets it on the desk before him, then dances back,
and takes from the shelf an enlarged druggist’s label, in red letters:
“Alcohol.” She sets this also before him, and sings in a burst of
excitement_)
De este sabroso jugo, la blanca espuma
Aleja de las penas la negra bruma,
Si Dios hubiera hecho
De vino el mar, de vino el mar,
Yo me volviera pato, para nadar, para nadar:—
Esta es la vida, bebamos mas,
Esta es la vida, bebamos mas.
_The curtain falls with Porter’s eyes riveted upon the bottle._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ACT II.
SCENE: _the drug-store, as in Act I._
AT RISE: _the time is early evening, and Porter is percolating his own
paregoric and rolling his own pills; he works silently and steadily._
_Al Jennings_ (_appears in doorway at left; a wiry little man, wearing
the uniform of a first-class prisoner—grey, with black stripes on
trouser seams; vivid red hair and a temper to correspond; warmhearted to
his friends, a trouble to his enemies_): Bill.
_Porter_ (_turns and stares_): Why, Colonel! You’re out of the hole!
_Jennings_: I’m out, and promised a job in the postoffice! How do you
like me in my new dress? I’ve come to pay my thanks.
_Porter_: To me?
_Jennings_: They tell me, Bill, that you had the main finger where he
had to listen. It’s not every convict has a chance to save his warden’s
life!
_Porter_: Colonel, you and I are insiders. What saved that warden’s life
was my bedside manner! Nature has endowed me with a rare blessing, the
ability to keep silent when I have nothing to say. The warden was
dying—yes, but dying of fright.
_Jennings_: Men sometimes die of swallowing arsenic, Bill.
_Porter_: Fowler’s solution, it was, and he hadn’t taken enough to kill.
I gave him a dose of simplicity mixed with gall. I said: “Drink, and
you’ll be well.” He did, and he was.
_Jennings_: And then you said to him: “Warden, I have a friend of
happier days, who is having the soul wrenched out of him in solitary.”
_Porter_: I’ll tell you, Colonel; it’s fortunate that you have the gift
of the gab, and have provided me with biographical details to touch the
heart of even an Ohio politician. “Warden,” I said, “this Al Jennings,
this outlaw, this desperado whom the newspapers and the railway
detectives have hunted over two continents for ten years—this Al
Jennings was born outdoors in a mountain snowstorm; he was suckled upon
frost, he was weaned upon kicks and beatings, he was a street rat,
hunted through the alleys; he was driven into crime by cattle thieves
and political grafters—in the state of Oklahoma they have such, Mr.
Warden. His crimes were wholesome, outdoor crimes, as one might say;
lovely, picturesque, heroic deeds, which school-boys will thrill to
throughout all time. To hold up a transcontinental express, and dynamite
the baggage car, and ride all night through mountain canyons with sacks
of treasure at your saddle-bow; to gallop into town with a fusillade of
bullets, and gallop away with the inside contents of a bank—that, Mr.
Warden, involves an expenditure of ammunition sufficient to constitute a
war. A train-bandit may be a man of true loyalty, who would die before
he would throw down a friend. Give Al Jennings a chance, and you’ll find
him a valuable assistant; and more than that, he’ll stroll into your
office of an evening, and produce for you an elaboration of anecdotal
pyrotechnics to restore the shining days of Haroun al Raschid and his
Scheherazade.” That’s what I gave him, Colonel.
_Jennings_ (_deeply moved_): Bill, you can’t imagine what I’ve been
through in this place, it’s been a blazing hell. They’ve starved me for
months on end. We outdoor men, we fade away and shrivel in a place like
this. Look at me, Bill—what would I do on a horse? When I first came in,
and learned that you were here, and you never came to see me, my heart
died. Three weeks passed, and you didn’t come; I thought, Well, he’s got
a safe berth in the hospital, he’s not going to risk it. Then, you were
giving out the Sunday quinine, and you slipped me a word under the
guard’s nose—then I thought it over, and realized the truth: Bill had
always been so dignified, so reserved—he couldn’t bear to have a friend
see him in prison garb!
_Porter_: Colonel, I have buried the corpse of my grief; let us not dig
it up.
_Jennings_: All right; but let me say this: What you’re here for I’ve
never asked, but I’ve a suspicion they framed you.
_Porter_: Colonel, you have seen my incompetence when it comes to
matters of money, whether to gain it or to keep it. It is safe to say
that such a man would not be wisely placed in a bank.
_Jennings_: Somebody put it over on you! And now they’ve put the brand
upon you, they’ve made you a convict!
_Porter_ (_with excitement_): Don’t say it!
_Jennings_: But it’s true.
_Porter_: It is not true! I am _not_ a convict!
_Jennings_: What do you mean, Bill?
_Porter_: I refuse to wear the brand!
_Jennings_: But how can you help it?
_Porter_: When I go from here I shall change my name, and no one shall
know me.
_Jennings_: Men have tried that, many and many a time, but they never
get away with it; the story leaks, and then it’s worse than ever—some
scoundrel comes along and blackmails you, and you’re at his mercy. Face
it out, Bill, live it down.
_Porter_: Never, never! A man might as well die in this place, and have
the bumping of the wheelbarrow down that corridor for his requiem. I
will not go through life with that brand upon my forehead.
_Jennings_: Well, Bill, our paths are different; I’m going to keep my
own name and be what I am.
_Porter_: That’s the way for you, Colonel; you’re a great man, a
celebrity; you’ve had your picture in the papers, you can go upon the
stage, they’ll put you in that new device they’ve invented, the pictures
that move, and that they throw upon a screen. You’re a historical
figure—you’ll go down to the future with Robin Hood of Sherwood Forest.
But me—what am I? A drug-clerk, a newspaper scribbler, a bank-teller who
didn’t find as much money in his drawer as he should have had. (_a
pause_) Come over and see me, Colonel, when you can get off, and tell me
stories for me to write up.
_Jennings_: I’ll tell you stories of this prison! (_lowering his voice_)
For example, how I burned down the bolt-works!
_Porter_ (_startled_): Oh, my God, man!
_Jennings_: It’s a fact.
_Porter_: Don’t say anything like that to me! I don’t want to know
things like that! If it should leak, you might think I was to blame.
_Jennings_: Never in this world. Bill. When two men have rambled over
two continents together, fleeing from the law—
_Porter_: Someone might overhear you, now! (_looks about fearfully_)
_Jennings_ (_coming closer and whispering_): It was that lousy
scoundrel, Hickson, the bolt contractor, that brought it on himself. He
pays the state thirty cents a day for the labor of us prison slaves, and
gets eight dollars’ work out of us. He promised me extra pay if I’d
raise the product of my machine, so as to show the others it could be
done. Well, I did it, and I went to him for my pay—just think of it, he
owed me twenty-five cents, and he was too dirty mean to pay it! Told me
to go to hell, and if I made any fuss about it, he’d have me paddled and
take the hide off my back. Well, first thing, I hurled a monkey-wrench
at his head; it missed him by half an inch, and went through a plank.
They paddled me for that. When I came out, I spent a month intriguing to
get two candles. I tested one of them in my cell, to see how many hours
it would burn; then I climbed into the loft, and set the other in a lot
of boxes and shavings, and set it burning—I had it figured to start the
fire in the night. Well, I heard the alarm, and I danced for glee, and
when the fire spread, and the big bolt machines come crashing down from
the fourth story, by Jesus, I shrieked like I’d gone crazy. Half a
million dollars that fire cost Hickson, and he didn’t have a cent of
insurance! Some day, when I get out, I’ll whisper it in his ear, and
he’ll wish he’d paid me that twenty-five cents. How’s that for a story,
Bill?
_Porter_ (_gravely_): No, Colonel, I can’t use that story, I can’t write
about things like that. No, you’ll never find a word in my writings
about a prison, or anything that happens in a prison. I can’t face such
things, I don’t know what to do about them. I can only suggest a little
kindness to men, a little humor, hoping that some day it may become
contagious.
_Jennings_: I know you, Bill.
_Porter_: You have had troubles, Colonel; I have had them also.
Underneath this room is the basement where they do their punishments; I
hear men screaming and moaning—night after night I have to pace the
floor and listen, helpless—I have to do my work to that music. I suffer
till I am dripping with perspiration—but I am merely one of the victims,
it would be my turn next if I should interfere. At first I thought I
couldn’t stand it; but—it seems we underestimate our power to endure. I
have learned to go the rounds with the doctor, as Dante traveled through
the seven hells; I answer calls when men have hanged themselves in their
cells, or cut their throats, or bitten the arteries in their wrists.
Every night in this hospital at least one man dies; they bring a
wheelbarrow, and throw in the corpse, and a sheet over it, and cart it
to the dead-house—through that passage they go (_indicating the passage
across the stage, on the other side of the counter_) I hear them—rumble,
rumble, rumble—bump, bump—while I’m trying to write. (_he pauses_) I
have put a shell about me. I say, I am not here; I do not belong in this
world; I have nothing to do with it; I live in my spirit, in my dreams.
That is why I do not permit you to call me a convict, or to say that I
carry the brand.
_Jennings_: Bill, let us fly away together, to those happy days in
Central America, before the law closed its tight fist on us!
_Porter_: Be once more that little scarecrow, clad in a battered silk
hat, and a dress-suit with one tail torn off, dumped out of the surf on
the coast of Honduras!
_Jennings_: Be that grave, ample figure in a Palm Beach suit, steaming
and fanning yourself in front of the United States consulate! You had
your bedside manner with you that morning, Bill, in spite of an overdose
of aguardiente!
_Porter_: Ah, dio mio, but those were happier days than we knew! If only
your thirty thousand dollars had been dowered with immortality, we might
have been there now!
_Jennings_: The mistake you made, Bill, was when you wouldn’t come with
us to hold up that bank. If we’d had you, we’d have been all right.
_Porter_: You are joking, Colonel? In an emergency, I’d hardly know the
hind-end of a gun from the front. No, I couldn’t do anything like that;
I couldn’t threaten to shoot a man.
_Jennings_: You remember, I offered to let you hold the horses.
_Porter_: No, I couldn’t even hold the horses. We had to part company at
that place.
(_The Judge and Delacour enter at left, on the far side of the counter,
and stand listening. The Judge is an irascible elderly convict,
grey-haired, tall and lean; Delacour is a fat, pudgy, and pompous old
man. Both wear uniform of first-class convicts; both have decided
Southern accents_)
_The Judge_: Ahem! Ah beg pahdon fo’ interruptin these joyful
reminiscences, but would it be possible fo’ us to have medical
attention, suh?
_Jennings_ (_turns_): Well, look who’s here! The Judge! And Delacour!
Bankers’ Row moves to the hospital! Bill, have you the pleasure of
knowing these two gents?
_Porter_: Only professionally.
_Jennings_: Permit me the honor. My friend, Mr. William Sydney Porter,
my friend, Judge Gordon Powhatan, retired banker of Baton Rouge,
Louisiana. Also, my friend Anatole Richemine Carillon Delacour, retired
banker of New Orleans. Here are two careers which prove to us the power
of money in a great democracy! You and I, Bill, did our robbing in
thousands or tens of thousands; we are small fish. But the Judge and
Delacour are whales—they got away with several millions apiece!
_Delacour_ (_angrily_): Jennin’s, that is silly stuff!
_Jennings_: He let his bank down for two millions, and has it all salted
away—
_Delacour_: Ah tell you that is rubbish!
_Jennings_: Therefore he never had to live on the range like you and me;
he has apartments in Bankers’ Row—palatial rooms with a bed and desk and
all modern conveniences—a valet to press his striped trousers—mail three
times a day—telegraph service direct from the warden’s office—
_Delacour_: Nonsense, Ah tell you!
_Jennings_ (_with teasing delight_): Money will buy anything in
prison, Bill—just as outside! Make yourself agreeable to these
powerful magnates, and they’ll invite you to the feasts they spread
every Sunday afternoon. Delacour has built a complete kitchenette
behind the walls of the postoffice, and there he waves his magic
wand—all the rest of the week your mouth waters at the memory of his
sauces and flavorings—red-hot with chili peppers, Creole style. The
Judge mixes drinks, and they’re Creole style, red-hotter!
_Judge_: You gabble like a turkey, suh. I need medical attention, Ah
tell you.
_Porter_: What is it, Judge?
_Jennings_: Nothing but alcoholism, you may be sure—tasting his own
toddies before he serves them—
_Judge_: Ah have a prescription, suh. (_hands paper to Porter_)
_Delacour_: And Ah too. (_he also hands paper_)
_Jennings_: Invite Mr. Porter to the next meeting of the Recluse Club,
Judge.
_Judge_: We should be honored by yo’ presence, suh.
_Porter_ (_takes pills from a bottle and hands them to Judge; gives
Delacour a paper of powder_): There are your prescriptions. I shall be
pleased to come, Judge.
_Judge_: Ah shall see that an extra plate is set.
_Delacour_: But fo’get the brayin’s of that jackass Jennin’s. (_they
start to the door, left_)
_Jennings_: You know how it is, Bill, these old bags of money are always
frightened to death, they hide their gold, and lie about it—
_Delacour_ (_in the doorway, shouts excitedly_): Rot! Rot, Ah tell you,
rot! (_they go off_)
_Jennings_ (_laughing heartily_): We shall have a circus with those old
banker boys! You know Raidler—my pal at the postoffice? A great lad—a
hold-up artist—used to be known as “the Oklahoma terror,” but they shot
him in the neck, and now he has trouble in navigating. But his tongue is
still alive, and he’s the terror of “Bankers’ Row”—kids the life out of
the pompous old duffers. That fat dumpling, Delacour, stole a fortune
down in New Orleans, and Raidler gets him crazy, talking about his vast
wealth, and his power in the prison. It really is a rotten graft, and
they’re scared the story will leak out, and break into the papers.
(_becoming serious_) Well, Bill, I must be moving. I have an errand for
the warden. He had more than one reason for letting me out of the hole,
it appears. (_a pause_) You never ask any questions, do you, Bill?
_Porter_: You will tell me what you want me to know.
_Jennings_ (_laughs_): Yes, of course. You know Jimmie Valentine?
_Porter_: I see him every night.
_Jennings_: Well, Jimmie has a chance to get a pardon.
_Porter_: What?
_Jennings_: So the warden says.
_Porter_: What has happened?
_Jennings_: Do you read the papers?
_Porter_: Yes.
_Jennings_: Read about this Press-Post scandal?
_Porter_: I saw the headlines.
_Jennings_: Well, here’s the biggest newspaper in this city, and the
officers have been plundering it, and mixing up the books; now the
treasurer has skipped town, and locked the papers in the vault, and no
one has the combination.
_Porter_: I saw that.
_Jennings_: The courts are helpless; they’ve got to open the vault, and
they daren’t use dynamite for fear of destroying the papers. So there’s
Jimmie’s chance.
_Porter_: You mean, they want him to open it?
_Jennings_: The warden asked me what I thought of the possibility. I
said, “I’ll lay you a wager he’ll do it in less than thirty seconds by a
stop-watch.” “Will he have to have tools?” he asked. “He don’t use
tools,” I said; “he has a little trick.” “Will he consent to do it?” “I
don’t know that,” I said. “The state of Ohio has never done much for
him, you must admit.” I tried to bargain for a pardon. I said, “Here’s a
man that’s been in prison most of his life, since he was ten years old.
He’s dying of T. B.—had three hemorrhages in the hospital. Surely it
won’t hurt the state of Ohio to let him die in his old mother’s arms.”
The warden said, “Tell him I’ll ask the governor for a pardon, and I
think I can get it—at least, the governor has never yet turned down a
request from me.” What do you think, Bill?
_Porter_: Well, Jimmie’s a peculiar fellow, you know.
_Jennings_: What the men here call a “stir bug”; got the prison poison
in his soul. But I know him better than anybody else; we were on the
range together. Jimmie was an alley-rat, like me; when he was ten years
old, he stole a loaf of bread or something, and they sent him to the
reformatory; when he came out, eight years later, they had reformed him
into a thoroughly qualified cracksman. Now he’s a third-time
offender—habitual criminal they call it—all privileges denied—can’t
write a letter or even get one, can’t see his poor old mother—hasn’t
seen her for sixteen years—
_Porter_: That’s the ghastliest thing about it, Colonel.
_Jennings_: I know. The warden says he’s powerless; it’s the law of this
august state of Ohio.
(_Joe enters, right, from the hospital; he has his broom and cleaning
rags, and approaches diffidently_)
_Porter_: Well, Colonel, we on the inside see what you might describe as
the seamy side of the law.
_Joe_: Misteh Porteh, suh, would Ah botheh you if Ah was to empty de
trash-basket now, suh?
_Porter_: You might do something else. See if Jimmie Valentine is able
to come here.
_Joe_: Yes, suh, right away, suh. (_hurries off right_)
_Porter_: Did Jimmie ever tell you how he does that trick of opening
safes?
_Jennings_: It’s quite simple. He takes a file, and files his finger
nails across the middle right down to the flesh—
_Porter_: Oh, horrible!
_Jennings_: He lays the raw quivering flesh against the lock, while he
turns the dial with his other hand. His nerves are so sensitive that he
can feel the tumblers when they fall; so it’s just the same as if he
knew the combination. How’s that for a story, Bill?
_Porter_: My God, I’ll never write anything like that! That’s too
horrible to think about!
_Jennings_: Bill, there are men who would file one hand off to get out
of this pen. (_a pause_) At the time I tried to make my getaway, Jimmie
came forward to take the blame. Said he’d got the saws for me, and
tempted me to try it. Of course, he was lying, and the warden knew he
was lying; just the same, Jimmie got reduced to the lowest grade, and
that’s what brought him to the hospital, I guess. I saw his mother for
him, and told him about it, and Bill, he cried like a baby! But the
great state of Ohio can’t find any good in such a man.
_Porter_: The great state of Ohio would seem to be lacking somewhat in
spiritual intuition.
_Valentine_ (_enters, right; a tall, emaciated man of about forty; once
handsome and debonair, now he is surly and grim; speaks with a slow
drawl; wears the black and white stripes of a third-class prisoner, and
walks feebly. Joe stays close by his side, ready to support him if
needed_) Hello, Al. Evenin’, Mr. Porter.
_Jennings_ (_offers him chair_): Have a seat, Jimmie.
_Valentine_ (_lets himself carefully into chair_): What’s the dope, Al?
_Jennings_: Good dope, Jimmie. The warden says you’ve a chance at a
pardon.
_Valentine_: What’s that?
_Jennings_: Straight goods.
_Valentine_ (_after staring at him_): What’s the son-of-a-bitch tryin’
to get out of me?
_Jennings_: He wants something, of course—
_Valentine_: Spit it out.
_Jennings_: You know this situation of the Press-Post?
_Valentine_: Oh, _that_! (_a pause_) So they want me to open the vault
for ’em!
_Jennings_: That’s it, Jimmie.
_Valentine_: Close to forty years I’ve lived in the state of Ohio, and
here’s the first time they’ve had any use for me.
_Jennings_: The main finger asked me, could you do it.
_Valentine_: I can do it all right. Yes, I can do it.
_Jennings_: I made a bargain with him; he promises—
_Valentine_: Al, you’re a good scout, but quit kiddin’ yourself.
_Jennings_: You won’t believe him?
_Valentine_: If I wanted to get out of this stir, just the last thing in
the world I’d ever do would be to open that vault.
_Jennings_: How so?
_Valentine_: And show ’em how dangerous I am? Why, Al, they’d never
sleep nights after that. They’d say, “This guy’ll have everything we
own!” Not on your tin-type, Al!
_Jennings_: The main finger knows you’re a sick man, Jimmie—
_Valentine_: If I’m well enough to open one, I’m well enough to open
two. The main finger knows that, and if he don’t, the newspapers’ll tell
him. Forget it son!
_Jennings_: He wanted me to put it up to you—
_Valentine_: Sure, he knows you’re my friend—he’s a wise bird, all right
And I’ll do it, Al—don’t misunderstand me, I’ll do it but I won’t kid
myself. I’ll do it for your sake. I’ll say to him: “Give my friend Al a
square deal in this place; and Mr. Porter here—”
_Porter_: Don’t do it for me! I wouldn’t let a man do such a thing!
_Valentine_: You mean, filin’ my nails? Hell, what do you suppose that
amounts to, when you’re fixed like me? I’ll do it and glad to do it for
a friend. Lead me to it!
_Jennings_: I thought Bill would see a story in your stunt, Jimmie; but
he says it’s too painful.
_Valentine_ (_looking at Porter with sharp interest_): Well, he’s right.
What does anybody want to read about things like that for? People want
to be happy, they want some reason fer goin’ on livin’. If you put me in
a story, Mr. Porter, put me like I might have been. You wouldn’t think
it to see me now, but I was a gay kid once; a good-looker, and the girls
all liked me—yes, and I decided to go straight, too, but the bulls
wouldn’t let me. There was a guy named Varick, he had me in his
note-book, and every time there was a job pulled off, Jimmie Valentine
was the first man he thought of; he’d haul me up to headquarters once a
week, till I got surly, like a dog chained up. You may believe it or
not, I don’t care—but the job I’m here for was a job I never saw.
_Jennings_: Jimmie, Bill here is right; there’s nothing in it for you.
Tell the main finger to go to hell.
_Valentine_: No, Al, let me do it. There is somethin’ in it—I’ve just
thought of it.
_Jennings_: What’s that?
_Valentine_: It’ll please the old lady. She’ll read about it in the
paper, and paste it on the wall, and have somethin to look at the rest
of her life. You know how a mother is, she likes her son to be number
one, whatever he is—even a safe-cracker! Tell me, Al, you sure she
didn’t find out I was sick?
_Jennings_: I swore to her you were head of the machine-shop, and the
most useful man in the place.
_Valentine_: I might make the main finger send for her; but that would
be worse than nothin’, it would break her heart. I think of her nights,
I seem to feel her, wanderin’ round, lookin’ through the gates. Poor old
soul, she’s got nothin’ in life but me, and she’s over sixty, and must
be feeble. She sits all evenin’ lookin’ at my picture, kissin’ my old
coat, prayin’ to Jesus fer my dirty soul. Gee, but it’s tough! (_a
pause. Joe is crying_) Well, this’ll be a wet party if we go on. (_rises
feebly_) What time does the show start?
_Jennings_: Tomorrow morning, Jimmie.
_Valentine_: All right, Al, tell the main finger I’m game, but I won’t
kiss him. And get me a rat file, a good sharp one, with a lot of bite.
Good night, Mr. Porter.
_Porter_: Good night.
_Valentine_: Lead me home, Joe. (_takes Joe’s arm and goes feebly off
right, to hospital. Porter sits with head in hands, staring before him.
Jennings stands silent, wipes a furtive tear from his eyes, and then
goes off, left, not daring to trust himself to speak_)
_Porter_ (_to himself_): If you ever put me in a story, put me like I
might have been. A gay kid—a good-looker, and the girls all liked me. I
decided to go straight too, but the bulls wouldn’t let me. There was a
guy named Varick—Varick—
(_a heavy rumbling sound is heard, coming nearer; a burly convict enters
at right, on the far side of the counter, wheeling a loaded barrow; it
bumps at the door-sills and across the floor; he crosses the stage and
goes off left. The contents of this barrow are, of course, hidden from
the audience by the counter. Porter follows the progress of the convict
with his eyes_)
_Joe_ (_enters right, from hospital, and stands looking at Porter_): Da
goes dat po feller Smithers, what hanged hisself; gettin’ his las ride.
(_a pause_) Dey was another con croaked tonight—T. B. feller, Jake
What’s-his-name. (_a pause_) Dey sho is one mountain of misery in dis
place. (_a pause; a sound of faint screams from beneath the stage;
Porter starts and puts his hands to his ears_) Dey’s paddlin some po
feller down in de basement.
_Porter_: I can’t stand it! I can’t stand it!
_Joe_ (_shaking his head mournfully_): Dis aint no place fo a genleman,
Misteh Porteh. Dey sho hadn’t ought to put a high-up genleman like you
in dis pen.
_Porter_ (_distracted_): Get out, Joe, I want to be alone! Don’t talk to
me now! Go along! Turn off that light.
(_Joe backs away, but does not leave the stage; another rumble is heard,
another wheelbarrow crosses from right to left. Joe snaps off the light.
There is total darkness, and the increasing rumble of the barrow, with
the screams from below, gives opportunity for a quick change of the set,
as follows: Brass gratings rise up, above the counter on the far side,
the gratings having openings, making the cashier’s windows of a bank.
There is a gap in these gratings, where the counter may be swung inward
upon hinges, giving an entrance to the interior. The shelves below the
counter turn on pivots, so that they now appear as bank furnishings. The
shelves at the right side of the room turn in the same way. On the left
side the wall now appears as the steel door of a bank-vault; this wall
runs obliquely, cutting off the back corner of the stage, so that the
entire audience can see the steel door, and when it swings open, can see
partly into the vault. Joe makes a quick change into the blue uniform of
a bank porter. The Judge enters and seats himself at the desk, made up
as an elderly, dignified bank president with white moustache and goatee.
Delacour, stout and pompous, places himself as cashier at the window.
Dr. Walters takes a place outside the gratings, as a bank customer.
Porter stands by the half-open door of the vault, watching the scene, as
it gradually comes into view by red light._
_The rumble of the wheelbarrow turns into the galloping of horses’
hoofs; the screams from the basement become yells, off-stage left; also
revolver shots are heard. Full red light. Al Jennings, mounted on a
cow-pony, and clad in cowboy costume, with an arsenal of guns, rides
through the entrance to the bank, on the far side of the counter, at
left; he is bare-headed, with touseled red hair; carries a revolver in
each hand, aims one at the cashier, and waves the other at the whole
room. He is followed by Raidler, also in cowboy costume, with guns_)
_Jennings_ (_yells_): I’m Al Jennings, train-bandit, and I’m out for the
stuff! Hold up your hands! Your money or your life!
_Raidler_: Meet Raidler, the Oklahoma terror! We want fifteen thousand
dollars, and we want it quick!
_Jennings_: Death hides in our shooting irons! Keep your eye on the
muzzle, and jump!
_Raidler_: We never speak but once, and we shoot to kill! (_he fires a
shot_)
_Jennings_: Keep your hands in the air and commend your souls to your
Creator!
_Raidler_: Where are the money bags? (_to Delacour_) Speak, you fat old
Shylock!
_Jennings_ (_to Joe_): Open that gate there, coon! Jump, you black
bob-tailed monkey! (_he fires a shot, and Joe leaps, in comic terror,
and swings back a part of the counter_)
_Jennings_ (_rides into the front of stage and wheels his horse_): Where
is the treasure? (_levels gun at the Judge, whose hands shake with
fright as he holds them in the air; he tries to speak, but cannot make a
sound_) Spit it out, you doddering old note-shaver! Where are the
securities? (_turns the guns upon Porter, and for the first time sees
him_) Why—why—what’s this? If it ain’t my friend Bill! My old pal of
Honduras and San Salvador and the Central American coast! Bill Porter,
or I’m dreaming! Welcome to our bandit-crew! (_sticks his guns into the
holsters, leaps from his horse, and clasps Porter’s hands_) So this is
your joint! Come with us, Bill, come out into the open, we’re Robin Hood
and his Merry Men! Bill, we’ve got the loveliest little ranch in
Oklahoma; and with this fifteen thousand dollars we’re planning to buy
it and settle down. Come along, and share the good life.
_Porter_ (_with his customary gravity, not in the least disturbed by a
bank hold-up_): No, Colonel, I can’t help you earn the money, so I can’t
help you spend it. I could never point a gun at a man!
_Jennings_: Well, come and hold the horses. We’ll give you a share if
you’ll just hold the horses—won’t we, Raidler?
_Raidler_: Sure, anything for a pal of yours.
_Porter_: No, Colonel, I’m sorry; I couldn’t even hold the horses.
_Jennings_: You mean to go straight, hey? Well, go to it—but it tears us
apart. (_wrings his hand_) Well, good bye, old man, we’ll ride along,
and get our fifteen thousand elsewhere! (_leaps upon his horse_) Pardon
us, gentlemen, no offense meant, and none taken, I hope. Clear the way!
(_he rides out to far side of counter, joining Raidler_)
_Raidler_: Can’t we shoot even one of them?
_Jennings_: I’d like to bust that fat, white old bond-worm at the
counter, but he’d make a mess. Away we go—to the great open spaces!
(_they fire a parting volley and ride out as they came; shots and yells
outside, and hoof-beats dying away_)
_Judge_ (_recovering the self-possession of a Southern bank-president_):
Well, gentlemen, we’ve had an adventure. I think, after that, we’re
entitled to a drink. Gather round; I’ll mix them red-hot, in Creole
style. (_takes a quart bottle from his desk_) Mr. Porter, we’re obliged
to you.
_Dr. Walters_ (_pointing an accusing finger through the grill_): Just a
moment, here; I don’t like the job of playing detective, but somebody
has to do it. How does this man come to know that bandit? (_silence_)
I’ll tell you how; he’s an ex-convict.
_Porter_: That is not true! (_with excitement_) No one shall say it of
me! I refuse to go through life with that brand upon my forehead!
_Dr. Walters_: I was the doctor at the Ohio Pen, and I played the
detective on him there. Now I’m representing the National Bankers’
Protective Association. Varick is my name—Varick, do you get me? Here’s
my shield, if you want to see it.
_Judge_: Gentlemen, in a case like this the first duty of all loyal
Southerners is to have a drink. Joe, bring the glasses. Here comes our
able and highly respected shoe-merchant—(_Jimmie Valentine enters the
front room through the door at right; he is debonair and jaunty, clad in
an immaculate business suit, and carrying a suit-case_) Gentlemen, meet
Mr. James Valentine. I am happy to enliven the festivities by an
auspicious announcement. Mr. Valentine, the leading shoe-merchant of our
town, has become engaged to my daughter. Let us drink to the happiness
of bride and groom.
_Valentine_: Just a moment, Judge; we’ll have to postpone that liquor.
The bride is coming.
_Judge_: Indeed! We are honored! (_he puts away the bottle, and signs
Joe to put away the glasses. Faint music, the Lohengrin wedding march.
The light fades from red to pale violet. Athol enters at right, in the
same costume as Act I, and accompanied by Margaret, in the same costume;
also another child, a year or two younger_) Gentlemen, my daughter, and
her little nieces, my two grand-daughters. (_all bow, with elaborate
politeness_) To what do we owe this honor, daughter?
_Athol_: Jimmie has to take a business trip, and I’m driving him to the
depot. I’m tempted to go with him, Daddy. Wouldn’t I make a nice
drummer? (_she takes Valentine’s derby hat from his hand and puts it on
her head; picks up his suit-case from the floor_) My, how heavy it is!
Feels like it was full of gold bricks.
_Valentine_: Lots of nickle-plated shoe-horns in there. Thought I’d save
express charges by taking them along with me. I’m getting awfully
economical.
_Judge_: While you’re here, daughter, you must see our new safe.
Gentlemen, we’ve just had it installed, the very fanciest thing in the
county, and we’re proud of it. (_he swings the door and shows it_) The
vault is small, but this new patented door is a wonder. Three solid
steel bolts are thrown with one handle; it has a time lock, and once
that is set and fastened, we defy any safe-cracker in the land. Would
you like to examine it, Valentine?
_Valentine_: Unfortunately, I don’t know much about safes; it wouldn’t
mean anything to me. (_he politely looks over the outfit_)
_Delacour_ (_to Dr. Walters_): Is there anything I can do for you?
_Dr. Walters_ (_who is leaning on the counter peering through the
railings_): No, I’m just waiting for a man I know.
_Margaret_ (_playing with the door_): Oh grandpa, what nice shiny metal!
And what funny locks and knobs! Why do you have so many?
_Judge_: They all have their uses. Bank burglars are cunning rogues.
_Margaret_: Does it make a big noise when you shut it?
_Judge_: It will, if you bang it, I guess.
_Margaret_: Grandpa, can I shut the bolts and turn the knob, like I
learned to do for the old one?
_Judge_: Yes, sometime, if you happen to be here. (_turns to Valentine_)
Valentine, while you’re in the city, I want you to get me a case or two
of that superfine Scotch whiskey you brought down last time. I was just
on the point of giving these gentlemen a sample of it—the Creole style,
red-hot. It will be a memory for them to carry away from our town—(_he
is interrupted by a loud clang, as Margaret, having shoved the younger
child into the vault in a spirit of play, slams the door, shoots the
bolts, and turns the knob of the combination_) What have you done?
_Athol_ (_screams_): Oh, my God!
_Margaret_ (_in terror_): Grandpa! I was just playing!
_Judge_ (_springs to handle and tugs at it_): That door can’t be opened!
_Athol_: Oh, Papa!
_Judge_: The clock hasn’t been wound, nor the combination set!
_Athol_: Oh, God save us!
_Margaret_: Grandpa, I didn’t mean—
_Judge_: Hush! All be quiet for a moment! (_shouts_) _Child!_ Listen to
me! (_faint scream of the child behind the door_)
_Athol_: Oh, the poor darling! She will die of fright!
_Joe_: Oh, dat po chile!
_Athol_: Open the door! Break it down! Can’t you men do something?
_Judge_: Heaven help us! There isn’t a man nearer than two hundred miles
who can open that door! My god, Valentine, what can we do? That
child—she can’t stand too long in there. There isn’t enough air, and
besides, she’ll go into convulsions of fright!
_Athol_ (_beats upon the door hysterically with her hands_): Oh, let the
child out!
_Delacour_: We’ll have to get some dynamite.
_Judge_: You’re mad, man; it would kill the child!
_Athol_ (_turns to Valentine_): Oh, can’t you do something? _Try_, won’t
you?
_Valentine_ (_looks at her with a soft smile_): Dearest, will you give
me that rose you are wearing?
_Margaret_: What’s that for? (_she gives it to him_)
_Valentine_ (_stuffs it into his vest-pocket, then throws off his coat
and turns up his sleeves_): Get away from that door, all of you. (_takes
suit case, lays it on desk, and spreads out complete set of shining
burglar’s tools, in orderly fashion; he picks out a steel drill, and
starts to work on the door, whistling to himself as he works. All watch
him in silence; they look from one to another, and the meaning of their
glances is clear—they are realizing that Valentine is a cracksman. Dr.
Walters peers through the grill, watching with special intentness.
Valentine takes one tool after another, and finally throws back the
bolts and opens the door without a word_)
_Athol_ (_catches the half-fainting child in her arms_): Oh, precious!
You are safe!
_Valentine_ (_puts on his coat and goes to the passage through the
counter; he sees Dr. Walters standing, half blocking this passage, and
he smiles_): Well, Varick! Got round at last, have you? Well, let’s go.
I don’t know that it makes much difference now.
_Dr. Walters_ (_steps back to let Valentine through the passage_): Guess
you’re mistaken, Mr. Valentine. Don’t believe I recognize you. Is that
your buggy out there, waiting to take you to the train?
_Judge_ (_shouts_): Jimmie Valentine! Come back here and get that drink
before you go. I’ll mix it red-hot, in Creole style. Come back, I tell
you! (_Athol and the two children go off right; the light shifts to red;
the Judge produces his bottle, and Joe hastens grinning, with glasses.
Music and jingle of castanets; Espiritu de la Vina dances on, singing_)
A beber, a beber, a apurar
Las Copas de licor
Que el vino hara olvidar
Las penas del amor.
(_The judge pours the drinks into the glasses; all gather, and lift
their glasses in pledge_): Gentlemen, we drink to the health of the
Bride. What is the phrase: “The scent of the flowers, the booty of the
bee, the primal drip of spring waters, the overture of the lark, the
twist of lemon peel on the cocktail of creation!” Gentlemen, the Bride!
_All_: The Bride!
_Espiritu de la Vina_ (_sings_):
De este sabroso jugo, la blanca espuma
Aleja de las penas la negra bruma,
Si Dios hubiera hecho
De vino el mar, de vino el mar,
Yo me volviera pato, para nadar, para nadar:—
Esta es la vida, bebamos mas,
Esta es la vida, bebamos mas.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ACT III.
SCENE: _The postoffice of the prison._
_The view is from the interior of the office. The counter runs across
the stage at the back, and there are two windows, with brass grills,
through which the prison inmates get their mail; large racks with
pigeon-holes at each side; these counters, including the racks and
windows, are built on hinges, to swing back, away from the audience,
making a large entrance, as described later. In the center of the stage,
towards the front, is a large table, with five chairs; an extra chair in
the room. On the left wall of the room, partly occupied by shelves, a
portion has been cut into, and a little kitchenette built in; the wall
is swung back on hinges, disclosing a gas oven, and shelves for pots and
pans, with stock of provisions underneath. An entrance, left, and one on
the other side of the room, right._
AT RISE: _Five members of the “Recluse Club” are having a Christmas Eve
celebration. The table is set with napery and silver, and remains of a
partly consumed meal, including a turkey. Christmas wreaths and bunches
of evergreens on the walls and hanging over the table. The members of
the club are seated as follows: Porter in the middle seat, facing the
audience; Jennings at his right and Delacour at his left. On the right
of Jennings sits Raidler, which places him with his right side to the
audience; the seat opposite to him, with left side to the audience,
belongs to the Judge, but the Judge is now standing at the gas-oven,
brewing a hot punch. All five of the men are in that state of gaiety
appropriate to a feast. They are all in their prison costumes, save that
the Judge has on a cook’s apron. Raidler is a shriveled-up cripple, with
crutches on either side of his chair. The Negro Joe is present as a
servant; he is not supposed to take part in the laughter and singing,
but does so furtively, and on sufferance. He has got a drum-stick of the
turkey, and gnaws it, occasionally sticking it away in his pocket when
called upon for service. All are singing_:
Hail, hail, the gang’s all here!
What the hell do we care?
What the hell do we care?
Hail, hail, the gang’s all here,
What the hell do we care now?
_Jennings_ (_pounds on table with his knife and fork_): Speed her up,
Judge, speed her up; we’re perishing!
_Judge_: If you want this punch in style, suh, you’ll have to allow me
time fo’ the brewin’ of it, suh.
_Porter_: That’s right, Judge, stand on your dignity.
_Judge_: You won’t wish me to fall below the standard of our banquet,
suh. Punch is punch, or it is an affront, suh.
_Jennings_: Three cheers for Creole style. Make it red-hot.
_Raidler_: This was sure one feed!
_Delacour_: Gentlemen, if you could have seen the time Ah had gettin’
that turkey from the commissary clerk! “Do you think,” says he, “that
turkeys are runnin’ wil’ in the state of Ohio?” Said Ah: “They appear to
be flyin’ higher than any wil’ one on the top of the Alleghanies.”
_Jennings_: If you get to thinking what you paid for this bird, you’ll
lose what you’ve swallowed.
_Raidler_: By God, it would be the first time a banker ever coughed up
anything good since the days of the first pawn-broker. Who was he, Bill?
_Porter_: The founder of the Medici family, in fifteenth century Venice.
The three balls were their family coat of arms.
_Raidler_ (_to Delacour_): Hey, you old Medici, pass the raisins.
_Delacour_: Can it be you’re willin’ to eat what we provide?
_Raidler_: Me? I live off the bankers, as they live off the rest of the
world.
_Jennings_: Delacour, when you puff up like that, your eyes are like two
pale gooseberries imbedded in a mask of red putty. You have stuffed
yourself.
_Delacour_: Did you think Ah cooked that meal to watch _you_ stuff
_yourself_?
_Jennings_: You’re the living image of one of the passengers in my first
hold-up, on the Santa Fe. It was at night, and this fat, solemn snoozer
had managed to get into his frock-tailed coat and high silk hat—but all
the rest of him was pajamas and bunions. When I dug into his pockets, I
expected to drag out a block of gold-mine stock or an armful of
government bonds, but all I found was a little boy’s French harp about
four inches long. It made me mad, and I stuck the harp against his
mouth. “If you can’t pay, play,” I says. “I can’t play,” says he. “Then
learn right off quick,” I says, and let him smell the end of my
gun-barrel. So he caught hold of the harp, and turned as red as you, and
blew a dinky little tune I used to hear when I was a kid:
Prettiest little gal in the country—oh!
Mammy and Daddy told me so.
I made him play it all the time I was in the car: some day, when you and
I get out, Delacour, I’ll call on your bank and teach it to you.
_Delacour_: Maybe you’ve already taught it to me. Maybe Ah was that
passenger.
_Raidler_: Maybe he was!
_Joe_ (_with wide-open eyes_): Was you, boss?
_Jennings_: By God, I don’t know whether you’re joking or not, you old
pudding-bag!
_Porter_: Gentlemen, gentlemen, remember the spirit of this hallowed
hour. Ten million pairs of parents in the United States are hanging up
stockings for their little ones; at such a moment the hardest heart
turns to sentimentality, the trigger-finger of the grimmest killer is
stayed, the burglar becomes sociable—
_Raidler_: Yea, Bill! Did I ever tell you how Jersey Pete ran into the
fellow that had rheumatism?
_Porter_: If the story be in fit spirit for Christmas, let us have it.
_Raidler_: Jersey Pete was helping himself in a rich man’s bedroom, when
the guy woke up, and Pete covered him with a gun and told him to hoist
his hands. The guy raised his right hand, but he says, “I can’t raise my
left, I got inflammatory rheumatism.” “Hell,” says Pete, “I’m sorry for
you. It hits me in the same place.” “Did you ever try rattlesnake oil?”
says the guy. “Gallons of it,” says Pete; “if all the snakes I’ve used
the oil of was strung out in a row they’d reach eight times as far as
Saturn, and the rattles could be heard at Valparaiso, Indiana, and
back.” “Some use Chiselum’s pills,” says the guy. “Fudge,” says Pete, “I
took ’em five months. No good. I had some relief the year I tried
Finkelham’s Extract, Balm of Gilead Poultices, and Potts’ Pain
Pulverizer; but I think it was the buckeye I carried in my pocket that
done the trick.” So then they got to be friends, and Pete helped the guy
to get his duds on, and took him out and blew him to a drink.
_Jennings_: Bill will make a story out of that and I’ll swipe a few
stamps from the State of Ohio, and the editors will eat it up. They love
these sympathetic gunmen and soft-hearted bandits.
_Raidler_: The story reminds me! When do we get taken to get a drink?
_Judge_: Suh, the wassail waits! (_brings steaming saucepan of punch to
the table_)
_Jennings_: Hurrah! Hurrah!
_Raidler_: Lead me to it!
_Judge_: Let me infawm you, suh, this is no smuggled stuff, suh. The
essential ingredient is genuine old hand-made Clover Leaf ’59, Private
Stock. (_ladles it into glasses_)
_Jennings_: No desert rat was ever thirstier.
_Delacour_: Save some for me, there!
_Joe_ (_sidles up with eager interest_): Jes a drap fo de niggeh, Jedge,
jes a drap. (_as he gets it_) Thank’ee, boss, thank’ee.
_Jennings_: Give us a toast, Bill.
_All_: A toast! A toast!
_Porter_ (_rising_): Gentlemen: to the ten million mothers and fathers
of families who are now occupied in filling stockings and decorating
trees in this our Christmas nation! To the ten million little boys who
have whispered a want, and are waiting in an ecstasy of anticipation! To
the ten million little girls who have asked for a dolly, in a pink silk
dress, one that shuts her eyes when you lay her down, and when you
squeeze her, says “Mamma!” May they have their twenty million desires.
_All_: Hurrah! (_they drink_)
_Jennings_: That seems far off from the Ohio Pen, Bill.
_Porter_: Not so far as you may think, Colonel. It is the Day We
Celebrate.
_Raidler_: Give us another, nearer home.
_Porter_: Gentlemen: to one who celebrates his Christmas lying on a
hospital cot, fearing every moment the last hemorrhage that will carry
him off. To Jimmie Valentine, and his promised pardon!
_All_ (_at first taken aback; then, soberly_): Jimmie Valentine.
_Jennings_: And his pardon! (_a pause_) Boys, if he don’t get that
pardon, there’s going to be hell to pay in this place.
_Raidler_: Right you are, Al!
_Jennings_: If there’s anything the men have been more stirred up about,
it was before I came in here.
_Raidler_ (_hitting the table_): Well, by Jesus, he earned that pardon!
_Porter_: Surely he’s going to get it!
_Joe_: Sho, boss, he _got_ to get it!
_Jennings_: If they’re going to give it, why don’t they? Are they
waiting for him to be dead?
_Porter_: The warden says the governor promised.
_Jennings_: Hell! The promise of a politician!
_Raidler_: I know this—there’s one man in the place don’t expect it, and
that’s Jimmie.
_Jennings_: I notice he talks about it every day, all the same.
_Porter_: The Colonel is right about that; he is hoping, yet trying not
to admit the hope—because he can’t bear to lose it.
_Jennings_: Nobody has to tell me about that—I went with him when he did
the job. He’d have died before he let the main finger see what was going
on inside him; but he wants that pardon, and he wants to see his old
mother before his last hemorrhage.
_Raidler_ (_indicating the Judge and Delacour_): Look at them two old
toads sitting there! All they’re thinking about is, how dangerous to
turn out a man that might be able to open one of their safes!
_Judge_: Well, suh, you must admit, suh—
_Raidler_: Admit nothing! You’re a pair of bloodsucking Shylocks.
_Jennings_: Isn’t the poor devil dying?
_Judge_: Yes, suh, but he might teach someone else that trick—
_Raidler_: Godalmighty, will you listen to that? Aint he had chance to
teach a hundred of ’em here? Aint the papers published how he done it?
_Jennings_: Boys, that was one of the prettiest sights you ever laid
your eyes on! Just as quick as you could move your fingers, he turned
that dial, and I held a watch on him—twelve seconds to a dot, and he
swung back the door. “There you are, gentlemen!” You should have seen
that crowd of reporters and politicians—you could have bowled the whole
row of them over with a feather.
_Raidler_: Yes, and for a bunch of lying crooks in office! What
difference does it make to Jimmie whether one set of thieves or another
got that money? I’ve done jobs I’m ashamed of in my life, but never
anything as dirty as those fellows up there in the state capitol do all
the time. I’m not _their_ kind of crook!
_Jennings_: I remember when I was on trial, a religious lady came to cry
over me. She thought I was a sweet-looking little fellow, and she said,
“Can it really be, Mr. Jennings, that you are thief?” “No, ma’am,” says
I; “I’m a robber.” “And what is the difference, Mr. Jennings?” “About
forty-five years, ma’am,” says I. But she didn’t know what I meant.
_Delacour_: Mr. Jennin’s, Ah’m thinkin’ we have guided this conversation
into painful channels.
_Raidler_: Give us some more punch, Judge.
_Judge_: I am desolated to infawm you, suh, that’s all there is.
_Jennings_: _What?_ You call that a celebration?
_Judge_: I made it good and strong, suh.
_Jennings_: Yes; but this is Christmas eve!
_Raidler_: And you agreed to bring the makings! Why, you grasping old
note-shaver, you skinny old white bond-worm—
_Jennings_: This is not Christmas at all, this is a swindle, a hold-up,
a crime! I’ll denounce you to the main finger!
_Judge_: You know the danger, suh, if you get drunk in this place—
_Raidler_: Drunk? Hell and blazes, what do you mean, drunk on one glass
of punch?
_Jennings_: How would you know when I’m drunk?
_Porter_: The Colonel has certain standards of his own, Judge. If he
were drunk, the air of this room would be full of fluttering white
pigeons, emerging from those pigeon-holes now apparently full of mail;
every postage-stamp would become a shining red or green eye, according
to the denomination, winking cross-eyed if the stamp were canceled; a
pink classic nymph would emerge from yon doorway and dance upon the
table, treading lightly between the dishes; the tops of the shelves
would be traversed by a company of beribboned cats, marching in
stupendous aerial procession. A few things like that, and the Colonel
would know that Christmas had come to stay.
_Delacour_ (_getting to his feet_): Mr. Porter, Ah would sho’ly like to
see those phenomena. Ah will see what Ah can do.
_Raidler_: Hurrah for the fat boy!
_Jennings_: Does your prison bootlegger work nights?
_Delacour_: Ah’ll see about it. There are ways, and ways. (_exit right_)
_Raidler_: There’s graft for you! His money can get anything, any time.
_Judge_: You’ll manage to forgive his liquor, suh!
_Raidler_: Oh, I’ll drink liquor any time I can get it; but all the
same, it’s a rotten graft. They’d put me in the hole if they knew I was
taking the stamps to mail out Bill’s stories to the magazines, but the
men that run this prison will let the big contractors steal tens of
thousands of dollars, and take their share of the rake-off. Oh, yes,
this is the sweet land of liberty—for the money-squeezers that live in
Bankers’ Row—
_Judge_: Mr. Raidler has mounted his soap-box again!
_Porter_: Gentlemen, gentlemen; you are mixing your occasions. This is
not an election campaign, nor yet the grand and glorious Fourth of July.
Colonel, do you remember Hop-along Bibb, that charming person we met in
San Salvador, and how he mixed his celebrations when he got liquor on
board?
_Jennings_: Tell the story, and cheer them up!
_Porter_: A short tale and a merry one. Hop-along Bibb was down and out,
so he married himself to a snuff-brown lady who kept a rum-shop in the
Calle de los Forty-seven Inconsolable Saints. When his credit was played
out there, he went to work on a banana-plantation, along with an English
tramp by the name of Liverpool Sam. If you’ve never been in a banana
grove, gentlemen, it will be hard to imagine what that means. The place
is as solemn as a Rathskeller at seven a. m. You can’t see the sky for
the foliage about you, and the ground is knee deep in rotting leaves.
Hop-along and Liverpool slept in a grass hut, along with red, yellow,
and black employes, and there they’d lie all night fighting mosquitoes
and listening to the monkeys squalling and the alligators grunting and
splashing in the lagoon. After they had been there a few months they had
lost all sense of the fugiting of tempus—there was nothing to tell them
about the seasons, so when they came back to town, and found the
American consulate all decorated with flowers and flags, they weren’t
sure what it meant. A preacher man took pity on their penniless estate,
and gave Hop-along two dollars and told him to celebrate the day; so
they bought a quart of rum, and got drunk under a cocoanut tree, and
then Hop-along decided to celebrate proper and patriotic, so he jumped
onto Liverpool and licked him to a frazzle and then dragged the remains
back to the preacher. “Look at this, sir,” says he—“look at this thing
that was once a proud Britisher. You gave us two dollars and told us to
celebrate the day. The star-spangled banner still waves! Hurrah for the
stars and eagles!” To which the preacher answers: “Dear me! Fighting on
this day of days! On Christmas day, when peace on earth—” “Christmas
day?” says Hop-along. “Hell, man! I thought it was the Fourth of July!”
(_a burst of laughter; they pound on the table_)
_Joe_: Haw, haw, haw! (_then, discovering that he has attracted
attention to himself, he shrinks back abashed_)
_Jennings_: Bill, ’tis a sad thing to contemplate what drink will do to
the mind of a man.
_Porter_: Take my advice, Colonel; steer clear of it.
_Raidler_: I say, let Bill write that story and earn the makings for
next Christmas!
_Jennings_: I wish that fat old financial parasite would come with the
makings for this one.
_Raidler_: If he don’t hurry, I’ll forget what I’ve already had.
_Jennings_ (_the door opens and Valentine enters, left_): Jimmie
Valentine!
_Valentine_ (_feeble, barely able to stagger, grey in color, with face
drawn_): Hello—boys.
_Jennings_ (_springs to help him_): What’s the matter? (_Joe also helps,
and they lead Valentine to Jennings’ seat_)
_Valentine_ (_speaks with difficulty_): Nothin’, boys—nothin’ special.
Just thought—like to be with friends. Buck me up.
_Joe_ (_in voice of grief_): Po Jimmie Valentine!
_Raidler_: Something’s gone wrong!
_Valentine_: I let ’em take me to the dinin’ room; thought—cheer me
up—Christmas carols—singin’—Jesus Christ (_the corners of his mouth
drawn down, his voice becomes a snarl of fury_) Little Jesus—meek an’
mild—angels singin’—heavenly child. Hell and damnation! (_they divine
something serious, and gradually an idea dawns upon them; they stare in
horror_)
_Jennings_: My God, Jimmie!
_Porter_: What have they done?
_Raidler_: Speak up, man!
_Valentine_: Brought me the news—Christmas present—love and mercy.
_Jennings_: You don’t mean it?
_Valentine_: Yeah—guv’ner turned me down. No pardon—too dangerous.
_Raidler_: Who told you that?
_Valentine_: It’s in the papers. Somebody yelled it in the dinin’
room—broke up their Christmas carols. Men howlin’ like devils.
_Raidler_: Now ain’t that a horror?
_Jennings_: God damn the crooks that run this state!
_Joe_: Oh, po Jimmie Valentine!
_Valentine_: Take it easy, boys—I expected it.
_Raidler_ (_strikes his fist on the table_): They kept the news for
today!
_Jennings_ (_shaking his clenched hands in the air_): And you can’t do a
damned thing! You’ve got to take it!
_Valentine_: Forget it, forget it.
_Porter_ (_rises suddenly, pale with anger_): This is the end for me!
I’ll stand no more! (_starts toward the door_)
_Jennings_ (_in alarm_): What do you mean, Bill?
_Porter_: I mean I’m going to have it out with the warden.
_Jennings_: What can you do?
_Porter_: At least I can tell him what I think of him and his prison.
_Valentine_: No, no! (_general confusion of protest_)
_Jennings_ (_leaps up and stops him by main force_): Good God, Bill,
have you gone crazy?
_Porter_: I’ve watched the cruelty and the stealing and the rottenness
in this place till I’ve been sick at my stomach; I’ve kept my mouth
shut, I’ve looked out for myself and my own skin. But this is the limit;
I’m going to speak up for Jimmie, if it’s my last act on earth.
_Valentine_: Forget it, Mr. Porter.
_Jennings_: Bill, you shan’t do it. Hold him, Joe! Wait, and listen to
me!
_Joe_ (_helping Jennings_): Naw, Misteh Porteh, naw suh!
_Raidler_ (_unable to move, but reaching over the table as if to help_):
Keep your shirt on, Bill!
_Valentine_: Sit down, Mr. Porter—there’s nothin’ to that.
_Jennings_: Bill, let’s take a knife off this table and cut our two
throats. Will you do that with me?
_Porter_: What, Colonel?
_Jennings_: Jimmie here would care, and Raidler, and half a dozen other
men in the place—all as helpless as he is, sitting here paralyzed.
Tomorrow we’d be buried, and in three days we’d be forgotten, and the
graft would be going right on. Bill Porter, who do you think you are?
What do they care for you?
_Porter_: I care for myself, Colonel.
_Jennings_: How much? My God, man, they’d take you down to the basement,
and tie you flat on your stomach, and beat you with paddles till every
inch of you was one black and bloody wound. Ain’t that right, Jimmie?
_Valentine_: Sure it’s right—he knows it.
_Jennings_: They’d give you the water—stuff a hose in your mouth, and
fill you till you fainted and turned black all over! Are you ready for
that?
_Valentine_: Come, sit down, Mr. Porter.
_Porter_ (_weakening_): Colonel—
_Jennings_: Bill, you can’t go up against this machine—you’re not built
of that kind of stuff. Wait till you get out—then tell somebody if you
want to; but there’s nothing you can do now, you’ve got to swallow your
grief—this time, like all the other times. Come back here, Bill, and sit
down. (_leads him to his seat; the door opens, right, and Delacour
enters with a quart bottle in his hand_) Ah! Our banker friend
arrives—just in the nick of time! Here, Bill, this is the remedy—an old
remedy, tried and true, for the troubles a man can’t endure.
_Valentine_: Sure—give him a drink.
_Jennings_ (_takes the bottle from the Judge_): What’s this label say?
“Spiritus frumenti.” A nice, pious medical label! Down in Latin-America,
you remember, they call it “Espiritu de la Vina.” There too they
sometimes have troubles more than mortal flesh can stand; and they know
Dr. Barleycorn’s old-established remedy. (_he pours a glass full_)
Drink, Bill, take it quick, take it raw, and slide into oblivion. When
you come out again, things will be duller, your grief won’t weigh so
heavy, you’ll have a headache and a fuzzy tongue and a few other things
to think about. (_presses the glass upon him_) Down with it! For Jimmie
and me, if not for yourself, Bill! (_as Porter drinks_) There, that’s
better! That’s the philosopher! (_as Porter drains the glass and sinks
back into his chair, Jennings pours the rest of the bottle into the
other five glasses_) Here, gentlemen, we won’t wait for Creole style,
we’ll take it a la Texas. (_sings_)
Like every regular fellow I takes my whiskey clear
For I’m a rambling rake o’ poverty and a son of a gambolier!
_Joe_: Jes a drap fo de niggeh, boss. (_he gets a share, and they all
lift their glasses, sing the chorus, and drink_)
_Valentine_ (_lifts his half-empty glass_): Here’s to my next
hemorrhage—may she come quick!
_Jennings_: A happier world for Jimmie!
_Raidler_: Where they’ll give him his pardon!
_All_ (_in a flat and feeble tone_): Hurrah! Hurrah! (_Porter sinks his
head into his arms on the table, in which position he remains during the
following scene. Joe brings chair for Jennings, who sits down, singing
and orating; the other members of the party cheer and pound upon the
table, and the lights begin to wink and stagger, alternately red and
white; red searchlights play here and there, producing a drunken
effect_)
_Jennings_ (_sings_):
In the sweet bye and bye
We shall meet on that beautiful shore
_All_:
We shall sing on that beautiful shore
The melodious songs of the blest,
And our spirits shall sorrow no more,
Not a sigh for the blessing of rest.
In the sweet bye and bye,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore,
In the sweet bye and bye,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore.
_Jennings_: Fellow members of the Recluse Club, the shore which I select
for our meeting is one you come to as you sail south from Galveston,
fleeing from the bloodhounds of the law. Our great master of literature,
Bill Porter, has described it in one of his immortal compositions, which
I have this day been privileged to read. (_takes manuscript from pocket
and reads_) “A clump of banana plants interposed their broad shields
between him and the sun. The gentle slope from the consulate to the sea
was covered with the dark-green foliage of lemon-trees and orange-trees
just bursting into bloom. A lagoon pierced the land like a dark, jagged
crystal, and above it a pale ceiba-tree rose almost to the clouds. The
waving cocoanut palms on the beach flared their decorative green leaves
against the slate of an almost quiescent sea. His senses were cognizant
of brilliant scarlet and ochres amid the vert of the coppice, of odors
of fruit and bloom and the smoke from Chanca’s clay oven under the
calabash-tree; of the treble laughter of the native women in their huts,
the song of the robin, the salt taste of the breeze, the diminuendo of
the faint surf running along the shore.”
Such is the coast of Honduras after you have had a sufficient
inoculation of the native aguardiente; otherwise it seems as I have
jotted down on the margin of this manuscript: “Take a lot of Filipino
huts and a couple of hundred brick-kilns and arrange ’em in squares in a
cemetery. Cart down all the conservatory plants in the Astor and
Vanderbilt greenhouses, and stick ’em about wherever there’s room. Turn
all the Bellevue patients and the barbers’ convention and the Tuskegee
school loose in the streets, and run the thermometer up to 120 in the
shade. Set a fringe of the Rocky Mountains around the rear, let it rain,
and set the whole business on Rockaway Beach in the middle of January.”
Fellow members of the Recluse Club, the day that Bill Porter and I first
met on that beautiful shore, I was a wonderful object for the eye to
behold. I had been attending a dinner-dance in the best society of
Galveston, when I got the tip that the minions of the law had the house
surrounded. I made my escape by a stratagem, and got aboard a steamer in
the Gulf of Mexico, clad in a silk hat and dress-suit; in which costume
I sailed for two weeks, battered in storms, and losing one tail off my
coat. So I was dumped out in the little town of Trojillo, where I first
saw our genial master of letters, seated in front of the consulate, clad
in spotless white. Recognizing our common condition of fugitivity, we
pooled our fates; I had thirty thousand dollars sewed up in my belt
which I had got with the help of two sticks of dynamite, from the
Wells-Fargo express car on a Santa Fe train. Together we went to worship
at the shrine of the reigning divinity of Central America, a lady called
Espiritu de la Vina, to whom they chant hymns by day and especially by
night—(_he sings_)
A beber, a beber, a apurar
Las Copas de licor
Que el vino hara olvidar
Las penas del amor.
(_Espiritu de la Vina enters, dancing and singing; Jennings joins in
dance with her_)
De este sabroso jugo, la blanca espuma
Aleja de las penas la negra bruma,
Si dios hubiera hecho
De vino el mar, de vino el mar,
Yo me volviera pato, para nadar, para nadar:—
Esta es la vida, bebamos mas,
Esta es la vida, bebamos mas.
_Jennings_: Gentlemen of the jury, the month of July found us in
Salvador, where we, as good American patriots, issued a declaration of
interference that the Fourth of July shall be celebrated with all kinds
of salutes, explosions, honors of war, oratory, and liquids known to
tradition. It so happened that there were Salvadoreans also panting for
liberty and liquids; there was a revolution planned, led by General Mary
Esperanza Dingo, who was some punkins both for politics and color; but
we had never met the general, and knew nothing about these great events.
We gathered the Americans of the town, with their Winchesters, Colts and
Navy forty-fives; we bought up all the fireworks, and most of the
fire-water, and early in the evening, as soon as the thermometer had
come down to 110, we started in at the Saloon of the Immaculate
Saints—the Cantina de los Santos Immaculatos—taking all the drinks that
bore American labels, and informing the atmosphere as to the glory and
preeminence of the United States, and its ability to subdue, outjump and
eradicate the other nations of the earth. I had just thrown a bottle of
ginger ale through a portrait of Queen Victoria—or rather at a
reflection of it which I saw in a mirror over the counter of the
cantina—when we heard yells outside, and the galloping of horses’ hoofs,
and a rattle of musketry. (_the sounds are heard off-stage, as
described; Jennings raises his voice_) I shouted: “The infantry has
turned out to do honor to the Fourth of July! E pluribus unum! Viva la
Libertad! The stars and stripes forever!” We pulled out our shooting
irons! Hurrah for liberty! We opened fire on the lights of the cantina—
(_Jennings pulls a gun from under his coat and fires at the lights,
which go out one by one at his shots, leaving the stage in complete
darkness. Shouts, singing, trampling, and general uproar, during which a
quick change is made. The wall which covers the kitchenette is closed,
concealing it from sight. The postoffice pigeon-holes and grilled
windows give outwards like double doors, leaving a large entrance to the
street of Salvador. The stage becomes a cantina, or drinking place.
Jennings assumes his costume of a battered silk hat and a dress-suit
with only one tail to the coat. The others don the white costumes of
Americans in the tropics. Red light gradually appears, revealing
Espiritu de la Vina dancing and singing, Porter watching and the other
five men, armed with rifles and revolvers, capering, shouting, and
firing shots through the ceiling of the cantina. Joe is hiding in terror
under the table._)
_Jennings_: Three cheers for the red, white and blue!
_Raidler_: Bully for you!
_All_: Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!
_Valentine_: Ray fer Yankee Doodle!
_Judge_: The stars and stripes fo’ever, suh!
_Porter_: God save the union!
_Raidler_: Up with the declaration of independence! (_boom of cannon
outside_)
_Jennings_: Our celebration has caught on!
_Raidler_: Liberty comes to Salvador!
_Espiritu_ (_springs to the front, waving an American flag in one hand
and a Salvador flag in the other_): It is ze great Salvador revolution!
The day of liberty is arrive! Ze great emancipator, ze great Salvador
hero, ze General Mary Esperanza Dingo! He come, he ride ze horseback!
Hail!
_General Dingo_ (_rides in from street on prancing horse, waving a
sword_): Americanos! Amigos! Friends of ze great Libertad!
_All_: Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!
_General_: Ze Libertad iss peril! Ze tyrant strike ze Salvador people!
Assistance, amigos! Will ze Americanos defend?
_Jennings_: We will! You bet we will!
_Raidler_: Hooray for liberty!
_Valentine_: Down with the government!
_Jennings_: Death to the tyrant! Forward!
_General_: I lead, amigos! Forward! Charge ze battle!
(_he prances out to street, followed by Jennings, Raidler, Valentine,
Delacour, and the Judge; a volley and shouts of battle, rapidly
receding_)
_Espiritu_ (_stands in doorway, shouts in frenzy_): Ze enemy run! Los
Americanos win! La libertad iss save! Viva el General Dingo! (_exit to
street cheering_)
_Joe_ (_peering out from under table_): Misteh Porteh?
_Porter_ (_stands by the table, staring before him, with his hand to his
forehead, as if dazed by the confusion_): Well?
_Joe_: You reckon Ah kin come out now? (_as Porter does not answer, he
crawls out with burlesque terror. Silence; then faint strains of soft
music, and the light changes to pale violet_)
_Margaret_ (_enters in dreamlike fashion at right, clad as in Act I, and
carrying her dolly_): Oh, Papa, such a lovely dolly!
_Porter_ (_tenderly_): You got her in time for Christmas, sweetheart?
_Margaret_: Oh, yes, Papa! Oh, Papa, I’m having such a nice Christmas!
So many lovely presents! But your dolly is the nicest of all! When you
lay her down she shuts her eyes, like she was really asleep, and when
you squeeze her she says “Mamma!” Try it, Papa. (_Porter takes dolly and
squeezes her and the sound is heard_)
_Joe_ (_has been making pantomime of sympathy. Now he gives a warning
cry_): Look, out, Misteh Porteh! (_the character of the music changes,
the light changes to dark red, and three immense prison guards enter,
armed with heavy paddles, and creep upon Porter_)
_Margaret_ (_as they seize Porter, screams in fright_): Papa! Papa!
(_One of the guards seizes Margaret and carries her off right, crying.
The other two seize Porter and throw him down and bind him to the floor.
Joe makes pantomime of impotent despair. The guards take the paddles and
proceed to beat Porter. At the first blows the light begins to fade, and
after two or three blows the scene is in total darkness. The sounds of
the blows increase to heavy crashings, and Porter’s moans rise to a
general wailing and shouting, which cover a quick change to the scene of
the feast in the prison postoffice. When the change has been completed,
the sounds die away, and white light breaks gradually upon the scene,
revealing general disorder and wreck. Delacour is asleep in his chair,
his head thrown back and his mouth open. The Judge has slid under the
table. Jennings and Valentine sleep with their heads bowed on the table.
Raidler has had his chair upset and is asleep on the floor. Joe lies on
the floor at one side, flat on his back. Porter sits leaning on the
table staring before him, brooding. It is Christmas morning, and
off-stage there arises the sound of fresh young voices singing a
Christmas carol_)
It came upon the midnight clear,
That glorious song of old,
From angels bending near the earth
To touch their harps of gold;
Peace on the earth, good-will to men,
From heaven’s all-gracious King;
The world in solemn stillness lay
To hear the angels sing.
Still through the cloven skies they come,
With peaceful wings unfurled;
And still their heavenly music floats
O’er all the weary world;
Above its sad and lonely plains
They bend on hovering wing,
And ever o’er its Babel sounds
The blessed angels sing.
O ye, beneath life’s crushing load,
Whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way
With painful steps and slow!
Look now, for glad and golden hours
Come swiftly on the wing;
Oh, rest beside the weary road,
And hear the angels sing.
CURTAIN.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ACT IV.
SCENE: _The drug-store, as in Acts I and II_.
AT RISE: _The line of convicts is filing past the counter, as at the
opening of Act I, having their prescriptions put up by Porter. They are
in a state of angry excitement, with difficulty repressed by the guards.
Every man is moaning or snarling at every moment when the guards’ eyes
are not upon him. The guards move here and there, threatening men with
their clubs and commanding: “Silence! Shut up there! Hold your tongue!”
But at some other place in the line men will shout, exclamations which
are repeated again and again: “Jimmie Valentine is dead! You murdered
Jimmie Valentine! Liars! Scoundrels! To hell with you! To hell with the
state of Ohio! God damn this prison! You killed Jimmie Valentine!
Murderers!” Porter fills the prescriptions, keeping tightly shut lips,
but his hands are trembling, and it is evident that he also is deeply
moved. Joe is making his usual pretense of cleaning up, but with
difficulty, because of his excitement; he turns this way and that as he
hears the cries, and his eyes are staring wide. Finally the last of the
line is driven off, and the roaring dies away to a murmur._
_Joe_: Gawdamighty, Misteh Porteh, de men in his place is sho gone
crazy! Dey is somethin goin to bust loose here tonight. (_Porter makes
no reply, but puts away his boxes and bottles_) Oh, dat po feller,
Jimmie Valentine! Didn’t even give him a chance to see his po ole mammy!
Misteh Porteh, did you hear what dey say bout her? (_silence from
Porter_) Dey say she’s stannin all day out by de gate in de snow. Dey
won’t even let her in to see de body; dey ain’t tole her when dey gwine
bury him. What you spose dey got agin dat po ole woman? (_No answer_) Ah
knows how it is, Misteh Porteh, you doan trust yoself to open yo mouth
bout his hyar business. Well, Ah seen times when I’d missed a lot o
trouble if Ah’d kep my mouf shut. Maybe dis is one of em. Well, Ah go
empty de trash-basket. (_takes the basket and goes off left. Porter sits
at his desk, staring in front of him_)
_Dr. Walters_ (_enters right_): Well, Porter?
_Porter_: Good evening, doctor.
_Dr._: Having trouble here this evening?
_Porter_: A little noise.
_Dr._: Too bad! Too bad! A nasty situation. Looks as if it might be
worse before it’s better. What do you think?
_Porter_: I am here as an inmate, doctor; I am not supposed to have
opinions.
_Dr._: Humph! Discretion is the better part of valor. Well, have you
anything to report to me?
_Porter_: I took the liberty of sewing up the head of a guard who had a
spike thrown at him.
_Dr._: Seems a good job; thank you.
_Porter_: Here is the week’s report. (_hands him paper; he takes the
paper and examines it. Joe appears at door, left, with empty
trash-basket; seeing the doctor he stops, and thus overhears the
conversation which follows_)
_Dr._: By the way, another matter—not a pleasant one. (_he goes to the
shelf and takes bottle of alcohol_) This alcohol continues to disappear.
_Porter_: I don’t think so, sir.
_Dr._: You don’t? (_he holds it to the light critically_)
_Porter_: I have had occasion to use quite a little of it on my night’s
rounds.
_Dr._: Indeed? (_a pause_) I think it will be advisable for me to go
with you on your rounds, and see how that happens.
_Porter_: Certainly, doctor. (_a pause_) There is something I will say
about that.
_Dr._: Well?
_Porter_: I hope you are not suspecting me of being a thief.
_Dr._: I have no right to do so; but it is my duty to try to make
certain about the matter. We cannot have drinking going on in this
institution, especially at such a ticklish time as this. I don’t like
the job of playing detective, but somebody has to do it.
_Porter_: Doctor, I wish you to understand something that I have never
before talked about in this place. I am here because I was accused of
taking bank funds; but somebody else got that money—I did not. I am
taking what fate handed out to me, but I wish you to know that I am not
that sort of man.
_Dr._: I possess a normal amount of discernment, Porter, and I
appreciate your services in this position; it is not always easy to find
a registered pharmacist in a prison.
_Porter_: Thank you, doctor.
_Dr._: Nevertheless, it will be my duty to go the rounds with you this
evening.
_Porter_: Very well. (_the doctor goes out, right, and Porter remains
seated at his desk, staring gloomily before him_)
_Joe_ (_comes on, puts down the empty trash-basket, and begins feeble
pretense at dusting the bottles and boxes_): Misteh Porteh, you didn’t
see po Jimmie Valentine befo he died, did you? (_silence_) Ah spose you
jes couldnt bear it. Lordy, but mah eyes is sore wid all dis cryin.
(_silence_) Dat Docteh Walters is a stiff kindeh genleman, aint he,
Misteh Porteh? (_silence_) He say he doan like to play detective, but he
do it good, seem to me.
_Porter_ (_sternly_): What do you know about that?
_Joe_ (_scared_): Ah was comin, Misteh Porteh—Ah had to come in wid de
trash-basket, Ah couldn’t hep hearin. Ah wasnt meanin to spy—de Lawd
knows _Ah_ aint no detective, naw suh! (_silence_) But you know
(_timidly_) Ah was goin be yo body-servant, and kindeh look out fo you;
an Ah know dat Docteh Walters is a stiff kindeh genleman—he’s a Yankee
genleman, not like dey is in de South.
_Porter_: Get out of here now and stop your chatter.
_Joe_ (_goes right, towards the door into hospital; as he reaches the
door a low murmur comes from the next room, and rises to a clamor of
moans and protest; Joe looks off, then turns to Porter_): Oh, Misteh
Porteh, dey’s come to put dat po Jimmie Valentine in de wheel-barrow. An
dey aint let his po ole Mammy see him! Oh, dat po feller! Oh, dat po
feller! He’s daid an gone an dey goin to put him in de wheel-barrow!
(_his voice rises to a wail as he goes off right_)
_Porter_ (_puts his hands to his ears to shut out the sounds; his manner
indicating utter despair and breakdown_): Oh, God! Oh, God! (_as the
clamor from the next room continues, he rises, looks about him
cautiously, and then crosses to the shelf containing the bottle of
alcohol. He takes a glass and starts to pour some out_)
_Joe_ (_reappears in doorway, right, and watches Porter, then runs
quickly to him in distress_): Oh, Misteh Porteh, naw suh, you mussnt do
dat, suh!
_Porter_ (_angrily_): What the devil have you to do with it?
_Joe_ (_in frenzy of fear_): Oh, Misteh Porteh, suh, dat Docteh Walters
fin’ it out! Oh, suh, de Lawd hep us, suh, dey put you in de hole, dey
take you down in de basement and paddle you, dey give you de water
sho—you couldn’t stan it, Misteh Porteh, oh suh, please suh—doan let em
ketch you takin it!
_Porter_ (_draws himself up with dignity_): Joe, you are making a
presumptuous fool of yourself.
_Joe_: Listen, Misteh Porteh, suh, you aint quite yosef right now, Ah
knows how it is, suh, you mos crazy oveh what happen to dat po Jimmie
Valentine! But oh, suh, _please_ suh—doan take it out o dat bottle—
_Porter_: You black ape, how do you know what’s in this bottle?
_Joe_: Ah knows, Misteh Porteh, Ah _sho_ knows!
_Porter_: I thought you said you couldn’t read.
_Joe_: Hanwritin, Misteh Porteh, hanwritin. But Ah knows what’s in dat
bottle, cause Ah done tuck it mahself—many’s a time—
_Porter_: Why, you infernal scoundrel!
_Joe_: Befo you come hyar, Misteh Porteh, Ah tuck it. Not since you
come, boss. Ah wouldn’t do nothin to git you into trouble. Aint you tole
me Ah was yo body-servant, jes like mah ole daddy in de Jedge Adair
famly?
_Porter_: Was it the duty of the body-servant to run his master’s life?
_Joe_: Yes, Misteh Porteh, hones, it sho nuff was. (_he grins_) Misteh
Porteh, lemme tell you story—a sho nuff true story, what you kin
write—it’s what mah ole daddy tole me jes befo he died—he hadn’t never
tole it befo, but he wanted me to know bout Jedge Adair an de famly
troubles. De Jedge, he was president of de Traders’ Bank, and de bank
was gittin into trouble. Mah ole daddy he know bout what was goin on, an
he seen de Jedge was worried, he was drinkin too much whiskey. An one
night mah ole daddy had to go to de bank, it was somethin what he had
forgot to do, so he went at night—he had a key, cause de Jedge he
trusted him wid everything. Well, mah ole daddy was in dah, and he heard
someone a foolin wid de do’. He thought it was a burglar, so he hid
hisself, and who should he see come into de bank but de Jedge hisself.
De Jedge went to de vault, an he open it, an he take out a suit-case and
start to go off wid it. Mah ole daddy he guess right quick what dat
meant, de Jedge was in trouble an goin to run away wid de money of de
bank. So mah ole daddy come out an speak to him an plead wid him fo de
honor of de famly not to take dat suit-case; and de Jedge, first he was
mad, den he choke a little, an he say, all right, an say no mo, an mah
ole daddy drive him to de depot an he go away widout de suit-case.
_Porter_ (_puts the bottle back in its place and stands thinking about
the story_): Where did he go, Joe?
_Joe_: He went fishin, Misteh Porteh.
_Porter_: Fishing!
_Joe_: Yessuh; he was a goin fishin wid Cunnel Gwathmey.
_Porter_: But what did he want with the bank’s money if he was going
fishing?
_Joe_: Ah dunno dat, boss; maybe he meant to hide it.
_Porter_: Did the judge ever admit to your father what he had in that
suit-case?
_Joe_: Naw, suh, he doan never speak of it again.
_Porter_: And your father never had a chance to look into it?
_Joe_: Naw, suh.
_Porter_: And you say the judge was drinking too much?
_Joe_: Yes, suh, dey was talk of it.
_Porter_: Well, you ebony jackass, you woolly baboon! (_a chuckle_) You
wait, and I’ll write that story, and read it to you, and you’ll see what
it was Judge Adair left behind him when he went fishing with Colonel
Gwathmey!
_Joe_ (_puzzled, but pleased to have accomplished his purpose_): All
right, boss, Ah sho be glad to hear dat story. Yes suh, Ah be glad to
hear any story what you write, cause Ah sho been hearin a lot bout dis
writin you’re doin—(_sounds of shrieks from under the stage; Joe
starts_) Oh, Misteh Porteh, dey beatin some po felleh fo makin a noise!
Dey be beatin a whole pile of em—all night long, fo helpin in dis
ruction! Us gotta stay here all night an lissen to em, Misteh Porteh;
you gotta stan it somehow!
_Porter_ (_distracted_): Yes, I’ve got to stand it!
_Joe_ (_a fresh roar from the hospital, off right_): Oh, dat po Jimmie
Valentine! (_he goes to door and looks off_) Oh, dey got him in de
wheel-barrow! Dat po Jimmie Valentine, dey takin him to de dead-house,
an his po ole mammy aint seen him! (_the sound of the wheel-barrow off
right, approaching_)
_Porter_ (_wildly_): Turn off that light, Joe. I can’t stand the sight
of it! (_he staggers to the desk, and falls into the chair, his head
buried in his arms_).
_Joe_ (_switches off the light. His voice rises to a shriek_): Dat po
Jimmie Valentine! Dat po Jimmie Valentine!
(_The wheel-barrow crosses from right to left, as in Act I. The sounds
of its bumping become thunderous; these sounds, with the clamor from the
hospital, the cries from under the stage, and the wailing of Joe, cover
a quick change to the bank scene as in Act II. Joe exit. When the change
is complete, the noise dies away, and violet light appears upon the
scene, disclosing Porter seated at the desk in the bank, staring before
him in deep thought._)
_Jimmie Valentine_ (_enters, in his dapper business man aspect; he
greets Porter with quiet friendliness_): Hello, Mr. Porter.
_Porter_ (_quietly, in half-dream fashion_): Hellow, Jimmie. (_pause_)
Jimmie, I’m a damned coward.
_Jimmie_: Oh, no, Mr. Porter.
_Porter_: I didn’t come to see you before you died, Jimmie; I ducked on
it.
_Jimmie_: Oh, that’s all right, Mr. Porter, I understood that.
_Porter_: I just couldn’t bear it; I knew I’d break down, and I ran
away.
_Jimmie_: There wasn’t a thing you could do, Mr. Porter—it was better to
have it over with.
_Porter_: And that poor old mother of yours, waiting outside at the gate
in the snow—
_Jimmie_: It wouldn’t have done any good for me to see her, Mr. Porter.
Nothing would really make her happy but to have me back as a kid.
_Porter_: Life doesn’t do us that favor, Jimmie.
_Jimmie_: I know it. But I’m all right now. I’m going to marry a sweet
girl, and be vice-president of this bank before long. Would you like me
to show you how I opened the vault?
_Porter_: No, Jimmie, no! That’s another way I was a coward; I wrote it
differently—I had you use a kit of tools.
_Jimmie_: That’s all right, Mr. Porter—that’s the way I wanted it.
People will see me like I wanted to be, and maybe that’ll help some poor
kid to keep straight. Write your stories that way, and people will get
some good out of them. Well, so long, Mr. Porter.
_Porter_: So long, Jimmie. (_he rises and goes left, to wave Jimmie off;
after Jimmie has gone, he stands partly in the shadows; the light grows
dimmer_)
(_Uncle Caesar enters right; he is Joe, made up as his old father, but
wearing blue uniform and cap. He pays no attention to Porter, but takes
some papers from cashier’s drawer and puts them in his pocket, and is
about to leave, when there is a sound at the door off right; he steps
back into the shadows and stands watching as the Judge enters, made up
as Judge Adair, bank president, clad in long waterproof coat, waterproof
fisherman’s hat, and carrying several fishing rods, disjointed and
wrapped in little cloth covers. The Judge does not see Porter or Caesar,
but sets his rods on the desk and goes to the vault and turns the
combination and opens it; he goes in and comes out at once, carrying
suit-case_)
_Caesar_ (_having watched this procedure with signs of intense concern,
now comes forward, hesitating and trembling_): Marse Jedge.
_Judge_ (_starts_): Who’s that? Caesar? Why, you old blackguard, what
the devil you doin’ here this time of night?
_Caesar_: Ah done tole Sisteh Adeline Hoskins to come to mah house at
sebin o’clock tomorrer mawnin, fo to git de pass-book of de Sons and
Daughters of de Burnin Bush, fo to kyar it to de meetin of de bo’d of
rangements. Ah done fogit it, so Ah come to git it.
_Judge_: Humph! You better get home out of the night air. It’s damp.
You’ll hardly be worth killing tomorrow on account of your rheumatism.
Think it’ll be a clear day, Caesar?
_Caesar_ (_terribly embarrassed and frightened, but summoning his
resolution and stammering_): Ah low it will, suh. De sun sot red las
night Marse Jedge, you member de day dey-all rode de tunnament at Oak
Lawn? De day, suh, dat you win in de ridin, and you crown Miss Lucy de
queen?
_Judge_: Tournament? Yes, I remember very well—but what the deuce are
you talking about tournaments here at midnight for? Go long home,
Caesar. I believe you’re sleep-walking.
_Caesar_: Miss Lucy tetch you on de shoulder, wid a sword, an say: “Ah
mek you a knight; rise up, pure an fearless an widout reproach.” Dat
what Miss Lucy say. Dat’s been a long time ago, but me nor you ain’t
forgot it. An den dar’s another time we ain’t forgot—de time when Miss
Lucy lay on her las bed. She sent for Uncle Caesar, an she say: “Uncle
Caesar, when Ah die, Ah want you to take good care of Marse Jedge. Seem
like”—so Miss Lucy say—“he listen to you mo dan to anybody else. He apt
to be mighty fractious sometimes, an maybe he cuss you when you try to
suade him, but he need somebody what understan him to be roun wid him.
He am like a little child sometimes”—so Miss Lucy say, wid her eyes
shinin in her po, thin face—“but he always been”—dem was her words—“my
knight, pure an fearless an widout reproach.”
_Judge_: You—you old windbag! I believe you are crazy. I told you to go
home, Caesar. Miss Lucy said that, did she? Well, we haven’t kept the
scutcheon very clear. Two years ago last week, wasn’t it, Caesar, when
she died? Confound it! Are you going to stand there all night gabbing
like a coffee-colored gander?
_Caesar_: Marse Jedge, fo Gawd’s sake, doan take dis wid you. Ah knows
what’s in it. Don kyar it wid you. Dey’s big trouble in dat valise for
you. Hit’s bound to destroy de name of Adair an bow down dem dat own it
wid shame and triberlation. Marse Judge, you can kill dis ole nigger ef
you will, but don’t take away dis hyar valise. If Ah ever crosses over
de Jordan, what Ah gwine to say to Miss Lucy when she ax me: “Uncle
Caesar, wharfo didn you take good care of Marse Jedge?”
_Judge_: Caesar, you have overstepped all bounds. You have presumed upon
the leniency with which you have been treated to meddle unpardonably. So
you know what is in this satchel! Your long and faithful service is some
excuse, but—go home, Caesar—not another word!
_Caesar_: Marse Jedge, gimme dis hyar valise. Ah got a right, suh, to
talk to you dis hyar way. Ah slaved fo you an tended to you from a child
up. I went th’ough de war as yo body-servant tell we whipped de Yankees
an sent em back to de No’th. Ah was at yo weddin, an Ah was n fur away
when yo Miss Azalea was bawn. Ah been a Adair, all cept in color an
’titlements. Both of us is old, Marse Jedge. Taint goin to be long tell
we gwine to see Miss Lucy an has to give an account of our doins. De ole
nigger man wont be spected to say much mo dan he done all he could by de
famly dat owned him. But de Adairs, dey must say dey been livin pure an
fearless an widout reproach. Gimme dis valise, Marse Jedge—Ah’m gwine to
hab it. Ah’m gwine to do Miss Lucy’s biddin. Turn er loose, Marse Jedge.
_Judge_: Take it, Caesar. And let the subject drop—now mind! You’ve said
quite enough.
_Jennings_ (_calls off right_): Hello, there, Judge! Are you comin?
(_enters, as Colonel Gwathmey, in fishing costume, with rods_) We’ll
miss that train. What’s the matter here?
_Judge_: Well, Colonel, I’ve been having a little trouble. I came in to
get the liquor that I had in this suit-case—
_Caesar_ (_with gestures of amazement and confusion_): What’s dat you
say, Marse Jedge?
_Judge_: I said the liquor that I had in this suit-case. What did you
think I had in it?
_Caesar_ (_staggered_): Ah—Ah—oh—Ah—dat is—(_recovering himself
suddenly_) Dat’s right, Marse Jedge, de liquor. Ah didn’t zacly hear
straight, Ah’s gittin so ole—mah ears is wusser an wusser—
_Judge_ (_to Jennings_): Well, this infernally presumptuous old nigger
has been breaking up our arrangements. I don’t know how he found out
what I was doing—I had the liquor hid in that vault, and was trying to
sneak it out, but here he is, and he’s vetoed the proceedings. He means
right, and—well, I reckon he _is_ right. He has noticed that I’ve been
indulging a little more than a gentleman should, and he has laid for me
some reaching arguments.
_Jennings_: Well, I’ll be hornswoggled.
_Judge_: I’m going to quit drinking. I’ve come to the conclusion that a
man can’t keep it up and be quite what he’d like to be—“pure and
fearless and without reproach”—that’s the way old Caesar quoted it.
_Jennings_: Well, I’ll have to admit that the old darkey’s argument
can’t conscientiously be overruled.
_Judge_: Still (_with a ghost of a smile_) there are two quarts of the
finest old silk-velvet Bourbon in that satchel you ever wet your lips
with. Take it home, Caesar, and put it somewhere I can’t find it!
_Caesar_: Yes, Marse Jedge; thank’ee, Cunnel Gwathmey. Ah hopes you
genlemen has a good fishin day. Looks to me like it promise mighty fine
weather—de sun sot red las night, an you know what dat means fo
fishermen’s luck. Ah members one time when de Jedge an me was
youngsters—(_the three of them go off, at right, in the midst of the
Negro’s chatter_)
_Porter_ (_wanders about distracted; goes to cashier’s drawer and opens
it_): It’s gone! It’s gone! The money isn’t here that ought to be here.
And they’ll blame me for it! Oh, why did I ever come into a bank? What
do I know about taking care of money? (_he stops and gazes at Athol, who
enters right, clad as in Act I_)
_Athol_ (_drifts towards him, dreamlike, silent; at last she whispers_):
Will!
_Porter_: Athol! (_with intense distress_) Sweetheart, some of the money
is gone from the drawer, and they’re blaming me for it. You know how it
is—people take money out, and they’re supposed to put in a slip, but
they forget to do it and what can I do?
_Athol_: Will, dear, I love you.
_Porter_: They are going to put me in prison—five years, they’ve
sentenced me to. And when I come out, I’ll be an ex-convict. People will
brand me with it—I’ll never be able to escape!
_Athol_: Will, dear.
_Porter_ (_sobs_): Sweetheart, I can’t go to prison, oh, I can’t stand
it! I’m going to die! I’ll kill myself!
_Athol_ (_gently_): No, Will, you won’t do that. You know that I love
you. And there is Margaret—who would take care of her? I can’t last much
longer, you know.
_Porter_: Oh, God, I can’t stand being in prison—the things they’ll do
to me! They’ll handcuff me, and shave my head, and put me in
stripes—they may even beat me! I’ll come out a maniac!
_Athol_: Whatever they do, you will stand it for my sake. And you will
come out, and start over, and be yourself. You know my faith in you,
Will—and you have to be the thing I have dreamed.
_Porter_ (_with sudden intensity_): Listen, Athol, there is an easy way
to die; the thought of it haunts me—to die for the poor devils in
prison! That’s what I ought to do—take a stand against the graft and
cruelty, and let anything come that will!
_Athol_ (_embraces him, tenderly, as if he were her child_): A man’s
wife learns to know him, Will. Listen; you will die many deaths, in your
imagination; but always you will live to die others.
_Porter_ (_yielding a little to her beguilement_): Ah, sweetheart, if
only I could have your guidance.
_Athol_ (_leads him to chair beside the desk, facing audience; she
kneels beside him_): You have it, Will—always; you have everything
you’ve ever had, and many things you’ve only dreamed. Precious gifts,
you have—fancy, and tenderness—and merry words, a shining flood. You
will take them into prison with you, and bring them out unharmed; and
you will learn new things, new understanding, new pity—and the future
will be before you. You will find a way to help people—your own way; to
suggest a little kindness to them, a little humor, in the hope that
sometime it will become contagious.
_Porter_: I said those very words in the prison; I am always quoting
you.
_Athol_: Once upon a time you told me about some foolish person in New
York who talked about the Four Hundred—those few who really counted. You
said you would write about the Four Million—they were the ones who
counted.
_Porter_: I think of that now and then.
_Athol_: Write about them, Will! Write _for_ them! I see them, eager,
hungry, craving just the sort of pity mixed with laughter that is your
gift. Yes, I see them! Will! Will—look at them! (_she points; a
searchlight behind the scenes is suddenly turned upon the audience
through an aperture in the back drop; it plays here and there, and
Athol’s voice rises with excitement_) Faces! Faces! Millions of
faces—and all of them your lovers! Eager faces, shining, with gratitude,
with hope, with fun—all of them ready to cheer you, to shout to you—to
tell the affection they bear you! Go forth, Will Porter! Do your work,
and take your place as their story teller—the voice of the Four Million!
(_Dulcie enters at right; the little shop-girl, clad in pitiful
imitation finery; frail, emaciated, hungry in body and soul; she carries
a wreath of laurel_)
_Porter_: Who are you?
_Dulcie_: I am Dulcie, the little shop-girl. Mine is the Unfinished
Story, which you will finish. I have never had a true friend—not among
men; but you are my friend. (_she puts the wreath upon his head_) Rise,
O. Henry, the little shop-girl’s knight! (_he rises, and she steps back
a foot or two, and recites_)
He comes with vaudeville, with stare and leer.
He comes with megaphone and specious cheer.
His troupe, too fat or short or long or lean,
Step from the pages of the magazine
With slapstick or sombrero or with cane:
The rube, the cowboy or the masher vain.
They overact each part. But at the height
Of banter and of canter and delight
The masks fall off for one queer instant there
And show real faces: faces full of care
And desperate longing: love that’s hot or cold;
And subtle thoughts, and countenances bold....
And be it said, mid these his pranks so odd
With something nigh to chivalry he trod.
And oft the drear and driven would defend—
The little shop-girls’ knight unto the end.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
MAMMONART
_An Essay in Economic Interpretation_
“_Mammonart_” studies the artists from a point of view entirely new;
asking how they get their living, and what they do for it; turning their
pockets inside out, seeing what is in them and where it comes from.
“_Mammonart_” puts to painters, sculptors, poets, novelists, dramatists
and composers the question already put to priests and preachers, editors
and journalists, college presidents and professors, school
superintendents and teachers: WHO OWNS YOU, AND WHY?
“_Mammonart_” examines art and literature as instruments of propaganda
and repression, employed by ruling classes of the community; or as
weapons of attack, employed by new classes rising into power.
“_Mammonart_” challenges the great ones now honored by critical
authority and asks to what extent they are servants of ruling-class
prestige and instruments of ruling-class safety.
“_Mammonart_” asserts that mankind is today under the spell of utterly
false conceptions of what art is and should be; of utterly vicious and
perverted standards of beauty and dignity in all the arts.
“_Mammonart_” is a history of culture, and also a battle-cry.
----------
E. HALDEMAN JULIUS telegraphs: “This is real constructive
criticism. My heartiest congratulations.”
GEORGE STERLING writes: “You may not know everything, son, but you
can sure turn out interesting stuff!”
400 PAGES. CLOTH $2.00; PAPER $1.00
UPTON SINCLAIR, Pasadena, Calif.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Brass Check
_A Study of American Journalism_
----------
Who owns the press and why?
When you read your daily paper, are you reading facts or propaganda? And
whose propaganda?
Who furnishes the raw material for your thoughts about life? Is it
honest material?
No man can ask more important questions than these; and here for the
first time the questions are answered in a book.
The first edition of this book, 23,000 copies, was sold out two weeks
after publication. Paper could not be obtained for printing, and a
carload of brown wrapping paper was used. The printings to date amount
to 144,000 copies. The book is being published in Great Britain and
colonies, and in translations in Germany, France, Holland, Norway,
Sweden, Denmark, Italy, Hungary and Japan.
Hermann Bessemer, in the “Neues Journal,” Vienna:
“Upton Sinclair deals with names, only with names, with balances,
with figures, with documents, a truly stunning, gigantic
fact-material. His book is an armored military train which with
rushing pistons roars through the jungle of American monster-lies,
whistling, roaring, shooting, chopping off with Berserker rage the
obscene heads of these evils. A breath-taking, clutching,
frightful book.”
From the pastor of the Community Church, New York:
“I am writing to thank you for sending me a copy of your new book,
‘The Brass Check.’ Although it arrived only a few days ago, I have
already read it through, every word, and have loaned it to one of
my colleagues for reading. The book is tremendous. I have never
read a more strongly consistent argument or one so formidably
buttressed by facts. You have proved your case to the handle. I
again take satisfaction in saluting you not only as a great
novelist, but as the ablest pamphleteer in America today. I am
already passing around the word in my church and taking orders for
the book.”—John Haynes Holmes.
440 pages. Cloth-bound, $1.50; paper-bound, $1
UPTON SINCLAIR, Pasadena, Calif.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE GOSLINGS
_A Study of American Schools_
By Upton Sinclair
Who owns the schools, and why?
Are your children getting education, or propaganda? And whose
propaganda?
No man can ask more important questions than these; and here for the
first time the questions are answered in a book.
H. L. MENCKEN on “The Goslings”: “I’d be recreant to my vows at
ordination if I did not commend his volume unqualifiedly as
excellent reading. It is, in fact, one of the most interesting
books I have got through for months. It presents a vast mass of
scandalous and amusing facts, it sorts them out very deftly, and
it is very well written. Why he has had to publish it himself I
can’t make out. Are all the regular publishers idiots?”
The Los Angeles “Times” on “The Goslings”: “As to the truth of the
charges, we have only the author’s word for it.... One would think
that if one-half of the charges are true something should be done
about it; on the other hand, if they are not true, something
should be done to suppress the book.”
From Floyd Dell: “Written with a magnificent and tragic candor.”
“The Goslings,” 464 pages; cloth $2, paper $1
UPTON SINCLAIR, Pasadena, California
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE GOOSE-STEP
_A Study of American Education_
By Upton Sinclair
_Who owns the colleges, and why?_
_Are your sons and daughters getting education, or propaganda?_
_And whose propaganda?_
_No man can ask more important questions than these; and here for the
first time the questions are answered in a book._
From H. L. MENCKEN:
“‘The Goose-Step’ came in at last yesterday afternoon, and I fell
on it last night. My very sincere congratulations. I have read on
and on with constant joy in the adept marshalling of facts, the
shrewd presentation of personalities, the lively and incessant
humor. It is not only a fine piece of writing; it is also a sound
piece of research. It presents a devastating, but, I believe,
thoroughly fair and accurate picture of the American universities
today. The faults of ‘The Brass Check’ and ‘The Profits of
Religion’ are not in it. It is enormously more judicial and
convincing than either of those books. You are here complaining of
nothing. You simply offer the bald and horrible facts—but with
liveliness, shrewdness, good humor. An appalling picture of a
moral and mental debasement! Let every American read it and ponder
it!”
A few questions considered in “The Goose-Step”: Do you know the
extent to which the interlocking directors of railroads and steel
and oil and coal and credit in the United States are also the
interlocking trustees of American “higher” education? Do you think
that our colleges and universities should be modeled on the lines
of our government, or on the lines of our department-stores? Do
you know that eighty-five per cent of college and university
professors are dissatisfied with being managed by floor-walkers?
Do you know for how many different actions and opinions a
professor may lose his job? Do you know how many professors have
to do their own laundry? Do you know why American college
presidents with few exceptions are men who do not tell the truth?
Do you know to what extent “social position” takes precedence over
scholarship in American academic life?
A few of the institutions dealt with:
The University of the House of Morgan; The University of
Lee-Higginson; The University of U. G. I.; The Tiger’s Lair; The
Bull-dog’s Den; The University of the Black Hand; The University
of the Lumber Trust; The University of the Chimes; The
Universities of the Anaconda; The University of the Latter Day
Saints; The Mining Camp University.
500 pages, cloth $2.00, paper $1.00, postpaid.
UPTON SINCLAIR, PASADENA, CALIFORNIA
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transcriber’s Notes
This file uses _underscores_ to indicate italic text. Itemized changes
from the original text:
• Front matter: Added period to match other entries in list (Act. IV)
• p. 3: Removed period from “Al. Jennings”
• p. 9: Replaced “Misth” with “Misteh” (Ah wants you to know, Misteh
Porter)
• p. 14: Replaced “offstage” with “off-stage” (a voice calling,
off-stage right)
• p. 15: Supplied missing opening parenthesis (Uncle Caesar looks
about...)
• p. 16: Replaced “steal” with “steals”
• p. 19: Replaced “galliptious” with “galluptious”
• p. 19: Replaced “silk velvet” with “silk-velvet” (silk-velvet
Kentucky Bourbon)
• p. 30: Removed period from end of stage direction (...fires a shot)
• p. 33: Replaced “red hot” with “red-hot” (I’ll mix them red-hot)
• p. 36: Replaced “lemon-peel” with “lemon peel” (lemon peel on the
cocktail of creation)
• p. 40: Substituted em-dash for unclear punctuation in printed text
(...teach someone else that trick—)
• p. 41: Replaced “ma’m” with “ma’am” (forty-five years, ma’am)
• p. 45: Added colon to match format (sings:)
• p. 46: Replaced “Well-Fargo” with “Wells-Fargo”
• p. 46: Added period after “del amor” to match other occurrences
• p. 47: Added italics to stage direction
• p. 48: Removed duplicated word “guards” (“prison guards enter”)
• p. 52: Replaced “body servant” with “body-servant” (I was goin be yo
body-servant)
• p.53: Removed duplicated word “in” (“had in that suit-case”)
• p.55: Replaced “scuteheon” with “scutcheon” (haven’t kept the
scutcheon very clear)
Some other inconsistencies in the original text, including
inconsistencies in hyphenation, punctuation in contractions, and
variations in spelling in dialect passages, were not corrected.
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public
domain.
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